27
Under a gray sky the gray water was ruffled by a wind raw with cold. The bare masts of the schooner and the bare roofs of the houses along a bare shore offered no comfort from the wind. On deck Jean LaBarge, still pale from blood lost by his wound, stood waiting for the gear to be lowered into the longboat. “Take the furs to Canton,” he advised Kohl. “You don’t have a full cargo, but the furs are good and you should make a nice profit. Then return to San Francisco and report to Hutchins. You’re in command.” “And you?”
“I’ll make my plans as there’s need for them. When I’ve escorted Princess de Gagarin to St. Petersburg there will be time to plan. I may return by this route, and may go across the Atlantic to the east coast.” Kohl did not like it, and said so. “Begging the lady’s pardon, Cap’n, you can’t trust them. These are a suspicious people, and Baron Zinnovy has friends ashore here. If he doesn’t come after you himself he’ll send a ship with orders for your arrest.”
“I can take care of that eventuality,” Helena said. “I believe we can also cope with Baron Zinnovy.”
“I hope so.” Kohl was gloomy. “You’d better take Boyar, Cap’n. He’d like to visit Poland, and he knows much of this country.” LaBarge glanced at Boyar. “Do you want to come?”
“If I can … yes.”
“Get your gear on deck, and made it quick.”
Snow lay in splotches on the gray slopes back of the town, and on the shaded sides of the buildings just back from the waterfront. Duncan Pope, suddenly gracious, helped Helena into the boat. His sour face anguished, he struggled to find words. “I …. I never knew a princess before,” he finally managed to say, “and … and you act like a princess.”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pope! Thank you very much!” All the crew had gathered to say goodbye. One by one they bobbed their heads at her. Only Ben Turk was more formal, muttering something indistinguishable as he stepped back.
“Take care of the boys, Barney,” LaBarge told Kohl, “and of the Susquehanna. And there’s a letter on my desk for Robert Walker. Mail it, will you?” The water was choppy but the men at the oars pulled strongly and the longboat headed for shore. Gant, who was in charge of the boat, glanced at Boyar. “Be careful, man. Remember you’re a Pole.”
“I’d do better here,” Boyar said dryly, “to forget it.” Jean LaBarge looked back at the Susquehanna, experiencing once more the thrill he had felt when he first saw her lying on the waters of Frisco bay. The shore offered nothing, just a gray slate shore with its patches of snow, and the weather-beaten buildings. This was Okhotsk, on the coast of Siberia, and the end of the world. Before them lay a journey of more than five thousand miles to St. Petersburg, and much of that distance was fraught with danger. The boat grated on the gravel of the beach and a sailor jumped in and drew the boat higher. Jean sprang down to the gray sand and helped Helena from the boat. He turned to the crew and shook hands all around. “Take her back, boys, and take care of the schooner for me.”
Several people, bundled in shapeless clothing, had paused to watch the arrivals but they did not offer to approach. When the boat shoved off and left the three standing on the beach the observers walked away, apparently no longer interested. Taking Helena’s arm, Jean started up the shelving beach toward the muddy street lined with its haggard buildings of logs or unpainted lumber, all equally dismal and unattractive. There was no evidence of warmth or welcome. Helena had papers she often used when traveling incognito, which identified her as Helena Mirov, governess, of St. Petersburg. She had her own papers, but as she explained to Jean, “Nobody would believe a niece of the Czar could travel without entourage or luggage. They would certainly hold us for investigation, and that could take months and might lead to no end of trouble. And it would certainly alert all of Baron Zinnovy’s allies here.” “Then you must use the other papers.”
“Jean”—Helena looked up at him—“there is another thing. It would be better, I think, if it was believed I was your wife—recently married, to account for the names on the papers. There would be fewer questions.” “I agree with Madame,” Boyar said. “And unless Madame intends to ask for an armed escort, I would suggest the sooner we start the better for us.” A square-built man in a heavy gray coat stopped across the street some distance away and watched them. Boyar glanced at him nervously, then picked up their bags and started hastily up the street. The man watched them without apparent change until they entered the office of the post.
Boyar paused in the door and watched the man cross the street and enter police headquarters. Boyar looked around the bare, uncomfortable room in which they stood. There was no one behind the counter and no one in sight. “Wait here,” he said, and slipped out of the door and down the street. The moments ticked slowly by. The fire in the potbellied stove gave off little heat. They looked at each other, saying nothing. For once, Jean felt out of his element. There was so much he did not understand. Shivering in the still cold of the post station, they waited for someone to come. A half hour passed before Boyar suddenly opened the door and motioned to them. “Come quickly!” he called. “We leave at once!”
Boyar caught up their bags and started out the door. He went down the street a few steps, then turned into a dismal alley to a low-roofed barn where a man was hitching three horses to an odd-looking vehicle. “These are volni,” Boyar explained, low-voiced. “They are ‘free horses,’ unattached to the post system. The driver is a peasant farmer willing to make some extra money.”
The vehicle was a tarantas, a heavy, boat-shaped carriage mounted on four wheels with a heavy hood that could be closed in bad weather. The body of the carriage was mounted on two poles which connected the front and rear axles and served as rude springs to break the jolts on the always rough roads. The usual procedure was for the traveler to stow his luggage in the bottom, cover it with straw, and then to cover the straw with blankets and robes. On this he reclined, leaning against pillows. The driver sat on the front end of the carriage and drove the three horses hitched side by side with four reins. Hastily, they stowed their luggage, and Boyar brought from the house some blankets and an odorous bearskin rug. Climbing in, they spread these out and then Boyar got to a seat beside the driver and the latter gathered the reins and shouted, “Nu rodniya!”
Eager to be off, the horses started with a rush. As they turned down the street the police official they had earlier seen glanced their way in an uninterested manner. He stepped to the door of the post station and entered. Instantly he was out on the street, shouting after the tarantas. Boyar noticed but the driver did not, and Boyar lifted a finger to his lips. With the jangling harness, bumping of wheels over the rutted road and the ringing of bells over the horses’ backs, the driver heard nothing. Once on the road the man whipped up his horses. Their hoofs pounded smartly on the half-frozen road as they dashed off into the emptiness before them. Yet this emptiness would not remain with them for many miles. Beyond that lay the taiga, the world’s greatest stand of virgin timber, a wild, lonely region of forest and swamp, inhabited by peasants and exiles, escaped convicts and outlaws. This road was the famous tracht, leading from Siberia to Perm, at the edge of Russia proper. Travel by post road was easy, although subject to interference and questioning by the police. All that was needed for travel on the post road was the priceless padarozhnaya—the order for horses. The same carriage might be kept all the way through and only the horses changed. However, travel by volni was often best, for the farmers’ horses were better fed and the travel faster. It was cold. Not a piercing cold but the chill of late spring. The country over which they drove was a vast marshy plain scattered with clumps of alder and willow, stunted growths more like brush than trees. Helena moved closer to him and they leaned back against a duffel bag Jean had placed as a back rest, reclining rather than sitting.
Boyar turned his head to tell them they were headed, not for the post station, but for a farm where the driver knew free horses were also available. In this way, with luck, they might travel the entire distance without approaching a post station.