[SH] BigBang: Dutch Steamship Friesland XII
The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland
Previous: XI. Hostage
XII. Courage and Compassion
Together, we picked up the remains of the unfortunate captain, taking him out onto the deck. As soon as we were out of earshot, Holmes gave a wince of pain, which causes both of us to let go of the body. I was at his side in an instant, despite the gun still trained on both of us. Ms Farington advanced carefully. “What is the matter?”
“I apologize”, said Holmes, “it seems Dr Watson was correct and the injury to my hand is graver than I thought.”
“What injury?” To my other astonishment, Ms Farington grabbed hold of Holmes's wrist in a rather unladylike fashion, unwrapping the handkerchief.
I have to confess that, for a moment, I too was startled by the severity of the burn. In the poor light of a single candle,
the injury had not appeared to be as grave.
Ms Farington, too, seemed quite affected by the sight. “What happened?”
Holmes shook her off. “Your associates considered it wise to bind me to a hot piping,” he said. He spoke unusually harshly, and I could see Ms Farington flinch. I could but assume that there was a purpose to Holmes's actions, and I dearly hoped that he was able to achieve it.
To my surprise, Ms Farington looked at me. “How bad is it, Dr Watson?”
“Quite serious. I would have treated it, but there was no time. I can't say how bad it is without examining the area properly, but there is a definite risk of infection in this environment, particularly of sepsis.”
“Then leave the body. Treat him. I still have your supplies - here.”
For a small moment, I saw Holmes's eyes gleam in triumph, but it disappeared so quickly that I was convinced I had been mistaken.
Beside the supplies I had so hastily packed, I also took my handkerchief back, to my horror finding it covered in blood. Holmes's hand looked equally bloodied - a second degree burn then, although I could not see any blisters.
Ms Farington must have seen the horror on my face. “What is it?”
“I should have examined it more carefully when I first noticed it. It is much graver than I originally thought. Holmes, you do realise that such a burn is likely to leave scarring? It must be immensely painful.”
“I suggest, Watson, you make your examination a quick one.”
“I need fresh water to clean away the blood and dirt.”
“Then we will go to the general room. I am sure I will be able to find some water for you, Doctor, as long as Audrey is watching over you.” Ms Farington motioned us to walk in front of her, but her behaviour seemed much altered, her forehead creased in a frown of doubt.
It had no doubt been Holmes's goal to touch upon her confusion regarding her husband's cruelty and her compassion, of which, I, too, was certain that it was genuine. I merely wished the it could have been without the risk to Holmes's own health.
As per Mr Carter's instructions, all our fellow travellers had been gathered in the general room, sitting at the tables while Audrey Charles stood in the doorway, watching them carefully. He stepped aside to allow us to enter, nodding briefly to Ms Farington. She did not acknowledge his greeting.
Mr Russell jumped up as soon as he saw us. “Mr Wilson, Mr Sipkens, what is happening?”
Charles glared at him, and Henry Russell sank back onto his side, taking the hand of his wife.
Ms Farington had departed again, hopefully fetching some water. I had not noticed before, but now, Holmes was keeping his injured hand close to his chest, as if to protect it.
We joined the Russells.
“I am afraid, Mr Russell, we cannot tell you at this moment”, said Holmes, in his usual tone, “it would be best for you all to do nothing which might provoke a harsh reaction in our captors.”
Mrs Russell stared at him, open-mouthed. “But...”
“Ah, yes, we have not been properly introduced. Sherlock Holmes, Madame, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.”
“What, the detective?”
“The same.”
“We apologize for deceiving you, but it was quite necessary,” added I.
At that same moment, Paul and John Mason entered the room. John was sporting an impressive black eye, and was being held at gunpoint. Clearly, then, he was not involved in the criminal syndicate, nothing but a puppet in the hands of the criminals. In the middle of the room, he once again turned, his hands raised plaintively. “Brother...”
Paul Mason merely grunted and stalked out of the room again.
For a moment, John stood rooted to the spot, as if unsure what do to with himself, then he walked away, staring out of
the small windows. I had no doubt that for him, the blow had been a heavy one. My own relationship with my brother had never been ideal, but I could still imagine the pain such a betrayal must have caused, and so, I think, could my companions. A hushed silence had sunk over the room, interrupted only by an uncomfortable clearing of a throat.
When Ms Farington returned, she found herself faced with several harsh glares, which clearly caused her to falter. Holmes's face, too, was earnest, and he did not offer his thanks when she sat down a bowl of water beside him.
“Anything else I can do, Doctor?”
“No, under the circumstances there is nothing more. Thank you.”
“Susan! Get back to the bridge. Your husband is on the verge of doing something even more reckless.”
Ms Farington looked back at Mr Charles, then at Holmes, who kept avoiding her gaze. With a sigh, she turned away
from us and left the room.
“You needn't be so harsh on the young lady, Holmes,” said I while I was dipping a clean cloth into the water and starting to wash the blood away.
“She is a criminal, Watson. Not of the common variety, I give you that, but a criminal nonetheless. She does not more deserve my respect than any of those we have put to prison in the past years. So far, I see no reason to admire her for being, at least, particularly cunning.”
“That is unfair of you. Without her kindness, you could well die from this injury.”
To my surprise, Holmes pulled his hand away as soon as I got anywhere near the centre of the burn, that angry red area in the palm of his hand. It was clear to me that such a burn had to sting; however, it was imperative that the wound should be cleaned, and I told Holmes so.
“Leave it, Watson. You do trust me, don't you?”
“On criminal matters, certainly. When it comes to medicine, however...”
Holmes silenced me with a wave of his hand.
Naturally, I obeyed his command, although I could not fathom why he would wish me to be silent, as I had noticed no change in our companions and adversary.
However, as silence fell over the room, we could all hear what Holmes had somehow noticed before - gunshots, reverberating on the ship's hull, and rendering the silence in the general room a deadly one. Never before had I been so conscious of the danger.
Mrs Russell was clutching her husband's arm in a white-knuckled grip, her face stricken with horror. I could not begin to imagine how much this situation affected our fellow passengers. During my association with Holmes, and aided to no small degree by my own profession and military training, I was able to face the situation with outward calm, although I could not ban the dread entirely from my mind. The captain's murder did quite prohibit any sense of safety.
Audrey Charles, too, looked slightly worried out into the hallway, obviously reluctant to leave the passengers to their own devices, especially, I suspect, as long as Mr Sherlock Holmes was among them, but clearly rattled by the implications of the shots coupled with Mr Carter's explosive temper.
When the rapid staccato of hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway, Charles abandoned all precaution and rushed out to meet his colleague. A hushed argument followed, and when Charles came back in, he looked stricken. “Dr Watson, you services are needed.”
If he had asked anything else, I would have hesitated to do anything to aid the criminals, or at the very least enquired as to the reasons. However, I could not refuse any man my medical assistance.
Holmes rose with me, but at his movement, Charles raised the gun. “Just the Doctor, Holmes.”
If Holmes felt any misgivings about my going alone, he did not say so, but sank back onto his seat, watching the criminal with the same calculating gaze with which he scrutinized any of his clients. Having been subjected to it in the past, I knew that Holmes's great mind was at work behind his inscrutable expression. I would have much wished to know his plans, but any communication to that effect was, of course, impossible, as long as any one of the criminals was watching over us.
Ms Farington was waiting for me in the hallway. Her charming face was marred by an expression of such horror that my first inclination was to rush to her side and offer some comfort, but remembering that she was associated with the criminal syndicate responsible for this bloodshed, I refrained from doing so.
She had been a remarkably confident and independent woman when she was first introduced to me - one who was not afraid to laugh, or too concerned about what people might think of her conduct. Seeing her now, I should not have believed I was facing the same person. Ms Farington was pale, quiet and subdued, no trace of her cheerfulness remaining in her face. She was taking me to the bridge without saying a word, but suddenly, not far from the door behind which I assumed my patient, she stopped and turned to me, defiance sparkling in her eyes.
“Take your gun back, Dr Watson. I have no wish to possess it, and certainly no desire to use it. I trust it is in good hand with Mr Holmes and yourself.”
To my astonishment, she offered me not only my revolver, but also the black leather pouch with Holmes's lock picks. Rather to startled to respond, I took the items and hid them in my inner coat pocket.
“I trust you will make good use of them. Now, your patient.” Ms Farington strode ahead, her posture proud and her chin held high, as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders. Her decision to give me the items had been a heavy one, but, as far as I could gather, she was convinced to have done the right thing. I, too, was certain that if any of the criminal syndicate was likely to help us, it was her. The others might be horrified by Mr Carter's conduct, but in the face of their goal, they seemed to look past it - his conduct, however, might well have cost Carter the loyalty and support of his own wife.
The bridge was a sorry sight. There was still blood on the floor where the unfortunate captain had fallen, but now, there was also a trail of fresh blood on the nearby wall, under which, clutching his arm and shivering with shock, sat Mr Peterson. Carter still had his gun trained on him.
I am certainly no stranger to violence, but such senseless bloodshed roused my temper. It would have been easy to take control, now that I was once again in the possession of my revolver, but I feared what might happen to my fellow passengers, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, if I attempted anything.
Instead, I knelt by Peterson's side, carefully removing the torn fabric from the wound. The bullet had passed through his upper arm, narrowly missing an artery. He had been lucky, but the loss of blood was a great one, and I had no doubt that he would suffer from an infection. For now, I could do nothing but stop the bleeding and bandage the wound, and try to abate the shock.
“He needs some water.”
“Susan! Get some.”
Our of the corner of my eye, I had seen Ms Farington flinch at the harsh bellow of her husband, but she quickly hurried away, her small shoes clicking on the hallway floor.
Peterson seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, unaware of his surroundings. Shock seemed to be the gravest danger at the moment, and I tried my best to keep the inspector awake with my ministrations.
“Why did you shoot him?”
Charles Carter stared at me as if I had insulted him. Clearly, I had to tread very carefully if I wished to learn the story from him.
“Why?!” he snapped, startling the crew, who were still trying to go about their business, the gaze of each man haunted by the violence they had witnessed.
“What happened to cause you to harm him?”
“It's none of your business.”
Conscious of the enormous responsibility Ms Farington had placed upon me by trusting me to bring my revolver and the lock picks safely back to Sherlock Holmes, I did not enquire further, but focussed all my attention on Mr Peterson.
Even when I was finished with my treatment, Carter would not allow me to take Peterson down to the general room with me. However, as I tried to make Peterson comfortable, I heard the low murmur of hushed conversation behind me, and upon turning, found Ms Farington had approached her husband.
“Why would I do that?”
“Don't you think the Dutch government will miss their agent? An injury might come by chance, a death will raise suspicion.”
“Very well. Go then, Doctor. I will send Susan to fetch you in two hours.”
Ms Farington did not speak to me as she accompanied me down to the general room. However, the closer we came, the more tense she appeared, and I was suddenly filled with a sense of dread. Should it be that shooting Peterson had been nothing but a cruel hoax, to separate Holmes and myself? Had my dear friend suspected it and had therefore tried to accompany me? No harm had come to me, but what of Mr Sherlock Holmes?
Quickening my pace, I pushed past Mr Charles and Mr Mason. Half I suspected to see Holmes sitting right where I had left him, scoffing over my worry - however, he was not there. I was so dazed by it that, for a moment, I stood still and scanned every face in the room twice, thinking, perhaps, that he had once again disguised himself so effectively that even I, who had known him for so many years, failed to recognise him. Sadly, my efforts were to no avail.
The reader might imagine my horror. We had, during this case alone, been in many a dangerous situation during which we might well have been killed, but I had not imagined that Holmes would simply disappear.
“What happened?” asked I, addressing no one in particular.
Mrs Russell was now sobbing openly, her husband seemingly torn between trying to comfort her and anger at the criminals. The Fones, as always, avoided my gaze, but Mr John Mason stepped towards me.
“They took him.”
I was not sure what to make of that, and I said so. Paul Mason sneered at me. “Well, we couldn't allow him to stay on board, surely you realise that? If he were to go to the authorities on Calabar, his word would be valued highly. I am no murderer, Doctor, but Mr Holmes could not be allowed to reach Calabar with us.”
“They placed him in a lifeboat and set him adrift,” said John Mason, his tone solemn, “Mr Holmes protested that he was unable to swim, but that did not deter them. They handcuffed him and led him away.”
The thought was a terrifying one. To think of my dear friend set adrift on the rough Atlantic ocean, with no means to steer the small vessel, no food and no protection from the chill and wetness turned me cold and sick. It was a death sentence, even though I had no means of corroborating Holmes's claim of being unable to swim - how curious indeed that during all our adventures, we should never have made use of such a skill.
What use was now the revolver and the set of lock picks? I could not single-handedly face three able bodied men, not even armed, and even though John Mason might have been willing to jump to my aide, he would not do harm to his own brother.
Slowly, I walked over to the windows, both threatening and hoping to catch a glimpse of Holmes's small vessel, dancing away on the waves. Some kind Providence might yet interfere to save his life, as it had so many times before now, although, I feared, to late to prevent the war which was now certain to come over our countries.
Holmes had taken the papers of our own government with him on his hopeless odyssey, and even with the help of Mycroft Holmes, I would not be able to convince any of the officials of the truth of my words - they would rather write my protest off as the deluded ravings of a madman, who believed his friend had been resurrected from the dead. I could but hope that the criminal syndicate would refrain from spilling any more blood of those innocent people with whom we were travelling.
I performed my medical duty towards Inspector Peterson with the greatest care, but my thoughts were with Holmes. It was only when Ms Farington allowed me on deck to catch some fresh air, that my thoughts began to clear, and I tried to think of how my good friend would have expected me to act. Surely it could not have been his wish for me to give up, even should some tragedy befall him. We had both boarded the Friesland in the knowledge of the danger, and in the conviction that it was worth our lives, if necessary, to prevent a war that might well plunge not only the two countries directly involved, but the whole world into a war. Holmes was, or had been, the world's foremost champion for justice, and I could not claim to be worthy to take his place, or to bring the same skill and determination to the task as he had, but, having been denied a final conversation, I could but try to bring to a successful conclusion the case which had brought us to this point.
Next: XIII. Hope