Many Weary Months - 4

[jessamygriffith]

[Break in the letter, continued at a later time.]

Little Will, the ship's boy, has just brought me a curious thing, knowing my interest in the customs and traditions of indigenous cultures. An Army carpenter (of the 41rst Regiment posted in Fort Amherstburg) found it when he was felling a tree to be split up for timber. Being a god-fearing Christian, he wants nothing to do with heathen magic. I will consult with one of the Indian Affairs liaisons tomorrow to discover what the meaning of the object is. Meanwhile, here is a sketch and a description.


[Illustration 1: Sketch by Lt. S. Holmes, of artifact of Native beliefs.]

Wood - elm

Diameter of hole - 2 1/2"

Depth - 3" ?

Contains length of human hair approx. 2' in length, tightly plaited.

Found in trunk of felled tree. Hole was scabbed with bark and wood.

Placed in tree approx. 7 years ago, judging from growth.

[Break in the letter, continued later.]

I was lucky enough to meet with Simon Girty¹, a Scotsman who lived with the Natives for many years and despite his claims to retirement, is an invaluable resource to the British military interests here. He explained that the object demonstrates a superstitious belief common to the tribes here, the Huron, Algonquin and Mic-Mac.

It is a sort of witchcraft. You take by some means a length of an enemy or rival's hair and place it within a fresh tree cavity. The Native sorcerer then makes it known to the little manitou, or tree spirit, the grievance and name of the offender. As the sap which is a metaphor of water rises, the victim drowns.² Obviously not in any literal way, but as I remarked to Girty, it is astonishing how as winter wanes the number of colds and other illnesses rises. The correlation between the two must be phenomenon you, as a physician, must have noted, Saint-John. It is blindingly obvious.

Returning to my previous topic of meetings, however. Mrs. Harte, hearing something of my skills with a violin, invited me to make up part of her set for an evening musicale, with a card party to follow. I accepted, despite my dislike of playing for the general entertainment of others; few have a true appreciation of fine music, it is like throwing pearls before swine to play for such people.

I only accepted in the hopes of seeing you again. Enquiries around town the morning following the Hanson's card party had not given me more than your name - Doctor Watson. Your lodgings - unknown. You were to be seen wandering the countryside on occasion and were known to be a great friend of Captain Lestrade, which made me wary of your loyalties. I would have pursued my investigation to Lestrade, but unfortunately my captain sent me to the shipyard with some tasks. Thus was my day spent. But with luck, I would see you again and make your acquaintance at last.

In the evening, violin case under my elbow, I went to Molly Harte's, only to be greeted with unwelcome news. The cellist had been taken ill, and I was not to play a short duet of Haydn with him. Instead, Mrs. Harte informed me that we were to play Mozart, with the simpering Miss Toskley on the pianoforte as the fourth. I dislike Mozart - his music too often sounds like frenzied hysterical laughter or crying; it is excessive. But first, Mrs. Harte was to play a Sicilienne piece upon her harp with a gentleman who had volunteered at the last minute, and claimed he could play a wind instrument. Worse, the instrument was a German flute.

I have to say - I have always abhorred the German flute, and my hatred was only exacerbated by my time aboard the Griffin some years previous. Captain Stewart fancied himself a connoisseur, and would have anyone that could squeak a tune play for him. I was often paired with a dullard of a Marine sergeant that played the aforementioned instrument. Well, I say played - he had no understanding of tempo, attempted the most awkward embellishments, and the habit of nodding and swaying like an addled cobra as he blew, so that I was forced to keep well away to avoid being stabbed in the eye with his flute. So you see, John, how I was predisposed to think ill of the mysterious flautist.

Why the sudden addition to the quartet of an unknown quantity? I could only assume that Molly Harte had set her cap at a fresh conquest, what with her husband being conveniently away on Admiralty business. I probably made some sharp comment under my breath when Molly had left to see to her guests. I do recall making some loud and bitter remarks concerning the German flute and the clods that play it to an acquaintance with whom I was speaking before the concert was due to begin. There was a small cough behind me, and I turned to see - you.

Before I could open my mouth to speak, Mrs. Harte was calling and arranging herself before her harp. Miss Toskley was waiting, and with an inward groan of fury at the interruption I picked up my violin and looked about for Molly Harte's new cicisbeo³.

You stepped up - you, unembarrassed in your dusty black coat and darned stockings, and opened the hated flute case. I could scarce believe my ill-luck. With a sinking heart, I watched you blow a wretchedly poor, thready tuning note. I wished for nothing more than to leave, or sink through the floor, or that a convenient attack by the French would disrupt what was doubtless going to be an unendurable concert.

You turned and lifted a brow in that way which I have come to appreciate so much. It was by way of throwing down the glove for me, so to speak. For of course! you had overheard my ill-natured remarks.

To say you played well, John, would be to understate the case. If we had, indeed, been duelling, you would have shot me through through the heart. Your flute soared over Molly Harte's steady plucking, a dragonfly over rippling water, swooping and playing, carrying me on gossamer wings until at last, you stilled and laid me to rest. You took my breath away. I forgot forever my old dislike of the German flute.

I scarcely remember how you looked as you played - the music was everything. I do remember that in the Mozart piece that followed, I played for you. Each sweep of the bow was an apology, and an entreaty. Each grace note was my interest in pursuing an acquaintance, and each pizzicato pluck a question. And I fancied you answered in a breath of silvery sound. I shall never forget it, nor our conversation the gardens afterwards.

John, when I get my ship, will you join me as ship's surgeon? It is the question I put to you now. I have every hope of getting my ship quickly, with M~'s help and by my own merit. In fact, I am sure of it. You may know how my family has interests in shipping and mercantile trade? M~ has hinted that a donation in the form of a pretty little sloop will be made to the Service soon. Normally I would spurn his assistance, but I must return to Europe and to England. I cannot bear to be away any longer, John.

I enclose a small scrimshaw piece of the ship, John, She is called the Peregrine, or 'traveller' in the Greek. I know you must continue on in the Service, being a loyal man and needing to support your sister. Why not do it in congenial company? I should like it very much. It is perfectly sensible that we take ship together again.

I am not above bribes to get my way. I also enclose a glass, so that you may watch your beloved birds and beasts. I'll show you all I can, my friend, when the Service does not demand we crack on. We will see so many things, it will be a great adventure. So - come to Plymouth. Your captain orders it. Send a letter to M~, who will help arrange things.

I remain confident and hopeful that you will accept, and join me as ship's surgeon on the Peregrine.

Ever yours,

S.H.

P.S. The stockings included are my second spare pair; I give them to you with my compliments and the hope of playing a concert again soon. I know you don't give a damn for appearances, wishing people to look past such things to the quality and nature of the person beneath, but the state of your stockings is too often shocking - even for a learned man with his mind on other matters. Yes, I can see you lifting a haughty brow at my wishing to deck you out in silk stockings instead of the sturdy wool you prefer. But I also know you are smiling and that was my real purpose. Again I will beg you to meet me in Plymouth, as it has been many weary months since I have seen that expression in person.

Sherlock

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Footnotes

1Simon Girty was an American colonial of Scot-Irish ancestry. Taken prisoner as a child and then later adopted by the Seneca tribe, he lived with them for seven years before being returned to his family, and preferred the Native way of life. During the American war of Independence, he sided with the Revolutionaries but later served with Loyalists as a translator, earning the epithet of 'turn-coat' from the Americans. In his later years he retired to a farm in Malden near the British outpost of Fort Amherstburg.

2A similar object dating from the 19th century can be seen in the museum located in Fort Malden.

3Cicisbeo - a lover or gallant.

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Author's notes:
You can the object drawn above at Fort Malden in the town of Amherstburg, Ontario. It always gave me a delightful shudder to see what amounts to a type of voodoo.

The next chapter contains only the rest of the objects contained in the package for Doctor Watson and some paintings of the area executed by the Miss Reynolds, who were actual people hijacked for my fic. Likewise, the Captain of the Queen Charlotte and the Cuyahoga were real as well as Simon Girty.

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five - Appendices