Chapter Five
Sitka, Alaska
October 18, 1867
Roshan Kuznetsov,
stinking of skinned sea otter and three months of unwashed tromping through the
rainforests and waterways of Baranov Island, loitered unreasonably close to the
polished double-B-flat tuba. The distorted reflection of his bearded, unwashed
face just beneath the flared bell of the tuba amused him, and reminded him that
he had once again returned safely from the wilderness of bear and spruce to the
booming metropolis of New Archangel. When he tired of playing with his
reflection, he switched his attention to the man holding the heavy instrument.
He found the dark blue uniform, the odd hat with no flaps for the ears, the
golden-fringed epaulets, and polished knee-high black boots quite amusing.
Roshan swung behind the man to investigate the neatly-trimmed back of his head,
and then continued around to his other side where another man stood at
attention brandishing a shiny trombone.
After obeying the earlier
command to stand at attention, the tubaist could no longer remain still or
silent. He broke ranks to confront Roshan. “Do you mind stepping away, sir? I
have to play in a few minutes, and I need the time to catch my breath.”
This surprised Roshan. “I
speak of sometime English. Do you speak the Russian?”
This exasperated the
tubaist. “I certainly do not. Now please step away.”
Roshan persisted because
he had not yet completed his inspection. “You must sorry me, but I still have
much to find of your tuba. I must share with you I want to play the tuba when
boy, but my parents did have not the wealth to afford of a large thing. There is
also problem of finding a tuba for to buy, but is not of the story.”
“Very
sad, and I’m very sorry your parents could not afford a tuba, but could you
please just move away? Your stench is truly suffocating. I fear I won’t be able
to breathe when we begin playing.”
“My
stench? What is stench? This is new word I have not to hear.”
The
trombonist broke ranks as well, and held his nose while addressing Roshan. “It
means you stink. And frankly, my friend, I’ve never smelled such a stink, not
even on the farm back in Missouri.”
Roshan
grinned. “Yes, I know what is stink. You cannot take the breathing because
stink is too good for you. But I do not know the stink—I mean ‘stench’ because
I should practice the new English word you have told of me—because I do not
smell it any more after many months in the forest looking for the otter pelts.”
The
tubaist attempted to regain the conversation. “Yes, I think we have all agreed
you stink, so please move away as quickly as possible. I’m beginning to feel
light headed for lack of fresh air.”
Roshan
nodded agreeably. “Yes, I would please to move, but first you must answer a
question of confusion to me.”
The
trombonist held his entire hand over his nose. “Yes, yes, but please ask your
question quickly. I do not think I will last much longer.”
“Good.
Then the question I ask,” Roshan paused to gesture expansively with his arm,
“is what is it doing this day in New Archangel, and why do a tuba and a
trombone in blue pants and many other instruments I do not understand the names
stand in front of the Baranov Castle three months before now stand on this
place I am now from the trees?”
The
tubaist had hoped for an easy question, but it took him several seconds to sort
out the jumble of words. “You haven’t heard? How is this possible?”
Roshan
dropped his arm and frowned. “There is something to hear of the possible?”
The
trombonist answered on behalf of the tubaist. “This town and all of Alaska
belong to the United States of America now. The Russians sold the territory
last April, and today is the day we take down the Russian flag and raise the
stars and stripes.”
Roshan
sputtered, “The stripes of stars?”
The
tubaist corrected, “The stars and stripes. The American flag!”
Roshan
took off his ushanka and kneaded the soft otter fur between his fingers.
“How possible is this? What of my trade of the otter furs if the American
stripes are in the air because the Russian flag is not?”
The
trombonist began gasping for fresh air. “Listen here. We answered your
question, now you’re supposed to step away. That was the deal.”
Roshan
took a step back, but the stink persisted. “That is a deal? But I do not this
belief it is true. How can Russia sell the all of Alaska? It is too much to
understand in a short day.”
The
tubaist continued, “Your confusion is not our problem my stinky fellow, now
move away like you promised.”
Roshan
dropped his chin and walked away, but not because the tubaist and trombonist
had told him to. He walked away in disbelief because Russia had sold Alaska. He
muttered in Russian, “This is not possible. How could this be? Trapping sea
otter has been my life for more than 20 years. What will I do when the
Americans are in charge? Will they allow me to continue my work? Will they
allow me to stay in New Archangel at all? What if they ask me to leave? What
then? What will I do? What will I do?”
Roshan
ambled sadly away from Castle Hill, mumbling incessantly of his loss. The
sounds of the U.S. Army band playing the Star Spangled Banner echoed off the
wood buildings to either side. He glanced back, and the stars and stripes of
the American flag fluttered into his view above Baranov’s Castle. Roshan watched briefly before resuming his
mumbling walk.
♦ ♦ ♦
Roshan Kuznetsov, still
stinking of skinned sea otter and three months of unwashed tromping through the
rainforests and waterways of Baranov Island, marched angrily up the weathered
wood steps and across the weathered wood porch into the gable-roofed-wood-sided
headquarters of the Russian-American Company to demand answers of Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov, the current and—if the
accusations of the tubaist and trombonist were true—last chief manager of the
company and last governor of Alaska. A rear admiral in the Russian Imperial
Navy, and a hero of the Battle of Sinope in the Crimean War, Prince Maksutov
had proved reasonable in past encounters. Roshan prayed that the regrettable
events of the last few months had not made him less affable as he passed by the
ornate desk with the Prince’s flamboyantly-attired assistant sitting in an
equally-flamboyant cushioned chair just behind. The assistant stood immediately
and chased Roshan into Maksutov’s office, but failed to stop the determined
trapper of otter.
The assistant spoke from
behind Roshan. “My deepest apologies sir, but I could not stop this smelly man
from entering your office unannounced. He has no appointment.”
Maksutov, balding with
luxurious moustache and sideburns framing a naked chin, looked up from a box
partially packed with books and papers. “Let Roshan Kuznetsov in. He never has
an appointment when he comes here.”
Roshan snatched his
ushanka and swept it away in a wide arc as he bowed at the waist; a puff of
stench wafted across the Prince’s desk. “Thank you my grace. It is always a
pleasure to meet you in your luxurious office.”
Maksutov pressed his
hands down on the cluttered desk separating him from Roshan. “Roshan, stop. We
both know you want something and take no pleasure in coming here. And, as
usual, you smell of dead otter and other smells I can only guess at. Please
come to the point before I am suffocated by your presence.”
Roshan restored the stinky
ushanka to his unwashed head. “Then I shall move directly to my complaint. I
was just told by two very reliable individuals that Russia has sold all of
Alaska to the Americans. At first I thought this impossible. Who would be so
foolish as to commit an act of such unthinkable stupidity? But then I realized
both individuals who stood in front of me were in fact Americans, and what they
were telling me could be true. I then said to myself, there is only one way to
find out what is the truth: to speak directly to Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov, chief manager of the Russian-American Company
and Governor of Alaska. There you have it. This is a summary of my complaint.”
Maksutov
gestured toward a large samovar, well maintained but surprisingly unadorned
(considering the lofty credentials of its owner), on a table near a tall
double-hung window. “Although I hate to suggest a reason for you to reside in
my office longer than necessary, would you care for some tea?”
Roshan
glanced around until he found a large baroque chair painted in gold. He dragged
the chair into position in front of Maksutov’s desk and plopped into the
crimson-red cushions. “Yes, I will drink tea while I listen to your answer.”
Maksutov positioned
a cup beneath the samovar’s polished spout and opened the valve to pour some
hot tea. “Sugar?”
Roshan scooted
forward. “You have sugar? I have not tasted sugar for two months. Yes, I will
have two spoonfuls of sugar.”
Maksutov balanced
the cup on a dainty saucer, handed the tea to Roshan, and sat behind the desk.
He picked up some papers then set them down again before speaking. “As I think
you know, Roshan, the fur trade is not as good as it used to be. It is costing
Mother Russia far more than it is worth to maintain Sitka. It has simply become
a very expensive proposition, one which we can no longer afford.”
Roshan gulped
some of the overly-sweet tea. “Yes, the otters are not as numerous as they once
were, but they will return again soon. I am sure of it.”
“The otters
are no longer numerous because of men like you, Roshan.”
“It is my
passion to trap the otters. I cannot help it if I am good at it.”
Maksutov
leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “Wishful thinking my friend, but
there is another problem you should consider.”
Roshan
slurped the last of the tea and set the saucer and cup on top of a pile of
documents at the front of Maksutov’s desk. “Are there not problems enough
already?”
“The Tsar has
larger concerns than either one of us can truly understand or appreciate.”
“Tsar
Alexander has concerns of Alaska?”
“Yes. He
worries the British may simply take Alaska from Russia without any compensation
whatsoever. At least the Americans are willing to pay a lot of money for the privilege
to own it. Then they can suffer the cost of maintaining it.”
Roshan
slumped in the chair and then sprung to a rigid sitting position. “But if the
Americans own Alaska, what of the fur trade?”
Maksutov
sighed. “I do not think the Americans have as much interest in otter pelts as
we Russians do. But I have heard they are quite interested in gold. Maybe you
should consider a change of profession.”
“A change of
profession?”
“Yes, it is a
thought. I heard there is gold in California. Or you could return to Russia and
continue doing whatever it was you were doing before you left.”
Roshan’s arms
fell to the sides of the chair. “I was not doing anything before I left Russia
because there was nothing for me to do. I could not even find a tuba to play.
This is why I travelled to Alaska in the first place.”
“You came to
Alaska because you could not play the tuba?”
“No, I came
to Alaska because I could not find anything to do in Russia. I just mention the
problem with the tuba as one example of the many reasons I left Russia.”
Maksutov
pressed his fingers together. “There is an American naval ship sailing for San
Francisco early in the morning. I believe it is called the USS Ossipee. If you
wish, I could arrange passage for you. Captain Emmons is a personal friend of
mine. I will compensate you this afternoon for the pelts you have delivered.
This should provide you with more than enough money to begin a new life in
California.”
“But where is
this California?”
“It is to the
south, my friend. And it is very large, possibly larger than Alaska. I doubt
you will have any trouble finding it.”
Roshan stood
and bowed. “Thank you Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov. I appreciate the
advice. But I must take some time to think on it. Such a momentous decision
cannot be made in the blink of an eye.”
Maksutov
stood as well. “Do not think on it too much, or you will miss the ship and your
one chance for easy transport to California. You must let me know of your plans
within the hour to allow sufficient time to make proper arrangements with the
captain.”
Roshan bowed
his head and reached across the desk and shook the hand of the last Governor of
Alaska, then abruptly stomped out of the office. When Roshan had exited the
building, the flamboyant assistant entered the office and immediately held his
nose. He spoke to Maksutov between gasping breaths. “Would you like me to open
a window?”
“No, do not
open a window. Open them all. And when you have finished, take this chair outside
and burn it. I don’t think even the Americans will want it in its current
condition.”
The flamboyant assistant
cringed. “Do you expect me to touch it?”
Maksutov gazed through
the window. “Yes, I expect you to touch it. Now get to work. We still have much
packing to finish before we forever leave this unforgiving land.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Roshan Kuznetsov, his
back hunched over from the carefully-selected accouterments of his profession
he thought might prove useful in the goldfields of California—or which he could
not bring himself to part with because of an overwhelming sense of
nostalgia—blundered through the muddy, narrow, meandering,
log-and-timber-building-rimmed streets of Sitka at 5:27 in the morning on
October 19th in the year 1867, a persistent southeasterly blowing dreary mist
into his already saturated beard. He paused at an intersection of muddy streets
to enjoy one last view of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of Saint Michael the
Archangel, rising magnificently from the mud in horizontal-wood-siding splendor
at the end of the lane. He considered the idea of walking into the cathedral to
pray for a safe and prosperous trip, but feared the priest might discover him
and force him to attend confession. After deciding God did not require an extravagant
building with a metal-clad dome and spire to justify a simple prayer, he
crossed himself and prayed where he stood:
“My dearest Lord…especially in difficult
times, of which we both agree there have been a few…you know I have sinned…yes,
many times…alright, many, many times—more than I can possibly recount from
memory standing in the rain and wind at this moment. But even so, I also know
you are a forgiving Lord, and that it would please you if I were to experience
a safe trip to California—a place I’m sure you know where it is even if I have
not heard of it—and then to find only a little wealth after I get there so you
would not have to spend as much of your precious time worrying about me.”
Roshan adjusted the heavy load weighing down his shoulders before continuing.
“And another thing Lord, something I have never shared with you, or anyone
else, until this very moment when I am about to depart on a ship to only you
know where, but I truly beg your forgiveness for killing so many—”
“So many what?”
Roshan turned and the
swerving load of accouterments nearly knocked into the man standing behind him.
“Father Dmitri. I did not know you stood right behind me or I would have taken
more care when I turned around.”
“Do not worry about it
Roshan. So many what?”
“So many what? Oh, yes.
So many what, you ask? Why, I was merely talking to myself about something which
matters very little now because there are many reasons to not worry about
thinking of it ever again.”
“I see. It sounded like
you were praying. Maybe we should walk over to the cathedral and I can hear
your confession.”
“I would like nothing
better than to confess my sins to you this very morning, Father, but
unfortunately I am late for the ship that will take me to California, so I must
beg your forgiveness and hurry on my way.”
“I see. Then I will pray
for a safe trip.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“But as to the wealth, we
must both leave it in God’s hands.”
Roshan jumped to raise
the load higher on his shoulders. “Why, thank you Father. I did not know you
stood next to me for so long.”
“I heard your entire
prayer. And Roshan…”
“Yes, Father Dmitri.”
“True wealth is not
always what you think.”
“Yes, Father Dmitri.”
“Now on your way, or you
will miss the ship and your new adventure in California. And one last thing Roshan.”
“Yes, Father?”
“Take a bath when you
find the time. You smell like a rotting beaver.”
“Yes, Father Dmitri. I
will.”
After shaking hands with
Father Dmitri, Roshan continued his march to the boat yards where he hoped to
find the ship named…the ship named…named…well…he could not remember the name of
the ship. But, he reasoned as he tromped along, how hard could it be to find a
large American ship? When he arrived at the end of a wharf jutting favorably
above the incoming tide, he discovered three large ships anchored in the bay.
He could not even guess which one had the name he could not remember. Then he
realized an important detail: even if he had remembered the name of the ship,
he had no way to get out to it anyway. He dumped the load from his back into
three separate piles, one for each ship, sat on the largest, and waited. He did
not wait long. At precisely 6:00 am, a small boat with seven sailors in blue
uniforms and peculiar hats—six oarsmen and one boatswain with an elegantly
manicured moustache standing near the bow—arrived below the wharf. Roshan
stood, stretched his back, sauntered to the edge of the dock, and peered down
on the man with the moustache. The man peered up at Roshan and curved his hands
around the moustache to form a small megaphone and yelled:
“Are you Rushing
Koozesstough?”
“No, I am Roshan Kuznetsov. I belief you have heard
for the wrong man who is not standing in the here.”
The boatswain removed a
crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and yelled, “Are you
Roshing Kooznetasoov?”
“No, you are still
speaking of a person I have no idea.”
The boatswain produced a
pair of reading glasses, shoved them on his nose, and read the words on the
piece of paper again. “Are your Rooshan Kooznetsove?”
This articulation of
Roshan’s name proved close enough. “Yes, I am Roshan Kuznetsov. Why do you
ask?”
The boatswain folded the
paper and stuffed it into the same pocket. “I have orders to lighter you to the
USS Ossipee.”
This delighted Roshan.
“You know which ship is the one you just said the name of which I cannot
remember?”
“What did you say?”
“You know of the ship?”
The boatswain pointed at
a sleek, wood-hulled, three-masted, steam-powered, sloop of war floating
serenely in the deeper waters of the bay. “The USS Ossipee is the one in the
middle.”
Roshan decided further
conversation was not necessary. “Do not worry of more answer than you have
said. I bring my things down to beach and we can move in small ship to the one
with the name I cannot remember even when Prince Dmitri
Petrovich Maksutov told me of it in his office just before today and you told
me of it again in the morning.”
The boatswain
sent two men to help Roshan transfer his gear into the boat. To everyone’s
surprise, they loaded the gear with extraordinary haste. When Roshan had
settled into the boat, stinking even more of skinned sea otter and
three months of unwashed tromping through the rainforests and waterways of
Baranov Island than he had in Maksutov’s office because another full day had
passed, the boatswain (a seasoned man of great experience) sucked in an
enormous breath of Roshan’s stink and nearly gagged his breakfast over the
gunwale. He ordered the six sailors under his command to shove off immediately
and then to row as if their lives depended on it. This created a strong breeze
which provided temporary relief. After the boat moored alongside the USS
Ossipee, the boatswain and the six sailors escorted Roshan and his gear up the
narrow ships ladder with astonishing efficiency.
The boatswain quickly
issued an order to two of the oarsmen. “Please escort Mr. Rooshin Koosetoss and
his gear below decks and find him quarters with the U.S. Army Band.”
When Roshan and his gear
and the two oarsmen arrived below decks, the tubaist and the trombonist were
playing cards and drinking coffee. The tubaist stiffened and sniffed the air.
“Three please. Do you smell something? It smells like the same stink we smelled
at the flag ceremony. How is it possible?”
The trombonist dealt
three cards from the deck. “Good Lord! It is
the same stink. I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live.”
Roshan rushed to the sides
of the tubaist and trombonist and slapped his arms around their shoulders,
sending a shower of playing cards into the air and spilling cups of coffee
across the table. “It is my new friends of America! We see ourselves once
again, and I must speak to you I have not forgotten the new English word you
told of me at the changing flags to America. The word you are wishing to tell
is ‘stench.’ I have stench you do not
forget because you live as long as you forget. But I see better news for you
than the stink of my stench. Today, I travel with you on the big ship all the
way to California, even when I do not know where California have been and I
cannot remember the name of ship. We have much time to find many new English
words to speak with when my English is the best you can believe.”
The trombonist held his nose, then exclaimed to
the tubaist, “Oh lucky day.”
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