Chapter XIII

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.