AT LAST
It will, I believe, surprise but few when I admit that it is next to
impossible for me to remember and relate the incidents which occurred
during my last night and day in the Saier. Added to the general
excitement shared by every one, I had also to contend against the
mental excitement which, earlier in the day, had almost deprived me of
reason. From where I lay chained to a gang of about forty prisoners, I
could hear the infuriated Baggara in the Umm Hagar heaping their curses
on the head of that “son of a dog—Abdallah Nufell,” and promising what
would happen when they laid hands upon me. These were no idle promises
that they made. Apart from the threats which may not be spoken of,
those of “drinking my blood” at the moment my brothers reached Omdurman
almost froze that blood in my veins.
The whole night through we could hear the soft pat, pat, pat of naked
feet, and sometimes the hard breathing of men running a race. Not
having heard any firing, we made all sorts of conjectures. At one
moment it was thought that the troops had rushed one of the zareebas
|270| under cover of darkness, and that these were the fugitives
coming into town; at another moment it was believed that the Khaleefa
had altered his plans, and had decided to stand a siege in Omdurman.
Next it was thought that the dervishes had rushed the camp of the
troops; but this idea was soon discarded, for the people running back
to town would have still had breath to yell out the news of victory. I
have already given the reasons for these people returning, but I only
learned them later; to us prisoners, the night passed in anxiety, and
amidst alternate hopes and fears.
Daylight was only creeping through the skies when we heard a low boom,
followed by an ever-increasing volume of yells and screechings as of
Pandemonium let loose, and then a terrific explosion which positively
shook Omdurman. The town could not stand this sort of thing for ten
minutes; we gave ourselves up for lost, but the bombardment ceased as
suddenly as it began. I asked one of the gaoler’s boys to climb to the
roof of the Umm Hagar to see what the gunboats were doing, as it was
believed that the shells had been fired by them. He called back that
they were “standing still” near Halfeyeh, and not firing at all. As we
could hear the distant booming still going on, we knew then that the
English were holding their own if nothing more, and hope returned.
It did not need the boy to call out when the gunboats moved down
stream that they, too, were opening fire on the dervish camps; we
could almost follow the tide of battle in that furious artillery duel
from the |271| alternate roars and silence as of waves breaking on a
rock-bound coast. There was no doubt in our minds now that the tactics
of the Atbara had been repeated, and that the zareebas were being
shelled preparatory to being stormed; the conjecture was wrong, as we
learned later. Then the rattle of musketry was borne down on the wind;
it was not the rattle of dervish rifles either; we knew the sound of
these when fired. Then followed a long silence, only to be succeeded by
another terrific fusillade; to us prisoners, it was the reserve zareeba
which was now being carried. But the tale of the battle is old, and
who has not heard of that second fight on the day of Omdurman, when
MacDonald’s brigade withstood the combined attack of the armies of
Sheikh ed Din and Yacoub?
One must go amongst the survivors of that attack to learn the details
of the fight. Those having glasses in the British lines must have
noticed Yacoub prancing about on horseback in front of his lines; this
was in imitation of the man he could see on horseback in front of the
brigade which was mowing down his men by hundreds at each volley. They
have learned since who the man was, and “MacDonald” with “Es-Sirdar”
is now a name to conjure with in the Soudan. It was not the first time
MacDonald had so terribly punished the dervishes, while commanding
troops which they had expected would throw down their arms and bolt, as
in olden days.
While all this was occurring on the field of battle, I in prison,
to hide my excitement—and really to calm my overstrung nerves,—took
the Ratib of Ibrahim |272| Wad-el-Fahel, and occupied myself with
“illuminating” its pages with red-and black-ink designs; this was an
occupation I had often earned a few dollars at, but Fahel still owes
me for my last exploit in “illumination.” I left the work unfinished
about noon to attend to two young men attached to the prison, who had
come in from the fight, one with a bullet over the left temple, and the
other with a bullet in the muscle of the left arm. Provided only with
a penknife, I made a cross cut over the spot where I could in one case
see, and the other feel the bullet imbedded, and pressed them out; both
bullets had kept their shape, and must have been encountered at extreme
range, or rather beyond it.
Maybe, with a European, chloroform might have been necessary for the
extraction of the bullet in the arm, but with a Soudanese—have I not
already said that a dervish can continue leaping and stabbing with half
a dozen severe wounds in his body? A dervish can and will kill at the
moment when the ventricles of his heart make their last contraction.
Bodily pain, as we understand it, is unknown to them. Many a time
have I applied, and seen applied, red-hot charcoal to sores, with the
patients calmly looking on. With my present patients, after dabbing
a little carbolic acid over the wounds, I asked what news they had
brought. Yacoub, they said, was killed; almost all the faithful were
killed or wounded; the Khaleefa himself was running back to town,
but they had outstripped him. While still questioning them, Idris es
Saier told me that the Muslimanieh who had been |273| taken out to
fight had made their way back to town, and were rummaging for European
clothes in which to array themselves to receive the troops when they
arrived.
[Illustration: THE FLAG OF KHALEEFA SHEREEF.
Line 1. “In the Name of God, the most Compassionate and Merciful.” Line
2. “Thou Living, Thou Existing and most Glorious Source of generosity.”
Line 3. “There is no God but God. Mohammad is the messenger of God.”
Line 4. “Mohammad El Mahdi is the Khaleefa of the messenger of God.”]
I should here take up the tales of those who were fighting in the
dervish lines in order to present a complete narrative. At sunrise on
September 2, Sheikh ed Din determined on attacking with his army of
riflemen and cavalry, leaving Yacoub, with whom was his father, the
Khaleefa, as a reserve. The shells which fell amongst his men did not
knock them over or mow them down in lanes, they “blew a hundred men and
horses high into the air”; then, when the rifle fire struck them, it
“rolled them about like little stones.” The carnage was so frightful
that Sheikh ed Din himself led the way to the shelter in a khor to the
west of Surgham hill.
And now, to understand clearly what followed next, and in a measure
to explain the post of honour being given to Sheikh ed Din, I must
refer to an incident occurring at the last moment before the army left
Omdurman. Khaleefa Shereef, since his insurrection against Abdullahi,
had not been allowed to exhibit the white flag made specially for
the family of the Mahdi. It was believed that Abdullahi intended to
nominate his son to succeed him, but this was against the expressed
order of the Mahdi that Wad Helu and then Shereef should do so. While
Sheikh ed Din was given the principal command, Shereef was not allowed
any command at all, nor was the white flag of Mahdieh brought out of
the Beit-el-Amana. Discontent was |274| openly expressed at this, and
some of the more religious or fanatic of the Mahdists demanded to know
whether it was Abdullahi or Mahdieh they were to fight for. Abdullahi
was advised to bring out the white flag, and it was carried at the
extreme left of his army, but Sheikh ed Din Abdullahi had hoped would
return as the victor of Kerreri, and thus his succession could be
assured with the aid of a vision.
Seeing the repulse of Sheikh ed Din, the Khaleefa ordered the advance
of Yacoub’s army, and, as they were advancing, Sheikh ed Din collected
his men and joined it. Then it was that the determined attack was made
on MacDonald’s brigade. The Khaleefa had dismounted, and, sitting
on his prayer-skin, surrounded by his Mulazameen six deep, he held
communion again with the Prophet and the Mahdi, while his army was
being thinned by the thousands. Yacoub, with his Emirs and bodyguard of
horsemen, rode in front of the troops and did his best to incite them
to a final rush on the brigade. The white flag of Mahdieh was pushed
close to where the 2nd Egyptian battalion, under Colonel Pink, was
posted, and five standard-bearers in succession were shot down; others
ran to raise it only to be shot down in turn, until the flag was buried
under the slain.
Almost at this moment a well-aimed shell blew Yacoub and his bodyguard
“high in the air,” and before the Khaleefa’s eyes; the black flag was
planted, but the dervishes had had a lesson. Yunis, breaking through
Abdullahi’s bodyguard, ran to him, saying, “Why do you sit here?
Escape; every one is |275| being killed;” but Abdullahi sat still,
dazed and stupefied with what he had seen. With the help of others,
Yunis raised him to his feet, and actually pushed and bundled him
along. Then Abdullahi started running on foot. He refused to mount
a horse or camel; after stumbling and falling three times, Yunis
persuaded him to mount a donkey. His army was now in full retreat, and
“Where, oh, Abdullahi—where is the victory you promised?” assailed his
ears. Calling his camel syce, Abou Gekka, he told him to hurry on a
fast camel to Omdurman, collect his wives, children, and treasures,
and conduct them to the Zareeba-el-Arrda (parade-ground) to the west
of Omdurman, where he would meet them, and then all were to fly
together. On reaching the zareeba, his household were not visible, and
hearing that there were still thousands of his troops in Omdurman,
he was persuaded to enter the town, and make a last stand at the
praying-ground. When nearing the mosque, Abdullahi saw Yacoub’s eunuch
waiting there. Telling him to collect Yacoub’s wives, children, etc.,
and take them to the zareeba, the eunuch asked, “Where is my master?”
Abdullahi then probably for the last time exercised his power of life
and death. Turning to one of those near him, he said, “Who is this
slave, to question my orders?” and the eunuch fell dead at Abdullahi’s
feet with a bullet through his head.
Reaching the large praying enclosure, Abdullahi ordered the drums and
ombeyehs to be sounded, but few or none obeyed the summons; some came,
looked |276| at him sitting there mute, and slunk off; some, I have
heard, jibed at him by asking if he was “sitting on his farwah.” The
farwah, or prayer-skin, is what the leaders formerly stood upon when
the day was lost, and awaited their death. Finding himself deserted by
all, he called for his secretary, Abou-el-Gassim, and asked what could
be done. Gassim, whether in a sarcastic vein or not, recommended that
he should continue praying where he was, and, maybe, his prayers would
still bring victory; but there being none to join in the prayers, he
asked Gassim to collect his household, and bring them to him. Gassim
went off, and did not return.
At this time the Taaishi, Baggara, Berti Habbanieh, Rhizaghat, Digheem
and other tribes, whom he formerly depended upon for support, were
streaming off to the number of probably fifteen thousand, from the
south of the town. Calling two men, he asked them to go outside
the town, and see how far the Government troops were distant. The
messengers, on reaching the Tombs of the Martyrs, about twelve hundred
yards from where Abdullahi was sitting, suddenly came across the Sirdar
and his staff standing at the angle of the great wall; they watched the
staff move off towards the Beit-el-Mal, and returned and reported this
to Abdullahi. Slipping through the door communicating with his house,
he changed his clothes, collected the remainder of his household, and
quietly slipped off while the Sirdar was making the complete circuit
of Omdurman with the exception of those twelve hundred yards. It is a
thousand pities, as things |277| actually were, that the staff did not
continue in the direction they were then taking, for a few minutes’
trot along the deserted street leading to the prayer-ground would have
allowed the Sirdar to lay his hands upon Abdullahi, as he sat there
absolutely alone, on the spot where he had hoped that his faithful
would make their last stand.
The sun was falling, and still we in prison did not know exactly how
the day had gone. We had heard the drums and ombeyehs, which told
us that Abdullahi was calling upon the faithful to assemble at the
prayer-ground; a cloud of dust on the desert and the gunboats slowly
steaming up, meant that the troops were advancing on the town. Idris
es Saier came and asked me what he was to do—to go to his master or
wait for the English. I advised him to close the gates of the prison,
use his rifles upon any of the Baggara trying to force an entrance,
and wait and see who would ask for the keys—the expected Sirdar or the
Khaleefa. In all cases, I told him, it was his duty to protect the
prisoners in his charge, and reminded him of Fauzi’s tale of the two
gaolers. When we heard the shrill cries of the women, we knew that some
one was being welcomed, and guessed correctly that it was the English
at last. Idris, in his anxiety to secure his prisoners, had us all
chained in gangs earlier than usual, and this linking of my gang to the
common chain had only just been completed when Idris came, frightened
out of his life, as one could tell by his voice, to tell me that the
“place was filled with my English brothers,” that a big, tall man, who,
he was told, was |278| the dreaded Sirdar, had asked for me, and that
I was to come at once.
It seemed an age while the chain was being slipped from my shackles,
and then, led by Idris, I made my way to the gate of the Saier. I was
crying dry eyed; I could see a blurred group, and then I was startled
out of my senses by hearing English spoken—the only words of a European
language I had heard for seven long years. From that blurred group,
and through the gloom, came a voice, “Are you Neufeld? are you well?”
And then a tall figure stepped towards me, and gave my hand a hearty
shake. It was the Sirdar. I believe I babbled something as I received a
handshake from one, and a slap on the shoulder from another, but I do
not know what I said. Looking down at my shackles, the Sirdar asked,
“Can these be taken off now?—I am going on.” I believe a second’s
discussion went on with Idris, and then I heard the last order I was
to receive and obey in the Saier, “Neufeld, _out you go_!” It was the
Sirdar’s order, and, half carried by the friendly and strong arms
supporting me, I obeyed. The next thing I remembered was a British
officer slipping off his horse, lifting me into the saddle, and
trudging along at my side after the terribly trying and arduous day he
must have had.
I was taken to the “head-quarters’ mess” at the camp; the Sirdar
had, I believe, allowed himself the luxury of a broken angareeb on
which to rest; the staff were lying in all positions on the sand,
fagged out, but hard at work with despatches and orders by the light
of |279| guttering candles. It was a hungry, thirsty, and deadbeat
head-quarters’ mess I had been invited to on the night of the memorable
2nd of September. While the comfort of the troops had been looked to,
the Sirdar and his staff had evidently neglected themselves. Their
canteen and mess were miles away on slow-travelling camels; one of the
most brilliant victories of the nineteenth century was being celebrated
by a supper of a few biscuits, poor water, some of my prison bread,
which I shared with others around me, and Cairo cigarettes, with the
sand of the desert for seats, and the canopy of heaven as the roof over
our heads.
Soon after reaching the “mess,” I heard a voice calling, “Where’s
Neufeld?” and the inquirer introduced himself to me; it was Mr. Bennet
Burleigh, of the _Daily Telegraph_. I had heard, and yet had not heard,
much English spoken to me, but the flood of language he poured out
when he found me still in chains came as a revelation to me; it was as
picturesque as his description of the battle which I have since read.
Rushing off, he was back in a few moments with some farriers with
their shoeing implements to try and remove my chains; off again, he
came with some engineers, and amidst a running torrent of abuse, anent
cold chisels and other implements which he required and which were not
forthcoming, he questioned me. Every one had a try at those chains;
some one I heard use language concerning the Khaleefa when he found his
thumb between the hammer and the links, but with a great deal of strong
language, and equally as strong blows, the links connecting with the
anklets |280| were cut through, but the anklets themselves were only
removed, owing to want of appliances, on board Colonel Gordon’s steamer
a few minutes before he led the way to the troops who were to take part
in the funeral-service at the spot where his hero uncle fell.
While Slatin’s countryman, Joseppi, was imprisoned with me, I was able
to exercise my mother tongue, and correct his broken German, which
gave me, at all events, some little amusement; but after his murder,
and the escape of Father Ohrwalder, I never had another opportunity of
speaking a European language except in my dreams, and when I discovered
myself talking to myself. For seven long years, with the exception of
the word “torpedo,” by which name the Algerian called his mines, I had
not heard a syllable of a European tongue. The last Europeans I had
spoken to before leaving Egypt were English; the first language I was
to hear on my release was English, and then a strange thing happened.
As far as language was concerned, my brain became a blank from the
moment I left Wadi Halfa, to the moment when the Sirdar called out,
“Are you Neufeld?” so that when the German Military Attaché spoke to
me in German, while hearing, and in the main understanding what he
said, I could not, much to his very evident annoyance, find words in my
mother tongue to reply. It was weeks after my return to Egypt before I
was able to express myself properly in the German language. While to
myself this was not to be greatly wondered at, yet the fact might be
of interest to some scientist, who has made cerebral affections his
particular study.
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