Gregory had not seen anything of the camp before and, as he was taken along, he was astounded at the amount of work that had been done. Everywhere the ground was pitted with deep holes, capable of sheltering from fifteen to twenty men. The hedge was a high one, and was formed for the most part of prickly bushes. The position was, indeed, a formidable one; manned, as it was, by nearly twenty thousand desperate fighters.
At six o'clock the first gun was fired; and, for an hour and a half, the camp was swept with shell, shrapnel, and Maxim bullets. Most of the Baggara were lying in the pits. Many, however, walked about calmly, as if in contempt of the fire. More than half of the wretched men bound to the trees were killed.
At last the fire of the guns slackened and, on the crest of the position, in a semicircle round the wood, a long line of steadily marching men appeared. The assault was about to begin.
The Dervishes sprang from their hiding places, and lined the trenches behind the zareba. The troops halted, and waited. The Maxims moved in front of the British brigade, and then opened fire. A bugle sounded, and the whole line, black and white, advanced like a wall. When within three hundred yards, the men knelt down and opened fire, in volleys of sections. At the same instant the Dervishes, with difficulty restrained until now, opened fire in return.
The Maxims, and the storm of British bullets swept the wood, filling the air with a shower of falling leaves. Gregory murmured a prayer, shut his eyes, and awaited death.
Suddenly he felt his ropes slacken and fall from him, and a voice said, "Drop on your face, master!"
Almost mechanically he obeyed, too astonished even to think what was happening; then a body fell across him.
"Lie still and don't move, master. They must think you are dead."