by Mike Hogan
Churchill was covered from neck to navel with putrid, red sores. They oozed white matter. The boy groaned expressively. Holmes dry-retched and staggered outside. The Captain bent forward and examined the sores with interest. He said something to himself in Russian. I pulled him back into the corridor.
We made our way up to the top deck again. I made a show of flinging my handkerchief overboard.
“I have to inform you, sir,” I said to the Captain, “that your passenger is exhibiting symptoms of a dangerous disease: it is the plague.”
He crossed and recrossed himself in the Russian manner. “I see in Riga. Next will come the -”
He mimed lumps on the skin.
“Buboes,” I said. “Yes. The disease is extremely contagious.”
The Captain shrugged. “In Riga, they shoot.”
“I regret that we are not empowered to employ such draconian measures in the Port of London,” said Holmes.
Mr Melas came up on deck with his cigar. He smiled cheerfully. “Ah, Doctor. How is young Philip? It is one of those childish fevers, I make no doubt. The sea air will blow it away in a trice.”
“I have bad news for you, sir,” I said, feeling stiff, uncomfortable and foolish. “Your son is very ill: he has the plague.” Mr Melas threw his hand to his brow and staggered to the ship’s rail. He choked back a tear and clung, quivering, to a stanchion. Holmes and I exchanged nervous looks. His acting was of the melodrama variety, with gasps and pale vapourings. He gave us a final, tortured look and rushed down the stairs. I avoided Holmes eyes.
The Captain seemed unperturbed by Melas’ behaviour. I recalled that Mr Melas not only played a Greek, he was in actual fact Greek. His English accent was so precise that it was easy to forget that he was, after all, irredeemably foreign. I turned to Holmes.
“Anyone who has been in contact with the boy must be isolated.”
Holmes nodded solemnly. “The steamship Biarritz is hereby placed under quarantine by order of Her Majesty’s London Port Sanitary Authority, I am serving you, Captain, with this Quarantine form - please sign here and here - and by the power vested in me I require you to proceed to the Quarantine Wharf at Gravesend where your papers will be examined. What is your cargo, sir?”
“Mixed: wool and cotton goods, machinery parts, ten thousand rifles, million of ball ammunition. I carry twenty passengers with servants and Russian Embassy valise diplomatique.”
“I will arrange a pilot boat to guide you to the Gravesend jetty,” said Holmes. “Failure to adhere to the regulations may result in forfeiture of your ship and cargo, sir.”
The Captain’s face paled under his beard. He crossed himself again.
“I must inform the authorities,” said Holmes. “Will you stay, Doctor?”
I shook my head. “There is nothing that I can do. I have provided his nurse with opiates. She will make the boy as comfortable as possible. We must let nature take its course.”
Holmes shook the Captain’s hand. “The pilot boat will be here in a few minutes, Captain. You may contact your company by telegraph from our offices in Gravesend.”
They saluted. The Captain held his salute as I held out my hand. There was fear in his eyes. I followed Holmes down the gangplank and along the wharf towards our launch.
“Well done, Doctor!” Holmes murmured. “And well done the Savoy Theatre. Churchill looked to be at death’s door. Ha! How will Captain Barshai break it to our kidnappers and jewel thieves, I wonder? They will not be pleased.”
“I am unhappy leaving Churchill with them, Holmes. Remember Riga!”
It was grey dawn as we boarded our launch. The two strange men were back in their places in the stern. Holmes told the engineer to pass the Biarritz and hold just off her bow as he hailed her and instructed the Captain to follow the launch at seven knots.
I heard shouts in Russian, clanking chains, the screech of steam whistles and the throb of heavy engines at work. We watched as the ship’s twin bow anchors were wrested from the mud of the riverbed. I heard the, at first soft, then growing, and finally thunderous sound of her huge paddle wheels beating the water into a tumult. She backed away from the wharf in clouds of spray, spun ponderously to face downstream and followed meekly as our launch led her towards Gravesend.
“We are sending the Russians arms and ammunition on the eve of a possible war, Holmes.”
“I had not considered the diplomatic bag, Watson,” he said. “That was remiss of me. If they put the jewels under embassy protection, that could be awkward. I will have to discard all except two of my backup plans.”
“I may be dim witted, Holmes,” I said. “I may miss a thing or two -”
Holmes held up his hand in deprecation.
“No, no. I do not claim to be your equal in intellectual matters, but is not this plan deuced complicated?”
“On the contrary, my dear friend,” Holmes said with a smile. “I had five separate plans to get us on board the steamer. This is the second simplest.”
Our small launch led the huge ship like a porpoise frolicking at its bow. The mist from the paddle wheels mixed with our funnel smoke and drifted over the River. We negotiated the tight curve at Greenwich, tooting our steam whistle to warn barges and ferries of our advance. We were part of a long procession of ships leaving the Port under sail and steam. There were cargo ships of all kinds and several large passenger steamers, both paddle and screw driven. We passed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ships in the docks on either side of the River. Their mast tops, and those of the cranes, glimmered with the first rays of the morning sun
The noise on the River grew as the light increased and the city awoke. I heard hammering and clanging from the factories, the thrum of paddle wheels, the muffled steady beat of engines and unintelligible yells and screeches from shore and ship.
The quays were crowded with men threading their way among huge stacks of cork, pyramids of barrels and bundles of raw cotton and made-up fabrics.
The stink of the River was overlain by that of the contents of the warehouses and ships that we passed: tobacco predominated, then coffee, creosote, rum and the stench of hides. I turned to make a remark to Holmes and I paled.
“Holmes!” I cried, pointing. “The Biarritz!”
The prow of the ship was directly behind us, coming up fast, her paddle wheels tossing up two huge clouds of spray like a pair of monstrous wings. Our engineer turned and held up his arms in horror. Holmes leapt for the tiller and heaved on it with all his might. I sprang to his aid. Our two mysterious passengers jumped up in alarm.
The launch turned slowly, slowly.
“Speed, damn you,” cried Holmes.
The engineer ran to the engine and opened the throttle wide. He blew his whistle repeatedly: there was no answer from the Biarritz. The towering bow cut behind our stern with a foot or less to spare. We rocked and almost spilled as the bow wave caught us. I heaved a sigh of relief, until I followed Holmes horror-stricken gaze and saw the massive paddle wheel churning towards us. It slashed past us splintering the rudder to pieces and soaking us all. Our launch bumped along the stern of the ship and spun behind her into her wake. The two men had pulled out revolvers and discharged them at the Biarritz.
“Stop that this instant,” I cried. “Our friends are aboard her.”
Bruiser Bonner, the bare-knuckle boxer, nodded to me and put his hand on the arm of his companion.
We had no control, but we floated; we drifted with the tide.
“Sorry, Doctor,” said Bruiser. “Me and Joe got carried away, like.” He introduced his companion, Joe Heenan, the Mayo Mauler.
I shook hands with them wearily. Water slopped over our stern and we had no means of propulsion or steering. It seemed ludicrous to go through the forms of politeness when we were in grave danger of sinking or being run down by the dozens of ships
passing at speed in both directions.
One ship, a large, twin-funnelled, tall-masted paddle steamer with a ram bow headed directly towards us. The engineer and Holmes were in consultation in the stern. I ventured to tap Holmes on the shoulder and point out the oncoming vessel. He shaded his eyes and stared.
“Perhaps, my dear fellow, you would be so kind as to toot a welcome on our whistle while we still have steam?”
12. A Fabulous Glittering Gift
Coming it the Lord Nelson
“Good morning, Mycroft,” I said as I climbed the ladder and boarded the Enchantress. “And to you Lieutenant Blake. I am relieved to see you again.”
The launch was plucked from the River; it hung forlornly from davits just behind the casing of our roaring paddle wheels. The engineer smoked a phlegmatic pipe and contemplated the half-chewed-off stern of his command as he told his tale to a group of sailors.
I joined Holmes at the ship’s rail. “Prize-fighters?”
He smiled. “They were part B of my simplest plan, if we had not talked our way aboard: an attack up the gangplank to take the Biarritz by a coup de main.”
“They meant to run us down, Holmes.”
“It seemed so.”
“So much for your restraining hand.”
“It was a desperate act. Did you get the impression that the Russian Captain was the murderous type?”
I considered. “No.”
“Then he may have acted under duress. The thieves may have taken control of the ship.”
“Piracy on the High Seas!” I exclaimed.
“Hardly that, Watson, we have not yet passed Ilford. We have the miscreants for several Thames Conservancy and criminal damage charges, but the police fleet at Wapping is made up of constables in rowing boats with little capacity for ocean pursuit. However, if we suspect piracy, the Navy can act.”
“Can we apprehend her, Holmes? The Biarritz is a well-found, fast ship. The Enchantress is old, is she not? The deck beneath our feet is vibrating noticeably. Shall we move to the front, or prow of the ship, away from the spray of the paddle wheels? We may be able to catch a glimpse of our quarry.”
“Lieutenant Blake is sanguine. I think we may safely leave the chase to the Royal Navy.”
“Yes, of course, I meant no reflection on the Navy, although the Captain is rather young. But, consider, my dear friend, the fiends have made off with a Marlborough!”
The Enchantress picked up speed as we passed the narrows at Tilbury. As we had expected, there was no sign of the Biarritz at Gravesend. Mycroft and Lieutenant Blake, the young commander of the ship, joined us on the foredeck and a naval rating offered bacon sandwiches and mugs of beef tea laced with rum.
“I told you that we can rely on the Navy, Watson,” said Holmes helping himself. “This is a civilised way to pursue villains. I wish more of them would take to the waters. It is as invigorating as standing on the footplate of a speeding railway engine, without the disagreeable smuts in one’s eyes. And the catering is far superior.”
He bowed to the lieutenant and toasted him with his mug.
“We must be running at over ten knots,” I exclaimed. “How the paddles hurl the water skywards; it is a fine sight.”
“Almost twelve knots, Doctor,” said Lieutenant Blake. “The Biarritz is also rated twelve.”
He grinned. “We are short-handed as you will have noticed; a large contingent, including the Captain and most of our officers, are on shore for the Jubilee. The Enchantress is twenty-odd years old, and our quarry is a youngster at nine, but we are not heavy-laden, nor crewed by Russians, and I will be surprised if the Biarritz has our legs.”
He rapped on the wooden railing for luck.
“Ha!” said Holmes. “We shall soon be upon them. They were foolish to run.”
“What an incurable show-off you are, Sherlock,” said Mycroft coming up and taking a mug of beef tea. “You knew they’d run. That’s why you ordered them to Gravesend; you wanted them to elope so that you could pursue them. You are coming it the Lord Nelson as you did so often in the Nursery.”
“Tut, tut, brother,” said Holmes, smiling. “And you claim that you do not have a suspicious mind.”
“What happens when -” Mycroft paused at the Lieutenant’s frown and touched a wooden stanchion for luck. “What happens if we catch the Biarritz?”
“We rescue our people and Kanji,” I said. “We free the Captain - if he is under duress - arrest the culprits and restore the jewels to Her Majesty and to Gondal.”
“How?” asked Mycroft. “She is a large vessel. We cannot detain the ship in the Channel indefinitely while we conduct a search for the gems. There are ten thousand places that they could be hidden - if they are even on the ship. It would take weeks to do a thorough job.”
He tapped his brother on the shoulder. “The diplomatic bag must on no account be violated; no tricks or stratagems, Sherlock, it must be inviolate. You nod, but I do not see your fingers; show me that your fingers are not crossed.”
“We can order the ship back to London and carry out an intensive search,” I suggested.
Holmes and Mycroft exchanged amused looks.
“That could be awkward when the Russian Captain talks of inspections, quarantine and the plague,” said Mycroft.
A sailor in the crow’s nest hailed the Lieutenant. He waved to the bridge, and there was a flurry of movement at the base of the ship’s main mast as a huge White Ensign broke out at the masthead. Lieutenant Blake turned to us with a grin.
“Enemy in sight.”
Holmes, Mycroft and I stood on the bridge of the Enchantress.
In two hours, our quarry had changed from a mere dot on the horizon to a fine ship with a black hull, white upper works, a red funnel and the Russian tricolour on a jack at her stern. She was hull-up and a mile or so ahead as she passed out of the Thames at the Nore. Her paddle wheels spun furiously and her wake was a straight line of turbulence over which gulls circled and swooped. Within half an hour, we had closed to hailing distance and Lieutenant Blake ordered her to stop through a speaking trumpet. There was no reply or change in her course. I could see the Russian Captain on the starboard wing of his bridge staring impassively ahead. Blake hailed again, and then again.
“What now?” I asked.
Holmes shrugged one of his Continental shrugs and beamed at me.
“Faith,” he said. “Rule Britannia.”
Our young commander studied the Biarritz through his telescope for a long moment. He gave a string of orders. I heard the word ‘gun’ with some trepidation.
I watched with astonishment as a field gun was assembled on the deck below us. White clad sailors bustled back and forth with balletic efficiency, joining carriage, wheels and barrel. Ship’s boys took station to one side with wooden boxes of cartridges.
“She is a three-hundred weight Armstrong six-pounder,” the Lieutenant explained with a note of pride. “She was designed as a mountain gun, obviously by a committee; no mule could carry the heavy parts on the flat, much less up a mountain. Weight is no problem for us. Give me a party of seamen and a block and tackle and I will move a mule gun, to mangle Archimedes. We managed to obtain the gun on loan, and she has been lost in the paperwork.”
A piratical gleam appeared in the lieutenant’s eye. “The Captain insists that we practice landing a party on shore and setting up the gun once a month. We have never had a chance to fire her from the ship while under way; it will be a most interesting experience.”
“Our people are aboard the Biarritz,” I reminded him. “One is the nephew of the Duke of Marlborough.”
“Tut, tut,” said Holmes. “Do not fuss; let the Navy do its job. Churchill will not mind a whiff of shrapnel.”
“Fire,” cried the Lieutenant.
A cheery young midshipman o
n the foredeck repeated the order, and the mule gun flashed and bellowed a loud, sharp crack. A bright-yellow flame shot out of the muzzle followed by a long stream of grey and black smoke. The network of ropes that the sailors had attached to the carriage to stop it recoiling into the sea twanged and thrummed as the gun jumped a clear foot or more off the deck.
I watched for the fall of shot across the bow of the Biarritz. I had been assured that we would fire warnings, but I saw no plume of water. Had we hit the vessel? The gunners went through the choreographed reloading drill. They opened the breech and were wreathed in smoke. The stench of explosives was strong. I was reminded of the demonstration at the Woolwich Arsenal and of 221B on the morning after the bomb outrage.
“Good,” said Holmes. “Well done, Lieutenant.”
The gun team paused in their routine and looked up at the bridge. The midshipman face showed a look of bitter disappointment.
“What?” I asked.
Holmes pointed across the water.
The paddle wheels on the Biarritz were idling. She let off a long mournful blast on her steam whistle as she slowed; the Enchantress answered with a shrill screech.
A naval boarding party assembled under the direction of Lieutenant Blake. A dozen sailors in white dungarees and floppy hats stood in a barefoot grinning line. They were short, lithe men holding heavy cutlasses. A huge and heavily bearded petty officer was to one side with an axe over his shoulder. His pose was stern, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. The gunnery midshipman, a boy of no more than Wiggins’ age, marshalled another group of white uniformed men and checked each man’s rifle and other kit. He wore a blue midshipman’s uniform with a large cutlass on a shoulder belt, a pistol in its holster and a dirk in his belt. His face was smoke-smudged and there was a piratical glint in his eyes.
I put my medical bag down on the deck while I checked the action of my service revolver.
Lieutenant Blake tapped me on the shoulder. “Doctor, as I have told both Mr Holmses, this is a naval operation. As acting-captain, I cannot leave the ship. Midshipman James is the officer in charge of the boarding party, and he must be obeyed. Once control has been established, Mr Mycroft Holmes will conduct affairs in the political sphere. You may take your weapon, but you may only discharge it on the instruction of Mr James, or as a last resort to defend your life. Is that clear, sir?”