The crowd was led by four
of the fiercest of the Mahdi's followers--tall and swarthy Dervishes,
splendid in their many-coloured jibbehs, their great swords drawn from
their scabbards of brass and velvet, their spears flourishing above
their heads.
of the fiercest of the Mahdi's followers--tall and swarthy Dervishes,
splendid in their many-coloured jibbehs, their great swords drawn from
their scabbards of brass and velvet, their spears flourishing above
their heads.
Strachey - Eminent Victorians
'If The
Times saw this in print, it would say, "Why, then, did you act as you
did? " to which I fear I have no answer. ' He determined to make what
reparation he could, and to send the families of the unfortunate Pashas
L1,000 each.
On a similar, but a less serious, occasion, he put the same principle
into action. He boxed the ears of a careless telegraph clerk--'and then,
as my conscience pricked me, I gave him $5. He said he did not mind if I
killed him--I was his father (a chocolate-coloured youth of twenty). '
His temper, indeed, was growing more and more uncertain, as he himself
was well aware. He observed with horror that men trembled when they came
into his presence--that their hands shook so that they could not hold a
match to a cigarette.
He trusted no one. Looking into the faces of those who surrounded him,
he saw only the ill-dissimulated signs of treachery and dislike. Of the
40,000 inhabitants of Khartoum he calculated that two-thirds were
willing--were perhaps anxious--to become the subjects of the Mahdi.
'These people are not worth any great sacrifice,' he bitterly observed.
The Egyptian officials were utterly incompetent; the soldiers were
cowards. All his admiration was reserved for his enemies. The meanest of
the Mahdi's followers was, he realised, 'a determined warrior, who could
undergo thirst and privation, who no more cared for pain or death than
if he were stone'. Those were the men whom, if the choice had lain with
him, he would have wished to command. And yet, strangely enough, he
persistently underrated the strength of the forces against him. A
handful of Englishmen--a handful of Turks would, he believed, be enough
to defeat the Mahdi's hosts and destroy his dominion. He knew very
little Arabic, and he depended for his information upon a few ignorant
English-speaking subordinates. The Mahdi himself he viewed with
ambiguous feelings. He jibed at him as a vulgar impostor; but it is easy
to perceive, under his scornful jocularities, the traces of an uneasy
respect.
He spent long hours upon the palace roof, gazing northwards; but the
veil of mystery and silence was unbroken. In spite of the efforts of
Major Kitchener, the officer in command of the Egyptian Intelligence
Service, hardly any messengers ever reached Khartoum; and when they did,
the information they brought was tormentingly scanty. Major Kitchener
did not escape the attentions of Gordon's pen. When news came at last,
it was terrible: Colonel Stewart and his companions had been killed. The
Abbas, after having passed uninjured through the part of the river
commanded by the Mahdi's troops, had struck upon a rock; Colonel Stewart
had disembarked in safety; and, while he was waiting for camels to
convey the detachment across the desert into Egypt, had accepted the
hospitality of a local Sheikh. Hardly had the Europeans entered the
Sheikh's hut when they were set upon and murdered; their native
followers shared their fate. The treacherous Sheikh was an adherent of
the Mahdi, and to the Mahdi all Colonel Stewart's papers, filled with
information as to the condition of Khartoum, were immediately sent. When
the first rumours of the disaster reached Gordon, he pictured, in a
flash of intuition, the actual details of the catastrophe. 'I feel
somehow convinced,' he wrote, they were captured by treachery . . .
Stewart was not a bit suspicious (I am made up of it). I can see in
imagination the whole scene, the Sheikh inviting them to land . . . then a
rush of wild Arabs, and all is over! ' 'It is very sad,' he added, 'but
being ordained, we must not murmur. ' And yet he believed that the true
responsibility lay with him; it was the punishment of his own sins. 'I
look on it,' was his unexpected conclusion, 'as being a Nemesis on the
death of the two Pashas. '
The workings of his conscience did indeed take on surprising shapes. Of
the three ex-governors of Darfur, Bahr-el-Ghazal, and Equatoria, Emin
Pasha had disappeared, Lupton Bey had died, and Slatin Pasha was held in
captivity by the Mahdi. By birth an Austrian and a Catholic, Slatin, in
the last desperate stages of his resistance, had adopted the expedient
of announcing his conversion to Mohammedanism, in order to win the
confidence of his native troops. On his capture, the fact of his
conversion procured him some degree of consideration; and, though he
occasionally suffered from the caprices of his masters, he had so far
escaped the terrible punishment which had been meted out to some other
of the Mahdi's European prisoners--that of close confinement in the
common gaol. He was now kept prisoner in one of the camps in the
neighbourhood of Khartoum. He managed to smuggle through a letter to
Gordon, asking for assistance, in case he could make his escape. To this
letter Gordon did not reply. Slatin wrote again and again; his piteous
appeals, couched in no less piteous French, made no effect upon the
heart of the Governor-General.
'Excellence! ' he wrote, 'J'ai envoye deux lettres, sans avoir recu une
reponse de votre excellence. . . . Excellence! j'ai me battu 27 FOIS pour
le gouvernement contre l'ennemi--on m'a feri deux fois, et j'ai rien
fait contre l'honneur--rien de chose qui doit empeche votre excellence
de m'ecrir une reponse que je sais quoi faire. JE VOUS PRIE, Excellence,
de m'honore avec une reponse. P. S. Si votre Excellence ont peutetre
entendu que j'ai fait quelque chose contre l'honneur d'un officier et
cela vous empeche de m'ecrir, je vous prie de me donner l'occasion de me
defendre, et jugez apres la verite. '
The unfortunate Slatin understood well enough the cause of Gordon's
silence. It was in vain that he explained the motives of his conversion,
in vain that he pointed out that it had been made easier for him since
he had, 'PERHAPS UNHAPPILY, not received a strict religious education at
home'. Gordon was adamant. Slatin had 'denied his Lord', and that was
enough. His communications with Khartoum were discovered and he was put
in chains. When Gordon heard of it, he noted the fact grimly in his
diary, without a comment.
A more ghastly fate awaited another European who had fallen into the
hands of the Mahdi. Clavier Pain, a French adventurer, who had taken
part in the Commune, and who was now wandering, for reasons which have
never been discovered, in the wastes of the Sudan, was seized by the
Arabs, made prisoner, and hurried from camp to camp. He was attacked by
fever; but mercy was not among the virtues of the savage soldiers who
held him in their power. Hoisted upon the back of a camel, he was being
carried across the desert, when, overcome by weakness, he lost his hold,
and fell to the ground. Time or trouble were not to be wasted upon an
infidel. Orders were given that he should be immediately buried; the
orders were carried out; and in a few moments the cavalcade had left the
little hillock far behind. But some of those who were present believed
that Olivier Pain had been still breathing when his body was covered
with the sand.
Gordon, on hearing that a Frenchman had been captured by the Mahdi,
became extremely interested. The idea occurred to him that this
mysterious individual was none other than Ernest Renan, 'who,' he wrote,
in his last publication 'takes leave of the world, and is said to have
gone into Africa, not to reappear again'. He had met Renan at the rooms
of the Royal Geographical Society, had noticed that he looked bored--the
result, no doubt, of too much admiration--and had felt an instinct that
he would meet him again. The instinct now seemed to be justified. There
could hardly be any doubt that it WAS Renan; who else could it be? 'If
he comes to the lines,' he decided, 'and it is Renan, I shall go and see
him, for whatever one may think of his unbelief in our Lord, he
certainly dared to say what he thought, and he has not changed his creed
to save his life. ' That the mellifluous author of the Vie de Jesus
should have determined to end his days in the depths of Africa, and have
come, in accordance with an intuition, to renew his acquaintance with
General Gordon in the lines of Khartoum, would indeed have been a
strange occurrence; but who shall limit the strangeness of the
possibilities that lie in wait for the sons of men? At that very moment,
in the south-eastern corner of the Sudan, another Frenchman, of a
peculiar eminence, was fulfilling a destiny more extraordinary than the
wildest romance. In the town of Harrar, near the Red Sea, Arthur Rimbaud
surveyed with splenetic impatience the tragedy of Khartoum.
'C'est justement les Anglais,' he wrote, 'avec leur absurde politique,
qui minent desormais le commerce de toutes ces cotes. Ils ont voulu tout
remanier et ils sont arrives a faire pire que les Egyptiens et les
Turcs, ruines par eux. Leur Gordon est un idiot, leur Wolseley un ane,
et toutes leurs entreprises une suite insensee d'absurdites et de
depredations. '
So wrote the amazing poet of the Saison d'Enfer amid those futile
turmoils of petty commerce, in which, with an inexplicable deliberation,
he had forgotten the enchantments of an unparalleled adolescence,
forgotten the fogs of London and the streets of Brussels, forgotten
Paris, forgotten the subtleties and the frenzies of inspiration,
forgotten the agonised embraces of Verlaine.
When the contents of Colonel Stewart's papers had been interpreted to
the Mahdi, he realised the serious condition of Khartoum, and decided
that the time had come to press the siege to a final conclusion. At the
end of October, he himself, at the head of a fresh army, appeared
outside the town. From that moment, the investment assumed a more and
more menacing character. The lack of provisions now for the first time
began to make itself felt. November 30th--the date fixed by Gordon as
the last possible moment of his resistance--came and went; the
Expeditionary Force had made no sign. The fortunate discovery of a large
store of grain, concealed by some merchants for purposes of speculation,
once more postponed the catastrophe. But the attacking army grew daily
more active; the skirmishes around the lines and on the river more
damaging to the besieged; and the Mahdi's guns began an intermittent
bombardment of the palace. By December 10th it was calculated that there
was not fifteen days' food in the town; 'truly I am worn to a shadow
with the food question', Gordon wrote; 'it is one continuous demand'. At
the same time he received the ominous news that five of his soldiers had
deserted to the Mahdi. His predicament was terrible; but he calculated,
from a few dubious messages that had reached him, that the relieving
force could not be very far away. Accordingly, on the 14th, he decided
to send down one of his four remaining steamers, the Bordeen, to meet it
at Metemmah, in order to deliver to the officer in command the latest
information as to the condition of the town. The Bordeen carried down
the last portion of the Journals, and Gordon's final messages to his
friends. Owing to a misunderstanding, he believed that Sir Evelyn Baring
was accompanying the expedition from Egypt, and some of his latest and
most successful satirical fancies played around the vision of the
distressed Consul-General perched for days upon the painful eminence of
a camel's hump. 'There was a slight laugh when Khartoum heard Baring was
bumping his way up here--a regular Nemesis. ' But, when Sir Evelyn Baring
actually arrived--in whatever condition--what would happen? Gordon lost
himself in the multitude of his speculations. His own object, he
declared, was, 'of course, to make tracks'. Then in one of his strange
premonitory rhapsodies, he threw out, half in jest and half in earnest,
that the best solution of all the difficulties of the future would be
the appointment of Major Kitchener as Governor-General of the Sudan. The
Journal ended upon a note of menace and disdain:
'Now MARK THIS, if the Expeditionary Force, and I ask for no more than
200 men, does not come in ten days, the town may fall; and I have done
my best for the honour of our country. Good-bye. --C. G. GORDON.
'You send me no information, though you have lots of money. C. G. G. '
To his sister Augusta he was more explicit.
'I decline to agree,' he told her, 'that the expedition comes for my
relief; it comes for the relief of the garrisons, which I failed to
accomplish. I expect Her Majesty's Government are in a precious rage
with me for holding out and forcing their hand. '
The admission is significant. And then came the final adieux.
'This may be the last letter you will receive from me, for we are on our
last legs, owing to the delay of the expedition. However, God rules all,
and, as He will rule to His glory and our welfare, His will be done. I
fear, owing to circumstances, that my affairs are pecuniarily not over
bright . . . your affectionate brother, C. G. GORDON.
'P. S. I am quite happy, thank God, and, like Lawrence, I have TRIED to
do my duty. '
The delay of the expedition was even more serious than Gordon had
supposed. Lord Wolseley had made the most elaborate preparations. He had
collected together a picked army of 10,000 of the finest British troops;
he had arranged a system of river transports with infinite care. For it
was his intention to take no risks; he would advance in force up the
Nile; he had determined that the fate of Gordon should not depend upon
the dangerous hazards of a small and hasty exploit. There is no
doubt--in view of the opposition which the relieving force actually met
with--that his decision was a wise one; but unfortunately, he had
miscalculated some of the essential elements in the situation. When his
preparations were at last complete, it was found that the Nile had sunk
so low that the flotillas, over which so much care had been lavished,
and upon which depended the whole success of the campaign, would be
unable to surmount the cataracts. At the same time--it was by then the
middle of November--a message arrived from Gordon indicating that
Khartoum was in serious straits. It was clear that an immediate advance
was necessary; the river route was out of the question; a swift dash
across the desert was the only possible expedient after all. But no
preparations for land transport had been made; weeks elapsed before a
sufficient number of camels could be collected; and more weeks before
those collected were trained for military march. It was not until
December 30th--more than a fortnight after the last entry in Gordon's
Journal--that Sir Herbert Stewart, at the head of 1,100 British troops,
was able to leave Korti on his march towards Metemmah, 170 miles across
the desert. His advance was slow, and it was tenaciously disputed by,
the Mahdi's forces. There was a desperate engagement on January 17th at
the wells of Abu Klea; the British square was broken; for a moment
victory hung in the balance; but the Arabs were repulsed. On the 19th
there was another furiously contested fight, in which Sir Herbert
Stewart was killed. On the 21st, the force, now diminished by over 250
casualties, reached Metemmah. Three days elapsed in reconnoitering the
country, and strengthening the position of the camp. On the 24th, Sir
Charles Wilson, who had succeeded to the command, embarked on the
Bordeen, and started up the river for Khartoum. On the following
evening, the vessel struck on a rock, causing a further delay of
twenty-four hours. It was not until January 28th that Sir Charles
Wilson, arriving under a heavy fire within sight of Khartoum, saw that
the Egyptian flag was not flying from the roof of the palace. The signs
of ruin and destruction on every hand showed clearly enough that the
town had fallen. The relief expedition was two days late.
The details of what passed within Khartoum during the last weeks of the
siege are unknown to us. In the diary of Bordeini Bey, a Levantine
merchant, we catch a few glimpses of the final stages of the
catastrophe--of the starving populace, the exhausted garrison, the
fluctuations of despair and hope, the dauntless energy of the
Governor-General. Still he worked on, indefatigably, apportioning
provisions, collecting ammunition, consulting with the townspeople,
encouraging the soldiers. His hair had suddenly turned quite white. Late
one evening, Bordeini Bey went to visit him in the palace, which was
being bombarded by the Mahdi's cannon. The high building, brilliantly
lighted up, afforded an excellent mark. As the shot came whistling
around the windows, the merchant suggested that it would be advisable to
stop them up with boxes full of sand. Upon this, Gordon Pasha became
enraged.
'He called up the guard, and gave them orders to shoot me if I moved; he
then brought a very large lantern which would hold twenty-four candles.
He and I then put the candles into the sockets, placed the lantern on
the table in front of the window, lit the candles, and then we sat down
at the table. The Pasha then said, "When God was portioning out fear to
all the people in the world, at last it came to my turn, and there was
no fear left to give me. Go, tell all the people in Khartoum that Gordon
fears nothing, for God has created him without fear. "'
On January 5th, Omdurman, a village on the opposite bank of the Nile,
which had hitherto been occupied by the besieged, was taken by the
Arabs. The town was now closely surrounded, and every chance of
obtaining fresh supplies was cut off. The famine became terrible; dogs,
donkeys, skins, gum, palm fibre, were devoured by the desperate
inhabitants. The soldiers stood on the fortifications like pieces of
wood. Hundreds died of hunger daily: their corpses filled the streets;
and the survivors had not the strength to bury the dead. On the 20th,
the news of the battle of Abu Klea reached Khartoum. The English were
coming at last. Hope rose; every morning the Governor-General assured
the townspeople that one day more would see the end of their sufferings;
and night after night his words were proved untrue.
On the 23rd, a rumour spread that a spy had arrived with letters, and
that the English army was at hand. A merchant found a piece of newspaper
lying in the road, in which it was stated that the strength of the
relieving forces was 15,000 men. For a moment, hope flickered up again,
only to relapse once more. The rumour, the letters, the printed paper,
all had been contrivances of Gordon to inspire the garrison with the
courage to hold out. On the 25th, it was obvious that the Arabs were
preparing an attack, and a deputation of the principal inhabitants
waited upon the Governor-General. But he refused to see them; Bordeini
Bey was alone admitted to his presence. He was sitting on a divan, and,
as Bordeini Bey came into the room, he snatched the fez from his head
and flung it from him.
'What more can I say? ' he exclaimed, in a voice such as the merchant had
never heard before. 'The people will no longer believe me. I have told
them over and over again that help would be here, but it has never come,
and now they must see I tell them lies. I can do nothing more. Go, and
collect all the people you can on the lines, and make a good stand. Now
leave me to smoke these cigarettes. '
Bordeini Bey knew then, he tells us, that Gordon Pasha was in despair.
He left the room, having looked upon the Governor-General for the last
time.
When the English force reached Metemmah, the Mahdi, who had originally
intended to reduce Khartoum to surrender through starvation, decided to
attempt its capture by assault. The receding Nile had left one portion
of the town's circumference undefended; as the river withdrew, the
rampart had crumbled; a broad expanse of mud was left between the wall
and the water, and the soldiers, overcome by hunger and the lassitude of
hopelessness, had trusted to the morass to protect them, and neglected
to repair the breach. Early on the morning of the 26th, the Arabs
crossed the river at this point. The mud, partially dried up, presented
no obstacle; nor did the ruined fortification, feebly manned by some
half-dying troops. Resistance was futile, and it was scarcely offered:
the Mahdi's army swarmed into Khartoum. Gordon had long debated with
himself what his action should be at the supreme moment. 'I shall never
(D. V. ),' he had told Sir Evelyn Baring, 'be taken alive. ' He had had
gunpowder put into the cellars of the palace, so that the whole building
might, at a moment's notice, be blown into the air. But then misgivings
had come upon him; was it not his duty 'to maintain the faith, and, if
necessary, to suffer for it'? --to remain a tortured and humiliated
witness of his Lord in the Mahdi's chains? The blowing up of the palace
would have, he thought, 'more or less the taint of suicide', would be,
in a way, taking things out of God's hands'. He remained undecided; and
meanwhile, to be ready for every contingency, he kept one of his little
armoured vessels close at hand on the river, with steam up, day and
night, to transport him, if so he should decide, southward, through the
enemy, to the recesses of Equatoria. The sudden appearance of the Arabs,
the complete collapse of the defence, saved him the necessity of making
up his mind. He had been on the roof, in his dressing-gown, when the
attack began; and he had only time to hurry to his bedroom, to slip on a
white uniform, and to seize up a sword and a revolver, before the
foremost of the assailants were in the palace.
The crowd was led by four
of the fiercest of the Mahdi's followers--tall and swarthy Dervishes,
splendid in their many-coloured jibbehs, their great swords drawn from
their scabbards of brass and velvet, their spears flourishing above
their heads. Gordon met them at the top of the staircase. For a moment,
there was a deathly pause, while he stood in silence, surveying his
antagonists. Then it is said that Taha Shahin, the Dongolawi, cried in a
loud voice, 'Mala' oun el yom yomek! ' (O cursed one, your time is come),
and plunged his spear into the Englishman's body. His only reply was a
gesture of contempt. Another spear transfixed him; he fell, and the
swords of the three other Dervishes instantly hacked him to death. Thus,
if we are to believe the official chroniclers, in the dignity of
unresisting disdain, General Gordon met his end. But it is only fitting
that the last moments of one whose whole life was passed in
contradiction should be involved in mystery and doubt. Other witnesses
told a very different story. The man whom they saw die was not a saint
but a warrior. With intrepidity, with skill, with desperation, he flew
at his enemies. When his pistol was exhausted, he fought on with his
sword; he forced his way almost to the bottom of the staircase; and,
among, a heap of corpses, only succumbed at length to the sheer weight
of the multitudes against him.
That morning, while Slatin Pasha was sitting in his chains in the camp
at Omdurman, he saw a group of Arabs approaching, one of whom was
carrying something wrapped up in a cloth. As the group passed him, they
stopped for a moment, and railed at him in savage mockery. Then the
cloth was lifted, and he saw before him Gordon's head. The trophy was
taken to the Mahdi: at last the two fanatics had indeed met face to
face. The Mahdi ordered the head to be fixed between the branches of a
tree in the public highway, and all who passed threw stones at it. The
hawks of the desert swept and circled about it--those very hawks which
the blue eyes had so often watched.
The news of the catastrophe reached England, and a great outcry arose.
The public grief vied with the public indignation. The Queen, in a
letter to Miss Gordon, immediately gave vent both to her own sentiments
and those of the nation.
'HOW shall I write to you,' she exclaimed, 'or how shall I attempt to
express WHAT I FEEL! To THINK of your dear, noble, heroic Brother, who
served his Country and his Queen so truly, so heroically, with a
self-sacrifice so edifying to the World, not having been rescued. That
the promises of support were not fulfilled--which I so frequently and
constantly pressed on those who asked him to go--is to me GRIEF
INEXPRESSIBLE! Indeed, it has made me ill . . . Would you express to your
other sisters and your elder Brother my true sympathy, and what I do so
keenly feel, the STAIN left upon England, for your dear Brother's cruel,
though heroic, fate! '
In reply, Miss Gordon presented the Queen with her brother's Bible,
which was placed in one of the corridors at Windsor, open, on a white
satin cushion, and enclosed in a crystal case. In the meanwhile, Gordon
was acclaimed in every newspaper as a national martyr; State services
were held in his honour at Westminster and St Paul's; L20,000 was voted
to his family; and a great sum of money was raised by subscription to
endow a charity in his memory. Wrath and execration fell, in particular,
upon the head of Mr. Gladstone. He was little better than a murderer; he
was a traitor; he was a heartless villain, who had been seen at the play
on the very night when Gordon's death was announced. The storm passed;
but Mr. Gladstone had soon to cope with a still more serious agitation.
The cry was raised on every side that the national honour would be
irreparably tarnished if the Mahdi were left in the peaceful possession
of Khartoum, and that the Expeditionary Force should be at once employed
to chastise the false prophet and to conquer the Sudan. But it was in
vain that the imperialists clamoured; in vain that Lord Wolseley wrote
several dispatches, proving over and over again that to leave the Mahdi
unconquered must involve the ruin of Egypt; in vain that Lord Hartington
at last discovered that he had come to the same conclusion. The old man
stood firm. Just then, a crisis with Russia on the Afghan frontier
supervened; and Mr. Gladstone, pointing out that every available soldier
might be wanted at any moment for a European war, withdrew Lord Wolseley
and his army from Egypt. The Russian crisis disappeared. The Mahdi
remained supreme lord of the Sudan.
And yet it was not with the Mahdi that the future lay. Before six months
were out, in the plenitude of his power, he died, and the Khalifa
Abdullahi reigned in his stead. The future lay with Major Kitchener and
his Maxim-Nordenfeldt guns. Thirteen years later the Mahdi's empire was
abolished forever in the gigantic hecatomb of Omdurman; after which it
was thought proper that a religious ceremony in honour of General Gordon
should be held at the palace at Khartoum. The service was conducted by
four chaplains--of the Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, and Methodist
persuasions--and concluded with a performance of 'Abide with Me'--the
General's favourite hymn--by a select company of Sudanese buglers. Every
one agreed that General Gordon had been avenged at last. Who could doubt
it? General Gordon himself, possibly, fluttering, in some remote
Nirvana, the pages of a phantasmal Bible, might have ventured on a
satirical remark. But General Gordon had always been a contradictious
person--even a little off his head, perhaps, though a hero; and besides,
he was no longer there to contradict . . . At any rate, it had all ended
very happily--in a glorious slaughter of 20,000 Arabs, a vast addition
to the British Empire, and a step in the Peerage for Sir Evelyn Baring.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
General Gordon. Reflections in Palestine. Letters. Khartoum Journals.
E. Hake. The Story of Chinese Gordon.
H. W. Gordon. Events in the Life of C. G. Gordon.
D. C. Boulger. Life of General Gordon.
Sir W. Butler. General Gordon.
Rev. R. H. Barnes and C. E, Brown. Charles George Gordon: A Sketch.
A. Bioves. Un Grand Aventurier.
Li Hung Chang. Memoirs. *
Colonel Chaille-Long. My Life in Four Continents.
Lord Cromer. Modern Egypt.
Sir R. Wingate. Mahdiism and the Sudan.
Sir R. Slatin. Fire and Sword in the Sudan.
J. Ohrwalder. Ten Years of Captivity in the Mahdi's Camp.
C. Neufeld. A Prisoner of the Khaleefa.
Wilfrid Blunt. A Secret History of the English Occupation of Egypt.
Gordon at Khartoum.
Winston Churchill. The River War.
F. Power. Letters from Khartoum.
Lord Morley. Life of Gladstone.
George W. Smalley. Mr Gladstone. Harper's Magazine, 1898.
B. Holland. Life of the Eighth Duke of Devonshire.
Lord Fitzmaurice. Life of the Second Earl Granville.
S. Gwynn and Gertrude Tuckwell. Life of Sir Charles Dilke.
Arthur Rimbaud. Lettres.
G. F. Steevens. With Kitchener to Khartoum.
* The authenticity of the Diary contained in this book has been
disputed, notably by Mr. J. 0. P. Bland in his Li Hung Chang.
(Constable, 1917)
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Times saw this in print, it would say, "Why, then, did you act as you
did? " to which I fear I have no answer. ' He determined to make what
reparation he could, and to send the families of the unfortunate Pashas
L1,000 each.
On a similar, but a less serious, occasion, he put the same principle
into action. He boxed the ears of a careless telegraph clerk--'and then,
as my conscience pricked me, I gave him $5. He said he did not mind if I
killed him--I was his father (a chocolate-coloured youth of twenty). '
His temper, indeed, was growing more and more uncertain, as he himself
was well aware. He observed with horror that men trembled when they came
into his presence--that their hands shook so that they could not hold a
match to a cigarette.
He trusted no one. Looking into the faces of those who surrounded him,
he saw only the ill-dissimulated signs of treachery and dislike. Of the
40,000 inhabitants of Khartoum he calculated that two-thirds were
willing--were perhaps anxious--to become the subjects of the Mahdi.
'These people are not worth any great sacrifice,' he bitterly observed.
The Egyptian officials were utterly incompetent; the soldiers were
cowards. All his admiration was reserved for his enemies. The meanest of
the Mahdi's followers was, he realised, 'a determined warrior, who could
undergo thirst and privation, who no more cared for pain or death than
if he were stone'. Those were the men whom, if the choice had lain with
him, he would have wished to command. And yet, strangely enough, he
persistently underrated the strength of the forces against him. A
handful of Englishmen--a handful of Turks would, he believed, be enough
to defeat the Mahdi's hosts and destroy his dominion. He knew very
little Arabic, and he depended for his information upon a few ignorant
English-speaking subordinates. The Mahdi himself he viewed with
ambiguous feelings. He jibed at him as a vulgar impostor; but it is easy
to perceive, under his scornful jocularities, the traces of an uneasy
respect.
He spent long hours upon the palace roof, gazing northwards; but the
veil of mystery and silence was unbroken. In spite of the efforts of
Major Kitchener, the officer in command of the Egyptian Intelligence
Service, hardly any messengers ever reached Khartoum; and when they did,
the information they brought was tormentingly scanty. Major Kitchener
did not escape the attentions of Gordon's pen. When news came at last,
it was terrible: Colonel Stewart and his companions had been killed. The
Abbas, after having passed uninjured through the part of the river
commanded by the Mahdi's troops, had struck upon a rock; Colonel Stewart
had disembarked in safety; and, while he was waiting for camels to
convey the detachment across the desert into Egypt, had accepted the
hospitality of a local Sheikh. Hardly had the Europeans entered the
Sheikh's hut when they were set upon and murdered; their native
followers shared their fate. The treacherous Sheikh was an adherent of
the Mahdi, and to the Mahdi all Colonel Stewart's papers, filled with
information as to the condition of Khartoum, were immediately sent. When
the first rumours of the disaster reached Gordon, he pictured, in a
flash of intuition, the actual details of the catastrophe. 'I feel
somehow convinced,' he wrote, they were captured by treachery . . .
Stewart was not a bit suspicious (I am made up of it). I can see in
imagination the whole scene, the Sheikh inviting them to land . . . then a
rush of wild Arabs, and all is over! ' 'It is very sad,' he added, 'but
being ordained, we must not murmur. ' And yet he believed that the true
responsibility lay with him; it was the punishment of his own sins. 'I
look on it,' was his unexpected conclusion, 'as being a Nemesis on the
death of the two Pashas. '
The workings of his conscience did indeed take on surprising shapes. Of
the three ex-governors of Darfur, Bahr-el-Ghazal, and Equatoria, Emin
Pasha had disappeared, Lupton Bey had died, and Slatin Pasha was held in
captivity by the Mahdi. By birth an Austrian and a Catholic, Slatin, in
the last desperate stages of his resistance, had adopted the expedient
of announcing his conversion to Mohammedanism, in order to win the
confidence of his native troops. On his capture, the fact of his
conversion procured him some degree of consideration; and, though he
occasionally suffered from the caprices of his masters, he had so far
escaped the terrible punishment which had been meted out to some other
of the Mahdi's European prisoners--that of close confinement in the
common gaol. He was now kept prisoner in one of the camps in the
neighbourhood of Khartoum. He managed to smuggle through a letter to
Gordon, asking for assistance, in case he could make his escape. To this
letter Gordon did not reply. Slatin wrote again and again; his piteous
appeals, couched in no less piteous French, made no effect upon the
heart of the Governor-General.
'Excellence! ' he wrote, 'J'ai envoye deux lettres, sans avoir recu une
reponse de votre excellence. . . . Excellence! j'ai me battu 27 FOIS pour
le gouvernement contre l'ennemi--on m'a feri deux fois, et j'ai rien
fait contre l'honneur--rien de chose qui doit empeche votre excellence
de m'ecrir une reponse que je sais quoi faire. JE VOUS PRIE, Excellence,
de m'honore avec une reponse. P. S. Si votre Excellence ont peutetre
entendu que j'ai fait quelque chose contre l'honneur d'un officier et
cela vous empeche de m'ecrir, je vous prie de me donner l'occasion de me
defendre, et jugez apres la verite. '
The unfortunate Slatin understood well enough the cause of Gordon's
silence. It was in vain that he explained the motives of his conversion,
in vain that he pointed out that it had been made easier for him since
he had, 'PERHAPS UNHAPPILY, not received a strict religious education at
home'. Gordon was adamant. Slatin had 'denied his Lord', and that was
enough. His communications with Khartoum were discovered and he was put
in chains. When Gordon heard of it, he noted the fact grimly in his
diary, without a comment.
A more ghastly fate awaited another European who had fallen into the
hands of the Mahdi. Clavier Pain, a French adventurer, who had taken
part in the Commune, and who was now wandering, for reasons which have
never been discovered, in the wastes of the Sudan, was seized by the
Arabs, made prisoner, and hurried from camp to camp. He was attacked by
fever; but mercy was not among the virtues of the savage soldiers who
held him in their power. Hoisted upon the back of a camel, he was being
carried across the desert, when, overcome by weakness, he lost his hold,
and fell to the ground. Time or trouble were not to be wasted upon an
infidel. Orders were given that he should be immediately buried; the
orders were carried out; and in a few moments the cavalcade had left the
little hillock far behind. But some of those who were present believed
that Olivier Pain had been still breathing when his body was covered
with the sand.
Gordon, on hearing that a Frenchman had been captured by the Mahdi,
became extremely interested. The idea occurred to him that this
mysterious individual was none other than Ernest Renan, 'who,' he wrote,
in his last publication 'takes leave of the world, and is said to have
gone into Africa, not to reappear again'. He had met Renan at the rooms
of the Royal Geographical Society, had noticed that he looked bored--the
result, no doubt, of too much admiration--and had felt an instinct that
he would meet him again. The instinct now seemed to be justified. There
could hardly be any doubt that it WAS Renan; who else could it be? 'If
he comes to the lines,' he decided, 'and it is Renan, I shall go and see
him, for whatever one may think of his unbelief in our Lord, he
certainly dared to say what he thought, and he has not changed his creed
to save his life. ' That the mellifluous author of the Vie de Jesus
should have determined to end his days in the depths of Africa, and have
come, in accordance with an intuition, to renew his acquaintance with
General Gordon in the lines of Khartoum, would indeed have been a
strange occurrence; but who shall limit the strangeness of the
possibilities that lie in wait for the sons of men? At that very moment,
in the south-eastern corner of the Sudan, another Frenchman, of a
peculiar eminence, was fulfilling a destiny more extraordinary than the
wildest romance. In the town of Harrar, near the Red Sea, Arthur Rimbaud
surveyed with splenetic impatience the tragedy of Khartoum.
'C'est justement les Anglais,' he wrote, 'avec leur absurde politique,
qui minent desormais le commerce de toutes ces cotes. Ils ont voulu tout
remanier et ils sont arrives a faire pire que les Egyptiens et les
Turcs, ruines par eux. Leur Gordon est un idiot, leur Wolseley un ane,
et toutes leurs entreprises une suite insensee d'absurdites et de
depredations. '
So wrote the amazing poet of the Saison d'Enfer amid those futile
turmoils of petty commerce, in which, with an inexplicable deliberation,
he had forgotten the enchantments of an unparalleled adolescence,
forgotten the fogs of London and the streets of Brussels, forgotten
Paris, forgotten the subtleties and the frenzies of inspiration,
forgotten the agonised embraces of Verlaine.
When the contents of Colonel Stewart's papers had been interpreted to
the Mahdi, he realised the serious condition of Khartoum, and decided
that the time had come to press the siege to a final conclusion. At the
end of October, he himself, at the head of a fresh army, appeared
outside the town. From that moment, the investment assumed a more and
more menacing character. The lack of provisions now for the first time
began to make itself felt. November 30th--the date fixed by Gordon as
the last possible moment of his resistance--came and went; the
Expeditionary Force had made no sign. The fortunate discovery of a large
store of grain, concealed by some merchants for purposes of speculation,
once more postponed the catastrophe. But the attacking army grew daily
more active; the skirmishes around the lines and on the river more
damaging to the besieged; and the Mahdi's guns began an intermittent
bombardment of the palace. By December 10th it was calculated that there
was not fifteen days' food in the town; 'truly I am worn to a shadow
with the food question', Gordon wrote; 'it is one continuous demand'. At
the same time he received the ominous news that five of his soldiers had
deserted to the Mahdi. His predicament was terrible; but he calculated,
from a few dubious messages that had reached him, that the relieving
force could not be very far away. Accordingly, on the 14th, he decided
to send down one of his four remaining steamers, the Bordeen, to meet it
at Metemmah, in order to deliver to the officer in command the latest
information as to the condition of the town. The Bordeen carried down
the last portion of the Journals, and Gordon's final messages to his
friends. Owing to a misunderstanding, he believed that Sir Evelyn Baring
was accompanying the expedition from Egypt, and some of his latest and
most successful satirical fancies played around the vision of the
distressed Consul-General perched for days upon the painful eminence of
a camel's hump. 'There was a slight laugh when Khartoum heard Baring was
bumping his way up here--a regular Nemesis. ' But, when Sir Evelyn Baring
actually arrived--in whatever condition--what would happen? Gordon lost
himself in the multitude of his speculations. His own object, he
declared, was, 'of course, to make tracks'. Then in one of his strange
premonitory rhapsodies, he threw out, half in jest and half in earnest,
that the best solution of all the difficulties of the future would be
the appointment of Major Kitchener as Governor-General of the Sudan. The
Journal ended upon a note of menace and disdain:
'Now MARK THIS, if the Expeditionary Force, and I ask for no more than
200 men, does not come in ten days, the town may fall; and I have done
my best for the honour of our country. Good-bye. --C. G. GORDON.
'You send me no information, though you have lots of money. C. G. G. '
To his sister Augusta he was more explicit.
'I decline to agree,' he told her, 'that the expedition comes for my
relief; it comes for the relief of the garrisons, which I failed to
accomplish. I expect Her Majesty's Government are in a precious rage
with me for holding out and forcing their hand. '
The admission is significant. And then came the final adieux.
'This may be the last letter you will receive from me, for we are on our
last legs, owing to the delay of the expedition. However, God rules all,
and, as He will rule to His glory and our welfare, His will be done. I
fear, owing to circumstances, that my affairs are pecuniarily not over
bright . . . your affectionate brother, C. G. GORDON.
'P. S. I am quite happy, thank God, and, like Lawrence, I have TRIED to
do my duty. '
The delay of the expedition was even more serious than Gordon had
supposed. Lord Wolseley had made the most elaborate preparations. He had
collected together a picked army of 10,000 of the finest British troops;
he had arranged a system of river transports with infinite care. For it
was his intention to take no risks; he would advance in force up the
Nile; he had determined that the fate of Gordon should not depend upon
the dangerous hazards of a small and hasty exploit. There is no
doubt--in view of the opposition which the relieving force actually met
with--that his decision was a wise one; but unfortunately, he had
miscalculated some of the essential elements in the situation. When his
preparations were at last complete, it was found that the Nile had sunk
so low that the flotillas, over which so much care had been lavished,
and upon which depended the whole success of the campaign, would be
unable to surmount the cataracts. At the same time--it was by then the
middle of November--a message arrived from Gordon indicating that
Khartoum was in serious straits. It was clear that an immediate advance
was necessary; the river route was out of the question; a swift dash
across the desert was the only possible expedient after all. But no
preparations for land transport had been made; weeks elapsed before a
sufficient number of camels could be collected; and more weeks before
those collected were trained for military march. It was not until
December 30th--more than a fortnight after the last entry in Gordon's
Journal--that Sir Herbert Stewart, at the head of 1,100 British troops,
was able to leave Korti on his march towards Metemmah, 170 miles across
the desert. His advance was slow, and it was tenaciously disputed by,
the Mahdi's forces. There was a desperate engagement on January 17th at
the wells of Abu Klea; the British square was broken; for a moment
victory hung in the balance; but the Arabs were repulsed. On the 19th
there was another furiously contested fight, in which Sir Herbert
Stewart was killed. On the 21st, the force, now diminished by over 250
casualties, reached Metemmah. Three days elapsed in reconnoitering the
country, and strengthening the position of the camp. On the 24th, Sir
Charles Wilson, who had succeeded to the command, embarked on the
Bordeen, and started up the river for Khartoum. On the following
evening, the vessel struck on a rock, causing a further delay of
twenty-four hours. It was not until January 28th that Sir Charles
Wilson, arriving under a heavy fire within sight of Khartoum, saw that
the Egyptian flag was not flying from the roof of the palace. The signs
of ruin and destruction on every hand showed clearly enough that the
town had fallen. The relief expedition was two days late.
The details of what passed within Khartoum during the last weeks of the
siege are unknown to us. In the diary of Bordeini Bey, a Levantine
merchant, we catch a few glimpses of the final stages of the
catastrophe--of the starving populace, the exhausted garrison, the
fluctuations of despair and hope, the dauntless energy of the
Governor-General. Still he worked on, indefatigably, apportioning
provisions, collecting ammunition, consulting with the townspeople,
encouraging the soldiers. His hair had suddenly turned quite white. Late
one evening, Bordeini Bey went to visit him in the palace, which was
being bombarded by the Mahdi's cannon. The high building, brilliantly
lighted up, afforded an excellent mark. As the shot came whistling
around the windows, the merchant suggested that it would be advisable to
stop them up with boxes full of sand. Upon this, Gordon Pasha became
enraged.
'He called up the guard, and gave them orders to shoot me if I moved; he
then brought a very large lantern which would hold twenty-four candles.
He and I then put the candles into the sockets, placed the lantern on
the table in front of the window, lit the candles, and then we sat down
at the table. The Pasha then said, "When God was portioning out fear to
all the people in the world, at last it came to my turn, and there was
no fear left to give me. Go, tell all the people in Khartoum that Gordon
fears nothing, for God has created him without fear. "'
On January 5th, Omdurman, a village on the opposite bank of the Nile,
which had hitherto been occupied by the besieged, was taken by the
Arabs. The town was now closely surrounded, and every chance of
obtaining fresh supplies was cut off. The famine became terrible; dogs,
donkeys, skins, gum, palm fibre, were devoured by the desperate
inhabitants. The soldiers stood on the fortifications like pieces of
wood. Hundreds died of hunger daily: their corpses filled the streets;
and the survivors had not the strength to bury the dead. On the 20th,
the news of the battle of Abu Klea reached Khartoum. The English were
coming at last. Hope rose; every morning the Governor-General assured
the townspeople that one day more would see the end of their sufferings;
and night after night his words were proved untrue.
On the 23rd, a rumour spread that a spy had arrived with letters, and
that the English army was at hand. A merchant found a piece of newspaper
lying in the road, in which it was stated that the strength of the
relieving forces was 15,000 men. For a moment, hope flickered up again,
only to relapse once more. The rumour, the letters, the printed paper,
all had been contrivances of Gordon to inspire the garrison with the
courage to hold out. On the 25th, it was obvious that the Arabs were
preparing an attack, and a deputation of the principal inhabitants
waited upon the Governor-General. But he refused to see them; Bordeini
Bey was alone admitted to his presence. He was sitting on a divan, and,
as Bordeini Bey came into the room, he snatched the fez from his head
and flung it from him.
'What more can I say? ' he exclaimed, in a voice such as the merchant had
never heard before. 'The people will no longer believe me. I have told
them over and over again that help would be here, but it has never come,
and now they must see I tell them lies. I can do nothing more. Go, and
collect all the people you can on the lines, and make a good stand. Now
leave me to smoke these cigarettes. '
Bordeini Bey knew then, he tells us, that Gordon Pasha was in despair.
He left the room, having looked upon the Governor-General for the last
time.
When the English force reached Metemmah, the Mahdi, who had originally
intended to reduce Khartoum to surrender through starvation, decided to
attempt its capture by assault. The receding Nile had left one portion
of the town's circumference undefended; as the river withdrew, the
rampart had crumbled; a broad expanse of mud was left between the wall
and the water, and the soldiers, overcome by hunger and the lassitude of
hopelessness, had trusted to the morass to protect them, and neglected
to repair the breach. Early on the morning of the 26th, the Arabs
crossed the river at this point. The mud, partially dried up, presented
no obstacle; nor did the ruined fortification, feebly manned by some
half-dying troops. Resistance was futile, and it was scarcely offered:
the Mahdi's army swarmed into Khartoum. Gordon had long debated with
himself what his action should be at the supreme moment. 'I shall never
(D. V. ),' he had told Sir Evelyn Baring, 'be taken alive. ' He had had
gunpowder put into the cellars of the palace, so that the whole building
might, at a moment's notice, be blown into the air. But then misgivings
had come upon him; was it not his duty 'to maintain the faith, and, if
necessary, to suffer for it'? --to remain a tortured and humiliated
witness of his Lord in the Mahdi's chains? The blowing up of the palace
would have, he thought, 'more or less the taint of suicide', would be,
in a way, taking things out of God's hands'. He remained undecided; and
meanwhile, to be ready for every contingency, he kept one of his little
armoured vessels close at hand on the river, with steam up, day and
night, to transport him, if so he should decide, southward, through the
enemy, to the recesses of Equatoria. The sudden appearance of the Arabs,
the complete collapse of the defence, saved him the necessity of making
up his mind. He had been on the roof, in his dressing-gown, when the
attack began; and he had only time to hurry to his bedroom, to slip on a
white uniform, and to seize up a sword and a revolver, before the
foremost of the assailants were in the palace.
The crowd was led by four
of the fiercest of the Mahdi's followers--tall and swarthy Dervishes,
splendid in their many-coloured jibbehs, their great swords drawn from
their scabbards of brass and velvet, their spears flourishing above
their heads. Gordon met them at the top of the staircase. For a moment,
there was a deathly pause, while he stood in silence, surveying his
antagonists. Then it is said that Taha Shahin, the Dongolawi, cried in a
loud voice, 'Mala' oun el yom yomek! ' (O cursed one, your time is come),
and plunged his spear into the Englishman's body. His only reply was a
gesture of contempt. Another spear transfixed him; he fell, and the
swords of the three other Dervishes instantly hacked him to death. Thus,
if we are to believe the official chroniclers, in the dignity of
unresisting disdain, General Gordon met his end. But it is only fitting
that the last moments of one whose whole life was passed in
contradiction should be involved in mystery and doubt. Other witnesses
told a very different story. The man whom they saw die was not a saint
but a warrior. With intrepidity, with skill, with desperation, he flew
at his enemies. When his pistol was exhausted, he fought on with his
sword; he forced his way almost to the bottom of the staircase; and,
among, a heap of corpses, only succumbed at length to the sheer weight
of the multitudes against him.
That morning, while Slatin Pasha was sitting in his chains in the camp
at Omdurman, he saw a group of Arabs approaching, one of whom was
carrying something wrapped up in a cloth. As the group passed him, they
stopped for a moment, and railed at him in savage mockery. Then the
cloth was lifted, and he saw before him Gordon's head. The trophy was
taken to the Mahdi: at last the two fanatics had indeed met face to
face. The Mahdi ordered the head to be fixed between the branches of a
tree in the public highway, and all who passed threw stones at it. The
hawks of the desert swept and circled about it--those very hawks which
the blue eyes had so often watched.
The news of the catastrophe reached England, and a great outcry arose.
The public grief vied with the public indignation. The Queen, in a
letter to Miss Gordon, immediately gave vent both to her own sentiments
and those of the nation.
'HOW shall I write to you,' she exclaimed, 'or how shall I attempt to
express WHAT I FEEL! To THINK of your dear, noble, heroic Brother, who
served his Country and his Queen so truly, so heroically, with a
self-sacrifice so edifying to the World, not having been rescued. That
the promises of support were not fulfilled--which I so frequently and
constantly pressed on those who asked him to go--is to me GRIEF
INEXPRESSIBLE! Indeed, it has made me ill . . . Would you express to your
other sisters and your elder Brother my true sympathy, and what I do so
keenly feel, the STAIN left upon England, for your dear Brother's cruel,
though heroic, fate! '
In reply, Miss Gordon presented the Queen with her brother's Bible,
which was placed in one of the corridors at Windsor, open, on a white
satin cushion, and enclosed in a crystal case. In the meanwhile, Gordon
was acclaimed in every newspaper as a national martyr; State services
were held in his honour at Westminster and St Paul's; L20,000 was voted
to his family; and a great sum of money was raised by subscription to
endow a charity in his memory. Wrath and execration fell, in particular,
upon the head of Mr. Gladstone. He was little better than a murderer; he
was a traitor; he was a heartless villain, who had been seen at the play
on the very night when Gordon's death was announced. The storm passed;
but Mr. Gladstone had soon to cope with a still more serious agitation.
The cry was raised on every side that the national honour would be
irreparably tarnished if the Mahdi were left in the peaceful possession
of Khartoum, and that the Expeditionary Force should be at once employed
to chastise the false prophet and to conquer the Sudan. But it was in
vain that the imperialists clamoured; in vain that Lord Wolseley wrote
several dispatches, proving over and over again that to leave the Mahdi
unconquered must involve the ruin of Egypt; in vain that Lord Hartington
at last discovered that he had come to the same conclusion. The old man
stood firm. Just then, a crisis with Russia on the Afghan frontier
supervened; and Mr. Gladstone, pointing out that every available soldier
might be wanted at any moment for a European war, withdrew Lord Wolseley
and his army from Egypt. The Russian crisis disappeared. The Mahdi
remained supreme lord of the Sudan.
And yet it was not with the Mahdi that the future lay. Before six months
were out, in the plenitude of his power, he died, and the Khalifa
Abdullahi reigned in his stead. The future lay with Major Kitchener and
his Maxim-Nordenfeldt guns. Thirteen years later the Mahdi's empire was
abolished forever in the gigantic hecatomb of Omdurman; after which it
was thought proper that a religious ceremony in honour of General Gordon
should be held at the palace at Khartoum. The service was conducted by
four chaplains--of the Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, and Methodist
persuasions--and concluded with a performance of 'Abide with Me'--the
General's favourite hymn--by a select company of Sudanese buglers. Every
one agreed that General Gordon had been avenged at last. Who could doubt
it? General Gordon himself, possibly, fluttering, in some remote
Nirvana, the pages of a phantasmal Bible, might have ventured on a
satirical remark. But General Gordon had always been a contradictious
person--even a little off his head, perhaps, though a hero; and besides,
he was no longer there to contradict . . . At any rate, it had all ended
very happily--in a glorious slaughter of 20,000 Arabs, a vast addition
to the British Empire, and a step in the Peerage for Sir Evelyn Baring.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
General Gordon. Reflections in Palestine. Letters. Khartoum Journals.
E. Hake. The Story of Chinese Gordon.
H. W. Gordon. Events in the Life of C. G. Gordon.
D. C. Boulger. Life of General Gordon.
Sir W. Butler. General Gordon.
Rev. R. H. Barnes and C. E, Brown. Charles George Gordon: A Sketch.
A. Bioves. Un Grand Aventurier.
Li Hung Chang. Memoirs. *
Colonel Chaille-Long. My Life in Four Continents.
Lord Cromer. Modern Egypt.
Sir R. Wingate. Mahdiism and the Sudan.
Sir R. Slatin. Fire and Sword in the Sudan.
J. Ohrwalder. Ten Years of Captivity in the Mahdi's Camp.
C. Neufeld. A Prisoner of the Khaleefa.
Wilfrid Blunt. A Secret History of the English Occupation of Egypt.
Gordon at Khartoum.
Winston Churchill. The River War.
F. Power. Letters from Khartoum.
Lord Morley. Life of Gladstone.
George W. Smalley. Mr Gladstone. Harper's Magazine, 1898.
B. Holland. Life of the Eighth Duke of Devonshire.
Lord Fitzmaurice. Life of the Second Earl Granville.
S. Gwynn and Gertrude Tuckwell. Life of Sir Charles Dilke.
Arthur Rimbaud. Lettres.
G. F. Steevens. With Kitchener to Khartoum.
* The authenticity of the Diary contained in this book has been
disputed, notably by Mr. J. 0. P. Bland in his Li Hung Chang.
(Constable, 1917)
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