Roll Call
Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes, others
Summary: "Restore the pride. Restore the honour. Heal the regiment."
Warnings: none, non-slash
Word Count: 2950 (give or take)
Comma Count: 185
Author's Notes: Maiwand Tribute - Reading 1883
Thanks go out to
med_cat for the beta!
A mix of historical and fictional persons have been used in this work. No disrespect to historical persons is intended.
Watson's rank as Captain is definitely not common practice, but I plan to explore that in a future fic. Let's just say for now, that at the time of Maiwand, and his medical discharge, Watson had progressed from the level of assistant surgeon when he joined the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, to a full surgeon when he transferred to the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot. And that for reasons other than his medical training, he was fully commissioned as a Captain.
Please read and review...
.oOOo.
Thursday July 26 1883
Mid-afternoon at 221B, a polite knocking interrupted the business meeting between Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his young associate, Wiggins. The knocking persisted, the door opened a fraction and Mrs. Hudson peeped in.
“Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, but there is someone to see you.”
Mrs. Hudson stepped aside to usher in a clearly embarrassed Captain John H. Watson, late of the Army Medical Department, resplendent in full dress uniform.
“Doctor, izzat really you?” exclaimed an astonished Wiggins.
“It used to be,” replied the doctor with a forced smile that did not extend to his eyes.
Watson’s health had improved greatly in the past two years, or so they thought. However, last week, when he donned his dress uniform, the tunic hung off his shoulders, giving him the semblance of a scarecrow.
Holmes snickered and suggested the doctor just buy a new one and be done with it. This touched off a voluble row which brought Mrs. Hudson steaming into the room like an irate five-foot tall juggernaut, ordering Holmes to his room.
“But Watson started it!” he protested.
“I doubt that very much, Mr. Holmes. Stop behaving like a child and go to your room!”
Clearly the woman made no sense when she was angry. Holmes raised incredulous eyebrows at the ridiculous statement and was about to argue.
“Just go!” she thundered.
This week, thanks to Mrs. Hudson’s expert alterations, the Doctor’s old tunic fit as good as new, and once again, he looked the part of the dashing young officer.
“All you need is your fancy bonnet and your scimitar to complete your costume!” quipped Holmes, prompting a giggle from Wiggins.
“This is an indoor function, Holmes. Neither the helmet nor my sabre will be required,” was the doctor’s terse reply.
“Really, Doctor, those military functions are exceedingly dull. Are you sure you won’t join me on my surveillance mission? You would be outdoors and could bring the scimitar if you like,” Holmes added with a wicked grin.
“Sorry, Holmes. This time you’re on your own. Try not to get killed until I return.”
“I say, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve made his collar too tight. He’s having delusions of humour again!”
Letting Holmes have the last word was something Watson usually did only with great reluctance, but today his mood was such that he was on the verge of saying hurtful things he would later come to regret. So instead of staying, he bid a strained good-afternoon to everyone, and retired to his room.
Mrs. Hudson had surpassed herself in her efforts on his behalf, admitted Watson as he examined his tunic in the mirror. The bitter, weary soldier who looked back remained a stranger to him. Thoughts he was trying avoid were clawing their way to the surface of his mind, and he struggled to remind himself how lucky he was to have people around him who cared for him.
Unlike Holmes, who seemed to not require the companionship of others, Watson had always been surrounded by friends. People used to be drawn to him because of his genial nature, his wit, and his compassion. Whatever company he kept; whether it was his rugby chums, his fellow students, his medical colleagues, or his fellow soldiers, they were all the better for his presence. Until the war. War changed Watson. Now, he suppressed his innate gregarious nature and kept people at a distance. His civility and good manners were more the actions of an automaton than of a functioning member of society. Glimpses into his true nature were rare indeed.
Watson exchanged his uniform for a plain suit of dark grey and lay down to rest until tea. Not intending to actually sleep, he was later roused by a polite knock on his door. Holmes peered in to say that tea had been laid out in the sitting room, and that he was on his way out for the evening.
.oOOo.
The train for Reading departed from Paddington at 8:00 p.m. Although the carriage was less than full, Watson now regretted choosing a general class seat instead of a first class compartment. At the time it seemed like an unwarranted expense, but now he wished he could be alone with his thoughts. It was too much work to smile and exchange pleasantries with his fellow passengers, so he looked out the window absently, as the train rolled through the undulating, darkening countryside.
The sun had set and twilight was fading into night when the train arrived in Reading. The journey had taken a little over one hour and fifteen minutes. Watson remained seated while the other passengers retrieved their luggage and disembarked. On the platform he adjusted his bearings, shifted his valise to his right hand, thus freeing his left for his cane, and strode purposefully towards the exit.
The doctor was unaware of the three forms that separated themselves from the other people on the platform; that hurried to close the distance, and fell into step behind him.
“Doctor… you are out of uniform, again!” called a voice from his past.
Recognising the unforgettable timbre of his former commanding officer, Watson turned to face Surgeon-Major Alexander Francis Preston, V.C., and smiled.
“Yes Sir, Major! I promise I’ll wear it tomorrow,” said Watson, with a gesture to his valise.
“See that you do!” Preston replied, extending his hand. Watson recognised the other two gentlemen as his former colleagues: Mike Stevens, an orderly, invalided out on half pay; and Doctor Gordon Wainwright, another surgeon, now attached with the Princess Charlotte's Berkshire Regiment. Warm greetings were exchanged all around.
“Where are you billeted, John?” asked Stevens, commandeering Watson’s valise.
“I booked a room at the Oakwood Hotel on Broad Street. It’s a block’s distance from the church.”
“Splendid! We’ll drop off your baggage on our way to the pub,” suggested Wainwright, brightly.
“Sorry, gentlemen. I cannot join you tonight. I have to make an early start tomorrow.”
The foursome exchanged what military gossip passed for news as they proceeded from the railway station. In no time they stood outside the Oakwood’s entrance and said their farewells. Watson signed the registry and climbed the stairs to the second level. He rarely indulged in opulence. His room was adequately furnished; the décor was conservative, older but clean.
Watson unpacked his scant items, laid out his uniform, and prepared for bed. Only one other task remained: stitching the black armband of mourning to the sleeve of his tunic.
.oOOo.
Friday July 27, 1883
The sun had barely risen at 5:30 when the church opened for the vigil. Reading Minster, or the Minster Church of St. Mary the Virgin as it is more properly known, was also commonly referred to as St. Mary’s and was considered the heart of the 66th Berkshire Regiment. Largely rebuilt in the mid 1500’s, the current structure was situated on ground which had been consecrated for over a thousand years.
The outer stone and the inner timbers gave Watson a sense of refuge as he took a seat in the last pew to collect his thoughts before his meeting with the Vicar, Forsythe. There he nodded acknowledgements to the few veterans who had braved the early hour. More veterans filtered in and some, when recognising Watson, stopped to talk and shake his hand. The doctor tensed at the sympathetic, pitying looks given by some of his less than tactful former comrades.
“Think nothing of it, John. They are just surprised to see you in uniform,” said Wainwright, easing himself to sit beside him.
“Et tu, Gordo?”
“Humour, Watson; there was a time when you used to have some,” sighed Wainwright.
“Not here; not today,” Watson bristled. Then changing the subject, if not his tone, he indicated the regimental banners in front of the pulpit, “Those are not our Colours. What are they doing here?”
“You’re quite right. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” promised Wainwright as he rose to leave.
Bitter memories of last year’s remembrance flooded in. The dissolution of the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot with its subsequent replacement by the Princess Charlotte of Wales's Berkshire Regiment was a festering wound, especially to veterans like John Watson. On one hand the Army lauded the valour and heroism of those who perished at Maiwand, yet held in contempt those who managed to survive the loss of the Colours. A regiment without its Colours was a disgrace.
Last year, the Maiwand anniversary was commemorated at the Reading depot and a confrontation developed between some of the Maiwand veterans and some other soldiers of the newly amalgamated regiment. Watson’s own attempts to soothe the situation failed and the situation deteriorated into a full scale brawl. Local police were brought in and the belligerents were thrown in gaol for the night.
Nursing bruised knuckles and wounded pride, Watson spent the night quietly smouldering in contemplation. When he eventually calmed and began to think rationally, he realised that something was needed to restore the honour of the 66th Berkshire Regiment, if only in the minds of the survivors. They constituted a unique brotherhood, an elite membership whose dues were paid in blood, and must be brought to realise their value and worth. To not have pride meant to be ashamed, and shame was certainly not warranted in this case.
By morning, Watson had formulated a plan for the next year’s anniversary: a memorial this time, limited to those who served at Maiwand and their families, to be held at St. Mary’s (every good rugby player knew the value of home turf advantage), full dress mourning attire suitable for a state funeral. Restore the pride. Restore the honour. Heal the regiment.
By 8:30 more people had entered, and a small group formed in the center aisle. Invitations had been sent out to friends and families of the 286 members of the regiment who perished at Maiwand, requesting someone to light a candle at the memorial service for each of the Fallen. Locating these people had been a difficult task since most of the 66th's documents had been lost along with the Colours on that fateful day in 1880, but letter-writing and tracking the correspondence kept Watson’s mind from dwelling on dark thoughts during his recurring house-bound convalescences. This year, more than fifty representatives, or alternates, agreed to be present for the commemoration.
When Watson returned from his meeting, two black banners, crossed, were displayed in place of the 66th's lost Colours. The official Colours of Princess Charlotte's Berkshires which had been erroneously set in place the previous evening were now situated outside in the narthex.
The service itself was simple; the message was based on the 23rd Psalm. “Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” The hymn and the blessing both affirmed service to Queen and country as a form of devotion to God. In his own mind, Watson was not sure he could reconcile following a God who accepted what amounted to blood sacrifices from his worshippers. Without any evidence to support his faith, and much to contradict it, Watson wished to believe in a compassionate God; one who would forgive their human shortcomings and grant peace to the faithful. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life"? Watson was no longer sure.
Sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows illuminated the old church with an otherworldly quality that seemed out of place with the day’s proceedings. Surely rain would have better suited the mood within. Watson, in his formal dress uniform, moved from his seat on the dais to the pulpit and his voice carried clearly throughout the old church.
“Thank you, Father Forsythe, for this eloquent tribute. Before I begin the calling of the rolls, I wish to thank all of you for attending today. Although our task is a sombre one, remembering our comrades-in-arms and acknowledging their sacrifice remains imperative. Lest we forget, we represent the last of the 66th Berkshire Regiment.” He paused as the congregated murmured their affirmation.
“This morning’s service will conclude with a period of silence until the bells cease their noontime peal. Out of respect for your comrades and your fellow guests, please refrain from speaking until you are out of doors.”
Then Captain Watson proceeded with his solemn duty: “As most of you know, in the three years since that fateful day, our numbers continue to dwindle. This year, a total of eight names have to be included with those of our fallen brethren.” Watson named the eight, their rank and the circumstances of their deaths, while a uniformed soldier lit individual candles in their honour.
From behind the pulpit, Captain Watson began calling of the Maiwand Roll before just before10:00 o’clock, starting with the names of the enlisted men and progressing upwards through the ranks. In the centre of a shallow, slightly sloping, rectangular box, some eight feet long and three feet deep, nearly three hundred unlit white candles were arranged along twelve precise rows in white sand. The alternates were well instructed and as each name was called, the corresponding representative came forward to light a candle. If the next name called had no representative of their own, the previous alternate would remain in place lighting candles until the name of a soldier prompted another representative to rise to replace them.
By 11:00 o’clock, Watson’s voice had developed a rasping quality. The vicar discreetly exited himself and returned moments later with a glass of water for the doctor. “Thank you, Father”, he lifted the glass as if to drink but, then on second thought, raised it instead to show those assembled before him, and commented with a wry smile: “Think of what this would have meant to us three years ago.” This was met with murmurs of understanding and he set it down, untouched.
Watson returned his gaze to those assembled before him, quietly cleared his throat and continued the roll call. Alternates in the forms of fathers, sons, brothers, comrades, and disabled veterans each in turn conducted their duties as the long list of names progressed into the officers’ ranks.
Cadet Herbert Olivey, in his crisp Sandhurst uniform, performed the honours for his older brother, Second Lieutenant Walter Rice Olivey who perished trying to maintain the Colours at Khig. The lieutenant had only been twenty years old.
Watson had to clench his teeth and fight to maintain his composure when six-year old Sam Garratt carefully lit a candle for his father. Captain Ernest Stephen Garratt had been the only other officer to play rugby for the regiment and had been among Watson’s closest friends. Garratt had been one of the final eleven who made the last stand in the gardens.
Standing for long periods still caused Watson’s leg to ache so he had to move carefully to suppress a limp as he approached the votiviary where he was joined by the second to last alternate, Surgeon-Major Preston. There, Watson called out the name of Joseph Jackson, Orderly, and lit the candle himself, before returning stiffly to the pulpit. After taking a deep breath, Watson confirmed Preston’s readiness with a nod and commenced the roll call of the rest of the deceased medical staff; Preston lighting candles for each of them in turn.
James William Galbraith, an instructor in the classics at Royal University of Ireland in Belfast, was last representative remaining. He lit the final candle as Watson read out the name of his father, Lieutenant Colonel James Galbraith. The Colonel’s daughter and her husband were also in attendance.
It had taken just under two hours to complete the roll call. All of the 286 Maiwand Fallen, and the names of the subsequent eight had been memorialised. Watson discretely consulted his pocket watch. The timing had been flawless: it was less than ten minutes to noon. It was almost over. He leaned heavily against the pulpit, bowed his head with a small sigh of relief, and waited in that particular silence offered in churches for the tolling of the noon bells.
The alternates were given the opportunity to leave the church ahead of the other guests and observers. Outside, in the glorious summer sunlight, a solitary piper played a lonely lament. In the shade of the trees families, veterans, and guests mingled in small groups. Cordial introductions were exchanged. Veterans were reunited and above the mix of joy and sadness there was a sense of peace.
When the church was all but empty, and Father Forsythe repaired to his office, Watson retrieved his abandoned cane, removed himself to the now empty front pew, buried his face in his hands, gave in to his pent-up emotions and wept.
.oOOo.
Some time later, a light tread on the floor tiles indicated someone’s approach so Watson recovered his composure as best he could. The slight creak as someone seated themselves in the pew behind him caused Watson to raise his bowed head in anticipation of unwelcome attention.
“My dear fellow, is there anything I can do for you?” a familiar, but unexpected voice inquired with great concern.
“Holmes?” Surveillance mission indeed, Watson realised.
“Forgive the intrusion, my dear Watson. You were not well enough to attend in 1881 and were in such an appalling state after last year’s fiasco that I felt it best to stay close in case I was needed,” he explained tentatively, fully expecting some form of admonishment.
None came. There was a pause before Watson replied, “Thank you, Holmes. There is no need to apologise. I’ll be fit enough in a minute or so.”
“Take all the time you need, old boy. You have done a remarkable thing today and your regiment awaits you outside.”
.oOOo.