The Adventure of the Spanish Drums Read online

  The Adventure of The Spanish Drums

  Martin Daley

  © Martin Daley, 2010.

  Martin Daley has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the UK by The Irregular Special Press, 2010.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For my Parents – fifty not out

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter One - A Brief Military Career

  Chapter Two - Journey To The North

  Chapter Three - The Problem

  Chapter Four - Several Interviews

  Chapter Five - A Mystery Solved

  Chapter Six - Dr. Watson Is Uncomfortable

  Chapter Seven - An Interview With Sergeant Armstrong

  Chapter Eight - A Newspaper Story

  Chapter Nine - A Dramatic Arrest

  Chapter Ten - An Interlude

  Chapter Eleven - An Interview With The Harbourmaster

  Chapter Twelve - The Perpetrator Exposed

  Chapter Thirteen - The Case Unravelled

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Extract from The Adventure of the Bloody Tower by Donald MacLachlan

  Acknowledgement

  Unfortunately, on this occasion, Mr. Sydney Paget was unable to provide some of his marvellous drawings that so often enhance the published cases of my friend.

  Shortly before publication of this adventure, therefore, I contacted Inspector Armstrong of the Cumberland Constabulary to ask if he could provide me with some photographs from the period. Not only did he do so (with the help of some of his local contacts) he even supplied me with some actual pictures taken by the local press during and shortly after our investigation.

  I owe a great deal of thanks therefore, not only to the Inspector but to the Carlisle Library; to Mr Phil Evans who specialises in photographs from the period; and to Mr. Stuart Eastwood of the Military Museum at Carlisle Castle, as well as other local historians, all of whom gave their permission for their pictures to be used.

  I would also like to express my thanks to my fellow medical practitioner, Dr. Christophe Vever for reading the manuscript of this adventure and correcting any errors.

  JOHN H. WATSON M.D.

  Chapter One - A Brief Military Career

  It was during late summer in the final year of that atrocious war when my domestic circumstances allowed me to visit my old friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his apiary hide-away in Sussex.

  Having rejoined my old regiment at the start of the war I had completed my medical duties at Netley some months earlier and was once more settling down into civilian life. My practice was buoyant and I was spending a lot of my leisure time writing up some of the many cases I had been involved in with my friend.

  Holmes of course had served his country with distinction, during the two years leading up to this latest conflict, when he successfully dealt with the Von Bork affair; bringing the matter to its conclusion as the opening salvos sounded, immediately prior to our entry into the disastrous war, in August of 1914. I had not seen my old friend since his dealings with the German spy and was looking forward to meeting up with him again, not to mention anticipating a relaxing rural break.

  Upon my arrival Holmes gave me a warm, unfussy welcome to his villa. After a few days of drinking in the fresh coastal air, I certainly came to realise why Holmes chose this lifestyle, which was as far removed from his adventurous years based in the capital, as could be imagined. The dwelling itself was situated on the southern slopes of the Downs and afforded breathtaking views over the Channel. My friend and I spent our time chatting about old times and taking walks along the coastline and down the particularly treacherous path – almost vertical in places – to the pebbled beach below.

  It was one morning during my stay that prompted my account of the following adventure. I was normally a late riser but the beautifully sunny morning in question found me freshening up; having returned from my walk to the nearby village of Fulworth, where I had bought a newspaper. Martha, Holmes’ housekeeper, had made breakfast and I joined my friend on the patio to enjoy our leisurely, yet substantial meal.

  We chatted idly before I picked up the paper to read. After a while my concentration started to drift to times past. Staring absentmindedly out to sea, my thoughts were mischievously interrupted by Holmes.

  “Ah! My dear fellow, I see you are thinking back to our Cumberland adventure.”

  For a split second I was incredulous. “How on earth …” I started, and suddenly realised that Holmes had been observing me for some moments. Before I could recover the situation by attempting to follow Holmes’s methods, my old friend pressed home his advantage over me by explaining his line of reasoning.

  “I observed you reading the morning paper and noticed your gaze as it aimlessly drifted from the written page. Seeing that the page in question details the latest casualties from the front and having read the piece myself as you prepared your toilet, I regarded the column on the senior officers that detailed the loss of, amongst others, the gallant Captain – or should I say, noting his field commission – Major George Armstrong, of the Border Regiment. It was clear to me that you had also read of the loss of that fine officer and as such, I deduce that your mind has taken you back to our adventure in that northerly county all those years ago.”

  Holmes was quite correct in his deductions of course, as my expression clearly betrayed my genuine sadness as I read of the loss of Major Armstrong, whom I had last met when he was a junior Lieutenant, some years earlier.

  The piece detailed his seeing action in Northern Europe with his regiment, at the first two battles at Ypres and the Somme, where he not only received his field commission to major but was also commended for the Military Cross. It concluded by stating that he had fallen at Cambrai.

  “Incidentally,” added Holmes, again interrupting my brown study, “I am surprised you have not dug the case out of your considerable pile and recounted the adventure to our adoring public.”

  I knew with this last comment he was teasing me unnecessarily and I must confess to being a little piqued at his cruelty. “I simply haven’t got round to listing that particular adventure yet,” I blustered, without much conviction.

  “Seriously,” he went on, “I do believe the case is worth chronicling. I feel you would also find it a cathartic experience, Watson, as I have always sensed you have been troubled by your military experiences.”

  Notwithstanding my recent war efforts, there was more than an element of truth in his summation and his comments stayed with me for the following few days. On the journey home therefore, I decided to act on Holmes’s advice.

  That evening I went to my study and opened my old despatch box, in which I stored the yet to be published cases of my friend. As I dug down into the box, moving bundles of papers out of the way in so doing, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I came to the object of my search. At the bottom of the box was a bundle with two words on the cover sheet that were slightly obscured by the black ribbon that held the file together. By simply untying the bundle, it was as if some psychological switch was tripped and my mind was instantly filled with the adventure that took us to the far north-western corner of England in that unforgettable October of 1903.

  In recounting this tale, it occurs to me that this was one of the few occasions when I myself, introduced an investigation to the great consulting detective. The two investigations I directly brought to him were the adventure involving the hydraulic engineer, Mr. Victor Hatherley and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Then there were the two
other mysteries that resulted from letters I received from former acquaintances; the first from my old school friend ‘Tadpole’ Phelps that I recounted under the title The Naval Treaty and the second, which I am about to relate here. A letter also activated this case – this time received from an old army colleague.

  It has never been my intention through the publication of my humble scribblings to produce an autobiographical account of my life to date, but perhaps, dear reader, you will allow me a few pages to elaborate on the snippets I have given you so far of my army career. This request is made as I feel the illustration of how bonds between men established in times of great adversity has a direct bearing on the case in question.

  *****

  As the New Year of 1879 dawned, I had completed a year as House Surgeon at Bart’s and was wrestling with the difficult decision regarding my future career prospects. The layered structure of medical personnel within the hospital was such that a doctor in his mid twenties, such as I, would probably have to wait a further twenty years before picking up a senior position. This thought did not particularly inspire me, yet I did not have the capital to set up practice on my own.

  It was one morning in the February of the New Year that the thought of a career in the army first occurred to me. I was reading the newspaper when my eye fell upon the account of the slaughter at Isandlwana and the subsequent heroics at Roake’s Drift later that day, during the – then current – war with the Zulus. I was intrigued by the roles played by Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead, and particularly that of Surgeon Major Reynolds, during the second of the two actions. The report stated that Reynolds – who was in charge of the field hospital at the camp ‘… attended imperturbably to the wounded during the ferocious assault’. The fact that the piece concentrated mainly on the latter victorious and honourable battle, rather than the humiliating defeat of the former, did not occur to me at the time.

  The three officers mentioned, along with eight of their colleagues would receive Victoria Crosses later that year for their efforts in attempting to repel the Zulu army that outnumbered the British forces almost forty-to-one.

  Knowing that we were also fighting a war in Afghanistan at the same time, the thought struck me that not only would there be perhaps a greater chance of promotion in the medical corps but the opportunity of travel and adventure would also present itself.

  During the following months I made further enquiries and gave the matter serious consideration. I discovered that an army assistant surgeon earned £200 a year, with his keep and living quarters provided. It occurred to me that after ten years’ service, I could retire on half pay with enough money saved to set myself up in private practice. As a military career promised these advantages to a medical man, my mind was made up I decided to apply to The Army Medical School, which was part of the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley in Hampshire.

  The reply to my application was my first, albeit minor, setback. I was informed that I had missed the opening course of the year that commenced in March and would have to wait until the second course that was to begin in October. I did in the meantime however, pass the entrance examination and looked forward to the autumn when I would be enrolled into the British Army.

  When the time came, I enjoyed my training and the environment enormously. Queen Victoria had laid the foundation stone to the hospital in May 1856 and The Army Medical School moved there from Chatham later that same year. It was the perfect location for such a facility, facing, as it did, Southampton Water. The long pier that jutted out from the hospital allowed invalids coming from far off campaigns to be transported virtually to the entrance, although some had to be transferred on to our own vessel, the Florence Nightingale, as the heavy troop ships were too heavy for the shallow waters around the pier.

  The grounds of the hospital and the surrounding areas were beautiful and I enjoyed many a long walk, savouring the tranquillity. Near the pier stood an imitation medieval cross, in memory of comrades lost in the Crimean War. I regularly stood looking at the memorial and thinking what adventures lay ahead of me.

  Our medical studies included learning about various diseases we would encounter throughout the Empire, along with the treatment of wounds from different weapons, preventative medicine and practical organisation of military hospitals. As well as all this we were left in no doubt that Netley was a military environment; candidates were required to wear uniform and attend parades.

  I passed my final exam in February 1880 and became Lieutenant John H. Watson, Assistant Army Surgeon, something I was immensely proud of at the time. As I have detailed elsewhere, less than a month after passing my final examination, I was posted to India where I was to join my allocated regiment, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, who were already serving there. I arrived in Bombay in the April of that year.

  Having my mind set on joining the Northumbrians and having read up on the regimental history during my journey, I was surprised and a little disappointed to learn after only a month that I was to be transferred to the Berkshires, who were serving in Afghanistan and who, I was told, were short of medical staff.

  I was therefore, along with some other recently arrived officers, sent by steamer to Karachi and then by rail to Sibi and finally by camel over the mountains and across the border to the strategically important town of Kandahar to join my new regiment – the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot. It was during this journey that I first encountered Colonel Hayter, with whom I remained friends after we both left the army.

  Kandahar itself had been taken earlier in the war and the garrison we were bolstering, was defended by both British regular soldiers and Indian sepoys, drawn from the 1st Bombay Native Infantry, Jacob’s Horse and, of course, my own new regiment.

  It was now the early summer of 1880 and the bloody war had raged for almost two years. Afghanistan was a desolate region of high mountains and barren plains, inhabited by fierce Muslim tribesmen who controlled the country by guarding the endless mountain passes across the North West Frontier. As far as the Afghans were concerned, they were fighting a jihad; a word I learned that meant ‘holy war’, against whom they saw as the infidels – the none believers.

  Upon our arrival at the cantonment we discovered that – despite their defeat at Kabul – 20,000 tribesmen led by Ayub Khan were advancing towards Kandahar. Early on the morning of 27th July 1880 – a date imprinted on my mind forever – Brigadier General George Burrows led our forces out to meet them. The two armies met on a hot dusty plain at the village of Maiwand, fifty miles north west of our garrison. Taking advantage of the familiar terrain, the enemy moved forward, while their artillery bombarded our rear, where casualties were as heavy as those in the front lines. The noise and the pressure waves from the constant bombardment were at times unbearable. Hundreds of our men were lost; some hacked to pieces before my very eyes – a fearful sight.

  The fighting was so fierce that I saw a stretcher-bearer lose an arm as he moved to help a fallen comrade. After that incident, his colleagues dared not break cover to collect the wounded. Even now, many years later as I write this account, my blood runs cold at some of the scenes I witnessed on that awful day.

  A young lad was brought to me for attention at one point. Although conscious, he was clearly mortally wounded with severe head injuries; black scorch marks circled two terrible head wounds and his thick brown hair was matted crimson by the blood that oozed from them. Very rarely has a day passed since that dreadful hour when I have not thought of that poor boy’s expression; his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope that I could perform some miracle for him.

  My mind was racing at this point; my life flashing before me in this moment of intense stress. I thought of the brave Surgeon Major Reynolds, who had partly inspired me to join the army, less than eighteen short months earlier. Far from the rejoicing of victory in newspaper reports however, I was now realising that there was no honour or glory in this butchery.

  It was as I was attending to the young soldier that I was lifted o
ff my feet and sent reeling. Prone, I instinctively reached up to quell the searing pain I felt in my shoulder. I later discovered that I had taken a bullet that had been shot by a Jezzailchi – a marksman skilled in the use of his immensely long barrelled rifle. I make no apology for repeating that I owe my life to the prompt actions of my orderly Murray who loaded me onto the back of a packhorse, prior to joining the retreat to Kandahar.

  This withdrawal however, was equally as treacherous and as terrifying as the battle itself. As we made our way through the flinty mountain passes, more Jezails – fired from the ledges above – cracked and popped around us. The Afghan guerrillas worked in perfect unison against us; no sooner had the Jezzailchis ceased firing above us, then their colleagues would appear like genies from behind the rocks that lined the mountain passes.

  These tribesmen were an even more fearful sight closer up; with their bearded faces and dressed as they were in their baggy garb, while their spiked helmets were clearly visible under their Puggarree. As they ran towards us wielding their long Khyber knives above their heads, the triumphalistic screeching war cry they emitted was enough to curdle the blood of the bravest soldier. How we managed to extricate ourselves from such a hopeless situation, especially as I was so debilitated, I am not entirely sure.

  Lieutenant General James Primrose was in charge of the Kandahar garrison and he decided to defend the whole of the perimeter. Breaches in the walls were repaired and gun emplacements were set up. As we approached relative safety, we were subjected to a further assault by, what seemed to be, an endless group of ferocious Ghazi warriors. It was during this final skirmish that I apparently passed out with exhaustion.

  It was several hours later that I found myself coming out of my deep state of unconsciousness in the comfort of a hospital bed. It was such an awakening that I wanted to last for ever, such was my relief at obviously making it safely back to the interior of the fort – wounded but otherwise whole. Even as I moved, and was instantly reminded of the wound in my shoulder, as well as a further – hitherto unknown – injury in the calf of my leg, I felt safe and content in the confines of the garrison.