The first person Jean saw when he entered the room was Seward. From descriptions he recognized him at once, standing near the fireplace chewing an unlighted cigar. His limp gray hair was rumpled and untidy, and some cigar ash had scattered itself over his satin-faced waistcoat. Seward acknowledged the introduction with a brief, limp handshake and a glance from his shrewd, appraising eyes. “You are much spoken of these days, Mr. LaBarge.” He rolled the cigar in his teeth. “You have the advantage of us, sir.
You have seen Alaska.”
“And I have talked to the Czar.”
“You have assumed a lot, Mr. LaBarge. By whose authority did you speak?” Despite the words, his voice held no animosity. Jean replied quickly, smiling as he spoke. “By yours, of course, sir. Mr. Walker tells me that in a speech at St. Paul a few years ago you said, speaking to the Russians, ‘Go on and build your outposts all along the coast to the Arctic Ocean, they will yet become the outposts of my own country.’ “ Seward’s eyes flickered for an instant with humor. “Mr. Walker’s memory is very convenient for you, Mr. LaBarge.”
Jean sensed rather than saw that other men had joined them. One of these he was sure was Charles Sumner, for Seward then said, “Tell us about Alaska, LaBarge. Tell us what you saw.”
Robert Walker glanced quickly around the room. Here, in this room, were a dozen of the key men in the Senate, men who might make or break ratification of the treaty. So much depended on the next few minutes. Suddenly he found himself wishing that Fessenden were here. One of the ablest speakers in the Senate, Fessenden was a bitter opponent of the purchase of Alaska. LaBarge had turned, almost casually, with his back to the fire. What he was to say now need not convince Seward, for Seward had been a consistent fighter for Alaska from the beginning; it was the others he must win. Charles Sumner was a man who dearly loved to present facts, to speak with authority, and he was a man whose words carried weight.
“What can any man say of a land the size of Alaska in a few minutes? I’ve seen its furs, its miles upon miles of forest, its gold, its iron, its fish. I have hunted in woods teeming with wild game, and seen valleys as fertile as any upon earth.”
From his vest pocket Jean took a small lump wrapped in skin. It was the nugget he had bought, long ago, from the trapper. “See this? Gold … and there is more of it there. But believe me, Gentlemen, gold is the least of Alaska’s riches.” For an hour LaBarge talked, replied to questions, and told stories of his experiences in Russian America. He told of the cruelties of the promyshleniki, and gave figures on the fur shipments. In forty years the Russian American Company had shipped over 51,000 sea otter skins, 291,000 fox pelts, 319,000 beaver and 831,000 fur seal hides.
“And that, Gentlemen, says nothing of what our own ships took out, nor the British. My own ship has taken out more than 100,000 skins, much whalebone, walrus, ivory, Tlingit blankets and some gold.” It was late before the party broke up and at last Walker and LaBarge sat down together.
“I think,” Walker said, “you’ve won some allies for us, and certainly you’ve given our backers some ammunition. What are your plans?” “I’ll leave for the coast at once. I have the Susquehanna to think of.” He glanced up at Walker. “When do you think this can be done?” “The purchase?” Walker shrugged. “Congress rarely does anything swiftly, Jean, and there are enemies to the plan. Some think it a waste of money, and General Ben Butler is bringing up the old matter of the Perkins claims. He says he will use their claim against Russia to stall ratification of the treaty. It may take months yet, even years.”
“I see.” Jean got up. “Rob, I’ll write from San Francisco. I’m anxious to get back.”
‘”The Princess de Gagarin has returned to Sitka, you said?” “I’m worried, Rob. I must get back there. If Zinnovy was willing to risk shooting Rotcheff, he won’t hesitate to rid himself of them both. As you say, politics isn’t always a fast business, and although the Princess turned her husband’s reports over to the Czar, it may be months before anything can be done. There will be delays, hesitations, arguments … you know more about that than I … and in the meantime, they are there.” For a moment the two men stood together, and then Walker put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “Jean … take care of yourself.” “You do the same.”
It was snowing when he reached the street, a light, unseasonal snow that melted as it hit the pavement. Jean LaBarge walked quickly away into the darkness. Robert Walker returned to his study. Now he could move, now he had ammunition, facts, figures, arguments. And Sumner, he thought, was won. And Sumner would dearly love a debate with Fessenden.
So tomorrow…
34
Baron Edouard Stoeckl had arrived in New York from St. Petersburg on February 15th, 1867. As he was recovering from a severe injury to his leg he remained in New York for two weeks, but during this time he was in touch with Robert Walker. His purpose in returning was to negotiate the sale of Alaska. A draft of the treaty was before the cabinet by March 15th, and on March 29th, Stoeckl received word from the Czar that the treaty was approved. Although it was very late when the news came to him, he at once joined Robert Walker and together they went to see William Seward, Secretary of State. All night they worked.
As the Susquehanna prepared for sea, Jean LaBarge read in the Alta Californian that the treaty “will hardly be considered at this session, but will go over to next winter.”
Seward increased his campaign of education. The papers rarely came out now without some information on Alaska, and by letter, Jean continued to supply information on various parts of the Russian-held area. On April 4th it was reported that there was no chance of the treaty being ratified. But a letter from Rob was optimistic, and with that final word, the Susquehanna sailed. For several days a fast-sailing sloop had been lying alongside a wharf near Clark’s Point, and during none of those days had a man been ashore. Within the hour after the Susquehanna cleared the Golden Gate, Royle Weber dropped into Denny O’Brien’s bar.
Much had changed. Yankee Sullivan, under threat of lynching by the Vigilantes, had committed suicide. Charley Duane had been escorted to a ship and sent off to New York, and O’Brien had much to worry about.
But his memory was long, and the night when he had stood at his own bar with his pants around his heels with the click of his vest buttons on the floor in his ears was not easy to forget.
Crossing the room he dropped into a chair opposite Weber. Weber shifted his weight on the chair seat and smiled. “Well, Denny, we’ve waited a long time!” “It’s now?”
“The Susquehanna cleared port this afternoon.”
Denny turned and motioned to a dark-skinned man who loitered at the bar, and when the man leaned over, spoke to him. Instantly, the man was out of the door and running. Less than an hour later the sailing sloop slid away from the dock and pointed herself north for Sitka.
“I’d like to be there,” Denny O’Brien said. “I’d like to see his face.” The Susquehanna’s second port of call was at Kootznahoo Inlet. The information LaBarge had received was clear. No ship had called at Kootznahoo since his own last trip, and there were many furs. It would be a rich cargo to pick up. When the Susquehanna dropped the hook off Kootznahoo head the bidarkas were swift to come.
A few days before the fast-sailing sloop had put into Sitka harbor, but had not gone near the dock. Rather, it had gone at once to the Lena and tied up alongside. Within an hour both the Lena and the Kronstadt slipped out of Sitka harbor, the Lena sailing north and around the island through Peril Strait, while the Kronstadt sailed south, rounded Point Ommaney and started north. The sloop, taking water and provisions from the Lena, never even docked at Sitka for fear the grapevine would carry word across the islands, but sailed immediately back to the United States.
The weather was good. Ben Turk, Gant and Boyar had gone ashore to hunt in the hills back of the inlet. Kohl was also ashore. Trading had been brisk that morning, but now it had begun to lag. Jean LaBarge went below and stretched out in his bunk.
He was half-asleep when from the deck there was a sudden wild yell, then a tremendous explosion. Leaping from his bunk he was thrown off balance by a second concussion. Lunging for the companionway he heard screams of agony from the deck, then a concussion from aft. He sprang put into a cloud of smoke and flame. Something forward was burning. The forem’st lay in a welter of tangled ropes and splintered wood. After, Duncan Pope and Ben Noble were working the gun, and near them, sprawled in the wreck of the helm, lay one of the Indians in a pool of blood.