The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “What do you think, Cap’n?”

  “They won’t try again, not right away,” Caleb guessed. “Have the crew stand to just in case. And”—he glanced at his black-haired prisoner—“send someone to my cabin with a set of chains and manacles.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Taking his arm away from her throat, Caleb caught one of her wrists and twisted it high behind her back, then marched her to his cabin. Once inside, he shoved her into the room and shut the door. She fell against the table and quickly turned to face him, pressing herself back against the table like a cornered animal. She glared at him, hatred shining from her black eyes.

  Caleb raised the pistol she’d stolen from him, its muzzle pointing up. “I think you would have enjoyed blowing my head off with this, wouldn’t you?” He returned it to its case.

  In that brief second she launched herself at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb caught the flash of a metal blade and dodged its downward slice, belatedly remembering there’d been a knife on the table. Its sharp tip cut across the fleshy part of his arm, searing his skin. Cursing, he grabbed her wrist and twisted it, forcing her to drop the weapon.

  As it clattered to the floor, he started to relax. Immediately her hands were at his face, scratching at his eyes, and she raked her fingers across his cheeks, drawing blood. The instant he seized them and pulled them down, she started biting at his hands.

  “You damned little hellion!” Blood was running from the scratches on his face and the cut on his arm. He grabbed a handful of her long black hair and tugged at the roots, pulling her head back and forcing her to her knees. A knock rattled the cabin door. “Come in,” Caleb snapped. The clank of chains accompanied the sound of the door opening.

  The second mate stared at him for a dumbstruck moment. “You’re bleedin’, Cap’n.”

  “Aye.” Caleb glared at him. “Put this she-cat in those irons. And watch her claws.” After a brief struggle, she was manacled and chained to a support. Caleb pressed a blue neckerchief on the knife cut. “Where the hell is Dawson?”

  “I’ll fetch him for you, Cap’n.” The second mate hurried from the cabin.

  Left alone, Caleb walked over to the rum bottle and poured himself a drink. As he drank it down, he heard the clink of the chains and looked at the Indian girl curled beside the post. His throat burned from the alcohol, the sensation feeding his anger instead of soothing it. The anger was partly directed at her and partly at himself for nearly being tricked by her.

  Her long black hair fanned over her shoulders and chest, completely covering the upper half of her white buckskin garment. Caleb kicked a chair away from the table and sat down facing her.

  “I was wrong about you, Raven.” When he mentioned her name, her head came up and her expression held insolence and hatred. “You’re no hellcat. You’re more deadly than that. No, you’re more like a black widow spider who kills the male after they’ve mated.”

  “Boston man wrong. People come for Raven. Take to village,” she stated.

  “Is that why you tried to shoot me with my own gun?”

  “Boston man shoot at people. Raven shoot at Boston man to stop.”

  “That’s a good tale,” Caleb conceded dryly. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  His steward, Dawson, hurried into the cabin laden with an assortment of bandages and medicinal aids, and appeared disappointed by Caleb’s minor wounds, but he quickly set about treating them.

  As the rising sun penetrated the mists, a dozen canoes set out from shore loaded with glowering warriors. Watching their approach, Caleb ordered the Indian girl to be brought up from his cabin. He stood her on the forecastle deck where she could easily be seen. The Tlingits halted their canoes when they saw her.

  One stood up, and Caleb recognized him from yesterday’s trading session. “We come for Raven.”

  “Raven stays.” Caleb raised his voice so all would hear him. “She is my hostage.” The murmur of anger among the warriors quickly became a clamor of protest. “Last night”—Caleb shouted above it—“you tried to attack my ship. I thought the Tlingits were my friends. I have always traded fairly with you. Yesterday I agreed to sell you a bolt of cloth for the price of twenty otter skins and the company of this woman for one night.” He signaled Hicks to hold up the calico. “Here is the cloth. So you will know that I honor my bargain, one canoe may approach my ship.”

  Hicks waited until it was alongside the Sea Gypsy, then tossed the bolt into the waiting arms of the Tlingits. When it was in their possession, the warriors paddled back to join the semicircle of canoes.

  “As long as my ship is in your waters, I will keep this woman,” Caleb stated. “I will treat her well. And when I leave, I will return her to you. If any of your people attack my ship again, I will shoot her.”

  More mutterings came from the Indians, but soon they were turning their canoes around and paddling back to the shore. Caleb waited until they had landed on the beach of their summer camp, then grasped Raven by the shoulder and pushed her to the aft rail of the forecastle deck to stand before his crew.

  “Now, buckos, have a good look at her,” Caleb ordered, then waited for his crew to gather around on the lower deck.

  Many times they had glimpsed her briefly, but now they were invited to look their fill. No doubt, Caleb thought, they saw in her what he had seen. They had been without a woman as long as he.

  “When she’s on deck, you are not to speak to her. If she speaks to you, you are not to answer—no matter what she promises. If she approaches the rail, you are to shoot her.” He saw their resistance to his orders. “Do you hear me, lads?”

  Reluctantly, they mumbled a disjointed chorus of “Aye, sir.”

  “If you value your lives, you won’t trust her.” Caleb surveyed them grimly. “She’d as soon see your heads drying on stakes like those Russians you saw as look at you. Don’t ever forget it.” He paused to let his warning sink in, then issued an order to the first mate, Hicks. “Lay aloft and loose the topsails.”

  The setting sun turned the drifting clouds first golden, then crimson pink, and tinted the canvas sails of the Sea Gypsy. All hands were on deck during the twilight dog watch, a leisurely time with the day’s work done. The crew sat on the windlass or sprawled about the forecastle, smoking and spinning yarns. Dawson was in the galley having a cup of coffee with Old Swede, the cook. Hicks wandered along the lee side of the quarterdeck, smoking his pipe, while the second mate leaned on the rail of the weathered gangway.

  Caleb remained separate from them, standing on the weather side of the quarterdeck, the wind blowing the fragrant fir smell of the islands to him. In the brig’s hold, he had a rich cargo of pelts, mainly otter skins. The only market for them was China. As he gazed at the savage wilderness that surrounded him, his mind’s eye saw the terraced hongs and their great godowns of the Chinese port of Canton, built on the banks of the Pearl. The river itself was an exotic city of boats—sampans, flower boats, tea-deckers, and mandarin boats. With nearly two thousand otter skins to sell by the end of this voyage, he should have a handy sum to reinvest in silks, nankeens, tea, and crepes despite the duties, commissions, and graft he’d be obliged to pay. He might even enhance that sum by smuggling some of the furs to Macao Roads or Dirty Butter Bay.

  Eight bells was struck, the sound rousing him from his thoughts. As soon as the anchor watch was set, Caleb went below to his cabin. His hand touched the door latch at the same instant that he heard Dawson curse from inside. “Ya little she-bitch, give it to me or I’ll lay this strop to you.”

  Caleb stepped inside. His slim young steward held a leather shaving strop in his upraised hand. When Dawson saw him, he halted his threatening advance on Raven, who had pivoted to partially face both of them. She held her hands behind her back, hiding whatever object they held. She looked like a caged panther ready to spring.

  No manacles or chains restricted her movement. After the first two days, Caleb had removed them and merely kept her confined
to his quarters, permitting her on deck only during the early-morning hours—never in the evening when his crew had to face the emptiness of their berths.

  “What’s the problem, Dawson?”

  “When I went to put away the cutlery, there was a piece missin’, Cap’n. The thievin’ little whore filched one of the knives.”

  “Hand it over, Raven.” Caleb extended his hand to her, palm upward. After a long hesitation, she brought her arms from behind her back. The light from the brass lamp flashed on the metal blade of a knife in her right hand. Without waiting to see if she intended to surrender it, Caleb seized her wrist and twisted it from her unresisting fingers, then passed the knife to Dawson.

  Dawson was plainly disappointed by her lack of resistance. “You should have her whipped for stealin’, Cap’n,” he asserted.

  Caleb was quite certain his steward would volunteer for the task. “If I did that, I’d have to punish you as well, Dawson, for leaving the knife within her reach.”

  Dawson reddened and quickly bowed his head in shame. “Aye, sir,” he mumbled, then darted a loathing glance at the woman. “Is there anything else you’ll be wantin’ this night, sir?” he inquired stiffly.

  Caleb’s attention shifted to the Tlingit girl. The memories of Canton were fresh on his mind, especially the slant-eyed Oriental women in their brilliant silks embroidered in silver and gold threads.

  “Check the trade goods and find something for her to wear. I’m tired of seeing her in that shapeless piece of buckskin.”

  “No matter what she’s wearin’, she’ll still be a heathen savage,” Dawson sniped.

  “That was an order, Dawson!”

  The steward quailed slightly under his glowering look. “Aye, sir. I was—”

  “If you don’t like the job any more, Dawson, I’ll be happy to break you to a common seaman and put you in the fo’c’sle with the others,” Caleb threatened.

  Tears trembled on the fringes of Dawson’s long lashes as he answered stiffly, “I like my job well enough, sir.”

  “Then do as you’re told.”

  “Aye, sir.” This time Dawson was very careful not to look at Raven as he turned away and left the cabin.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb watched him leave while continuing to face Raven. When the door latch clicked shut, he let all his attention center on her, and her loosely closed left fist.

  “What else did you take, Raven?”

  Her lips thinned to a tight, angry line. A second later, she hurled two buttons at his face, ones that had come off his shirt that he’d left for Dawson to sew back on. He dodged one, but the other stung his cheek. She turned her back to him and rigidly folded her arms in front of her.

  “Caleb has sharp eyes.” It was a condemnation rather than a compliment.

  He chuckled and stepped up behind her, sliding his hands up her arms and under the wide sleeves onto her shoulders. “If I didn’t you would have buried a knife in my back long ago, Raven.” Her lack of response was a rejection of his caress and his smile lengthened at it. He applied pressure to turn her around, but she shrugged free of his hands with an angry twist of her shoulders.

  “No. I don’t want Caleb.”

  A part of him recognized how much her English vocabulary had improved during the last ten days, but it didn’t matter in the least to him. Her refusal mattered even less.

  “That’s what you always say,” he mocked, and pulled her into his arms, ignoring her stiffness as he always did.

  He kissed her roughly, forcing her lips apart. Without warning, she bit him, sinking her teeth into his lower lip. Cursing, he drew back and licked at the cut with his tongue, tasting the blood in his mouth—his own blood.

  “You little bitch,” Caleb muttered as she looked back at him, unafraid. He smiled. Any contact with her involved an element of danger. “I like it when you fight me. You do, too, don’t you?”

  The initial battle always seemed to arouse his passions more fully. He had no desire to break her wild spirit, merely to bend it to his will.

  “I like to go outside.”

  “I’m sure you would, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.” He dabbed his kerchief against his smarting, swollen lip.

  She glanced toward the door. “Your slave comes.” Her announcement was followed by a rap on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Dawson entered the cabin carrying a colorfully striped banian. “This is all I could find that I felt would be what the captain had in mind, sir,” he stated.

  Caleb frowned at the robe, noticing the signs of wear in the threadbare sleeve cuffs. “Where did you find this?” To his knowledge nothing of this sort was included in the trade goods or the slop chest.

  “It’s mine, sir. Or more correctly, my father’s. I have no use for it. When he ordered me out of the house, I took it with me because I knew it was his favorite article of clothing. It’s fitting that a savage should wear it,” he declared.

  “Very well.” Caleb took the long robe and turned to Raven. “I want you to wear this. Take off that buckskin.”

  “It is mine?” Her dark eyes glittered as she stroked the velvet fabric.

  “Yes.”

  Immediately she grabbed the skirt of her garment and began dragging it up to pull it over her head. Distaste stiffened Dawson’s expression as he turned from the sight of her naked body. “If there is nothing else, sir?”

  Caleb nodded a dismissal as he held out the banian so Raven could slip her arms into the sleeves of the kimono-styled garment. Buttons closed the front, fitting the material to her waist and letting the rest flare into a long skirt that brushed the floor. She reveled in the texture of the velvet, feeling it all over with her hands. With the long river of her black hair flowing down her back, she almost looked like a native of India, where the robe style long ago originated. She looked infinitely more civilized, but Caleb wasn’t sure he liked her that way.

  “Are you pleased?” He hardly needed to ask. Her hands fondled the gown greedily.

  “No man has given me a present like this before. Not even Zachar.” Oblivious of him, she turned to see her reflection in the small mirror fastened to the bulkhead.

  “Zachar Tarakanov.”

  Her eyes met the reflection of his in the mirror. For an instant she was motionless, betraying the accuracy of his guess. Then she swung around to face him, her expression full of sensual promise.

  “I will show Caleb how happy his gift has made me.”

  As she moved toward him, he caught hold of her arms and held her away from him. “Do you know he’s alive? He wasn’t killed with the other Russians at the fort.”

  “I knew this.”

  Her indifference was genuine, he realized, and he suspected her reaction would have been no different if Zachar had been killed in the massacre. As visions of those rotting heads flashed through his mind, he hated her violently. If his own head was among them, she wouldn’t care either, he thought to himself, then threw back his head and laughed. If the positions were reversed, he doubted that he’d feel any remorse himself. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bunk.

  At the end of another week, Caleb deemed it time to move farther south along the coast. When he’d stopped at the last two villages, both had previously traded with another Boston ship in the area and the few furs they’d had left weren’t worth the time spent. He put Raven ashore at a village of her clan, as he had promised.

  The brightly striped banian she wore stood out vividly against the shoreline. From the quarterdeck, Caleb watched as the natives mobbed her, the robe creating a considerable sensation. She was soon swallowed by the crowd and he lost sight of her. He felt no regrets. South American, Hawaiian, Oriental, African, now Indian, he’d bedded them all and left them all. It wasn’t likely he’d look back on this one either—or see her again—or recognize her if he did.

  The longboat was headed back to the brig. As Caleb turned from the taffrail, he noticed Dawson standing on the w
aist deck watching him. Women came and went in his life, but Dawson was always there, it seemed. Caleb paused a moment, wondering on that realization. But it would be another two years before he saw Long Wharf again. Two years of few comforts and little recreation. And Dawson knew his tastes … in everything.

  Once the longboat was back in its place between the fore and mainmasts, Caleb gave the order to loose the topsails. He watched the men as they scampered up the rigging like so many monkeys. As soon as the sails were freed, one hand remained on each top to overhaul the rigging and light the sails out while the rest of the crew came down to man the sheets, singing out cheerily as they hauled them in.

  Within minutes the Sea Gypsy was under way, her masts raking, her bowsprit running up. It was down the Northwest coast a few more months, then across the Pacific to Canton, through the dreaded Sunda Strait, and around the Cape of Good Hope across the Atlantic to Boston and home port.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Sitka

  September 1804

  After spending the last two years with his family on Kodiak, Zachar stepped once again onto the beach where the settlement of the Redoubt St. Michael had stood, but he could see no trace of its remains anywhere. There weren’t even markers to identify the graves of the dead, and now hundreds of newly erected little tents were scattered across the clearing. More than three hundred bidarkas lined the beach. The air no longer smelled of death and charred timbers, but of wood smoke and cooking food. Guards were posted all along the beach and hugged nearly every stump that faced the black forest where he had once taken refuge.

  A boat lightered more men ashore from the vessels moored in the harbor that had escorted the bidarka fleet to this site. The Yermack, the Alexandre, the Rotislav, and the Ekatrina, on which Mikhail had sailed, were all there, lanterns shining from their topgallant mastheads to light the way for stragglers of the bidarka fleet. But all the ships were dominated by the massive 450-ton frigate Neva from the Imperial Russian Navy.

  Oblivious to the crackling flames, the hammering of tent stakes, and undulating voices, both Russian and Aleut, Zachar thought of Raven and the last time he’d seen her—here on this beach. He wondered if he would ever know whether she had deliberately betrayed him or innocently told her clan of their plans for a feast day. As long as the doubts remained, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. The guilt for the deaths of his comrades was his; he could not blame her for them.