by J. R. Trtek
“Follow our craft,” Holmes shouted to the others. “On with it!” he barked to Scaife, and our vessel cast off. Within moments, all three motor launches were nearing the dim set of lights floating in the region of midstream.
“The Belisama is attached to them?” I asked Holmes.
“Yes,” said he. “Tatty Evans and Old George have been anchored there for the better part of the day, acting as watchmen—a task they eagerly accepted after learning that we were approaching the end of our drama. Once Von Bork left shore on the Nemesis, which was docked nearby, Tatty was to signal, as he did.”
“Are you confident we can catch Von Bork? The Nemesis is fast, is she not?”
“The Nemesis can outrun Tatty’s barge without effort,” replied Holmes. “And it may give these police launches a good run. However,” he added, “I doubt that Von Bork will go far tonight.”
A moment later the lines of a sailing barge emerged from the night mist, and through cold winter air I then recognised the Belisama sitting before us, anchored against the current. Scaife steered our launch beside the barge and then cut the engine. Behind us, the other police boats did the same.
“Ahoy, Evans,” called Holmes in a soft voice as we drifted nearer the other vessel. “Did you see it?”
“If you mean the Nemesis, Mr. Holmes, the answer is yes,” replied Tatty Evans sharply. “She left the shore a short while ago, headed straight out, and turned east.”
“She was anchored in the same place, about half a mile down,” said Old George. “About where the old fish market was. Say, see them lights?”
The young man pointed to the sky, where I saw erupting flashes.
“Maroons275 are signalling the alarm,” said Inspector Magillivray as the dull, distant thuds from their explosions washed over us. When the sound faded, I heard aeroplanes in the darkness above.
“Aircraft,” I said. “Are they—”
“Ours, no doubt,” interjected Holmes. “We have been expecting the German raid tonight, after all, and Bullivant and Mycroft have put RFC aeroplanes into the air in advance. Come!” he called to Scaife and the men in the other two launches. “Along the river to the east!”
“Good luck with it, Mr. Holmes,” called out Tatty Evans as we started off in pursuit of the Nemesis. “May the spirit of the river protect all of you.”
“Thank you, Evans,” replied my friend. “You will obtain your justice tonight.”
“So will we all,” muttered Magillivray.
Abreast of one another, the distance between them gradually widening, our three craft sped eastward, rounding the river’s bend and moving on through the night. As Sergeant Scaife steered us, Holmes looked about.
“Where did I place that burlap sack?” he asked.
“Here it is, Mr. Holmes,” replied Inspector Magillivray, reaching down to retrieve the bag. Holmes took it and carefully loosened the twine sealing the top. Slipping his hand inside, he withdrew a gun, which he held out to me.
“Why, thank you,” I stammered, recognising my old service revolver.
“It is freshly loaded,” my friend reminded me, “and so do be careful. It has also been cleaned, but I do not believe you have practiced for more than a decade, have you not?”
“Some things are never forgotten,” I said, taking hold of the pistol. “This is one of them.”
“So true,” agreed Holmes, who then pulled from the sack his own Webley, which he clutched in one hand while dropping the sack onto the deck of the launch. “There is more ammunition for both guns in the bag. Let us hope that memory serves both of us well this night, Watson.”
As the lines of a motor launch appeared ahead of us, dim flashes appeared on the horizon.
“Those are not sound rockets,” I said.
“Our guns, most likely,” suggested Magillivray.
“I hope your fellows from the Yard have stormed the target buildings and rendered the roof lights inoperative by now,” Holmes remarked.
“We will see,” answered the inspector.
Holmes smiled grimly, nodding at the darkness ahead. Suddenly, he pointed ahead at a distant set of lights.
“That may be Von Bork in the Nemesis!” he said.
“He would anchor in midstream?” I asked.
“I expected him to do so,” he said, “Von Bork will not run completely from the fire, but instead stay at a safe distance and savour the fruit of his supposed guile and ingenuity. Ha! Instead, he will be consumed by his own conceit.”
I thought to caution my friend against falling victim to overconfidence himself but remained silent, concentrating instead upon the lights ahead, which grew brighter as the lines of the attached vessel expanded with time.
At this moment, the other two launches were nearly a furlong276 to starboard and port, one on either side of us. Distant echoes of our ground batteries firing into the sky washed over us, and then I heard a sharper report that gave way to a steady rumble. I stared ahead, at the lights that were our target.
“It is the Nemesis!” cried Sergeant Scaife from our helm. “It must be!”
“She’s getting under way!” shouted Holmes. “They see us! Von Bork is attempting to flee.”
He turned round to address Scaife. “We must increase speed!”
Ahead, the Nemesis was accelerating rapidly. Making a sharp turn, the vessel began to steam furiously down river. Holmes clambered to the bow of our launch and leaned forward to peer at our quarry.
“We must catch him,” he rasped hoarsely.
“But if Magillivray’s colleagues have disabled the German searchlights and kept the streets clear, preventing the firestorm, is that not enough?” I said, wishing to counsel prudence.
“We must catch him!” my friend repeated, this time in a sharp voice.
Our launch had been gaining on Von Bork’s craft, but now the object of our pursuit opened up a slightly greater lead as we approached that portion of the river south of Limehouse. Passing Canary Wharf, I glanced back and saw that our sister launches bearing the others had begun to lag behind. As we shot along the West India Docks and prepared to round the Isle of Dogs, I realised that only our craft would have any chance of catching Von Bork and his remaining allies.
“Go back and tell Inspector Jones that we must stoke it on,” insisted Holmes.
“Do you not mean—?”
“Please do as I ask, Watson!”
I approached the stern of our launch and impressed upon Magillivray and Scaife of the need for more speed.
“The boat’s putting out all she can, Colonel,” protested the sergeant. “It can do no more.”
As I turned forward, toward Holmes, my mind rushed back some thirty years, recalling a similar nocturnal chase upon these waters, one that had taken us past these same landmarks. Realising that, in his excitement, my friend had momentarily confused that experience with our present situation, I returned to his side.277
“You spoke to Magillivray?” he asked.
“Yes. The craft is travelling at maximum speed, Holmes.”
He nodded grimly. “That is all that can be expected, I suppose.” The detective turned toward me, his face in shadow. “I show impatience, do I not?” he said with a chuckle.
“Do not we all?”
“Quite so,” Holmes agreed as our launch veered northward, following the river’s meander. So intent had I been upon the quarry that I had forgotten about the firing of our ground batteries upon incoming German aeroplanes. Now I took notice of other explosions to the west.
“They have begun dropping their bombs,” said Magillivray as he stepped to our side.
“Let us hope it is in desperation,” remarked Holmes. “If your men have disabled the searchlights, the bombers will have nothing to guide them. Ah!” he cried. “I believe we are gaining at last!”
Looking across our bow, I observed that the Nemesis now indeed appeared closer than before. Turning back, however, I saw that the other police launches still trailed in our wake.
“What shall we do should we close the gap, Holmes?” I asked.
“Respond as the moment demands.”
We were coming athwart the Blackwall Basin now and had gained such a length on our quarry that I discerned what I took to be the figure of Heinrich Von Bork crouching near the stern of his vessel. Beside him stood another, whom I supposed to be Dietrich Baumann.
“Do you see him?” asked Holmes.
“Von Bork? Yes, I have just made him out, as well as another who may be Baumann.”
“Yes!” said Holmes. “He is there as well.”
Scaife called out from the stern of the launch. “I don’t know long we can keep this pace, sirs,” the sergeant shouted. “The vessel is—”
There were three sharp snaps in the air, and then a fourth. Almost simultaneously, Scaife cried out, and I turned to see his body give a sudden spasm. The sergeant’s face turned skyward, and before he hit the launch’s floorboards, another pair of loud cracks washed over us, paired with twin whistles above us. Immediately, I dropped below the gunwale. Magillivray and Holmes were both kneeling as well, on hands and knees, while Scaife writhed behind us.
“They’ve shot him!” Magillivray exclaimed. “Scaife! You’re hit, man!”
I crawled to the downed sergeant as another bullet flew over our heads. Peeling back the policeman’s coat and shirt, I uncovered the wound, which was to his upper arm.
“I got my German bullet,” Scaife said with an almost hysterical laugh. “Didn’t have to enlist or cross to France. Got it right here at home, didn’t I?”
“That you did, Sergeant,” I replied, applying pressure after noting that the bullet had apparently exited through the man’s arm.
“Here,” said Holmes, passing me a kerchief. “It is clean.” I applied the cloth to Scaife’s wound and then flinched as I heard two loud reports within inches of me. Looking up, I saw my friend, now standing, calmly lower his revolver and fire a third time. “Faster!” he cried to Inspector Magillivray, who had grasped the helm. “Maintain our speed, Inspector! We are almost upon them!”
Scaife was breathing in gasps as I maintained my pressure. And Inspector Magillivray crouched at the stern. As he kept control of the launch with one hand, he pulled a pistol from his pocket but hesitated to aim, for Holmes remained standing at the prow of our vessel. I heard more bullets whistle overhead, but the detective did not flinch.
“Get down!” I cried to my friend. “For God’s sake, man, get down!”
“Wir haben Ihre Lampen gefunden!” shouted Holmes at the Nemesis, unmindful of my pleas. “Es wird kein Feuersturm sein!”278
More bullets were fired from the German craft. I heard one hit the hull of our launch, while the others passed overhead. Still Holmes stood and calmly fired back, while Magillivray kept us in pursuit. I looked down at Scaife, who stared up at me. Again there was gunfire.
“Holmes, get down,” I repeated. “For the love of God!”
Looking up, I saw my friend reloading his pistol yet again.
Scaife gave a rasp. I looked down at him and saw the sergeant’s eyes glowing at Holmes. His gaze shifted to me, and he nodded his head.
“Inspector Magillivray,” I said sternly. “Put down your gun. Use your free hand to apply pressure here to your man.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” he replied. “I must try to—”
“Holmes is in your line of fire! You cannot shoot in any event! Apply pressure to your man!” I ordered. “Now!”
The inspector put down his weapon and reached for Scaife, replacing my pressure with his as he maintained the helm with his other hand. At once, I rose to stand with Sherlock Holmes, pulling my service revolver from a coat pocket.
As if in a trance, I heard and felt the buzz of a bullet not six inches from my face as I took aim, noting calmly that we lay perhaps sixty yards from the stern of the Nemesis. Only one person aboard her appeared to be firing, and that was Heinrich Von Bork. I stayed beside my friend, compelled to join him in this gruesome, foolhardy exercise. Again and again we aimed and fired at the German launch.
The Nemesis then made a sudden turn to starboard, throwing Von Bork off balance. At that moment, Holmes and I fired together, and the lurching figure on the other craft’s deck flung its arms outward and stumbled toward the gunwale, making impact with it and then rotating over the edge to topple into the river.
I saw the Prussian’s head vanish beneath the hull of his boat, but never saw it rise to the surface again.
“Nicht schießen!” came a frantic, high voice from across the waves. “Ich gebe auf! Bitte nicht schießen!” 279
From the shadows of the ship’s bow, a light-haired figure emerged with hands upraised.
I turned toward Holmes, my fingers tense as they gripped the service revolver. Immediately, I let my hand drop to the side, so that the weapon pointed downward. Holmes was now bare headed, his homburg apparently having been blown by the wind—or shot by a bullet—from his scalp.
The Nemesis had cut her engines and was now drifting in the current. Moments before we reached it, two figures jumped from the launch and began to swim toward the river’s southern bank. We set grapples to our quarry, and Magillivray jumped aboard her, gun in hand once more. Scaife was now leaning against the inner gunwale of our craft, a large kerchief tied round his upper arm while he maintained the helm with his other hand before cutting our own engine.
Magillivray called to us. Baumann was sitting calmly near the bow, hands on his knees. No one else was aboard.
Scaife cheered, his mood buoyant.
“Under fire from the Germans,” he repeated at regular intervals. “Shot clean through.”
Holmes and I looked to the west, where the horizon was not yet lit with the beginnings of an inferno. In the quiet, I heard my friend whisper a phrase that was unintelligible to me, save for the final word: Hudson.
There was another moment of quiet, and then Scaife hoarsely asked, “Are there any more bombs dropping?”
“No, Sergeant,” said my friend in a soothing voice. “All is silent, for now, on our home front. We have won London’s reprieve, I believe.”
And your own absolution, I thought to myself.
One of our other police launches—the one bearing Frank Farrar, Shinwell Johnson, and two constables—came up alongside us. Holmes instructed them to pursue the pair who had jumped from the Nemesis, and our companion vessel set out in that direction.
Looking back, I espied the third launch approaching, with James and Arbuthnot aboard, and bent down to pick up Holmes’s hat, which I noticed sitting beside Sergeant Scaife. Pointedly poking my finger through a hole in the crown before handing it to him, I said, “Wisdom does not always come with age, it would appear.”
“The two have been known to diverge,” admitted Holmes, putting his hand upon my shoulder. “However, Watson, your loyalty to the occasionally unwise has never been known to waver.”
“You have saved London,” I said after a moment, in a choked voice.
“If I have had a part in such an act, it was only by virtue of having my old associate at my side. It would not have been accomplished without you.”
We both turned again to the west, and I imagined St. Paul’s sitting stolidly in the darkness. No more bombs were dropping.
“It is the calm of London turning over in the night after being momentarily disturbed by some trifle,” Holmes said as the river lapped at our craft. “We have not withered before Von Bork’s blast.”
I stood on the gently rolling floorboards as the third launch drifted in beside us. The two constables it bore jumped into the Nemesis and assisted Magillivray in binding Dietrich Baumann’s wrists after anchoring the launch in place. Arbuthnot and James watched, along with Holmes, as I stepped to the stern to see to Scaife, whose spirits remained high.
“Will he recover?” asked Holmes.
“It seems as if he already has.”
Scaife motioned for me to rejoin the detective at the bow, and I stepp
ed back to my friend.
“A cleaner, better, stronger land,” said Holmes. “That is what you said we would have when the storm cleared, is it not?”
“Yes.”
Holmes stared once into the night and sighed, his fingers lighting upon and then pressing my shoulder. “Let us pray you have the power of true prophecy, Watson.”
I stood a few feet from the cliff edge, staring out to sea. Circling gulls shrieked across the Channel’s open expanse, a field of blue embedded with randomly sparkling diamonds brought forth by a bright summer sun.
“It is reminiscent of that morning on the Ruff,” said Sherlock Holmes as he held his cloth cap in both hands.
“Or, in an odd way, that night at Von Bork’s house in Essex, when we thought we were done with him,” I added.
Now we had been many months finished with the German spy, and I realised that all bodies of water would henceforth recall his face to my mind. I thought also of other faces, and all the triumphs associated with them over the past five years—as well as the great costs those victories had exacted from the survivors.280
Holmes took a deep breath as a sudden gust from the Channel hit us in the face. “The salt is refreshing,” he murmured. “When, at least, it does not touch old wounds.”
I nodded.
“I have heard from Jack James,” my friend said after a moment.
“Oh?”
“Yes, his regiment is being sent back home to America within two months.”
“Will he be staying in the army?” I asked.
“No, he will be part of his country’s demobilisation, but he will be joining a militia of a different sort. The lad intends to become a Pinkerton agent.”281
“Perhaps he will be asking your advice in the coming years,” I suggested.
“I am certain he will do quite well on his own.”
There was the sound of laughter behind us, and we both turned to see Mary Lamington and Richard Hannay scampering along the footpath leading to the crest where Holmes and I stood. The two held hands as they bounded up the slight incline. In the distance, Hannay’s motorcar sat where it had remained the past two hours as the four of us had first enjoyed a picnic lunch before pairing off for separate strolls along the Sussex coast.