The girl laughed outright and Count Rotcheff smiled. “Let’s hope you never do,” he said agreeably. “There are furs enough for us all without our skinning each other. Don’t you agree, Baron?”
“I think,” Baron Zinnovy replied distinctly, “this merchant is insolent.” Count Rotcheff started to interrupt, obviously uncomfortable and hoping to turn the conversation. Jean spoke quickly.
“You use the term ‘merchant,’” Jean said, “as if you considered it an insult. I think of it only as a compliment, for it was the merchant adventurers of the world who opened the roads and discovered continents and developed the riches of the earth while, if Count Rotcheff will forgive me, the titled lords were mainly concerned with waging petty wars or robbing priests and women.” Zinnovy’s face was pale. Never had he been spoken to in this manner, and although he despised Count Rotcheff for his diplomacy and political views, to be openly insulted before him was insufferable.
“If we were not guests—“
“But we are!” Rotcheff interrupted sharply. “We are guests, Baron Zinnovy, and this visit is of great importance to our colony at Sitka. We can have no quarrels here.”
Zinnovy bowed slightly, his eyes coldly furious. “I regret my haste, Count Rotcheff. As for Mr. LaBarge, I hope he makes no further attempt to open his merchant roads to Russian America.”
Jean feigned surprise. “But Baron, you forget! Count Rotcheff has just been discussing a purchase of wheat. If he buys my wheat I’ll have to deliver it.” “It will be a delivery I shall watch with interest.” His cold gray-white eyes met Jean’s. “Who knows but that we shall meet when neither is a guest of the other?”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Jean turned, “Countess …” “The name,” Rotcheff interposed, “is Princess. My wife is the Princess Helena de Gagarin, niece of His Majesty, the Czar of Russia.” “Oh … of the Czar?”
“And the niece of the Grand Duke Constantin also—you may have heard of him.” “A lot of us Americans admire the Grand Duke for his liberal views … naturally, they would be popular here.”
“If you approve of the Grand Duke,” Zinnovy suggested, “then you must approve the policies of Muraviev?”
“If he were an American I might approve. As he is a Russian, I do not.” “You approve his territorial claims against China? As you might approve of your own government if they laid claim to Russian America?” Jean shrugged. “I don’t know anything about statecraft, Baron, but I have heard of no claims made by the United States on Alaska. As to purchase, that is another thing. We might be interested in that question.” Count Rotcheff studied Jean more carefully. This young American was no fool … or did he speak with information of some sort? There had been talk in St. Petersburg of a bargain with the United States. It was most interesting that it should be mentioned here.
Rotcheff had been listening to the discussion with irritation. The Russian colony at Sitka was dependent on foodstuffs from California and Hawaii for its very existence. Russian ships were received without undue warmth and any dispute might bring an end to trading; the success of his own mission depended on friendship with the business interests of San Francisco. He seized the moment to change the subject. “My wife is very interested in your country, Mr. LaBarge, and I would be honored if you could show her something of the state outside the city.”
Rotcheff led Zinnovy aside, anxious to break up the circle and avoid a discussion that could lead to trouble. The music started and Jean led Helena de Gagarin out on the floor. For a time they danced without speaking, each content with their own thoughts. She danced lightly, gracefully, moving easily to the waltz. And he could only think that being a princess as well as a wife she was doubly lost to him.
The thought brought irritated amusement to his eyes: he had never before thought of a woman in terms of marriage, and now he had chosen someone as remote as a star. Yet he had never seen a woman so beautiful and desirable. She looked up at him. “You’ve not said you were sorry.”
“That you’re married? Of course I’m sorry.”
“I did not mean that. I meant for what happened on the wharf.”
He grinned cheerfully. “Sorry? I’m not a bit sorry. I liked it!”
Late that night, Jean LaBarge climbed the stairs to his rooms and opened the door. He felt gay and more excited than he could remember, and although it was two o’clock in the morning he was not in the least sleepy. All the way home through the poorly lighted streets he had thought of nothing but Helena. Throwing off his coat he sailed his hat to the settee against the wall and as he lighted the lamp he glanced at the map that covered the wall. Not even Captain Hutchins knew of his map. It was on canvas and was six feet wide by nine feet long, and it had been pieced together, bit by bit, fragment by fragment, for six years. It embodied information acquired from ship’s masters, common seamen, hunters, trappers, traders and occasional Indians. Each day or so Jean added another bit of information to the map or checked something already there.
In his business of buying he had occasion to do much listening and to ask many questions, and most of the traders or mariners were eager enough to talk of their successes or discoveries. Yesterday he had added an inlet to the map, two days before it had been a rocky ridge with pine trees at the tip. Beside the map, on a small desk, was an open book. It was one of a number of such books, and each item of information on the map was also entered in the books, along with much more. Descriptions of landmarks, tides, currents, timber, people, customs, weapons and living conditions. Without doubt his knowledge of Russian America was greater than the knowledge of men who had lived there for years. Each of those who lived in Alaska knew their own area and perhaps a little more, but Jean LaBarge’s books contained knowledge gleaned from thousands of men, and it was gathered by himself, who knew how to ask questions, how to make leading remarks, and who could ask those questions from a broad base of already acquired knowledge.
He knew the depth of water and best anchorage in Yakutat Bay, the best place to anchor and trade on Kassan Island. He knew by name the Indian in each village who was the best trapper and therefore most likely to have furs. He knew each chief by name and reputation, and knew his relations with other tribes. He knew of a fine salmon stream that flowed into Hump backed Bay, and of the waterfall about a half mile back from the beach. He knew the channels where tidal currents were most dangerous and where lay hidden rocks likely to rip the bottom from a ship.
Most of all he had made discreet inquiries about landlocked harbors, hidden channels, portages, and places likely to offer concealment from a patrol ship. Not one of the men to whom he talked knew very much, but in the aggregate they could tell him a great deal. No hunting story was too long to listen to, and any drunken trader or trapper found LaBarge a willing audience. The few charts of the Sitka area were woefully inadequate, but he secured copies and studied them. No day passed that he did not review the information he had gathered, for it was not enough that he had it in books; all he had gathered must be in his own head. Only one other man knew of that map, and that man was Robert J. Walker.
After all these years, the two friends still occasionally corresponded, keeping track of each other’s progress. Rob Walker’s success continued to be striking. After his term in the Senate he had returned to his law practice, but always with a strong interest and influence in political circles. Jean LaBarge knew that Walker’s interest in Russian America was different from his own, which was strictly commercial. To Jean, the Alaska fur trade offered a great chance for wealth, and once the country was opened to American interests, there might be much more that could be done. He already knew of the gold; there was no way of guessing what else the cold land might ultimately yield. Rob Walker thought of Alaska in terms of their childhood dreams, as another potential Louisiana Purchase. Jean LaBarge’s view was simpler and more immediate: Alaska meant money and adventure. That was enough for him. Now, after all his planning, it looked as if he would at last gain access to that northern land. If Rotcheff bought wheat from him he would himself transport it to Sitka or it would never leave the farm. It was for just this sort of opportunity that his wheat had been planted. True, he was always sure of a local market, but north was where his interest lay, and a cargo of wheat was a sure passage to Sitka.