Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  “Have the police been informed?”

  “Police? Holmes, this is a small settlement in Nebraska. It’s hardly fifteen years since the Homestead Act. People have not been settled here long enough to acquire the services of a police force. There is a sheriff here who goes about with a large pistol at his waist. It is not like towns that you know of. Besides, there is no word as to whether this matter is an accident or not.”

  “Then let me dump my bags here and come with you,” I suggested with enthusiasm, all thought of fatigue vanished from my mind. Indeed, it is my nature that conundrums and the oddities of life keep my brain from ossifying. Physical exhaustion seemed to vanish as well. “Perhaps I can be of some help?”

  Toorish gave me a wry look.

  “I doubt it,” he said, for honesty was his forte. “You have no medical training, although I am told that you are studying chemistry, among other things. Besides . . .” He hesitated.

  “Besides, what?” I demanded.

  “It is a known fact that your brother, Mycroft, is now working in Dublin Castle.”

  Dublin Castle was the seat of the British administration in Ireland, and Mycroft, my elder brother, had entered the Imperial Civil Service.

  “What has that to do with the matter?”

  Toorish hesitated again.

  “The general . . . well . . .” He shrugged.

  “We are wasting time,” I snapped. “Your patient may be dead or dying. You can tell me what you mean on the way.”

  Toorish signaled to the man who had been holding the horse’s head and instructed him to remove my bags into the house. Then he motioned me to climb into the trap. He threw his bag behind the seat and climbed in. I gathered the general’s house lay in its own grounds on the far side of town. We trotted along at a fast rate.

  “Now,” I said, “tell me how Mycroft’s work in Dublin Castle comes into this story?”

  Toorish glanced at me grimly.

  “The general that we are going to see is John O’Neill.”

  The sight of my blank expression disappointed him.

  “You have not heard of him?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I am not interested in military matters,” I declared. “Nor political ones, come to that.”

  “Then let me explain. O’Neill came to this country from Drum-gallon, in County Monaghan. At the age of twenty-three he joined the army. During the Civil War he rose to the rank of colonel, commanding the Seventh Michigan Cavalry on the Union side. He had a distinguished career and he was wounded during the battle for Nashville in December of eighteen sixty-four.”

  He paused a moment and then went on: “Like most Irishmen here, he never forgot the homeland and the struggle to make Ireland an independent nation again. He joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood and so, when the Civil War ended, he was given command of the Thirteenth Regiment, as it was designated, of the Irish Army of Liberation.”

  I must have smiled.

  “It was no joke,” admonished Toorish. “Irish veterans of both the Union and Confederate armies joined by the tens of thousands. In June of eighteen sixty-four, the leaders of the IRB had realized that they could not transport an army of twenty-five thousand veteran soldiers from America to Ireland with the ships of the Royal Navy to block them. They decided that the best way to free Ireland was to invade the provinces of British North America. The idea was to head into the French-speaking areas, like Montreal, where the French, such as the Parti Rouge, also wanted to be free from the British. They would seize the saltwater seaports along the St. Lawrence and then negotiate with Britain. A quid pro quo. Leave Ireland and the Irish would leave British North America.”

  I was still smiling. “A capital idea, but it needs men and experienced soldiers not a bunch of idealists.”

  Toorish regarded me with a pitying expression.

  “Have I not just told you that these were veterans of one of the fiercest wars ever fought? And twenty-five thousand of them with the latest weapons, cannons, even Gatling guns and three warships that they had bought surplus from the U.S. Navy.”

  “It is hard to believe,” I said, shaking my head.

  “But it is true. They were commanded by Major General ‘Fighting Tom’ Sweeney from Cork, who lost his arm in the Mexican War, and in the Civil War commanded a division under Sherman. As I say, there was no joke about it when these Irish veterans, in regiments and brigades, gathered along the border with the British provinces and launched a three-pronged attack. One division was to go from Chicago and Milwaukee across the lakes to make a feint against Toronto. A central division was to make another feint from Buffalo along the Niagara Peninsula. But the main attack would move from St. Albans and Vermont toward Montreal with some sixteen thousand men and a brigade of cavalry to capture the saltwater seaports along the St. Lawrence. Once secured, they would provide a base for the three rebel Irish warships.”

  “And it was your general who led this?”

  “No, that main attack was commanded by Brigadier Sam Spear.”

  “So how does this general fit into the picture?”

  “Come the day of the attack, and in Buffalo things were not going according to plan. Not all the division due to make the feint from Buffalo had mustered, and even the commander, Brigadier William Lynch, had not arrived to take command. O’Neill found himself the only senior officer at the rendezvous. Knowing how much was reliant on the feints to deflect the British elsewhere while Spear began his main attack, O’Neill decided to lead the crossing to Fort Erie with what men he had. Only six hundred men, instead of the designated five thousand, crossed with him. British troops were already moving to face him. He managed to set up positions beyond Fort Erie at Ridgeway. The British Queen’s Own regiment arrived and were promptly sent flying from the field. But O’Neill had intelligence that more troops were on the way, so he moved back to Fort Erie, where he won another skirmish before he withdrew his men.”

  I was surprised at hearing this news, for, frankly, it was an event totally unknown to me. Subsequently, I checked this in the local newspapers of the day and found that every word of what Toorish said was true.

  “Good luck favored the British,” went on my cousin. “Although Spear began his crossing, and won a few skirmishes against the British advance guards, President Johnson concluded a deal with the British ambassador, Lord Monck. Britain agreed to pay many millions of pounds in compensation and reparation for supporting the Confederate army during the war. Britain also agreed to give up some of their claims to western territories. The president then sent General Grant to cut off the Irish supplies and prevent reinforcements crossing. The invasion collapsed.

  “The British have represented the crossing as a bunch of drunken Irishmen wandering over the border. The story hid the reality. In fact, the following year, the provinces of British North America united as the Dominion of Canada. So Canada has the Irish invasion to thank for its existence.”

  “And what of this General O’Neill, as you call him?”

  “O’Neill, as the victor over the British at Ridgeway and Fort Erie, became the hero of the conflict. He didn’t give up the idea easily and wanted to make a second attempt to invade British territory in pursuit of Irish independence. He became president of the Irish Republican movement in the United States and eventually settled here in Holt City.”

  “And now you say he has been poisoned?”

  “So it seems. And, as you say see, from his history, he is a man who has made powerful enemies.”

  “And your fear about it being known that Mycroft works at Dublin Castle, together with my arrival at this time, is that this might be construed as an attempt to eliminate O’Neill by the Castle authorities?”

  Toorish shrugged.

  “It is not the first time that assassination has been used as a political tool. The general does have a small staff around him who are very protective.”

  “You sound as though you support him.”

  Toorish looked sharply at me.
/>
  “I admire the man and I agree that Ireland should have its own government again. However, I would give my support to Mr. Butt and his Irish Home Rule League. I am no Fenian.”

  “In view of what you say, does that not make your role as doctor to General O’Neill somewhat questionable?”

  “Not at all. We both agree on the end to be achieved but not the method to achieve it. We have a mutual respect.” Toorish suddenly gave a wry smile, “Besides, I am the only Irish doctor in this town at the moment.”

  We had driven some way beyond the main section of homesteads and buildings. The general’s house was a grand wooden structure that had been fairly recently erected. The grounds seemed large, with a river running nearby and an orchard spreading along its banks. Two men patrolled the gates leading to the house. They both carried carbines, and I noticed that they wore green jackets with insignia on them, and that one had a sergeant’s chevrons sewn on his sleeve. It was as if they were soldiers guarding the place. In fact, that was exactly what they were, but of this Irish Army of Liberation. They recognized Toorish but regarded me with suspicion.

  “Who’s he, Doc?” demanded the man with sergeant chevrons. His Dublin accent was unmistakable.

  “My cousin recently arrived from Ireland,” responded Toorish. On this intelligence we were waved through the gates toward the house.

  I noticed that a flag was flying over the porch, a tricolor of green, white, and orange. I had no memory for such symbols, but Toorish told me it was the flag presented by the French to the Young Ireland movement of the 1840s and was now used by the Fenians.

  A young woman was on the porch, wringing her hands, eyes red with weeping. Pretty, with pale skin and red hair, she was nearly disfigured by her tears. Beside her was a young man who seemed to have been speaking earnestly to her. He wore rough working clothes and only a shirt. On our arrival, he said something quickly to the girl and disappeared around the side of the veranda, or what is called the stoop in these parts. The girl came to the top of the steps as Toorish drew up.

  “Oh, Doctor, thank God you have come. It is painful to watch the general so.”

  “He still lives?” demanded Toorish, leaping down and taking his bag.

  “Barely, sir,” she replied.

  Toorish entered the house preceded by the young girl, who I understood must be one of the servants. Inside the hallway stood another of those green-jacketed men, with a revolver in his belt. Toorish muttered something in an aside to the man, which I think was by way of identifying me, and went directly up the stairs, the girl leading the way. I followed closely on their heels.

  The general, a handsome, mustachioed man much diminished by his poor health, was lying, fully clothed, twisting and turning on the bed. His cheeks sunken, he was pale, sweating, and in a state of unconsciousness. There appeared to be a spasmodic rigidity to his body. Toorish bent over him and began his examination. A few minutes of it confirmed his estimation of poison.

  “You can do nothing, Holmes,” he said to me. “I must try to present an antidote to this. That he has not died so far is proof of a strong constitution.”

  “You have identified the poison?”

  “The muscular convulsions are an indication. Strychnine.”

  “But if he had taken it in any quantity he would be already dead,” I pointed out, knowing that much about chemistry.

  “Strychnine has a bitter taste. Perhaps after the first sip he was warned? It would take ten to twenty minutes to start the convulsions. Death would come in two to three hours, depending on how much he swallowed. Now, let me do what I can. If you want to make yourself useful, find out how the general managed to imbibe this poison.”

  He waved both the maid and myself out of the room.

  I looked at the red-eyed girl, who was in a state of great distress.

  “Come downstairs and tell me how this happened,” I suggested.

  She led the way down to what appeared to be the general’s library. It was filled mostly with books of Irish and American history and items of a military nature.

  “Begin by telling me your name,” I said, leaning against a large oak desk.

  “Kitty, sir. Kitty McKenny.”

  “I judge that you are from Monaghan by your accent.”

  “Indeed, I am.”

  “How long have you been in service to the general?”

  “Since I came to this country. My family knew the general’s family in Monaghan. That was five years ago.”

  “And in what capacity do you serve here?”

  “I am both maid and cook, sir. In truth, sir, the general has no other domestic servants, only myself and Kevin, who serves as aide and valet to him. At the moment, Mrs O’Neill and her children are in Omaha visiting some relatives.”

  “No other servants here? I thought I saw several men about the place.”

  “Oh, indeed you will. There are half a dozen of the general’s soldiers who serve as guards and help out about the grounds.”

  “Why would the general need guards?”

  “You are not Irish then, sir.”

  “Dr. Sherlock is my cousin,” I pointed out, but I feared she meant that I was not of her ilk of Irish.

  “Then you should know that the general is an enemy to the British government and his activities brought him into conflict with those who run affairs in Washington. Only a few years ago he was arrested by a United States marshal at the Canadian border.”

  “I can understand the British seeking his arrest, but why Washington? Was he not a hero of the late war between the states?”

  “He is more of a hero to the Irish people, sir. In disturbing the settlement between Washington and London, he is regarded with deep hatred in many quarters on both sides of the Atlantic. There have been several threats on his life. That is why he needs a bodyguard.”

  “And do you know how this accident happened?”

  “Accident, sir?”

  “How did the general come to imbibe the poison?”

  The girl sniffed.

  “I do not know. It happened after the midday meal, scarcely two hours ago.”

  “Well, tell me the circumstances leading to your sending for Doctor Sherlock.”

  “I had poured a glass of whiskey for the general while he sat in this very study. It was his habit to take a glass in midafternoon while working at his desk there.”

  “You handed him the glass of whiskey?”

  “I placed it on the desk beside him. Look, it is still there.”

  I glanced to where she pointed and saw a glass tumbler half filled with whiskey on the desk.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Then I left the room. After a moment I thought that I heard him call. I came back and found him standing by the cabinet over there, where the drinks are stored. He had a bottle in his hand, peering at it. “Did you want another glass?” I asked him. He glanced up at me and shook his head. “It was bitter,” was all he said. I saw that the glass on his desk had barely been touched.”

  “You poured the whiskey while at this cabinet?” I interrupted.

  “I did.”

  “From a decanter?”

  “From a bottle, sir. The general has cases of it shipped from John Power’s distillery in Dublin. He refuses to drink anything else.”

  “What then?”

  “I withdrew from the room and had barely stepped into the hallway when I heard a thud from the study. I returned and found the general on the floor having a fit. I called Kevin and we managed to get him to his bedroom. But with the condition worsening, Kevin took to his horse and rode for Doctor Sherlock.”

  “You were alarmed at the condition. Yet why was Kevin able to report to the doctor that the general had been poisoned?”

  She frowned as she considered the question.

  “There were flecks of spittle around his mouth and the convulsions. I supposed that alerted him.”

  “Do you know that such symptoms meant poison, then?”

  She
shook her head.

  “It was Kevin who said so, sir. That’s why he rode off immediately.”

  I glanced back to the glass tumbler of whiskey on the desk.

  “Nothing has been touched since you poured the whiskey?”

  “It seems so, sir.”

  I bent over it to sniff its aroma. It had no other smell than whiskey. So I dipped my forefinger in it and carefully tasted it with the tip of my tongue. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was good, plain Irish whiskey. There was certainly nothing bitter about it. I noticed there was an oily thumbprint on the glass.

  “Was the general engaged in oiling some implement at this desk? Perhaps a pocket watch?” I asked.

  The girl seemed to think me mad.

  “The general, sir? He was writing some letters.”

  “Show me the bottle you poured from. Was it the same that the general was inspecting when you saw him?”

  “There was only one bottle newly opened, sir. It is in the cabinet.”

  I went to look for myself. There was, as she had told me, one bottle of Power’s whiskey that had been opened, and, by my judgment, about a half-tumbler full had been poured from it. Once again, I sniffed at the bottle. And then gingerly tasted some of it on my fingertip. There was no bitter effect. It seemed that however the general had imbibed the strychnine it was not through the means of its being disguised in Mr. Power’s distillation. Once again, I noticed a few drops of oil adhering to the bottle.

  Yet, and here the logic of deduction was quite clear, if the general had imbibed nothing before the whiskey and nothing afterwards, and within ten minutes of taking the whiskey fell prey to the symptoms, then it must have been through this means that the poison was introduced into his body. But there was no other glass or open bottle within the room.

  “Has this man Kevin returned to the house yet?” I asked.

  “He has, sir. He came back before you did. He felt that his place was at the general’s side.”

  “Ah, was he the young man I saw with you on the porch?”

  “Indeed it was not, sir. That was Billy McCartan, one of the men . . .”

  There was a high color in her cheeks, which told a story.