Chapter X

The Governor’s luncheon proved to be in keeping with the dignity of his office. In the long, beautiful dining room of the Castle a table for six had been prepared; and six silent, oriental-looking natives, dressed like house servants of old Russia, were in attendance. They had been trained by exacting masters and according to certain methods in which the noble Muscovite thoroughly believed, and though Jeff had been waited upon all his life by the superior lackies that once graced the Old South, he had never seen such unobtrusive, flawless service as this tendered to him now. The table and buffet had been wrought by cabinet-makers in an age when men put their souls into the work of their hands, fashioned with a skill that now had died from the face of the earth. This young Rebel was no backwoods boor, and he had known a great deal of what was beautiful and fine, but he opened his eyes at these things, and at the crystal and plate that gleamed on their polished surfaces. The Governor had seen fit to honor him with his best.

In addition to this treasure there was food such as only a master Russian chef could prepare, served in portions as was the memorial custom: caviar and other sea food, crisp vegetables from the Governor’s gardens, a brown roast of that incomparable wild meat, mountain sheep. There was coffee black as nightshade; and after dessert, when all plate was removed except certain goblets of crystal, there was liquid treasure of such quality and in such abundance as only the Muscovite could appreciate and understand. In the way of mental food there was bright and witty conversation, largely in English, in compliment to the American guest of honor; and there was certainly a brilliance and Old World charm about the whole affair—something above and beyond the food and service, even above and beyond the coffee and other liquids, which was evidently in the air—that went a long way toward taking Jeff’s mind off his troubles.

There were three guests besides himself and Yanovisk: Templeton the Englishman, young Lord Staritsa, and—to Jeff’s immediate embarrassment—a tall, distinguished-looking Russian with the scar of a bullet wound in his cheek. Templeton was the same courteous, self-confident gentleman that had complimented Jeff’s uniform the preceding evening. The adventurer Staritsa, the general effect of whom had been so unpleasant the night before and whose address had stopped just short of actual insult, wore his company manners to-day; and Jeff thought he had never met a more engaging young nobleman. His wit was keen, his manner cordial, his whole demeanor flattering in the extreme. And what might have proved a most awkward situation became, through Karl’s seeming magnanimity and good breeding, an exceedingly pleasant and convivial occasion. The Power behind the monopoly acted as if he had completely forgotten the unfortunate incident of the preceding night.

Indeed, the entire company put itself out to be nice to the “special correspondent” from America. He returned them the most cordial appreciation. His spirits rose to an unprecedented height; and certain troubling little doubts that had lately clouded his happiness faded and disappeared. He was never so certain of the truth of his guiding philosophy. He was confident he had misjudged Staritsa, and Baron Karl too. He convinced himself that the old workman had given him an entirely wrong picture of the Russian system. His talk became more gay and fluent, his heart—the kindly, friendly, true-blue heart that blessed so many Southern people—warmed to the occasion.

These were his kind of people, he told himself. It was with such as these that he wanted to cast his fortune and live his life. Their ideals were the only ideals worth fighting for; their code the right code. He would go over to their side. He would not fight against them; rather, he would tell them, in a few days more, his real mission in Alaska—and thus perform a duty he owed to the South and to Southern friends.

The Governor was an imposing figure as he rose to offer the first toast of obligation. Jeff eyed him with youthful enthusiasm. Though the man spoke no English, the young Southerner understood the meaning of the toast before Templeton echoed it in his own tongue.

“To the Czar!”

Jeff thrilled as every man present stood up, raised his glass and drank. This was what made life worth living.

In the silence that followed Baron Karl’s pleasant voice rolled into the room. “This glass must be drunk in honor of our distinguished guest—from America. Is it not so, my friends? Shall it be—to the President of the United States?”

“Perhaps that toast, though likely drunk with avidity, wouldn’t please our guest as well as some other,” Templeton remarked easily. “Perhaps you didn’t notice the uniform that Mr. Sharp wore last night, Karl. It is true that he wore it for a masquerade, yet it permits us to guess some of our friend’s past history. How would you like it, Mr. Sharp, if we make this next toast not to the President—but to Dixie?”

Jeff raised his head, and every man at the table—including the distinguished Russian Governor who spoke no English—knew that this shot had gone home. His eyes flashed and his bold nostrils expanded as he sprang to his feet. He towered above every man in the room except Karl himself as he made his proud answer.

“That is _my_ first toast of obligation, Baron Karl! To the South, and the things that the South stood for!”

After the clamor had died down Templeton leaned thoughtfully over the table. “Baron Karl is of a nation who officially took the side of the North during the war, Sharp,” said he, “and he, of course, does not understand the situation the way we English do; but you can be sure that personally he wanted the South to win. Almost every man of the noble class in the whole world felt the same, and none of us can quite forgive Alexander II for taking the opposite side. I think the fact will go down in history against him.”

“How about Victoria?” Yanovisk asked, with a slight suggestion of heat. “Her personal attitude showed that she didn’t want the Union broken up. Of course her officials and the ruling class were strongly pro-Southern, and to say that England was neutral during the war is to joke. Your queen, on the other hand, was at least neutral if indeed she was not pro-Union.”

“Monarchs have strange ideas, these days,” Karl observed. “They are more liberal than the peasants.”

“You said one thing, in your toast, that I don’t fully understand,” Templeton went on seriously. “You said ‘the things the South stood for,’ instead of ‘the things the South stands for.’ Am I to believe there is any change in Southern sentiment since the war?”

“Mr. Templeton, I am sorry to say there is some slight evidence of it. Occasionally you hear a man say—the older men who should know better—that perhaps slavery was wrong; and in the long run it will be better that we are still in the Union. There are some who are willing to forgive and forget, looking upon the great war as something that might have been avoided if there had not been hot-heads on both sides. There are some of us, sir, who do not subscribe to those sentiments. We are proud to say that we can never, never be a loyal part of the Union again.”

“None of us blame you, you can be sure of that,” Baron Karl told him. “We are all with you. Every one in Europe who stands for the old regime instead of this new mob rule is firm on the side of you unconquered ones.”

The company now drank the health of England’s queen, and as this third glass began to warm him, to gladden his heart and to dull, slightly but imperceptibly, certain delicate processes in his brain, a bold and reckless idea came to this young Southerner at the Governor’s right. It suddenly occurred to him that here, at this select little gathering, was the fitting place to confess his real mission in Alaska. Here was his chance, without waiting longer, to thwart the enemies of the South.

He was perfectly aware that his disclosures would create a profound sensation. There would be no more laughter and care-free toasts at the long table for this present hour at least; not one of them here dreamed that negotiations between the President and the Czar were already practically concluded; that Alaska was about to slip out of the monopoly’s grasp. There would be no further delay in the conclusion of the treaty between the Russian-American and the Hudson’s Bay companies, no further haggling over terms. The result of his news would be that the two great corporations would immediately reach an agreement, the former would accept the Czar’s offer as to the renewal of its charter, and Seward’s dream would not come true. Any hope of Alaska becoming United States territory would be definitely given over. As Seward had explained, England, the friend of the South, would fall naturally into possession.

He had not planned to show his cards at least for a few days more, taking time to scrutinize every detail of the situation; but that need of caution was past. Why should he not act at once!

The idea brought a sparkle to his eye apart from that induced by heady liquor; and he was quite pale from suppressed excitement. Had his great moment arrived? Surely, there was nothing to gain by delay, and perhaps everything to lose. The circumstances were not in the least open to question. He had looked at the matter from all sides; and there was but one answer. The chance had come to deal a stinging blow to the Union that had crushed his beloved South; to repay England for her friendship to the Southern cause—and only a coward would hesitate to act.

He was not obliged to nurse his hatred by remembrance of Southern wrongs; ruin and ravishment and death. He felt no need of lashing himself into a fervor in which he could blind himself to everything except revenge. He was certain, now, where he stood. All doubts as to his proper course were past. Here, at this table, were men who stood for what he stood for, representatives of nations and governments who were friends of the South, and to them he owed his loyalty. And now his hands clenched, and his face flamed as his old zeal swept back to him.

No one could look at him and doubt his sincerity. However mistaken this young Rebel might be, however biased and false his reasoning and his standards, at this moment he was true to himself. He thought the way he had chosen was the way of honor and manhood, of loyalty to his cause.

It was as if Fate had provided the occasion. Fate was on his side; it was as if the luncheon had been arranged expressly for his convenience. Here was Baron Karl, one of the chief owners of the Company and consequently most deeply concerned in what was forthcoming. Here was Prince Maksoutof, the Governor, Count Yanovisk his aid, and Staritsa, a noble representative of the patrician class. The presence of Templeton was a coincidence that definitely showed the hand of destiny in the affair; Jeff did not doubt that he was an unofficial agent of England or great English interests sent here to help engineer the proposed treaty with the monopoly—in the largest sense of the term, an international spy. Surely the moment had come to go over to his side. The Rebel would renounce the Union for good and all.

“I have something to tell you,” he began; then, leaning forward in his chair, he waited for a lull in the conversation so that he might be heard by every one. He was now not interested in their talk. So intent was he upon his purposes that he heard them but dimly; nor did he even discern the subject of their conversation. His preoccupation was so deep that it resembled the verge of sleep.

Presently his interest began to quicken. The fact now came home to him that while he was deep in reflection the party had gone forward a pace. The spirit of the affair had undergone a significant change. There was a more familiar note in the conversation that passed back and forth; speech was less guarded; the gentlemen spoke with an added fervor. Jeff noticed that in his mental absence his glass had been filled with an unfamiliar liquid—a cloudy white drink that burned his lips like fire—but the glasses of his friends were empty. Plainly they were one drink ahead of him.

This last libation evidently had been one of considerable potency, because the spirit of the gathering was now one of recklessness rather than of well-bred restraint. On the contrary, the effect of his own three drinks seemed to be wearing off, due perhaps to his mental activity of the moment before. The warmth and pleasant cordiality that had blessed him had largely passed away; and he found himself clear-headed and keen, able to give their remarks the most careful and accurate consideration.

“Yes, we lost our great chance,” Templeton was saying. “We should have got into the war at the outset. It was a smashing blow to us all.”

Of course he referred to the Civil War, still the evident subject of conversation; and Templeton’s sentiment was one with which Jeff could surely find no fault. Yet he found himself suddenly vaguely suspicious and anxious to hear more. He sensed that there was something besides love of the South and sorrow for the lost Southern cause in Templeton’s sincere regrets as to the outcome of the war.

“But how could you get into it, with your queen neutral or pro-North, and your common people all hoping to see the Union stand?” Yanovisk asked.

“Oh, our queen is a fool—sometimes. Like your own Czar, championing the people against us. You know it’s the truth. They are so secure in themselves, these monarchs, that they have turned liberal, seeing the peasant point of view before they see ours. Our common people would naturally be in favor of the North, simply because they are enamored with the idea of popular government. That ought to show you our danger, Yanovisk. You ask me how we could have managed to get in on the Southern side. It would have been easy enough if we had all put our shoulders to the wheel—the noble class in your country and mine. Propaganda will do wonders. We almost succeeded in England; you failed miserably and offset all the work we did.”

“The trouble with us was that some of our crowd could not see how we were concerned,” Baron Karl observed. “As you say, Templeton, it was a most good, a most fortunate chance to smash—what you say?—sky-high the whole republican idea; but my friends did not have intelligence to seize it. Naturally the idea of helping the South was nothing to them any more than to you, Templeton, or to me—what did we care about their state rights, and their self rule, and all the rest of it.”

Jeff, listening keenly, started ever so slightly; but raising his glass, he gave no further sign that he was attentive.

“But you see that was the argument we had to go on,” Templeton argued. “We couldn’t tell the people that we wanted them to go to war so we could keep them under our thumbs later. We had to make them feel that we really cared what happened to a few sentimental provinces south of the Mason and Dixon line. My friends, the internal squabble of the Republic was the monarchies’ opportunity. If we had done what we should—I mean by ‘we’ the noble class in your country and mine, and in France—this liberty-equality idea of which we hear so much would have had a setback it couldn’t recover from in a thousand years, simply because the republic idea would have proved a failure. By this time, there would be two or three other civil wars, the Southwest possibly breaking off from the Southeast, and the Northwest seceding from New England. The movement toward liberty and democracy would have been definitely checked. Our people would see that countries can’t get along without a king—and without a noble class. This new power of America would be broken to fragments. And then—what a chance for international spoil!”

“For the safety of the English people, her Majesty would be obliged to ‘establish a protectorate’ over the States adjoining the Canadian line,” Yanovisk suggested with a grin.

“England would have to hurry to get ahead of Russia,” Templeton laughed. “The Czar’s advisors would persuade him that the safety of his kingdom demanded the expansion of his American possessions. Washington territory, perhaps; maybe the entire American Northwest.”

“The wabbling French king of Mexico would be glad to establish himself firmly by an increase of Mexican territory,” young Staritsa remarked. “Of course he would take California, all the Southwest territories, and Texas. The French Crown would receive added prestige, and my yearly visits to Paris would not be haunted with the fear of another revolution.”

“Yes, our friends in France would never need fear the return of the Republic,” Baron Karl remarked. “But gentlemen, in our partition of America, we have forgotten its very garden.” Then, speaking rapidly in French, “What lucky nation would take over the South itself?”

The noble Russian could not dream that the man at the Governor’s right, evidently half-drunk and toying with his glass of vodka, had the least gleam of his meaning. French was the tongue of courts, Greek to the rail-splitting Indian fighters of America. The loud laugh that greeted his question was in compliment to his cleverness; it was quite diverting to discuss the dismemberment of a country in the presence of one of its patriots.

But the Southerner had not failed to understand. His knowledge of French had declined greatly since his school days, but now his mind was so active, and for all his seeming indifference so intent upon this amazing conversation, that he not only understood the Russian’s remark, but interpreted correctly all the talk that followed. He was never more sober in his life. The effect of the three drinks had miraculously passed away. His memory was sharpened and alert, and he recognized French words that he thought he had forgotten long ago.

“Yes, who will take over the South!” Staritsa echoed, laughing immoderately. “Of course if we fought on the Southern side we would be entitled to look out for its welfare. I met a lovely lady once, on shipboard, from Virginia. I would insist that Russia take Virginia. You could have all the rest.”

“The Southern gentlemen would be allowed to gather cotton beside their own former slaves,” was Karl’s next sally.

“None of you should have any of it,” Templeton informed the party. “You know what country depends on cotton—England would have to keep the South for herself!” His laugh ended with an oath. “But we are talking moonshine, and you know it. The Civil War is over. The Union is stronger than it ever was—at least it will be when the war-hatred begins to pass away. We lost our chance. It won’t be long till we have a people’s government in our own countries—for that matter, the House of Lords is loosing prestige every year. A man can poach rabbits on my place in Devonshire, and can I hang him to the first oak? I can not; I do well to get him a year’s sentence in jail. The old days of privilege are gone—I am afraid not to return. We won’t be able to hold the people down like we used to. We’d better leave this, and remember our guest.”

All laughter had died away when Templeton ceased speaking. The stately dining room was now oddly quiet. Smiling brilliantly, Staritsa turned to the guest of honor.

“I’m afraid we interrupted you, a few minutes ago,” he said in English. “We got to talking about the greatness of your country; and I fear we were rude, yes? You said you had something to tell us—”

Jeff looked him in the eyes. “It was nothing of importance,” said he. “It was not worth the attention of the company.”