On this occasion, the Mahdi and his Khalifas had most strictly enjoined their followers to restrain their feelings, and receive the last injunctions in silence, instead of with the usual shouts and acclamations, which might awaken the suspicions of the exhausted and hungry garrison. His solemn harangue over, the Mahdi recrossed, and returned to the camp at dawn, leaving with the storming party only Khalifa Sherif, who had begged to be allowed to join in the holy battle.
That night was for me the most excitingly anxious one in my life. If only the attack were repulsed, Khartum would be saved; otherwise, all would be lost. Utterly exhausted, I was just dropping off to sleep at early dawn, when I was startled by the deafening discharge of thousands of rifles and guns; this lasted for a few minutes, then only occasional rifle-shots were heard, and now all was quiet again. It was scarcely light, and I could barely distinguish objects. Could this possibly be the great attack on Khartum? A wild discharge of fire-arms and cannon, and in a few minutes complete stillness?
The sun was now rising red over the horizon; what would this day bring forth? Excited and agitated, I awaited the result with intense impatience. Soon shouts of rejoicing and victory were heard in the distance; and my guards ran off to find out the news. In a few minutes, they were back again, excitedly relating how Khartum had been taken by storm, and was now in the hands of the Mahdists. Was it possible the news was false? I crawled out of my tent, and scanned the camp; a great crowd had collected before the quarters of the Mahdi and Khalifa, which were not far off; then there was a movement in the direction of my tent; and I could see plainly they were coming towards me. In front, marched three Black soldiers; one named Shatta, formerly belonging to Ahmed Bey Dafalla's slave body-guard, carried in his hands a bloody cloth in which something was wrapped up, and behind him followed a crowd of people weeping. The slaves had now approached my tent, and stood before me with insulting gestures; Shatta undid the cloth and showed me the head of General Gordon!
The blood rushed to my head, and my heart seemed to stop beating; but, with a tremendous effort of self-control, I gazed silently at this ghastly spectacle. His blue eyes were half-opened; the mouth was perfectly natural; the hair of his head, and his short whiskers, were almost quite white.
"Is not this the head of your uncle the unbeliever?" said Shatta, holding the head up before me.
"What of it?" said I, quietly. "A brave soldier who fell at his post; happy is he to have fallen; his sufferings are over."
"Ha, ha!" said Shatta, "so you still praise the unbeliever; but you will soon see the result;" and, leaving me, he went off to the Mahdi, bearing his terrible token of victory; behind him followed the crowd, still weeping.
I re-entered my tent. I was now utterly broken-hearted: Khartum fallen, and Gordon dead! And this was the end of the brave soldier who had fallen at his post,—the end of a man whose courage and utter disregard of fear were remarkable, and whose personal characteristics had given him a celebrity in the world which was quite exceptional.
Of what use was the English army now? How fatal had been the delay at Metemmeh! The English advanced guard had reached Gubat on the Nile, on the 20th of January, at 10 A. M.; on the 21st, Gordon's four steamers had arrived. Then why did they not send some Englishmen on board, no matter how few, and despatch them instantly to Khartum? If they could only have been seen in the town, the garrison would have taken fresh hope, and would have fought tooth and nail against the enemy; whilst the inhabitants, who had lost all confidence in Gordon's promises, would have joined most heartily in resisting the Dervish attack, knowing that the relief expedition was now certain to reach them. Gordon, of course, had done his utmost to hold the town: he had announced that an English army was coming; he had made a paper currency; had distributed decorations and honours almost daily, in order to keep up the hearts of the garrison; and, as the position had become more desperate, he had made almost superhuman efforts to induce the troops to hold out; but despair had taken possession of them. What was the use of all these decorations now; what good were all their ranks and honours? And as for the paper money, perhaps there were one or two still hopeful people who would buy a pound note for a couple of piastres,[14] on the chance that, by some stroke of luck, the Government might yet be victorious; but gradually even these slender hopes disappeared. Gordon's promises were no longer credited; if but one steamer with a few English officers had reached the town, to bring the news that they had won a victory, and had reached the Nile, the troops and inhabitants would have doubted no longer, and they would have been convinced that Gordon's words were true. An English officer would at once have noticed that part of the lines which had been damaged by the overflow of the White Nile, and could have ordered its repair. But what could Gordon do single-handed, and without the assistance of any European officers; it was impossible for him to look to everything, nor had he the means of seeing that his orders were carried out to his satisfaction. How was it possible for a commander who could not give his troops food, to expect these starving men to carry out with precision and energy the instructions he issued?