He set the weapon back into the velvet-lined box and picked up a spare cylinder. All six chambers were empty. A compartment held about a dozen cone-shaped bullets. Another held cloth-wrapped powder loads. Another held percussion caps. Cleaning solvent, a rod and brush, and a small bottle of gun oil had been snapped to the lid with fabric straps; a very nice gift from Warner.
"Here's how it works." Warner picked up the pistol, pulled down on a lever, and let the cylinder fall into the box. He handed Mikhail the weapon, picked up the cylinder, and loaded bullets, powder, and caps, simple and fast, into all six chambers. He fit the loaded cylinder into the pistol and used the lever to compact each chamber, rotating with the hammer action.
The basic technology was the same as that which Mikhail had trained with. The powder and cap were discharged to fire the ball. It was the rotating cylinder that made this weapon far superior to any Mikhail had known before.
"Take off your coat." Warner stepped from behind the bar with a shoulder holster, similar to the kind he'd seen on high-ranking officers in the Russian Army.
Mikhail laid his sable coat and tweed jacket across the bar.
Warner fit and adjusted the holster to Mikhail's back and chest.
Mikhail fastened the front.
Warner tugged the strap. "How's that feel?"
"Too tight." Mikhail unfastened it.
Warner loosened the back strap and re-fastened the front, waiting for Mikhail's response.
Mikhail moved his arms and turned at the waist. He breathed deeply and let it out. "This is good."
"This holster has a hard leather pinch to it, and a retaining strap. If you're riding or running, you should strap it in. Otherwise, the gun's held fast by the grip of the leather, but still ready to get at, if need be. There's also this pouch where you keep the extra cylinder. You can slide that onto your belt. Keep it loaded and keep your powder dry. If you need more than twelve shots, you're in trouble." He put the pistol in place and stepped back, inspecting Mikhail. "How's that feel?"
Mikhail reached for the weapon, comfortably gripped the handle, and pulled the pistol halfway out. He pushed it back home and pulled it out again, feeling the designed grip of the holster. "Good. I like this one. Thank you."
Mikhail owed Abe Warner more than he could ever repay. His kind of selfless generosity never occurred in Russia—not outside one's family.
Warner's eyes sparkled with deep pride, like Mikhail's uncle. He stepped back behind the bar, found two cloth bags and a tinfoil wrapped package, and set them on the bar. "Here's extra bullets, caps, and powder."
Mikhail fit everything into the inside pockets of his sable coat, put his jacket and coat back on, and moved his shoulders, adjusting to the weight, becoming familiar with it. He fastened the spare cylinder onto his pants belt, last.
Warner drew four mugs of beer and set them on the bar. He was wearing a holstered Colt, the same issue he'd just fitted to Mikhail. Both captains had stuffed new Colts into the waist belts of their trousers, showing them off to each other.
Warner said, "Remember what I said about the mayor and the chief of police?"
"You don't trust them."
"They're politicians." Warner looked at one of the captains, waiting for something. "George?"
"Yeah, well . . ." George organized his thoughts. "There were more than ten thousand men gathered at the plaza today, all waiting for news about James King. None of these men are in favor of protecting James Casey."
"Like I said . . ." Warner had no patience for long stories. "Whichever way the wind blows. If those men weren't outside, you can bet the mayor and chief would still be sipping whiskey with Charlie Cora and Jim Casey. If Jim King doesn't make it, that mob will burn down the jail to get at Casey, police chief and mayor be damned."
George said, "The mayor and Chief Curtis don't want any part of a lynching."
Warner said, "That would bring in the Marines and the state militia. It wouldn't be good for this city. That's why the Committee of Vigilance needs to be ready to move on a moment's notice."
MIKHAIL WORKED ALL through Sunday night. There were men coming in and going out, everyone asking about James King's condition and what would happen if he died. Abe told them all to report to the Presidio immediately, should any kind of bad news come down.
With all this traffic in and out, Mikhail left the Palace late. Paddy had already gone home. Mikhail hailed a taxi, a driver he did not know. "Take me to the mail wharf." He climbed in and the taxi lurched forward.
He picked up a letter from SuLin and stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket, too tired to read it. "Take me to the White Chapel Saloon."
A cold wind off the Pacific had replaced the rain. Even his sable coat could not block this one. It must be coming from Siberia.
The heavy Colt had found a home under his left arm, a good fit.
Abe Warner and James King had changed Mikhail's life in major ways he could not clearly define. No man could have better friends than these.
Other than his uncle, Mikhail could not remember a single gesture of goodwill from any Russian, not like these Americans. He'd never witnessed Russian charity toward others, not even from the Orthodox Church.
The family unit held Russia's strength, the joy and happiness among family members, and their loyalty toward one another. This closeness could not exist anywhere else, maybe because of the cold winters.
Mikhail paid the driver and took the alley to the back of the White Chapel. He entered the back gate and felt at home, a strange feeling.
"Ridiculous." He was Russian. He would always be Russian. Nothing could change this.
The rear porch and kitchen were empty. He'd already missed breakfast. Sally and Martha were out, doing their shopping. He was too tired to eat, anyway.
Bright sun streamed through the windows all the way into the dining area. A thin sliver reached around the corner into Molly's bedroom.
She sat at her desk, making entries into her ledger, setting slips of paper down as she entered the information.
He'd taught her how to do this.
He stood watching, not making a sound.
Her auburn hair gleamed in the sliver of sunlight, fair, beautiful. He owed this woman his life. He could never repay her.
I love this woman.
She turned, maybe feeling his stare. They held each other's eyes for what seemed an hour. She put her quill pen down and stood, looking like she wanted to come to him but wouldn't.
He stepped closer.
She rushed into his arms, looped his neck, and lifted herself off the floor. "Oh, Michael." Her hot, wet face pressed against his.
No, I cannot.
He pushed her away to look at her, suddenly red-faced and wet with tears. "We cannot do this."
Her eyes flashed angry and she pulled away. "Why? What's wrong?"
"I do not want to hurt you."
She crossed her arms, her face redder than he'd ever seen. "And, what would you suppose—that you’re not hurting me now?"
"I must return to Russia. I do not want you to love me and I would leave you."
"Michael, I already love you." Doubt flooded her face; her eyes. She'd just realized the truth of her words. "For the life of me, I don't know why." She touched his chest for a moment. No more anger. "My life is different than yours, I know. I was born a poor Irish farm girl. When the potato famine struck Ireland, we moved here to America.
“We owned a small fish market in Providence Town. That's where I met my late husband. He was the first person I ever met who actually made plans. And, what did those plans amount to but pain and sorrow?" She bit down on painful memories. "If I've learned one thing in this life, I've learned this: Plans can be made and followed, but life happens. Our lives are happening here and now. I'll not be the one to waste them."
This woman is profound. Why do I . . .
He'd grown too tired to think.
"You're hungry, I'd suppose."
Chapter Eighteen
Winter stayed late in the mountains.
Chiang SuLin and Chiang Po had survived the long winter by foraging, but they'd both lost weight and strength. They gathered frozen roots and herbs to make medicines for only a few Chinese patients who mostly paid with discarded clothing. Nobody had extra food in winter, and there was no money to buy food.
Their fish traps on the Trinity and the small stream near their cabin had been raided more often than not. The few small fish recovered had kept them alive.
SuLin's fingertips suffered painful blisters from cleaning and pulverizing the tiny bones of trout, making a powder to treat arthritic pain. Gratefully, her father now had enough to treat those who suffered pain during winter months.
Shark bone worked better and was much easier to crush.
Their few patients snuck up to their cabin at night, fearing the sheriff and his deputies.
Po could never pay such fees. If his practice were to thrive within the Chinese community, he could never afford to pay one hundred dollars every month. Had her uncle's goldmine not been confiscated, they might have afforded such fees. Po could then help more people and save face.
They should have stayed in Canton.
Treating patients now came with high risk. Should the sheriff discover their activity, he might hang Po from the big tree near his hotel. More likely, he would beat Po to death. The sheriff and his deputies enjoyed beating Chinese.
The deputies had visited twice every week to search for medicines, making sure Po could not help anybody, always reminding SuLin of the sheriff's offer to waive his fees in exchange for seven years of her enslavement.
Since their first visit, SuLin had been hiding their herbs and powders in the hollow of a tree behind their house. They would never look there.
The departure of Bartow's deputies would always signal Chinese patients to visit Po. What a lot of trouble for nothing to eat.
Witnessing the slow death of her father had increased SuLin's resolve. He must sell her to Sheriff Randy Bartow. She knew he agreed by the way he sometimes looked at her, missing her already.
In China, daughters were often sold to families who wanted good wives for their sons; wives who could be trained from early childhood and raised as family members. Loss of face never occurred with this kind of sale.
Families forced to sell daughters to the Tongs or starve always experienced a loss of face. This type of sale had angered and disheartened her father. Po saw this as a disgrace to the Chinese culture. Now he faced this ancient dilemma—sell, or starve.
Tongs trained their girl slaves from infancy, sometimes as dancers, sometimes as musicians, sometimes as assassins, and always as prostitutes. Some were kept by the Tong bosses as concubines and bodyguards. These were the lucky ones, bearing children and growing to old age within a wealthy house.
Under Sheriff Randy Bartow, Chinese girls had only been used as prostitutes. Though he'd promised to keep her as his concubine, SuLin knew it would not last. He would tire of her. She would be passed from one man to the next, sometimes beaten, the same as some of Po's patients. Some of these girls had even been infected with venereal diseases.
If infected, how could she visit her father for treatments? He would shrink with shame. She could never do this to Po. She would die first.
Some of Po's patients had complained about the Sheriff's broken promises and how the sale of their daughters had brought pain and shame to their families.
What else could be done? Po must sell her. They would both otherwise die here, with no hope.
It had been more than two months since she'd sent a letter to her count. He must know of the sheriff's fees and his offer to buy her. Her count had money. He would know what to do.
She'd sent two urgent letters and had not yet received a response. Perhaps he had died. If so, hope had died with him.
AT 8:00 A.M., WEDNESDAY, the 14th of May, more than 3,000 volunteers stood in formation on the parade grounds of the Presidio. Mikhail, Warner, Coleman, John Drury, John Myerson, and a handful of others had already been sworn in and had received their medallions. The two-inch diameter, bronze-cast medallion hung heavy around Mikhail's neck on a tarnished brass chain. His was number 5.
The volunteers had been split into four alphabetical groups and four tables had been set up in the middle of the parade grounds. Warner and Mikhail sat at the second table, G though M, impatiently waiting for Coleman to speak yet again.
Coleman jumped onto his wooden box, not quite shouting. "Okay, men, line up at your alphabetical tables to be sworn in and receive your medallions."
Men shuffled, shoved, and rushed, forming long lines in front of their respective tables. The push of men toward the front of the line shoved their table back a foot, forcing Mikhail and Warner to drag their chairs back. No volunteer wanted to be left without a medallion.
Warner shouted, "Get lined up and stop shoving, or we'll never get started."
The men lined up, the smaller ones being shoved toward the end of the line.
Mikhail would love to see Raul in this line, somebody trying to push him back.
The four tables went to work, swearing people in, having them sign the book, and passing out medallions. Some would cherish these medallions as lifelong keepsakes.
SWEARING IN SO MANY had taken most of the day. At 4:17 p.m., according to Abe Warner's silver pocket watch, they'd handed out their last medallion, with more than one hundred men still waiting in their line. They'd signed up 748 volunteers, who'd been ordered to report the following morning for drills.
Abe Warner stood and said, "We've run out of medallions. We'll keep signing up those who are interested." He stepped away from the table, looked down the staggered line, and shouted, "We've run out of medallions. If you still want to sign up, stay in line and we'll sign you up. Otherwise, shove off, and thank you for coming. You can still help to keep public order by passing the word: The Committee of Vigilance will arrest any and all who perform malicious acts." Warner sat.
About one fourth of those in line dispersed and moved away in all directions. All the men waiting in the other three lines stayed, still receiving medallions.
Mikhail said, "You are faster at this than the others."
"No thanks to you." Warner grinned with another of his sarcastic remarks.
The next man in line raised his right hand.
Warner recognized this one. "Bruce Hudson. Aren't you still with the police department, and a loyal member of the Law and Order Party?"
"I'm following the lead of Mayor Teschemacher and Chief Curtis."
"What about Law and Order?"
"I'm a police officer, not a politician."
"Just the same," said Warner, "I'm keeping my eye on you, chief; mayor, cop, and all." He raised his right hand. "Do you swear to take no independent action against citizens or property of this city, and to follow your orders as rendered by officers of the Committee of Vigilance?"
"I do."
"Sign the book."
Mikhail dipped the pen in ink, handed it to Hudson, and held the ledger while Bruce Hudson printed, then signed his name. "Welcome to the Committee." Mikhail stood and shook Hudson's hand.
Hudson held his grip. "You're him. That Russian count who shot Tommy Chandler."
Warner kicked over his chair, standing up. "That stupid bulkheader shot himself with his own gun." He wiped spittle from his chin and calmed. "James Casey deserves to be hung for printing such scandalous lies, even if James King of William lives. Now, get out of here."
Mikhail stopped Hudson with a smile. "Report back tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. for military drills."
DAYS IN THE MIDDLE of May, 1856, were sunny and warm. There was no need for his mink coat or cap. With the Palace closed, Mikhail spent his nights at the White Chapel Saloon where Molly kept her distance, piercing him with a look from time to time, waiting for him to think better of their futures.
Time didn't allow for such thoughts. His duties on the committee and Jim's condition prov
ided shelter from such pressures.
Watching her work around the White Chapel, the form and flow of her figure, forced him to look away. Having no previous experience with a woman unraveled his nerves. For now, he'd hold her in the passionate embraces of his dreams.
She strolled hip to hip through his memory every minute of every day.
Hard work with the committee helped, and his long days at the Presidio had been productive. Unlike Russian soldiers, these men showed a shared motivation. They'd all volunteered, and were eager to learn and easy to train.
Mikhail had taught these men to march four abreast in long columns by the second day, already planting the heels of their boots in unison: left, right, left. The sound of this brought a pride of unity. These men had already formed into a military unit.
On May 16, 1856, the Committee of Vigilance left the parade ground of the Presidio at 11:00 a.m. and marched in formation across town to the plaza, where thousands of angry men waited for news of James King.
Boots striking brick in unison echoed through the side streets as the formation of volunteers marched onto the plaza. Many of those waiting to storm the jail walked away, not wanting to be identified as part of a mob.
The marching drill sent a firm signal to the mob: do not take matters into your own hands. This Committee promised to deliver justice.
On May 17, news of James King of William came from Jim's good friend, Dr. Richard Beverly Cole. He'd sent word a few days earlier to Los Angeles, a city some distance to the south, requesting assistance by another eminent physician, Dr. John Strother Griffin. Griffin had arrived and would be examining James King.
Mikhail and Abe Warner wanted to visit King, but the committee required all of their available time. Everybody needed to stay in the barracks at the Presidio, that night. They must be ready to march on a moment's notice, day or night.
Coleman set up a rotation of men going and coming, bringing constant news of Jim's condition with every delivery of food and beer.
On Sunday afternoon, May 18, after marching down to the plaza and back, news arrived that Dr. John Strother Griffin, the eminent physician from Los Angeles, had examined James King of William and had recommended against the removal of the sponge, fearing hemorrhage from the severed clavicular artery.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 17