THE GORDON RELIEF EXPEDITION
The incarceration of Gordon in Khartoum was a matter of deep concern
to every soldier and sailor in the British Empire, particularly to
those of us who were in and around Egypt at the time. It has not
always been plain to the British soldier in Egypt, why he was there;
but he seldom asks why he is anywhere. In the matter of Gordon,
however, the case was different. They all knew that Gladstone had sent
him and refused to relieve him; at least, the relief was so
long-drawn-out, so dilatory, that it was practically useless.
I had made application for my discharge from the service by
purchase--a matter of one hundred dollars--and had my plans made out
for further study; but the plight of Gordon gripped me as it gripped
others, and I determined to throw every other consideration aside, and
get to the front. There was one chance in a thousand, and I took it. A
marine officer of the ship was called for and his valet was a man who
had almost served his time; had seen much service and was not at all
anxious for any more. I went after him, bank-book in hand:
"I will give you all I possess if you will let me go in your place."
"It's a go," said this man as a gleam of joy overspread his face. The
officer himself was glad, and the whole thing was arranged; and in
forty-eight hours, I was on board the Peninsula and Oriental steamship
_Bokhara_ bound for the Red Sea. The officer was the most brutal cad I
have ever met. He strutted like a peacock, and seemed to take delight
in humiliating, when an opportunity would present itself, anybody and
everybody beneath him in rank--he was a captain.
The trip through the Suez Canal might be considered a new stage of
development, for I travelled as a second-class passenger. To be
consulted as to what I should eat or to have any choice whatever, was
not only new, but startling. In turning a curve in the Canal, we
encountered a sunken, water-logged ship which stopped the traffic. We
were there four or five days, and the life of ease and luxury, with
opportunity for reading and social intercourse with well-gowned people,
was so enjoyable that, had it not been for the fact that Gordon was in
danger in Khartoum, and I wanted to have a hand in his relief, I should
have enjoyed staying there a month. We disembarked at Suakim on the Red
Sea, and we were--the officer and myself--immediately attached to the
staff of General Sir Gerald Graham in the desert.
The seven months in the desert were months of waiting--monotonous,
deadening waiting. The greatest difficulty of that period of waiting
was the water supply. We were served out with a pint of water a day.
Water for washing was out of the question. Our laundry method was a
kind of optical illusion. We took our flannel shirts, rolled them up
as tightly as possible, tied them with strings, and then thumped them
laboriously with the butt end of a rifle; then they were untied,
shaken out, brushed, and they were ready for use. Most of this was a
make-believe laundry, but the brushing was real. Being attached to the
General Staff, I had a little more leeway in the comforts of life, but
it was mighty little.
Off in the hills, ten miles distant, was encamped the black horde
under Osman Digna, and every night of the seven months the Arabs kept
up small-arm firing upon us. Sometimes they were bold enough to make
an approach in a body in the darkness, but we had powerful electric
lights that could search the desert for miles. We got accustomed to
this after a while, and would simply lie prostrate while the light was
turned on them. Of course, the searching of the desert with the
electric lights was always accompanied with the levelling of our
artillery on whatever the light revealed. Not very much destruction
was accomplished on either side, however. Occasionally a stray bullet
would carry off one of our men in his sleep. Sometimes these naked
savages would stealthily creep in upon our sentries and with their
sharp knives would overpower them and mutilate them in an
indescribable manner.
To prevent this, we laid dynamite mines in front of our encampments. I
watched, late one afternoon, the young engineer officer as he
connected the wires for the night--perhaps his hand trembled as he
made connections, or perhaps some mistake was made. Anyway, there was
an explosion. Great masses of desert sand shot into the air like a
cloud, and when it fell again, the mangled body of the engineer fell
with it; but the mines were laid, connections made for the night, just
the same, by another engineer.
At other places we had broken bottles fixed in the sand, for the black
men came barefooted, and they were more seared by broken bottles in
the sand than they were by the musketry fire.
A night of great excitement was that of the capturing of some of our
mounted scouts in a sortie near the hills. That night we saw half a
dozen immense bon-fires on the hilltops, and the impression we got was
that our comrades were being burned alive. There were half a dozen
brushes or skirmishes with the natives during my stay in the desert,
but I did not experience what might be called a decisive battle. There
had been decisive battles of one sort or another, but I was not
present. They were before my time.
They began the laying of a railway from Suakim to Berber, but
afterward they pulled the rails up. The soldiers cursed Gladstone for
the laxity of his foreign policy. Gordon, we knew, was in Khartoum,
and hard pressed, and outside were the Mahdi and his multitude; and
why the Government should hold us back, we could not understand. The
desert life was so deadening that any kind of a change would have been
welcome. Every man would have been glad of even a repetition of the
charge at Balaklava, though only few men would come out. Anything was
preferable to rotting in the desert!
The sun was striking dead one out of every two men. I thought my time
had come when I had a sunstroke. Being the only man on the General's
staff stricken, I was well looked after. The General had ice, and I
was privileged to have the luxury of it. I was also given a glass of
the finest French brandy. I asked the attendant to put it by my side,
and when he disappeared out of my tent--my tent was so small that it
barely covered my body--I went through a fierce battle with my
prejudices. I was a fanatic on the drink question. I had sworn eternal
hostility to it, and with good reason. The use of it was partly
responsible for my lack of early schooling. It had robbed me of a
great deal of the life of my kind-hearted old mother, and I had
determined to put up a tremendous fight against it. Here the thing was
in my hands, ordered by the doctor; but I tipped it into the sand and
made them believe that I had drunk it. I had seen so many stricken men
with sunstroke die during the same day, that I had little hope of my
own recovery; but inside of twelve hours, I was on my feet again, and,
though weak, at work.
It was recorded that we lost fifty per cent. of our strength by
sunstroke and enteric fever. It was very noticeable that the men of
intemperate habits were the first to go. They dropped like sheep in
the heat of the day, and by sundown they lay beneath a winding sheet
of desert sand. The actual conflict of civilized with savage forces
was responsible for the loss of very few men. The sun was our arch
enemy!
To break the monotony, we tried whatever sport was possible in the
sand. The national game, cricket, came in for a trial, but was more
laughter-provoking than recreative: a bundle of rags tightly rolled up
in a sphere served as a ball, and pieces of boards of old
packing-cases served as bats and wickets. Leapfrog and the
three-cornered game of "cat" were favourite pastimes, but nothing
broke the monotony. It was depressing, and it was not an unusual sight
to see men weeping from homesickness--utterly unable to keep back the
tears. There were attempts at suicide also, and men eagerly sought
opportunity to endanger themselves. Actual fighting on the desert was
to us the greatest possible godsend, for it meant either death or
relief from the game of waiting.
Despite the fact that the love of Gordon had brought me there, I was
not enamoured of the way in which the campaign was carried on. Of
course, when in actual conflict, I wanted this black horde wiped off
the face of the earth; but when I saw boys and girls, ranging from six
to ten years of age, approaching the phalanx of British bayonets with
their little assagais ready to do battle, I was thrilled with
admiration for them. Some of our officers described this as
fanaticism, and I remember a discussion that took place between two of
them as to whether it was fanaticism or courage, and a unique
experiment was tried. We had with us always a contingent of friendly
natives, and in order to test the question, one of them was to bare
his back (for a shilling) and an officer applied to it, with all his
strength, a horsewhip. I saw the black man's body writhe for an
instant as he puckered his mouth; but it was only for an instant--then
he smiled and asked for another stroke for another shilling. This
seemed to indicate to the officers that there was something more than
fanaticism in the Soudanese. Their warriors were tall, powerfully
built men--we used to say they were dressed in palm oil and
mosquitoes. Their hair stood straight up, and their bodies were
greased. I think it was the general opinion of our officers that if
these men could be disciplined and drilled as European soldiers are,
they would make the finest fighters in the world. Perhaps Kipling has
described this opinion better than anybody else when he says:
So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air--
You big black boundin' beggar--for you broke a British square!
There was somewhat of a mixture of my sentiment and feeling on this
war. I wanted Gordon released, I wanted the war ended and the
Soudanese beaten; but when I contrasted the spirit of the campaign
with the spirit of Jesus, I often wished that I could lend my
assistance to these black men of the desert who were fighting for the
thing under their feet, and the home life of their tribe. But it was
not until I was completely out of the desert that I was possessed of a
loathing and disgust for the game of war, as such. This disgust grew
until I had completely ridden myself not only of the war spirit, but
of the paraphernalia of the soldier. The officer whose servant I was,
was so hated by everybody who knew him that if he had ever gotten in
front of the ranks, as was the ancient custom in war, he would have
been the first man to drop, and he would have dropped by a bullet from
one of his own men. But leaders no longer lead on the field of
battle--they follow!
I had some books with me, but the power to interest myself in them
had almost completely vanished. I occupied my mind very largely with
military tactics. On a large sheet of brown paper I outlined the plan
of campaign. On it I had the position of every regiment in our army.
The dynamite mines, the region of broken glass, the furze bushes, fort
and redoubts were all minutely detailed, and one night an exigency
arose in which this paper plan of campaign was called into evidence.
Tired of waiting, and very restive and discontented under the
privations of the desert, Graham determined to move. The
electric-light apparatus was out of order, and the advance forts were
too far away to be touched with any less powerful signal of the night.
A non-commissioned officer was ordered to take a corporal's guard and
deliver marching orders to the advanced forts. When questioned as to
the route he was not quite certain as to the exact location of the
dynamite mines or broken glass, and as I overheard the entire
conversation, I produced my brown-paper map and begged the honour of
carrying the dispatch. This was not granted me until several others
had been questioned and failed. I was so sure of every inch of the
ground, that I was commissioned to take two men with me and deliver
the orders. This made my heart leap with joy--it was a relief, an
excitement, an opportunity!
Osman Digna's men were stealthy. They hid behind the furze bushes in
the darkness so often, and so many of our men had been hamstrung,
that, of course, we were on the alert; but every furze bush we
approached covered an imaginery "Fuzzy-Wuzzy," and this, often
repeated, created an unutterable fear, so that by the time we reached
our destination, our khaki clothing was black with sweat, and we were
literally drenched with fear. Of course, we put on a brave front and
smiled complacently as we delivered the orders, and when it was
suggested that we remain overnight in the fort, I nonchalantly refused
the offer under the pretence that we were expected back. The same
thing happened on the return journey, and when the thing was over, we
were the most pitiful-looking objects--fear-stricken soldiers!
Some months later when it was announced to me that we had been
mentioned in dispatches, the absurdity of the thing became for the
first time fully apparent. According to the ethics of military life, I
had done a brave thing--something worth mentioning; but to my own
soul, I had been panic-stricken with physical fear, and, turn it over
as I might, I could not discover a vestige of either courage or
fortitude in the entire transaction.
The phrase, "Everything is fair in love and war," covers a multitude
of sins in both departments. We had a unique way of finding out
whether the wells in the desert were poisoned. We led up to each well
a small detachment of captives and made them drink. If they drank, we
could drink also; if they refused, we took it for granted the wells
were poisoned, and we hanged them. Sometimes this extreme sentence was
mitigated, and we flogged them. Whatever we touched, we destroyed.
What the bullet could not accomplish, the torch could. It was a
campaign of annihilation!
The news of Gordon's death cast a gloom over the entire army. This, of
course, meant relief and return home, but no man wanted to return. We
were seized with a fiendish impulse to proceed at all hazards to
Khartoum to his relief. That, from the point of view of the Government
was, of course, out of the question, and we were ordered home.
Transport ships were lying in Suakim harbour ready for the journey
across the sea, but this could not be accomplished with dispatch. A
garrison had to be left to watch the seaboard. The detachment of which
I was a part was returned to the town of Suakim, and the officers were
quartered in an unfinished building by the seaside at the edge of the
water. The officers' servants lived in tents pitched on the roof. We
were permitted to bathe as often as we wished. The harbour was full of
sharks and rather dangerous for bathing, but the Soudanese seemed to
be not over-careful as they skimmed over the water in their
"dug-outs."
The journey home on a transport was a continuation of the misery of
the desert. What the desert had left undone to weakened men, the
rough voyage accomplished. The ship was overcrowded and almost every
day dead bodies lashed to planks were pitched over the side. The sight
(below decks) of scores of men crawling around in a dying condition,
struck terror to the hearts of the strong. The smells were nauseating
and the food was vile. No man knew when his turn would come. The few
doctors were utterly unable to cope with this physical collapse of so
many men.
The condition of the ship and of the men furnished me with the best
opportunity I had had up to that time for evangelistic work. I spent
twenty hours of each twenty-four preaching the gospel to the men. The
absence of a chaplain on board made the work comparatively easy. My
work was done so quietly and unobtrusively, that it was practically
unknown save to the sick and the dying until an incident happened that
brought me somewhat into the light.
We were in the Bay of Biscay, and those who were well were fighting
off the atmosphere of disease. It was toward evening and four men were
playing cards for money. I stood watching them with my hands behind my
back. I must have been there half an hour when the man directly in
front of me, looking around and staring me in the face, said:
"Get t'ell out of 'ere! I 'aven't won a penny since you've been
watching us."
The other men laughed and I moved away, excusing myself as I
departed; but before I was out of hearing, one of the men addressed
the speaker and said:
"Don't be too sure of what you could do to that fellow Irvine--his
looks belie him. He's got more steam in his elbow than you have."
That was all I heard, but as I was looking over the side a minute or
two later, a hand was laid on my shoulder. I looked around. It was the
man who had threatened me.
"Say, pal," he said, "I didn't mean no 'arm. These 'ere blokes tell me
as yer name's Irvine. Is that so?" I nodded an assent. "Did yer ever
'ave a chum 'oose name was Creedan?" Again I nodded assent. "D'ye know
what became ov 'im?"
"He was missing on the field," I replied.
"'E's dead," said the man.
Then he described to me the last moments of my friend. It appeared
that Creedan and this man fell together on the field, Creedan shot
through the abdomen; this man, through the shoulder. An officer came
along and offered Creedan a mouthful of water, but he refused, saying
he was all in, but that he wanted to send a message to his chum, and
this is the message he gave to the man who had threatened to punch my
head:
"Tell Irvine the anchor holds!"
I was moved, of course, by the recital of this story; so was the man
who told it.
"What in 'ell did 'e mean by th' anchor 'oldin'?" the man asked.
"Old man," I said, "I had been trying for a long time to lead Creedan
to a religious life, and the story you tell is the only evidence that
I ever had that he took me seriously."
The man looked as if he were going to weep, and in a quivering voice
he asked if I could help him. He was going home to marry a maiden in
Kent whom he described as "a pure good girl." He felt unworthy, for he
was a gambler and a periodical drunkard, and he thought that if a man
like Creedan could be helped, he could.
I struck the iron while it was hot, and said: "There is a good deal to
be done for you, but you have to do it yourself! If you've got the
grit in you to face these fellows and make a confession of religion
right here and now, I will guarantee to you that you'll land on the
shores of England a new man."
He looked at me for a moment with a stern, hard face, then he said:
"By God, I'll do it!" There was no profanity in this assertion. It was
the strongest way he could put it; and we dropped on our knees on the
deck and began to pray. In a minute or two half a dozen others joined
us. Then it seemed as if everybody around us was on his knees; and
then, when I felt the atmosphere of the crowd and the reverence of it,
I called on others to pray; half a dozen others responded, and then
this man, above the roar of the wind through the sails and the
creaking of the boats' davits, prayed to God to make him a new man.
Creedan had been drafted from the ship in a detachment for the front,
and when we met on the desert, we entered into a compact which
stipulated that if either of us fell on the field of battle, the
survivor was to take charge of the deceased's effects, and visit his
people.
The arrival of the troops in England was the occasion for an unusual
demonstration. We were banqueted and paraded, and all kinds of honours
were showered upon us. As we marched through the streets in our
sand-coloured uniforms, we were supposed to be heroes--heroes every
one. What a farce the whole thing seemed to me! Nevertheless, I was
inconsistent enough to actually enjoy whatever the others were
getting.
Having purchased my discharge by the payment of £20 I was at liberty
to leave at my pleasure; I was offered a lucrative position in the
officers' mess which was one of the best in the British Army. This I
accepted and held for a year.
My furlough, after a short visit to Ireland, I spent in Oxford. The
University and its colleges and the town had a wonderful fascination
for me, but I think, as I look back at it and try to sum up its
influence upon me, that the personality of the "Master of
Balliol"--Benjamin Jowett--was the greatest and the most permanent
thing I received.
I had been striving for years to slough off from my tongue a thick
Irish brogue, and had not succeeded very well. The elegance and the
chasteness of Jowett's English did more for me in this respect than my
years of pruning. I have never heard such English, and behind this
master language of a master mind, there was a man, a gentleman! I
wrote Dr. Jowett a note one day, asking for an interview. It may have
been the execrable handwriting that interested him; but I had a most
polite note in return, stating the hour at which he would be glad to
see me. I remember attempting in a very awkward, childish way to
explain to him something of my ambition to make progress in my
studies, and how poorly prepared I was and how handicapped in various
ways. He rose from his seat, took down a book from a shelf, consulted
it and put it back, and then he told me in a few words of a Spanish
soldier who had entered the University of Paris at the age of
thirty-three and became an influence that was world-wide. This, by way
of encouragement. The model held up had very little effect upon me,
but this personal interview, this close touch with the man who himself
was a model, was a great inspiration to me, and remains with me one of
the most pleasant memories of my life.
My first lecture was given in the town hall at my home town in
Ireland during the first week of my after-campaign furlough. The
townspeople filled the hall, more out of curiosity than to hear the
lecture, for when the cobbler's son had left the town a few years
before he couldn't read his own name.
The Vicar presided. Ministers of other denominations were present. The
Young Men's Christian Association was very much in evidence at the
lecture. School teachers of the Sunday School where I taught, were
present. The class of little boys I had gathered off the streets was
there; but personally I had gone after the newsboys of the town, and I
had arranged that they should sit in a row of front seats. Indeed, I
bribed some of them to be present.
My lecture was on Gordon and Khartoum. I described our life on the
desert and told something of the war-game as I had seen it played. At
the close of the lecture, the usual perfunctory vote of thanks was
moved, and several prominent men of the town made the seconding of the
vote an excuse for a speech. Curiously enough, I had had an experience
with one of these men when I was a newsboy, and in my reply to this
vote of thanks I told the story:
"One winter's night when I was selling papers on these streets--I
think I was about twelve years of age--I knocked at a man's door and
asked if he wanted a paper. The streets were covered with snow and
slush, and I was shoeless and very cold. The man of the house opened
the door himself, and something must have disturbed him mentally, for
when he saw it was a newsboy, he took me by the collar and threw me
into the gutter. My papers were spoiled and my rags soaked with slush
and water.
"I picked myself up and came back to the window through which I saw a
bright fire on an open hearth, and around it the man's family. I don't
think I said any bad words, nor do I think I was very angry; but I
certainly was sad and I made up my mind at the window that that man
would some day be sorry for an unnecessary act of cruelty. I am glad
that the gentleman is present to-night"--a deep silence and
breathlessness pervaded the audience--"for I am sure that he is sorry.
But here are the newsboys of the town. They are my invited guests
to-night. I want to say to the townspeople that the only kindly hand
ever laid on my head was the Vicar's. It is too late now to help me--I
am beyond your reach: but these boys are here, and they are serving
you with papers and earning a few pennies to appease hunger or to
clothe their bodies, and I want you to be kind to them."
After the lecture the man who had thrown me in the gutter came to me.
Of course, he had forgotten it. He had not the slightest idea he was
the man, but he said:
"What a dastardly shame!"
I gripped him by the hands, and said, "You, my brother, are the man
who did it." I tightened my grip, and said, "And I forgive you as
fully and freely as I possibly can. You are sorry, and I am
satisfied."
I studied in the military schools for a first-class military
certification of education, and got my promotion; but no sooner had
the studies ceased and promotion come than the disgust with military
life and its restrictions increased with such force that it became
unbearable. So I left the service.