DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  Chiang SuLin and her father stood near the hold, watching him. Chiang Po nodded and his daughter hurried below. She returned with Mikhail's mink coat, hurried up the deck, and wrapped him in it, rubbing his back and shoulders, careful not to press against his wounded side.

  Moment by moment, stroke by stroke of her hands across his back, his shivers subsided.

  "Here she comes, boys," shouted the one they called Dink Watkins, a convict from Australia who'd been sent down from London for picking pockets. He stood above and behind Mikhail, bare feet planted on the main boom, leaning back against the full sail, pointing aft. "Listen up."

  To the stern of Silent Mistress, on the windward side, a ten meter sloop plowed quickly upwind toward them. Two ladies struggled in the wind, holding up a banner on the lee side of the mainsail: "Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse." The sloop neared and a tall, muscular man at the helm stood with a megaphone. "Hello, Silent Mistress. Welcome back, Captain Rawlings." He pointed over the top of Mikhail. "Hello, Dink. Bring your friends around to Tommy Chandler's, first house on Pacific Street. Good food and plenty of it. Honest liquor and plenty of it. Beautiful, clean ladies eager to fill your every wish."

  The sloop ran abreast, close enough to see the ladies, who were neither young nor pretty.

  The barker shouted, "Tommy Chandler is a founding member of the Seamen's and Landlord's Protective Association. No need to pay. Your next ship out pays it all." The much faster sloop moved off. "Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse, first house on Pacific Street Wharf."

  Mikhail sensed something and turned.

  Dink Watkins stared and smiled.

  Chapter Three

  "That there's the Golden Gate," said Captain Rawlings. "A narrow passage to hope, prosperity, danger, and despair. You'll never find a broader range of possibilities."

  Early morning sun peaked over the tops of mountains where white clouds spanned the coastline in both directions as far as Mikhail could see. The mountains had loomed larger and larger over the past day and a half, since land had first been sighted.

  No signs of civilization yet. "I see no gate. Are you certain we are not sailing into the side of a mountain?" Low, gray fog obscuring the coastline looked close.

  The captain chuckled and worked his way aft, not worried about the nearby coastline or mountains.

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, those mountains towered over the ship on three sides with a grand scale, impossible not to excite the spirit, with still no signs of life.

  Mikhail followed the flow of Chinese slave cargo forward. Peasants pointed at a distant ship sailing toward them, a barely visible speck under gray mist.

  Amazing.

  "Say my farewell now, Count." Captain Rawlings stood behind Mikhail. There was no amazement for him. "I'll be busy from now until long after we dock, with the ship's log and manifest, settling up with the crew, and such."

  "It has been a most memorable passage, Captain Rawlings. I am grateful for having met you."

  "You was touch and go for awhile. We thought you might not make it. Glad I won't have to face your uncle with bad news."

  "I am worried for his safety."

  "The baron? He's a resourceful man, an important man. He'll be fine." The captain turned away, finished with this conversation.

  "You do not understand what has happened."

  The captain turned back.

  Mikhail hesitated. He dared not say more. The captain might throw him in chains and escort him back to the grand duke.

  "Your uncle's Chancellor of Vladivostok. He's a powerful man."

  "Not so powerful as some others." Mikhail glanced toward that other ship, still a long way off, tacking north, not toward Silent Mistress. "Please, do not misunderstand. He has done nothing wrong. Still, I cannot but fear for his safety."

  "Tell you what, when I next make port here, I'll post a note at the Pacific Mail Wharf. They got a big board there for open letters and such."

  "When?"

  "I make port here twice a year, usually March and September, depending on the weather."

  "How do I find this place? What is it called?"

  "The mail wharf? It's a small part of Pacific Street Wharf. That's our usual berth, Pacific Street Wharf. You'll see the American flag. Can't miss it." He pointed at the standard flying over the stern of Silent Mistress, then pulled Mikhail closer, speaking privately. "Meant to mention it before, about where we're bound. Them clippings you was reading paint it colorful, like a kind of paradise."

  Mikhail smiled. "Da. Yes. I am very excited going to this port of San Francisco, all this wealth in one place."

  "Aye, there is that, but don't be fooled. It's a chancy place. A dangerous place, 'specially for newcomers like yourself."

  "I have military training. I have my sword." Mikhail felt for the handle. Not there. He'd stored his dress sword below with his sash.

  "You're in a weakened condition, Count. Your uncle asked me to look after you. If you want to wait till morning, we can go ashore together."

  "Perhaps. I will think about this one."

  "We'll dock sometime tonight. In the morning, I can show you where the mail office is located." The captain thought about it. "The Barbary Coast is the worst nest of thieves in the whole world. If you go ashore tonight, you need to get up off them docks and into the city quick as you can. Or, like I said, wait and we'll go ashore together. I'll make sure you find a good berth."

  THEY'D PASSED THE PRESIDIO of San Francisco well after dark. Dink Watkins had packed his sea bag early that morning, anxious to get to Tommy Chandler's, where friends and plentiful opportunities beckoned men with Dink's unique talents.

  He climbed up to his usual perch on the mid-ship boom and looked down at the well dressed fancies strolling Meigg's Wharf under glittering gaslights. Perfect pickings for Dink's nimble fingers.

  Meigg's Wharf lay a good distance from the Barbary, extending way out into the bay—a long run, should somebody catch Dink at his craft.

  Money's to be had.

  Rich pockets filled with gold always justified any risk. He'd be there soon enough.

  Why the city's wealthy liked Meigg's Wharf mystified Dink. Maybe it was because of nearby North Beach, another spot filled with rich pockets.

  From his perch, he saw the whole sprawling, sparkling city where gray fog lay like a blanket atop gaslights, a cool blanket to sleep under day or night.

  The ship ran past the Barbary, down the long bay.

  Time to go to work.

  He joined other sailors, resetting the sails at the first mate's commands. Before long, they'd tacked close enough for the final pull with the longboats, always manned by bigger crewmen.

  Dink and other scramblers dropped the sails and tied off.

  That Russian count stood under him, so high and mighty. He had no idea how clever was little Dink, not protecting his purse full of gold coin. Taking care of that one would be Dink's pleasure.

  SILENT MISTRESS SLID into the darkness of Pacific Street Wharf around midnight, mooring lines flying off the cargo deck.

  Longshoremen snatched rope and pulled the clipper tight to the wharf, waving and shouting at crew members they knew while tying her off.

  Excitement rushed up Mikhail's back and across his shoulders. He was eager to keep pace with the torrent of energy all around him. Lanterns strung from the ship's rigging gave barely enough light to work by.

  About a dozen black-clad Chinese Tong seeped from foggy darkness into the ship's scant light and lined up on the wharf. One of them barked an order and the ship's main cargo of Chinese peasants swarmed over the rail and onto the wharf with their bundled possessions.

  Their hatchet man stood apart, watching the others shove peasants into a staggered line, facing them toward light from the ship, opening their mouths, tugging their arms and bending their legs, and opening their bundles to inspect their possessions. The peasants dared not stop them from taking whatever they wanted.

  Crew members removed a center section of rail
and slid a wide boarding plank onto the wharf.

  Fong ceremoniously walked across the deck and stopped near the boarding plank.

  The Tong guards barked orders, silenced the mob of peasants, and stood them to attention.

  Fong bowed to Mikhail, then to Chiang Po, and walked down the plank onto the wharf. He hurried toward a high fence that ran across the wharf and passed through a doorway and the lantern light on the other side.

  The guards shoved Chinese peasants, all following Fong through the doorway into the light.

  Ship's lanterns cast barely enough light to read the sign over the door: "Dock Fee $20.00, Gold or Coin. No Paper Currencies Accepted."

  Crew members left the ship by twos and threes or individually, some greeting longshoremen on the wharf, all of them moving toward a darkened door nearer a warehouse. Five minutes later, the wharf near the ship had emptied.

  Niet.

  He could not wait. His desire for solid ground and his eagerness to enter this city of gold overruled logic and safety.

  He turned to go below, but Chiang SuLin had already retrieved his sword and sash. She knew him too well. They had been a long time at sea.

  She helped him remove his coat and helped with his sash. He positioned his dress sword and slid back into his sable coat. He checked both coin purses, safe in the inside pockets of his coat.

  SuLin offered to help him down to the wharf.

  Mikhail shook his head. He needed to do this on his own. They would not be with him much longer. He bent to pick up her father's medicine case.

  She slapped his hand and slung the bundle with their belongings over her head and onto her back. She smiled, bent, and picked up the medicine case. She and her father both looked at him. They would not leave the boat before him.

  "Da. Okay." He walked down to the wharf and turned to wait.

  They followed close behind.

  He pulled out his uncle's coin purse and offered Chiang Po three one hundred ruble gold coins.

  The doctor shook his head and waved it off.

  Mikhail held it closer, insisting.

  Po looked again and took one coin.

  Mikhail pressed him to take more.

  SuLin said, "Is too much."

  "You have saved my life. I must pay."

  "Too much. My father lose face."

  Okay.

  Mikhail put the purse away.

  SuLin set the medicine case down and hugged Mikhail's arms, saying goodbye, always careful to protect his still-painful ribs. "You come see Weaverville. We feed you good, I bet."

  Mikhail grabbed the case, which was not very heavy, and followed them out near the end of the wharf. The feeling of motion informed him of what the sailors had called 'sea legs.'

  A small, open sailboat waited with a single lantern strung from the forward stay. A Chinaman on board took their bundle and helped them board.

  Mikhail handed her the medicine case. "Where will you go?"

  "We go Weaverville. I tell you already." She propped her fists on her hips and wagged her head. "My uncle, mother side, he have many gold there. You hear of?"

  Mikhail shook his head. He'd never before heard of Weaverville. "You did tell me of this before. I forgot."

  She waved goodbye and the Chinese sailor pushed off. He raised the sail quickly and the boat slid into rolling fog under a slight wind.

  "I write you pretty quick." She vanished into darkness and fog.

  A tight knot formed in Mikhail's stomach. His ribs burned from his wound, making it difficult to breathe. For the first time in his life, Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky found himself completely alone.

  DINK WATKINS WAITED in the darkness of Pacific Street Wharf with Justin Murphy, a much bigger man. "He'll come off tonight. Mark my words."

  Justin Murphy had been one of only two mates Dink had found in Tommy's. The other lad had never worked the bottle, but Justin had, and Justin had been sober; a good mate.

  At a good distance down the wharf, a canvas tent served as a tollgate, still lit up inside where shadows moved about. Either they were getting ready to leave or somebody had come in from the ship.

  "That's him." The Russian's fur coat and cap marked him well, coming out of the toll tent alone, bold as can be.

  The strutting cock.

  "Remember, won't do for Tommy if he's dead."

  "Good thing I was at Tommy's house, Dink. He looks a mite bigger than you."

  "You're the one to see that, Justin." Everybody stood taller than little Dink.

  Three years earlier, Dink and Justin had survived a sail around the horn aboard Sunrise, a death ship captained by Angus Boggs. Anyone surviving that cruise, especially keeping all their fingers and toes, had become mates, by fate, for life.

  Chills rushed up Dink's back. His fingers itched.

  Their mark drew closer.

  "He's a Russian dandy. Came aboard in Vladivostok with a ball in his chest. He's still weak as a mouse. We'll stroke him good and proper, just the same."

  Dink straightened Justin's coat, his final inspection before climbing into the clearinghouse vestibule. He clawed a belaying pin from his trouser leg. He'd snuck it off Silent Mistress. He pointed it at Justin. "Remember, you owe me." He ducked into the dark vestibule and closed the door to a crack. It was pitch black in there.

  Outside was near as dark with fog. There was no more light from the tollgate. A perfect night for the bottle.

  "Hello, mate," said Justin, stepping in front of the dandy. "Welcome to the Golden City."

  "Thank you." The Russian dandy moved to step around.

  Justin stepped quicker, guiding the strutting cock closer to Dink. "Anyone coming off the sea wearing a lavish coat like that must need a hot bath and shave."

  The Russian stopped and scrubbed his face, thinking about it.

  So friendly, was Justin. "Only fifty cents for a hot bath in clean water. A dime more for a hot lather shave. You don't want to head up the hill looking like that, now, do you?"

  "I think I will wait on this." Uppity Russian, he was.

  "It's just right here, sir." Justin braced hard and guided him into the tight vestibule.

  Dink grabbed his thick fur collar and yanked him backward.

  The count gave a yank back, surprisingly strong for being so wounded.

  If not for the tight space in this bottle, the wall behind, Dink might have lost his footing and taken a tumble. He gripped the thick fur collar in pitch blackness, guessing when he swung down with the belaying pin. The pin struck bone, by the sound of it.

  Justin shouted out in pain.

  Dink swung down again. A different sound.

  The dandy stopped kicking and went limp to the ground.

  Dink let him lay and felt inside his coat. It was too dark to see anything. Deft fingers located two pockets on the left side. He pulled a hefty leather purse from one and a lighter silk purse from the other. There was nothing more in there. Dink pocketed the silk purse, stepped over the dandy, and shoved Justin out the door.

  "Dammit, Dink, I think you broke my hand."

  They walked through the fog toward the haloed light of Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse, Justin shaking and kissing his left hand, straining to see it in the dim light.

  Tommy's cast iron stove in the open kitchen kept the inside warm, a welcoming touch. Tommy stood in his usual place behind the bar.

  Drunk as he was, a Portuguese sailor sat in the corner playing some slow tune on his mandolin. Nobody else about.

  Tommy smiled that knowing smile, poured two draughts of lager, and set them on the bar. "Where's my new border?"

  "He'll be along directly, you Tommy. Justin corked the bottle and we got that Russian count cooling in the locker. He's broke as a twig."

  Whenever Dink's previous victims had awakened, they'd always come directly to Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse, the first light on Pacific Street Wharf. No other lights could be seen under a fog.

  Dink and Justin grabbed their beer
s and took a table in the corner. Bent over, hiding it from Tommy, Dink opened the leather purse and counted coins, mostly gold. He split the take evenly with Justin. He'd keep the silk purse for himself.

  Justin dragged his money slowly, making sure Dink saw the swollen, purple knuckle. It wasn't bent funny or anything.

  "I guess you won't be diddling any women with that thing tonight, now, will you, Justin?"

  Justin smiled, but he didn't say anything, meticulously counting his share.

  Dink had given him Russian coins, gold and silver. He stuffed his share into his pants and tossed the empty purse to Justin. "Put that away, you Justin. You can count it later."

  Justin put the money into the purse and put it away. He wasn't the smart one. Should anything happen, it would be Justin who got caught with the stolen purse and Russian coins.

  Dink would take his Russian coins to the exchange first thing in the morning. That dandy couldn't find his way to the privy before then.

  Being way past midnight, the girls had all retired upstairs. Everybody but the mandolin player and Tommy had gone to bed. "Tommy, have you a bed?"

  Tommy nodded the affirmative. He never said much, standing there under a framed drawing of himself in his boxing garb, high lace boots, and long johns. Tommy insisted on being the best middleweight in the country, and he might be. He had taken most comers in less than twelve rounds. That one fellow, McGee, stood toe to toe with Tommy through only two rounds before going down. Whenever Tommy claimed to be middleweight champ, nobody argued.

  A noise at the door turned Dink around.

  The Russian count stood in the doorway, fumbling at the side of his head. He examined his fingers. There was enough blood for Dink to see it. He held his fur cap tight with his other hand.

  Tommy rushed from behind the bar to help. Sincere, he was. "Sir, are you alright?" He tugged the count toward a chair and sat him down. "What happened? Here, let me have a look at that."

  Chapter Four