Chapter 9: "Join the Binnacle List"

Binnacle list: A ship's sick list given to the officer on watch, bearing the names of the sailors too ill to report for duty.

Holmes:

Watson stumbled out of the room and off toward the stairs, obviously exhausted by his efforts throughout the long sleepless night.

Lachlan watched him go and then turned to back to face me.

"A good man, your Doctor."

I nodded, listening to my poor Watson's slow footsteps on the stairs, "Sometimes I wonder just what I have done to deserve such a friend."

"Copper-bottomed." Lachlan said with a small smile.

"What?"

"The Doctor…he's what we would call copper-bottomed, something to be relied upon, genuine. In earlier days of the navy the hulls of the ships were coated with copper plates."

I laughed and took another sip of coffee, grateful for its warmth and stimulant. The fever and loss of blood must have taken a great toll indeed, for I could not recall ever being so tired, or so weak.

Lachlan noted my weariness, his perceptive eyes catching mine.

"How do ye feel?" he asked.

"I would feel a good deal worse if you had not stepped in…I am sorry for the confusion of last night, I did not know who had been following when I tripped you up. I…uh…I would like to thank you. You saved my life, and Watson quite a bit a grief."

"Only after you caused it," the seaman accused. "You've promised to look into this affair for me, Holmes, and I intend to keep you alive until you have."

I took another drink a trifle nervously, for I was not used to small talk with anyone other than Watson. And the seaman did have a propensity for speaking openly and honestly, and I was neither of those things.

I turned the conversation onto a more comfortable topic.

"Have you actually sailed on the Friesland?"

"No." Lachlan muttered, "But I have heard of her, a new thing she is, a beauty. All fresh paint and shiny stovepipes. The Lansing paid a pretty penny for her, you can be sure."

He countered with a question of his own.

"I know you are not in the habit of sharing your insights while on a case, Holmes, but do you have any idea who's behind it yet?"

I shook my head and settled against the pillow. It had only been two days and yet it felt like an age ago that I had sat through that cursed operetta with Watson.

"I have not enough data; I hoped that the samples might give me a bit more, but I have not had time to analyze them yet. I might have deduced something from the man you brought in this morning had he not slipped away."

Lachlan chuckled softly.

"Bolted more like, didn't want to risk staying here a moment longer with the Doctor…curse him…if he had kept his temper…"

"Watson?" I asked, sitting up further and wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in my side.

The seaman cast me a concerned glance but was good enough not to mention it.

"Aye, your Doctor. I would hate to get in between him and you, if you were in bad straits. He frightened the cove half to death. And he's got a fierce fist. Copper-bottomed, Mr. Holmes, that's what he is."

I nodded and lapsed into silence, gripping the mug and wishing I had my pipe. It was proving to be an elusive case, and far more dangerous than I had first supposed. It would be better for all three of us if I could bring it to a quick end.

But I had no data! The possibility of a rival line was abolished by the number of shipping lines involved, nor could it be a separate party preying solely on ships - for only the Lansing had been attacked so far. and it was obvious that the Lansing was not in financial straits either if it could afford to keep up a ship like the Friesland.

The Friesland. The barkeep's comments of the night before came back to me, and I went over them again and again in my head.

Why the Friesland. Why would that particular ship be marked for trouble next?

I focused on Lachlan again; he had proven remarkably observant in the past, perhaps he had noticed something.

But when I asked, he sighed and shook his head ruefully.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I can't recall anything. Not off the top of my head anyway…but…"

He paused and reached into his belt, drawing out a cheap-looking bowie knife.

He handed it to me. "Got that off the cove what stabbed ye, careful, it's sharper than it looks. I pricked myself on it earlier."

I took the thing and examined it. It was old and stained and on the blade was an amount of rust and dried blood. Apparently the owner did not feel the need to care for his equipment. It was little wonder that my wound had developed an infection, not that I was familiar with such things as fevers.

There was a chance I might gain some data from the blade. I was fairly confident I could break down and identify the substances on…

An unwanted yawn broke my musings and I covered my mouth with my hand too late.

Lachlan smiled, took the knife from me, and laid it on the dresser.

"I think you should follow the Doctor's advice, Mr. Holmes, and try to rest."

For once I was in no mind to argue and I allowed myself to settle back onto the pillows. I could barely focus, my mind as muddled as though I had been given a sedative.

"What of yourself?" I asked, for Lachlan had gotten no more rest than either Watson or I, and his eyes were shadowed.

"Seamen like myself get used to little sleep," he said, "and someone will have to wake Dr. Watson when it is time to change your bandages."

He was getting to his feet as he spoke, but his shoulders were slumped and it made me feel somewhat guilty, knowing that it was on my behalf, and the fault of my own clumsiness that he had gone the night without sleep.

"Your work at the cartography shop." I muttered, as sleep invaded my mind.

Lachlan smiled again as he went to the door.

"Oh, Harry's a goodun, he doesn't mind me skivin' off as I'm not a regular worker."

I smiled in response.

"The sofa in the sitting room is comfortable enough, Mr. Lachlan."

The sailor nodded and slipped through the entrance.

"Then I'll just kip out here for a bit, Mr. Holmes. Call me if you are needful of anything."

My eyes were closed before the door clicked shut.

Lachlan:

My eyes were heavy and my head pounding by the time I finally allowed myself to fall onto the couch in the sitting room.

I was unusually tired, my limbs ached. The efforts last night must have cost me more than I realized. But a few hours rest would set me to rights.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle; it was half past eight, two and a half hours until the Doctor would need to check the wound. I would rest until then, and keep one ear open.

My leaden head hit the cushions and I closed my eyes at last, glad that there was a moment of peace at least.

The room had not changed when I opened my eyes again….but I had.

A glance at the clock told me I had been sleeping less than an hour, but I did not feel rested - if anything, I was more tired.

And hot…I was terribly hot. A glass of brandy would be wonderful, and might help me sleep, and stop the ache in my head that had seemingly doubled as I slept.

I levered myself forward off the couch and was alarmed by my own sluggish movements. I found myself holding onto the edge of the couch as I made my way to the sideboard.

I took hold of the decanter and my hand shook so badly that it slipped from my hand and tipped onto the cupboard, flooding it with brandy.

Something was wrong. I clutched my head and swayed where I stood. The room seemed very hot and small…I had to get help.

My thoughts became fuzzy as I turned towards the door towards the stairs. The Doctor – whatever was wrong, he would help.

But my legs suddenly buckled and I fell forward onto the carpet. The world spun around me, I could feel the smooth wood beneath my cheek…or was that above it?

I levered myself to my knees and tried to crawl forward, the door was there, just beyond my reach. The doorknob glinted before me, I touched it with my fingertips, felt its cool metallic surface…than I fell again and this time I did not strike the floor…I sank into a black unending sea.

Holmes:

I awoke, still tired, but feeling somewhat stronger than I had before. The soreness of the wound on my side was still present, but it was not as sharp as before.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, and from its angle I realized it must be nearly twelve. Watson and Lachlan must have been far more tired than either of them had supposed for Watson had missed his appointment of changing the dressings on the wound at eleven. Not that I minded, I had little doubt that the infection was well under control.

I had been lying in bed for very nearly twelve hours, and the lethargy was getting to my limbs. I was seized by the sudden desire to stretch them and see just how much of my strength I had lost. I tossed back the covers and slowly sat up, hissing between my teeth as the movement tightened the stitches. Watson did do them rather tightly.

The bandaging held well enough, firm and sure as always when fashioned by my dear Boswell. And I was able to swing my legs over the side and get to my feet.

I swayed and clutched at the bedstead as an attack of dizziness hit me and my vision blurred. After a moment it passed and with one hand on my side and the other braced against the wall I was able to make my way to the door, snatching my most comfortable dressing gown on the way.

I paused after swinging it open. Lachlan was not asleep on the sofa as I had thought he would be; he must have had some business to do after all…it was unusual, not at all in character for him.

Another attack of dizziness came and as I clutched at the nearby bookshelf I began to rethink my decision of rising so soon - for once Watson was right…perhaps if I sat down for a moment.

I pushed forward towards my chair by the mantle…and froze as familiar figure came into my view.

There, by the door, lay Lachlan…facedown…unmoving.

Adrenaline rushed and pumped through my veins, lending me strength…and I hurried forward. Had he been attacked? Not likely, with the door closed and him lying so near to it.

I knelt beside him. "Lachlan."

I put a hand on his shoulder to turn him over…and pulled it away with a gasp.

There was an incredible heat emanating from beneath the cloth of his shirt. He was burning, and the material was wet with sweat.

I took a firmer hold and turned him over. "Lachlan!"

There was no response, his eyes were shut, his face flushed, he was shaking slightly, shivering, his fair hair standing out from the red skin.

He was in the bouts of a fever.

"Watson!"

I stumbled to my feet, moving despite another attack of dizziness, and stepped round the fallen form of the sailor to yank open the door.

"WATSON!"

My voice boomed in the stairwell and for a moment I feared that he could not hear me…there was little chance I would be able to make it up those stairs, not with the sense of vertigo already upon me.

"WATSON!"

There was a scuffling from the upstairs room, and rapid footsteps as my Boswell pounded out of his bedchamber. His voice sounded sharp with alarm.

"Holmes!? Are you all right?!"

He appeared at the head of the stairs, pale and visibly shaken…and I would have cursed myself for worrying him further had not the situation been so dire. He had been asleep, his hair ruffled and still in clothing which he must not have bothered to change from.

"Holmes?! What is it - what's happened?"

He looked at me, standing upright and relatively unharmed, and the worry changed to a weary scowl.

"What in heaven's name are you doing out of bed!?"

I shook my head in irritation, eliciting more dizziness which I ignored.

"Never mind, Watson, get down here – I need you."

The urgency and fear must have been clear in my voice for his scowl became concerned once again, and he began to descend the steps.

I went back into the room and leaned against the dining table, trying to curb my vertigo. Watson entered, and froze as I had done. His already pale face drained of color.

"My God!" he breathed, a prayer rather than a curse.

He knelt beside Lachlan, felt his head, recoiled. And as always in the face of the sick or the wounded, his medical training and staunch personality took immediate control.

"Holmes, a cushion from the couch…quickly."

He took the pillow and slid it beneath Lachlan's head, feeling the man's pulse and breathing. Then he was on his feet, striding rapidly into my bedroom then back with his medical kit in hand, pulling it open, drawing out the thermometer…checking Lachlan's temperature.

He went very still when he read it, and cast me a fearful glance.

"The same?" I asked, and he nodded, running a hand through his mussed hair uneasily.

"104.5. Holmes, when did he leave your room?"

"Shortly after you, he showed no signs that anything was wrong."

Watson swallowed at the knowledge that Lachlan had been lying ill for two or three hours without aid. I could see the guilt settle into his expression and I shared in it.

Then Watson shook it off and stripped off Lachlan's shirt and coat before levering the sailor up into his arms. Struggling under the weight and awkwardness of the hold, he carried him to the couch, made sure his head was supported, then went once again to my bedroom, emerging with the basin. He refilled it with fresh cool water and gathered another set of cloths from the linen cupboard. He set these on the table beside Lachlan and then turned to me.

"Holmes, are you strong enough…can you help?"

I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. Watson did not want a repeat of last night.

"Of course, old fellow."

Watson returned the smile shakily then drew up a chair, took hold of my arm and helped me to sit in it, handing me one of the icy cold compresses.

"We must bring it down," he said, and his voice quavered though his hands were steady as he applied his own compress to Lachlan's chest, soaking the red skin.

The seaman moaned, and his shivering increased.

"He acts as though he is freezing." I said, hesitating - I had never aided a sick man before.

"Holmes, trust me, I'm a doctor. Now do as I say and cool him down." Watson spoke rather sharply, his fear making him stern.

I sighed and pressed the cloth against Lachlan's forehead, and the icy water cascaded over his face.

He moaned again and gave a violent shudder, his eyelids flickered and opened halfway. The gaze beneath was glazed and dull. He tried to push Watson's hand away but Watson caught his wrist and pushed it back.

"Try to talk to him, Holmes." Watson said, as he took the rag from me, re-soaked it and handed it back.

"Me?" I asked, "Why…"

"You have a masterful voice, it's hard to ignore. See if you can get him to respond."

I was still a little puzzled until I suddenly remembered last night. I had been about to give up the struggle for clinging to a thin thread of existence, too tired to fight any more, when I had heard a strong voice – one I trusted with my very life, pleading frantically with me to not give up, to keep fighting. And I had done so.

I cleared the sudden lump out of my throat and continued to soak the sick man's head with the cool water. Lachlan continued to shiver and it struck me just how vulnerable and ill he was. For the short time I had known him he had proved himself to be a strong and resourceful individual, more than capable…and now…

"Lachlan." I spoke softly and clearly, putting a hand on his shoulder as much in support of myself as of him. "Lachlan, can you hear me?"

Lachlan shook and cringed away from the cloths but showed no sign that my words were having any effect.

I looked to Watson but he did not meet my gaze, his eyes solidly on his task. He only nodded slightly.

"Lachlan. Come on, old man…can you hear me?"

His eyes flickered unseeing, and he muttered something under his breath.

"Good." I exclaimed in slight relief. "Good, Lachlan, say something, old chap, we need you yet."

He groaned and shivered, moving his head restlessly on the cushions. "No…"

Watson gave me an encouraging look, Lachlan had ceased his struggles against the cool cloths, his blond brows furrowing.

"Come on, Lachlan, we're here, old man."

The seaman took a breath, much slower and deeper than his previous ones.

"No." the word escaped his throat in a half sob and he had clenched his eyes shut.

I took his hand in my own. "Hold on, Lachlan. Stay with us. It's all right."

"No," he shook his head, took another breath. "No…s'not…she…she didn't want…"

"Didn't what?" the words had gripped Watson's attention and he watched as I spoke. "Didn't what, Lachlan?"

"Want me to go…I shouldn'…I shouldn'…" his jaw and his hand clenched. "If I hadn' then it wouldn've happened…I would've…"

He was delirious, reliving some trauma from his past…I met Watson's look and the answer there was clear. Whatever it was, it was none of our business. Not if Lachlan had not seen fit to share it before.

Odd how this man that neither of us had known existed…had somehow become a respected friend in so very short a time.

"Its all right, Lachlan," I said gripping his hand. The sick man turned his head towards me slightly but said nothing more, only moaned.

Watson leant over and took his temperature again. After a moment he looked at the reading and then at me, his face betraying a lurking terror that I suddenly realized he must have felt last night at the possibility of losing me.

"105," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Holmes, keep talking. One more degree and it could be fatal. I have to concentrate on this treatment – you keep speaking to him."

"What about?" I asked, feeling more helpless than I ever had – was this what Watson had been feeling like all night long? I had been worse off than Lachlan was yet. What I had put my dear friend through!

"It doesn't matter what, Holmes," Watson said desperately, "just be forceful – don't let him give up – keep telling him to fight it, order him to stay with us, demand it. You have to get through to him, to be a lifeline to his wandering mind!"

"Like you did to me," I whispered, remembering the dreadful night once again.

"Like I did to you," he returned in a choked voice, swallowing down hard on the emotions I could perceive playing across his face.

Then he bent again to his task, face grim. And I continued to talk to Lachlan…praying silently that we had not discovered him too late.