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The River War

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During the progress of the struggle with Abyssinia the war against Egypt
languished. The Mahdi, counting upon the support of the population, had
always declared that he would free the Delta from 'the Turks,' and was
already planning its invasion when he and his schemes were interrupted
by death. His successor inherited all the quarrel, but not all the power.
Much of Mohammed Ahmed's influence died with him. Alive, he might conquer
the Moslem world; dead, he was only a saint. All fanatical feeling in
Egypt soon subsided. Nevertheless the Khalifa persisted in the enterprise.
The success of the Abyssinian war encouraged and enabled him to resume the
offensive on his northern frontier, and he immediately ordered
Wad-el-Nejumi, who commanded in Dongola, to march with his scanty force to
the invasion of Egypt. The mad enterprise ended, as might have been
foreseen, in the destruction of both Emir and army at Toski. The Khalifa
received the news with apparent grief, but it is difficult to avoid
suspecting him of dark schemes. He was far too clever to believe that
Egypt could be conquered by five thousand men. He knew that besides the
Egyptians there was a strange white tribe of men, the same that had so
nearly saved Khartoum. 'But for the English,' he exclaimed on several
occasions, 'I would have conquered Egypt.' Yet, knowing of the British
occupation, he deliberately sent an army to its inevitable ruin. It is
difficult to reconcile such conduct with the character for sagacity and
intelligence which Abdullah has deserved. There is no doubt that he wanted
to conquer Egypt. Possibly by some extraordinary chance Wad-el-Nejumi
might succeed, even with his small force. If so, then the glory of God
and the power of the Khalifa would advance together. If not--and herein
lies the true reason for the venture--the riverain tribes would have
received a crippling blow.

The terrible slaughter of the Abyssinian war had fallen mainly on
the Jehadia and the eastern Arabs. The jealous tribes in the north had
not suffered. The balance of power was in need of re-adjustment.
The Jaalin and Barabra were fast becoming dangerous. Nejumi's army was
recruited almost entirely from these sources. The reinforcements sent from
Omdurman consisted of men selected from the flag of the Khalifa Sherif,
who was growing too powerful, and of the Batahin tribe, who had shown a
mutinous spirit [Ohrwalder, TEN YEARS' CAPTIVITY.] The success of such
an army in Egypt would be glorious. Its destruction anywhere would be
convenient. Whatever Abdullah's motives may have been, his advantage was
certain. But the life of the empire thus compelled to prey upon itself
must necessarily be short.

Other forces were soon added to the work of exhaustion. The year
following the end of the Abyssinian war was marked by a fearful famine.
Slatin and Ohrwalder vie with each other in relating its horrors--men
eating the raw entrails of donkeys; mothers devouring their babies;
scores dying in the streets, all the more ghastly in the bright sunlight;
hundreds of corpses floating down the Nile--these are among the hideous
features, The depopulation caused by the scarcity was even greater than
that produced by the fighting. The famine area extended over the whole
Soudan and ran along the banks of the river as far as Lower Egypt.
The effects of the famine were everywhere appalling. Entire districts
between Omdurman and Berber became wholly depopulated. In the salt regions
near Shendi almost all the inhabitants died of hunger. The camel-breeding
tribes ate their she-camels. The riverain peoples devoured their seed-corn.
The population of Gallabat, Gedaref, and Kassala was reduced by
nine-tenths, and these once considerable towns shrank to the size
of hamlets. Everywhere the deserted mud houses crumbled back into the
plain. The frightful mortality, general throughout the whole country,
may be gauged by the fact that Zeki Tummal's army, which before the
famine numbered not fewer than 87,000, could scarcely muster 10,000 men
in the spring of 1890.

The new harvest came only in time to save the inhabitants of the Soudan
from becoming extinct. The remnant were preserved for further misfortunes.
War, scarcity, and oppression there had always been. But strange and
mysterious troubles began to afflict the tortured tribes. The face of
heaven was pitiless or averted. In 1890 innumerable swarms of locusts
descended on the impoverished soil. The multitude of their red or yellow
bodies veiled the sun and darkened the air, and although their flesh,
tasting when roasted like fried shrimps, might afford a delicate meal to
the natives, they took so heavy a toll of the crops that the famine was
prolonged and scarcity became constant. Since their first appearance the
locusts are said to have returned annually [Ohrwalder, TEN YEARS'
CAPTIVITY.] Their destructive efforts were aided by millions of little
red mice, who destroyed the seeds before they could grow. So vast and
immeasurable was the number of these tiny pests that after a heavy rain
the whole country was strewn with, and almost tinted by, the
squirrel-coloured corpses of the drowned.

Yet, in spite of all the strokes of fate, the Khalifa maintained his
authority unshaken. The centralisation which always occurs in military
States was accelerated by the famine. The provincial towns dwindled;
thousands and tens of thousands perished; but Omdurman continually grew,
and its ruler still directed the energies of a powerful army. Thus for
the present we might leave the Dervish Empire. Yet the gloomy city of
blood, mud, and filth that arose by the confluence of the Niles deserves
a final glance while still in the pride of independent barbarism.

It is early morning, and the sun, lifting above the horizon, throws the
shadows of the Khartoum ruins on the brimful waters of the Nile. The old
capital is solitary and deserted. No sound of man breaks the silence of
its streets. Only memory broods in the garden where the Pashas used
to walk, and the courtyard where the Imperial envoy fell. Across the river
miles of mud houses, lining the banks as far as Khor Shambat, and
stretching back into the desert and towards the dark hills, display the
extent of the Arab metropolis. As the sun rises, the city begins to live.
Along the road from Kerreri a score of camels pad to market with village
produce. The north wind is driving a dozen sailing-boats, laden to the
water's edge with merchandise, to the wharves. One of Gordon's old
steamers lies moored by the bank. Another, worked by the crew that manned
it in Egyptian days, is threshing up the Blue Nile, sent by the Khalifa to
Sennar on some errand of State. Far away to the southward the dust of a
Darfur caravan breaks the clear-cut skyline with a misty blur.

The prolonged beating of war-drums and loud booming notes of horns
chase away the silence of the night. It is Friday, and after the hour of
prayer all grown men must attend the review on the plain without the city.
Already the streets are crowded with devout and obedient warriors.
soon the great square of the mosque--for no roof could shelter so many
thousand worshippers--is filled with armed men, kneeling in humble
supplication to the stern God of Islam and his most holy Mahdi.
It is finished. They rise and hurry to the parade. The Emirs plant their
flags, and all form in the ranks. Woe to the laggard; and let the speedy
see that he wear his newest jibba, and carry a sharp sword and at least
three spears. Presently the array is complete.

A salute of seven guns is fired. Mounted on a fine camel, which is led
by a gigantic Nubian, and attended by perhaps two hundred horsemen in
chain armour, the Khalifa rides on to the ground and along the ranks.
It is a good muster. Few have dared absent themselves. Yet his brow is
clouded. What has happened? Is there another revolt in the west? Do the
Abyssinians threaten Gallabat? Have the black troops mutinied; or is it
only some harem quarrel?

The parade is over. The troops march back to the arsenal. The rifles
are collected, and the warriors disperse to their homes. Many hurry to
the market-place to make purchases, to hear the latest rumour, or to
watch the executions--for there are usually executions. Others stroll to
the Suk-er-Rekik and criticise the points of the slave girls as the
dealers offer them for sale. But the Khalifa has returned to his house,
and his council have been summoned. The room is small, and the ruler sits
cross-legged upon his couch. Before him squat the Emirs and Kadis. Yakub
is there, with Ali-Wad-Helu and the Khalifa Sherif. Only the Sheikh-ed-Din
is absent, for he is a dissolute youth and much given to drinking.

Abdullah is grave and anxious. A messenger has come from the north.
The Turks are on the move. Advancing beyond their frontier, they have
established themselves at Akasha. Wad Bishara fears lest they may attack
the faithful who hold Firket. In itself this is but a small matter,
for all these years there has been frontier fighting. But what follows
is full of menacing significance. The 'enemies of God' have begun to
repair the railway--have repaired it, so that the train already runs
beyond Sarras. Even now they push their iron road out into the desert
towards their position at Akasha and to the south. What is the object of
their toil? Are they coming again? Will they bring those terrible white
soldiers who broke the hearts of the Hadendoa and almost destroyed the
Degheim and Kenana? What should draw them up the Nile? Is it for plunder,
or in sheer love of war; or is it a blood feud that brings them?
True, they are now far off. Perchance they will return, as they returned
before. Yet the iron road is not built in a day, nor for a day, and of a
surety there are war-clouds in the north.




CHAPTER IV: THE YEARS OF PREPARATION



In the summer of 1886, when all the troops had retreated to Wady Halfa
and all the Soudan garrisons had been massacred, the British people
averted their eyes in shame and vexation from the valley of the Nile.
A long succession of disasters had reached their disgraceful culmination.
The dramatic features added much to the bitterness and nothing to the
grandeur of the tragedy. The cost was heavy. Besides the pain produced by
the death of General Gordon, the heavy losses in officers and men, and the
serious expenditure of public money, the nation smarted under failure and
disappointment, and were, moreover, deeply sensible that they had been
humiliated before the whole world. The situation in Egypt was scarcely
more pleasing. The reforms initiated by the British Administrators had as
yet only caused unpopularity. Baring's interference galled the Khedive
and his Ministers. Vincent's parsimony excited contempt. Moncrieff's
energy had convulsed the Irrigation Department. Wood's army was the
laughing-stock of Europe. Among and beneath the rotten weeds and garbage
of old systems and abuses the new seed was being sown. But England saw
no signs of the crop; saw only the stubborn husbandmen begrimed with the
dust and dirt, and herself hopelessly involved in the Egyptian muddle:
and so in utter weariness and disgust, stopping her ears to the gibes
and cat-calls of the Powers, she turned towards other lands
and other matters.

When the attention of the nation was again directed to Egypt
the scene was transformed. It was as though at the touch of an angel
the dark morasses of the Slough of Despond had been changed to the breezy
slopes of the Delectable Mountains. The Khedive and his Ministers lay
quiet and docile in the firm grasp of the Consul-General. The bankrupt
State was spending surpluses upon internal improvement. The disturbed
Irrigation Department was vivifying the land. The derided army held the
frontier against all comers. Astonishment gave place to satisfaction,
and satisfaction grew into delight. The haunting nightmare of Egyptian
politics ended. Another dream began--a bright if vague vision of Imperial
power, of trans-continental railways, of African Viceroys, of conquest
and commerce. The interest of the British people in the work of
regeneration grew continually. Each new reform was hailed with applause.
Each annual Budget was scrutinised with pride. England exulted in the
triumph of failure turned into success. There was a general wish to know
more about Egypt and the men who had done these great things. In 1893 this
desire was satisfied, and yet stimulated by the publication of Sir Alfred
Milner's 'England in Egypt.' His skilful pen displayed what had been
overcome, no less than what was accomplished. By explaining the
difficulties he enhanced the achievement. He showed how, while Great
Britain was occupied elsewhere, her brilliant, persevering sons had
repeated on a lesser scale in Egypt the marvellous evolution which is
working out in India. Smaller systems circulate more rapidly. The
administrators were guided by experience. The movement had been far
swifter, and the results were more surprising. Such was the wonderful
story, and it was told in a happy moment. The audience were eager and
sympathetic. The subject was enthralling. The story-teller had a wit and
a style that might have brightened the dullest theme. In these propitious
circumstances the book was more than a book. The words rang like the
trumpet-call which rallies the soldiers after the parapets are stormed,
and summons them to complete the victory.

The regeneration of Egypt is not a theme which would fall within the
limits of this account, even if it had not been fully dealt with by Sir
Alfred Milner. But the reorganisation of the Egyptian army, the forging of
the weapon of reconquest, is an essential feature. On the 20th of December,
1882, the old Egyptian army--or, rather, such parts as had escaped
destruction--was disbanded by a single sentence of a British decree,
and it was evident that some military body must replace that which had
been swept away. All sorts of schemes for the employment of foreign legions
or Turkish janissaries were devised. But Lord Dufferin adhered firmly to
the principle of entrusting the defence of a country to its inhabitants,
and it was determined to form a new Egyptian army. The poverty of the
government, no less than the apparent folly of the experiment, demanded
that the new army should be small. The force was intended only for the
preservation of internal order and the defence of the southern and western
frontiers of Egypt against the Bedouin Arabs. The Soudan still slumbered
out its long nightmare. Six thousand men was the number originally drawn
by conscription--for there are no volunteers in Egypt--from a population
of more than 6,000,000. Twenty-six British officers--either poor men
attracted by the high rates of pay, or ambitious allured by the increased
authority--and a score of excellent drill-sergeants undertook the duty of
teaching the recruits to fight. Sir Evelyn Wood directed the enterprise,
and became the first British Sirdar of the Egyptian army. The work began
and immediately prospered. Within three months of its formation the army
had its first review. The whole 6,000 paraded in their battalions and
marched past the Khedive and their country's flag. Their bearing and their
drill extorted the half-contemptuous praise of the indifferent spectators.
Experienced soldiers noticed other points. Indeed, the new army differed
greatly from the old. In the first place, it was paid. The recruits were
treated with justice. Their rations were not stolen by the officers.
The men were given leave to go to their villages from time to time. When
they fell sick, they were sent to hospital instead of being flogged.
In short, the European system was substituted for the Oriental.

It was hardly possible that the fertile soil and enervating climate of
the Delta would have evolved a warrior race. Ages of oppression and
poverty rarely produce proud and warlike spirits. Patriotism does not grow
under the 'Kourbash.' The fellah soldier lacks the desire to kill. Even the
Mohammedan religion has failed to excite his ferocity. He may be cruel.
He is never fierce. Yet he is not without courage--a courage which bears
pain and hardship in patience, which confronts ill-fortune with
indifference, and which looks on death with apathetic composure. It is the
courage of down-trodden peoples, and one which stronger breeds may often
envy, though they can scarcely be expected to admire. He has other military
virtues. He is obedient, honest, sober, well-behaved, quick to learn, and,
above all, physically strong. Generations of toiling ancestors, though they
could not brace his nerves, have braced his muscles. Under the pressure of
local circumstances there has been developed a creature who can work with
little food, with little incentive, very hard for long hours under a
merciless sun. Throughout the river campaigns, if the intellect of the
army, if the spirit of the troops, have come from without, Egypt herself
has provided the sinews of war.

Such was the material out of which the British officers have formed
the new Egyptian army. At first, indeed, their task was embittered by the
ridicule of their comrades in the British and Indian Services; but as the
drill and bearing of the force improved, the thoughtless scorn would have
been diverted from the Englishmen to fall only upon the Egyptian soldiers.
But this was not allowed. The British officers identified themselves with
their men. Those who abused the fellah soldier were reminded that they
insulted English gentlemen. Thus a strange bond of union was established
between the officers and soldiers of the Egyptian Service; and although
material forces may have accomplished much, without this moral factor the
extraordinary results would never have been achieved.

It was not long before the new military organisation was exposed to
the stern test of war. The army that was raised to preserve internal order
was soon called upon to guard the frontier. The revolt in the Soudan,
which in its earlier stages seemed the least of the Egyptian difficulties,
speedily dwarfed all the rest. The value of the new force was soon
recognised. In June 1883 we find General Hicks, then preparing for his
fatal march, writing to Sir Evelyn Wood: 'Send me four battalions of your
new army, and I shall be content.' But fortune protected the infant
organisation from such a disastrous beginning. The 'new army' remained
for a space in Cairo; and although during the Nile expedition of 1884-85
the Egyptians were employed guarding the lines of communication, it was
not until the British troops had been withdrawn from Dongola that they
received at Ginniss their baptism of fire. Henceforth their place was on
the frontier, and from 1886 onward the Egyptian troops proved equal to the
task of resisting the northward pressure of the Dervishes.

The numbers of the army grew with its responsibilities. Up to the end
of 1883 the infantry still consisted of eight fellahin battalions. In 1884
the first Soudanese battalion was raised. The black soldier was of a very
different type from the fellahin. The Egyptian was strong, patient,
healthy, and docile. The negro was in all these respects his inferior.
His delicate lungs, slim legs, and loosely knit figure contrasted
unfavourably with the massive frame and iron constitution of the peasant
of the Delta. Always excitable and often insubordinate, he required the
strictest discipline. At once slovenly and uxorious, he detested his
drills and loved his wives with equal earnestness; and altogether
'Sambo'--for such is the Soudanese equivalent of 'Tommy'--was a lazy,
fierce, disreputable child. But he possessed two tremendous military
virtues. To the faithful loyalty of a dog he added the heart of a lion.
He loved his officer, and feared nothing in the world. With the
introduction of this element the Egyptian army became a formidable
military machine. Chance or design has placed the blacks ever in the
forefront of the battle, and in Lord Kitchener's campaigns on the Nile the
losses in the six Soudanese battalions have exceeded the aggregate of the
whole of the rest of the army.

It was well that the Egyptian troops were strengthened by these valiant
auxiliaries, for years of weary war lay before them. Sir Reginald Wingate,
in his exhaustive account of the struggle of Egypt with the Mahdist power,
[MAHDISM AND THE EGYPTIAN SOUDAN, Sir Reginald Wingate] has described the
successive actions which accompanied the defence of the Wady Halfa
frontier and of Suakin.

The ten years that elapsed between Ginniss and the first movements of
the expedition of re-conquest were the dreary years of the Egyptian army.
The service was hard and continual. Though the operations were petty, an
untiring vigilance was imperative. The public eye was averted. A pitiless
economy was everywhere enforced. The British officer was deprived of his
leave and the Egyptian private of his rations, that a few pounds might be
saved to the Egyptian Treasury. The clothing of the battalions wore thin
and threadbare, and sometimes their boots were so bad that the soldiers'
feet bled from the cutting edges of the rocks, and the convoy escorts left
their trails behind them. But preparation was ever going forward. The army
improved in efficiency, and the constant warfare began to produce,
even among the fellahin infantry, experienced soldiers. The officers,
sweltering at weary Wady Halfa and Suakin, looked at the gathering
resources of Egypt and out into the deserts of the declining Dervish
Empire and knew that some day their turn would come. The sword of
re-conquest which Evelyn Wood had forged, and Grenfell had tested,
was gradually sharpened; and when the process was almost complete,
the man who was to wield it presented himself.

Horatio Herbert Kitchener, the eldest son of a lieutenant-colonel,
was born in 1850, and, after being privately educated, entered in 1869
the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich as a cadet of the Royal Engineers.
In the spring of 1871 he obtained his commission, and for the first ten
years of his military service remained an obscure officer, performing
his duties with regularity, but giving no promise of the talents and
character which he was afterwards to display. One powerful weapon, however,
he acquired in this time of waiting. In 1874 accident or instinct led him
to seek employment in the surveys that were being made of Cyprus and
Palestine, and in the latter country he learned Arabic. For six years the
advantage of knowing a language with which few British officers were
familiar brought him no profit. For procuring military preferment Arabic
was in 1874 as valueless as Patagonian. All this was swiftly changed by
the unexpected course of events. The year 1882 brought the British fleet
to Alexandria, and the connection between England and Egypt began to be
apparent. Kitchener did not neglect his opportunity. Securing leave of
absence, he hurried to the scene of crisis. Alexandria was bombarded.
Detachments from the fleet were landed to restore order. The British
Government decided to send an army to Egypt. British officers and soldiers
were badly wanted at the seat of war; an officer who could speak Arabic
was indispensable.

Thus Kitchener came to Egypt and set his feet firmly on the high road
to fortune. He came to Egypt when she was plunged in misery and shame,
when hopeless ruin seemed already the only outcome of the public disasters,
and when even greater misfortunes impended. He remained to see her
prosperous and powerful; to restore empire to her people, peace to her
empire, honour to her army; and among those clear-minded men of action by
whom the marvellous work of regeneration has been accomplished, Herbert
Kitchener will certainly occupy the second place. Lord Wolseley on his
arrival soon found employment for the active officer who could speak
Arabic. He served through the campaign of 1882 as a major. He joined the
new army which was formed at the conclusion of the war, as one of the
original twenty-six officers. In the Nile expedition of 1885 Arabic again
led him to the front, and in the service of the Intelligence Department
he found ample opportunity for his daring and energy. His efforts to
communicate with Gordon in Khartoum did not, however, meet with much
success, and the Journals bristle with so many sarcastic comments that
their editor has been at pains to explain in his preface that there was
really no cause for complaint. Major Kitchener, however, gave satisfaction
to his superiors in Cairo, if not to the exacting General at Khartoum,
and in 1886 he was appointed Governor of Suakin. This post, always one of
responsibility and danger, did not satisfy Kitchener, whose ambition was
now taking definite form. Eager for more responsibility and more danger,
he harried and raided the surrounding tribes; he restricted and almost
destroyed the slender trade which was again springing up, and in
consequence of his measures the neighbourhood of Suakin was soon in even
greater ferment than usual. This culminated at the end of 1887 in the
re-appearance and advance of Osman Digna. The movements of the Dervishes
were, however, uncertain. The defences of the town had been greatly
strengthened and improved by the skill and activity of its new Governor.
[See dispatch from Major-General Dormer to War Office, Cairo, April 22,
1888: 'With regard to the military works and defenses of the town, I was
much struck with the great improvement that has been effected by Colonel
Kitchener since my last visit to Suakin in the autumn of 1884.] Osman
Digna retreated. The 'friendlies' were incited to follow, and Kitchener,
although he had been instructed not to employ British officers or Egyptian
regulars in offensive operations, went out in support. At Handub on the
morning of the 17th of January, 1888, the friendlies attacked the camp of
Osman Digna. They were at first successful; but while they dispersed to
plunder the enemy rallied and, returning, drove them back with loss.
Kitchener arrived on the field with the support, to find a defeat instead
of a victory awaiting him. He bravely endeavoured to cover the retreat of
the friendlies, and in so doing was severely--as it first seemed
dangerously--wounded in the jaw. The loss among the friendlies and the
support amounted to twenty men killed and two British officers and
twenty-eight men wounded. The Governor returned in great pain and some
discomfiture to Suakin. In spite of his wound and his reverse he was
impatient to renew the conflict, but this was definitely forbidden by the
British Government. Colonel Kitchener's military conduct was praised,
but his policy was prevented. 'The policy which it is desirable to follow
. . . in the Eastern Soudan,' wrote Sir Evelyn Baring on the 17th of March,
in measured rebuke, 'should consist in standing purely on the defensive
against any hostile movement or combination of the Arab tribes, in avoiding
any course of action which might involve the ultimate necessity of
offensive action, and in encouraging legitimate trade by every means
in our power.' [Sir E. Baring to Consul Cameron, March 14, 1888.]

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