But she held the bag way from Bowler, talking directly to Nakshbad.
"She say dirty stream water, sahib. Animal shits in it, will make us very sick. Horses will know whether to drink - if they do, it good enough for them only," at which the Sikh took a canvas bucket, filled it with an inch or two of muddy liquid and held it to one of the cavalry mount's noses. Not only did it drink eagerly, but the other, and Madelaine, almost knocked themselves over trying to get to it.
"'Ere, sir, there's just a sip o' clean water left, you 'ave it, but leave a swallow for the girl, will you?" said Bowler, passing me the last of our looted canteens. But even as I took a couple of mouthfuls and passed the bottle to the girl to finish the dregs, it struck me how odd it was that the soldier who was now so protective of the girl had earlier wanted to shoot and abandon her. "Then let's get movin', shall we? It stinks 'ere an's alive with these damned flies."
"I agree, let's shift from here, it's appalling," I said weakly, but let's rest in daytime and move by night, that's got to make sense."
"No it don't, sir. The longer we stay 'ereabouts, the closer them Ghazis will get an' our hosses 'ave hardly got enough water to last them even a few miles, so let's get weavin' before some sod does to us what was done to this lot," he nodded towards the corpses that were now bloating in the heat.
Frankly, I cannot remember much of the next few hours for my thirst had hardly been touched by the water we found on the dead natives and this, combined with the pain of my wound, sent me into a semi delirium whilst we hobbled our way back to the city of Kandahar. I have vague memories of stopping for a while, of Nakshbad peering at me and whispering urgently to Bowler, of shots in the distance and being shaken around as we attempted some sort of flight, but not much else. My next really clear recollection was of the smell of ether again. But this time its tang and, I suppose, the memories it evoked aroused me rather than dulled me and I found myself in a hospital ward of sorts. It was obviously a makeshift, for it looked like a storehouse its walls not whitewashed with most of the patients - and there were plenty - lying on palliasses on the floor. It was quiet, though, no screams or shouts or snorting mules and fairly cool, though the insects still plagued us.
"Sir, he's conscious, sir. That officer's got 'is eyes open sir," a medical orderly said quite clearly, shuffling around on the board floor in sandals rather than nailed boots. There I lay wondering why my groin hurt so badly and my shoulder hardly at all, waiting interminably for the doctor, though the irony was lost on me. Finally, he arrived.
"Ah, Watson, remember me? Pinkney, staff surgeon - you must recall, we met in Karachi," but I couldn't bring the fellow to mind at all. He looked like we all did, sunburnt with a white line on his forehead were his cap protected him, big, fit from time in the saddle and wearing the short whiskers that had become so fashionable since everyone wanted to distance themselves from Gladstone and his hairy chops.
"You've been a regular Doctor Brydon, I gather?" but I had no idea what he was talking about. "You know, that canvas that came out last year painted by that Irish lass, Elizabeth Butler. It caused quite a stir, you must know it. It was called, "All That was Left of an Army" or some such and showed one of our profession reaching Jellalabad in '42 after the Army got cut up at Gandamak. You must have seen it."
I nodded my head, I could just recall some images of it in the paper, a single, somewhat tousled gent on a horse that looked fit only for the knackers’ yard. He had a broken sword hanging from one wrist but a suitably gallant look on his face, so I did my best to answer.
"Poor fellow, but he must have had a story to tell," I whispered.
"Yes, but I expect you'll have a yarn or two for the mess table when you've got your strength back. Here, we took this out of your shoulder two days ago, almost as soon as you got in," he showed me something wrapped in slightly bloody gauze - we were told to do this for the wounded when at all possible for men liked to show such things off to the doxies. "Apparently, your man, your medical orderly, brought you in on the same horse as himself, though he was half dead with thirst. I was almost as worried by the flesh that your saddle took off your arse as by the bullet."
I'd been in pain whilst asleep and dreaming about Bowler, I could remember it distinctly, but I had no memory of any operation.
"Were there others with him, d'you know, Pinkney? Any natives?" I asked.
"Not that I've heard, but you'll have to ask him yourself, he won't be going anywhere now that we're under siege. Right, no more talking. I want you up and about as soon as possible, I need the bed space and your skills will be wanted in whatever fighting lies ahead. Get some solids into yourself and I'll be back to see you anon; cheerio," and off he went, my stomach sinking at the prospect of further hardship.
As an officer and a regulation, hearty sort, of course, I should have responded to all this with enthusiasm - but I didn't. On the next charpoy lay a gloomy farrier from General Burrow's headquarters who'd collapsed with heat exhaustion after all sorts of harrowing incidents about which he prosed on. He told me that our force had been utterly smashed and those who weren't put to the sword perished horribly on the sun-scorched retreat all the way back to where we were now. Meanwhile, Ayoob Khan's victorious army was surrounding us whilst we lay festering and waited for help to come. Encouragingly, Farrier Bolton was convinced that we'd all be massacred long before General Roberts reached us from Kabul or, at a pinch, another column that was meant to be coming from somewhere that he couldn't remember. I was delighted when he was sufficiently improved to be moved. His replacement was a Bombay Grenadier without a word of English.
But that delight didn't seem to have much effect on my condition. Whilst my wound healed well and my nether parts scabbed over quickly enough, I remained terribly weak and almost unable to stir myself from torpor. It wasn't that I couldn't move, I just didn't want to move, my mind holding my body in an immobile grip. Pinkney and the staff encouraged me, they even took my bedpan away to see if they could shame me into forsaking my bed until I fouled myself. No, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, drifting in and out of sleep until I was shifted to a little bungalow affair with a couple of other wounded officers and placed on a veranda, "to occupy my mind". I soon realised that I was deep in a black depression.
Slowly, things improved of their own accord and after about ten days I was up on my feet and wandering about, but not before I'd lost the respect of my two companions who were only too eager to recover and show just how damned manly they were by returning to duty as quickly as possible.
I don't know whether those two talked or whether it was just my own, internal anxieties, but I soon formed the opinion that the few people whom I had to meet were treating me with contempt. Everyone seemed to want to keep their distance whilst I mooned about, shuddering and jibbing at every shell that Ayoob Khan's guns fired at the place. And I didn't help myself when Pinkney pretty well ordered me to help in one of the dressing stations during General Brooke's sally against De Khoja in mid August. There were dozens of casualties and I did my best to help with the dressing and triage, but I just couldn't bear to look at the torn and injured limbs - it brought back the horror of Maiwand and the retreat with such awful clarity that I wasn't much use. The low point was whilst the firing was heaviest, we'd just been told that Brooke himself was badly hurt and poor Gordon - the padre - was killed. A stream of stretchers and litters were being brought in to the barn where we'd set up shop (it took no time for it to reek of ether) then, amidst a clutch of limping men, I heard a voice, "Bloody 'ell, sir, it's good to see yer!" and there was Private Bowler, cleaner than when I'd seen him last but just as rumpled. He grinned at me, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and said, "sorry I ain't 'ad time to come and see yer - heard yer was still in a bad way. But I know where your mess is an' I'll be over as soon as I can…"
Do you know, I just couldn't find any words for him. Bowler had saved me time and again during the beastly fight and that parching journey back and I don
't know if it was simply the shame and self-reproach of my less than gallant conduct or whether my mood was at its blackest, but I just couldn't speak to the man. I turned my back on him, didn't ask how Nakshbad and the girl had met their ends, for I assumed they were dead and the ransom money had died with them, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.
"Sir…Doctor Watson, sir, it's me, Bowler, don't you know me?" but I was like a child in the playground, refusing to acknowledge the man to whom I owed so much. "I'll get to see you, sir…" and with that Bowler returned to his place of duty as confused with my behaviour, I imagine, as I was ashamed of it.
***
"You're for home, Watson." Pinkney was talking kindly to me, trying to break the news that my military career was over - as if I cared. "Now the siege has been lifted it'll all be a question of pursuit and then we'll all be off back to India - that's the rumour."
Since my arrival with Bowler and then my failure in the dressing station almost three weeks ago, I'd been unable to concentrate on a damn thing. My arm was stiff but out of a sling and, as far as the world was concerned, I was fit enough for duty, but I just couldn't function. The reproachful looks got worse despite everyone's distraction over the approach of Roberts's column, its arrival and then the battle to relieve Kandahar. Whilst everyone was rushing around I was ignored; I felt like a pariah.
“No, you get your man to pack your kit and start for Karachi as soon as you can, we'll not be far behind you." They were the last words of consequence I heard in that wretched place and the two weeks of almost complete solitude that the journey down the lines of communication back to India gave me were a blessing. With only natives and a few stretcher cases for company, I had time to think and time to chase some of the demons away, though my sleep - if that's what you could call it - was only fitful, full of whirling swords, banging muskets, bearded crazies and beauties with kohl-black eyes carrying banners.
But I was better by the time we got back across the border. Better might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I was at least rational enough to resign my commission, wire for a ticket on a civil steamer home and raise what money I could by selling my meagre kit and possessions to the garrison shop. I even burnt my khaki drill suit, complete with bullet hole in the shoulder and saddle worn knees in the breeches - I didn't want the thing haunting Mother's dressing-up box back in the rectory. But I kept the revolver that someone had given me to replace the one that I lost at Maiwand and my twenty guinea field boots. Nothing else remained, though. I suppose I hoped that all the ghosts, all the horrors and shakes would be left behind when I took the fastest passage to Southampton that I could afford.
Chapter Six: Baker Street
"Got a bob on you for an old soldier, sir?" I'd set off for London after a few months at home, determined to buy into a practice somewhere but, although I was much more settled, I couldn't bring myself to apply to the various different advertisements.
"Got a few pennies to spare, sir?" I was walking down the Haymarket in the spring sunshine towards my club - I was well enough off to be able to live there whilst I found some cheaper rooms, and well enough off to dig around in my pocket for some coppers. I paused by the man; he was surprisingly young and whilst his clothes were worn, they were well patched and tidy. His boots were clean and his moustache and hair crudely cut, but presentable.
"Yes…yes, of course. Here's three thru'penny bits. What's wrong with you, you seem to be in one piece?" there were handfuls of men like this at street corners in the City. Usually I avoided them - not out of unkindness, but because I couldn't bear to hear the stories that they insisted on telling me and the sight of the wounds that they usually brandished. But I couldn't avoid this fellow and he was younger than most of the China and New Zealand veterans whom I usually encountered.
"It's me mind, sir. I was with the Fore an' Afts up Afghanis…"
"Yes, yes I can see that," I cut him off. He was wearing the medal and whilst I knew how hard the 59th had been hit but I didn't want the details. "What do you mean, your mind?"
"No body'll set me on, sir, cos I can't keep to owt. I've tried everywhere, sir, Nottingham, Doncaster and now 'ere, but I get a job an' then the blackness starts an' I stay away or get rough with someone an'…"
"Yes, I'm so sorry my man. Here, here's two guineas," I may have had a little money, but certainly not enough to be throwing it around like this, yet I couldn't stand to hear another word of my fellow traveller's story.
"Sodding strap back…oh. Beg you’ pardon, sir, that's wonderful, that is," he beamed at the two gold coins in his palm as I raised my hat to him and turned to get away as fast as I could.
Now, I'd had the odd funny turn over the past few months, strange things would set me off and send me whimpering back to my kennel for a while, but they were becoming less and less frequent. I was turning over in my mind what this man had said and the memories of how pleased the 59th had been to be marching out of Kandahar when we relieved them. I was even wondering if we'd met before in some parched, Afghan gutter, when a horse reared up suddenly in the road nearby. Something had frightened it, the groom went sprawling - all that would have been fine had it not let out a great, anxious whinny - that was all I needed. The quality of the sunlight, the animal's cry, its flailing hooves and a body dashed to the ground brought every hobgoblin in creation bounding back into my mind and before I knew it, I was shivering against a wall, my hands covering my face and head.
"You all right, sir?" The 59th man was suddenly alongside me, holding my shoulder, "d'you get kicked or summat, sir?"
"Get your hands off an officer!" I snapped in the voice I'd learnt to use when correcting such men - a voice I had never expected to use again.
"Sorry, sir, I was only…" the beggar had braced to attention in an instinctive way that I'd not seen since Bowler was taken to task by that odious man - what was his name, Moriarty, yes Moriarty - on that dreadful morning so long ago.
"I'm sorry…so sorry my man," my voice had gone back to normal and I hurried away swiftly as I could but with my mind like a boiling cauldron.
***
That was the worst turn I'd had, thank God, but the fear of something like that happening again was why I kept away from my old comrades. I politely declined both Lynch and Peirson-Gower's invitations to lunch and a day's shooting. I swerved Galbraith's memorial service, which was dreadful of me as I'd thought the world of him, and I had planned to go to the Isle of Wight, but just couldn't face it. The old 66th had come back to England and were stationed at Parkhurst now. It was there that Her Majesty decided to present new Colours in place of those lost at Maiwand and to dish out any number of medals. It was to be a great occasion and the papers plumped it up, for it seemed to be a subtle indication that any stain attaching to the character of the Regiment after the disaster in Afghanistan was going to be washed clean. So generous was my invitation - I'd only been attached to the Regiment, after all - that at first I listened to Holmes's advice.
"Go on, man, go. It's a grand part of the world, you'll see all your old friends in frightfully jolly circumstances and if it'll stop your moping about here, I'll pay for the fare there and back myself," which was Holmes's slightly gauche way of being kind, I suppose. Also, I thought the whole occasion might help to purge me too. Only if I had something to hide, something of which to be ashamed, I reasoned, would I not show my face. So, I decided to go - until the date drew close and then I simply lost my nerve.
"What, you're not going? You'll miss a beano like that and a chance to meet Her Majesty?" Holmes exploded when I told him, "You must be quite mad… oh, oh, I'm so sorry," and that, I think, in all the time I knew the great detective, was the only occasion upon which I saw him embarrassed or lost for words. He soon recovered, though, "Well you won't be able to see that man of yours who's always tapping at the door, what's his name…you know, your orderly fellow out East."
"Bowler, Private Bowler? How on earth do you know about him?" I asked, genuinely surprised. It was true,
Bowler had found out where I lived and had called on two occasions to see me, but I'd told the housekeeper to make some excuse. I hated myself for scorning the poor man, but the memories that he might evoke would be too painful. On top of which, I preferred to remain in ignorance about the fate of Nakshbad and the native girl. I'd only known her a couple of days, but I thought of her often and the idea of a lovely creature like that coming to some grisly end was unbearable.
"You yell a man's name at night when you're riding one of your nightmares. Clearly, whoever he is, he was close to you in difficult circumstances and the only person who has persisted in trying to see you is, Mrs Hudson tells me, your old orderly. I think you'll agree, that's not the most difficult conclusion to reach. If your mind's made up about Parkhurst, then that's your affair, but you'll have to see Bowler sometime, it's not right to cut such a faithful person," and there the subject was dropped.
***
About two weeks later Holmes and I were in the middle of an investigation of a murder that had occurred on the Brixton Road. I don't need to go into the details, you will have read about it in the papers I dare say and, anyway, it's not germane to what I'm about to relate. It was just before lunch, Holmes was in a high old state of excitement - and I was pretty distracted too - pacing about the room prosing about this, theorising about that, trying to get his ridiculous, curly pipe to stay alight when he suddenly stopped in mid flow, blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils, strode onto the landing and boomed downstairs: "Mrs Hudson, there's about to be a knock at the door. Private Bowler is here to see the Doctor, please show him up," there was a squeak of agreement from below, he closed the study door, turned to me and said, "there, the poor man's come from heaven knows where to see his former master. He's worried witless, I have no doubt, by your failure to appear at the Regimental reunion. You can't avoid him now, you'll have to see him," and flung himself into a chair, his face set and determined.
Doctor Watson's Casebook Page 5