A Decided Genius, part five
Mar. 25th, 2008 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanLink to part one
My eyes flew open. Holmes was so pale I thought he might faint, his face so still it might have been carved out of wax and put on display at Madame Tussaud's. He did not protest when I rose and took him by the arm to lead him back to his seat by the table, merely dipped into his pocket for a morocco-leather case to hand to me once he was settled. I took my own place and opened it. Inside lay a hypodermic and two glass phials, stoppered with plugs of india-rubber. The clear liquids in them were half-hidden by yellowing labels, pasted on askew. 'Cocaine', said the one, and the other, 'Morphine.'
"I didn't ask his leave -- I just drew the dose and injected it through the cloth of his trouser leg. In moments he was insensible, quiet and shivering. I made Peters forfeit his coat and between us we stripped the wet clothing off of Watson and bundled him up again in the heavy wool. Peters was better with something to do. He had a scarf he offered too, to hold my handkerchief in place over the wound in Watson's leg. I remember that I heard the call of the ferryman at Woolwich but I could not tell how much time had passed and I kept silent, letting the tide and the river take us and hoping it would bring us out of range of the rifle. I had not slept the night before. Peters lay down alongside Watson -- bade me do the same on the other side to keep the cold of the wound from stopping his heart. A soldier's remedy, a comrade's warmth to stave off death. And it would keep anyone on the shore from knowing which skiff was ours, perhaps. I had no better plan, and so I took my place along the floorboards and closed my eyes, thinking it could not be long before the sun would rise, and I could beg help from some vessel in the river. I fell asleep. And when I woke we'd come aground on a bank of the hideous, foul mud that lies below Barking Creek and the Beckton Works."
I shuddered, remembering all too clearly the reports which had been in the newspapers after the Princess Alice had been sunk in those dangerous waters in 1878. Over six hundred had drowned, and even the survivors had been burned by the befouled, acid river. All the sewage of North London went into the river at Beckton, and although there had been reforms since that tragedy I have had the misfortune to smell the river at low tide in that vicinity in high summer more than once. Mud was the least of what must have held that skiff.
Holmes went on. "There was a waterman waiting for us to rouse, his own boat still safely beyond the foreshore. He chanted 'Rub a dub dub' at us and called us drunken fools until he saw the blood upon my shirt. That sobered him, quick enough, and he warned me not to step out into the mud if I did not wish to be stuck in it or sink to China. We were mere yards from the river, and no greater distance to the bank, but he assured me that not even the mudlarks dared venture out on the sludge and slime where we had lodged. A few birds made their way across the new-revealed expanse, but even they, I noted, had feet discolored and distorted by their choice of homes. Our best hope, he said, was to wait for the tide to return and free us. The river was still falling -- it would be hours yet -- and Watson's leg had swollen to a hideous proportion. Already he was beginning to shift and groan restlessly. We had no water -- nothing fit to drink but the brandy in my flask. It would not do. I told the waterman so, and asked him to find some way of bringing Watson to shore."
"As the sun rose higher and the day grew warm, the watermen and his cronies argued about how best to rescue us. Peters had roused, despite his exhaustion, and watched hungrily as I dosed Watson a second time to keep the pain at bay. I could see by his yellowed eyes and trembling that he was deeply enthralled to poppy, and after the strains of the previous night his addiction had him tight within its grasp. His hand was inflamed, too, from the untreated wound where the bullet had kissed it, but he did not ask for relief." Holmes reached across the table and ran his finger along each of the phials in turn, so delicately and gently that the touch seemed almost a caress. "I had more morphine than cocaine then -- I seldom need the former unless my brain is racking itself to pieces against too little to do -- but I wanted to reserve the morphine for Watson, having a better notion of how much to give him of that drug. Peters was so very large, and his tolerance for opiates increased by his use of them, it was a certainty that he would require far more morphine than the usual dose. I gave him the last of the cocaine instead, which gave him some ease. But he grew profanely garrulous, and recalled to mind the death of every poor soul that he had seen maimed and defiled and destroyed in the retreat at Maiwand. I should have hushed him, except that his voice was a comfort to Watson."
"A comfort?!" I exclaimed, the words pulled out of me in spite of myself.
Holmes looked up, as if surprised to see me there with him. For a moment he was quite at a loss for words and then he seemed to realize that he had said too much to leave the rest of the tale untold. "They were comrades," he offered. "Nothing Peters said was anything Watson did not already know. He had been there, seen it. Indeed the wound and the heat and the morphine had him thinking that he was back in Afghanistan again, for he called for water in Hindustani when he grew thirsty. Peters tended him as best he could. I was kept occupied by the watermen's attempts to pull our boat out of the mud and into the river."
Having broken my silence I fell back into asking small questions to encourage him. "Did it take very long?"
"Hours," Holmes shook his head with remembered frustration. "Three lines and two motor launches could not overcome the suction of the mud, and the growing crowd of meddlers and idlers ashore were of little help until a young constable named Hopkins turned up and suggested running a line above us from a ship in the river to the shore, that we might be moved in the manner of victims at a shipwreck or at the very least be sent some drink and antiseptic. A ship was found in the river whose Captain had practiced the technique, which again, of course, took time. But once Captain Escott had the Pollyanna in position he took command. By nine o'clock we had been provided with supplies and by ten we were ashore and in a cart, headed for Baker Street. The boat, as I understand it, was not freed from the trap until nearly noon."
"And Dr. Watson?"
"Feverish and getting worse. There had been a third dose of morphine to keep him from knowing the rough handling required to get him ashore in the breeches buoy, though not even that saved him entirely from the sting of the carbolic we poured over his wound, and he had taken to calling for Murray, the orderly who had once saved his life. Whilst still waiting for rescue, I had had Hopkins send a telegram to Sir Julian and Sir Julian in turn had dispatched a young doctor named Agar to meet us along the way. He took my place in the cart and did what he could, lending me his horse so I could set into motion a hunt for the assassin who had so nearly cost us our lives."
"Did you find him?" I asked.
Holmes frowned. "Not straight away. I was able to locate Murray in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne -- like Watson he had begun as one of the Northumberland Fusiliers and had only transferred to the ill-fated Berkshires to follow his assigned officer -- but not until the next day. Peters and his wife and children I sent to Mycroft, to be hidden safely until the danger was past. I'd heard from Peters about the other men by then, and like him I thought it certain that there must be some connection to the retreat at Maiwand, and so endeavored to find the whereabouts every man who had survived the battle. That line of investigation proved fruitless, except in that Murray agreed to ask leave to come down to London to help guard Watson."
He smiled suddenly, and raised sparkling eyes to meet mine. "You shall like Murray, if ever Watson has the courage to introduce you. He is a tiny, ageless perfect Pict, all red hair and tattoos, a lifelong soldier who has taught more young officers their work than a dozen generals in his time. He had the mess I had made of Watson's sickroom cleared in a matter of moments, and had no more determined that I was forestalled in my investigation and waiting upon answers to the rest of my telegrams than he had me tipped into my own bed, the door locked against me, and the lamp removed so that I had nothing better to do than catch up my sleep."
I laughed, imagining his surprise at being overmastered. "You must have been glad to have him there."
"Oh, yes. Even delirious Watson knew Murray was there, and responded to him, as he hadn't to any of the rest of us. And Murray had a salve he'd learned of India which he used upon the wound. Sir Julian was indignant, at first, but there's no denying that from the time that Murray arrived Watson ceased to sink and the threat of amputation faded." I don't think Holmes even noticed my reaction to the words, so intent was he upon the memory. "The man is utterly immune to despair. Within a week he had Watson tottering into the sitting room to nap on the couch by the fire whilst Murray scandalized Mrs. Hudson with tales of their earliest acquaintance. Stamford thought that Murray's presence added to Watson's confusion, but even so it was well worth the cost."
Stamford's name I knew from the account I had read, at least. It was good to know that Dr. Watson's friends had rallied to him in his illness. But my heart had caught at the hint of John's straits. "His confusion? Did he not know Murray again?"
The shadow fell across Holmes's face once more. "He knew Murray. It was me he had forgotten."
continued
My eyes flew open. Holmes was so pale I thought he might faint, his face so still it might have been carved out of wax and put on display at Madame Tussaud's. He did not protest when I rose and took him by the arm to lead him back to his seat by the table, merely dipped into his pocket for a morocco-leather case to hand to me once he was settled. I took my own place and opened it. Inside lay a hypodermic and two glass phials, stoppered with plugs of india-rubber. The clear liquids in them were half-hidden by yellowing labels, pasted on askew. 'Cocaine', said the one, and the other, 'Morphine.'
"I didn't ask his leave -- I just drew the dose and injected it through the cloth of his trouser leg. In moments he was insensible, quiet and shivering. I made Peters forfeit his coat and between us we stripped the wet clothing off of Watson and bundled him up again in the heavy wool. Peters was better with something to do. He had a scarf he offered too, to hold my handkerchief in place over the wound in Watson's leg. I remember that I heard the call of the ferryman at Woolwich but I could not tell how much time had passed and I kept silent, letting the tide and the river take us and hoping it would bring us out of range of the rifle. I had not slept the night before. Peters lay down alongside Watson -- bade me do the same on the other side to keep the cold of the wound from stopping his heart. A soldier's remedy, a comrade's warmth to stave off death. And it would keep anyone on the shore from knowing which skiff was ours, perhaps. I had no better plan, and so I took my place along the floorboards and closed my eyes, thinking it could not be long before the sun would rise, and I could beg help from some vessel in the river. I fell asleep. And when I woke we'd come aground on a bank of the hideous, foul mud that lies below Barking Creek and the Beckton Works."
I shuddered, remembering all too clearly the reports which had been in the newspapers after the Princess Alice had been sunk in those dangerous waters in 1878. Over six hundred had drowned, and even the survivors had been burned by the befouled, acid river. All the sewage of North London went into the river at Beckton, and although there had been reforms since that tragedy I have had the misfortune to smell the river at low tide in that vicinity in high summer more than once. Mud was the least of what must have held that skiff.
Holmes went on. "There was a waterman waiting for us to rouse, his own boat still safely beyond the foreshore. He chanted 'Rub a dub dub' at us and called us drunken fools until he saw the blood upon my shirt. That sobered him, quick enough, and he warned me not to step out into the mud if I did not wish to be stuck in it or sink to China. We were mere yards from the river, and no greater distance to the bank, but he assured me that not even the mudlarks dared venture out on the sludge and slime where we had lodged. A few birds made their way across the new-revealed expanse, but even they, I noted, had feet discolored and distorted by their choice of homes. Our best hope, he said, was to wait for the tide to return and free us. The river was still falling -- it would be hours yet -- and Watson's leg had swollen to a hideous proportion. Already he was beginning to shift and groan restlessly. We had no water -- nothing fit to drink but the brandy in my flask. It would not do. I told the waterman so, and asked him to find some way of bringing Watson to shore."
"As the sun rose higher and the day grew warm, the watermen and his cronies argued about how best to rescue us. Peters had roused, despite his exhaustion, and watched hungrily as I dosed Watson a second time to keep the pain at bay. I could see by his yellowed eyes and trembling that he was deeply enthralled to poppy, and after the strains of the previous night his addiction had him tight within its grasp. His hand was inflamed, too, from the untreated wound where the bullet had kissed it, but he did not ask for relief." Holmes reached across the table and ran his finger along each of the phials in turn, so delicately and gently that the touch seemed almost a caress. "I had more morphine than cocaine then -- I seldom need the former unless my brain is racking itself to pieces against too little to do -- but I wanted to reserve the morphine for Watson, having a better notion of how much to give him of that drug. Peters was so very large, and his tolerance for opiates increased by his use of them, it was a certainty that he would require far more morphine than the usual dose. I gave him the last of the cocaine instead, which gave him some ease. But he grew profanely garrulous, and recalled to mind the death of every poor soul that he had seen maimed and defiled and destroyed in the retreat at Maiwand. I should have hushed him, except that his voice was a comfort to Watson."
"A comfort?!" I exclaimed, the words pulled out of me in spite of myself.
Holmes looked up, as if surprised to see me there with him. For a moment he was quite at a loss for words and then he seemed to realize that he had said too much to leave the rest of the tale untold. "They were comrades," he offered. "Nothing Peters said was anything Watson did not already know. He had been there, seen it. Indeed the wound and the heat and the morphine had him thinking that he was back in Afghanistan again, for he called for water in Hindustani when he grew thirsty. Peters tended him as best he could. I was kept occupied by the watermen's attempts to pull our boat out of the mud and into the river."
Having broken my silence I fell back into asking small questions to encourage him. "Did it take very long?"
"Hours," Holmes shook his head with remembered frustration. "Three lines and two motor launches could not overcome the suction of the mud, and the growing crowd of meddlers and idlers ashore were of little help until a young constable named Hopkins turned up and suggested running a line above us from a ship in the river to the shore, that we might be moved in the manner of victims at a shipwreck or at the very least be sent some drink and antiseptic. A ship was found in the river whose Captain had practiced the technique, which again, of course, took time. But once Captain Escott had the Pollyanna in position he took command. By nine o'clock we had been provided with supplies and by ten we were ashore and in a cart, headed for Baker Street. The boat, as I understand it, was not freed from the trap until nearly noon."
"And Dr. Watson?"
"Feverish and getting worse. There had been a third dose of morphine to keep him from knowing the rough handling required to get him ashore in the breeches buoy, though not even that saved him entirely from the sting of the carbolic we poured over his wound, and he had taken to calling for Murray, the orderly who had once saved his life. Whilst still waiting for rescue, I had had Hopkins send a telegram to Sir Julian and Sir Julian in turn had dispatched a young doctor named Agar to meet us along the way. He took my place in the cart and did what he could, lending me his horse so I could set into motion a hunt for the assassin who had so nearly cost us our lives."
"Did you find him?" I asked.
Holmes frowned. "Not straight away. I was able to locate Murray in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne -- like Watson he had begun as one of the Northumberland Fusiliers and had only transferred to the ill-fated Berkshires to follow his assigned officer -- but not until the next day. Peters and his wife and children I sent to Mycroft, to be hidden safely until the danger was past. I'd heard from Peters about the other men by then, and like him I thought it certain that there must be some connection to the retreat at Maiwand, and so endeavored to find the whereabouts every man who had survived the battle. That line of investigation proved fruitless, except in that Murray agreed to ask leave to come down to London to help guard Watson."
He smiled suddenly, and raised sparkling eyes to meet mine. "You shall like Murray, if ever Watson has the courage to introduce you. He is a tiny, ageless perfect Pict, all red hair and tattoos, a lifelong soldier who has taught more young officers their work than a dozen generals in his time. He had the mess I had made of Watson's sickroom cleared in a matter of moments, and had no more determined that I was forestalled in my investigation and waiting upon answers to the rest of my telegrams than he had me tipped into my own bed, the door locked against me, and the lamp removed so that I had nothing better to do than catch up my sleep."
I laughed, imagining his surprise at being overmastered. "You must have been glad to have him there."
"Oh, yes. Even delirious Watson knew Murray was there, and responded to him, as he hadn't to any of the rest of us. And Murray had a salve he'd learned of India which he used upon the wound. Sir Julian was indignant, at first, but there's no denying that from the time that Murray arrived Watson ceased to sink and the threat of amputation faded." I don't think Holmes even noticed my reaction to the words, so intent was he upon the memory. "The man is utterly immune to despair. Within a week he had Watson tottering into the sitting room to nap on the couch by the fire whilst Murray scandalized Mrs. Hudson with tales of their earliest acquaintance. Stamford thought that Murray's presence added to Watson's confusion, but even so it was well worth the cost."
Stamford's name I knew from the account I had read, at least. It was good to know that Dr. Watson's friends had rallied to him in his illness. But my heart had caught at the hint of John's straits. "His confusion? Did he not know Murray again?"
The shadow fell across Holmes's face once more. "He knew Murray. It was me he had forgotten."
continued
