Deliberate Justice: The American Way, #1

By Thomas Holladay

1855 Vladivostok – All Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky wanted for his outstanding service in combat was to receive his elevation to the Order of St. George in the 3rd degree, an irrevocable designation as a count in the governance of all Russia. At the reception ball in Vladivostok, when he invites the Grand Duchess, Catherine Mikhailovna, to join him for the opening waltz, he is surprised when the Grand Duke, Nikolai Nikolaievich, assaults him, first with the sword and then with a gun. In self-defense, Mikhail chops off the grand duke's right hand. Badly wounded, he flees for his life. His uncle sneaks him aboard a clipper ship bound for San Franciosco, loaded with Chinese slaves. Chiang Po, a free Chinese doctor, and his young daughter, SuLin, save Mikhail's life and nurse him back to health. Still weak when he lands in San Francisco, Mikhail is mugged and fleeced of all his money. Shortly after, events find him fighting for his life again, this time under the care of the widow, Molly O'Brian. Still an arrogant nobleman, Mikhail sees those around him as peasants. When he hears Molly and her friends talking behind his back, his attitude begins to change. Over a series of exciting historical events, surrounded by historical characters, Mikhail learns that truth and justice are far more important than position and wealth. Through his exploits, he earns the new title of Paladin, a law giver in a lawless land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Holladay
• Release date: Sep 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393635529

Thomas Holladay

About the Author Thomas Holladay creates riveting images through the senses of his vividly drawn characters to create fast-paced action, drama and suspense that make his stories hard to put down. Read more at Thomas Holladay’s site.  

Book preview

DELIBERATE JUSTICE

The American Way

Chapter One

THE SHARP PAIN IN MIKHAIL’S left side and the shock of what had just happened drifted upon the raging sea of his confusion. 

The pain in his side did not allow him to walk upright. 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, or worse.

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 jumped down and helped Mikhail into the carriage, no questions asked.  

His uncle spoke to the coachman in Russian. Take us to the waterfront with the utmost urgency. He climbed in behind Mikhail.

Mikhail winced in 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.

Ach! It seemed that every tilted brick in Vladivostok found the steel rimmed wheels of his uncle’s coach, adding pain to Mikhail’s 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 unsurmountable pain.

Mikhail’s uncle unbuttoned and spread Mikhail’s tunic. Oh, my boy! He spoke in English. You need a doctor.

Mikhail wiped tears, blood, and stinging 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. 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 should certainly have sealed and disinfected 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 Vladivostok’s waterfront docks. The coach jerked upward onto the dock and the pain in Mikhail’s side shot up his neck to pinch the top of his skull. 

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

AIR TASTED FRESH AT the top of the ladder in the forward cargo hold, where 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 would serve as community food for their long voyage eastward to the new world called America. They 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. The ship’s passenger cabins had already been taken.

Chiang SuLin already 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 help. 

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 sounded 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 tide.

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 a 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 fur coat. Very much blood inside had pooled on his military jacket. 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. 

The captain turned and dragged the Russian up the ladder. He shouted, Mister Preston, take us out.

A voice from on deck shouted back, 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. She set the case 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 deep cut over the eye and turned the dusted rag over it, smoothing it into a plaster. Hopefully, 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 lower ribs, still bleeding bright red. The surrounding area had swollen purple.

The captain pulled two lanterns from over 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. 

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

The first 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, and pushing out more blood. He spread his fingers and opened 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 handsome Russian’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, 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. He placed the small piece against it, a perfect fit.

Chiang Po 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, a magical moment. 

SuLin and two older women undressed the handsome Russian, 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’d 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, which was 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 to weak to stand, Mikhail found ample time to think about his life, about what had happened on Christmas Eve. His memory flashes had 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 were they sailing?

The Chinese girl smiled and brought him more soup. 

Still speaking Russian, he said, My uncle warned me not to approach the duchess. He said it was something about my 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 girl caring for him 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 anymore.

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

The Chinaman smiled, removed the 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, still too weak to wash himself. 

Is he your father?

She smiled and nodded. She did not understand one word of Russian, 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 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, 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, trying desperately to attach meaning to his current circumstance. His responsibilities include the increase of trade routs 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.

Another blank smile.

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 rational choice with his understanding of geometry. 

After graduation, he’d attended St. Petersburg Technical Institute, where he’d studied economics and metallurgy, gaining an understanding of metal-based currencies of the world.

While at the institute, he’d been initiated into a lodge of Free and Accepted Masons. It had taken him only three years to become a third-degree Master Mason, a prestigious honor one holds for life. 

The combination of his nobility and his Masonic brotherhood had given him access to the best families in Europe, including high courts.

My uncle owns a four-story building in Vladivostok, near the docks. He can watch ships come and go from there. His uncle’s official offices were on the second floor. Day-to-day business was conducted at street level. "He has a spacious apartment on the third and fourth floors, very luxurious.

On Christmas Eve, my birthday, two Chinese serving girls helped me with my dress uniform. One buffed my boots, while the other buttoned the front of my tunic.

He did not know their age or how they looked. He’d never looked at peasants directly, until now. 

The Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich was the third son of former Czar Nikolai Pavlovich, and younger brother to the current emperor, Czar Alexander Nikolaievich. 

That night, before the grand duke's reception, Mikhail’s uncle had presented him with a special gift, a sable coat with a heavily rolled collar, skirt and cuffs. This, combined with the matching sable cap, was a symbol of status worn only by Russia’s highest nobility or wealthiest merchants. Such a fine gift had seemed fitting at the time. After all, I was to be honored with the Order of St. George of the Third Degree for valiant actions during this current skirmish with the Emperor of China. There had been many skirmishes in this long campaign to create a warm water port on the Pacific Ocean. 

Three days ago, My squad of cannon saved the grand duke’s life. He’d recklessly maneuvered his cavalry company into an ambush. I could see it all from our higher elevation. My cannon squadron blasted the larger Chinese force into complete disarray and retreat.

For the first time in this war, Chinese forces had been broken and had fled to the south. Mikhail was to have been honored for his small part in the grand duke’s victory. 

My life was good. Whatever had happened Christmas Eve, his birthday, had changed his life. He hoped not forever. 

Here he laid in a smelly cargo hold with peasants who spoke no Russian. How could things be worse?

Mikhail resented not having been attached to the czar, helping to defeat the British in Crimea. That would have been nice. My home is there. Instead, at his uncle’s request, he’d been stationed in Vladivostok. 

The announced honors that were to have been bestowed at the grand duke’s reception had changed resentment to gratitude.

Order of St. George in the 3rd degree.

He smiled at the thought.

How had it all gone wrong? 

The Grand Duchess, Catherine Mikhailovna, was the sister of the grand duke and, of course, sister to the czar.  In St. Petersburg, she and Mikhail had attended some of the same social events and had visited some of the same cafés. She was always looking my way.

He smiled and wagged a bit, remembering her stare.

Beautiful.

This Chinese peasant girl did not care. 

The grand duchess smiled at me many times.

He’d known she was to attend the reception with her brother, Nikolai, on Christmas Eve. My uncle warned me never to trust a Romanov, but I could not resist.

After being introduced by Colonel Vladimir Schardakava-Preslova, Mikhail’s commanding officer, the music had started and Mikhail had invited the grand duchess to join him for the waltz.

This simple gesture had inflamed the grand duke who pulled his sword and slashed at Mikhail. This is how my face was cut. Still numb to his touch. "I should be grateful he did not cut my eye.

I was blinded by my own blood and I backed away. This was when I drew my sword. He flinched. A simple reflex.

He had managed to dodge the grand duke’s next lunge and had accidentally tripped him. The grand duke’s sword had skidded across the floor, prompting him to grab a two-shot muzzle loader from one of his guards. 

He shot me while he was climbing back to his feet. He touched his left side, still very painful.

The grand duke had stepped closer. He aimed at my face and would pull the trigger. I swung hard with my sword. A reflex. I cut off his hand. He touched his right wrist. I did not mean to do this. I tried only to hit his gun. He thought about it. I’ve told myself this, many times. He looked at her. I could not see clearly.

When his hand and gun hit the floor, the gun had fired again. The ball had made no sound of contact. It had struck nothing Mikhail knew of. All eyes had locked on the grand duke, on Colonel Preslova, on the application of fire to the bleeding wrist.

This image would always remain in Mikhail’s memory. The grand duke will live. I am certain of this.

What about his uncle? I wish my uncle could be sailing with us to . . . Where are we going?

She smiled at his Russian. 

He scratched his itching chin and neck. His beard had never been so long, perhaps a month of growth.

I need to get out of this stinking hold. Does your father have a good razor?

Probably not.  

The Chinaman’s white hair, beard and mustache had grown very long. He’d tied it all with many knots. 

She was pretty to look at, maybe fourteen or fifteen, leaning forward with another steaming bowl of soup. 

He’d grown very tired of this soup but he felt hungry. 

Hard to tell what she thought. Her eyes always stared blank.

The soup smelled the same. He wasn’t so hungry after all.

She said, You eat.

You speak English?

Pretty much so. We from Hong Kong, down to Canton. You eat. She pressed the cup toward him.

What is it? I am very tired of this.

Dog.

He turned his head away.

The odor followed his nose.

You need meat. Give you strength back pretty quick. My father say, you eat.

He asked, Do all of you speak English? He took the cup and tasted it. Knowing what it was made it taste worse.

Barbarian peasants.

Only me speaking English, pretty much. We come on ship at Hong Kong. Very bad Boxer in Canton. Kill my mother and grandfather. Kill my older brother. Take my younger sister. Make her Boxer assassin pretty quick, I bet. Me and Chiang Po, my father, we decide go to America. My mother have brother there, place in Weaverville. You hear of?

No. He wished he’d never gotten her started talking.

THREE DAYS LATER, WITH a pig squealing and screaming, the Chinese girl and her father helped Mikhail up the ladder onto the steeply pitched deck, where they pulled him up to the windward rail. 

A cold, clean smelling wind swept against his face, chilling the sweat from the exhaustive exercise of climbing up the steep deck. He shivered from the cold.

She pulled his mink coat tighter and rubbed his back. Her eyes searched his, making sure he wouldn’t fall.

Mikhail turned his back to the wind and raised his face toward the sun. It felt good.

Down on the leeward side, nearly awash in the ocean, three Chinese had just killed that screaming pig, gutting it now, letting the intestines and blood slip into the ocean. Three sharks followed closely, fins darting in and out, feeding on pig guts.

Ah. A man in a captain’s cap made his way along the windward rail, coming forward from the stern. You're up and about. Good thing. Good thing. You had us worried. Went down to check a couple of times but you looked near dead.

You are the captain?

Aye. Name’s Rawlings. They shook hands.

Yes, I am very lucky to be alive. Chiang Po is good doctor.

Good thing. The captain smiled.

Mikhail scratched his itching neck. How long have we been at sea?

Today’s February twentieth. Rawlings looked up at the sails, probably calculating the days in his head.

Forty-five days. Mikhail had already completed the calculation.

The captain’s bushy brows shot up, possibly surprised by Mikhail’s quickness with numbers. Aye, we’re making good time. Should reach our destination late next week, weather permitting.

What is our destination, exactly?

San Francisco, man. Your uncle never told you?

My uncle? You know him? Is he . . .

He left the ship a minute before we set sail.

I worry for him. I wish him to be here.

He’s been my friend for six years, since I first made port on the China frontier. Rawlings straightened and squared to Mikhail, friendly. Listen, if you’re tired of Chinese food, we’ll be having a beef brisket tonight.

Mikhail scratched his hairy neck. You have a razor?

BY THE TIME HIS BATTLE with the captain’s beef brisket finally ended, Mikhail’s jaw ached more than his wounded ribs. He preferred Chinese food. Dog had been more chewable than this beef, and delicate Chinese seasonings made their food tasty. As if tough and tasteless beef wasn’t bad enough, the plate carried a crusty looking scab, perhaps dried egg from the captain’s breakfast. The Chinese kept their plates, bowls, bamboo spoons, and chopsticks cleaner than this. 

The captain’s other dinner guest, a well-dressed Chinese businessman named Fong, had his food delivered from below by Chinese serving girls.

One of these girls had been kind enough to shave Mikhail’s face with a spare razor from the captain. He felt civilized for the first time since his birthday.

The captain seemed to have enjoyed the beef, mopping up the tasteless gravy with his third biscuit. He looked at Mikhail. I owe you some money, Count. He pulled a familiar coin purse from an inside breast pocket. Already took out your passage. He set the purse in front of Mikhail with a nod. 

Out of respect, Mikhail let the purse lay. He’d count the money later. Are you sure, Captain, that this is not shoe leather your chef has prepared?

The captain chuckled and nodded, pulling gravy from his mustache with a soiled cloth napkin. Is a mite tough. Hard to get good beef in China. He butchered that steer near a week ago. Scrawny looking side-o’-beef.

You should maybe give the ship's food stores to the Chinese for cooking and let your chef trim sail.

Fong smiled and nodded.

The captain twitched, certainly insulted by Mikhail’s truthful criticism. 

Mikhail smiled at the captain. What can you tell me about our destination?

San Francisco? The captain stood, opened a nearby cabinet, pulled out a leather portfolio, and set it on the table. Got a lot of articles in here about America, about San Francisco. Cut from travel journals and such. You can use this salon for reading. Don’t risk them blowing away, out there in the wind.

MIKHAIL SPENT MUCH of the next ten days in the captain’s salon, reading articles from several American travel journals and newspapers. This filled his time and removed him from the stench of the hold, a very nice change, plenty of time to himself, plenty of time to think forward.

His ultimate desire was to get back to Mother Russia, back to his family estate in Crimea. A return to Vladivostok would be impossible. The grand duke would never stop looking for him.

St. Petersburg would be his best hope. He had friends there, members of his Masonic lodge, friends from his school days, some of whose families had known his father. To make his way there, he would need to cross the American continent or go around it.

Captain Rawlings had already informed him of the perils in sailing around the cape. He used to carry passengers and freight from Boston to San Francisco. Rounding the cape was too dangerous for Rawlings. He’d always lost