Nevertheless the Khalifa persisted in the enterprise.
The success of the Abyssinian war encouraged and enabled him to resume the
offensive on his northern frontier, and he immediately ordered
Wad-el-Nejumi, who commanded in Dongola, to march with his scanty force to
the invasion of Egypt.
The mad enterprise ended, as might have been
foreseen, in the destruction of both Emir and army at Toski. The Khalifa
received the news with apparent grief, but it is difficult to avoid
suspecting him of dark schemes. He was far too clever to believe that
Egypt could be conquered by five thousand men. He knew that besides the
Egyptians there was a strange white tribe of men, the same that had so
nearly saved Khartoum. 'But for the English,' he exclaimed on several
occasions, 'I would have conquered Egypt.' Yet, knowing of the British
occupation, he deliberately sent an army to its inevitable ruin. It is
difficult to reconcile such conduct with the character for sagacity and
intelligence which Abdullah has deserved. There is no doubt that he wanted
to conquer Egypt. Possibly by some extraordinary chance Wad-el-Nejumi
might succeed, even with his small force. If so, then the glory of God
and the power of the Khalifa would advance together. If not - and herein
lies the true reason for the venture - the riverain tribes would have
received a crippling blow.
The terrible slaughter of the Abyssinian war had fallen mainly on
the Jehadia and the eastern Arabs. The jealous tribes in the north had
not suffered. The balance of power was in need of re-adjustment.
The Jaalin and Barabra were fast becoming dangerous. Nejumi's army was
recruited almost entirely from these sources. The reinforcements sent from
Omdurman consisted of men selected from the flag of the Khalifa Sherif,
who was growing too powerful, and of the Batahin tribe, who had shown a
mutinous spirit [Ohrwalder, TEN YEARS' CAPTIVITY.] The success of such
an army in Egypt would be glorious. Its destruction anywhere would be
convenient. Whatever Abdullah's motives may have been, his advantage was
certain. But the life of the empire thus compelled to prey upon itself
must necessarily be short.
Other forces were soon added to the work of exhaustion. The year
following the end of the Abyssinian war was marked by a fearful famine.
Slatin and Ohrwalder vie with each other in relating its horrors - men
eating the raw entrails of donkeys; mothers devouring their babies;
scores dying in the streets, all the more ghastly in the bright sunlight;
hundreds of corpses floating down the Nile - these are among the hideous
features, The depopulation caused by the scarcity was even greater than
that produced by the fighting. The famine area extended over the whole
Soudan and ran along the banks of the river as far as Lower Egypt.
The effects of the famine were everywhere appalling. Entire districts
between Omdurman and Berber became wholly depopulated. In the salt regions
near Shendi almost all the inhabitants died of hunger. The camel-breeding
tribes ate their she-camels. The riverain peoples devoured their seed-corn.
The population of Gallabat, Gedaref, and Kassala was reduced by
nine-tenths, and these once considerable towns shrank to the size
of hamlets. Everywhere the deserted mud houses crumbled back into the
plain. The frightful mortality, general throughout the whole country,
may be gauged by the fact that Zeki Tummal's army, which before the
famine numbered not fewer than 87,000, could scarcely muster 10,000 men
in the spring of 1890.
The new harvest came only in time to save the inhabitants of the Soudan
from becoming extinct. The remnant were preserved for further misfortunes.
War, scarcity, and oppression there had always been. But strange and
mysterious troubles began to afflict the tortured tribes. The face of
heaven was pitiless or averted. In 1890 innumerable swarms of locusts
descended on the impoverished soil. The multitude of their red or yellow
bodies veiled the sun and darkened the air, and although their flesh,
tasting when roasted like fried shrimps, might afford a delicate meal to
the natives, they took so heavy a toll of the crops that the famine was
prolonged and scarcity became constant. Since their first appearance the
locusts are said to have returned annually [Ohrwalder, TEN YEARS'
CAPTIVITY.] Their destructive efforts were aided by millions of little
red mice, who destroyed the seeds before they could grow. So vast and
immeasurable was the number of these tiny pests that after a heavy rain
the whole country was strewn with, and almost tinted by, the
squirrel-coloured corpses of the drowned.
Yet, in spite of all the strokes of fate, the Khalifa maintained his
authority unshaken. The centralisation which always occurs in military
States was accelerated by the famine. The provincial towns dwindled;
thousands and tens of thousands perished; but Omdurman continually grew,
and its ruler still directed the energies of a powerful army. Thus for
the present we might leave the Dervish Empire. Yet the gloomy city of
blood, mud, and filth that arose by the confluence of the Niles deserves
a final glance while still in the pride of independent barbarism.
It is early morning, and the sun, lifting above the horizon, throws the
shadows of the Khartoum ruins on the brimful waters of the Nile. The old
capital is solitary and deserted. No sound of man breaks the silence of
its streets. Only memory broods in the garden where the Pashas used
to walk, and the courtyard where the Imperial envoy fell. Across the river
miles of mud houses, lining the banks as far as Khor Shambat, and
stretching back into the desert and towards the dark hills, display the
extent of the Arab metropolis. As the sun rises, the city begins to live.
Along the road from Kerreri a score of camels pad to market with village
produce. The north wind is driving a dozen sailing-boats, laden to the
water's edge with merchandise, to the wharves.
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