Sitka (30 page)

Outside in the park it was cool and pleasant. They stood for a long time watching the play of light among the sparkling waters of the fountains, and listening to the cascades as they ran down to the sea. From the palace came the sound of music. The dance continued, still, although it seemed forever that they had been gone.

“And now?”

“San Francisco. But I believe this time I’ll cross the Atlantic and see Rob Walker.”

“I shall return to Sitka.”

He turned sharply around. “Helena, you ...”

“You think I am a fool? But Alexander is there, and my first duty is to him.

Would you think more of me if I remained here?”

“Less, maybe, of your loyalty, more of your judgment. It isn’t safe, Helena.”

“No matter, I must go back.”

Jean LaBarge picked his way across the rutted, muddy street. He had arrived in Washington scarcely an hour before and was shocked by the appearance of the capital. Heavy army wagons had furrowed the streets and plowed the avenues into rivers of mud. Here and there Negroes walked about with planks and for a consideration aided passengers alighting from vehicles to reach the sidewalks, or pedestrians to cross the streets. Hacks were few and hard to find, and often became stalled in the street where their passengers must remain marooned or wade through mud to the sidewalks.

Without waiting for a cab he picked his way through the streets and at last reached the impressive mansion on the tree-bordered square where Robert Walker made his temporary home. He walked up the steps and scraped the mud from his feet on the door scraper, then pulled the bell.
 
The Negro who answered the door was a short, stocky man who recognized the name at once. “Mistuh LaBarge, suh? Mr. Robert, he’s sho’ gonna be pleased! He sho’ly is.”

The man who sat behind the desk in the high-ceilinged room was short and slender. He looked up from his desk as the door opened, then came suddenly to his feet. “Jean!” he said. “Jean LaBarge!”

“Hello, Rob.”

They gripped hands for an instant, smiling at each other. It had been a long time.

“When did you get in?”

“Less than an hour ago. I took a room at the Willard.”

“You needn’t have done that.”

They walked on into the room and Jean handed his hat and cloak to the Negro. Rob glanced at LaBarge’s wide shoulders and the perfectly tailored suit.
 
“Whiskey?”

“Please....”

Rob poured the drinks. “To the Honey Tree!”

Jean grinned at him. “The Honey Tree!” He downed half his drink, then put his glass down. “I’ve often wondered about it, wondered if anyone ever got all that honey.”

“I have no idea, Jean, but I do know there has been some talk of draining the swamp and logging it off.”

“Then I don’t want to go back.”

For a half hour they talked of various topics, then Rob lit a cigar. “All right, Jean, tell me about it. Tell me about Russia ...” It was growing light when Rob suddenly got to his feet. “Jean, you’re tired. Can you come for dinner tomorrow night?” He glanced at his watch. “I mean, tonight?
 
I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

“Sure.”

“You should have told me you were coming. The Willard is all right, but—“ “It’s best for me. I’m lunching with a friend tomorrow. You may know him.
 
Senator Bill Stewart.”

“Of Nevada? I know of him, and a very able man.” “He was a cattle drover for a while as a boy, drove them right along Mill Creek Road once, he told me.”

“How does he stand?”

“On Alaska? He’s for it, I’m sure. He came early to California and is in favor of opening up new country.”

“Sumner is the man you must meet. He’s been against us, but I believe he is wavering a little. Jean, I want you to talk to him, I want you to tell him about Alaska.

“There’s been no question about Seward. He’s been for it from the beginning, perhaps even before I was, and he has been taking the brunt of the ridicule while I’ve been gathering the support. The papers refer to it as Seward’s Folly, Seward’s Icebox, but he found many of the arguments offered against Alaska were the same as those offered against the Louisiana Purchase. Seward dug up all those old arguments and has published the lot.” “Will it go through, Rob? Will they buy Alaska?” He shrugged. “Who knows? I believe we will. I believe, in spite of the opposition, that the treaty will be ratified, but we’ve got a fight on our hands. Sumner is lukewarm, unconvinced but willing to listen, but I will tell you something about him, Jean. He likes facts. He likes to know, and when he speaks, he likes to deliver facts. Given the proper ammunition, I think he’ll be with us.”

The streets were dark and silent. When the door closed behind him Jean LaBarge walked slowly up the street. Several times he paused in his walking, feeling the mistlike rain on his face, looking up a broad avenue. The mud was obscured by darkness, and the tree-lined streets were softly beautiful.
 
Robert Walker did not go to bed. The excitement of seeing his old friend was joined with another realization: it was Jean LaBarge, if anyone, who could swing the balance toward ratification. His actual presence here, the chance to talk to a man who knew the country. LaBarge’s own dramatic personality was sure to do much to convince a few laggards. He spoke easily and well, and above all, he seemed to know everything there was to know about Alaska.
 
Seated at his desk, Robert Walker considered the situation that faced him.
 
Pleased as he was to see his old friend, he knew at once he must utilize his presence, and he knew that LaBarge would have been the first to agree. A less colorful person would have been less valuable, but the dark, handsome LaBarge with his romantic scar, his stories of the fur trade and the islands, his recent visit to the Czar’s court and the duel that preceded it, these were sure to make their impression.

From the beginning of his political career Robert J. Walker had devoted himself to his country. He was an American who was filled with the ideas that filled many Americans at the time. He wanted to see the United States possess the entire continent, and the subjugation of a continent seemed a small task for men who had crossed the plains in covered wagons, who scouted the first trails and built towns where none before existed.

Walker had not made the westward trek, yet he had lived much of it with Jean LaBarge. He had not helped organize a mining village into a law-abiding community but he knew how it had been done, and to the little man from the banks of the Susquehanna it was vastly exhilarating.

The United States was bound to grow, as Muraviev had foreseen. In Walker’s files there was a letter Muraviev had written to the Emperor:

... It was impossible not to foresee the swift expansion of the United States power in North America; it was impossible not to foresee that these States, having secured a foothold on the Pacific, would soon surpass all other powers, and acquire the whole northwest coast of America. ... We need have no regrets that we did not establish ourselves in California twenty years ago. Sooner or later we should have lost it ... it is foolish not to realize that we should, sooner or later, have to surrender our North American possessions. It is also inevitable for Russia to hold sway over the whole of eastern Asia.
 
Walker looked thoughtfully at his dead cigar. It was strange that a man like LaBarge, with no apparent interest in politics, had yet become a key figure.
 
This man, sure to be forgotten in the march of history, at this important moment possessed the information that might swing the vote, and a personality dramatic enough to convince.

He, Walker, had been called a genius of party management. To many outside the understanding of world affairs, the term might seem less than flattering, yet Walker preferred it to any other. He knew how to line up the votes, knew what the states and territories needed, and he knew that statecraft consists of a reconciling of viewpoints, and to be a superior statesman one must also be a superior politician. It was not enough to have vision, to have a program. It was not enough to be strong, sincere, honest. In a democracy one also needed votes, and to put over a program one must find a way to win the votes of those with less vision and possibly even less loyalty to country.
 
The United States must have Alaska, not only as a possessiqn, but as a state. To win a land is not to possess it; the land must be populated and held.

The first person Jean saw when he entered the room was Seward. From descriptions he recognized him at once, standing near the fireplace chewing an unlighted cigar. His limp gray hair was rumpled and untidy, and some cigar ash had scattered itself over his satin-faced waistcoat.
 
Seward acknowledged the introduction with a brief, limp handshake and a glance from his shrewd, appraising eyes. “You are much spoken of these days, Mr.
 
LaBarge.” He rolled the cigar in his teeth. “You have the advantage of us, sir.

You have seen Alaska.”

“And I have talked to the Czar.”

“You have assumed a lot, Mr. LaBarge. By whose authority did you speak?” Despite the words, his voice held no animosity. Jean replied quickly, smiling as he spoke. “By yours, of course, sir. Mr. Walker tells me that in a speech at St.
 
Paul a few years ago you said, speaking to the Russians, ‘Go on and build your outposts all along the coast to the Arctic Ocean, they will yet become the outposts of my own country.’ “ Seward’s eyes flickered for an instant with humor. “Mr. Walker’s memory is very convenient for you, Mr. LaBarge.”

Jean sensed rather than saw that other men had joined them. One of these he was sure was Charles Sumner, for Seward then said, “Tell us about Alaska, LaBarge.
 
Tell us what you saw.”

Robert Walker glanced quickly around the room. Here, in this room, were a dozen of the key men in the Senate, men who might make or break ratification of the treaty. So much depended on the next few minutes. Suddenly he found himself wishing that Fessenden were here. One of the ablest speakers in the Senate, Fessenden was a bitter opponent of the purchase of Alaska.
 
LaBarge had turned, almost casually, with his back to the fire. What he was to say now need not convince Seward, for Seward had been a consistent fighter for Alaska from the beginning; it was the others he must win. Charles Sumner was a man who dearly loved to present facts, to speak with authority, and he was a man whose words carried weight.

“What can any man say of a land the size of Alaska in a few minutes? I’ve seen its furs, its miles upon miles of forest, its gold, its iron, its fish. I have hunted in woods teeming with wild game, and seen valleys as fertile as any upon earth.”

From his vest pocket Jean took a small lump wrapped in skin. It was the nugget he had bought, long ago, from the trapper. “See this? Gold ... and there is more of it there. But believe me, Gentlemen, gold is the least of Alaska’s riches.” For an hour LaBarge talked, replied to questions, and told stories of his experiences in Russian America. He told of the cruelties of the promyshleniki, and gave figures on the fur shipments. In forty years the Russian American Company had shipped over 51,000 sea otter skins, 291,000 fox pelts, 319,000 beaver and 831,000 fur seal hides.

“And that, Gentlemen, says nothing of what our own ships took out, nor the British. My own ship has taken out more than 100,000 skins, much whalebone, walrus, ivory, Tlingit blankets and some gold.” It was late before the party broke up and at last Walker and LaBarge sat down together.

“I think,” Walker said, “you’ve won some allies for us, and certainly you’ve given our backers some ammunition. What are your plans?” “I’ll leave for the coast at once. I have the Susquehanna to think of.” He glanced up at Walker. “When do you think this can be done?” “The purchase?” Walker shrugged. “Congress rarely does anything swiftly, Jean, and there are enemies to the plan. Some think it a waste of money, and General Ben Butler is bringing up the old matter of the Perkins claims. He says he will use their claim against Russia to stall ratification of the treaty. It may take months yet, even years.”

“I see.” Jean got up. “Rob, I’ll write from San Francisco. I’m anxious to get back.”

‘”The Princess de Gagarin has returned to Sitka, you said?” “I’m worried, Rob. I must get back there. If Zinnovy was willing to risk shooting Rotcheff, he won’t hesitate to rid himself of them both. As you say, politics isn’t always a fast business, and although the Princess turned her husband’s reports over to the Czar, it may be months before anything can be done. There will be delays, hesitations, arguments ... you know more about that than I ... and in the meantime, they are there.” For a moment the two men stood together, and then Walker put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “Jean ... take care of yourself.” “You do the same.”

It was snowing when he reached the street, a light, unseasonal snow that melted as it hit the pavement. Jean LaBarge walked quickly away into the darkness.
 
Robert Walker returned to his study. Now he could move, now he had ammunition, facts, figures, arguments. And Sumner, he thought, was won. And Sumner would dearly love a debate with Fessenden.

So tomorrow...

Baron Edouard Stoeckl had arrived in New York from St. Petersburg on February 15
^th
, 1867. As he was recovering from a severe injury to his leg he remained in New York for two weeks, but during this time he was in touch with Robert Walker.
 
His purpose in returning was to negotiate the sale of Alaska.
 
A draft of the treaty was before the cabinet by March 15
^th
, and on March 29
^th
, Stoeckl received word from the Czar that the treaty was approved. Although it was very late when the news came to him, he at once joined Robert Walker and together they went to see William Seward, Secretary of State. All night they worked.