After graduation, he'd attended St. Petersburg Technical Institute where he'd studied economics and metallurgy, gaining an understanding of metal-based currencies of the world.
While at the institute, he'd been initiated into a lodge of Free and Accepted Masons. It had taken him only three years to become a third degree Master Mason, a prestigious honor one holds for life.
The combination of his nobility and his Masonic brotherhood had given him access to the best families in Europe, including high courts.
"My uncle owns a four-story building in Vladivostok near the docks. He can watch ships come and go from there." His uncle's official offices were on the second floor. Day to day business was conducted at street level. "He has a spacious apartment on the third and fourth floors, very luxurious.
"On Christmas Eve, my birthday, two Chinese serving girls helped me with my dress uniform. One buffed my boots while the other buttoned the front of my tunic."
He did not remember their age or how they'd looked. He'd never looked at peasants directly until now.
The Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich was the third son of former Czar Nikolai Pavlovich, and younger brother to the current emperor, Czar Alexander Nikolaievich.
That night, before the grand duke's reception, Mikhail's uncle had presented him with a special gift, a sable coat with a heavily rolled collar, skirt, and cuffs. This, combined with the matching sable cap, was a symbol of status worn only by Russia's highest nobility or wealthiest merchants. Such a fine gift had seemed fitting at the time. "After all, I was to be honored with the Order of St. George of the Third Degree for valiant actions during this current skirmish for the Emperor of China." There had been many skirmishes in this long campaign to create a warm water port on the Pacific Ocean.
Three days ago, "My squad of cannon saved the grand duke's life. He'd recklessly maneuvered his cavalry company into an ambush situation. I could see it all from our higher elevation. My cannon squadron blasted the larger Chinese force into complete disarray and retreat."
For the first time in this war, Chinese forces had been broken, fleeing south. Mikhail was to have been honored for his small part in the grand duke's victory.
"My life was good." Whatever had happened Christmas Eve, his birthday, had changed his life. He hoped not forever.
Here he lay in a smelly cargo hold with peasants who spoke no Russian. How could things be worse?
Mikhail resented not having been attached to the czar, helping to defeat the British in Crimea. "That would have been nice. My home is there." At his uncle's request, he'd been stationed in Vladivostok.
The announced honors that were to have been bestowed at the grand duke's reception had changed resentment to gratitude.
Order of St. George in the 3rd degree.
He smiled at the thought.
How had that gone wrong?
The Grand Duchess, Catherine Mikhailovna, was the sister of the grand duke and, of course, sister to the czar. In St. Petersburg, she and Mikhail had attended some of the same social events and had visited some of the same cafés. "She was always looking my way."
He smiled and wagged a bit, remembering her stare.
Beautiful.
This Chinese peasant girl did not care.
"The grand duchess smiled at me many times."
He'd known she was to attend the reception with her brother, Nikolai, on Christmas Eve. "My uncle warned me never to trust a Romanov, but I could not resist."
After being introduced by Colonel Vladimir Schardakava-Preslova, Mikhail's commanding officer, the music had started and Mikhail had invited the grand duchess to join him for the waltz.
This simple gesture had inflamed the grand duke, who pulled his sword and slashed at Mikhail. "This is how my face was cut." Still numb to his touch. "I should be grateful he did not cut my eye.
"I was blinded by my own blood and I backed away. This was when I drew my sword." He shrugged. "A simple reflex."
He had managed to dodge the grand duke's next lunge and had accidentally tripped him. The grand duke's sword had skidded across the floor, prompting him to grab a two-shot muzzle loader from one of his guards.
"He shot me while he was climbing back to his feet." He touched his left side, still very painful.
The grand duke had stepped closer. "He aimed at my face and would have pulled the trigger. I swung hard with my sword." A reflex. "I cut off his hand." He touched his right wrist. "I did not mean to do this. I tried to hit his gun." He shrugged again. "I could not see clearly."
When the hand and gun hit the floor, the gun had fired again. The ball had made no sound of contact. It had struck nothing that Mikhail knew of. All eyes had locked on the grand duke, on Colonel Preslova, and the application of fire to the bleeding wrist.
This image would always remain in Mikhail's memory.
"The grand duke will live. I am certain of this."
What would happen to his uncle? "I wish my uncle could be sailing with us to . . . Where are we going?"
She smiled at his Russian.
He scratched his itching chin and neck. His beard had never been so long—perhaps a month of growth.
"I need to get out of this stinking hold. Does your father have a good razor?"
Probably not.
The Chinaman's white hair, beard, and mustache had grown very long. And his hair and beard had been tied in many knots.
She didn't care.
She was pretty to look at, maybe fourteen or fifteen, leaning forward with another steaming bowl of soup.
He'd grown very tired of this soup, but he was hungry.
Hard to tell what she thought from her blank stare.
The soup smelled the same. He wasn't so hungry after all.
She said, "You eat."
"You speak English?"
"Pretty much so. We from Hong Kong, down to Canton. You eat." She pressed the cup toward him.
"What is it? I'm very tired of this."
"Dog."
He turned his head away.
The cup followed his nose.
"You need meat. Give you strength back pretty quick. My father say, you eat."
Maybe he was hungry. "Do all of you speak English?" He took the cup and tasted it, made worse by knowing what was in it.
Barbarian peasants.
"Only me speaking English, pretty much. We come on ship at Hong Kong. Very bad Boxer in Canton. Kill my mother and grandfather. Kill my older brother. Take my younger sister. Make her Boxer assassin pretty soon, I bet. Me and Chiang Po, my father, we decide go to America. My mother have brother there, place in Weaverville. You hear of?"
"No." He wished he'd never gotten her started talking.
THREE DAYS LATER, WITH a pig squealing and screaming, the Chinese girl and her father helped Mikhail up the ladder onto the steeply pitched deck, helping him climb up to the windward rail.
A cold, clean-smelling wind swept against his face, chilling off the sweat from the exhaustive exercise of climbing onto the deck. He shivered from the cold and she pulled his mink coat tighter, rubbing his back. Her eyes searched his, making sure he wouldn't fall. Mikhail turned his back to the wind and raised his face toward the sun. It felt good.
Down on the leeward side, nearly awash in the ocean, three Chinese had just killed that screaming pig, gutting it now, letting the intestines and blood slip into the ocean. Three sharks followed close, fins darting in and out, feeding on pig guts.
"Ah." A man in a captain's cap made his way along the windward rail, coming forward from the stern. "You're up and about. Good thing. Good thing. You had us worried. Went down to check a couple of times, but you looked near dead."
"You are the captain?"
"Aye. Name's Rawlings." They shook hands.
"Yes, I am very lucky to be alive. Chiang Po is good doctor."
"Good thing." The captain smiled.
Mikhail scratched his itching neck. "How long have we been at sea?"
"Today's February twentieth." Rawlings looked up at
the sails, probably calculating the days in his head.
"Forty-five days." Mikhail had completed the calculation.
The captain's bushy brows shot up, possibly surprised by Mikhail's quickness with numbers. "Aye, we're making good time. Should reach our destination late next week, weather permitting."
"What is our destination, exactly?"
"San Francisco, man. Your uncle never told you?"
"My uncle. You know him? Is he . . ."
"He left the ship a minute before we set sail."
"I worry for him. I wish him to be here."
"He's been my friend for six years now, since I first made port on the China frontier." Rawlings straightened and squared his shoulders to Mikhail, friendly. "Listen, if you're tired of Chinese food, we'll be having a beef brisket tonight."
Mikhail scratched his hairy neck. "You have a razor?"
BY THE TIME HIS BATTLE with the captain's beef brisket finally ended, Mikhail's jaw ached more than his wounded ribs. He preferred Chinese food. Dog had been more chewable than this beef, and delicate Chinese seasonings made their food tasty. As if tough and tasteless beef wasn't bad enough, the plate carried a crusty-looking scab, perhaps dried egg from the captain's breakfast. The Chinese kept their plates, bowls, bamboo spoons, and chopsticks cleaner than this.
The captain's other dinner guest, a well-dressed Chinese businessman named Fong, had his food delivered from below by Chinese serving girls. One of these girls had been kind enough to shave Mikhail's face with a spare razor from the captain. He felt civilized for the first time since his birthday.
The captain seemed to have enjoyed the beef, mopping up the tasteless gravy with his third biscuit. He looked at Mikhail. "I owe you some money, Count." He pulled a familiar coin purse from an inside breast pocket. "Already took out your passage." He set the purse in front of Mikhail with a nod.
Out of respect, manners taught him in his upbringing, Mikhail let the purse lay. He'd count the money later. "Are you sure, Captain, that this is not shoe leather your chef has prepared?"
The captain chuckled and nodded, pulling gravy from his mustache with a soiled cloth napkin. "It is a mite tough. Hard to get good beef in China. He butchered that steer near a week ago. Scrawny-looking thing."
"You should maybe give the ship's food stores to the Chinese for cooking and let your chef trim sail."
Fong smiled and nodded.
The captain twitched, certainly insulted by Mikhail's truthful criticism.
Mikhail smiled at the captain. "What can you tell me about our destination?"
"San Francisco?" The captain stood, opened a nearby cabinet, pulled out a leather portfolio, and set it on the table. "Got a lot of articles in here about America, about San Francisco. Cut from travel journals and such. You can use this salon for reading. Don't risk them blowing away out there in the wind."
MIKHAIL SPENT MUCH of the next ten days in the captain's salon reading articles from several American travel journals and newspapers. This filled his time and removed him from the stench of the hold, a very nice change. There was plenty of time to himself; plenty of time to think ahead.
His ultimate desire was to get back home to Mother Russia, back to his family estate in Crimea. A return to Vladivostok seemed impossible. The grand duke would never stop looking for him.
His best hope would be in St. Petersburg. He had friends there—members of his lodge and friends from his school days, some of whose families had known his father. To make his way there, he would need to cross the American continent or go around it.
Captain Rawlings had already informed him of the perils in sailing around the cape. He used to carry passengers and freight from Boston to San Francisco, but not anymore, so dangerous was rounding the cape. He'd always lost at least one crew member, either overboard or by freezing to death. Many of his crew had lost fingers from rigging sails in freezing temperatures. The fierce winds had often forced them to turn back and make port for repairs before venturing out again.
According to Rawlings, carrying American ginseng to China and bringing these immigrant slaves back had proven much more profitable and much safer.
From what Mikhail had been reading, crossing the small American continent did not seem much safer. The Daily Evening Picayune had an article about the Donner Party, a train of wagons that had departed from a place called Springfield, Missouri in the spring of 1846, bound for California and Oregon. After splitting up in a territory called Utah, the Donners had tried crossing the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the late fall and had gotten snowed in. By the time they had been rescued in the spring of 1847, some of the few survivors had resorted to cannibalism.
Articles in the California Police Gazette and The Watchman told of the dangers of crossing the Indian Territories, where savages had taken scalps and burned people to death.
The California Christian Advocate told of atrocities committed upon the Indians by whites.
Sneaking back into Vladivostok might not be as perilous as this.
A series of articles in the California Chronicle gave some historic references. Mikhail already knew the name Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna, now in his eleventh term as president of Mexico.
When the Republic of Texas had declared their independence from Mexico, Santa Anna had marched north with a vast army and destroyed the Alamo, a small fort in a place called San Antonio. The few Americans who had surrendered had been tortured and butchered to death.
Understandable, of course.
After this, a very interesting man named Sam Houston, who was known to have spent much of his life among savage American Indians, had raised an army and defeated Santa Anna. They'd found Santa Anna hiding in a swamp and forced him to sign articles granting Texas independence from Mexico. Some Texan had mockingly referred to Santa Anna as the Napoleon of the West, a nickname that stuck. According to the article, Santa Anna actually liked it.
When Santa Anna had returned to Mexico City, he'd renounced the treaty he had just signed and insisted the territory known as Texas, a territory comprising more than sixty percent of all of Mexico, was still under the sovereignty of Mexico. This act prompted Sam Houston to call upon the United States for annexation. The United States Congress had moved quickly and the Texas Territories had been annexed into the United States.
After Santa Anna refused to recognize this annexation, the United States had declared war on Mexico.
Following a short war, U.S. Marines had occupied Mexico City and exiled Santa Anna to Cuba. On February 2, 1848, acting Mexican President Martin Carrera signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, thus permanently granting the Texas Territories to the United States.
The agreement had sanctioned a fifteen million dollar payment by the United States, along with the forgiveness of three and a half million dollars of Mexican debt. This purchase had included the State of California, north of a line drawn from the Rio Grande River in Texas to the Pacific Ocean. Below the line was Baja California, still part of Mexico. The exact placement of this line had insured that the naturally protected harbor of San Diego would be part of the United States. A map on the publication's back page made all of this easy to understand.
Two weeks after the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, gold had been discovered at Sutter's Mill in California. The City of San Francisco had grown almost overnight from around three hundred residents to more than twenty-five thousand. Two years later, in April of 1850, the first California Legislature met and voted for statehood. A month later, California had become one of the United States of America.
The Fireman's Journal had the most recent article, describing San Francisco at the end of 1854 as a sprawling tent city with more than thirty thousand residents. Brick paved streets with gas streetlights had connected the Mining Exchange, City Hall and jail, banks, fine hotels, and even a health club for gentlemen to meet and exercise.
Portsmouth Plaza, not far from City Center, was the location of the city's posh gambling houses: El Dorado, Verandah, Parker Hou
se, Bella Union, California Exchange, and the Empire; all glittering palaces with gas lit crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors.
Mikhail's previous fears had now become excited anticipation.
The traditions of Portsmouth Plaza, according to this article, promised an end to hunger in San Francisco. All of these establishments offered a free luncheon buffet to all who entered.
What most interested Mikhail about this particular article, considering he'd been tended to and fed by Chinese immigrants, was that Portsmouth Plaza had been completely surrounded by what the Journal called the squalor of Chinatown, a tightly packed collection of tents and shacks so overcrowded as to offer both fire and health hazards to the overall community.
The Fireman's Journal called on city officials to remove this threat before the entire city was reduced to ashes. This article went so far as to predict the onset of a black death similar to the historic plagues of Europe.
Knowing how clean these Chinese kept themselves aboard ship, Mikhail considered this article a humorous misrepresentation.
He had grown to respect these peasants.
Maybe for the first time in his life, he felt grateful. He'd been grateful for his uncle, of course.
"Land ho!" The cry rang out on deck. Sudden excitement filled the air, even in the captain's salon.
He set his reading aside and moved too quickly getting up, feeling a sharp pain in his side. He sat down and relaxed, breathing slowly. The pain subsided.
He got up slowly and climbed through the hatchway, walked down the passageway, and opened the louvered door leading to the cargo deck.
Barefooted crew scurried across the top of the salon, jumped down to the cargo deck, and rushed to the port rail.
Mikhail stepped out to the cool rush of wind, both chilling and invigorating. He slowly made his way to the rail, squeezing between crew members into a cluster of Chinese.
Hazy gray mist hid most of a mountainous coastline where ghostly shadows along the distant horizon stood in stark contrast to blue sky.
A strong chill crossed his shoulders and his muscles tightened. Throbbing pain in his ribs nearly buckled his legs.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 2