Authors: Janet Dailey
A man was sent forward to take soundings while the navigator, Nevodchikov, skirted the half-submerged rocks and avoided the hidden shoals lying off the northern shore.
They rounded the island and turned south, sailing past the easternmost promontory and the wide bay it protected on the southeastern side. There were ample sightings of sea life amid the kelp beds off the rocky coast. In his eagerness to view the numerous sea otter curiously poking their heads out of the water, Luka crowded in with the other men at the rail. It was a sight to thrill a fur hunter’s heart.
A solid cloud cover hid the sun, but Luka noticed the subtle change in temperature, a slight infusion of warmth at this place where the cold waters of the Bering Sea mingled with the warmer currents of the Pacific. The mewing cry of seabirds accompanied the rippling crack of the sails in the wind and the rhythmic slap of the waves against the boat’s hull. The jagged stone cliffs of the island were whitened with their droppings. He scanned the protected bay and its shore without finding any evidence of habitation, yet he distinctly remembered the navigator making mention of the presence of a savage race on these islands.
“I thought there were natives living here.” He voiced his thoughts to the man on his left, Shekhurdin.
“Maybe not on all of the islands,” the Cossack suggested. “Bering Island wasn’t inhabited. This one may not be either.”
“It’s a big island—some seventy versts long, I would guess. There might be villages elsewhere.” Luka wasn’t about to let his guard down. And he did not like Shekhurdin’s air of authority.
The man had all the makings of a leader. He was intelligent and experienced, and despite the deceptively lean appearance Shekhurdin’s height gave him, the man was strong. His courage was evident in the way he had met Belyaev’s challenge. But his evenhanded treatment of the Kamchadals on board rankled Luka.
The soft hide sails billowed full with the wind as the bow of the flat-bottomed boat swung away from the island, changing course.
“Why are we moving away?” Belyaev’s rough voice demanded. “There’s otter here. Why are we not stopping?”
“That’s like you, Belyaev,” Luka mocked. “You see something you want and grab for it without taking time to see if anything better is around.”
A few guffaws of laughter followed his observation, suppressed, however, in case the sometimes belligerent Belyaev took offense. But an ever-ready grin split his black-bearded face. “If there is something better, I will take that, too!” he declared. “At least the first one will not slip through my fingers while I wait to see if there is more.”
But the shitik continued on its course away from the first island in the chain to search for the next. Luka watched the island receding from his view, the first land he’d seen in days. The ocean wasn’t his element, and he was as anxious as everyone else to get off this crowded boat and walk on solid ground. But not so anxious that he didn’t want to explore.
“For once I agree with Belyaev,” Shekhurdin said when Luka faced the sea again, straining his eyes for a glimpse of another speck of land. “I would have anchored in one of the bays.”
Luka looked at Shekhurdin’s proud profile, the thin straight nose as narrow in its outlook as its owner. “It’s morning. We have plenty of time to scout the next island.”
“Presuming, of course, there is one. We only have Nevodchikov’s word on that—a peasant, a silversmith whose only experience is sailing with that Dane Bering.” He spoke in an undertone, matter-of-factly. “We need to replenish our supply of fresh water. I would have done so at that island while we had the chance before proceeding further. We could have gotten some fresh meat as well. We aren’t that well provisioned.”
His reasoning was valid and Luka didn’t quarrel with it. Arguments could always be made in favor of one position or the other. They had set out on this voyage with only a small stock of provisions—some hams, a small quantity of rancid butter, a ration of rye and wheat flour so there would be bread on religious holidays, dried salmon, and most importantly, an ample supply of starter for sourdough bread to prevent scurvy. They expected to hunt and fish for the rest of their food.
“I, for one, want to see more of these islands,” Luka stated. A good hunter chooses the best hunting grounds, not the first one where he finds his game.
Shekhurdin lingered only a few minutes longer, then pushed away from his position at the deck rail and wandered amid other members of the expedition. The shitik continued on its south-southeasterly course across the lead-colored sea while gulls wheeled overhead and diving cormorants fished the waters.
It wasn’t long before Luka heard vague grumblings of discontent among the promyshleniki. The island was no longer in sight and a second was yet to be spotted. He heard mention of the dwindling water supply and guessed the source of dissension.
Around midday, the second island was sighted. As the craft approached it, the attention of the crew was divided between it and their captain. Luka felt the tension in the air—the men waiting to see what the decision would be this time.
The second island appeared smaller than the first, but the boat’s approach to it was the same, sailing parallel to the ragged coastline. As they neared the entrance to a horse-shoe-shaped cove, the sides marked with jagged fingers of rocks thrust out of the water and the center arc a curving beach of white sand, Luka saw Chuprov speak briefly to the navigator. Seconds later, the order was given to lower one of the square mainsails.
When the shitik swung toward the green cliffs beyond the white beach, the tension of the crew eased perceptibly, with smiles and murmurs of satisfaction. A man was ordered to the bow to take soundings and keep a lookout for submerged rocks.
“We’ll anchor here for the night.” Nevodchikov lifted his voice to make the announcement to the entire company.
“Will we be going ashore?” one of the men shouted.
“Not until morning. Then Chuprov will take a party ashore to look for water. We’ll use the daylight hours to explore the area and select safe anchorages for the night until we find the best location for wintering.”
Luka saw Shekhurdin stiffen and his face grow cold with anger that he had not been chosen to lead the shore detail. Luka approved of both the decision and the choice of leaders; he respected Chuprov’s experience and judgment more than he did the Cossack’s.
After the shitik was maneuvered into the cove, the sails were furled and the wooden anchor weighted with stones was thrown over the side. The inviting stretch of beach gave no sign of native habitation. The afternoon hours were not wasted in idleness or land watching. In anticipation of the next morning’s shore party, the dinghy was checked, muskets were broken out and cleaned, and the empty water casks were set out in readiness. Meanwhile, the boat rocked at anchor beneath clotting clouds, the waves slapping at its sides as the surf rolled toward the beach and crashed on the rocky borders of the bay.
With the coming of first light, men stirred on deck. Luka joined the short line of men waiting for their morning ration of water, eager to rid his mouth of the cottony taste of sleep. There was much yawning and stretching and scratching of beards, but little talking to interrupt the sound of the wind and waves.
When it was Luka’s turn at the water cask, he dipped the cup in to fill it, then lifted it to his mouth. After the first swallow of the stale water, he paused and glanced idly toward shore, where he’d soon be landing with the morning party enlisted yesterday by Chuprov. The beach was no longer deserted.
“Where’s Chuprov?” He snapped the question while his attention remained riveted to the beach.
“Why?” someone growled.
“Get him. We have visitors.” Luka gestured with the cup toward the large gathering of natives on the beach.
Forgetting the dryness of his mouth, he shoved the half-full cup into the hand of the next man waiting in line and moved to the railing. The rest of the startled company stared, too stunned to move for several seconds. Somebody shouted to alert the promyshleniki as others crowded around the rail by Luka.
“How many’s there?” one asked.
“Looks like nearly a hundred,” another guessed.
The natives wore strangely styled coats and odd-shaped hats on their heads. At this distance, it was difficult to judge, but the coats appeared to be made of feathers and hung to their ankles. Their feet were bare. Their hats were shaped like asymmetrical cones with the long side projecting in front to shade their eyes.
Upon seeing all the men on the shitik’s deck, the natives began shouting in some unintelligible language and moving about, waving spears and bows and arrows over their heads. About the same time, Luka caught the sound of beating drums. It ran up his back, bristling the hairs on his neck.
“Where did they come from?” the man beside him wondered aloud.
No one ventured a guess. Chuprov came on deck, and the men moved aside to let him through to the rail. Using a spyglass, he studied the large band of natives dancing on the beach and stabbing the air with their spears.
Belyaev shouldered in next to Luka. “I think they will attack. We should get ready for them.”
Chuprov lowered the spyglass to study the whole of the scene. “Pass out the muskets and powder,” he ordered without turning.
Belyaev smiled and moved away from the rail to carry out the command. Belyaev liked the things that fired the flesh—women, vodka, and fighting. Luka shared his bloodlust, but his own was rooted in a deep, abiding hatred.
The place at the rail was quickly taken by Shekhurdin. “According to Nevodchikov, these natives are supposed to be friendly. Mikhail Alexandrovich,” he called to the navigator standing at the back of the promyshleniki. “Did you not say the natives on these islands helped you on your return voyage?”
Luka half turned to catch the navigator’s answer, although Chuprov expressed no such interest. “Yes,” Nevodchikov confirmed. “We had run out of fresh water. We managed to communicate our plight to some natives in a boat, and they brought us two containers—made from seal bladders.”
Facing the beach again, Shekhurdin studied the dancing gyrations of the colorful costumed natives. “It appears to me they want us to come ashore. See the way they beckon. They are not threatening us in any way.” He angled his head toward Chuprov, something challenging in its tilt. “If a party went ashore with the empty casks, they might direct us to fresh water.”
“They are armed and outnumber us.” Luka rejected the suggestion.
“Cossacks have always been outnumbered by their foes, but it never stopped them from marching across Siberia and claiming it for the Tsar. Our weaponry is vastly superior to theirs. Muskets always win over spears.” Every promyshlenik on board had fought with hostile natives at some time in his life, and the odds had never been in his favor. But as far as Luka was concerned, it was one thing to be caught in that situation and another to seek it.
“We will wait,” Chuprov replied impassively. “There will be plenty of time to fight, if it’s necessary.”
The beating of the native drums continued to sound, their pounding rhythms accompanying the wild dancing that followed no apparent pattern. It appeared spontaneous and contagious; one exuberant native would start dancing and others would join him. When they became exhausted, a few more would begin. Always there was singing, but that, too, was a confusion of voices. The natives seemed to be whipping themselves into some sort of frenzy.
“Can anyone understand what they are saying?” Luka asked Chuprov.
“It isn’t Kamchadal. What about Koriak?” he suggested, referring to another native tribe in Siberia.
“No, I can understand Koriak—and Chukchi, too,” someone in the group answered.
“Maybe they’re Aleutorski.” A second mentioned a race of Siberian natives who lived on the coast and aggressively resisted all Russian attempts to make them pay tribute.
The name sent a rumble of apprehension stirring through the whole company. They eagerly turned to accept the muskets, lead, and powder Belyaev distributed among them. As Luka began to load and prime his firelock musket, Chuprov left the rail and headed for the boat’s hold. He returned shortly carrying a few packets from the small cargo of trade goods on board, which mainly consisted of cheap glass beads, cloth, tin and copper utensils, knives of poor quality, and needles. Chuprov’s packets contained the latter two.
“What are you going to do with them?” Luka questioned.
“Give them as presents, and maybe dissuade them from any hostile intention.” A smile curved Chuprov’s mouth but never quite reached his eyes.
“A taste of this lead will go farther in changing their minds.” Belyaev lifted his musket slightly, his thick fingers tightly embracing its barrel.
“You are more bloodthirsty than those savages, Nikolai Dimitrovich,” the Cossack Shekhurdin accused contemptuously. “They may have come here to trade. What if they have otter skins?”
The argument didn’t sway Belyaev. He grinned wickedly; if the natives were killed, Belyaev believed, he would still have their sea otter pelts—if they had any—for nothing. Such cruelty was neither shocking nor repellent to Luka. He had lived in the Siberian wilds long enough to have learned that survival among hostile inhabitants often depended upon intimidation through fear. Luka regarded it as a necessity. Besides, he didn’t trust any native. They were a treacherous breed, all of them, and the Aleutorski—or Aleuts, as they were often called—more than others. He traded with them when he had to, but he never turned his back to one of them.