The Great Alone (42 page)

The interior was built on three levels, descending to a center floor with a dirt hearth. Runs Like a Wolf turned and walked along the upper level that was partitioned into sleeping quarters and storage areas. Raven caught up with him before he reached the corner post with its totemic carvings.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Nanuk demanded hostages before he would speak with us, and refused to give hostages in return. He said he did not trust our people.”

Raven stiffened at the insult. She knew it was useless to ask her husband what he thought the chief planned to do. He may have the legs of a wolf, but in her opinion he had the mind of a turtle. There were times when she doubted that he even realized he wasn’t the father of her son. Impatiently she turned away from him just as her brother, Heart of the Cedar, ducked through the low opening. Quickly she went to him.

“Does the chief think Nanuk will attack the village?”

“Night comes soon,” her brother answered. “Nanuk will wait until the sun rises again. The chief is calling a council of the clan. I think he will advise that everyone leave the village when it grows dark and go to the stronghold by the river.”

Raven smiled. “Not even the cannon on the big ship can shoot that far.”

“No.” His warm look held approval both for the quickness of her thinking and the recollection of that strategic detail.

“Nanuk still has many men and many guns.”

“We will send messengers to other clans and ask them to give us more guns and warriors with which to destroy the Russians. In three days, maybe four, they will come.”

It was as her brother predicted. Under the cover of darkness, they slipped away from the village that lay exposed to the guns of the Russian ships and went to their stronghold that was located near the mouth of a river farther up the bay. Erected on a small bluff, it was surrounded by a breastwork two logs thick and roughly six feet high, with small brush piled around that. On the long side facing the bay, there were two embrasures for the small cannon they had obtained from the Boston man. Two gates were located on the forest side of the stronghold, and fourteen dwellings provided shelter within the fortified compound.

At midday, Raven saw a scout who had been sent to observe the movements of the Russians enter the stronghold. He wouldn’t have returned unless there was something to report.

“Is Nanuk coming?”

Slightly winded, he shook his head. “No. Nanuk and his men landed at the village and climbed the hill behind it. They tied one of their red cloths with the picture of the two-headed eagle on it to a pole and put it in the ground. Now they drag cannons and timbers up the hill.”

That afternoon, her brother added a war design of red paint to the black that always covered his face to protect it from the insects and the glare of the sun off the water in the summer and the snow in the winter. He donned his vest of wooden armor and his shield, then joined the escort of roughly sixty warriors accompanying the chief. They left the stronghold to seek out Nanuk again and learn his intentions.

When the band arrived at the village site, Heart of the Cedar saw for himself the eagle cloth that fluttered from the pole atop the bluff. A breastwork of timber was already partially completed, and the cannons pointed their long snouts at his warrior band. As they halted beyond musket range of the Russians, the chief called for Nanuk to come speak with them.

A handful of men accompanied Nanuk down the slope. The wise leader of the Russians had not changed much since Heart of the Cedar had last seen him. Hair still did not grow on top of his head, and the pale fringe below the shiny top seemed no lighter. His expression was stern and unforgiving as he faced the chief.

“Nanuk tell the meaning of the guns placed above our village,” the chief demanded.

The answer came through an interpreter. “The Kolosh burned Nanuk’s village. Nanuk is going to build his new village in this place. He says that you must bring to him every Aleut you hold as slave, and all Kolosh must leave Sitka Island and never come back unless Nanuk requests to see you.”

Angered, Heart of the Cedar stepped forward. “Since first Kolosh came, this land has been the home of the Sitka clan. Our spirits live here. We will not leave.”

“When the Russians came, we asked to live in peace with the Kolosh. We built our village in one small place on land the Sitka kwan sold to us. We did not raise our hands against you. We always traded fairly with you. But you made war on us, and I no longer trust the Kolosh. Therefore, I say you must abandon your stronghold on the river and leave the island. If you refuse, our cannons will blow you into the sea. Give me your answer when the sun comes up.”

The chief hesitated. Heart of the Cedar knew that help could not arrive from the phratries by morning and guessed the chief was thinking that also. “We will give you our Aleut slaves and let you build your new village. We will not make war on you. We will agree to that and no more,” the chief stated.

Nanuk would not accept that. “Leave or I will drive you from the island.”

The chief glared at the short, wizened leader, then pivoted sharply and walked through his quickly parting warrior escort. They closed ranks behind him and followed him into the dense forest.

The following day, the command of the
Ekatrina
was given to the Cossack Lieutenant Arbusov. Several cannons from the Navy frigate were mounted on the
Ekatrina’
s decks. Under the Cossack’s orders, Mikhail sailed the vessel farther up the bay and anchored it close to the Kolosh stronghold. The three other colonial-built ships joined them to form a line, but the frigate
Neva
remained at the village site.

Not a single Kolosh showed himself, but Mikhail knew they were there. All the previous night an eerie chant had come from the stronghold, the wavering singsong cry working on his nerves—and everyone else’s—and depriving him of sleep.

The singing had continued into the early-morning hours. It hadn’t ended until a short time ago, after the sun was well up in the sky. Now the stillness was filled with a tension that came from the ranks of men crowded together on the deck, a kind of battle-ready eagerness that hardened their features.

“Fire!”

A second later, the air vibrated with the thundering boom of the cannons, and the deck shuddered beneath Mikhail’s feet. As men scrambled to reposition the cannons and reload, Mikhail observed that most of the shells fell short of the timbered breastwork surrounding the Kolosh stronghold. A few struck it, but their force was spent and the impact caused little damage.

All up and down the line of ships, the cannon barrage continued. The deafening roar of the guns assaulted his eardrums, and the acrid smell of powder smoke burned his nostrils. Through the layers of drifting gray smoke, Mikhail could see that the stronghold remained intact. Baranov called a halt to the futile pounding that had succeeded only in wasting valuable ammunition, and approached Mikhail.

“Is it possible to maneuver the ship closer to shore, Tarakanov?” Baranov demanded, his frustration showing.

“No, sir.”

As Baranov turned to confer with Arbusov, Mikhail was close enough to hear of their plans.

Not a single answering shot came from the stronghold. Encouraged by this lack of resistance, the Cossack officer recommended to Baranov that the native fort be stormed by land, since the ships’ cannons had been unable to level it. The decision was made to transport some of the lighter field-pieces ashore and assault the bluff from two sides. Baranov would lead one group of a hundred and fifty men, and Arbusov would command the other.

As the boats were lowered over the side, Mikhail spied his brother standing on the fringes of one of Baranov’s landing parties. He hadn’t spoken to Zachar since that first night. Mikhail hesitated, then wound his way through the throng of heavily armed men to his brother’s side. Zachar didn’t notice him; all his attention was centered on the timbered palisade of the native fort. He looked worried. Or was it fear? Mikhail wondered.

“Zachar.” He watched his brother turn with a guilty start, then quickly avoid his gaze. “I wanted to wish you luck.”

He nodded stiffly. “Thanks.” Ahead of him, the men began climbing over the side into the waiting boats that would take them ashore. Zachar shuffled forward to wait his turn.

“Tonight, you can give me a complete account of what happened.” Mikhail made an attempt to remind Zachar of their younger days when he had listened so enviously to his older brother’s stories about his adventures.

A smile tugged at the corners of Zachar’s mouth as he glanced over his shoulder at Mikhail. A moment later, he was crawling over the rail and climbing down the ropes to the boat.

As he helped row the heavily loaded boat toward the beach, Zachar stared at the brushwood piled around the log breastwork. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget that Raven was hiding somewhere behind those walls. He looked at the small cannon in the boat, knowing how indiscriminately its shells selected its victims.

The boats landed on the beach without incident. As the force, mainly composed of Aleuts, disembarked, there wasn’t a sound or a movement from the native fort. Baranov assembled his force on the beach and prepared to advance in coordination with Arbusov’s assault. But the land between the narrow strip of graveled beach and the Kolosh stronghold on the bluff was clogged with a dense thicket of brush and towering berry bushes. They plunged into the wet undergrowth, but the going was hard and slow as they labored to drag the small cannon through the slippery tangle. They lost sight of Arbusov’s party almost immediately.

By late afternoon, they were halfway up the slope of the bluff. Zachar leaned his shoulder against a wheel of the cannon and threw all his weight into it, straining to push it another centimeter closer, but the wet footing gave him little leverage. It seemed to take all his strength to keep the cannon from rolling backward. The others around him were having the same problem. He stole a quick look at the log ramparts. The closer they got to the stronghold, the more unnerving the silence became. Bending his head, Zachar redoubled his efforts to budge the cannon.

Suddenly the wild yells of the Kolosh ripped the air, instantly followed by a barrage of musketfire from the breastwork. A rain of lead hammered down on them from above. Zachar crouched behind the cannon and tried to bring his musket up, but all around him the Aleuts were breaking and running, abandoning the more than two dozen Russians in Baranov’s group. Immediately, painted Kolosh warriors began streaming over the parapets, howling and screaming war cries. Zachar fired without bothering to choose a target. There were too many.

“Retreat!” Baranov shouted.

Zachar joined the mad scramble down the brush-covered slope, pulling the rolling, rattling cannon behind him. He saw Baranov fall and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him along. The air was filled with flying lead as the guns on the ships provided a fusillade of cover fire, and ultimately forced the Kolosh to turn back.

Safely aboard the ships again, the cost of the abortive charge was tallied; the total came to ten dead and twenty-six wounded. Baranov was among the latter, suffering an arm wound. Conceding failure, he turned command over to Captain Lisianski. The next day, the frigate
Neva
was towed alongside the smaller ships, and a relentless bombardment of the enemy stronghold began. All morning and afternoon, the forest and the bay reverberated with the unceasing roar of the cannons.

Twice the Kolosh waved a white flag from the ramparts. The first time a messenger from the stronghold promised to furnish Nanuk with hostages if he would allow them to remain on Sitka Island. Baranov refused, insisting the Kolosh must leave. On the second occasion, the messenger promised the Kolosh would leave the following day at high tide, and the siege was lifted.

High tide came and went the next day and nothing happened. Lisianski ordered a log raft constructed and mounted several of his heavy cannons on it. At a closer range, the guns began pounding the enemy fort again, at last inflicting damage on the log breastwork. An old man appeared on the beach at twilight waving a white flag. This time he promised the Kolosh would leave. The battery ceased firing.

Unable to sleep that night, Zachar walked the deck of the
Ekatrina,
his gaze continually drawn to the dark mass of the stronghold. When he’d been at Kodiak, distance had made it easier for him, but now to be so close to Raven and not see her was painful. He wanted to believe that she had cared for him, that he hadn’t been wrong to trust her.

From the Kolosh fortress came a wailing chant. Zachar paused to listen to the mournful song. The heavy beat of a drum echoed the dirgelike rhythm of the song. Other voices joined in, lifting to a crescendo, then falling away to a near silence, only to have the pattern repeat itself. Zachar couldn’t understand the words, but the grief the voices contained needed no translation. The sound chilled his skin.

All through the night, the eerie chant continued without letup. An hour before dawn, it finally stopped. The unearthly silence that followed was almost worse. Zachar waited for the sun to come up, but the pink dawn revealed only winged scavengers soaring in slow circles above the stronghold.

There was no response when they hailed the fort. Zachar volunteered to go ashore with the armed party being sent to investigate. When they landed on the beach, everything seemed deathly still. They approached the stronghold cautiously, circling around through the forest. The gates stood open. There was no sound, no movement inside.