Sitka

"Well." Kohl grinned at LaBarge and rolled his quid in his jaws. "Here's where we start to run."

Together they went up the companion to the deck and studied the oncoming ship through the glass. A flag was climbing the halyard and when it was caught by the wind it was easily seen. It was the flag of Imperial Russia.

Chapter 18

The Susquehanna fell off before the wind. Standing in the waist, Jean LaBarge watched the oncoming ship. It was the Lena. Although a patrol ship she was only a middling fast sailer, quite fast enough for the average ship in these waters but not in the same class with the schooner.

He wanted to draw her deeply into Clarence Strait, for from her present position she could cover both the Strait and Revillagigedo Channel, a position fatal to his plans.

On the east side of the Strait, only a short distance off, there was the mouth of a channel opening between Gravina and Annette Islands, which in turn opened on Revillagigedo Channel. From there several openings offered themselves, but of five possible openings three were dead ends. If he could win to the head of Nicholas Passage and disappear, the Lena would have small chance of finding him unless Zinnovy was shrewd and patient enough to return to the former position and wait. And once the quarry was sighted, Jean did not believe Paul Zinnovy would be patient.

The sky was overcast, the sea gray. Lying close offshore he waited, hoping to draw the Russian ship deeper and deeper into the Strait. The shores were thick with forest except where cliffs of gray rock jutted out. White water broke over Hidden Reef. The wind was good and he allowed the schooner to loaf under reefed sails while the Russian ship came on. Jean waited, judging the distance. "All right," he said suddenly, "let's go!"

In an instant Kohl was shouting orders and the crew exploded into action. Eagerly, as if welcoming the chase and knowing what was demanded of her, the schooner answered to the wind. There was a low cheer from the crew as her sails filled and she started to run for it. From the Russian ship there was the dull boom of a gun, a warning signal, an order to heave to. She was much too far away for a cannon shot.

Jean took the wheel from Larsen and when the schooner was rolling along he put the wheel over and headed into the passage that led to Smugglers' Cove. From behind them the gun boomed again, impatiently. Standing at the wheel Jean watched the shore line, and suddenly glimpsed the lightning-blasted pine of which he had been told. Three minutes later by careful count he put the wheel over and slid between Hidden Reef and another rock patch, unnamed as yet. Then he was in full channel and reeling off a good eight knots. "If we can make the head of the Passage before he rounds the point," he told Kohl, "we'll be all right."

"I hope you know what you're doin'." Kohl was worried. "This is dangerous ground."

"I know."

He hoped he did. There was a chance despite his endless checking that the information in the little black book was wrong. Beside the channel the somber walls of timber closed them in, virgin timber, untouched by man or fire. Ahead of them the outlet was filled with dangers, and there would be little margin of safety, yet if he could make the turn...

He glanced back ... nothing in sight. Sweat broke out on his brow despite the wind. If they were trapped in a cul-de-sac they would have no chance, for Zinnovy could stand off and shell them to pieces, and with the greatest enjoyment.

He stood with his legs spread to the roll of the ship, taking his time. Whitecaps dotted the sea, and a cold wind came down off the mountains. Nobody said anything until Larsen, glancing over his shoulder, said, "I think we make it."

Momentarily, Jean resigned the wheel to him. He walked forward, scanning the sea and the marks on the cliffs. The distance was slight, but if the Lena had continued her pursuit she should be rounding into the Passage by now. "Head her toward the island." He pointed. "We'll get behind it and out of sight."

Kohl was in the stern with a glass to his eye, anxiously watching the point on Annette Island beyond Hidden Reef, but there was no sign of the patrol ship. The dark green shores of the island were close aboard now, and he could make out details of the trees. There was a white streak of quartz in the rock at the island's end and a cluster of bedraggled pines. Kohl called out suddenly. "She's on our tail, Cap! She's comin'!"

"Think they saw us?"

"I doubt it. If they didn't they'll have to look in those other inlets before they come up the Passage."

"Zinnovy knows I'm not the waiting type. He'll come on."

Out of sight of the pursuing ship, Jean conned the schooner around the kelp. Ahead of him was a strip of dark water and he pointed into it, muttering a wordless prayer that it was deep as it looked. The schooner slid through with yards to spare on either side, and then swung into the Tongass Narrows that divided Pennock Island from Gravina. Before them lay thirteen miles of clear water and Pennock was more than three hundred feet high and good cover for him. Even if Zinnovy had guessed right there was still a chance they could reach Behm Cannal before they were seen.

The black battalions of clouds lowered above storm-gored ridges, and the gray-furrowed sea licked at narrow beaches of sand and bare, black rocks. It was a strong land, a good land, unchanged through thousands of years. Off to the right the black, glistening arch of a rock showed momentarily above the water like the back of a porpoise and brown streamers of kelp trailed their mute warning into the gray of the sea.

The Narrows opened and the great bulk of Pennock fell behind. Kohl paused at the companionway rubbing the back of his neck. He hated to leave the deck, yet he knew fresh men would be sorely needed later. He stumbled down the ladder and fell into his bunk and was asleep as soon as he hit the mattress. Duncan Pope, the sour-faced second mate, was on watch. He was a slovenly-appearing man with a cast to one eye, yet long since Jean had learned he was a capable officer whose lean, almost scrawny body possessed an amazing resistance to hunger, cold, and long weary hours on watch. Pope was a man who kept his own counsel. He did not like Russians. He did not like the thugs of Sydney Town. He disliked most ship's masters on general principles, and he cared for few things aside from standing watch, reading his Bible, and fighting. LaBarge was scarcely aware Pope had taken over. He was watching the Narrows open out before him, and soon he would make the turn around Revillagigedo where his information told him there was a passage. He was gambling everything on that, and hoping Zinnovy would continue the pursuit. If his luck held he would pass by within a short distance of where the patrol ship had originally waited and the Lena would be lost in the maze of islands, channels and inlets that lay behind. An hour and a half later, with no evidence of pursuit, he rounded the corner and started north. Ahead of him was a wooded island with a yellow cliff, which would be Tatoosh. He kept close in so the ship would be invisible against the island if anyone was within sight.

He thought all at once of the Swamp, where as a child he had used the cover to hide from hostile eyes. And then he remembered Rob, and their dreams of adventure. "Rob," he said, half-aloud, "you should have been with me today. You would have liked this, I know you would."

Chapter 19

Helena stood on the terrace outside the Castle. It was late evening. For two days there had been no news from the Lena, and a message from her meant news of the Susquehanna. Each day until then there had been a bidarka to bring news or lack of it. The last canoe had brought word the Susquehanna had been sighted and, capture was imminent.

Reception of the news in Sitka had been mixed. Despite the fact that the Americans were foreigners they had brought wheat to Sitka, and their plight found sympathy among the people of the town. Baron Zinnovy was already unpopular, and the fact that he had impounded the wheat had won him no friends. The wheat would have been lost to them but for an unexpected show of firmness by Count Rotcheff, who refused to permit the impounding and took the matter out of Zinnovy's hands. Rudakof, straddling the fence on most issues, met this one head on from necessity. Reluctantly, he backed up the Count, who was, after all, in authority.

Rotcheff's words were repeated all over the settlement. "I am afraid, Baron Zinnovy," he had said sternly, "you have exceeded your authority. Your mission is to protect Russian trade and traders, not to enforce your arbitrary decisions in matters of no concern to you. I must remind you, sir, to restrict yourself to your duties and cease interfering with the civilian authorities." Helena, who had been present, was suddenly bursting with pride for her husband. The Baron had stood at attention, ramrod stiff, his eyes straight forward, his body fairly trembling with repressed fury. He saluted, made an abrupt about-face, and strode from the room, heels clicking on the hard floor. Yet all knew it was but one battle in a campaign and the decision was not yet. Helena realized that there was more to the search for the American ship than the personal animosity Zinnovy bore for Jean LaBarge. If the Susquehanna could be captured with a cargo of furs--Zinnovy could claim she had been trading with the secret connivance of Rotcheff, and trading illegally. More than ever she appreciated the danger of their position, for had Rudakof failed to back up her husband, Zinnovy might have taken drastic action to free himself from interference, and orders were of no importance if they could not be enforced. Scarcely more than a child when she had married Count Rotcheff, she had not been unhappy. He was thirty years older than she, but an intelligent, attractive man, respected for his genuine ability and his sometimes biting wit. She had grown up listening to talk of politics and intrigue, a game at which her husband was a master.

A door closed behind her and she turned to greet her husband. "I am glad you are out of that stuffy office."

"It is nice here." He inhaled deeply, then glanced at her. "Do you believe they will catch him?"

"No ... no, I don't."

"Nor I." They walked a few steps together. "He is clever, this American of yours. Busch tells me he has friends all through the islands, and what Busch has learned of LaBarge's dealings convince him that LaBarge is extremely astute." Somewhere out among those dark, mysterious islands he might even now be fighting, dying. The air was growing colder but she felt no desire to go in ... this was the same air that he was breathing; even now he might be standing on his deck, watching the dark water slip past.

"I like it here," she said suddenly.

"Sitka?" He was surprised.

"I mean all of this, as it is now, young and free."

"And barbaric."

"Of course ... and I like even that."

"There is something primitive in all women, I suspect. Women think in terms of the basic. Love, marriage, children."

"What better things to think of?"

"Of course. It is as it should be and lucky for us males, God knows. You are coming in?"

"Soon."

He paused near the door, watching the dark serrated edge of the pine forest against the night sky. Somewhere down in the town someone dropped a piece of iron and it rang loudly on the pavement. He glanced at Helena, feeling his age now in the growing chill of the evening. This bout with Zinnovy might be his last. He must move shrewdly ... the man had influence, damn him! And he was vindictive, which Rotcheff was not. It was a pity, he reflected, that the men of good will are so poorly armed, for at times it was a handicap not to hate. It took a fanatic to win, a fanatic believer or one utterly ruthless. He, Rotcheff, thought too much of the other man's point of view, he could always see both sides of an argument. That would not do in a world where there were Zinnovys. Yet Zinnovy was a Russian and they talked loudest when they faced weakness. We are basically, he thought, a race of tyrants and poets, and his own fault was in being too much the poet, too little the tyrant. He looked again at Helena, standing by the stone parapet. In the world from which they had come it would be considered an absurd thing, but he loved his wife. He had not married for love. Helena was beautiful, she was wealthy, and her family was powerful in his world of intrigue and politics. Theirs had been a marriage of purpose. Yet he had been a lover once, and a successful one, with many conquests behind him. He knew all the little things that please a woman. He smiled thoughtfully. The best lovers were those who did not really love, for if one became too emotional there was in the place of eloquence a stumbling tongue, in the place of charm, awkwardness.

The surprise had been his. He found Helena, even though he was sure she did not love him, a thoughtful, attentive, and considerate wife. Had he met her twenty-five years before she might have loved him ... but then he could not have afforded her!

Their life had been singularly happy, and if she did not love him she did respect and admire him. These last years had been his happiest. He was not sure when he fell in love with his wife; nonetheless, it had happened, and now for the first time he sensed her unrest, and he knew the cause. Jean LaBarge was a handsome man, not in a pretty way as were some of the Czar's officers who had paid court to her, but in a tough, dangerous way. The Count, considered in his day a superb swordsman, and victor in four duels to the death, admitted to himself he would dislike to face LaBarge with a rapier in his hand. The man had it in him to kill ... not from malice, for there did not seem to be cruelty in him, but simply because he was, more than anyone in the Count's experience, a fighter.

"Helena"--he turned back to her--"have you ever been sorry you married me?"

Scarcely had he uttered the words than he was wishing they had not been said.

Was he a boy to expect such a question to receive more than the obvious answer? She turned to face him. "No, Alexander, I have not been sorry, and I shall never be sorry."

He welcomed the sincerity in her voice. "I'm afraid I have been a bad husband ... too preoccupied." He waved an irritated hand. "Marriage in our lot is so much a matter of state. We scarcely know each other until it is too late." "It has never been so with us," she protested. "You know it hasn't." She was right, of course. There had always been a warm, friendly understanding between them, and in the past few years it had become even better. They had, really, been two of the lucky ones.

He remembered the first time he had seen her, when he was a young officer in the Imperial Army, and had come to her home to visit, accompanying her uncle. She had been, a little girl with large, serious eyes who was always in a corner, reading. She had come running from the door to greet her uncle, followed by a huge wolfhound she called Tovarich. Suddenly seeing the strange young man, she had stopped, torn between eagerness and embarrassment. He had seen her fear and had walked to her, bowing deeply. "Princess, I am your servant. And when was a mistress afraid of her servants?" She laughed then. "You! You couldn't be a servant! With that nose?"

They had laughed together, and from that day on, they had been friends...

The wind puffed through the pines and flurried her skirt. "It is cold," he said.

"I shall go in."

"I'll follow ... I want to be alone for a minute." When the door closed behind him he went to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He tasted it and the warmth went through his veins. Zinnovy now: the man had friends in the high places but more than one road led to St. Petersburg. There was that boy, for instance, the boy Zinnovy had ordered flogged ... did he not have an uncle who was a power in the iron industry? The uncle would be a man to be listened to. Yes, that was it, and they had met once in Kiev, a hardheaded man named Zarasky who had fiercely resented his nephew's flogging. It had nearly killed the boy.

That way it would not involve the Grand Duke or the Czar. There was no way of making someone tired of you faster than endless requests or complaints. It was the value of being a politician, that one knew other ways. It occurred to him abruptly that being the kind of man Zinnovy was, and wanting what he wanted, Zinnovy dared not let him, Rotcheff, return to St. Petersburg. Coolly, he considered the situation. There were ways of escape, of course, but he was no longer a young man, and all shipping out of the harbor could be controlled by Baron Zinnovy. Escape by the usual means would be barred to him, and any other means was closed by the danger to his health. That meant he must prepare a report now, with several copies, and see that at least two copies were smuggled out, for certainly Zinnovy would be checking all communications. Busch ... that was the man. Busch detested Zinnovy and was a patriot as well, shrewd enough to realize the danger Zinnovy meant to all legitimate business in Sitka. Moreover, and this was important, Busch had his own corps of tough and loyal promyshleniki. He was not a man to attack with impunity. A long time later, while his pen still scratched, the clock chimed.

Eleven o'clock. It was very late...

Chapter 20

Shortly after noon the wind fell away to nothing, and the Susquehanna, now barely making steerageway, held in toward the rocky shore. Jean was hoping to pick up vagrant breezes out of the numerous ravines that slashed the mountains. Twice during the afternoon there were brief squalls accompanied by heavy rain, and each time the schooner gained ground.

All hands that could be spared were catching sleep against the long watches ahead, and when they turned to, every one of them was given a jolt of hot rum. It was almost dusk when the wind picked up. Moving at a bare four knots they rounded into Gedney Pass.

Both shores sloped steeply back to three thousand feet, with the shore steep-to.

Creeping along, the schooner made Shrimp Bay and dropped anchor until morning. During the night it rained hard. The man on watch was relieved every hour; Jean wanted to take no chance because of a sleepy watch. All hands slept in their clothing, ready to turn to at a moment's notice, and LaBarge bedded down under the bottom-up whaleboat.

Tired as he was, he could not sleep. The cold wind made him grateful for his heavy blankets. Once while lying awake he heard something crash far up the mountainside and then a sliding of rocks and timber. There was a faint following rattle of stones, then silence. The schooner was ghostly in the night, but toward morning the air warmed a little and the fog lifted, shrouding her rigging in cobwebs of mist. His cargo was worth at least eighty thousand dollars and depending on how the market stood at the moment, might be worth at least half again that much.

Sometime after that he must have fallen asleep for he was awakened to find the sky turning pale yellow and the watch standing beside him with a steaming cup of black coffee. By the time the sun was halfway up the sky they had rounded Curlew Point and entered the Narrows along Bell Island. Here, for approximately eight miles, the channel varied from three-tenths of a mile in width to more than a mile. By report the water was deep and the shores steep-to, but as the fog held they had no idea if they were pursued or not.

Like a ghost ship on a ghost sea they slid along through the fog. He was coming up from below when Kohl called him. The schooner faced a continuing channel ahead, but to their right lay another opening, a little wider. "What d' you think, Barney?"

Kohl rubbed his neck. "A man can only guess." Together they walked to the bow and looked at the water. Just beyond the entrances both passages were blocked off by fog. One might be an escape, the other a trap, but which was which? A decision had to be made, yet Jean delayed, hoping for some indication, some evidence on which to base a choice.

"What's the book say?" Kohl had noticed the black book LaBarge occasionally referred to.

"It doesn't say. The man who told me about this channel hadn't navigated it, he'd only crossed it at the Narrows with some Tlingits after him. He did get a taste of the water and it was salt."

He stiffened suddenly, lifting a hand. "Listen! I heard something then!

Something dropped on a deck!"

All ears strained into the silence and fog. Kohl grabbed his arm. "Cap'n ... look!"

It was a piece of shelf ice such as forms along a shore, and it had drifted from the opening that lay ahead. It was moving upon some strong, unseen current. "Put the helm over, Noble," Jean said. "We take the other opening." Suddenly from out of the fog there was a cry, "Sail, ho! Dead ahead!" And the words were in Russian.

As one man the crew sprang into action, getting sail on the schooner. Putting the helm over sent them into thick, blanketing fog, and like a gray ghost the Susquehanna gathered speed, while behind them they heard excited talk in Russian.

"Gant, Boyar, Turk!" LaBarge grabbed the three men. "Lay aft with your rifles.

Stand by to fire but not a shot until I give the word, understand?"

He turned on Kohl. "How did they see us before we saw them?"

"They must've had a man at the masthead."

Behind them a cannon boomed suddenly, and they heard the shell crash into the forest, some distance off.

"Shootin' up the other channel," Gant said. "They didn't see us duck out." A half hour later, sliding more swiftly through thinning fog, they heard another shot, far behind them. The patrol ship had obviously taken the other, more obvious channel. Yet they themselves were sailing into the unknown and from brief glimpses of the shore nobody could guess the position. Abruptly, they emerged from the fog and saw dead ahead of them a mighty shaft of rock towering over two hundred feet into the air! Kohl whooped. "Cap'n!" He grabbed Jean's arm. "We're okay! That's Eddystone Rock an' we're not more than twenty miles above Revillagigedo Channel! I've been this far a dozen times!"

Far behind them the patrol ship Lena captained by Alexi Boncharof, with Baron Zinnovy aboard, felt its way slowly up the unknown channel. Boncharof, knowing the temper of his passenger and superior, was growing more and more worried. There was a current flowing against them and he was positive it was no tidal current.

"I think," he began hesitantly, "there is a river at the end of this inlet. I do not believe they went this way."

"I heard them, I tell you!" Zinnovy's voice was coldly furious.

They proceeded another mile, two miles. Boncharof was thoroughly unhappy. Experience had taught him it was foolhardly to pursue poachers; one had to wait until opportunity offered rather than venture into narrow channels filled with dangers of all sorts. But who was he to advise his superior, an officer of the Imperial Navy?

Yet when the fog broke they saw two rivers flowing into a dead-end inlet, and no sign of the Susquehanna Baron Paul Zinnovy stared wide-eyed with anger at the shore and the rivers, then he turned abruptly and went below, nor would he appear on deck again until they reached Sitka.

Below deck he poured a glass of cognac. The American had escaped him again, yet he dismissed his failure as he dismissed all failure. One thing he had decided. He dare not let Rotcheff return to St. Petersburg, nor his wife, either, for that matter. He turned the glass in his hand, knowing he must move soon and swiftly. He wished to return to St. Petersburg a wealthy man, to establish himself in the capital. There was no better place for a man to be who had wealth, but without it, one was nothing.

LaBarge now: the man must have taken a small fortune in furs! That schooner was well down in the water; it would take a lot of fur to bring her down so far. If he could have captured the schooner with that fur ... ! Paul Zinnovy had come into the world as an only child in a country mansion remote from all others of his class, and on an estate where he ruled almost as a prince. His father's overseers had gotten work out of the peasants with the knout, and Paul had been taught to do likewise. Zinnovy recalled his mother as an inconsequential woman in black who had lived for twenty years in fear of her husband, and as he grew up she came to live in equal fear of her son. At school he was the only child from the gentry and tyrannized over the others, yet he was intelligent and his grades were good. Later, at the university his grades were even better, yet there for the first time he felt discontent. He was no longer first. He found many who were richer, stronger, students who lived on vaster estates, and knew more important people. A tall, handsome and somewhat cold young man, he repelled people rather than attracted them, and soon learned that his father, a tyrant on his estates, was only a provincial member of the petty nobility and of no consequence in St. Petersburg.

A fine navigator and an excellent officer, Zinnovy soon won promotion on his own merit. Several friends sponsored him in various ways, only to be promptly discarded when their usefulness was at an end. Paul Zinnovy had never heard of Machiavelli, but the Italian could have taught him nothing. His reading had been limited to gunnery tables, charts, books and papers essential to his career. He was fiercely proud, without scruple or loyalty, and if it is given to any man to be so, he was without fear. His first duel at the university, where duels were usually concluded with the drawing of blood, ended in death. He easily ran his man through, and from that day he was feared. His second duel, with pistols, was with a drunken artillery officer and again he killed his man. Then had come the first of those "duels by request." A young journalist had written articles critical of the Navy, and a superior officer of Zinnovy's casually suggested that if Zinnovy were a loyal officer of the Navy he would resent the articles. He resented them, and killed a man who had known no weapon but the pen, until given a pistol for the duel. There are always those who admire skill with weapons as there are women who are attracted by a reputation with no thought of what the reputation implies. Paul Zinnovy was valuable to the right people so he obtained promotion. He dressed with care and danced well.

There had been a riot at Kronstadt when Zinnovy was Officer of the Day. Although a mere outburst of rebellious fury on the part of seamen who had endured too much, Zinnovy treated it as the beginning of revolution. Acting with ruthless speed, efficiency and cruelty, he personally killed the ringleader with a pistol and summarily executed three others. He was commended publicly by his commanding officer, who commented in private, "Efficient, but too bloody." During this period in Russia all books on logic and philosophy were forbidden, and although there was reform later it. was so slight as to warrant no discussion. Censorship subjected all printed matter to rigid scrutiny. It was a period of stifling tyranny and obedience without discussion, an atmosphere suited to the development and rise of Paul Zinnovy. Yet the new Czar, Alexander II, did not approve of undue violence, and his policy was somewhat more liberal than Russia was expecting. Baron Zinnovy had ordered the knout for a cadet, and he was about to be broken in rank for this offense when influence was brought to bear and he was sent to Sitka, instead. If he made good there he would be returned with honors. He was given other, strictly confidential orders.

Those orders concerned the mission of Count Rotcheff and future plans for a new company charter. The Count was to be rendered ineffectual at Sitka, and if this could not be done, he was to be destroyed, and in such a way that the Baron's hand would not be visible.

As for Jean LaBarge, Zinnovy thought, his time would come too. He was not important except that he was aiding and abetting Rotcheff, but Paul Zinnovy hated him.

He finished his cognac. LaBarge had gotten away, and nothing could be done about that, but there was much to be done in Sitka. He must make careful moves that would cut the ground from under Count Rotcheff's feet and leave him without authority.

Authority, to matter, must be enforced. If the means of enforcing it be taken away nothing but prestige is left, and little enough of that. Paul Zinnovy thought he knew a way...

Chapter 21

Three times in the following year Jean LaBarge took the Susquehanna to the northwest coast, and not until the third of these voyages did he encounter the patrol ship. Each voyage was carefully planned beforehand, and the route mapped out only after considerable study and an analysis of all reports from Alaska. On two of the voyages they held to the inside passage; on the third they remained far out to sea until in the latitude of the first trading point. Contrary to usual practice among traders, they moved the ship only by night, in the first hours of the day or the very last before dark, and during the day they anchored in tiny, out-of-the-way inlets. Despite his precautions LaBarge was sure there had been spies in some of the villages and that Zinnovy was aware of his presence.

When each trip ended he paid his crew and gave each man a bonus depending on the size of the cargo and what the furs brought on the market. There was no news of either Rotcheff or Helena, though his crew circulated in port, listening to pick up information, and were given additional bonuses for this. There was a rumor they were still in Sitka but he placed no faith in the story.

Nor could he forget Helena.

His voyages had been highly successful, the profits enormous. On the last voyage he had bought gold from Skayeut.

He had written Rob Walker a long letter after returning from his first trip to Sitka, and had received some months later a very serious reply, which said in part:

Your letter is here beside me, and if you were to see it you would find those passages concerning Russian America, which you call Alaska, underlined in red ink. You would be even more surprised to find that you are very much quoted in the cloakrooms of both House and Senate. You have told me much of the wealth and size of Alaska, and of its proximity to Siberia. Nowhere else is the United States so close to the troubles of the old world as there, and, as long as Russia is on the continent of America, there is danger. I know ... our two governments are now friendly, and I trust this may be ever so, but, should Russia and the United States ever have a falling out, it would be well that they have no foothold upon this continent. Jean, we must buy Alaska! March of another year was drawing to a close when Jean, wearing a carefully tailored suit of dark gray, stopped by Winn's Branch for dinner. Part of the afternoon and most of the evening he had spent in the office of the rebuilt warehouse, planning a new trip to the northwest. The Branch was a large salon furnished in a manner both tasteful and elegant, standing at the corner of Washington and Montgomery Streets. It had become almost immediately after its opening a gathering place for the wealthy and successful of San Francisco. Seating four hundred and fifty, it was crowded most of the time. Pausing in the entrance, Jean let his eyes move over the crowd, seeking familiar faces. His own table, reserved each evening at this hour, was empty. Captain Hutchins had not yet arrived.

At a table not for from his, Royle Weber sat with Charley Duane. Jean was quite sure Duane had at least protected the arsonists after the burning of the warehouse, and possibly had instigated the burning or served as a go-between. He started for his table, but Royle Weber called out to him and motioned for him to join them. Hestitating, LaBarge remembered suddenly that Weber was agent for the Sitka people, and walked to the table. "You want something?" Weber's face flushed at the tone. "Look, LaBarge, I have news for you."

"What news?"

"Sit down. We'll talk."

"I can stand, or you can come to my office. I won't sit down because I don't like the company you keep."

Duane's face went white and he started to rise but Weber put a hand on his arm.

"Forget it, Charley. LaBarge is joking."

Duane stared up at LaBarge, his hatred evident. "He's not joking," he said, "and I like neither the words nor the tone."

"With your associations, Duane, I shouldn't think you'd mind." Duane wanted desperately to rise and smash LaBarge's face, but his memory of what had happened to Bart Freel and Yankee Sullivan was still ripe. He had himself seen the finish of the Sullivan fight, and knew he was in no such class. He shrugged. "Have your fun."

LaBarge turned to Weber. "Whatever it is, I'll listen, but make it quick."

"You'll be interested to hear that Count Rotcheff has been ordered back to St. Petersburg immediately, and he has suggested a desire to be taken to Siberia in the Susquehanna, and by you."

"The order is signed by Roteheff?"

"Yes. He wishes you to bring another cargo of wheat to Sitka, and you will be permitted to take a cargo of furs from there."

"I'll think about it."

"You don't understand. You must go at once."

Jean LaBarge crossed to his table and dropped into his chair facing the room. This could very well be a trap, a means of drawing him into Alaskan waters where he might be taken at will. On the other hand, the last thing Russia would want would be trouble in the Far East or Alaska. If the signature on the request from Count Rotcheff was genuine, he would go. Obviously, the Count did not trust himself on any ship under the command of Baron Zinnovy or subject to his supervision. ... A cargo of wheat would bring a good price in Sitka, and with the furs he could make a substantial profit ... and he would see Helena again. Or would he? Weber had said nothing about the Princess. She might have already preceded Rotcheff to St. Petersburg. Jean chewed his lower lip, considering the situation ... but there was no reason to consider ... he was going.

Sitka lay warm in the morning sunshine when Jean LaBarge walked along the passage through the log warehouse. Much had changed. The equipment was worn, the clothing shabby, and it was apparent that few ships were arriving from the homeland.

Duncan Pope was in command of the schooner, and Kohl had accompanied Jean ashore. There were many men standing idle about the streets, most of them the hard-bitten promyshleniki, the same crowd who had brutalized the natives and fought the Tlingits. Many were former convicts, criminals shipped over from Siberia; others were renegades from various countries. Leaving Kohl in the town, Jean started up the street alone. The booths of the merchants lined the way and the Tlingit women looked at him with interest. Two Tlingit men watched him approach, and one inclined his head as if to nod. LaBarge acknowledged the greeting, if greeting it was. Baranof Castle was just before him. At the thought of seeing Helena his heart began to race. He was a fool to think of her, yet the fact remained that he could think of no one else. And as long as Rotcheffi lived she would make no move nor allow him to make one.

The door opened as he crossed the porch and a servant bowed. "Captain LaBarge?

Count Rotcheff is expecting you!"

Crossing the foyer, his heart pounding, he went through the door and saw Rotcheff rise from behind his desk, hand outstretched. He looked older, more tired.

"My friendl My very good friend!" His sincerity was obvious. "Captain, there have been times when I did not expect to see you again, but it is good! Believe me, it is good!"

The warmth of the greeting found him responding in kind, and he realized anew how much he liked this fine old man with his scholar's face and ready smile. "It is good to be here," he said simply.

"You brought the wheat?"

"Yes, and other things as well." He hesitated. "The Princess? She is well?"

"Waiting to see you. You will join us now?"

Helena turned quickly from the table where she was arranging tea, and he saw the sudden way her breath caught, the quick lift of her breasts, then a glad, lovely smile.

"Jean! At last you've come to us!"

Over tea Rotcheff explained. Zinnovy was in charge, the director no more than a figurehead. Rotcheff's messages were intercepted, and although they were treated with bland respect, it was obvious they were prisoners. His demands for a passage to Russia were shunted aside with the excuse that there were no ships. "I am sure the only reason we are alive is a fear of repercussions. But," he smiled, "please believe me, our greeting is for you, not your ship, relieved as we are to see it. We have missed you, and we have missed outsiders. Even the beauty of Sitka can become dull for lack of new faces." He went on to explain that after Zinnovy's failure to capture LaBarge, the Baron had returned and begun all at once to make changes. At first it seemed an effort to increase the efficiency of the operating force on the patrol ships, but soon it became apparent that one safe man after another had been taken from the Castle and replaced by someone obedient only to Zinnovy. Letters from St. Petersburg had convinced Rudakof that Zinnovy was in the driver's seat, and whatever Count Rotcheff might report would be discounted. Rotcheff and his wife were practically prisoners, and all ships coming to or leaving Sitka were checked by Zinnovy's men. At first none of this had been apparent. Zinnovy had either avoided them or been carefully respectful, but he had built carefully to the point where he would have the situation in hand. "The people of Sitka?"

"Frightened, most of them, but they hate him. Right now the Baron is worried, I believe. When orders arrived recalling me to St. Petersburg he became very friendly and extremely polite."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"He was furious ... but even he will be glad to see the wheat this time, and I've told him there was not a ship I'd trust myself in ... not in Sitka harbor." Later, Rotcheff returned to his desk and left them alone. When the door closed they stood for a long time looking into each other's eyes. "Jean, Jean," Helena said, at last, "you've no idea how we've missed you!"

" 'We?' "

"Alexander, too. There have been times when we have thought of you as our only friend. You've no idea what it means to know there is someone, somewhere, who would come if called. Alexander has said as much several times. "He is ... he is not so young any more, and could never stand the rigors of a trip in an open boat. Had it not been for that we might have made the attempt." "Has he mistreated you? Zinnovy, I mean."

"He wouldn't dare. At least, not yet. But wait until you see him. He has changed, too."

"Changed?"

"Perhaps it is just the veneer wearing off, but he has grown more brutal. He is not formal as he was, not so stiff or so neat. He drinks a lot, and goes to the village too often for his own good. Some night one of the Kolush will kill him. Last month he shot an Indian for nothing at all, and he has had several brutally whipped."

"How about you? Would he let you go?"

"Alexander believes he dares do nothing else, but I only wish I were as sure." Shadows had grown long in the room and LaBarge became worried. His crew had been chosen for their fighting ability as much as for their seamanship; should they encounter any of Zinnovy's men there might be trouble. "I can't stay," he said, but made no move to go. "When you return to Russia, what then?"

"We have no idea what will be planned for us in St. Petersburg. Alexander believes much could be done here, but it would take a certain sort of man to do it."

"And I'll never see you again."

She touched the teapot with idle fingers. "No ... unless you come to St.

Petersburg."

He chuckled. "And what would I do there? I'm not a courtier. Although," he smiled, "one American sailor did well enough--a man named Jones." "John Paul Jones? I think he was a better hand with a ship than an empress." She turned around to face him.

"You've never told me about yourself. What was your mother like?" "How can you answer a question like that? She was a little woman with big brown eyes and she used to take me into the swamp with her and show me the useful plants. I believe she came from a good family, wealthy at one time. She told me about the house they lived in: it had once been beautiful, but became very run-down, I guess."

He paused. "She wanted me to amount to something and was very sure I would, and she used to tell me it wasn't where a man started that mattered, but where he went. She believed the swamp was a good place for a man to begin. She may have been right."

"And you? What do you want, Jean?"

"You have a husband ... a man I respect."

She brushed the suggestion aside. "I did not mean that. But there must be something you want, that you want very much."

"I suppose there is. It used to be wealth, but it isn't any more. When I first began to learn about Alaska I felt it was a new country, a rich country where a man could become rich in a hurry. But I've done a lot of thinking since then, and I have a friend, Rob Walker, who has given me a different slant. I want to be rich, I suppose, but I keep thinking of Jefferson. I'd like to see Alaska a part of the United States."

"Why?"

"I've heard men curse it. I've heard them talk about the cold, the wolves, the northern lights, but that's not important. I want it for my country because someday my country may need it very much."

The room was now dark and the town only a velvet blackness where a few lights shone like far-off stars. Down upon the bay the harbor lights shot arrows of gold into the black heart of the water.

"What of you, Jean?"

"What I want I can make with these--" He lifted his hands. "Where there's fur I'll have some of it, and where there's gold, I'll take my share. But that's not enough. More and more I want to do something of value, the way Rob Walker is doing."

"Tell me about him."

"He's a little man, the way my mother was a little woman. I doubt if he weighs more than one hundred pounds. But that's the only way he's small. I think he would do anything for his country, and he knows how to bring men together to work, how to use their ambition, their envy, greed, even their hatred. It's funny--I remember him mostly as a shy little boy, and now to think he's become a great man."

A servant entered and lighted the lamps. When he was gone she turned to him again. "You may get what you want, Jean. Strangely, perhaps, it is what Alexander also wants. We must talk to him of this." "And what of us?"

She put her hand on his sleeve. "You must not ask that, and you must not think of it. There is nothing for us, nor can there be anything for us, except"--she looked up at him--"except to say, I love you."

The door opened and Rotcheff came into the room. "I am sorry, Captain, if I have kept you waiting. You will wish to return to your ship."

Chapter 22

He was crossing the foyer when a door opened and in the opening stood Paul Zinnovy. LaBarge needed only a quick glance to see that what Helena had told him was true. Zinnovy was a changed man. There was about him now an air of sullen brutality. Little remained of the immaculate perfection in uniform that he had once been. His coat was unbuttoned and his shirt collar gaped wide. He carried a bottle by the neck and in the other hand a half-filled glass, but he was not drunk. He was heavier than when Jean had last seen him. There were red veins in his face and his features seemed somehow thicker. "So? Our little merchant comes to pick crumbs from the Russian table? Enjoy them while you can, Captain, it will not be for long." "Perhaps."

"So you will take our Rotcheff back to Russia, will you? And that will be the end of Zinnovy, you think?" He chuckled. "Think again, my friend. I have power here. I have a warehouse filled with furs, I have wealth. Do you think I would lose all that and what it could mean to me in St. Petersburg for one man? Or a dozen men?"

Jean was impatient to be away, but the man fascinated him. It was a rare opportunity to see his enemy at first hand. "Count Rotcheff is a good man," he replied shortly, "and very close to the Czar."

Zinnovy smiled. "Is he now? How long does a man's influence last when he is far away?" He held up two fingers and rubbed them together. "See? I will have this. Gold speaks an eloquent tongue, understood in court or cottage. There are many men who stand between the Czar and any issued order. As for Rotcheff"--he shrugged--"he might be dangerous if he gets back, and as for that little bit--" Jean swung toward Zinnovy. "I'd not say that if I were you." Zinnovy's eyes danced with cynical amusement. "Ah? So that is how it is? Oh, do not worry, my American friend, I'll say nothing to offend either you or the lady, but it interests me that you would fight for her. Chivalrous, and all that." His eyes narrowed a little. "It interests me that you will fight at all. You have always seemed more ready to run."

Abruptly, Jean turned to the door. Nothing could be gained here and he had a ship to make ready for the sea. A long voyage lay before him and neither the Bering Sea nor the North Pacific was gentle. He walked out, drawing the door to behind him, conscious of Zinnovy's eyes.

Outside it was completely dark. Most of the lights in the town had been extinguished. Jean LaBarge paused at the head of the flight of wooden steps and looked down, not enjoying that descent into blackness. Hadn't there been a light there, at the foot of the steps? He started to step down when a low voice called to him.

"Captain! Wait!"

He drew back from the step and turned to find a girl, her head covered with a shawl. "It is I--Dounia! You must not go down the steps. There are Russian sailors waiting for you! They mean to kill you!" "How many?"

"Nine, perhaps ten. I do not know."

"And my men?"

"They are with the boat."

"Is there another path? Where we can't be seen?" She caught his sleeve. "Come!" Swiftly she led him through the darkness, past barracks and tannery, to the corner of a storehouse. There they crouched in the shadows, listening.

It was very dark and very still. The water was gray, with a fringe of white along the rocks. From where they stood he looked along the water's edge toward the landing stage. His ship's boat was clearly visible. Now that they had come this far the girl waited, knowing he must decide the next move. The building loomed above them, and looking back he could see the Castle outlined darkly against the sky. A few of the Russians would be waiting at the bottom of the stair, growing restive now, and there would be others in the log warehouse, watching the boat. But they would not be watching closely for they would expect no movement there. It would be sounds from up the street they would be expecting.

As he watched he saw a man move in the boat; and taking a chance, he called softly. Ben Turk was at the boat, and so was Gant. Both men knew the call of the loon, and he made it now. The moving figure stood still, listening. Softly, he called again, and there was a stirring in the boat shadows. For an instant starlight glinted on an oar blade.

He realized suddenly he was holding Dounia by the arm. "What about you?" he whispered. "Will you be all right?"

"I know every path."

"You're sure?"

"I played here as a child."

"Your father should have sent someone else. You shouldn't be out at this hour."

"Nobody sent me. I ... I just came."

He took her shoulders in his hands and squeezed them gently. "Thanks ... thanks, Dounia. But you must never do this again, do you hear?" "I won't."

Suddenly she stood on tiptoe and kissed him fiercely on the lips, then ducked under his arm and was gone in the darkness. He started after her, then realized how futile it would be to pursue someone in such dark and unfamiliar surroundings.

The boat was drawing close, drifting like a darker shadow on the gray water. The oars stopped and it glided through the water with only ripples to make a whisper of sound. "Captain?" It was Gant's voice.

"Here."

At that moment a shot sounded.

Jean LaBarge had stepped down to the water's edge, but now he stood still, listening, ears attuned to the slightest sound. Far away an unhappy coyote yammered his loneliness to the wide sky, the water rippled, water dripped from the suspended oars, and then a faint woman's cry, from the Castle. "Wait here!" he called to Gant.

Spinning, he dashed into the darkness. How he found his way through the maze of buildings he never knew, but suddenly he was back on the Hill, and when he stepped through the door Count Rotcheff lay on the carpet, blood flowing from a wound in his side. Helena was kneeling beside him and two servants came running into the room.

Jean dropped to his knees. His familiarity with wounds had been bred of emergency, and he worked swiftly now. When he had stopped the flow of blood and sent one of the servants running for the doctor, he got to his feet. The door to Zinnovy's quarters opened and the Baron came out, looking down at the wounded man. His face showed no expression, yet there was a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. "It seems you've lost a passenger, Captain. He may recover, but it will take time ... time." Zinnovy glanced at Helena and then at Jean. "In the meantime he must remain here."

"You shot him! You did!" Helena's face was white, her eyes enormous. "I will see you shot for this! You ... you ... !"

"Naturally, you're hysterical." Zinnovy drew himself up. "And of course, I ignore the accusation. It was some Kolush, no doubt, perhaps believing the Count was myself." He smiled again. "I forgive you, Princess, and assure you I shall see that everything is done, everything, I repeat, to speed his recovery. Of course"--he pursed his lips thoughtfully--"it may take months and months." Turning to Jean he added, "And of course, LaBarge, there will be no need for your schooner. None at all. Your stay here is over at midnight tomorrow. If you are in Russian waters within four days I'll blow you out of the water." When he was gone, Rotcheff opened his eyes. He glanced quickly after the Baron to make sure he was unheard, then he whispered, "Take her and go." His eyes were bright and quick. "Take her to the Czar, my friend. I cannot go ... and he will listen to no one else. You must take her, Captain ... and you must go at once ... before they realize."

"But--!"

Helena's protest was brushed aside. The Count's voice was firmer and his eyes clear. "Your things are already aboard the schooner, as are mine. Go now, quickly."

"Leave you?" she protested. "Leave you wounded? Perhaps ..." "Perhaps dying? No, I shall not die, but unless you go now we may both be killed. We know now to what lengths he will go ... for it was Paul. I cannot prove it ... but it was he.

"If you escape, I shall be safe. If you remain here ... he will try again and again. With you away, safe with the Czar ... then he dare do nothing more for fear of repercussions. You are the only chance." "He's right," Jean told her. "And if we go it must be now, before Zinnovy thinks of this."

He led her, still protesting, to the door. Suddenly she turned and fled to Rotcheff and fell on her knees beside him. For a moment she was there, then she arose and came swiftly to the door. As they stepped out to the terrace the doctor and a servant came in the Castle entrance. Wasting no time, Jean led her to the path he had twice covered that night.

Kohl helped her aboard and whispered to Jean, "Zinnovy went out to the Lena.

What's that mean?"

"Is the cargo gone?"

"Gone. And we've loaded the furs. The last lighter cleared an hour ago."

"All right. As soon as we're aboard we clear for sea. As quietly as possible."

Ben Turk touched his sleeve. "We aren't the only ones, Cap. Look!" The canvas of the Lena was white against the night as she caught for an instant the reflection of shore light. Phosphorus showed in her wake. Zinnovy was taking the patrol ship out and Jean needed no blueprints as to why she was going. Out upon the dark water the sea would swallow any evidence of what happened to the Susquehanna here in the harbor there were too many witnesses. Without doubt he intended to sink the Susquehanna and end the problem presented by LaBarge, once and for all. Yet he could have no idea they intended to sail this soon, nor could he guess that Helena was aboard.

A wind stirred along the face of the mountains, and clouds drifted in the wide sky. Lights from the town made golden daggers into the heart of the black, glistening water. The patrol ship had taken the Middle Channel between Turning and Kutken Islands, but it was only a little past midnight and the anchor of the schooner was catted and she was moving.

"He can sit out there and wait until we come out," Kohl said unhappily, "and when we're at sea and out of gunshot of the town, he can sink us at will." Jean LaBarge was not thinking of Zinnovy; that would come in its own good time. Now he was thinking of a channel that led north past the Indian settlement and Channel Rock where the Susquehanna had lain at anchor on her first voyage. One of the clumsy Russian ships that lay in the harbor had moved across that opening. Zinnovy must have planned shrewdly, hours before; he seemed to have blocked every exit, leaving only the way the Lena had gone. "Keep moving," he told Kohl. "Let her swing as if we were taking the opening past Aleutski Island, and then at the last minute, point her into that opening past the Russian ship."

The channel where the Russian was moored was not more than one hundred and fifty yards wide, and there were rocks along the shore of Japonski Island, but between those off-lying rocks and the Russian ship there was a space ... very narrow. "We can't do it," Kohl protested. "We'd be fools to try."

"You do what I tell you."

The wind off the mountains was picking up, the sails filled, and Kohl went aft and took the wheel from Noble. He watched the approach to the channel past Aleutski. A few Russians loitered along the bulwarks of the moored ship. As Kohl measured the distance sweat broke out on his forehead. It was narrow, far too narrow. He swore bitterly, then setting his jaw, he spun the spokes rapidly and pointed their bows at the Russian ship.

There was a long moment before comprehension dawned on the Russian sailors. Suddenly a man shouted hoarsely at them and running aft began to wave his hands wildly at the schooner which was bearing down as if to ram. "Steady on!" LaBarge walked away from the rail and stood, his big hands on his hips, watching the narrowing gap. Kohl stared at him. To have seen LaBarge at this moment no man would have guessed that he was gambling his ship, their lives, and at the very least a Russian prison. Kohl could not know that LaBarge's throat was so dry he could not swallow, and his heart was throbbing heavily. Had he kicked an ant's nest there could have been no greater burst of activity than there now was aboard the Russian. Men shouted and waved their arms to warn him off, but the Susquehanna plunged on. "Gant! Boyar! Get forward and stand by with your rifles. If anybody lays a hand on the wheel, drop him where he stands!"

It was close. If anyone touched the wheel on the Russian bark it might be just enough to close off the channel and bring about the collision they feared. The water gap narrowed. A hundred yards ... seventy ... fifty! A man standing at the bulwark suddenly ran to the bow and dove off into the black water, swimming wildly for shore. Lights appeared in doorways and people rushed out, shouting and staring seaward.

Kohl's eyes were riveted on the narrowing distance. "Cap'n!" he pleaded.

The moment seemed to stand still as the schooner closed that distance.

Forty-five ... forty ...

"Hard aport!" LaBarge shouted. His mouth was so dry his voice sounded choked.

"Hard over! Hard!"

Kohl swung the spokes and Turk jumped to lend a hand. Jean stood with his legs spread, watching the bow of the schooner swing. He had drawn the line very fine indeed, perhaps too fine. But he knew his ship, and the Susquehanna answered smartly to her wheel, answered as if she understood what her master wanted. The bow began to swing faster. Jean chewed on the stick of a match and watched the narrowing space.

Thirty yards ... twenty-five ... twenty ... fifteen. The schooner was forging ahead now, but still swinging. She was ... she was going to clear. Suddenly added wind filled her sails and she gathered speed, slipping past the stern of the moored ship with less than ten feet to spare. Close off the port side were the off-lying rocks, but the Susquehanna slipped through and lifted her bows proudly to the seas. "All sail!" LaBarge shouted the command and then walked forward alone so they could not see his hands trembling. He had, in that moment, risked everything. If the wind had fallen the least bit, if the schooner had yawed ... but she had come through like a thoroughbred.

He turned, after a moment, and walked aft. They were not yet free. If Zinnovy knew they had started and had slipped out of the harbor he might sail north and round Japonski Island to cut them off. Only, it was dark, and while the night lasted there was still a chance.

"Barney." LaBarge stopped beside Kohl, who had turned the wheel over to Larsen.

"You told me you once took a boat through Neva Strait." Kohl was still sweating out the near collision. "But that was in broad daylight!" he protested.

Jean grinned at him. "Next time you see the crowd at the Merchant's Exchange," he told him, "you can tell them you're the only man alive who ever took a schooner through Neva Strait in the dark!"

Chapter 23

Helena, wrapped in a dark cloak, returned to the deck. She had stood by during part of the escape operation, and now she, listened to comments of the crew. This ship, she realized, was operated as though every man aboard had a real share in its success. Rolling along under a good head of sail with a following wind, the crew stood by, alert for whatever might come. "Neva Strait," Kohl was explaining patiently, "is four miles of pure hell in the daytime. The Whitestone Narrows are maybe forty yards wide, possibly less. In the daylight the dangers are marked by kelp, and some of the rocks are awash. At night you can't see anything."

LaBarge knew that Kohl's first instinct when danger threatened the ship was to hesitate, to object to the risk. His second instinct was to weigh their chances and if the situation warranted it, to go along with the risk. "And if we get through? What then?"

"Peril Strait around the end of the island, and once in the sound on the other side, we sail north."

"One thing I'll say," Kohl grumbled, "you've got guts."

"A good ship and a good crew," LaBarge added.

Together he and Helena walked to the waist, where a little spray was breaking over the gunwale, and it tasted salt on their lips. They were silent together, listening to the bow-wash about the hull, the whining of wind in the rigging, and the straining of the schooner against sea arid wind. These were sounds of the sea, the sounds a man remembers when he lies awake at night on shore, and hears in his blood, feels deep in the convolutions of his brain, the sounds that have taken men back to the sea for these thousands of years. The winds that whispered in the rigging had blown long over the icy steppes and the cold Arctic plains, and over empty, lonely, unknown seas that lay gray under gray clouds. Neither of them could avoid the realization that if all went well they would be together for months on end. Now, for the first time, they knew they were definitely committed to a long journey together. As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness they could watch the whitecaps on the dark, glasslike waves, and see the darker, unknown shores that rose abruptly from the water's edge. "You seemed very calm."

"I wasn't," Jean admitted, "I was scared."

"This story I must tell to my uncle. He will enjoy it." She changed the subject.

"The Neva Strait ... it is bad?"

"Did you ever walk down a dark hallway in a strange house, a hallway scattered at random with chairs? It will be like that."

"You leave it to the mate?"

"I'd better ... he's twice the sailor I am. Don't be fooled by that business back there: I was gambling that they wouldn't think I'd take such a risk. Also, I've a good ship and a good crew, and I knew they would be ready for anything that might happen. For day-to-day sailing Kohl is much better than I am." They were silent, watching the water. Helena knew that Zinnovy had gone so far now that withdrawal was impossible. Although the shooting of Rotcheff could not be proved, if she reached the Czar his position would be at least endangered and might be finished. It was always easier to explain a disappearance than to escape consequences of crime when confronted by a witness. Yet the longer Zinnovy pursued the schooner the better Rotcheff's chances of recovery without hindrance, and Rotcheff would be in touch with Busch. The merchant had as many fighting men as Zinnovy himself and would be no more reluctant to use them. Long after Helena went below, Jean remained on deck. He walked forward to where Boyar stood lookout in the bow. "You have crossed Siberia, Boyar? How long would it require?"

"Who can say? Three months? Or three years? It is a long trip, nearly six thousand of miles, and the roads are bad, the troikas miserable, the people indifferent or criminal."

Three months ... they could scarcely hope to make it faster even though she was a niece of the Czar. To secure an escort they must appeal to the very people they wished to avoid. The headquarters of the Russian American Company was in Siberia, and many of the officials were actually in the pay of the Company. The shores slipped by in darkness. It gave him an eerie feeling to be sliding into these narrow channels, uncharted and largely unknown. How many men might already have lost their lives here, unrecorded by history? Captain Cook had been here, and the Spanish before that, and the Russian ships. The first Russians who had come to these islands had vanished. There was a story in the Tlingit villages that a chief covered with a bearskin had enticed them into the woods and into an ambush. A second boat sent ashore to find the first vanished in the same way. Their ship had waited and waited, then finally sailed away. But Chinese and Japanese fishing boats had been carried to this coast, and some of their crews might have survived. What strange lives they must then have led, with no hope of return to their homes.

"Neva Point ahead, Captain."

"Go aft and report to Mr. Kohl. I'll stand watch." He tasted the smell of pines on the wind, heard the splash of something falling into water. Behind him the crew were moving about, taking in sail. The Point loomed suddenly on their left, well defined. On their right a breaking rock showed a ruffle of white foam where the angry lips of the sea bared its teeth against the shore.

Kohl came forward and spat across the rail. "Thank God, she's deep enough.

There's four fathoms in the Narrows, and it's deeper beyond." The Whitestone Narrows closed down on them like the jaws of a trap. It was cooler there, with the forest closer. They could hear the murmur of wind in the pines, but the schooner moved forward confidently. Ahead of them there was faint gray in the sky.

After what seemed a long time of creeping down the dark Narrows the schooner slid into the open water beyond. The Neva lay behind ... how long had it been? "Nearly two hours," Kohl said. "There aren't any fast passages of the Neva." Pope came on deck to take over the watch. He glanced at the graying sky, a thin, silent man who seemed ever discontented with things as they were. He swore bitterly when he realized they had passed the Neva in his sleep, and swore again when he learned he must take her through Peril Strait. Finally, more tired than he could have believed, Jean stumbled down the companionway and stood in the paneled cabin, watching the brass lamp sway to the ship's movement. Helena was at the table with a freshly brewed pot of tea. "Mr. Kohl took his to his bunk. Sit down. You looked exhausted." Gratefully, he accepted the tea. The warmth went through him slowly, taking the chill from his muscles, the damp from his bones. He was the first to speak and it was of something he had considered for a long time. "There's something you can do for me," he said. "You can do it if anyone can. I want to see the Czar."

She was startled. "The Czar! But why?"

"Maybe ... I don't know ... he might consider selling Alaska to the United States. If he should agree ... well, Rob Walker could do the rest." "I can promise nothing, but I can try."

She was silent, and he saw how white were her fingers that pressed the cup, and the shadows under her eyes, shadows he had not been able to see out on the deck under the clouds. "Jean, Jean," she whispered, "I wish I knew how he was." "He'll be all right."

Rotcheff had made a tough decision but he had made it without hesitation, knowing exactly what must be done. It was another reason for admiring the husband of the woman he loved ... and Rotcheff had a good chance. Familiar as he was with gunshot wounds, he knew that such a wound, low down on the left side, was more than likely only a severe flesh wound. With care and proper food he might make it.

"Where are we going, Jean? What is it we have to do?" "The quickest way would be through Salisbury Strait to the Pacific, but we might be cut off there, so we're going east up a passage called Peril Strait." "Is it dangerous?"

"There are tide rips in all these passages, and unexpected currents. Water piles up in these narrow guts, then comes roaring through, and most of the rocks are uncharted. By this time Zinnovy undoubtedly has other ships out from Sitka to cut us off."

Above them the brass lantern swayed and in his bunk behind the small door Kohl snored in an easy rhythm. Jean's head lowered to his arms for a moment of rest and at once he was asleep. The night had been long. Outside a small wave broke over the bow and the water ran along the deck rustling into the scuppers where it gurgled solemnly. Helena looked across the table at the black, wavy hair, glistening in the lantern's light, and put out her hand to touch it, then drew it quickly back, frightened by the impulse. After a moment she got to her feet and went into her little cubbyhole of a cabin and closed the door.

She stood then, her back to the door and her eyes closed, while the light from a crack moved slowly back and forth across her face. And then for a long time there was a silence made more silent by the sound of breathing and the lonely ship-sounds in the gray light of a breaking day at sea.

Chapter 24

For two days the Susquehanna crept along through a dense fog that reduced visibility to zero, a cold penetrating fog that wrapped the schooner in a depressing cloud. With Zinnovy somewhere behind there was no chance to heave-to and wait it out, so they continued to creep along, using what little wind there was. With luck they could get into Icy Strait and so to the Pacific. No sound reached them except that of breaking surf. Fog had come upon them in the vicinity of the Hoggat Reefs along Deadman Reach, and they had crept north to the point, rounded it and sailed southeastward toward Chatham. Every mile was a mile of danger for fog filled the Strait and tidal currents were strong. During a brief interval when fog cleared they rounded another point and started north, ice becoming more frequent. Then the fog closed in again, thicker and colder than before. Several times, unable to see the floes in tune, they were struck with brutal force.

Kohl, wrapped in sweaters and oilskins, joined Jean in the bow while the lookout went below for coffee. "We'd better heave-to, Cap'n. Not even the Russkies will try moving in this fog."

"If it gets colder we'll start icing up," LaBarge said. "Damn it, man, if we get caught in these narrow channels we're through!" Kohl agreed gloomily. "If we could only get a couple of hours of sunshine and good wind."

"How far do you think we've come since turning into the Strait?" "Your guess is as good as mine. We've been moving, but with the current against us part of the time, and there hasn't been a rock or a point to take a sight from."

"Do you know these waters?"

"No ... but Icy Strait can't be far."

Men came and went like wraiths in the gray, dinging fog. Ghostly trailers of fog lay in the rigging and the great sails dripped water to the deck. Nowhere was there anything by which to gauge their progress, and much of the time they could not see beyond the bowsprit.

Yet they could not heave-to. Even now ships might be awaiting them off every passage to the sea, but if they could get through Icy Strait and Cross Sound the opening was wide enough for them to slip by ... if they did not go past it in the fog and end up in one of the deadend, ice-breeding inlets north of the Strait.

Jean held up a hand. "I thought I heard something, Barney. Listen ..." At first there was only the ship sounds, the strain of rigging, the creaking of ship's timbers, a faint stir of unseen movement, and then they heard it dead ahead. The beat of surf against a rocky shore.

Unmoving, they listened for a clearer sound. Not far off was a shore upon which waves were breaking. "I wish I dared fire a shot." Jean was worried. "The echo might help us."

"Not in this fog. Besides, I think Point Augusta is a low shore." Miraculously, the fog thinned and they glimpsed momentarily a low shore on which a light sea was breaking, a sea that hustled and whispered among the black rocks. Jean studied it, trying to remember what little information he had about the area. He seemed to recall that the point they must turn into Icy Strait was more abrupt, yet there was clear water ahead of them and as far as they could see on the starb'rd side. "All right," he said, "let's try it." When he went below Helena was reading. She looked up quickly, and seeing his expression, said, "You're worried."

"Yes ... we changed course and I'm not sure we should have." "If we could only get some news!" She closed her book. "I've done all I can to keep from worrying, but I can't help it. Jean, I never should have left Alexander."

"You would have both been trapped. He was right to make you go, Helena." He accepted a cup of tea. It was scalding hot and very strong. He had never appreciated tea until he started coming into northern waters, but there they all drank it.

Kohl stepped down the ladder. "Cap'n? It was a wrong turn. There's land off the starb'rd beam."

"Close?"

"It isn't the strait."

He went on deck and stood there, his fists balled in his pockets. "It's narrow," he said, "it would be a risk to attempt a turn with the tide running." "It wouldn't be worth it."

Any decision was better than none. "Drop the hook and we'll wait it out. When the fog lifts we'll get the hell out of here."

"I've seen these fogs last two weeks."

"All right. Get a boat into the water and we'll explore a little. See? There's about four feet of clearance between the water and the fog." They were taking a chance, he realized that. With the onset of darkness finding the ship again might be difficult. Still, there was no place it could go, and they had only to come back up the strait to find it. Strait? More likely an inlet. They shoved off and let the longboat drift along close to the shore. Nearly a half hour had passed when Boyar, who was in the bow, lifted a warning hand. At the signal all rested on their oars, and then they all heard it. Somewhere not far off a man was whistling. Then something dropped on a deck and a man swore in Russian.

The boat still drifted, and then, plain to all of them, from beneath the fog they saw the gray hull of the patrol ship. She lay fair across the mouth of the inlet, blocking any escape.

A voice spoke in Russian. "I saw slops from a ship in the opening of the inlet. We've only to wait until the fog lifts and then go in after them. This is Tenakee Inlet and there is no other way out, I know the place well." At a signal from Jean the oars dipped gently and turning the boat they started back the way they had come. His own ship was up the inlet and out of hearing of the Russian.

Tenakee Inlet ... there was something he should remember about Tenakee. He scowled into the fog ... it had been a half-breed who had come down the coast with old Joshua Flintwood, the Bedford whaler. Once on the schooner's deck he wasted no time. "We'll go to the head of the inlet. There may be a way out." "If there is," Kohl said skeptically, "we'd best find it. Once the fog lifts the Lena is coming in, which leaves us like a duck in a shooting gallery." "We've got that long." Duncan Pope spat over the rail. "He'd be a fool to come in here before the fog lifts."

All the long day through they crept up the inlet through fog like gray cotton, holding as close to shore as feasible, taking soundings as they proceeded. Twice they passed small openings but each proved to be a bay, and it was not until almost dusk that the fog thinned close to shore and they glimpsed the head of the inlet, fronting a mud flat. Wanting time, Jean had the hook dropped and the schooner swung to anchor.

"Any chance of slipping by?" Kohl wondered.

"No ... not with his guns. He's just inside the opening of the inlet where he can cover the passage."

At the shore the fog was thinner. It drifted in ghostly wraiths among the dark sentinel pines. A break in the line of trees caught Jean's eye, and he had a sudden hunch. "Drop the boat over, Barney. Then pick four men and we'll go ashore."

Leaving the boat on the gravel beach, Jean LaBarge led the way toward the break in the trees. To the right and left the forest was a solid wall of virgin timber, dripping with damp from the fog, but before them the opening gaped wide and they stumbled into a narrow path that led into it. It was very still. There was no movement of wind or animal. Only water dripping from the trees and the gray mystery of the fog. There had been a wider track here at one time, and only a few large trees in the opening, although some of the bordering pines were magnificent trees. When they had walked about fifty yards they found themselves looking out over another arm of the sea. Jean walked down to the edge and tasted the water. It was salt. It was an arm of the sea of some size and it ran in a northwesterly direction. Boyar shifted his rifle to his other arm, and got out his chewing tobacco. "That there," he said, "must open into Icy Strait."

The water was obviously quite deep only a few feet out from shore. He had an idea and it scared him. If a man could catch a spring tide ... or even without it. But it was a fool idea.

He seated himself on a rock and stoked his pipe. The shore was flat and this was an old Indian portage where they had carried their canoes and bidarkas from one inlet to the other for many years. The water was deep off both sides, and at no place was the level of the portage more than six feet above the water level. There were indications that the sea had once been higher. No doubt the level of the water had fallen with years, but at present the distance was a bare sixty yards from inlet to inlet. Yet a schooner was not a canoe that one could pick up and carry across a neck of land.

Getting to his feet he strolled slowly back toward the Susquehanna, studying the ground ivith care. The big question was the fog. How long would it hold? How long would Zinnovy be content to wait him out? A slight change in the wind, or even a rise in wind strength, and the fog would be blown out to sea, leaving them naked and exposed. They had but one gun, although of very good range, and the patrol ship had ten guns and Zinnovy was a naval officer accustomed to handling ships under fire. If it came to a fight they would have absolutely no chance; the superior maneuverability of the schooner was useless in the narrow inlet.

The portage was wide enough, and they would have to fell some trees, anyway. Did he dare take the gamble? The Vikings used to take their ships over narrow necks of land, and there had been a pirate in the West Indies who had ... Closer to home, Jean had himself seen the Missouri River steamboats "grasshoppered" over sand bars, an occurrence common to nearly every trip upriver. "All right, Barney," he said finally, "break out that heavy tackle. Get twelve men ashore with axes and make it fast. We're going to take the Susquehanna over the portage!"

Chapter 25

The forest rang with the sound of axes and the torchlight cast weird, dancing shadows upon the backdrop of fog and forest. The first of the skids was in place and the two most expert axmen in the crew were beveling the edges, trimming them as smooth as if planed. The anchor trees had been selected and the brush cleared. The skids were run down into the water and as it was nearly high tide the bow of the schooner was being eased up to the skids. Six men with poles on either side of the bow were helping to guide her into the troughlike opening of the skid. The smoothed-off sides of the skids were heavily coated with grease and a wire rope ran to the big tree well inland through two huge blocks with snatch blocks attached to trees along the portage to exert greater pull. The bow eased into the skid opening and the men dropped their poles and scrambled up the bow chains to the deck to join the others at the capstan. Setting their capstan bars in place they began to walk around and take up the slack. Twelve men leaned their strength into the bars and two more slapped grease on the skids. Slowly, the schooner began to inch up the skids. "I've been thinking," Pope said suddenly, "--that other inlet over there. I think that's the same inlet where Hoonah village is. The directions line up right, and Hoonah is Chief Katlecht's village. He hates Russians." LaBarge thought a minute. He knew of Katlecht; he was, in fact, one of the chiefs to whom he had sent presents, and from whose village had come some of the best furs he had been buying in the past years. "I had an idea," Pope added, "one of us might go to see him. We could use thirty or forty of those husky lads of his right now." "Do you know him?"

"I should hope to smile." Pope chuckled. "Spent a couple of months in the village, even had me a Kolush wife. Maybe I should have stayed." "Take Boyar and get on over there. Get what information you can, and if you can get some help, bring them on the jump."

The schooner was moving slowly, but it was moving. The rigging of the snatch block had increased the strength of the pull by several times and the schooner was inching up on the skids. The remainder of the crew were trimming felled trees for skids to be used further along.

Jean walked along the line of travel with a rifle under his arm, but from time to time he took an ax and spelled one of the crewmen. Kohl was himself taking a place at the capstan ... day would soon be breaking. Would the fog lift? With the schooner high and dry they would have no choice but to abandon it and take to the woods, and that would mean destruction of the schooner and their chance of escape as well.

Not far from the schooner was a promontory covered with forest and easily ascended from the shore side. Taking several men from the crew, Jean had their one gun lowered over the side and hauled to a position among the trees on that promontory. From its position it commanded the approach to the head of the inlet. A few shells might stand off the patrol ship for a short time at least. By daybreak the schooner was completely clear of the water, holding its position with guy wires running to trees on either side of the portage. The hauling tackle was shifted then to a new set of trees and the men resumed their position at the capstan bars. Gant struck up a chantey and slowly and steadily they plodded around the capstan, and inch by slow inch the schooner began to move once more.

At midmorning there was a sudden shout from the woods, followed by a cheer from the crew. Led by Duncan Pope and Boyar a swarm of husky Tlingit Indians hustled toward the schooner. In the van was Katlecht himself, grinning broadly. He thrust out his hand as he had seen white men do, and with the fingers of the other plucked at the red flannel shirt LaBarge had sent him from San Francisco a year before. He also carried a bowie knife Jean had sent and displayed it proudly.

The exhausted sailors resigned their places at the capstan to the Tlingits, and twenty powerful Indians took over. Others hauled and pushed at the hull while still others cleared brush ahead of the moving schooner. And the fog held, gray, drifting streamers of it lurking among the trees like lost ghosts. The air was damp and cold.

Helena had joined the cook in making tea and serving Tlingit and seaman alike, working from a fire beside the portage. By noon, with the fog showing no change, the schooner had advanced its full length out of the water. Sweating and tired, Jean accepted a cup gratefully. Holding it in both hands he warmed his numbed fingers, his breath forming a little fog of its own. "You're all woman, Helena," he said. "I never thought I'd see a princess serving tea to my crew."

"Why should a princess not care for her"--she had started to say "man" but caught herself in time--"men as well as any other woman?" She walked around the fire to him. "Jean, can we do it? How does it look now?"

"If the fog breaks we're in trouble. Otherwise ... well, we're making progress.

I think we can do it or I'd not have tried."

"Was there another choice?"

"No."

The schooner moved at a steadier pace. The Indians had brought grease from their camp, barrels of it that came in their bidarkas, and they were slapping it liberally on the skids. The Susquehanna, unnaturally tall now that she was out of her natural element, towered above them. Once a small gust of wind came through the pines and the fire guttered, and all waited, holding their breath, but the wind disappeared and the fog held.

Jean returned to the capstan and took his place, plodding steadily for an hour. When Kohl relieved him, he returned to superintending the shifting of the tackle and the guy wires. Also, with apprehension for what might happen, he had two tall poles cut to make a shears in the event they needed to grasshopper the schooner. He had never seen it attempted with a craft of this size but as a boy he had seen the heavy river schooners grasshoppered over sand bars on more than one occasion, and knew that at last resort this would be the method to use. Yet once the schooner reached the far side of the portage they must skid it into the water. Mentally he calculated the times of the tides. They worked within narrow limits of time and their only hope lay in the fog. If the fog held they could do it, but if it did not...

Small men trooped to the fires for tea and warmth. Twice Jean had rum broken out and laced their coffee when the switch was made to that beverage. During the late afternoon Katlecht sat by the fire sipping his coffee and rum when he suddenly looked up at LaBarge who had stumbled wearily to the fire. "Fog go," Katlecht said. "Fog go soon."

Jean glanced at Kohl, and their faces were grim. Indians were excellent judges of weather; if Katlecht was right their time was short. He sent a messenger to the men at the gun to stand by for trouble, then had guns brought from the ship's armory and passed around to the men to be kept close to hand in the event of attack.

Despite their weariness the men returned to their labors with a rush. The water ahead of them meant escape and freedom; to be caught here meant death or worse, a Siberian prison camp. The Tlingits, filled with their age-old hatred of Russians, fell to with a will and to the tune of chanteys they shoved and pushed on the capstan bars. It was slow, painstaking, backbreaking labor, but the schooner moved and the water lay ahead of them, only a short distance away now. But the fog was thinning...

Jean glanced up and saw a star ... then other stars. "Pope," he said, "take the gunner, Gant and Turk, and go out and relieve the men at the gun. Don't take any unnecessary risks, but do what damage you can." He hesitated. "Wait until she's close, Pope, and for God's sake, hurt her."

Within the hour the fog was gone and darkness had come. Once more torches were lighted and the heavy blocks were shifted again, new anchor trees had been chosen and marked out. The shifting of the gear took less time now that the movements had become familiar. Once again the capstan was manned. The schooner was moving.

Taking his rifle, LaBarge started back toward the Tenakee side, Helena walking beside him. Bundled in furs against the penetrating chill of the night, she walked easily beside him, showing little of the exhaustion she must feel. "Can we get into the water before daylight?"

"If the men hold out. They're weary now; how they keep going I can't guess, and Indians never work like this, anyway."

The skids had been torn up and taken to the opposite side to use again, and there was little evidence of what had been done except the cut brush and the trampled earth. Standing together they looked out upon the dark and silent water. There was no sound but the soft rustle of the water on the shore, and above them the vast sky, studded with stars. The sounds of working men, the creak of tackle, the groaning of the schooner's timbers and occasional cries of the men seemed farther away than they actually were. A coolness came off the water. Somewhere out on the inlet a fish splashed. "Even if we make it here," Jean said, "we've far to go."

"I'll be in my own country, and I'll be safe."

"Siberia is not Russia," Jean replied bluntly. "You know that as well as I do. It's full of thieves and renegades with a corrupt administration to whom it won't matter at all that you're a niece of the Czar ... if they believe you they'll be afraid of what you might report."

"There's still no reason for you to come."

"I'm coming, so don't bother your head about it." They stood hand in hand watching the stars above the dark rim of the pines. There had been too few moments like this, and life without them was nothing. Their love was like no other love, for they could not speak of it, and each was on guard against desire. A word, a touch, it would take so little. Nearing the lighted area, LaBarge suddenly quickened his step. "Something's wrong," he said.

The men stood about, muscles heavy with weariness, their faces showing their despair.

Kohl came toward them. "Captain," he said, "we're in trouble. Fifteen feet short of the downhill side and she won't budge an inch. We just don't have the power to take her over the hump. We're stuck!"

He led the way up through the cut-down brush and trampled ground to where the hulk loomed black against the night, the towering masts like leafless trees, stark and strong against the sky.

It was what Jean had feared. The power of the capstan and the arrangement of the blocks had enabled the men by their slow, steady push to move the schooner, inch by inch, out of the water and along the skids, heavily greased to aid them. The huge blocks and careful rigging had more than quadrupled the power they could exert; but now, near the highest point above the water, their combined strength was not enough to move the schooner farther.

"We can't budge her," Kohl said. "We broke a couple of capstan bars trying." Glancing at the stars he could see they still had several hours of darkness remaining, but the men were exhausted. He believed he knew what to do, but he would need rested men to do the work that lay ahead. Despite the fact that the fog was gone, that the coming of the patrol ship was imminent, there was but one thing to do. "Barney," he said, after a moment, "have everybody turn in and get some rest. I'll stand by the gun myself. I'll want two men to stand watch here at the ship; the rest to sleep until four a.m." "Lord knows they need the rest," Kohl said, "but what about the Susquehanna? The Lena will be along at daybreak."

"If she heaves her hook at daybreak it will take her all of three hours to get this far. I'll be standing by the gun. If you hear a shot, turn the men to and rig those shears as I told you. And send four men to me." Kohl put his cap back on his head and started to turn away, then stopped. "Cap'n," he said slowly, "I figured I was a better man than you, that I should be master of this ship, but believe me, I've learned better. You've pulled off things this trip that I'd never have tackled."

"Thanks, Barney."

LaBarge turned to Helena. "You'd better get some sleep. You'll need the rest."

"I'm coming with you."

"But, look--"

"I'm coming with you."

Together, they walked to the promontory where the gun had been placed, pointing its dark muzzle down the channel. The men arose as they approached. "Nothing yet, Cap'n."

"Turn in ... you'll be turning to again at four a.m." When they had gone he made a place for Helena between the trails of the gun, folding some blankets and placing them over a pile of evergreen boughs. When she was settled he lit his pipe and settled himself for the long hours of waiting. He was tired, but he forced himself to remain awake. Somewhere out in the forest a pine cone fell, and upon the water a fish jumped, while far over the trees a night bird called. The rest was silence and the darkness.

The earth was soft beneath him with a deep carpet of pine needles and damp from the fog. A vagrant wind stirred in the pines and he could hear the far-off rushing of wind, a strange, lonely, wonderful sound that is a part of every evergreen forest. He listened, liking it, and listened to the water along the rocks below. These were old sounds, familiar sounds. "It's a grand country," he said.

"I love it. I shall always love it."

"I've always lived close to the forest," he said. "I'm at home there. I like the wild lands."

Far-off in the forest a wind began. It had started somewhere in the pines along the rim of the world and it came down, awakening new ranks of trees to stirring life, moving the pine needles, brushing the arms of the spruce. It came down across Alaska and moved through the forests and then scattered itself among the coastal islands. It was a long, long wind and it was cold. The wind rustled the pines above Tenakee Inlet and talked among the trees over the manless beds of Hoonah village, then felt its way along the bare flanks of the Susquehanna, so unnaturally naked without the shielding water. Jean listened to the wind. "You'd better sleep," he told Helena, "we're going to have snow."

Chapter 26

Jean came sharply awake, aware instantly that something had happened. Snow was falling gently and steadily through the pines, but it was not this that had disturbed him. Silently, so as not to awaken Helena, he got to his feet and rubbed his legs to restore the circulation.

When he could move quietly, he walked away from the gun and stood in a small opening in the forest, listening. There had been many such times when he waited in complete stillness, ears keyed to the slightest sound ... and now he heard it.

It came from, far off, but it was a noise not of the forest. The forest's sounds he had known since boyhood, and this was no murmur among the trees, this was the steady advance of a large number of men.

On still cold nights sound travels amazingly, and the men were several miles away. They were not Indians, for even a large body of Indians would not have been heard; these men were unaccustomed to travel at night in the forest. LaBarge quickly realized what the movement implied: Zinnovy was sure of taking the Susquehanna; men had been put ashore to prevent the escape of himself or his crew. Undoubtedly the Lena was now moving upstream and had landed these men to take up posts on shore. The attack was to be both by sea and by land, and there were to be no survivors.

It was the one thing he had not anticipated, for which he had no plan, and he must move swiftly. An attack now, on the ground, could immobilize the Susquehanna and prevent further movement. From the trees his men could be picked off at will as they worked.

He went quickly to the gun and, stooping, touched Helena's shoulder. She opened her eyes at once, completely aware. He explained quickly. "We must go back now, and we must hurry!"

She was on her feet, straightening her clothing. "You go. I'll stay. The Lena may come in sight while you are gone and I could fire the cannon. It might stop her."

"You? Fire a cannon?"

She laughed at him. "You forget, Jean. I am a daughter of the Romanoffs, and Honorary Colonel of a regiment of artillery. Several times I have fired salutes with cannon. Is it loaded?"

"Yes."

"Then all I must do is get on the target and pull the lanyard."

He hesitated. "All right, but when the men arrive, you come back. Do you hear?"

She came to attention and saluted. "Yes, Commander! I return at once!" Jean LaBarge plunged through the brush toward the now-dying fire. Quickly, he shook Kohl awake. The alerted guards awakened the crew and the Indians. "They'll make a reconnaissance first. When they get close they'll hear the sounds of our work party and send men in to find out what is happening. My guess is that Zinnovy stayed aboard, in which case before they launch an attack they'll communicate with him."

Even with the Indians they would be outnumbered. If the patrol ship reached the head of the inlet before the Susquehanna could be launched it could blow the schooner to fragments. Nor did they have men enough to protect the gun from shore attack, although the gun was their only hope to slow the approach of the Lena.

How many men had been landed they could not guess, but it was likely that the number exceeded their own.

"We've one chance and one only," LaBarge told them after a moment. "We've got to get the schooner into the water and get the hell out of here. Kohl, take twelve men and get those poles sunk into the ground, make a shears of them, and get the rigging in place. If we can grasshopper her over the hump the rest will be easy."

LaBarge had previously explained the process to Kohl, who had never seen it done. Two long poles, as long as the masts of the ship and heavier, were hastily dragged from their resting places and holes were sunk just ahead of the schooner's bow and almost at the crest of the slight rise. The tackle was rigged and the men manned the capstan. Jean took six of the Tlingit warriors to the gun's position, and Katlecht took another twelve into the forest to intercept the landing party.

Leaving two men with the gun, Jean took the other four and moved up through the forest to aid Katlecht. The gun crew had already relieved Helena and she had returned to stand by the Susquehanna.

For a moment there was silence. At the crest of a small rise in the forest, a position that enabled them to look down various lanes between the trees, LaBarge and his Tlingits silently waited the approaching party. Only yards away was Katlecht with his group, scattering across the front and down the flank of the Russians. From behind him LaBarge could hear the hammer blows of the working men.

Suddenly men began to emerge from the trees into view. The first were promyshleniki, at least a dozen. Skilled woodsmen these, and dangerous fighting men. Quickly, Jean passed the word along to the Tlingits to select these targets first. In the forest they would be dangerous antagonists. The promyshleniki were an advance party and now they waited the approach of the men from the Lena's crew. Then, quite suddenly there was a dull boom of a cannon, their own gun. The Tlingits took the signal as one to fire, and squeezed off as one man. His own shot was only an instant behind theirs. Four of the promyshleniki dropped and one seaman, but Katlecht's men were firing, too. The Russians dissolved into the woods but not before LaBarge wounded another man with a shot from his turret rifle. Instantly the Russians began a hot and determined return fire.

The Tlingits were eager to attack, but Jean ordered them to fall back on the gun's position. As they started to retreat, the cannon boomed again and then there was the tremendous crash of a broadside from the Lena. The shells were high, and whistled through the forest, cutting off limbs and sending down a shower of leaves.

A Tlingit near Jean, a man with a scarred face and a lean, hard body, was doing yeoman work with his rifle. As Jean watched he saw the Indian fire at what seemed to be a wall of brush and a promyshleniki fell face forward from the trees, hit the ground. He started to rise, but the scarred Tlingit nailed him to the earth with a shot through the top of the skull. Then for a time there was silence. The Tlingits needed no advice when it came to woods fighting, and his own Indians scattered out and took good positions where they could cover every approach to the gun. Jean slipped back to lower ground and ran, crouching as he moved, to the gun position. Lying flat he looked over the crest of a knoll to see the Lena, at least four hundred yards off, swung broadside across the inlet. From her position the portage was not visible; the disappearance of the schooner must have come as a tremendous surprise. One shell from his own cannon had struck her foretop and dropped a spar to the deck. Even as he sighted the patrol ship another shell struck it and sheered away a piece of the bulwark, scattering fragments in every direction. There was a scream of anguish from the ship's deck. The landing party were, by the sound of the small-arms fire, falling back under the carefully aimed shooting of the Tlingits, who were skilled woodsmen to a man. Of the ten or twelve promyshleniki in the landing party at least five were out of action, and it had become obvious to the others that they were marked targets. To men who fought purely for money this was not an especially happy thought.

The Lena was shelling the woods now, but most of the fire was directed at the shore position of the gun with a view toward knocking it out of action. The gun's position, well behind the hummock with only her muzzle lifted over the top, was excellent.

Returning to the schooner Jean scrambled up the rope ladder that hung from her amidships bulwark and threw his weight behind a capstan bar. Slowly, under the pull of the huge blocks, the schooner's bow began to lift just as the bows of the river boats had lifted on the Missouri. As it lifted it moved forward, drawn toward the shears. Inch by inch, foot by foot it crept forward, then was dropped to the skid.

Holes had been dug for a new position and swiftly the big poles were transferred, and the men went to work to rig the grasshoppering at the new position. Glancing back down the portage, Jean knew their time was short. Sweat stood out on his brow despite the coolness of the day. If the Lena moved up to the head of the inlet she would have the Susquehanna at point-blank range and entirely without protection.

"Grease your skids, Barney. This hop should put it over the hump." Moving swiftly, LaBarge gathered his crew and sent them to the schooner. He found Katlecht lying in the brush, his rifle tucked against his cheek. "You come with us? We must go now."

Katlecht shook his head. "We go mountains. All move now so they find nobody." Jean gathered those of the crew who were not busy on deck and they moved down the portage ready to repel any attempted landing at that point. Under cover of brush near the end of the portage they watched the patrol ship and waited. Behind them they could hear the creak of the blocks and the complaining of the heavy lines as they took the strain.

The Lena, now that no more shells had been fired, was heading toward the head of the inlet. A man in uniform moved near the.rail and Jean laid his rifle over a fallen log and took careful aim. He drew a long breath, then let it out easily, his finger tightening on the trigger. The rifle sprang in his hands, and the report laid a lash of sound across the suddenly silent morning. The man on the deck jerked, grabbed the rigging to hold himself erect, then slowly slid from sight.

Immediately, all the crew opened fire on the Lena. The man at the wheel, caught in the fire of several rifles, was knocked back and then he fell forward to the deck, the wheel spinning. Another man sprang to the wheel but the Lena yawed sharply just as she let go a broadside and the shells were wasted in empty forest.

Behind them there was a hail from Kohl, and Jean sprang to his feet. "On the double!" he yelled. "Move it!"

One man only lay still, and LaBarge ducked to his side. It was Larsen; the big Swede's shirt under his jacket was soaked with blood. He looked up at Jean. "It was a good fight."

Jean looked down into the usually florid features of the Swede. "You made every voyage with me, Lars. I'm taking you along on this one." "You run ... they soon come."

LaBarge looked up, hastily taking in the situation. He could hear the boatfalls on the Lena, which meant a landing party and immediate attack. He bent to lift the Swede and saw that he was dead.

An instant he stared at the dead sailor, and then at a shout from the schooner he was up and running. As he came abreast, the men working at the shears, lowering away, allowed the ropes to slip and the shears fell, the V astride of the skids. Even as it happened, the schooner groaned and creaked as she started to slide down the ways.

The men sprang away, frightened. An instant and all hung in the balance. If the schooner struck the shears it would be thrown on its side or the runway torn and the ship would slide off into the ground.

LaBarge glimpsed it all as he ran. Dropping his rifle he grabbed an ax from the nearest man and with a leap sprang astride the skid. Swinging the ax with all his great strength he struck the wire rope that bound the two poles of the shears together. As the ax struck he heard a shout of warning. The runway creaked as it took the schooner's weight, now only a few feet away and gaining momentum. He swung the ax again and again. Somewhere abaft the ship he heard shooting. The bow loomed above him. The ax fell for the last time and the wires parted. He fell rather than sprang aside and dropping the ax, stumbled to pick up his fallen rifle.

The last of the crew was running beside the dangling rope ladder. Scattered in a skirmish line, running toward them, were Zinnovy and his landing party. From the schooner's deck a sporadic fire began. The schooner eased forward, moving at a speed just faster than a walk. The log of the shears was pushed easily aside and fell off the skid to the ground. Jean took a shot at the advancing men, and sprang for the rope ladder. He caught it and started to climb, pausing halfway to lay his rifle across his forearm and fire. He gripped the ladder with his left hand more tightly, leveled the rifle again, felt a smashing blow in his side, then fired.

He felt suddenly weak. He grabbed a rung higher and pulled himself up. Hands that seemed desperately far away reached for him. Now the schooner was moving fast. He gathered his strength and pulled himself a rung higher. Somebody caught at his rifle, to which he had clung, held insecurely in front of his body. The hands grabbed at him, caught his sleeve and pulled. Above him the sun was shining, and then it faded out and he heard rifle fire mingled with a sound as of rushing water. He felt himself lowered to the deck, and then he remembered nothing at all for a long time.

Chapter 27

Under a gray sky the gray water was ruffled by a wind raw with cold. The bare masts of the schooner and the bare roofs of the houses along a bare shore offered no comfort from the wind. On deck Jean LaBarge, still pale from blood lost by his wound, stood waiting for the gear to be lowered into the longboat. "Take the furs to Canton," he advised Kohl. "You don't have a full cargo, but the furs are good and you should make a nice profit. Then return to San Francisco and report to Hutchins. You're in command." "And you?"

"I'll make my plans as there's need for them. When I've escorted Princess de Gagarin to St. Petersburg there will be time to plan. I may return by this route, and may go across the Atlantic to the east coast." Kohl did not like it, and said so. "Begging the lady's pardon, Cap'n, you can't trust them. These are a suspicious people, and Baron Zinnovy has friends ashore here. If he doesn't come after you himself he'll send a ship with orders for your arrest."

"I can take care of that eventuality," Helena said. "I believe we can also cope with Baron Zinnovy."

"I hope so." Kohl was gloomy. "You'd better take Boyar, Cap'n. He'd like to visit Poland, and he knows much of this country." LaBarge glanced at Boyar. "Do you want to come?"

"If I can ... yes."

"Get your gear on deck, and made it quick."

Snow lay in splotches on the gray slopes back of the town, and on the shaded sides of the buildings just back from the waterfront. Duncan Pope, suddenly gracious, helped Helena into the boat. His sour face anguished, he struggled to find words. "I .... I never knew a princess before," he finally managed to say, "and ... and you act like a princess."

She gave him a dazzling smile. "Thank you, Mr. Pope! Thank you very much!" All the crew had gathered to say goodbye. One by one they bobbed their heads at her. Only Ben Turk was more formal, muttering something indistinguishable as he stepped back.

"Take care of the boys, Barney," LaBarge told Kohl, "and of the Susquehanna. And there's a letter on my desk for Robert Walker. Mail it, will you?" The water was choppy but the men at the oars pulled strongly and the longboat headed for shore. Gant, who was in charge of the boat, glanced at Boyar. "Be careful, man. Remember you're a Pole."

"I'd do better here," Boyar said dryly, "to forget it." Jean LaBarge looked back at the Susquehanna, experiencing once more the thrill he had felt when he first saw her lying on the waters of Frisco bay. The shore offered nothing, just a gray slate shore with its patches of snow, and the weather-beaten buildings. This was Okhotsk, on the coast of Siberia, and the end of the world. Before them lay a journey of more than five thousand miles to St. Petersburg, and much of that distance was fraught with danger. The boat grated on the gravel of the beach and a sailor jumped in and drew the boat higher. Jean sprang down to the gray sand and helped Helena from the boat. He turned to the crew and shook hands all around. "Take her back, boys, and take care of the schooner for me."

Several people, bundled in shapeless clothing, had paused to watch the arrivals but they did not offer to approach. When the boat shoved off and left the three standing on the beach the observers walked away, apparently no longer interested. Taking Helena's arm, Jean started up the shelving beach toward the muddy street lined with its haggard buildings of logs or unpainted lumber, all equally dismal and unattractive. There was no evidence of warmth or welcome. Helena had papers she often used when traveling incognito, which identified her as Helena Mirov, governess, of St. Petersburg. She had her own papers, but as she explained to Jean, "Nobody would believe a niece of the Czar could travel without entourage or luggage. They would certainly hold us for investigation, and that could take months and might lead to no end of trouble. And it would certainly alert all of Baron Zinnovy's allies here." "Then you must use the other papers."

"Jean"--Helena looked up at him--"there is another thing. It would be better, I think, if it was believed I was your wife--recently married, to account for the names on the papers. There would be fewer questions." "I agree with Madame," Boyar said. "And unless Madame intends to ask for an armed escort, I would suggest the sooner we start the better for us." A square-built man in a heavy gray coat stopped across the street some distance away and watched them. Boyar glanced at him nervously, then picked up their bags and started hastily up the street. The man watched them without apparent change until they entered the office of the post.

Boyar paused in the door and watched the man cross the street and enter police headquarters. Boyar looked around the bare, uncomfortable room in which they stood. There was no one behind the counter and no one in sight. "Wait here," he said, and slipped out of the door and down the street. The moments ticked slowly by. The fire in the potbellied stove gave off little heat. They looked at each other, saying nothing. For once, Jean felt out of his element. There was so much he did not understand. Shivering in the still cold of the post station, they waited for someone to come. A half hour passed before Boyar suddenly opened the door and motioned to them. "Come quickly!" he called. "We leave at once!"

Boyar caught up their bags and started out the door. He went down the street a few steps, then turned into a dismal alley to a low-roofed barn where a man was hitching three horses to an odd-looking vehicle. "These are volni," Boyar explained, low-voiced. "They are 'free horses,' unattached to the post system. The driver is a peasant farmer willing to make some extra money."

The vehicle was a tarantas, a heavy, boat-shaped carriage mounted on four wheels with a heavy hood that could be closed in bad weather. The body of the carriage was mounted on two poles which connected the front and rear axles and served as rude springs to break the jolts on the always rough roads. The usual procedure was for the traveler to stow his luggage in the bottom, cover it with straw, and then to cover the straw with blankets and robes. On this he reclined, leaning against pillows. The driver sat on the front end of the carriage and drove the three horses hitched side by side with four reins. Hastily, they stowed their luggage, and Boyar brought from the house some blankets and an odorous bearskin rug. Climbing in, they spread these out and then Boyar got to a seat beside the driver and the latter gathered the reins and shouted, "Nu rodniya!"

Eager to be off, the horses started with a rush. As they turned down the street the police official they had earlier seen glanced their way in an uninterested manner. He stepped to the door of the post station and entered. Instantly he was out on the street, shouting after the tarantas. Boyar noticed but the driver did not, and Boyar lifted a finger to his lips. With the jangling harness, bumping of wheels over the rutted road and the ringing of bells over the horses' backs, the driver heard nothing. Once on the road the man whipped up his horses. Their hoofs pounded smartly on the half-frozen road as they dashed off into the emptiness before them. Yet this emptiness would not remain with them for many miles. Beyond that lay the taiga, the world's greatest stand of virgin timber, a wild, lonely region of forest and swamp, inhabited by peasants and exiles, escaped convicts and outlaws. This road was the famous tracht, leading from Siberia to Perm, at the edge of Russia proper. Travel by post road was easy, although subject to interference and questioning by the police. All that was needed for travel on the post road was the priceless padarozhnaya--the order for horses. The same carriage might be kept all the way through and only the horses changed. However, travel by volni was often best, for the farmers' horses were better fed and the travel faster. It was cold. Not a piercing cold but the chill of late spring. The country over which they drove was a vast marshy plain scattered with clumps of alder and willow, stunted growths more like brush than trees. Helena moved closer to him and they leaned back against a duffel bag Jean had placed as a back rest, reclining rather than sitting.

Boyar turned his head to tell them they were headed, not for the post station, but for a farm where the driver knew free horses were also available. In this way, with luck, they might travel the entire distance without approaching a post station.

The curtains of the carriage were open and they could watch the country as it slipped behind them. Occasionally a cold blast of wind whipped the curtains and Helena snuggled deeper into the blankets and closer to Jean. From time to time they dozed, talked, watched the miles go by.

The farm at which they finally arrived had a high wooden gate, behind which were several log buildings, much less impressive than the gate that led to them. As they drove up two huge dogs ran out, barking wildly. The gate swung back and a man emerged, accompanied by a boy.

They were served a meal, hastily prepared, coarse black bread, pickled mushrooms, boiled salmon, wild strawberries and tea. "He eats too well, this one." Boyar spoke in an undertone to Jean. "We must be careful."

Their host was a stocky, powerful man with a heavy beard. His smile was wide but the look in his eyes was hard and calculating. Those eyes took in their warm clothing, the bags in the vehicle, and several times his eyes returned to Helena, lively with curiosity. He spoke to Boyar in Russian, and Boyar commented, "He suggests we stay the night ... I think it would be unwise." "Thank him," Jean said, "and tell him we have no time." When they rose from the table to return to their carriage, their host was talking to a stranger who must have come up after their arrival. He also said something to their driver. This was a new driver, a boy scarcely sixteen, with a sallow, vicious face and shifty eyes. His hair was uncut and his clothing was grimy and evil-smelling. Once, after the carriage was moving, he turned and glanced back at them with such an expression of malignancy that Helena shuddered. "I don't like it, Jean," she whispered. "I am afraid!" Before them the narrow dirt road dipped into a forest of scattered pines that grew thicker and thicker as they rolled and rocked over the rutted road. The lowering clouds grew darker and a wind blew through the pines, skittering the dried leaves along the frozen ground. Off the road the forest was thick with an unrevealing gloom. Helena had fallen asleep against Jean's shoulder and slowly he himself relaxed and began to sleep fitfully, jolted awake again and again by the roughness of the road and the capacity of the tarantas to bounce around... He was awakened by a persistent shaking of his foot. He opened his eyes, aware that the vehicle was moving at a walk and something was pressing against him. Then he heard Boyar's whisper and realized that the weight against his side was the Polish hunter. "Captain, sir?"

"Yes?"

"We're in trouble. Our driver ... I think he fixes to meet someone." Wide awake, Jean eased himself into a sitting position. He whispered briefly into Boyar's ear, and the Pole moved back to his former seat. Outside a spatter of rain fell, then ceased. There was no sound but the creak of harness and of the carriage itself. Jean slid his his pistol from under his coat and waited, listening. Suddenly the tarantas stopped moving. Boyar asked a question and the boy replied, his voice surly. Boyar ordered him to keep going but the boy became belligerent. In the vague light Jean caught a gleam on a pistol barrel and then the tarantas began moving again. In the moment before it started Jean heard a rush of hoofs, somewhere in the forest behind them. The carriage gathered speed. Helena stirred, awake now and listening. As if on order there was a rift in the douds and the moon shone through. Closing in around the carriage was a group of horsemen. Jean held his fire. It would not do to fire into a troop of Cossacks or a party of innocent travelers. A voice shouted, the voice of the innkeeper at their last stop. Boyar spoke sharply and must have emphasized his command with a thrust of the gun barrel for the whip cracked and the horses began to run. There was an angry shout from the riders. LaBarge lifted his pistol and took as careful aim as was possible with the tarantas bouncing from stone to rut to stone again. He aimed at a bulky rider somewhat to the right of the others, who might be the innkeeper. He aimed, hesitated, then fired. The rider jerked in the saddle, fell headlong into the road in front of the following horses. Promptly, LaBarge fired twice more into the dark mass of riders, bunched by the timber lining the road. The pursuers fell back, astonished by the sudden burst of firing, and in drawing back they lost the race. LaBarge reloaded his pistol, taking his time. He carried another pistol and a two-barreled derringer as well, the latter in his sleeve holster.

The driver was frightened and sullen but he drove hard. Still it was well after midnight when the tarantas reached the wooden gate of their next stop. Jean got stiffly to the ground and Boyar closed in beside him. Men with lanterns gathered around and Boyar ordered them to change teams and be quick. He had neglected to holster his pistol, and the sight of it lent emphasis to his directions. From time to time the men stared at the boy who stood to one side watching LaBarge and Boyar. One of the men ventured a whisper but the boy snapped a one-syllable reply, his tone ugly.

Once inside the farmhouse Jean chose a seat against the wall that commanded the door, and drawing his pistol, placed it on the table beside his plate. The people outside were acquaintances or allies of those who had attempted the attack, and he wanted them to know he was ready for anything. The room was long and low with a rough board floor and beamed ceiling. To one side there was a fireplace; the house might have been taken right from western America. Food was brought to them, and hot tea. The man who served them was obviously much interested in the pistol: his eyes glistened with envy. "Such a gun!" he exclaimed. "I have not seen such a gun before!" "I carry two," Jean replied, "and it was fortunate."

"Fortunate?" The man's thin face seemed to grow still. He looked at LaBarge.

"There was trouble?"

"We were attacked by robbers."

There were three men in the room now, and the boy driver as well. Nothing more was said until Jean asked about horses.

The proprietor shrugged. "I am sorry. We will have no horses until morning, but it is better that you stay here. We--" "We leave tonight." Jean looked across the table at the man and lifted his cup with his left hand. "And you had better harness the team at once, and with your best horses."

"It is impossible!" The proprietor was voluble with protest. "It is--!" "If you believe those men who attacked us are following," LaBarge said coolly, "you're mistaken. Their leader is dead."

"Dead?" The proprietor looked with quick concern at the boy, whose face showed white under the dirt.

They stared at him, shocked to immobility. LaBarge put down his teacup and picked up the pistol. Immediately the room broke into movement. "You," LaBarge said to the proprietor, "come with us. The rest of you stay here. Think hard before you come outside. We don't care how many you bury here." Boyar took the man to the stables and returned with three gray horses, in fine condition. Hastily they were harnessed and then Jean told the proprietor to call his driver. The last they saw was a small cluster of people standing in the road, staring after them.

Ahead the road wound over rough country but the gray horses galloped cheerfully on, their breath steaming in the chill air, their feet making a lively clatter on the hard ground. When they had been on the road about an hour, it began to snow.

Chapter 28

Crowded together as they were, Helena and Jean bumped and jarred against each other as the tarantas jolted over roads made rough by traffic as well as by lumps of ice, frozen earth and ridges of snow. Their bodies twisted and jerked with the motion until every muscle ached. And all the while the driver kept up a din of shouts, yells, whipcracking and cursing which mingled with the jangling bells that hung from the bow over the shaft horse. Occasionally they would emerge from the forest to race along between stubbled fields and clatter through peaceful villages where every dog within hearing rushed out baying and barking, only to be scattered helter-skelter by the charging team. Inside the passengers were pitched, tossed, heaved and battered. At last, in the cold gray of earliest dawn, they drove into the streets of still another village. The street was a mere alleyway of ruts a foot deep or more, lined on either side by buildings of logs or unpainted lumber, their gable ends turned to the road, each with a huge wooden gate beside it. Near the end of the street the horses turned of their own volition toward one of these gates. Then began a period of shouts from the driver and faint replies from within, protesting argument, and finally after an interminable period, the gates swung back and they drove into a court flanked by a low-roofed stable covered with sod and an open-faced shed containing a bunch of decrepit carts, a weird and amazing assortment of vehicles, relics of some vanished era too remote to be guessed. Jean fell rather than stepped down from the tarantas and straightened his bruised and aching muscles. Shin Boyar's face was sullen with cold, showing its weariness, and when Jean helped Helena from the carriage she looked up at him with a glance of mingled despair and amusement at their situation. Painfully they walked toward the small door that offered little but a promise of warmth. As the door opened under his hand a blast of odorous air struck them in the face. For a moment they hesitated, but the bitter cold left them no choice. They went inside.

Three small windows, their glass gray with dirt, looked out upon the road they had just left. Against the wall on the inner side was a long wooden bench, fastened to the wall. Before it was a heavy table and several stools lined the table's opposite side. In the corner opposite was a huge stove built of whitewashed brick, and from the top of the stove to the wall was a shelf some eight feet wide that was also built of the same whitewashed brick. On this palati the family slept at night, as well as any guests who might be present. A buxom girl with two thick blond braids entered and began putting dishes on the table. On Boyar's advice they had brought their own tea and sugar, the custom of travelers in Russia, for the tea along the tracht was scarcely drinkable. The food on the table consisted of eggs, black bread, some thick green soup which was very hot, and butter.

"I think we should drive on," Boyar advised. "I am sure these are honest people here, but if Madame is not tired--?"

Helena looked up, smiling. "If you can ride farther, I can also!"

"How soon will you try to contact your friends?"

"At Perm ... and that is a long way yet."

Outside the cold was bitter. The tarantas started with a rush, then settled down to a steady jog. The village fell behind and they entered upon a vast plain scattered with clumps of trees. The sky had turned gray and sullen, and as the miles went by the driver glanced again and again at the sky. Turning on his seat, he called back to them. "Purga!"

The clouds, a flat mass above the tops of .the trees, seemed to press down upon them, and the cold increased.

Helena pressed close to him, her face against his arm. There were no buildings, anywhere, and the trees grew thicker, the country wilder and more desolate. Here the land was swept by great winds that had left the trees twisted into grotesque shapes. Snow began to fall, a few flakes at first, then increasing until all was shut out by a white, moving curtain. Boyar drew the leather curtains and the tarantas was black inside. It was like riding in a moving cave. The wind whipped under the curtains, however, and the cold could not be kept out The driver sat hunched and silent, seemingly impervious to the temperature. Jean leaned toward Boyar. "We've got to find shelter! This will get worse!" The tarantas had slowed to a walk; the driver was having trouble staying on the road. LaBarge knew the purga was the dreaded black blizzard of Siberia which could uproot trees or blow the roof off a house. Travel in such a storm would be impossible. The temperature was already far below zero and growing colder. Yet the driver was apparently headed for some place of which he knew. Finally, just when the wind seemed to become a full gale, he swung the horses into a dark avenue of trees through which the storm roared in a mighty blast. Treetops bent, glimpsed through a momentary lifting of the curtain. Behind them a tree crashed, blown down by the wind. Occasionally a blast of wind would seem to lift the carriage off the ground, but the horses were running now, and then they were in the lee of a hill and drawing up before a window which showed a feeble glow of light.

There were two doors in a log wall built against the side of a rocky hill, one for people and a larger one for the carriage and animals. With Helena clinging to his arm, Jean LaBarge opened the smaller door and they stepped inside. They found themselves standing in the mouth of a cave. Beyond a log partition they could hear Boyar and the driver stabling the horses. A small fire dying in a huge fireplace provided the only light. There was a table, a few stools, some broken harness and on one of several bunks, a man was lying. Finding a stump of candle, Jean struck a match to the wick. The flame leaped up, swaying like a dancer in the breeze from the chimney. The room was icy cold and there was no fuel. Crossing to the bunk, Jean lifted the candle and looked down at the man who lay there.

The man's face was white, the skin drawn tight against the skull, his eyes, wide open, were sunk deep within their sockets. For a moment he believed the man dead, and then he saw his lips move.

A door in the partition opened and Boyar came through with the driver. Boyar had his arms full of supplies, the tea, sugar, biscuits and some other articles with which they had provided themselves against emergency. "Get the tea on," LaBarge told Boyar. "We've a man here who's in a bad way." "No!" The driver caught LaBarge's arm. He spoke in hoarse Russian. "The man is a convict! An escaped prisoner!"

For the first time Jean noticed the loop of chain descending from under the ragged blanket. Lifting the blanket, he saw that iron bands enclosed the man's legs around each ankle, each thigh, and just above each knee. The bands were joined by a heavy chain suspended from a belt.

Holding the candle close, LaBarge removed the blanket and examined the man. His dirty shirt was stained with blood; he had been shot twice. The first was only a graze along the ribs, although it had bled severely; the other was a wound through the chest. There had been a bad flow of blood from that wound but the blood had no bubbles in it and the lung did not appear to have been penetrated. "You must do nothing!" the driver insisted. "If you are caught it is hard labor in the salt mines. Let him die."

"The hell with that." LaBarge turned. "Shin, how's the tea coming?"

"Soon ... and there will be hot water enough for the wounds." Gratefully, the escaped prisoner accepted the scalding tea. He tried it gingerly, then sipped again. With a clean cloth LaBarge bathed the wounds. Obviously, the second bullet had gone clear through, yet aside from lost blood no harm seemed to be done. Still, without care the man would bleed to death, and without fuel he would freeze.

Twice Boyar slipped into the night and each time returned with a huge armful of wood. Soon the fire was roaring. It was almost an hour before LaBarge completed his job of bathing, treating the wounds and bandaging them. By that time Boyar had prepared soup and Helena had broken bread into it. With a large spoon she fed the man, who scarcely took his eyes from her face, and then only to stare at LaBarge.

The driver sat hunched near the fire, his gaze averted, wanting no part in the crime. Yet from time to time he replenished the fire, and went with Boyar to gather more fuel. Finally, the driver went to a bunk and rolling up in his greatcoat, was asleep in a moment. Boyar gathered more fuel, ate a little, then followed him.

The prisoner dropped off to sleep and Helena joined LaBarge beside the crackling fire. Covering themselves with a blanket, his arm about her shoulders, they sat and watched the flames in silence. The cave room was warm now; the wind roared outside. Snow fell and hissed in the flames, and occasionally the wind guttered the fire, but there was no other sound but the snores of sleeping men. Under the blanket Helena reached for and found Jean's hand, and so they sat, and so, propped against a chair turned on its side, they slept.

Chapter 29

Three days the storm blew without letup, but within the cave the fire kept them warm. There was fuel within a few steps of the door, yet each day found the driver, Liakov, more frightened. Obviously he wished to be far from the cave before a searching party would come for Marchenko, which, they discovered, was the prisoner's name. He had escaped, he told them, by ducking away from a column of prisoners in a blinding snowstorm, but not before he was struck by two bullets. With his last strength he had dragged himself to the cave. "I knew of it as a boy," he told them. "It was a place where outlaws came." His eyes went to Helena. "That was before I served in the Army." "With what regiment?" Helena asked.

"The Semyonovsky, Madame. I often stood guard at the Peterhof and the Winter Palace."

He knew her then, which explained the peculiar way he had looked at her when he had seen her that first night. He had probably recognized her at once. "It is imperative," she told him quietly, "that I reach St. Petersburg." She kept her voice low so that the driver would not hear. "It is even more important that I reach there unknown to Siberian officials." The pitifully thin lips smiled. "I am a poor convict, Madame. I have seen no one ... only a wandering hunter who bandaged my wounds and went away ... who knows where?"

By the evening of the third day the wind had died and LaBarge directed Liakov to make the tarantas ready for travel at daylight. Liakov glanced at the convict. "What of him?" he asked. "We will turn him over to the police?"

"The safest thing for all concerned is to say nothing. This is police business. The police will ask many questions. They will be pleased at no one for interfering."

The morning dawned gray and cold. While Boyar aided Liakov with the harness, LaBarge stood by the bunk. He handed Marchenko a fistful of rubles. "These will help. My advice to you is to get away from here, even if you have to lie in the snow. I've left some tea on the table, and a bit of cheese and bread." Outside the cold was piercing. The carriage started stiffly, but the horses were eager to go after their confinement and soon they had broken into a run. Several times they were forced to stop and remove trees blown across the road, and fifteen miles from the cave they came to their first halt-where they quickly changed horses and started off with a fresh team and driver. Glancing back as they pulled away, LaBarge saw Liakov staring after them. "You are worried about Marchenko?"

"I hope he escapes, Helena. I hope he does."

"He is very weak."

"But his heart is strong."

With such a one there was always a chance. How about himself? Would he have the fortitude to stand what Marchenko had stood? Could he survive? Would he lose his will to escape? If Liakov went to the police... As if to atone for the past, the clouds drifted away and the sun appeared. It was spring and here and there the . hillsides showed a bit of green under the grays and browns. Twice they stopped to change horses, each time remaining with the volni system of free horses. The free drivers were known to the police, of course, but a man was harder to trace by that method than by the post system. Often the volni drivers were weeks in returning to their home villages, which meant weeks before they could be questioned.

The villages were as alike as peas, gray lumber and weather-beaten logs, a hint of decoration at the eaves. The few people who moved about were bundled to the eyes in odds and ends of clothing.

The steppe had changed to pale green with here and there the golden yellow of wild mustard or buttercups. The driver pulled off the muddy road to the prairie and drove more swiftly, crushing grass and flowers under the spinning wheels. He was a younger man, this driver, and filled with good spirits. He sang as he drove, and seemed to know everyone along the road. He shouted at them and they shouted back. Several times they raced past trains of wagons whose drivers plodded beside them, and several times they raced for miles over plains that were blue with a carpet of forget-me-nots. Distant hillsides were thick with the slim white trunks of birch, and always the villages kept appearing, shutters hanging loose, gates sagging. They drove on and on with a succession of teams and drivers until all sense of time was lost and all was forgotten but their own spinning wheels, and the never-ending shouts of drivers who raged, cajoled, praised, petted and swore at their teams.

From Tiumen to Ekaterinburg the road was bordered on either side by a double row of splendid birches nearly eighty feet tall, set so closely their branches arched over the road and shut out the sun with their green canopy. This was known, Helena told him, as "Catherine's Alley," for the trees had been planted by the order of Catherine II, and now, almost a hundred years later, they offered shade to the traveler.

The peasants' huts were alike in their cheerlessness except for occasional flowers in the windows. Rarely was there a tree or blade of grass in any of the villages, but in the windows one saw geraniums, oleanders, tea roses, cinnamon pinks or fuchsias.

Then came the night when they slept in a two-story brick house near the river where the owner advertised "rooms for arrivers." LaBarge was awakened in the first gray of dawn to find a rough hand on his shoulder and bending above him the thin, cadaverous face of an utter stranger. He sat up quickly and the man stepped back. LaBarge glanced toward the connecting door to Helena's room. "It's all right," the man said. "I tell you, mate, I've touched nothing, and as for the lady, I'd bother no lady, mate. Not I." "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

The fellow stood with his feet apart, grinning. His nose was a great beak, his red, wrinkled neck like that of a buzzard, and his eyes, small and blue, twinkled with a cynical humor. "How did I get in, you ask? Through the door, mate, through that very door. Locks, you know, I've no time for them, and I'd no wish tg go knocking about on your door at this hour of the. morning. Start folks looking, you know, and maybe start them thinking." "What do you want?"

"Now that's more like it. I like a man who comes to the point. But it ain't so much what I want, mate, as what you need. It's the police, mate, and they're hunting you. You, the lady, and the sailorman who's with you." "Sailor?"

"Aye ... spotted him at once, I did. And you likewise, mate. I've seen a bit of the sea myself, seven year' aboard a lime-juicer out of Liverpool. It's where I learned my English. But if I were you I'd be getting myself up." Jean rolled out and dressed quickly. He had no idea who the man was, but a warning was a warning, and that the police were looking for him was more than likely.

"What is it?" LaBarge asked. "What makes you think the police are looking for me?"

"This is the way of it, mate. I've no love for the law, not to speak of, I ain't. Time to time they've given me a bit of trouble, so when I seen the man in the black coat, seen the wide jaws and bullethead of him, I says to myself, it's the law. So I listen...

"Inquiring, he is, for people of your description. Now I'd seen you arrive, knew where you'd gone and, thinks I, this man and his lady would like to know, so I've come."

"Where's the officer now?"

"Eating, he is. Eating better than I've eaten these many weeks, stuffing his fat jowls in the town, and when he's finished that, had a bit of tea and picked his teeth, then most like, he'll be after you."

"We'll need a team for our tarantas."

"They'll be ready for you, mate. Leave it be. A boat's better, and I've spoke to a man for you. He's owner of a barge, and he's made room for us." "Us?"

"Look, mate. I've nothing here I can't leave behind, and I'd best be leaving it, too. With a bit of cash I might make it, and if I come along with you, I might be helping you." He winked. "I'm one who says it will never go wrong with a man to help the gentry."

Coolly, Jean checked his pistols. To be taken now was not part of his plan. He slid the pistols into his waistband.

The man with the great nose and twinkling eyes glanced at the pistols and then looked up at Jean LaBarge. He had a sudden feeling that he would not like to face a pistol backed by those eyes and in those hands. "Gentry, you said?"

"Did you think I'd not notice the lady? And a beauty too, if I may say so..."

Helena came through the door, dressed for travel. She looked gay and excited.

"Why, thank you! That was nicely said!"

The ruffian bowed, his eyes twinkling. "A lady, I said, and you, sir, anybody can see you're a gent." He canted his head at him. "And maybe a soldier, too, but a fighting man in any course. Take that from me, as one who knows." When Boyar entered the room, LaBarge explained their situation hurriedly and the man led them out the back way, across the court and into one of the sheds that surrounded it. Here he lifted a board and they all emerged into an alleyway that ended in a field bordering the river. Walking along a path, half-concealed by a line of trees, they reached the stream and boarded the barge. A man seated on a bollard got to his feet, knocked out his pipe and came aboard.

He cast off while the red-faced man hauled in the plank that served as gangway.

"I'd go below," he told LaBarge. "You're dressed a bit well for barge folk."

The cabin was cramped but clean, and there was a samovar with a fire under it. When they were well into the stream, their guide came below and took cups from the cupboard and began to make tea.

"Murzin, they, call me," he said. "It's a good name, short and handy-like." He was a long, bony man, slightly stooped in the shoulders and his body was so lean that every rib must show, but his thin hands were dexterous and swift. "A thief, they call me, and they are right. I steal from travelers." "You have not stolen from us," Helena commented. Jean could see that she liked the man, and he did himself.

Murzin chuckled and grinned wickedly. "Because the police are after you. I'm not one to foul my own nest, to rob my own kind.

"Oh, I know! You two are gentry, although that one"--he pointed a finger at LaBarge--"would have made a fine thief. Maybe that's another reason I didn't steal from you. He would kill a man if he needed killing. He would kill a man very quickly, I think." He glanced sharply at LaBarge. "Is that why they want you?"

He decided to be frank. "Madame and I have enemies who would like to prevent us from reaching St. Petersburg. That could be it, although I think we lost them, but it may be another thing. Back there"--he jerked his head toward the Siberia that lay behind--"we helped an escaped convict. Our driver might have informed on us."

"That could be it ... they don't like that, not one bit do they like it."

He gulped his tea. "St. Petersburg, is it? Aye, and I'm your man. I can help." He swallowed more tea. "We've ways of our own, you know. Ways of getting about that the police don't know."

"How much?"

"The bargeman will want fifty rubles, but you can give me what you like when we get there."

He looked slyly from one to the other. "And when you are there, where will you go?"

"We will have a place," Helena said.

"Where then? I say--"

Helena looked straight into Murzin's eyes. "There is a story that King Richard trusted a thief, and I shall. We go to the Peterhof." Murzin's eyes were bright. "I know that story. Robin Hood, wasn't it? So you go to the Peterhof? Yes ... yes, that would be it." His eyes lighted with savage, cynical amusement. "The Peterhof! What a place for a thief! What a place from which to steal!"

Chapter 30

Moonlight lay cold upon the Neva as their carriage rolled through the silent streets. Long ago they had left the barge behind, and since then had changed their means of travel several times. Now there was no sound but the clop-clop-clop of their horses' hoofs.

Sitting back against the cushions of the carriage in which they now rode, Jean LaBarge looked about him at the wide avenues and stately buildings, wondering that he, born in the swamps of the Susquehanna, grown to a fur trader among the northwest islands, should have come to this place. He rode now in the streets of the city of Peter the Great, riding beside a niece of the Czar, and within a few days, a few weeks at most, he would see the Czar himself. At last they dismounted from their carriage before the palace of the Rotcheffs. A strange group: Shin Boyar, the Polish promyshleniki from Alaska, Murzin, the wandering thief, Jean LaBarge, merchant adventurer, and the Princess Gagarin, wife of Count Rotcheff and said by some to be the most beautiful woman in Russia.

It was her hand that rang the bell. They waited, saying nothing, and for a long time there was no sound within. Finally, after the third ring, the door opened slightly.

"Alexis! Open the door! It is I!"

The old man opened the door with fumbling haste, bowing and backing away, his face covered with a smile. Yet when he looked past her at the three men, he hesitated. "The Master? Is he all right?"

"He is in Sitka, Alexis, and wounded. He sent me home to see His Imperial Majesty, and these men have brought me safely here. We will want food, Alexis, and beds for these men. Quickly now, for we are cold." The old man hurried away and somewhere in its vast depths the building began to stir and breathe as it came to life. When Boyar and Murzin had been shown to the Servants' quarters, Helena led Jean to a sitting room where a fire was blazing. Food was brought to them there, and tea. Jean watched the firelight playing on her face, finding lights in her dark hair. "I suppose I'll see little of you now," he said unhappily.

"There will be time." He had walked to the fireplace with his brandy, and she followed, standing beside him. How tall he was! "Jean, we must work quickly. There is no telling what they will do, so I must arrange an audience with Uncle Alexander at once. Once that is done I shall try to arrange an interview for you. It will not be easy, Jean, for he is a busy man. I believe I can do it." "I'll need some clothes. Tomorrow I'll hunt up a tailor." She laughed. "You need not go to a tailor, Jean. We will have him come here. I will tell Alexis and the tailor will come at whatever hour you wish." She left the room and he was alone with the portraits on the walls and the fire that crackled cheerfully on the wide hearth. The ceiling was high, and the flickering light played upon the faces of the pictured men. The food had been excellent, slices of cold beef, cheese, and a bottle of claret. It was all strange and very different here.

When she returned she joined him at the fireplace again. "So ... at last we are here."

"Did you doubt we'd make it?"

"Not really. Yet sometimes ... Jean, I shall keep Murzin with me. I like him."

"He's a thief."

"Of course. But somehow I do not believe he will steal while he works for me. He has his own pride, I think."

"Yes, I've known men like that. They're rare though." "Jean." Helena hesitated. "I shall never forget what you have done for me ... for us. You have no idea how far Sitka seemed from here, even though it is part of Russia. It is like the end of the world. Without you we might both have failed, Alexander and I."

"That makes it harder ... a man can't steal the wife of a friend. My kind of man can't."

"You couldn't steal me, Jean. He is my husband." They were silent, watching the fire.

"It's hard to believe that when I leave St. Petersburg I'll never see you again."

"I shall return to Sitka. I must go back to Alexander." "Don't do it, Helena. You can't. Believe me, if you destroy Zinnovy, he'll end by destroying you. I know. The man I looked at that last night would stop at nothing. You can't put yourself in his hands again--you can't." "I must ... I must return to my husband."

"Someday," LaBarge said slowly, "someday I think I'll kill Zinnovy ... or be killed by him."

"Then kill him. I do not want you to die."

"What use is it to live and not have the woman I love?" He spoke angrily. "I'm a fool, Helena. A double-dyed fool."

They stood together, staring down into the fire. The flames were smaller now, the bed of coals glowing and red, shimmering with changing color. They turned to face each other, looking into each other's eyes, then Jean drew her close and they stood for a long time, held in a tight embrace. Finally she stepped back, out of his arms. "Good night, darling," she spoke softly. "Good night, I--" She turned quickly and walked from the room.

A month passed. The Czar was in the Crimea and would soon return; until then there was nothing to do but wait. There were balls and parties and despite his restlessness Jean enjoyed St. Petersburg.

Helena had started the wheels moving to bring about the return of Paul Zinnovy. There had been no word from Count Rotcheff but his friends were also active. It was soon obvious, however, that Baron Zinnovy had powerful friends, at least one of them highly placed in the Ministry. Her statement that Baron Zinnovy had attempted to murder her husband met with polite disbelief, even among her intimate acquaintances. Officials were courteous, but whatever might be done seemed to die somewhere in the chains of bureaux and offices that lay between an order and its execution. The powerful influence of the Russian American Company blocked every move she could make.

No delays are more infuriating than the delays of officialdom. She knew that many officials regarded her as a pretty woman interfering in matters that did not concern her. The reports she brought back awaited the Czar's return; until then there was nothing to be done.

"They know who you are, Jean," she warned him, "and they will do all they can to prevent you from seeing the Czar. Be careful, for the Baron's friends are shrewd and powerful. They will stop at nothing."

Russia, under Czar Alexander II, was restless with impending change. The Czar was studying a plan to abolish corporal punishment in the armed services as well as in civilian life. He knew the time had come to institute social reforms and bring his country to the level of other western nations in that respect, yet it was necessary to move slowly. Many feared loss of prestige even more than income losses, others opposed change as they opposed anything that interfered with the status quo, with every stratagem at their command. The Russian American Company's stockholders were among the elements he must win over, and they were well aware of the bargaining position they held. They used this position to avoid any change in the situation in Russian America, and indicated that faraway Sitka could wait until much was done at home. Alexander II knew he must proceed with care. He had abolished many of the restrictions on the Jews, and had suggested the restoration of home rule for the Finns, but oddly enough, his greatest opposition came from the Liberals who demanded he do more and do it faster. Nothing would satisfy them but dramatic change and such a change was impossible under the circumstances. Of these facts Jean LaBarge had been only dimly aware when he arrived in Russia, but Helena soon acquainted him with the situation. Then they received their first break.

Helena met him as he entered the palace one afternoon. "Jean! He's here! The Czar is back and he has permitted an audience!" "When?"

"The night after tomorrow. It will be very late, and he will see us at the Peterhof, in a private audience." It was, he knew, a rare privilige, and without the help of Helena it could never have been managed. Now they could do something for Rotcheff and there was a chance he might have time to talk of Alaska itself.

A half mile away a slim, erect man with iron-gray hair and cold eyes shielded by square-cut glasses sat behind a desk. He was tall; even seated he seemed tall. His desk was bare of all but one sheet of paper and from time to time he glanced at it. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

A young man in a naval officer's uniform stepped into the room and closed the door carefully behind him, walked to a position before the desk, clicked his heels and saluted.

"Lieutenant Kovalski"--the man behind the desk studied the officer as he spoke--"I am informed that you have killed three men in duels with a pistol, two with the saber."

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant, there is a man in this city who is very dangerous to Russia. He interferes in Russian affairs and he endangers the position of a naval officer who is very important to Russia. The man I refer to has arranged to have a private audience with the Czar. It is not wise that such an audience take place, yet the Czar has given his word. You understand?" Lieutenant Kovalski understood perfectly, just as he had understood when a superior officer had suggested his coming to this address. There were enemies of the state who must be destroyed and it was often inconvenient to bring them to trial. He was also aware that the man before him controlled many avenues to power and prestige, and that a word from him... "The man to whom I refer is called Jean LaBarge. He is an American and at present resides at the Rotcheff palace."

Kovalski's eyes flickered. He knew the man in question by sight. A tall, dark men with a scar ... there was something about him ... for the first time he felt uneasy at the prospect of a duel, yet it was foolish to be disturbed. He was one of the finest pistol shots in all Russia. Before coming here he had been informed that he would be transferred to the Army and given the temporary rank of Colonel, and that might be only the beginning. "It must be done at once, you understand? The audience is for the night after tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir. Is that all?"

"Only this." The man behind the desk took a long envelope from a drawer and handed it to Kovalski. "Examine this in private when you are gone from here." The man removed his glasses and placed them on the sheet of paper, taking the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger for an instant. "One thing, Lieutenant. You must not fail. Do you understand?" "Of course." Kovalski snapped to attention, did an about-face and walked from the room. When he reached the street he paused briefly opposite a lighted window and drew the papers from the envelope. The first was a deed for a small estate in Poland, a place he knew well. He glanced at the date and saw it was for several days in advance, and below was a note to the effect that to be valid the deed must be presented at the estate by Colonel Kovalski, in person. He smiled wryly. "And if I'm dead ... ?" The answer was obvious. He shrugged. No matter. He would not be dead. It would not be the first time he killed a man on instructions.

Chapter 31

The place chosen for the duel was near a small castle outside of St. Petersburg. Jean stepped down from the carriage and strolled casually across the grass under the trees into the small open park that lay beyond. Beside him was Count Felix Novikoff, who had consented to act as his second. The challenge had been an obviously arranged affair. In company with Novikoff, who was a friend of Helena and the Rotcheff family, he had gone to a fashionable cafe. Several Russians in uniform had entered, and in passing, one of them deliberately bumped him. Then, turning, the officer looked LaBarge right in the eye and said, "Swine!"

Novikoff started to speak, but LaBarge was smiling. "Swine?" he questioned. "How do you do, Mr. Swine? My name is LaBarge."

For an instant the Russian stood very still, blood rushing to his face. Then someone laughed and the Russian's face stiffened with anger. He raised his hand to slap LaBarge, but Jean was in no mood to be slapped, so he struck first and hard, knocking Kovalski to the floor, half stunned. There was silence in the cafe. The officers who had entered with Kovalski were shocked. Novikoff caught Jean's sleeve. "Come!" he whispered. "We must go ... now!"

He had recognized Kovalski at once, knew the man's reputation, and what the sequel must be. Novikoff realized the quarrel had been deliberately provoked and was intended to result in a legal assassination. Jean turned to go when Kovalski staggered to his feet. "Wait!" he shouted hoarsely. "Wait, damn you!"

LaBarge turned to face him. Kovalski drew himself up. He was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Russian Army. "My seconds--" "Send them. Send them, Colonel, and I'll tell them what I tell you now. If you challenge me the choice of weapons is mine, and I choose revolvers, at thirty paces. We walk toward each other at the command and cease firing only when one or both of us is unable to continue."

Kovalski opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. This was all wrong. LaBarge, he had been informed, was an American, businessman, not accustomed to duels. He ... with a shock the terms of the duel came home to him. They were to walk toward each other, firing! He had never fired a pistol while walking in his life.

"Will you act as my second, Felix?" LaBarge asked.

"Gladly, Jean! Gladly!"

Appalled by Kovalski's challenge, Novikoff had seen the shock of LaBarge's terms, and realized at once that Kovalski was disturbed. It had, perhaps, been LaBarge's sudden acceptance, his immediate dictation of terms, and his coolness. Also, it had been as obvious to Kovalski as to Novikoff that if the two men went toward each other shooting, one of them was sure to die. Many a man who is a fine marksman in firing at a fixed target is helpless in firing at a moving target while moving himself. And to know at each step that his own danger would be greater ... Many a duelist who is master of his weapon can act with complete composure as long as he is sure he is master, but at close quarters even a novice would have a chance.

Later, leaving the cafe, Novikoff, who was twenty-five, watched LaBarge with unstinted admiration. "Have you used a pistol? In a duel, I mean?" "In western America every boy begins to carry a pistol as soon as he becomes a man, usually at fifteen or sixteen. I've had duels, but on the spur of the moment, without warning, and always with men used to the pistol." Count Felix Nbvikoff was excited. From Shin Boyar he learned more about Jean LaBarge, learned about his life in the west as Boyar had heard it, and about the fur poaching in Alaskan waters. LaBarge overheard Novikoff repeating the stories to friends, and did not mind. He knew that before long the stories would reach Kovalski.

When they had walked through the trees to the open park in the middle, Jean paused a moment, his eyes glancing over the area across which they must walk. He did not wish to step into an unexpected hole or trip over some unforeseen obstacle. The grass was smooth and well trimmed. He figured that if Kovalski was accustomed to firing from a stance he would without doubt attempt to score with his first shot from the original position.

Kovalski was jumpy and irritable. LaBarge looked to him almost like a professional duelist, although the terms he had proposed were ones no professional in his right mind would suggest. For the first time since he could remember, Kovalski had not slept well.

The distance was paced off and the two men took their positions, some thirty yards apart.

Colonel Balacheff stood at attention midway between the two and well out of the line of fire. "Does either gentleman wish to extend an apology?" "No." LaBarge's voice was calm. "I do not."

He stood very still, waiting. His stomach felt hollow, his mouth dry. This was the worst part, this waiting. But he knew exactly what he was going to do. "No." Kovalski's voice was steady.

"I will count." Balacheff spoke clearly. "I will count to three. At the count of three you will commence firing and will move toward each other firing at will. You will not cease to fire until one of you is unable to continue. Am I understood?"

Both men nodded.

The sun was not yet above the trees; there was still dew on the grass. Somewhere a bird rustled in the leaves and off across the fields a raven cawed hoarsely into the still, clear morning.

"One!"

Jean felt a trickle of sweat start down the back of his neck. Kovalski stood sidewise to him, his pistol raised in the orthodox position. He would shoot as the pistol came level, and Jean would be stepping out with that shot. If he led off with his right foot and Kovalski fired, his step would carry him a bit out of line with the bullet ... he hoped.

"Two!"

The raven called suddenly, and Jean saw Kovalski twitch, almost as if he had started to fire, then caught himself. Jean could feel the sweat on his brow; he hoped it would not trickle into his eyes. A muscle in his leg started to jerk. "Three!"

Jean LaBarge stepped off with his right foot and felt the whip of the bullet.

Kovalski could shoot, but he had missed.

Holding his own gun slightly above belt height, Jean walked swiftly toward the Russian. The morning was very still and he could feel the grass against his shoes. A bead of sweat was trickling down his cheek and the stillness of the morning was slashed by a second shot. Only a split second had passed, yet he was moving. He felt the second shot go by him, then realized it must have been the third shot because he had already heard the report of the second. He was walking fast but he was counting his steps and when he had taken seven steps he was going to fire. He felt the shock of the bullet as it struck him and the air lash of two more as they missed, and then his foot came down on the seventh step and he fired.

He fired his shot from hip level, the gun thrust out with his elbow close to the hip to steady it, the trigger squeezed off gently. He felt the gun leap in his fist and thumbed back the hammer for the second shot. Kovalski wavered, then buckled at the knees and began to fall. As he fell the pistol dropped from his hand and when his body hit the turf his feet rebounded, fell hard, and he was dead.

LaBarge looked at the man who had been sent to kill him. He lowered the hammer on his pistol and from habit thrust it into his waistband. Novikoff rushed to him, hand outstretched. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" Novikoff was excited. "I never saw anything like itl He kept firing, and you--!" Balacheff had picked up Kovalski's pistol. He glanced at the cylinder. "Empty!" He looked at LaBarge with unbelieving eyes. "Sir, let me congratulate you! I have never seen a braver thing! Never, sir!"

"Thank you."

Jean held himself stiffly against the beginning pain. There was a dampness of blood within his shirt.

When they were seated in the carriage, Jean said, "Right home, and don't stop!" Novikoff stared at him, arrested by something in his tone, then abruptly, he felt alarm. "You're hurt! You've been shot!"

"Just get me home."

When the carriage drew up at the curb, Jean descended and walked stiffly to the door. He heard Novikoff paying the driver and then the door opened and he stepped blindly into the great hall. Then his legs buckled under him and he felt himself falling. From the stair there was a scream. The last thing he remembered was Helena rushing to him.

Lying in a canopied bed he looked up into the vague darkness above him. When he turned his head Helena was sitting across the room under a shaded light, reading. For a long time he lay watching her, tracing the way her lips were shaped and the proud lines of her face, softened now by shadows as they were sometimes softened by sunlight. He did not speak, nor feel like speaking, but lay still, thinking of her and of all that had transpired since their first meeting on the rain-wet dock in San Francisco. All that seemed far away now, all the distant Pacific, the wastes of Siberia, all of it. It had been months since they had left Alexander Rotcheff wounded in Baranof Castle, and now he himself was wounded, and for the same reasons.

"How bad was I hit?"

Helena dropped her book and rushed to him. "Jean! Oh, Jean! You're awake!"

"Seems that way. I wasn't hard hit, was I?"

"No ... the bullet went through you and nobody knew, nobody even guessed you were hit. The doctor says it is only a flesh wound, but you lost a lot of blood, your clothing was soaked with it, underneath. But nobody knew." "And they must not know. What day is today?"

"The same ... it is almost midnight. I was waiting until you became conscious before I sent word to the Czar."

"There's no need to send word. We'll go."

"But you're hurt! You can't possibly go!"

"Want to bet?" He grinned at her. "And if you think I'm not capable, just try sitting down beside me." She drew back quickly. "Jean! You mustn't talk like that." She looked down at him with excited, happy eyes. "You frightened me so! When you fell I thought you were dying."

"May I have some brandy? I could use it."

"Of course! What have I been thinking of! But then you must rest."

Nowhere in the world were there so many fountains, nor fountains of so many varieties, and when turned on simultaneously, as they were now, all the splendid parks were filled with a wondrous and mysterious splashing of water, making a strange music all its own. From the front of the old palace, where Helena and Jean paused on the wide terrace, a broad avenue of fountains and cascades led all the way to the seashore. And everywhere the scent of lilacs. As they mounted the steps a Beethoven German dance was being played on the terrace by the Court orchestra. From the terrace where they had paused the view was magnificent, gilded statues mingling with the sparkling silver of the fountains. Pausing by the ballistrade, neither wished to speak, they stood absorbed in the beauty of the moment. Behind them the Peterhof was ablaze with lights. They turned from the display of fountains to watch the arrivals. Tall old men in mutton-chop whiskers, resplendent in uniforms, younger men with handsome mustaches, officers of the armed services and members of the nobility. The audience arranged with the Czar was to take place privately, but during the grand ball. Standing beside the balustrade, Jean watched the colorful sight before him and was glad it had happened this way. He would never again see such a sight. He listened to the low-voiced comments and greetings, and was introduced to people whose names he never managed to distinguish but who were alike in extraordinary titles. All of them were anxious to talk to the Princess Gagarin of her experiences in Alaska, all curious about Count Rotcheff, and equally curious, he realized, as to his presence there. Conscious of the beautiful girl beside him, more than ever conscious of her position, conscious of the music, the fountains and the scent of the lilacs, he could not help but draw a comparison between this place and the deck of the Susquehanna as she had been, gliding through the dark waters of Peril Strait. Nor could he forget the old man who lay wounded in Baranof Castle, and whose future as well as his life might rest on the interview that lay before them. "Do you feel all right, Jean?" Helena looked at him anxiously. "Maybe we should not have come."

"Nonsense. I've never felt better." And he did not lie. True, the bullet had gone through him, and there was a stiffness in his chest muscles and his side. But he had suffered much more from slighter wounds, and weak though he might be, his enormous vitality and the strength built into him by years of outdoor living made the wound of little moment. He smiled a little, thinking of Hugh Glass crawling his miles upon miles across the plains of Nebraska after being clawed by a grizzly, and of a trapper he knew who had survived two weeks in the wilds when unable to walk from wounds and a broken leg he had set himself. Count Novikoff crossed the terrace to them, clad in a blue and gold uniform, accompanied by a tall young Hussar in white and gold with a scarlet dolman flung over his shoulder.

"Captain LaBarge? I should like to present my friend, Prince Wolkonski." A remarkably handsome young man, the Prince was scarcely more than a boy, with smooth blond hair and the face of a Greek god, and he was excited. "I am honored, sir! All St. Petersburg is talking of your duel with Colonel Kovalski, and how you allowed him to empty his pistol before you fired a shot! And while walking toward him! Remarkable, sir! Remarkable!" "Thank you." Embarrassed, Jean took Helena and slipped away as quickly as possible. When alone for a moment, he turned to her. "They believe I did it because of honor," he said dryly, "that I deliberately gave him every chance. I don't like to appear under false banners. I took my time because I wanted to fire one shot and kill him when I fired." "Nevertheless, you gave him every chance."

"Helena," he smiled gently, "I don't want you to misunderstand me. I didn't give him any chance I could withhold. These boys, they make a hero of me because they believe I acted the way I did as a matter of honor. Actually, from the minute of the challenge every move I made was calculated to put him at a psychological disadvantage. His trouble was that his marksmanship was better than his strategy."

Even among the two thousand guests present, eyes turned again and again to Jean LaBarge. His height, the great breadth of his shoulders, the dark, piratical face with its scar, all were calculated to draw attention to the man who had killed the noted duelist.

The Emperor and the Empress opened the ball with a formal polonaise, and soon, despite his wound, Jean was dancing also. He felt good ... shaky in the legs, but good. Yet soon at a tug from Helena's fingers, he followed her from the floor and into the great park.

The shaded walks were silent except for the distant music and the play of the waters in the fountains. They walked, arm in arm, under the dark trees. "Jean, we shall be seeing His Majesty in just a few minutes. When we were changing partners during the last dance I was told to be ready. We are to meet him in a little pavilion built by Peter the Great." The park was empty of people. Jean moved carefully, not liking the shadows, suspecting danger everywhere.

As they walked up the path to the pavilion a man came down the steps to greet them. He was tall, bearded, and in uniform. He glanced quickly, sharply, at La-Barge. "Follow me, please."

They followed him through a small door and Jean found himself in a long room with a large fireplace and several pictures at which he merely glanced. Before him stood Alexander II, Czar of all the Russias. "So, Captain LaBarge, you celebrate your arrival in my capital by killing one of my officers!"

Jean LaBarge bowed slightly. "Only, Your Majesty, because he would have prevented my audience with you!"

Chapter 32

Alexander's tone was ironic as he said to Helena, "We must keep this gentleman with us, Princess. He talks as well as he shoots." The Czar, a tall man with keen gray eyes, studied Jean thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "You have visited our Pacific colonies, sir. What do you think of them?"

"I think they are too far from St. Petersburg, Your Majesty."

"In other words, you agree with the report forwarded to me by Count Rotcheff?" "I haven't seen the report, Your Majesty, only Russian America. And I believe that when a private company runs a territory for its exclusive profit it will give more thought to the profit than to the welfare of the territory." Alexander seated himself abruptly. "Sit down, Captain." He gestured to a chair, "Helena?" When they were seated, he said, "Now, sir, tell us of your experiences in Alaska."

LaBarge thought quickly. He could lie, and paint Alaska as a territory no one would want; he knew this was the opinion of many of those in important positions in Russia as well as in the United States. Or he could tell the truth, relying upon the Czar's own intelligence to realize that a rich colony in an exposed position invited seizure. He decided that frankness was the best policy. It was likely, anyway, that the Czar knew a great deal about Alaska. He began with his first awareness of Alaska, led his listeners quickly through the buying of furs, his first information in regard to fisheries, lumber and coal. He also mentioned the costs of exploitation, the distance from markets, and his own ventures into the area. The only thing he did not mention was gold. "You traded in Russia against the orders of the Russian American Company?" demanded the Czar. His features were cold, revealing nothing. "Yes, Sire."

Alexander raised an eyebrow and glanced at Helena, who restrained a smile. "You fired on a Russian warship? You evaded her demands to heave-to?" "I did, Your Majesty, in the belief that the warship was acting upon Company orders rather than your own. Also," he added it without more than the merest trace of a smile, "because I believed I could outsail him." Alexander laughed. "You are frank, sir."

"What's to be gained by lying? I trust to your judgment, Your Majesty, and also to your realization that the captain of a ship is often in the same position as the head of a state. He has to accept the risks of his position, and sometimes he has to act boldly."

Alexander tapped his fingers on the table. Jean had a feeling that the Czar agreed with him in principle, and might be reasoned with. He decided to speak out.

"Your Majesty, it's said in the United States that you are Europe's most enlightened monarch; it's said you plan to free your serfs. Did you know that the Indians in Alaska, who were free from the beginning of time until the Russian American Company came to Alaska, are greater slaves than your own serfs?"

He paused momentarily. "I deal in furs. I know the income from those furs. I know that on every trip to Alaska I have made a very substantial profit. Still I understand that the Alaska company has to ask appropriations from the government of Russia to keep operating."

Alexander's face hardened. "Are you suggesting that the stockholders are being cheated? That the government is being robbed?"

"I'm only saying that each of my trips was successful. The trips of dozens of other traders whose furs I bought were successful. But the Russian American Company, which is on the ground,.is losing money." Alexander got to his feet and walked slowly across the room and back. Then he stopped and asked LaBarge about the matter of the wheat. Jean explained in as few words as possible, told of the burning of the wheat but without any suggestions or accusations. Then his own ride north and the delivery of wheat that resulted. The Czar asked many questions about the ride, the terrain crossed, and dangers.

"Obviously, Captain LaBarge," he said finally, "you honored your agreement with Count Rotcheff at great personal risk to yourself." He hesitated. "You are staying long in St. Petersburg, Captain?"

"No, Your Majesty, I'll return now. My only wish was to see the Princess safely returned to her home, and if possible to speak to you." "I see ... and what did you hope to gain by speaking to me?" "I hoped to suggest, Your Majesty, that Russia sell Alaska to the United States."

If the Czar was surprised, he gave no evidence of it. Perhaps Helena had mentioned it, perhaps he had seen it coming, or there might have been some such suggestion in the report forwarded by Count Rotcheff. "And you, a private citizen, are in a position to negotiate?" "No, Your Majesty. But," Jean added, "I have a friend in Washington who might be. His name is Robert J. Walker, and he is former Secretary to the Treasury of the United States, and former Senator from Mississippi. I know he favors such a plan, and is in touch daily with others who do." Alexander changed the subject and they talked quietly for nearly an hour on conditions in Alaska, the rapid westward expansion of the United States, and of the building of railways.

He arose suddenly. "Captain, I have taken much of your time. I thank you for coming to see me, and especially for assuring the safe return of the Princess, my niece."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"As for your suggestion, I shall give it much thought. It remains a possibility."

Outside in the park it was cool and pleasant. They stood for a long time watching the play of light among the sparkling waters of the fountains, and listening to the cascades as they ran down to the sea. From the palace came the sound of music. The dance continued, still, although it seemed forever that they had been gone.

"And now?"

"San Francisco. But I believe this time I'll cross the Atlantic and see Rob Walker."

"I shall return to Sitka."

He turned sharply around. "Helena, you ..."

"You think I am a fool? But Alexander is there, and my first duty is to him.

Would you think more of me if I remained here?"

"Less, maybe, of your loyalty, more of your judgment. It isn't safe, Helena."

"No matter, I must go back."

Chapter 33

Jean LaBarge picked his way across the rutted, muddy street. He had arrived in Washington scarcely an hour before and was shocked by the appearance of the capital. Heavy army wagons had furrowed the streets and plowed the avenues into rivers of mud. Here and there Negroes walked about with planks and for a consideration aided passengers alighting from vehicles to reach the sidewalks, or pedestrians to cross the streets. Hacks were few and hard to find, and often became stalled in the street where their passengers must remain marooned or wade through mud to the sidewalks.

Without waiting for a cab he picked his way through the streets and at last reached the impressive mansion on the tree-bordered square where Robert Walker made his temporary home. He walked up the steps and scraped the mud from his feet on the door scraper, then pulled the bell. The Negro who answered the door was a short, stocky man who recognized the name at once. "Mistuh LaBarge, suh? Mr. Robert, he's sho' gonna be pleased! He sho'ly is."

The man who sat behind the desk in the high-ceilinged room was short and slender. He looked up from his desk as the door opened, then came suddenly to his feet. "Jean!" he said. "Jean LaBarge!"

"Hello, Rob."

They gripped hands for an instant, smiling at each other. It had been a long time.

"When did you get in?"

"Less than an hour ago. I took a room at the Willard."

"You needn't have done that."

They walked on into the room and Jean handed his hat and cloak to the Negro. Rob glanced at LaBarge's wide shoulders and the perfectly tailored suit. "Whiskey?"

"Please...."

Rob poured the drinks. "To the Honey Tree!"

Jean grinned at him. "The Honey Tree!" He downed half his drink, then put his glass down. "I've often wondered about it, wondered if anyone ever got all that honey."

"I have no idea, Jean, but I do know there has been some talk of draining the swamp and logging it off."

"Then I don't want to go back."

For a half hour they talked of various topics, then Rob lit a cigar. "All right, Jean, tell me about it. Tell me about Russia ..." It was growing light when Rob suddenly got to his feet. "Jean, you're tired. Can you come for dinner tomorrow night?" He glanced at his watch. "I mean, tonight? I want you to meet some friends of mine."

"Sure."

"You should have told me you were coming. The Willard is all right, but--" "It's best for me. I'm lunching with a friend tomorrow. You may know him. Senator Bill Stewart."

"Of Nevada? I know of him, and a very able man." "He was a cattle drover for a while as a boy, drove them right along Mill Creek Road once, he told me."

"How does he stand?"

"On Alaska? He's for it, I'm sure. He came early to California and is in favor of opening up new country."

"Sumner is the man you must meet. He's been against us, but I believe he is wavering a little. Jean, I want you to talk to him, I want you to tell him about Alaska.

"There's been no question about Seward. He's been for it from the beginning, perhaps even before I was, and he has been taking the brunt of the ridicule while I've been gathering the support. The papers refer to it as Seward's Folly, Seward's Icebox, but he found many of the arguments offered against Alaska were the same as those offered against the Louisiana Purchase. Seward dug up all those old arguments and has published the lot." "Will it go through, Rob? Will they buy Alaska?" He shrugged. "Who knows? I believe we will. I believe, in spite of the opposition, that the treaty will be ratified, but we've got a fight on our hands. Sumner is lukewarm, unconvinced but willing to listen, but I will tell you something about him, Jean. He likes facts. He likes to know, and when he speaks, he likes to deliver facts. Given the proper ammunition, I think he'll be with us."

The streets were dark and silent. When the door closed behind him Jean LaBarge walked slowly up the street. Several times he paused in his walking, feeling the mistlike rain on his face, looking up a broad avenue. The mud was obscured by darkness, and the tree-lined streets were softly beautiful. Robert Walker did not go to bed. The excitement of seeing his old friend was joined with another realization: it was Jean LaBarge, if anyone, who could swing the balance toward ratification. His actual presence here, the chance to talk to a man who knew the country. LaBarge's own dramatic personality was sure to do much to convince a few laggards. He spoke easily and well, and above all, he seemed to know everything there was to know about Alaska. Seated at his desk, Robert Walker considered the situation that faced him. Pleased as he was to see his old friend, he knew at once he must utilize his presence, and he knew that LaBarge would have been the first to agree. A less colorful person would have been less valuable, but the dark, handsome LaBarge with his romantic scar, his stories of the fur trade and the islands, his recent visit to the Czar's court and the duel that preceded it, these were sure to make their impression.

From the beginning of his political career Robert J. Walker had devoted himself to his country. He was an American who was filled with the ideas that filled many Americans at the time. He wanted to see the United States possess the entire continent, and the subjugation of a continent seemed a small task for men who had crossed the plains in covered wagons, who scouted the first trails and built towns where none before existed.

Walker had not made the westward trek, yet he had lived much of it with Jean LaBarge. He had not helped organize a mining village into a law-abiding community but he knew how it had been done, and to the little man from the banks of the Susquehanna it was vastly exhilarating.

The United States was bound to grow, as Muraviev had foreseen. In Walker's files there was a letter Muraviev had written to the Emperor:

... It was impossible not to foresee the swift expansion of the United States power in North America; it was impossible not to foresee that these States, having secured a foothold on the Pacific, would soon surpass all other powers, and acquire the whole northwest coast of America. ... We need have no regrets that we did not establish ourselves in California twenty years ago. Sooner or later we should have lost it ... it is foolish not to realize that we should, sooner or later, have to surrender our North American possessions. It is also inevitable for Russia to hold sway over the whole of eastern Asia. Walker looked thoughtfully at his dead cigar. It was strange that a man like LaBarge, with no apparent interest in politics, had yet become a key figure. This man, sure to be forgotten in the march of history, at this important moment possessed the information that might swing the vote, and a personality dramatic enough to convince.

He, Walker, had been called a genius of party management. To many outside the understanding of world affairs, the term might seem less than flattering, yet Walker preferred it to any other. He knew how to line up the votes, knew what the states and territories needed, and he knew that statecraft consists of a reconciling of viewpoints, and to be a superior statesman one must also be a superior politician. It was not enough to have vision, to have a program. It was not enough to be strong, sincere, honest. In a democracy one also needed votes, and to put over a program one must find a way to win the votes of those with less vision and possibly even less loyalty to country. The United States must have Alaska, not only as a possessiqn, but as a state. To win a land is not to possess it; the land must be populated and held.

The first person Jean saw when he entered the room was Seward. From descriptions he recognized him at once, standing near the fireplace chewing an unlighted cigar. His limp gray hair was rumpled and untidy, and some cigar ash had scattered itself over his satin-faced waistcoat. Seward acknowledged the introduction with a brief, limp handshake and a glance from his shrewd, appraising eyes. "You are much spoken of these days, Mr. LaBarge." He rolled the cigar in his teeth. "You have the advantage of us, sir.

You have seen Alaska."

"And I have talked to the Czar."

"You have assumed a lot, Mr. LaBarge. By whose authority did you speak?" Despite the words, his voice held no animosity. Jean replied quickly, smiling as he spoke. "By yours, of course, sir. Mr. Walker tells me that in a speech at St. Paul a few years ago you said, speaking to the Russians, 'Go on and build your outposts all along the coast to the Arctic Ocean, they will yet become the outposts of my own country.' " Seward's eyes flickered for an instant with humor. "Mr. Walker's memory is very convenient for you, Mr. LaBarge."

Jean sensed rather than saw that other men had joined them. One of these he was sure was Charles Sumner, for Seward then said, "Tell us about Alaska, LaBarge. Tell us what you saw."

Robert Walker glanced quickly around the room. Here, in this room, were a dozen of the key men in the Senate, men who might make or break ratification of the treaty. So much depended on the next few minutes. Suddenly he found himself wishing that Fessenden were here. One of the ablest speakers in the Senate, Fessenden was a bitter opponent of the purchase of Alaska. LaBarge had turned, almost casually, with his back to the fire. What he was to say now need not convince Seward, for Seward had been a consistent fighter for Alaska from the beginning; it was the others he must win. Charles Sumner was a man who dearly loved to present facts, to speak with authority, and he was a man whose words carried weight.

"What can any man say of a land the size of Alaska in a few minutes? I've seen its furs, its miles upon miles of forest, its gold, its iron, its fish. I have hunted in woods teeming with wild game, and seen valleys as fertile as any upon earth."

From his vest pocket Jean took a small lump wrapped in skin. It was the nugget he had bought, long ago, from the trapper. "See this? Gold ... and there is more of it there. But believe me, Gentlemen, gold is the least of Alaska's riches." For an hour LaBarge talked, replied to questions, and told stories of his experiences in Russian America. He told of the cruelties of the promyshleniki, and gave figures on the fur shipments. In forty years the Russian American Company had shipped over 51,000 sea otter skins, 291,000 fox pelts, 319,000 beaver and 831,000 fur seal hides.

"And that, Gentlemen, says nothing of what our own ships took out, nor the British. My own ship has taken out more than 100,000 skins, much whalebone, walrus, ivory, Tlingit blankets and some gold." It was late before the party broke up and at last Walker and LaBarge sat down together.

"I think," Walker said, "you've won some allies for us, and certainly you've given our backers some ammunition. What are your plans?" "I'll leave for the coast at once. I have the Susquehanna to think of." He glanced up at Walker. "When do you think this can be done?" "The purchase?" Walker shrugged. "Congress rarely does anything swiftly, Jean, and there are enemies to the plan. Some think it a waste of money, and General Ben Butler is bringing up the old matter of the Perkins claims. He says he will use their claim against Russia to stall ratification of the treaty. It may take months yet, even years."

"I see." Jean got up. "Rob, I'll write from San Francisco. I'm anxious to get back."

'"The Princess de Gagarin has returned to Sitka, you said?" "I'm worried, Rob. I must get back there. If Zinnovy was willing to risk shooting Rotcheff, he won't hesitate to rid himself of them both. As you say, politics isn't always a fast business, and although the Princess turned her husband's reports over to the Czar, it may be months before anything can be done. There will be delays, hesitations, arguments ... you know more about that than I ... and in the meantime, they are there." For a moment the two men stood together, and then Walker put his hand on the younger man's arm. "Jean ... take care of yourself." "You do the same."

It was snowing when he reached the street, a light, unseasonal snow that melted as it hit the pavement. Jean LaBarge walked quickly away into the darkness. Robert Walker returned to his study. Now he could move, now he had ammunition, facts, figures, arguments. And Sumner, he thought, was won. And Sumner would dearly love a debate with Fessenden.

So tomorrow...

Chapter 34

Baron Edouard Stoeckl had arrived in New York from St. Petersburg on February 15th, 1867. As he was recovering from a severe injury to his leg he remained in New York for two weeks, but during this time he was in touch with Robert Walker. His purpose in returning was to negotiate the sale of Alaska. A draft of the treaty was before the cabinet by March 15th, and on March 29th, Stoeckl received word from the Czar that the treaty was approved. Although it was very late when the news came to him, he at once joined Robert Walker and together they went to see William Seward, Secretary of State. All night they worked.

As the Susquehanna prepared for sea, Jean LaBarge read in the Alta Californian that the treaty "will hardly be considered at this session, but will go over to next winter."

Seward increased his campaign of education. The papers rarely came out now without some information on Alaska, and by letter, Jean continued to supply information on various parts of the Russian-held area. On April 4thit was reported that there was no chance of the treaty being ratified. But a letter from Rob was optimistic, and with that final word, the Susquehanna sailed. For several days a fast-sailing sloop had been lying alongside a wharf near Clark's Point, and during none of those days had a man been ashore. Within the hour after the Susquehanna cleared the Golden Gate, Royle Weber dropped into Denny O'Brien's bar.

Much had changed. Yankee Sullivan, under threat of lynching by the Vigilantes, had committed suicide. Charley Duane had been escorted to a ship and sent off to New York, and O'Brien had much to worry about.

But his memory was long, and the night when he had stood at his own bar with his pants around his heels with the click of his vest buttons on the floor in his ears was not easy to forget.

Crossing the room he dropped into a chair opposite Weber. Weber shifted his weight on the chair seat and smiled. "Well, Denny, we've waited a long time!" "It's now?"

"The Susquehanna cleared port this afternoon."

Denny turned and motioned to a dark-skinned man who loitered at the bar, and when the man leaned over, spoke to him. Instantly, the man was out of the door and running. Less than an hour later the sailing sloop slid away from the dock and pointed herself north for Sitka.

"I'd like to be there," Denny O'Brien said. "I'd like to see his face." The Susquehanna's second port of call was at Kootznahoo Inlet. The information LaBarge had received was clear. No ship had called at Kootznahoo since his own last trip, and there were many furs. It would be a rich cargo to pick up. When the Susquehanna dropped the hook off Kootznahoo head the bidarkas were swift to come.

A few days before the fast-sailing sloop had put into Sitka harbor, but had not gone near the dock. Rather, it had gone at once to the Lena and tied up alongside. Within an hour both the Lena and the Kronstadt slipped out of Sitka harbor, the Lena sailing north and around the island through Peril Strait, while the Kronstadt sailed south, rounded Point Ommaney and started north. The sloop, taking water and provisions from the Lena, never even docked at Sitka for fear the grapevine would carry word across the islands, but sailed immediately back to the United States.

The weather was good. Ben Turk, Gant and Boyar had gone ashore to hunt in the hills back of the inlet. Kohl was also ashore. Trading had been brisk that morning, but now it had begun to lag. Jean LaBarge went below and stretched out in his bunk.

He was half-asleep when from the deck there was a sudden wild yell, then a tremendous explosion. Leaping from his bunk he was thrown off balance by a second concussion. Lunging for the companionway he heard screams of agony from the deck, then a concussion from aft. He sprang put into a cloud of smoke and flame. Something forward was burning. The forem'st lay in a welter of tangled ropes and splintered wood. After, Duncan Pope and Ben Noble were working the gun, and near them, sprawled in the wreck of the helm, lay one of the Indians in a pool of blood.

Across the mouth of the bay lay the Lena. At a glance, LaBarge knew the situation was hopeless. There was no other way out of the inlet, and inside, the water was not deep enough to take the schooner. She would be shot to wreckage before they could get moving.

"Cut loose the anchor!" he yelled. "Get a jib on her!" A shell screamed overhead and lost itself somewhere in the woods. The schooner was moving slowly now. If they could get around Turn Point.. .. He had no hopes of saving the ship, what he wanted now was a chance for the crew to take to the hills. Once there, with the friendly Indians, they could hide out for weeks until they might reach the mainland.

Pope fired their own gun again, and LaBarge had the satisfaction of seeing the shell burst amidships, smashing the whaleboat to splinters and ripping sails and rigging. Now the Lena moved closer, getting into position to rip the Susquehanna with another broadside.

Enough of the wheel remained to swing the schooner and LaBarge started to put it over when a shell struck forward and he felt the ship stagger under a wicked blow in the hull. Then the shelling stopped. Their own gun had ceased to fire and turning he saw Duncan Pope sprawled on the deck, his skull blown half away. Noble caught his arm.

"We'd better run for it, sir!" he shouted. "They'll be alongside in a few minutes!"

Two boats were in the water, pulling strongly toward the wreck of the Susquehanna.

Dazed, he glanced around. Pope was dead, and another man lay sprawled amidships. The schooner was drifting helplessly, but the current, slight as it was, was taking them deeper into the inlet. The tidal currents there, he recalled, were fearfully strong.

The way was blocked. The Lena lay fairly across the only entrance and her boats were drawing near. There was nothing else for it. "Abandon ship," he said. "Get for shore, all of you."

"What about you?" Noble protested.

"I'll come," he said. "Get going!"

He turned to the companionway and went swiftly down the ladder. For the first time he realized how badly hulled they were: water stood on the deck of the saloon. He slipped a pistol behind his belt, caught up a coat. Alongside he heard splashes and yells as the crew jumped over the side. The shore here was nowhere over fifty yards away.

He went swiftly up the ladder and reaching the rail, turned back for a last long look. The forem'st was gone, trailing over the side in a mass of wreckage. The stern was a wreck and the deck was literally a shambles. Pope and Sykes were definitely gone, both killed in those few minutes of shelling. Luckily, most of the crew had been ashore. Yet ... the Susquehanna ... it was like deserting an old friend. He sprang to the rail.