I was somewhat surprised to hear foreign tongues and one or two obviously American accents and asked concerning same.
“They welcome all sailors here,” said Victor, in response to my question. “It matters not what flag you come in under, all are accommodated. But come, let us find my father and hope that he will not do anything to embarrass us whilst we are here.”
We shuffled and excused our way through the patrons of the bar and over to the seating area.
“There is my father,” said Victor, nodding to a table by the far wall. “In a place like this, he prefers that I address him as Captain, rather than father. I do so to humor him. It keeps the peace.”
“We shall do likewise,” said Holmes. “He is looking a few years older than I remember, but then so are all of us.”
Sitting against the wall, under a large portrait of Sir Francis Drake, was a man whose age I would have placed at around sixty. His hair was still full and dark, with some streaks of white just above his ears. He had heavy eyebrows and something of a Mediterranean look to his countenance. On his head, he had a captain’s cap, complete with the appropriate gold braid on the brim. In the few moments we stood looking at him, three other men came over, held pieces of paper in front of him to sign, shook his hand, and moved away.
“Is he signing up a crew?” I asked.
“No,” replied Victor. “He has already hired three local boys to help him and his friends on the boat. He is recording bets on the schooner race.”
As soon as he saw us, Victor’s father waved away the other men who were standing in line to talk to him and rose to his feet.
“Ciao! My son, and Signore Sherlock. Wonderful to see you again. Please, please have a seat. Let me order you something to drink. The vino here, as it is all over England, is not fit for monkeys. But they do brew a good beer. And the food is fit only for cattle compared to what they serve on the Continent.
“A round for my son and his friends!” he shouted to the barmaid.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling, “but I lived with Italians for too many years in Brooklyn and I was spoiled with Chianti and prosciutto. But enough of my complaints, you must tell me what you have been doing since I saw your last, Master Holmes.”
Holmes, who was not particularly accustomed to speaking about himself, quickly shifted the conversation to the publication of his monograph on tobacco and to observing that the various brands and countries of origin could be identified not only by their ash, but also by their peculiar aromas. Already, he had noted some sixteen varieties here at the sailors’ home.
The Captain chatted amiably for a few more minutes and then graciously excused himself so that he could return to the business he was conducting.
The three of us had had enough of suffocating in the smoke-filled interior of the building and pushed and bumped our way out on to the patio. We struck up several conversations with some of the fellows outside but once they learned that we were neither sailors nor gamblers, their interest in us quickly faded.
Taking our leave, we walked down to the water and then along the quays, past the old harbor, and then all the way down the esplanade to the Southsea Castle, before returning to the Bush Terrace for supper. I had assumed that the Captain would be joining us but he did not appear and I thought I heard him finally return sometime close to midnight after the three of us had gone to bed.
The next day, we walked to the docks and boarded a coaster ferry that took us from Portsmouth across the Solent to Cowes. Victor led us to an elegant inn that looked out over the water and I stood on the porch briefly before entering, enjoying the sunshine and the sea breeze, thinking that this had to be one of the finest places on God’s good green earth. I rather felt that I was truly a fortunate man to be here and enjoying it.
There was a bit of a queue at the registration desk. In front of us were three quite impressive chaps that I remembered seeing the day before at the Sailors’ Home. I overheard them speaking to the innkeeper and their speech immediately betrayed them to be Americans. I pointed to them in silence and gave a questioning look to Victor. He leaned in close to my ear and whispered.
“There are at least a hundred Yanks here for the regatta. It is quite the rivalry. The fight over the America’s Cup has become a replay of the American Rebellion and it has spread now to the Cowes races. But all in good sport. And father says that some of them are jolly good sailors and even better gamblers. He says that he and his pals sailed many races against them in Boston and New York years ago and they could always be counted on for a wager of a hundred dollars.”
When it came our turn to check in, Holmes, Victor, and I were assigned a large room on the third floor, with a delightful balcony looking out over the sea.
“I do hope you do not object to our all bunking in together,” said Victor, somewhat apologetically. “Rooms in the town are scarce as hen’s teeth, so we will have to share. I promise not to snore, but if you hear me crying out in my sleep, just ignore me. Just another nightmare. I seem to be prone to them.”
Holmes and I assured him that we could be counted on to ignore him completely.
Tea, we were told, would be served at four o’clock and Victor gave us due warning that his father and friends would all be there, so be prepared to be appalled.
“Gentlemen,” said Victor as the three of us approached the end of the parlor where a group of men were sitting, “Allow me to introduce my friends. Sherlock Holmes was a classmate of mine whilst we were in college. And this is his friend, Dr. John Watson.”
Victor’s father stood to greet us. He was a full head shorter than his son and considerably stouter, but in his captain’s cap and finely tailored jacket he looked as if he was used to commanding respect.
“Ah, delighted to see you again today, Sherlock. And you too, Doctor. Wonderful that you could come and join us for the week. As a group of old navy men, we are having a round of rum together. What may we offer you? Something to help you relax so that by tomorrow you will have given leave to your common sense and joined us on our boat?”
“Oh, really, father,” said Victor on our behalf. “They are here as my guards to make sure that you do not shanghai me onto your boat.”
The fellows laughed and we sat down to join the merry lot of them. They all appeared to be around sixty years of age and in rude good health. Some might have profited by losing a pound or two, but none was overweight and all were casually but not cheaply dressed.
“This fine gentleman beside you,” began Victor’s father, “is Senator Thomas Madison. Originally from Bedford. Elected to the legislature in the golden state of California many years ago, and now back in his home and native land where he belongs. And the one beside him is the Reverend John Wesley Jefferson, at one time of the Methodist Church of Virginia. A fine circuit preacher if ever there was one. You know those chaps, don’t you? They all rode in circles, thinking they were big wheels, but were usually well-spoken.”
The men laughed at this old saw and raised their glasses to the clergyman in their midst.
“If the reflection off the dome of Sir Monroe Quincy is blinding you, we can always draw the shades,” he continued, pointing to a large man with a thick torso and a gleaming bald head.
“And that long, skinny drink of water on the end is Dr. Jackson Harrison. But don’t ask him to cure whatever ails you, he’s a doctor of philosophy who taught at Princeton until he saw the light and made his fortune along with the rest of us in the great American West.”
He asked us to introduce ourselves further and I complied, noting my military service and current occupation as a general practitioner. Holmes announced that he had recently established himself as a consulting detective. This elicited claps and chortles of approval.
“Oh no,” cried the Senator. “There goes our chance to bribe every judge on the course. Now what are we going to do?” Again, there were guffaws and laughs and some absurd suggested alternatives.
A young barmaid approached the sitting ar
ea and asked the group of us to place our order.
“And what’s your name, my dear pretty one,” asked Sir Monroe.
“Molly, sir,” she said, with a bright smile. “My family name is Snow and I am known around here as Miss Molly and I do not mind if you wish to call me that. Everyone else does.”
She could not have been more than sixteen years of age, and was a mere slip of a young thing, but seemed quite sure of herself. As she turned around to leave us Sir Monroe gave her a firm slap on her backside. “Oh my, but God was good to you. Would you not agree, Reverend?” he said.
The young woman gave him a sharp look and continued on her way to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of pints of ale, glasses of rum, and a couple of chilled gin and tonics. She graciously distributed all of them until she had only a pint of ale left on the tray. She turned to Sir Monroe, who had ordered the pint, and began to walk toward him when she suddenly stumbled, sending the entire pint sloshing into the chap’s startled face.
“Oh, I am so sorry, sir,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “But aren’t you glad it wasn’t a pot of hot tea?” She then walked on past him, leaving the empty glass in his lap.
It dawned on all of us at the same time that what had happened was no accident and there was a round of applause, even from Sir Monroe.
“Captain,” he said, turning to Victor’s father, “if I were you I would get my son to marry that girl tomorrow. She’s going to give some young man the ride of his life.”
The conversation continued amidst laughter as another round of drinks was served and sandwiches were consumed. When the tea was over, Holmes, Victor, and I excused ourselves and gathered out on the porch.
“Quite the merry band,” I said. “How in the world did they end up together?”
“At the Royal Navy recruiting station,” said Victor. “I believe it was in 1841. They all served on the same ship and have stayed friends for forty years. After they sailed around the world and had done their term, they agreed that America was the land of opportunity and off they went. Every one of them did wonderfully well and made a small fortune. And, being sailors, they would meet every summer in New York or Boston and take part in the boat races. My father was the most knowledgeable yachtsman, so that’s why they call him Captain. Sir Monroe is most certainly not a knight here in England. He did some service and made generous donations to the Order of St. John, and they made him a Knight of Malta. Senator Tom was elected in California and served two terms. Doc Jackson managed to get himself enrolled in college and I’m told he taught at Princeton, but he does not act in the least like an egghead. But Reverend John Wesley is indeed a rather sober fellow and I’ve never yet seen him touch a drop of strong drink.”
“Where are their wives?” asked Holmes.
“They are all bachelors, claiming that no good woman would ever put up with them, what with their running off with each other to stakes races, and rugby matches, and sailing regattas. My father was married for only a few years when my mum died. He insisted that he was blessed with his first marriage and was satisfied with his joyful memories. So, they are all jovial irredeemable bachelors. I would not doubt that they have mistresses aplenty and have sired children in various ports all across the globe, but I am the only offspring that is acknowledged.”
Chapter Three
Cowes Week
ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Captain and his mates were on the water by seven o’clock along with the three local lads they had hired to crew for them. The gleaming cutter, the Indefatigable, was untied from its mooring and drifted gently away from the shore and out into the open water. All that the local boys had to do was hold on to the end of a line as tight or loose as they were told, and not let go. They did well and would be remunerated handsomely for their efforts. The large cutter moved gracefully through the waves, the two foresails and the large mainsail filling out and catching the winds. In my field glasses, I could watch every member, the five older sailors and the three local lads, all performing their tasks like clockwork. When they came in for lunch, Holmes greeted them with small flutes of champagne and proposed a toast. He cheerfully raised a glass to Dr. Harrison and gave what I assumed was an appropriate Latin toast of ire ad infernum, smiled, and tossed back the drink. The learned doctor also smiled and did likewise.
At one o’clock on the Monday, the regatta was formally begun. There was a full card of races for varying lengths and types of boats. Small open dinghies, sloops, cutters, ketches, and yawls all would compete around several marked courses. Most were triangular but some required the yachts to race all the way down the Solent to the west, pass the Needles beyond the narrow passage at the far end, circle a buoy out in the open channel, and return.
The final race, the finale, would take place on Saturday. It would be the schooner race down the Solent to the east, out into the English Channel, circumnavigating the Isle of Wight, and returning to the finish line from the southeast. Betting on the result had reached a fever pitch.
On the first day, several of the shorter races were held for the small open dinghies, both sloop-rigged and cat-rigged. Some of these were just for the youngsters and we cheered the boys and girls on, all under the age of sixteen, who skillfully tacked and reached and ran free around the triangular course. It was a delight to see a team of a brother and a sister take the first race.
The Indefatigable had an excellent day. It was not the newest boat in the regatta by a long way and those that were newer, sleeker, and lighter had a distinct advantage, but our old sailors knew their stuff and performed well. We cheered them on. At the end of each day they brought the boat back into its mooring buoy and joined us for a pleasant evening.
All was going well, except that every so often I thought that Holmes was acting rather odd. I had no explanation for his behavior, except possibly that he might have been touched by the divine in such a pristine and beautiful natural setting.
He started whistling tunes, something he had never done much of before. I would have brushed it off as behavior inspired by the sublime location except for the fact that all of the tunes he whistled were vaguely familiar to me as hymns that we had sung in chapel when I was a school boy. On the Tuesday, it was Soldiers of Christ, Arise; on Wednesday, he was fixated on O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing; and on Thursday he serenaded us with Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. By Saturday, the whistling had ceased.
The entire week was idyllic. The weather was sunny, and a light breeze blew constantly. The races were colorful events as were the jugglers, actors, and musicians who performed for us. Several of England’s better company bands were present and gave concerts from the band shell. At the close of each day, the crew the Indefatigable rowed in from their boat, slapping each other on the back, and laughing about their accomplishments and failures of the day. I had to note that they appeared to enjoy each other as much as any group of men I had known. That they had been doing so since they first enlisted in the Navy forty years ago was truly admirable.
The afternoon of the Thursday was hot and sultry and upon returning to the dock, two of the chaps, the reverend and the knight, unbuttoned their shirts, tossed them aside, kicked off their shoes, and dived into the refreshing water. I confess that I followed their example and did likewise. They were strong swimmers and I was able to keep myself afloat. After paddling around for at least fifteen minutes we climbed back out feeling utterly refreshed, with our skin and muscles taut and smiles on our faces.
Saturday was the cup race around the Isle of Wight for schooners only. None of our men was participating and we had a delightful day sitting on the lawn by the main dock. At eight o’clock in the morning we watched as forty graceful schooners skillfully crossed the line in a flying start. Their first leg was to east, down the Solent and out into the ocean. The winds were behind them and to the starboard, so the two large sails were let out and the boats sped off. Once they rounded the south corner of the island they would have to come about and then ta
ck their way into the westerlies that blew up the channel. Before long they had passed out of sight but watch-posts had been set up in twenty spots around the circumference of the island, all connected by telegraph, and reports were cabled in to the judges stand. A large board with bold letter cards kept the assembled spectators informed as to which boats were in front and by what margin.
Holmes, Victor, and I did not wander far from the stands, but I was surprised that neither Victor’s father nor his pals were with us. From time to time I spotted one or more of them chatting with some of the other boat owners and I assumed, knowing them, that a ripping set of wagers was being placed. However, I also noticed them speaking with some of the regatta officials who, I hoped, were not accepting bribes.
The race took the full day. Cheers went up from the crowd when the reports came in of the first boat to pass Ryde, and then to round Seaview, and then head out into the open Channel. Another cheer came when the first yacht sailed past the great lighthouse at St. Catharine’s Point. In the late afternoon, a sign was posted telling us that the leading yacht had arrived at the Needles headland and entered the home stretch back to the finish line. Many spectators who had wandered off during the day now came back and resumed their vantage points close to the shore. Not far from where we now stood were our five old sailors, surrounded by at least twenty other gentlemen who had the look and body contours of the boats’ owners.
The hour of seven in the evening had just passed when the first sail was spotted off in the distance to our left. Again, a cheer went up and we were on our feet as one by one the beautiful schooners sailed across the finish line, running free with the evening breeze behind them. Soon the prizes would be awarded and the fireworks would begin.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 12
