More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  We descended to the deck of the Daring where we were greeted by the young Lieutenant Fanshawe, whose manner reminded me of some of the younger officers in my Army days whose pleasure seemed to be chiefly derived from exposing themselves to danger, engaging in tiger hunts, pig-sticking, or steeple-chases. It was clear to me that dash and élan of this type would be a positive advantage to the commander of such a speedy and glamorous craft, and though I experienced a little anxiety at the thought of a trip in the Daring, I also felt a sense of exhilaration. Holmes appeared to suffer from no such qualms, but boarded the deck of this strange new vessel as if he had been a seaman all his life. Not for the first time I admired his adaptability to strange circumstances.

  “I apologize, sir, for the lack of ceremonial in not piping you aboard,” the Lieutenant said to Glover, saluting smartly. “I took it, though, that on an occasion like this it would be somewhat superfluous.”

  “Quite correct, Mr Fanshawe,” replied Glover. “This is a slightly irregular proceeding, and I do not feel we should be standing on that kind of ceremony here.” He then introduced Holmes and myself to the Lieutenant.

  “I am sure that you will have more than enough to do once we are underway, Lieutenant,” Holmes said to him, “and we will try to keep ourselves from being underfoot, if you will show us where we can stow ourselves.”

  “I am sure there is room on the deck,” replied the Lieutenant. “Please follow me.”

  It was a tight fit for the three visitors on the small part of the deck that was unoccupied by machinery, despite the vessel’s size. Almost as soon as we had taken our places, the engines started, and we could feel the vibration of the reciprocating engines and the three propellers. We rapidly moved away from the dock, and slipped into the Solent, where we picked up speed. The spray whipped off the wave crests, and I began to appreciate Captain Glover’s forethought in the matter of the oilskin waterproof clothing.

  Sherlock Holmes stood slightly forward of the Captain and myself, standing on a low platform, his long neck craned forward as he strained his eyes towards the horizon, for all the world like some beast of prey on the track of its quarry.

  “When did the Matilda Briggs leave Cherbourg, Captain?” Holmes shouted into the wind without turning his head to look round.

  “At about ten o’clock last night. We can assume an average speed of no more than nine knots from her, so with a distance of around ninety nautical miles of sailing between the ports, we can expect her to enter the Solent at around eight o’clock – maybe a little before that, should she prove to be faster than our estimate. We have another two hours or so before then.”

  “That should prove ample in a ship this fast,” replied Holmes.

  “What,” I asked, “if the ship is not going to Southampton after all, but makes for another port?”

  “All watchers along the French, Belgian and Dutch coasts, as well as those on the German and Danish ports on this side of the Skagerrak are on the alert,” replied Glover, “as well as a close watch now being kept by all harbourmasters in the United Kingdom.”

  “I must congratulate you, Captain,” Holmes called back to us. “You appear to have sealed every possible exit. I believe you would succeed in my profession were you ever to quit the sea.”

  The seafarer laughed. “I hardly think so, Mr Holmes. In this case, it was simply a matter of elementary naval tactics.” However, I noted that Captain Glover appeared to appreciate these words of praise from Holmes.

  “Hard a-port! Hold on to the ship!” the Lieutenant shouted from in front of us, as the ship heeled sharply to port. We were almost flying through the water by this time, and the wind whistled past our ears. Truly, this remarkable vessel deserved the title that it had been awarded by the Press.

  Captain Glover pulled his watch out of his pocket and scrutinised it. “We are almost an hour ahead of the timetable we can expect the Matilda Briggs to follow,” he observed. “We can afford a little time for relaxation, I would think.”

  As if on cue, the rumble of the engines lessened, and our speed in the water dropped to something more closely resembling my conception of a normal ship’s speed.

  “Breakfast?” shouted Lieutenant Fanshawe from the steering position. I wondered about the composition of such a meal on board such a ship, but my curiosity was soon assuaged when a bluejacket appeared bearing three steaming mugs of sweetened cocoa and some hard ship’s biscuit.

  “I recommend softening it in the cocoa first,” Captain Glover smiled to me, following his own advice as I gingerly approached the second item on the menu. Though I have broken my fast more luxuriously on many occasions, that simple food and drink taken as we watched the sun rise over the Solent remains as one of the more memorable meals of my life. Holmes devoured his repast while continuing to scan the horizon.

  Captain Glover leaned towards me and spoke in a low voice. “Is it your opinion that your friend has a solution to the mystery?”

  “I believe he does,” I answered in the same quiet tone. “But I have no idea what the solution might be, or how he might have arrived at it.”

  We continued on our way, with the inlet to Southampton harbour clearly visible. Our ship was, so Captain Glover assured me, in a perfect position to observe all the comings and goings of the port, and indeed we saw many different kinds of craft, from the largest ocean liners setting sail for distant parts of the Empire, to smaller fishing and pleasure craft. Several times we spotted approaching steamers that appeared to match the description with which we had been provided, but none of them proved to be the vessel we sought.

  At length, Fanshawe called excitedly, “We have her!” and raced along the deck to join us, passing his binoculars to Captain Glover, who passed them in his turn to Holmes.

  “Well done, Mr Fanshawe,” exclaimed Glover. “Intercept her course as you think best. I shall stay well out of your way in this matter.”

  “Aye, aye. Thank you, sir,” replied the Lieutenant, and we heard a series of nautical orders being issued, most of them totally incomprehensible to my ears.

  It was not long, though, before it was obvious that we were on a course where we would cross the path of the Matilda Briggs in a relatively short time.

  “Man the gun, Mr Fanshawe,” bellowed Captain Glover. “We may need to fire a shot across her bow.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” and a group of sailors took their position by the 12-pounder. My heart was racing as this marine chase drew to a close, and Holmes, I noticed, was white-lipped and tense while we closed in on the coaster. We were now close enough to see the name written on the bow without the aid of a telescope or binoculars.

  “Make the signal ‘I D’, Mr Fanshawe.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Two flags went up the mast and fluttered at the head.

  “What is the meaning of that signal, Captain?” I asked.

  “‘Heave to or I will fire into you’,” he replied.

  Holmes heard this exchange and whirled around to face us. “We must not fire into her!” he exclaimed. We cannot risk injury to the passenger we believe may be on board.”

  “Have no fear, Mr Holmes,” answered Glover. “We will do no such thing.”

  The Matilda Briggs showed no sign of stopping or even of slowing. “Damn their eyes!” shouted Glover, angrily. “One over the bow, if you please, Mr Fanshawe.”

  The sailors manning the bow gun went through complex well-drilled motions, culminating in a deafening explosion that made my ears ring, with a bright flash and a cloud of smoke issuing from the muzzle of the gun. A few seconds later, a column of water arose some fifty yards ahead of the Matilda Briggs.”

  “Good shooting,” commented Glover. The shell appeared to have the desired effect, and the froth of water at the stern of the other ship died away and the Matilda Briggs visibly slowed in the water.

  “Bring us alongside, Mr Fanshawe,” ordered Captain Glover, and within a few minutes, we were beside the rusty plates of the other’s hull.

  �
�We will board her,” announced Glover.

  “Very good, sir,” replied Fanshawe. “I will assemble a boarding party.”

  “You will do no such thing,” retorted the Captain. “By ‘we’, I mean Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and myself only. There are to be no others. However, if we have not returned or otherwise indicated our safety to you within fifteen minutes of boarding, you may lead a boarding party at your discretion. I have my pistol. Are you two gentlemen armed?” turning to Holmes and myself. “I feel it would be a wise precaution here.”

  “We are not,” replied Holmes. “I would prefer not to carry a weapon, but if you feel it would be necessary, I will abide by your decision.”

  “Mr Fanshawe, you will provide these gentlemen with pistols,” Glover ordered Daring’s skipper.

  We were duly provided with heavy Navy revolvers, and Fanshawe hailed the Matilda Briggs, expressing the intention of boarding. A ladder was dropped from her deck, and we scrambled up it, Captain Glover leading, Holmes following, and myself bringing up the rear.

  -oOo-

  Once on board, I looked around. As had been reported, the crew were Asiatics of some description – I assumed from the Dutch East Indies. A savage-looking people, they regarded their visitors with sullen stares. Though none seemed armed, there are enough potential weapons on board a ship of the type of the Matilda Briggs, such as marlinspikes and other nautical implements, to give me pause for thought.

  “Where is your Captain?” roared Glover at the closest native, who seemed to be in charge of the others. His only answer was a blank stare, in which incomprehension and hostility appeared to be mixed.

  “Waar is uw kapitein?” he asked. This brought a response from the crewman, who passed an order to one of the others, using a language that was totally unfamiliar to me.

  After a minute or so, a tall European, about fifty years old by his appearance, and with a skin that had, to my experienced eye, seen many a tropic day, emerged from the bridge and joined us on deck.

  “Gerard Waalfort, master of the Matilda Briggs,” he introduced himself in English that was hardly accented. “Is there any way I can assist you gentlemen? I hope you are aware that your shell has disturbed my crew, and I trust you have a good reason for your actions.”

  “Indeed we have,” replied Holmes, stepping forward. “We are looking for Lord Haughton, whom we have reason to believe is aboard this vessel.”

  “An English lord?” scoffed the other. “Does this rusting bundle of steel plates look like a luxury passenger liner to you? The kind of vessel on which an English lord would travel?” He threw back his head and laughed.

  “Maybe you know your passenger better as Augustus Wilmott?” suggested Holmes quietly.

  The laughter choked off abruptly. “He is a lord?” asked Waalfort. “You are not joking?” Holmes shook his head. “Mijn God!” exclaimed the Dutchman.

  “Ramsay-Moffat did not inform you?” asked Holmes, smiling gently. By my side, Captain Glover stiffened at Holmes’ mention of the name of his subordinate, and seemed about to speak, but I plucked him by the sleeve, and motioned to him to hold his peace. To his credit, he did so, though I could see he was more than anxious to ask questions of Holmes.

  “He said nothing,” replied the Dutch skipper, before realising what he had admitted. “Mijn God!” he repeated. “Are you some kind of wizard to know these things?”

  “I think you had better lead us to Lord Haughton,” Holmes said in reply.

  “Very good, Mr Wizard,” was the answer. He led the way down a companionway to a dark and noxious hold in the bowels of the ship. “Here,” gesturing towards one corner.

  A pitiful sight met our eyes. A gaunt ragged figure, clad in rags and lying on the deck of the hold, stared up at us, and a flicker of recognition dawned in his eyes.

  “My God, it’s Glover!” croaked the scarecrow.

  “In the name of all that’s damnable,” said the Captain, seemingly aghast. “Lord Haughton!”

  “Come no closer,” replied the other. “I am dying. Come closer to me, and it is your death, too.”

  “I am a doctor,” I informed him. “I can assist you.”

  “No, do not come near!” he answered me. “It is certain death for you to approach. I know not what it is that ails me, but suspect the worst, and I am convinced it is deadly.”

  Despite myself, I shrank a little, but moved to fulfil the duties of my profession. Sadly, it took less than a minute for me to make my diagnosis. “It is the plague, the Black Death,” I announced to the others. Holmes and Captain Glover instinctively moved back several paces, but I held my ground.

  The dying man looked at me with the calm eyes of those who know their fate, and are resigned to it. “I am sorry, Doctor, to have placed you in such danger.”

  “I am not afraid,” I said. In truth, I was naturally more than a little concerned, but less so than others would be under the circumstances, as a result of my previous exposure to the foul disease during an epidemic that had broken out in my time in India. This experience afforded me, I fervently hoped, some immunity. “Some clean water,” I ordered the Dutchman. “And blankets.”

  I bent over the sick man, and discovered that, in my opinion, based on my previous Indian experience, he had not exaggerated his condition. He had, in my estimation, only a few hours, possibly even less, before his death. The water arrived, Waalfort passed it at arm’s length to me, and I held it to the dying man’s lips. He drank of it thirstily, and fell to coughing.

  “I must inform Daring that we are safe – for the moment,” said Glover. He left us, escorted back to the deck by Waalfort, and Holmes and I were left alone with the sick man.

  “How did you contract the disease?” I asked him. “Are some of the crew of this ship suffering?”

  For answer, he waved his hand feebly towards another corner of the hold. Holmes moved to see what it was to which he had gesticulated, and I heard his cry of surprise.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I called to him.

  “Some animals,” he replied. “They resemble rats, but they are larger than any I have hitherto encountered. Hideous creatures the size of terriers.”

  “They are indeed rats,” gasped Haughton. “The giant rat of Sumatra, brought from the East Indies, and a known carrier of disease. There are many of them on this boat. When I was brought on board, I was placed next to the filthy animals, and…” He fell to coughing, vomiting up a sticky mess, and for several minutes was unable to speak, while I mopped his brow with a wet cloth, and provided such comfort as I was able. “I am going,” were his next words, as I raised the water to his mouth once more. “I thank you for your kindness, and—” his words ceased.

  I examined him as closely as I dared. “He is dead, Holmes.”

  “So quickly?”

  “It is a malady that strikes quickly and without notice, and the final stages are mercifully swift,” I told him. “May he rest in peace,” I added as I closed his eyes, “whatever wrongs he may have done in his life.”

  We mounted to the upper deck, thankful to be out of the foul air of the hold, and informed Captain Glover of the situation.

  “This ship must not land under any circumstances,” said Glover. “The danger of the plague spreading to England is too great. Hoist ‘V B’ – ‘sickness is contagious’ as soon as possible,” he ordered Waalfort, who hastened to obey. The crew, for their part, seemed demoralised, and their previous sullen, almost aggressive, nature seemed to have turned to a silent resentment.

  Glover then demanded a megaphone and called to the waiting skipper of Daring, “The crew of this ship must enter quarantine immediately. Order a suitable ship to bring them off, and then return here. Make sure you have live torpedoes on board and an adequate supply of shells for the gun.”

  “You cannot sink my ship!” exclaimed the Dutchman, aghast as he perceived Glover’s intentions.

  “I can and I will. Your ship is a danger to my country,” replied the Englishman imperturbably. �
��Mynheer Waalfort, I want to point out that you yourself are in grave danger, together with all your crew, of spending the rest of your life in an English prison. If you prefer, I can arrange for your ship to be sunk with all of you on board, and you can take your chances in the water? No? Then I suggest that you accept the course of action I suggest.”

  “We are many and you are but three,” pointed out the other, snarling.

  “I feared it might come to this,” Holmes interrupted. “Before you start considering that kind of action, you might wish to take one or two other points into consideration.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, the fact that it is known we are on board this ship. Were we to be missing when the Daring returns, I would venture to suggest that you would not even reach jail, but you and your crew would not even reach dry land.”

  “That may well be true, but I am prepared to take that chance. Anything else?”

  “The most persuasive argument I can make,” said Holmes, “is the revolver that Watson here has pointed at your head.”

  While the last conversation had been taking place, I had crept to one side and pulled the Navy pistol from my pocket, cocking the hammer, and aiming it, unseen by my target, at the skipper. He turned and blanched.

  “A convincing argument, I admit.”

  “And if you wish to consider two further arguments, I am holding one,” producing his own revolver, “and Captain Glover has another.” The coaster’s skipper nodded silently.

  “Now order your men to the rail, to sit facing the ocean, with their legs over the side of the ship,” said Holmes. When that had been done, he asked, “We have twelve men here. How many are below?”

  “Five stokers and engineers. And there are two officers off-watch.”

  “I will bring them up here,” volunteered Captain Glover. He ducked into the companionway, and returned a few minutes later driving five more Asiatics before him at the point of his pistol. “And now for the officers.” This time he entered the superstructure below the bridge, and almost immediately, we heard the cracks of two pistol shots. After a short while, a white man, clad in pyjamas, came on deck, his hands in the air, followed by our brave Captain.