by Janet Dailey
As summer left and autumn came, Nadia grew large with child. More and more of the responsibility fell to Eva. With the money she earned cleaning the church once a week, she managed to keep food on the table, but she had to chop and haul firewood from the forest. The hardships were many, but Eva never complained.
Shortly after the start of the new year, Nadia went into labor. The water boiled in the kettle on the stove, and a clean knife lay by the bedstead to cut the umbilical cord. Eva sat with her sister, wiped the sweat from her face with a damp cloth between contractions, gave Nadia her hand to squeeze when they came, and closed her eyes at the agonizing cries.
After two days of labor, Nadia was in a state of exhaustion, yet the baby still hadn’t come. No one had ever told Eva that a woman could suffer so giving birth to a child. Her only previous experience of the birthing process had come from watching little piglets being born and baby chicks pecking free of their shells. She decided that surely Nadia hadn’t known it would be like this. She could not imagine any woman knowingly going through this torture.
As the hours wore on, she began to fear that something was wrong. Her sister could not endure much more of this. She hated to leave her, but she had to find someone to help or her sister would surely die. There was no doctor in Sitka. But Eva remembered that Mrs. Karotski had given birth to seven children and had been present during the confinement of several pregnant women in town.
“Sounds like that baby’s coming backwards,” the woman declared when Eva told her of Nadia’s difficulties. She wasted little time gathering her coat and hat, then accompanied Eva back to the house.
With Mrs. Karotski’s assistance, Eva had her first lesson in a breech birth. In a few short hours, she was holding a red and squalling baby girl in her arms. The baby’s wet hair was so flaxen that she appeared to be bald. She was quite the ugliest thing Eva had ever seen—and she loved her. With great reluctance, she gave her to Nadia so the baby could nurse.
As she watched the infant girl suckling at her mother’s breast, she was awed by the miracle of birth. Then Eva noticed how completely exhausted her sister looked, the ghostly pallor of her face, and the straggled, dull locks of her rumpled golden brown hair. The wan smile Nadia so briefly directed at her newborn daughter seemed to take a great deal of effort. Eva inwardly cringed from the memory of all the pain her sister had endured during those endless hours of labor. She could still hear the echoes of her horrible screams.
“We’ll leave them to rest now.” The stoutly built Mrs. Karotski touched her arm to draw her away from the bed where the mother and baby lay. “Bring that pan with you.”
The midwife indicated the pan of blood-soaked rags that contained the afterbirth. Her own hands carried a basin of pink-tinted water that had been used to wash baby and mother. A toweling cloth was draped over her shoulder to hang down the front of her heavy bosom. Eva hesitated, then picked up the pan, making an immediate and unconscious attempt to tighten her nostrils and breathe shallowly so she wouldn’t inhale the peculiar smell of the expelled placenta. She tried to hide the revulsion she felt as she followed Mrs. Karotski out of the room.
“That’s a fine baby girl your sister has.”
“Will Nadia be all right?”
“I’m sure she will. She did have a very difficult time of it, but she’ll get her strength back.”
“I didn’t know women went through so much pain having babies,” Eva murmured.
“It always requires some suffering to bring a new life into the world. It’s a good thing your sister’s husband wasn’t here. He couldn’t have stood it. A man can’t take much pain.” Her mouth quirked in a wry smile. “If it was up to men to have the babies, none would be born. As it is, they have the pleasure of making them and none of the pain of birthing them.”
Suffering. That’s all a man brought a woman, Eva thought and loathed them all.
On a clear, blustery Sunday in February, Eva and Nadia emerged from St. Michael’s Cathedral. Muffled wails came from the swaddled infant in Nadia’s arms. Nadia paused at the top of the steps and lifted a corner of the blanket to gaze at her newly christened daughter, Marisha Gavrilyevna Blackwood. Eva had objected to the use of the Russianized version of Gabe’s name, but Nadia had insisted that tradition be followed and their daughter’s middle name should be his.
Everyone in the small community of Sitka was aware of Gabe’s continued absence. Too few people lived there any more for it to be a secret. Through the postmaster, they were also aware that there had been no word from him. There was considerable speculation that he had died. Eva encouraged such rumors.
“I wish Gabe were here so he could see our beautiful daughter,” Nadia murmured.
“Be glad you’re rid of him,” Eva snapped, irritated that her sister was so stupid as to want him back after all he’d done.
Surveying the town from the steps of the church, she saw the decay and ruin of abandoned buildings, the emptiness and neglect of a deserted town. She was old enough to remember how it had been. Men had built it, and men had destroyed it. Ultimately, in their greed, they always destroyed. As she started down the steps, Eva resolved that her young niece would know the truth about them.
The old beacon atop the castle on the bluff had once guided many a ship to the port formerly known as New Archangel. Now it turned crazily in the wind.
PART THREE
Alaska Mainland
CHAPTER XL
Sitka
Summer 1897
Since the steamer was expected to be at dockside for several hours offloading cargo and taking on more fuel, Justin Sinclair took advantage of the opportunity to look around the old Russian town and stretch his legs a bit. Lord knew, he’d had few chances to see much of anything in his twenty-two years. What sights could a man see from the deck of a fishing boat? He swore that when he struck it rich in the goldfields of the Klondike, he was going to eat nothing but meat. He never wanted to smell another fish again. He hated fish and he hated the sea. His father was welcome to both, but he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life stinking like a fish.
Other passengers aboard the steamer had disembarked ahead of him, obviously sharing his intentions. A group of Indians, mostly squaws, crowded around them trying to peddle their goods that ranged from miniature totems carved from wood to silver bracelets and Indian blankets. Justin Sinclair shouldered his way through the bodies firmly shaking his head in refusal at every object thrust in front of him.
Once free of the throng, he paused to look around and get his bearings. A perfectly cone-shaped mountain rose in the distance. Snow still frosted the cratered peak of the extinct volcano, making it stand out that much more sharply against the cloud-studded blue sky.
“Could you tell me where that ship is going?” The question was asked by a woman, her voice oddly accented.
Justin vaguely recalled that there had been a woman standing on the fringe of the crowd at the wharf. He’d noticed her mainly because she had looked so dowdy, wearing a drab dress, a dark wool shawl around her shoulders, and a dark kerchief tied under her throat, completely covering her hair. But this woman’s voice sounded young. Justin turned curiously, surprised to find the voice belonged to the woman he’d noticed earlier.
“It’s headed for Mooresville.”
“Have you heard they’ve discovered gold on the other side of White Pass in the Klondike region of Canada?” Again the voice betrayed a youthful vigor.
“Yes, I know.” Justin took another look at her, but it was difficult to see her face.
The scarf that covered her hair was pulled forward, obscuring her eyes as she gazed at the vessel tied up to the dock. Then she turned her head to look at him. He was startled by her face. Her complexion was smooth and shone with the luster of an abalone shell, and her eyes were like large nuggets of shiny black coal.
“Is that where you’re bound?” she asked.
“Yes.” He would have stared at her much longer, but she turned away again to gaze
at the steamer.
“I wish I were going.” She spoke so softly that Justin knew she hadn’t intended him to hear, so he pretended he hadn’t.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.” She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and seemed to withdraw into herself.
“I have a few hours to pass before the ship sails. I thought I’d look around the town. One of the hands on the ship told me this used to be the old Russian capital of Alaska before we bought it. Maybe you could show me around.”
“There isn’t much to see.” The shrug of her shoulders seemed to express her dislike. “Some broken-down old buildings, a church, and a cemetery. There is little else.”
As he glanced toward town, he noticed the green-painted spire of a church, topped by a peculiarly shaped cross. “I’ve never seen a cross like that. What kind of church is it?”
“That is St. Michael’s Cathedral. It is of the Russian Orthodox faith.”
“Why do they have that slanted bar at the bottom?”
“When the Christ Jesus was put upon the cross, His feet rested on the lower bar. At the moment of His death, His weight tipped it to one side.” Her dark eyes gleamed like obsidian. “You should go inside the church. All the gold ornamentation and silver ikons are very beautiful.”
Justin noticed the suggestion was not offered with any religious fervor. “Why don’t you show me the inside of the church?”
Again she drew back. “No, I couldn’t go there with you.” She shook her head.
“Why?” His curiosity was aroused by this unusual young woman. She had such an extraordinary face that he wondered why she dressed in such homely attire.
“My aunt might see me with you.”
“Naturally she wouldn’t approve of you being seen with a strange man,” he guessed. “We can correct that situation. My name is Justin Sinclair, formerly from Seattle. And you are …?”
An impish light danced in her eyes. “Marisha Gavrilyevna Blackwood. And I’m afraid you don’t understand.”
“Marisha Gavrilyevna. Are you Russian?” He wondered if that was the source of the faint accent that gave her speech its distinctive sound.
“Russian, American, Indian—I’m a little bit of everything.”
He was a little surprised by the open admission of her mixed ancestry, although it certainly made the situation easier for him. At least now he knew what kind of woman he was dealing with.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sinclair, but I must go.”
As she took a step away from him, he laid a restraining hand on her arm, feeling the coarse texture of the wool shawl. “Why? We aren’t strangers any more. I’m Justin and you’re Marisha. How could your aunt possibly object now?”
“My aunt objects to all men. She says they can’t be trusted, that they only bring pain. My father ran off before I was born and took everything my family had. She insists that all men are tarred with the same brush.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was eleven.”
“How old are you?” It was impossible to judge her age—all he could see was her face.
“Nineteen. Already I’m an old maid—like she is.” Bitterness flashed across her face, hardening the set of her lips. “There aren’t many bachelors in this town, and she’s managed to chase away the few that have come calling.”
“Where is she now?”
“At St. Michael’s, cleaning. I’m supposed to be working in the garden, but I slipped away to come down here.” The corners of her lips twitched with a smile as she made the admission with no hint of remorse. “She’ll be furious when she finds out.”
“Is this where you usually come?”
“No. I just wanted to see the ship and find out where it was going.” She gazed longingly at the steamer.
“Since I’m not doing anything and your aunt is already going to be mad at you, why don’t you take me to the place where you usually go when you sneak off from your aunt?”
She studied him for a minute, as if assessing the degree of risk. Justin didn’t doubt for an instant that this aunt of hers had practically kept Marisha under lock and key, but she obviously had a rebellious spirit.
“This way,” she said and started off.
Walking swiftly, she skirted the edges of town and led him along the southern shoreline facing the sound and its scattering of small islands. Most of the time she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might be watching. Only twice did he notice her glance around to see if they were being observed. They were on the outskirts of town and nearing the forest when she finally slowed down.
“They call this path the Governor’s Walk,” she told him. “Supposedly Baranov used to walk along here.”
“Who’s Baranov?”
“Aleksandr Andreevich Baranov was the first Russian governor of Alaska. Actually he built Sitka. There used to be a big old mansion on that knoll we passed. It was known as Baranov’s Castle, but it burned down three years ago. Do you see that big rock by the shore just ahead of us? During his last days here, they say he used to spend hours sitting there gazing out at the Pacific. Guess what it’s called?”
“Baranov’s Rock.”
“Yes.” She laughed and ran ahead to the boulder.
There, she stopped to lean against it and gaze out to sea. Stare as he might, the heavy shawl and the voluminous material of her dress made it impossible for Justin to tell if she was plump or if her clothes merely made her look that way.
As he approached the rock, the beach gravel crunched underfoot. Although she didn’t turn, a slight movement of her head indicated her awareness of his presence while she continued to look at the wide stretch of island-studded waters.
“In the spring, when the herring come into the bays and inlets to spawn, the Tlingit Indians wait until low tide, then spread hemlock boughs on the exposed beaches, and fasten them down. The herring deposit their eggs on the branches. You should see it,” she murmured. “The boughs look like they’re covered with thousands of pearls.”
“It must be something.” But fish was about the last subject that interested him.
“It is.” She sighed and pushed away from the rock. As she turned toward him, she reached up and began tugging at the scarf knot at her throat. “I hate this babushka. It makes me feel like a babushka.”
“What’s a babushka?”
“It’s a scarf old women in Russia wear. So the word means both ‘scarf’ and ‘old woman.’ It’s also a word for ‘grandmother’—which I’m never likely to be.” The knot initially defied her attempts to loosen it. Using both hands, she finally managed to free the ends and pull the scarf off her head.
“Glory be.” Justin stared in surprise.
Her hair was a bright yellow gold that glistened in the sunlight; it was neither brassy nor tarnished with dark streaks, but pure and rich. The contrast between her dark eyes and brows and her golden blond hair was striking and dramatic. The feeling of shock was slow to leave him, even though he noticed how amused she seemed to be at his reaction.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, unable to get over it.
She smiled wryly and moved away from the rock, absently swinging the scarf in her hand. “Beauty is a curse. That’s what Aunt Eva says.” Despite her attempt at lightness, Justin detected an underlying bitterness in her tone. “A girl shouldn’t be concerned about her looks. She should dress plainly. Wanting to look pretty is vain, and vanity is a sin. These are the only kind of clothes I have, but someday I’m going to have beautiful gowns to wear. Someday,” she repeated with a determined lift of her chin.
“I don’t care what your aunt says, she’s wrong. Nobody with hair like yours should cover it up. My mother always said a woman’s hair is her crowning glory.”
Marisha touched her hair, smoothing the strands back to the golden knot at the nape of her neck. “Her crowning glory. I like that,” she murmured thoughtfully, then seemed to dismiss it from h
er mind. “Let’s walk this way. There’s something I want to show you.” She followed a faint trail that paralleled the shoreline for a ways, then led into the woods. Justin was too intrigued by her to care where they were going.
Huge trees towered all around them, their overlapping branches shutting out any direct light from the sun. A high humidity made the air seem heavy as they walked along the path through the forest, their footsteps making hardly any sound, cushioned by the soft, composted soil.
“Have you ever seen gold? Real gold, I mean.” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I saw some once. Blue Pants Kelly—he’s an old prospector from around here. He used to be in the Army, but even after he got out he still wore the blue pants from his uniform. That’s where he got his name. One time he showed me a piece of ore that had thin slivers of gold running through it.”
“They’ve found gold around here?”
“Some.” She nodded. “There are a couple of mines over on Silver Bay and a stamp mill, but I guess they haven’t recovered any large quantities of gold.” She walked a few steps farther in silence. “I’d like to find some gold.”
“It’s up there in the Klondike. Only there it’s placer gold—loose gold. All a man has to do is pan it out of the streams. You don’t have to dig tunnels or have a lot of machinery to crush it free from the rocks. You just put some gravel in your pan and pick out the nuggets. It’s so easy a child could do it.”
“Or a woman,” she murmured as if to herself.
Through a break in the trees just ahead of them, Justin saw the shimmer of sunlight reflected off the surface of water. The towering spruce thinned out where the ground sloped down to the water’s edge, the finger of land claimed by a tangle of tall brush and bushes. The graveled shoreline was strewn with huge drift logs, some almost as tall as a man. As they rounded the point of land, Justin saw the mouth of a river.
“That’s the Indian River,” Marisha Blackwood stated. “The Russian name was Kolosh Ryeka. See that bluff of land back in the forest?” She pointed it out to him. “The Kolosh, or Tlingit Indians as everyone calls them today, had a large fort there. This is the site of the big battle between the Russians and the Tlingits. The Russian ships anchored in this bay to bombard the fort with their cannon. My great-great-grandfather, Zachar, was married to a Tlingit woman. Her people had attacked the first fort the Russians built on Baranov Island and killed all but a few men who managed to escape. My great-great-grandfather was one of them. He was on one of the ships in the bay when the Russians came to retake the island. He didn’t know it, but my great-great-grandmother—his wife—was in the fort with their young son. They escaped into the forest before the Russians overran the fort. It was several years before she and my great-great-grandfather were reunited.” She turned, looking into his face, then gazing again at the water. “I find it interesting to know that if her son had died that day—my great-grandfather—I wouldn’t be here now to tell you about it.”
