by Janet Dailey
“Cossacks have always been outnumbered by their foes, but it never stopped them from marching across Siberia and claiming it for the Tsar. Our weaponry is vastly superior to theirs. Muskets always win over spears.” Every promyshlenik on board had fought with hostile natives at some time in his life, and the odds had never been in his favor. But as far as Luka was concerned, it was one thing to be caught in that situation and another to seek it.
“We will wait,” Chuprov replied impassively. “There will be plenty of time to fight, if it’s necessary.”
The beating of the native drums continued to sound, their pounding rhythms accompanying the wild dancing that followed no apparent pattern. It appeared spontaneous and contagious; one exuberant native would start dancing and others would join him. When they became exhausted, a few more would begin. Always there was singing, but that, too, was a confusion of voices. The natives seemed to be whipping themselves into some sort of frenzy.
“Can anyone understand what they are saying?” Luka asked Chuprov.
“It isn’t Kamchadal. What about Koriak?” he suggested, referring to another native tribe in Siberia.
“No, I can understand Koriak—and Chukchi, too,” someone in the group answered.
“Maybe they’re Aleutorski.” A second mentioned a race of Siberian natives who lived on the coast and aggressively resisted all Russian attempts to make them pay tribute.
The name sent a rumble of apprehension stirring through the whole company. They eagerly turned to accept the muskets, lead, and powder Belyaev distributed among them. As Luka began to load and prime his firelock musket, Chuprov left the rail and headed for the boat’s hold. He returned shortly carrying a few packets from the small cargo of trade goods on board, which mainly consisted of cheap glass beads, cloth, tin and copper utensils, knives of poor quality, and needles. Chuprov’s packets contained the latter two.
“What are you going to do with them?” Luka questioned.
“Give them as presents, and maybe dissuade them from any hostile intention.” A smile curved Chuprov’s mouth but never quite reached his eyes.
“A taste of this lead will go farther in changing their minds.” Belyaev lifted his musket slightly, his thick fingers tightly embracing its barrel.
“You are more bloodthirsty than those savages, Nikolai Dimitrovich,” the Cossack Shekhurdin accused contemptuously. “They may have come here to trade. What if they have otter skins?”
The argument didn’t sway Belyaev. He grinned wickedly; if the natives were killed, Belyaev believed, he would still have their sea otter pelts—if they had any—for nothing. Such cruelty was neither shocking nor repellent to Luka. He had lived in the Siberian wilds long enough to have learned that survival among hostile inhabitants often depended upon intimidation through fear. Luka regarded it as a necessity. Besides, he didn’t trust any native. They were a treacherous breed, all of them, and the Aleutorski—or Aleuts, as they were often called—more than others. He traded with them when he had to, but he never turned his back to one of them.
At the railing, Chuprov hailed the natives on the beach and waved the packets over his head to attract their attention. His action appeared to excite them. As they hopped wildly about and beckoned him to come ashore, the drumming grew louder. Ignoring their invitation, Chuprov heaved the packets toward the beach. When the waves washed them onto the sand, several barefooted natives scrambled to retrieve them. The rest of the party massed around them on the beach, creating a mass of strangely designed, highly decorated hats. The packets’ contents were displayed, to the wonderment of the group, and the items passed around to be examined and tested by various individuals. It wasn’t long before the natives reciprocated and threw freshly killed birds to the shitik.
“They want to trade.” Shekhurdin was quick to assure his fellow Russians that he had accurately guessed their friendly intentions all along.
There was more beckoning for them to come ashore. Cradling the musket in his arms, Luka glanced sidelong at Chuprov. The promyshlenik continued to view the natives’ wild antics with skepticism.
“We do need water,” Chuprov said quietly.
“Yes.”
Following Luka’s grim acknowledgment, Chuprov turned from the rail. “Hoist the dinghy over the side.”
Luka was among the five men selected to accompany Chuprov to shore. Armed with muskets, they climbed into the wooden rowboat, taking with them one water cask to be filled, and waited for Chuprov to join them. When Chuprov climbed into the boat, he had with him more articles of trade—tobacco and pipes. They set out for the beach, with Luka and another man at the oars.
Several yards from shore, they reached shallow water and shipped the oars, letting the crest of a wave carry them closer. Grabbing his musket, Luka swung over the side and waded in the thigh-deep water to haul the boat onto the sand. Several of the natives rushed forward, and his muscles tensed, but they came to help pull the boat onto the beach.
He had a good look at their weapons, which consisted of primitive stone-tipped spears and arrows. He moved quickly to Chuprov’s side when the promyshlenik stepped onto the sand. Individually, they could be overpowered, outnumbered as they were by these Aleut natives, but as a group they presented a formidable opponent.
The air was cool, but Luka could feel the sweat dampening his skin as the natives crowded around them talking excitedly in their strange tongue. He licked his dry lips and adjusted his grip on the musket, keeping a finger close to the trigger. Blood pounded in his ears while he kept his glance moving.
The natives’ long coats were made of bird skins—mostly cormorants, puffins, and murres, the feathers worn on the outside—and trimmed with the throat fur of sea lion. Their strange hats were made from thin strips of wood bent into shape, then glued together. They were brightly painted with swirling geometric designs. Some were adorned with feathers or carved ivory figures. But Luka was more interested in the faces beneath the projecting hats. They shared the Mongol features of many of the Siberian tribes, including the Aleutorski—the thick eyefolds, broad facial structure, and slightly flattened noses. Their hair was black and straight, and their eyes dark brown. Many of them had thin mustaches and spiky beards, but none had the thick, full beard growth of the Russians.
The eager way they crowded around Luka and his small party was almost childlike. The natives were curious about everything, pointing to his garments, the knife he carried, and his boots, then jabbering unintelligibly. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow promyshleniki, he managed to keep the natives at bay, alert for any change in their behavior.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Chuprov offer the pipes and tobacco to the natives. They examined them curiously, obviously having no notion as to the use of either. One of the natives gave Chuprov a stick with the head of a seal carved in bone, then gestured toward a musket, indicating he wanted it.
“No.” Chuprov was cold in his refusal.
Luka watched the smiles disappear from the faces of the Aleuts and felt the atmosphere change. Anger darkened their expressions and in his peripheral vision he saw several natives converge on the beached dinghy.
“The boat!” He yelled the warning to the others. They fell back around it, forming a protective arc to guard their only means of transportation back to the shitik. Immediately the natives began thrusting their spears at the boat’s wooden sides. The rest of the natives pointed the sharpened stone tips of their weapons at the beleaguered promyshleniki.
Without being told, Luka knew they were on their own. The men aboard the shitik could give them no help. The craft was anchored out of musket range, and they had the shitik’s sole dinghy in their possession. If they were to get back to the shitik, it was plain they would have to fight their way. He could hear the clunk of the spears being deflected by the boat’s wooden sides and wondered how long it would withstand the onslaught.
“Fire!” Chuprov shouted.
There was no need to choose a target. There we
re too many, too close. Instantly Luka’s finger tightened on the trigger, and the green cliffs around the bay echoed the thunder of musketfire. Blood gushed from the hand of a native near Luka, staining the white sand. Frightened by the explosive discharge of the guns, most of the natives fell back. While three of the promyshleniki hurriedly reloaded their weapons, Luka helped the other two drag the boat into the water.
As soon as it was afloat, he shouted to the others. When the natives saw they were getting away, they attacked, charging the men running through the surf to the boat. The muskets were discharged again, this time their thunderous report causing only a brief hesitation. There wasn’t time to reload again and the men scrambled hastily into the dinghy amidst a hail of flying spears. Luka hauled on the oar, propelling the boat through the incoming waves toward the shitik. Miraculously they reached it almost unscathed, suffering only a few minor cuts.
Once on board the sailing craft, the order was given to hoist the anchor and raise the sails. After they were out to sea, Luka stood on deck, his feet braced against the roll of the craft, and his face damp from the salt spray. He watched the low, scudding clouds, waiting for his second look at that first island, their new destination.
That night they anchored in one of the bays at the first island they’d sighted. The hostile encounter with the natives instilled a degree of caution, and a watch was posted.
CHAPTER II
The next morning, Chuprov went ashore with an armed party. They found tracks, confirming the presence of natives on the island, but none were encountered. Nor was any source of fresh water found in the immediate vicinity of the bay. The shitik sailed again, hugging the coast as closely as the jagged reefs and half-submerged rocks allowed, while they searched for another place to land.
By nightfall there was considerable grumbling among the promyshleniki. The supply of fresh water was down to one last keg. As men will do, they began to talk about their missed chances, the things that should have been done differently. If they had stopped at the first island initially … If they had captured a native and taken him hostage … If. Shekhurdin’s name was mentioned as frequently as Chuprov’s.
Shortly after dawn the following day, Luka was assigned to a landing party in case his skill at sign communication would be needed. This time the party was headed by Shekhurdin.
The winds were strong, sweeping down the craggy mountains in powerful gusts, whipping over Luka’s bearded face and sometimes stealing his breath. There were no trees; the wind never gave them a chance to take root. Occasionally he saw a stunted shrub growing low to the ground, its branches spread close to the rocks to offer little resistance to sweeping wind.
Walking was laborious. In the rough terrain, sharp volcanic rocks jabbed at the soles of boots or scraped skin when one stumbled and fell. The inland valleys were rank with tall weeds, coarse grasses, and ferns. The thick growth concealed the spongy tundra beneath it, a quicksand of matted compost with a thin crust of volcanic ash. It sucked at boots, making each step an effort. All the while, the small scouting party stayed as close to the coastline as the terrain permitted, to keep the slow-moving shitik in sight and signal for help if they needed it.
Late in the afternoon, after climbing and clawing his way to the crest of one of the serrated ridges that extended from the inland mountains like giant bony talons, Luka paused to catch his breath. He was winded and panting from exertion, his muscles out of condition after so many days aboard the shitik. He found a rocky place to sit on the lee side of the ridge. The rest of the scouting detail scrambled tiredly over the top and paused in staggered positions to rest with him, sheltered by the bony spine from the incessant wind.
Below him lay a wave-capped bay and a valley stretching back from its beach. As Luka scanned the area, he spotted the white torrent of water tumbling down from a tall green cliff, then located the stream that formed at its base and meandered half-hidden through the valley’s tall grasses before it emptied into the bay.
“Look. There’s water,” he informed Shekhurdin.
The Cossack’s slumped shoulders straightened. “Let’s go,” he ordered crisply, finding renewed strength now that his mission ashore had located its objective.
Luka exhaled a heavy breath and picked up the musket he’d laid beside him. He forced his cramping legs to support him again, then adjusted the ropes that lashed the wooden barrel to his back and cut into his shoulders. He started down the steep ridge after Shekhurdin. Wet grass made the footing slippery as they worked their way down.
On the flat, they struck out across the high grass valley. With each step, the boggy ground undulated around them, the grass-covered earth rolling in waves like the sea. Luka scanned the area for any signs of life, the hunter in him alert for the presence of fox in the valley or sea otter in the rocky bay. Twice they’d come across tracks left by natives, but that had been early in the morning.
Along the foot of a promontory jutting out to form a side of the bay, something caught his eye. He slowed his steps and caught a movement amid some humps of earth. Stopping, Luka focused on it, attempting to distinguish whether it was man or animal.
“An Aleutorski.” Unknown to Luka, Shekhurdin had stopped when he did, observing his absorption in some distant object. The rest of the weary party had paused gladly to look. “Do you see more?”
“We are too far away.” Luka shook his head. The hillocks made it difficult to see.
“I don’t think he’s seen us yet.” The Cossack’s eyes gleamed with the chance that was before him. “I want him captured and taken back to the shitik.”
It was common practice among the Cossacks to take hostages to insure their safety amid native tribes. Preferably they took the children of chiefs or important members of the tribe. But Shekhurdin was more than willing to take whatever was available.
Crouching low, they slogged through the mire toward the grassy mounds where the native had been spotted. He had disappeared from view behind one of the low hills.
When they were within a hundred yards of the first hillock, a figure emerged from the top of it. Luka froze to keep from attracting attention. The tall figure was a woman dressed in some sort of fur garment. Her head was bare, and he could see the black sheen of her hair gathered at the back of her head in a bun. For an instant, she appeared poised like a statue, then Luka realized she was looking directly at him. A second later, she called the alarm and ran down the mound.
Shekhurdin rushed forward, motioning with a sweep of his hand for the others to follow. Luka was a step slow in responding. The spongy tundra made speed difficult. By the time they reached the grassy knolls, they could see the small band of natives, mostly women and children, running along a cliff and heading inland toward rocky hiding places in the mountains.
“It’s no use.” Luka stopped, breathing hard. “We will never catch up with them before nightfall.”
Grudgingly, Shekhurdin agreed and called off the chase. “How many men were in the band?”
“Five is all I saw,” one of the promyshleniki panted.
“This is obviously their village.” The Cossack glanced at the baskets left lying on the ground and the stands for drying fish. “They must live in underground barabaras like the Kamchadals.”
Luka eyed the top of the grassy mound where he’d seen the woman emerge. “Maybe some are hiding inside.” Hefting his musket to a ready position, he walked up the rounded earth dome.
As he approached the hatchway entrance on top, he moved with caution. Kneeling beside the only entrance to the native hut, he peered into the shadows below. Nothing moved. There was no sound except the wind rushing through the grasses and the crash of the surf on the shore. A notched log served as a ladder to reach the floor of the hut. Luka descended it warily, half blinded by the smoke from a whale-oil lamp that sent flickering light into the shadowy reaches below him and emitted considerable heat.
When he set foot on the tamped-earth floor, the dried grass strewn over the floor rustled beneath his
feet. He backed away from the ladder, then pivoted slowly, looking in all the dark corners. The barabara was large, measuring some forty feet in length and twenty feet wide. Whalebones served as rafters to support the sod roof, and vertical posts hewn from driftwood formed the wall supports, with longer ones used to hold the cross beams.
Woven grass mats hung from the timbers, dividing the hut into compartments. Luka moved carefully toward them, pushing one after another open with the muzzle of his musket. There was no one hiding inside.
Partially relaxing his guard, he studied the items left behind. A burning moss wick floated in a pool of whale oil contained by the basinlike stone lamp. It sat on its own stand, providing heat for cooking and warming the interior. He found a child’s cradle, cooking utensils, wooden dishes and stone pots, many implements made from bones, but no pottery. There were many baskets of sizes varying from very tiny, which contained needles made out of bone, to very large. All were made from grass and woven so tightly, they were like cloth. Most were fitted with lids woven from the same material. Luka picked up one that was half finished, the thin strands of grass sticking out like fringe, then he tossed the unfinished basket aside. Immediately he began scavenging, turning over baskets in search of food.
“Luka Ivanovich.” Shekhurdin called to him from the hatch opening in the roof. “Did you find anything?”
“No.” He moved to the crude ladder. Then he spied a large basket sitting in the shadows that he’d overlooked. When he lifted the lid, he discovered a quantity of seal blubber inside. Carrying the basket, he climbed the notched log to the top. Emerging from the hole, he shoved the basket onto the sod roof. “This is all there was,” he told Shekhurdin.
“We will camp here tonight,” Shekhurdin declared. He took no more than passing interest in the contents of the basket. “In the morning, we will signal the shitik to send the boat ashore.”
During the remaining light of the cloud-covered afternoon, they filled the water casks at the stream and carried them to the village site, then combed the beach for driftwood. When dusk came, a fire blazed in the cooking pit on the leeward side of the barabara. They hunkered close to its warmth and chewed on the blubber.
