The claim of the Russian American Company to exclusive trading privileges in Alaska and the neighboring islands was a claim not many Americans were prepared to admit. The Boston men had been encroaching on the area for years just as the promyshleniki, those free-roving hunters and traders from Siberia, had been moving into Canadian or American territory when opportunity offered. Under Baranov, trading in the Russian-American area had been distinctly dangerous unless that trade was carried on with Baranov himself, then the government of Russia had interceded and opened Russian America to free trade. The ruling was still in effect, but it meant no more to the Company than many another, and they waged open war on all who dared trade in their territories. Restrictions of the Company, or even of a far-off Czar, had little effect on Americans, a people impatient of any restriction, and trade with the Pribilofs continued.
The seal islands did not interest Jean LaBarge. The risk was great for the profit involved, but the coastal islands were a veritable maze. Charts of the area were sketchy and inadequate and what knowledge of its waters existed was only in the memories of those ship masters who had cruised the channels and traded in the islands, or among the Indians themselves. With such a schooner as the one in the harbor a man might slip in and out of those channels with small chance of encountering a Russian patrol ship. The furs of the coast were excellent and Jean had made it his businesss to learn which villages were outlets for the furs of the interior. Tonight he would learn more. Tom Herndon’s parties were a clearinghouse for news. Whoever was somebody in San Francisco might be found there on Tuesday nights. Herndon’s wife came from the Carolinas with southern ideas on entertaining, and with money enough to gratify her every whim, she entertained on the grand scale. The face of the girl on the wharf kept forcing its way into Jean’s thoughts. A connoisseur of accents, as everyone in San Francisco must eventually become, he could not place hers. There were many German and French settlers now, but her accent was not German or French. Suddenly, he remembered the square-rigger recently arrived in port. But what would a girl, and such a girl, be doing on a ship from Sitka? During the Russian occupation of Fort Ross there had been several girls of good family there, and others had visited with their husbands or fathers, but Fort Ross had been long abandoned. Disturbingly, her face remained in his mind, and the feel of her body in his arms. There had been that brief instant when she rested, passive, in his arms, an instant when it seemed natural and right, as if she would always be there. When she had realized the situation she had straightened quickly away from him.
Yet for that moment…
The Herndon party was an hour old when Jean entered the crowded rooms. Hutchins was there, a tall, handsome man of soldierly bearing with a shock of pure white hair and a dignity few could match. Royle Weber was there, too, a small, fat man, very busy and very talkative, always gesturing and smiling. Weber was an agent for the Russian American Company, buying and selling for them locally. Perhaps, Jean suspected, a spy for them also. That might explain the disappearing ships.
As he was passing Sam Brannan, the latter stopped him. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you, LaBarge. We may need your help.”
“Thanks, no. I appreciate the problem, but I’ll skin my own cats.” “There is power in organization, LaBarge,” Brannan said seriously. “Alone, a man is helpless.”
“They’ve not bothered us so far.”
Brannan nodded. “You’ve been fortunate. The hoodlums from Sydney Town are growing bolder every day.”
From the beginning Sam Brannan had been one of the most intelligent and far-seeing citizens of the town, and one of the few willing to stand up to the Sydney Town thugs. He had been one of the original leaders of the first Vigilante organization, and it had been successful largely because of the men Brannan had selected, and because it had been no incoherent and hastily assembled mob. The men he had chosen were solid citizens as well as men of courage and integrity.
When LaBarge had passed them, Brannan turned to his companions and said, “If there’s trouble again, I want him with us.”
Charley Duane lifted his eyebrows. “Why? I’ve not seen any of his graveyards.”
Brannan knew enough about Duane not to like him. “No? Next time try Nevada.”
Royle Weber was emphatic with his nod of agreement “I know the story, Charley. It was an attempted claim jumping, and two men lost out in a gun battle with LaBarge, but LaBarge didn’t stop there. He went to town to see the man who sent them.”
“And … ?”
“He sent him out of town—walking. He had only what he stood up in, and a broken arm.”
Duane was thoughtful. His friends from Sydney Town had been wary of LaBarge, and this might be the reason.
“I hear he’s growing wheat,” Herndon commented.
“He bought property from you, didn’t he, Sam?” Weber asked.
“I handled the sale. Yes, he’s growing wheat, which more of us should be doing. He’ll sell his crop this year for much more than many a miner will get from a claim. If you’re doing business with them it isn’t a good idea to underrate anything either Hutchins or LaBarge are doing.” Weber turned a cigar in his fingers, then bit off the end, his manner thoughtful. “What,” he asked then, “is all this interest in Alaska? I hear he’s forever asking questions about it.”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Brannan replied shortly.
Jean LaBarge moved from group to group, pausing only briefly here and there. More than one pair of feminine eyes lingered on his broad shoulders and his dark, lean face with its high cheekbones and scar. His manner and dress was that of a gentleman, but his face was that of a pirate. He was carefully dressed: well-tailored suit, ruffled shirt and a black tie; but no matter how carefully he combed his hair it soon resumed its natural tumbled curliness. His boots were of Spanish leather, handmade. Turning away from the group where Hutchins stood, he came to an abrupt stop, audibly catching his breath. Before him, wearing a satin evening gown surely from Paris, was the girl from the wharf … and as his eyes found her she turned slightly and saw him. For an instant their eyes held, then moved away as if by agreement. Jean felt a queer excitement. His mouth was dry. He turned to answer some comment from Hutchins, and replied to the question without really knowing what he said. The man who stood beside the girl was tall, much older, with iron-gray hair and the thoughtful face of a scholar. There was something about his poise, his dignity that commanded attention. But it was the other man who immediately drew Jean’s attention so that he scarcely noticed Royle Weber, who stood between them. He was an inch taller than Jean’s six feet two inches, as broad of shoulder as Jean himself and somewhat heavier in the body. His hair was blond clipped high on the sides and close-cropped on top. His eyes were gray-white and closely set. He carried himself with a military bearing; his white uniform coat was ablaze with decorations. His trousers were black with a thin white stripe down each leg and he wore black boots. Yet the insignia he wore, despite the uniform, was of the Navy. This could only be Baron Paul Zinnovy. “Mr. LaBarge?” Weber spoke loudly. “May I present Count Alexander Rotcheff? You were asking about wheat, sir. Jean LaBarge is one of the few, these days, who think of planting. If anyone will have wheat to sell, it will be Mr. LaBarge.” The older man bowed slightly. “It is good to know, Mr. LaBarge. It is the reason for our visit. We must have wheat at Sitka.”
“Well, we have the wheat,” Jean answered. At once his mind seized upon the idea. Wheat for Sitka? Free, unquestioned access to the islands? It was just what he had been hoping for, planning for. “I am sure we can reach an agreement.” Rotcheff turned to include the girl and the tall blond officer. “Mr. LaBarge?
May I present my wife? And Baron Zinnovy, of the Imperial Russian Navy.” Some of his dismay must have been evident, for there was something in her eyes that responded to his … was it regret?
“Baron Zinnovy,” Rotcheff continued, “is in command of the patrol ships at Sitka.”
“To a dealer in wheat that will not be important. If Mr. LaBarge dealt in fur it might be very important indeed.”
Jean smiled, but his eyes held a challenge. “But I am a dealer in furs, Baron Zinnovy! Wheat is just a sideline with me. My real business is in fur. In fact, Captain Hutching and myself are among the largest buyers of fur on the coast.” “No doubt,” Zinnovy said, his voice arrogant, “you have bought many Russian skins. For the future, if I were you, I would put no trust in that source.” “Russian skins?” Jean furrowed his brow with exaggerated perplexity. “You have the advantage of me, Baron. I have taken the skins of fox, marten and mink, but so far I’ve never had to skin a Russian.”