"WE HAD SCARCELY GONE TWENTY PACES FROM THE RIVER, WHEN SUDDENLY WE HEARD THE SOUND OF A CAMEL."

We had scarcely gone twenty paces from the river, when suddenly we heard the sound of a camel. We were almost ready to drop with fright, but Ahmed and the guides went towards the spot from whence the sound had come, and there they saw a camelman mounted, armed with a Remington, and peering at us from behind a dôm palm, but it was too dark for him to have recognized our white faces. Ahmed at once approached him, seized his rifle with his left hand, and extended his right to greet him, asking him at the same time to alight.

The man, alarmed probably at Ahmed's energetic bearing, at once dismounted and joined the guides. At first we thought orders must have come from Omdurman to intercept us, but fortunately it was not so; the guard (for such he proved to be) said he had been sent from Berber to see that Egyptian merchants did not export slaves from the Sudan to Egypt. He related how, the day previous, a merchant with five slaves had been captured, but had been set free again on depositing the value of the slaves. The guard then asked Ahmed if he had brought any slaves, to which he replied in the affirmative.

The guard now insisted that Ahmed should go to Abu Hamed to see the emir there, and no amount of argument would convince him that it was unnecessary to do so. Hamed now came and told me about the occurrence, but, being somewhat confused, he happened to say we were lost. These words reached the ears of one of the sisters, and so startled her that she fell off her camel, and might have been very seriously injured had we not caught her.

I gave Hamed my long knife, and told him to do what he could to win the man over with money, but that if he found this was useless, "Well! we were four men to one." Hamed quite understood what I meant, and then returned to the others. The conversation still continued for a long time. At length our Arabs returned; we put the sisters on the camels at once, and then mounted ourselves. Our fatigue had fled; even the camels seemed to scent danger, for we set off at a quick pace and were soon out of sight.

This episode served to remind us very forcibly that we were still in the Khalifa's territory. Strange thoughts passed through my mind in quick succession: Omdurman, the Khalifa, the Saier, unbearable insults, then death. All these awaited us if we failed in our attempt; but then I comforted myself with the thought we should never be taken alive; we had solemnly agreed never to submit. It was in this frame of mind that we quitted Meshra Dehesh and rode for our lives night and day; the poor camels were reduced to skeletons, and we ourselves were nothing but skin and bone.

Ahmed told me that when the guard recognized him he showed himself kindly disposed, and promised not to betray us; but Ahmed did not trust him, and would not, therefore, let him go until he had accepted some money; he had pressed twenty dollars into his hand. The guard accepted the money after extracting a solemn promise from Ahmed and his companions that they would not attempt to revenge themselves on him or his tribe—the Monasir—on their return to Korosko. The guard also swore solemnly that he would not betray or pursue us, and moreover agreed to prevent the patrols going into the desert for three days, so as to keep us out of danger's way; they had then embraced and kissed each other as a sign of sincerity.

In spite, however, of all these solemn oaths, I did not trust the man; the fate of poor Colonel Stewart and his companions came into my mind, and I remembered that they had been cruelly done to death by the cowardly and treacherous Monasir; we therefore hurried forward our camels with all possible speed, leaving Abu Hamed far away on our left.

The day broke as usual, and soon the sun was risen and burning more fiercely than ever, but that did not trouble us. We were far too much absorbed in the momentous event which had just occurred. Our track ran through a perfectly flat plain, in which not a shrub or blade of grass was to be seen. We passed the tracks of the captured slave-dealer and the patrols, and that evening entered on the caravan road leading from Abu Hamed to Korosko. The track ran through great bare hills and solitary valleys; the wind had driven the sand almost to the tops of the hills, and had filled up all the crevices with sand-drifts.

Once within the hills, our courage returned, for we knew we would be able to defend ourselves; so we dismounted and ate our last mouthful of biscuit, and now all we had was our water, which, by the way, we jokingly remarked was somewhat dear, as it had cost us twenty dollars.

After a short rest we set off again, but both we and our camels were utterly exhausted; my right arm ached from continually whipping up the poor beast. Our Arab companions lightened the way with hundreds of interesting anecdotes of their own deserts. They related how, when Berber fell, an Arab and six Egyptian women had fled; but the man had brought only a camel or two and very little water, so four of them had died of thirst. They pointed out the spot which Rundle Bey had reached when he reconnoitred Abu Hamed in 1885. The road was plainly marked out by the bones of camels and donkeys, and, prior to the appearance of the Mahdi, had been a much-used trade route.

Mohammed Ali Pasha had ridden along this road under the guidance of Hussein Pasha Khalifa. Mohammed Ali had constantly expressed a desire to halt, but his guide would not allow him to dismount, except at certain places, saying, "I am commander here;" and to this Mohammed Ali had willingly consented, for he well knew that a refusal to do as he was told by the sheikh of the desert, in that awful wilderness, might have been followed by very serious results.

Our approach to a haven of safety gave us courage to undergo most terrible fatigue. By far our worst enemy was sleep; it is quite impossible for me to describe the fearful attacks this tyrannical foe made upon us. We tried every means in our power to keep awake; we shouted and talked loudly to each other; we tried to startle ourselves by giving a sudden jerk; we pinched ourselves till the blood ran down, but our eyelids weighed down like balls of lead, and it required a fearful effort to keep them open. "Ma tenamu" ("Don't sleep"), Ahmed kept repeating, "or you will fall off and break your leg."

But it was all no good; the conversation would flag, and silence follow. The camels seemed to know their riders were asleep, and instinctively fell into slower pace; the head kept nodding, until it sunk upon the chest; with a sudden start, the equilibrium which had been almost lost would be recovered, and then sleep vanished.

At times we would shout out to one another words of encouragement, then we would whip up our camels and on again, up and down, through sandy plains and rocky gorges, where the echoes seemed to repeat themselves a hundred times. Our destination was Murat, where we remembered Gordon had given orders for a well to be dug, but it had never been done.

Ahmed said that we should be at Murat on the morning of the 7th of December. He told us how the Dervishes had sometimes pursued fugitives as far as this, and not long ago had killed one near here. Our poor camels were now dragging their weary limbs very slowly; the whip was now quite useless, as it had not the smallest effect in increasing their pace. Besides, it was pain to me to beat the good creatures that had helped us to escape. We were so utterly fatigued that it was with the greatest difficulty we succeeded in keeping on our camels at all; hunger, sleeplessness, and absolute lassitude had completely conquered us, and our wounds pained and irritated us; but the feeling that we were almost safe was as balm to both mind and body.

Just before sunset we turned down the khor which leads to Murat; the fort covering the wells was visible on the hills, surmounted by the red flag with the white crescent and star in the centre. "Ahmed," I cried, "greet the flag of freedom!" and our courageous deliverer seized his gun and fired shot after shot into the air, to announce our arrival to the Egyptian garrison. The echo of these shots resounded again and again in the deep valleys, as if joining with us in our joy at deliverance from the hands of the cruel Khalifa Abdullah. They seemed to announce the "release of our spirits from beneath his sheepskin." This was an expression which the Khalifa delighted to use when talking of his captured enemies, whose souls, he said, lay beneath his "furwa," meaning that their lives were entirely in his hands.

Now we were actually in safety. A prayer of the deepest gratitude went up from the very depths of our thankful hearts; it is quite impossible to find words to express what we then felt. Our camels seemed to pull themselves together for a final effort, so as to present us honourably to the Ababdehs, who were now coming out to meet us.

The reports of our rifles had at first caused some stir in the little garrison, who feared a sudden attack, and had come out fully armed; but they soon recognized us, and answered our salute by discharging their guns in the air. These good people received us most kindly, asked us a thousand questions, and, surrounding us, brought us to the commandant's hut. Here, on the 8th of December, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, we alighted from our camels, and the hopes which had kept us alive for years, were at last realized. This supreme moment, about which we had so often talked with our companions in adversity, which we had thought about, dreamed about, and pictured to ourselves, this delicious moment had come at last, and we were free!

But the effects of hunger, fatigue, and the sights and scenes we had gone through during the last month, did not disappear so easily; our senses seemed dulled, and our first thought on entering the commandant's hut was to lie down on the floor and go to sleep, but, strange to say, that wonderful restorer would not come; we sat gossiping with the Ababdehs, who could scarcely credit that we, especially the sisters, could have survived such a ride. We had covered the entire distance of 500 miles between Omdurman and Murat in seven days, including the day we had spent wandering about in the hills before crossing the river.

The staying power of our camels had astonished me; how easily one of them might have stumbled and broken its leg as we trotted hard through the dark nights, unable to see where we were going! But Ahmed and his companions had used all their knowledge in securing thoroughly good animals; our excellent guides had been ever ready to help and assist us; full of energy and pluck, they had carried out their enterprise with the utmost sagacity and integrity.

Poor Ahmed had dwindled down almost to a skeleton, and when he dismounted at Murat was overcome by a fit of dizziness, from which he did not recover for an hour.

Meanwhile we had refreshed ourselves with a cup of coffee and some bread and milk which the commandant, Mohammed Saleh, had offered us, and which had revived us considerably. Murat is situated in the desert, about midway between Korosko and Abu Hamed; here three valleys unite in a sort of crater, and the hill-tops are crowned with small forts built by the Ababdehs, from whence they can keep guard over the main wells, and, besides, see for an immense distance all around.

This, the most advanced Egyptian outpost, is garrisoned by the Ababdeh Arabs of Saleh Bey, the son of Hussein Pasha Khalifa; these people live very simply in the midst of this great desert, drawing their provisions monthly from Korosko. There are a number of wells, but the water is brackish and in summer almost undrinkable, though it is not so bad in the winter; but we had still some of our Nile water, which had cost us so dearly at Meshra Dehesh. Close to the wells is a little hut, built by Gordon's orders.

Murat is a most desolate and lonely spot, unbearably hot in the summer, when the fierce rays of the sun are reflected from all sides of the deep crater-like valley in which it lies. The same day that we arrived one of Ahmed Hassan's nephews had reached Murat from Korosko, and gave us some of the dates and flour he was taking into the Sudan; he left for Abu Hamed the next day, and no doubt the news of our safe arrival was soon announced in Omdurman.

During the 8th and 9th of December we rested. Mohammed Saleh supplied us with some biscuit, and on the 9th we again set off from Murat towards Korosko. Our rest had greatly refreshed us, and now we could ride quietly without any fear of pursuit. One of our guides was mounted on a she-camel, which the commander had supplied, and she gave us plenty of milk. A few days before starting her little baby-camel had died, the owner had skinned it, and now whenever we required milk, we had only to stretch out the skin in front of her and let her smell it.

We now rode only by day, and rested at night. Heavy rain had fallen about a month before, and we found a reservoir of good water about a day out of Murat. Some of the Murat garrison had, previous to our arrival, gone into Korosko to get their monthly pay and were now returning; they happened to encamp near this natural reservoir, and seeing us took us for Dervishes, rushed to their arms, took up a position behind a rock and levelled their rifles at us, but Ahmed, who knew them at once, called out and they hurried up to us, begging pardon for the mistake they had made. They gave us some of their flour, dates, and tobacco, and we chatted with them till nightfall.

We made no further extended halt, and on the early morning of the 13th of December reached Korosko. In the deep valley which debouches suddenly on to the Nile at this place we alighted, cleaned ourselves as best we could, and then mounted our camels for the last time, and soon came in sight first of the palm-trees and then of the Nile, which we had last seen at Abu Hamed. We were at once surrounded by numbers of people, who bore us off to the fort, and here the commandant, Lieutenant-Colonel Ali Bey Haider, greeted us most cordially, and for the first time for many years we found ourselves in comfortable rooms again, and listening to the regimental band, which we greatly enjoyed.

On the evening of the 15th of December we got on board a steamer which took us down most comfortably to Assiut. Here we were greeted by Mr. Santoni and Brother Sayer, who had been directed by the Cairo Mission to come on board and welcome us. From Assiut we took the train to Cairo, where we arrived safely on the 21st of December, 1891.

The rapid transition from barbarism to civilization, our pleasant journey from Korosko to Cairo, intercourse with educated people, the incessant change of scene, all affected us greatly; but our joy and delight at being free was somewhat saddened by the thought of the sufferings of our poor companions in our adversity, whom we had left behind in slavery and captivity. Our guides accompanied us to Cairo, where they received the money agreed upon, and we felt full of thankfulness to the energetic Ahmed Hassan and his two companions; but to our good Archbishop Sogaro we owe a deep debt of gratitude, for it was through his intermediary all arrangements for our happy release had been effected.

It may be as well to insert here the terms of agreement made in Arabic between Monsignor Sogaro and Ahmed Hassan regarding our release. The wording is as follows:—

"I, the undersigned, Ahmed Hassan el Abbadi, of Bashri Mohammed Ali's Arabs, agree to proceed at once to Omdurman to bring Father Ohrwalder and the two nuns from Omdurman to Cairo. I agree to take care of them on the journey, and to do all in my power to bring them here and to give them every satisfaction. As a reward and to recompense me for the expenses which I shall incur between Omdurman and Cairo, Monsignor Sogaro has agreed to give me:—

"1. All the goods to the value of £100 now in possession of Sheikh Abdel Hadi at Korosko.

"2. £20 in advance before leaving Cairo.

"3. On my return from Omdurman with Father Ohrwalder and the two nuns, a sum of £300, i.e. £100 for each person.

"This is the agreement between me and Monsignor Sogaro, and I have made it of my own free will and accord, and have been in no way forced to do so by any one. Monsignor Sogaro and myself signed this agreement, and Wingate Bey, Assistant Adjutant-General, Intelligence, stands as a witness. This agreement will be kept in the War Office until I return from Omdurman with the three persons above-named, and I shall be dealt with in accordance with its contents.[U]

"Signed, Ahmed Hassan el Abbadi,

"of Sayala, Frontier Mudirieh.

"Léon Henriot (for Monsignor Sogaro).

"Cairo, 9th July, 1891."

Below is written in English:—

"This is a private agreement between Monsignor Sogaro and Ahmed Hassan el Abbadi, who leaves Cairo for Omdurman on Friday, the 20th July, 1891, and will attempt to bring Father Ohrwalder to Egypt.

"Witnessed by me, F. R. Wingate,

"Kaimakam,

"A. A.-G., Intelligence, Egyptian Army.

"War Office,

"9th July, 1891."

I was, of course, intensely anxious to hear what had occurred in Omdurman after our departure. I thought that our flight would have remained undiscovered that night, the following day, and possibly the following night; but it was not so. Early in the morning on the 30th of November our absence was discovered by some women who had been standing before the door of my house. They had seen us and were surprised, because we did not usually leave the house after sunset.

The idea of flight did not probably at once occur to them, but their suspicions were aroused. Early in the morning they had knocked at my door, and receiving no answer, related what they had seen to my neighbour's slave, who in turn informed her master. He, in great terror, carried the information to the mukuddum of the Europeans. This man, accompanied by many of my friends, hastened to my house, and, breaking open the door, was assured of my flight by finding a letter which I had left.

The poor man had, to save his life, to at once inform the Khalifa, who ordered the sheikh of the market to find us even should we be buried in the earth. Wad er Rais therefore closed all the houses and arrested every one who could possibly have known of my flight, and threw them into chains, with threats of the gallows and the knife. My neighbours were also arrested. When he could get no information whatever from these people, the Khalifa sent to Metemmeh a certain Ibrahim Wad el Ahmer, who had three camels, and was ordered to bring us back at all hazards. But the beit el mal had first to buy the camels at very high prices—120, 110, and 87 dollars respectively—and before they could start some busybody told the Khalifa that Khalifa Sherif had concealed me in a boat belonging to a certain Osman Fauzi, and had aided my flight in order that I should move the Egyptian Government to the support of his oppressed party. Another declared that he had seen white faces in the boat.

These statements impressed the Khalifa, who sent men at once to recapture the boat and examine the passengers. The boat was captured near Omdurman and examined, of course, with no result, on which the Khalifa was pacified, and sent off the camels. Ibrahim inquired minutely along the route to Metemmeh, but could get no information. In the meantime those well disposed towards us lived in the keenest apprehension lest we should be recaptured. Only on Ibrahim's return without any news could our friends breathe freely and feel sure that we must have got away safely. Then those who had been imprisoned were released.

Later on I received a letter from Omdurman telling me that our flight had raised a commotion throughout the whole city, and that the prisoners had to suffer very much. It may be learned from this what grave consequences had to be considered before I took the important step of flight. Should anyone else attempt it, those who remain must suffer. May God protect our poor companions!

FOOTNOTES:

[U] This contract and all correspondence connected with it was kept sealed in the Intelligence Office, and was opened by General Sir F. Grenfell, Sirdar, on the 14th day of December, 1891, when the news of the arrival of the party at Korosko reached Cairo.—F. R. W.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PRESENT KHALIFA'S DESPOTISM IN THE SUDAN.

[The reader is reminded that all opinions expressed are those of Father Ohrwalder.—F. R. W.]

Reflections on the situation in the Sudan—The horrors of the present Khalifa's rule—How long shall it continue?

In the foregoing pages we have glanced at a bloody period in the history of the Sudan—the rise of the Mahdi, his victorious career through Kordofan, and his conquest of Khartum. We have sketched the development of his mighty empire, founded in bloodshed and revolution, and we have seen him honoured as a messenger of God by the millions of the Sudan; glorified—nay, almost worshipped—by his own people, and watched by the Muslim neighbours of his empire with an admiration mingled with the keenest anxiety. Then, in the full enjoyment of his victories, at the supreme moment of his power, while seated in his capital of Omdurman, he revolved schemes of conquest of the whole world he knew; then dead—dead of debauchery and disease, dead at an age when most lives' promises are brightest. Then we have seen the empire tottering, Abdullah rising to its support, slowly but firmly strengthening the trembling power, and, with the strength of bigotry and ignorance, replacing a shattered superstition by the iron rule of might.

Here I may properly submit some reflections on the general situation.

Mohammed Ali conquered the Sudan, and in the train of his conquest followed all the triumphs of progress and civilization. Wide new territories were discovered, fertile and thickly populated; explorers and missionaries advanced to the very heart of negro-land; Nile's solitudes were rippled by the advancing steamer. Far beyond the Equator reached the telegraph, and the metropolis of the Sudan formed part of the international postal system. Trade blossomed in security, and the white man could march to the countries of the Niam Niam, and there join hands with his brother from the Congo. European culture spread throughout, and the religion of Christ planted the world-saving banner in remotest frontiers.

The progress of fifty years was ruined by the Mahdi's revolt. The Sudan fell back into the darkness from which philanthropy had rescued it. Civilization was swamped in the flood of fanaticism. The sign of salvation was blotted out, the bearers of it chained as slaves, and the flag of tyranny waved over smoking ruins from Darfur to the Red Sea, and from Regaf northwards to the second cataract. Bands of fanatics have swept over the face of the land, destroying every Christian sign. The Sudan lies open in its desolation and nakedness. Everything but a little cloth and a little corn is superfluous,—nay wicked,—for those who accept the Mahdi's promise of eternal life. The minds of men are savage through years of warfare. The ignorant Baggara rule and the gentler Jaalin and Danagla are oppressed; the land is fallen back to wilderness.

The present ruler, Abdullah, is marching steadily in the path of desolation. He roots out eagerly every vestige of Egyptian rule; all foreign influence he keeps at a distance, for he will rule over an ignorant people. He wants nothing from beyond his own boundaries. If he has no money, cloth becomes the medium of exchange; ammunition he makes himself. With his Baggaras he rules with an iron hand. Those who resist are pitilessly robbed, imprisoned, or exiled.

Abdullah rules in the name of the Mahdi, whose religious prestige is the readiest weapon for swaying the multitude. He keeps unaltered the decisions, the visions, the wild dreams which so powerfully established the imposture. The pilgrimage to Mecca he regards as dangerous. Even from such enlightenment as they might find at the shrine of their faith, his people are heedfully kept away.

A Spartan habit of life was enjoined by the Mahdi. This Abdullah still attempts to maintain, for he wishes the people to be ready to follow him, and is careful that they shall have no inducement to stay at home. Like the Mahdi, the Khalifa puts his orders in the form of visions, which have the weight of divine manifestations. Often he locks himself in darkness in the Mahdi's tomb, and spends nights in pretended commune with his master.

The policy of Abdullah is directed to strengthening his power and concentrating it in the hands of his Baggaras. Once he is sure of what he has got, he will try to enlarge his dominion. Barbarism and desolation will be extended to provinces which internal difficulties have so far prevented him from absorbing. He thinks of nothing but war. Omdurman is one vast camp. All men bear arms or are flogged; whoso rides must carry a spear and five javelins. Speeches and harangues all raise the spirit of war.

The weakness of the monarchy lies in the dissensions between the Baggara and the Aulad-belad—that is, the Jaalin, Danagla, and others. The Danagla are objects of the Khalifa's special aversion, and he would gladly exterminate them. But with his Baggaras he can at present maintain himself with ease.

Mahdiism is founded on plunder and violence, and by plunder and violence it is carried on. In some districts half the people are dead, in others the loss of life is even greater. Whole tribes have been completely blotted out, and in their places roam the wild beasts, spreading and increasing in fierceness and in numbers, until they bid fair to finish the destruction of the human race; for they enter huts, and women and children are no longer safe.

How long shall this condition of affairs continue? Negotiation with Abdullah is hopeless; that has been proved by many well-intentioned efforts, but shall savagery and desolation continue for ever? Shall the roads remain always closed that lead from Halfa and Sawakin to the richest provinces of Africa? The Sudan has lost faith in the humanity of Europe, nor does it cease from wonder why Europe has not yet stepped in. Consuls of the greatest nations have been murdered, their flags torn down, their agents kept in slavery.

Interference while the revolt was at its height could not perhaps be efficient—that is understood. But now the face of things is changed. The Sudanese have been heavily punished for their mistaken trust; they have suffered to the bitter end. Where may they look for a deliverer?

For the sake of three people did not England undertake a costly and difficult war? Is not even a more worthy object the punishment of Abdullah and the delivery of the enslaved and decimated peoples? I have pined ten years in bondage, and now, by the help of God, I have escaped. In the names of the companions with whom I suffered, in the name of the Sudan people, whose misery I have seen, and in the name of all civilized nations, I ask this question:

How long shall Europe—and above all that nation which has first part in Egypt and the Sudan—which stands deservedly first in civilizing savage races, how long shall Europe and Great Britain watch unmoved the outrages of the Khalifa and the destruction of the Sudan people?

INDEX.

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