Chapter 1
With a sigh, Father Mikhail dropped onto the rudimentary bench set along the partially-built wall. He reached within his cassock and drew out a set of polished wooden rosary beads, examined them, and then let them fall into his lap. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked around, his gaze finally landing on Brother Gennady, who was engaged in a conversation with a workman in halting Spanish.
“You are working too hard, Brother,” he said, after a moment.
The young monk gave the workman a slight bow, and came toward Mikhail, his sandals kicking up dust.
“And you should take better care of yourself, Otyets Mikhail.” Gennady smiled, wiping his hands on the front of his cassock. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, not really.” Mikhail sighed again. “I am just tired.”
“Perhaps you should go back inside and rest.”
“And pass up the opportunity to see you work so hard? I would not miss it. What has the brodyaga Spaniard to say? More delays?”
Gennady sat next to the older man. “As you know, my Spanish is a work in progress, so I’m not sure I got the full meaning. But apparently they are having trouble with the mortar—it is too watery, I think.”
“I would not be surprised if they were watering it themselves.”
“That is most uncharitable of you, Otyets. These are good men. They take great pride in their work.”
“They do not work here for the glory of God, Brother Gennady. They work for roubles, just as they once worked for pesos. Even when this church is built, and God willing it will someday be finished, I hardly think we will ever see any of them come in to worship.”
“That is what Kapitan Donatiev said. ‘They are scarcely Catholic; they are unlikely to become Orthodox . . . but build your church anyway, Brother.’” His intonation was a perfect mimicry of the commander of the garrison here at the tsar’s newest outpost; it was enough to bring a smile to Father Mikhail’s face.
“Mocking is unbecoming a servant of God,” Mikhail said, but he couldn’t help but smile. “The archbishop sent us to build a church,” he continued, “and we will do as directed . . . whether anyone comes to visit or not.”
✽✽✽
The terms of the treaty between the crowns of Great Britain and Russia had been agreed upon as early as 1809, but it had taken seven years for the details to be fully worked out. The Great Autocrat, the Tsar of all the Russias, had been granted—with British approval—a large swath of land that had formerly been the northern part of the province the Spanish called Alta California. This was not out of any great love that King George had for his cousin, Tsar Alexander: indeed, it was not even his decision, given his advanced state of madness—but the regent was also none too fond of the tsar. It was merely political expediency, a way to keep the rich boundary of the Pacific out of the hands of the French. Poaching territory from the crumbling Spanish Empire had been done in the face of an earnest embassy from First Minister Lafayette to the Court of Saint Petersburg, which was turned away when the treaty was announced.
The Court of Saint James might have wanted Alta California for itself—but they, like the Russians, might have found it difficult to defend. In any case, it was better to have an ally in Russia than to have the tsar find common cause with the Bourbon kings. Alta California—at least the northern portion—would be converted into Novaya Rossiya. The californios mostly met the change of authority with indifference, and even though the viceroy in San Diego recommended that they withdraw, the most devoted of the friars in the various missions up and down the coast remained, pursuing their evangelical mission despite the absence of Spanish troops from the abandoned presidios.
In the spring of 1816, after the establishment of Fort Ross in the north to manage the fur trade, Gyorgy Nikolaievich Donatiev, the eldest son of Baron Donatiev, was given command of an expedition to the south to plant the double-eagle flag of the Russian Empire on the site of the small village that the Spanish called Yerba Buena. In addition to soldiers, the expedition included carpenters and blacksmiths and other craftsmen—and an aged Russian Orthodox priest, Father Mikhail, and his young acolyte, Brother Gennady.
To himself, Donatiev wondered who Mikhail might have angered to be sent ten thousand miles to be buried so far from home.
✽✽✽
The little settlement—still called Yerba Buena, since Donatiev had no particular desire to invent a name for it—slowly grew with the arrival of craftsmen, settlers, and farmers from the Pacific rim of the Empire. As spring turned to summer, it began to be a regular stop for trading vessels coming from the treaty port of Lahaina in the Sandwich Islands. Brother Gennady heard the sailors’ tales of the tropical paradise across the ocean, but still found great beauty in the paradise where Yerba Buena was located—but the comparison made Mikhail grumble.
In the meanwhile, the church began to come together, despite the work habits of the californios who had been hired to build it. It seemed that every day there was a shortage of something at the work site: bricks, wooden beams, even nails. Every time something was unavailable, the workmen would leave off to sleep or smoke or just disappear.
He had heard Captain Donatiev tell Father Mikhail in no uncertain terms that there was no spare capacity among the carpenters, brickmakers or blacksmiths to help build the church. He would have to make do with whatever he could find, and in the meanwhile the spiritual needs of the flock—such as they were—could be met in the ground floor of the custom house in the main settlement until the church was ready.
To Brother Gennady’s surprise, however, supplies often turned up after a few hours. The carpenters and brickmakers and blacksmiths would never say that they would disobey the direct orders of the commander of the settlement by bringing a few spare beams of wood or a few hundred bricks or a bucket of nails; nor would their casual advice as they stood with Father Mikhail, smoking pipes and looking up at the façade, be construed (at least by them) as assistance for what was considered a low-priority project. Yet the church slowly rose, simple and austere, but handsome all the same.
“God provides,” was all that Mikhail would say.
Somehow, the gruff old priest had ways of charming the skilled craftsmen of Yerba Buena, many of whom were regular communicants at the church services in the custom house.
Brother Gennady keenly felt Father Mikhail’s profound sadness at being so far from the rodina—but it warmed his heart to see the joy in his older colleague’s eyes and voice when he communicated the sacraments to the flock that attended the services in his makeshift church.
✽✽✽
A few weeks before the end of June, Gennady took a break from the preparation for the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, the first opportunity to celebrate a major feast day with the congregation of Yerba Buena. Pascha had been quite a makeshift affair, and Mikhail had decided that Peter and Paul would be a good opportunity to emphasize the primacy of the Church and the heavenly blessing bestowed upon the expedition; but there was an afternoon where Gennady was able to get away from the settlement and walk up into the hills along the old Spanish road that led to the Presidio, the little fort that the former colonial power had left behind (and the current one had not seen fit to repair). He took a small skin of local wine, some bread and cheese and a few ripe peaches, and went off on his own.
The day was less hot than he would have expected, and the weather was very changeable. The sun would be high overhead, beating down, and then a cloud would pass in front making the day gloomy. And it was quiet: there were the sounds of birds and a few small animals but no axes or hammers or saws, no laughter or cursing or shouting or the drill of military arms.
“This must have been what it was like in the Garden,” he said to himself, as he sat on a rock and drew out his lunch.
“Only the first few days,” a voice said in badly accented Russian.
Gennady was on his guard at once, standing and grabbing his walking staff.
"Be at your ease, Brother," the voice continued, and presently a man in a brown robe and stout boots emerged from the trees. He wore a trimmed beard but no tonsure; he carried a loose sack on a strap over his shoulder. "I'm not here to do you harm."
"You surprised me."
"Yes. Well. We don't see too many strangers here. You are from the Russian settlement, sí?"
"Yes. If you would prefer speaking in Spanish—"
"Claro . . . it could not be worse than my Russian." He shifted to the other language at once. "Welcome, Brother. I am Brother Gonzalo, of the Order of Saint Francis. May I sit?" he gestured to the flat, broad rock where Gennady had been sitting.
"Of course," Gennady answered, and Brother Gonzalo settled onto the seat. "I am Brother Gennady, of—"
Before he could continue, the ground began to vibrate very slightly, as if being shaken by a mighty unseen hand.
After the tremor passed, Gonzalo crossed himself in the Catholic fashion and laughed. "You clearly have a better connection to the Almighty than I do."
Gennady crossed himself in turn. "I don't know about that . . . there have been several of those in the last few days, but that seemed very strong."
"A fact of life here." Gonzalo reached into his bag and drew out a small handful of nuts. He handed a few to Gennady, and began to work on the ones he retained. "A few tremors here and there ... but from time to time there's a strong one. A couple of years back there was a temblor strong enough to bring down our barn at the mission."
"Truly?"
"Yes, to be sure." Gonzalo chewed on a nut meat, spitting out a stray shell. "You have to build strong here in Alta California."
"Novaya Rossiya."
"Names." He spat again. "Let the politicos decide them. But you and I—we are men of God, no? What do we care what the land is called."
"So . . . you hold no allegiance to His Catholic Majesty?"
"He is far away," Gonzalo said, "and has abandoned us. The viceroy has his mind on other things—and our order told us to move out.
"And you—do you care what your tsar thinks of your little settlement?"
"Of course!"
"Of course. Well, a bit of advice, Brother—allegiance is earned. Let him show how much he cares for you first."
"That is not how it works, Brother. Perhaps in Spain, but not in Russia."
There was a very mild tremor just as Gennady finished speaking. Gonzalo, without replying, raised his right eyebrow slightly; then he picked up his sack and stood up, sweeping nutshells from his cassock.
“If you’d care to accompany me back to the mission,” he said, “perhaps we can discuss it over a glass or two of wine.”