The Body in Bodega Bay (14 page)

Before dawn on this stretch of the coast, and especially in fog, there's no radio reception, so I couldn't get the weather report that way. I made a cup of tea and fired up my computer. The Internet would give me an hour-by-hour forecast, which was necessary for planning the trip. In addition, the computer could deliver data by zip code, which we definitely would need. Conditions in San Francisco can generally predict temperature and rain in our bay, which is only sixty miles from the city and similarly exposed to the sea. But getting to Fort Ross entails climbing mountains and negotiating a tortuous road. Conditions there could be very different from the city and even from Bodega Bay—clear when we are foggy, foggy when we are clear. It took me a while, but I figured out that the fog would lift from the mountain by ten. That should allow time to get to the fort, do the work, and get home safely.

I switched to my e-mail and kept looking out the deck window to track the light, which hung like a white curtain, blocking a view of the harbor. The horn kept calling. Some may find its one note comforting, the ultimate lullaby, like a heartbeat, slowed nearly to coma. I find it alarming, which is what it's intended to be. It must be my Portuguese sailor's blood welling up to sense danger on the rocks—my mother's ancestors were Gloucester fishermen, immigrants from Portugal a century ago. Luckily, there's a series of sand dunes between us and the horn, so its sound is muted at our house. Angie and Toby slept blissfully through its muffled calls, until I filled the air with the aroma of coffee and pancakes.

Over breakfast, we talked about the wisdom of our excursion. Looking out the window, Toby argued for postponement, but when he saw how disappointed I was, he volunteered to do the driving and skip an afternoon at the gallery, provided we would start home early. With that as the plan, I sent them off to get dressed while I packed a lunch in the cooler, since there's no restaurant at the fort, or anywhere near it.

It's always tough to get Toby out the door, so I wasn't surprised that we didn't start till 11:00. The sky was still white, but the landscape by now was visible. Nonetheless, the usually bright views of the ocean from Route 1 were dulled by the cloudy weather. Steel-gray waves crashed onto black rocks and brown beaches, producing a dirty gloom. A few intrepid tourists wrapped in rainwear walked the shore, intent on proving that their Saturday had not been ruined by a little weather.

At Goat Rock, in Jenner, farther up the coast, we hit the first mist cloud. We were in and out of it in a few seconds. That was just the remnant of the morning fog. A sign appeared, announcing that it was twelve miles from Jenner to Fort Ross, a short distance as the crow flies, but Toby and I knew that the way consisted of a steep, perilous climb along ocean cliffs on a veritable corniche. Suddenly a hawk swooped across our windshield, and I watched it sail past the cliff and over the steely sea. On our left there was a photographer standing at the side of the road trying to catch a view of the fog over the Jenner rocks. A white car far ahead of us was disappearing into mist.

I tried not to fret as our Nissan Altima began its steep climb. For a while we were the only car on the road, until a pickup truck loomed up behind us, flashing its lights. There's no passing on this road. Instead, there are turnouts, and etiquette requires that slower drivers pull off whenever someone comes up behind. Fortunately, at the height of the grade, the road swerved inland to cross the hill at its crest. Toby clicked his turn signal, slowed, and took the first turnout. The pickup shot by, driven by a young guy, of course, and it soon disappeared. Toby shook his head and eased back onto the road. I began to breathe more calmly. A few minutes later another car appeared behind us, but the driver thought better of passing and dropped back to a safe distance. As the road twisted and turned, we gradually lost sight of him.

Now we were greeted by a series of exclamatory signs. First, “Rough Road.” That was an understatement. Then, “Rock slide area next 8 miles.” Sure enough, the road there had been shored up by a retaining wall with wooden scaffolding that looked like it was starting to buckle. I was about to say something about it when Angie saw a big yellow diamond of a sign, stamped with the image of a black cow. She couldn't help but laugh. Where would a stray cow come from, with a sea cliff on the left and a retaining wall on the right? Actually, there are cattle ranches nearby, and it's not unusual to see a cow or two grazing on the wrong side of their fence—as if there weren't enough road hazards. “Oh, boy,” said Angie, “I'm glad I'm not driving.” That made two of us.

Toby continued carefully, hugging the right side of the road to allow as much room as possible for traffic that might be coming the other way. They would be on the ocean side, a steep, curvy descent bordered only by a low wall. We would be facing that on the way back.

It was a relief when we finally spotted Fort Ross spread out below us on a broad swath of green. The encampment tops a bluff overlooking a sheltered cove, which at one time harbored the small boats of native peoples and Russian settlers. The bluff is wide enough to house the reconstructed stockade and its redwood buildings, surrounded by acres of farmland. As the road circled down toward the site, it flattened out, and as we approached the fort, the tall stockade walls made a striking impression. At this lower elevation, most of the fog had burned off, and by now the sun was high. The fort looked inviting and prosperous, with a superb view of the sea.

That's how it must have looked in the 1830s, after two decades of colonization by the Russian-American Company. By that date, about a hundred Russians and as many Native Alaskans and local Pomos, along with their children, filled the compound and spilled over into villages outside the stockade. The Russians' hunting and farming barely sustained them, but they maintained a healthy trade in the thick furs of sea otters. If not for competition with the Hudson Bay Company operating farther north, they might have stayed indefinitely, but by 1841 they were negotiating to sell the property. All Russian nationals were ordered home. The property changed hands several times until it was acquired by the California Historical Landmarks Committee and eventually incorporated into the national parks system.

We drove through a grassy field to the visitor center, parked, and walked up to the entrance along a short path bordered by orange poppies and purple phlox. At the information desk inside I inquired about my appointment, while Toby and Angie set out to peruse the exhibits. Our plan was to meet again in an hour for a picnic lunch, after which they'd continue touring the fort while I worked in the library.

The tiny library was tucked away behind the information desk. The older woman who managed the desk doubled as the librarian. She checked my name against a register, then led me behind the counter and through a door that wasn't accessible to the general public. “It's been a busy day for us,” she joked. “You're the second person who's come in.”

The little room was efficiently organized. A table with chairs filled the central space, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The shelves were crammed with books and cardboard file boxes packed with records, architectural drawings, photographs, and documents. I looked around for a card catalog but found that the holdings were listed in several plastic binders stacked on the table. “Are you looking for a particular item?” the librarian asked.

I briefly explained my mission.

“You might check this one first,” she said, extending a thin, green-covered binder marked “Oral Histories.” “If it's not listed in there, try this one,” she added, tapping a thicker white-covered binder next to it. “It has everything alphabetized by authors' names. Just holler if you've got a question. Materials don't circulate, but you're allowed to photocopy things if you want to. There's a coin-operated machine in the hall.”

“Thank you,” I said, setting right to work. It didn't take long to locate what I wanted in the first catalog binder: “Federenco, Andreyev (1844–1907). ‘My Life.' Category: Oral History. Typescript prepared by Natasha Veronsky (daughter), 1905. Annotated.” A catalog number followed.

The slim oral-history folders, with catalog numbers on their spines, were grouped together on four shelves of one bookcase, so finding it should have been easy, but the file wasn't there when I looked—or rather, it wasn't in its proper place. There was a small sign on display on the table that stated: “Please do not return items to the shelves. Leave them here for the librarian.” That's the policy in most libraries, and in most cases users ignore it. Aiming to be helpful, people constantly reshelve books they have consulted, but as often as not they misplace them, creating havoc in the system and causing trouble for the next user. Fortunately, this collection was small enough to scan, and soon I found the errant work, which some absentminded do-gooder had returned to the bookcase one shelf above its rightful place. Withdrawing it, I made a mental note to follow the rules when I was finished.

“My Life” by Andreyev Federenco was a fragile, sixty-six-page typescript on paper now brown and brittle, fastened by a large clip and protected by a transparent plastic sheath, which in turn was placed inside a manila folder. As I delicately untied the ribbon that secured it, my excitement mounted. On top of the typescript was a cover letter dated July 12, 1972, marking the occasion of the document's donation to the Fort Ross Interpretive Association. The letter was signed by Andrew Federenco, then a member of the Citizens Advisory Committee for Fort Ross State Historic Park. The letter expressed the family's wish to commemorate their ties to the first Russian colony in California. It went on to explain that the donor's great-great-grandfather, Euvgeny Federenco, had lived and worked at the fort in the 1830s, then returned to Russia when the fort was abandoned in 1841. The accompanying memoir had been dictated by his son, Andreyev Federenco. Andreyev, who was born in Russia in 1844, had immigrated to California in 1870, retracing his father's footsteps, and this memoir, it was hoped, would be of interest to historians, not only for Andreyev's account but also for his recollections of the stories told to him by his father about the life and times of the fort.

Andrew had attached to his letter a genealogy in the form of a family tree. The line of descent ran from Euvgeny (1814–77) to Andreyev (1844–1907); from Andreyev to a son, Vladimir (1873–1951), and a daughter, Natasha (1878–1942). Natasha had no children. The line continued from Vladimir through two sons, Feodor (1904–64) and Boris (1907–60). In turn, Feodor and Boris each had a son. Naturally, they were cousins: Andrew, born in 1946, and Peter, born in 1933. I knew that Peter, who died in 1962, had acquired the triptych and that Andrew wanted it. Whether the manuscript now in my hands could shed further light on their quarrel was my question.

Soon I was immersed in Andreyev's memoir. As a boy he loved the romantic stories his father had told him about Fort Ross and the near-magical land of California, where there was no winter. These tales—about daily chores, logging, fur trapping, hunting, trading with the Aleuts and Pomo Indians—were exactly what gave the manuscript its historical interest, but they offered no insight to my search. Until, that is, the father mentioned to the boy that he received the gratitude of the entire fort when he lent the family triptych, which had traveled with him, for display at the little Chapel of St. Nicholas. To my frustration, there were no added details here. Instead, the narrative turned to Andreyev's story—how the boy resolved to immigrate to America when he came of age, how he courted a girl from a nearby village and convinced her to accompany him as his wife, how the couple struggled during their first year in San Francisco, how he earned his living as an upholsterer, learned the language, started a small business making umbrellas, and began a family.

An hour flew by. I was halfway through the memoir, and it was time for lunch. I left the manuscript on the table open to the last page I had read, gathered my things, and headed for the entrance, where Toby, Angie, and I had agreed to meet. Angie was standing there, looking eager to talk. She gave me a hug and directed me out to a picnic bench, where Toby had laid out our provisions: apples, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and cans of ginger ale. “I can't believe you,” Angie said. “You packed us Grandma Silva's picnic.” That was what Mom's mom used to make for us when we wanted to eat lunch on the rocks by Gloucester harbor. All that was missing was the waxed paper around the sandwich.

Reverting to childhood, we gobbled the lunch quickly and began sharing our discoveries as we sipped on the ginger ale. I told Toby and Angie about the memoir, and they had news for me.

“We had a woman guide, and she knows everything about this place,” said Angie. “I got friendly with her because I was the only one answering her questions. You know, like, which fur is softer, otter or mink. It's otter! I learned that when I modeled furs for Filene's.”

“Did the guide mention anything related to my search?” I was looking at Toby, but it was Angie who replied.

“Could be. I noticed two things. First, about this guy you're researching. I asked her whether a Russian who came over to work at the fort would have been able to remain around here after the fort was closed. She said no. Everybody who was sent over had to go back. No exceptions. So if Peter's ancestor was here with the colony, he would have had to go back to Russia and then return later to start his family in California.”

“That's right,” I replied. “Euvgeny served at the fort and then went home. It was his son who came to America, decades later. So what the guide said fits.”

“Well, then there's what she said when we were in the chapel. She showed us the candleholders, up close to the wall, and the marks where there used to be shelves for the icons. The originals are all lost now, but they have a new one up, to give an idea of the effect.”