Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)
Read Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Online
Authors: Sean Michael O'Dea
Peacemakers
By Sean Michael O’Dea
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters (including historical ones), and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously
, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book should not be confused with, or mistaken for, true historical events.
Really, I can’t stress this enough—it is fiction.
PEACEMAKERS (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2015
Edited by Lindsay Ross-Hazel
Cover Illustration by Kelly O’Dea
Peacemaker Logo by Sean M. Powers
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of this material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
First Edition e-book: March, 2015.
For my friend, Donny.
Contents
PART I: Adventurers & Acolytes
The Derelict
The Baron
Detective Simon Porter
The Bandit
Wage W. Pascal
Detective Simon Porter
The Baron
Mink Callahan
Detective Simon Porter
Detective Simon Porter
The Baron
Mink Callahan
Mr. Vault, Mr. Black, & Mr. Steel
Part II: Heroes & Has-Beens
Wage W. Pascal
John Hum
Michael Callahan
The Baron
Mr. Vault, Mr. Black, & Mr. Steel
May 11, 1914
Smythwyck Estate
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
“I wouldn’t plan on any quick escapes,” Bill yelled over the sputtering engine.
“Nonsense, William,” Wage replied, patting the side of their 1908 Model T. “This here machine is Apollo’s new chariot, and it will whisk us away from danger as needed. Perhaps, though, we should park down the street and walk the remainder.”
Bill parked the smoking car on the side of the muddy road and cut the engine. “Hope the damn thing starts again,” he muttered. After shutting the squeaky door, Wage checked his teeth in the polished brass surrounding the headlight with what little sunlight was left before adjusting his uniform. “How do I look, William?”
“Like you’re ready to charge up another hill,” Bill replied. “Although, I am surprised you still fit in it.” Wage responded with a disapproving look. He wore his old Rough Rider uniform, complete with a slouch hat, blue flannel shirt, brown trousers, polished boots, and a pale yellow handkerchief loosely tied around his neck. The two former cavalrymen had been discharged from Theodore Roosevelt’s famous unit more than fifteen years ago but still held on to the uniforms—for, when donned, they conveyed a certain heroic mythos. The uniforms could afford them instant respect and bestow on them privileges they could not earn with their words alone. Equally important, however, is that they also served as a conversation starter.
“You’re sure this will work?” Bill asked. “You’re sure we shouldn’t have forged one o’ them invitations? Maybe we could club someone and take theirs instead?”
“Forgery and violence are no match for charm, dear William. Now, let us commence with this evening’s activities.”
The large plantation estate was blindingly white, with fluted columns and recently painted black shutters. Gaslights about the grounds were all aglow, illuminating the latest-model automobiles parked in front: Coupes, Torpedo Runabouts, Roadsters, and even a few Touring Cars. All of them were freshly waxed, and a few were adorned with the standing gold lions of Reynolds Tobacco. The picturesque early summer scene, coupled with the hint of flowering dogwoods and brightleaf tobacco in the air, made it the perfect evening for an engagement party.
A pale and impossibly tall porter with bushy sideburns stood atop the stairs by the front door. The young attendant bowed politely in his coattail jacket. “Good evening, Captain,” he said, eyeing Wage’s rank. “Your invitation, if you please.”
“Ah! Well done, friend. Were you in the service?” Wage asked.
“No, sir. The recruiter said I was too tall.”
“Nonsense. I could have used the likes of you in my company. Reconnaissance would have been immensely easier with your rather unobstructed view of the world,” Wage proclaimed.
“Thank you, sir. May I see your invitation now?”
“Well, friend, if you must know, I do not have the invitation on me currently. I am afraid it got lost during our travels. Allow me to introduce myself,” Wage said, tipping his hat. “I am Captain Wage Pascal, 1
st
U.S. Volunteer Calvary. This here is my former sergeant and loyal attendant, William MacDonough.” Wage leaned in and whispered, “The boys called him Black Vomit Bill, on account of he got yellow fever on our Cuban expedition and vomited bile while charging up San Juan Hill. Despite his ill condition, however, Ol’ Bill killed more Spaniards than anyone else in the outfit. Ain’t that about right, William?”
Bill tipped his flat gray cap and smiled through a curly black beard, which should have been gray now that he was in his fifties.
“Well, then,” Wage continued, “allow me to enter and pay my respects to the Old Widow Smythwyck and her newly engaged granddaughter.”
“I am sorry, sir, but this party is invitation only. No invitation, no admittance,” the servant replied.
“Dammit, boy! You would disrespect a war hero?” Bill yelled from the bottom of the steps.
“Now, now, calm down, William. The young man is just confused. You see, friend, I am here at the behest of the Old Widow herself, and it would be a pity for her to find out that you barred me from her home. I hear she isn’t the kindest to incompetent servants. You’re not incompetent, are you, friend?”
The young man closed his eyes and flinched, probably recalling a recent tongue-lashing the immobilized Widow Smythwyck. “You may enter, but your attendant must reside in the servants’ quarters around the side,” he uttered.
“Excellent decision! I will ensure the Old Widow knows of your reasonable judgment.” Wage turned to Bill. “William, do not wait up, and tend to Apollo’s Chariot for me when you get a chance.” Bill growled in response, as he had always loathed playing the role of attendant.
Wage relinquished his hat to a servant on the other side of the door. “Would the gentlemen prefer to leave your sidearm as well?” the older black servant insisted.
“I’m afraid not,” Wage replied, thumbing the ivory handle of Ol’ Snapper, his Colt Peacemaker. “Very well, sir. May I announce your presence to the rest of the party?”
“Well, that would be magnificent. I am Captain Wage Winchester Pascal, 1
st
U.S. Volunteer Cavalry.”
The servant announced his name to the partygoers, and at once everyone seemed to look upon the clean-shaven officer with puzzlement. Even the string quartet missed a quarter-note. Wage patted his pomaded, side-parted black hair and greeted the room with ice-blue eyes and a bayou-charm smile, which shined even through the haze of cigar smoke. He waded through the crowd to find a server, from whose tray he plucked a glass of neat Kentucky bourbon. “
Merci
,” he said. Wage took a long sip of the corn-mash nectar, all the while observing all the aristocrats, tobacco executives, military officers, and trust-fund children. By the crowning windows sat the Old Widow, confined to a curved and intricately carved wheeled chair, and surrounded by servants and sycophants alike. Wage navigated through waves of people eager to meet his acquaintance, no doubt interested in his curious uniform.
“The lovely Madame Smythwyck,” he announced before delicately taking her hand, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Captain Wage Pascal, and I—”
The Old Widow jerked her hand away. “I am confined to this chair,
Captain
, which makes it impossible for you to kiss my ass.”
The large wheeled chair rose almost two feet above the Old Widow’s head, delicately carved with the Smythwyck Plantation crest. Her thinning silver hair was made up in a tight bun and her high, stiff black collar surrounded by white lace looked asphyxiating. A tartan blanket covered her legs.
“Why, Madame, this is no wheeled chair at all. It is a mobile throne fit for the delicate
derrière
of someone as regal as yourself.”
“Do you know the beauty of my derriere being stuck here?” the Old Widow sneered. “It means I can never talk out of it, like the rest of you.”
“Excuse me, Smythwyck,” a formally dressed elderly man interrupted. “I do not believe I have met your friend.”
“Stop pretending he’s not one of yours, Richard,” the Old Widow replied.
“I am quite certain he is not in my employ. What was it? Wage? Winchester? Pascal? Tell me now, how does one come about such an interesting name?” he asked as he stroked his long gray goatee that matched his thinning hair.
“My father named me. He was something of a gambler. He wagered his dear friend that I was to be a girl at birth. And as it turns out, he lost.” Wage smiled.
“And what was the wager?” Richard asked.
“His prized Winchester Model 1873 rifle,” Wage said. “Perhaps I should clarify. My father loved gambling, guns, girls—and occasionally, God—but only when the first three let him down.”
“Outstanding story!” Richard cried. “My name is R.J. Reynolds, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, do tell me there is also a story behind this rather curious military uniform?” R.J. tugged one of the ribbons on Wage’s uniform and smiled.
“I earned my keep with the 1
st
U.S. Volunteer Calvary during the War with Spain. We were deployed to Cuba,” Wage answered.
“Outrageous! You
are
a Rough Rider! Tell me, did you know Teddy?” R.J. inquired.
“I fought with Colonel Roosevelt on both Kettle and San Juan Hills, yes,” Wage said. “We called him ‘Colonel Lazarus’ on account of any man who was struck down seemed to magically rise up again after the Colonel rode by on his horse. Truth be told, we lost more men to yellow fever and heat stroke than to Spanish bullets.”
“So you must be able to tell me this, then: Is it true our former president wrestled a bear after the battle?”
“I am afraid that is incorrect, sir,” Wage replied.
“Hah! I knew it all along!” R.J. cried.
“He boxed him, actually,” Wage said. “It was a sad spectacle, to say the least. You see, the Spanish commander kept a live bear with their garrison to inspire his troops, named in honor of Saint Ursula, if I recall.”
“I simply cannot believe this,” R.J. replied.
“You wouldn’t have believed it, but the bear went down in the first round. A whole lot a men lost a great deal of money that day. Never bet against Teddy—a bear in his own right, if I do say so.”
“Incredible! Do you still hold command?” R.J. asked.
“I am afraid not. I have recently retired, as it happens. I am now looking for more profitable work. Speaking of which, I hear business is well for you, Mr. Reynolds, is it not?”
“Most profitable tobacco operation in the country, I am proud to say. Although it would be better if the old bag here would sell her outfit to me.” R.J. nodded his head in the Old Widow’s direction. “Isn’t that right, Smythwyck?”
“Blow it out your ass, Richard,” she snapped.
“Charming, isn’t she?” R.J. asked. “God forbid I have to court, marry, and bed her to get the rights to her land. I mean, really now, who turns down double what their plantation is worth? What do I do—wait till she dies and deal with Hamilton, that hot-headed son-in-law of hers?” R.J. nodded in Jonathan Hamilton III’s direction this time. From across the room, it looked as though the manager and heir to Smythwyck Tobacco was performing a mime routine for a young military officer and other wealthy gentlemen.
“Well, if you would excuse me. Madame Smythwyck, the pleasure was all mine,” Wage said as he bowed. “Mr. Reynolds, sir, it was also a pleasure. And good luck on the courting and bedding.” Wage left the tobacco executive with a hearty pat on the shoulder and made his way to find the bride-to-be.
The newly engaged Cynthia Hamilton stood by the large staircase, politely fielding questions from the line of party guests anxious to see her in her beautiful ivory gown with a slightly lowered neckline and bright red trimming. At the age of twenty, she was the only daughter of the widower Jonathan Hamilton III, and she covered her current boredom with feigned enthusiasm and southern etiquette. Even if her insincerity had been detected, her smooth white skin and curly blonde tendrils that fell just below her chin would have given her immediate forgiveness.
“Good evening,
mon chéri
,” Wage said as he kissed her hand. “My name is—”
“Captain Wage Winchester Pascal,” she finished. “I heard your introduction.”
“Well, I am touched you remember,” Wage replied. “Someone as busy as yourself has no need to take note of such things.”
“That is an interesting accent, Captain. Are you from bayou country?” Cynthia asked.
“A terrific memory
and
astute—is there anything else I should know about you before I steal you away? The only thing that could make the bayou more beautiful is your presence, I assure you.”
“You flatter me, Captain,” Cynthia replied.
“
Mon chéri
, if you were my Rapunzel, no tower could be high enough.”
Cynthia smiled. “There is
one
thing you should know, Captain.”
“And what might that be?” Wage asked.
“My future husband is coming up behind you.”
Wage turned and saw a tall, strapping young army officer with blonde hair and a rigid, Nordic look. The man gripped Wage’s hand tightly. “Lieutenant Alexander Beckett,” he announced.
Wage was slightly shorter, but looked just as youthful, even at the age of 33. “
Captain
Wage Pascal. Congratulations on your engagement. I just met your fiancée, and may I say, you are a lucky man.”
“You may not say,” the lieutenant replied.
“Lucky and possessive—mighty fine qualities in a man,” Wage replied with eyes locked on the young officer.
“Ah, Alex, I see you have caught up with our guest,” Jonathan Hamilton III interrupted. Hamilton carried himself as if he were the heir to a world-spanning empire. His long black hair was streaked with a distinguished gray that matched his suit. Clearly, he was strapping as a youth, but unmistakably shrewd in his middle age. “Now tell me, sir, some other gentlemen and I were inquiring as to the . . . uniqueness of your uniform.”