THE MYSTERY OF THE SOUDAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 3488, 18 January 1921, Page 58

THE MYSTERY OF THE SOUDAN.

By Berkley Harrison. This is Penthony’s story, not mine. There is no reason why Penthony should not write it, but I think he would regard it as a breach of discipline, or something of the sort. He is an old soldier, and says with pride, “I served the Queen twenty-three years and seven days: God bless her.” He was a sergeant in the old —th, now known as the Blankshire Fusiliers. He has liis pension, of course, and he is the caretaker of our local museum. We have few objects of curiosity more interesting than this old soldier, though I am sure he would be surprised to hear’ me say so. He is steady and painstaking, but he wants everything put in writing; he does not like to have anything left to his judgment. As I happen to be secretary of the Literary and Scientific Society this is not a feature of the ex-sergeant’s character which claims my unmixed admiration. It is a way they have in the army, I suppose. we had a lecture on Mental Physiology not long ago, and Penthony was taking tickets just inside the door as usual. He does not always manifest much interest in the proceedings, but that night he was excited. I had spoken to him before the meeting, and he was quite sober, at least that was my impression, therefore his conduct puzzled me. Once I thought he intended to interrupt the lecturer, so I went to him and asked whether he did not smell gas. There was no escape, but that seemed a likely excuse for recalling Penthony to his senses. My plan must have succeeded, because during the rest of the evenino- he remained perfectly quiet, and took no more interest in the proceedings, to judge by his looks. The lecturer had been speaking about injuries to the brain, and their effects upon consciousness and memory. He said that a well-known gentleman, a landed proprietor in the south of England, who formerly served in the army, and was injured in the Soudan, had no knowledge of his early life, even of military affairs; but had been compelled to learn everything over again. He gave an account of the affair, which was very interesting, but he had not mentioned the regiment in which the gentleman served. It was that part of the lecture, however, which had excited Penthony, and almost made him forget himself. He told me all about it afterwards, but I do not think he has any idea that he was on the point of interrupting the speaker. “The man he mentioned is not ‘A,’ he is ‘B,’ ” said the sergeant. “But mind you, sir, I don’t say for a moment, or for half a moment, he knows anything about it. Still, he's ‘B,’ as sure as eggs are eggs.” I have listened to many puzzles in my time, at the Literary and Scientific Society especially, hut Penthony’s statement struck me as the champion. Then he proceeded, as if to make confusion worse confounded : “ ‘B’ married ‘A’s’ girl, too; and I don’t think to this day she knows it is not ‘A.’ ”

He would not begin at the beginning, or the mystery would have been explained. His method was to make isolated statements, which to the uninitiated meant nothing. He knew the circumstances, and the case was clear to him, but to an outsider it was double Dutch. I will tell you the story as I learnt it at last:— “There were two men in the Blankshire Fusiliers rejoicing in the same name; and to make the matter worse they mere so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them from each other. They were half-cousins, and their name was Matthew Culpan. They did not come from the same neighbourhood, and were strangers to each other until they met at Aldershot. They became great chums, and soon discovered what relationship existed between them. In the official records of the regiment it was necessary to call one Matthew Culpan (A), and 'the other Matthew Culpan (B), and in that manner they got their nicknames, ‘A’ and ‘B’ they became to everybody. ‘A’ was a favourite with all his comrades, but ‘B’ was not nearly as well liked. “You cannot account for it,” said Penthony. “Things are what they are. loa like a fellow because you like him, and you don t like another because you don t like him. There was nothing wrong in L, to my knowledge, but we used -o u onder why ‘A’ stuck to him so. You cannot say it was because they were cousins. 1 have known cousins who hated other like poison. I rnay tell you, sir, A’ enlisted because a girl would not have him, and ‘B’ wanted to get out of toe way of a bit of trouble in connection with a girl who wanted him. There are all sorts of reasons for serving the Queen, and those with the worst reasons ma j make the best soldiers.’ Penthony s opinion was that everybody ought to go to the Soudan, in order to appreciate other places. He formed part of the expedition which went to the relief of Gordon and was a bit too late. Th i Culpans went, too, but only one of them returned; the other was buried on tils west bank of the Nile, more than a thousand miles from "the sea. “The wonder is we were not all cut to pieces,” said the sergeant. 'T do not mean the whole army, though we had a narrow squeak at Abu Klea; but I mean a detachment which went on special duty to a place called lialber. We were too late when we got there, and the village was in ruins. Not a living person was left there. Before returning to the main army the men were allowed to bathe m the Nile—as many of them as cared k> do so. The officers took every precaution; we went in relays, and a strict watch was kept. But those beggars were too many for us. We were attacked while a dozen fellows were in the water, and the rest of us had as bad a quarter of an hour as ever I knew iu my life. We pulled through by the skin of our teeth, but more than half our number were killed or wounded. The Culpans were in the water at the time, but before - they could get back to their clothes one of them was cut up and the other was cut down.” “And which was which?” I asked. “ ‘A’ vs-as cut up,” was the reply. “He liad been struck on the leg by a spent bullet a week or two before, and I had seen the mark made by it several times. There was not much to recognise that body by after the tussle at Halber, but I remember noticing the old mark. We thought ‘B’ was dead too, but he was not. He had a nasty cut on the head, however, and remained unconscious as long as I saw him, and a good while longer, f have heard. He was sent off with the wounded, and I have not met him from that day to this.” The wounded man recovered, after \ long illness, and then it was discovered that his previous life was a blank to hfm. He did not know whether he was Matthew Culpan “A” or “B.” Nobody could clear up that point, so he was put down as “A.” After spending a considerable time in Netley Hospital he was returned to his friends. Everybody had to be intoo duced to him, and in a veiy unusual sense he liad to start life, afresh. He did not know the girl whose disdain had drive l him into the army, but she knew him well enough, in spite of the ravages wrought by suffering, or she thought she did; and he raised no objection to the role of lover. He was discharged from the army, and his friends were wondering what he meant to do for a living when the news came that Matthew Culpan, “A’s” grandfather, hail died in Australia. Old Matthew had left his country for his country’s good in the days of transportation, but he had made a fortune in Queensland when his time was finished. Once and once only had he visited Eng land, when “A” was a boy, and had taken a fancy to the lad. But he had never written, and never sent a penny over. At his death, however, he made him sole heir. Nobody disputed the identity; nobody doubted it. Matthew Culpan, Esquire, of Somerlees, is well known and highly respected. He has married his old sweetheart, and his case is famous among students of mental physiology. What i. have told you about him is Penthony s stoTy, not mine.