'Nothing to it,' Voronov assured the worried man, but then he corrected himself:
'At least not in Alaska, and I think we'd be the first to know.'
So the matter was dropped, and next day Voronov went ashore to inspect the burgeoning city for himself, and as he sat sweltering in a waterfront saloon where sailors gathered, he heard one of the bartenders saying:
'What a place like this needs is someone to haul ice down from those mountains out there.'
'None forms that could be used,' a veteran of the high country explained. 'Snow falls, but it don't form ice.'
'Well, it ought to,' the sweating bartender said. Then he added the words which led to Voronov's enhanced reputation in the Russian colony: 'Somebody ought to bring ice down here from up north,' and that night, back on his ship, Arkady told his wife:
'I heard the strangest idea this afternoon.'
'That we're really going to sell Alaska?'
'No, that's dead. But this man in the bar, it was very hot, we were sweltering, he said: "Someone ought to bring ice down here."'
Praskovia, fanning herself with a palm frond brought from Honolulu, studied her husband for a moment, then cried enthusiastically: 'Arkady! It could be done. We have the ships, and God knows we have the ice.'
When they returned to New Archangel in early October they hurried to the rather large lake inside the palisade, and after asking a score of questions, learned that ice formed in late November, very thick, and lasted until well into March. 'Properly protected,' he asked the men advising him, 'how long into the summer would it stay frozen?'
'Look up there,' and on the mountains surrounding the sound, in nests protected from the sun, and even in gullies where the drifts had packed down, he saw ample supplies of snow which had lasted through a warm summer. 'Properly packed so air don't hit it, and kept in a barn so the sun don't strike, we keep ice around here through July.'
'Could you do that on a ship?'
'Better. Easier to keep it from the wind and sun.'
He spent three tingling days discussing his mad project with all the knowing men he could locate, and on the fourth he instructed the captain of a ship heading for San Francisco: 'Tell them that on the fifteenth of December, this year, I'll be sending down a shipload of the best ice they ever saw. Arrange for a buyer.'
The cold came early that year, and when the ice was thick on the big lake he and some clever Aleut workmen devised a system for cutting out perfect rectangles of ice, edges square, four feet long, two feet wide and eight inches thick. What these men did was build a horse-drawn gouger, not a cutter, with the left-hand drag merely a marker to keep the rows straight, the right-hand a sharp metal point which scored the ice in a long unbroken line. That done, the gouger was reversed, with the marker now retracing the line already cut while the metal point scored a parallel line two feet distant from the first. Then, moving the gouger to a position so that it could cut across the two scored lines, the outline of the rectangle was completed.
This done, pairs of men with huge trunks of spruce moved along the rectangles, dropping the trunks heavily upon them and breaking them loose into handsome blue-green blocks of ice, which were speedily hauled to the harbor and stacked into the waiting ship.
When a hold was filled, with no way open for air to reach the closely packed blocks, heavy matting was tucked over the ice and topped with spruce branches, which formed pockets that would trap what air did seep through the decking. For no more than thirty-two dollars a ton, perfect New Archangel ice could be delivered in San Francisco.
Three weeks ahead of schedule, Voronov's first cargo of ice made its way south, where it sold for an amazing seventy-five dollars a ton. Arkady had launched a trade which, during the frozen months at least, promised to be more lucrative than peltries. And with the bonanza thus provided, the energetic young assistant administrator launched the building program which would make New Archangel the leading town by far in the North Pacific. He strengthened the palisade, improved his father's cathedral, made shore improvements to aid vessels, and erected a snowstorm of new buildings: stores, an astronomical observatory, a new library, a Lutheran church with an organ, and on the top floor of the castle, much enlarged, a theater for the presentation of plays or the exhibition of singing and orchestral talent by companies from ships putting into the harbor.
By the time all this was completed, New Archangel had accumulated a population of nearly two thousand, not counting the nine hundred Tlingits who still clustered outside the gates, and as Voronov observed at a castle dinner for the local notables: 'Any talk of selling this place to anyone would be preposterous.'
But in 1856 the Crimean War imposed such a burden on the Russian economy, and such a grievous threat to her security in Europe, that serious discussions were held at the highest levels of government regarding the practicality of ridding the empire of her far eastern holdings, and whereas from New Archangel, Arkady Voronov was able to submit the most cogent reasons why places as promising as Kodiak and New Archangel should be retained, in St. Petersburg, Baranov's old nemesis Vladimir Ermelov, now an admiral with a lofty if unearned reputation, smothered Arkady's reasoning with sharp and pertinent official documents:
Even if our present position in the Crimea were not so perilous, and even if conditions in North America were more stable and predictable, it would be advisable for His Imperial Majesty to rid himself of the incubus our eastern territories impose. The entire territory called in the popular vernacular Alaska should be sold if possible, given away if necessary. Four basic facts dictate this as the only practical solution.
First, Alaska is impossibly distant from the real Russia, months from Okhotsk, many dangerous weeks from Petropavlovsk. Communication by land is impossible, even from one part of Alaska to the next, and by ship dangerous, costly and time-consuming.
To send a messenger from St. Petersburg to a place like New Archangel and wait for his return with a reply can take more than a year, and there is no possibility of speeding the process.
Second, with the demise of the sea-otter trade, for the animal is practically extinct, there is no feasible way to make money in Alaska. It has no natural resources except trees, and Finland near at hand has much better. It contains no metal reserves, no present trade, no skilled natives to make anything for future trade. It will always be a deficit possession and money will be saved by getting rid of it.
Third, conditions in North America are chaotic. The future of both the Canadian territories and the United States is precarious, and one can expect Mexico to launch a war of some kind to win back the territories stolen from her. For us to remain in Alaska is to invite certain trouble from various quarters.
Fourth, and I have saved this most important reason till last. Even though the United States shows signs of breaking apart, its citizens also show many signs of wanting to take under their control all of North America, from the North Pole to Panama, and if we retain holdings in that area which they have marked out for themselves, we must sooner or later find ourselves in conflict with that rising power. The United States doesn't realize it now, but its more forward-looking citizens already long for Alaska, and in the years ahead that desire will augment.
My most fervent advice is that Russia rid herself of this doomed holding now.
It is possible that a copy of this report, by clandestine means, found its way into the hands of President James Buchanan, former Secretary of State, with a warm regard for Russia which he acquired while serving as ambassador to that country in 1831.
At any rate, by the time the Crimean War drew toward a close, many Americans in high places were aware that Russia was at least contemplating the sale of Alaska to the United States.
And now one of the more curious developments of world history evolved, almost by accident. On those hilly battlefields in the Crimea, soldiers of many European nations combined to fight against Russia, who stood them off alone. Again and again, outnumbered and outgeneraled, she lost on the battlefi
eld, but in the courts of world opinion she had one stalwart supporter and friend: the United States. At every critical point, America, for reasons never explained, sided with Russia, and let it be known that she was doing so. She strove to prevent an even larger coalition from forming against the tsar. She sent many letters affirming her moral support, and she did nothing to embarrass Russia about the potential sale of Alaska. Of all the nations involved in the Crimean War, even peripherally, the two who formed the warmest alliance were Russia and the United States.
So it was natural, when that war ended, that those in Russia who wanted to divest themselves of what they deemed an incubus should look with favor toward the United States, and in the period of serious discussion no one in Russia spoke harsh words against the United States as a possible buyer, and had times been normal, it is quite probable that President Buchanan would have completed the sale sometime between 1857, when his incumbency began, and 1861, when it ended in the Civil War.
That dreadful war, so comprehensive in terrain and devastating in loss of life and disruption of commerce, made any foreign adventure like the purchase of an unknown part of the world impossible. The war dragged on; money became unavailable for anything else; and for two desperate years it looked as if the Union would be shattered, leaving no one in authority to talk purchase with Russia.
But now the second half of the curious development occurred, for when the fate of the Union seemed most precarious, with European nations eager to pounce on the remains, Russia sent her fleet into American waters, with the implied promise that she would help defend the North against any incursions by European powers, particularly Britain and France. One Russian flotilla steamed into New York harbor, another into San Francisco, and there they waited, saying nothing, making no boasts, just riding at anchor and waiting. Those ships were to the North in 1863 what the American letters of reassurance had been to the Russians in 1856, not tangible military assistance but perhaps something equally important: the knowledge in dark days that one does not stand alone.
When the war ended in the spring of 1865, the two nations which had supported each other in such times of crisis were prepared to effect the sale that had been discussed over so many years, and it was significant that each nation supposed it was doing the other a favor. The United States thought that Russia had to sell and was seeking a buyer; Russia was under the impression that everyone in Washington was hungry to grab hold of Alaska. How misinformed the two friends were!
VII - DURING BOTH THE CRIMEAN AND THE CIVIL WARS
Arkady Voronov, a mature man now, and his gracious wife, Praskovia, continued to live and work in New Archangel as if the future of their part of Russia were engraved in marble. They refurbished the castle and began living in one of the new wings; they increased trade with nations of central and western Pacific, like Hawaii and China; and they improved almost every, aspect of colonial life.
It was Praskovia's idea to send promising Creole boys to St. Petersburg for their education, and already some were returning as doctors, teachers or minor administrators.
Inspired by the performance of her saintly father-in-law, she had led the way in imploring monasteries across Russia to contribute the treasure of icons, statues and brocades that now graced the cathedral, making it one of the richest artistically east of Moscow.
As if wishing to double the attractiveness of Alaska, St. Petersburg dispatched a dashing young prince to govern it, Prince Dmitri Maksutov, whose title reached back to the days when Tatars from central Asia invaded Russia, giving its people the Asian cast which differentiated them from other Europeans. He was a handsome, able man who had, during his services to the tsar, married an attractive woman whose father taught mathematics at the Naval Academy. After bearing three children, this gracious lady had died prematurely, so that when the prince arrived in Alaska he brought with him a charming young wife named Maria, who, as the daughter of the governor general of Irkutsk, was familiar with Alaskan affairs. She proved to be an ideal princess for this frontier post, a gracious woman interested in everything, and she headed a court in which the locals were honored to participate.
During the first day in their new home Prince Dmitri confided his plans to Maria:
'We'll be here ten or fifteen years. Make this place a capital in every sense. Then back to St. Petersburg for an additional title and a major promotion.' The couple had been in residence only briefly when they realized that to attain their ambition, they must rely on some trusted local aide, and it did not take them long to identify the one person qualified to give such assistance.
'This man Voronov,' the prince told his wife. 'Exceptional.'
'Isn't he a Creole?'
'Yes, but his father was chosen by Tsar Nicholas himself to serve as Metropolitan.'
'His mother? Wasn't she a native?'
'A saint, they say. You must ask about her,' and when the princess did, she learned from everyone she asked that Sofia Voronova had indeed been a saint, and she became Arkady's most ardent supporter. It was she who invited the Voronovs to the Maksutov quarters, and then entertained Praskovia so that their husbands could conduct a serious discussion.
It took place at a table bearing a collection of maps, and from the prince's opening remarks, it was clear that he was determined to translate those lines of the map into a reality they had never before had: 'Voronov, I am almost physically distressed whenever I hear the phrase you used in your last dispatches.'
'What, Excellency?' Voronov asked with a disarming simplicity, for as the older man and one with an unsullied reputation he was not awed by the new commander.
' "Russia's island empire in the east."'
'I apologize. I don't seem to understand your objections.'
'Island, island! If St. Petersburg thinks of us as a collection of islands, they'll think small. But Alaska' he waved his hand toward the unknown mainland is a vast land, as grand maybe as all Siberia.' He slammed his hand down on one of the maps and said: 'Voronov, I want you to explore that land, to alert St. Petersburg as to what we really have.'
'Excellency,' Voronov said, moving the prince's hand from the map, 'I've already been just where you pointed,' and he indicated the forbidding land on which the future capital of Juneau would one day stand. 'It's just like the land here at New Archangel. A cramped foreshore, then nothing but mountains deep into what must be Canada.'
Impatiently, Maksutov pointed to where the castle stood: 'We built a fairly good place here. Why not the same over there?' and with his slim forefinger Voronov indicated the difference: 'Excellency, the land behind our town is beautiful wooded terrain.
The land over there is one vast field of ice, forever frozen, forever throwing glaciers down into the sea.'
For a moment there in the comfort of the castle, Prince Maksutov experienced the stern reality of the land he had been sent to govern, because in various English and German books he had seen engravings which demonstrated what an obliterating force a glacier could be, but he had never suspected that monstrous examples existed less than a hundred miles from where he now sat. But he was not deterred by this knowledge; he had progressed in government not because he was a prince but rather because he was a stubborn man, and now, surrendering his concept of building a new town on the mainland, he moved his hand boldly to the north to where some enthusiastic Russian cartographer using fragments of information provided on scraps of paper sent to St.
Petersburg by ship captains, fur traders and missionaries had sketched what he conceived to be the course of the great, mysterious Yukon River. The prince and Voronov studied this awesome stretch of nearly a hundred miles of shoreline where the Yukon degenerated into a tangle of would-be mouths, some of them finishing as dead ends. From either the river side or the sea, it would be impossible for an uninstructed traveler to identify the proper route, and to send any man, no matter how clever or brave, into that ugly snarl of river, channel and swamp was to condemn him to at least a year of thrashing about, but Maksutov was obdurate.<
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'Voronov, I want you to go far up the Yukon^ Make sketches. Talk with our people, if you can find them. Tell us what we have.'
Arkady had inherited from his Orthodox ancestors both courage and a sense of commitment to whatever tasks his occupation required, and he now told his superior: 'I understand that you need to know what goes on up here,' and with a sweep of his hand he indicated on the map a huge frozen area. 'But I wonder if the approach should be through the mouth of the Yukon? Or better said, the mouths of the Yukon?'
'How else?' Maksutov asked, and Voronov evaded the question: 'Look, Your Excellency, at what happens if I do penetrate that tangle at the mouth ... and who knows if I could identify the proper entrance?' While the prince watched attentively, Voronov traced that immense sweep to the south that the Yukon takes at the beginning of its course inland. 'A man could waste a year picking his way through that morass.'
'He could,' Maksutov agreed, but then he punched his right fist into his left palm, making a sound like a rifle shot: 'Damn it all, Voronov, I know that priests have gone up the Yukon to a mission outpost called ...' He could not remember the name of the place but he did recall hearing that some priest currently reporting to his superiors at the cathedral had made exactly the kind of journey he was proposing to Voronov, and an Aleut messenger was dispatched to find the man.
While they waited, Voronov assured the prince: 'I want to go. I want to see the Yukon.
But I prefer to do it from an orderly approach,' and Maksutov said: 'I'd not have it any other way.'
Now the priest, a bedraggled, incredibly thin fellow with an unkempt beard, watery eyes and of an uncertain age he could have been forty-seven or sixty-seven appeared before the two administrators and fell immediately into profuse apologies, but for what, the two managers could not ascertain. Cutting through the verbiage, the prince asked rather sternly: 'Name?' and the trembling man replied: 'Father Fyodor Afanasi.'
'Is it true you've been up the Yukon River?'