The Early Punch Parodies of Sherlock Holmes

by Bill Peschel

  “I heard that you had come. Sorry the Chief isn’t here to see you. Gone up to the frontier, you know.”

  “My regiment is at Wady Haifa. I suppose, sir, that I should report myself there at once?”

  “No; I was to give you your orders.” He led the way to a map upon the wall, and pointed with the end of his cigarette. “You see this place. It’s the Oasis of Kurkur—a little quiet, I am afraid, but excellent air. You are to get out there as quick as possible. You’ll find a company of the Ninth, and half a squadron of cavalry. You will be in command.”

  Hilary Joyce looked at the name, printed at the intersection of two black lines, without another dot upon the map for several inches round it.

  “A village, sir?”

  “No, a well. Not very good water, I’m afraid, but you soon get accustomed to natron. It’s an important post, as being at the junction of two caravan routes. All routes are closed now, of course, but still you never know who might come along them.”

  “We are there, I presume, to prevent raiding?”

  “Well, between you and me, there’s really nothing to raid. You are there to intercept messengers. They must call at the wells. Of course you have only just come out, but you probably understand already enough about the conditions of this country to know that there is a great deal of disaffection about, and that the Khalifa is likely to try and keep in touch with his adherents. Then, again, Senoussi lives up that way”—he waved his cigarette to the westward—“the Khalifa might send a message to him along that route. Anyhow, your duty is to arrest everyone coming along, and get some account of him before you let him go. You don’t talk Arabic, I suppose?”

  “I am learning, sir.”

  “Well, well, you’ll have time enough for study there. And you’ll have a native officer, Ali something or other, who speaks English, and can interpret for you. Well, good-bye—I’ll tell the Chief that you reported yourself. Get on to your post now as quickly as you can.”

  An hour later he had ridden into the little camp.

  Railway to Baliani, the post-boat to Assouan, and then two days on a camel in the Libyan Desert, with an Ababdeh guide, and three baggage-camels to tie one down to their own exasperating pace. However, even two and a half miles an hour mount up in time, and at last, on the third evening, from the blackened slag-heap of a hill which is called the Jebel Kurkur, Hilary Joyce looked down upon a distant clump of palms, and thought that this cool patch of green in the midst of the merciless blacks and yellows was the fairest colour effect that he had ever seen. An hour later he had ridden into the little camp, the guard had turned out to salute him, his native subordinate had greeted him in excellent English, and he had fairly entered into his own.

  It was not an exhilarating place for a lengthy residence. There was one large, bowl-shaped, grassy depression sloping down to the three pits of brown and brackish water. There was the grove of palm-trees also, beautiful to look upon, but exasperating in view of the fact that Nature has provided her least-shady trees on the very spot where shade is needed most. A single widespread acacia did something to restore the balance. Here Hilary Joyce slumbered in the heat, and in the cool he inspected his square-shouldered, spindle-shanked Soudanese, with their cheery, black faces and their funny little pork-pie forage caps. Joyce was a martinet at drill, and the blacks loved being drilled, so the Bimbashi was soon popular among them. But one day was exactly like another. The weather, the view, the employment, the food—everything was the same. At the end of three weeks he felt that he had been there for interminable years. And then at last there came something to break the monotony.

  One evening, as the sun was sinking, Hilary Joyce rode slowly down the old caravan road. It had a fascination for him, this narrow track, winding among the boulders and curving up the nullahs, for he remembered how in the map it had gone on and on, stretching away into the unknown heart of Africa. The countless pads of innumerable camels through many centuries had beaten it smooth, so that now, unused and deserted, it still wound away, the strangest of roads, a foot broad, and perhaps two thousand miles in length. Joyce wondered as he rode how long it was since any traveller had journeyed up it from the south, and then he raised his eyes, and there was a man coming along the path.

  For an instant Joyce thought that it might be one of his own men, but a second glance assured him that this could not be so. The stranger was dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab, and not in the close-fitting khaki of a soldier. He was very tall, and a high turban made him seem gigantic. He strode swiftly along, with head erect, and the bearing of a man who knows no fear.

  Who could he be, this formidable giant coming out of the unknown? The precursor possibly of a horde of savage spearmen. And where could he have walked from? The nearest well was a long hundred miles down the track. At any rate the frontier post of Kurkur could not afford to receive casual visitors. Hilary Joyce whisked round his horse, galloped into camp, and gave the alarm. Then, with twenty horsemen at his back, he rode out again to reconnoitre.

  The man was still coming on in spite of these hostile preparations. For an instant he had hesitated when first he saw the cavalry, but escape was out of the question, and he advanced with the air of one who makes the best of a bad job. He made no resistance, and said nothing when the hands of two troopers clutched at his shoulders, but walked quietly between their horses into camp. Shortly afterwards the patrols came in again. There were no signs of any Dervishes. The man was alone. A splendid trotting camel had been found lying dead a little way down the track. The mystery of the stranger’s arrival was explained. But why, and whence, and whither?—these were questions for which a zealous officer must find an answer.

  The prisoner looked at Joyce with his inscrutable eyes and occasionally twitched his face at him, but never opened his mouth.

  Hilary Joyce was disappointed that there were no Dervishes. It would have been a great start for him in the Egyptian army had he fought a little action on his own account. But even as it was, he had a rare chance of impressing the authorities. He would love to show his capacity to the head of the Intelligence, and even more to that grim Chief who never forgot what was smart, or forgave what was slack. The prisoner’s dress and bearing showed that he was of importance. Mean men do not ride pure-bred trotting camels. Joyce sponged his head with cold water, drank a cup of strong coffee, put on an imposing official tarboosh instead of his sun-helmet, and formed himself into a court of inquiry and judgment under the acacia tree.

  He would have liked his people to have seen him now, with his two black orderlies in waiting, and his Egyptian native officer at his side. He sat behind a camp-table, and the prisoner, strongly guarded, was led up to him. The man was a handsome fellow, with bold, grey eyes and a long, black beard.

  “Why!” cried Joyce, “the rascal is making faces at me.”

  A curious contraction had passed over the man’s features, but so swiftly that it might have been a nervous twitch. He was now a model of Oriental gravity.

  “Ask him who he is, and what he wants?”

  The native officer did so, but the stranger made no reply, save that the same sharp spasm passed once more over his face.

  “Well, I’m blessed!” cried Hilary Joyce. “Of all the impudent scoundrels! He keeps on winking at me. Who are you, you rascal? Give an account of yourself! D’ye hear?”

  But the tall Arab was as impervious to English as to Arabic. The Egyptian tried again and again. The prisoner looked at Joyce with his inscrutable eyes, and occasionally twitched his face at him, but never opened his mouth. The Bimbashi scratched his head in bewilderment.

  “Look here, Mahomet Ali, we’ve got to get some sense out of this fellow. You say there are no papers on him?”

  “No, sir; we found no papers.”

  “No clue of any kind?”

  “He has come far, sir. A trotting camel does not die easily. He has come from Dongola, at least.”

  “Well, we must get him to talk.”

  “It
is possible that he is deaf and dumb.”

  “Not he. I never saw a man look more all there in my life.”

  “You might send him across to Assouan.”

  “And give someone else the credit! No, thank you. This is my bird. But how are we going to get him to find his tongue?”

  The Egyptian’s dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on the cook’s fire.

  “Perhaps,” said he, “if the Bimbashi thought fit—” He looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood.

  “No, no, it wouldn’t do. No, by Jove, that’s going too far.”

  “A very little might do it.”

  “No, no. It’s all very well here, but it would sound just awful if ever it got as far as Fleet Street. But, I say,” he whispered, “we might frighten him a bit. There’s no harm in that.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tell them to undo the man’s galabeeah. Order them to put a horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot.”

  The prisoner watched the proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness. He never winced as the black sergeant approached with the glowing shoe held upon two bayonets.

  “Will you speak now!” asked the Bimbashi savagely. The prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard. “Oh, chuck the infernal thing away!” cried Joyce, jumping up in a passion. “There’s no use trying to bluff the fellow. He knows we won’t do it. But I can and I will flog him, and you tell him from me that if he hasn’t found his tongue by to-morrow morning; I’ll take the skin off his back as sure as my name’s Joyce. Have you said all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night’s rest may it give you!”

  He adjourned the Court, and the prisoner, as imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice and water.

  Hilary Joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he must inflict next day. He had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner’s obstinacy. And then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to be really dumb after all. The possibility shook him so that he had almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on unhurt to Assouan. And yet what a tame conclusion it would be to the incident! He lay upon his angareeb still debating it when the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. Ali Mahomet rushed into his tent.

  “Sir,” he cried, “the prisoner is gone!”

  “Gone!”

  “Yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. There is a slit cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning.”

  The Bimbashi acted with all energy. Cavalry rode along every track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the fugitive, but no trace was discovered. The man had utterly disappeared. With a heavy heart Hilary Joyce wrote an official report of the matter and forwarded it to Assouan. Five days later there came a curt order from the Chief that he should report himself there. He feared the worst from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself.

  And his worst forebodings were realised. Travel-stained and weary, he reported himself one night at the General’s quarters. Behind a table piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his Chief of Intelligence were deep in plans and figures. Their greeting was a cold one.

  “I understand, Captain Joyce,” said the General, “that you have allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers.”

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  “No doubt. But that will not mend matters. Did you ascertain anything about him before you lost him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How was that?”

  “I could get nothing out of him, sir.”

  “Did you try?”

  “Yes, sir; I did what I could.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, sir, I threatened to use physical force.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said nothing.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A tall man, sir. Rather a desperate character, I should think.”

  “Any way, by which we could identify him?”

  “A long black beard, sir. Grey eyes. And a nervous way of twitching his face.”

  “Well, Captain Joyce,” said the General, in his stern, inflexible voice, “I cannot congratulate you upon your first exploit in the Egyptian army. You are aware that every English officer in this force is a picked man. I have the whole British army from which to draw. It is necessary, therefore, that I should insist upon the very highest efficiency. It would be unfair upon the others to pass over any obvious want of zeal or intelligence. You are seconded from the Royal Mallows, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have no doubt that your Colonel will be glad to see you fulfilling your regimental duties again.”

  Hilary Joyce’s heart was too heavy for words. He was silent.

  “I will let you know my final decision to-morrow morning.”

  Joyce saluted and turned upon his heel.

  “You can sleep upon that, you beauty, and a good night’s rest may it give you!”

  Joyce turned in bewilderment. Where had those words been used before? Who was it who had used them?

  The General was standing erect. Both he and the Chief of the Intelligence were laughing. Joyce stared at the tall figure, the erect bearing, the inscrutable grey eyes.

  “Good Lord!” he gasped.

  “Well, well, Captain Joyce, we are quits!” said the General, holding out his hand. “You gave me a bad ten minutes with that infernal, red-hot horseshoe of yours. I’ve done as much for you. I don’t think we can spare you for the Royal Mallows just yet awhile.”

  “But, sir; but—!”

  “The fewer questions the better, perhaps. But of course it must seem rather amazing. I had a little private business with the Kabbabish. It must be done in person. I did it, and came to your post in my return. I kept on winking at you as a sign that I wanted a word with you alone.”

  “Yes, yes. I begin to understand.”

  “I couldn’t give it away before all those blacks, or where should I have been the next time I used my false beard and Arab dress? You put me in a very awkward position. But at last I had a word alone with your Egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right.”

  “He! Mahomet Ali!”

  “I ordered him to say nothing. I had a score to settle with you. But we dine at eight, Captain Joyce. We live plainly here, but I think I can do you a little better than you did me at Kurkur.”

  Penmen’s Politics

  The outbreak of the Boer War in October 1899 marked a new direction in ACD’s life. He tried to enlist, but being 40 and overweight, he was rejected. He accepted an offer to oversee a hospital unit being formed in England and spent the first half of 1900 in South Africa helping to run it. Returning home determined to do more to support the war effort, he ran for Parliament with the Liberal Unionists, a faction that opposed the ruling Conservatives but supported the war. Rejecting an offer of a safe seat, he ran in his native Central Edinburgh, known for its radical politics. Voters turned out in droves to see him, many of them noisy hecklers who called him “Sherlock Holmes!” Although disappointed in losing by 569 votes out of the less than 5,500 cast, he was grateful to be out of politics. Campaigning, he said, was like “a mud bath—helpful but messy.”

  “Penmen’s Politics” pretended to print the stump speeches of two literary politicians: ACD and Anthony Hope (1863-1933), the author of “The Prisoner of Zenda.” At the time, Hope was considering running for Parliament, but decided not to. Naturally, Punch chose to cast ACD’s speech as if he was the embodiment of Holmes.

  The daily papers announce that Messrs. Conan Doyle and “Anthony Hope” will contest constituencies at the approaching election. They have failed, however, to report the speeches from which the foll
owing extracts are taken:

  . . . You will not fail to return me as your Member. (Cheers: and a voice, “Oh!”) The gentleman sitting third from the end in the fourteenth row says “Oh!” (“Shame!”‘) Shall I tell you why? Because he has been bribed by his sister-in-law to support my rival! (Sensation.) Yes, I saw him this afternoon smoking a new imitation-meerschaum pipe. Now, no man ever bought an imitation-meerschaum. Clearly, therefore, it was a present, and a present from a lady. That lady was not his wife, who disapproves of smoking. His only other feminine relative is his sister-in-law. And his sister-in-law is the wife of a member of my Opponent’s committee! (Uproar.) Yes, gentlemen, the case is complete. Bribed by a beggarly gift—from a glimpse I had of the pipe I learnt that it had been in stock for a long time, and had been reduced from 3s. 7d., its original price, to 2s. 5½ d.—bribed, I say, by this beggarly gift, the gentleman has the effrontery to come here and raise his voice against my candidature! (Cheers, and cries of “Throw him out!”) And now to say a few words of my opponent. I chanced to see him enter his committee room today. For perhaps fifteen seconds he stood in the full glare of my inductive glance. What did those fifteen seconds reveal? That he makes a false income-tax return, does not pay his tailor’s bill, eats bacon without mustard, collects postage stamps, only writes to his aged mother on the second Monday in each month, is an anti-vivisectionist, and is suffering from overindulgence in baked potatoes! (Sensation.) Yes, that was what I learnt in fifteen seconds. But soon I hope to study him for a full minute, and then, gentlemen, you shall know the result! (Laughter and cheers.) But in the light of what the most simple inductive process has demonstrated already, is such a man, I ask you confidently, worthy to represent a free, glorious, and enlightened constituency? (Prolonged cheers.)