Louis L'Amour - Sitka

"I served in the Navy under Zinnovy. That was ten years ago." The tall man pulled on his shirt. "I have a good memory, sir, a very good memory." "We can use you," Kohl said.

"After that I was promyshleniki for the Company, and I smuggled gold out of Siberia to China for a while. I was thrown into prison, but escaped." "No argument," Kohl said. "You'll do."

"After Monday," LaBarge told Kohl, "I want the crew kept aboard. No more than two men ashore at any time, and ready to sail at a moment's notice. When a man goes ashore, you know where he'll be, just which place. No last-minute delays." When all were gone he concealed his invoices under a board behind a bookshelf. Then, finally, he wrote one of his rare letters to Rob Walker. He was, he told Rob, going to Alaska himself. When he came back--

Behind him there was a slight rustle. An envelope had been slipped beneath his door.

He ripped it open. From the feminine handwriting and perfume he knew at once who it must be.

Can you come to see us? It is important.

* Helena

"Us" she wrote. She wanted him to come and see them both, but nonetheless, it was signed Helena.

He got up and walked to the window. Outside the street was empty and still. It was now Friday, and by Monday he wanted to be at sea, sailing north, and the master of his own ship. To Alaska ... to Sitka. They would be leaving soon, and he might even see them there. He remembered how Helena had looked that first day, flustered, mussed, and angry. He grinned at the thought. And then how prim, with her lifted chin, her too precise English.

She was charming, and so lovely, and he was in love with her and it would do him no good at all. She was married, and to a good man, a man of her own kind, her own rank.

He was a fool ...

But on Monday there would be the sea, the wind and spray in his face, and beyond there the places where nobody would mind, and where at night in the lonely hours, watching the seas roll aft, he could remember or forget.

Chapter 12

The tawny slope of the hill lay before them, dull gold in the afternoon sun, and beyond the hill the blue Pacific waters rolled to the horizon. When the two riders reached the trail's end high above the waters, Jean drew rein and relaxed in the saddle.

It was their second ride in two days, and might be their last. When riding Jean wore a tight-fitting Spanish-style jacket of buckskin, fringed in the Indian manner. It molded itself against his wide shoulders and was, Helena decided, most becoming.

"You ride like a vaquero," she said.

He pushed his flat-crowned Spanish sombrero back on his head and hooked a knee around the saddle horn. Filling his pipe, he watched her profile against the sky. "What about the plans for Alaska?"

"It is really the Baron who interests you, isn't it?"

"Of course. But when Count Rotcheff leaves, you will leave."

"We have more reason to fear the Baron than you, Jean. He is our enemy also."

"But you are the niece of the Czar!"

"You know what they say? 'God's in His heaven and the Czar is far away.' " Far out at sea a windjammer was beating in toward the Golden Gate, and they watched it for several minutes without speaking. There was intimacy in the silence, and it was such moments they had come to treasure above all else. There was no need to use words to build a fence about their emotions; during those long silences the barriers were down and something within each of them reached out to the other.

"You see, Jean, any investigation of what happens in Russian America would require a great deal of time. And any investigator they might send from Siberia would be corrupt, and whoever came from St. Petersburg would have to ask questions of the very people who have most to conceal. Paul has power even in St. Petersburg, Jean. Actually, he was sent out here because he was in trouble, but it is temporary only, a mild punishment, a means of keeping him out of the way for the time being. I believe he was sent here for other reasons as well. I believe his friends decided to accomplish two objectives with the one move. Get Paul Zinnovy out of the way of more severe punishment, but also place him where he could be of use to them."

She paused. "You know, in Russia he is considered very dangerous. He has killed several men in duels. And sometimes these duels are not exactly what they seem. Often it is not a case of offended honor but simply that some powerful person wishes to be rid of a man."

"Suppose," Jean suggested tentatively, "the charter is not renewed, nor another granted. What will become of Alaska then?"

"Who knows? It might be sold, but certainly not to England. Perhaps to the United States."

Jean lit his pipe, which had gone out. "I suppose it could be done if the negotiations were handled carefully. But it wouldn't be easy. There are a lot of Americans who think that Alaska's only a wasteland, not worth a penny." The sailing ship was closer now, making slow time of it against the strong current and a wind that helped little. They watched the ship while the afternoon trailed away like distant smoke, fading slowly. Soon it would be dusk. "You've never married, Jean? I wonder why?"

He swung his horse a little. "For a long time I couldn't find a girl I wanted, and when I did find her she was married to another man." "But there must be others, Jean. You're very attractive, you know."

"Oh, I've known girls ... here and there."

"You would lose your freedom, and a man like you should be free, free to fly far and high, like an eagle. A wife would tie you down, she would hold you." "Maybe. It might not even be so bad. I've been alone all my life, never known a real home. If you want to find a man who will love his home, find a man who never had one."

"I should think a man would always long for freedom. It is hard, I'd think, for a man who has known freedom to give it up."

He watched the ship. "Hard? With the right woman most men will settle down easy enough. Oh, sure! They look at the geese flying south, or maybe some night their eyes will open into the darkness as they lie in bed beside their wives, and they'll lie awake in the darkness and remember how native drums sounded, or the surf along a rocky shore, or how the bells ring from the temples ... but they stay where they are."

"Why?"

The ship was taking in sail now, approaching the passage gingerly, for many a fine ship had been wrecked in the Golden Gate.

"Because they've ... accepted their destiny, I suppose. They might think about the great world outside, but they wouldn't trade it for home." "Not you ... I believe you would go."

"I'd be the easiest of all, Helena. I've never known a home, so even the faults would seem virtues to me. As for love, who doesn't want it? To love and be loved in return?"

"I think, Jean, you will find what you want."

"Will I, Helena?"

The sea was darker now. The last of the color was deepening reluctantly into darkness.

"We'd best be going back."

Swinging their horses they put the sea behind them. Jean's gelding tugged at the bit, eager to be running. Helena's mare started and then both horses were running. Over the tawny hillside, still faintly tinged by rose from the sun that had set, a hill that changed as their horses ran to an inverted bowl of burnished copper against which drummed the racing hoofs. Laughing together, they cantered down the long hill and something trailed off behind them like whispered laughter. Abruptly, as they rounded a bend, the city lay below them and a column of smoke lifted from the waterfront. Jean drew up sharply, standing in the stirrups "It's my wheat, Helena," he said. "They're burning my wheat. The warehouse is going and everything in it."

He touched the spurs to his horse. The gelding left the ground in a tremendous leap, and with Helena beside him they raced neck and neck down into the city and through the empty streets. Their hoofbeats echoed from the false-fronted buildings and thundered in the empty channels of the town, stripped of people by the demands of the fire.