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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
In a few days I had a visit from him. “You have been examined and you have passed,” said he with a smile. “Now you
must say defi nitely whether you will go on with it. You can’t
take it up and drop it. It is serious, and you must leave it alone
or go forward with a whole heart.”
It began to dawn upon me that it really was serious, so
serious that there seemed no possible space for it in my very
crowded and pre-occupied life. I said as much, and he took it
in very good part. “Very well,” said he, “we won’t talk of it any
more unless you change your mind.”
There was a sequel to the story. A month or two later, on
a pouring wet day, the little doctor called, bringing with him
another medical man whose name was familiar to me in connection with exploration and tropical service. They sat together beside my study fi re and talked. One could not but observe
that the famous and much-travelled man was very deferential
to the little country surgeon, who was the younger of the two.
“He is one of my initiates,” said the latter to me. “You
know,” he continued, turning to his companion, “Doyle nearly
joined us once.” The other looked at me with great interest and
then at once plunged into a conversation with his mentor as to
the wonders he had seen and, as I understood, actually done.
I listened amazed. It sounded like the talk of two lunatics. One
phrase stuck in my memory.
“When fi rst you took me up with you,” said he, “and we
were hovering over the town I used to live in, in Central Africa, I was able for the fi rst time to see the islands out in the
lake. I always knew they were there, but they were too far off to
191
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
be seen from the shore. Was it not extraordinary that I should
fi rst see them when I was living in England?”
“Yes,” said Brown, smoking his pipe and staring into the
fi re. “We had some fun in those days. Do you remember how
you laughed when we made the little steamboat and it ran
along the upper edge of the clouds?”
There were other remarks as wild. “A conspiracy to impress
a simpleton,” says the sceptic. Well, we can leave it at that if
the sceptic so wills, but I remain under the impression that
I brushed against something strange, and something which
I am not sorry that I avoided. It was not Spiritualism and it was
not Theosophy, but rather the acquisition of powers latent in
the human organization, after the alleged fashion of the old
gnostics or of some modern fakirs in India, though some doubtless would spell fakirs with an “e.” One thing I am very sure of,
and that is that morals and ethics have to keep pace with knowledge, or all is lost. The MaorI cannibals had psychic knowledge
and power, but were man-eaters none the less. Christian ethics
can never lose its place whatever expansion our psychic faculties may enjoy. But Christian theology can and will.
To return to the little doctor, I came across him again,
as psychic as ever, in Portland, Oregon, in 1923. From what
I learned I should judge that the powers of the Society to which
he belonged included that of loosening their own etheric bodies, in summoning the etheric bodies of others (mine, for example) and in making thought images (the steamboat) in the
way that we are assured is possible by will-power. But their
line of philosophy or development is beyond me. I believe they
represent a branch of the Rosicrucians.
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
All seemed placid at this time. My wife was holding her
own in winter as well as in summer. The two children, Mary
and Kingsley, were passing through the various sweet phases
of human development, and brought great happiness into our
lives. The country was lovely. My life was fi lled with alternate
work and sport. As with me so with the nation. They were years
of prosperity and success. But the shadow of South Africa was
falling upon England, and before it passed my personal fortunes, as well as so many more, were destined to be involved
in it. I had a deep respect for the Boers and some fear of their
skill at arms, their inaccessible situation, and their sturdy Teutonic tenacity. I foresaw that they would be a most dangerous
enemy, and I watched with horror the drift of events which
from the time of the ill-judged Jameson Raid never ceased to
lead to open war. It was almost a relief when at last it came
and we could clearly see the magnitude of our task. And yet
few people understood it at the time. On the very eve of war
I took the chair at a dinner to Lord Wolseley at the Authors’
Club and he declared that we could send two divisions to Africa. The papers next day were all much exercised as to whether such a force was either possible to collect or necessary to
send. What would they have thought had they been told that
a quarter of a million men, a large proportion of them cavalry,
would be needed before victory could be won. The early Boer
victories surprised no one who knew something of South African history, and they made it clear to every man in England
that it was not a wine glass but a rifl e which one must grasp if
the health of the Empire was to be honoured.
CHAPTER XVI
THE START FOR SOUTH
AFRICA
The Black Week – Volunteering – The Langman Hospital –
The Voyage – Bloemfontein – Sir Claude de Crespigny – The
Epidemic – Advance to the Water Works.
FROM December 10 to 17, 1899, was the black week for
England. In that week General Gatacre lost a battle at Stormberg, Lord Methuen lost one at Magersfontein and General
Buller lost one at Colenso. The three together would not have
made more than a minor action in the great war to come, but
at the time it seemed portentous. There were ominous stirrings
on the Continent also and rumours of a coalition. It was lucky
for us that the German fl eet was not yet in being and that our
own was able to keep the ring, or we should soon have had
some Lafayette in South Africa with perhaps a Yorktown to
follow. However, it was bad enough as it was, but the nation as
usual rose splendidly to the occasion, and every one hastened
to do what they could. Hence it was that I found myself early
one morning at Hounslow – if I remember right – standing in
a long queue of men who were waiting to enlist in the Middle-
194
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
sex Yeomanry. I had one or two friends in the regiment and
hence my choice.
The Colonel, a grizzled soldier, sat behind a deal table in
an orderly room and dealt swiftly with the applicants. He had
no idea who I was, but seeing a man of forty before him he intimated that I surely did not intend to go into the ranks. I said
that I was prepared to take a commission. He asked if I could
ride and shoot. I said that I could do both in moderation. He
asked if I had had military experience. I said that I had led
an adventurous life and seen a little of military operations in
the Soudan, which was stretching it about as far as it would
go. Two white lies are permitted to a gentleman, to screen
a woman, or to get into a fi ght when the fi ght is a rightful one.
So I trust I may be forgiven.
However the Colonel would only put me on his waiting
list, took my name, still without recognizing me, and passed
on to the next case. I departed somewhat crestfallen and unsettled, not knowing whether I had heard the last of the matter or not. Almost immediately afterwards, however, I received
an offer which took me out in a capacity which was less sporting but probably in my case and at my age a good deal more
useful. This came from my friend John Langman, whose son
Archie I had known well in Davos days. Langman was sending
out a hospital of fi fty beds at his own expense to Africa, and
had already chosen his staff of surgeons but not his personnel.
Archie Langman was to go with the Hospital as general manager. Lang-man’s idea was that I should help him to choose the
personnel, that I should be a supplementary medico, and that
I should exercise a general supervision over the whole in an
195
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
unoffi cial capacity. To all this I agreed and spent a week at his
house at Stanhope Terrace, choosing from many candidates
those who seemed the most likely. On the whole they proved
to be a worthy choice. There were many things to be done, and
in the middle of them I received a note re-opening the question of the Yeomanry, but by this time I was entirely committed to the Langman Hospital.
When we were comp lete we were quite a good little unit, but
our weakness was unfortunately at the head. Dr. O’Callaghan
had been a personal friend of Lang-man’s and had thus got the
senior billet, but he was in truth an excellent gynaecologist,
which is a branch of the profession for which there seemed
to be no immediate demand. He was a man too who had led
a sedentary life and was not adapted, with all the will in the
world, for the trying experience which lay before us. He realized this himself and returned to England after a short experience of South African conditions. We were compelled to
have one military chief, as a bond with the War Offi ce, and this
proved to be one Major Drury, a most amusing Irishman who
might have come right out of Lever. To leave the service and
to “marry a rich widow with a cough” was, he said, the height
of his ambition. He was a very pleasant companion in civil life,
but when it came to duties which needed tact and routine he
was rather too Celtic in his methods, and this led to friction
and occasional rows in which I had to sustain the point of view
of Mr. Lang-man. I have no doubt he thought me an insubordinate dog, and I thought him – well, he has passed away now,
and I remember him best as a very amusing companion.
196
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
Under O’Callaghan and Drury were two really splendid
younger surgeons, Charles Gibbs and Scharlieb, the latter
the son of the well-known lady doctor. They were as good as
they could be. Then we had our ward-masters, cooks, stewards,
storekeepers, and fi nally some fi fteen to twenty orderlies. Altogether we numbered just fi fty men, and were splendidly fi tted out by the generosity of Mr. Langman.
A month or two passed before we could get away, and
I remember one amusing incident which occurred during
that time. I had spent a good deal of thought over the problem how best to attack men who lay concealed behind cover.
My conclusions were that it was useless to fi re at them direct,
since, if they knew their business, very little of them would be
vulnerable. On the other hand, if one could turn a rifl e into
a portable howitzer and drop a bullet with any sort of rough
general accuracy within a given area, then it seemed to me that
life would hardly be possible within that area. If, for example,
the position was 20,000 square yards in size, and 20,000 rifl es
were dropping bullets upon it, each square yard would sooner
or later be searched and your mark would be a whole prostrate or crouching body. What I was really evolving, though
I could not know it, was the machine gun barrage of dropping
or vertical fi re as practised in the Great War. My principles
were absolutely right and have not even yet received their full
application. I wrote an article to “The Times” explaining my
views, but so far as I know it had no results.
Meanwhile I was practising how to turn a rifl e into a howitzer. I fastened a large needle at the end of a thread to the back
sight. When the gun pointed straight up in the air the needle
197
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
swung down across the stock and I marked the spot. Then the
idea was to tilt the gun slowly forward, marking advances of
200, 400 and so on in the range, so that you had a dial marked
on the stock and could always by letting the needle fall across
the correct mark on the dial drop the bullet within a certain
distance.
But the crux was to discover the exact ranges. To do this
I went down to Frensham Pond and, standing among the reeds
and tilting the gun very slightly forward, I pulled the trigger.
The bullet very nearly fell upon my own head. I could not locate it, but I heard quite a loud thud. But what amazed me, and
still amazes me, was the time it took. I counted fi fty seconds on
my watch between the discharge and the fall. I don’t wonder
if the reader is incredulous. I feel incredulous also, but such is
the fact as I recorded it.
My idea was to mark the bullet splashes on the calm water
of the lake, but though I fi red and fi red at various angles not
a splash could I see. Finally a little man who may have been an
artist broke in upon my solitude.
“Do you want to know where those bullets were going?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then I can tell you, sir, for they have been dropping all
round me.”
I felt that unless my howitzer was to claim its fi rst victim
on the spot I had better stop. It was clear that the light bullet
with so heavy a charge went so high into the atmosphere that
one lost all command over it. Twice the weight and half the
charge would have served my purpose better. Then came other
calls and I could never work it out, but I am very sure that with
198
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
a little care in detail I could have got a converging fi re which
would have cleared any kopje in South Africa.
As I was convinced that the idea was both practical and
much needed I communicated full particulars to the War Offi ce. Here is the letter I had in reply.
WAR OFFICE,
Feb. 16, 1900
SIR, –
With reference to your letter concerning an appliance for
adapting rifl es to high angle fi re I am directed by the Secretary
of State for War to inform you that he will not trouble you in
the matter.
I am, Sir, Your Obedient Servant,
(Signature illegible),
Director General of Ordnance.
Thus, whether my invention was nonsense or whether it
was, as I believe, radical and epoch-making, I was given no
chance to explain or to illustrate it. As I remarked in “The
Times:” “No wonder that we fi nd the latest inventions in the
hands of our enemies rather than ourselves if those who try
to improve our weapons meet with such encouragement as
I have done.” Our traditions were carried on in the Great War,
for Pomeroy, the inventor of the infl ammable bullet which
brought down the Zeppelins, was about to return to New Zealand in despair and it was as I am assured, private and not offi cial bullets which fi rst showed how valuable was his discovery
and forced a belated acceptance by the War Offi ce.
At last our time drew near. My wife had gone to Naples,
where it was hoped that the warmer climate would complete
199
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
her cure. My affairs were all settled up. I was to go as an unpaid
man, and I contributed my butler Cleeve, a good intelligent
man for the general use, paying him myself. In this way I retained my independence and could return when I felt that the
time had come – which, as events turned out, proved to be
very valuable to me.
We were reviewed by the old Duke of Cambridge in some
drill-hall in London. There befell me on this occasion one
of those quaint happenings which seem to me to have been
more common in my life than in that of most other men. We
were drawn up in our new khakI uniforms, and wearing our
tropical helmets, for the Royal Duke’s inspection. If we had
been asked to form fours we should have broken down completely, but luckily we were placed in double line and so we
remained. I was standing in front on the right fl ank. With my
eyes fi xed rigidly before me I was still able out of the corner of
them to be aware that the old Duke, with his suite, was coming across to begin at my end. Presently he halted in front of
me, and stood motionless. I remained quite rigid, looking past
him. He continued to stand, so near me that I could hear and
almost feel his puffy breath. “What on earth!” I wondered,
but I gave no sign. At last he spoke. “What is this?” he asked.
Then louder, “What is this?” and fi nally, in a sort of ecstasy,
“What is it?” I never moved an eyelash, but one of a group of
journalists upon my right went into hysterical but subdued
laughter. There was whispering among the suite, something
was explained, and the funny old man passed on. But did ever
Lever in his maddest moment represent that his hero on the
fi rst day of wearing uniform should have such an experience
200
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