Not that he was idle. From the first day on deck one of the swabs succeeded in shoving a bucket and mop into his hands. He also helped with hoisting the sails. On windy days the rope would be wound so tightly around his hands that he worried his fingers would be torn off.
Even the grueling physical labor, however, was nothing compared to the terror at night, as the boat pitched violently in the waves. For several days in July they were lashed by hurricanes, and the hold started filling with water. Several Chinese passengers were ordered to rush to rein in the sails, but fell from the mast and were injured. Sherlock could hardly stand by and watch. He spent his waking hours frantically scooping water from the ship with buckets; every hand beside the captain’s was likewise busy in bailing out the ship.
The troubles continued. In August, as they approached the Indian Ocean, a cyclone reared its head and the boat was blown off course. Every night they could hear angry shouts from the captain’s chamber.
Sherlock approached the captain several times to discuss improving the working conditions, but his efforts were for naught. Every day Captain Cartlett drank like a fish. He was constantly inebriated. When he learned of the captain’s proclivity for drink, Sherlock began to genuinely fear for his and the other passengers’ lives. He considered attempting to orchestrate a mutiny, but as he was unable to communicate with the other passengers there was no opportunity for him to enlist any allies. The sailors were all Spanish or Italian, and the stowaways were all Chinese.
He had no idea what course they were charting, but their progress seemed exceedingly slow. Even the slowest would have arrived in Yokohama within fifty days, but theirs continued to flounder in the Indian Ocean even after three months.
Sherlock’s strength and spirits waned. Above deck or in the hold he spent his days in a listless haze. His hair grew wild, and he found no leisure even to shave his beard. Being on board was like working on a slave ship. And yet it was precisely because this ship was not fit for long journeys that they were so easily able to falsify their route and evade inspections in each country. It was only after visiting several ports and seeing how deftly they passed, unimpeded, between the warships, that Sherlock realized this.
His head ached and spun. His reality grew phantasmal. He was wracked with nausea, hunger, and dehydration. Then, one day, as Sherlock lay barely conscious, a flurry of footsteps descended into the hold. The captain made an announcement. They had arrived!
He staggered up the stairs along with the Chinese stowaways. They emerged like the defeated remnants of a tattered army. On deck, the sky above was tinged in blue. Judging by the crispness and slight chill of the air, it was early morning. The Chinese passengers lined up along the starboard. Everyone shouted in excitement.
He shuffled toward the balustrade on unsteady legs. He cast his eyes down at the waves and gasped instinctively.
Countless flat barges and tiny fishing boats floated upon the water. Stout, half-naked fishermen, as small in stature as, yet clearly distinguishable from, the Chinese men surrounding Sherlock, swayed to and fro as they pushed their long oars through the water. The scene was just like that of woodblock prints.
Day had broken. Beyond the port rose a range of mountains, and a hazy, cone-shaped silhouette floated far in the distance. As the sun rose, the clouds that hung about the skirt of the mountain were bathed in red. The peak towered high above those clouds, limpid and glassy. Mount Fuji.
Sherlock’s weariness vanished in a heartbeat. They had arrived in Japan, the fabled country of the Far East.
The ship docked in Yokohama port. Captain Cartlett ushered the group onto the pier without offering even a word of farewell. No one was there to meet Sherlock. He teetered off the ship with his heavy trunk in his hands, and alighted onto an empty dock.
But even so he had to stop a moment, awestruck. Rows of Western-style buildings lined the docks. Their architecture was similar to the British colonial style, as might be seen in India or another of the empire’s territories.
This made him set off cautiously. No sooner did he maneuver down one of the side streets than the scenery around him changed. There were lines of wooden houses with tiled roofs in close profusion. Men and women dressed in kimonos bustled to and fro across a bare earthen road. A two-wheeled cart, pulled by a man instead of a horse, passed. The inhabitants were shorter, and likewise everything else—the façades of the buildings to the size of the vehicles—was designed more compactly. The signs on the storefronts were covered in letters he could not read. In addition to recognizably Chinese characters, there were other symbols that resembled squiggling worms. As far as the eye could see the whole street was full of loud confusion, and yet one glance was enough to see that the streets were hygienic. Unlike in London, there were no puddles of sewage by the side of the road. Everywhere was clean.
Sherlock opened the case Mycroft had given him. In addition to English currency, it was stuffed with notes, maps, and other papers. He had already checked its contents while on the boat.
The English-language maps were a priceless commodity. From them, he learned that the ship had not docked at a wharf for foreign vessels, but at a district reserved for passages to the outlying islands. This had allowed the passengers to enter without going through immigration procedures. Despite the harsh trials he had faced at sea, he was forced to admit that Mycroft’s judgment had been correct.
By now Sherlock had been wearing the same soiled blazer for far too long. And with his unkempt hair and current ragged appearance, there was no telling when the police might stop him. His attention was caught by a narrow alleyway, in which half-naked fishermen drew well-water up in pails and upended them over their heads. Apparently they had just finished their labor. The fishermen glanced oddly when Sherlock approached, but made no move to stop him. It seemed the well was accessible to any who wished to use it.
He stripped down and began washing himself off. He would never have behaved so immodestly in London, but in this place it seemed of little consequence. The men surrounding him were already in varying states of undress.
Finished, Sherlock re-attired himself in a white shirt and ascot, a frock coat, brightly colored trousers, and leather shoes. He tucked his long hair underneath his silk top hat. His beard had, too, become prodigious in volume, but perhaps in Japan they might assume he was from some country where such beards were customary.
As he changed, several children rushed toward him and surrounded him. Had they come to steal his luggage? But no, they didn’t make any moves to do so. Even after he finished changing and started walking away from the alleyway, the children followed, smiling. Were they beggars? They didn’t seem to be beggars.
He realized they were simply marveling at his strangeness. Eventually the children ran back in the direction from which they had come, to a group of women who appeared to be their mothers. The children pointed at Sherlock and jabbered to the women, who craned their heads upward to stare at him. Judging from their expressions, they were flabbergasted by his height.
Such naïvete. Could this truly be the country that some 20 years prior had been loudly crying for joui?
But then Sherlock spotted a group of what appeared to be French citizens. According to his map, he was now in a neighborhood known as Motomachi. There was a so-called “foreign settlement” nearby with embassies and trading companies. It was far too dangerous to approach that area. He headed toward the railway station instead.
At the side of the road he found a money changer. The Japanese bank notes were machine-printed and resembled Qing currency. Sherlock couldn’t be sure which bills were worth what. He thrust forward one of the less valuable-looking bills as a tip, but the clerk thrust it back with a smile, refusing to take it. Apparently tipping was not the custom.