Holmes nodded. "And of course you determined that the uniforms were counterfeit?"
Lestrade did not slump at hearing this, but it was clear the information was news to him.
Holmes nodded. "The fabric has the right appearance, in the main. But it is neither strong enough nor well-tailored enough to hold up against the rigors of combat. The costumes of these unfortunate boarders display torn stitching, frayed edges, and mud stains that could hardly have been picked up aboard this ship. Other details, such as the misalignment of the buttons, are close enough to fool only casual observers."
"Well done, Mr. Holmes," Lieutenant-Commander Powell said.
Holmes inclined his head politely. "This next observation is persuasive rather than conclusive." He strode down the passageway. "Come with me, gentlemen," he said. "We will return to the cabin presently, for it has grave import, but I'd like to draw your attention to one factor first."
Holmes led us to the body of an unfortunate young ship's officer, barely more than a boy, blond hair curled in ringlets over his ears. His left hand was split down the middle from warding off a knife, and he'd been shot in the forehead and the left eye. Blood had pooled around his head and his mouth was half open in surprise and fear.
"Dear God," I said softly.
"Eh?" said Holmes. "Oh, yes, quite. Very regrettable. You are always the one with the heart, Dr. Watson. It adds to your value as a friend, but perhaps detracts from your value as an investigator." He drew out his magnifying lens and held it over the young man's forehead, beckoning us all closer. "Look here," he said, tapping the edge of the lens. "This wound is indicative of what I've observed among the other bodies," he said. "A large-caliber handgun, poorly maintained. Not the sidearm of a military man."
"Pirates!" Powell spat.
Holmes nodded. "Quite skillful and cunning ones, to have accomplished what they did."
"But piracy has nearly died out, particularly in this part of the world," Powell said.
"I suspect that the mind behind this attack venerates the tactics of the pirates of a bygone age."
"But Holmes," I said, alarmed, "so close to the shores of the British Navy? And why disguise themselves? Who could benefit from such deception? With the cargo intact, they didn't even get what they came for."
"Ah, Watson, I often underestimate your ability to go to the thrust of the matter. Who benefits, indeed? Cui bono?" His long legs carried him around us rapidly, his footfalls echoing through the halls. "I believe the cabin we just vacated might answer your excellent question."
Holmes stopped beside the body of the pirate lying in the entryway to the Americans' cabin, forbearing us from going farther. The room beyond was narrow and spare, containing only a single wide stool, two cots pressed close together, a dressing table, a Persian rug, and a mirror. "Lieutenant-Commander, you reported that two Americans named John and Harold Smith purchased passage on this ship, and were sharing this cabin, correct? And as there are no living witnesses, you learned this from an entry in the ship's register."
"Yes," Powell said. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper taken from the ship's log. "They signed in here."
Holmes grunted and I prepared myself to endure a long harangue about preservation of evidence and the countless small clues that had undoubtedly been obliterated when the page was torn and folded and placed into Powell's pocket. But Holmes merely spread the paper gingerly in his long fingers and smiled in triumph. "Marvelous," he said.
I examined the signatures that had captured Holmes's interest. Given my long association with him, I hoped I could glean some significant detail from the paper, but I surrendered with a sigh. "I can see that one is left-handed and the other right," I said, "but can conclude nothing of consequence from that. John Smith is frequently a pseudonym. Is that it, Holmes? They lied about their identities? They were in league with the pirates?"
"They did indeed lie," Holmes said. "But in league with the pirates? Tut, tut, Watson. Let me first direct you to our pirate here." He turned back the edge of the man's right sleeve. A small cloth bag was tied snug to the wrist by a leather strap. Holmes carefully detached it and held it out.
"What a horrible smell," gasped Lestrade. "What is that rubbish?"
"By my account," Holmes said, "the bag contains chervil, unguent, nail clippings, and a chicken bone. That dirt you see is almost certainly from a grave. This is a voodoo talisman called gris-gris."
"Voodoo!" said Lestrade. "But that's practiced in Africa, isn't it? This man is hardly African, Holmes."
"No," Holmes agreed. "But let me now redirect your attention. Note the distinctive mud stains on the knees."
We crouched to examine the dead man's pants, indeed stained with mud in mottled shades of red, brown, and black.
"The pattern of the stain suggests he knelt in several very different forms of soil simultaneously: red clay found in Georgia and Tennessee, river silt, and bog peat. And with my lens I identified two insect legs trapped in the fabric, certainly from a boll weevil. This confluence doesn't occur naturally in so concentrated an area."
"A greenhouse?" I mused.
"Perhaps," Holmes said dismissively. "But I am reminded of an American named John Bullocq, sometimes called the dirt magnate. In the 1850s, he made his fortune carting dirt from around the Southern states to Devil's Cape, Louisiana, where the average elevation was barely above sea level. He used the dirt to create hills that the wealthier citizens of the city could build their homes upon. They competed in their extravagant purchases of his dirt, each hoping to have his own mansion look down upon the others. Bullocq's enterprise made the soil of Devil's Cape quite uniquely varied."
Powell's face reddened. "Devil's Cape has voodoo," he said, "and pirates."
Devil's Cape had in fact been founded by pirates. The masked pirate St. Diable, scourge of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and occasionally the waters of South America, Africa, and even Europe, had built a fortress in Louisiana to house his loot, his men, and his slaves. The fortress had ultimately grown to a city that rivaled its nearby sister, New Orleans, in size. Once years earlier at 221B Baker Street, Holmes had declared it the most corrupt and dangerous city on the face of the planet. "It is a city that swallows law, Watson," he had said. "That embraces corruption on such a grand scale as to make it almost a separate nation unto itself."
Lestrade's nose wrinkled. "So that is your conclusion, Holmes? The Friesland was attacked by pirates from Devil's Cape?"
Holmes nodded. "St. Diable, the city's founder, is long dead. But a succession of crime lords has followed, ruling the city from behind the scenes. The most recent, O Jacaré, or 'the Alligator,' adopted St. Diable's style of piracy wholesale. After the demise of my long-time adversary Professor Moriarty, I had occasion to review some of his correspondence. Moriarty and Jacaré had developed a friendship and wrote each other about such diverse topics as Calvinism, forgery, fencing, the ancient game of Go, and how best to dispose of me. Jacaré is cunning and ruthless, certainly capable of orchestrating this massacre if the motivation was strong enough, and I believe it was."
Lestrade snorted. "The attack ended many lives, but his pirates didn't even get what they came for."
"Didn't they?" Holmes smiled thinly. "The Jacaré sobriquet is misleading. For while he is certainly as fierce as an alligator, he is much less single-minded. He has a labyrinthine brain. I shouldn't be surprised if he had several goals in this single attack." He held up a finger. "The first was the subterfuge with the uniforms. Had we not pierced this veil, it could have led to a war between Denmark and the Netherlands, and quite possibly other nations in the region."