Thank you, dear brother. I restrained myself from throttling the weedish know-it-all.
Even so, and despite my having seen many images of the nautical behemoth, my first sight of her took my breath.
Sherlock and I were clothed in similar garments. We wore tweed suiting, elasticized knee breeches and long stockings, plain cravats, caps on our heads, and brogans on our feet. I found the male garb uncomfortable and impractical. I yearned for a proper frock and flowered spring hat, even an outfit of blouse and jumper. But if this unpleasant costume was the price of my being accepted as Ellery rather than Elisabeth, it was a price I was willing to pay.
While Sherlock was in fact my junior by some five years, whiskers were already beginning to make themselves visible upon his upper lip, while my own countenance, of course, was unblemished by such excrescences. Thus, it had been decided that Sherlock Holmes would pass as the older of the musical siblings while Ellery Holmes would be the younger. A further insult to me, I felt.
Sherlock and I each carried a gripsack containing toiletries and changes of costume, and a separate case containing our respective musical instruments. We had been warned that the ship’s orchestra were expected to appear in proper dinner costumes, and with Mother’s deft management and my own long hours of sewing, Sherlock and I had so furnished ourselves. We made, I am sure, a picturesque pair.
We were met at the head of the Great Eastern’s gangplank by a ship’s officer, who directed us to our quarters. There we met Mr. Clement Ziegfried, our maestro. He was a harried-looking person. He wore his dark hair quite long, as was, I believe, not uncommon among members of the musical fraternity, and a luxuriously drooping mustache that seemed too heavy for his small face and thin neck.
He smiled and shook Sherlock’s hand and my own. He said, “Holmes Major and Minor, yes, welcome. I see you have brought your instruments with you. Good! You are of course unfamiliar with my orchestra’s repertoire.” He paused and consulted a turnip that he pulled from a brocade waistcoat. “We have rehearsal in twenty-two and one-third minutes in the grand salon. Place your belongings in your cabin and present yourselves promptly, if you please!” He spoke with a peculiar accent, obviously Continental.
He turned on his heel and strode away.
He was a very strange little man.
Because the Great Eastern was so huge—longer than two football fields laid end to end—and had space for so many passengers, room was not at a premium. I had expected to have to live in cramped quarters with dozens of smelly males. Instead, Sherlock and I were housed in a comfortable cabin of our own. Each of us would of course have a bunk of her or his own. And having lived for twenty-two years as Mycroft’s younger sister and for seventeen as Sherlock’s older, I was not shy about enduring the mundane presence of a male.
We deposited our gripsacks in our cabin, found a crewman on deck, and were directed to the grand salon. This was a spacious chamber, clearly a souvenir of the Great Eastern’s glory days. The walls were decorated with friezes of classical scenes. Satyrs and caryatids stood in classical poses, supporting the high, domed ceiling of the salon. That ceiling was of stained glass, a magnificent design that would have done proud any architectural show-place in the land.
The musicians assembled upon a small dais. Sherlock and I were apparently the last to arrive. Maestro Ziegfried stood before us, half hidden by a black music stand, turnip in hand. The watch buzzed audibly. Maestro silenced it by pressing a lever and returned it to his pocket. He surveyed the assembled musicians and nodded his satisfaction.
“Gentlemans,” he announced, “we have three new musicians with us for this journey. I will introduce them to you.” He lifted a baton and tapped it on his music stand.
“Mr. Holmes Major.”
Sherlock bowed slightly, holding his fiddle at the height of his shoulder.
“Mr. Holmes Minor.”
I emulated my brother, showing my flute to my fellow musicians.
“Mr. Albert Saxe.”
A portly musician standing in the second row bowed slightly, holding a glittering cornet in the air. He wore a mustache and beard. How he could maneuver his cornet through that hirsute decoration was a puzzle to me.
Speaking in his oddly accented manner, Maestro Ziegfried announced that each of us would find sheet music before us. “You will take six minutes and twenty-three seconds to acquaint yourselves with the notes. Then we rehearse.”
What an odd man he was! Still, one followed his directions. My parents had replied telegraphically to my Cousin Inga’s wedding invitation, expressing their regrets. I had dispatched a personal message as well, telling Inga that Sherlock and I would arrive on the Great Eastern and that we anticipated the occasion of her nuptials with the greatest joy.
And, of course, that I would be happy, thrilled, honored, and delighted to participate as maiden of honor. I was certain, also, that her fiancé, Mr. Van Hopkins, would prove a splendid individual whom I would be pleased to accept as a cousin-in-law, were there such a position in the rules of family relationships.
With a blast of her whistle the Great Eastern pulled away from her dock and moved into the channel toward Portsmouth, rounded land, and headed in a westerly direction. By the time we passed Penzance the orchestra was warmed up. Maestro Ziegfried was a stern leader. There was no concertmaster; he coached and prodded the musicians himself, shaking his head with joy or anger or passion at each passage until his long hair flew around his head like the wings of an angry black bird.
When rehearsal ended, Maestro laid his baton upon his music stand and pulled his turnip from his pocket. He pressed a lever and the watch’s engraved metal cover sprang open. He studied the watch’s face, then nodded and announced, “Gentlemans, you will assemble here ready to perform in one hour, fifty-six minutes, and eleven seconds.”
He jammed his watch in his pocket, turned on his heel, and took his departure.
Although I had stood for Mother to prepare my suit of dinner clothes, I had never worn this strange black-and-white costume for any extended period of time, nor attempted to perform even the meanest of tasks in it. How strange and uncomfortable it was, with its stiff wing collar, miniature black cravat, satin lapels, and itchy woolen trousers. What in the world is the matter with the male gender that they choose to get themselves up in such impractical outfits!
The Great Eastern’s passengers had already begun filtering into the grand salon when the orchestra assembled, strictly on time per our maestro’s eccentric directions. I found myself seated beside another flautist, a gentleman with round, rose-colored cheeks. I could not tell whether he was prematurely white-haired, amazingly well-preserved, or perhaps was simply the possessor of Scandinavian blood and blond hair so pale as to resemble snow.
My brother Sherlock, I saw, was immersed in a section of violins, violas, and violoncellos. Good, I thought, there are enough of them to drown him out. Or may he have the sense to hold his bow a fraction off the strings and avoid making any noise at all!
Waiters were serving beverages and food to the passengers. The Great Eastern is so huge that a virtual barnyard of cattle and poultry is kept on her deck, providing fresh provisions during her voyages.
Maestro had planned a program that mixed recent works by the great composers of Europe with popular tunes suitable for performance in the music halls of England and America. For some selections only parts of the orchestra were required to perform. Maestro called upon the string section for a new quartet by the young Bohemian musical folklorist Dvoák. This was followed by a full orchestral rendering of an American tune by Luke Schoolcraft. Clearly influenced by what I believe is called “darky music,” this jolly piece, titled “Oh! Dat Watermelon!” was indeed a rouser.
Between numbers, when I was not busy shuffling the sheets upon my music stand, I scanned the tables of well-dressed diners. For all that the Great Eastern had proved a commercial failure as a passenger liner, she had been turned to a number of other uses with far greater success.
That she had been refitted for her original purpose was a melancholy matter. Word was that she was to be sold and turned into some sort of commercial showboat, a floating advertisement hoarding, and moored in a resort town, perhaps Brighton or Torquay. This, the greatest ship in the world, which had been visited by Her Majesty herself, and by His Highness the Prince of Wales, on several occasions!
Still Captain Halpin and his officers maintained the appearance of grand sea sailors. Their uniforms were elaborate, as neatly tailored and sharply pressed as those of any naval officer, their buttons sparkling, their decorations looking like the awards granted to the victors of great marine engagements. The captain himself was a portly man, bearded and mustachioed in the manner made popular by the Prince of Wales. He was seen from time to time striding the Great Eastern’s deck in company of his wife and three lovely daughters and their great dog, Harold. How I envied those three girls their freedom to be themselves and not play-act at being boys!
The other diners in the salon were an assortment of well-dressed and well-groomed ladies and gentlemen. A few of them, I surmised, might be emigrants intending to make new lives for themselves in the Western Hemisphere. Canada and Newfoundland sounded attractive to me, especially the former. The United States with its red Indians, its many thousands of black former slaves, and its Irish gangs must be a dangerous and exciting nation. Soon enough I should find out for myself!
One man I noticed carrying on a particularly animated conversation. He chopped the air with hands in time to the music and jerked his head up and down in agreement with himself at every moment. He was apparently without companion, but was seated at a table with several couples who gave every appearance of discomfort with his expostulations. When he paused for breath he drew back his lips to reveal teeth that reflected the salon’s gaslights, causing me to wonder if he had not had them drilled by the new electrical apparatus of Mr. George Green, and filled with a metal amalgam.
My attention was drawn back by the tapping of Maestro’s baton upon his music stand. We were to perform a suite of flute duets by Wolfgang Mozart. The rosy-cheeked flautist at my side smiled encouragingly and we set out upon a sea of the loveliest melodies ever composed.
It pleases me to state that we started and ended together, the performance was not a disaster, and most of our listeners actually lowered their implements and hushed their conversations while we played. Maestro Ziegfried smiled and gestured to us to rise and take a bow at the conclusion of the suite, and the room applauded most generously. My fellow flautist shook my hand and gave me his name, Jenkins. He had, of course, already learned mine.
That night I sat up in my bunk composing a letter to Mother and Father. I would post it when the Great Eastern reached New York. I was bursting with happiness. I was in the world at large. I had performed musically to acclaim. Even the presence in the other bunk of the annoying Sherlock could not dampen my cheery spirits.
As the voyage proceeded, our days on shipboard were not unpleasant. Our meals were excellent in quality and generous in portion. When not rehearsing or performing, we musicians were free to roam the Great Eastern’s extensive decks, to borrow volumes from her library, even to explore her gigantic engine rooms. These were extensive. She carried volumes of coal with which to fire the huge boilers that powered her twin paddle wheels and her screw propeller. The ship even bore tall masts, but her sails were seldom unfurled.
From time to time I would encounter my friend Mr. Jenkins. We even shared a glass of wine on occasion, discussing the great ship, Maestro Ziegfried, and various members of the orchestra. Mr. Jenkins seemed to have tidbits of gossip, most of it not unpleasant, about each of our fellow musicians, with the exception of the cornetist, Mr. Saxe. When I asked if Mr. Jenkins knew anything of this gentleman he quickly changed the subject.
Our musical repertoire was varied, with each evening’s performance including both orchestral and solo performances. Maestro Ziegfried proved an expert pianist, interpreting compositions by Joseph Haydn, Frédéric Chopin, and several of the Bachs, most notably my favorite, the underrated Carl Philipp Emanuel.
During Maestro’s solo performances I was able to observe the audience. Time and again my attention was drawn to the man with the metallic teeth.
His behavior changed but little each evening. He would arrive at the appointed hour and take his place, the sole unaccompanied male sharing a table with three couples. At the beginning of the meal his mien was respectable, but he inevitably consumed copious alcoholic beverages. As he did so he became increasingly animated and, apparently, belligerent. On an evening near the end of our voyage, two days before we were due to make landfall at New York, his six companions rose in a body and departed from the table, leaving him to fume amidst empty bottles and soiled napkins.
Early the next afternoon Sherlock and I strolled on the Great Eastern’s deck. The starboard side was reserved for the ship’s seagoing cattle ranch, as I had come to think of it. The port side was the promenade deck, so lengthy and broad that it had come to be known as Oxford Street.
Sherlock was speculating upon the availability of scientific instruments in the savage streets of New York. I listened patiently, or half listened, pretending a greater interest in his monologue that in truth I felt. The Great Eastern must have been breasting a warm Atlantic current, perhaps the fabled Gulf Stream, for the air was warm and so moist that it seemed almost to hold a heavy mist. Figures appeared and disappeared as they approached or distanced themselves in what I finally came to think of as a displaced London fog.
A well-dressed couple approached us. The gentleman bowed politely. “Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes, is it not?”
My brother and I conceded that we were indeed the Holmses.
“You are not really named Major and Minor, however?” Apparently these people were Americans, returning to their homeland. Had they been British they would have been familiar with the customary identification of elder and younger brothers.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” my beanpolish sibling explained. “My little brother is Ellery.”
“Boatwright. Bertram and Bonnie Boatwright, of Back Bay, Boston,” the gentleman said.
There followed much tipping of hats and shaking of hands. I had to remind myself that I was one of three males in the presence of but one female. I would have liked to identify myself by my gender; I could imagine how Bonnie Boatwright must yearn for the companionship of a fellow woman, but I determined to maintain my disguise.
The Boatwrights invited Sherlock and myself to join them in their stroll along “Oxford Street.” Both of these Bostonians were kind enough to compliment me at length upon my rendering of the Mozart flute duets with Mr. Jenkins. No mention was made of Sherlock’s violin performances. It was well, I thought, that Maestro had not singled my brother out for any solo.
The prow of our great ship split the waters gracefully. A thin spray on occasion rose above the ship’s railing, reminding one and all that we were not in truth at home, but many hundreds of miles from the nearest land.
At length our conversation, which had consisted for the most part of what is sometimes known as small talk, turned to the Boatwrights’ dinner companion.
“It is a good thing that we are Americans,” Mr. Boatwright announced. “That fellow—what is his name, darling?”
“Beaufort. John Gaunt Beaufort, or so he fancies himself.”
“Thank you, my dear. Beaufort. Yes. As I was saying, it is a good thing that we are Americans, and your English politics with your dukes and princes and suchlike don’t mean much to us.”
“And why is that?” piped Sherlock in his irritating voice.
“Why, young fellow, this Beaufort pipsqueak seems to think he’s the king of England.”
There was a shocked silence.
Then Sherlock and I exclaimed simultaneously, “What?”
“Yes, that’s what he says.”
Mrs. Boatwright nodded agreement with her husband. “Yes, he claims to be the rightful ki
ng of England.”
“Surely he means that as a jest,” I put in.
“I think not. Have you seen his conduct? He became so agitated that he knocked over a bottle of wine and ruined my poor darling’s frock.”
“He is serious, then?”
“Very.”
“Upon what does he base his claim?”
“He says that he is the legitimate heir of the Plantagenets. That each monarch since Henry the Seventh has been a usurper and a fraud. That upon the death of Richard the Third the crown should rightfully have passed to Margaret Pole, Eighth Countess of Salisbury. That her beheading in 1541 was an unforgivable crime and that only the recognition of this fellow, this—what was his name again, darling?”
“John Gaunt Beaufort,” Bonnie Boatwright dutifully supplied.
“Yes, this Beaufort fellow claims that the crown is rightfully his and that once he is recognized as rightful monarch of Great Britain and her empire, he will take the name Richard the Fourth.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Kept muttering about houses. Do you think he’s a real estate developer?”
Bonnie Boatwright said, “No, dear.”
Bertram Boatwright ignored her. “Don’t know why a real estate developer would complain about kings, eh, Holmeses?”
I felt compelled at this point to give the poor overlooked Mrs. Boatwright her due respect. Calling upon the authority of my faux manhood I interrupted. “Mrs. Boatwright, what was your point regarding real estate?”
Her gratitude at even this small recognition of her worth was manifest. She said, “Beaufort’s reference to houses was directed at the dynasties of the British monarchy. At least, such was my education, even in Boston. He mutters about the Angevins, the Lancasters, and the Yorks. He is quite opposed to those who came later. To the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the Hanovers.”
Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Page 3