The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  After unfastening the leather string, Walks Straight laid the pelts on a nearby barrel and stepped back so Solovey could examine the skins. The dank room smelled strongly of tobacco and the peculiar odor of Cossack bodies. Muddy water dripped from the sod-thatched roof of the structure. Walks Straight listened to the whistling wind, using the sound it made to help him locate the board-covered slots along the shadowed walls through which muskets could be fired.

  “These pelts are worth very little. Look at the scars,” Solovey stated.

  Although he knew the skins were of inferior quality, Walks Straight argued with Solovey over their value so Killer Whale could have more time to study their enemy. “You should give me what I ask, Solovey. These pelts may be the only fur you will see. You are afraid to send your hunters after the sea otter.” He watched the Cossack redden at his taunt.

  “You ask too much for them.”

  “Where are the Cossacks from the other boat in the bay?” Walks Straight stacked the skins in a pile and wrapped the rawhide string around them. “Maybe they will be more willing to trade for them.”

  “Go out to their boat and ask them.”

  “Are none of them here?” Walks Straight studied the men in the room, this time making no attempt to conceal his interest. All of them he’d seen before or recognized from descriptions.

  “No. Our quarters are barely large enough for ourselves.” Solovey tilted his head at an inquiring angle. “How many live together in your barabara?”

  “Forty-two.” He picked up the furs and tucked them under his arm.

  “Counting women and children?”

  “Yes.” He heard voices coming from outside the hut and the sound of footsteps slogging through the mud approaching the door. Briefly, the daylight made a black silhouette of the man who entered, then he stepped through the opening and pushed the door shut. Suddenly Walks Straight saw the distinctive wings of white hair at the man’s temples and stiffened in shock. The blue eyes that stared back at him unmistakably belonged to Tolstykh. For so long Tasha had feared he would come here searching for them, but Walks Straight had never believed Tolstykh would look for them here.

  The blood started to pound in his head. He had to get away and warn Tasha. Quickly he shifted his grip on the furs, then hurled the bundle at Tolstykh’s head, and bolted for the door. “Stop him!” Tolstykh shouted. Walks Straight managed to pull the door open just as someone grabbed him from behind. While he struggled to break loose, Killer Whale darted past him to freedom.

  More arms closed around him, and Walks Straight strained under the weight of so many more hanging on him. Desperately he fought against them, even after he knew there was no hope of escaping. Finally he stopped struggling.

  “Bind his hands.” Andrei looked on from the side, satisfied now that Tasha’s brother was well and truly caught. The search was almost over. He could nearly taste the moment of victory when he would reclaim his son. Andrei waited until the savage’s wrists were tied tightly behind his back, then issued an order to the promyshleniki surrounding the native: “Step away from him.”

  After a momentary hesitation, they shifted to flank their prisoner. Andrei moved forward to confront him. “Where are they?” His demand was met with silent defiance. “You will tell me,” Andrei vowed.

  A mud-splattered promyshlenik appeared at the doorway. “The other one got away,” he reported to Solovey. “He’s wounded. Should we go after him?”

  “No,” Solovey said, looking at their prisoner. “This one will tell us all we need to know.”

  “Put him in the boat,” Andrei ordered. “I’m taking him out to the Andreian.” Anticipating a protest from Solovey, he faced him. “This Aleut is my hostage. You are welcome to be present while I question him.”

  For a moment, Solovey appeared to be on the verge of challenging him, then he thought better of it. Tolstykh was a wealthy merchant, wielding considerable power and influence in Siberia and sailing under an imperial ukase. Solovey grudgingly yielded.

  Heavily guarded, the tall Aleut was led by a rope around his neck to the beached yawl from the Andreian i Natalia. Few words were spoken as the boat was launched and they set out across the sullen waters of the bay to the vessel anchored near the Sv Petr i Sv Pavel. There were few sounds beyond the occasional screech of a seabird and the rubbing of the oars in their fulcrums.

  From his aft seat in the yawl, Andrei stared at the black head of Tasha’s Aleut brother sitting so erectly in front of him. His shoulders were pulled back by the rope binding his hands and wrists together behind his back, emphasizing the straightness of his posture. The pride and dignity in his bearing galled Andrei.

  In all his dealings with the Aleuts, he’d been fair. Every time he recalled how concerned he had been about Tasha’s feelings, he became angry and bitter. What an old fool he’d been to think she cared for him. For too long he had forgotten that she was half savage. It was plain that she resented him, as all the Aleuts resented the Russians. Her brother had never masked his feelings. His very presence on Unalaska proved to Andrei that he was involved in fomenting this uprising by the natives.

  Even if it weren’t for his son living somewhere on this island, Andrei would have remained at Unalaska to quell this revolt before it spread along the chain. No Russian, promyshlenik or merchant, considered abandoning any part of the archipelago to the control of the native population. Too many fortunes could be made in these waters to let ignorant savages stand in their way. They had conquered two continents and a half dozen races and had learned to silence local protests with the sword.

  Once they were aboard the vessel, the interrogation began. Andrei concentrated his questioning on the size and strength of the resistance, the location of villages, their number of warriors, and the quantity of Russian firepower that had fallen into Aleut hands. The whereabouts of his son, he saved for later.

  Not a single question was answered. A part of Andrei was glad Walks Straight had refused to talk—the part of him that was going to enjoy loosening Tasha’s brother’s tongue. He studied those flat black eyes for a moment, then smiled.

  “You will tell me what I want to know. You will tell me everything I want to know,” Andrei murmured, then swung his attention to the flanking guards. “Strip him and tie him to the mast, then bring the knout.”

  The knout was a deadly whip. Its dried and hardened thongs of rawhide were interwoven with sharp wires, hooked to tear the flesh of its victim. In Russia, it was an instrument of corporal punishment. Few survived a sentence of a hundred and twenty lashes.

  The promyshleniki tied their naked prisoner to the forward mast, stretching his arms high above his head. His long, pale torso and wide, thickly muscled shoulders provided an unmarred surface to test the cruel efficiency of the Russian whip.

  “Gag him,” Andrei instructed. “Sound carries a considerable distance over water. There is no need for his friends to hear his screams.”

  When the kerchief was in place, Andrei signaled his Cossack officer to begin the flogging. At the first lash of the whip, the Aleut’s body jerked convulsively. The hardened thongs left crisscrossing streaks of red on the broad back. Blood ran from the furrows gouged in the skin. Again the Cossack brought the whip down hard, its many tails splaying across the shoulder muscles, its sharp hooks ripping open more flesh. Walks Straight writhed under it.

  By the time a half dozen lashes were administered, his back was coated with blood. Andrei watched the way Tasha’s brother cringed close to the mast when he heard the faint whooshing sound of the knout slicing through the air before it struck him. His arm muscles bunched, his wrists strained against the knotted ropes that bound him in place. Then the flesh-shredding thongs landed, splattering blood and bits of skin. The kerchief gag choked off the scream, turning it into an inhuman groan.

  Andrei’s attention was centered on that back, mesmerized by the rise and fall of the whip upon it. He watched the brutal knout come down again and again, the rawhide strips darkened with b
lood.

  Then the body ceased to convulse in pain. Walks Straight slumped against the mast, his head lolling to the side, knees bent, the knotted ropes around his wrists holding his full weight while blood trickled down his arms where the ropes had rubbed his skin raw.

  In sudden panic, Andrei realized Walks Straight was unconscious. He couldn’t remember how many strokes of the lash had been administered. A dozen? Twice that? He’d lost count. Swiftly he moved to grab the arm of the Cossack before he could bring the bloodied knout down again.

  “If you have killed him, yours will be the next blood the knout tastes.” Andrei trembled with anger. The Cossack nervously retreated a step, the excited flush draining from his face.

  “He lives,” Solovey announced after checking out the flogged native and then removing the dirty kerchief that gagged him.

  “Water will revive him,” Andrei stated, masking his relief. He glared at the Cossack. “Fetch a pail.”

  “Of sea water,” Solovey inserted, smiling with animal cunning.

  Glancing at the raw, red flesh the whip had exposed, Andrei nodded slowly. “Yes, fill the pail with sea water.”

  After the Cossack lowered the wooden bucket over the vessel’s side and filled it with the cold brine of the bay, he carried it over to the motionless body and heaved the contents onto the masticated flesh. A deep-throated groan of agony rent the air as the Aleut arched rigidly.

  “Cut him down,” Andrei ordered.

  Two promyshleniki from Solovey’s camp sliced the ropes that bound him to the mast. Another moan came from him as he sagged to his knees. Gripping his arms, the Russian hunters hauled him to his feet and dragged him around to face their leader, who had come to stand beside Andrei. But Walks Straight was only half conscious, his head hanging low, his chin nearly touching his chest.

  Andrei grabbed a handful of black hair and pulled his head up so he could see the Aleut’s face. He gazed indifferently at the tears streaming from glazed eyes. “How many warriors are on this island?”

  “Four”—he rasped hoarsely—“maybe five … hundred.”

  “Where?” Andrei demanded.

  “Most … scattered … villages.” Each word seemed to require great effort.

  “Where’s the greatest concentration of warriors?” Andrei persisted, but Tasha’s brother looked at him dully and closed his mouth in a mute show of resistance, moving his head slowly in denial. “Pour some more saltwater on his back,” he told the Cossack officer as he let go of that black hair to step back. “But do it slowly.”

  As the sea brine trickled onto his mangled back, a strangled cry of pain erupted from deep inside the Aleut’s throat. He arched convulsively. Andrei watched him writhe and twist as the torture was drawn out. He smiled faintly in satisfaction when he heard the murmured plea, “No, no,” mixed in with the long moan. With a wave of his hand, he signaled the Cossack to cease pouring.

  “Where’s the greatest concentration of warriors?” Andrei repeated his question while faint tremors quivered through the Aleut. This time when he met Andrei’s gaze, his eyes held fear.

  “Not far … temporary camp …” His breathing was rough and shallow, racked with the pain consuming him. “… two hundred … two hundred fifty warriors.”

  “So close,” Solovey murmured.

  “Why are there so many in one place?” Andrei demanded.

  Broken by the unendurable pain, and the threat of more, he eventually told them everything—the reason for coming to the camp, the plan to attack it under the cover of fog, the number of firearms in the Aleuts’ possession—no detail was withheld.

  As soon as it was determined there was no more to be learned, Solovey set out for camp with his men to prepare for the coming attack. Andrei promised to support him with a contingent of men from his vessel, but the reinforcements wouldn’t be transported ashore until the fog came in, so the Aleuts wouldn’t be aware of the camp’s increased strength.

  When the boat carrying Solovey and his men pulled away from the Andreian i Natalia, Andrei turned to the semiconscious form sprawled on the deck. Hardly an inch of flesh on the man’s back remained intact. Unmoved by the gore before him, Andrei crouched down beside him and grasped the black hair to lift the man’s head.

  “Where is Tasha? Where is my son?”

  Her brother babbled an unintelligible answer in his native tongue. Andrei roughly tightened his grip, yanking the head back a little farther. “In Russian,” he ordered.

  Although the response was barely coherent, Andrei understood enough. His fingers released their grip on the black hair, letting the head fall back to the deck. Straightening, Andrei faced northward. The misting rain reduced the visibility, hiding the other side of the bay. His son was there in a large village where the women and children had been sent. Soon he would hold him in his arms again. The certainty of it flowed through him like an invigorating tonic.

  “What do you want done with the prisoner?” the Cossack asked in a hesitant voice.

  “Tie him up.” Andrei walked away.

  CHAPTER XV

  The thick gray-white fog seemed to muffle all sound. A horde of wraithlike figures moved stealthily forward in the eerie stillness, closing silently around the crudely built hut. A few of the natives wore vests of armor made out of vertical rods of wood lashed together with sinew, the garment signifying their status as village headmen. The war party crept to within thirty feet of the structure, apparently undetected. Suddenly, without warning, the Russians inside opened fire. At point-blank range, the result was devastating. The Aleuts attempted to charge the hut but the barrage of musketfire drove them back. Giving up the battle, they fled the scene, leaving a hundred of their dead behind.

  Aboard the Andreian i Natalia, Walks Straight was briefly roused from his pain-filled stupor by the thundering report of the muskets. He heard the death cries of his warrior comrades and felt the crushing guilt of his betrayal. A tear ran down his cheek as he lay open-eyed, staring vacantly into the swirling fog. It was the pain, that’s why he’d done it. They had to understand what it was like to be locked in the throes of a killing agony and not die. He shut his eyes, but there was no release from the suffering that tortured his body and his mind.

  When the fog finally thinned, eliminating the possibility that the natives might try another sneak attack, the Russians ventured out of the hut. The wounded they found among the battlefield dead were mercilessly dispatched, and the bodies heaped in a common grave. After locating the abandoned encampment of the war party, they destroyed the temporary dwellings and several baidars.

  Frustrated, Solovey looked over the demolished camp. “Those bloodthirsty natives have probably scattered to all points of the island by now.”

  “I think not,” Andrei said and motioned for the two promyshleniki guarding his prisoner to bring him forward. Weakened from the loss of blood and immobilized by the excruciating pain from his back, he had to be bodily dragged over. “Where would the warriors have gone when they left here?” There was a barely perceptible shake of the head, denying any knowledge. “Would they have gone to the village where the women and children are?” Andrei demanded confidently and noted with satisfaction the small nod of agreement.

  “I wondered why you kept the bastard alive.” Solovey smiled in approval. “This village, how far is it from here?”

  “An hour’s march.” Andrei knew he needed to say no more than that. By nature, Solovey was cruel and given to excess. Avenging the massacre of his fellow countrymen provided the Russian with a ready excuse to indulge in his brutal passions.

  Solovey called his men together and informed them of their new objective. “Before the day is over, these savages will learn how costly it is to spill Russian blood.”

  The lookout’s warning came too late to evacuate the women, children, and wounded from the village. Everyone took refuge inside the earthen-walled barabara. The dwelling had been built for defense, with interior posts supporting an upper wooden walkway from which
warriors could shoot their arrows through apertures in the roof. The men scrambled up notched logs to take their defensive positions and await the assault of the Cossacks.

  With her son, Tasha joined the mothers, who gathered all the young ones at one end of the barabara, thus freeing other women to look after the wounded and infirm. All around her, children whimpered and cried, confused and frightened by the panic they sensed in the adults. Tasha felt it, too, and held an infant child more tightly in her arms, at the same time trying to keep Zachar beside her. A young girl, ten summers old, finally picked him up and hugged him close to her slim body, drawing comfort from him as much as she comforted.

  A musket boomed, scaring screams from children, but it was just the beginning. The singing of bowstrings couldn’t match the roar of the Russian weapons, and the shower of arrows was answered by a hail of bullets flying through the defensive openings. Amidst the noise of battle and sobbing children came the cries of the wounded as the impact of bullets sent them spinning off their perches onto the crowded floor of the barabara. One landed in front of Tasha, half of his face blown away. She stared in horror at the bloodied cavity where a cheekbone and eye had once been.

  The futility of their fighting quickly became apparent to the surviving warriors, and they abandoned their defensive positions, hauling down the notched logs behind them. They sat down among the others to wait, shielded by the dirt walls of the semi-subterranean dwelling, while lead balls continued to thwack into the ceiling rafters.

  The musket barrage tapered off, then stopped. In the ensuing silence, the beat of Tasha’s heart sounded in her ears. Tensely, she strained to hear some sound above the soft whimpers of the children and the low moans of the wounded. She huddled more closely against the woven-grass matting that covered the earthen wall, protectively cradling the infant in her arms. She glanced at her son, assuring herself that he was faring well in the young girl’s care.

  As the silence lengthened, with no sound coming from outside, her attention strayed to the roof of the dwelling. The hatch was the only way out and the only way the Cossacks could get in. She watched for any telltale sifting of dust from the sod roof that would warn of their approach. Nothing. Her anxiety grew with the strain of waiting. She didn’t believe, as some were murmuring, that the Cossacks might have left.