The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (60 page)

“And Smithfield was one of them, was he?” asked Holmes.

“Aye,” said the seaman, “and not the queerest of the lot!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Them others,” he said, “they all had only one arm!”

As we rode back to Baker Street, my thoughts whirled. Visions of one-armed men and that bloody arm we had discovered danced in my brain. “Holmes, why did you say Smithfield was murdered by a sailor?” I began. “And what did you make of Morse's tale?”

“One question at a time, Watson. It was obvious that Smithfield was murdered by a sailor the moment I saw the knife wounds. First, wounds of that width could only have been made by a broad-bladed knife, such as seamen carry. Second, the upward angle of the wounds also suggest that the assailant was a sailor, who tend to carry a knife underhanded, while an amateur wielding a knife holds it with his thumb away from the blade. Those points, along with the district itself in which the body was found, strongly indicated a sailor. I admit that it is not certain, but the assertion was not lost on Morse.”

“Then you do suspect him.”

“No, no, Watson, that would be the sheerest coincidence. I merely wished to speed his cooperation. Every sailor has an innate fear of the law, and I used it to our advantage. As to Morse's tale, it provides the pattern into which our pieces now fit, I believe.”

“I don't see how, Holmes. Did the arm in the casket belong to one of the castaways?”

“It is not likely, Watson. It is a long voyage for an arm in a small casket, from Georgia to London. And there are no carpenters among the list of castaways Morse gave us. You recall them? Smithfield, John Bennett, Savannah planter, Alfred Winton, a London merchant, and Jack Tiptree, a member of the crew of the
Virginia Dare
. I believe we should pay a visit to Mr. Winton's establishment, Watson, early tomorrow.”

Early Tuesday, following a scanty breakfast, I found myself accompanying Holmes into a substantial-looking shop. “Mr. Winton, please,” Holmes pleasantly inquired of the clerk. “One moment,” he said. He turned, and a young man, more a schoolboy than a shopkeeper, stepped forward. “If it's my father you're looking for, gentlemen,” he blurted, “I'm afraid he can't see you.”

“It is important,” said Holmes. “My name is Sherlock Holmes…”

“
The
Sherlock Holmes?” he cried. “And you must be Dr. Watson! Oh, I read of you every month in the
Strand
! Oh,” and he turned gloomy, “but my father cannot see anyone, not even you, Mr. Holmes. They've sent him away!”

“Where?” I cried.

“For a rest,” he said, obviously holding back tears. “When he came back from America, he was…sick. The doctors said he must stay with them until he's better. He doesn't talk right, Mr. Holmes, just gibberish!”

“There, there, now, lad,” I offered, patting his shoulder, “you seem like a capable fellow. I'm sure he'll be proud of the way you've run the store while he's away.” He shook my hand gratefully and went in the back of the store.

“It is as I feared,” said Holmes when we were outside. “I hope we are not too late to save Bennett.” I pondered his words and the fate of Winton as we rode back to Baker Street in silence. When we arrived, however, Mrs. Hudson handed Holmes a telegram.

“Too late, Watson!” He handed me the telegram. It was brief:

BENNETT TOOK HIS OWN LIFE SATURDAY IN HOTEL ROOM
.

—
HOPKINS

“Why, Holmes?” I cried. “What is it that drove Winton mad and Bennett to suicide? And what about this Tiptree?”

“Soon it will all be clear,” Holmes said. “Allow me to reveal the truth to you in my own way. Meanwhile, I think a meal and a pipe are in order, Watson, while we wait for the seeds I have sown to germinate.”

Several hours later, a light tapping at the door woke me from my reverie. Holmes leapt up, and I could see Wiggins, chief of those street urchins whom Holmes employs, standing in the doorway, his cap in hand.

“Well?” said Holmes. Wiggins whispered in his ear. “Excellent, Wiggins!” cried Holmes.
“Share this with your fellows!” He gave the boy two guineas.

“Once again my lads shine,” he rejoiced, turning to me. “Come, Watson! The game is at an end!”

I hurriedly took up my hat and coat and raced down the stairs, following closely on Holmes's heels. He summoned a cab, and, yelling “Old Yew Place” to the driver, we whistled off.

“Holmes, where are we going?” I shouted as we bounced along at a rapid rate.

“To the land of oblivion, Watson, to oblivion!” was his cryptic reply.

The cab pulled up in a dimly lit corner of the city which I had never seen. The district looked unsavory, and when Holmes led me by the arm to an unmarked door in a dark alley, I was glad to feel the bulk of my service revolver in my coat pocket. Holmes knocked twice, then once, and the door swung slowly open. “Tiptree,” he whispered to the shadowy figure inside, and as we stepped in, the door slammed behind us. Immediately my nose identified my surroundings—an opium den!

Holmes led me knowingly through the candlelit gloom of the parlor to a low divan in the back room. There on the pallet lay a young man, of rough appearance, but with a face now bathed in drug-induced peace. This angelic face looked like part of a broken statue, for the man's left sleeve was empty. Holmes shook the sailor, and he stirred.

“Tiptree!” Holmes called. “Tiptree!” The young man started awake and lunged for the floor, but Holmes held his remaining arm in a vise-like grip. “We're not here to harm you, Tiptree. We know all about the island and the doctor's death. We only want to talk to you. Are you awake?”

The sailor peered at us, visibly shaking off his stupor. “Are you the police” he asked.

“No,” said Holmes. “I am Sherlock Holmes. We are the—um, unofficial investigators. But do not let that deceive you,” Holmes warned. “I want to hear your story, even though I believe I know it already, and if I am not satisfied that you are telling the truth, it will go hard with you. An American like you has few friends here in London.” Holmes gripped his arm again, and Tiptree shivered.

“I feel as if I have stumbled into the inferno itself,” he began, “and you may guide me out of it. My last moment of peace was on board the
Virginia Dare
. I shipped on her from Savannah, where my pa owns a plantation. I shipped for adventure, to see England, to make my own way. I remember that last night, looking out over her bow, where the sea was calm and stars shone, when the storm came upon us in a fury. I was swept over the bow in an instant by a giant wave, and I thought my life had ended as I plunged down under the sea. But I am a strong swimmer, and I strove upwards, up, my lungs burning, until I split the surface. I looked 'round just in time to see the ship thrown against the rocks, like a child's toy, the crew, my mates, and the passengers wailing and jumping for their lives. I was lucky, I guess, for I missed being caught in the rigging or the spiky rocks like most of 'em. A piece of the ship's keel came floating by me, and I lit out for it, and when I reached it, I hung on for dear life. I could hear the moans and cries of the others as they were tossed about by the gale, and each scream burned my soul, for I knew that they were a'gone.

“I guess I slept some, thought I don't know how, and when morning came, my piece of the ship—my savior, I thought then—had floated me up near an island. I blessed the Lord for his good grace and struck out for the land, leaving my little raft behind. With my remaining strength, I pulled myself up on the shore, where I lay for a while.

“I thought, then, that I was dreaming, for I heard voices. I opened my eyes to find three passengers standing over me, Mr. Bennett, Mr. Winton, and Dr. Smithfield. They too had God's grace to come to land. The doctor looked me over and found me as fit as they, so we set out to explore our haven from the sea.

“It was a barren place, sir, and I am sorry to say that my praises of the Lord died on my lips.
The island was small, and, but for some pools of brackish water and juiceless-looking bushes, it was dead too. We must have walked the island twice 'round, searching for a way by which we would live. We saw none.

“We talked over our said fortune among ourselves, again and again. Mr. Winton held his faith steadfast then. Rescuers would find us soon, he said. The others were not so hopeful. That first night, as I lay shivering in the mistladen air, I dreamed I was again in the sea, and fishes swam into my mouth for dinner. It had been only one day, then, since eating, and I was brave.

“The next day the sun baked us, and we grew mightily thirsty. Dr. Smithfield searched our clothing and found a piece of jerky I'd forgotten, in a pocket. He ate it quickly before we could protest. ‘I'm the doctor,' he said when he'd finished, as if to explain. We decided to try our luck at the pools, although the doctor protested. We drank greedily that day, though the water stank of rotting stuff, and when we were sick that night, heaving our empty stomachs, the doctor scolded us for not listening to him.

“The days passed, sir, how, I do not wish to recall. We ate the roots of the scraggly brush. We drank the waters of the pools to keep alive, 'though we wished we were dead when the heat hit us after. Finally, we were done—at our ropes' ends. Even the bushes had been exhausted. God had plucked us from the sea to starve.

“Then the doctor told us his notion. I wish we'd died then, Mr. Holmes. But we listened. The doctor told us of tribes in Africa, in faraway lands and on deserted islands, that ate human flesh. He told us of its properties of vitality, of the precious fluids it contained. Then he proposed that we eat our own flesh.

“Mr. Winton laughed madly at his idea. Mr. Bennett cursed the doctor for a blasphemer. I—I listened, Mr. Holmes. My belly listened.

“The doctor proposed that one of us sacrifice an arm. Rationing it out, a little at a time, a man's arm, he said, big as we were (though not so meaty, then, I swear), would feed us for three days. Then, if we must, another, and then…Well, even I could listen no more. The doctor shut up.

“The next day was hotter than ever. The sweat ran down my brow in little trickles, and I lapped it up at the corners of my mouth. The doctor started in again. This time we all listened. The doctor proposed to remove a left arm of one of us (he being the surgeon having to do it, of course), and we should thereby live until rescue. We weakly debated it again. Finally, we all agreed, and we drew lots to decide who should first lose his limb. I lost. In the twilight that night, when it was cool enough to move about, the doctor cut off my left arm with my seaman's knife. I fainted from the pain, I must admit. The doctor had tied up the wound as best he could, but I bled like a stuck pig. In my delirium, I felt my life flowing from me, and I prayed for death.

“But I did not die, and the next morning I ate. I ate, sir, of my own flesh, with the help of Mr. Winton and Mr. Bennett. We all ate. The doctor took the bigger portion, so as to be able to save us all, he said. We did not begrudge him then, for he had saved us—so I thought then.”

Tiptree paused, clutching his left shoulder. “It burns at night, Mr. Holmes, burns like the devil is stabbing it with a hot poker.” He lay back on the divan, then continued. “We ate the meat slowly, parceling it out to put off the day we knew was coming. We sucked the juices from it, savoring each morsel. By God, I am ashamed to say that it tasted—good. But the day came, and it was gone. We agreed, then, to repeat the vital surgery. This time, however, I protested that the doctor draw straws with the rested, having seen him continually take more for himself than the others. He protested violently, and the others reluctantly agreed with him. But I would not be swerved. I made him take an oath that if we were rescued, he too would submit to removal of a limb, so that he might not profit from our misery. He swore, the blackguard, and then he cut!

“After each of us had lost an arm, we despaired that our bloody pain was just a beginning to further dismemberment. Then, hope against
hope, we were rescued! When we sighted the ship on the horizon, we ran, in a burst of lunatic energy, down to the sea, to throw ourselves toward the ship. They set a boat for us, and it struck me, as the boat pulled across the waves, what we had done. I turned to the others and babbled my fear and shame. The doctor quickly took up my cause, and finally we all swore not to breathe a word of what had transpired on our island. I made the doctor repeat his oath, then, too.

“They picked us up and nursed us on their way to London then. They eyed us queerly, for we were a strange bearded bunch of madmen, but we said not a word of what had happened, save of the wreck itself. Our island meat diet must have done us well, for by the time we reached port, we were all well enough to be set free in London. Before we left the ship, I took the doctor aside. He liked it little, I could tell, for now I was mingling with my betters in front of the crew and passengers. But I gripped his neck and reminded him of his oath and arranged to meet him by the waterfront last Monday night, two weeks after we docked. He was to show up there and prove to me—I would act for us three—that he'd mutilated himself as well.

“I thought of little else, Mr. Holmes, for that fortnight, except our vengeance. Perhaps I should have fallen on my knees and praised God for sending us the doctor to save us there. Instead, I paced my room, cursing the doctor, waiting, waiting for our meeting. I took to detective work, then, searching out his offices. I followed him secretly, watching for the deed to be done.”

“Finally the night came. I went to the appointed spot and paced again, waiting, waiting. He came, then, late. He was clad in a greatcoat, and his left sleeve hung limp. My poisoned brain began to rejoice. He carried under his right arm a long, narrow box. ‘Here!' he said, placing it on the ground, then turned to go. ‘Wait!' I cried. ‘I must see it!' I flung back the lid of the casket and exclaimed with satisfaction as I saw the severed arm within. I looked at him, then, with exultation, and to my horror, I saw his greatcoat swung carelessly open, and beneath it, his left arm strapped to his body. My brain reeled, and I leapt then, seizing him by the collar. In a moment, before he could cry out, I released him, plucked my knife from my boot, and stabbed him. My arm worked uncontrollably, stabbing again and again, and it was not until he crumpled against me that I realized my deed. I quickly wiped my knife in the dirt and pushed the box with the horrible false arm deep under a nearby building, for in my madness I feared the arm might link me to him. In a moment of clarity, I seized his wallet, thinking I could make it appear robbery. Then I ran with demons chasing me.