The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  Sitka

  October 18, 1867

  The Tarakanov family walked down the streets of New Archangel, a silent procession led by the family patriarch, Wolf. The recent death of his wife had aged him, taken the spring from his step and the light from his eyes. Yet death was a part of life and life a part of death. And he knew he must carry on.

  Despite the urgings of his family to remain at home, Wolf had insisted on attending the ceremonial transfer of ownership. The ship carrying the Russian and American commissioners who were to officiate at the ceremony had arrived in the harbor that very morning. Through his daughter’s husband, Nikolai Politoffski, they had learned the transfer was to take place at three o’clock that afternoon at the parade ground atop the knoll.

  Wolf believed that his family should be present when the new regime took power. After all, since they intended to remain and live under the dominion of the United States, then out of respect they should be there when the transfer occurred. But his opinion wasn’t shared by most of the townspeople, who preferred not to witness it.

  But already the town that the Americans persisted in calling Sitka was feeling the pangs of the coming of the Americans. More changes would occur as soon as Prince Maksutov completed the process of deeding title to homes, lands, and shops to their various occupants and tradesmen. Even Wolf had agreed to sell his shop to Nadia’s young American.

  At the bottom of the steps leading to the kremlin, Wolf paused and looked back to make sure all the family was with him. Only his son’s wife, Dominika, was absent. She had remained at home, fearing her strongly Indian features would arouse the Americans’ prejudice. But Stanislav had come, along with his son, Dimitri.

  Shallow puddles were scattered over the parade ground in front of the governor’s residence, but no rain fell. The sun occasionally broke through the thick white clouds to warm the cool afternoon. The Imperial flag of Tsarist Russia fluttered atop the ninety-foot pole that stood in the middle of the parade ground. Now and then the light breeze whipped the ensign of the double eagle fully out.

  The harbor was choked with craft as the Kolosh, who were not allowed in town that afternoon, positioned their canoes amidst the Russian ships and American naval vessels anchored there so they could observe the proceedings, curious about the event to which the white men attached so much importance. The Kolosh had mixed feelings about the coming of the Americans. Their experience with the Yankee whalers who raided their villages, capturing their men and carrying off their women, made them wary. Yet they knew, too, that the Americans sold liquor, which the Russians had always denied them.

  Standing close to her Aunt Anastasia, Nadia tightly held the woman’s gloved hand. She was emotionally torn, grasping to hold on to the past with its parties and balls, and reaching out at the same time for the reassurance of Gabe Blackwood’s flattering attention. He stood with a small group of Americans, mainly San Francisco merchants. Since she’d met him, Nadia hadn’t been so eager to leave once the Americans took possession.

  She felt a tremor of excitement when he smiled and nodded to her. No one had ever made her feel quite so beautiful or important as he did. Sometimes, when he looked at her a certain way, she felt all warm inside. She wanted to see more of him, yet she didn’t want to appear disloyal to her aunt.

  The measured beat of drums signaled the start of the ceremony. Soon Nadia could hear the tramp of marching boots on the fortress steps as the Russian soldiers from the Siberian regiment stationed at the garrison, along with the eighty sailors and officers of the Imperial Navy, climbed the stairs. They were led by the Russian commissioner, Captain Alexei Peshchurov, the official representative of the Tsar.

  As the soldiers in their red-trimmed uniforms and glazed caps lined up facing the flagstaff and stood stiffly at attention, Nadia glanced at the governor of Russian America. On this day, Prince Maksutov was strictly a spectator. His expression was impassive, but his young wife, Princess Maria, appeared to be near tears. Looking at the beautiful princess who had been responsible for the gaiety and laughter, the music and the balls that had dominated the social scene for the past three years, Nadia wanted to cry, too.

  Distantly came the rumble of more drums. The American soldiers were ashore. The sound grew steadily louder as they approached the hill. At the head of the column, cresting the stairs, marched two generals, heavy gold epaulets on their shoulders, gold sashes across their chests, and polished swords hanging at their sides. The light breeze ruffled the dark feather boas that crowned their Napoleonic hats.

  Behind her, Dimitri leaned forward to whisper near Nadia’s ear, “The nearest one is General Lovell Rousseau, Peshchurov’s counterpart. The one with the beard is Major General Davis, who will be in command of the American troops. Before he was sent here, he was fighting Indians in the American West.”

  “How do you know?” she asked over her shoulder, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the word Indian. Since she’d met Gabe Blackwood, she didn’t want to remember that anything other than Russian blood flowed in her veins.

  “I talked to the pilot that brought the American ships into the harbor.”

  Sunlight broke through the clouds and flashed on the gold-spiked helmets worn by the American soldiers as they marched across the parade ground and lined up at attention before the flagpole. Nadia stared at their strange uniforms of dark blue jackets and light blue trousers, and the long rifles they carried.

  Her attention was diverted by the Russian color guard as they marched to the base of the flagpole. According to her uncle, the ceremony was to be a simple one: the lowering of the Russian flag and the raising of the American, each accompanied by a cannon salute by the fortress batteries and the guns of the American ships in the harbor.

  As one of the soldiers loosened the ropes to haul down the Imperial ensign, the wind suddenly picked up and whipped the flag around the pole. The soldier attempted to tug it loose, but it curled tighter around the staff and became tangled in the ropes. Another soldier came to his aid, but the flag resisted their efforts and clung to the pole. Tension mounted at the unexpected delay. Advice began to come from all sides, but nothing worked.

  “The flag doesn’t want to come down, does it, Grandpa?” young Eva remarked loudly.

  Nadia had the same impression. The flag’s resistance to all attempts to haul it down seemed symbolic, as if it too wanted to continue its reign over this land. Tears pricked her eyes. Beside her, Anastasia cried softly.

  After a nerve-racking delay, a Russian sailor was ordered aloft to cut the flag free. On the last breath of a dying breeze, the Russian flag floated down. As it came to rest on the bayonets of the Russian soldiers, Princess Maria fainted.

  When it was rescued, Captain Peshchurov made a brief declaration on behalf of the Russian government, making the territory over to the United States of America. The order was given to present arms, and the cannonade salute from the Russian batteries and the American warships began, the thunderous booms vibrating all around Nadia, leaving her shaken when it ended.

  Immediately after General Rousseau accepted the delivery of the territory, the American flag was hoisted to the top of the pole. It hung limp and lifeless. With the first salute from a Russian cannon, the flag appeared to shudder. As the firing of the second cannon echoed and re-echoed against the mountains, the flag unfurled its red and white stripes and blue field of stars.

  Aunt Anastasia bowed her head and covered her tear-stained face with her hands. Nadia wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, crying softly, too. The rousing cheers of the Americans seemed heartless and cruel. As their last jubilant “hip-hip-hoorah!” faded, the new commander of the military in the territory that the Americans called Alaska stepped forward to make an announcement.

  “I am Major General Jefferson C. Davis. I am in sole command of this garrison and this territory. Quarters for myself and my wife are to be immediately made available in the former governor’s residence. The barracks are to be vacated and made available for imm
ediate occupation by the troops of the United States Army. All buildings are now the property of the United States government.”

  “No,” Anastasia murmured, clutching at Nadia’s hand. “The ship taking us to Russia is not to leave for a month yet. All my things are not yet packed. They cannot turn us out of our home. Where will we go?” Panic-stricken, she turned to her father. “Papa, what are we to do?”

  “You and Nikolai will move in with me. There is plenty of room in my empty house for your belongings,” Wolf assured her, but the general’s orders made it clear to everyone that there would be no gradual transition of authority. The Americans were in charge now, and the Russians were literally tossed out in the street.

  Within a month the face of Sitka had changed drastically. No more were the guard beats walked by soldiers from the Siberian regiment. Now the sentries who patrolled the palisade and stood watch at the fortress wore the blue uniforms of the United States Army. The Russians had never bothered to name the town’s streets, but the Americans quickly remedied that. The main thoroughfare became Lincoln Street, and the two cross streets were called Russia and America.

  Everywhere there was overcrowding as the town first had to absorb the Russian families from outlying settlements on the mainland and the Aleutian Islands then had to make room for the Russian soldiers and sailors from the garrison taken over by the American Army, most of whom were waiting to depart on ships bound for Russia. The crowding was compounded by the arrival of several hundred American settlers who jammed the streets. Stakes dotted the town and extended its previous limits for miles, plotting out homesteads. Crude shanties were thrown up, then sold to newcomers for exorbitant prices.

  The two commissioners, American Rousseau and Russian Peshchurov, had remained at Sitka for a week, working together to deed title to lands, shops, and homes to Russian individuals. With the exception of the homes, most of the property had changed hands almost overnight, and continued to be bought and sold, each time at a higher price.

  Late morning on a bleak and gray day in mid-November, Ryan Colby strolled along the boardwalk, his hands thrust in the pockets of his black cloth redingote, the cigar in his mouth tilted at a jaunty angle. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with bustling people, but he didn’t mind the occasional jostling of his elbow.

  The steady din of voices—Russian, American, and one or two languages he didn’t recognize—was a sound as pleasant as the clink of coins in his cash box. Like the hammering and sawing in the background and the almost constant activity at the wharf, it all meant business and profits for him, both at his saloon and in land sales.

  Taking the cigar from his mouth, he nudged his companion. “Look at this, Gabe.” He gestured at the throng of people and the horse-drawn drays rattling up and down the street. “It’s a boomtown, and it’s just the beginning. We have storekeepers, homesteaders, prospectors, shipowners, cooks, bakers, a few squatters, real estate dealers, promoters, speculators, gamblers, and whores.” A new sign was going up on a building across the street. Signs seemed to be always coming down and new ones going up as businesses changed hands sometimes twice in one week. This one caught Ryan’s eye, and he stopped. “Now we’re getting a barbershop. I tell you, Gabe, this town is busting wide open.”

  “Which is exactly why it was so important to draw up a town charter, establish some ordinances, and elect a mayor and city council so we can regulate some of this growth. Granted, we don’t have the legal authority to do this yet, and we can’t legally transfer title to the various lands that have been sold, not until Congress enacts legislation officially granting us territorial status and bringing us under territorial government.” Gabe had been in the thick of all the organizing, and Ryan had stayed well clear of it. He and the law had never gotten along.

  “You’re saying that the town ordinances are invalid and your regulations can’t be enforced.” Ryan started walking again.

  “Technically that’s correct. At present, we’re under military rule, which means General Davis is the only authority. But it’s only a matter of time before Congress makes Alaska a territory. Right now, they’re still arguing over the appropriation bill authorizing the seven-million-plus dollar payment to Russia. Our situation is only temporary.” The attorney’s optimism was unflagging. “Even General Davis agreed to the formation of a city council and mayor and gave them authority in town matters.”

  “The general was probably glad to have problems like sanding pavements this winter taken off his hands,” Ryan suggested dryly, then paused in front of the door to the newly built restaurant. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. The saloon business doesn’t allow me to be an early riser like you. Come and have a cup of coffee.”

  “I—” Hesitating, Gabe Blackwood glanced up the street as if he had somewhere else to go. His expression suddenly brightened. “Isn’t that— Excuse me, Ryan.” He moved off, quickly sidling his way through the pedestrians on the boardwalk.

  Ryan hardly needed to look to know who the man had seen. Sure enough, when he glanced up the street, he saw Nadia Tarakanova, accompanied by her grandfather and younger sister, approaching.

  “Miss Tarakanova.” Gabe halted in front of her, blocking their path. He removed his hat, indifferent to the chilling breeze that ruffled his sandy hair. He would have taken her hand and kissed it, but the empty market basket she carried made such gallantry awkward. “What a delightful surprise to see you in town this morning. And you, too, Mr. Tarakanov.” Belatedly he acknowledged her grandfather. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to take my eyes off your granddaughter. I have never known a lovelier woman. The sight of her is like food to a starving man.”

  So captivated was he by the wholesome beauty of her rosy-cheeked face framed by a fur-lined hood, Gabe didn’t notice her agitation. “I am so glad to see you, Mr. Blackwood.” He heard the anxiety in her voice. “We have just come from the market. We tried to purchase some fresh meat, but the Kolosh—the Tlingits as you call them—refused to accept our money.”

  “Your money …” Gabe hesitated, searching for a delicate way to phrase his question. “Is it the parchment paper that the Russian American Company formerly used as currency?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but few tradesmen are accepting it in payment for goods any more, then only at a heavy discount.” He hated to see her look so stricken.

  “But I have no other currency. What am I to do?”

  “Now you’re allowing yourself to become upset over nothing. It’s really a very minor problem, merely a matter of exchanging that old currency for American coin.” Gabe glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see Ryan still standing by the restaurant door. If he’d had the money, Gabe would gladly have changed her currency on the spot, but he was confident his friend would help her out. “Mr. Colby may be able to help you. Let’s go have some tea and talk to him.”

  She spoke to her grandfather in Russian. Although Gabe had learned a few Russian words, his grasp of the language was still woefully inadequate. Her grandfather nodded, appearing to consent to Gabe’s suggestion.

  “We will have tea with you and speak with Mr. Colby,” she said.

  “Good.”

  Gabe led the way to the restaurant entrance where Ryan stood. After an exchange of greetings they went inside. The busy restaurant was noisy with the clatter of dishes, food orders shouted back and forth between the cook and the servers, and the steady chatter of voices. Gabe guided Nadia to an unoccupied end of a long table and waited until she was seated on the bench with her long skirts properly arranged, then sat down beside her. Ryan and her grandfather sat opposite, with seven-year-old Eva between them.

  Gabe explained the Tarakanovs’ currency plight to Ryan. Although he knew as well as Ryan that the company scrip was almost as worthless as Confederate money, he silently appealed to his friend to be generous, as a personal favor. Ryan obliged, exchanging the two-inch-square pieces of parchment for considerably more than they were worth.

  “Didn�
��t I tell you that it was nothing to trouble yourself over?” Gabe watched as Nadia pushed the black fox-lined hood off her head. Her every movement, her every gesture, was a thing of grace to him.

  “I can never thank you enough for this.”

  “Forgive me for speaking so boldly, Miss Tarakanova.” Gabe spoke with all the volubility of a lovesick swan, and Ryan dipped his chin, hiding the smile that twitched the corners of his mouth. “But you remind me of a Russian princess.”

  “I know all about princesses,” young Eva piped up. “We had more than Princess Maria. Anna, the Kenai woman who was the mother of Baranov’s children, was made a Russian princess.”

  “You mean she was an Indian princess,” Ryan corrected, indulgently responding to the child’s attempt to take part in the adult conversation.

  “No.” She shook her head in a vigorous denial. “The Tsar made her a real Russian princess. Her name was Anna. Grandpa told me. Didn’t you, Grandpa?”

  “Yes. She lived to be an old woman,” Wolf Tarakanov confirmed.

  “Do you mean the Russians actually gave a noble title to an Indian?” Gabe looked skeptical.

  “Yes. It has been the custom of the Russian Tsars to bestow the titles and privileges of nobility on certain persons of a conquered race,” Nadia replied, but Ryan noticed how uneasy she appeared to be with the subject under discussion.

  “Making a princess out of an ordinary savage is carrying the custom a bit too far, I would say,” Gabe stated. “But it shows you just how meaningless titles are and the incompetence of a monarchy. In a democracy, a person achieves importance based on skills or intelligence, not at the whim of some king.”

  “The daughter of Princess Anna and Baranov married a man who became one of the governors of Russian America.” Gabe’s critical comments had gone over Eva’s head. But the subject had gained her the attention of the adults, and she intended to pursue it.

  “One of your governors was married to a half-breed?” Gabe frowned and shook his head. “I suppose in those times there was a shortage of decent women here, just as there is in most frontiers.”