The water divides and flows around our little canoe. The koliuzhi man labours with the paddling. Thanks to the extra weight, even with two people paddling, the way forward isn’t easy. His arms strain, the muscles bulge, and his neck is tight and sinewy. His breath comes in quick puffs. He bends and pulls, bends and pulls. The large canoe begins its journey back to the koliuzhi side. Despite also having only two men to paddle, and being so heavily laden, it advances more quickly than ours.
We enter choppier waters. Froth curls on the water’s surface like a confection. Trees line both sides of the river, drawing to a deep, shadowy vee upstream. I turn away and look back downstream to see how the larger canoe is progressing.
From the sea, a grey wall of water advances. It rises steadily, alarmingly, heading for the river. What is it? It narrows, the riverbanks funnelling it into a bulging mass of water. I want to scream but I’m mute. I raise my hand and point.
Maria, Kotelnikov, and Yakov look. In the big canoe, John Williams leaps up and also points.
“No!” I finally cry.
The wall of water curls over like a serpent then falls in a huge sweep that swallows the big canoe. The boat disappears. An instant later, our little boat is lifted like a feather. We’re turned around.
What’s happening to the ocean?
In a rush, the water recedes. Our canoe stays afloat. But the big canoe is half submerged, and it tilts as though the hull has been breached. Not many men are still aboard. Those that are have no paddles, no way to stop their vessel from drifting toward the sea. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? A few heads bob in the water, fighting the current that pulls them downstream. Two people stand waist deep near the bank as the water swirls around them. They’re Russians. They hold their guns above their heads. Is one my husband? Three other men swim toward the koliuzhi’s shore, where everyone has lined up along the riverbank. I can’t tell anybody apart.
Zhuchka swims frantic circles around the bobbing heads.
“Kolya!” I shriek. I don’t know where he is.
It’s impossible to know who throws the first spear or shoots the first gun.
Maria slides down in the canoe, cowering in the hull. Yakov clutches the gunwales.
“Go back! Take us back!” Kotelnikov shouts.
Our paddlers ignore him and head away from the gunfire and the soaring arrows. They continue toward the koliuzhi shore. “Turn around!”
Kotelnikov lunges for the paddler behind him. He’s pushed away. Our little canoe rocks threateningly. Kotelnikov lunges again and this time, the koliuzhi man knocks him down with the paddle.
One end of the big canoe sinks and the other swings around toward our shore. The remaining men jump out and make for land. John Williams is the first to climb out of the water—he’s the easiest to see with his red hair. He aims his musket; nothing happens. He shakes it. In a fit, he throws it on the riverbank. The musket must be wet, useless. He picks up a stone and throws it. But the river swallows the rock before it reaches the midway point. It’s too far. Still, he takes another and tries. He re-enters the river to get closer, and when knee-deep, he stops and positions himself. The riverbed has hundreds of rocks. He bends to get one, throws it, then reaches for another. Arrows plunge into the water all around him.
Zhuchka climbs out of the river. She runs up and down the bank on our side, barking. She jumps back in, chasing a flying rock.
Our little canoe crunches against the koliuzhi shore. Our paddler tries to steady the boat. Kotelnikov turns on him again. This time, three koliuzhi men emerge from the trees and rush over to help. Kotelnikov grabs the paddler’s neck, but the men easily pull him off.
They drag Kotelnikov and Yakov from the boat. While they’re distracted, I wonder if Maria and I should push the canoe back out. But there’s no sense to that. We’d drift right into the crossfire. We meekly climb onto shore.
Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I didn’t see her disappear. I’m certain she didn’t go overboard but in all the confusion, I didn’t notice her leaving the canoe.
We’re now a safe distance from the thundering battle. The fighting has shifted into the forest on the opposite side of the river. Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? I glimpse men darting between trees, but none is my husband. Timofei Osipovich still has his musket. So does his dependable Ovchinnikov. They shelter behind the trees while they load their weapons, then lean out to shoot. John Williams has climbed a tree. He hides his red head in the foliage and shoots down on the koliuzhi. Somebody must have given him a dry gun. The carpenter Kurmachev and one of the Aleuts burst from the forest. They drag Sobachnikov between them. He’s limp as a wilted violet, and his long arms and legs flop uncontrollably. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood on his jacket. The trio line up like the three stars in Orion’s belt and disappear into the trees.
But where’s Kolya?
The battle moves deeper into the forest, away from us, until we can no longer see anybody. Where’s Zhuchka? Has she been hit? Is she dead? I hear a bark and a yelp. Poor girl. She must dodge fire from both sides of the battle.
The sound of gunfire echoes off the trees and riverbanks, as do the cries of men shouting to one another, and the men who’ve been struck. I cover my ears. I can’t stand to hear another sound—every scream sounds like it’s Nikolai Isaakovich. But we’re not allowed to leave. Instead, we’re made to sit together, back to back, these koliuzhi pressed up against us with their spears and arrows and daggers. Helpless to do anything to prevent it, we four are forced to listen to the long, low howl that marks the end of our world.
WINTER 1808–1809
CHAPTER SEVEN
Poets describe vividly the sensation of the falling heart, but I’ve never experienced it. I know it’s irrational—as if a heart could plummet from heaven, spinning end over end, toward the hard earth and an inevitable, tragic destiny. Only children and the superstitious would believe such fancy. But when the koliuzhi focus their attention on us on the riverbank, I wonder if the poets might be right.
One of the men speaks to us, hard consonants thrown in our faces. Without Timofei Osipovich, we don’t know what he wants. The man’s voice becomes louder, and his lips twist and contort around his words. Does he think we can’t hear? Doesn’t he know that we don’t understand?
Finally, the man growls. He nudges stout Kotelnikov with his knee, then again, and when the apprentice glares at him, the man pulls him roughly to his feet. Kotelnikov cries out, writhes, and tries to get away, but the man won’t let go. “
wόpatichásalas siwáchal, icha
í axwó kadídoťsa!”[7] he screams.
Guessing, we rise and stumble into a line behind Kotelnikov—Yakov, Maria, then me. We are led down a rugged path that skirts the river. The paddler from the canoe taps his paddle on the backs of my legs, herding me like I’m a goat.
From the battlefield, there’s neither movement nor sound. Where is everyone? I haven’t seen my husband since the wall of water struck his canoe in the river. Did he drown? Has he been shot and killed? I strain to hear the smallest sound, to see the slightest movement, but it’s as still as a painting across the river Nothing, not even a bird, dares to disturb the calm.