Chapter 1
It was a sailor’s lament, Volkov thought: if only the weather had been different.
Strelka had been fighting off a wind that was coming from the northeast, making progress along the north coast difficult. It had put them at least three days behind their expected arrival in Saint Helena: and for Captain Leonid Volkov, as for any captain of a merchant ship, time was money. But there was nothing for it: wind was wind, and the sea was the sea.
The first Russian trading settlement had been established at Fort Ross in 1812, nearly twenty years ago; since then, five additional ones had been placed along the coast, one south of the original and four further north. Pelts, particularly of the sea otter, were still the most valuable commodity, and ships bearing the red-white-blue flag of the Russian-American Company delivered them to Saint Helena in exchange for durable goods and food, the pelts traveling onward across the Pacific mostly to China where traders from that ancient, crumbling Empire prized them above gold.
Strelka was a day out of Fort Ross but had been driven out to sea—preferable to being hurled against one of the many rocky promontories, to be sure, but hardly ideal.
Strelka was a sleek little ship, maneuverable and very seaworthy: it could pile on sail and make good speed, but the onset of fog headed toward the coast slowed their progress.
But for that, they might have been able to outrun the privateer.
✽✽✽
Georgy Sharovsky had been at sea for most of his life; he had shipped aboard his uncle’s trawler in Alaska when he was nine. When he was a boy, he had been as nimble and agile as the boys who now served aboard Strelka. He was a junior officer now, free from some of the lowest of the tasks to which the lads were relegated—including climbing up to the topmast, unnerving in clear weather, and in its way even worse in dense fog. In the moment, Sharovsky decided that he wouldn’t send one of the youngsters up in this weather; instead he went up himself, spyglass secured to his belt, holding carefully to the ratlines as he climbed up and up, soon losing sight of the main deck. When he reached the lookout, which swayed in the wind (easily felt, but scarcely seen), he hallooed down to the officer on deck.
“What do you see up there, Georgy?”
“Near nothing. Can’t see the waves, can’t see heaven either.”
“Check every five minutes. Captain’s orders.”
“Five minutes aye,” Georgy said, and took out his spyglass to see if anything became visible.
Just after his second five-minute check, he was scanning to starboard—out into the horizon, out into the invisible Pacific—he sighted something almost ghostlike, cutting through the water. Barely audible, he caught the briefest snatch of conversation and recognized the language—Spanish, spoken harshly and rapidly.
It wasn’t clear whether the other ship had sighted Strelka: it was a certain thing that if he could hear them, they might be able to hear him . . . but there was nothing for it: down below would need to know.
As quickly as he had climbed up he descended, and found himself facing Pietrewski, a senior lieutenant, a scowling, intemperate Pole. Before the other could berate him for abandoning the top, Georgy said, “Buzzards starboard. Don’t know if they’ve seen us.”
“Heading?”
“East by south.”
“They’ve seen us all right.”
“How can you be sure?”
“On this coast, in this weather, no one navigates toward the shore unless there’s something he wants to pin up there.” He nodded to Georgy. “I’ll tell the captain. Get all hands ready; this might not be friendly.” Without another word he turned and made for Strelka’s pilot-house.
A few moments later, it became clear just how unfriendly it was, when a cannon shot flew past Strelka’s bow, and a shout came out of the fog.
✽✽✽
Pietrewski had been right, which was no surprise. Georgy didn’t particularly like him, but the Pole was clever and a keen sailor. Strelka was no war-ship: it was, in fact, scarcely armed, and was heavily-laden. There was nothing Volkov could do but heave to, and presently a half dozen Spaniards, all mustachios and swagger, had boarded the ship.
Volkov, a dignified man in middle age, kept his anger tightly leashed as the most elaborate mustachio and biggest swagger presented himself, looking around as if Strelka already belonged to him.
“Good day, Captain——”” the Spaniard began in heavily accented Russian.
“Volkov.”
“Volquez,” the man said. “I am—”
“Volkov,” the captain repeated, letting annoyance creep into his voice.
“Volkev,” the Spaniard repeated, and Volkov appeared to just let it go. “I am Don Domingo Alcantár y Rodriguez, captain of Reina Isabella, in the service of His Catholic Majesty, and of the Viceroy of New Spain—in whose territorial waters you are presently trespassing.”
“These are Russian waters, gospodin Don Domingo.”
The Spaniard spat on the deck, perhaps a foot from Volkov’s left boot. “Nonsense. There are no Russian waters, señor. All of this continent—all of Alta California, and its coasts—are a part of New Spain, granted by His Holiness more than three hundred years ago.”
“Our respective governments think otherwise.”
“Eh, sí, I suppose they do,” Don Domingo said. “But they are not here on this deck, are they? At the moment, I am here, and I am the government. And as the government, I claim your ship—and all that it carries—as my prize.”
“This is outrageous.”
“Outrageous.” The Spaniard ran a finger down his moustaches, and then let the hand rest on a pistol at his waist. “I suppose you might think so, Captain Volstan. But it really does not affect the matter, does it? Now if you behave, I will put you and your fellow trespassers ashore. You may even take a few minutes to gather your effects. If you think to resist, however, I cannot . . . be answerable for the conduct of my hotheaded young caballeros.” He looked over his shoulder at the closest “caballeros,” who had not seemed to be able to understand most of the verbal exchange, but they grinned, hooking their thumbs in their belts, seemingly understanding the intent.
“You offer me little choice.”
“Exáctamente,” Don Domingo said, smiling. “I did not come aboard to offer you a choice, Captain Volevo. Rather I am offering you terms. Now: what is your decision?”
✽✽✽
To Georgy’s (and Captain Volkov’s) surprise, the Spanish captain was as good as his word. The men were given a few minutes to gather whatever they chose to carry, though the Spanish boarders didn’t let them anywhere near the hold: several thousand roubles worth of pelts, along with a few other goods, remained undisturbed in Strelka’s hold. Reina Isabella and Strelka put in at a sandy cove, shallow enough that the Russian crew was able to wade ashore. They watched as the Spanish ship, as well as their own, made sail and began to move out to sea.
It was a few miles walk in relative silence to the walls of Fort Ross, the southernmost and oldest Russian settlement along this fairly desolate stretch of coast.