"Sally's right," said Martha, getting worked up, now. They both wanted Molly to do something.
Molly knew not what to do.
Martha said, "That man acts like he owns us, like we was his personal slaves. Never says thank you. Never says please."
Sally said, "Never says anything when we help him on and off your chamber pot. Just looks at me like I need to hurry and wash his backside."
Molly said, "He's got pain. You both know that." She couldn't suppress a smile. Letting off steam made both of these ladies feel better.
Sally said, "Well, we've used up the opium and you can't afford more."
Martha said, "And why should you, him being so grateful and all."
The two of them had Molly backed up near one of the cast iron stoves, still hot from breakfast. She squeezed between them into the center of the kitchen and turned back.
Martha and Sally closed in again, both getting angrier. Martha said, "What do we really know about him, other than his ridiculous claim to be some kind of royalty from Europe?"
Sally said, "And, did you see those other scars, the one over his eye and the one on his side? They're not new and they're not old, neither."
Molly said, "Dr. Lester said the one on his side looks like a bullet wound."
Martha said, "See? That's what I mean. Who is he, really?"
Sally said, "Them two scars look a little too new to suit me. He could cause us trouble on top of the trouble he's already brought."
Molly didn't like feeling trapped. She'd had enough.
Her two helpers stepped back, sensing a rise in Molly's defenses.
"Haven't I got enough to worry about without the two of you climbing all over me? He's just about well enough now to answer some questions. If he's no money and no way to pay, out he goes."
Martha softened, apologetic. "It's just that he's got such a temper on him."
Sally said, "I'm very tired of his calling me a peasant. What is a peasant, anyway?"
Martha said, "Can't be good. Not coming from that one." She spun, nearly undoing her hair, so violent was the snap of her head.
All three women froze.
The man leaned there against the doorjamb, holding Matthew's long-john bottoms at the waist, several sizes too big. He grimaced, not from pain but from shame, saying plenty by not finding words.
Chapter Eight
Mikhail hardly slept that night, shifting about in the much smaller, less comfortable bed upstairs. He'd been sleeping too much. Maybe that was part of the problem. Over most of the past two weeks, only overwhelming pain in his hand or foot had awakened him. The pain rose separately now, first his hand, then his foot, not as frequent or severe. Propping his left foot on a pillow helped, and holding his left hand up, of course.
The boy on the upper bunk, about fifteen, slept quietly. Not so with one of the two men in the other set of bunks, snoring, snorting, and grinding his teeth all night.
Da, yes.
Early morning light finally arrived.
The boy in the upper bunk leaned out, silhouetted against the dimly lit window. "Good morning. How you feeling?"
Go away.
Mikhail turned toward the wall, not yet ready to talk. The day before, the way those women had talked about him . . .
The boy jumped to the floor and sat on the edge of Mikhail's bunk, not going away. "My name's Billy . . . Billy Cahill."
Mikhail gave up and rolled to face the boy.
"We all been wondering who you was, being downstairs in her room and all. Not good for her to sleep in that chair down there."
"Billy!" The man in the opposite upper bunk sat and threw his legs over the side. "Will you shut up?"
The man below him snorted, ground his teeth, and resumed snoring.
Billy stood up, raked straw-colored hair away from blue eyes, smiled at the other man, and told Mikhail. "This here's John Tweed. He's down from Seattle. Him and sleeping Sam been here two months, already."
John Tweed jumped to the floor with a heavy thud, much thicker across the middle than Billy.
The other man's snore changed pitch. Maybe he was awake. There was no snorting or grinding.
The bedroom door opened and a small, wiry man stepped into the room, ignoring the others to look at Mikhail with something to say, searching for the right words. He set a quill pen and inkwell on a table under the window and handed Mikhail a sheet of paper. "This here's your boardinghouse contract. Miss Molly, she say you sign this today or you got to move out."
Still on Mikhail's bunk, Billy smiled. "It just says, if you can't pay your way at the end of two months, she's got the right to sign you onto a ship. It's the law, here. This city needs ships, and ships need crews."
Mikhail took and looked at it. It was similar to the one he'd already signed at Tommy Chandler's. Like Chandler's, it was a Landlord's and Seaman's Protective Association contract. The city ordinance and basic contract followed in two shop-printed paragraphs, with places underneath to fill in and sign.
The little man opened the inkwell, dipped the quill pen in the ink, and offered the pen to Mikhail. This little man did not like Mikhail.
Mikhail got up, took one step across the cold floor to the table, took the pen, and printed his name, "Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-" He dipped the pen in ink. ". . . Zabalkansky." He dipped the pen again and signed. He set the pen on the table, returned to his bunk, re-elevated his left foot, and his throbbing pain subsided.
Mikhail did not worry about this document. He would soon have work on the docks. Paying whatever this woman charged for room and board could not be too much. He would pay for lodging here, pay Tommy Chandler, and collect his personal property.
The little man grinned. "You a count of something or other?" He wanted to laugh in Mikhail's face. "Well, this is Raul's bunk." He pointed the quill pen at Mikhail. "You gonna get out pretty quick."
Billy said, "It's not his fault, Raul. Miss Molly put him in there last night. John and Sam is signed onto Santiago Princess, the steamer up from El Salvador. Figure they'll be gone after breakfast and he can move over."
Raul walked around the first set of bunks and kicked the lower bunk against the wall.
Sleeping Sam snorted and bolted up with a vicious growl, eager to jump into somebody's chest. He shrank back at seeing Raul. "Raul, why'd you kick me like that? I was dreaming of a lady down Panama way, pretty as a picture, giving me that look. I got a throbber and everything."
John said, "That's all Sam ever gets—looks in his dreams and boners." Sam smiled, obviously friends with John.
Raul smiled a little at the much bigger man. "Time to get up and pack out." He looked at Mikhail. No more smiles. "I need my bunk back."
"Hey," said Sam, nodding and smiling at Mikhail, saying hello, while pulling on a clean pair of pants.
Raul strutted to the door and turned back, not a happy man, speaking to Mikhail. "Breakfast gonna be ready in fifteen minutes. Nobody gonna help you down." He glared at the other men, an eye-to-eye order not to help Mikhail. He stepped out and softly closed the door.
Billy smiled. "Don't mind him."
John scoffed through the side of his mouth, stuffing his sea bag. "Strutting little cockle." He looked happy to be shipping out.
Sam laughed at the back of John's head. "Notice how John speaks right up after the little general's gone?"
Billy stayed glued to the corner of Mikhail's bunk, blocking him from getting up. "Raul was here when the widow took me in."
Mikhail had no need for this information. He nudged Billy with his right foot.
Billy got up and turned to help.
Mikhail waved him off and sat, bracing against the sudden rush of pain.
Sam set his cinched sea bag near the door and looked at Mikhail. "I watched that little Portuguese handle three men over at Bella Union. They was all my size or bigger. Not near too drunk, mind you. All dressed improper for the Bella. That little cockle, as my friend John here likes to say behind his back—th
at little man asked 'em very polite to come back when they'd cleaned up more proper. The biggest one, the one in the middle, he moved to shove Raul aside and . . ."
"Don't never lay a hand on him uninvited." John set his sea bag next to Sam's, both standing near the door, now.
Sam's head snapped around, glaring at John. "I'm the one telling this."
John shrugged and leaned into the door. He'd let Sam finish.
"As I was saying, Raul took the man's hand and turned it just so." He put his left hand to his chest, pried it off with his right and turned it, demonstrating. "The man yelped like he was shot and went down on his knees. Quick as ever I've seen, Raul drove his right elbow into the back of the man's neck and sent him to the floor. His two mates carried him out."
John said, "Neither of the others dared lay a hand on Raul—not after seeing how quick and sure he was."
Sam smiled at John now. There was no more to tell. "Let's go eat breakfast and shove off." They picked up their bags and walked out, leaving the door open.
Alone with Mikhail, Billy propped an elbow on the upper bunk and leaned closer. "You really a count?"
Mikhail twisted his head and grinned.
Da. Yes.
"You know how to read and write?"
RAUL CARRIED THE SIGNED contract into the kitchen and the ladies all looked it over. None of them read much, but they all knew he'd signed it. Seeing his signature pleased Martha least of all. Her anger hung about her shoulders like a shroud most of the time, anyway. Raul figured her husband ran off with one of Belle Cora's saloon girls instead of going off to the gold camps like she told it. She said, "I hope you're not expecting me to take that one his breakfast." They'd finished with cooking and feeding most of the men.
Sally carried coffee into the dining room, chatting with sailors. Raul couldn't hear and didn't care about what.
Molly always kept plenty of food on the stove for the women and stragglers. Always enough to eat at the White Chapel Saloon was the widow Molly O'Brian's way.
Molly's smile informed Martha there was no need to go upstairs. "The doctor says he needs to get walking on that foot or he may never get about proper again."
"And, I'd suppose, we'll be listening to him complain about his bare feet and these cold floors." Martha raked the remaining pork chops, potatoes, and scrambled eggs onto two separate tin platters and set both at the edge of the stove to keep warm.
"Dear ladies." The Russian stood in the doorway at the bottom of the back stair, propped against the wall in Matthew's baggy pants, barefooted, his cleaned and mended tunic buttoned nearly to the top. "I most deeply regret my past behavior. I have not been a gentleman. You must think me ungrateful. I assure you, this is not the case. I owe you my life and more. Perhaps, one day, I can repay your kindness. For now, please accept my sincere apologies." He bowed sharply and snapped back up.
Martha blushed, spun away, and splashed water onto the hot stovetop. The water boiled quickly and she scraped away food bits with the side of her long spatula.
Molly said, "Well then, you're up and about. Good thing. Where's young Billy?"
"He's joined the others in the dining room. Should I join him and find a place for myself?" From the look of in his eyes, he'd rather stay in the kitchen.
Molly said, "Sit in here, for now. You're not properly dressed for the dining room." She stared at his bare feet, and then pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
He hobbled across the room, not putting weight on his left toes. He leaned on the back of the chair and waited for further instruction.
"Well, sit down."
The Russian held up his chin, proud and defiant.
Molly stood ready to slap him down should something ugly come from his mouth.
Polite and shy, he said, "I will wait for the ladies to be seated first."
Martha set the platters on the table and winked at Molly, trying not to smile. "Sit. We'll be up and down like prairie dogs."
He thought about it, shifting his weight back and forth from the back of the chair.
Sally came through with a load of dirty dishes and headed outside to the wash stand. She returned, wiping her hands on her apron, staring harpoons at the back of the Russian's head.
Molly said, "Set the table for four, will you, Sally? The gentleman will be eating out here for awhile."
Sally brought dishes and utensils from the sideboard and slapped them onto the table, not liking it so much.
The Russian gent worked his way into his chair and waited for the ladies. This one might truly be a gentleman.
Molly sat, slid a small pork chop and one fried egg onto her plate, and handed the platter to Sally. Sally sat and helped herself, and so did Martha.
The Russian set the platter on the table.
Molly said, "What do we call you?"
He took two chops, three eggs, and a healthy portion of potatoes. "I am Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky."
Martha and Sally laughed out loud, but Molly forced restraint, chewing very deliberately on her pork chop. "Titles from Europe don't mean much, here. You'd be better off to drop that count business. None of us could say your name anyway, not even if we wanted. Since it sounds like Michael, I'll call you Michael." She nodded her head at the others, demanding their agreement.
Martha said, "Michael should be easy enough."
Sally nodded.
Raul poured himself a coffee and stood back, happy to listen.
The count chewed his food slowly and bobbed his head in agreement.
Sally stood and brought four cups to the center of the table. Martha got up, brought the coffeepot, and filled their cups.
The Russian sipped coffee and looked at Molly, reading the back of her mind. "I am bored. I need something to do."
AS HE UNDERSTOOD IT, the origin of his name, Mikhail, had come from the Hebrew name, Michael. In Hebrew, Michael meant 'gift from God.' He did not mind being called this name, Michael. It had, however, been six weeks and he still could not think of himself as Michael, or Mike, as some were already calling him.
His last name had been forgotten. Nobody here would even try to say Diebitsch-Zabaslkansky. When the women were not around, some of the men called him Michael the bitch. Others called him Ski. They'd always said these in a friendly manner, but Mikhail did not like it. Giving leave for his earlier arrogance, he'd decided to ignore it.
Billy had been first to use Zabel, pronouncing it like table. Everybody liked this one. Mike Zabel proved easy to say and easy to remember. As an added benefit, this name would make it more difficult for the grand duke to find him, should he so desire.
During the past six weeks, his body had healed. There was still pain from time to time, and the tips of his missing finger and toe itched as if they were still there, ghosts refusing to leave. Wearing secondhand boots left behind by one of her previous tenants did not help with the ghost of his toe. It always complained when he wore boots.
With the good diet offered at the White Chapel Saloon, and with his ever-longer walks up and down the hills of San Francisco, Mikhail regained strength and worked hard to overcome his limp. The older injuries, his left side and face, had been all but forgotten.
He thought, from time to time, how odd it was that all of his injuries had occurred on his left side.
Who cares?
He used his right hand for everything.
The fact he'd survived attacks on his life posed a more important question: Did God have some hidden purpose for his life? How could he know? Someday, God might answer this one.
These two things he knew: He had lost his lifelong purpose to serve the czar, and he worried for his uncle.
ONE AFTERNOON, MOLLY found Mikhail teaching Billy to read, and had asked if he knew anything about numbers.
Yes. He had a strong education in mathematics, particularly in geometry, the oldest and noblest of sciences.
She'd put him to work immediately.
Together, they'd created a business l
edger for the boardinghouse, a learning experience for both of them. Their first realization had been that boarding deepwater sailors was inefficient. Since neither of them liked being idle, they'd gone to a print shop that same day and ordered flyers advertising for fulltime boarders.
He accepted the task of posting these flyers around the city, making wider and wider circles, taking longer and longer walks. He posted at the mineral exchange, at the front of banks, and up at Portsmouth Plaza, where he'd learned that Patrick no longer worked at the Empire. His longshoreman's job had probably been filled by another.
While posting a flyer at the post office, Mikhail picked up a letter from SuLin and read a posted article about Silent Mistress. She'd gone down in the Pacific Ocean, south of Japan. Survivors had been picked up by a Portuguese steamer out of Macao. Captain Rawlings had not been listed among the survivors.
A deep emptiness flooded over Mikhail. There would be no news from Vladivostok, and no news of his uncle.
Once again feeling alone, Mikhail sat outside on the wood planks of the wharf with his back against the warehouse wall, a warm spot in the sun; a good place to open and read SuLin's letter.
They'd arrived in Weaverville safely, but her uncle had been shot dead before their arrival. His gold mine and gold had been seized for reported gambling debts, which she and others in the Chinese community doubted to be true. They could do nothing, as Chinese in Weaverville feared the American sheriff.
Po had become known for his medical knowledge and she'd been learning how and where to find the important herbs and plants he needed for his medicines. He felt she was holding something back.
He read the letter again and sensed unhappiness; maybe just loneliness. He understood this one.
IT HADN'T TAKEN LONG to realize that their plan for the boardinghouse had worked. They'd quickly built a waiting list of more than fifty possible paying tenants. No longer would the Widow Molly O'Brian need to visit the docks to find boarders. No longer would she need to talk with ships' captains to negotiate the purchase of association contracts. As sailors had shipped out, Mikhail had located those on the list and had moved them in. One of Molly's rooms had been occupied by the DiMarcellos, an Italian family of six. All four of their children were under seven years of age. Molly, Sally and Martha liked having them underfoot.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 7