Mycroft Holmes

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  Yet this barely resonated in Holmes’s mind, for the boat carried two other individuals, and it was they who commanded his full attention. One was Adam McGuire. He leapt gingerly onto dry land, peering at Holmes as if he were a curiosity and this entire endeavor a chore. Beside him came Douglas. McGuire was pulling him along by one arm like a recalcitrant child, while pressing a gun against his temple.

  He is alive! Holmes thought joyfully. Douglas is alive!

  And if his friend was alive, there was hope!

  As McGuire and his captive drew closer, it became apparent that Douglas was badly hurt. He had an ugly gash atop his skull, and another down his shoulder, which still bled through the tear in his shirt. Most likely injuries from the blast, he posited.

  Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut, and his lower lip was split. These were secondary traumas whose cause was no doubt a recent beating. Yet what struck Holmes like a sledgehammer was to see his friend with his head bowed low—he would not look up. It wasn’t submission—that would not have suited Douglas, even if half dead—but it could be a sign of a concussion, perhaps even cranial damage that was beyond repair.

  McGuire halted some forty feet away.

  “Mycroft Holmes!” he called out a second time. “You, sir, are a thorn in my side.”

  “As you are in mine,” Holmes called back, though his voice sounded, to his own ears, feeble and raw. Just then, the next boat arrived. Two more armed mercenaries jumped out, dragging the bow up onto the beach.

  Four mercenaries, four rifles, Holmes thought. The newfound hope began to bead off of him like water upon an oilskin.

  This second boat held additional passengers. They stood up on shaky legs and stepped onto the sticky wet sand, trying in vain to brush it off their pant legs as they walked on to join McGuire.

  Holmes recognized them all.

  None was a surprise.

  One was the governor’s former aide, the pasty-faced young Beauchamp, whose preternatural smugness looked as if it had been seasoned by trepidation—as if he were not quite certain that the earth upon which he stood was firm. The others were three of the “government types” who had sailed in on the Sultana. Judging by their middle-of-the-road sartorial choices and demeanor, not a man among them was the person who’d funded this enterprise. And none—with the exception of McGuire—had the steel-eyed resolve of a trained killer.

  So why bring bureaucrats along on such a dangerous journey? Holmes wondered.

  McGuire interrupted his speculations.

  “I am not keen to shoot an unarmed white man,” he said, “but as you are trespassing, I would be well within my rights.”

  “Why not shoot me, then?” Holmes inquired calmly.

  “It’s not so simple, Mr. Holmes. I take it you’ve been in communication by post with your employer?”

  “And who, pray, informed you of that?” Holmes asked, well aware that he had done no such thing.

  “Your—ah—your associate here… though he was not immediately forthcoming.”

  Douglas lied, Holmes thought, relieved. He lied… which means he still has his wits about him.

  Or had, he was forced to amend.

  “Now if Cardwell should take it upon himself to search you out,” McGuire went on, “that would be a burden indeed.”

  “Oh, to be sure!” Holmes replied. “Beaten, emaciated creatures are hardly the image of the ‘new slavery’ you wish to present to the world.” He skimmed the comment like a pebble across the surface of a pond, and watched the ripples. It wasn’t McGuire’s reaction he coveted, however, but the others’. In the time it took them to breathe in and then out again, he appraised them.

  Three mercenaries remained flint-eyed and poker-faced—they were clearly the finest of their kind, and most likely the deadliest. But the fourth, a pockmarked chap whose physique was covered with a fine layer of flab, licked his lips—a sign of a conscience, or of fear. Yet this indicated that he was not strong-minded, nor resolute enough to go against the others.

  He would be useless.

  As for the functionaries, the youngest—freckle-faced and snub-nosed, with a slight overbite—shifted weight from one foot to the other. The second, balding and middle-aged, tapped two nicotine-stained fingers against his lips. Beauchamp, the smug little aide, laid his left hand on his right elbow, half-crossing his arms.

  Each was a gesture of weakness. But it was the fourth man, a fifty-year-old with a shock of white hair, a florid gut and rheumy eyes, who interested Holmes the most. He blinked a few times, and then glanced to McGuire for guidance.

  There is my pigeon, Holmes told himself. The one who will startle first, and cause the rest to scatter.

  Or so he hoped.

  He pressed his advantage:

  “Isn’t that what you promised them, McGuire? A new sort of slavery, one that is more civilized? What a bitter disappointment it must be for your investors.”

  McGuire didn’t even flinch. He ambled closer, dragging Douglas along with him, while the others followed behind like baby chicks.

  “You have raised an issue, Mr. Holmes, that we are in the process of addressing. Beyond that, you have nothing. You cannot link us to nefarious deeds in Trinidad, and nothing we do here is illegal. So my best advice is that you take one of those two boats you see there—” he gestured, “—and git.”

  The men chuckled at that. Laughter dispelled tension, which was the last thing Holmes wanted.

  He motioned to the bodies strewn on the beach, still all too visible in spite of the gathering darkness.

  “What about them?” he asked. “Should I blithely return to England and say nothing about them?”

  McGuire had a ready reply:

  “Scofflaws!” he declared, his eyes cold. “Malcontents trespassin’ on private property. Radicals who do not cotton to a man’s right to do business his own way.” The bureaucrats grumbled their assent. They were of one mind about this, at least.

  “No sense in looking at me like that, Mr. Holmes,” McGuire went on. “We lost two hundred and fifty-eight thousand of our finest young men in the war. Believe you me, this handful of corpses is a picnic in comparison. So I ask you again… nicely, sir… to git.”

  Once more his men chuckled, and then they glared at Holmes—a bit of their bravado restored, while McGuire continued to eye him curiously, as if waiting for him to perform some magic trick or other. In that, he reminded Holmes of “Mycroft’s Minions.” This last seemed peculiar until he realized that, however unintentionally, he’d been giving this man useful tips for a year, possibly more.

  McGuire was no doubt wondering how much longer he could be useful. Which meant that Holmes would have to play this well.

  “Mechanical engineer?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Beg pardon…?”

  “Your profession. You are a mechanical engineer, are you not?” When McGuire looked appropriately taken aback, Holmes pressed on.

  “A handy profession in the South, what with the sudden dearth of slaves. Whoever can keep perfecting the manufacture of cotton stands to gain and you, Mr. McGuire, look to me like someone who knows well how to gain. Beyond that, your placement of the Gatling guns was precision itself. How ironic, given the fact that you were outsmarted by men whom you view as less than chattel.”

  McGuire jammed the barrel of his gun in Douglas’s ear.

  “Careful what you say, Mr. Holmes,” he growled. “I am not given to humor at the moment.”

  “Well then, here is a statement you might prefer,” he replied. “Let us go, and I shall let you go!”

  “No, Holmes!” Douglas cried out, glancing up at last.

  McGuire’s reaction was quick. He cracked his prisoner on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Douglas crumpled to his knees on the sand.

  Then, without missing a beat, McGuire turned back to Holmes.

  “I got nothing against your boy here,” he said, indicating Douglas. “I just think he oughta speak when he’s spoken to.”
>
  Holmes strove to keep his focus on McGuire, rather than on the specter of Douglas struggling to rise, and failing. He noticed that the bureaucrats were equally endeavoring not to look at Douglas. It seemed that violence disquieted them—perhaps they’d had their fill of it.

  “I say it again, McGuire,” Holmes called out. “Let us go, and you shall be released, as well.”

  Beauchamp began to snicker, but one look from McGuire quieted him.

  “When you say you will ‘let’ me go,” he replied, “I assume you’ve got somethin’ with which to barter?”

  “I do indeed!” Holmes replied almost cheerfully.

  43

  DOUGLAS CEASED HIS STRUGGLE TO RISE. HE LAY ON THE GROUND, his body as loose as a rag doll, but Holmes could tell he was listening intently. His head was leaning upon his right shoulder, his neck slightly twisted toward the speakers.

  “As my associate there at your feet informed you,” Holmes said, “a letter was sent to my employer, Edward Cardwell, Secretary of State for War, delineating this entire endeavor.”

  McGuire sighed all at once, like a deflated balloon. Perhaps he had been expecting Holmes to perform a better magic trick than that.

  “So long as what we’re doing here is legal,” he responded dully, “and so long as we’re not competin’ with neighboring countries by growing tobacco or sugar, it’s our land, our rules.”

  “That is a sad fact, Mr. McGuire,” Holmes acknowledged. “But from what I understand, the large majority of the slaves are no longer on your land. When we interfered with your plan, you moved them back to the ‘safety’ of your ship, did you not? Possibly to fatten them up, make them a trifle more presentable? So how do you propose to get them on shore again?”

  “Same way we got ’em there the first time,” he said with a shrug. “By ship.”

  Holmes indicated his walking stick.

  “May I?” he inquired politely.

  McGuire let his curiosity get the better of him—he allowed it.

  A lapse in judgment, Holmes mused. For if there is one language at which I excel, it is bureaucratese.

  With the tip of his stick, he drew a rough map of Venezuela and the islands. He put a great big X across a major waterway that very nearly touched both shores.

  “Perhaps Captain Miles failed to alert you,” Holmes said, “or, you may’ve got rid of him too quickly, but there’s a narrow passage between Venezuela and these islands that Britain has claimed as security against Spain…”

  Beauchamp and the others chuckled at this.

  McGuire held up his hand for silence.

  “First off, we had nothin’ to do with the poor captain,” he said. “It was a terrible accident…”

  His associates nodded somberly, and Holmes wondered if they were truly that naïve, or had convinced themselves of their own innocence in the matter.

  “Secondly, are you referring to rights of passage datin’ back to the fifteenth century?” he asked.

  “A long-dormant issue to be sure,” Holmes admitted, “but one that’s certain to stir sentiments when my letter arrives.”

  “Oh for the love of God, Mr. Holmes!” McGuire exclaimed. “I tell you again, we have violated no laws…”

  “Not yet!” Holmes declared. “But now the British government is aware of your… business ventures, and when provoked, a long-dormant issue has a way of rearing its head. Now, I suppose you could moor your ships here,”—he tapped a location with his walking stick—“and row your merchandise in. Rowboats are not subject to censure, and are small enough not to encroach upon Britannia’s waters.

  “Yet that, of course, would be wildly impractical,” he continued, “as the ship would have to disgorge her… passengers… quite a distance from your islands. And if you think that fattening them up is costing you a pretty penny now, just think how hearty and hale they shall have to appear if you plan to row them to shore, thus exposing them to public scrutiny.”

  He had them now. They were all leaning in, staring at the map—even the mercenaries.

  “And so you see, it is only a matter of time until you shall be constrained to test Britain’s waterways, as well as her injunctions against slavery. And the moment you do, you shall be punished—Her Majesty will see to that. So while you might have a viable business—what you lack is viable transport!”

  He let that settle, then he stared at the men with intent. He had one more move. It was extreme, and he was certain that Douglas not only would disapprove, but that it might well terminate their friendship. Nevertheless, to save them both, he had no other option.

  “However,” he braved on, “if you cease this course of action immediately, and allow the two of us to leave this island unmolested, I shall stand down. And if you know anything about me, Mr. McGuire—and I know you do—then you know that I am a man of my word!”

  In the stillness, a voice rang out.

  “No, Holmes!”

  It was Douglas, hazarding to rise. McGuire kicked him once in the gut, then a second time for good measure. He rolled into a fetal position on the sand and lay there, unmoving.

  Holmes felt a white-hot rush of anger racing up his neck to the top of his skull.

  Revenge!

  But he kept it in check.

  “You are not comporting yourself as a gentleman, McGuire,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes,” the rheumy-eyed businessman said mildly, albeit loudly enough for Holmes to hear. “This constant violence, it accomplishes nothing.” Holmes could place his accent immediately. The man was Swiss. And with that, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  “You have my terms!” he called out to McGuire.

  Then he turned to the men.

  “You can tell your employers that the land they purchased, along with the steamship, shall continue as assets. And Mr. Ellensberg…” Holmes addressed the rheumy-eyed man, who stared at him in dismay. “You are Nestor Ellensberg, are you not?” he asked him pleasantly. “Were I you, I should inform my employer that while funds shall be lost in the short run, there is hardly a nascent business that does not encounter a few early snags. Perhaps that might quiet him.”

  Ellensberg began to vibrate like a tuning fork, setting off a chain reaction among the group. McGuire noticed this, and again he sighed unhappily.

  “Mr. Holmes,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “You are free to go, as I do not happily shoot my own kind. As I said, however, we must be allowed to conduct business in a manner—”

  “And as I said, you shall release us both,” Holmes exclaimed coldly. “Or you may kill me now, and the devil take the hindmost!”

  * * *

  The diffused light that had been lurking behind rain clouds all afternoon had fled. Night was falling quickly. The mercenaries hadn’t moved from their armed vigil over Holmes. Douglas was still in a fetal position on the sand, too coiled into himself for Holmes to gauge whether or not he was still viable.

  The functionaries had gathered in a tight little knot around McGuire and had remained there—from Holmes’s estimation—for a good quarter-hour. Though speaking too softly for him to hear, he assumed that they were debating their diminishing options. And though McGuire’s handsome face showed discomfort, he could tell the American was trying to regain the upper hand.

  He was striving to turn the tables yet again.

  Georgiana may have died an ideologue, Holmes knew, but McGuire was no such animal. He was an entrepreneur, although one who happened to believe in the superiority of the white race, and who was not above killing to make certain his goals were achieved.

  He is Prichard’s theory of moral insanity come to life, he mused. A human being devoid of the common thread of human decency.

  He wondered if McGuire was aware that Georgiana was dead, or if he cared.

  “Blast that darkness!” McGuire exclaimed suddenly, glancing up at the sky as if it had chosen to plague him specifically. “Fetch the lanterns from out the boat!” he commanded gruffly.
“Get two, bring ’em here now.”

  A mercenary with flinty eyes hastened to the boat, then back with the lanterns, which he quickly lit.

  “Hold the damned things up,” McGuire barked to the man. “I need to see who in hell I’m talkin’ to!”

  The guard held up the lights like Diogenes searching for an upright man.

  I can save you the trouble, Holmes thought. There is only one upright man here, and he is crumpled at your master’s feet.

  “Mr. Holmes?” McGuire inquired mildly. Holmes did not care at all for the tone of his voice, nor for the looks of unsettled fear that were at once too visible in the bureaucrats’ eyes.

  “Though I assumed you to be a reasonable man, and true to your word, I cannot say the same for your… associate here. Negroes are emotional creatures, childish and irrational. If there is breath left in him, he will stop at nothing to get his pound of flesh, and I have worked too hard on this enterprise to allow a Negro with ties to the British government to plague me.

  “And though I’ve given you ample opportunity to reverse your stance, still you insist on saving him. That, sir, is an irrational act on your part that makes me question the rest of my assumptions about you.”

  “Be that as it may,” Holmes countered, “Edward Cardwell will still be fully apprised of the situation here, and as I am the only one who can assure him that nothing is amiss—”

  “I realize that,” McGuire interrupted with a shrug, “and I agree that it is a powerful obstacle. Nevertheless, Mr. Holmes, if my only choice is to kill you, then that is the choice I’ll have to make.”

  With that, he raised his gun and aimed it directly at Holmes’s head.

  44

  MYCROFT HOLMES COULD ASSESS ANY SITUATION IN THE TIME IT took McGuire to lift the gun and aim. Unfortunately, there was little to assess.

  McGuire was an expert shot. This, Holmes had determined by his gaze, his stance, and the ease with which he handled the weapon. He had grown up shooting small, quick game, Holmes surmised, like squirrel, and had parlayed that to his stint in the war, graduating to killing Union soldiers with the cool detachment of a sniper. Extinguishing a man some forty yards away would be child’s play.