I have been shown a statement to the effect that my readiness to talk “made a bad impression,” but this remark was not, at the time of writing, sufficiently explanatory—and yet it may have been. Other captives had grovelled at the feet of their captors; I did not, hence probably the “bad impression” created; and while the world may blame me for being so injudicious as to treat my powerful captors with such scant courtesy, it can hardly be expected that I, even had I not passed |72| six years in close connection with the British Army on the field of battle, and in times of comparative peace, should in a moment forget and lose my manhood, and cover with servile kisses the hands of a savage black—and one of the murderers of Gordon to boot. I thank God, now that I am restored to “life,” that my first appearance as the Khaleefa’s captive “made a bad impression,” for even in this I choose to accept an evidence that I was not what I have in some instances been represented as being.
On the Emirs and others leaving me, some dervishes advanced, stripped me of the jibbeh and clothes given me by Nejoumi, replacing them with a soldier’s old jersey and cotton drawers. My feet were next fettered, and a ring, with a long heavy chain attached, was fastened round my neck. During that evening—indeed, during the whole night, crowds came to look at me, while the ombeyeh (war-trumpet made from a hollowed tusk) was sounded the whole night through. A woman, a sort of Mahdist amazon, walked and danced up and down in front of me, singing and gesticulating, but I could not catch the full meaning of her words. Noticing Hasseena sobbing violently a few yards away, I called to her, and asked what was the matter with her. She told me that the ombeyeh was calling up the followers of the prophet to come and witness my execution, and that the woman, in her rude rhyme, was describing my death agonies, and my subsequent tortures in hell as an unbeliever. One of my guards told me that what Hasseena had related was true, and I had curiosity enough to ask him the |73| details of an execution; these having been described to me, I refused food and drink. I was determined to deprive the fanatics of one looked-for element connected with my execution—but I may not enter into details.
At dawn the following morning, a dervish came to me, and crossing my right hand over the left at the wrists, palms downward, proceeded to bind them together with a rope made of palm fibre. When the ropes had, with a bit of wood used as a tourniquet, been drawn well into the flesh, water was poured over them. The agony as the ropes swelled was excruciating; they “bit” into the flesh, and even now I cannot look at the scars on my hands without a shudder, and almost experiencing again the same sensations as those of twelve years ago.
With the perspiration rolling off me with the pain I was enduring, and no longer able to conceal that I was suffering, I was led forth to be the sport of the rabble. Made to stand up in the open space, bareheaded, with thousands around me, I believed the moment for my decapitation had come, and muttering a short prayer, I knelt down and bent my head, but was at once pulled to my feet again; the populace wanted their sport out of me first. Dervishes rushed at me prodding with spears and swords, and while this was going on, two men, one on each side of me, with the mouths of their ombeyehs placed against my ears, blew their loudest blasts. One powerful man in particular, with a large spear, gave me the idea that it was he who had been told to give the final |74| thrust, and when he had made a number of feints, I tried in successive ones to meet the thrust. One of the men guarding me, taking the chain attached to the ring round my neck, pulled me back each time, much to the delight of the assembled people.
The ropes with which I was bound had now done their work; the swollen skin gave way, and the horrible tension was removed as the ropes sank into the flesh. If I had exhibited any feeling of pain before, I was now as indifferent to it as I was to the multitude around me. A messenger of the Khaleefa, Ali Gulla, asked me, “Have you heard the ombeyehs?”—a bit of the Khaleefa’s supposed pleasantry, when it was by his orders that the mouths of the instruments had been placed against my ears. On nodding my reply, Gulla continued, “The Khaleefa has sent me to tell you that he has decided to behead you,” to which I replied, “Go back to your Khaleefa, and tell him that neither he nor fifty Khaleefas may so much as remove a hair from my head without God’s permission. If God’s will it is, then my head shall be cut off, but it will not be because the Khaleefa wills it.” He went to the Khaleefa with this message, and returned saying, “The Khaleefa has changed his mind; your head is not to be cut off; you are to be crucified as was your prophet Aisse en Nebbi” (Jesus the Prophet); after saying which, he told my guards to take me back to the rukooba while preparations were made.
By this time, what with the fatigue and privations on the journey, my head almost splitting as the result of the ombeyeh’s blasts, the agony caused by the |75| ropes binding my wrists, and the torture of scores of small irritating and stinging flies attacking the raw flesh of my hands, and the sun beating down on my bare head, I was about to faint. An hour later, I was ordered off to the place of crucifixion; being heavily chained, I was unable to walk, so had to be placed upon a donkey, on which I was held up by two men. On coming to a halt, instead of the crucifix I had expected, I found a set of gallows. I was lifted from the donkey and placed close to the “angareeb,” with the noose dangling just over my head. Pain and faintness at once left me. A few minutes more would end all, and I had made up my mind that that horde should respect me even in my death. I tried to mount the angareeb, but my chains prevented me. A tall black (the chief Kadi of the Khaleefa), placing his hand on my arm, said, “The Khaleefa is gratified at your courage, and, to show this, offers you the choice of the manner of your death.” I replied, “Go back to your Khaleefa, and tell him that he may please himself as to what form my death comes in, only if he wishes to do me a favour, be quick about it; the sun burns my brain.” To which the Kadi replied, “You will be dead in a few minutes; what will you die as, as a Muslim or a Kaffir?” I was growing desperate, and answered at the top of my voice, “Ed Deen mush hiddm terrayer nahaarda ou Bookra” (Religion is not a dress to be put on to-day and thrown off to-morrow).
My reply, and the manner in which I gave it, I was gratified to see, made him angry. While we were still talking, a man on horseback made his way through |76| the crowd to us, and spoke to the Kadi, who, turning to me, said, “Be happy, there is no death for you; the Khaleefa, in his great mercy, has pardoned you.” To which I asked, “Why? Have I asked for his pardon?” for I did not believe for a moment that such was actually the case. I was at once bundled on to the donkey, however, and taken back to the rukooba. Some one had reported to the Khaleefa about the state of my hands, and a man was sent at once with orders to have the ropes removed. Food in abundance was sent me, but this I gave to the ombeyeh men who had escorted me back to the rukooba, and I could even then smile at one of the men who complained that he could not enjoy the food, as his lips—great thick black ones they were, too—were as raw with blowing the ombeyeh all night as my hands were with the ropes.
WRITING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
On the following day I was taken before the Kadis, with whom was the Khaleefa and Slatin. I was asked, “Why have you come to Omdurman?” to which I gave the same reply as I had given to Nur Angara. The letter of General Stephenson was exhibited to me, and I was asked, “Is this your firman?” to which I replied that it was no firman, but a letter from a friend about business, and that it had nothing to do with the Government. Slatin was told to translate it, but, fortunately, did not translate it all. On his being asked his opinion of me, he told the Khaleefa that from the papers found in my wallet, I appeared to be a German and not an Englishman, but that I had the permission of the English Government |77| to go to Kordofan on merchant’s business. He also said that Sheikh Saleh’s name was mentioned, but only in connection with business of no consequence. I was then asked if I wished to send any message to my family. Naturally I did, and pen and paper being given me, I commenced a letter in German to my manager at Assouan; but, after a few lines had been written, the Khaleefa said the letter had better be written in Arabic. The letter, when finished, was handed to me to sign; but, not knowing the contents, I scrawled under the signature, as a flourish, “All lies,” or something to this effect.