The Adventure of the Spanish Drums
Page 2
There was faint rustling sound of a punkah fan overhead and I finally opened my eyes to find two figures standing at the foot of my bed. One was my faithful orderly, to whom I shall be eternally indebted. The other was a tall, handsome, fair-haired officer, who Murray introduced as Subaltern Harry Vaughan. He went on to explain that it was the young Subaltern who led a group of soldiers out from behind the lines, in an effort to drive off the rebels. Had he not done so, Murray, myself, and the others would have surely been done for.
Mercifully, I discovered that we did not receive any further casualties during this final assault but I was later given to understand that Subaltern Vaughan’s actions were rather frowned upon by his superior officers. They viewed his charge out from behind the lines as being rather rash and more likely to endanger further loss. I must confess that Murray and I did not share this view however, and we both informed him of our gratitude for his actions.
The whole of the August that followed saw us besieged in the garrison by Ayub Khan, before we were finally relieved by Major General Frederick ‘Bobs’ Roberts who marched over 300 miles across the mountains from Kabul, with his relieving army of ten thousand men.
Subaltern Vaughan was then given the task of supervising the transportation of the wounded, myself included, back across the border to Peshawur, where I was to continue my convalescence. Our caravan wove its way between the dangerous hills and jagged peaks of central Afghanistan; with its stony defiles that were like baking ovens. Although the camels – with their large flat feet – coped with the terrain, I remember the poor ponies constantly slipping on the flinty surfaces.
It was as we were coming down one of these treacherous mountain paths, that Vaughan had cause to display further gallantry. I heard one of the sepoys shout back, ‘Huzoor Vaughan! Gilzais scouts ahead’. I looked out of my wagon and was horrified to see a group of local tribesmen blocking the road at the foot of the pass. My immediate thought was that we were all to be slaughtered after all.
Vaughan however, calmly rode ahead to meet the leader of the group. He was an exotic figure; someone who could have been taken from the pages of an Eastern fairytale, such were his outlandish clothes. He sat astride his Afghan pony in his loose fitting robes and pyjama-type trousers, over which he wore a long, elaborately coloured coat. Black ringlets of hair protruded from underneath his green turban. My attention however, was almost immediately drawn to the long barrel of his Jezail rifle that was slung over his shoulder, and the vicious looking Khyber knife that hung from his belt.
Vaughan, quite calmly, spoke to the leader in his own tongue, for a few minutes and to my utter astonishment, the latter retreated back to his group and ushered them out of the way, thus allowing us to pass through unmolested. Once through the labyrinth of passes, we were out onto the sun- scorched plains.
I recovered enough during this period to hold several conversations with the young officer. I began by complimenting him on the way he handled the potentially dangerous situation at the pass. He explained modestly that he simply pointed out to the scout that we were a group of harmless wounded who posed no threat to them. Being a relatively small scouting group they did not wish to engage in combat either. I must say I was not only impressed by his bravery but also his coolness.
It transpired that he was related on his mother’s side, to Lennard Stokes, my old rugby captain at Blackheath, who went on to win twelve caps for England. Stokes was a fellow medical student; he studied at Guy’s whilst I was at Bart’s. It seemed bizarre discussing with Vaughan the merits of the best drop kicker in the game of Rugby Football, on those dusty Afghan plains but I could not help being drawn to this man, who’s bravery and ambition epitomised everything that I thought good about the British soldier. He informed me at one point that he expected to leave the Berkshires in the near future, in an effort to further his career with another regiment. I recall him telling me that he hoped the army re-organisation that was due to take place within the next couple of years would provide him with the opportunity for advancement. His dilemma was whether to stay on the sub continent and apply for a position with one of the regiments out there, or return to England and seek promotion in one of the home based regiments.
We arrived safely at Peshawur and I wished Vaughan farewell, thanking him once more for saving my life. If I thought my problems were over upon our arrival at Peshawur however, I was to be mistaken, as the enteric fever I contracted, compounded my problems. By October of the same year I was back in Bombay where the medical board decreed that I should be sent home to England immediately.
We sailed for Portsmouth at the end of the month and called at Malta in mid-November. I was one of twenty or so invalids, who found themselves on English soil again on the afternoon of Friday 26th November. Looking back at this almost forty years on, I can see a certain irony, given that twelve months after I entered Netley, full of ambition and a sense of adventure, I was now being transferred back there – this time as a patient. The building I had first viewed as a breeding ground for some of the army’s finest now appeared a grey and unwelcoming place.
Readers familiar with my writings will know that shortly thereafter I was awarded a pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day, after being invalided out of the army. It was then that I moved back up to London where I was to become acquainted with another man who was to have a profound influence on my life.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes provided the escapism and camaraderie I had been denied due to my all too brief military career and through the adventures I shared with him, the bitterness I initially felt after being discharged subsided as the years past. Almost a quarter of a century later, I was destined to bring valued friends and colleagues from two different worlds together.
Chapter Two - Journey To The North
Holmes had some weeks earlier completed the investigation involving Professor Presbury and I had my – by now blossoming – practice in Queen Anne Street. It was late afternoon on the second Monday of October in the year 1903, when I returned to my surgery after being called away earlier in the day. As I entered I found a letter addressed to myself ‘c/o 221B Baker Street’. The maid explained that Mrs. Hudson had sent Billy round with it that morning. Upon opening it I was amazed to find that it was from none other than my old saviour from Afghanistan, Subaltern – now Captain – Harry Vaughan.
I regret to say that I had gradually lost touch with Vaughan, Murray and many others of my brave colleagues, but now here was one of those characters from the past writing to me over twenty years later. The letter ran thus:
Dear Watson,
I hope you can remember your former colleague Harry Vaughan from Afghanistan. I am aware of your friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes through your publications in The Strand magazine. I am writing in the hope that we can commission the services of Mr. Holmes in a most serous and embarrassing problem for the regiment. Our most treasured trophy from our many campaigns, The Arroyo Drums, has been stolen! Please wire as soon as possible if you and your friend are able to help.
Yours etc.
Captain H. Vaughan.
Border Regiment.
So old Harry did leave the Berkshires after all, I thought to myself.
Although, as I stated earlier, my own experiences of the army left me somewhat troubled, paradoxically my interest and enthusiasm for military matters remained undiminished. I was therefore intrigued by the letter, not only as it was sent by my former colleague but because of the hastily referred to drums; the subject of the narrative. My natural reaction was to refer to my not inconsiderable collection of military history books. After a brief search I found the subject that was causing such consternation.
I learned that the trophies were the spoils of a victory won at the northern Spanish village of Arroyo dos Molinos during the Peninsular War in 1811. The Borders – then the 34th (Cumberland) Regiment – were part of Sir Rowland Hill’s Division who surprised a French Division by a series of marches to, and a dawn attack on the village.
I read with continued fascination that in their long history and the many campaigns they have served in, The Arroyo Drums remain the Border Regiment’s most prized trophies; gained as they were from one of their most successful victories. As a footnote to the piece I was examining, it was stated that every year on the anniversary of the battle, the regiment celebrates ‘Arroyo Day’. The drums are paraded in period uniform in the square of Carlisle Castle. ‘Arroyo Day’ was celebrated every 28th October!
What a magnificent story, I thought. With great enthusiasm I related the tale, the letter from my military colleague and our past experiences to my wife, who, reaching for my hat and coat, suggested I take the note back to 221B and consult Mr. Sherlock Holmes without further delay.
It was a cold evening, in keeping with the time of year, and the gunmetal skies were lowering menacingly over Baker Street as I approached my former lodgings. It was with the usual mixture of eagerness, anticipation and a small feeling of dread, that I rang the bell of 221B, as I could never be sure in what disposition I would find my friend.
Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly as the door, “Doctor, what a pleasant surprise! Did you get the letter I sent round this morning?”
“I did thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It is regarding the letter I have come to visit Mr. Holmes.”
“Go straight up, Doctor,” she said taking my hat and coat, “you will find him in a jovial mood.”
The good housekeeper’s appraisal of my old friend’s mood proved accurate; I had barely crossed the landing and was about to put my hand on the knob of our sitting room door when his familiar voice bellowed out, “Friend Watson!”
As I entered, the warmth of the welcoming fire that blazed away from behind the familiar grate immediately engulfed me. Holmes himself was standing on the hearthrug in his mouse coloured dressing gown. He was in the process of tossing a glowing coal back into the fire with the tongs, after lighting his pipe. He gestured me to take my old seat. “Your step on the well-trodden staircase is unmistakable. What brings you out on this chill evening? Will you stay for supper?”
A jovial mood indeed, I thought. “Good evening old fellow,” I said moving towards the welcoming fire, “it’s not a social call Holmes – it is business. I received a letter from an old army colleague, only this afternoon. He wants your help.” I briefly explained my relationship with Vaughan and handed over his correspondence to Holmes. The detective sucked on his cherrywood pipe and studied the envelope and its contents in his usual thorough manner.
“Carlisle, indeed!” he said at last. “Never having been to that most northern of English cities, this is the second time in as many months that it has been brought to my attention.” He did not elaborate on this curious comment, but continued to devour the contents of the letter. “An interesting, yet brief message,” he mumbled, tapping the letter with the long stem of his pipe. I concluded that my friend never ceased to amaze me as he casually announced, “We shall take the eight seventeen out of Euston and head for the city of Carlisle, in the county of Cumberland tomorrow.”
Having originally felt that Holmes would neither be interested in a military problem, nor be receptive to a long journey I was taken aback and found myself protesting at the short notice, “What about my wife? My Practice?” I said.
“My dear fellow, your old colleague and saviour needs our help. ‘Arroyo Day’ is a mere three weeks away!” – there was more than a hint of sarcasm in Holmes’s tone, as he did not share my enthusiasm for the military – “we cannot possibly refuse. I suggest you send your friend a telegram advising him of our intentions.”
“Of course,” I agreed after a moment’s thought. “I shall have to skip supper however, as I will need to make the necessary arrangements.”
After agreeing to meet at the station the following morning, I took my leave and headed for the post office on the corner of Torrington Square, with the intention of sending a telegram north, prior to my returning home.
I must confess to approaching the latter of these two tasks rather sheepishly, as I knew that for the second time within a month I would be asking my dear wife’s permission to leave her for a few days, while I accompanied Holmes on another investigation. Furthermore I knew I would have to impose on my neighbour Jackson once more, to act as locum for my thriving business.
I need not have fretted as my wife assented without hesitation to my few days away. I am sure she viewed Holmes and I as two schoolboys who never quite grew up, and she was always loathed to spoil our fun. Similarly, Jackson was equally obliging. How fortunate it was, I thought to myself afterwards, that his surgery is in close proximity to my own.
So it was with great enthusiasm that night that I packed a case, anticipating not only the adventure that lay ahead and my first visit to Cumberland, but of my meeting up once more with my old military colleague Harry Vaughan.
At the appointed hour on the following, fresh autumnal morning, I found myself walking along the platform looking for the appropriate carriage. Holmes leaned out of one of the windows some way down the train, “Good morning Watson! A beautiful day for a train journey through the Lake District!”
“Indeed,” I agreed, climbing aboard.
Our long journey commenced in fairly uneventful fashion. I whiled away the first few hours by reading the newspaper and inevitably thinking about military matters; my brief but eventful career and some of the characters I encountered. For his part Holmes divided his time between calculating the speed of the train and the distance travelled, and quietly meditating in that familiar semi-conscious state.
As the train crossed the county border into Cumberland, my companion suddenly became alert, as if smelling the impending case ahead. “So Watson, tell me more about this friend and former colleague of yours.”
“A fine man Holmes; honourable, ambitious and brave as a lion. I’m only sorry I did not have more time to spend with him.” I continued by repeating to Holmes in more detail the series of events that led to our paths crossing all those years ago, in that far corner of the Empire.
As we progressed further north I gradually became aware of the drop in temperature. In fact, by the time we reached Carlisle, on the stroke of four o’clock, I would estimate it was several degrees below that when we had left in the capital that morning. It was the first time I had visited the Border City and I stepped down from the train quite excited about the adventure that lay ahead; the new surroundings, catching up with my old colleague and the military background to our visit. I spotted the Border Regiment Captain himself, along the platform; his tall, square build and unmistakable shock of fair hair distinguishing him from the crowd.
“My dear fellow,” I said, approaching him, “it is wonderful to see you again, you haven’t changed a bit since I saw you last.” The comment was a genuine one; save for the fleck of grey amongst the blond hair around the temples, Vaughan was exactly how I remembered him.
“It is kind of you to say so Watson,” he replied, “it is over twenty years since our Afghan campaign.”
“May I introduce my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Mr. Holmes, I’m delighted to meet you,” said Vaughan, reaching out his hand. “It is very kind of you to come and help us at such short notice. I am aware of several of your cases through the writings of our mutual friend.”
“Watson doe
s tend to glorify our little adventures,” replied the detective, “we shall simply do our best.”
Vaughan led us out onto the street where he had a four- wheeler waiting to take us the relatively short journey to our lodgings. We had barely driven one hundred yards up the slight incline outside the station and through the twin drum bastion towers, Vaughan referred to as “The Citadel”, when our attention was caught by some commotion on the street outside. As we looked out from our carriage, I saw an unusual public house. The striking feature about the tall establishment was the curved, elongated shape of the building itself. It did not posses, as most buildings do, a normal gable end, but had a distinctive semi circular extremity, that gave the building great character. The entrance to the Inn, which jutted out into the street, was at the centre point of this semi circle. The cause of the commotion was the handful of brutish looking characters that – having spilled out onto the pavement – were scuffling between themselves.
“They are starting early tonight,” said Vaughan. Following my gaze towards the Inn and the high walls beyond it, he continued, “That’s the County Gaol; the pub is the City Arms,” he said pointing to the magnificent coat of arms and the Prince of Wales feathers that stood atop the building. “It is commonly known as the ‘Gaol Tap’. You do not want to being hanging around there after dark, my friend.”
“No, I could well imagine,” I murmured.
Although it was by now late afternoon, I felt Holmes would want to initiate his investigations immediately, but as we drew up to the entrance of our digs, he surprised me by turning to the army officer and stating, “I suggest we get a good night’s rest and then look into your little problem tomorrow.”