The air was delightfully cool, with a pleasant breeze from the river, and this evening ride from Hagir will remain in one's memory as one of the pleasant experiences of the campaign. The comparative novelty of our surroundings, and the certainty that now at length we were within measurable distance of the enemy, filled one with elation and banished all the petty worries of the morning. As long as one enjoyed good health, nothing could be more delightful than the simple pleasures of our open-air existence, with all its hard work and good-fellowship. But when fever or dysentery gets hold upon a man, all the glamour of the campaign fades away, and one is forced to realise all the sordid discomforts of the march. During the recent advance upon Omdurman many a case of unobtrusive heroism occurred, in which men, officers and privates alike, refused to avail themselves of the field hospitals, which would have taken them for the time being from their battalion, and preferred to march along with the rest, though their heads were racked with pain and their strength at vanishing point from fever. If a campaigner could secure from a fairy godmother or other supra-mundane agency one supreme blessing, he ought most certainly to ask for health. Yet there is one danger to which the healthy man is exposed. He finds it difficult, sometimes, to sympathise with others less fortunate than himself. To many who enjoy vigorous health there is something positively irritating in a sick man. It is a painful trait in some characters, and is a survival possibly of that terrible instinct which leads almost every species of lower animal to finish off those of their number who become sick or maimed. I have known a man who experienced this peculiar irritation in the presence of comrades who were ill, behave in the most unselfish and generous way to the same men when they were in sound health; and while he had to force himself, as it were, to show sympathy with an ailing man, he would fetch water in his helmet for a wounded donkey, and feel ready to weep at the sight of a dying horse.
As we rode along the edge of the Nile, well ahead of the crowd of camels and the Lancer escort of the Sirdar, in order to avoid the blinding clouds of dust which they raised, we noticed at intervals along the line of march bands of Sudanese women. These faithful creatures had managed by some means or other to accompany their husbands to the front. Although unrecognised officially, and in consequence not accorded any means of transport, they had contrived to cross the Nile as stowaways, hidden under forage or flour sacks; and they were now trudging slowly along with large bundles on their heads, and in some cases a brace of babies slung over their shoulders. When they arrived at the camp they cooked their husband's food, mended his clothes, and introduced a general flavour of domesticity into the rough camp life. The husbands seemed to be very kind to their wives and children, and the Sudanese portion of the camp was dotted with little family groups, each of them formed under a tree and surrounded by a miniature zeriba. In fact, domestic life has such charms in the eyes of the Sudanese warriors, that they become quite depressed and morose if their women-folk are left behind. The recent revolt in Uganda is alleged by some to have been largely caused by the refusal of Major Macdonald to allow the wives of the soldiers to accompany them on the advance northwards—a refusal which, if it actually occurred, would most certainly run counter to the military traditions of the Sudan.
During the earlier part of the day's march Mr. Scudamore's "drink camel," i.e. the animal which carried his stores of alcohol and soda water, occasionally came to a sudden halt and toyed with the branches of a nebek or mimosa thorn. At such times his master showed great kindness and forbearance; he did not urge on the hesitating beast with gibes and blows, but calling several of us round him, quietly dismounted and relieved the camel's load by "drinks all round." How touching an example of humanity towards poor dumb animals! Let the traveller and explorer, then, always remember that when the whisky mule halts, it is a kindness to lighten his burden; if after some hours he jibs and refuses to proceed, fate has clearly marked out that spot for the site of the camp! The whisky mule must not be left behind!
On the occasion of one of these halts I was astonished to see a diminutive boy in very ragged clothes walking along with two half-plucked pigeons in his hand and a large bag over his shoulder. After mounting I rode beside him and found that he was a Greek. His father and mother kept a small café in Cairo, and the boy, who was only fourteen and very small for his age, had actually traversed some twelve hundred miles by land and water in order to sell cigarettes to the army. This adventurous urchin, Anastasios by name, became a great pet with the Tommies, who bought his cigarettes and supplied him with enough fragments of bully beef and biscuit to keep him going throughout the campaign. As I spoke some Greek, I saw a good deal of the boy subsequently, and succeeded in getting him allowed a passage from Omdurman on board the Metemmeh; but at Atbara Camp some of the officials rather needlessly refused to give him a place amongst the baggage in the open trucks, and when I last saw the imp he was being led away by a zaptieh, or native policeman, after a desperate attempt to override authority and hide himself and the remainder of his cigarette boxes under a heap of luggage.
During our advance by land from Hagir, Mr. Frederick Villiers' bicycle was much in evidence. It is astonishing to what a number of uses this versatile machine may be put in peace and war alike. An Oxford professor, whose metaphysical researches are combined with military enthusiasm and the study of minor tactics, has given to the world a treatise in which is demonstrated with logical acumen the value of the bicycle as a weapon or rather implement of defence against a charge of cavalry. The academical tactician suggests, I believe, that when the enemy's horse are galloping down upon you their charge may be broken and rendered futile by the terrifying aspect of a line of cyclists holding their machines in the air and rapidly spinning the wheels round! No war-horse, it is maintained, could face this fearsome spectacle, and utter discomfort would overtake the charging squadrons! What a pity our 'Varsity cyclist corps were not posted in front of the zeriba at Omdurman to obviate the necessity of bullets when the Baggara horse came thundering down upon us!
But the bicycle can be put to more regular uses in a campaign. A correspondent, for example, who went through the whole of the Greco-Turkish War was mounted on his machine, and published a book, which, under the title of Ὁ Πόλεμος ἀπὸ Ποδηλάτου ("The War from a Bicycle"), had a great sale in Athens. Still, despite their badness, roads do exist between Larissa, Velestino, Domoko, etc., whereas in the sandy, stony deserts of the Sudan the road is a very open one indeed, and ill adapted for wheeled traffic. In consequence of this, Mr. Villiers' bicycle, which was of a dull green tint, was usually to be found in the charge of his servant, who had acquired considerable skill in controlling the movements of his master's donkey with one hand and his master's machine with the other. Certainly this lugubrious-looking bicycle bore the battle and the breeze wonderfully well, and the maker ought to secure a splendid advertisement out of it; for tyres which can pass unpunctured through the terrors of the mimosa scrub, and refrain from bursting under the rays of a Sudan sun in August, may fairly be recommended for "strong roadster" work in the country lanes of England.
It was almost dark when we reached the camp, which has been called by everyone, as far as I know, "Um Teref," though this is incorrect, for "Um Teref" is the name of the village on the opposite bank of the river. Though it was difficult in the twilight to see far ahead of our column, there was no possibility of mistaking the whereabouts of the camp, for the wild music of the Sudanese bands was already in full swing. The first thing these black troops do when they get into camp is to strike up some of their unearthly tunes, and in the absence of more normal appliances they have been known to fashion old tin biscuit boxes into a species of wind instrument. Just as I got within the zeriba, a squad of these blacks were giving hot chase to a curious animal, which had been put up in the bush. The hunted creature ran between my horse's legs; it had a fine brush, with mottled fur, and looked like a wolverine or some beast of that kind.
The area required for some twenty-two thousand men, with hundreds of camels, horses, and mules, was enormous, and we rode hopelessly about in the gathering gloom, trying to find the space allotted to correspondents. After a couple of hours' search we at length succeeded in finding our camels and getting our tents pitched, and then we did full justice to whatever sort of dinner the ingenuity of our cooks could contrive for their hungry masters. The camp was an extremely pretty one, and in places the vegetation by the river banks was quite luxuriant. Bushes of all kinds, especially the "Dead Sea apple," were dotted about; and as these prevented one from seeing more than a hundred yards around, it was difficult to realise the vast size of the camp. A zeriba had, of course, been formed, and just behind it thousands of troops lay all night under arms, ready to repulse any Dervish attempt to surprise the camp by a sudden rush.
Next morning a rumour got about that during the darkness a Dervish had crept up to the zeriba and thrown his spear over with a shout of defiance, and the veritable spear was produced by a sentry of the Lancashire Fusiliers as a proof of the story's genuineness. The story was substantially true, for whilst the troops were engaged in forming the zeriba a Baggara cavalry scout, who, for some reason or other, found himself within the enclosure, suddenly dashed at a gallop out of the bush, knocking over several astonished Fusiliers, and hurling his spear at them as he disappeared in the darkness.
Scorpions proved most troublesome in all our camps, but they were especially numerous at Um Teref. In some places they simply swarmed, and both officers and men, and, still more, native servants, suffered from their painful stings. Those, like myself, who slept on a raised bed—e.g. the "Salisbury" bed, made by Silvers—were not so much exposed to risk as the possessors of the "Wolseley Valise"—a mattress which lies on the ground, and forms a most inviting hiding-place for creeping things innumerable. The pain experienced by a European from a scorpion's sting is very acute while it lasts, but passes off in a few hours. The natives were continually stung, and one of the correspondents had attained a great reputation from the skill with which he scarified the affected portions of native bodies, prior to the application of Scrubb's Ammonia. One poor fellow—a private in the Lancashire Fusiliers—was stung by a scorpion in three places along his spine, and speedily died in a state of coma.