The Great Alone Read Online Free Page B

Chuprov came on deck, and the men moved aside to let him through to the rail. Using a spyglass, he studied the large band of natives dancing on the beach and stabbing the air with their spears.
    Belyaev shouldered in next to Luka. “I think they will attack. We should get ready for them.”
    Chuprov lowered the spyglass to study the whole of the scene. “Pass out the muskets and powder,” he ordered without turning.
    Belyaev smiled and moved away from the rail to carry out the command. Belyaev liked the things that fired the flesh—women, vodka, and fighting. Luka shared his bloodlust, but his own was rooted in a deep, abiding hatred.
    The place at the rail was quickly taken by Shekhurdin. “According to Nevodchikov, these natives are supposed to be friendly. Mikhail Alexandrovich,” he called to the navigator standing at the back of the promyshleniki. “Did you not say the natives on these islands helped you on your return voyage?”
    Luka half turned to catch the navigator’s answer, although Chuprov expressed no such interest. “Yes,” Nevodchikov confirmed. “We had run out of fresh water. We managed to communicate our plight to some natives in a boat, and they brought us two containers—made from seal bladders.”
    Facing the beach again, Shekhurdin studied the dancing gyrations of the colorful costumed natives. “It appears to me they want us to come ashore. See the way they beckon. They are not threatening us in any way.” He angled his head toward Chuprov, something challenging in its tilt. “If a party went ashore with the empty casks, they might direct us to fresh water.”
    “They are armed and outnumber us.” Luka rejected the suggestion.
    “Cossacks have always been outnumbered by their foes, but it never stopped them from marching across Siberia and claiming it for the Tsar. Our weaponry is vastly superior to theirs. Muskets always win over spears.” Every promyshlenik on board had fought with hostile natives at some time in his life, and the odds had never been in his favor. But as far as Luka was concerned, it was one thing to be caught in that situation and another to seek it.
    “We will wait,” Chuprov replied impassively. “There will be plenty of time to fight, if it’s necessary.”
    The beating of the native drums continued to sound, their pounding rhythms accompanying the wild dancing that followed no apparent pattern. It appeared spontaneous and contagious; one exuberant native would start dancing and others would join him. When they became exhausted, a few more would begin. Always there was singing, but that, too, was a confusion of voices. The natives seemed to be whipping themselves into some sort of frenzy.
    “Can anyone understand what they are saying?” Luka asked Chuprov.
    “It isn’t Kamchadal. What about Koriak?” he suggested, referring to another native tribe in Siberia.
    “No, I can understand Koriak—and Chukchi, too,” someone in the group answered.
    “Maybe they’re Aleutorski.” A second mentioned a race of Siberian natives who lived on the coast and aggressively resisted all Russian attempts to make them pay tribute.
    The name sent a rumble of apprehension stirring through the whole company. They eagerly turned to accept the muskets, lead, and powder Belyaev distributed among them. As Luka began to load and prime his firelock musket, Chuprov left the rail and headed for the boat’s hold. He returned shortly carrying a few packets from the small cargo of trade goods on board, which mainly consisted of cheap glass beads, cloth, tin and copper utensils, knives of poor quality, and needles. Chuprov’s packets contained the latter two.
    “What are you going to do with them?” Luka questioned.
    “Give them as presents, and maybe dissuade them from any hostile intention.” A smile curved Chuprov’s mouth but never quite reached his eyes.
    “A taste of this lead will go farther in changing their minds.” Belyaev lifted his musket slightly, his thick