Molly had a perfectly simple explanation for her ability to talk to the
native. “Traveling around with Uncle Dave I’ve picked up a smattering of
several tongues,” she told him, when they were safely aboard the ship.
“I have been in the woods, too—up the Stikine in a bidarka—and I’ve
learned to talk a jargon that most of the tribes understand. It has
often been useful to me.”
After talking the matter over with Captain Skinner, they decided to make
no report of the fight on the hill, but quietly await developments. When
a few days passed without anything untoward it seemed likely that they
would never hear from it again. The cordial manner of Semanof, in
command of the garrison, remained unchanged; and Jeff decided he was
either playing a deep game or, what was far more likely, that the three
dragoons had failed to make a true report to their commander. Perhaps,
in spite of all evidence to the contrary, the men were simply three
desperadoes who had lain in ambush beside the trail for the purpose of
robbing passers-by, and Big Eagle happened to fall among them.
Jeff told himself he had heard of even more unusual coincidences. He
must have further evidence before he would believe all the old workman
had told him. To this youth who so fervently believed in the superiority
of monarchies over republics, in a government by a privileged noble
class over that of the plain people, some of the things he had heard and
seen were painful to accept.
Jeff would have deeply resented a charge of bigotry. He knew himself to
be a man of strong convictions, but one of the strongest of them was his
belief in his own tolerance and fairness. He thought he was always open
to argument, besides being a fair judge of evidence. Yet so fervent was
he in his own philosophy that he was largely able to believe exactly
what he wanted to believe, and nothing else; and his memory had a
gratifying way of holding what was pleasant and quickly expelling that
which vexed and distressed. The smarting wound his self-satisfaction had
received at the Governor’s luncheon had mostly healed by now. The
conversation he had heard had dimmed in his remembrance. Now, with the
passing days, the adventure on the hillside had ever less meaning to
him. Its ugly significance was forgotten or questioned; from a really
black crime it became an event of neutral shade which he might have
interpreted entirely wrong. Big Eagle was not here now to plead his
case. The wilderness had swallowed him, and none of the officials of the
Russian Company who used to buy his otter skins knew where he might be
found. Jeff would not relive the incident by talking it over with Molly,
perhaps because he knew and dreaded her reluctance to mince words, her
ability to arraign and to ferret out the truth. Molly, guessing these
facts, avoided the subject altogether.
Jeff did not want his philosophy questioned. The more he saw of Sitkan
official and court life, the greater its appeal, the more obvious its
superiority over anything to be found in his own country. Surely the
peasant existence in the Northern States and Middle West could not be
compared with it. Since the South was now crushed it also failed to
measure up. The gay social life, the refinement and particularly the
European charm and culture certainly made up for many things. Strict
discipline of the natives was of course an absolute necessity, and
perhaps the somewhat harsh treatment of Big Eagle had been justified by
serious crime.
He was dined, fêted, flattered, treated like a nobleman himself, none of
which offended him in the least. It was true that a remark was made now
and then which he could not fully appreciate, and sometimes something
that looked like a skeleton stalked out of the imperial closet, only to
be quickly confined again; but on the whole these first weeks in Sitka
were more to his liking than any term of equal length in his care-free
youth. Yet it was not to be that he should continue to see only those
things that official Alaska cared to show him. The outside view of the
Russian-American system was most pleasant to behold, but Jeff was
carried on the inside in spite of himself.
One October evening no social engagements demanded his presence; and
after supper he sat alone on the deck of the _Ethan Allen_, wondering at
the blackness of this Alaskan night. Clouds had massed in the sky,
imprisoning the least faint gleam of a star; and the sea was actually
like ink, except where the harbor lights threw a dim and fitful gleam.
The town lights were like small, yellow holes in a black sheet. Although
the hour was still early, the last gray strand of twilight had vanished
apparently into the blackness of the sea; he was tasting the long autumn
nights of Sitka, a northern city in spite of its comfortable climate.
He could not see even the wan gleam of wave-crests that are usually
visible even on the blackest sea, partly because of the intensity of the
gloom, partly because the faint wind that blew in the harbor hardly
stirred the waters into foam. Likely the wind was brisk and keen enough,
however, out on the deep. Beyond the coast ranges, out from the warm
winds that follow the Japan current, winter itself menaced, its chilling
breath already over the land—the white winter of the North that all
Northern men fear in their hearts.
As Jeff watched the distant lights, oppressed somewhat by the depth of
the gloom about him, he heard a subdued splash close to the water and
just beside the curving hulk of the ship. At first he thought it was
merely a leaping fish, but as he listened a wooden object scratched the
side of the ship. Of course it was a small boat of some sort, but Jeff
found it almost incredible that any sort of a boat could approach
unheard over that hushed sea, in the dead silence of the night. The fact
that it had done so would have been fair proof to an old Sourdough that
the man who propelled it did not wear a white skin. Only the red man is
adept at paddling a canoe without the paddle splash that a moose can
hear.
Jeff stood up and peered over the rail, but it was like looking into an
unlighted tunnel. He could not even make out the boat’s outline. But at
that instant a voice came up out of the deep.
It was a moving and mysterious sound in the utter darkness, and Jeff
felt as if he were being addressed from another world. Its subdued note
indicated the message was for his ear alone; and the fact that the
language used was not English, but rather a guttural tongue that he did
not know, added rather than detracted from the mystery.
“Speak English,” Jeff replied. “I can’t understand.”
The man at the water line evidently could not speak English, because he
merely repeated the sentence. On this repetition, however, Jeff caught a
single word that he thought he knew. As near as he could tell, it was
“_Americansk!_”
He was not a fool, and he assumed at once that the man was trying to ask
if Jeff were an American—possibly if the ship had American
registration. It had not been his practice since the war to use the term
“American” in regard to himself; but now, vaguely excited by the
mysterious visit, he all but answered in the affirmative, remembering
his unfailing pride just in time. “It is an American ship,” he replied,
his voice also subdued. Then, trusting that the man would know the Aleut
word for boat—a word that Jeff had heard frequently since coming to
Sitka and easily remembered, he added: “American—bidarka.”
This information apparently reassured the visitor, for a long silence
immediately ensued; and when Jeff heard him again he had paddled
silently as a drifting cloud around the bow of the boat and was tying up
at the dock. One of the lights of the quay showed faintly a long, native
canoe at the water line, and two lithe, long-haired natives.
They immediately started across the plank on to the ship, and Jeff got
up to meet them. He did not attempt further conversation with them, but
assuming that their business was with Captain Skinner led them
immediately into the latter’s quarters.
It was Molly who in the end had to translate the vernacular into
English. After the first sentence she turned to Jeff with a look of
question.
“I think this will be a matter for you to attend to, Jeff,” she said.
“He tells me he wants to talk to a representative of the American
Government, and is probably after American protection. Since we haven’t
an accredited consul in Sitka, I guess you’ll have to give it to him.”
“But I am here as a special correspondent, Molly.”
“I know that is your official standing, but everybody seems to think
that you are close enough to official Washington to look after American
interests up here. Your influence would be certainly greater than the
captain’s or mine, the only other citizens of the United States. Jeff, I
think this will be your affair.”
There followed a long conversation between the girl and the native, the
former asking questions, the latter muttering long and seemingly
unintelligible sentences in his harsh, guttural tongue. Although Jeff
and Captain Skinner listened intently, neither caught a familiar word.
It was no easy task to get the complete story. Pumping an Indian is
always an aggravating and tedious undertaking; and this strange bastard
tongue which the men used, full of native idioms, required the most
careful translation. The girl was infinitely patient, and the two white
men, bursting with curiosity, not only fumed and complained but made her
task harder by foolish questions. She was a long time digging out the
truth.
“They seem to have come on a rather delicate mission,” she explained at
last. Her heightened color, lovely under her yellow hair, and her
brilliant eyes showed she had found the story keenly interesting. “They
were sent to get some kind of an American official if such could be
found, and if not, an influential American whom our government would
look after. At first I had quite a time getting them to be frank with
me. They wouldn’t go on till I made it plain that while you, Jeff, were
not an official, at least you are a ‘chief’ and could do more for him in
Washington than any one else in Sitka. If he couldn’t find a ‘chief’ he
wanted the captain of on American vessel. With good luck, they found
both.”
“You’re worse than the Indians, Molly,” Jeff complained with some humor.
“Can’t you get at the story?”
“I will, quick as I can. It seems there is a disabled steam schooner in
the harbor behind Barabara Point. Do you know where that is, Uncle?”
“Sure. That’s the native name for a place on the mainland, at least
twenty hours’ run from here. The Aleuts built a big barabara on the
point to use in otter hunting. Who is she?”
“She is the _Boston Dame_. She’s been trading off the coast of Siberia.
She’s not badly damaged, but she’s stuck up there in the lagoon for at
least a moon. She’s in command of Captain Cooper, and she wants help.”
“What kind of help? A tow?”
“No. I asked about that particularly. She wants an American official to
get a ship and come up there and take off part of her cargo to save it.
What can the man mean by that.”
“I know mighty well what he means, and so do you.”
“To keep some one else from getting it?”
“Sure. He’s been trading with the natives for furs, and he’s probably
got some fine ones. Course he calculated to shoot right through to an
American port; and he’s hung up the last place on earth he would have
picked out. He knows what will happen when word reaches the Russian
Company that he’s gone aground—the same what you know, and I know,
too.”
“What?” Jeff demanded. His tone showed that he resented, in spite of
himself, the Captain’s knowing manner.
“They’ll come up and seize his cargo, that’s what, and maybe his ship,
too.” He whipped to the girl. “Has Cooper got papers showing permission
to trade?”
The question had to be repeated, in laborious detail, to the natives,
and their answer returned. “They say he has all his papers and was
entirely in his rights,” the girl translated at last.
“I don’t doubt it; Yankee skippers as a rule don’t go to smuggling,”
Captain Skinner commented with vigor and emphasis. “Just the same, he
knows them permits won’t save him a minute. Baron Karl’s gang won’t even
look at his papers, and if he tries to show ’em, they’ll tear ’em up and
chuck ’em into the harbor.”
“You mean they would unlawfully confiscate the cargo of an American
trading vessel?” Jeff demanded incredulously.
“They won’t confiscate it. That’s too big a word. They’ll just pinch it.
Furs are too hard to catch to let a chance like this go by, and they
resent the Czar’s liberality in granting trading permits and deny his
right to do so. They’ll just report that they caught him trading in
their waters, and that’s all there’s going to be to it, and maybe they
won’t take the trouble to make any report at all—especially if the boat
would happen to sink! It’d be something the same if the Hudson’s Bay
Company boats come along and spied him, because Barabara Point is on the
panhandle which they’ve chartered from the Company, but in this case
they’d likely be given the chance of some sort of trial in London.”
“How does he think we can help him?” Jeff asked.
“That’s plain enough. He knows that the Company here or the Hudson Bay
Company is bound to learn about him before he can make repairs and get
out. He wants you to come up there in a boat and take care of part or
all of his furs for him, and keep ’em for him. In other words, use the
power of the United States Government to keep the gang from taking them
away from him. They’re only too tickled to rob an American; they think
he can’t fight back. What you going to do about it?”
“But I’m not an official, Skinner.”
“Not an official official, anyhow. Just the same, Sharp, you can do it
for him if any one can. Everybody up here knows you are close to the
administration—and that you’re representing Washington in this cable
matter, or trading rights, or something. There ain’t any other Americans
in Sitka, so it’s up to you, plain enough.”
“I’ll help him all I can, of course, if he deserves it. I wasn’t given
any instructions to take this kind of an affair under my wing, but since
I have influence in Washington, it’s for me to help him.”
“It’s for all of us to help him,” was the emphatic reply. “Ain’t he from
our country?”
“I must say, however, that I think you misjudge the Company officials,”
Jeff went on stiffly. “I don’t think they’d confiscate a cargo of furs
lawfully taken.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“I can’t help but think you exaggerate the danger. These officials are
not pirates; they are very superior men. I think the probability is that
the man has been trading unlawfully, and now he’s afraid he’ll be caught
at it. However, I think we should go up and investigate, and if it’s
necessary I’ll take charge of part of his furs and keep them for him
till he’s ready to sail.”
“You bet your skin it’s necessary! The only thing I’m worrying about is
whether you’ll be able to keep ’em for him after you get ’em.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense, Captain.”
“So? Well, you’ve got a lot to learn. Karl and his boys can be mighty
noble, and swell, and all that, when they’ve got nothing to gain by
being otherwise. Put a stack of money in front of ’em and you’d see how
long they’d stay noble. Just about as long as I would, and no more!”
Jeff laughed in spite of himself. “I don’t know about your New England
conscience, Captain,” he rejoined, “but it’s ridiculous for you to infer
they’d be crooked with me. Baron Karl is my friend, and so are many of
the other Company officials; and I really don’t like to hear you talk
that way about them.”
“All right, wait and see. A lot depends on how valuable the furs are.
Prince Maksoutof plays a square game as far as I know, but he is only an
agent for the owners of the Company, such as Karl, and what you don’t
know about that fellow would fill a dictionary. But don’t think I’m
trying to persuade you not to help the poor devil out. It’s the least we
can do; only see that you’re properly rewarded for exerting your
influence with Washington and the officials here, as well as for the
risk you’re taking.”
“Pooh! Where do you get the risk?”
“Any time a man has gold in his hands—and furs are gold—he’s in
danger. I’m not fooling, Sharp, and I say it could be a serious danger
up here. Where you going to get a boat to go help him?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“How about this one? We’re an American outfit, and would take pleasure
in it.”
“But you’re disabled!”
The Captain looked down his nose, and his expression was so peculiar
that Jeff’s interest was immediately aroused. “So we are! Molly, what
are we going to do about that?”
“What can we do, Captain?” the girl replied. “Don’t you think you could
patch us up somehow, enough for the short run out and back?”
“Oh, maybe so. Molly, show the natives into the galley and see that they
get some coffee—with plenty of sugar. I’ll go down and talk to the
chief engineer. I guess we can make the brig run, and the sooner we get
started, the better our chance to save the cargo of the _Boston Dame_.”
Before long Jeff was to understand why the fame of the Yankee skippers
carried over the five oceans, a tradition that would endure clear until
that unhappy time when American youth chose the city rather than the
sea, and our strong ships were guided by alien hands. Captain Skinner
went below, gave certain orders, and then went to bed, at which time the
fires in the boiler room were all but out, parts of the engine were
dismantled, and the spirit that lived in the ship—that which bore it
over the waves and all sailors believed in—had seemingly passed away,
as if in death. When Captain Skinner got up again, in daylight, all that
remained to do was to stand upon his bridge and give his orders.
He gave those orders in a voice that could be heard over most of Sitka.
The wounded bird took wing. In the chill morning hours—bravely as her
famous namesake advancing on Ticonderoga—the _Ethan Allen_ steamed out
from the dock. Soon she had passed the harbor mouth and once more felt
the long roll of the seas under her stout keel.