DOYLE, Arthur Conan - How the Brigadier came to the Castle of Gloom

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HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

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How the Brigadier came to

the Castle of Gloom

By Arthur Conan Doyle

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

How the Brigadier came to the Castle of Gloom

by A. Conan Doyle

First published: (UK) Strand Magazine, July 1895 with 8 illustrations by W.B. Wollen

You do very well, my friends, to treat me with some little reverence, for in honouring me you are

honouring both France and yourselves. It is not merely an old, grey-moustached officer whom

you see eating his omelette or draining his glass, but it is a fragment of history. In me you see

one of the last of those wonderful men, the men who were veterans when they were yet boys,

who learned to use a sword earlier than a razor, and who during a hundred battles had never once

let the enemy see the colour of their knapsacks. For twenty years we were teaching Europe how

to fight, and even when they had learned their lesson it was only the thermometer, and never the

bayonet, which could break the Grand Army down. Berlin, Naples, Vienna, Madrid, Lisbon,

Moscow—we stabled our horses in them all. Yes, my friends, I say again that you do well to

send your children to me with flowers, for these ears have heard the trumpet calls of France, and

these eyes have seen her standards in lands where they may never be seen again.

Even now, when I doze in my arm-chair, I can see those great warriors stream before me—the

green-jacketed chasseurs, the giant cuirassiers, Poniatowsky’s lancers, the white-mantled

dragoons, the nodding bearskins of the horse grenadiers. And then there comes the thick, low

rattle of the drums, and through wreaths of dust and smoke I see the line of high bonnets, the row

of brown faces, the swing and toss of the long, red plumes amid the sloping lines of steel. And

there rides Ney with his red head, and Lefebvre with his bulldog jaw, and Lannes with his

Gascon swagger; and then amidst the gleam of brass and the flaunting feathers I catch a glimpse

of him, the man with the pale smile, the rounded shoulders, and the far-off eyes. There is an end

of my sleep, my friends, for up I spring from my chair, with a cracked voice calling and a silly

hand outstretched, so that Madame Titaux has one more laugh at the old fellow who lives among

the shadows.

Although I was a full Chief of Brigade when the wars came to an end, and had every hope of

soon being made a General of Division, it is still rather to my earlier days that I turn when I wish

to talk of the glories and the trials of a soldier’s life. For you will understand that when an officer

has so many men and horses under him, he has his mind full of recruits and remounts, fodder and

farriers, and quarters, so that even when he is not in the face of the enemy, life is a very serious

matter for him. But when he is only a lieutenant or a captain, he has nothing heavier than his

epaulettes upon his shoulders, so that he can clink his spurs and swing his dolman, drain his glass

and kiss his girl, thinking of nothing save of enjoying a gallant life. That is the time when he is

likely to have adventures, and it is often to that time that I shall turn in the stories which I may

have for you. So it will be to-night when I tell you of my visit to the Castle of Gloom; of the

HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

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strange mission of Sub-Lieutenant Duroc, and of the horrible affair of the man who was once

known as Jean Carabin, and afterwards as the Baron Straubenthal.

You must know, then, that in the February of 1807, immediately after the taking of Danzig,

Major Legendre and I were commissioned to bring four hundred remounts from Prussia into

Eastern Poland.

The hard weather, and especially the great battle at Eylau, had killed so many of the horses that

there was some danger of our beautiful Tenth of Hussars becoming a battalion of light infantry.

We knew, therefore, both the Major and I, that we should be very welcome at the front. We did

not advance very rapidly, however, for the snow was deep, the roads detestable, and we had but

twenty returning invalids to assist us. Besides, it is impossible, when you have a daily change of

forage, and sometimes none at all, to move horses faster than a walk. I am aware that in the

story-books the cavalry whirls past at the maddest of gallops; but for my own part, after twelve

campaigns, I should be very satisfied to know that my brigade could always walk upon the

march and trot in the presence of the enemy. This I say of the hussars and chasseurs, mark you,

so that it is far more the case with cuirassiers or dragoons.

For myself I am fond of horses, and to have four hundred of them, of every age and shade and

character, all under my own hands, was a very great pleasure to me. They were from Pomerania

for the most part, though some were from Normandy and some from Alsace, and it amused us to

notice that they differed in character as much as the people of those provinces. We observed also,

what I have often proved since, that the nature of a horse can be told by his colour, from the

coquettish light bay, full of fancies and nerves, to the hardy chestnut, and from the docile roan to

the pig-headed rusty-black. All this has nothing in the world to do with my story, but how is an

officer of cavalry to get on with his tale when he finds four hundred horses waiting for him at the

outset? It is my habit, you see, to talk of that which interests myself and so I hope that I may

interest you.

We crossed the Vistula opposite Marienwerder, and had got as far as Riesenberg, when Major

Legendre came into my room in the post-house with an open paper in his hand.

"You are to leave me," said he, with despair upon his face.

It was no very great grief to me to do that, for he was, if I may say so, hardly worthy to have

such a subaltern. I saluted, however, in silence.

"It is an order from General Lasalle," he continued; "you are to proceed to Rossel instantly, and

to report yourself at the headquarters of the regiment."

No message could have pleased me better. I was already very well thought of by my superior

officers. It was evident to me, therefore, that this sudden order meant that the regiment was about

to see service once more, and that Lasalle understood how incomplete my squadron would be

without me. It is true that it came at an inconvenient moment, for the keeper of the post-house

had a daughter—one of those ivory-skinned, blackhaired Polish girls—with whom I had hoped

to have some further talk. Still, it is not for the pawn to argue when the fingers of the player

HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

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move him from the square; so down I went, saddled my big black charger, Rataplan, and set off

instantly upon my lonely journey.

My word, it was a treat for those poor Poles and Jews, who have so little to brighten their dull

lives, to see such a picture as that before their doors! The frosty morning air made Rataplan’s

great black limbs and the beautiful curves of his back and sides gleam and shimmer with every

gambade. As for me, the rattle of hoofs upon a road, and the jingle of bridle chains which comes

with every toss of a saucy head, would even now set my blood dancing through my veins. You

may think, then, how I carried myself in my five-and-twentieth year—I, Etienne Gerard, the

picked horseman and surest blade in the ten regiments of hussars. Blue was our colour in the

Tenth—a sky-blue dolman and pelisse with a scarlet front—and it was said of us in the army that

we could set a whole population running, the women towards us, and the men away. There were

bright eyes in the Riesenberg windows that morning which seemed to beg me to tarry; but what

can a soldier do, save to kiss his hand and shake his bridle as he rides upon his way?

It was a bleak season to ride through the poorest and ugliest country in Europe, but there was a

cloudless sky above, and a bright, cold sun, which shimmered on the huge snow-fields. My

breath reeked into the frosty air, and Rataplan sent up two feathers of steam from his nostrils,

while the icicles drooped from the side-irons of his bit. I let him trot to warm his limbs, while for

my own part I had too much to think of to give much heed to the cold. To north and south

stretched the great plains, mottled over with dark clumps of fir and lighter patches of larch. A

few cottages peeped out here and there, but it was only three months since the Grand Army had

passed that way, and you know what that meant to a country. The Poles were our friends, it was

true, but out of a hundred thousand men, only the Guard had waggons, and the rest had to live as

best they might. It did not surprise me, therefore, to see no signs of cattle and no smoke from the

silent houses. A weal had been left across the country where the great host had passed, and it was

said that even the rats were starved wherever the Emperor had led his men.

By midday I had got as far as the village of Saalfeldt, but as I was on the direct road for

Osterode, where the Emperor was wintering, and also for the main camp of the seven divisions

of infantry, the highway was choked with carriages and carts. What with artillery caissons and

waggons and couriers, and the ever-thickening stream of recruits and stragglers, it seemed to me

that it would be a very long time before I should join my comrades. The plains, however, were

five feet deep in snow, so there was nothing for it but to plod upon our way. It was with joy,

therefore, that I found a second road which branched away from the other, trending through a fir-

wood towards the north. There was a small auberge at the cross-roads, and a patrol of the Third

Hussars of Conflans—the very regiment of which I was afterwards colonel—were mounting

their horses at the door. On the steps stood their officer, a slight, pale young man, who looked

more like a young priest from a seminary than a leader of the devil-may-care rascals before him.

"Good-day, sir," said he, seeing that I pulled up my horse.

"Good-day," I answered. "I am Lieutenant Etienne Gerard, of the Tenth."

I could see by his face that he had heard of me. Everybody had heard of me since my duel with

the six fencing masters. My manner, however, served to put him at his ease with me.

HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

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"I am Sub-Lieutenant Duroc, of the Third," said he.

"Newly joined?" I asked.

"Last week."

I had thought as much, from his white face and from the way in which he let his men lounge

upon their horses. It was not so long, however, since I had learned myself what it was like when

a schoolboy has to give orders to veteran troopers. It made me blush, I remember, to shout abrupt

commands to men who had seen more battles than I had years, and it would have come more

natural for me to say, "With your permission, we shall now wheel into line," or, "If you think it

best, we shall trot." I did not think the less of the lad, therefore, when I observed that his men

were somewhat out of hand, but I gave them a glance which stiffened them in their saddles.

"May I ask, monsieur, whether you are going by this northern road?" I asked.

"My orders are to patrol it as far as Arensdorf," said he.

"Then I will, with your permission, ride so far with you," said I. "It is very clear that the longer

way will be the faster."

So it proved, for this road led away from the army into a country which was given over to

Cossacks and marauders, and it was as bare as the other was crowded. Duroc and I rode in front,

with our six troopers clattering in the rear. He was a good boy, this Duroc, with his head full of

the nonsense that they teach at St. Cyr, knowing more about Alexander and Pompey than how to

mix a horse’s fodder or care for a horse’s feet. Still, he was, as I have said, a good boy, unspoiled

as yet by the camp. It pleased me to hear him prattle away about his sister Marie and about his

mother in Amiens. Presently we found ourselves at the village of Hayenau. Duroc rode up to the

post-house and asked to see the master.

"Can you tell me," said he, "whether the man who calls himself the Baron Straubenthal lives in

these parts?"

The postmaster shook his head, and we rode upon our way. I took no notice of this, but when, at

the next village, my comrade repeated the same question, with the same result, I could not help

asking him who this Baron Straubenthal might be.

"He is a man," said Duroc, with a sudden flush upon his, boyish face, "to whom I have a very

important message to convey."

Well, this was not satisfactory, but there was something in my companion’s manner which told

me that any further questioning would be distasteful to him. I said nothing more, therefore, but

Duroc would still ask every peasant whom we met whether he could give him any news of the

Baron Straubenthal.

HOW THE BRIGADIER CAME TO THE CASTLE OF GLOOM

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For my own part I was endeavouring, as an officer of light cavalry should, to form an idea of the

lay of the country, to note the course of the streams, and to mark the places where there should

be fords. Every step was taking us farther from the camp round the flanks of which we were

travelling. Far to the south a few plumes of grey smoke in the frosty air marked the position of

some of our outposts. To the north, however, there was nothing between ourselves and the

Russian winter quarters. Twice on the extreme horizon I caught a glimpse of the glitter of steel,

and pointed it out to my companion. It was too distant for us to tell whence it came, but we had

little doubt that it was from the lance-heads of marauding Cossacks.

The sun was just setting when we rode over a low hill and saw a small village upon our right,

and on our left a high black castle, which jutted out from amongst the pine-woods. A farmer with

his cart was approaching us—a matted-haired, downcast fellow, in a sheepskin jacket.

"What village is this?" asked Duroc.

"It is Arensdorf," he answered, in his barbarous German dialect.

"Then here I am to stay the night," said my young companion. Then, turning to the farmer, he

asked his eternal question, "Can you tell me where the Baron Straubenthal lives?"

"Why, it is he who owns the Castle of Gloom," said the farmer, pointing to the dark turrets over

the distant fir forest.

Duroc gave a shout like the sportsman who sees his game rising in front of him. The lad seemed

to have gone off his head—his eyes shining, his face deathly white, and such a grim set about his

mouth as made the farmer shrink away from him. I can see him now, leaning forward on his

brown horse, with his eager gaze fixed upon the great black tower.

"Why do you call it the Castle of Gloom?" I asked.

"Well, it’s the name it bears upon the country-side," said the farmer. "By all accounts there have

been some black doings up yonder. It’s not for nothing that the wickedest man in Poland has

been living there these fourteen years past."

"A Polish nobleman?" I asked.

"Nay, we breed no such men in Poland," he answered.

"A Frenchman, then?" cried Duroc.

"They say that he came from France."

"And with red hair?

"As red as a fox."

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