Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (18 page)

“You cut out your own eye?” Hodges asked.

“With my field knife, yes, and gifted it to the would-be-chieftain.”

“It must have been excruciating!”

“Yes.  Yes, it was.”

“Not many men survive that kind of an injury, much less have the gall to self-inflict it,” Captain Whitmore said.

The Baron ignored the remark.  “In return, the warrior savages spared our execution, and luckily, my medic acted fast.  With his issued tinderbox, he lit a small fire in the grass and heated up the barrel of his rifle, hot enough to cauterize my eye.  And yes, it was excruciating.  But you asked me if there was anything I
wouldn’t
give up for a new Europe.  I trust you know my answer now.”  The Baron lifted his fork and snatched a piece of boiled beef, chewing it nonchalantly.

The polite Hodges gingerly stood up from the table and helped his wife up as well.  “Please excuse us, your lordship. I am afraid this evening has given me much to think about, and I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”  The Abernathys left the wardroom in silence, leaving only the Baron, Khalid and the captain.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Baron,” the Captain said.

“And why is that?” the Baron replied.

“For successfully ruining this evening’s dinner.”  The Captain signaled for a servant and informed him he would be taking his dessert on the bridge.  Another servant brought his wheel cap.  Before the captain left, he suddenly turned to the Baron.  “Your medic.  What word did he scream?”

The Baron did not look at the captain.  “
Anything
.”

After the captain left the room, Khalid pulled out a pack of Parisian cigarettes.  He lit one and offered the pack to the Baron.  The Baron obliged and lit his own.  The sweet smell of tobacco and cloves filled the air. 

“The story about your eye; is it true?” Khalid asked.

The Baron inhaled deeply as servants began to clear the table.  “No,” he replied.  “I lost my eye when I was 13.  I was already half blind when I joined the army.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what really happened at Isandlwana?” Khalid asked.

“We
were
surrounded, the medic and me. Guthrie was his name.  Before the Zulu dealt the final blow, it was I who spoke up and offered a sacrifice
.

“A sacrifice?”

“For the tribe’s continued success in battle, yes
.
When the chieftain agreed, I took my field knife and plunged it into Guthrie’s chest.  As it turns out, Zulu custom says wisdom comes only from the heart, not the eye.  They watched in horror as I ripped into his chest cavity.  The Zulu warrior accepted his heart as a sacrifice, and he and his men took turns consuming it.  After that, the cannibals returned to the battle. They wanted nothing to do with me, thought I was some kind of demon.  They spared my life, not wanting to upset any spiritual forces, I imagine.”

Khalid let out a low whistle. 

“Tell me, what do you think about young Mr. Abernathy?” the Baron asked.

“I think he is . . .” Khalid searched for the English words, “passionate, idealistic, and incredibly naïve.”

“Perhaps we should consider him for our organization?  Someone like him, if given the right motivation, would probably devote his life to the cause.  He would most likely have something to prove, seeing as how his brothers are military men and he cannot be.”

“Why?” asked Khalid. “Is he too short?”

“Did you smell the chloroform balm?”

“No.”

“I did.  It means he either has asthma or joint disease, and the military would not allow him in their ranks for either ailment.  He has something to prove.  Something to prove to his family, his brothers, to His Majesty’s Army, and to the world.  Now, he just needs a reason to join our cause, and we will have a perfect martyr.”

“Martyr for what?”

“Does it matter?”
      “I have just the thing,” Khalid said.

“What’s that?” the Baron asked.

“
Mrs
. Abernathy.”

“You, too, have great promise in our organization, Khalid,” the Baron replied.  “Come!  Let us see if Warwick has figured out that infernal device.”

The two made their way to the Baron’s stateroom.  It was luxurious.  The receiving room had a red velvet sofa and two chaise loungers, both accented with golden thread.  Two ornately curved armoires matched the wood paneling, and jade green carpet led all the way to the back room, which was separated by a small curtain and contained a double bed and vanity.  In the front room, Warwick sat hand-cranking a strange machine underneath the pearl-white recessed ceiling, which featured an image of Neptune commanding a legion of voluptuous mermaids.

Warwick’s machine was a compact wooden box about one cubic foot, with a metal crank on the side and three light bulbs on top, two of which were glowing bright.  It almost looked like a giant jack-in-the-box.  A wire connected this box to another wooden box roughly the same size, except it had a covered viewer on top, a horned phonograph speaker on one side, and a hollow squawk box on the other side. 

“Is it ready?” the Baron demanded.

“When all three light bulbs are glowing, the device will be ready, your lordship,” Warwick said in a high and panting voice.  He had, no doubt, been cranking for a while.  “After that, all you need is for that helmet to have an unobstructed path to the sky.”  Warwick pointed to the copper helmet near one of the chaise loungers.  Moments later, the third light bulb progressed from dim to blinding.  “Quickly, put the helmet on!” Warwick yelled.

The Baron pointed to Khalid.  With the slightest hesitation, Khalid donned the ridiculous helmet, shaped almost like a miniature Eiffel Tower, and walked toward the porthole in the sleeping quarters.  Once in position, Khalid shouted.  The Baron took off his glasses and knelt down to put his head in the viewer.  Warwick shuffled toward the Baron’s viewing box and adjusted a metal bar that looked like it was fashioned from the same metal as Khalid’s helmet.

Warwick flipped a small switch. The viewing box began to rev up.  The Baron could see the black and white picture of a man in a dark suit with an ivory pale face, a thick mustache, and jet-black hair perfectly and symmetrically parted down the middle.  Even without his glasses, the Baron could tell it was Nikola.  Sounds emanated from the horned speaker as the blurry man spoke in a crackly voice. 

“Hello, Baron DeLacy.  This is my prototype communication device.  I call it the compact portable transglobal cosmo-reflecting audiovisual receiving device for pertinent and imperative correspondences.  Once charged, it should function similar to one of our audio communication towers, but with an added visual canvas.” 
The man’s talking mouth and his voice were terribly out of sync. 
“For now, all transmissions from you will go through Wardenclyffe and then I will forward them immediately to The Council.  I attached instructions on how to transmit a message.  The Council eagerly awaits word of your progress.  Nikola out.”

The transmission ended, and only one of the light bulbs on the wooden box remained lit.  The Baron rose, putting his glasses back on. He blinked until his one eye could focus again.  “It truly is a new era,” he said to himself. 

“Would you like to send a message back?” Warwick asked.

“No,” the Baron replied.  “However, ensure it is charged in the event that I change my mind.  We will pay Nikola a visit when we reach New York.”

Khalid ducked his head to fit his Eiffel Tower helmet through the doorway.  “Can I take this damn thing off now?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Baron answered.  “Khalid, I am going to find Mr. Abernathy and invite him to have a brandy.  Please see to
Mrs
. Abernathy in our absence.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Khalid said as he bowed and smiled. 
 

Wage W. Pascal

August 8, 1914

Newark Penn Station

Newark, New Jersey

“Ramshackle” barely described the white-washed Penn Street Station.  The roof above the open-air platform would sway and creek with the faintest of breezes.  On the platform, Wage sat on the cobbler’s bench as a young boy with charcoal hair tucked behind his ears shined his boots.  Ol’ Bill sat next to him reading the morning paper.  They were waiting for the last morning train to West Orange.  Wage scratched his now well-groomed beard and pulled his slouch hat over his eyes for a few moments of rest.  The shoe-shine boy talked anyway.

“Where ya from?” he asked.

Wage did not reply.  He was thinking about Pascal Manor back in Baton Rouge.  It would be a while before he got back there again, if ever, now.  His invalid father and political candidate brother probably disowned him after hearing of his incarceration.  It was not his first incarceration, nor would it likely be his last, but it was the first one they knew of.  He was now a fugitive who killed two prison guards, though strangely had heard no news of it.  Despite his unheralded escape act, however, he was still framed for a crime he didn’t commit and wanted by the authorities; a twisted game concocted by unfair judge working for a mysterious outfit. 

“Me?  I’m from Brooklyn,” the boy continued. “I ride the train down now and again and stay with my uncle.  Less customers down here, but I make more in tips, if you can believe it.”

Thirty-two dollars and 47 cents.  That’s all Ol’ Bill and him had left  after some new clothes, grooming, hotels, meals, ammunition, cab fare, train fare, bourbon, brandy, rum, the occasional courtesan, and of course, a shoe shine.  Having been cut off from his trust, it was what was left of Mr. Jade’s payoff after Bill’s luxurious stay at the Dauphin Hotel for forty-five straight days. He insisted on steak and French wine every night. 

“Where are ya headed, now?  Next train is headin’ north, I think?”

Wage and Bill had narrowed down all their options before they left the Dauphin Hotel in New Orleans.  Before Mr. Jade’s mysterious exit from the House of Black Curtains that night, he left a scrap of paper in Ol’ Bill’s coat pocket.  Bill didn’t find it until later, although it was only a matter of time because he always wore the same coat.  The initials “T.A.E” were scribbled across the top of the paper; the rest was in a much stranger script.  He paid a number of Chinese men to try and translate it before someone finally told him that it was actually Japanese—another added expense.  Eventually Bill found someone to translate it.  It was an address in West Orange, New Jersey.  Below that it translated to: 

More work.  Give him this paper. —Jade.
 

There was another curious symbol below it, one curvier then the linear brushed characters above.  No one could translate that particular character. From one angle it looked as though it could be an eye with an iris of flame. 

West Orange became their first option.
 
Make their way northeast with what money they had left.  Find more work, earn more money, and then, some way, clear Wage’s name.
 

“Gonna be a hot one, today,” the boy said, wiping his brow.

Wage tried to suppress the second option in the back of his mind, building an imaginary brick wall around it. But the wall came down after drinking three glasses of liquid sledgehammer and staring at the red light cast on the walls by a chandelier with colored glass.  Find Mink.  She couldn’t have been too hard to locate, the wife of one of the richest men in the country, who everyone knew resided in Chicago.  She would help an old friend get back on his feet; she would most likely oblige, anyway, seeing as how he knew her little secret regarding her rather unscrupulous hobby.  After hearing the idea, Ol’ Bill made a joke about Wage rekindling an old flame.  Wage did not find it very funny, despite the secret intrigue that boiled inside him.  Three more liquid mortars later, however, and he rebuilt the brick wall.

It was difficult for him to think about how beautiful she was.  “Ravishing” may have been a better word.  There was always something about her presence that both captivated and tortured him at the same time.  Nearly all of his antics as a child were done to either gain her attention, divert her attention, or simply to impress.  She would always warn him, or voice her concern for his dangerous stunts, but he couldn’t help it.  In her presence, he felt empowered, indestructible, truly invincible. 

There was also something rather arousing about her secret hobby.  Even seeing her on that train, in disguise, he felt the same empowerment, the same invincibility.  Despite past tragedies, perhaps they weren’t so different after all.  Perhaps they were the same foolish children playing, arguing, fighting, and courting all about the swamp.  An inherently dismal swamp transformed into something bright whenever Mink walked through it, never sinking in the mud and murk, but always, somehow, gliding above. 

“Looks like another train is ‘bout to pull in; this one yours?” the shoe shiner asked.  Bill checked his pocket watch.

At the train station in Jackson, Mississippi, Ol’ Bill left the final decision to Wage: Chicago, Illinois or West Orange, New Jersey?  Seek refuge with an old friend and flame, or continue their old endeavors by seeking a new patron.  “Chicaa. . .” Wage began to answer before the yell of a platform official interrupted him.  “What was that?” Bill asked.  Wage opened his mouth again, but nothing came out.  Bill leaned in, “Wage?”  Wage continued to stare at him.  “Captain Pascal!” Bill yelled.  “West Orange,” Wage replied. “. . . West Orange.”

“ROSEVILLE!  EAST ORANGE!  WEST ORANGE!” the Penn Station platform official called loudly.

Ol’ Bill folded his paper and wedged it under his arm, grabbed his luggage by the handles, and hopped down from the cobbler’s bench.  Wage adjusted his hat and hopped down as well.  He tipped the shoe shiner, slung a large canvas bag over his shoulder, and followed his former sergeant to the train. 

With the afternoon sun beginning to heat up the city streets of West Orange, they finally arrived at their destination.  “This can’t be—isn’t this Edison’s place?” Ol’ Bill asked.

“You really think some old Chinamen rubs elbows with Edison?  Come on, let’s look around,” Wage answered.

At the corner of Main Street and Lakeside Avenue stood a group of red brick buildings adorned with both curved and square windows.  The largest building, the laboratory complex in front of them, was three stories high with a smaller power plant at the far end.  Intermittent wisps of smoke leaked from the plant’s sole smokestack, which was the tallest structure on the grounds, save for the soot-stained white water tower in the distance. 

Wage and Bill navigated through all matter of similarly designed buildings, small signs designating their purpose.  There was everything from a glass-blowing house to an onsite machine shop.  It even had dormitories.  The grounds themselves were quiet; no one stirred about them.  This alarmed Wage enough that he moved his six-shooter from his left boot to his inner waist band; the ivory handle of Ol’ Snapper resting next to his left suspender.  They entered what they assumed was the entrance into the main building.  The sign above the door read, “Edison Laboratories.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Wage said. “Thomas Alva Edison.”

“T. A. E.,” Bill spelled.

The front office was plain, undecorated with dark floor boards and red brick walls all around.  A single door led to the heart of Edison’s laboratory, but in front of that door, slightly offset, was a desk attended by a slouching silver man with a blank stare. 

“What the hell is that?” Wage asked.

“Looks like one o’ them automatons, to me,” Bill said, approaching the static machine.  “I saw one once when I was kid.  Ringling Brothers had one when they passed through Dallas.  It was a dressed like some kinda Eastern fortune teller.  For a nickel, you could pull the lever and it would flip a card with your fortune on it and hand it to you.”

Wage rested his hand on the butt of Ol’ Snapper.  “Do you remember your fortune, William?”

“Sure do.  It said ‘One day you will see one o’ them automatons in Edison’s laboratory,” replied Bill.

“Really?”

“No.”

Wage rolled his eyes.

Bill leaned over and looked at the solitary button positioned on the front of the desk with a sign below that read, “Push for Service.”
 
Bill depressed the button and immediately heard gears and motors turning inside the desk and the man.  The man sat up straight and his eyes bounded from left to right to center.  More gears clicked. 

“Hellooo and welcome,” the machine spoke, shifting its head but barely moving its mouth. 

Wage and Bill looked at each other strangely.  “Good afternoon,” Bill replied gruffly.  Wage shook his head.  The automaton snapped up its hand and pointed, nearly touching Bill’s curly black beard.  Ol’ Bill flinched.

“How may I beeee of assistanccceee?” the muffled voice asked through pops and cracks.

“We’re here to see Edison,” Wage said. “Thomas Alva Edison.”

The automaton snapped his hand back.  “I am very soooorry, but he is indispooosed.”

“We came a long way to see him,” Bill said. “And I think we have something for him.”

“My deeeepest apoloooogies.”

Wage stepped forward.  “Tell me where he is,” he demanded.

“Perhaps you may concluuuude your business with him at a laaaaater daaate.”  The automaton snapped up the opposite hand, this time in a waving motion.  Wage instinctively drew his weapon.  After a brief pause the automaton spoke again.  “Pleeeeaaase have a pleasant daaaaay.”  Its arms fell slowly to its side and head tilted down.

Wage pointed his gun at the automaton’s bald, shiny head.  “Now listen here. My name is Captain Wage Pascal—”

“Hellooo and welcome,” the machine said again, interrupting him.

“I need to see your employer, or maker . . . or whatever . . . this instant, or I will pull this trigger!”

A hand snapped up and pointed.  “How may I beeeeee of assistanccceeee?”

“You can take me to Edison, dammit!”

The automaton snapped its hand back.  “I am very soooorry, but he is indispooosed.”

“I am going to count to three!” Wage announced.  “ONE!”

“Perhaps you may concluuuude your business with him at a laaaaater daaate.”

“TWO!”

The automaton shot up his hand to wave goodbye.  “Pleeeeaaase have— ”

Wage fired a shot at its forehead, then two more in its chest.

“. . . daaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy,” the automaton finished before slumping over the desk.

Wage and Bill walked around the automaton and inspected it. 

“Is it dead?” Wage asked.

“I’m not sure it was ever alive,” Bill said.  Neither of them noticed the door open behind them.

“WHAT IN THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY MACHINE?” shouted an older, white-haired gentlemen who filled up nearly the entire doorway.  The three-piece suit he wore was the color of molten lead.  It looked and smelled as though it had not left his body in three days.

“Mr. Edison, sir, it is quite the honor,” Bill said, removing his flat cap and putting it to his chest.

“Your machine?” Wage said, leaving his slouch hat on.  “Your machine?  Why don’t you just get a damn secretary like everyone else?”

“Because then I would have to pay her!”  Edison yelled back. 

“We’re very sorry for ruining your . . . er . . . um . . . equipment, Mr. Edison, sir,” Bill said.

The imposing Edison was probably the same height as Ol’ Bill, but it felt very much like he towered over both of them.  “You must be the men Monomi sent word of—Captain Pascal and Black Vomit Bill?  Do you have something for me?”

“It’s 1
st
Sergeant William Macdonough, sir,” Bill said.  He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out the small scrap of paper Mr. Jade left for them.  “You mean this?” Bill asked as he cautiously approached Edison. 

Edison snatched the paper from Bill’s hand and looked it over, paying special attention to the indecipherable character at the bottom.  He used a pair of spectacles chained to his breast pocket to thoroughly inspect it.  “You boys follow me.”  Edison turned his back to them and walked away.  Bill shot Wage a curious look, shrugged his shoulders, and followed Edison through the door.  Wage tucked away his gun and followed, too.

A messy laboratory took up the entire third floor.  An unobstructed path led from one side to the other, lined on either side by bookcases, desks, drawing tables by windows, and rows of tables topped with buzzing machines, winding tubes, and bubbling glassware.  Papers littered with formulas and observations were spread out everywhere, like a Kansas tornado had recently screamed through.  Glowing and hissing light bulbs strung from wall to wall replaced what would normally be a gaslight ceiling.  Among all the oddities scattered about, Wage took peculiar notice of a dead dog lying prone on the table.  Its hair was stiff and blackened, and a distinct smell of charred flesh lingered.  Numerous wires ran into the poor canine, whose bloated gray tongue hung out onto the table.