The maps on my husband’s secretaire are incomplete. That’s why the company had him sighting, measuring, and marking more precisely this coast’s features. What lies to the south is largely uncharted. We can’t depend on what the maps say. So why does my husband insist on it? Every man can see that what he says is false.
Nikolai Isaakovich ignores the skepticism that shows itself on each face and carries on. “If we stay here, we expose ourselves to the threat of almost certain death. We’ll have to fight day and night to stay alive. They’ll besiege us. We’ll have to battle until we have no ammunition left. And then, these dikari will exterminate us without a second thought.”
I think about being in the tent with the two koliuzhi, about sitting so close to them, no weapons, no voices raised, nothing but a conversation between us. The battle has changed everything, even the way we speak. Now, they’re no longer just koliuzhi. They’re dikari. Savages.
“And so, we must leave. We should be able to reach that harbour quite easily.”
“They’ll follow us,” cries John Williams, his face even redder, enflamed with his outrage. “They’ll try to kill us.”
“They may… or they may remain here to plunder the ship and divide the spoils,” says Timofei Osipovich quietly, picking at the scab on his forehead. “Who can tell?”
My husband looks at him gratefully. “Yes. Timofei Osipovich is right. Most likely they won’t pursue us, for we’ll carry nothing they want, and so they’ll have no need come after us,” my husband adds. His eyes shift to the forest. “Most likely.”
There’s silence, except for the persistent, rhythmic murmur of the sea. Every man is imagining the walk we’re about to set out on, through a land we don’t know, during the onset of winter. Every man is imagining the alternative. Waiting. For what? If there’s no ship, will there be a grand carriage pulled by six horses on its way back to Novo-Arkhangelsk? A peasant with his donkey cart who’ll make room for us beside his sacks of grain? Will the vodyanoy intervene and instead of drowning us, take us home? Every man is imagining our demise. How we’ll fall—from illness, battle, hunger, cold. We’ll fall, one by one by one, until none is left standing. No one in the world will ever discover what’s become of us.
“Then, we place ourselves in your hands,” pronounces Timofei Osipovich. He flicks away the scab he picked.
The doubt instantly washes away. Brooding Ovchinnikov cracks a smile now that his ostensible master has given his approval. Old Yakov nods and readjusts his cap. Nikolai Isaakovich folds his arms across his chest and looks pleased with himself. Sobachnikov shyly meets my eye, and I smile to let him know everything will be fine.
Will everything be fine? I think it would be wiser to stay with the brig. Everything we own is onboard the Sviatoi Nikolai—and we may need it all if our rescue takes a long time. Despite the koliuzhi, I’d place greater faith in staying, building a shelter suitable for the winter, and hunting and fishing for our sustenance. Maybe we can make peace with the koliuzhi. Perhaps they’ll leave us alone. I think waiting is a wiser choice than hiking sixty-five miles in near winter, over terrain we know nothing about. But no one asks me. So, I must follow. I’ll go where Nikolai Isaakovich leads.
We begin preparations for our long march. First, the rest of the supplies we’ll need are retrieved from the brig. More ammunition, more food, some knives, bowls, cups, and cooking pots—two wide vessels and a kettle.
The carpenter Kurmachev carries a small keg of rum to shore, thrashing through the waves with the weight on his shoulders. In Novo-Arkhanglesk, every man is allotted four to five cups a month because the company believes spirits, when taken moderately, offset the hazards of living in a wet and unhealthy climate. They also keep away the scurvy. Kurmachev takes this advice to heart and his breath often reeks of drink.
Fortunately, the sea is less turbulent than it was yesterday, and the tide is out. The trips back and forth are less arduous.
Maria and I watch these labours mostly from the side of the morning’s fire, which we stir and feed to keep alive. Timofei Osipovich has ordered his favoured Ovchinnikov and the apprentice to stay onshore and guard us. They stand poised not far from the tents, eyes trained on the forest and the ends of the strand. Occasionally, Ovchinnikov patrols far up the beach, skimming the forest’s fringe, watching for movement behind the trees. The forest is as quiet and brooding as he is. I worry that the koliuzhi are waiting in the shadows and his presence, so near the woods, will precipitate another confrontation.
Later, when the fire’s dying down, I walk up the beach toward the river with a mind to collect a few pieces of driftwood. “Madame Bulygina,” calls Ovchinnikov, “don’t go any farther.” When I turn back to our camp, I notice Sobachnikov near the big tent, fussing with a barrel instead of heading out to the brig again.
I return as instructed and throw the wood I’ve collected onto the fire, watching Sobachnikov the while. I wonder if we could burn the wood from the barrel he’s opening. I’m about to call out to ask when he looks up and beams at me. In one hand, he holds my telescope. In the other, my star log.
“The commander asked me to give these to you,” he says when I approach. He’s flushed, and his hands, as he extends my things toward me, tremble. I receive them. The star log is dry. The telescope doesn’t have a drop of water on it.
“How did you manage to keep them dry?” I exclaim.
He blushes. “I thought to wrap them in an old coat, and then I put them in a barrel of gunpowder where I knew they’d be safe.”
He must have opened the barrel, then resealed it, before carrying it to shore. Once here, he pried it open once more. “I’ve inconvenienced you. I’m sorry. Thank you for undertaking such an effort for me,” I say.
“Madame Bulygina, I…” he fumbles. I wait, though it pains me to see him in such agony. “I see you every night on deck. I know you value it.”
“Yes. My father gave me this telescope,” I say.
My telescope was built in Germany; it’s of the same design as Mademoiselle Caroline Herschel’s first telescope—the one she used to discover many galaxies and comets, when she was not much older than I am now. It’s a solid instrument, reliable, and though I’m not superstitious, I imagine it will bring me the same luck. I would never dream of leaving it behind.
Sobachnikov fidgets and opens his mouth as if to say something. Instead his face flares as he thinks better of it, and he turns abruptly and heads back to the brig for his next load. I watch him until he enters the surf again, and then I return to the fire.
When the crew finishes bringing in all the provisions we’ll need, my husband orders the rest destroyed.
“We won’t make it easy for those dikari,” he says. “They must not profit from our misfortune.”
The men wade back out to the brig. They drive iron spikes through the barrels of the cannon—each strike rings out as though delivered by a blacksmith, and I warily watch the forest wondering if the koliuzhi will be drawn out by the noise. They next heave the cannon, one by one, overboard. Each one falls with a tremendous splash and then disappears beneath the waves. Then the crew moves onto smaller objects: iron tools deemed too heavy and of too little use for our trek. Pikes and axes, inferior firearms—they break the locks on all the guns and pistols first—even the remainder of Maria’s cooking pots and utensils. All the knives and forks and spoons. The rest of the rum. My half-embroidered napkins and my sewing kit. They toss everything into the sea as if making offerings to the vodyanoy. In the hold are a stack of Russian possession plaques—iron plates engraved with the Holy Cross and the bold words “Country in Possession of Russia.” We were to bury them along the coast when we went ashore for provisions. We haven’t had the chance to leave a single one behind. One by one, the crew flings them all into the surf. The powder—what we can’t carry—is tossed overboard too.