Chapter 38: "The Devil"
Between the devil and the deep blue sea: nautical term for being in a precarious position.
Holmes
I raced down the passageway, noticing that the wind was whipping up tremendously and the storm we had been running from the last few days apparently was about to break. I clutched the small phial in my pocket in an iron grip, knowing that this was our last hope – if I had made a mistake, then the cure would do no good for Watson and he would…
But I dared not think of it, for my mind was utterly unable to comprehend a world without him. I could not think of it; it was unspeakable.
I reached the foot of the companionway and hurried as fast as I safely could while carrying the glass phial, reaching the door of our stateroom after what seemed like hours. I flung it open and the wind snapped it back against the back wall with a crash that made Lachlan jump nearly a foot into the air.
But my heart plummeted when Watson did not respond or move at all.
Lachlan slammed the door closed.
"Got it?"
"His bag, quickly – an empty syringe," I gasped, out of breath from my dash down the companionway.
Lachlan slammed the bag down onto the table and I pulled the phial from my pocket, praying silently that we had not made any errors in the formula. The seaman handed me a syringe and then went back to Watson.
"How is he?"
"Let's just thank heaven you are fifteen minutes early, Holmes," the sailor said, counting his pulse with a worried face.
"Any more breathing attacks?" I asked, taking a deep breath and holding it, closing my eyes for a moment to steady my nerve and my hands to measure out the cure into the syringe.
"No. Just has lain there unconscious for the last thirty minutes, since after you left," Lachlan replied, glancing at me as I rolled up Watson's sleeve and swabbed the area with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol.
"You – you're sure that's it?" he asked hesitantly, glancing at the syringe in my hand as it hovered over the arm of my dying friend.
"No," I whispered, "but I'm praying with everything in me that it is."
And I took a long breath, closed my eyes, and then opened them, carefully inserting the syringe into the proper place and depressing the plunger, sending the life-giving fluid coursing throughout Watson's bloodstream. I refilled the syringe and repeated the dosage.
"Brown said two doses now and one every four hours until he wakes up," I said, straightening up.
"Brown! Where is he?"
"In his cabin – I took his gun and so pulled the serpent's teeth. I told him to wait there until further notice or I would kill him," I said calmly, rolling Watson's sweat-soaked sleeve back down over his arm and glancing at his face, still twisted with pain even in unconsciousness.
"I'll go after him right now," Lachlan said, putting his jacket and hat on. I handed Lachlan the revolver I had taken from Smith's assistant.
"Thank you, Lachlan – for everything," I said sincerely, shaking the seaman by the hand.
"I'll be back soon as I have the bugger stowed safely in the brig," he promised, going out and shutting the door behind him.
I pulled up a chair and began to wait.
The minutes crawled by slower and slower as the time moved on – I could see no difference whatsoever in Watson's laboured breathing, in his low fever, or the slight twitching movements that occasionally worked their way through his limbs. I bit my lip and rested my head on my arms, which were folded across the back of the chair I was straddling, trying to keep my muddled emotions in check.
Suddenly the door burst open for the second time, the wind again slamming it against the wall.
"Holmes!"
I scrambled out of my chair.
"What is it, Lachlan!"
"Brown – he's dead, Holmes, beat over the head with a belaying pin, I'm guessing!" the seaman's eyes were wide.
I stared blankly.
"Brown – dead? I just saw him not a half hour ago!"
"That's of no consequence, Holmes. You do know what a belayin' pin is?"
I stared at the midshipman, completely puzzled.
"No, I am afraid I have no idea. What is it?"
A belayin' pin, Mr. Holmes, is the type of weapon the guards on board a ship use – like the guards outside the brig!"
But even before the words were out of his mouth, my rapid mind had already made the jump from Brown's death to the murderer.
Smith – he must have heard Gilchrist's confession to me and realized I would find Brown. He had broken out of the brig with the intent of stopping his assistant from aiding me and had now killed him.
He was loose, and we would have to find him all over again.
Lachlan
I realized at once what a belayin' pin meant – that devil had overpowered the guard at the brig and had broken out. Thank the stars I had taken young Renie off duty this morning, for I could not bear to have the lad's innocent blood on my hands.
But now Smith was loose! We were truly now between the devil and the deep blue sea – this was a worse spot than before! Smith had broken out to stop Brown from helping Holmes, and now…
But I shoved my thoughts aside on the instant as Holmes's legs wobbled and he would have crumpled had I not jumped for him – half-pulling, half-carrying him to the chair he had vacated.
The man had not slept in two nights, three days, and to my knowledge had only eaten one meal. Not to mention the emotional duress he was feeling was enough to kill a far stronger man than he. Added to all these the fact that for the last seven hours his friend's fate had rested solely in his hands with that cure, and you had one very exhausted and half-dead detective.
I handed him a glass of water, dashing a shot of brandy into it, and he gulped it down, a slight bit of color coming back to his pale, unshaven face.
I made a swift decision, for he was obviously in no frame of mind to do so.
"Stay here. The Doctor's revolver is on the dresser there. Lock the door, put a chair under the knob, and do not open it until I return," I stated firmly, heading for the door.
"Stop, Lachlan!"
"I will not, Holmes."
"But –"
I turned round and met his rather pitiful attempt at an icy glare with a steely glower of my own.
"Holmes, you are in no condition to be running about the ship. Especially in a storm like this. Leave this to us sailors – we're used to such things."
"But –"
"Besides, Holmes," I said quietly, "when the Doctor wakes up, he is going to need to see you and no one else. You have to be here for him."
I saw his face soften at that, and I could tell that he was even more exhausted than he let on for he did not argue any longer.
"Take no chances, Lachlan – Smith has already murdered hundreds of people; he will not hesitate at one more," Holmes told me unsteadily, "and Watson will kill me if anything happens to you!"
I chuckled. "Don't you worry, Holmes. Now lock this door and put a chair under the knob. And don't let anyone in here until I come back."
Holmes nodded wearily and after I shut the door I put my ear to it to listen and made sure he did as I asked, which he did. Then I left to call the alarm – not a widespread one for fear of panicking the passengers, but one to most of the crew.
We would have to turn the ship inside out, not an easy task in a storm. It was a real squall, a sea storm in earnest now, and the rain started to lash down upon me as I fought my way to the crew's quarters after going to the brig and finding that Smith had indeed managed an escape.
The guard had been knocked unconscious with his own belaying pin and Smith was gone. The bird had flown very neatly, I supposed by luring the guard close enough and then grabbing his pin and keys.
I had glanced into the next cell to see that Gilchrist and the other sailor were both in there – they had heard a commotion but had no idea what had gone on, since they could not see Smith's cell from that angle.
Now, as I raced across the slippery deck, I saw Renie and sent him for three strong lads to guard the brig, for Smith might try to come back and finish Gilchrist for talking to Holmes.
Then I rounded up a half dozen lads I knew I could trust and told them of the situation. When one voiced a protest about starting a manhunt without the captain's permission, my nerve snapped at last. It had been an entirely too long day – and it was only a little after five!
"McGregor, a mass murderer is loose on this ship, and we are going to find him! I shall take full responsibility for the operation, but get moving before I have you strung up to the highest yardarm – now shove off, all of you!"
I assigned two men to each deck and told them to sweep any area for Smith. Then I went up myself and checked Smith's cabin, fighting my way against the raging wind and the lashing rain.
A huge clap of thunder boomed almost at the same instant as a brilliant flash of lightning that illuminated the sky in every direction – the storm was extremely close. Even though it was only late afternoon, it was dark enough to give the illusion of midnight.
He was not in the cabin. I stood for a moment looking at the chemical equipment still spread everywhere that Holmes had left in his hasty flight with the cure and hoped desperately that the formula would not have been too late for the Doctor.
Wait.
I was a fool.
I was a stupid fool!
Smith had broken out to stop Brown from helping Holmes – but he had been too late and killed him because he helped Holmes. Smith then had to have known that Holmes had gotten the information out of Brown and that now the detective had made the cure…
And I had left them completely unguarded downstairs!
I made a dash for the nearest companionway, hoping I would reach them before Smith found a way into the Doctor's stateroom – the man was mad now with a bloodlust for revenge and I doubted anything would stand in his way.
Holmes
I did as Lachlan instructed and then returned to my position on the chair beside the bed, the gun near at hand, straddling the chair.
It would work.
It had to work.
God, let it work.
We had been through a good many difficulties, Watson and I, and many had ended with one or the other of us the worse for wear.
But never like this.
I had never had to sit by and watch while my friend was slowly killed by a debilitating disease.
No. A strong voice sounded in my head.
You hadn't
I felt a sudden flush of guilt.
But Watson had.
Was this the effect my illness had had on him the last time, this terrible, relentless anxiety that ate at me from the inside out? This helplessness?
I lowered my head into my hands and dug my fingers into my hair.
Oh, heavens…what had I done?
How could I have been so careless as to inflict him with the same sickening fear that I now felt? If he came through this, I would never do such a thing again, I vowed it on my word of honour.
If he pulled through this…
No…when.
When he pulled through.
He had to pull through.
I reached out and gripped my friend's cold hand as if clinging to it would keep him there. I had not really allowed myself to contemplate what life would be like without his steady presence by my side.
I had already spent three years away from London, Britain, and everything familiar - most of all him, my closest friend. Was I really to lose him when I had only just come back and finally set everything to rights?
I had never planned on having a good friend in my life; when I had first met Watson I had been quite content with my puzzles and cases, reveling in the powers and cold detachment of my mind. I had seen Watson only as an opportunity to help with the rent money, nothing more. I had not even planned on sharing a flat with him for long.
And yet, I had become friends with this man. Friends in the truest sense of the word, I could not imagine life without my staunch Boswell at my side, I could not go back to the life I had originally planned on, one which now seemed empty and without purpose due to his influence. He had penetrated my shields despite all efforts to block him out, and I would be forever grateful to him for that.
However maudlin or cliché the idea, Watson was indeed a man I would give my life for, one I trusted above all others.
My port in a storm as it were.
I snorted at my own word choice - Watson's idealistic phrases were creeping into my vocabulary. I should never have read his stories in the Strand.
A laugh rose and died in my throat.
I looked at the exceedingly still form of my friend on the bunk, bundled in blankets, his face sallow and lined with tension, his chest barely rising.
His brows were creased and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. But there was no outward sign that he was aware of anything at all.
I laid my free hand on his forehead; he was still feverish, but it was not rising. There was no change.
"Watson," I said softly, my lone voice sounding strange in the empty cabin, nearly drowned out by the sounds of the storm raging outside the window.
I tightened my grip on his hand, hoping more than anything that I would feel a responding grip, that his sunken eyes would flicker.
But there was nothing, only the weak pulse in his wrist
"Watson?"
If there really was such a thing as a longest night then this was mine. A vigil in which I had done all I could and could do no more. In which, for the first time in my life, I was helpless.
I could do nothing but sit by and watch.
It was out of my hands; whether there was a God or not, the decision was no longer mine. And it wasn't fair! Watson was more mine than anyone else's, and I should decide what should happen to him.
Heaven, I did not want to lose him - weakness, crutch, comfort, friend, whatever Watson had become to me, I did not want to lose him. And I did not care what it would cost, what effect it would have on the rest of my life.
Please, I thought, whether to the fates, the empty air, or Watson himself I did not know. I don't want to lose him.
Lachlan
I reached the second level, stopping abruptly in my headlong rush, panting. It was empty, bereft of all but me and the shadows and the darkened doorways.
Was I mistaken? Had Smith instead gone back to the brig to finish off Gilchrist?
No, they were small fish compared to Holmes and the Doctor. Smith would come here; he had nowhere else to go, no other purpose he wished to accomplish so badly. I felt a brief pang of terror as I suddenly realized that he might have been here already, he might have gotten in.
I hurried down the passage towards the Doctor's cabin, only to slow to a walk as I saw that it was still closed and showed no signs of forced entry.
I stopped before it, almost at a loss. I was so certain Smith would have been here…where else would he go?
I turned, intending to go back the way I had come…and saw just in time the small, dark form of a man darting out from one of the alcoves leading to the cabins.
I reached for Brown's gun clumsily, as I was not used to handling firearms. I was too slow, Smith was darting past, I gave up the gun and reached for him, only to curse and stumble aside as something blunt and heavy smashed into my forearm.
I recovered my footing in time to see him making for the end of the hall, lightning flashed outside in the gale, lighting up the dim corridor. For a moment I got a good look at his craggy face and large forehead, his expression twisting his face into a mask of rage. Then he was gone around the corner, up the companionway.
I struggled to my feet as the ship bobbed slightly, throwing out my arms in an effort to steady myself.
I cursed again and bit my tongue as a sharp pain ran up my right hand, the one he had struck.
He had hit it with the belaying pin! There was something wrong, no blood or broken skin, but a constant dull ache.…but I had not time to deal with it. I shoved the offending limb into my jacket and struggled to my feet, using my left arm for support.
Then I pounded after Smith, the opposite of the way I had come, and made my way cautiously up the causeway, my eyes on the lookout for more dangerous shadows.
The storm seemed only to have heightened, and I was hard put to see or hear much in the thick curtain of rain and the howling wind.
Another bit of lightening forked through the air, illuminating the deck and surrounding sea with an eerie glow that made me shiver. For a sailor I am not a superstitious man, but I had inevitably heard a great many ghost stories, and this was not a night to be out tempting fate.
In the light I was able to make out two of the sailors sweeping the front half of the deck, just left of the wireless office…and there on the right the thin figure of Smith vanishing as the darkness descended again.
I bolted as quickly as I was able across the sodden wood and swore as I skidded. Why did everything have to be so cursed polished on passenger lines?
Waves tossed themselves up over the side of the ship, further hampering me and soaking me where the rain had not. Rain stung in my eyes and painfully pelted my face, which I had long ago thought was weathered against such things. There was not an inch of me, exposed or no, that was not rapidly growing numb.
A crack of thunder followed the lightning, further deafening me, but I continued to make my way across the deck, trying to keep my footing.
At last I made the front half of the ship and peered about me in the darkness.
I straightened and pulled the revolver from my pocket.
"SMITH!" I shouted over the screaming wind, trying to make myself heard.
"YOU HAVE NOWHERE TO RUN SMITH! NOT ON THIS SHIP!"
My comments provoked no answer and I scanned the deck again, trying to make sense of the shadows.
I could dimly make out the lantern of the other searchers; they had not heard me either above the wind, for they went on without a pause. I sighed - they had missed him entirely, this bunch were shoddy sailors indeed.
Surely Smith himself could not stand much more of this storm.
I strode forward a few paces and raised my voice again. "SMITH!"
Never in my life have I been more surprised than at that moment, as this time I was met with an answering howl of rage that might have been mistaken for more of the storm that howled about us.
He ran straight at me, appearing as though from the depths of the abyss, the belaying pin held aloft in his hands, I raised the revolver to fire, but my spot was spoiled by a second flash of lightning and a resounding crack of thunder, growing ever closer.
An instant too late I realized that I was not prepared for his attack, and then he was on me.
Another sharp pang ran through my left shoulder as the pin struck it. I shouted and ducked another wild swing from Smith. The man was no fighter.
I struck one of my fists into his stomach, and he staggered back, holding it, and then ran at me again, this time knocking me back as I clutched at him, trying to pull him off.
He had a wiry strength born of hatred and desperation, and I was hard put to detach him. He drove us backward into the railing separating the upper half of the deck from the lower.
I grunted as I was brought up against the hard metal, then twisted to my left. Smith shouted and his grip tightened, pulling me with him as he stumbled and I felt my heart leap into my throat as I suddenly felt nothing but empty air beneath my feet. I had sent us directly into the set of stairs that connected the decks!
We crashed down it, losing hold of each other as we did, I struck painfully on several steps, lost myself to a sense of vertigo, then fell flat onto the slippery polished surface of the deck below.
I must have helped to cushion Smith's fall for as I lay with my spinning head and aching body he came upon me again, wrapping thin, strong hands about my head raising it and trying to crush it down onto the hard wood.
His foot dug into my chest, restricting my breathing. I growled and seized his own head, trying to force him away. His hands latched onto my throat instead and I could hear his desperate breathing as he sought a way to crush my throat.
I could not get him to let go his hold - his strong, sinewy fingers pried at my throat and between him and the rain I was becoming half suffocated.
It was a sad and desperate thing to see, this man who had clung so doggedly to life, only in the pursuit of destroying others.
Not a man, a cold heartless thing, with as little compassion as the sea and the storm raging about us, a creature that, by placing himself apart from humanity had ceased to be a man.
A coldness that I have rarely felt rose within me, and with it a rage. I gripped Smith tightly between my hands and as he continued to thrash and scrabble at my throat I twisted sharply.
The snap of his neck was lost in the sound of the crashing waves and I felt him go rigid for a moment before falling limply to the side as I released him. I rolled away, coming to my knees and clutching my abused throat.
Once again the sky lit with a streak of lightning, illuminating the ship and the living, thrashing waves…and the lifeless, staring face of the corpse who had been the murderer, Culverton Smith.