Authors: Janet Dailey
Ryan took a last puff on his cigar, then tossed the smoldering butt into the street. He noticed the small store they had just passed, tucked between two larger buildings on the boardwalk, yet in the center of everything.
“What about this shop?” He motioned the attorney to come back and look at it. Although he couldn’t see anyone inside, he tried the door anyway, rattling its hinges, but it was locked. He knocked, ignoring the gabble of Russian he heard coming from the street.
“Ryan.” Gabe Blackwood tapped his arm and motioned toward the young woman and little girl facing them on the boardwalk. “Do you understand Russian? I think she’s talking to us.”
“Nyet.”
Which was the limit of Ryan’s conversational Russian.
But Gabe didn’t hear him as he stared at the young Russian woman cloaked in a burnous. Her hair was a shade of golden chestnut, parted in the middle and swept away from her face, framing its perfect features. To Gabe, everything about her was perfect, from the gentle curve of her lips to the delicate blush of her cheeks and the liquid softness of her brown eyes. He wished fervently that he had the Russian dictionary he’d bought at the bookstore in San Francisco, but it was in his trunk.
“Are you Americans?” The little girl’s voice jarred him, her English strongly accented but still understandable.
“Do you speak English?” he blurted in astonishment.
“I speak English, German, and French,” the young woman asserted, smiling faintly.
“You are lovely,” he murmured, then realized what he’d said. At the same instant, he became aware of his lack of manners and swept his hat off his head, simultaneously bowing to her. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Gabriel Blackwood, a lawyer. I plan to establish a practice here in Sitka. This is my friend, Ryan Colby.” He hardly noticed when his companion bowed to her.
“My name is Nadia Levyena Tarakanova.” Her curtsy was smooth and graceful, confirming his suspicion that she came from a family of some standing in the Russian community. “This is my little sister, Eva. And this is the shop of my grandfather. It is closed.”
“Is it closed permanently?” Ryan asked. “What I mean is—does he intend to leave Sitka after the Americans take possession?”
“No.”
“Will
you
be leaving?” Gabe knew that some Russian families had elected to return to their homeland.
“My father chooses to remain for a time.”
Although it was obviously not her desire to stay, Gabe smiled. “I’m glad,” he said, gazing at her in open adoration. A hint of an answering smile touched her lips. He thought her expression delightfully demure.
“We’d like to see the inside of the shop,” Ryan stated. “Is it possible to have your grandfather show it to us?”
“My grandfather mourns the death of my grandmother. He has not said when he plans to open the shop.”
“I am sorry to hear of your grandmother’s passing.” Gabe hurried to offer his sympathy. “Please extend my condolences to your family, Miss Tarakanova.”
“You are kind.”
“Not at all. Under the circumstances, this would not be a proper time to speak to your grandfather, but would you tell him that I may be interested in buying his shop if he wants to sell it?” It gave him the perfect excuse to become acquainted with the Tarakanov family—and the lovely Nadia. “Perhaps I might take the liberty of calling on him next week. Does he speak English as well as you do?”
“He speaks a little English,” she said.
“Maybe you or your father could arrange to be present in the event I have any difficulty making my offer understood.”
“Perhaps.”
“How may I contact you? Where do you live? I could come by your home.” Gabe wasn’t willing to let her get away without knowing where to find her.
She hesitated, as a proper lady should, then gave him directions to her home.
“Are you buying this land?” Nadia’s sister tipped her head to the side and studied him with a thoughtful frown.
“Maybe.” It was difficult for Gabe to believe this homely child was Nadia’s sister. The washed-out brown of her hair didn’t have that golden sheen to it. Her nose was too straight and her mouth too wide. “Why do you ask?”
“You are American. And everyone is sad because Americans are buying this land. The Kolosh say this land belongs to them,” she stated importantly.
“The Kolosh?” Gabe arched an eyebrow.
“I think she’s referring to the Indians,” Ryan said.
“You mean the savages living outside the stockade in those filthy hovels.” He’d noticed the Ranche beyond the gates and the small market area where the local Indians sold fish and game as well as a few wood carvings.
“They say the Americans should pay the money to them,” Eva said.
“The Army should herd them onto a reservation, them and their half-breeds.” Gabe’s voice quivered on a note of hate that was buried deep inside him—a hate born at the death of his missionary parents. He’d only been six years old when they’d left him in the care of an aunt in San Francisco and gone to live among the filthy savages to save their heathen souls. Gabe still had their letters that spoke of their love for their red brethren—the same ones who rose up and killed them, led by a half-breed they’d trusted and called son.
“Half-breed,” Nadia repeated cautiously. “What does this word mean?”
“Someone who is part Indian and part white.”
“Oh. We call them Creole. Many live here and go to our schools and work for the company.”
“I see.” Gabe had his own opinion, but he didn’t consider it an appropriate topic of discussion.
Her sister started to say something else, but Nadia quickly shushed her. “Forgive Eva. She thinks everyone wants to talk with her, too.”
“I understand.” Gabe smiled.
“We must leave now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Blackwood, and Mr. …” She hesitated over Ryan’s name.
“Colby.” He nodded to her.
“Mr. Colby.” She cast another glance at Gabe, then ushered her sister past them.
Gabe turned to watch her walk away, observing the faint sway of the tassel that weighted the hood of her burnous.
“You didn’t waste any time staking your claim,” Ryan observed dryly.
Turning, Gabe looked at him. “You aren’t the only one who knows what you want. Remember when you said I might become the governor of Alaska someday. Well, I think you just met the woman who is going to be the governor’s lady.” The more he thought about it, the more auspicious it seemed. “It would be fitting, a marriage between the old Alaska and the new.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
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.