The news was a blow that crushed
Baranof almost to senility. He was found doddering and constantly in
tears. Again and again he bade good-by to his old comrades, comrades
of revel with noble blood in their veins, comrades of the hunt,
pure-blooded Indians, who loved him as a brother, comrades of his
idleness, Indian children with whom he had frolicked--but he could not
bear to tear himself from the land that was the child of his lifelong
efforts. The blow had fallen when he was least able to bear it. His
nerve was gone. Of all the Russian wreckages in this cruel new land,
surely this wreck was the most pitiable--the maker deposed by the thing
he had made, cast out by his child, driven to seek some hidden place
where he might die out of sight. An old sea-captain offered him
passage round the world to Russia, where his knowledge might still be
of service. Service? That was the word! The old war-horse pricked up
his ears! Baranof sailed in the fall of 1818. By spring the ship
homeward-bound stopped at Batavia. There was some delay. Delay was
not good for Baranof.
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