When the equipment arrived, Conan Doyle joined in the back-breaking labor of setting up the hospital in the pavilion of the Bloemfontein Ramblers’ Cricket Club. It made an unlikely setting; enormous marquee tents went up on the playing field, with smaller tents on the periphery for the staff. Incongruously, the far end of the pavilion held a stage set for an amateur production of HMS Pinafore. Soon enough, its decks would do service as a latrine.
Conan Doyle worked himself to the point of exhaustion unloading the medical packing cases. In a letter to Louisa, he gave a proud description of himself, sunburned and caked with dirt, wearing a pith helmet, breeches, and puttees—leather leggings—and a military-issue undershirt, which was dyed pink to mask any splatters of blood. “You would have smiled if you could have seen me,” he wrote.
With the tents and equipment readied, Conan Doyle believed the Langman Hospital was ready to meet any crisis. “Two days later,” he wrote, “wagons of sick and wounded began to disgorge at our doors and the real work had begun.”
The Langman unit was only one of several hospitals at Bloemfontein, but it soon had more patients than it could handle. The vast majority were victims of disease, rather than combat injury. Roberts had captured the town itself, but the water supply—some twenty miles away—remained in enemy hands. When the Boer commander shut off the pumps, British troops were put on strict rations. Soon enough, the men began looking elsewhere for potable water. Unfortunately, many of them dipped into the nearby Modder River, a cesspool of animal carcasses and debris from a Boer camp upstream. Within days, a full-blown epidemic of enteric, or typhoid fever, ripped through the British forces.
“The outbreak was a terrible one,” Conan Doyle wrote. “[W]e lived in the midst of death—and death in its vilest, filthiest form.” The conditions were so horrific that Conan Doyle hesitated to supply much in the way of detail. The debilitating fever of the disease, and its lacerating effect on the bowels, left its victims so weak that only a few had the strength to stagger as far as the latrines. “The rest did the best they could,” Conan Doyle said, “and we did the best we could in turn.” With every bed filled, dozens of patients had to be laid out on the floor of the ward. Soon the epidemic overwhelmed the hospital’s resources, and the “constant pollution” of the disease made it impossible to maintain sanitary conditions. As he moved through the ward, Conan Doyle’s boots squelched on the sodden floor. “The worst surgical ward after a battle would be a clean place compared to that pavilion,” he wrote.
The epidemic dragged on for a month. “Four weeks may seem a short time in comfort,” Conan Doyle remarked, “but it is a very long one under conditions such as those, amid horrible sights and sounds and smells, while a haze of flies spreads over everything, covering your food and trying to force themselves into your mouth—every one of them a focus of disease.”
At the height of the contagion, patients died at an appalling rate. “Coffins were out of the question,” said Conan Doyle, “and the men were lowered in their brown blankets into shallow graves at the average rate of sixty a day.”
Soon, the disease began to take its toll on the hospital staff. Dr. O’Callaghan, the gynecologist, saw that he was overmatched and decamped for London. Major Drury, whom Conan Doyle found to be “rather too Celtic in his methods,” sought consolation from alcohol. Scharlieb and Gibbs worked frantically against worsening odds, aided by the timely appearance of a pair of Red Cross nurses. Although Conan Doyle and the rest of the staff had been inoculated against typhoid aboard the Oriental, more than a dozen hospital workers fell victim to the disease. Three of them died.
All the while, Conan Doyle stayed at his post, bending to his task with a grim determination. He had come to South Africa for a taste of adventure, hoping to see a bit of action on the battlefield. Instead, he found a disaster beyond all imagining, one that might have tested the nerve of his own epic heroes. His training and his life of comfort had not prepared him for a crisis of this scale. No one would have looked askance if he had followed O’Callaghan back to London. Instead, he set his jaw and did his work. At last, he was doing his bit.
“It was difficult to associate him with the author of Sherlock Holmes,” wrote a newspaper artist who visited Bloemfontein at the worst of the epidemic. “He was a doctor pure and simple, an enthusiastic doctor too. I never saw a man throw himself into duty so thoroughly heart-and-soul.”
At last, a British force moved to recapture the water pumps from the Boers. Conan Doyle rode along to observe, and spent the night before the battle huddled beneath a wagon, shivering in his thin coat. Although he had once nearly frozen to death in the Arctic, he claimed that this experience left him “colder than I can ever remember being in my life.” When morning came, the enemy had retreated and the pumps were easily taken. By now, conditions at Bloemfontein had improved to such an extent that Conan Doyle was able to spend a few days with the troops as they advanced toward Pretoria, the capital of the South Africa Republic.
The experience of traveling with these “gallant lads” meant a great deal to Conan Doyle. For all the horrors of Bloemfontein, he had still not seen any close fighting, and he longed for it. He finally got his wish when the unit came under heavy artillery fire at Vet River. He wrote an account at the time and included it as a chapter in his autobiography, published nearly a quarter of a century later. At times, his account reads like something out of Biggles in Africa rather than a sober military chronicle: “Boom! Boom! Boom! Cannon at last!… Right between the guns, by George! Two guns invisible for the dust. Good heavens, how many of our gunners are left? Dust settles, and they are all bending and straining and pulling the same as ever.” Conan Doyle is often chastised for such writings; his critics charge that he masks the realities of war behind a veneer of rugged sportsmanship and the stiff upper lip. It would be more accurate to say that he wished to celebrate the bravery of the British soldier, just as he had always done in his historical fiction. After Bloemfontein, he had few illusions about war, but he retained his admiration for the “splendid stuff” of the fighting man.
Even here, Conan Doyle could not escape the long shadow of Sherlock Holmes. Moving past a line of soldiers, Conan Doyle paused to examine a New Zealander’s bullet wound. “I’ve read your books,” said the injured soldier. On another occasion, he was asked to name his favorite Sherlock Holmes tale. Distracted, the author allowed as how he had always liked the “one about the serpent,” though he couldn’t remember the title at the moment.
After a week, Conan Doyle headed back to Bloemfontein. “For them the bullets,” he wrote, “for us the microbes, and both for the honour of the flag.” Returning to camp, he fell ill with some form of fever. He continued with his duties, but complained of something “insidious” in his system. Possibly it was a form of typhoid, as it would be another ten years before his digestion “recovered its tone.” Conan Doyle’s ribs also took a beating in a staff football match, and he had to go around for some time encased in a plaster corset.
British forces swept Pretoria in early June, and it was thought the war would soon be over. When a relief doctor arrived in Bloemfontein, Conan Doyle decided to ship out. There were “potent influences” drawing him back to London, and foremost of these was his decision to write what he called an “interim” history of the war. He had been taking notes, interviewing commanders and soldiers, and sketching out chapters almost from the moment he arrived in the country. His interest in writing a book led to charges that he went to South Africa “on business principles,” while others accused him of abandoning his unit before its work was done. Both charges were unjust; he made no profit from his military service and at the time of his departure the Langman unit was scheduled to be disbanded. “I believe,” he wrote to his mother, “that between my history and my work there are few men in South Africa who have worked harder.”
Conan Doyle was anxious that his book should be the first history of the war to appear, though he knew that others would soon follow. Before de
parting, he obtained leave to visit Pretoria, an essential stop if he hoped to have his book ready “before that of my rivals.” It could be argued that perspective and accuracy count for more than speed in the writing of history, but Conan Doyle saw himself in the role of a war correspondent sending a dispatch from the front.
In Pretoria, Conan Doyle had an interview with Lord Roberts, the commander of the British forces. Press reports in London were drawing attention to the appalling state of the British field hospitals, and Roberts wanted firsthand information. Conan Doyle had strong feelings on the subject, and would later urge compulsory immunization against typhoid, but with Roberts he took care to emphasize the hard work done by the hospital workers. He later took the same line with a royal commission in London, where his words carried greater weight because of his status as independent volunteer.
Before leaving Pretoria, Conan Doyle visited a Boer prisoner-of-war camp where captured British soldiers had been held only two weeks earlier. At the time of their release, a group of soldiers had been busily using spoons to dig an escape tunnel. Conan Doyle posed for a photograph waist-deep in the tunnel, then mailed copies to his friends with the inscription: “Getting out of a hole, like the British Empire.”
In July, Conan Doyle sailed for England aboard the S.S. Briton, spending much of the journey writing in his cabin. “I have my history done within four chapters of the end,” he wrote to the Ma’am, “unless the war is unduly prolonged.” He had no way of knowing that the war would, in fact, be unduly prolonged. The Boers had now turned to guerrilla warfare, which would draw the conflict out for another two years.
In August, Conan Doyle rejoined his family at Undershaw and resumed his normal routine. Part of that routine, at this stage of his life, involved clandestine meetings with Jean Leckie. Within days of his return to England, Conan Doyle invited Jean to come and watch him play in a cricket match at Lord’s. Willie Hornung, his brother-in-law, also happened to be in the crowd, and registered surprise at the sight of Conan Doyle walking arm-in-arm with a woman who was not his wife. Apparently Conan Doyle had not fully acquainted his sister Connie with the circumstances of his arrangement with Jean. That evening, he presented himself at their house in Kensington to explain. For the moment, all appeared well. Connie agreed to come to Lord’s the following day to lunch with her brother and Jean. Hornung declared himself ready to support Conan Doyle without question.
Their goodwill soon evaporated. The following morning, Conan Doyle received a telegram to the effect that Connie had a toothache and would not be able to meet Jean after all. Conan Doyle, unconvinced by this excuse, went back to Kensington. He found Willie Hornung in a confrontational mood. “I suppose their hearts spoke first and then they were foolish enough to allow their heads to intervene,” Conan Doyle wrote to his mother. “Willie’s tone was that of an attorney dissecting a case, instead of a brother standing by a brother in need.”
In Hornung’s view, Conan Doyle had attached too much importance to the fact that his relations with Jean remained platonic. To his way of thinking, it made little difference whether the couple had consummated their affair or not. The mere fact of the relationship—and their lack of discretion in flaunting it at Lord’s—constituted an affront to Louisa and a betrayal of Conan Doyle’s marriage vows. Struggling to control his temper, Conan Doyle repeated his conviction that so long as his relations with Jean remained chaste, he had brought no dishonor to Louisa. This distinction, for him, represented “the difference between guilt and innocence.” Refusing to speak further on “so sacred a matter,” Conan Doyle left the house.
Hornung’s opinions were not entirely without merit, but Conan Doyle was impervious to all opposing views. He had an obstinate faith in his own judgment—whether it applied to Jean, the Boer War, or, later, the existence of fairies—and would not be second-guessed in any matter so close to his heart. It seemed ridiculous, he told his mother, that Connie and Willie should condemn him when she, his other siblings, and Louisa’s mother had all given their blessing. Even if they did disapprove, they owed him their support as the de facto head of the family. “When have I failed in loyalty to any member of my family?” he asked the Ma’am. “And when before have I appealed to them?”
Here Conan Doyle was probably alluding to financial as well as moral support. For years, ever since Sherlock Holmes made him rich, Conan Doyle had handed out money to his family with a free hand. He sent blank checks to his brother Innes so that he could play polo with his fellow officers. When his sister Lottie married Captain Leslie Oldham of the Royal Engineers, Conan Doyle sent money to help them get started. His two youngest sisters, Ida and Dodo, also benefited from their famous brother’s generosity.
The Hornungs, too, had received an allowance from Conan Doyle after their marriage, though they would not have needed it after the success of the first Raffles book in 1899. Still, Conan Doyle felt he was due a certain consideration. “I expected the attitude of a friend, and a brother, from William and I got neither,” he told his mother. Mary Doyle tried to intervene, but the rift lasted for some time.
There would not have been much time to dwell on it, however, as Conan Doyle was now preparing himself for another of his abrupt changes of direction. Upon leaving South Africa, he had spoken of the “potent influences” that were drawing him back to England. The first of these was his history of the war. The second, it now emerged, was politics. Even before the start of the war there had been press speculation about Conan Doyle as a potential member of Parliament. Now, he recorded, “a political crisis and a general election were coming on, and it was on the cards that I might be a candidate.” In fact, both the Conservatives and the Liberals courted him for the October elections. Conan Doyle’s fame as an author, coupled with his well-known concern for public issues, made him an attractive prospect for both parties.
The general election of 1900 would come to be known as “The Khaki Election,” after the uniforms worn by the British troops in South Africa. Other issues were on the docket, such as Home Rule for Ireland and free trade, but the Boer War dominated the platforms of both parties. The ruling Conservatives favored seeing the war through to its conclusion, while many factions within the Liberal Party opposed the conflict. Under the guidance of Joseph Chamberlain, Conan Doyle decided to stand with the Liberal Unionists, who had forged an alliance with the Conservatives based on their mutual desire to continue the campaign in South Africa.
Looking back on his decision in later years, Conan Doyle admitted that he could think of no good reason why he should have wished to enter Parliament at all. “It certainly was from no burning desire to join that august assembly,” he wrote. The stresses of his personal life may have nudged him toward the public arena, but he would not have entered politics simply to get out of the house. He had been troubled for some time by a nagging sense that he had not yet found his mission in life. “Deep in my bones I felt that I was on earth for some big purpose,” he wrote, “and it was only by trying that I could tell that the purpose was not political.” Being a world-famous author, it appears, had not satisfied this longing. In a letter to his mother, he expressed an urge to test himself in a new forum. “What is to be gained?” he asked. “A full and varied and perhaps useful life. The assurance that come what may I have at least tested my fate, and done my duty as a Citizen.”
Party elders offered him several “safe seats” where Conan Doyle would be assured of a victory, but he made up his mind that he wanted a fight. At length it was decided that he would stand in Central Edinburgh, considered the “premier Radical stronghold of Scotland.” Although he had spent his boyhood there, Conan Doyle knew that carrying the district would be a difficult feat. “It was no light matter to change the vote of a Scotsman,” he allowed, “and many of them would as soon think of changing their religion.”
In late September, Conan Doyle went up to Edinburgh and launched into a ten-day marathon of nonstop electioneering. “I was fresh from the scene of war and overflowing wit
h zeal to help the army,” he wrote, “so I spared myself in no way. I spoke from barrels in the street or any other pedestal I could find, holding many wayside meetings besides my big meetings in the evening, which were always crowded and uproarious.”
He gave as many as ten speeches a day, matching the rigorous pace set by his Liberal Party opponent, a wealthy local publisher named George Mackenzie Brown. A typical day began at dawn with a breakfast speech for brewery workers and ended after midnight with an address for two hundred employees of the local tram line. He shook hands with factory workers and coal miners until his hand turned black with grime. The locals were greatly impressed by the candidate’s energy. “Mun,” declared one, “the perspiration was just runnin’ down the stair.”
Conan Doyle adopted a simple strategy. Again and again he stressed that he and Mr. Brown agreed on most of the “social issues,” or matters of local concern. They differed strongly, however, on the war in South Africa, so this was the issue on which the electors must cast their votes. “He spoke to them as an Edinburgh man to Edinburgh men,” wrote The Scotsman, reporting on a speech before several hundred foundry workers. “He was born and bred in the city, and it was a great joy to him to be amongst them again, and it was his proudest ambition to serve his fellow-townsmen in Parliament.”
For a man with no political experience whatever, Conan Doyle had fastened upon a solid game plan. He may have presumed too much on his hometown roots, as he had not actually lived in Edinburgh for twenty years, but potential voters turned out in droves to see the local boy who made good. His speeches were direct and easily understood, and he never failed to underline the danger of failing to return the present government to power. It would be a disaster, he told one gathering, to “swop horses in the middle of a stream.” He told another group that it would be pointless to focus on trivial local matters at such a time, as that would be “like a man wanting to tidy his sitting-room while his house was on fire.”
Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle Page 26
