Mycroft Holmes (12 page)

The ship pitched in the other direction, sending him skittering into Douglas.

“Beg pardon,” Holmes muttered, touching his forehead as though they were two strangers who’d bumped each other on the train.

Then he sat hard on his bunk.

“Strange,” he said. “Even when the ship is not pitching, my head continues the movement…”

“You might have a touch of seasickness,” Douglas posited. “Understandable, under the circumstances.”

“Tosh…” Holmes replied. But he nevertheless put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

Douglas left Holmes napping in their cabin and hazarded a trip up on deck to judge for himself just what sort of quandary they had stumbled into. He doubted that he would encounter the toughs again. They were street ruffians, not sailors.

None but a damn fool would walk the promenade on a night like this.

Nevertheless, he tucked his Smith & Wesson top-break, single-action Model 3 into his coat, just in case.

The damn fool might just be me
, he thought wryly.

BESIDES PASSENGERS AND CREW, THE GREAT SHIP CARRIED A FULL
cargo of tobacco, leather goods, and lard. Douglas thought she was less than six years old, from the looks of her, and as fit as any vessel put to sea. Then again, he doubted that her mettle had been tested in a storm of such magnitude.

He watched her bow rise and dip over angry black water that seemed not so much beneath as all around her, while above her the twilight sky was a patchwork of mist and fog and flying scuds of rain, so that there was no respite to be had, either above or below.

If she sank beneath those fulsome waves, succumbing to a watery grave, the only thing left afloat would be the lard.

He walked back to their cramped quarters, having discovered nothing of import. Neither he nor Holmes had a notion what the next move might be, but one thing was certain. Since they could not discern friend from foe, for the time being they would keep the assault to themselves.

“I say we go to the saloon and have some dinner,” Holmes said, “as if nothing had transpired. We simply keep our wits about us, and judge if anyone is surprised to see us there.”

“Our other alternative is to remain where we are,” Douglas said, only half joking, as he already knew how that suggestion would be received. Holmes frowned his disapproval and put another round of carbolic acid and water on his wounded cheek—after which the men silently dressed for dinner and exited the room.

* * *

The moment they stepped outside, the wind seemed to want its pound of flesh. It howled through each crack and cranny of the long, dank passageway, whipping up whorls of dust like ghosts rising up and taking form. They could hear the water slosh against the great ship’s sides as she forced her way through the swells.

Douglas bent his knees to lower his center of gravity. He had long grown accustomed to the motion of a ship, and could anticipate the
Sultana
’s moves and coordinate them with his own. Holmes, on the other hand, was attempting to ride her, to beat her, to wear her down. He treated every sway as combat, pitting his balance and reflexes against her feints and jabs. Watching him, Douglas became concerned that his young friend would soon land upon his head—so he decided to act the role model.

He grabbed the handrail.

“You will find this to be of service,” he said, hoping his tone would carry a warning.

Holmes assiduously ignored him.

Douglas abandoned the futile effort and let go.

No use providing an object lesson
, he mused,
when the student pays not the slightest heed
. Not to mention that the effort to stay upright actually seemed to be having a positive effect on his friend. It was the first time he’d seen Holmes act even remotely carefree since they’d boarded.

At that very moment a shadow crossed their paths, quick and fleeting. Douglas instantly laid a hand on the gun in his coat pocket. The move did not slip by unnoticed—Holmes glanced at him, curious, especially once the shadow proved to be a play of the light, and nothing more.

Douglas laughed. “There’s nothing like a ship, once the sun has set,” he said, “to give true meaning to the term
eerie
.”

“You are allowing your nerves to get the better of you,” Holmes said, and he smiled. “Though I grant you this journey has not been terribly peaceful thus far—”

“Your cut is bleeding, Holmes,” Douglas interrupted, proffering his handkerchief. Holmes took it with a gruff “thank you,” and then pulled the jar of salve out of his pocket.

“If a bit is good, a great deal more is best,” he said wryly.

“I am not certain it works that way,” Douglas responded. “But if it makes you feel better…”

“A bit of normalcy would make me feel better, but that seems to be in short supply at present,” Holmes said, shrugging.

* * *

Just as they reached the door to the grand saloon, the weather rewarded them with a temporary lull. Even so, there were plenty of seats to be had at the long table. Usually, passengers who were tardy had nowhere to sit, but on this night most everyone had elected to remain in their rooms.

Douglas counted. Fewer than fifty were present. Nevertheless, that meant one hundred eyes, all critical of a tall, somber black man in his middle years, who—though he might be staring humbly at the floor—seemed too self-possessed to be a servant. Especially since he stood next to a young man of no more than three-and-twenty, with a fresh and ugly gash upon his cheek.

Bound to attract attention
, Douglas mused, subtly scanning the room. But it seemed the passengers were concentrating entirely on their meals, as if by focus alone the soup would remain in its bowl where it belonged.

They had crossed into international waters, so Douglas would be permitted to sit next to Holmes at dinner. Indeed, one of the advantages of ship life was that people were forced to share the same small space with others from many different parts of the world, including persons of darker hue.

“Quite fascinating, really,” Douglas opined. “What might at home be considered inappropriate is here accepted as exotic.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“You would be exotic, then?” he asked, eliciting a raised eyebrow in return, along with a nearly imperceptible smile.

“Only in comparison to you, Holmes.”

The attendants brought them the first course, a hearty clam and oyster stew, and then poured what looked to be a rather anemic white wine into a crystal decanter.

Holmes tasted it and grimaced.

“A pox on
phylloxera
!” he muttered to Douglas, referring to an aphid that for twelve long years had been ravaging the great French vineyards, particularly Languedoc. Owners of formidable wineries whose origins dated back hundreds of years had been left devastated. They were now forced to graft hardy American vines onto their native plants. The results so far were promising, though French pride had taken a beating.

“Poor France,” Holmes said. “First their wine, and now a war.”

“It’s not a war—not yet,” Douglas countered.

“No, but it shall be. Good thing you doubled up on Armagnac and Cognac shipments. Those, at least, shall be spared.”

Douglas kept on eating, enjoying the lull, however brief it might be.

“I wish I could have done the same with human beings,” he muttered. “Saved a few. Especially the children. They suffer most in times of war…”

Holmes stared into his soup and said nothing, and Douglas did not like the look of him. Perhaps his discomfort would be eased by an after-dinner brandy, which he hoped would not be too second-rate, and a fine cigar.

He had barely harbored the thought when, as if on cue, the
Sultana
’s respite ended. She began to lurch about. More and more diners went green at the gills and succumbed, excusing themselves. But Holmes was determined to remain steady. Peering around the room, he raised his eyebrows in a way that played on Douglas’s last nerve.

“You look as if you were Temperance herself, caught in the presence of drunkards,” he grumbled. “Do you consider seasickness a moral lapse?”

Holmes seemed stung by the reproach.

“You misread me,” he said. “My frown was not brought on by passengers who are present, but by those who are not.”

Douglas took another sip of wine.

“You are speaking of Georgiana, then?”

“Georgiana, yes,” Holmes confessed with a shrug. “But also those government officials who earlier seemed uncannily intent on avoiding one another. I was calculating the odds that they would all be taken ill at once, and they are long odds indeed. I am quite put out that they are not here, as they were my most likely suspects.”

“Though you have absolutely no reason to think so…” Douglas began when Holmes continued.

“As to ‘moral lapse,’” he said, “I think nothing of the sort. There’s nothing ‘moral’ about an unruly stomach. No, what these passengers are experiencing is a perfectly normal biologic function, brought about when the brain repeatedly loses its equilibrium, and then recovers it.

“This effort leaves the mind bewildered and fatigued,” he continued. “The digestive organs—most especially the liver—begin to be affected, bringing on nausea. People then attempt to cure this orally, say with milk of magnesia. Yet as the nausea is only symptomatic, and not the root cause, such remedies must inevitably fail.”

“You missed your calling,” Douglas said with a laugh, “for surely you should have been a physician.”

“Ah, what a dreary, dull life that would be,” Holmes replied, “to spend one’s days palpating human beings and cataloguing their ills. No, Douglas, I would have made a perfectly wretched physician, in that patients would have made a perfect wretch out of me.” He paused to take a tentative spoonful of soup, and did not care for the taste.

“As for seasickness,” he said, pushing away the bowl, “the only cure is to have perfect control over the origin of the difficulty, and that is the brain. It’s really quite simple, you see. You must focus, with great control, on objects in sight that are fixed and stable…”

“That’s quite the challenge,” Douglas interjected, “as everything that is seemingly ‘fixed’ is on the boat, and therefore rocking alongside you.”

“Granted, that may cause a difficulty or two,” Holmes admitted. “One must keep one’s gaze on the horizon,” he added, “and perhaps assume a prone position.”

He paused again, and frowned.

“By doing so…” he said, “you will diminish the… the…”

Rather than finish his thought, he doubled over. His stomach began to heave—not quietly and politely, but loudly, like an orphaned baby seal. It was only Douglas’s swift reflexes that kept Holmes from regurgitating his clam and oyster stew all over his shoes.

With apologies to those seated beside them, he quickly helped Holmes to his feet, and back to their room. As they went, Holmes managed a few more words.

“I wish to die,” he muttered. “Kindly let me die.”

* * *

Holmes at last lay in his berth, in between his moans and explosions of vomitus. Douglas did his best to wipe up the mess on the floor. But even in the throes of illness, Holmes could not abide having his friend and traveling companion cleaning as though he were a scullery maid.

“There will be none of that,” he said, lurching out of bed. “I shall not allow you to…
aaaaahhh!
”

Douglas turned from his mop in time to see Holmes slip on his own effluence and land on his backside, legs akimbo. He hurried over to pick him up. As they made their unsteady way back to the cabin, Holmes looked up at him with a weak smile.

“Pride goeth before destruction,” he quoted, “and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

“You may indeed have been cursed, Holmes,” Douglas said wryly. He helped Holmes out of his soiled clothes, situated him back on the bed, and then finished cleaning up both the floor and himself. Thankfully, it seemed as if his friend had nothing left to expel.

Crawling into his own bunk, he put out the gas light—although he ended up staring at the dark ceiling for a good long while. The tiredness was overwhelming, yet sleep would not come.

Here I am
, he thought,
in the exact situation I said I would not abide—dragging a white man about…

In truth, he enjoyed Holmes’s company. But he had never quite known what to make of this good-looking, brilliant young man, so very British in bearing, pedigree, and character, who somehow found pleasure in the friendship of a forty-year-old native of Trinidad. He supposed there must be a purpose to it, this fate that brought them together.

Certainly, over the course of a year, Holmes had proved a dear if somewhat exasperating companion. And, because he was so inordinately intelligent, it was difficult at times to remember that he had been out of his teens a mere four years, that he had gotten into few scrapes outside the boxing ring, and that he had never before traveled outside of England.

I must endeavor to be more patient.

At midnight, he heard the wail of the steam whistle on deck, which meant that the blackness and the mist were now so thick that the sound was all that stood in the way of their colliding with whatever else happened by. But as he had traversed this particular waterway many times before, he knew that the one true danger for a ship this size was an iceberg.