The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles: Book 2 of the Finding Billy Battles Trilogy

By Ronald E. Yates

As Book 2 of the Finding Billy Battles trilogy opens Billy is far from his Kansas roots—and his improbable journeys are just beginning. It is 1894, and he is aboard an ocean liner sailing to the Mysterious East. Along the way Billy meets a mysterious, dazzling, and possibly dangerous German Baroness and the two form an unlikely bond that leads them from one perilous escapade to another—including Billy’s inadvertent participation in an uprising against the French in Indochina, thus possibly making him the first American to become entangled in a country that will eventually be known as Vietnam

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Mar 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781514490112

Book preview

trilogy.

Foreword: Ted Sayles

When book 1 ended, my great-grandfather William Fitzroy Raglan Battles was aboard the SS China headed for what in 1894 was considered the Mysterious East. His life had taken a tragic turn for the worst, and his way of dealing with it was to put distance between himself and the past—even if it meant leaving loved ones behind.

When I read the tapes, journals, letters, and other records Great-Grandfather Battles left behind for me, the reasons for his impetuous voyage to distant lands seemed to me dubious and ill-conceived. Of course, given the misfortunes that had befallen him, it is not for me (or anyone else, for that matter) to say that he made a wrong decision to escape his past.

Who knows how bereavement and torment can influence and occupy another person’s mind and soul and how it can drive one to make disputable decisions? In my great-grandfather’s case, his anguish and grief over losing his wife apparently required relief that could only come from some distant quarter. In his journals, he attempted to explain, if not justify his actions.

As I poured through those journals and other materials Great-Grandfather Battles left for me, it was obvious that I was witnessing a boy mature into early manhood and then middle age. I felt a professional kinship with my great-grandfather—we were both journalists, though he was much more of a participant in the events he wrote about than I had ever been.

As Billy grew older, he also became more complex, and so did the challenges he faced. His writing reflected this process. As I read through his journals and letters, the torment and regret Great-Grandfather felt was palpable to me in his writing.

His mood shifted from the wide-eyed, eager, and naive teenager who left Lawrence, Kansas, in 1878 to that of a man approaching middle age who had both inflicted and suffered significant pain. He had survived attempts on his life and had taken lives. He had lost the woman he loved to a fatal illness, and he essentially abandoned his five-year-old daughter in an imprudent pursuit of solace.

Just as Billy did in his journals, I have broken the one hundred years my great-grandfather spent on this earth into three parts. Book 1 dealt with approximately the first third of Billy Battles’s existence in Kansas and other areas of the American West. Book 2 finds Billy in the Far East, Latin America, and Europe and ends with Billy approaching what for many men would be a more sedentary age.

But as I discovered in reading his journals and listening to the tapes my great-grandfather left for me, retirement or any notion of retreating into sequestration was never an option for him.

Life for Billy Battles never slowed down, and I have a hunch that is why he remained vigorous and healthy for a full century. My only regret is that when I met him and talked with him almost fifty years ago, I was barely an adolescent, and he was already ninety-eight years old. Had I been older and a bit wiser in the ways of men, I am confident that I could have amplified much of what Great-Grandfather wrote and told me with added insight, sensitivity, and depth.

As it is, I have done my best to convey Great-Grandfather Battles’s temperament and character in the course of his assorted deeds and exploits with as much truth and passion as possible given the yawning gulf of time and the disparity that inevitably separates age and youth.

What follows is Billy’s improbable story in his own words.

Ted Sayles, Kansas City, Missouri.

Introduction

William F. R. Battles

Kansas City, Missouri, 1949

I spent most of my life as a newspaper scribbler, what they call a journalist today. So I appreciate how important it is to seize your readers early on so they will keep reading. However, there are some things that I need to explain before I get to this next very turbulent time in my life.

As I am writing this, it is early 1949; and even though I consider myself blessed to have so far avoided my second childhood, the filaments of my ripe old brain sometimes get about as limp as worn out fiddle strings when I exercise them too much. Nevertheless, I have recorded to the best of my memory and ability the incidents that transpired as I made my way to French Indochina aboard the SS China in 1894.

Readers may conclude that my reasons for leaving the United States for the Orient were self-centered and vague. If you read the initial installment of my tale, then you know the first thirty-three years of my life were fraught with tragedy of one kind or another—some of it of my own making but much of it the result of what others did. As I said in that first book, I need to acknowledge the corn about some pretty terrible things I did during my life.

I have killed people. And people have tried to kill me. I never wanted such a life, but it was thrust on me, and I had to make the best of it. Even though most of those violent altercations occurred early in my life, their repercussions were relentless and unwelcome companions as I grew older. They still are, even now at my advanced age. I wanted to let you know all of that so you can make up your mind right now if you want to read further.

I had my share of tragedy and misfortune too. If you read the first part of my story, then you know I lost my wife to a cruel disease after only eight years of marriage. You will also recall that my response to that tragedy was to fog it out of the country. In doing so, I left everybody I loved behind. Those included my five-year-old daughter, Anna Marie; my mother, Hannelore Battles; my in-laws Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius McNab; my cousin Charlie Higgins; and a lot of other people whom I considered good friends.

Some folks may think my flight to the Orient a craven act—one that any man worth his salt would never contemplate, let alone carry out. I cannot disagree with that condemnation. I felt that way often as the SS China made its way to the Far East. Even later on, after I had settled in places like Manila and Saigon, I would reproach myself for what I had done.

Had I been indicted and put on trial for my actions, and were I the judge and jury, I certainly would have found myself guilty of appalling judgment, capriciousness, and even child abandonment. As it was, there was no trial and no conviction, but I was a guilty prisoner of my impropriety nevertheless. Never a day went by when I didn’t regret leaving my little daughter behind in Denver for others to rear. As my mother pointed out to me more than once when she attempted to dissuade me from my journey to the Orient, I was raised without a father. Now my daughter was about to suffer the same fate. It was a brutally compelling argument, but I was not to be deterred.

And so here I was aboard the SS China en route from San Francisco to our first port of call—Honolulu, the Republic of Hawaii. Back then, Hawaii was an independent republic, not the annexed territory it is today.[1] As I would learn, Americans in 1894 were considered unwelcome interlopers by many native Hawaiians. They were seen as greedy exploiters who were interested only in manipulating and profiting from the sugar and pineapple industries.

The first day aboard the SS China had been eventful, to say the least. I had been questioned by a surly Pinkerton detective who was trying to locate Nate Bledsoe—the man I had killed five years earlier in a gunfight at Battles Gap, my family’s homestead in western Kansas.

Ten years before that, I had killed Nate Bledsoe’s mother, a malevolent woman who had imprisoned Horace Hawes, the owner of the Dodge City Union; Ben Minot, a printer; and me in a barn at the same place. Her death was an accident. Her sons, Nate and Matthew, began shooting at me and my two companions as we were escaping. As I returned fire with my Winchester rifle, a single bullet hit Mrs. Bledsoe in the throat just as she stepped out of the house and onto the porch where her sons were shooting at us. She died instantly.

Later in this scrap, Matthew Bledsoe was killed by Ben Minot, a friend and coworker of the Dodge City Union. The Bledsoe clan was influential in Kansas in those days and had considerable pull in Topeka, the state capital. They were not about to let the shooting deaths of two of their kin go unpunished even if this particular branch was known to live outside the law. For the next several years, they hunted me down and, on two occasions, came damned close to killing me.

Now five years after I and several members of a wildcat U.S. marshal’s posse had shot it out with Bledsoe and eight of his companions at Battles Gap, I was under investigation by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. It had been hired to determine if Nate Bledsoe was dead or alive and, if the former was the case, where his bones were buried. Of course, I knew exactly where Nate Bledsoe was—or what remained of him—and I sensed that the Pinkerton man knew that I knew. But I would be damned if I were going to admit it. Let’s just say I was economical with the truth, as my cousin Charley Higgins used to say.

My ongoing trouble with the Bledsoe clan could have been another reason for my voyage to the Orient had I wished to rationalize it that way. But of course, I was not running away from the Bledsoe clan or the ghosts of the two Bledsoe’s I had eradicated or even the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

I was running away from myself, though at the time I didn’t know it. Nor did I realize what I was moving toward and how my travels and trials would transform me in ways I could not have imagined.

Of course, those thoughts were furthest from my mind that first evening aboard the SS China. I had, after all, been invited to have dinner at the captain’s table in the first-class dining saloon with a few other passengers, among them, the mysterious and stunning widow Schreiber.

Chapter 1

The widow Schreiber was ravishing, intimidating-and undeniably regal in both dress and manner. She was, in short, a woman that a wretched Kansas scribbler such as I had nothing in common with. At least that is what I thought as I settled into the chair next to her for dinner at the captain’s table aboard the SS China that first night at sea.

How wrong first impressions can be.

Mr. Battles, said Captain Kreitz, speaking with a conspicuous German accent, I am happy you can join us. Allow me to present Frau Katharina von Schreiber, who is traveling with us to Manila.

I quickly stood up from my chair as the widow Schreiber extended her hand.

Ich freue mich, Sie kennen zu lernen, I said in my most courteous German, taking her hand in mine.

Captain Kreitz looked at me with obvious surprise. Aber Herr Battles, ich wusste nicht, dass Sie deutsch sprechen!

I only speak a little German, I’m afraid, I responded, looking first at the widow Schreiber and then at Captain Kreitz. My mother grew up speaking German, and she passed a few phrases on to me. I also studied the language at the university.

Wie schön, the widow Schreiber sniffed mincingly while flashing me a fleeting and obviously contrived smile. Her demeanor was noticeably patronizing. I looked away and sat back down. It was then that I noticed the other people seated at Captain Kreitz’s large round table. In addition to the captain, the widow Schreiber, and me, there was Deputy Captain Partington and another couple—a man and woman in their fifties whom Captain Kreitz introduced as Stanley and Agnes Gladwell. Mr. and Mrs. Gladwell were on their way to Yokohama, Japan, where he was to manage an American trading company.

After Captain Kreitz made his introductions, I inspected the first-class dining saloon, which was situated amidships and occupied the SS China’s entire width. It was about the size of a mid-quality hotel’s main dining room with enough tables to accommodate perhaps one hundred fifty people. Six miniature chandeliers adorned the room’s twenty-foot-high ceiling. Mahogany walls were decorated with ornate carvings, bas-reliefs, and gilt-framed mirrors. Large glowing stained-glass windows on both sidewalls created a multicolored kaleidoscopic effect in the room.

Stanley Gladwell noticed me taking in the dining saloon. Outsized magnificence, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Battles?

I nodded. Quite a spread.

My, but we have quite the international table, don’t we? Agnes Gladwell said, her voice a reedy trill. Mrs. Gladwell’s face was rubescent with close-set heavy-lidded brown eyes. She was a short stumpy woman with mouse-colored hair combed into a chignon. She looked like the archetypical aunt.

Stanley Gladwell nodded. He was, like his wife, short; but unlike her, he was spare and bony. His gaunt face was framed by bushy muttonchops and a full head of auburn hair that made his head look too big for his body.

Indeed, we do, Mrs. Gladwell, Partington said. Two Germans, two Americans, an Englishman, and a Kansan. Partington, who was from Yorkshire, meant his comment as a friendly jibe at me, but he and I were the only ones who seemed to understand his intent.

Why, Mr. Partington, I must correct you. Kansas is part of the United States, Mrs. Gladwell said resolutely.

Yes, I know, Partington said smiling. I’m afraid I failed in my little jest with Mr. Battles.

Well, there are some folks who believe we sand cutters and Jayhawkers—that’s what they call us pitiable Kansans—are poor relations when it comes to American citizenship, I said, attempting to rescue Partington.

Before he could respond, the widow Schreiber spoke up. And I am not German! she snapped, her words crisp and frosty. I was simply married to one.

Mr. Partington, now sufficiently chagrined, smiled weakly. Perhaps I should keep my oral cavity closed. I seem to be making a right bog of things.

Captain Kreitz cleared his throat. "At sea, nationality matters not. We are all citizens of the SS China now."

Mr. Partington quickly concurred. There is a saying that aboard ship we are all met on an equal footing. For these few days and weeks, we shall all be weighed, not by what we own or claim to be, but by what we really are.

I’ll drink to that, Stanley Gladwell said raising his wine glass and taking a sip. No need for such conventions on the high seas.

But Kreitz was not finished. Nevertheless, I would be remiss if I didn’t reveal that Baroness von Schreiber is the widow of the late baron Heinrich Rupert von Schreiber of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. The baron was a well-known officer in the army of the Königreich Preußen and a very successful businessman.

Oh my, Mrs. Gladwell blurted, how should we common persons address you then, dear?

It was an apparent attempt at levity that was lost on the widow Schreiber, and she regarded Agnes Gladwell the way she might a loaf of bread or a wheel of Emmenthaler cheese.

For a few moments, a deafening silence embraced our table. Then Katharina von Schreiber spoke, and when she did, it was as if another woman had suddenly occupied her body.

My dear Mrs. Gladwell, I certainly don’t consider myself anything more than a widow—and certainly not a baroness, even though that title was bestowed upon me by marriage. I was born and reared in Chicago. I am as American as you are. So you are welcome to keep your patrician titles to yourself.

Aber Baroness von Schreiber, Ihre Vorfahren waren Deutsche, Captain Kreitz insisted.

Yes, Captain Kreitz, you are correct. My roots are deeply German, the widow Schreiber conceded. My parents are German, my maiden name was Messner, and the German language is almost my mother tongue. But I am red, white, and blue through and through.

Well, doesn’t that beat the Dutch! Mrs. Gladwell exclaimed. It was obvious Agnes Gladwell was a woman who liked to chatter and was either impervious or insensible to the overt slight just directed at her by Frau Schreiber. Stanley and I are from Chicago too! What part are you from, dear?

The north shore, near Lincoln Park, Katharina said flatly.

After she had answered, I regarded Katharina Schreiber carefully and, for the first time, was able to scrutinize her from the tip to toe. She looked to be about thirty. Her face was delicately sculpted and radiant with luminous emerald eyes set wide apart above a delicate aquiline nose and a full, sensual mouth. She wore a royal-blue velvet and silk evening gown with a low neck, short frill sleeves, a collar of pearls, and white suede gloves. Her straw-colored hair was worn in the upswept bouffant, a la Concierge style of the time—pulled to the top of her head and pinned into a knot. She was, I thought, the most physically beautiful woman I had ever seen, my late Mallie notwithstanding.

I found it difficult to take my eyes off her. I was finally able to as the conversation about Chicago continued. I recalled that Mallie and I had taken a walk through Chicago’s Lincoln Park and visited the zoo there during our trip to visit the Columbian Exposition barely a year before. Immaculate three-story brick row houses and impressive mansions filled the neighborhoods near the park. Apparently, Katharina Schreiber came from a family of means long before she married the baron Von Schreiber.

We’re from Hyde Park… on the South Side, Mrs. Gladwell said. It’s in a bit of disarray now that all of those Columbian Exhibition buildings are being razed. Stanley and I are happy to be leaving the area. We are going to Japan… Oh, I think Captain Kreitz already said that.

Katharina nodded. I could tell she was not eager to engage in more small talk, but Agnes Gladwell was far from finished.

How long have you been… uh, without your husband, dear? she asked. Then not waiting for the widow Schreiber to answer, she appended another question that sounded more like an indictment. Are you traveling on your own responsibility… I mean to say, unaided… alone?

It was a query that Mrs. Gladwell already knew the answer to, but one that she felt compelled to ask. Not many women in the nineteenth century took month-long voyages to the Orient by themselves, though many apparently did when traveling to Europe.

Katharina Schreiber gave Agnes Gladwell an exasperated look and replied snappishly, I don’t see why women who are single and independent should deny themselves the delights of foreign travel just because, voluntarily or involuntarily, they are without husbands or convenient male relatives to escort them. This is 1894 after all, not 1794.

Agnes Gladwell drew back in her chair as if trying to make herself smaller. My dear, I meant no offense… I was only—

None taken, Mrs. Gladwell, I can assure you, Katharina Schreiber interrupted. But I am always amazed that women on their own are somehow always required by meddling women who are not on their own to validate their decisions and preferences in life. Her voice was dispassionate and cold, but the words were like hot embers smacking Agnes Gladwell’s face, which promptly reddened either in mortification or in ire.

Conversation at the table froze. Captain Kreitz and Mr. Partington cleared their throats nervously. Stanley Gladwell clinched his fists and fixed the Baroness Von Schreiber with a withering, disapproving stare—his way, I surmised, of coming to the aid of his wife.

I smiled inwardly. Katharina reminded me of Mallie when she used to get her back up.

You sound like my late wife, I said quietly, looking at Katharina. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and the devil take anyone who objected.

She sounds like a woman I would have enjoyed knowing, Katharina replied. When did she pass?

I cleared my throat, which was now knotted with anguish. I still could not talk about Mallie without the pain of her loss, causing my eyes to water and my stomach to harden.

Katharina noticed my grief. Forgive me, Mr. Battles… I don’t mean to pry—

Harrumph, unlike me I suppose, quipped Mrs. Gladwell, her tone steely and resentful. Stanley Gladwell leaned over to his wife and whispered something sternly in her ear. Whatever he said did not placate Mrs. Gladwell, who was still glowering at Katharina.

I took a sip of the claret a waiter had been pouring into our glasses.

That’s all right, I said. It’s been only about five months… my voice trailed off.

It’s been just over six months since my husband passed away, Katharina said.

Then, glaring at the Gladwells, she added in a cloying voice, And for those who may be wondering what I, a helpless widow, am doing on a ship headed for the Philippines, I am going to live with my brother who is in the business of exporting mahogany, teak, and rosewood lumber from there.

The table was silent for several moments as everybody digested the information Katharina Schreiber and I had shared. It was as if someone had thrown a shroud over the table. Mrs. Gladwell, who was the apparent target of the widow Schreiber’s vehemence, excused herself and walked swiftly into the ladies’ powder room. As she left, a string quintet at the other end of the room began playing.

"Ahhh, Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca… one of my favorites," Deputy Captain Partington said, breaking the gloom. The music filled the dining room and provided a welcome respite from our gloomy table conversation and the dented dispositions of Captain Kreitz’s guests.

When Mrs. Gladwell returned ten minutes later, she did so with renewed vitality and vitriol.

My, but it was nice to get some fresh air, she said, focusing on Katharina Schreiber. It was getting rather stale and oppressive in here, Captain.

Captain Kreitz ran his hand through his finely trimmed beard and scratched his cheek. Make a note of that, Mr. Partington, he said flatly, looking at the deputy captain with half-lidded eyes. We need to open a few windows during dinner.

The rest of the meal was spent in small talk, when there was a conversation at all. I recall saying a few words to Katharina, and she responded politely. Mostly, however, I spoke with Partington and Captain Kreitz about the SS China and the kind of vessel she was. Both men enjoyed those exchanges more than the type of chatter that had, as Mr. Potts, my steward on the China once told me, put people’s knickers in a twist.

I was especially amazed at the complexities of getting a nineteenth-century ocean-going steamship under way. In our case, Partington explained, because the SS China was due to sail on the eighth of the month, stokers, firemen, and engineers began firing up the boilers two days before on the sixth.

Why, I had no idea, Mrs. Gladwell said.

Partington looked around the table. I don’t want to bore everyone to death with this, but if you are interested, I will be happy to explain the process.

Please do, Mr. Partington, Katharina said. She seemed genuinely interested, which surprised me.

Well, Partington began, first, the boilers are filled with water, and then the furnaces are lit. To do that, you must shovel in coal that is brought from the coal bunkers by wheelbarrows. Once the fires are burning, you must feed them more and more coal. The fires must glow entirely white hot.

Partington paused. He didn’t seem sure if his audience was still paying attention or wanted to hear more.

Please continue, Mr. Partington, Katharina said languidly. My father was an engineer, and I grew up hearing all about steam engines. They are one of my favorite topics.

I couldn’t tell if Katharina was being facetious or not, but Mrs. Gladwell regarded her with what looked like astonishment and whispered something to her husband.

Well, if you insist, Partington said. He cleared his throat and continued, "As the heat builds up, the water in the boilers begins to boil. This can take several hours, and don’t forget lighting the fires already took many hours. Once the water is boiling, it makes steam.

"Constant heat is needed to keep the steam from cooling off and condensing again, so fires have to be kept lit and stoked up at all times. Once the steam is produced, you have to wait for steam pressure to build up. This can take a full day. Steam power runs everything on the SS China—lights, generators, etc., so if you don’t get the boilers fired up… the ship doesn’t move and nothing works."

Captain Kreitz jumped in before Mr. Partington could go into further detail regarding the SS China’s mechanical marvels. Uh, thank you, Mr. Partington. Indeed, an excellent clarification. But it looks like the first course is about to be served, and I am sure we have all worked up an appetite after so much conversation.

Dinner ended about twenty minutes later. I excused myself before dessert was served and took a walk on the promenade deck. The night air was warm, and the sea looked like an opened bolt of black silk. After several turns around the deck, I settled into the chair Mr. Potts, my East End London cabin steward, had acquired for me and placed before my stateroom.

As I sat there looking out at the black expanse of ocean, a thin shaft of moonlight danced on top of the flat, tranquil water, and I found myself thinking about Denver and Mallie and Anna Marie and my mother. The guilt I felt at leaving Denver and everybody I loved behind while I flitted off to the Orient was still as strong as ever. It took all the mental energy I could muster to keep it submerged in my subconsciousness. Alcohol helped, and I yearned for a cigar—even though I didn’t use tobacco as a rule. Maybe it was the sea air, or maybe it was just a sudden craving to liberate myself from the predictable conventions of my life.

The constant drone and vibration of the China’s steam-driven engines along with the sound of the ship slicing through the water was hypnotic. I took a blanket that Potts had left under the chair, covered my legs and upper body with it, and in a few minutes, I nodded off. I don’t know how long I dozed before I heard voices and felt a hand on my shoulder.

Sorry ter disturb yew, guvnor, but are ya all right? It was Potts, and just behind him were Partington and Katharina Schreiber.

I blinked at Potts and rubbed my eyes. I guess I dozed off for a minute…

Not a good idea, Partington said. You never know when a big wave might hit the ship at night and sweep you off the deck.

The widow Schreiber chuckled. Good heavens, can you imagine… what did you call yourself, Mr. Battles? A sand cutter? Can you imagine a Kansas sand cutter adrift in the Pacific in the middle of the night?

Partington took the cue. Not a pretty sight, Mrs. Schreiber… not a pretty sight at all.

I stood up from my deck chair a bit unsteadily. As placid as the ocean was, I was still trying to acquire my sea legs and found myself wobbling a bit. The four glasses of claret I had consumed at dinner didn’t help with my balance either.

’Don’t ya worry none abaaht Mr. Battles garn overboard, Potts said. E’s as moored as Buckingham Palace, in’cha sir?

I wouldn’t take any bets on it, Mr. Potts, I replied.

Katharina chortled and said sarcastically, Well, at least we can all sleep well tonight knowing that Mr. Battles is tucked up nicely in his cradle. Gute Nacht, Herr Battles!

I acknowledged her words with an ambiguous nod, Partington gave me a hasty salute, and then he and the widow moved on down the promenade. During the dinner, Partington had offered to see Frau Schreiber to her cabin.

Need any ’elp, sir? Potts asked as I opened the door to my cabin.

I shook my head and walked into my cabin.

Right then, good night, guvnor.

I slept fitfully that first night at sea, often climbing from my bed to pace the fifteen-by-fifteen-foot cabin. Once, I sat down to compose a letter but fell asleep at the small writing desk near the door. At 6:00 a.m., I was awake and dressed and took another turn along the promenade deck. I noticed that below the promenade and boat deck, there was another much longer deck. That was the lengthier second-class passenger deck where I could take a longer walk, and I decided to move down there. As I approached the stairwell, a deck steward stopped me.

Sorry, sir, but you are not allowed below, he said.

What? I couldn’t believe my ears.

Company regulations prohibit passengers from passing from one class to another, he continued. Then he pointed to a sign attached to the ship’s bulkhead. Written in large black letters were the words:

Passengers are kindly requested to keep within the confines of the class in which booked

To make sure that the rule was followed, spiked steel gates were installed at the top and bottom of all stairwells that led from one deck to another.

I had no idea that ships enforced such a rigid and archaic class system, and when I met Mr. Potts on the promenade deck, I told him so.

It’s no only ter keep fird- and second-class passengers from usin’ the first class deck and uvver facilities. We want ter discourage slummin’, he said.

Slumming?

Yes, the second- and fird-class passengers are annoyed when superior-class passengers come ter the lower decks ter survey their conditions in comparison ter ffeir own.

It was my first lesson in steamship class etiquette. Moreover, it wouldn’t be my last.

Chapter 2

The voyage was mostly uneventful the next four days. The ocean remained calm and glasslike, and the SS China sliced through it with little effort. On the fifth day, Potts informed me we would be docking the following morning in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was relieved. As comfortable as I was aboard the ship, I longed to walk on solid ground again and to see a tree or a bush or just about anything green and growing. I shuddered to think I had another nineteen days of sea travel before I would reach Saigon.

I spent most of those first five days pacing the deck, sitting in my deck chair, and writing in my journal. On one occasion, I was invited to join Captain Kreitz and Deputy Captain Partington on the bridge where I and a few others were accorded a brief seminar on the intricacies of maneuvering a steamship through the Pacific Ocean.

Ocean travel, I concluded, is a tedious proposition. Unlike train travel, which is what I was used to in Kansas and Colorado, progress by ship seemed imperceptible. At least on a train you could watch the landscape pass by your window. Aboard ship, all you saw was an endless expanse of water that never changed. Thinking back on it now, I recall that being in the middle of what seemed like an infinite sea on a relatively diminutive vessel left me feeling extremely claustrophobic.

After my dining experience that first night, I avoided the first-class dining room, preferring the more modest menu and the less formal atmosphere at a smaller cafe. I also wrote several letters that I planned to post in Honolulu. Once again, I felt compelled to explain my actions to the McNabs and my mother. I even wrote letters to Anna Marie, knowing that they would not make any sense to her until she was much older. Guilt is a potent motivator, and each word I wrote seemed to erode it a little.

I only saw Katharina Schreiber a few times during those four days. She seemed to keep to herself, not often leaving her cabin. Once or twice, I noticed her on the foredeck reclining in one of the lounge chairs and reading a book. I considered walking over to say hello but decided against it. She seemed aloof and unapproachable, and I didn’t feel any need to be snubbed.

So I avoided her, often turning around and walking in the opposite direction when I saw her. Then on the evening of the fifth day, I decided to take dinner in the main dining room again. Katharina was dining at the captain’s table with several other first-class passengers. I nodded to her as I passed her table. She nodded back and flashed me a feeble smile.

I continued on to a larger communal table for ten at the other end of the dining room. I settled at the table with eight other guests. We introduced ourselves and made some small talk for maybe ten minutes. Then dinner was served. The menu was an eclectic combination of duck, fish, and pork with a generous helping of potatoes and vegetables. I ate heartily.

Every so often, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Katharina across the dining room. I never made direct eye contact with her, but I had the distinct impression that she was occasionally looking fleetingly at me also.

About a half hour later, I excused myself, telling my dining companions that I had some letters to write before we arrived the next morning in Honolulu.

As I stood up, I looked over at the captain’s table. Katharina Schreiber was gone. I felt relieved. My interaction with her up to that point had been nothing if not discomfited. After leaving the dining room, I took a quick turnaround the promenade deck and then returned to my cabin. It was a little after 9:00 p.m., and I had just settled down at my writing desk when I heard a loud and insistent knock on my door.

Probably Potts, checking to see if I needed anything before turning in, I recall thinking.

However, when I opened the door, my eyes widened, and I shuffled backward a couple of steps. It wasn’t Potts. It was Katharina Schreiber.

I must have gasped audibly because Katharina said, I’m sorry. Did I startle you?

"No… Uh… I just wasn’t expecting to see you standing in my doorway."

Believe me, it is not my usual practice to go knocking on the doors of men I hardly know, but this is an exceptional situation.

Yes, well… won’t you come in?

I’d rather not… would you mind coming out on the deck? She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and walked slowly to the promenade deck railing some ten feet away where she stopped and stood looking out at the black ocean. I grabbed my slouch hat and shut the door behind me.

As I walked across the deck to join her, I wondered what to make of Katharina Schreiber. Yes, she was statuesque, an elegant beauty, highly intelligent, well-educated, sophisticated. Any man would relish her company. Yet I also detected a callousness in her, a distinct harshness that seemed strange and out of place in a woman of such refinement and exquisiteness. At the time, I didn’t understand why this was the case. However, I was soon to learn why.

After I joined her, we both stood at the ship’s railing in awkward silence for a few moments. I was waiting for Katharina to explain why she wanted to talk to me, but she seemed content to stare out at the glabrous black sea. I resolved not to disrupt whatever reverie had seized her and remained mute. The only sounds were the dull vibrating hum of the ship’s engines and the soft splash of water against the hull as the ship sliced through the ocean. It was about nine thirty, and a full moon irradiated the water with shimmering threadlike streaks of pale light.

I found myself stealing quick but meticulous glances at Katharina’s profile silhouetted against the dim running lights of the ship. She stood about five feet ten inches tall, maybe four inches shorter than I was. Her beauty was breathtaking. She seemed perfect in almost every physical feature. Still, it was her personality, her caustic behavior that detracted from that stunning physical beauty. Until I met Katharina Schreiber, I was sure my late Mallie was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Of course, Mallie was also beautiful inside where it actually counted. I wasn’t so sure about the widow Schreiber.

I was still debating that issue when Katharina at last broke the silence.

Mr. Battles, I need your help.

I was not expecting that. My help?

Yes, she said, her voice quavering. Then she continued. Her words were barely above a whisper. I don’t want to sound overly histrionic, but it really is a matter of life and death… and Deputy Captain Partington informed me that you are a deputy U.S. marshal.

That’s a bit of a stretch… I haven’t worn any kind of badge for years, and even then, I am not sure how legitimate it was.

But Mr. Partington said you showed him and Captain Kreitz your badge.

I began to explain why I had shown them my U.S. marshal’s badge, but Katharina interjected before I got very far.

Of course, if you aren’t willing to help me, then I shall bid you good evening.

I wondered if she was joking or being facetious about her problem being life or death. After all, I had experienced the widow Schreiber’s razor-sharp cleverness at the dinner table. When I turned to look at her, however, I was met with a face that was obviously distraught. Her lips and chin were trembling, her bright green eyes were damp and glistened brightly in the pale light, and her knuckles were clutching the railing so tightly that they were turning white.

I apologize… It’s simply that I didn’t think you meant it for real play.

I am serious, she rasped. This is not a matter of any flippancy.

I didn’t know what to say. I cleared my throat, but my words came out gravelly and dissonant.

Mrs. Schreiber, I did not mean to make light of your, uh, situation.

What situation? she demanded, her voice rising sharply. I haven’t even explained anything yet.

I am sorry… I—

Before I could finish, she held up her hand and shook her head. No, no, please forgive me. I am sure I sound a bit vague and mysterious.

With that, she placed her hand softly on my arm. It was the first time she had touched me, and I felt an electric tremor as adrenaline surged through my body. My posture went suddenly rigid with legs and arms firmly tensed. I shuddered noticeably.

Are you all right? she asked, quickly removing her hand from my arm.

I covered my mouth with my hand and coughed quietly.

I think I may be coming down with something, I lied.

Perhaps we should leave this to another time.

No, it is okay… please continue.

We stood there for another five minutes or so, and she related one of the most extraordinary stories I had ever heard.

It seems the widow Schreiber had been a bit judicious with the facts at the captain’s table that first night aboard ship. Her German husband had indeed passed on, she was a widow, she had indeed grown up in Chicago of German parentage, and she was on her way to the Philippines to join her brother. That much was true. However, the rest of her story was almost unbelievable.

I am a widow because I killed my husband, Katharina suddenly declared. Her eyes were focused keenly on me as if looking to see what my reaction to that astounding bit of news might be. I am sure I flinched a bit as her words sunk in.

You, uh, killed your husband…?

Katharina quickly interrupted before I could say more.

Yes… but you will note that I told you I killed my husband, not that I murdered him.

That seems like a rather subtle distinction, I responded.

Katharina was facing me squarely now, her face barely a foot from mine. This time when she spoke, it was in a voice just above a whisper.

You must let me explain now that I have released the genie from the bottle. However, I don’t relish providing details here in the open. May we go to my cabin?

I felt a quiver in my stomach, and I cleared my throat nervously. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen had just invited me to her cabin after telling me she had killed her husband. My mind was racing, running through all of the pros and cons of her suggestion, when I felt her hand on my arm again. Again, her touch sent an electric jolt through my body; and once again, I shuddered conspicuously. However, this time, she didn’t remove her hand. Instead, she tightened her grip on my arm.

Please, she pleaded.

I nodded. Of course. Then we walked to the port side of the promenade deck. When we arrived at her cabin door, I looked both ways to make sure the deck was deserted, and then we walked in and shut the door. It wouldn’t do for a deck steward or curious fellow passengers such as the Gladwells to see the two of us entering the widow Schreiber’s cabin.

Katharina’s cabin was a bit larger than mine was, and like mine, its walls were covered with dark mahogany panels. In addition to the two overstuffed chairs and writing table, she also had a small dining table. That is where we settled, she on one side and me on the other.

I’m sorry, I have nothing to offer you to drink. Then she paused, stood up, and walked to her wardrobe where she produced a tear-shaped bottle of Glenglassaugh single malt Scotch whiskey and two heavy cut crystal glasses. Except for this.

She returned and placed the glasses on the table in front of us. May I? she asked, and then uncorking the bottle, she poured two fingers in each glass. This was my late husband’s favorite.

I shuddered imperceptibly at that remark but pulled the glass toward me anyway. Images of Katharina pushing Baron von Schreiber over a cliff or poisoning him with arsenic-laced Wiener schnitzel flooded my mind.

I forced those macabre thoughts out of my mind by focusing on the rich amber hue of the whiskey as I uneasily swirled the glass around and around in front of me.

What was I doing? I found myself thinking. Why was I in Katharina Schreiber’s cabin about to drink expensive single malt Scotch whiskey with a woman who had just admitted she had killed, but not murdered, her husband?

I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the time. I wondered what people might think if they saw me leaving Katharina’s cabin late at night.

What time is it? Katharina asked, nodding at my pocket watch.

Just after ten.

Well, then, I best get to it… Where to start, where to start…

How about at the beginning? I suggested, perhaps a bit too brashly.

Katharina seemed to ignore that remark at first and then, picking up her glass of Scotch, said, Yes, from the beginning, but first, one of my favorite German toasts: Genieße das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig!

We touched glasses and sipped our Scotch. I found myself thinking back to my German language classes at the University of Kansas in order to translate Katharina’s toast. Loose translation: Constantly enjoy life! You’re longer dead than alive!

Apropos for the moment, I thought to myself.

Chapter 3

Do you mind? Katharina Schreiber asked. With that, she removed her shoes. These things are killing my feet.

Her hand-painted tan satin evening shoes fell to the floor of the cabin, exposing slender ankles covered in white silk stockings. One of the shoes came to rest on its side, revealing the label inside: By Marshall Field & Co., Chicago.

The sight of the Marshall Field & Co. name brought images of Mallie drifting back into my mind. Barely a year before during our vacation in Chicago and our visit to the 1893 Columbian Exposition, I had accompanied her on a shopping trip to Marshall Field’s. Mallie had purchased a hat, some kid gloves, and a blouse all festooned with the Marshall Field & Co. label.

I took another sip of my Scotch and leaned back from the table, prudently averting my eyes from Katharina’s stocking feet. I had the strange sensation that Mallie was watching me. I could almost hear her voice and her unique manipulation of the English language: William, I may be out of print, but that’s no excuse for you to behave like a cad. You best not try to make a mash of this widow lady!

That’s exactly what she would say if she were here, I thought. I felt suitably chastened and suddenly uncomfortable sitting alone with Katharina in her cabin. I cleared my throat and watched Katharina pick up her shoes and pad over to her wardrobe with them. For the first time, I took in Katharina’s evening dress. As always, she was dressed immaculately.

She was wearing a pale sage-green silk bodice jacket trimmed with a beige soutache braid. Her gored taffeta skirt was a combination of pastel beige and green. I smiled at my inherent knowledge of women’s clothing and still had a grin on my face when Katharina returned to the table and settled into the chair opposite me.

What is so amusing?

Oh nothing, really. Well, to be truthful, my mother has a dressmaking business, and growing up around her, I learned a lot about ladies’ clothing. I was just admiring your ensemble. That’s a gored taffeta skirt you’re wearing, isn’t it?

My, you are a man of many talents, Mr. Battles… More? She poured another two fingers of scotch into my glass and did the same for herself. I was amazed that she was drinking the whiskey as fast as I was.

That will do it for me for tonight… Any more of that stuff and I won’t be able to make much sense of what you want to tell me.

Katharina swirled what remained of the scotch in her glass. Then she finished it off.

I’d better get to it then… Let’s see. Well, I guess I should begin with why Heinrich and I left Germany for Chicago… oh, I don’t think I mentioned that, did I?

No, you didn’t… Is that where your husband, uh, passed away… Chicago?

"You mean did I