Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “A last-minute addition by your dearest mother-in-law,” Wage replied, keeping his eyes on the couple.

  “Do you like cognac, Captain?” Hamilton asked.

  “It would be downright sacrilegious not to, monsieur.”

  “Excellent,” Hamilton continued. “I have a rare bottle upstairs in my study, crafted for Napoleon himself. Perhaps you would join me.”

  “I would be delighted,” Wage said.

  The two men ascended the large staircase to the second floor. Hamilton’s study was in the corner at the end of the hall, which gave Wage the opportunity to observe the floor plan of the house. Through a slightly ajar door, third from the right, he could see a four-post bed and princess canopy, which must have been Cynthia’s. At the end of the hall, they came to a locked door. Hamilton pulled a key ring from his jacket pocket and meticulously fingered through them. He unlocked the door and adjusted the gas lights, revealing a room that, Wage assumed, revealed Hamilton’s true nature.

  An enormous desk faced the door, flanked on both sides by full crowned windows overlooking the front of the estate. Trophy animals surrounded the entire room—some native, some exotic. Directly behind the desk and between the windows was a large map of the Carolinas with different color pins tacked throughout it.

  Hamilton grabbed a decanter and two glasses from his wooden liquor cabinet and sat behind his desk before pouring. After quickly cataloging a large gun collection displayed on the right-hand wall, Wage had a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and reached for his drink. “Merci,” he said.

  “What do you think of my personal study, Captain?” Hamilton asked.

  “It is certainly befitting of a man of your fine status,” Wage replied. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was at the Smithsonian with all these fine creatures staring at us.”

  “It’s taken me many years and many travels to accumulate them. I am particularly fond of that one behind you.” Hamilton proclaimed.

  Wage turned in his chair to see an alligator’s head mounted high on the wall, its mouth partially open. “They say the lion is the king of the jungle, but where I come from, the gator is king,” he said, still staring at the now-harmless specimen. Wage turned back around to see a revolver pointed at his head from across the desk.

  “I have killed many a creature in my life; it will not stress me to kill one more,” Hamilton said.

  Wage leaned back in his chair. “You know what I find interesting? All the animals in here are predators. Not one prey.”

  “You seem strangely comfortable with a revolver pointed in your direction, Captain.”

  “Let’s just say this ain’t my first engagement party, Mr. Hamilton,” Wage replied.

  “Who are you working for? Reynolds? My dear, sweet mother-in-law? Why are you here?” Hamilton demanded.

  “I am recently retired, Mr. Hamilton, and I thought this would be a fine opportunity to find employment, is all,” Wage said. “I am sincerely sorry to have caused you any distress.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Captain. You may have charged a hill or two in your day, but I won my first duel at 19 and have been undefeated ever since. Wrong answers will get you killed.”

  “I’m afraid I only have the one answer. Just a retired soldier looking for some … mostly honest work,” Wage said.

  “Nothing about you conveys honesty, Captain. That is why I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave my daughter’s engagement party, leave Winston-Salem, and leave North Carolina,” Hamilton ordered.

  “And if I do not oblige?” Wage countered.

  “Then I will kill you where you sit and mount one more animal on my wall.”

  “Well, I best get going, then. Thank you for a lovely evening. Give my best to the happy couple,” Wage said, rising from the chair.

  Wage returned downstairs, retrieved his hat and walked out into the warm, humid North Carolina evening. Fireflies glowed as he walked down the dirt road back to the car, where he found Bill working on the engine with a lantern hanging from the hood.

  “Did you get it?” Bill asked.

  “Not yet, but I was formally introduced to Jonathan Hamilton.”

  “You shoulda just clubbed him and took it, then. We coulda been halfway to Charleston by now.”

  “I’m afraid our client insists that this whole ordeal look somewhat random. We can’t make Mr. Hamilton look targeted.”

  “He could be randomly clubbed,” Bill insisted.

  Don’t worry, William. All is going according to plan. You just make sure Apollo’s Chariot is ready to go.” Wage hopped inside the car and pulled his hat down low to take a nap. “Do me a favor, and wake me up when you are positive all the guests have left.”

  Hours later, Wage felt the shove from his former sergeant. “I think all the guests are gone,” Bill announced, sitting in the driver’s seat. “I just did a bit o’ reconnaissance. It seems clear.”

  “Excellent,” Wage replied, rubbing his eyes. “Wish me luck.”

  “Luck only works once charm has failed,” Bill said in his best Cajun-mocking accent.

  Wage sneaked around the back of the estate and calculated which window was Cynthia’s. After selecting the right pebbles from the garden, he threw them at the window. An alerted Cynthia finally unlatched and swung open her window. Wage took off his hat and addressed her, “Good evening, Madame.”

  “Captain Pascal! What are you doing here? My father said you were leaving town posthaste.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve lost my map. I was wondering if I might borrow yours,” Wage replied. “Allow me to come and retrieve it.” Cynthia put her hands over her mouth to stifle her response as Wage began climbing the vines up to her window. “Oh, the towers I would climb,” he whispered to himself before nearly slipping off. He finally made it through her window to see the breathtaking Cynthia, her supple breasts draped in her knee-length white nightgown.

  “My father will kill you if he finds you here,” she said. Wage grabbed her around the waist and kissed her passionately. She broke away for air. “If he doesn’t kill you, my fiancé undoubtedly will.”

  “For one night with you, mon chéri, it’s worth it. Now, about that map …” Wage said before kissing her again.

  …

  After sunrise, Wage heard footsteps in the hallway. He quickly put on his brown trousers, holster, and boots and threw the rest of his clothes out the window. He blew a kiss to his perfectly sculpted, sleeping Rapunzel before he scurried down the vine to the garden below, where he waited, shirtless. His presence became known quickly. A fuming Jonathan Hamilton III in an undershirt with suspenders raced out the back door. “YOU!” he screamed.

  Wage waved politely. “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton, sir.”

  “WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

  Wage looked about. “Just admiring your garden, sir. Very lovely. Are those azaleas?”

  “Mr. Humpries!” Hamilton yelled for his servant, “BRING ME MY SHOTGUN!”

  “No need to get upset, now,” Wage said.

  “How dare you, sir. Defile my only daughter and act so coy about it!” Hamilton cried.

  “Now hold on a minute. Nobody said anything about defiling.”

  “You insolent bastard! You are nothing more than a common rogue!”

  “Well, how dare you, sir,” Wage countered. “You are making an assumption again that I’m a completely dishonest man! I am afraid I must defend my honor against the likes of you. I, sir, challenge you to a duel.”

  A moment of awkward silence ensued. “I accept,” Hamilton said. “Tomorrow. Sunrise. At the apple orchard just east of here. Bring your second, and your revolver.” Hamilton smiled ear to ear like a python about to swallow its prey.

  Wage put his hat on, and with his shirt still in hand, winked at Hamilton. “See you then,” Wage said, as Mr. Humphries hurriedly ran outside with a shotgun.

  Wage finally returned to the car to find Bill asleep at the wheel. “Good news, William!” Wage p
roclaimed. “We shall be on our way tomorrow morning. Now, let us return to our lodging; we have much to discuss.” Bill started the car after the third try and drove them back to town.

  …

  Wage and Bill walked down the embankment toward the apple orchard where Jonathan Hamilton III and Lieutenant Alexander Beckett were already waiting, and steaming.

  “Good morning, all,” Wage said.

  “You are late, Captain,” Alexander barked. “Sunrise was an hour ago.”

  “Do forgive me. I was just finishing a love letter. And while we’re here, do respect a superior officer, Lieutenant.”

  “Is this mongrel your second?” Alexander asked.

  Bill and Wage looked at each other. “Mongrel?” Wage said. “Why, this is Sergeant 1st Class William MacDonough, hero of San Juan Hill. He’s killed more Spaniards in one day than syphilis. Ain’t that about right, William?”

  “Get on with it then!” Hamilton yelled.

  The overweight, plainly dressed Bill walked down the orchard with the lieutenant, who was in full uniform, and discussed the terms of the duel. All the while, Wage stood, whistling and tracing the snapping alligator etched in gold on the ivory grip of his Colt Peacemaker.

  A few yards away, Hamilton scowled and sneered. The seconds returned, and the two opposing groups split up to express the terms agreed upon.

  “What do you say, William?” Wage inquired. “Will it be 15 paces or 20?”

  “Eight,” Bill replied.

  “Eight? Then we turn and draw?”

  “No turning. You will face each other.”

  “No turning? Only one bullet then, right?”

  “Two bullets.”

  Wage took a deep breath. “Well, OK. Plan B then, huh, William?”

  “Plan B was at 15 paces.”

  “Right! Plan C!”

  “Plan C was with one bullet.”

  “Did you remember anything we talked about?”

  Bill remained silent.

  Wage sighed. “So … the catastrophic emergency plan, then?”

  “It is my personal favorite,” Bill replied.

  “Very well,” Wage said. “Let us commence with this morning’s activities.”

  Both Hamilton and Wage gave up their revolvers for inspection. The seconds diligently checked them over and ensured that only two bullets remained in each gun before returning them. Both men took up their locations at eight paces, faced each other, and awaited further instructions.

  “On my count, duelers will draw and fire,” Alexander commanded. “You may only fire after one, but before three. Are there any final questions?” Neither dueler spoke. “Duelers, take your marks.” Wage adjusted his stance and gave a brief nod to Bill, who stood next to the lieutenant. Bill subtly nodded back.

  “ONE!” the lieutenant shouted.

  Wage’s fingers barely grazed the ivory grip of Ol’ Snapper. Both men glared at each other like two famished hawks over the last kill on earth. Winds stopped blowing, birds stopped chirping, insects stopped crawling—time itself seemed to stop.

  “TW . . .”

  Alexander barely started the word when Bill struck him over the head with a small wooden club permanently concealed in his pocket. The lieutenant fell over holding his head. Hamilton lost his focus and stared at the downed lieutenant. Wage took the opportunity to draw and fire two quick shots at Hamilton’s gun-side hip. Hamilton dropped where he was and screamed in agony. Wage ran up to him before he had a chance to draw the .38 caliber revolver he collapsed on. Bill gave the lieutenant a few more licks to ensure he stayed down.

  Hamilton screamed again when Wage adjusted him and removed the gun from his holster. Out of curiosity, he inspected the gun and found an extra two rounds. “William, you’re officially fired as my second. Kindly observe Mr. Hamilton’s revolver.”

  Bill inspected the revolver, noticing it almost fully loaded. “Lieutenant must have slipped ‘em in when he gave the gun back. Sorry.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Hamilton. I am very disappointed in you,” Wage said, kneeling over his fallen opponent.

  Hamilton could barely speak as he winced in pain. “You bastard. You gutless bastard,” he muttered.

  Wage looked closely at the blood pooling on the dirt from Hamilton’s hip. “I’m no field medic, but I would say your hip is shattered. That’s a painful one; a very long recovery, too.” Hamilton was on the brink of consciousness from the pain when Wage started combing through his pockets. “But seeing as you meant to cheat me at this here duel, I suppose I am entitled to some … compensation.” Wage took Hamilton’s pocket watch and pocket book. “It ain’t here!” he announced after further searching.

  “Check around his neck,” Bill said. Unbuttoning Hamilton’s shirt, Wage felt something unusual underneath. He opened the shirt to reveal an odd sight. Hamilton had a large medallion sewn to his left breast. The round stone had a hollow center and a curious script carved about it. The thread connecting it to his chest traversed smaller holes around the edges. “God, Almighty,” Bill exclaimed. “What in the hell is that thing?”

  “Precisely what we are looking for, William,” Wage replied.

  The Baron

  May 23, 1914

  Château de Peluda

  La Ferté-Bernard, Normandy, France

  Grease ran down his cheeks as he devoured a Cornish hen topped with a poached egg. At first, it seemed as though he might wipe his face with his sleeve ungraciously, but instead he chose the more aristocratic option—his hand-stitched silk napkin. He dotted his face like a blood-soaked lion suddenly refined after killing a gazelle. He elegantly sipped his typical morning stimulant: black tea steeped with South American coca leaves.

  “Warwick. My smoking jacket,” he demanded.

  The attendant standing on the outskirts of the garden ran through a servant’s door directly to the kitchen. Moments later, he returned with a red velvet smoking jacket embroidered with a pearl-topped coronet above the breast pocket. The Baron, an imposing figure with the left lens of his eye glasses tinted an obsidian black, sipped the last of his tea and stood to be dressed. Warwick slid the jacket around his twin-pocketed shirt and leather suspenders before he produced a cigarette much like a soldier might present his arms at a parade. The Baron took the cigarette from his hand and smelled it slowly, while his gray-clad servant struck a match. After another approving and curt smell, the Baron watched with his only good eye as the flame burned down to Warwick’s fingers. The personal attendant, who had a soft and fair complexion, winced in pain before dropping the match. The Baron smiled and produced his own match like a magician, lit his cigarette, and smiled with a puff of smoke.

  “Warwick,” he said, “tend to the roses.”

  The servant dallied around the garden, pruning and plucking the rose bushes with crimson buds already swelling. As he did so, Warwick constantly stroked, as he always did, his unruly dark mustache. In his three years of employment, he never removed his modest top hat, even when indoors; a reminder to himself and his employer that he was always on duty.

  On the garden terrace, Warwick sculpted a horticultural sanctuary in the bright morning sun. The Baron stood near the edge of the terrace and stared out like one of the many statues on the grounds, evaluating the sprawling green acres still wet from yesterday’s rains. Only a quarter mile down the hill side, great balloons tethered to ornate baskets began to fill with hot air.

  Two more servants, portly and identical, spilled out into the garden entrance through double French doors from the château.

  “My lord, Mr. Otto van Donderbus at your request,” one servant said. “Mr. van Donderbus, his lordship William Hardwin FitzOsbern DeLacy, the Baron of Pontefract,” the other servant said.

  Otto van Donderbus was a thin man approaching fifty, whose long travels and rampant opium use etched deep lines into his clean-shaven, squirrely face. His tiny dark eyes, magnified by gold wire-rim glasses, looked almost inhuman. His hunting apparel was a deep navy blue, as though he
preferred nocturnal stalking. He smoothed his cropped brown hair and joined the Baron in looking over the land and the nearly assembled hot air balloons.

  “Good morning, Baron,” he said with a Dutch accent. “A marvelous day for ballooning, no?” Donderbus lifted his shiny brown cane underneath his arm and pulled out a cigarette case from his inner jacket pocket. “Do you like my balloon? I had it custom made in Paris by the Blanchard Brothers. I also hired one of the greatest pilots in all of France. I am excited to finally see it.”

  “A better day for hunting,” Baron DeLacy replied before snapping at Warwick for another cigarette.

  “Yes,” Donderbus replied. “I have never hunted boar before. I pray we land in a well-populated area.”

  Baron DeLacy wiped the sweat beads beginning to form on his shiny bald head with a kerchief. “There will be no need for landing. The pilots will get us low enough where we can shoot from our baskets. Boars are clever beasts—they have a keen sense of smell and approaching them from the ground is difficult. Approaching from the sky gives us the element of surprise.”

  “Speaking of beasts, I hear the townspeople talk of a beast that haunts the countryside. Will we be hunting it as well?” Donderbus chuckled, and smoke came out of his nostrils.

  “The Peluda, yes; it is my estate’s namesake” the Baron replied. “It is local folklore. A horned beast, hairy and dragon-like, it is both fire-breathing and poisonous, according to myth. I assure you, though, if any such a beast existed, he would be above my mantle at Pontefract.” Donderbus looked back at the château and noticed the surrounding gargoyles sculpted in the likeness of the Peluda; only they spit water instead of fire. “The people here,” the Baron continued, “after generations of hearing this fairytale, are naturally fearful and distant. It is why I prefer it to my estate in England at times.”

  “Well, Baron, it is indeed lovely. I do appreciate the invitation. However, did you call me back from the United States solely for some folklore and hunting?”