The Baker Street Irregulars
Created | Updated May 31, 2007
For a career soldier the prospect of having to leave the service prematurely was not a thought greatly welcomed. Civilian life was no life for a soldier, society in its many forms were of any concern for these like minded brothers in arms.
Sergeant john Middleton was one such example of this. The Crimean War had brought him to the end of his career, loosing the lower half of his right leg when a splinter of shrapnel has all but sliced it off, the result of cannon fire.
Now back in London, his home town he found himself destitute, his army pension only covering his food and beer allowance.
John could not remember the last time he had frequented a public house, it must have been long ago.
On his return to the city he grew up in things had gone from bad to worse. Finding that his rented accommodation had been re-let he had nowhere to go. The landlady of his rooms had said that rumour of his death had reached her, so ‘she had to make a living’. The few belongings he had in the residence had been given to the tat man. Having no living relations there was no one to pass his belongings onto.
John was a furiously proud man, though homeless his appearance was as clean and tidy as it could possible be. When living on the streets a tidy appearance does not bode well for donations to his upkeep. One thing though he could do was play the squeeze box to a high standard. It was a talent which he discovered early in childhood. His father had owned one and his only wish was to play the instrument.
Eventually his father began to teach him the craft. During the numerous campaigns that he had fought in he and his instrument were in much demand. On countless occasions he had played deep into the watches of the night relating all manner of tunes .
This could make him money in civilian life he often thought to himself, and now it had too.
After much though and experiment he found the best place to make money was the subterranean world of the underground railway system.
Finding a good spot in one of the tunnel junctions of Baker Street he set out his pitch.
When he had first come to the station the atmosphere had been smoke filled, choking and dirty, benefactors though were many. Clad in his army uniform many serving men had given to maintain his upkeep. He found that over time it would be the same people handing their money into the squeeze box case. They had become his extended family in his eyes, his only family.
On occasion he would venture down the many tunnels that made up the station, though would always gravitate back to the same spot.
Over the passing of time this became his spot, no other dared take it. Not only was it his workplace, but his sleeping quarters also. Warm blasts of air would rush through the tunnels keeping him warm on long cold winter nights.
It seemed to him a curious thing, but over the recent passing of time he found he could no longer calculate the passing of time, day or date. All days, nights and seasons seemed to blend into one long eternity. No longer did he venture up into the daylight. He didn’t wish too any more. His world was down here in the tunnels were he was safe and warm, besides moving would leave his spot open to rivals.
Day after day his fingers would hurt from the constant manipulation of the instrument. The meagre earnings though kept him in tea, soup and bread.
London was changing. He noticed more and more, different people coming down into the station. The old faces changed, some of his best benefactors had gone now, but others had replaced them, though many looked pale and tired.
More and more men I uniform came through the station now, the Crimean War must be hoting up.
It was around this time that a strange event took place. He had woken one morning to find several events took place. He had woken one morning to find several passers by looking down on him. He stood up and grunted a comment about not having seen a one legged man before. With the comment all dispersed, strange that?”
That same day one of his regulars came down the tunnel. John knew the mans favourite tune was a lament, Flowers of the Forest. It was a sad tune of remembrance. Instantly he changed to that particular piece. Today the man was not alone, he held the hand of a young girl. On reaching his spot the man didn’t put down the usual coin, but the young girl gently laid a single white Lilly. After a moment they moved off down the tunnel.
Strange thing to do, these were strange times though. The air quality in the subterranean world had changed now for the better instead the smell of oil filled the air.
A few days later his friend was back, this time without the little girl. As usual he put a coin in the case, this time though it made no sound, then nodding and moving on. Something never change. Not like the noises coming from the street these days. The air was filled with the roar of engines and the sound of horns peeping. Should he take a look out onto the world? He decided not too.
A couple of nights later he was awoken by a noise, the sound was that of fifty cannons being fired, he had never heard any weapon sound so vile in all his time serving Queen and county.
He sat up and looked around. To his horror he saw hundreds of others like himself lying on the cold hard tiled floor. Huddled together as the noise continued outside. The engine noise from above had now changed to a droning while the deafening bangs continued. Where all these people down here escaping the noise outside?
For many nights he played his squeeze box to keep them entertained.
Soon after this to his shock another musician picked a spot next to his own. The young man was nothing like he’d seen before. The long haired boy whore brightly clothes which were ill fitting, his old army uniform looked in pristine condition next to him.
From out of a case the youth took what he presumed to be a guitar. It was a strange looking instrument, the first time he ran his fingers over the strings hardly any sound was forthcoming. Then he did a strange thing, he inserted what looked like a cable into the body. The next time he ran his fingers over the strings an ear splitting noise from a box to his rear.
John had never heard anything of the like. The youth played with great talent and dexterity. The music sounded so sweet next to his own modest instrument.
Passers by in similar brightly coloured clothes put their money into the newcomer’s box. John still had his regulars though, still putting their coins in his case.
London had changed. He calculated that thousands of people came through Baker Street Station everyday now. All were dressed in strange alien clothing with wires hanging from their ears. Even the people had changed, in all his time in the service had he ever seen so many different skin colours of races.
One thing hadn’t changed though. Sergeant John Middleton can still be heard playing his squeeze box at the same junction of two tunnels as his irregulars customer file past.
Sergeant john Middleton was one such example of this. The Crimean War had brought him to the end of his career, loosing the lower half of his right leg when a splinter of shrapnel has all but sliced it off, the result of cannon fire.
Now back in London, his home town he found himself destitute, his army pension only covering his food and beer allowance.
John could not remember the last time he had frequented a public house, it must have been long ago.
On his return to the city he grew up in things had gone from bad to worse. Finding that his rented accommodation had been re-let he had nowhere to go. The landlady of his rooms had said that rumour of his death had reached her, so ‘she had to make a living’. The few belongings he had in the residence had been given to the tat man. Having no living relations there was no one to pass his belongings onto.
John was a furiously proud man, though homeless his appearance was as clean and tidy as it could possible be. When living on the streets a tidy appearance does not bode well for donations to his upkeep. One thing though he could do was play the squeeze box to a high standard. It was a talent which he discovered early in childhood. His father had owned one and his only wish was to play the instrument.
Eventually his father began to teach him the craft. During the numerous campaigns that he had fought in he and his instrument were in much demand. On countless occasions he had played deep into the watches of the night relating all manner of tunes .
This could make him money in civilian life he often thought to himself, and now it had too.
After much though and experiment he found the best place to make money was the subterranean world of the underground railway system.
Finding a good spot in one of the tunnel junctions of Baker Street he set out his pitch.
When he had first come to the station the atmosphere had been smoke filled, choking and dirty, benefactors though were many. Clad in his army uniform many serving men had given to maintain his upkeep. He found that over time it would be the same people handing their money into the squeeze box case. They had become his extended family in his eyes, his only family.
On occasion he would venture down the many tunnels that made up the station, though would always gravitate back to the same spot.
Over the passing of time this became his spot, no other dared take it. Not only was it his workplace, but his sleeping quarters also. Warm blasts of air would rush through the tunnels keeping him warm on long cold winter nights.
It seemed to him a curious thing, but over the recent passing of time he found he could no longer calculate the passing of time, day or date. All days, nights and seasons seemed to blend into one long eternity. No longer did he venture up into the daylight. He didn’t wish too any more. His world was down here in the tunnels were he was safe and warm, besides moving would leave his spot open to rivals.
Day after day his fingers would hurt from the constant manipulation of the instrument. The meagre earnings though kept him in tea, soup and bread.
London was changing. He noticed more and more, different people coming down into the station. The old faces changed, some of his best benefactors had gone now, but others had replaced them, though many looked pale and tired.
More and more men I uniform came through the station now, the Crimean War must be hoting up.
It was around this time that a strange event took place. He had woken one morning to find several events took place. He had woken one morning to find several passers by looking down on him. He stood up and grunted a comment about not having seen a one legged man before. With the comment all dispersed, strange that?”
That same day one of his regulars came down the tunnel. John knew the mans favourite tune was a lament, Flowers of the Forest. It was a sad tune of remembrance. Instantly he changed to that particular piece. Today the man was not alone, he held the hand of a young girl. On reaching his spot the man didn’t put down the usual coin, but the young girl gently laid a single white Lilly. After a moment they moved off down the tunnel.
Strange thing to do, these were strange times though. The air quality in the subterranean world had changed now for the better instead the smell of oil filled the air.
A few days later his friend was back, this time without the little girl. As usual he put a coin in the case, this time though it made no sound, then nodding and moving on. Something never change. Not like the noises coming from the street these days. The air was filled with the roar of engines and the sound of horns peeping. Should he take a look out onto the world? He decided not too.
A couple of nights later he was awoken by a noise, the sound was that of fifty cannons being fired, he had never heard any weapon sound so vile in all his time serving Queen and county.
He sat up and looked around. To his horror he saw hundreds of others like himself lying on the cold hard tiled floor. Huddled together as the noise continued outside. The engine noise from above had now changed to a droning while the deafening bangs continued. Where all these people down here escaping the noise outside?
For many nights he played his squeeze box to keep them entertained.
Soon after this to his shock another musician picked a spot next to his own. The young man was nothing like he’d seen before. The long haired boy whore brightly clothes which were ill fitting, his old army uniform looked in pristine condition next to him.
From out of a case the youth took what he presumed to be a guitar. It was a strange looking instrument, the first time he ran his fingers over the strings hardly any sound was forthcoming. Then he did a strange thing, he inserted what looked like a cable into the body. The next time he ran his fingers over the strings an ear splitting noise from a box to his rear.
John had never heard anything of the like. The youth played with great talent and dexterity. The music sounded so sweet next to his own modest instrument.
Passers by in similar brightly coloured clothes put their money into the newcomer’s box. John still had his regulars though, still putting their coins in his case.
London had changed. He calculated that thousands of people came through Baker Street Station everyday now. All were dressed in strange alien clothing with wires hanging from their ears. Even the people had changed, in all his time in the service had he ever seen so many different skin colours of races.
One thing hadn’t changed though. Sergeant John Middleton can still be heard playing his squeeze box at the same junction of two tunnels as his irregulars customer file past.
