Standing atop the lifeboat, Denikin brandished his katana once more. Nicholas attempted to shrink away, but he was already at the edge of the boat and had nowhere else to go.
Then there was another splash. A shadow rose from the surface, like a fish leaping into the air. Ito boarded the boat, dripping wet, and grabbed Denikin by the leg. He pulled, hard. Denikin lost his balance and fell.
Ito was the first to his feet. The boat rocked violently left and right. Chekhov, bent low, grabbed the boat’s edge. Ito’s skillful sense of balance, however, allowed him to maintain his own footing.
Denikin stood up. He glared at Ito, eyes wide, and took aim with his sword.
Ito still held the cane. He drew the hidden blade, gripped the hilt in both hands, and squared off against Denikin, his sword brandished high and center. He met Denikin with cold, steady eyes.
The Russian man struck quickly. Ito’s sword flicked side-to-side in response. The boat rocked so it was difficult to use footwork, but Denikin had the same limitation. Sparks lit the darkness when their blades clashed. Their struggle seemed intense. The swords crossed and it soon turned to a contest of strength, each attempting to push the other backward. Denikin, who was in better physical shape, seemed to be winning.
The lifeboat began to regain equilibrium. Chekhov resumed firing at the steamboat.
It was no use crouching at the bottom of the boat forever. Sherlock leaned over the edge. “Lieutenant Colonel, your assistance!”
“Wait, Holmes,” Kanevsky shouted. “What are you—”
Sherlock did not hear the rest. He was already in the sea.
Underwater, he might as well have been blind. But he had expected this. He could hear the sound of gunshots, muffled by the water. The ocean was frigid, but his clothes helped to keep him buoyant. He followed Ito’s example, swimming close to the surface while propelling himself forward with his legs. The current flowed from the side. Sherlock swam quickly, fine-tuning his course as he progressed. There was no time to even take a breath. If he broke water he would surely be shot.
His head bumped against something hard. He stretched his arms out. It was the hull of the boat. He swam around to the other side, reached up, and grabbed onto the edge.
As he broke the water’s surface, sight and sound were restored. The first thing he saw was Nicholas, cowering at the foot of the boat. His face was alive with terror. The piercing sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air. Sherlock looked up. Ito and Denikin were still engaged in their fierce swordplay.
Chekhov sat near the bow. He seemed to have regained his composure, realizing that with Nicholas hostage the steamboat was unable to return effective fire. He redirected his pistol, aiming it now at Ito, who stood mere feet away.
Sherlock used all the strength in his arms to pull himself up and roll into the lifeboat. Chekhov appeared startled. The boat shook dramatically, and his aim was thrown off. Sherlock chopped him in the arm. The pistol dropped into the sea.
As the boat continued to rock, Sherlock rose to his feet. Chekhov stood as well, drawing a knife from his pocket. The blade moved threateningly in the air. Sherlock recoiled and the boat nearly capsized.
The footing here was much more precarious than it had been upon the rocks of the Reichenbach Falls. Denikin, too, lost his balance. Ito, however, was much more adept at maintaining his. Completely unfazed by the unevenness of the boat, he swung again. The tables had been turned. Denikin dropped to one knee. Ito struck from above, again and again. It took all of Denikin’s strength to defend against the blows.
Chekhov glared. Sweat trickled down his face. “You’d do well not to interfere in Russia’s affairs, Mr. Holmes.”
“It’s over, Chekhov! Anna Luzhkova and Jacob Akhatov are dead. The Okhrana’s duplicitous plans end here.”
Chekhov gasped, his lips trembling slightly. “You think I will let the British have Japan? I won’t allow you to take this foothold in the Far East.”
“Japan has chosen its own independence. Your plot to sabotage and destroy the country is a travesty of international law.”
“Be quiet!” Chekhov charged, knife-first.
Sherlock grabbed Chekhov by his lapels and, maintaining his balance despite the heaving of the boat, took a step backward. He jammed his elbow tight into Chekhov’s side. Remaining close, he twisted his body round quickly and threw Chekhov backward, over his shoulder.
Moriarty’s lanky frame had seemed to almost float in the air when Sherlock had executed this throw on him. The portlier Chekhov traced a parabola instead. He landed against the waves with a smack, creating an enormous splash.
Chekhov’s body sank, leaving only bubbles before it disappeared from view.
Or so Sherlock thought—but the man resurfaced immediately, his face barely thrust above the surface and both arms gesticulating wildly.
“Help!” he sputtered, barely afloat. “I can’t swim, help me!”
Sherlock hesitated. He glanced at the floor of the boat. The sight of Nicholas’ terrified face greeted him.
Ito delivered another downward blow, followed by an upward cut. Denikin’s katana hurtled into the sea, and he landed heavily on the boards, rump-first. Ito thrust the tip of his sword directly before the man’s eyes.
A look of fear crossed Denikin’s face. “Kill me then,” he cried unsteadily. “Do it quickly!”
Ito did not move. He stared down at the Russian.
Denikin shouted defiantly. “Kill me! Kill me you damned foreigner-killing monkey savage!”
“Silence!” he roared. “Japan is a nation of laws. You weren’t defeated in the name of joui today. You have trespassed against men of all races, and you will be judged under the law. We are not savages and we are not monkeys!”
Denikin trembled and went stiff. A moment later he sighed. He slumped his head in resignation.
Sherlock looked at Nicholas. The Tsarevich seemed half-senseless, and rolled over. Perhaps he had heard the word “monkey.”
Chekov continued to sputter in the water. His voice, as he shouted for help, was beginning to grow panicked. “Help! I’ll do anything! Dear God, please!”
The image of Moriarty hurtling down the falls flashed now in Sherlock’s mind. He had watched as Moriarty grew smaller and smaller, bouncing against the rocks before disappearing into the waters below. His conscience had remained untroubled at the time. Was there any difference, now?
Ito had already sheathed his sword. He stared down at Denikin silently. The Russian seemed to have fully surrendered. He showed no signs of further resistance.
A nation of laws. Even under their current circumstances, faced with the very blackguards who had plotted Japan’s downfall, Ito remained dedicated to order.
But it was clear that Ito’s was the ethical choice, and undoubtedly the correct one.
Still Sherlock could not help but hesitate. So long as he continued to possess the capacity for thought, such doubts would likely always persist. At some point one must stop thinking and act.
He bent forward. He removed the small life preserver attached to the side of the boat and tossed it to Chekhov.
Chekhov clutched at it desperately. His head continued to bob vigorously in the water, but it remained now above the surface. He seemed to calm down. His breathing grew less frantic. He stared off into the distance, and then sighed, low and deep.
Sherlock couldn’t help but snort. He turned back toward Ito. The chairman stared back at him, nodding slightly.
Their steamboat drew near, its sirens blaring. The water was illuminated by the white glow of the torch. As he was rocked back and forth by the turbulent ink-black sea, Sherlock felt he was drifting through nowhere.