Chapter 10: "Don't Give Up the Ship"
Lachlan
The rope burned my hands and the sun scorched my face. Rivulets of sweat ran down my bare back and my feet padded in puddles on the deck as I pulled at the rope.
High above me the white sail rose like the wing of a bird to block out the sky and the blazing sun. My muscles ached with the effort, but it was a good ache. Like the satisfied exhaustion one feels at the end of a task.
I bent to tie off my line but was interrupted when a sudden gust of wind caught the sailcloth and the rope was nearly tugged from my hands, my arms were pulled violently above my head, my slight frame did not have near enough weight to hold it down. I was overbalancing.
A hand caught hold of my shoulder and pulled me back steadying me.
"Hold on there, lad…steady Will."
I turned to grin at a man with a rough face browned and weathered like driftwood from years at sea, than the sun blazed in my eyes and I lost sight of him.
It was scorching me…too hot…far too hot.
"Lachlan."
A voice echoed in my ears and a strong, thin hand gripped my own.
"Can you hear me Lachlan?"
I groaned and tried to turn away, it was too bright, too hot. A second hand felt my forehead, adding to the head and I objected, trying to wiggle away from it.
"It's rising. I'll get more water."
It was dark now, the sky a mass of roiling, black clouds, as alive as the sea beneath them…rain lashed at my face and ran under the collar of my coat. The deck swayed beneath my feet and I had trouble keeping my footing on the slippery wood. I gripped the cold steel railing and pulled myself forward.
There up ahead was the light of the bridge, I took another step against the howling wind, it ripped the hat from my head. Communications were out, the engines flooded…I had to get there, they had to be told.
Without warning a wave rose up on the side of the ship and washed over me, driving me down into the steel siding, I struck my head and flinched at the resounding ache.
The raincoat was useless now, the clothes had been soaked beneath. I was freezing, shivering in the frigid air. I tried to struggle to my feet but the ship pitched again and another wave hit, forcing me back down.
I gasped for breath, and tried to wrap my arms around myself for warmth, but they were pinned by the weight of the water. I began to shiver violently, wave after wave of icy water washed over me and the rain continued to lash.
"No!" I railed against it, struggling weakly.
"Lachlan…Lachlan, lie still, old man, its all right."
"Cold," I moaned, shivering, my teeth chattering.
Another wave of water washed over my chest as if there were no coat or tamarack there to protect the skin. I tried to brush it away, but my wrists were restrained…not by water but by hands.
"Hold on, Lachlan." this was a new voice, softer than the first, more kind. "I'll get you through this…just hold on."
More water, it cascaded over me, I shuddered and sobbed, "Stop."
The kind voice took a shaky breath and the first sounded close to my head. "I'm sorry Lachlan, we can't stop. You'll feel better, lie still. Good man…are you all right, Watson?"
"Fine…keep talking, Holmes."
The cold and the insistent voice continued, holding me there for a long time.
Then it was dark and still again, I was seated beside a bed, too weary to get up and stir the dying coals of the fire. I could not leave, not again. If I had not left the first time…
She…my wife…had not wanted me to, had wanted me with her. But the job was a good one, and would give us money enough to get started. Would be enough to let me retire from the sea to a small shop in Portsmouth, where there was a small white cottage at the head of the cliffs.
A sturdy place where the wind whipped in fresh from the sea and the ships passed beneath, a place where the brilliant green of the headland met the soft blue and grays of the water…where the sun seemed to be reborn every morning with brilliant dawns.
The more she spoke of it the more her eyes lit up and her face shone. I would get it for her, I needed to get it for her. So I left.
I put a shaking hand into my pocket and drew forth a battered piece of paper…a telegram.
I crumpled it into a small ball and threw it at the flames where it hissed and spit, for it had been soaked in saltwater when I had received it on the ship. I lowered my head into shaking hands and took a shuddering breath, praying, pleading.
On the bed beside me she lay. So small and thin, an empty shell of the beautiful spirited lass she had been; all dark hair and rosy cheeks, laughing as she danced as light as a fawn on her feet. Her face was sallow and pinched now and her eyes were glazed.
She was still delicate…only now she seemed as though she would break, and the slightest movement hurt her.
She did not have the strength to speak my name. I was too late.
I laid my head on the coverlet beside her, listening to the soft, shallow breathing, holding her small hand gently in mine.
I listened and waited and breathed with her, as though to keep her from what I knew would come.
But it did come, and sometime in the dark, desolate hours of the night she stopped. I cradled my wife in my arms, rocking her back and forth, burying my face in her hair, as I cried bitterly.
Holmes
"Oh, dear Lord, please no! Lachlan, you can't do this!" Watson's frantic voice rang in my head as he reached over me to shake the seaman firmly. Lachlan's body convulsed with silent sobs and then went limp. "You've got to fight this, Lachlan! Listen to me! You have to help me!"
I shivered at the absolute desperation in my friend's voice – and realized anew what anguish he had to have gone through last night. I drenched the compress in a fresh basin of water and put it on the ailing man's chest and neck as Watson took his temperature again.
His sharp intake of breath told me the results before his trembling words did.
"105.5, Holmes. We don't have much time," he whispered, rubbing a hand across his weary features and slumping down for a moment against the couch, his eyes closed. I had never felt so helpless in all my life as I did then.
Before I could offer any words of encouragement Lachlan began to thrash around abour, almost knocking me off my chair in his mad flailing. In an instant Watson had reanimated and grabbed the flying arms, holding them close to the poor fellow's sides, struggling to keep him under control. Lachlan was strong as an ox, and I quickly moved to help Watson.
"Is this normal for a fever?" I gasped as I fought to still Lachlan's left arm and avoid the blows he was unconsciously dealing.
With a surge of effort Lachlan broke free of my hold and before I could grab his flailing arm it struck Watson on the side of the face. My friend gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and ducked as he gripped the arm once again.
"Yes!" he panted, wrestling the arm down, "you did it yourself more than once last night – look out!"
I dodged a flying arm instinctively, but my mind was on what Watson had said – I had done this as well? How horrible it must have been for him!
Watson maintained his hold on the sailor, talking continuously in a calm, soothing voice, though it held a distinct tremor. And after a moment the man quieted with a soft moan, looking at us with eyes that obviously were not seeing us.
My Boswell was breathing hard with the struggle, and I was not much better – I was so confoundedly weak from that accursed fever myself that I was little more than useless.
Watson took the man's temperature for perhaps the dozenth time as I put another towel on the sufferer's forhead. As he withdrew the instrument, his already white face turned ashen in desperation.
"105.8," he quavered, snatching the towel from me, "more water – now, Holmes. Hurry!"
I grabbed the pitcher and weaved unsteadily as I made my way toward the door, colliding into the sideboard as the dizziness hit.
"Are you all right!" he called worriedly, not able to leave our patient.
I responded in the affirmative and made my way to the bathroom, filled the pitcher, and returned a moment later. Watson was desperately working on the man, trying to get him to respond, but Lachlan was only muttering incoherently in his delirium.
For another half hour we tried to bring the fever down, but Watson's expression was one of heartbroken failure as he yet again, read the thermometer. I felt a knot form in my stomach.
"106.1," my friend moaned in despair, "we – we're losing him, Holmes! He can't live long with a fever that high and still climbing!"
"We can't lose him," I gasped, "I didn't die! Why should he?"
"Lachlan," Watson stated firmly, ignoring me and bending over the barely moving form of the seaman, "listen to me. I said listen to me, sailor. You are NOT going to do this. Do you hear me? Don't you dare give up the ship, Lachlan!"
I was somewhat surprised at Watson's choice of words…even a writer such as he did not was not prone to the use of nautical terms.
To my astonishment the waxen color of the man's face tinged a delicate shade of pink – Watson's word choice must have struck some chord in the man's delirious brain. It wasn't obscure…it was brilliant!
"Keep on the water, Holmes! Lachlan! Listen to me! Keep fighting!"
I pressed another towel onto the man's chest as Watson kept up the steady barrage of forceful talking, marveling at my dear friend's inner strength. Indeed, I knew that were it not for that voice guiding me back from that dark path of my own mind, I might not have made it through the last night.
"Lachlan – don't do this!" Watson gasped as Lachlan's breathing began to falter and grow shallow, "you can't give up now! Don't give up the ship, Lachlan – we need you!"
I felt more and more helpless as the man seemed to only drift further and further away from any semblance of consciousness, and I could see Watson begin to shake as the despair of the situation struck him, his hands tremoring.
A wild idea came to me, and I leaned closer to the sailor's face to snap out a command, hoping my voice would be more effective than Watson's, all the while giving the seaman a good shake.
"Midshipman! This is your captain, at attention! Haul up there Mr. Lachlan, we cannot spare the time for you to be lubberly!" I ordered stiffly, in as forceful a voice as I could manage.
To my shock, the man's breathing quickened, he started to move feebly, and I heard gasp of excitement from Watson.
"Keep talking, Holmes – he's responding to you! Keep at it – we only have mere minutes now before this becomes deadly," he said, drenching the towels again and applying them to the man's fevered form.
I obeyed and began to fire commands at the poor man, using every nautical and sailing term I knew of, trying tobreak through that barrier of illness. For probably five minutes I railed on without stopping, as Watson continued to drench him again and again in the cold water.
My heart leapt into my throat as Lachlan suddenly went limp under Watson's hands.
"No!"
Watson's pained cry sent a pang through my own heart as he fumbled for a pulse – then I saw his eyes widen in disbelief, and he put his hand on the seaman's forehead, holding it there for a few seconds.
He slid down to the floor in a limp heap, resting his head on the side of the couch.
"It broke, Holmes," I heard his faint whisper, nearly inaudible in his intense relief.
Lachlan:
Once again it was peaceful, a great difference to the turmoil that had surrounded me only a moment before. I was on a ship, not the large steamers I was used to, but a light sailing ship from my earlier experiences as a lad.
Cool, salt-laden air breezed past me and I took a great breath of it, looking off into the calm waters, up at the sky that, in the absence of a sun or a moon, had become a dazzling map of stars.
I did not know why I was here or even the name of the small craft. But I felt very much a part of it. It promised a new voyage to lands unseen and places undiscovered. And the boyish enthusiasm that had first taken me to sea rose again in my chest.
I felt content – safe – certain that all was right, assured that wherever this little ship was headed I knew how to steer her.
The creaking of the wood and the slight sound of the waves lapping at the hull of the ship lulled me into a state of restfulness. I closed my eyes, leaning back against the solid wood of the mast.
Than a voice broke in on my thoughts, forceful and commanding. A voice that a captain would use to command his seamen.
It was familiar somehow…and I had the strangest inclination to follow it. I turned to find its source, and found myself trapped behind a pair of leaden eyelids.
Holmes
My breath caught in my throat, so great was the wave of relief that washed over me at Watson's pronouncement, and I put my own hand on the man's forehead to assure myself of the fact. Watson was right – he was no longer burning to the touch.
I could see that Watson was shaking from the close call, and I gingerly got down beside him, wincing as the stitches in my side pulled again, glancing at the clock – it was six in the evening!
"Are you all right?" I asked softly.
He nodded, not meeting my gaze.
I was about to say something more when Lachlan moved above us. In an instant Watson was back on his feet, bending over the patient.
"Lachlan. Lachlan, can you hear me?"
"Doctor…" the seaman's voice was hoarse and softer than usual. It cracked with the effort and strain of what he had just gone through.
"Yes, old chap. You need to stay quiet now."
"I…" the man's hand twitched weakly as he struggled to open his eyes, and Watson took it gently, patting the man's shoulder in a reassuring fashion.
Lachlan's eyes finally flickered open, resting first on Watson with a small smile, and then they slowly traveled up to my worried face and fastened upon me for a long moment.
"I'd surely – hate – to be – a sailor – under a captain – like you, Holmes," he murmured weakly, trying to manage a lopsided grin at me.
I could have shouted with relief at the knowledge that he had indeed heard me, but I contented myself with patting his shoulder and speaking quietly.
"You heard the Doctor, Lachlan. You must rest now," I said gently.
"Never – had much stock – in doctors," the man's voice was trailing off now.
Watson chuckled, very unsteadily, and got up to pour a glass of water, mixing a powder into it. He slipped a gentle arm under the seaman's head and helped him down the contents handing it to me when empty.
Then Watson settled him back on the couch, made sure the pillows were secure under his head, and then went into my room to grab two blankets, spreading them over still form and tucking them in tightly.
"But – think – I'll make – an exception – in yer case," Lachlan finished his previous sentiment, his blue eyes regaining a very faint twinkle behind the exhaustion.
"You're a brave man, Lachlan," my friend said quietly as the seaman's eyelids began to droop with sleep, "and you've put up a good fight. Time to rest now."
"Remember, Doctor…" the seaman's voice trailed off, and he brought himself back with an effort, opening his eyes once more to gaze at my friend's face as Watson bent over him.
"Remember what?" he asked softly.
"Vows – vows made – in storms, Doctor," the man murmured, finally succumbing to the pull of the medicine Watson had administered.
I was puzzled by Lachlan's remark and was about to ask Watson about it as he straightened up at last – when I suddenly had to spring forward and catch him as his legs wobbled and he nearly fell heavily into my arms.
"Watson!"
"I – I'm fine, Holmes," he gasped, rubbing his eyes, "just – just a little limp, that's all."
I pushed him gently down into my armchair, realizing afresh what a horrible strain he had to have been under, pulling first me and then Lachlan from the very brink of the grave, and in such a devastatingly, violent manner. And he had gone through it all alone in my bedroom last night, with no one to help him as we had helped each other with Lachlan just now.
He was still shaking either from the reaction or fatigue, probably both, and I went to my bedroom, feeling none too steady myself actually, and grabbed a blanket for him, returning and wrapping it around his trembling form as he sat there in front of the fire that had died while we worked.
I crouched in front of him, wincing as my painful side protested, putting a strong hand on his arm. He glanced up at me, and I could see the lurking fear darkening his hazel eyes – the horrors of the last day had not yet begun to dissipate from him.
"Well done, old chap," I said simply, at a loss for proper sentiments.
I felt his tense muscles relax under my grip, and he smiled a very tired thank-you.
"I need to redress that wound, Holmes," he said wearily, rubbing his eyes.
"It is perfectly fine, Watson – you did an excellent job the first time," I replied firmly, "you need to rest now as well; you've had a perfectly dreadful time of it."
"I shall not argue with either of those last two statements," he whispered, leaning back in the armchair and huddling down into it wearily.
I was feeling the strain myself of the too-rapid exertions of the afternoon, and I took a few moments as I stood stiffly, to try and regain my equilibrium as my head spun a little. I grasped the mantel until the dizziness passed, and then I looked back down at Watson.
He was curled up in my armchair, already fast asleep, wrapped snugly up in the blanket I had put around him.
I allowed my lips to curve upward in a fond smile and I checked both my friend and Lachlan to see that they were resting comfortably. Lachlan shifted a little under my touch but did not waken; Watson was completely dead to the world, apparently.
Then I staggered off to my room for a badly needed rest myself. That is, if my mind would slow down from its racing as it was now. Perhaps my time would be better spent thinking about the case instead of sleeping. Besides, one of the men in the sitting room might need me upon waking.
Yes, I would spend the next couple of hours in some deep thought.