One rush will trample the accursed under the feet of the
faithful. The charge continues. A bugle sounds in the waiting square.
The firing stops. What is this? They lose heart. Their ammunition is
exhausted. On, then, and make an end. Again the smoke ripples along the
line of bayonets and fire is re-opened, this time at closer range and
with far greater effect. The stubborn grandeur of the British soldier
is displayed by desperate circumstances. The men shoot to hit. The attack
crumples. The Emirs - horse and man - collapse. The others turn and walk -
for they will not run - sullenly back towards the town. The square starts
forward. The road to the river is open. With dusk the water is reached,
and never have victors gained a more longed-for prize. The Nile is won.
Gordon remains.
Sir Charles Wilson, having collected his force, remained three days
by the bank of the Nile before attempting any further advance on Khartoum.
He has explained why this delay was necessary, to the satisfaction of most
military critics. Nor is it easy to believe that men who had made such
splendid efforts would have willingly lost a single moment. On the fourth
day he embarked on two of Gordon's steamers, which awaited the relieving
column, and taking with him twenty British soldiers and a few blue-jackets
set forth towards the Shabluka Gorge and the town that lay beyond. On the
27th of January the rescuers came in sight of Khartoum and under the fire
of the enemy. Many of their perilous adventures seem to belong to romance
rather than to reality: the tiny gimcrack boats struggling with the strong
stream of the cataract, running the gauntlet of the Arab guns, dropping
disconsolately down the river with their terrible news, or wrecked and
stranded on the sandbank; Stuart-Wortley rowing to the camp before Metemma
for help; Beresford starting in the remaining steamer; the bursting of the
boiler by a Dervish shell; Benbow mending it in a single day; Wilson's
rescue and the return to the entrenchment at Gubat. But the scene that
appeals to the imagination above all the others is that where with both
banks ablaze with musketry and artillery, the black smoke pouring through
the shot-holes in the funnels, the water rising in spurts from the bullets,
the men who had come so far and braved so much stared at the palace roof
and, seeing no flag flying, knew that all was over and that they had come
too late.
The news of the Dervish defeats at Abu Klea and Abu Kru impelled the Mahdi
to a desperate venture. The English were but 120 miles away. They were few,
but victorious. It was difficult to say what force could stop such men.
In spite of the wrath of the true God and the valour of Islam they might
prevail. The Mahdi depended on success for existence. The tremendous forces
of fanaticism are exerted only in a forward direction. Retreat meant ruin.
All must be staked on an immediate assault. And, besides, the moment
was ripe. Thus the Arab chiefs reasoned, and wisely resolved to be reckless.
Thus the night of the 25th of January arrived.
The band played as usual in the evening. Gradually the shadows fell
and it became dark. The hungry inhabitants betook themselves to bed. The
anxious but indomitable commander knew that the crisis impended, and knew
also that he was powerless to avert it. Perhaps he slept, satisfied that
he had done his duty; and in the silence of the night the savage enemy
crawled stealthily towards the town. The weary and disheartened sentinels,
weakened by famine and tired of war, maintained a doubtful vigilance along
the ramparts. The subsiding waters of the river had left a bare gap
between the White Nile and the wall. Perhaps there was treachery besides.
On a sudden the loud explosion of musketry broke the stillness of the
night and the slumbers of the people; and with a continual shouting
thousands of Dervishes swarmed through the unprotected space
and entered Khartoum.
One mob of assailants made their way to the palace. Gordon came out
to meet them. The whole courtyard was filled with wild, harlequin figures
and sharp, glittering blades. He attempted a parley. 'Where is your
master, the Mahdi?' He knew his influence over native races. Perhaps he
hoped to save the lives of some of the inhabitants. Perhaps in that
supreme moment imagination flashed another picture before his eyes;
and he saw himself confronted with the false prophet of a false religion,
confronted with the European prisoners who had 'denied their Lord,'
offered the choice of death or the Koran; saw himself facing that savage
circle with a fanaticism equal to, and a courage greater than, their own;
marching in all the pride of faith 'and with retorted scorn'
to a martyr's death.
It was not to be. Mad with the joy of victory and religious frenzy,
they rushed upon him and, while he disdained even to fire his revolver,
stabbed him in many places. The body fell down the steps and lay -
a twisted heap - at the foot. There it was decapitated. The head was
carried to the Mahdi. The trunk was stabbed again and again by the
infuriated creatures, till nothing but a shapeless bundle of torn flesh
and bloody rags remained of what had been a great and famous man and the
envoy of her Britannic Majesty. The blood soaked into the ground,
and left a dark stain which was not immediately effaced. Slatin mentions
that the Arabs used often to visit the place. Ohrwalder went himself,
and more than six weeks after the capture of the town, saw 'black spots'
upon the steps. But they have all since been obliterated.
Such, briefly, is the story of the fall of Khartoum and of the death
of Gordon.
