Zhuchka thrusts her nose into the hole in the boy’s chest.
“Get away!” I scream and she cowers, paws over her bloody nose.
How did this happen? What transformed the goodwill I saw in the tent into this?
The crew begins to stir. There are wounds to clean. Bloodied sleeves to rinse in the sea. And the spoils of the battle, which we will collect and add to our belongings in the big tent.
In the meantime, the watch cannot rest. Firearms are reloaded. Sentries are posted. Night will arrive shortly, and when it does, for once, I will turn my gaze away from the heavens. Today my world has shattered, and its remnants have been strewn along a cold beach in a strange land. The order and beauty of the constellations offer no comfort; instead, they only mock.
CHAPTER FOUR
Late in the morning, Nikolai Isaakovich gathers everyone outside the big tent. The men have scabs on their foreheads and chins, soot on their hands and faces, and torn clothing. Did anybody sleep last night? I didn’t, even though I was exhausted from the wreck and the battle. Nikolai Isaakovich told me to rest, to get some sleep, in preparation for the trials ahead. He was right, of course, but who could sleep? The roar of the sea was so close, I imagined every wave crawling into the tent and soaking us. Other noises, creaks and scratches, were muffled and unidentifiable. Each one made me believe the koliuzhi were just on the other side of the canvas and about to attack. Far worse than these, what made sleep impossible, was the image of the maimed body of the koliuzhi boy on the beach. He wouldn’t leave me, no matter how tightly I closed my eyes. That soft skin ripped open, the shredded flesh, bloody as minced meat, and those eyes, glazed and empty. He’s still with me this morning. I think he’ll never leave me. I don’t know when I’ll ever sleep again. Ever. Never. Forever. But I mustn’t allow myself to think such despairing thoughts.
Shortly after we’d woken, my husband organized a small group to take stock of our surroundings. Their goal was to find a protected place where we could establish ourselves until our rescue. Would it take a week before somebody came looking for us? A month? When would the captain of the Kad’iak realize we weren’t going to make the rendezvous? Even if someone came next week, could we manage until they arrived? The beach had grown narrower overnight as the tide came in, and though we remained dry, it was a very calm night. Debris showed that at its highest, the tide wouldn’t leave enough space on the beach for the tents. We’d have to find a drier area up or down the coast, or we’d have to take shelter among the trees.
“Keep your muskets ready,” my husband advised as he divided the men into groups.
He sent old Yakov and the carpenter Kurmachev up the beach, in the direction we’d come from. I don’t know what he was thinking sending two old men together. If either one ran into trouble, neither would be of much help.
The apprentice Kotelnikov and Main Rigger Sobachnikov were directed down to the river. “You two be especially careful,” the prikashchik warned them. “We can’t see what’s upriver from here.” Sobachnikov paled.
Timofei Osipovich was sent into the forest with his loyal Ovchinnikov and the Aleuts.
“What about me?” cried the American.
“You watch the camp,” said my husband. “Your hair and skin—dear God, you’re a walking target.”
The men dispersed. Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts fanned out and were swallowed by the hungry forest. Zhuchka hardly knew which group to follow, but in the end, she chose the forest. They returned first, each man emerging from the woods with the same grim expression on his face. Ovchinnikov brought back a handful of shrivelled purplish-black berries, which he said the Aleuts found soon after entering the forest. I’d never seen these berries before, not in Russia, not in Novo-Arkhangelsk. He offered them to me. I put one in my mouth. It was starchy and bitter. Others spat out the skins and seeds because, as hungry as the men were, the berries were unpalatable. Zhuchka jammed her nose into the ground and licked up the remains, and rolled her tongue, trying to get rid of the sand that inevitably stuck there.
The crew members who’d been sent to scout along the beach returned much later. I watched them through the mist, dragging their feet in the sand, and long before they reached us, I knew they’d been unsuccessful.
Now, outside the big tent as we wait for my husband to speak, a cold mist rolls in from the sea. It mutes the cries of the birds. Timofei Osipovich gave me one of the woven cedar capes left from the battle. It smells of smoke and fish. It’s a bit coarse, but softer than I expect and pliant enough to wrap around my shoulders and keep the mist at bay. It disturbs me to think of whose shoulders it covered before mine. But I must not let that stop me from wearing it—my survival may depend on it. I only wish I knew how to fasten it closed. There are no long ends to knot as there are with a shawl; there is no pin.
Mercifully, my shoes dried before the fire last night. They’re practical shoes—mostly flat, with only a small heel that clicked on the deck and announced my arrival wherever I went. The only ornamentation is on the vamps, which are embossed with a circular pattern of curling vines and feathery leaves. While we were aboard the brig, Maria cleaned them and kept the mould at bay. She sometimes polished them with grease to keep them soft. Though fine for life on a ship, they’re inadequate for this wilderness. They slip on and off my foot too easily, as the teal Morocco leather they’re made with has stretched over the weeks. They fill with sand wherever I go. It compacts between my toes until I have no choice but to empty them. The sand pours from them in a stream, like it does in the sandglass the crew uses to measure the watch. At least I still have shoes.
Out at sea, our brig rocks gently, rhythmically, keeping time with a small flock of seabirds that floats nearby. The ship’s broken foreyard still dangles from the mast and sways and creaks with the motion. High tide has come and gone, and the ship remains grounded. Many more things need to be brought ashore. My telescope and star log are among those that were left behind yesterday. Nikolai Issakovich thought they’d be safer there, away from the salt and sand. He’s promised me he’ll fetch them as soon as our camp is better appointed, and I have a place away from the elements to keep my things.
My husband has attempted to clean himself up. He’s brushed his greatcoat. He’s run his fingers through his hair and beard. He perches atop one of the driftwood logs, facing us and the forest. Behind him, the waves break and fingers of froth creep up the beach, but he pays them no heed. My husband leans just slightly. I can tell he favours the side of his body where he was struck by the spear. Still, he looks the picture of authority; he bears it well, as he should. All twenty-two of us have survived and, despite the unfortunate skirmish with the koliuzhi, that’s an auspicious beginning.
“According to the instructions given me by the chief manager of the colonies,” he cries, “the company ship Kad’iak is coming to the shores of New Albion. Its destination is a harbour lying not more than sixty-five nautical miles from where we now stand.”
Sixty-five nautical miles. No one breathes. Everyone knows how far sixty-five nautical miles is.
“Between these two points,” my husband continues, “the map shows no bay, no cove, nor even a single river.”
Every head turns left then, to the river Kotelnikov and Sobachnikov surveyed only a short while ago. Even from this distance, a churning tongue can be seen flowing from its mouth. Where that wild water meets the surf, a turbid tangle of whitecaps, whirlpools, and currents that reverse one another forms. Between here and there, brown birds with pointy beaks scuttle along the sand.