Chapter 2
"Say it again, gospodin Captain. But slowly.”
“Don Domingo Alcantár y Rodriguez,” Volkov said, trying to carefully enunciate every syllable for the young clerk, who wrote it the best he could in block Cyrillic characters.
They had been at Fort Ross for a bit under a day. The thirty men and officers of Strelka had made their way along a scarcely-established path that followed the rocky coast, sometimes tracing the very edge of steep cliffs, sometimes descending into deep forests, until they arrived, exhausted and damp, at the settlement.
This was the oldest of the half-dozen settlements on the north coast. It had been established a few years before the Russian expedition to what now bore the name Saint Helena. Once rough and primitive, it was now merely rough—the Kashyak village below, on the coast, had grown and expanded, and the walled encampment had a dozen buildings, some with panes of thick, clear glass brought up from the town. More than three hundred Russians made their homes at the Fort, including a dozen married couples; a score of children, ranging from infants to adolescents, seemed to be in constant motion from dawn to dusk, playing and attending to chores. Twenty years on, Fort Ross was thriving.
“That is not a name that I know, Captain. We have had a few Spanish traders this far north—”
“Don Domingo was no trader, gospodin. And Reina Isabella was no merchant ship. She is a privateer: and she is a threat to anyone traveling in these waters. What I want to know is what the Russian-American Company is going to do about it.”
The clerk set his quill down. He took a bit of sand and spread it across the paper to dry it, then shook it off. “There are two answers to that question, Captain.”
“Da, of course there are. What are they?”
“I am sure the governor will say to you that the company will extend its efforts to do whatever it can to protect its ships from privateers.”
“I see. And what is the other answer?”
“The Russian-American Company will do essentially nothing for you, Captain, because there is nothing that can be done.”
“I should like to hear that from the governor.”
“I am sure that you will. It is what he said the last time.”
“Last time?”
The clerk sighed, and folded his hands in his lap. “This is the third such incident this year, gospodin Captain. The Russian-American Company has very little power to do anything in these waters. There is no navy here.”
“There should be no Spanish here. This is our land, this is our coast. There is a governor in Saint Helena—should I protest to him?”
“You might have better luck.”
“Is there a ship leaving for Saint Helena?”
“In three days, Zapodzha will be arriving from Fort Alexander up north. It’s a large fishing trawler, not the most comfortable of accommodations—but also nothing a privateer might care about.”
“Who do I need to talk to in order to get passage for my crew?”
✽✽✽
Two and a half days on a fishing trawler was not how Volkov had planned to travel down the coast to Saint Helena; if he was not so angry, he knew, he would be despondent.
A decade before Saint Helena became the capital of Novaya Rossiya, Russian fur traders had been working the coast between Sitka and the Golden Gate Bay, making the Russian-American Company rich. Most of their harvest went west across the ocean to China: it was one of the few things the arrogant, wealthy Chinese Empire wanted. In those early days, when the matter of dominion had not been settled, company ships were better armed and equipped; the company knew that there were clear dangers—from natives, from Spaniards, from weather—that Russian America was a dangerous place. Sometime between then and now, Volkov mused, that message had been lost. Saint Helena was prosperous now, with great houses on the hills and four magnificent churches, including the cathedral of Saint Helena on the top of the great hill in the middle of the settlement.
Oh, da, indeed: very civilized.
✽✽✽
In Saint Helena, the Russian-American Company headquarters was directly on the Embarcadero, a sprawling complex that had started life as a warehouse but now encompassed six buildings of various shapes, sizes, and styles. The tsar’s flag, and the banner of the company, flew over the main one, snapping in the wind.
They had already gotten word of the loss of Strelka, days ago; Volkov had no interest in facing that ordeal just yet. He directed Pietrewski and the rest of the officers and crew to go in and report. As Georgy Sharovsky was walking away, Volkov called to him.
“Da, Captain?”
“Come with me, Georgy Stefanovich. I will have greater dignity if I am accompanied by a junior.”
“Where are we going?”
“There.” He pointed down the wharf to another, newer building. It looked to Georgy as if it had been built according to plan, rather than circumstances, and it flew a banner bearing an armorial device—and the Union Jack.
“The British Embassy?”
“Nyet, Georgy. They would do nothing for us. That—is Astor House.”
✽✽✽
When Rezanov first came down the coast from the Aleutians in 1807, he found someone already engaged in the fur trade: a British merchant from the Crown Colony of New York named John Jacob Astor. He had befriended the natives and adopted their methods and means to harvest the valuable pelts, particularly the sea otters.
Through means that Volkov knew were far out of his understanding, when the treaty was signed in 1809 the Astor Company was granted an indefinite license to conduct business in Novaya Rossiya. The patriarch of the clan returned to the east, and Astor House—the west coast affiliate—was established in Saint Helena, capitalized by the wealth the fur trade had brought.
Georgy was not sure what business Volkov would have at Astor House, but he had never been within, and if his captain was planning to visit he was happy to come along.
✽✽✽
The Embarcadero was all noise and bustle, but Astor House was cool and quiet. Volkov and Georgy removed their caps as they entered. The floor of the entry hall was laid out magnificently in glazed brick, and there was a large mural on the far wall showing a view of New York Harbor over which the Astor crest had been hung. Clerks and functionaries moved on their own errands as the two Russians approached a receiving desk, behind which stood a clerk, looking over a large leather-bound ledger. He took no notice of them, even when they came to stand directly before him.
“Excuse me,” Volkov said, in English.
The man looked up at last, disdain visible. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I hope you can,” Volkov said. “I should like to speak with gospodin Astor, please.”
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Astor?”
“I have just arrived in Saint Helena. I have no appointment.”
“I see.” The man ran his finger down the ledger, as if looking for an error. “I do not think he has any openings this week—”
“This is very important,” Volkov interrupted. “He will want to see me.”
“And why would that be?”
Volkov glanced briefly at Georgy, and though the younger man had not understood most of the exchange—his English was very poor—he saw determination in the captain’s eyes.
“Because the matter I must discuss with him threatens his corporation’s vital interests. Come, Georgy,” he said, and walked away from the desk toward a set of stairs that led to an upper level. The clerk dashed out from behind his desk to try and interpose himself between the Russians and the stairs: but they moved with speed and agility and were on the steps before the Englishman could catch up.
Astor House was not a military facility, and it seemed to catch the employees by surprise for two Russian sailors to come up the stairs at speed. Volkov was not sure exactly where to go, but it quickly seemed obvious where the best, most spacious office must be; and just as he reached it, an impeccably-dressed young man stepped out. The clerk, hurrying behind them, had nearly caught up by the time Volkov found himself standing face to face with the imposing figure.
“You are Mr. Astor,” Volkov said.
“I am, at your service, sir. I assume you have good reason for disturbing my place of business.”
“If I could have a few minutes of your time, gospodin, I assure you it will be worth your while.”
Astor did not answer at once, looking the two Russians up and down. The clerk looked angry and a trifle embarrassed: it was clearly his job to fend off anyone who did not belong, and he might well receive a stern rebuke later.
“You have ten minutes, sir. If that is insufficient, then I bid you good day.”
“It will be more than sufficient, gospodin.”
“This is most troubling.” William Astor had listened carefully as Volkov related the taking of Strelka and the response of the governor at Fort Ross. “It is something new.”
“Not according to the governor at Fort Ross,” Volkov said. “He told us that Strelka was not the first ship taken.”
“What does the company have to say?”
“I have not yet asked them, gospodin Astor.”
“Indeed.” Astor raised an eyebrow. “I would expect you would have already asked.”
“I came here first. I know what reception I shall receive there.”
“Oh?”
“I no longer have a ship, gospodin. And the company has lost tens of thousands of roubles in pelts. The burden of command places the blame directly on my shoulders.”
“Will they be looking to extract payment from you?”
“They may try.” Volkov laughed, with a Russian sort of bitterness and fatalism. “But I do not expect to be given another ship.”
“That is a waste of talent, Captain Volkov. How long have you been in the company’s employ?”
“Nine years. My father sailed with Rezanov.”
“You must know every inch of that coast, sir . . . though you no longer have your charts, I assume.”
“Don Domingo was unusually generous, gospodin Astor. We were allowed to take things we could carry. I still have my most important charts.”
“I assume the company is aware of this.”
“I have not yet made my report,” Volkov said. He looked at Astor, then removed his watch and examined it—as if to say, you have given me ten minutes, gospodin. Now you are taking up my time.
Astor picked up a letter opener and toyed with it for a moment, looking down at his desk; he appeared to make a decision and looked up at Volkov, putting the letter opener back in its place.
“If it is not too forward to ask, Captain: what is your compensation with the company?”
Volkov paused a moment and then stated his salary, including the bonuses granted for timeliness.
“I would be prepared to offer you—and your subordinate, should you like—half again as much to work for me.”
Volkov did not immediately reply. He was not surprised by the offer: he brought valuable information, experience, and skill—employment with Astor would have been his ultimate goal, given his expectations regarding the Russian-American Company. He just hadn’t expected it to happen in fifteen minutes. The Astor Company was known for its sharp business practices.
Still, they operated more or less at the sufferance of the authorities, and he wasn’t sure how this would be viewed by the tsar’s representative here in Saint Helena.
And there was something else.
“It is an attractive idea, gospodin. But it does not address the central problem: there are still Spanish privateers, and they are as dangerous for your firm as they are for the Russian-American Company.”
“They have not attacked our ships.”
“Yet.”
“Your point is taken. We cannot but expect that sooner or later they will consider us valid targets.
“But this speaks to a wider concern, Captain—it has everything to do with the relationship between the Spanish Empire and the Russian Empire. If the Spaniards are encouraging—or even underwriting—this sort of activity based on a claim of political control, it can lead to war.”
“Between the Spaniards and the Russians,” Volkov said. “But you are neither, and I am not a diplomat in the tsar’s employ. I do not see what I can do, or what you can do, to help this situation. With respect, gospodin,” he added.
“You are being honest, Captain. So many people refuse to be direct: they fear how it will be received. But you see to the heart of the matter—and you understand that without an armed force on the high seas, we are at the mercy of the Spanish raiders. The tsar is far away and his governor here cannot assemble one. The Company behaves likewise.
“Therefore, we must provide such a force.”
“‘We’, gospodin?”
Astor rose from behind his desk and stepped to his left, where there was a small bookcase that held a set of leather-bound ledgers. He drew one out and placed it on the desk. He opened it to a page toward the front, and turned it to show Volkov. It listed a number of ships and dates going back a few months.
“No Astor ship has been assaulted by the Spanish privateers, Captain, but they have been preying on other ships of other companies—Russian, British, and others of smaller countries as well. Just last week a Prussian ship which had sailed ten thousand miles to join in the Pacific trade was taken just off the Monterey coast. This has been going on for several months—roughly coinciding with the appointment of the new governor in San Diego, Don Pío. Clearly that worthy—” he spoke the word with disdain “—has decided on a new policy.” He flipped the page back. Additional pages listed other ships, and even earlier dates.
“You knew of this, before I brought it to your attention. I assume you knew about Strelka. I should have realized, gospodin.”
“Perhaps so, Captain Volkov. But suffice it to say that your visit to Astor House does not come as a complete surprise to me. It should not surprise you, either—you gained access rather easily, I daresay.”
“Whatever reputation for daring I had with my young colleague has been thoroughly dashed, gospodin Astor.”
Astor smiled. “Your secret is safe with me, Captain. Particularly because of your willingness to enter here and beard the lion, you have proved to be the man I had been told you were.
“The Russian-American Company will miss you, Captain Volkov. But I think you will feel no need to look back.”