Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  Holmes paused. It was a delicate point. The statement was not a challenge. Holmes was being encouraged to help them decide in his favour.

  “I shall go only as far as you allow me. I have come from far away. I am an outsider but I hope you will accept me as a Tuareg, though I was not born one. I wish to be blessed by the tamenukalt, the leader. I seek your permission.”

  At this point, Hasso spoke in a low voice about Holmes and how he had helped him in Tangier against the tricks of the hated French. There were nods and grunts of appreciation. They were already aware of these facts. No one spoke. Then there were some low whispers.

  Hasso turned toward us shortly. “They will tell you tomorrow after discussing the matter.”

  We stood up and left the group. They wished to discuss the matter privately.

  Early next morning, we continued toward Tamanrasset. We were on guard against bandits, though the size of the caravan had become unwieldy with the addition of many women and children. The size of a caravan did not guarantee safety. The right men had to be assigned as scouts and equipped with weapons. The most valuable goods had to be placed at a precise location within the caravan. We had to think about where the women and children were to be in the sequence.

  We stopped at various points for one reason or the other. During the afternoon halts and just before we rested at night, Holmes went about practising his Tamasheq while I spoke with Amaha Ag Barha, the storyteller. Holmes proved to be very popular with the children, playing their games and puzzles with enthusiasm. The Tuaregs found the matter amusing.

  One day, we passed through a hilly area with no particular distinctive feature, except that the path had a number of ups and downs. It was very picturesque and I could imagine some of our painters in London and Paris being quite content to paint the vistas of endless sands studded with mesas and unexpected rocky outcrops. The camels moved at a steady clip. We were an hour away from stopping to rest before the heat of the sun became unbearable. Holmes and I were in the second half of the caravan. The chatter and laughter of children provided a most pleasant diversion. The camel in front had three children seated on it and they made faces at Freddy and me, just as little children do. Freddy was the picture of equanimity. I smiled and waved at the children who responded with shrill shouts of excitement. Their games continued for hours.

  No one anticipated the attack.

  From behind a hilly outcrop, a large number of bandits on horses and camels suddenly came dashing out as one large unit, swords raised, shouting in the most fearsome and bloodcurdling manner. Since the first half of our caravan had just turned around a bend that was also at a downward incline, they were at a disadvantage and could not easily swing back to join the rest of the caravan. Further, a lot of the heavier loads were on the camels in the front, making their job even tougher. The latter half, in which Holmes and I were situated, was, in effect, left to our own devices against a group of ferocious, armed bandits who additionally had the element of surprise. Holmes and I had only primitive revolvers. And, seated on camels, we could not have aimed and fired at anyone with the constantly moving targets.

  We tried our best to group together with the camels in an outward-facing circle and women and children pushed into the centre. But time was not on our side. The Tuaregs took out their spears and swords and assumed a defensive posture as the bandits came swooping along. In no time at all, two Tuaregs were killed and another seriously injured. Fear and panic gripped most of the caravan, while the first half tried to return to our aid. In the melee, we lost our places. Agitated camels dashed about, separating families. The sounds of shots being fired, the yelling of men and the screaming of the women, the dust and sand—everything created chaos in a manner I had not experienced even in battles in Afghanistan.

  All of a sudden, a Tuareg from our midst suddenly dashed out with a sword, yelling in the most bloodthirsty manner. Through a sudden gap, he directed his camel at the chief of the bandits who happened to be slightly behind his team, directing the raid. Before the bandits could respond to the maverick Tuareg’s single-man attack, the chief’s horse panicked at the sight of the camel running straight at him. It turned, neighing in fear, and ran in the opposite direction, with the Tuareg’s camel in hot pursuit.

  The unexpected turn of events caused a brief period of confusion, with the bandits not knowing whether to continue their attack or rescue their chief. For a few critical moments, they lost their confidence. Meanwhile, the rest of the Tuaregs had regrouped, having climbed back up the incline and now had the advantage of a flat terrain from which to mount a counterattack.

  Three bandits were cut down in fierce combat and two more were knocked off their steeds. The tide had turned in minutes. The bandits pulled back and fled, heading back toward the protective rocky outcrop from whence they had emerged. The bandit chief and the chasing Tuareg were nowhere in sight.

  The caravan regrouped, with screaming women, crying children, and shouting men adding to the chaos. Suddenly, a woman shouted, pointing.

  We looked and saw the missing Tuareg returning slowly to the caravan. He appeared to be seriously injured; he was clutching his right upper arm with one hand and his stomach with the other, and was leaning forward in his saddle in a position suggesting acute distress.

  I realized to my utter horror that the Tuareg was none other than Holmes, and that he was severely wounded.

  As he approached, the Tuaregs surrounded him and the camel with great cries of joy. As far as they were concerned, this man was a hero, and indeed he was. Holmes had taken the battle to the chief of the bandits, an act of incredible boldness against all odds.

  They helped a barely conscious Holmes down from the camel and brought him to me. I quickly stripped away the cloth at the upper arm where he was bleeding. There was a bullet in his abdomen, too, which could potentially have been more serious.

  “He fired at me with a rifle at rather close quarters, my dear fellow,” mumbled Holmes, looking at me with a wan smile. “He escaped, unfortunately. Now, are you all right, Watson?”

  “Not a word from you, my dear Holmes!” I cried, utterly shaken. “Not a word! The wounds appear to be deep! I shall have to remove the bullets immediately—you have lost a lot of blood!”

  “How are the children? And check on my violin, my dear Watson. A most temperamental instrument unused to bloodshed and chaos. We must hurry on, time is of the essen—”

  Holmes fainted dead away in my arms; the Tuaregs collectively cried out in alarm. I took him to the shade under a large boulder and set him down on a sheet. The Tuaregs boiled some water for me and I took out my instruments. I was able to remove the bullets from his arm and abdomen, and then clean and dress the wounds.

  I stood up and looked down at our hero. Sherlock Holmes was still unconscious. It would have been good to give him blood but we lacked the ability to do this in the middle of the Sahel.

  We took stock of our situation.

  We had lost two Tuaregs. Two more had been injured, but not seriously so. We bandaged them as well. Three bandits had been killed and two had been captured. Both had suffered wounds, which I attended to, before returning them to the custody of the Tuaregs.

  This development put the entire caravan under stress. It was one thing to be delayed but quite another to take a few bodies along, as well as captives and a few injured men.

  There was an oasis about five miles farther. We repaired to it and consolidated our position, ensuring that we had enough water, and that the camels were fed.

  Hasso Ag Akotey called for a meeting of the senior members of the Tuaregs. It was agreed that the bodies would be buried at the oasis and the captured bandits handed over to someone in Tamanrasset, perhaps to be executed. And as for Holmes, it was very clear that he had once again demonstrated the most extraordinary bravery and saved a very large caravan. No one could recall such a feat of raw courage.

  �
�He is one of us!”

  “He gave blood for us!”

  “He saved the lives of our children!”

  “What is there to discuss about whether he can visit the grave of our Mother?”

  “How can we refuse such a request? What purpose would it serve?”

  The admiration for Holmes’ act25 ensured that we would see the Tomb of Tin Hanan, which he had set his heart on doing. He was still unconscious; I injected some morphine to help him endure the pain.

  After I concluded that the wounds were extremely serious, we decided that it was important to stay at the oasis for two or three days to help Holmes recover.

  Holmes developed a fever and went in and out of consciousness, mumbling to himself. The women in the caravan insisted on tending to him, fanning him, keeping the children away, and making sure he was very comfortable. I feared at times that we would lose him. His condition was certainly grave, and better medical facilities were necessary but simply not available. I may say with some modesty that my experience in treating war wounds in Afghanistan came in handy.

  In a lucid moment Holmes requested that some of the Tuaregs play their music for him. Two young men brought out their imzads and played for long hours. It was a moving sight: a sick man listening quietly to the traditional music of the Tuaregs in the heart of the Sahara.

  I hope the following minor digression will be excused: I have, of course, always believed in the therapeutic impact of music. I recall a case, never published, I called “The Silent Musician,” in which Holmes had investigated, on the request of the German ambassador, the disappearance of the first violinist of the Philharmonic orchestra of a German city, only to discover that the man was spending long hours tending to his sick and sinking fiancée, who responded only to his music. The matter ended tragically. The case was too sensitive and private to be brought to the notice of the public who, in any case, are long accustomed to relish the sadness of others and to revel in their misfortunes.

  With a combination of the most tender of care, music, and modern and traditional medicine, Holmes showed signs of recovery by the second day. He was conscious and asking questions by the late afternoon.

  On the fourth day, once Holmes was able to stagger to his feet and had consumed vast amounts of millets and goat cheese, the caravan resumed its journey to Tamanrasset. From there to Abalessa, to the tomb, was a short distance that could be covered in two days.

  The caravan moved on, subdued perhaps, but confident. Soon the camels fell into a rhythm and the sounds of happy children filled the Tinariwen again. The spirit of Tin Hanan was caressing their hair, claimed Amaha Ag Barha with a smile, and there was no doubt that it had a role to play in bringing Sherlock Holmes practically from the deathbed.

  Freddy moved very calmly along to Abalessa, not showing any signs of stress.

  23Of late, the modern editor—female, as only to be expected—gratuitously offers advice to writers underlining a newly invented phrase, “show, don’t tell.” It means, in an extremely roundabout way, that elaborate details are needed, rather than to make a simple point and let it stand on its own and let the reader make an effort to exercise his imagination. It appears that the modern reader today wants explicit information and is not interested in the exhausting exercise of visualization. When confronted with such a demand by the writer, he is likely to sulk and complain in a letter to the newspaper editor, appropriating to himself the qualities of an outstanding literary critic. I differ firmly. The modern reader is lazy, I regret to say (except for you, dear reader; you are a rare exception).

  24Lyrics of a contemporary song by the Tuareg group Tinariwen

  25Several years later, we heard from a source that the Ahaggar Tuaregs had composed a musical poem extolling the virtues of Sherlock Holmes. At the time of writing, we had not received confirmation from our Tuareg sources, due to continuing conflicts in that area.

  The Grave of Tin Hanan

  Our songs sung in the Tinariwen

  O Mother, listen to them, for they are yours

  Our stories told in the Tinariwen

  O Mother, listen to them, for they are yours

  Our children who play in the Tinariwen

  O Mother, watch over them, for they are yours

  We are brothers, from Tindouf to Tamanrasset

  We are sisters, from Timbuktu to Tlemcen

  Watch over us, O Mother of us all

  Much has been written through the ages about those with natural authority who altered the destinies of entire peoples. A single man or woman may change some basic way of thinking of thousands by the power of his or her words or actions. Secret societies, countries, political movements, music genres—everything can shift, either gradually or abruptly, simply because of their charismatic power.

  Holmes had theorized that the average citizen sought someone to follow because he had a fundamental need for order. The citizen wished to believe that there is a reason for his existence and that something would finally happen that would explain the very mystery of existence. These are matters for philosophical debate, and I must confess that my qualifications here are less than adequate to say something of deep import backed by sound arguments made by others, except in the area of medicine, where I have strong opinions by virtue of my training. I am otherwise content to listen to people argue, and prefer to express an opinion only if one is sought.

  But I have strayed into debate when what I really wished to emphasize was that the desire to be led is a powerful force in society. Even the leader often has no clarity and does not know where to go and what to do, but the pressure of expectations and a willingness to take risks propel him forward. Let us not talk about quasi-religious figures; let us limit ourselves to political figures.

  The extent of the influence on the Tuaregs of a woman who lived more than fifteen hundred years ago was difficult to comprehend. There was barely an aspect of day-to-day life that had not been touched by her omniscient presence. The complex social stratification that gave particular importance to women was noted by Holmes. “In no other society, Watson, have I seen such deference to a woman, whether to her opinion or to her presence. This must be applauded,” he said.26

  The excitement within the caravan grew steadily as we approached Tamanrasset, a small town, quite like many others. Yet this town was the base from which a person might travel to the grave of Queen Tin Hanan, respectfully referred to as the Mother of us all. The story that has come down has been that she and a servant travelled from the Tifilalt area of Morocco across the Sahara and established the rough boundaries of the Tuareg nation. She gave them a language and a sense of identity. In our countries, we have similar persons. If you are an American, you are required to think highly of what are called— with considerable hyperbole, I might add—“the Founding Fathers” to whom you bestow great attributes, when in fact they might have been ordinary men who just happened to live at an extraordinary time.

  The Ahaggar Tuaregs were particularly attached to the memory of the queen and jealously guarded her grave. They had generously agreed to allow Holmes and me to visit Abalessa. On the way, I listened carefully to the wonderful storyteller and my new friend, Amaha Ag Barha, as he told me in his unique animated way all about Tin Hanan. These tales captivated my imagination, and I thought about them while resting at night, with my back on the blanket on the sand, with the gentle breathing of my fellow travellers the only reminder of life close by, and of my mission. I looked at the brilliant starlit sky, the same that had looked on benignly through the centuries as countless caravans and travellers crossed the Sahara. This time was the time to imagine, and not to worry about writing, style, voices, editors, readers, the machinations of modern man and the fundamental inconsequence of individual lives, except of those who live on simply because of the magnificence of what they did. I felt proud that my friend Sherlock Holmes would always be one such man. A century from now, people wou
ld remember this man with the greatest regard.

  I dreamt that I was looking on as Tin Hanan and her maid, Takamat, started from the oasis of Tifilalt toward Taghaza, quite like us. I travelled back in time more than fourteen hundred years. Perhaps it had been safe enough then for two women to travel across the ocean of sand.

  Listen to the songs without words, O Friends, for they say the most. The melodies of the Tinariwen gently settle on the sand, which itself sways to the beat of the heart of the Mother of us all. The dunes shift and move with the music that swirls around the lame Queen as she moves steadily onward. The mission is clear, for she was born with knowledge of her destiny.

  “Tamenukalt, what is your mission?” asks Takamat silently.

  The sand hisses and stops moving. The wind halts too for it wishes to listen. But the camels continue, for they already know.

  “To unite. My people, those whom I love, they run as if blind, to whichever oasis seems tempting, fighting like children for little toys. I shall unite them.”

  Her voice has gentle authority. The shadow of the Queen shimmers; the future awaits. The beats of the unheard desert drums continue, the sound pushing through the music-mad sands.

  “How must I help you?” Takamat asks.

  The wind stops again to listen to what the Queen will say. Time passes, for she speaks in silence, and only when she wishes. And then she says:

  “You shall know when you must. And I shall say not a word.”

  The wind sighs with happiness and moves on to tell the acacia and the mountains of the beginning of something wonderful.

  And the women move toward Taghaza, where the salt blocks are hacked out by men who have no name or hope and merely breathe till they die, with nothing to cherish, no one to love, and no memories that shall mix with the salt.

  She, Tin Hanan, sees the Kel Tamasheq wander aimlessly through the desert from oases, finding ways to differ, finding ways to quarrel, not knowing they are brothers, not knowing they are sisters.