The Downfall of the Dervishes; or, The Avenging of Gordon

by Ernest Nathaniel Bennett

Still, valuable as this help was in completing the rout of the Dervishes, and driving them off finally beyond the hills to the west, there is no doubt that the repulse of the enemy was already a fait accompli long before the British battalions had wheeled to the right and traversed the long distance—at least one and a half miles—between their position near the river and the rear of our advance on the right. Colonel Macdonald had proved once more his sterling qualities as a leader. The Sudanese had shown that they could stand absolutely steady under a prolonged fire as well as rush impetuously to an attack. The "Gyppies," who in the old days of El Teb and Hicks Pasha's disaster threw away their rifles and were butchered as they fled or knelt to beg for mercy—these very Fellahin soldiers, now disciplined and taught the value of self-respect by British officers, fired regular volleys and stood firm as a rock against the stream of Dervishes which threatened every moment to engulf them.

I noticed, by the way, one very smart bit of fighting during the movement in support of Macdonald. The brigade under Colonel Maxwell advanced almost directly upon Gebel Surgham, and a number of Sudanese were ordered to clear the hill of Dervishes. Up went the blacks like monkeys. The whole eastern slope of Surgham was dotted with little white puffs of smoke as the lithe creatures leapt from boulder to boulder and drove the enemy before them. At the top of the hill the surviving Dervishes, under the Emir Osman Azrak, made a desperate stand, but were killed to a man.

It was not till nearly midday that "Cease fire" again sounded, and the victorious march to Omdurman was resumed. Scattered bands of Dervishes were to be seen in the distance, making westward to the shelter of the hills. Upon the rear of these fugitives the Egyptian cavalry was let loose; and as they galloped away to the right, and cut up the stragglers, they felt, no doubt, that they were getting some sort of compensation for their bad luck in the early morning. Captain Smeaton lent me his field glasses, which were more powerful than my own, and far away in front, on a ridge of rock, safe from cavalry and rifle bullets, I saw a little band of Dervishes—some sixty in all—painfully making their way to the west. With the fine binoculars in my hand I could even see the faces of the poor wretches, the majority of whom seemed to be wounded. Some limped along unaided over the rough hillside, others were supported by their comrades. How many hundreds, nay, thousands, of these wounded Dervishes ultimately succumbed to the fearful injuries inflicted by the "man-stopping" bullet, no one, I suppose, will ever know accurately; but one may be tolerably sure that behind the hills many a poor creature lay down to die.

In handing Captain Smeaton's glasses back, I noticed that one of the mules harnessed to the Maxims had just been struck by a bullet, which passed clean through the animal's neck. The wounded mule, by name Tommy, was evidently quite a pet amongst the gunners, and though it looked rather anxious and depressed, it dragged the Maxim with unabated vigour.

In places, as we marched along, the ground was strewn thickly with bodies, as the fire had struck the enemy down in little heaps. In one spot I saw a ring of nine men and three horses, all evidently slain by the explosion of a single shell. One Dervish, as I passed, raised his face to mine with a ghastly smile, as if deprecating our vengeance, and throwing his gibbeh on one side, displayed an awful wound. A shell splinter had struck the miserable man full in front, and literally ripped his body open from side to side. Another man lay face downward upon the sand, breathing bubbles through a pool of gore, and actually drowning in his own blood! As a rule, however, the features of the dead were not distorted. They lay as if asleep, with a peaceful look upon their faces, and many of them were handsome men of magnificent build.

The sun by this time was terribly hot, and, after the excitement of the fight, the fatigue of the day's work, and the absence of sleep on the previous night began to tell upon the men. Several halts were made, and at last a string of camels laden with fantasias (metal water tanks) made their appearance. The men crowded round, and filled their bottles to the brim. The water was quite warm, but the troops drank it with avidity. I filled my bottle, and then, plunging the whole thing into a bucket, waited till evaporation should cool the contents. Meanwhile I crawled under a Maxim carriage. The scanty shade was perfectly delicious, and I should have gone to sleep but for the mules, which became restless, and kicked out occasionally with their hoofs in unpleasant proximity to my head.

After half an hour's halt the onward march was resumed, and we saw the troops in front about two hundred yards away actually marching through a mirage of water, rocks, and bushes! Cross tried to photograph the curious scene, but the result did not prove a success. Why does one never get a decent photograph of a mirage in the desert? Men still fell out of the ranks from sheer exhaustion. One would see a soldier totter on for some yards, trying to pull himself together, and then suddenly step to one side and sink down on the sand, saying, "It's no good; I can't go on." On two occasions when this happened, the exhausted man had drained the entire contents of his bottle, which had been full an hour ago, and not a drop of water was to be got from any of the soldiers near! I mention this to show the utter lack of self-control in the matter of drink which prevailed amongst the "Tommies." My own bottle was the only one within reach that contained any water at all, and of course I did what everyone else would have done, and divided what remained between the two men, who seemed to be actually dying of thirst. They then got up and managed to struggle on to Omdurman, their rifles being carried for them by some of their comrades. A private of the Warwicks suddenly dropped down dead from heat apoplexy, and was buried on the spot. The comparatively mild sufferings of our own men turned one's thoughts to the crowded heaps of wounded wretches left behind us in the desert to the added tortures of that thirst which invariably accompanies gunshot wounds. How many thousands, too, of women and children would soon be weeping with all the wild lamentation of the East over the brave men who lay in the sleep of death far away upon the plain! Sorrow is the same all the world over—that dread factor in human life—and the terrific carnage of the day's fighting had taken away the bread-winner and protector from thousands of poor homes in the Sudan, and doomed many a household to starvation.

The battle was now to all intents and purposes over, and already vast flocks of vultures were wheeling round and round over the expanse of desert. Another halt was made on the edge of a khor on the outskirts of Omdurman. The water of this inlet was thick and yellow, and in the shallower parts dead animals—horses, mules, and donkeys—lay about in various stages of decay. Nevertheless, the thirsty troops rushed down the bank and drank greedily of the foul water. The want of self-control and common sense at this khor may quite well be partly responsible for the large number of typhoid cases which subsequently occurred. As I thought that ten minutes more of dry throat and parched lips were better than the chance of enteric fever, I walked down to the Nile. Here I found Captain Ricardo, Lord Tullibardine, and one or two others sitting under the scanty shade of a mud-hut, where I joined them after some tremendous draughts of running water, drunk out of a calabash which I had cut from the neck of a dead Dervish. Lord Tullibardine kindly gave me some brandy to flavour the water, and Captain Ricardo recounted the good deeds of the "Gyppy" cavalry. Then we all lay at full length and indulged in a little siesta.

The bugles soon sounded the "advance," and the final order came that the army was to occupy Omdurman forthwith. The weary troops advanced once more, and we all waded through the muddy khor. The water reached to our knees, and was very refreshing after the long tramp over the hot sand. Alongside one of the battalions rode the Presbyterian chaplain, mounted—oh tell it not in the Kirk, neither publish it amongst the Elders—upon a looted pony! It was, I think, a colt which I had seen earlier in the day standing unhurt amongst a heap of dead Dervishes, and calmly nibbling some scanty blades of desert grass.