by Janet Dailey
Taking the soft package from under his arm, Caleb presented it to the old woman. “This is for you, Babushka.” He laid it on her lap. Each time he’d visited the cabin, he’d brought a little gift—some tea or sugar, and once some tobacco for Larissa’s Uncle Mikhail. This time the occasion was more momentous and he’d increased the value of the gift accordingly. The bundle contained several yards of fine English cloth. He waited for her to unwrap it, but she made no move to do so. “Tell her to open it.”
Larissa passed on his message. The old woman tipped her head back to look at him, her gaze steady. As she began speaking, Larissa started the translation a phrase or two behind. “She thanks you for the gift, but she wonders why you bring her presents. She asks—Babushka!” Larissa’s cheeks reddened.
“What did she say?” Caleb frowned.
Obviously embarrassed, Larissa hesitated over her answer. “In the Aleutian Islands … where my grandmother was born … when a man wishes to … to take a woman to his home, he gives … presents to her parents. If the gifts are accepted, she goes to live with him. That is the custom.”
“And she thinks I’m trying to buy you.”
She lifted her gaze to examine his face. “I have been baptized into the Holy Faith. To live with a man without God’s blessing would be a sin.”
“Tell your grandmother that it is true I do love you and want you to be my wife, but I bring her presents only out of admiration and respect,” he said. “It is also true that I came today to seek your family’s permission to marry you. If there was a priest at Sitka I would ask him to perform the marriage sacrament, but there is none. Ask your grandmother what I should do.”
The wondrous joy that radiated from her expression left no doubt that she accepted his suit. Her lips parted speechlessly. Turning, she sank to her knees beside her grandmother’s chair. A torrent of Russian spilled from her, eager and entreating.
As Tasha listened to her granddaughter, a chilling emptiness crept into her body. She suddenly felt very old and very tired. “You would leave with him to go to this place called Boston?”
Dim was her memory of the day she sailed from Massacre Bay at Attu with Andrei Tolstykh, never again to see her mother, Winter Swan, her uncle, Many Whiskers, or old Weaver Woman. She gazed at the dark green mass of spruce and cedar towering beyond the stockade walls, growing thickly like so many stalks of grass. How she missed her treeless island and its ever-blowing wind.
“Caleb says we will come back often.” Larissa’s voice roused Tasha from her time-misted thoughts. “This is where he trades for furs. He says maybe he will also build a cabin here. When we come back, that is where we would live.”
“Come back.” The phrase reminded Tasha that Andrei had also promised her mother that he would bring her back to Attu. She had believed. She couldn’t have known the Russians would alter forever their way of life. Now the Yankees came. Tasha folded the wool shawl across her chest, feeling so cold.
“Babushka, I love him. He leaves soon.”
“And you would go with him?” She stared at her granddaughter.
“It’s not that I want to leave you, Babushka, but I love him.”
Tasha shook her head tiredly. “I must think.”
“Babushka,” Larissa pleaded.
“Tell him I will speak to my sons.” She rose from her chair and walked slowly to the cabin, her steps as heavy as her heart.
A tear slid down her cheek as Larissa watched her grandmother go. She felt torn. So blinded by happiness, she had not considered the pain of leaving until she’d seen it in her grandmother’s eyes.
She felt the warm pressure of Caleb’s hands on her shoulders and turned. “She wants to talk to my father and uncle. Caleb, she is so ill.”
“And you are young. It isn’t as though you are all the family she has. She won’t be alone. She has her sons. If it worries you, I will make provisions to see that she is cared for.”
“I wish—” But she was confused, uncertain of what she wished.
“Come walk with me,” he urged.
But she felt the tug in the opposite direction. “Perhaps I should go to her.”
“Larissa, we may have so little time.”
Swayed by his appeal, she let herself be led away from the cabin.
Caleb paused beside the large flat-topped rock that lay on the curved beach and gathered Larissa into his arms, kissing her with a restrained ardor. When he lifted his head, he continued to hold her, conscious of the disturbed rush of her breathing.
“I can’t bear the thought of leaving you, Larissa,” he murmured against the smooth skin of her temple. “You do love me, don’t you?”
“With all my heart,” she whispered fervently.
“What will we do if your family refuses us permission?” He wanted this alliance to cement his trade relationship in Russian America, not create a rift.
“I don’t know.”
“Somehow you must convince them to give consent. I promise you I’ll see that your grandmother lives comfortably the rest of her days.”
“I—”
“Captain! Praise be to Saint Patrick that I found you!” His second mate, O’Shaughnessy, hurried toward them, out of breath, his cheeks as red as his flame-colored hair. Caleb immediately stepped backward, putting a proper distance between himself and Larissa. “By your leave, miss.” The Irishman belatedly doffed his hat to her before continuing. “I searched this Rooskie town from stem to stern for you, Cap’n.”
“What do you want?”
“ ’Tis the first mate what wants you, Cap’n. He sent me t’ fetch ya’ double-quick.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s the Rooskie governor, Baranov. He comes out and boards the Sea Gypsy without so much as a ‘by-your-leave.’ When Hicks questions him, he demands to see the manifest.”
“Hicks refused, didn’t he?”
“Baranov brought his soldiers with him. T’was show him the manifest or fight. With half the crew ashore, t’wouldn’t ha’ been much of a fight, sir. He had me get the manifest, then ordered me t’ find you.”
Caleb swore under his breath. “He’ll see the damned guns and ammunition listed.”
“Aye, an’ I tole Hicks there’ll be the devil to pay and no hot pitch when he does.”
“Come.” Caleb took Larissa by the arm.
“What is wrong?”
“I don’t have time to explain. I must return to my ship.” But he sensed he had offered her little reassurance. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
When they reached the harbor area, Caleb gratefully accepted Larissa’s assurances that he didn’t need to escort her back to the cabin, and he climbed into the waiting boat to be rowed to the Gypsy. He studied the cluster of men on the brig’s deck, recognizing Baranov among them. He knew Baranov would be angry. His hope for a trade alliance or, at the very least, favorable trade concessions was in jeopardy.
As he boarded the ship, Caleb assumed an air of congeniality. “This is an unexpected visit, Aleksandr Andreevich. You have hardly given me a fair chance to return your generous hospitality.” He didn’t give Baranov a chance to reply, fully aware the Russian understood more English than he let on. “I hope my officers have treated you well in my absence. Let’s go below and have a drink—away from all this noise.” He waved a hand to indicate the carpenters, who were more interested in watching the confrontation than they were in finishing the repairs to the ship. “I have a bottle of very excellent brandy that I’ve been keeping for a special occasion such as this.”
“The governor is not here on a social visit,” Baranov’s translator stated.
Caleb feigned surprise, then smiled. “Ah, the governor has learned I’ve been calling regularly on one of his young Russian maidens, Larissa Tarakanov, and has decided to intercede to make certain my intentions are honorable. Let me assure you, my intentions are more than honorable. I’m totally smitten with the lady in question. As a matter of fact, I intended to com
e to see you in the hopes of enlisting your support in my behalf to convince the girl’s grandmother to give us her permission to marry.”
Nothing he said seemed to make any impression on the Russian governor. His expression remained aloof and forbidding. When he spoke through his interpreter, it was not in response to Caleb’s personal declaration.
“It has come to the governor’s attention that one hundred and thirty muskets are listed on your cargo manifest.”
“That’s correct.” Caleb nodded.
“Why was this information deliberately withheld from the governor?”
“It wasn’t. With all due respect to the governor, I wasn’t asked whether I carried any guns.”
“You are aware that the sale of guns to the Kolosh is forbidden in Russian America.”
“I am.”
“And you saw what can happen when the Kolosh have such weapons in their possession. You witnessed the result of the massacre at the Redoubt St. Mikhail and still you bring guns to trade.”
Caleb chose his words carefully. “I must confess that I didn’t consider it to be my problem until very recently. Now, with my future bride’s family living here at Sitka, I have naturally become concerned about the safety of those who live here. If the governor would be interested in purchasing the guns and ammunition to supplement the weapons in his arsenal, I would be more than happy to sell them to the company.”
The Yankee-born interpreter appeared hesitant about translating Baranov’s reply. “The governor … instructs that you order your crew to unload the illegal goods from your cargo hold. There will be boats alongside shortly to take them ashore.”
“And the terms?” Caleb demanded warily.
“Captain Stone, the governor is seizing the weaponry.”
He stiffened. “On what authority?”
“He is seizing your illegal cargo on the grounds that you have committed an act unfriendly to the Russian government. I wouldn’t protest too strongly if I were you, Captain Stone,” the interpreter cautioned. “I think he believed part of your story about having a change of heart, but if you argue with him, he’s likely to seize your ship. You know how violently opposed he is to the sale of guns to the Indians.”
“Such a seizure would be illegal,” Caleb insisted, clenching his jaw to control his anger.
“Illegal or not, you would be hard put to do anything about it. Washington is a long way from here. If he takes your ship and places you under arrest, it would be a long time before they could do anything about it.”
Ultimately Caleb had to agree that his position was untenable. He bowed stiffly to Baranov. “Tell the governor that I am delighted to donate the weapons to the defense of Sitka. My crew will have them on deck within the hour.”
“The repairs to your ship will be finished before nightfall. I suggest you sail with tomorrow’s tide. You are no longer welcome in this port, Captain.”
All his conciliatory verbiage had gone for naught, Caleb realized. His most valuable trading commodity was about to be taken with no compensation and his ship ordered out of port. Since he’d failed to talk his way out of this, he’d take a new tack and fight. Not now, though. Of the eight crewmen on deck, he counted only three who were armed. There were fifteen soldiers with Baranov, and no doubt the carpenters from the shipyard would side with him in a fight. He unconsciously doubled his hands into fists at his side, rigid with anger and aware he must bide his time. When Baranov sent his soldiers back to offload the guns, he’d have his crew armed and waiting for them.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, Captain”—Baranov’s interpreter eyed him with a mixture of understanding and suspicion—“may I remind you that there are twenty cannons trained on this ship. If you attempt to resist or slip anchor and escape, you’ll be blown out of the water.”
Caleb was trapped like a fish in a net. With difficulty, he controlled his rage, too aware of its impotency. “With your indulgence, may I ask if I am permitted to leave the ship? One way or another, I intend to see Miss Tarakanov again before I sail.”
Baranov curtly nodded his permission without waiting for all of the request to be conveyed to him. Larissa was his one remaining chance, and Caleb intended to use her. When Baranov disembarked with his interpreter, the contingent of Russian soldiers was ordered to remain on board and make certain all of the guns and ammunition not required for the defense of the Sea Gypsy were removed from the cargo hold by his crew. Within minutes after Baranov had left, Caleb climbed into the yawl tied alongside the brig.
“How can Baranov do this? It is not fair!” Larissa protested. Now she understood why Caleb had insisted that all her family be present before he explained what was wrong, so he could face them and clear his name for her sake.
“Nothing I said made any difference to him.” As he turned to face the window, she noticed the dejected droop of his shoulders that indicated more clearly than his words the helplessness and frustration he felt.
Speaking in Russian, she appealed to her father. “We must go to Baranov and make him understand that Caleb was not going to sell those weapons to the Kolosh.”
“Why would he listen to us?” Zachar argued gently.
“Because he knows us. Babushka, you must talk to him.” She went down on her knees beside her grandmother’s chair. “He will listen to you. You cannot let him send Caleb away.”
“He has made his decision, my child. Aleksandr Andreevich is a stubborn man. He will not change his order because an old woman asks,” she said, then covered her mouth to suppress a wheezing cough.
“If he leaves, Babushka, I will go with him.”
“No.”
“I thought and thought about this even before today. I decided that if he asked me to go with him, I would.” She picked up her grandmother’s thin hand and pressed it against her cheek. “I have no wish to hurt you, but I love him.”
“That would be a mistake, Larissa.” Her uncle Mikhail frowned in disapproval.
“Why?” She rose to her feet. “Explain to him, Father, how it feels to care about someone so much that life has no meaning without them. You would not go to the Pribilofs without Raven. It is the same for me. I want to be with him. I remember the story you told about the high chamberlain and the beautiful lady from California; how much they loved each other. But she listened to her family and stayed when he left to obtain permission from the Tsar for them to marry. He died. She still waits for him to return, when she could have gone with him. I will go with Caleb.”
“What about Father Herman’s teachings? You would be committing a grave sin.” Again it was her uncle who challenged her decision, while her father remained silent.
“Papa is not married to Raven.” She suspected his silence meant support and tried to force him to speak out for her.
But Zachar could say little, pulled as he was in two directions. Part of him violently opposed the idea of his daughter marrying the man who might be the true father of Wolf. Yet he knew, too, that if Caleb Stone married Larissa, it was unlikely he would ever claim Wolf as his own. But Zachar couldn’t bring himself to endorse the idea of going to Baranov and appealing to him to reverse his decision to send the Boston man away. He wanted him gone—never to return. If it meant losing his daughter as well, then so be it. Better his daughter than his son.
“Raven has not been baptized. You have,” Mikhail replied sharply.
“It is possible that we can be married,” Larissa stated, aware that this was her last hope of gaining her family’s support in Caleb’s cause.
“How?” her father asked hesitantly. “There is no priest.”
“Caleb says that Baranov could perform the ceremony. He is the governor. His word is law. He is the one who baptizes the babies and reads the prayers on the Holy Days.”
She observed the questioning look Mikhail directed at her grandmother. She knew how much store her grandmother put in the opinion of her youngest and favorite son. If Mikhail doubted, she doubted. Encouraged, Larissa immediately
pressed her slim advantage. “Please, Babushka, speak to Baranov. If he will consent to nothing else, have him perform the marriage rite.”
Larissa held her breath for what seemed an eternity. Then her grandmother patted her fingers against her gray hair. “Where is my scarf? Aleksandr Andreevich prefers that a woman’s head is covered in the Russian fashion.”
“Here it is, Babushka.” Silently laughing and crying at the same time, Larissa retrieved the silk scarf from the table behind her grandmother and gave it to her, then gaily swept across the room to Caleb’s side. “We are going to see Baranov,” she announced in English. “All of us.”
Baranov’s nephew and secretary ushered them into the office that overlooked Sitka Sound and commanded a view of the Pacific beyond. Taking up his cane, Baranov rose from his chair and hobbled around his large desk to greet them.
He pointedly ignored Caleb, but he was most solicitous of her grandmother, Larissa noticed, making certain she was comfortably situated in a chair that received the warming rays of the sun. Even though Mikhail had carried her up the long flight of steps, the exertion of the walk had left Tasha winded and plagued by a small persistent cough.
“We are both getting old, Tasha Tarakanova.” Baranov lowered himself slowly onto a chair his nephew held, then dismissed the man with a motion of his hand. “Age has gnarled my fingers like the knobby roots of a fallen tree and made my joints ache. To you, age has given a nagging cough to remind you how precious breath can be. On days like this, one feels how sad it is to become old and tired.”
“Perhaps the years bother your eyes, Aleksandr Andreevich.” Tasha drew attention to the square-lensed spectacles lying on top of his desk. “Maybe you cannot see as well as you once did and misjudge things.”
“Are we discussing my vision of things, or my perception of them?”
“My granddaughter believes that you have been too harsh with Captain Stone, that maybe you saw the guns and nothing more.”
