Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,18

acquaintanceship, a common link was provided by the criminal activities of our adversary. These at least have been put an end to. You may rest assured, however, that, as nature abhors a vacuum, Rawdon Moran will have been replaced by now.

Should there be any further point upon which I may assist you, my talents such as they are remain at your disposal.

I have the honour to be, sir,

Your humble servant,

William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

PART II

The Narrative of John H. Watson, M.D.

1

My reader will readily understand that the foregoing documents have never previously been published for the world to read. The account of Isandhlwana remained classified in the criminal records of the State Papers under the name of Rawdon Moran. Other papers lie in a confidential War Office series detailing the activities of the Provost Marshal’s corps, as our military police are known. Strict procedure under the Official Secrets Act of 1889 allows every Home Secretary to judge whether such papers shall be closed to the public for fifty years, or a hundred years—or for ever.

I am grateful to our late Prime Minister, Mr. David Lloyd George, who decided that after forty years had passed, the disclosure of reports from the field of Isandhlwana would no longer constitute a threat to national security nor embarrass the government of the day.

Sherlock Holmes had of course shown me his letter to Sir Melville Macnaghten at the time that he wrote it. However, I did not actually meet Holmes for almost two years after the catastrophe at Isandhlwana and my own arrival in India. I had qualified as a medical man at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in June 1878. Next month, I joined the Army Medical Department and undertook the customary short course in military training for medical officers, at Netley, near the Aldershot Garrison. I trusted that this additional qualification might one day transform me into a full regimental surgeon-major.

At the end of that year I was still a humble assistant with orders to join the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, then stationed in India. All eyes were on India just then, for she was regarded as the jewel in our imperial crown. The voyage to the East had been shortened by the opening of the Suez Canal. Southern Africa remained important principally for the newly discovered riches of gold and diamonds, rather than as the principal route to Bombay.

If India was vital to our interests, Afghanistan was scarcely less so, at the time I left Netley for my military service. Under the leadership of Lord Beaconsfield, our rulers were convinced that Afghanistan was once again in peril from its Russian neighbour to the north. A British embassy had been refused entry to Kabul. However, a Russian mission was soon after received with honour. The Viceroy of India, Lord Lytton, warned the government at home that he would take independent military action if necessary, as the constitution entitled him to do. If he did not, we should wake up to find the Russian Bear on the North-West Frontier of India.

Before the year’s end, I was among five hundred reinforcements of all ranks, marching through the streets of Portsmouth from the railway station to the docks. How popular we were! A regimental band was playing The British Grenadiers and The Girl I Left Behind Me. Crowds at either side were so dense that you might almost have walked over the heads of the people. As for patriotic shouts, it was all “Remember Old England depends on you!… Give them plenty of cold steel!… Keep your pecker up, old boy, and never say die!… We’ll not forget you!”

As yet, there had been no fighting. What they thought we were going out there for, I do not know. We marched into the dockyard and, as the gates closed behind us, a thousand voices shouted “Farewell! God bless you!”

There was no speedy passage for us through the Suez Canal. We carried an infantry regiment to reinforce Lord Chelmsford at the Cape. The troopship Clyde, a decommissioned P & O liner which had seen better days, was our transport as far as Cape Town. Belowdecks, men slept in hammocks slung from the beams. Some preferred to huddle in blankets on the deck. Everywhere we breathed coal dust and hot oil, while the paddles beat their rhythm alongside the hull. The heart of the ship was the deep well of the engine-room. There was little to do but stare mesmerised at the massive and polished hammer-heads of three pistons driving forward and back,