The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “Zachar, no,” she murmured.

  “I am going to the Pribilofs.” He had made up his mind. The company had declared a two-year moratorium on the killing of fur seals to give them a chance to breed and increase their dwindling numbers.

  Tasha breathed in sharply, triggering another coughing spasm. When it was over, she barely had the strength to stand. Zachar led her to a large boulder along the shoreline so she could sit and rest.

  “Don’t go there.” She clutched at his hand.

  “I must.” He couldn’t look at her haunted eyes. He didn’t want to remember his uncle, Walks Straight, or his madness.

  As the men rowed the yawl toward the shore, Caleb Stone studied the formidable bastion atop the knoll. Its cannons commanded the harbor and the forest and protected a two-story building that was crowned with a beacon tower.

  “You have built a veritable kremlin on the Pacific,” Caleb remarked to the pilot who had guided his vessel into the harbor. Although he’d been told the Russians had rebuilt their settlement, nothing had prepared him for this.

  “It is the headquarters of the company now,” Mikhail Tarakanov replied in his stilted English.

  Briefly, Caleb noted the blue and white flag flying smartly above the bastion, then the shipyard and the large hull of a nearly completed three-masted ship. He had hoped for some help in repairing the damage done to his vessel during a storm. It was obvious Sitka had the facilities.

  “I had understood that Baranov had resigned.” The old wizened man in his black wig waited on the shore to welcome Caleb.

  “The High Chamberlain Rezanov died while crossing Siberia in the winter. The directors asked Baranov to stay. There is much confusion in St. Petersburg because of Rezanov’s death and the war in Europe.”

  “I see.”

  When the yawl landed on the beach, Caleb stepped out to greet Baranov. The Russian governor attempted a few remarks of welcome in broken English and after that relied on his interpreter, a Yankee in the company’s service, roughly twenty-five years old, named Abram Jones. From the educated tenor of Jones’s voice, Caleb suspected the man would have been more comfortable dressed in the snug dress coat, silk cap, and kid gloves of an undergraduate at Cambridge. He’d sailed on a ship once that had a supercargo from Cambridge. He’d never particularly liked the scholarly kind since then. It seemed that Baranov’s former interpreter, the Bengalese Richard, had left two years ago with Baranov’s permission to return to his home.

  After accepting Baranov’s invitation to come to his office, Caleb turned to take his leave of the harbor pilot, intending it to be no more than a perfunctory gesture, but he saw the young woman—barely more than a girl—standing beside Tarakanov. So lovely and innocent, she possessed an almost genteel quality that seemed out of place in this wild country. Although she returned his look, it was not done boldly. Nor did those incredibly long lashes lower in a look of coy flirtation.

  With difficulty, Caleb managed to tear his gaze away from her and glance questioningly at the harbor pilot. “I should thank you for your services this morning, but I find I am more inclined to beg an introduction.”

  Tarakanov’s hesitation was momentary. “My niece, Larissa Tarakanova.”

  “Captain Caleb Stone of the Sea Gypsy out of Salem.” He took her slender hand and bowed over it, raising it to his lips and pressing them against it for a lingering second while she curtsied gracefully.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain.” Although it was evident the formal response was something she had learned by rote, her delightfully accented English more than compensated for the artificial wording.

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” Caleb straightened, wishing he could tell Baranov to go to hell, but duty came first. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  As he accompanied Baranov to the steps leading to the fortress built on top of the bluff, his thoughts remained on the young woman Larissa, who was so unlike the Indian squaws and half-breeds who usually cohabited with the Russian hunters. Distracted by his thoughts, he failed to notice the raven-haired Kolosh woman who stared so intently at him when he walked past her.

  If it was a surprise to find a lovely, genteel woman like Larissa in Sitka, the governor’s residence was an even greater surprise to Caleb, situated as it was thousands of miles from civilization. Constructed out of giant squarehewn timbers, the two-story building was both a residence, with sleeping quarters upstairs, and an administration center for the Russian American Company, with an office that overlooked Sitka Sound. Besides the kitchens and reception rooms, there was a large banquet hall complete with a huge stone fireplace and a dais at one end of the room for musicians.

  Most unexpected of all was the library. In addition to a collection of fine paintings, it housed twelve hundred volumes. The books, some richly bound, covered such subjects as theology, history, astronomy, navigation, mathematics, and metallurgy, as well as some literary works. Half were in Russian; the rest were in French, German, Latin, Spanish, and Italian. An interesting assortment of ship models shared the shelf space with the many books, and framed letters hung on the walls with the paintings. The library also contained a pianoforte, shipped all the way around the Horn.

  Caleb was very impressed with the progress the Russian American Company had made in such a short period of time. Although he had stopped at Sitka for repairs, he requested Baranov’s permission to trade in the area. In actuality, Baranov couldn’t prevent him from doing so, which Caleb knew, but to do so without his permission would mean Baranov would never grant him any special favors, such as contracting to use his Aleut hunters on a share basis to poach sea otter off the California coast, a highly lucrative enterprise.

  Two days passed before Caleb was able to complete the arrangements for the repairs to his vessel, negotiate a fair price for a portion of his cargo that Baranov wanted to buy, and obtain permission to trade in the Russian territory. During that time, Baranov kept him constantly entertained, introducing him to the questionable pleasure of a Russian steam bath and continually plying him with liquor.

  Finally their business was concluded. Caleb left the harbor area and wandered through the main section of town that spread out from the base of the knoll. Baranov had told him the combined population of Russian, Yankee, Aleut, and Creole was roughly a thousand people. Caleb could believe it as he passed the commissary, bakery, storehouses, barracks, and kitchens. A high palisade surrounded the town, broken only by imposing gates. Military discipline was evident everywhere. The guard was changed regularly and each man saluted smartly.

  As he wandered into the residential area, he noticed the patchwork of vegetable plots, the young plants shooting up in the long daylight hours of late spring. Flowers bloomed in front of nearly every cabin, vivid against the lush green of the land.

  His steps slowed when he noticed the girl working in the garden. He’d known he would find her sooner or later. For a while, Caleb simply watched her. She wore a Russian costume similar to the one she’d had on when he first met her. This time, however, the long sleeves were rolled back a few turns and the voluminous material of the loose apron-like dress was belted at the waist, giving him a clearer idea of her shape.

  Bending at the waist, he reached down and snapped the stem of a large yellow poppy, then he walked across the blossom-strewn ground to the garden, indifferent to the plants he trampled along the way. She didn’t notice him until he was only a few feet away. After her initial start of surprise, she appeared pleased to see him. She quickly smoothed the sides of her dark hair that was pulled back in a bun.

  “You look lovely, Miss Tarakanov,” he assured her. “There’s just one thing wrong.”

  He displayed the poppy in his hand as he reached up and tucked the stem behind her left ear. Somehow he had known she wouldn’t flinch at his touch. She appeared as pure as all the prim and proper Boston girls back home, yet he knew she wasn’t the kind to giggle or feign a swoon. As he took his hand away, she reac
hed up to touch the soft petals.

  “I stole that just for you.” Caleb smiled. “The Hawaiian girls wear flowers in their hair like that. And they string them into necklaces, too.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a custom. Something about if they wear a flower over their left ear, they are married. The right ear means they are not. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I always get it confused.” He watched her lips curve into a smile, liking the shape of them.

  “Someday I should like to see this place Hawaii. Other Yankees have told me it is very warm all the time. Is this so?”

  “Yes.”

  “It must be like California,” she decided. “Are the women of Hawaii as beautiful as the women of California?”

  Caleb wondered if her question was an attempt to elicit another compliment from him, but her curiosity appeared to be genuine. “I wouldn’t know. I have never met any California women.” The Spanish ports along the southern coast were still closed to all foreign ships. “Who told you about them?”

  “My father. He journeyed on the ship of the high lord chamberlain to the village of San Francisco. He spoke to me of the beautiful California lady the high chamberlain was to marry.”

  “No foreign ships are allowed there. How did he get permission to land?” Caleb frowned.

  The blank look in her eyes told him she had not known entry was forbidden. There was a faint lift of her shoulders. “He was the high chamberlain.”

  The title meant nothing to him, although the Russian must have been someone of importance. For a minute, Caleb had wondered whether California was being opened up to foreign trade, offering another market for his goods, but apparently the Russian’s visit to San Francisco was an exception—unless an exclusive trade agreement had been reached. These damned Russians are so close-mouthed, Caleb thought, and remembered the way Baranov had pumped him for information about the coast to the south, asking about California and the New Albion area around the mouth of the Columbia River.

  “How often do Russian ships go to California?”

  She shook her head. “This I do not know. I have heard only of this one. Is it not as you said ships are not permitted there?”

  “Yes, it is.” Caleb smiled, pleased to discover she wasn’t stupid.

  Suddenly she became very alert and looked toward the cabin. As Caleb turned to locate the cause of her distraction, he caught the muffled, rasping sound that came from inside the log dwelling—a sound that vaguely reminded him of someone sawing wood.

  “It is Babushka. She is not well.” She looked at him apologetically, then ran toward the cabin, the long, voluminous skirt of her over-dress swirling about her legs.

  The sound he heard was coughing, Caleb realized. He hesitated, then followed Larissa to the cabin, more out of curiosity and reluctance to have their meeting end so abruptly than out of a desire to help. The door stood open and Caleb walked in. Larissa sat on a cot in the corner of the room close to the fireplace, supporting an old woman whose body heaved with a racking cough.

  Idly he inspected the interior of the snugly built cabin. The few pieces of furniture in the room appeared to be hand-hewn. Yet there were touches that softened the crudeness of the furnishings. A muslin cloth, artfully embroidered with bright flowers, covered the table on which a dented samovar sat. Another embroidered scarf lay over an old, scratched sea chest. Ivory carvings, some of the finest Caleb had seen, occupied little niches in the room. A variety of grass baskets, small and large, were put to utilitarian uses, intricate native designs woven into them in bright colors. His trader’s eye noticed that the utensils and tableware appeared to be of European or American origin. All in all, the impression he gathered was one of homely comforts, a blend of primitive and civilized.

  As the coughing subsided, Caleb returned his attention to Larissa and the old woman. He noticed the red stains on the rag Larissa took from the woman’s spindly hands. Coughing up blood was a sign of consumption. Knowing the old woman would slowly waste away, he viewed her with a detached kind of pity. Larissa started to lower her onto the cot so the old woman could lie down.

  “It would be better if she could sit up a little,” Caleb said.

  Ignoring the girl’s startled glance, he walked over to the cot. There were no pillows, so Caleb gathered up the fur robes that were piled at the foot, absently noticing the needlework stitching around the lining. He used the folded robes to prop the old woman in a semi-reclining position. Although she was a tall woman, her body felt almost weightless as he gently lowered her shoulders and back onto the fur cushions. Despite the exhaustion etched in her face, her dark eyes inspected him. As he straightened, she said something in Russian to Larissa.

  “Babushka … Grandmother thanks you for your kindness.”

  “Babushka is welcome.” Caleb bent slightly at the waist in a semblance of a bow, then straightened, continuing to study the old woman’s parchmentlike skin. “How long has she been sick?”

  “The cough grows worse for two years now. She works when she is tired.” Her hand indicated a bowl of half-crushed berries on a wooden chair. “I make her rest. Soon she will feel better.” Caleb doubted that simple rest would cure the old woman’s malady, but he kept his opinion to himself. After another brief exchange with her grandmother in Russian, Larissa turned to him. “Grandmother asks if you would drink tea with us.”

  “I would like that.” Caleb smiled.

  While the water heated in the samovar, they talked. Caleb made sure that Larissa did most of the talking, prompting her with questions when necessary. He enjoyed listening to the musical lilt of her voice and the charming accent of her English.

  By the time the tea was ready to serve, he managed to learn that her grandmother had raised her after her mother had drowned during a tidal wave at Kodiak, that she had attended a school at Kodiak run by a Russian priest named Father Herman, and the wife of the company manager at Kodiak had trained her in the womanly arts of cooking, sewing, and homemaking. It explained much of the refinement—the air of convent-raised innocence and high moral character he detected in her.

  “What about your father? Is he alive?” Caleb had noticed the carved pipestand by the chair, yet she hadn’t mentioned any man other than her uncle—the harbor pilot who had guided his ship into port.

  “Yes. He lives here in Sitka, but he’s a hunter and away much of the time. That’s why Babushka and I live with my Uncle Mikhail.” She was sensitive to the fact that Zachar obviously hadn’t wanted her to live with him. It had been that way all her life, and all her life she had yearned to be close to him, yet she had seen more of her uncle than she ever had of her father.

  When she’d arrived in New Archangel, she had hoped things would be different, but nothing had changed. Right from the start, she had sensed an estrangement between her father and uncle and suspected that her Uncle Mikhail disapproved of her father living in sin with that Kolosh woman. She knew it was wrong, yet she loved him anyway. And if sometimes it hurt to see the affection he lavished on his son, Wolf, she forgave him. But she didn’t know Caleb Stone well enough to confide any of that to him, so she spoke of other things, steering the conversation away from the subject of her father.

  An aromatic blend of China tea scented the air, triggering thoughts of Boston in Caleb’s mind. Just for a minute, he allowed himself to picture Larissa sipping tea in the parlor of a house in the Bulfinch-designed Tontine Crescent and to imagine the stir she would create. Even in those peasant clothes, she radiated a beauty and dignity that few of the supposedly aristocratic ladies he’d met could match. With a wife like her to ornament the mansion he intended to build on Beacon Hill someday … Caleb laughed when he realized he was contemplating marriage.

  “Why do you laugh?” Larissa stiffened self-consciously. “The wrong word I used, perhaps?”

  “No. I was laughing at something else entirely. It had nothing to do with anything you said or did.”

  She studied him for several seconds before accep
ting his assurances. The long skirt made a swishing sound as she walked to the cloth-covered table. The teapot sat atop the samovar, kept hot by the rising steam. As she reached for the pot, Caleb noticed the long slanting rays of sunlight that came through the window.

  “More tea?” she asked.

  “No. I’m afraid the time has slipped away from me.” Caleb stood up and walked over to set his empty cup on the table. It brought him beside her. “I didn’t intend to stay so late. I guess I can blame it on your charming company.”

  “I had pleasure, too.” She didn’t attempt to hide the regret she felt at his leaving.

  “May I have your permission to come again?”

  “Yes, that would please me.” Her quick smile soon assumed a wistful quality that Caleb found appealing, yet sad.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I feel sad that it will take only a week to make the repairs to your ship.”

  Her candor charmed him; she had been sufficiently interested in him to inquire about the length of time it would take for the repairs to be made to his ship, because he certainly hadn’t told her.

  “Maybe I can arrange for it to take longer.” He winked at her, and she laughed.

  She stood at the door as he walked away from the cabin. When he turned down the street toward the harbor, Caleb saw her take the flower from her hair and inhale its sweet fragrance. As he struck out for the harbor, his rolling seaman’s gait became a proud swagger.

  * * *

  Larissa waited until he was out of her sight, then slowly closed the door and leaned against it. Closing her eyes, she carried the yellow poppy to her bosom and held it there. The handsome, clean-shaven Yankee captain, Caleb Stone, was the most exciting man she had ever encountered. Certainly there was no one in Kodiak who could compare to him. Others had stared at her with that hungry look before, especially some of the Yankees. She was not so naïve that she didn’t know what it meant. But none had ever produced this warm, tingling sensation inside her.