Michael Kurland - Victorian Villainy

“For another,” I added, “every extra hour they spend will increase the likelihood that they will be intercepted by some ship of Her Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet. And one attempt to exchange signals would brand her as an imposter.”

“For maximum effect,” Holmes said, ‘the outrage should be conducted close to a city or large town, so that it will be observed by as many people as possible.”

“That makes sense,” Preisner agreed.

“And then there are the undergarments,” I said.

“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “That gives the whole game away.”

“Captain Preisner looked from one to the other of us. “It does?” he asked.

A mess steward came by with steaming mugs of tea for those on bridge, and he had thoughtfully included two for Holmes and me.

I took the tea gratefully and sipped at it. Neither Holmes nor I were dressed for chill breeze that whipped through the open doors of the bridge. “The men in the Royal Navy uniforms are to be visible on deck during the event,” I told Captain Preisner, “so that watchers on shore will believe the masquerade. But why undergarments?”

“And why only five?” Holmes added.

Preisner looked thoughtful. “A good question,” he said.

“The only reasonable answer is that those five men must pass close inspection when their bodies are examined.”

“Their bodies?”

“Consider,” said Holmes. “The undergarments only make sense if it is expected that the men will be examined.”

“Yes, I see that,” Preisner agreed.

“But if they are alive when they are examined, any discrepancies will become quickly evident,” said Holmes.

“As, for instance, their not speaking fluent English,” I added.

“So you think they are dressing corpses in British naval uniforms?” Preisner asked.

Holmes looked away. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Sail ho to the port!” a seaman outside the bridge relayed a call from the lookout on the top mast. We turned to look, but it was indeed a sail, the topsail of a three-masted barque, and not the four funnels of a British destroyer, that slowly came into sight on our port side.

We saw a variety of ships during the rest of that day, but it was dusk before we found the ship we were seeking. A four-masted destroyer appeared in the distance a few points off the starboard bow. Lieutenant Willits grabbed for the chart of identification silhouettes and ran his finger down the side while peering closely at the illustrations. “I don’t believe there would be any other four-masted destroyer in the area,” he said, “but it would not do to make a mistake.”

Captain Preisner examined the distant ship through his binoculars and, even before Willits had confirmed the identification, turned to the duty seaman and said quietly, “Signal all hands-battle stations.”

The seaman whistled down the communications tube and relayed the command and, almost immediately, an ordered bedlam descended on the boat as the members of the crew raced to their assigned positions.

“She’s flying no flags or pennants,” announced Willits, who was staring at the approaching ship through his own binoculars. “But she’s making no attempt to avoid us. There appears to be a small black ship of some sort to her rear.”

“It would look suspicious were she to turn aside,” said Preisner. “She doesn’t know that we’re stalking her. Hoist our own flag and the recognition code flag for today. And see if you can identify the ship to her rear.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Willits relayed the command, and in a few seconds several flags were fluttering at the top of the Agamemnon’s forward mast.

“No response,” said Willits after a minute. “Wait-she’s turning to port, trying to evade us. If she complete’s the turn, she’ll be able to show us her heels. She must have three or four knots better speed.”

“Probably less with an untrained engine crew,” commented Preisner. “But nonetheless-”

“I can make out her name now,” said Willits, peering through his binoculars. “She’s the Royal Edgar, right enough. Or claims she is. The other ship is keeping on her far side, but it appears to be some sort of large yacht, painted black.”

“A smuggler, no doubt,” said Preisner.

“I believe you’re right, sir.”

“Put a warning shot across her bow and run up the signal for ‘Come to a complete stop’,” directed the captain. “Helmsman, turn twenty degrees to the starboard.”

One of the Agamemnon ’s four-inch guns barked once, and a fountain of water appeared off the bow of the Royal Edgar.

The destroyer continuing turning, ignoring the warning. The Agamemnon fired another shot, which plunged into the water close enough to have soaked anyone standing by the bow of the Royal Edgar. A few seconds later one of the Royal Edgar ’s two-inch guns coughed a burst of flame, and an explosion sounded somewhere forward on the cruiser. A few seconds later, another burst, and a sound like the banging together of a hundred large iron pots came from amidships.

“They’re firing at us!” yelled Lieutenant Willits.”

“More fools they,” said Captain Preisner grimly, and he gave the order to return fire.

The universe became filled with awesome roaring sounds as the eight-inch guns of the Agamemnon hurled their hundred and twenty pound explosive missiles into the air. In two minutes the firing from the Royal Edgar had stopped, and Captain Preisner gave the order for our own ship to cease fire. A total of no more than a dozen rounds had been fired by the big guns of the cruiser, but the damage done to the destroyer gave one faith in the might of modern science. She was dead in the water and already starting to list to one side. Billows of smoke were coming from amidships, and a tongue of flame was growing toward the bow.

The black yacht had pulled up alongside the Royal Edgar now, and people were transferring over. Others were attempting to lower a lifeboat aft of the bridge.

“We should board her, Captain,” Holmes said.

“Why?” asked Preisner.

“There may be documents.”

“There may be wounded,” added Lieutenant Willits.

“I’ll have a boat lowered and ask for volunteers to row you over,” Preisner told us. “But I’m not bringing the Agamemnon anywhere near that vessel. And I warn you, she’s either going to blow up or go under quite soon, and quite suddenly.”

Volunteers were found-the human race never ceases to astound me-and the captain’s gig was lowered. We armed ourselves with revolvers and knives from a locker on the bridge, and we were shortly being rowed over to the Royal Edgar, which was not any lower in the water, although the fire was still burning. As we approached, the black yacht roared past us headed off toward the south. A portly man in a Royal Navy officer’s uniform standing rigidly in the rear of the yacht shook his fist at us as he passed.

“Would that be the king?” I asked Holmes.

“I believe it is,” Holmes told me. “Yes, I believe it is.”

We instructed our oarsmen to remain in the gig and to row rapidly away at the first sign that something untoward was about to happen.

“But what about yourselves, governor?” asked the bo’s’n in charge of the rowing party.

“We shall dive off the ship and swim rapidly toward the Agamemnon,” I told him.

“We’ll probably be there before you are,” Holmes added.

“Very good, sir,” responded the bo’s’n, but he was not convinced.

A couple of ropes were visible dangling over the side of the destroyer, and I grabbed one of them and pulled myself up. Holmes waited until I was on deck to follow me up the rope. There was very little damage evident on deck. Were it not for the smoke behind us and the fire ahead of us, it would look like there was nothing amiss.