The Great Alone (55 page)

“It is possible that the Tsar has not granted a new charter because he plans to declare this country a province of Russia and bring it under his sovereignty,” Lev suggested. “It should be done, so that no more would we be subject to the dictates of the company and forced to buy goods and provisions at the company prices.” His opinion was shared by many of the colony-born who had been educated at the Colonial Academy in Sitka and graduated as navigators, engravers, accountants, or surveyors, obligated to enter the company service for ten- or fifteen-year terms at a nominal salary.

“Then why does the Tsar delay if that is his plan?” argued his brother, Stanislav. He shook his head. “No, he plans to sell this land to America. He waits for a Union victory. I say we should concern ourselves with what will become of us when this occurs. When they take possession, are we to stay or be sent to Russia? Since we have sworn allegiance to the Tsar, we may have no choice but to go to Russia. It is well for you, Nikolai Ivanovich. It is where you were born and raised.”

“Yes,” Lev agreed quickly. “But what of us? This land is our home. We know no other. Our father has lived all of his sixty years in this place. Are we to be uprooted? How would we live? Where would we work? This is the only way of life we know.”

“And if we stay, might it not be worse for us?” Stanislav ventured, apprehensive about the strain of Indian blood in their ancestry, especially his wife and his father, Wolf, who were both half Kolosh. “We have all seen or heard how the Americans treat those of another race.”

In the heavy silence that followed, Wolf studied the carved bowl of his pipe and the dead ashes inside it. This uncertainty about the future had disrupted the entire colony for three years now. No one dared make plans or start new businesses. With the exception of the tea trade, which continued, everything else had come to a standstill. Wolf knew this couldn’t continue.

As the discussion wore on, Nadia became bored with it and abandoned her eavesdropping post under the parlor window. Reluctantly Dimitri followed her.

“That is all anyone talks about any more,” she complained. “I wish America’s Unionist armies would win the war and end all this fuss.”

“Do you want the Americans to rule here?” A frown creased his forehead.

“Do you?” Nadia didn’t like arguments. She had discovered very early in her life that the smoothest way to avoid them was never to disagree. If it meant pretending something, she would do it to avoid unpleasantness.

Dimitri shrugged. “The Americans are rich.”

“Yes,” Nadia responded. She, too, had heard the stories that there were homes in San Francisco more opulent and grand than Baranov’s Castle, as the governor’s residence at Sitka was known. Returning to the stoop, she sat down on the step next to her little sister. “I’ll take the egg back now.”

But Eva had sat in that one position for so long with the precious egg cradled in her hands, afraid to move even one finger, that her arms and hands had grown stiff, almost numb. Anxious to be relieved of her burden, she tried to pass it too quickly and dropped it. The brittle shell cracked, splintering the intricate design.

“How could you?” Horrified, Nadia stooped to retrieve her ornamented egg. “I told you to be careful! Look what you’ve done! I should never have let you hold it. You’re always ruining my things! I’m going to tell Papa about this. You’ll be sorry.”

Tears welled in Eva’s eyes. As Nadia started up the steps, gently carrying her broken Easter egg, Eva darted into the house ahead of her. She dashed directly into the parlor and sought refuge on the lap of her grandfather, Wolf.

“I didn’t mean to drop it,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to.”

Nadia followed her into the room and went straight to her father. “Look, Papa.” Her chin quivered. “Just look what she did. I hate her.”

“Now, now,” her father admonished gently.

“Let me see it.” Wolf motioned for Nadia to bring him the egg. She walked over to his chair, refusing to look at Eva, who buried herself in the protective crook of her grandfather’s arm. After examining the egg, he smiled reassuringly. “It looks worse than it is. You give me the egg and I think I can fix it for you so you will never see the cracks.”

“I am not a little girl any more, Grandpa.” Nadia held herself stiffly. “You will make me a new egg and do it so it looks like this one, then pretend it’s the same. But it won’t be. It won’t ever be the same.” She turned with a whirl of petticoats and flounced from the room.

It was still early afternoon when Wolf locked the door of his shop and headed up the street. Rarely did he work a full day in his shop any more, preferring to spend the afternoon hours with his family or visiting friends—or simply by himself.

The afternoon sun was bright, but the air was crisp. Autumn made little visual impact on the evergreen forests of spruce and hemlock that blanketed the mountain slopes and islands. Snow crowned the peaks of the Sisters and Verstovia and frosted the cratered top of Mount Edgecumbe. Wildfowl on their migratory path south flocked in the sky.

Wolf watched the geese flying overhead in a perfect vee formation as he walked along the nearly deserted boardwalk. Earlier in the day the town’s batteries had boomed a salute to the Russian vessel entering the harbor. Its arrival had drawn many of the townspeople to the wharf. Some had friends or family among the crew, others hoped for mail, and many were simply curious.

The quiet of the street now was a pleasant change from its usual bustle. There were times when he felt the crowding of twenty-five hundred people on the town’s peninsula. It was always spreading, growing. Four cots in the back room of the apothecary shop had grown into a forty-bed hospital. There was a public library, a bowling alley, four lower schools, an academy, and two scientific institutes, one for the study of zoology and the other for terrestrial magnetic phenomena and astronomy. In addition, the third floor of the governor’s residence had been converted into a theater for the performance of plays in Russian and French.

As Wolf approached the little teahouse in the town’s public gardens, he spied a grizzly bearded Russian in the unfamiliar garb of a promyshlenik. It reminded him of the days when these rough fur hunters, such as his father, Zachar, had dominated the town scene. Otter, seal, fox, and other valuable pelage were still hunted by the Aleuts under Russian supervision, but not in the numbers as before. In an effort to conserve the fur resources of Russian America, a policy instituted under the governorship of Baron Ferdinand von Wrangel several years ago had restricted hunting in a given region to every other year to allow the fur-bearing animals to repopulate unmolested. Furs continued to be the backbone of the Russian American Company’s business, but were no longer the only enterprise in which it engaged.

Times change, and Wolf had seen many of the changes. He paused outside the teahouse, studying it for a minute, then walked inside. He sat alone, aware of his oddly contemplative mood. He blamed it on the unsettled mood of the colony, this unanswered question about the future. For himself, he didn’t care so much. He was sixty-one years old. He had lived his life.

Yesterday evening his oldest son, Lev, had stopped by to visit, yet they’d talked very little. Wolf sensed his son’s frustration and disappointment. Only a few years earlier he’d been excited about the company’s plans to begin exploiting the mineral wealth of Russian America, plans they’d followed up by appointing a Finnish-born mining engineer, Ivan Furguhelm, as the new manager. Then the company’s charter wasn’t renewed and word came of the negotiations to sell the land to America. Everything came to a stop. The plans were shelved and virtually forgotten.

As Wolf had worked in his shop this morning, he tried to imagine how he would feel if he was deprived of silver—his work medium—if he had to make do with something else that did not have silver’s properties, its texture, or its shine. His skill was in shaping and carving this metal, making it come alive under his hands. He understood the loss and frustration that his son must feel to have a skill and no outlet for it.

Distantly he heard the excited shouts coming from the town square, the sound rousing him. Everywhere he looked people were rushing about, laughing and calling to one another. Wolf wandered out of the teahouse as the excitement spilled into the public gardens. He did not hear enough of any one conversation to learn anything beyond the fact that the ship had brought news. Then he saw his son Lev, all smiles, walking quickly toward him.

“What has happened?”

“Have you not heard? Prince Dimitri Maksutov has returned from St. Petersburg. He has been appointed the new governor.” Lev’s smile grew wider. “And he brings news that the Tsar’s brother, the Grand Duke Constantine, has signed a pledge to grant the company another twenty-year charter.”

“Another charter.” It took a minute for Wolf to absorb the significance of that. “Then … there will be no sale.”

“No. He has given his word.” Rich laughter broke from Lev. Wolf joined in with him as they clasped each other by the shoulders, rejoicing in the news. “Tonight there is to be a praznik, with music, dancing, and singing. And the rum is to flow—at the company’s expense!”

“And we shall sing Baranov’s song,” Wolf vowed, and he began the hymn, his voice raspy with age; but Lev’s stronger baritone voice soon joined it as they sang together: “The will of our hunters, the spirit of trade, On these far shores a new Muscovy made, in bleakness and hardship finding new wealth for fatherland and Tsardom …”

Before they finished, a chorus of voices joined them in the patriotic anthem of their land. At the conclusion of the impromptu rendition, there was a poignant silence. Wolf was the only one present who could remember the man who had written the song, the man considered by most to be the father of their country. He’d been sixteen years old when Baranov left. In his mind’s eye he could see the short, bald man standing on the deck of the ship, old and tired and sick, gazing one last time at the town he’d built. Baranov had died at sea, near Batavia.

“I never believed for one minute that the Tsar would sell Russian America,” someone declared.

“Nor I,” another insisted.

Suddenly they all claimed they had never believed the rumors. It was unthinkable. The laughter and shouting started again as everyone rushed to spread the news. Arm in arm, Wolf and Lev started for their homes to share the good tidings with their families.

Halfway to Lev’s house, they were overtaken by Nadia. She spun to a halt in front of them. “Have you heard?” She was out of breath, her dark eyes glittering with excitement.

“Heard what?” Lev asked indulgently, holding in his smile.

“Prince Maksutov has come back.”

“He has?” He winked at Wolf.

“Yes, and he has a new bride. Her name is Maria—Princess Maria Maksutova. She’s the daughter of the governor general at Irkutsk.” Nadia rushed on: “She’s young, almost my age, and—” Lev started to chuckle, and she stopped in mid-breath, then quickly came to the defense of her statement. “She’s nineteen, and nineteen is close to thirteen.”

“Is that your news?” Wolf asked, trying not to laugh at her.

“Yes, but you see, I saw her,” Nadia hurried to explain. “She is beautiful, and she has the prettiest smile. Do you think they will have a ball at the castle for her? Do you think Aunt Anastasia will be invited? Do you think she might take me? I would love to go. Mama will probably say I’m too young. Papa, you must talk to her. Just imagine meeting a real prince and princess.”

“We shall see,” he promised.

CHAPTER XXXI

Sitka

June 1867

“Grandpa, why does Prince Maksutov want everyone to come to Castle Hill?” Seven-year-old Eva stared at the growing stream of people around them, all headed for the small throng that had already gathered at the foot of the steps. The Greek-styled silver cross danced at the end of the chain around her neck as she bounced alongside her grandfather, Wolf, unconsciously swinging his hand in a wide arc.

“I imagine he has some important news to tell us.”

“But what could it be? Do you think the Tsar has died? Or maybe the Kolosh are going to attack us? Maybe they’re hiding in the forest this minute, all painted and wearing their ferocious masks? Do you think Aunt Dominika’s relatives would kill us? Would yours?”

“Your imagination works too hard,” he chided gently. “If the Kolosh were going to attack, the Prince would order the soldiers to the stockade walls, but you see they are here, too.”

“Eva, you are such a chatterbox.” Nadia carefully lifted her crinoline skirts to keep the hem from dragging in the muddy street. “I expect the Prince has some Wonderful news for us and intends to declare a holiday. I wonder if there will be a ball tonight.” She fervently hoped so. She so enjoyed dancing. Glancing over her shoulder, she observed the less than proper comportment of her younger sister. “Do stop hopping like a frog, Eva. And don’t be jerking your grandfather’s arm that way. It isn’t a pump handle.”

Her excitement subdued by the criticism, Eva stopped skipping and walked sedately beside her grandfather. Sometimes it seemed to her that she never did anything right. She felt the reassuring squeeze of her grandfather’s hand and smiled up at him gratefully. He never seemed to mind how much she talked or how plain she looked. He loved her anyway.