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On either side of the bay, precipitous walls of rock dipped into the emerald waters and waved their plumes of pine-trees far above. As soon as word went up to headquarters, a salute rang from the brazen guns, and Governor Etholine, in his gig, ran out to greet his English guests. Only three weeks since, Adolphus Etholine had arrived from Kronstadt, bringing with him a blond bride from Helsingfors. The events of the London council were fresh in Etholine's mind, as he greeted the envoys of the potentate on the Columbia.

On a high rock overlooking the Indian village of Sitka old Count Baranoff had built a castle, built it strong, of heavy hewn cedar, pierced by copper bolts, and on the terrace, commanding land and water, he planted his batteries of a hundred cannon. At the top he ran up a lighthouse tower, that flashed the first beacon ray on Pacific waters. Above it waved the Russian flag and the eagles of the czar. For twenty years the bearded old Baranoff ruled Alaska, and despatched home shipload after shipload of furs, that sold for fabulous sums in the markets of Russia. The count was a shrewd old tyrant, bold, enterprising, with a heart of stone, nerves of steel, and a frame of iron. Under his vigorous rule, seals, sea-lions, beaver, and sea-otter perished by millions, and the overworked Alaskans dwindled away to a few sad-faced, cringing slaves.

When Astor sent his expedition to Oregon in 1810, Baranoff was in the prime of his power, alternating days of toil with nights of revelling on raw rum and fiery vodhka. Setting out the foaming camp-kettles, he would sing and shout like an old Norse viking, "Drink, children, drink," till every serf and slave in Sitka Castle lay sprawling on the floor.

But he was a great manager. Sea-furs and walrus