DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Read online

  Thomas Holladay

  DELIBERATE JUSTICE

  The American Way

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locals are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from this author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN: 9781393635529

  Copyright: © TXu 2-252 636

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Deliberate Justice

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

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  About the Author

  Dedicated to my wife, Wilma, and our daughter, Michelle.

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  Chapter One

  The pain in Mikhail's left side and the shock of what had just happened floated upon the sea of his confusion.

  He could not walk upright. The pain in his side did not allow this. He could not see through the blood streaming from the wound above his eyes. Without the help of his uncle, he would be crawling on his hands and knees, at best.

  Without his uncle, he would be dead.

  "Here, my boy." His uncle braced Mikhail's hand against the side of their carriage and opened the door. Their coachman helped Mikhail into the carriage, no questions asked.

  Speaking to the coachman in Russian, his uncle said, "Take us to the waterfront with the utmost urgency."

  Mikhail winced from the pain as his uncle pushed him across the front bench of the enclosed carriage and squeezed in next to him.

  The heavy coach swayed when the coachman climbed up. The whip cracked in the crisp night air and the coach jolted painfully forward.

  Steel rimmed wheels hummed their high-pitched song, hurtling down the brick paved road. Hooves from his uncle's four horses thundered, gaining vital separation from the wartime palace of Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich.

  What had so angered the grand duke? Mikhail could not imagine this one.

  "Ach!" Every tilted brick in Vladivostok sought to add pain to his left side.

  His uncle turned up the wick of the interior lantern and opened the sable coat he had presented to Mikhail earlier that same evening, January 6, 1855, Mikhail's thirtieth birthday. By Eastern Orthodox tradition, it was Christmas Eve. Intended as an evening of celebration, it had become an evening of conflict, confusion, and pain.

  Mikhail's uncle unbuttoned and spread his tunic. "Ach!" He spoke in English. "You need a doctor."

  Mikhail wiped tears, blood, and sweat from his eyes and looked. His white blouse had been saturated with bright red blood, a dangerous sign.

  His uncle opened the side curtain to shout instructions to the coachman.

  Mikhail grabbed his arm and spun him back. "No. Do not stop. They will find us and kill us both." He knew this for certain. "I cut off his hand."

  "My God. Why?"

  Blood oozed from Mikhail's left brow and upper cheek, his face hot where the grand duke's sword had slashed him. Mikhail had reflexively drawn his sword to defend himself and had disarmed the grand duke. Then, "He shot me and would shoot again."

  His uncle thought about this, then shouted up to the coachman, in Russian. "Take us to the ChaWhay Docks." He spoke quietly to Mikhail in English. "Silent Mistress is an American Yankee clipper. She will sail with the tide." His uncle knew the tides. "It would have been better had you killed him. He will hunt you wherever you go. Did you . . ."

  "He will survive." Colonel Preslova had immediately thrust a burning log against the grand duke's blood-spurting wrist. That had certainly sealed and sterilized the wound. The bleeding had stopped.

  Nobody had been paying attention to Mikhail and his uncle. They could not otherwise have escaped.

  The coach slowed just before the horses plodded onto the wood planks of the waterfront docks of Vladivostok. The coach jerked upward onto the dock and the pain in Mikhail's side shot up his neck.

  Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky sank into that deep, dark place.

  HUDDLED NEAR THE OPEN ladder in the cargo hold where air tasted fresh, Chiang SuLin and her father, Chiang Po, waited with nearly a hundred other Chinese for Silent Mistress to weigh anchor. They all wanted to be underway and the tide was finally running out.

  Pigs, goats, dogs, and chickens, community food for the long voyage eastward to the new world called America, left little room for slaves to move about. She and her father were the only two in the cargo hold who had paid for passage. There had been no more cabins available.

  She missed their home down Canton way, a place she knew, the place where she'd grown up.

  From somewhere off the ship, a man shouted, "Captain Rawlings, I need some help here."

  Someone else shouted from the deck above, "Look, it's that Chancellor, that Igor fella."

  "Get a rope around that," said the gruff, unmistakable voice of the captain.

  Chiang SuLin climbed the ladder high enough to see across the deck, something they had been told not to do without permission. Her curiosity had overpowered her.

  Two crewmen helped a well-dressed man climb aboard at the portside rail. Two others pulled a rope and raised another well-dressed man wearing a fur coat and cap. This one looked dead.

  The first man to board turned back to untie the other, helping crew members take and hold him above the deck. He bent and looked closely into the unconscious man's face. He turned to the captain. "When do you sail?" He spoke in English, but he was Russian.

  "We're preparing to weigh anchor now."

  The Russian pulled a purse from his inside pocket and handed it to the captain. "This is my nephew, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky. This should more than pay for his passage."

  Captain Rawlings hefted the purse, measuring its weight. "What's wrong with him? Is he drunk?"

  The Russian pulled the captain away from the other men and closer to the hold, speaking quietly. "He's been shot. He needs a doctor."

  "Ours is still ashore or we'd already be underway. He smokes the oriental pipe." The captain shook his head, disappointed. "We've already waited till the last possible minute. We need to leave now or wait till morning."

  The Russian said, "You must leave immediately. The less you know is better for you." He raised a hand to the captain's shoulder. "He is very important to me. Do for him the best you can."

  "There's a Chinee below deck, calls himself a pharmacist."

  "This is Chinese doctor." The Russian motioned to those holding up
his nephew. "Hurry, we must carry him below."

  Chiang SuLin backed down the steps quickly and cleared a path for the captain. She pointed to her father, seated on his pad against the ship's sloping wooden ribs.

  The captain shoved Chinese slaves with his knee. "Clear away here."

  Her father stood aside.

  Two crewmen shoved and pulled Chinese slaves out of their places and laid the unconscious man on Chiang SuLin's mat.

  Her father did not speak English. She told him the man had been shot. Her father looked at the cut on the man's face, then opened his coat. There was much blood inside. Speaking Mandarin, her father ordered one of the bonded slaves to boil some water.

  The man ignored him. He wanted to watch.

  A woman picked up a clean pot and rushed up the ladder past the captain and his Russian friend.

  The Australian sailor she did not like stood behind the captain. He had pressed into her when they boarded the day before, his eyes shifting about, looking for bad things. He smiled at her and licked his lips.

  Turning and dragging the Russian up the ladder, the captain shouted, "Mr. Preston, take us out."

  A voice from on deck shouted, "You heard the captain. Get the chancellor off and weigh anchor. Watkins, get that steering jib up."

  Watkins, the Australian, rushed up the ladder past the Captain.

  The Russian disappeared and the captain stepped back down to watch her father.

  Chiang Po told another woman to bring a bucket of clean seawater.

  She carried an empty bucket up the ladder and disappeared on deck.

  Chiang SuLin opened Po's satchel of powdered herbs, roots, and antitoxins and set it near the unconscious Russian, a very handsome man.

  Po selected a bottle of yellow powder and set it near the unconscious Russian's face.

  The woman returned with a bucket of clean seawater and Chiang Po washed his hands, taking particular care with the very long fingernail on the fifth finger of his right hand. He rinsed a clean rag and dabbed blood from the Russian's eyes. He tore off a small piece of the rag, rinsed it, rung it out, and dusted it with yellow powder. He closed the cut over the eye and turned the dusted rag over it, smoothing it into a plaster. This would keep the wound closed.

  She handed him one of the long bandages.

  Her father wrapped the man's head quickly, keeping the plaster tight, keeping the wound tight. After three wraps, he tore the bandage down the center and tied it in place.

  Satisfied with the head wound, Po opened the man's tunic wide, spread his blouse, and cleaned away the blood to expose a small hole over his ribs, still bleeding bright red. The area had swollen purple.

  The captain pulled two lanterns from the ladder, handed them to nearby slaves, and motioned for them to hold the light close to Chiang Po's work. They both wanted to watch anyway.

  Chiang Po motioned and the woman went for more fresh seawater.

  The other woman climbed down past the captain, carrying a pot of steaming hot water.

  Taking care not to burn his finger, Chiang Po stuck his long fingernail in and churned hot water, very clean now. He pressed around the outside of the wound with his left hand, squeezing near the hole, pushing out more blood. He spread his fingers now, opening the hole wider. He poked his long fingernail into the hole and probed.

  He pulled out a round metal ball and let it fall to the inside of the man's tunic. He stuck his fingernail back in, probing deeper. He pulled out a small piece of fabric and a chip of bone. He rinsed both in seawater and studied them. The small piece of blood-soaked fabric had once been white.

  He washed the whole area with the boiled fresh water, which was not steaming anymore, and placed a yellow plaster patch over the hole. The wrap around the man's head had already dried. No more bleeding there.

  Her father had been a very fine pharmacist, down Canton way. Many British officers had preferred him over their own military doctors. Had the Boxers not forced them to flee north, she and her father would still be living in comfort near the headquarters of the British colonials.

  Chiang Po flooded the tunic with clean seawater and found the bullet hole. He placed the small piece from inside the wound against the tunic, but the tunic was the wrong color and had no fabric missing. Po rinsed the white blouse and found the hole. It was missing fabric, a perfect fit for the bit he'd just recovered. He smiled up at the captain.

  The captain nodded and grinned, relieved and grateful. He turned up the ladder and stood on deck. "Mr. Preston, get these main sails up. Set your course east, nor-east."

  Sails slapped, the clipper heeled, and the wind pulled them toward the new land. Chills rushed up SuLin's back. It was a magical moment.

  SuLin and two older women undressed the man, cleaned his body, and wrapped him in a warm blanket.

  Her father placed his ear to the man's chest, listening, not happy.

  This man seemed important to the captain. What would happen if he had already died?

  She could not see him breathing.

  Chapter Two

  "Where am I?" Mikhail spoke in Russian, again and again. "How did I get here?"

  He slipped in and out of consciousness, aware of the pain, feeling the pitch and sway of a ship at sea.

  Da!

  He remembered now. Must be the Yankee clipper.

  "How long have I been here?" These filthy Chinese peasants did not understand Russian and Mikhail did not speak Chinese. Why should he bother to learn Chinese? These backward people without hope spoke only gibberish.

  Stinking peasants.

  A Chinese man and what must be his daughter had been looking after him. At least they'd shown signs of intelligence. They knew when Mikhail was in serious pain and fed him hot, soothing tea. It tasted bitter but helped him sleep.

  He slept most of the time.

  She knew when to feed him, always soup in a cup. He preferred borsch. He never tired of good borsch. He had quickly tired of this peasant soup.

  Still too weak to stand, Mikhail found ample time to think about his life; about what had happened on Christmas Eve—memory flashes not yet organized.

  Events before the grand duke's reception stood clear in his memory, but he had no estimate for how long ago that had been.

  How long had he been at sea?

  For what port had they sailed?

  Had he spent time in Vladivostok before setting sail?

  SuLin smiled and brought him more soup.

  "My uncle warned me not to approach the duchess. Something about my own past." Talking worked better than thinking, even if nobody understood. Hearing his own words helped to organize his thoughts. "Do not trust the Romanovs to think as we think." His uncle had said those words many times. She did not understand a word of Russian.

  "My father made my uncle swear never to tell me about my mother. She died giving me birth."

  These peasants do not care.

  "Maybe she was a peasant . . . my mother." Maybe the grand duke and duchess knew of his mother. They had to know her better than he did. He knew nothing about her. This might explain why they'd reacted with such hatred.

  Who knows?

  "It stinks down here!" Odors from pigs, dogs, goats, chickens and peasants hung in the air of the hold like a heavy blanket. No escape.

  This peasant daughter of a peasant Chinaman did not care.

  She lifted his empty bowl, eyes wide, asking if he wanted more soup.

  "Nyet!" He shook his head. "Bring me borsch."

  Hah!

  The girl's father pushed her aside and sat next to Mikhail.

  An older woman delivered a pail of fresh seawater.

  The Chinaman dropped a clean-looking rag into the pail and let it sink. He pulled it out and squeezed some water back into the pail, then pressed the wet rag over the plaster above Mikhail's left eye. Not much pain now.

  Mikhail still spoke in Russian. "Is this Silent Mistress? Are we bound for America?"

  The Chinaman smiled, removed th
e wet plaster, and showed it to Mikhail. No blood traces this time. This pleased the Chinaman and his daughter.

  Mikhail's forehead felt swollen and numb to his touch.

  The daughter used seawater to wash Mikhail, a very frustrating circumstance for him. He was still too weak to wash himself.

  "Is he your father?"

  She smiled and nodded. She did not understand one word of Russian. She was just being friendly.

  "My father died when I was still young. I only remember him a little. General Field Marshal, the Count Ivan Diebitsch-Zabalkansky. I remember him as a good man. He was awarded the Order of St. George of the First Degree in 1829 for his victory during our war with the Ottomans. This award in the first degree entitles me, his son, to his title of nobility and property.

  "I have an estate in Crimea near Sevastopol. I spent most of my boyhood there."

  She did not care, turning him, washing him, and ignoring him.

  "I did not see him much. He died of pneumonia when I was eleven.

  "My uncle, the Baron Igor Zabalkansky, took me in. He was then a third class privy councilor in Sevastopol. When this happened . . ." Mikhail pointed to his left side where the yellow plaster still remained. "He was Chancellor of Vladivostok, acting Privy Councilor First Class. This is a very high position."

  Another blank-eyed smile from the girl.

  Talking still worked better than thinking, as he was trying desperately to attach meaning to his current circumstance. "His responsibilities include the increase of trade routes to the east and south. Due to his efforts, the port of Vladivostok thrives with trade from the sea, both sail and steam." Mikhail swelled with pride.

  A blank smile from her.

  Mikhail feared for his dear uncle's life, threatened because of Mikhail's recent actions.

  What actions?

  What had he done?

  From age fourteen to eighteen, at his uncle's insistence, Mikhail had attended the Suvorov Military School in Moscow, where he'd studied military tactics and artillery, a natural choice, given his understanding of geometry.