DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  They'd churned south to Aspinwall, Panama, in only two weeks. They'd arrived late at night and had stayed aboard until morning.

  They'd boarded a train at 8:30 a.m. Six hours later, they'd arrived in Panama City, a port on the Pacific Ocean. Vlad had wasted no time in booking passage on SS Golden Gate, bound for San Francisco.

  They churned into the Port of San Francisco, a large bay, by mid-morning, May 9, 1856.

  What a fantastic world this had become! Moscow to San Francisco in less than ten weeks.

  A wet mist hung over the bay, making it difficult to see the golden city, world famous for sudden wealth. A bright flash through the mist was quickly followed by a cannon boom, unmistakable. Distant, sporadic pops from small arms fire followed.

  The grand duke elbowed to the rail next to Vlad. "What is that? Are we under attack?"

  "No, your highness. I think not. Possibly some local trouble or a military exercise." A second bright flash preceded another loud boom.

  "Are we to remain on board?" The grand duke's anxiety over personal safety conflicted with his desire to quickly locate the count.

  "I will send one of your guards ashore."

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, May 10, more than 3,000 armed men stood at-ease in proper military formation, company by company. Colonel William Tell Coleman stood before them on a wooden box, speaking as loudly as he could without shouting. "I want to thank all of you for three days of hard work. Take the next three days to catch up with your business and personal affairs and report back here at 8:00 a.m., Wednesday, the 14th of May, when you will be sworn in and receive your identity medallions." He turned, stepped down, and stood between Mikhail and Warner.

  John Drury jumped up on the box and shouted, "Attention!"

  The formation snapped to attention.

  "Dismissed."

  The formation split into small groups and moved off in different directions.

  Speaking to Mikhail, Coleman said, "Count, I want to thank you personally for your help with these matters. However, Alderman Myerson has cautioned me in your regard."

  Warner spun nose to nose with Coleman. "How's that?"

  AN HOUR LATER, MIKHAIL met in Coleman's office with Coleman, Warner, and city alderman John Myerson, all Committee of Vigilance members.

  Mikhail placed his left hand on a large, leatherbound King James Bible. He raised his right hand.

  The alderman said, "Repeat after me."

  Mikhail nodded.

  "I, Michael Zabel . . ."

  "I, Michael Zabel . . ."

  ". . . do hereon swear . . ."

  ". . . do hereon swear . . ."

  ". . . loyalty and allegiance to the Republic of these United States of America . . ."

  ". . . loyalty and allegiance to the Republic of these United States of America . . ." The hairs on Mikhail's neck stood with a warm rush across his shoulders. He was weak-kneed, awed.

  ". . . and to the Constitution upon which this Republic is founded, so help me God."

  ". . . and to the Constitution upon which this Republic is founded, so help me God."

  Alderman John Myerson pulled the Bible away and lowered his right hand.

  Mikhail lowered his right hand and the alderman shook it.

  "Welcome, my fellow American."

  Abe Warner and Coleman took turns shaking Mikhail's hand.

  Mikhail said, "Am I now an American citizen?" A knock at the door interrupted any possible answer.

  Coleman said, "Come in."

  Two well-dressed men entered.

  Coleman said, "What the hell?"

  The taller man said, "Alderman Myerson told us we might find you here." The smaller man held the door open. Both looked ready to run.

  Myerson said, "Mike Zabel, this here's our city mayor, Henry Teschemacher, and our chief of police, James Curtis. The rest of us already know each other."

  Chapter Seventeen

  After church on Sunday, as planned, Mikhail and Molly strolled the arcade at North Beach, not bothered by the cool, wet mist, her arm laced through his. She leaned into him, hips touching, legs moving in concert, stride for stride.

  He liked it.

  Never having been this close to a woman, he'd never experienced the rush of emotions. He wanted to discuss possible futures, but feared sounding the fool.

  Well . . .

  "How did you like mass this morning?"

  She smiled. "I never understand a word of it. I don't speak the Latin. It just makes me feel good, being there."

  "Ah." Mikhail had understood every word. "He spoke of the Apostle Paul's letter to the church in Galatia, about the gifts of the spirit."

  "You know the Latin?"

  "Of course."

  Don't be so arrogant.

  Idiot!

  He said, "We were forced to study the Latin. I had no choice."

  Their legs moved together, stride for stride. She felt firm and strong.

  He liked it.

  She hugged his arm. "Doesn't it seem quiet today?"

  He hadn't noticed. Their legs pressed together, stride for stride, so firm.

  Many of the attractions at North Beach were closed, reducing the usual Sunday crowd to a scattered few. Most of these looked at the array of ships on the bay, barely visible through the gray mist.

  She tugged his arm.

  "Da, yes. Is very quiet today. Are you hungry?"

  "I should be getting back to cook the Sunday supper."

  "I thought Sally and Martha were to do this. I was to take you for some chowder. Remember?" He tugged her arm and helped her onto the wood planks of Mason Street. She took his arm, strolling hip to hip, thigh to thigh, stride for stride.

  They reached Meigg's Wharf and turned down into the open front door of the Palace. The chowder smelled good. It had been more than a week since he'd last tasted it.

  Early afternoon, only three customers stood at the far end of the bar, all listening to quietly to Abe Warner. They all laughed raucously at one of Abe's funny stories.

  Abe pushed back from the bar and took a step toward them. He must have recognized their silhouettes against the exterior light from the open door. He tipped his ever-present plug hat. "Molly O'Brian. What a pleasure it is to see you again. Who's this citizen on your arm?" He cheeks bulged with his always-contagious smile.

  Mikhail and Molly smiled back. She said, "Your chowder smells divine."

  "Been stewing all morning." Warner stepped from behind his bar with a white tablecloth, snapped it open, and let it fall over a table near the door, perfect. He faced Molly. "Are you hungry?" He had no time for Mikhail.

  "I'm famished." She pulled out a chair and sat. Mikhail sat across the table where he could see her eyes. The moment lasted an eternity.

  Warner delivered two bowls of chowder with a plate of biscuits and their eternal moment vaporized.

  Mikhail said, "Can you bring us a bottle of that Bordeaux?"

  Warner stepped away quietly and Mikhail dove back into her eyes. She was still looking at him. She finally crumbled a biscuit into her chowder and tasted it. "Um, isn't that lovely?"

  "Best chowder in the city." Warner set two wine glasses on the table and pulled the thin copper wrap off the top of a bottle of Bordeaux. He twisted in the corkscrew, pulled the cork, and poured a splash into Mikhail's glass, the way Mikhail had taught him. "So, you're here to celebrate?" He'd aimed his question at Molly. No time for Mikhail.

  She stared blank.

  "Ah, he hasn't told you."

  "Told me what, I'd like to know?"

  Mikhail sipped the wine and nodded his approval. He'd ordered this expensive wine from France himself. It tasted perfect with chowder.

  Warner filled her glass first, then Mikhail's. No time for Mikhail, anyway. "He's a citizen of these here United States of America. Took the oath yesterday. We couldn't have him blowing up the city jail as a Russian cannoneer, now, could we?"

  "Blowing up the jail?" She stared wide-eyed into Mikhail.

&n
bsp; "Is possible we will need to open the steel door in front. I don't think this will be necessary. We have more than three thousand volunteers and the mayor and the chief of police have come over to our side."

  Warner said, "That's nothing to lean on. They both watch how the wind blows. I don't trust either of them."

  THE GATHERING OUTSIDE Jim's apartment house had thinned more every day, with people getting on with their business. The chill drizzle turning to cold rain didn't help.

  Mikhail climbed down from Paddy's taxi and took off his sable coat, using it to shelter Molly up the front steps and into the vestibule. Once inside, he shook off rainwater and put it back on.

  Men crowding the entry and lining the stair smiled and tipped their hats, dazzled by the sight of the widow Molly O'Brian, wonderful to look at in a city with so few women.

  Dr. Cole stood on the third floor landing near the window, arguing softly with Dr. Toland. Both gave Molly and Mikhail a quick glance and nod. Cole tipped his head toward the closed door to Jim King's apartment. Go on in.

  The doctors resumed their argument in harsh whispers, not wanting to be overheard.

  Mikhail tapped softly on the door with his fingernail and waited. Jim's youngest daughter opened the door, not smiling. "Hi, Count Mike." She opened the door wide and stared at Molly. "Gosh, you're beautiful."

  Molly shook her head, No. "How's your father today?"

  "Not so good." The daughter waved to invite them in and closed the door behind them.

  Dim light shrouded Jim's makeshift bed near the window. It was getting dark outside. His raised knees moved back and forth under the blanket, his body rolling slightly with the motion, writhing in pain.

  Charlotte walked toward them, speaking softly. "Hi, Michael. Thank you for coming."

  Mikhail turned his back to Jim, speaking softly. "What about the pain. Can't he take something?" He'd been grateful for Molly's opiate tea.

  "He refuses to take the opium. He fears addiction." Charlotte looked from Michael to Molly and back, expecting an introduction.

  "Charlotte King, this is Molly O'Brian. I hope you don't mind."

  Charlotte smiled. "You're Matt O'Brian’s widow?"

  "Yes." They gripped both hands and leaned into each other like long-parted sisters. "How is James?"

  "He's having a rough time today." Charlotte laced Molly's arm and pulled her closer to the bed. "He's neither sleeping nor awake." Charlotte shook her head and blinked, tears forming in her eyes. "He's in such terrible pain."

  Mikhail sucked back a breath at the sight of his friend. He'd lost a lot of weight in a very short time. The purple bruising had bloated, the bandage now soaked with blood. He'd never seen a man look this bad and live. He stepped back, leaned against the wall, bent over, and braced both hands on his knees, breathing deeply, trying to regain his suddenly failing strength.

  HOW CAN THAT BE—penniless pauper to cock of the walk in less that a year.

  Dink Watkins had watched the dandy and some lady enter King's apartment building from Bruce Hudson's parlor. Outside, streetlights beamed bright from inside misty halos as far down Washington Street as could be seen.

  How could it be?

  Dink had grown weary of spying and reporting back. What good could it do now? What would be good was enough whiskey to put little Dink to sleep for a week.

  No . . .

  Whiskey wouldn't do much good, neither. Little Dink's problems would still be around when he woke up.

  Back in '51, the Committee of Vigilance had raised its ugly shackles against the Hounds, Dink's old pals from Sidney Town. They'd run the bunch of them out of the city, and little Dink with them. He'd been on their list for hanging, should he ever come back.

  Being small made it easier for Dink to hide than for most of his mates. They'd not easily lay hands on little Dink.

  In '51, they'd put him and some others aboard Sunrise under Captain Boggs, meanest cur to ever sail the seas. Dink could still feel the bite of his lash.

  He'd jumped ship in Panama City and worked his way back, figuring the night would keep him safe. A short time later, he'd tied in with Tommy Chandler and things had worked out fine, until his time had come to ship out.

  Scary, that . . .

  Tommy had favored Dink by signing him onto Silent Mistress, a good ship; a good captain to sail under. Now, being back under Tommy's roof, he finally felt secure.

  Until now.

  If this new Committee of Vigilance laid hands on him, somebody would be sure to remember Dink from '51. He'd probably be hanged from the yards of some ship.

  The door to the apartment opened and Dink spun about. Lamplight flooded across the wood plank floor and nearly blinded little Dink. He couldn't yet see whose dark silhouette had entered.

  Whew.

  Bruce Hudson had come home, still wearing his city police uniform. "Anything going on?"

  "You mean all them gents over there caring for that liar, James King?" Dink scratched his whiskered neck, imagining the itch of hemp rope. "Nothing else going on."

  Bruce closed the door and carried the lamp into the room.

  Not wanting to be seen, Dink moved away from the windows.

  Bruce said, "You had nothing to do with last Sunday morning?"

  Dink shook his head, No.

  "That Jim Casey's crazy as a Chinatown rat."

  "That's true enough." Dink changed direction. "This committee's probably never heard of me and I'd like keeping it that way." No need to mention his troubles from '51.

  "We have nothing to worry about. The law is clearly on our side. Governor Johnson put a notice in the Times calling for calm. He's stationed the California Guards across the bay under the command of General Sherman. They're ready to come across, if need be."

  Fool.

  "Haven't you heard? Coleman's got all the guards in the city on his side, along with all the militias. They've got hold of the ferry landings and the Presidio. The mayor and your chief of police have gone over, not to mention more than three thousand volunteers."

  Bruce blinked and shook his head. Dumb of the facts, he was. "They've got Chief Curtis?"

  SOMETIMES, LIKE NOW, standing in front of Jim's apartment with Molly, waiting for Paddy to drive the taxi downhill and pick them up, Mikhail felt eyes on the back of his head.

  He smiled, Molly looking at him, squeezing his arm and leaning in under the warmth of his coat. Her ample breast pressed warm against his rib, firm and nice.

  He liked it.

  She said, "Must you work tonight?"

  "The Palace is open. I need to work. You want me to work, do you not?"

  She pressed her firmness harder into him. Her husky voice barely whispered, "Not tonight."

  Unfamiliar emotions urged him to hold and kiss her; to never let go.

  Impossible.

  He must return to Russia. He had acted only in self-defense. He needed to find his uncle. He had now long planned a return to his family home in Crimea. His roots were in Mother Russia.

  Her roots were here. He would not make love to her and then leave her. He would not do this to Molly O'Brian.

  Paddy stopped at the curb.

  Mikhail helped Molly into the taxi and looked up at Paddy. "Take her home."

  Mikhail followed downhill, watching the taxi turn right at Montgomery.

  Cold rain on his face refreshed and invigorated while his body stayed warm and comfortable under his sable coat and cap. It was a good time to walk, to think.

  What would happen if James King died? Would rioting erupt? Would rioting reach the White Chapel Saloon and Molly?

  Raul would keep her safe.

  What would become of Molly when Mikhail left the city?

  He must return to Russia.

  He should feel differently, now, being an American citizen.

  He did not. His soul belonged in Mother Russia.

  It wasn't the food he missed. Well, maybe the borsch.

  It wasn't his military career he missed.
It wasn't his family he missed.

  I miss my uncle.

  He missed the people of Russia; their ability to smile and laugh through cold winters, never complaining. It was hopeless for Russians to complain, anyway.

  The Romanov Dynasty ruled with an iron fist. They did what they wanted, not caring for the people, only for what the people could deliver. Whether labor or goods, the ruling class took what it wanted and paid only what it wanted to pay.

  The people laughed in the face of it all. This, he missed.

  Stepping onto Meigg's Wharf surprised him. He'd gotten there without thinking or even looking where he'd been walking.

  He entered the casino.

  A handful of Chinese played dice near the door. Their bank handed him money on his way through and he took it into the saloon.

  Warner sat on his high stool at the open end of the bar, talking softly with two militia captains, nobody else around.

  The militia captains smiled and pulled him into their circle.

  Abe Warner set a polished wooden box on the bar and opened it. There was a new weapon inside, the type used by James Casey to shoot Jim King. Warner said, "We're issuing these new Navy Colts to our officers. I paid for this one, so you can keep it. After the incident with Tommy Chandler, and now with Jim King, I need you to be armed at all times."

  Mikhail picked up the weapon. It was heavier than the single barrel muzzle loaders he'd become used to. It fit his hand with a balance he'd not known before. He pulled the hammer back and it stayed cocked, waiting for the trigger mechanism to release it. He held the hammer with his thumb, pointed the weapon at the floor, and pulled the trigger, letting the hammer down slowly. He did this several times, rotating the cylinder with each cocking of the hammer.

  One of the captains said, "You ever use one of these before?"

  "No."

  "Looks like it—like you used one before."

  Mikhail looked this one in the eye and shook his head. He had never held one before.