by C J Lutton
Shards of wood and metal were captured in its feathery roll when the first wave hit the Nautilus. The submarine listed to one side and nearly flipped over. The second wave hit us an instant later. Holmes and I were sent sprawling. I feared that the observation window would shatter under such a powerful force and we would die a horrible death. Thankfully, Monsieur Verne had built the Nautilus to withstand even greater forces.
Slowly, the ship righted herself, even though the lesser shock waves rolled across and over our hull. The lights in the Nautilus went out again. In flickering fits and starts, they struggled to come back on. I had no idea where Holmes had gone and called out to him. “Holmes, where are you? Are you hurt?”
I saw my friend rising to his knees from behind the divan—a trickle of blood ran down his chin. “Knocked to my knees but not seriously hurt. What about you?”
“As well as can be expected,” I replied, rubbing a tender bump on my head.
Holmes walked to the observation window. There he stood and silently watched as the wreckage fell to the bottom. “The murderous fool!” Holmes howled, watching the last of the debris settle.
“I’d be careful of your words, Monsieur Holmes,” said Monsieur Verne upon entering. “Those men out there—they’re the murderers. I meted out justice—nothing more.”
Holmes never turned round. He merely tensed, as he watched the reflections of Verne and his men draw near.
“Steady, Holmes,” I whispered. “They’ve pistols drawn.”
With a jerk of his head, Verne motioned for two men to come and guard us. I felt a pistol being pressed into the small of my back. A crew member behind Holmes did the same to my friend.
“Look! Do you see who the real murderers are?” Verne gestured, demanding that we look towards the surface of the water. “Your Queen’s precious Fleet!”
The Nautilus shuddered as report after report of explosions from the Queen’s Fleet sent tons of water moving around us. Verne whispered something to one of his men and sent him running aft. Seconds later, the submarine sprang to life. The Nautilus slowly backed away from the carnage happening on the surface above us. One by one, portions of the pirate vessels slipped beneath the surface. Their broken hulls and masts groaned in protest, as they drifted down through the murky water.
Pieces of shattered masts and stray decking boards fell through the water. Although their impact was cushioned, they still bounced noisily off the submarine. Slowly, the poor, tortured bodies of the men rained down. One victim, his right arm torn off cleanly, slid down the observation window. His face seemed surprised in death. His head lolled lazily, as it bobbled from side to side and eventually bounced against the glass.
Long after this case was concluded, I learned that the mysterious, green ooze that dripped down on the observation windows in molten globs was actually blood! At the depth we were, light could not penetrate, and thus, blood would seem to be black-green in colour. However, I didn’t know that at the time. Instead, I found the ethereal droplets of greenish liquid to be morbidly fascinating. I could not tear my eyes from the carnage. The corpse of a tattered sailor drifted past and continued floating down to its final resting place. The beam of light flickered at last, and the scene was bathed in merciful blackness.
Monsieur Verne sneered at my friend. “Well, Monsieur Holmes, what do you think of your compassionate Queen and your patriotic brother now? Surely, you of all people, understand that what I did was proper.”
“Proper?” Holmes said. He half-turned and glanced at the divan.
“Excuse my manners, gentlemen. Of course, by all means, sit,” Verne said. We did as we were invited. As soon as we were seated, Verne’s men pounced on us. Before we could resist, they had bound us hand and foot.
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.
Monsieur Verne sneered. “A necessary precaution. Wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Holmes?”
Verne continued, “I am sorry that you do not see the wisdom in all of this. The Stratford-Upon-Avon and the Nautilus were not designed as weapons of terror. I only took money from your brother because I could not secure the funding any other way. I had hoped he and the Queen would come to realise ships like these should act as benevolent protectors—mediators of nations and their petty squabbles. Scientific explorers of the first order. And do not forget the advances that could be made, as these ships embark on the greatest expeditions ever conceived. Our purpose is to explore the proper use of this planet’s dwindling natural resources. That is what this ship is designed for—for the common good!”
“Oh, I see!” Holmes laughed sarcastically. “If I understand you correctly, each captain of his own submarine would be a… Let’s see how did you explain it? Ah, yes. Now I recall, a benevolent protector for the common good?”
“Yes! You do see it!” nodded Verne, enthusiastically. He chose to ignore my friend’s obvious disdain. But just as quickly, Holmes made his censure obvious by saying, “Common good for whom? You and your private navy? Who decides what is best for the citizens?”
“Perhaps that is a question you should put to your brother,” said Verne. Shaking his head, the inventor remarked sadly, “There is no point in my trying to convince you, then?”
“None.”
“I see. Very well. Tant pis.” Monsieur Verne glowered at us, muttering beneath his breath in French. Cocking his head to one side, he gave a nod to the men standing behind us. Immediately, I felt the prick of the needle, as its tip penetrated my neck. A quick glance at Holmes told me that he, too, had suffered the same fate.
I found myself going limp. My last thought was the realisation that I could no longer hold my head erect, as my chin fell heavily against my chest.
55
I awoke with a start and was surprised to find myself in my own bed at 221B Baker Street. It was nighttime. The streetlamps glowed softly outside my window.
In the chair at my bedside sprawled my friend, Sherlock Holmes. With his fingers laced together and chin resting on the shelf formed by his hands, he stared at me through troubled eyes. However, upon seeing me stirring, his face lit up. “So there you are, good fellow! I was beginning to worry.”
He patted my shoulder roughly.
“Holmes,” I rasped, my throat raw.
“Quiet, Watson. There’s time enough to talk later. Get some rest. You can join me in the parlour when you’re ready.”
Though I had many questions, I was thankful for his consideration. I burrowed deeper into my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Holmes rose from the chair and smiled down at me. He was walking away when I called to him, “Holmes, tell me, is it over?”
“Let’s just say that we’re out of it,” he replied, shutting the door. “For now, at least.”
I slept for the rest of the day.
The sun shining into my room the next morning, awakened me. My pocket watch on the bedside table said it was gone ten. Blinking back the sleep, my eyes played over the walls of my room. Taking in the various souvenirs and trophies that I had accumulated over the years during my association with Holmes, I caught sight of an unfamiliar looking carton on top of my dresser.
Tossing off the covers, I rolled out of bed and jammed my feet into my slippers. Pulling the sash of my robe tight round my waist, I shuffled over to the mysterious box. Before my hands reached the package, Holmes knocked on my door and pushed it open. His smiling face stared in at me. “Excellent! I thought I heard you rustling around. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. What’s this all about?” I asked, pointing to the carton.
“Open it. I thought you might wish to have a keepsake of our adventure on the Nautilus.”
Placing the carton back on the dresser’s surface, I struggled with the cord that held it closed. Holmes tossed me his pocketknife, and I cut into it with anticipation. Folding back the flaps, I peered at the carton’s contents.
Inside was a beautifully crafted shadow box made out of polished cherry mahogany. Encased in glass and resting on
an emerald green crushed velvet backdrop sat a cocked pistol crossbow. A fléchette rested next to it. There was also the modified band quiver with its darts. On the bottom portion of the frame, centered and tacked into the mahogany wood, was an engraved brass plate. The inscription read:
The Pistol Crossbow used by
Dr. John H. Watson
with remarkable results.
From a very grateful
Sherlock Holmes
I smiled at my companion of these many years. “I don’t know what to say, Holmes. Thank you.”
“No, old friend. It is I who should thank you. Never has a man performed so brilliantly. You saved my life. Numerous times.”
An awkward silence filled the room.
“Don’t bother getting dressed,” he said. “I suggest we lounge about the apartment like carefree bachelors for the rest of the day. We’ll browse the papers, though I have already done so. We’ll discuss precisely what this case was all about. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson send up some breakfast.”
True to his word, that was how we spent the rest of the day. Occasionally, we were interrupted by an arriving telegram, which Holmes would read before tossing angrily into the fireplace.
“Nothing!” he groaned. “It’s a disgrace! How does our government ever get anything done? No mention of the young Prince being returned to Prussia. Nothing about the pirate fleet! There are no signs of the Vernes or the Nautilus!”
The name of the submarine jarred me to ask the question that was gnawing at the back of my mind. “Holmes, how did we get here? I mean, the last thing I recall was being tied to a chair and feeling the needle. What happened in between then and now?”
He faced me. “I don’t know for sure,” he answered, pressing his lips together, not accustomed to be lacking answers. “I recall coming to at the very spot where we first encountered Ezekiel Emeritus Marder. There down by the dock. A carriage driver helped me get you into the growler. Obviously, it wasn’t in Monsieur Verne’s plans to have us killed. He simply cast us off as so much excess baggage.”
“But why?” I countered. “Do you think he was mad?”
“Most definitely. He was very cross with us.”
“You know very well that is not what I meant!” I cried, in frustration.
“Oh, Watson, of course I know what you mean. Is he insane? No, I think not. As his sister explained, he’s misguided. All he sees is the science and the horizons and none of the politics or misuse of his creations. As Tom Brown at Oxford puts it, He continued to behold towers and quadrangles, and chapels, through rose-colored spectacles. Verne is undeniably naïve when it comes to matters of world dominance. As brilliant as he is, he doesn’t understand the destruction and chaos that his devilish inventions will bring upon the world. Maybe not now, but in the future, as his inventions will become far more deadly than even we can imagine.”
“How so?”
Holmes stared into space, attempting to breach the misty veil of the future. He shuddered, as a sudden chill ran through his body.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “I can’t say exactly, but I can tell you this. In the wrong hands, that submarine …” Again he shivered. “Let’s just say that a nation’s sovereignty will become meaningless.”
“Being a bit melodramatic aren’t we, Holmes?”
A knock interrupted further conversation. I got up and opened the door impatiently. A very startled Mrs. Hudson stood in the entrance. “The evening papers, Doctor,” she said, handing me the voluminous pile. “And, oh yes, there’s a telegram for Mr. Holmes.”
Before I could reach for the telegram, Holmes ran to the door and snatched it out of the bewildered landlady’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That will be all.”
Holmes kicked the door shut.
“Holmes, really!” I whined, taking pity on our poor landlady. “Some day, we’re going to return to the flat, only to find our belongings tossed out into the street.”
But my friend didn’t hear me. He was already deep into the reading of the telegram. It was a query from another would-be client, a man who needed help with a missing daughter or some such quandary.
Two years have passed since our adventure on the Nautilus, and the notes from the case have been gathering dust in a box on the shelf. One day when Holmes was taking a walk and I was reading the morning papers, a tiny mention caught my eye. A Monsieur Jules Verne, the well-known author, survived a madman’s bullet but would be crippled for the rest of his life.
The possibility that Jaeger or Zeke Marder had their revenge prompted me to recall the events of that fantastic adventure, and I have finally put the case to pen and paper.
~THE END~
Acknowledgement—
Special thanks to Cathy and Howard Chatham for their invaluable assistance.
About the authors…
CJ Lutton
CJ (Carl John) Lutton was a Renaissance man, “a person who has wide interests and is expert in several areas.” In addition to serving in the US Army for four years in Germany, CJ worked many jobs throughout his life: digging graves at cemeteries, running a print shop, owning an advertising agency, teaching at a correctional institution, and working at a high school. He even tried out for a position as quarterback for the New York Jets! Throughout his life, he wrote. Among other works, he completed four books and had notes for others that featured Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick, Dr. John Watson.
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Joanna Campbell Slan is the author of more than 40 books, both fiction and nonfiction. She’s a USA Today Bestselling Author, an Amazon Top 100 Mystery Author, and a National Bestselling Author. Slan’s historical fiction, Death of a Schoolgirl, won the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence.
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For more information, go to
www.thesherlockstories.com
