Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers

by C J Lutton

  “These are the ship’s horses,” Carlo remarked proudly, as he pounded the engines with his hand. “They are powerful enough to maintain sixteen knots above and eleven below.”

  “And we are presently at?” Holmes asked, his eyes keenly alert.

  Carlo’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Holmes. Then our guide turned to glance at the gauges. “We are presently at neutral buoyancy, fifty feet of water above us, and turning at nine knots.”

  “Would you gentlemen mind telling me what you’re talking about? Sixteen above and eleven below what?” I asked, immediately regretting my question when I was treated to their smiling faces.

  “May I?” Holmes asked a nodding Carlo. “Do you realise, Watson, that we’re traveling at a rate of nine knots?”

  “So? What’s so remarkable about that? I know of—”

  “—and,” Holmes continued, interrupting me, “we’re fifty feet below the surface?”

  “Below the surface? Below what surface?”

  “The top deck is fifty feet below the surface of the water and we are traveling at nine knots. Watson, we are in a submarine boat.”

  “Not quite a submarine boat, Mr. Holmes,” Carlo interrupted. “But you are close enough. This is a submersible ship. Most of the time, we ride the surface but we can, as we are now doing, submerge for a short period of time.”

  If Holmes and Carlo expected a violent reaction to this latest revelation, they were disappointed. After all, I had read about the Hunley, the so-called “fish torpedo ship” employed by the American South during the Civil War. Although the Hunley’s crew met with a terrible fate, their courage proved that underwater warfare was worth further consideration. That said, I had never expected to actually spend time in such a vessel, so I was pleasantly surprised at my own calmness. “Fifty feet you say? Imagine that.”

  I glanced ’round with a keener interest, as my insides slowly constricted with nervousness. While chasing a supernatural fiend in an adventure titled Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies, my claustrophobia had nearly caused my heart to quit beating. Curiously, since the satisfactory conclusion of our expedition through endless underground tunnels and caves, my problem with confined spaces has dissipated to a great degree.

  Carlo turned his attention to Holmes. “Mr. Holmes, how is it you knew that we were submerged? No one told you of this.”

  “A number of things,” Holmes responded. “First, the air. I observed that the air within our cabin was recirculated through the two vents near the ceiling. It was a matter of holding a piece of paper up to each one of them. Of course, one of the vents worked to the opposite of the other. In other words, one drew the air into the duct and thus held the paper firmly against its grill, whilst the other pushed the air into the room, caused the paper to flutter away.”

  Carlo nodded; I listened attentively.

  “Second,” Holmes continued, “there had to be a reason why the air was being recirculated. If it was simply a matter of breathable air, one could always open up the portholes or hatches, but the porthole in our cabin had been sealed shut. When we first arrived onboard, one of the sailors had taken great pains to seal us in by clamping the entrance hatch closed. It didn’t escape my notice that the device used to keep the hatch sealed was designed in such a manner as to keep the hatch from being forced open from within. It was as if the possibility existed that a great force would be exerted from inside—thus necessitating the extraordinary design of the hatch’s locking mechanism.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Holmes!” Carlo said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Of course. There’s the matter of the headaches both Watson and I experienced upon waking.”

  “I didn’t mention any headache, Holmes, though you’re correct, of course.”

  “It was obvious. I saw it in your eyes.”

  I decided not to remind him that I’d hit my head on my way into the barge. If he’d considered that bit of information, Holmes might have drawn a different conclusion.

  “Ah, yes,” Carlo offered. “It is a delicate task to maintain the proper balances. We must calculate the amount of air pressure required to equal the force and weight of the water on the outside. If we have too much pressure inside, the ship will pull apart and explode at the seams. Conversely, if we have too little, the ship will collapse inward from the pressure outside. Neither of these instances would allow one to live a long life. Don’t worry, your headaches will subside, once your bodies have acclimated themselves.”

  Despite Carlo’s fatalistic examples, I found the subject fascinating. “But how does it work? I mean, the ship can either rest on the surface or travel underwater. How’s it possible that to do both? Pumping air into the ship cannot cause her to submerge.”

  “Very good, Doctor. Yes, of course. The laws of physics and mathematics enter into the equation. We know that sea water weighs sixty-four pounds per cubic foot. If you go down two feet, the water weighs one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. At three feet, one hundred and ninety-two pounds, and so on. So in order to float, the object must weigh less than the amount of water it displaces. If it is heavier, it will sink.”

  Not waiting for a reply, Carlo continued, “To put it more simply, if you have a box that measures one cubic foot, and it is submerged at a depth of one foot, a force of sixty-four pounds will be exerted on its top, while on the bottom of the box, which is two feet down, there will be a force that is doubled to one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. In other words, there would be a positive push upwards of sixty-four pounds. If the box weighs less than sixty-four pounds, it will float; if it weighs more, it will sink. If you are able to introduce just enough water into the box to equal the sixty-four pounds of the upward push, you will have neutral buoyancy, and the box will remain evenly suspended under the water.”

  “I see.” I’d easily comprehended his explanation. “This ship is like that box. You pump in enough water to balance out the amount of water it displaces, until she is below the surface. The more water you pump in, the heavier the ship becomes.”

  “Excellent, Watson!” said a very impressed Holmes.

  “But,” I continued, “what if you pump in too much water? Won’t we sink like a stone?”

  “Yes, but if that happens, we expel the excess water by pumping air into the tanks.”

  “And,” Holmes asked, “if the pumps fail?”

  Carlo’s eyes darkened. “We do not like to think about that, but in the event this occurs, we have other means for rising to the surface. Are there any further questions?” He smiled easily.

  “Yes, I have one,” I said. “What is the purpose of this ship? By your account, the crew’s defensive skills, the armour plating, and the equipment… I would say…”

  “This is a scientific ship—nothing more!” Carlo snapped angrily, before recovering his composure. “A floating laboratory, if you will. Of course, most of the equipment and machinery have been designed to serve mankind and are only in the experimental stage. Once they have been perfected, the world will benefit from our knowledge and toil. Please remember that and understand that what you have seen here is secret. Now, I think the captain is ready for you. This way, gentlemen.”

  29

  Carlo’s strident tone was as troubling to me as was the ease in which he slipped in and out of his Italian character. I was relieved that Carlo’s curt manner was not lost on Holmes. My friend’s expression soured upon hearing the terse response.

  “Carlo? Perhaps you’d better take us to see the captain,” said Holmes. “We’re finished here.”

  It was barely noticeable, but for a second, Carlo’s body tensed as if ready to spring. Then just as quickly, he relaxed his stance. “Mi scusi, per favore! This way, please.”

  Before ascending the stairs, Holmes grabbed my arm and whispered. “Those are the other means of returning to the surface,” He pointed to the canvas and rubber suits hanging on the wall. Sitting on the floor next to each suit was a pair of heavily weighted boots and an iron helmet with a
round glass faceplate on the front.

  We climbed the steps up to the main level of the ship, the same level where our cabin was located. Carlo had hurried ahead of us and was talking to a group of men. It was impossible to determine his mood. He gave instructions to one of his men, who saluted and glanced back at us over his shoulder before slipping past us to race up the spiral staircase.

  Holmes whispered, “We must wait here.” Rather than question my friend, I stood with him there in the hallway without uttering a word. The messenger previously dispatched by Carlo came hurrying back down the same spiral staircase he’d climbed so recently. Darting past us, he whispered something to Carlo.

  In response, Carlo’s face flushed with anger and he barked at his errand boy, “Cosa significa questo?”

  “It means,” said Holmes, staring into the fiery eyes of Carlo, “that when you are asked a question, we expect an answer. We would like to speak with the captain without further delay. Come, Watson!”

  Without waiting for Carlo’s permission, we climbed up the spiral stairs. When we were nearly at the next deck, I glanced back down the stairs in time to see a very angry Carlo kick at the air in frustration.

  “I cannot fight upon this argument; it is too starv’d a subject for my sword,” the Bard recited as he noted our presence.

  Forsaking his beggar’s garb, the little man was now attired in a vested navy woolen suit with a blouse of the starkest white and a starched collar. He wore a navy-and-maroon cravat held in place by a tiepin studded with a lustrous, pinkish-white pearl. His malformed body nestled in a tall gold-and-bejeweled chair that swiveled as he pushed on a wooden ring at his feet.

  “Please forgive Carlo his evasiveness,” the Bard said. “Every member of the crew has been directly or indirectly responsible for the creation of many of the ship’s inventions. Carlo, as it happens, is the inventor of the ship’s engines, the twin dynamos, and a marvelously clever battery storage system. It has something to do with the minerals of iron, nickel, and an alkaline electrolyte. In fact, when it comes to the many uses of an electrical apparatus, there’s no one more knowledgeable than he. Carlo also developed our incandescent lighting system. So I allow him his petulant and prideful manner. He’s merely being protective of that which he has given birth. He is responsible for most of what you see.” The dwarf waved his arms about in undisguised awe.

  We were standing inside what would have been considered the wheelhouse, but it was like no other wheelhouse that I’d ever seen. Off to the side, a sailor deftly manipulated a series of levers. Grasping the two outer levers with practiced hands, he pulled one back, whilst pushing forwards on the other. His feet rested in sheathed pedals, which he alternately pressed down or lifted up. He managed all of this and never let his eyes stray from the gauges or the compass mounted in front of him.

  “This is our navigator and helmsman, Raoul. Without him we are as blind as a bat,” said the Bard.

  “Even with him, you mean,” I said, nodding at the forwards wall. “How can he see where we’re going? He’s looking at a solid wall.”

  “Ah, have no fear, Doctor. We have extensively charted these waters. There is no danger. We are precisely where we are supposed to be.”

  The dwarf spun ’round and eyed my companion curiously. “And you, Mr. Holmes. Have you nothing to ask?”

  Sherlock Holmes walked closer to where the dwarf was sitting. “What happened to the Elvira Stockton? And Lieutenant Morel? Or whoever that man was who washed up in the Thames.”

  “Sherlock? May I be presumptuous and call you by your given name?” Seeing Holmes’ nod, the Bard smiled. “You may call me by that which I haven’t told a soul. My true name is Ezekiel Emeritus Marder. I would prefer Zeke.”

  “Fine, Zeke. Now, what of the Elvira Stockton? And the John Sebastian? And the Celestial?”

  But the dwarf had no chance to answer as a sailor ran up and whispered in his ear. Meanwhile, my friend’s posture slumped at this most incommodious interruption.

  As Zeke listened intently to the sailor’s words, a smile filled the dwarf’s face. “Dr. Watson, if you would accompany the seaman below and lend a hand, Mr. Holmes and I have matters of a delicate nature to discuss before you are transferred.”

  “Transferred?” I asked, puzzled. “What do you mean transferred? What the devil is going on here, Holmes?”

  “All in good time, Dr. Watson.” Zeke’s smile was forced. “Now, please excuse us.” The dwarf spun ’round in his chair and turned his back on me.

  Holmes spoke very quietly and without his normal forceful manner. “Go ahead, Watson. Do as he says. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Though I am loath to admit it, I was put off at being dismissed so handily, but I had no choice. As I left, I soon found myself immersed in the mysteries of the ship. Whatever was transpiring, a knowledge of our intimate surroundings could not help but be useful.

  My escort manipulated a wheel that cause a hatch to slide open. The round metal door moved along a pair of rails and slowly revealed a spiral staircase. “Be careful, Doctor,” my escort said. “The stairs are rather steep. The Bard would have my head if anything should happen to you.”

  He laughed as he went ahead of me and quickly disappeared below. My stomach churned as I wondered whether his laugh was sardonic or simply playful. Clearly, my escort expected me to follow him, so I did. Once I’d reached another level, I glanced ‘round me to see a pool of gurgling water. “We’re sinking!” I thought, and with a gasp, I backed up several of the steps, although I knew that if we were, indeed, taking on the brine, the situation was hopeless.

  With a distinct click, the metal plate that separated the levels snapped into place. Looking up into the darkness, I realised the hatch was locked shut. I was trapped!

  “Relax, doctor,” the seaman laughed. “We’re not taking on water. This is how and where we leave the ship when we wish not to be observed.”

  The diving preparation area was as wide as the ship and ran lengthwise for approximately twenty feet. Along the far side of the wall were ten diving suits suspended from hooks. Their companion helmets, with glass faceplates, stared at us accusingly and rested on the floor alongside a row of breathing apparatuses.

  The seaman explained how everything worked, and I was his rapt pupil as I tried to absorb every fascinating detail. A series of limp canvas bags hung from hooks. Attached to them were tightly woven mesh bags. “Those are the diving bags,” the sailor said when I walked over to examine them. “You slightly inflate the canvas bags with your air or another cylinder of air that you carry just for that purpose. The buoyancy makes the sack want to rise, and therefore, you can attach the mesh bag and carry anything that’s heavy without effort.”

  What I had previously taken to be a pool of leaking water was a diving well. The sea was contained within a circular wall that rose approximately three feet above the deck’s surface. Just inside the lip of that wall was the ocean. Air pressure was used to hold the water at a prescribed level. The bubbling I heard earlier was the fluctuation of the pressure that had occurred when the plate from the level above had broken its seal. The unequal balance, caused by the escaping air when the hatch opened, made the water rise from the tub and spill over into the scuppers. Once that pressure was equalized again, the sea water ceased its roiling and held at dead calm. The seaman assured me that all was as it should be. Nonetheless, I was uneasy with the realisation that we were fifty feet below the surface of an unforgiving sea.

  Dangling over the diving well was an inverted V made of iron. It was attached by a cable to a spooling winch. The V-shaped device assisted the divers by raising them from or lowering them into the water.

  A tap on my shoulder startled me. Holmes appeared at my side. “Being a good pupil, are we?” he asked, eyes keenly alert and mischievous.

  “I’ve seen that look before, Holmes. We’re about to be in it, aren’t we?” I asked, when we were out of earshot from my escort.

  “Ah, Watson, you kn
ow me all too well. Yes, as you have so succinctly observed; we’re about to be in it.”

  30

  Holmes glanced at the sailor walking towards us. “Will you excuse us?” asked Holmes, stopping my escort in his tracks.

  “Right, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be above, should you need me. Just press this lever to open the hatch when you’re ready to leave.”

  “Thank you.”

  The sailor climbed the stairs and we watched as the hatch rolled along the rails and sealed itself closed.

  “Holmes, this place is incredible!”

  “That it is, Watson. That it is. But we have other things to discuss.”

  We spotted wooden crates pushed to one side. Without discussion, Holmes took one and I took the other. As usual, he crossed his legs to relax. I leaned against the wall of the diving room. Admittedly, it lacked the comfort of our sitting room at 221B Baker Street, but there was still a sense of the congenial atmosphere our friendship seemed to engender.

  Holmes spoke of his conversation with the dwarf. “Our primary target is an important scientist who threatens the Royal Navy with an invention that is sinking our ships. The goal is to plunder the gold and any munitions on board.”

  “The Elvira Stockton —” I began.

  “Yes, and the others as well. Watson, I’ve never worked a case so vexing. If it goes wrong—and I fear that there’s a very strong possibility that it will—we shall soon be in the midst of fighting at close quarters. Under the surface of the sea. Zeke told me that we’re about to spring a trap. If you feel more comfortable with staying on board rather than coming with us, I’ll understand.”