Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (17 page)

Michael Callahan

August 1, 1914 

Broadway Avenue

Gary, Indiana

Mink strolled down one side of Broadway Avenue.  The sun was setting, but the electric street lights were still unlit.  The buildings on both sides of the block were newly constructed; the mortar holding the bricks was still a bright white.  The occasional streetcar would pass down the middle of the street, and the steel workers who rode it all stared straight ahead, unfazed by the loud, clattering bells the conductor rang.  Some of riders were no doubt deaf from the thousands of hours hammering out imperfections in steel.  Others probably just ignored the bells, not wanting a break from the trance that the ride from the mill to their homes afforded them. 

Practically erected overnight by the United States Steel Corporation, the town of Gary, Indiana demonstrated to the world modern, industrial living.  The heartbeat of the town, of course, was the smoking juggernaut of a steel mill that belched its fumes over Lake Michigan.  The steel mill, which employed nearly everyone in town, was the largest of its kind, churning more than four million metric tons of steel from iron ore each year. 

Ever since the tragic events aboard the
Artemis
, Mink had become Michael, taking the name of her father.  She was once a lithe and graceful lady who married into one of the wealthiest families in America.  Now she lived as a poor, skinny young man with shortened red hair and soft features.  Despite her softness, however, she felt a dangerous burning inside.

  The town of Gary was far enough away to escape the authorities, but close enough still to find the
Chicago Sun-Times
.  Days after she shot Reginald and dove into Lake Michigan, the headline read, “
Maritime Murderer:  Millionaire Heiress, Still Missing, Slays Husband Aboard Yacht; Stepson Still Unaccounted For.
”
 
Days later the headline read, “
Maritime Murderer/Stepson Presumed Dead, Investigation Ongoing
.”

To be safe, she decided to stay in Gary for another month, hiding her soft features behind welding goggles and layers of dirt and black soot.  Most mornings she would make her way to the corner of Broadway and 4
th
, where foremen would pick up day laborers to replace sick or injured union workers.  The days she was able to climb aboard a foreman’s flatbed truck she would be put to work welding or monitoring a blast furnace.  Her on-the-job training was frighteningly fast, which probably explained the alarming rate of injury among the workers.  At night, she would take the street car from the mill back to the center of town, where she would walk the 10 blocks back to Saint Barbara of Perpetual Help, an overflow church for the diocese, and a part-time home for maimed steel workers. Because she was not injured or maimed but did need a home, she cleaned the church in exchange for a small bed and simple meals.

Mink stopped in front of a store window.  A beautiful dress, sea foam green with white lace and sage buttons adorned a blocky, headless mannequin.  A small sage top hat and matching floral umbrella sat on a stand next to it.  She pictured herself in the ensemble.  It was form-fitting and her locks of red hair fell upon her shoulders shimmering while she strolled a lakeside garden, smiling and twirling the umbrella.  The shopkeeper finally turned off the lights, ending her fantasy. 

Mink continued down the sidewalk.  A man approached from the opposite direction.  There was no tip of his hat, no polite greeting, no yielding the right-of-way.  Mink slammed into the man’s shoulder.

“Watch it, boy!” snapped the man.

“My apologies, mister,” Mink replied, adjusting the goggles on top of her forehead.  She watched the man walk away and heard the drone of the electric lights click on.

She finally arrived at Saint Barbara’s.  There were no street lamps on the outskirts of town, so the small stone church with multicolored light bleeding from the stained glass windows proved to be something of a beacon.  She entered the church though the squeaky, round door and made her way down the nave, passing 20 pews on either side.  Out of habit, she genuflected toward the alter that rested on a raised dais beneath a carved wooden Jesus affixed to a steel cross.  As she briefly knelt, she felt and noticed dried bits of mud.  It had rained last night, and the mud was probably the result of a small morning service.  She continued through the transept and to another door that led to the living quarters, a shared water closet, and a kitchen.  The wood-paneled room where she slept contained six small bunks, each with a footlocker. It reminded her of a ship’s living quarters.  At present, there was only one other guest besides herself.  This made it possible, but still not easy, for her to discretely change clothes and to adjust the silk gauze that kept her breasts bound tightly to her body.  She placed her earned wages for the day inside her pillowcase, where she also kept her Steyr-Hahn Model 1912 pistol. 

After changing, she made her way to the water closet, thankful again no one was in there.  The pitcher of water she used to fill the sink was only half-full because she had used the rest of the water early this morning.  In the mirror she saw not her reflection, but her father’s.  She had always had Michael Callahan’s features—a small brow, pointy ears, a delicate nose, sharp green eyes, thin, pale cheeks with the slightest of freckles, and a soft chin crowned with salmon lips that parted for a perfect smile.  She moistened a small cloth and patted her face, removing the day’s dirt and grime.  In the mirror, she noticed how her hair had started to grow out.  In another week or two she would probably be able to style it a way that made her seem distinctly more feminine.  Perhaps she could have it done in the latest fashion for her sister’s engagement party, which was less than a month away now.  The very thought of seeing her sister again brought a tear to her eye.  Her whole life, Mink had never played the role of helpless fairytale princess; her father never let her and her mother, had she been around, wouldn’t have, either. Despite her current distress, she still refused to be the damsel confined to this tower.

There was a stirring in the hallway outside.  Mink quickly wet her hair behind her ears and made her way to the sacristy, where she grabbed a broom and pan.  The other boarder and former steel worker, Peter Delany, sat awkwardly in the first pew, his eyes closed in a silent prayer. He wore a frayed yellow shirt, and a crude, rusted metal brace encompassed one leg of his deteriorating pants.  He rested his unbent, braced leg on the same pew where he sat.

Mink ignored him and swept the floor as quietly as she could.  His presence wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.  Many nights, they both broke bread together with Father Jerome, sometimes in relative silence and sometimes in constant jest. 

“Oh, good evening, Michael,” the old, bald steel worker said, finally opening his eyes.

“Good evening, Peter,” Mink replied.

“I trust you picked up work today at the mill?” he asked. 

“I did.”

“Ah, fantastic,” Peter said, clapping his hands.  “You know, sometimes I sure do miss it, despite, you know, my accident.”  Peter patted his leg brace.  “Perhaps you would like to head down to the dance hall this evening, then?”

“The dance hall?”

“Yes, I understand quite a few young people will be down there this evening.  Why don’t you skip your chores and go find a nice young lady to dance with, hmm?  I’m sure Father Jerome will be OK with a muddy floor for one evening.”

“I appreciate it, Peter, really I do, but I am not interested in dancing tonight.”  Mink continued to sweep.

“Tell me, Michael, has there ever been a young woman in your life?” Peter asked.

“There was . . . I used to be . . .” she looked over at the old steel worker, who stared at her with slate eyes.  “No.  I’m afraid not.”

“Such a shame.  A handsome young man such as yourself.”

“Well, there was one.”  Mink rested her chin and hand atop the broom handle.

“Well, I’m not getting any younger.  Tell me, what happened?”

Mink recalled Wage, her eyes drifting to the colorful ceiling of the nave.

“Ah!  I’ve seen that look before,” Peter said.

“He . . .” she corrected herself quickly, “
She
meant everything to me.  We grew up together.  I often think it was just young love, two children who knew nothing of what love actually is, but as I think about it now, there is a part of me that can’t help but think it was something much, much, more.  Someone once told me that a young heart beats the same as any other.”

“Yes, yes,” Peter affirmed.

“I remember we dared each other as kids to climb the ivy on the side of my house.  She went first and ended up falling right into my arms.  Knocked me over pretty good, too.  That was the first time we held each other.  I couldn’t have been more than 8 years old.”

“What happened?” Peter inquired.

Mink started to sweep the floor again.  “Family tragedy.  He left,” she said, not catching her error this time.

“I’m very sorry.” Peter swung himself up and limped over to Mink, his brace squeaking as he did.  He put a hand on her shoulder from behind.

“It’s all right.  It’s nothing, really,” Mink replied.

“Have you ever loved another?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder.

“No ... well … I recently met someone.”

Peter moved his hand to her hip.  “Michael,” he said softly.

It was odd feeling.  The last man to touch her hip was her husband, Ronald Thomason IV, and that only happened once, when they danced on their wedding night. 

“Is everything all right, Peter?” Mink asked.

“Yes, my boy.  Everything is fine.”  Peter reached his hand around her hip and slipped it down her trousers.

Mink froze.  Something was terribly wrong.  His hand pressed and prodded her, searching for something, grabbing for something.

“You . . . you . . . you are a . . .” Peter stuttered in shock.

Mink turned around with the man’s hand still down her pants.  The old steel worker’s arm was painfully and awkwardly bent.  Mink grabbed his wrist, locking him in a compromised position.  A quick upward strike and she knew the man’s arm would break at his elbow.  Her green eyes flared with such intensity that it could have boiled the water filling Peter’s eyes at the moment.  His face twisted in embarrassment, confusion, and pain.

Mink pushed his chest hard and he flew backward.  His arm came loose and he lost his balance, falling over in front of the altar.  He covered his face and stretched out his braced leg.  Mink gave him a moment until he started to sob.  She bent over to help him up.  “Let me help you?” she said.  “I’m sorry.”

“Get away from me!” he snarled back.  “Get away from me!”  His high-pitched wail was louder than his squeaky brace and reminded her of her late husband’s laugh. 

An extreme focus took hold of her as she stepped over him and calmly walked back to her bunk.  She operated with the same practiced regiment that allowed her to rob train after train without being caught.  She made a beeline through the provided quarters, threw open her footlocker, and emptied its contents into a small duffle bag.  Then she turned over her pillow and grabbed her hard-earned wages and her pistol. She went out the exit through the kitchen, and headed for the train station on the west side of town. 

A knight clad in polished armor, she decided, was not coming to her tower, nor would he be welcome even if he did.  Like always, she would rescue herself.  She would climb down her tower as easily as a white knight could climb up it.  She would climb down her tower as easily as she could climb up and down the vines of ivy on the side of her house.  The same vines Wage would always fall from. 

It was time, she thought, to see her sister.  It was time, she decided, to head to New York.

The Baron

August 7, 1914 

RMS Lusitania

The Atlantic Ocean

Servants dressed in high-collared white jackets cinched with black sashes scurried around the fluted columns in the makeshift wardroom partitioned off the first-class dining room.  The large, round, cherry wood table sat eight guests, seven of whom stared rather impatiently at the engraved silver warmers that covered their plates.  A gold floral pattern adorned the rims of their fine porcelain plates.  The same floral patterns adorned the jade green carpets of the boat deck.

Captain Theodore Wickham Whitmore of the
RMS Lusitania
finally walked in, wearing a formal dining coat complete with gold rank and rows upon rows of colorful miniature medals.  “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” he said. 

He removed his wheel cap and exchanged it for a glass of neat, single malt scotch from one of the servants.  The captain stroked his gray walrus mustache, which obscured his upper lip.  “I trust you have not been waiting long.”  He sat down and immediately, a host of servants surrounded the dining guests, simultaneously lifting the plate warmers to reveal boiled beef, steamed potatoes, and a side of cabbage.

“
Bon appetite
,” the captain announced as he carefully selected his silverware and sliced into his beef.

“Tell us, Captain, do you expect an on-time arrival to New York?” asked an obese woman, wearing a pink and red floral gown. She had cropped brown hair leveled at her fat cheeks and large gold chains festooned around her ample bosom. She talked with her mouth full.  Her husband, pale, sickly, and thin, echoed her question in a distractingly high voice.

“Actually, we have made some last-second course adjustments,” the captain replied.

“And why is that, pray tell?” asked another man, whose one dark lens reflected the kerosene lamps on at the center of the table.

“Ah,” the captain said, wiping his face with his napkin. “Forgive me.  I am honored to have nobility aboard. Baron DeLacy, isn’t it?  William DeLacy?”

The Baron bowed his head slightly.  “It is
I
who am honored to be aboard, Captain Whitmore, I assure you.  Now about that delay?”  The Baron’s one good eye remained fixed on the captain.

“Well, for starters, there is a storm brewing off our bow.  That should sufficiently slow us down.”

“And how is it, sir, that sailors predict storms?” asked an Indian gentlemen with a dark imperial mustache and a gray three-piece business suit.

“A falling barometer and a sudden tailwind; but more than anything, it’s these old bones that feel it coming,” the captain replied.

“That’s all?  A simple storm?  Can we not outmaneuver it, or speed through it?” the obese lady asked.  Her husband added, “Yes, captain, a simple storm.”

“Storms in the North Atlantic are anything but simple,” the captain replied.

“Come now, do tell us the
real
reason we are waylaid,” the Baron said.

The captain cleared his throat.  “Yes.  It seems there is another storm brewing, one that makes His Majesty and Parliament decidedly more apprehensive.”

“You talk of the war consuming Europe?” the Indian businessman asked.

“Yes, I do.  British Expeditionary Forces have already landed in France.  I am afraid all of Europe is expecting to be dragged into the fighting.  As a result, the British government is stockpiling both coal and oil.  With less fuel, we make do with slower speeds.”

“I don’t understand,” the obese lady yelled, as she forked a potato.  “I thought these things run on steam! Steam!”

“Steam must be created with a heat source, madam,” Captain Whitmore said.

“Indeed,” said the Baron, who had not yet touched his food.  “Imagine your body ran on steam, Mrs. Ganders.  The oil Captain Whitmore is referring to would be likened to the food you are devouring now.  Tell me, now . . . how well would you perform without food?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she replied.  The Indian businessman chuckled into his napkin.

“Sir, your comments, although analogously true, are entirely hurtful,” her husband replied.  It was not exactly known how the morose and gaunt Jay Ganders came into wealth, but the jokes in the smoking lounge revolved around how much money it must have taken to convince him to marry that rotund wife of his.  “It was a whale of a dowry,”
one man had commented.

The Baron glanced casually at Khalid Francois, who was seated next to him.  “My apologies, Ganders—I was simply trying to illustrate a point.”

Gloria Ganders huffed.  “Well, I’m surprised someone like you is so crass given your . . . your . . .”

“Ocular deficiency,” Jay Ganders finished, snickering.

“Touché,” the Baron said, resigned.  “But let us get back to the topic at hand and ask our brave captain what he thinks of this developing war?”

“I think that all wars are better fought with the sweat of diplomats rather than the blood of soldiers, Baron.  It should be avoided at all costs.  Everyone knows the alliance system is nothing more than a fuse on a massive powder keg. It just remains to be seen how big the explosion will be.  However, allow me to uplift our spirits with a toast.”  Captain Whitmore lifted his half-full scotch.  “To King and Country.  May God and His Majesty look after us all.”  After the toast, the captain finished his scotch.  “Tell me, Benjamin, how is business?” he asked.

Benjamin Akbar Sengupta adjusted the lapels of his suit, “I am concerned.  My family’s primary business is in European markets.  Our main distribution center is just outside Paris, as a matter of fact.  I think this war will be bad for business, which is why I am off to secure new markets in America.  I believe, Captain, that wars should be fought with currency instead of bullets.”  Benjamin sipped a cup of hot tea.  “And how about you, Baron?  How do you feel about it?”

The Baron threw a hand in the air, “I quite like the idea, actually.” Everyone at the table gasped, except the captain, who received another neat scotch from a servant.  The Abernethys, a young married couple, sat to the Baron’s right.  Hodges Abernathy’s eyes were ablaze, while Henrietta’s were fixed squarely on her plate.

“Your lordship, both my elder brothers are officers in the artillery. I am quite certain they would object to your remark.  I, too, would hate to see either of my brothers put in harm’s way if England follows through with their defense of Belgium,” said Hodges, whose sideburns looked as sharp as a saber’s edge as they blended into a groomed mustache.

“On the contrary, young Mr. Abernathy, I am quite certain your brothers look forward to such an opportunity.  What soldier wouldn’t?  No one joins the service in hopes of seeing peace all their days.  A carpenter does not submit himself to years of training and apprenticeship to never construct a single building, does he?  Then why do you assume a soldier whose training solely revolves around the killing arts does not want to exercise his craft with impunity?”

“It is the preparation for war that brings peace.  War should only be a last resort,” Hodges replied.   

The Baron laughed.  “This 50-year arms race between European nations is certainly preparation, I will give you that, boy, but make no mistake.  It is not the preparation nor the threat of war that brings peace—it’s the crushing of your enemies.  It is having them kneel before you in submission, knowing their will and spirit have been annihilated. Then, and only then, may you
dictate
peace.”

“Were you a soldier then, Baron?” Captain Whitmore asked.

The Baron adjusted his hands.  “Isandlwana,” he replied.  The captain choked on his scotch and Mr. Sengupta gasped.

“I’m sorry,” Hodges said.  “So many men were lost.”  Hodges and his wife weren’t even born at that time, but they were both educated enough to know the massacre of the 24
th
Regiment of Foot at the hands of Zulu savages.

  “My associate, Khalid Francois Deschamps . . .” The Baron raised his hand and Khalid bowed his head slowly and smiled, his one gold tooth catching the light.  “. . . he served in the French Foreign Legion during the Mandingo Wars.  So we are both well-versed in the killing arts.”

“You really wish this war upon Europe, Baron?” Benjamin Sengupta asked.

“Are you familiar with Malthus’ work, Mr. Sengupta?” the Baron asked in reply.

“Please,” the Captain scoffed. “You cannot be a serious follower of such a lunatic.”

“Who is Malthus?” Gloria Ganders asked.

“Thomas Malthus is a man who claimed that when the population exceeds the food supply, war, famine, and plague are Mother Nature’s way of . . . restoring balance,” the Baron said. 

“Accepting such a premise, Baron, is a primitive way of thinking, and wishing those things upon a society in unconscionable,” Mr. Sengupta announced.  “I suppose you will cite the work of Darwin next?”

“No, adhering to an archaic caste system is unconscionable, Mr. Sengupta.  I see this as a much more practical measure.  It will effectively erase borders, bloated kings and bickering politicians, allowing for a new Europe, a new age to take place.  We now have enlightened thinking paired with unthinkable machines, and yet we desire politicians and kings who still rule as if we are serfs pushing plows, as if we need small wind-driven ships to explore a flat earth.”

“Your new era will bring about the death of thousands, perhaps even millions; that is hardly an effective plan,” the Captain said, holding up his glass of scotch to signal for a another refill.

“The death of the very people who allowed such politicians and kings to operate?  In the grand scheme, it is a small price to pay,” the Baron replied calmly.

“Is there
anything
you wouldn’t give up for your ‘new Europe?’” Hodges Abernathy interjected.

The Baron paused a moment, then smiled.  “Allow me to tell you the story of how I lost my eye.”  He removed his glasses, allowing the dinner guests to see a red mass of smooth scar tissue where the eye should have been.  Even with the one eye missing, the dinner guests felt
two
sinister eyes watching them, penetrating them.  Mr. Ganders looked away.  Mrs. Ganders regurgitated slightly into her napkin.  Mr. Abernathy gripped the tablecloth in horror, while Mrs. Abernathy continued to gaze into her boiled beef like it were a crystal ball.  Mr. Sengupta averted his eyes and wiped his brow with his napkin, and the Captain stared back with strangely inquisitive eyes.  “We were cut off from the rest of our platoon by a suicidal charge of Zulu spearman,” the Baron continued.  “It was only my battalion medic and I left.  He was out of ammunition, and my rifle had malfunctioned.  I tried to give him what was left of my own ammunition, but our rifles were constantly being used to counter Zulu spears.  A few of the savages had muskets, of course, but they had terrible aim.  They pushed us back into a small grove of acacia trees until they had us completely surrounded, nearly a mile from the fighting. We were exhausted.  We both fell to our knees, and at the risk of sounding pedantic, my life flashed before my eyes.  A lifetime of memories replayed in my mind in a matter of seconds.  One of the savages was about to deal the killing blow to me,” the Baron said as he stabbed a piece of beef with his fork, “when my medic screamed a word, then unknown to me, in the Zulu language.  The aggressor stopped in his tracks and called for another warrior.  You may recall that Zulu custom is to allow no prisoners, so naturally, I was surprised.  A very large and very scarred man, marked with the hides and feathers of a rising chieftain, approached us.”

The Baron left the fork sticking out of his beef and cleaned his one clear lens with his napkin.  He finally returned them to his face to cover his deformity with the one blackened lens.  “The chieftain spoke in broken English and asked me what I would give.  I looked at my medic, who had a spear against his throat, before I turned back to the warrior and asked, ‘What would you have?’  The savage replied, ‘Wisdom.’”

“Wisdom?” Sengupta asked.

“Do you recall the story of Odin, Mr. Sengupta?  King of the Norse pantheon?” the Baron asked.  Mr. Sengupta shook his head.  “In order to attain the highest wisdom, he gave up his own eye.  Many cultures, like the Zulu, believe wisdom is found in the eyes.”

“Are you saying the Zulu chieftain took your eye?” Mr. Sengupta asked.

“On the contrary,” the Baron replied. “He did not take it from me—I gave it to him.”

Gloria Ganders spit out her food.  In first-class embarrassment, she pushed away from the table and scurried out of the wardroom.  Her husband followed.  Mr. Sengupta, having heard enough, stood up also.  “Good evening, everyone,” he said and promptly left.  The Baron smirked. 

“Go on, your lordship, finish your story,” Hodges Abernathy urged.  His wife, Henrietta, finally lifted her eyes from her plate.  She looked first at the Baron and then to Khalid, who winked at her.

“It’s simple, really,” the Baron continued.  “The warrior desired the wisdom to rule all and to repel the British Army.  Most primitive cultures believe wisdom comes from either the eyes or the heart.  I decided I was quite lucky that I could give him the one I could still live without.”