California -- History -- Fiction; Rezanov, Nikolai Petrovich, 1764-1807 -- Fiction
forest was the walled settlement of New Archangel, that Baranhov, the
dauntless, had wrested from the bloodthirsty Kolosh but a short time
since and purposed to hold in the interest of the Russian-American
Company. His log hut, painted like the other buildings with a yellow
ochre found in the soil, stood on the rock, and his glass swept the
forest as often as the sea.
As Rezanov, on the second of July, thirty-one days after leaving San
Francisco, sailed into the harbor with its hundred bits of volcanic
woodland weeping as ever, he gave a whimsical sigh in tribute to the
gay and ever-changing beauties of the southern land, but was in no mood
for sentimental reminiscence. Natives, paddling eagerly out to sea in
their bidarkas to be the first to bring in good news or bad, had given
him a report covering the period of his absence that filled him with
dismay. There had been deaths from scurvy; one of the largest ships
belonging to the Company had been wrecked and the entire cargo lost; of
a hunting party of three hundred Aleuts in one hundred and forty
bidarkas, which had gone from Sitka to Kadiak in November of the
preceding year, not one had arrived at its destination, and there was
reason to believe that all had been drowned or massacred; and the
Russians and Aleuts at Behring's Bay settlement had been exterminated
by one of the native tribes.
But the Juno was received with salvos of artillery from the fort, and
cheered by the entire population of the settlement, crowded on the
beach. Baranhov, looking like a monkey with a mummy's head in which
only a pair of incomparably shrewd eyes still lived, his black wig
fastened on his bald, red-fringed pate with a silk handkerchief tied
under his chin, stood, hands on hips, shaking with excitement and
delight. The bearded, long-haired priests, in full canonicals of black
and gold, were beside the Chief-Manager, ready to escort the
Chamberlain to the chapel at the head of the solitary street, where the
bells were pealing and a mass of thanksgiving was to be said for his
safe return.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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