À propos of dum-dum bullets, man-stopping bullets, et hoc genus omne, a good deal of false sentiment has been evoked in England and France. The main object of a soldier in battle is to put his opponent out of action, and it is found by experience that the ordinary bullet does not adequately secure this result when employed against barbarous or semi-barbarous enemies. A civilised combatant, when he is struck by a bullet—even if the wound be a comparatively slight one, say through the shoulder—almost invariably sits down on the ground; but the nervous system of the savage is a far less delicate organism, and nothing short of a crushing blow will check his wild onset. Even in the Martini-Henry days scores of Dervishes rushed upon the British troops at Abu Klea and elsewhere, with the blood spurting from seven or eight bullet wounds, and then cut and thrust with deadly effect until loss of blood told, and they fell dead in or about the square. One of the two British officers who lost their lives at the Atbara fight was killed by a large elephant bullet, the hollow base of which had been filled with a fulminate. This was an explosive bullet, quite a distinct species from the missile described above.
The fire from our zeriba, which mowed the Dervishes down in rows and heaps, must have been simply appalling. The ordinary metaphors of "rain" and "hail" are scarcely adequate to describe the awful effect of modern rifles and machine guns when their fire is steady and concentrated. It is rather a wall of lead than a rain, which, as it advances, sweeps everything instantly from its track. There must be a limit to human endurance, one would think, even in the excitement of battle, and the time may well come when human art will prove superior to human courage and discipline, and civilised troops will refuse to expose themselves to what may have become practically the certainty of death or wounds, or, at anyrate, of enormous risk. The educational and social forces at work in modern life certainly do not tend to foster the old-fashioned virtue of unquestioning obedience, or the consolations to be derived from religious faith. Yet it is precisely these two things which alone have often enabled a leader to count with confidence upon a response to his call when he summons his followers to almost certain destruction—the surrender of life and all that life holds dear.
On 4th September, at 9.15 a.m., four gunboats conveyed the Sirdar and various detachments of troops, with most of the correspondents, across the Nile to Khartum. We moved alongside the quay in front of the ruins of Gordon's palace, and the troops formed a rough semicircle, with the Sirdar, his Staff, and the two foreign Attachés inside. Four chaplains took their stand with their faces to the river, ready to conduct a memorial service. At ten o'clock the Union Jack was run up from one of the flagstaffs which surmounted the ruined façade of the palace, and almost immediately afterwards the Crescent flag of Egypt was unfurled. The gunboat Melik fired twenty-one guns, but as no blank ammunition was forthcoming, twenty-one shells were sent screaming up the Nile—a most unique and realistic form of salute! After this hearty cheers were given for Her Gracious Majesty the Queen and His Highness the Khedive. Then came a brief and simple service to the memory of the brave man who, thirteen long years ago, had so often stood on the very terrace which lay in ruins before us, and, hoping against hope, looked northwards over the desert—but in vain—for any sign of help from England! The air of Gordon's favourite hymn was played, and as its cadence fell upon the ears, one's thoughts recalled the words of the exquisite verses—
"I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless,
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
. . . . . . .
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh abide with me!"
How truly must the spirit of these lines have been felt by Gordon, that noble and sincere Christian, deserted by man, yet doubtless sustained by the abiding presence of his Master in life and death.
During our brief stay at Omdurman every variety of loot was hawked about the camp for sale. Huge shields of hippopotamus hide, spears, swords, old rifles, Mahdist coins, and other trophies of battle or pillage, found ready purchasers. A negro paid me a visit who was clad in chain mail, cut rather after the fashion of a dress coat. There was, indeed, quite a flavour of the Margate sands about the appearance of this Ethiopian, with his striped cotton trousers and his metallic coat, the tails of which, like those of Burnand's hero, "positively swept the ground." These suits of mail were beautifully made of steel rings, and could be purchased for about twenty-five shillings each; but they were very heavy and awkward things to carry about. Everybody brought back a Dervish sword or two, which were often very interesting. Some blades had the famous Ferrara stamp, others were marked by the mail-clad figure which is said to belong to the period of the Crusades, from which, at anyrate, the general pattern of Dervish swords—a straight blade with a plain cross hilt—seems to date. The pretty gibbehs, too, were brought home in large numbers; there were nearly eleven thousand of them available for selection on the sandy plain three miles away! The history of the Dervish gibbeh is rather a quaint one. The original garment was, of course, the plain white cotton coat of the Arab; but the Mahdi, who was somewhat ascetic—in theory, at anyrate, if not in practice—ordered his followers to sew black patches upon their nice white coats, as tokens of humility. But alas for human frailty, what was intended to curb the spiritual pride of the faithful became a direct incentive to the vainglorious adornment of their persons! The ladies of Omdurman were strongly opposed to the dowdiness of the black patches upon their husbands and lovers, and, under the influence of the more æsthetic circles of Dervish society, the white gibbehs were gradually tricked out with gaudy squares of blue, red, and purple.