Chapter 6: "Cut and Run"

Cut and run: Nautical term meaning to leave without ceremony.

Lachlan:

In answer to the request of Dr. Watson, I have written my part and memoirs of this little adventure so he can add them to his own account.

I watched the two of them climb off into their cab, laughing and clapping each other on the back, and could not keep a smile from my face. The world seemed far less harsh with such a friendship in it, and I could not help feeling light after spending some time with them.

I returned to Harry's with the expression still securely on my mug and he looked at me puzzled, but said nothing as I went back to work to make the most of the daylight hours left.

It was a little after nine when Harry finally got up from his desk and he snatched my attention from my work. He nodded to me, speaking little as always and pulled on his coat, heading for the door, leaving his keys for me to lock up.

I had a good stretch for the chair was hard and along with the stiffness that had settled on me I was sore from the bouts of boxing I had done during the afternoon.

Especially the round with Holmes, I thought, smiling again as I touched the wicked bruise on my jaw. The man was as thin as a pole to be sure, but he could pack a wallop, and was as quick as a riptide. I had learnt a definite lesson in humility.

I secured and left the shop then turned to face the dark street, pulling my jacket tighter about me as a cold draft from the river blew up through the thick cotton. It was a hard night, not like the last. The air was alive as it would break into a gale.

I made my way through the near deserted streets to a small pub not a few blocks away.

A rush of warm, odorous air met me, and I felt the chill creep away as I looked round at the familiar liveliness and noise of seamen finished with their day's work and enjoying their drink.

I navigated my way to the aft of the room and sat myself at the table, avoiding the mess that the last fellow had left behind him.

One of the girls, a pretty thing, a little younger than the others came to ask me my business.

I smiled at her asked her for the evening meal and watched as her cheeks turned a scarlet shade, then she skipped off.

(I will take this moment in my narrative to set plain a point for the readers of Doctor Watson who may hold certain questions about my character. A man cannot help but see and appreciate a pretty girl…but I have never been enough of a cad to act on such feelings, especially when the lass is young and knows nothing of the world. I was married once, and the memories of those times are enough for me for the time being.)

She returned a bit later with a steaming meal, which I dug eagerly into; for I had eaten nothing before or after the boxing bouts. When finished I ordered a pint and settled back in my seat to watch the merrymaking of the room.

And that is when I saw him, standing with his back to a wall, leaning heavily on the counter, his eyes peering about him from underneath a pair of bushy black brows.

He looked like every other seaman, with a weatherworn face and dressed in the worn, salt-stained clothes of our class. His expression was brooding and foreboding and he carried himself like a man bent with too many cares for the world.

But there was something about him, some glint in his eyes or slyness in his manner that made me dislike him. He was either out to cause trouble or was in too much trouble to cause it.

It seemed I was not the only one who thought so…for three, hard-looking coves were watching him as well as I.

The fellow had not been there long, for his glass was nearly full, and as I watched he pulled a slow draught then deliberately sloshed some over the sides.

I felt a cold fear down my back at that…he had not come to drink, he had business of some kind, and whatever it was his followers did not like it. Their own drinks were nigh even touched…they could only have been following him.

I sighed and tried to scrub out the exhaustion by rubbing my face with my hand. I was tired and bruised and my supper had only just settled in my stomach. But my cursed curiosity had settled on the man and I would not rest easy until I found out what was up.

I took another draught from my drink…then rose to my feet, clutching the glass, and made my way to the bar, as casual as I could, to lean against the wall not far from where the fellow was. Neither he nor the coves appeared to have noticed.

A few moments passed without trouble and then the barkeep came back round again and the fellow coughed and subtly slid a coin toward him over the surface of the wood.

The barkeep, with an expression as innocent as a newborn babe laid his cloth over the piece and leaned toward the source of his newfound wealth.

"What can I do ye for?" he said pleasantly, in a tone of voice that was too low to draw the crowd's attention but not too subtle as too appear sneaky.

The seaman leaned in a little as well and growled in an accent that was faintly Irish.

"I've just got back into port." He said "And I was te meet a gen'leman 'ere, seems 'e 'as a connection with the Lansing line, said 'e could set me up on one o' their ships. Don't suppose ye've seen anyone like that?"

I shifted a bit at that…as it was too much a coincidence to sit comfortable with me.

"What's 'e look like?"

"Big, burly, has a beard a shade what would make a fire jealous. Name of Wilson."

The knot in my stomach uncurled a touch, for I knew no one of that description.

The barkeep hadn't either for he shook his head and picked up his cloth, leaving not a trace of the coin.

"Sorry, mate, no one like that 'ere. But if I was you I'd count mi'self lucky. There's nothin' good'll come from the workin' for the Lansing line."

The seaman's eyes flashed and he gave the barkeep a sharper look. "Why do ye say that?"

The barkeep cast a guilty glance over at the nearest group of patrons and lowered his voice a touch.

"Haven't yoo 'eard? There's summat 'oo's got it out for the Lansing, not three o' their ships leave port and one of 'em is cursed never to set in again. There's three gone down only these past two weeks."

"Three…in two weeks?" the seaman's voice was hard with skepticism. "I don' believe it."

The barkeep frowned, bothered that his knowledge wasn't appreciated.

"Believe what you like…but there's a good number of men gone missing with those ships…and there's some what say the Friesland'll be next."

The bushy, black eyebrows flew up toward the bloke's cap. "Friesland."

"Aye, mate, the Friesland…the largest ship the line 'as yet, not one o' their cargo ships this one's a passenger. She's 'eaded out to India in a few days. And yoo mark my word she'll never come back."

"An' what makes yoo think it'll be the Friesland. Where'd choo 'ear that, eh?"

"Why…yoo see those three genl'men there." The barkeep, whom I now believed to be one worst idiots I had ever encountered, and with a flapping gob to boot, pointed right at the group. "There was two o' them in 'ere only yesterday…and they was talkin' bout it right as rain. Don' blame 'em really."

The seaman had gone stiff and turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at the group. If he hadn't known he was being followed he knew now and he was a fool if he stuck around here any longer.

And I would be a bigger fool if I let him slip away. Whoever this bloke was, he knew about the mystery and would be of great use to Holmes and the Doctor.

Even as I thought this the fellow put another coin down on the counter and began to make his way toward the door. The group at the table made no sign that they noticed, but that did not mean they weren't watching.

I would have to get to him first.

I let him get halfway to the door before I set down my glass and a few coins of my own, then I followed.

The night had grown lighter for the moon was out at last and nearly full, casting the dockyards of London in a silver light that seemed eerie in this situation. I stayed by the entrance as the man disappeared round a house, and then I went the same path myself.

For several blocks I was able to keep him in sight, and he led me quite a ways away from the pub through the winding streets.

I lost sight of him at last as he disappeared into a dark alley and I paused…it was not the smartest thing for a man to do, but on the other hand I could not let such a prize slip through my hands. I pulled my jacket closer round me and made my way forward.

Halfway through something caught me at the legs and I went pitching forward. A pair of steely hands gripped me by the collar and tried to turn me over. I struggled, sending a blow towards the bloke but I could see fairly little.

The hands closed over my throat and I gripped a pair of thin sinewy wrists.

"Who are you?" I gasped out, perhaps I could make him spill…if it came down to a fight I was confident I could beat him.

At my words the man froze then with a curse he released his grip, shook his hands free and took off back the way we had come.

I scrambled to get to my feet and follow.

He had already disappeared and I cursed myself liberally, for there was no way to trace him. I could only backtrack and hope that I spotted some sign.

I was halfway back to the pub when I was halted by a sound…a groan.

There to my left was a man curled up at the base of a set of stone steps. I turned him on his back and with a thrill I recognized it as one of the three men from the pub…they were after him as well and the tricky little devil must have taken this one out, for there was a bad bruise on the fellow's head.

Cursing the hard, cobblestoned street that left no chance of footprints I took off down the side alley where the unconscious man lay. I continued on this course for a few minutes when I was at last I was met with another sound.

Grunts and scuffling…the sound of a struggle.

I stopped before a small yard that stood in back of an old storehouse, three figures struggled on the inside.

My quarry was holding his own, keeping back his opponents with his fists, dodging and weaving and…

The same thrill of recognition I had had when seeing the Beschermer struck me now and I'm not ashamed to say that my jaw dropped and stayed like that long enough for a horsefly to make its way in and out again.

I had seen this man and his fighting style before, I had fought him only this morning. And I stood frozen to the spot in shock. The Doctor's stories had described Holmes's skill in playacting, and it seemed that, like with the boxing, I had underestimated him.

His attackers were getting frustrated and were already bruised with the detective's blows, even as I watched his fist sent one of them sprawling. The fellow landed on his back, his teeth set in rage and embarrassment, he reached into his belt, and I saw a flash of light as the moon reflected off a metallic surface.

My shock and horror at the sight of the object galled me into action. I sprinted forward even as Holmes sent the second man back and turned to meet the rush of the first.

Holmes caught his fist, and I saw his eyes widen as he saw too late the blade going for his belly.

The detective twisted, and the blade cut into his side. His thin body recoiled and he let out a harsh shout of pain. His attacker shoved him down towards the ground and landed atop him.

And then I reached them.

And broke the man's face.

I have met men in the East who can break wood and blocks of ice and stone with their fists. My own came close to bringing the same fate to the man's skull.

He shrieked in pain and fell back clutching at the broken bones of his cheek. I turned as his partner came at me next and met his wild attack with several well-placed blows that disabled him, then I brought a left hook to his jaw that dropped him like a stone.

I straightened, breathing heavily, ready to give the same treatment to the man who had stabbed Holmes…but the bloke had fled, knife and all. Perhaps I could find him, for in my mind I wanted nothing more than to hunt him down - he could not have gotten far.

A muffled groan brought me back to myself and I turned to see Mr. Holmes on his back, trying to push himself up with his left hand, his right clutching at his stomach. The fall had knocked the hat off his head, his black locks were disheveled and his now pale face was a mask of pain.

I hurriedly knelt beside him. And he gave me a rather pinched smile. "Mr. Lachlan…sorry to call upon you so soon."

With this remark the rage against his attackers faded and I felt another sort of anger. "You bloody fool! What do you mean drawing this sort of attention to yourself?! Have you no consideration for the Doctor!?" my voice was harsh with strain, but I was glad to find that my hands held steady.

Holmes took a shallow gasp and made to answer me but just then his eyes rolled up into his head and he would have fallen back had I not caught him.

He was shaking from reaction to the wound and he was already pale. I pulled his unresisting hand from his stomach and gently pulled back his coat, the wound looked bad, but I had no knowledge of such things.

His shirt was already soaked, he was losing blood too quickly. I pulled the scarf from around his neck and pressed it against the wound then wrapped the coat around him. He needed help.

"Holmes, where is the nearest hospital?" I asked patting his face lightly, "I don't know London. You must have help."

The detective shivered slightly and his eyes refocused. "Baker Street." His voice was a rasp.

"No, Mr. Holmes. You need medical help, I will get you there but you must direct me."

Holmes shook his head, "No…Watson…I need Watson…Baker Street…"

"You stubborn son of a camel."

I muttered this to myself, but I understood. He needed to go home to be safe, like a wounded animal…and who better to care for him than his greatest friend?

"All right Holmes, Baker Street it is. Come with me." I pulled his right arm around my shoulder and raised him slowly to his feet.

He came, but when he was halfway up he let out a sharp cry of agony and tried to curl in on himself.

I bent and caught hold of his legs, sweeping his thin form up into my arms…but even this caused him hurt. He choked and clenched his jaw, biting back a scream.

I carried him from the courtyard and up the streets of the dockyards towards the main roads - we would find a cab.

Holmes came back to himself and shifted in my grip. I tightened my hold.

"Stay still, Holmes you can't walk…it would damage the wound. And Dr. Watson would have my head."

The detective chuckled weakly before relapsing once more into a moan. My rapid pace was jarring him painfully, but I didn't dare to slow…the bleeding was too heavy.

At last we reached the city itself and I began in the direction of Baker Street, praying for the sight of a cab. Holmes had gone limp in my hold, he clutched at the wound with both hands, and his breath came hard and fast through his nose. He was clenching his jaw again, biting back the screams. His brow furrowed as he fought the pain with his iron will.

At last the sound of trotting hooves reached my ears and I looked up to see a cab on its way toward us. It was occupied by the figure inside of it. I would take care of that.

I set Holmes gently on the ground then as the horse drew near I stepped out beside it waving my arms.

"Whoa there!"

The beast whinnied and skived violently, its driver struggled to get it under control. I pulled open the door and an indignant, finely dressed gentleman glared at me.

"What do you think you are doing?" he spluttered, his bushy sideburns bristling.

"I have a wounded man, he needs help, I'm commandeering your cab."

"I refuse!"

"I wasn't asking."

I took hold of his fur-lined coat and hauled him out into the street than hurried back to Holmes and lifted him, my stomach squirming at the amount of blood on the man's shirt and the half sob that escaped his lips. His hands clenched convulsively at my jacket and I carried him to the cab, lying him on the seat and climbing in after him.

"221b Baker Street, man, and hurry!" I shouted to the cabbie who after a startled look turned his horse.

I bent over Holmes, pressing on the wound myself, causing him to cry out again and try to squirm out from under my hands.

I pushed him back down and wrapped the coat more snugly around him as he spoke, "Lachlan…Watson will…Watson…"

"I'll get you to him, Holmes, I promised…rest easy."

He moaned and turned his head, losing consciousness at last.

"PIRATE!" the former occupant screamed at us.

I stuck my head out of the front of the cab and called back. "Close enough!"

Then the cab pulled away towards Baker Street and Dr. Watson.