Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Read Online Free PDF

exciting nation. Soon enough I should find out for myself!
    One man I noticed carrying on a particularly animated conversation. He chopped the air with hands in time to the music and jerked his head up and down in agreement with himself at every moment. He was apparently without companion, but was seated at a table with several couples who gave every appearance of discomfort with his expostulations. When he paused for breath he drew back his lips to reveal teeth that reflected the salon’s gaslights, causing me to wonder if he had not had them drilled by the new electrical apparatus of Mr. George Green, and filled with a metal amalgam.
    My attention was drawn back by the tapping of Maestro’s baton upon his music stand. We were to perform a suite of flute duets by Wolfgang Mozart. The rosy-cheeked flautist at my sidesmiled encouragingly and we set out upon a sea of the loveliest melodies ever composed.
    It pleases me to state that we started and ended together, the performance was not a disaster, and most of our listeners actually lowered their implements and hushed their conversations while we played. Maestro Ziegfried smiled and gestured to us to rise and take a bow at the conclusion of the suite, and the room applauded most generously. My fellow flautist shook my hand and gave me his name, Jenkins. He had, of course, already learned mine.
    That night I sat up in my bunk composing a letter to Mother and Father. I would post it when the
Great Eastern
reached New York. I was bursting with happiness. I was in the world at large. I had performed musically to acclaim. Even the presence in the other bunk of the annoying Sherlock could not dampen my cheery spirits.
    As the voyage proceeded, our days on shipboard were not unpleasant. Our meals were excellent in quality and generous in portion. When not rehearsing or performing, we musicians were free to roam the
Great Eastern
’s extensive decks, to borrow volumes from her library, even to explore her gigantic engine rooms. These were extensive. She carried volumes of coal with which to fire the huge boilers that powered her twin paddle wheels and her screw propeller. The ship even bore tall masts, but her sails were seldom unfurled.
    From time to time I would encounter my friend Mr. Jenkins. We even shared a glass of wine on occasion, discussing the great ship, Maestro Ziegfried, and various members of the orchestra. Mr. Jenkins seemed to have tidbits of gossip, most of it not unpleasant, about each of our fellow musicians, with the exceptionof the cornetist, Mr. Saxe. When I asked if Mr. Jenkins knew anything of this gentleman he quickly changed the subject.
    Our musical repertoire was varied, with each evening’s performance including both orchestral and solo performances. Maestro Ziegfried proved an expert pianist, interpreting compositions by Joseph Haydn, Frédéric Chopin, and several of the Bachs, most notably my favorite, the underrated Carl Philipp Emanuel.
    During Maestro’s solo performances I was able to observe the audience. Time and again my attention was drawn to the man with the metallic teeth.
    His behavior changed but little each evening. He would arrive at the appointed hour and take his place, the sole unaccompanied male sharing a table with three couples. At the beginning of the meal his mien was respectable, but he inevitably consumed copious alcoholic beverages. As he did so he became increasingly animated and, apparently, belligerent. On an evening near the end of our voyage, two days before we were due to make landfall at New York, his six companions rose in a body and departed from the table, leaving him to fume amidst empty bottles and soiled napkins.
    Early the next afternoon Sherlock and I strolled on the
Great Eastern
’s deck. The starboard side was reserved for the ship’s seagoing cattle ranch, as I had come to think of it. The port side was the promenade deck, so lengthy and broad that it had come to be known as Oxford Street.
    Sherlock was