LOST IN THE SOUDAN.
Bimbashi Jones, or, as he was called at the beginning of the story,Lieutenant Jones, did not know much. He only knew that England, orEgypt, or both together, were about to administer what he would havecalled "beans," or perhaps "toko," to a person called the Khalifa, whohad merited chastisement by desiring to "boss it" at Khartoum, whichcity, Jones was assured, belonged by right, together with the rest ofthe Soudan, to Egypt, and therefore in a way (and not a bad way either,Jones used to add with a look of intelligence, when talking of thesethings with his peers) to England.
Jones had not read "With Kitchener to Khartoum," unfortunately forhimself; but this was not his fault, because that excellent work was notyet before the public--indeed, it was not written.
But though the lieutenant did not know much of matters that happened sovery far away as Khartoum and "the district," yet he had proved himselfa capital officer during the four or five years he had served with hisregiment, the King's Own Clodshire Rifles, and had contrived to makehimself a general favourite both with officers and men; so that whenJones, having most unfortunately fallen desperately in love with a ladywho was, as he found out too late, already engaged to be married to someone else, determined to volunteer for the Egyptian army, in order to getout of the country for a change of surroundings, the colonel and therest of the mess, though recognizing the wisdom of the step, were sorryindeed to part with the young officer, and gave him a send-off from thebarracks at Ballycurragh which went far to cause poor Jones to considerwhether, after all, life might not still be worth living, in spite ofall things tending to the opposite conclusion.
The actual campaign against the Khalifa and his city was about tocommence at this time--nay, had commenced, after a fashion; for theactive brain of the Sirdar had for years been engaged in preparing forit, and though the British troops chosen to take a hand in subduing theDervishes were only now setting out upon their mission, the campaignwas, intellectually considered, rather beginning to end than beginningto begin.
Jones had met with little difficulty in obtaining the commission hesought as an officer in the Egyptian army. His reputation in theregiment was so good, and the recommendation of his colonel so stronglyworded, that his application was among those considered as "likely" fromthe first. He was able to reply to all the questions put to him quitesatisfactorily; but one of these especially, when addressed to him bythe officer empowered by the Sirdar to examine would-be members of theEgyptian force, he answered with so much vigour and emphasis as to drawa smile from the colonel's lips, and to cause that gallant individual toform certain conclusions with regard to the youngster which were not farfrom being very correct indeed.
This question was, "Are you married, or engaged, or likely to becomeso?" To which poor Jones had replied without hesitation and withabsolute conviction, "Oh no, sir; I am neither married nor engaged, andI hope I never shall be."
"What! a woman-hater?" said the colonel with a twinkle in his eye; "theSirdar would be none the less pleased--"
"Not exactly that, sir," faltered Jones; "but--"
"Oh, I see," said the colonel, smiling kindly. "Well, I think I may say,Mr. Jones, that the Sirdar will be glad to give you an appointment asbimbashi in one of the native regiments. You will sail--"
And so on; the upshot of the interview being a commission for youngAlaric Jones--who was but twenty-three years of age--as bimbashi, whichis, being interpreted, major in the Egyptian army.
Know him, then, in future, as Bimbashi Jones, a title which pleased himgreatly, and puzzled his people quite as much until they realized thatthe word stood for major; and when they became aware of this theknowledge acted as a wonderful consolation to them for his departure,for it was clear that the lad was "getting on" in his profession, andthat he was destined to do great things. A major at twenty-three! It wasglorious--unprecedented.
But Bimbashi Jones had a piece of outrageously bad luck at Cairo. Hefell ill of fever, and was delayed for months; first nearly dying, thenpartially recovering, then suffering a relapse, and then wearily pickingup his strength from day to day and week to week, while more fortunateindividuals started southwards for the front. And already reports cameto hand--from Halfa, from Abu Hamed, from Berber--of troops, English andEgyptian, marching and massing; of the Khalifa's hordes, which wereexpected at any moment; of Osman Digna, of Mahmoud, lying in wait,Heaven knew where, ready to pounce upon the advancing army, or morelikely, some feared, to remain safely in ambush, and pretend to knownothing about the proximity of the Sirdar and his men.
Bimbashi Jones prayed heartily that the enemy might for a while be toofrightened to show itself--at any rate until he should be able to joinhis regiment. After that, let Mahmoud and all his emirs become possessedwith a new spirit--that of the irresistible desire to fight.
It was very trying, nay, maddening, for him to be left behind at Cairo;only think of it--_left behind_, and his regiment, it might be, at anymoment distinguishing itself, and reaping glories and honours in whichhe could have no share.
What a confession to make to his friends in England! There would be abig battle, and, of course, a great victory for the Sirdar, at Berber,some said, or at Fort Atbara. Perhaps the struggle was going on at thisvery minute, and he must pass the rest of his life explaining how it hadhappened that he was not present and did not possess this medal andthat. Bah! it was too bad!
Still, he was well now, and getting stronger daily, and the doctor hadpromised him that by the last day of February he should set out for thefront, unless anything happened to cause him to modify his permission.
From that hour Jones determined that he would fret no longer, butconsent, like a reasonable being, to devote all his energies to quietrecuperation. Soon there was but a week longer of waiting, then threedays, then a day. At last the hour of his departure arrived, and withmuch good advice from the doctor, more good wishes from many friends,and a great quantity of luggage, some of which he hoped to convey,somehow, to the front, Bimbashi Jones launched himself against theKhalifa and all the hosts of evil, as represented by the Dervish mastersof the Soudan.
His journey as far as Berber was uneventful. The railway was by thattime finished up to this point, or very near it, and there remained buta day or two of camel riding between him and the army at Fort Atbara.
But what with the weakness which was the legacy of fever, or theweariness of the long journey down from Cairo, poor Jones was by thetime he reached the terminus of the railway the very wreck of abimbashi. He ought to have rested a few days at Berber. He was advisedto do so by the garrison doctor there, but he laughed the idea to scorn.He had rested long enough at Cairo, he declared; he must go on and joinhis regiment.
"But there's no hurry, bless the man!" said the garrison doctor; "theyhaven't found Mahmoud; Heaven knows where he is."
"Mahmoud may find _them_," said Jones; "and I should like to be on thespot when he does."
"No such luck!" laughed the other; "that's what we should all like, butMahmoud knows better."
However, Jones would listen to no advice. He hired camels for himselfand his servant, and started in the cool of the evening to cover as muchof the thirty miles or so which lay between him and the haven of hisdesires as could be done before the heat of the morning, leaving his kitto follow as quickly as blacks and donkeys would condescend to bring italong.
But more misfortunes attended the bimbashi.
Jones was very weary and half torpid with the heat of the past days. Hefell asleep on the top of his billowy, bumpy mount, and presently,sliding off into the sand, lay and snored, with the Soudan for a bed,unconscious as a log, and so remained for some hours. His servant,dozing also on the back of his beast, which followed a score of pacesbehind that of his master, saw nothing of the bimbashi's collapse intothe sand, and jogged past the place in which he lay sleeping, entirelyunconscious of the accident.
As for Jones's camel, that sagacious creature was far too clever to sayanything about the circumstance. It was please
d to be rid of its load,though recognizing the fact that the journey must be continued withouthim. Perhaps it had friends or an important engagement at Fort Atbara.At any rate, it continued its journey not less rapidly than before,keeping well ahead of its travelling companion--perhaps anxious to beasked no questions as to the load it had shot into the sand, for fear ofbeing reloaded.
The servant dozed and waked and dozed again till morning, never sosoundly asleep as to fall off his beast, yet never wide enough awake torealize that the bimbashi was not on the top of the camel looming infront of him through the darkness. Only when morning light and theon-coming heat thoroughly roused him did he become aware that his masterwas gone. Then the man, who was an Egyptian soldier, and had beeninvalided, like Jones, in Cairo, where he came in handily enough toaccompany the bimbashi as servant to the front--the man Ali did thewisest thing possible. After weeping copiously and swearing at Jones'scamel until that shocked beast careered madly out of earshot, hecovered the remainder of the journey to Fort Atbara as fast as his ownanimal could be induced to go; and, arrived there, he greeted the firstEnglish officer he met, weeping and explaining incomprehensibly.
"Stop blubbering, you pig," said the subaltern, "and say what you want."
"O thou effendim," cried Ali, drying his tears with marvelloussuddenness, "I have lost my bimbashi--Bimbashi Jones!"
Explanations revealed that the man had, in truth, started from Berber incompany with an English bimbashi, and that the bimbashi's camel hadcertainly arrived, but not the bimbashi.
A search-party was therefore sent back without delay, but unfortunatelya high wind had risen during the morning, and a dust storm was now infull blast, so that though the party thoroughly searched the road onboth sides as far as Berber, taking two or three days over the job, andduly execrating the object of their search for possibly losing them thechance of being present at the big event--namely, the battle withMahmoud, now expected daily--they found no trace of poor Bimbashi Jones.
They returned, therefore, empty-handed, and returned, as it chanced,just in time to have a hand in certain great events which were about totake place on Atbara River.
Meanwhile Bimbashi Jones slept very soundly and dreamed very absurdly.He dreamed that he had arrived at Atbara in the nick of time. A terrificbattle had raged for many hours, and the result up to the moment of hisarrival had been most disastrous to the Anglo-Egyptian forces. TheKhalifa himself and two of his emirs, hearing of the bimbashi'sapproach, had personally pursued the hero almost up to the muzzles ofthe British guns, in order to prevent the great disaster to their hostswhich his arrival among the British and Egyptian forces would be sure toentail. He would lead them, the Khalifa knew, to victory, once he placedhimself at their head, and triumph would at the last moment be snatchedfrom his hand. For, indeed, every English officer from the Sirdar to theyoungest subaltern of a British regiment was already either killed orincapacitated. Our troops were on the point of collapsing. Already theSoudanese and Egyptian regiments were throwing down their rifles andlooking over their shoulders for the safest point of the compass, withan eye to successful flight. Far away on the left a long line of hussarsdisappeared in the dim distance, pursued by countless hosts of Baggharahorsemen, shouting "Allah," and shaking spears like leaves in thesouth-west wind. English sergeants went along the lines with tears intheir eyes, crying like babies, entreating, imploring, threatening; theSirdar sat with his back to a gun-carriage, badly wounded.
"_The Khalifa himself and two of his emirs pursued thehero._" Page 87.]
"Is that you, Bimbashi Jones?" he cried faintly. "Thank Heaven! hurrah!We shall save the show yet.--Orderly, ride round and spread the newsquickly; say Bimbashi Jones is here and about to take the field. Let theenemy know it too; let Mahmoud know it--the rascal! He would attack usbefore Jones could arrive, would he?"
The effect of the news was electric--nay, magic! From company tocompany, from regiment to regiment, from brigade to brigade, the wordwent round. Then a low murmur began to spread; it grew and grew; likethe sound of the wind in the tree-tops it widened and thickened, untilthe whole air was cleft and shivered with the mighty roar that spreadfrom end to end of the battle plain. "Bimbashi Jones has arrived! Thebimbashi has taken the field! Die, Dervishes, like dogs!"
And a wail, like the cry of a million souls in torment, rose from theDervish ranks. "The bimbashi has come! We are lost! Run for your lives,ye servants of Mohammed, for your lives!"
The Khalifa heard it as he sat and trembled in his palace at Omdurman,to which he had quickly returned, seeing that the bimbashi had escapedhim. (Jones, it will be observed, had, like most dreamers, annihilatedtime and space.) The Khalifa ordered his best white Arab steed, andmounted it, and rode forth to learn what the noise was about. Jones methim as he and his troops chased the Dervish host towards Khartoum, andshouted to him to yield.
"I surrender to no one but the Sirdar or Bimbashi Jones!" criedAbdullah, who, during the late pursuit, had not caught sight of thehero's face.
"You are too young to be either of these great men.--Allah! Allah! Turnand strike, sons of the Prophet! down with the dogs!"
His followers whispered to the Khalifa.
As when rude Boreas, suddenly remembering that he is due in anotherportion of the globe, ceases abruptly to beat the tortured sea intofoam, and a beauteous calm overspreads the waters of the storm-tossedocean, so suddenly the countenance of the Khalifa changed from rage anddefiance to an expression of timorous incredulity.
"Impossible!" he muttered--"so young, and so great a general!"
"Undoubtedly it is Bimbashi Jones!" said an emir.
Jones heard him quite distinctly.
"Yes, I am Bimbashi Jones," he said; "yield, Abdullah; there is no othercourse. Yield or perish!"
"You will not cut off my right hand and ear?" asked the Khalifa.
"Certainly not, richly though you deserve it," said Jones.
"Nor my left?" added the Khalifa quickly, glancing cunningly in Jones'sface.
The bimbashi disclaimed any such intention.
Then the Khalifa surrendered, placing his sword in Jones's hands withthe inimitable grace of a cavalier of olden time; which circumstance,however, did not strike the bimbashi as in any degree strange, but onlyhighly decorous and proper.
And now telegrams of congratulation poured in. Every one of the woundedBritish officers quickly recovered; even several whom the bimbashi knewto have been killed turned up again (without causing him any surprise)to shake the hero by the hand. In the gilded halls of Omdurman he wasthe admired of all beholders. The ladies vied to dance with him, thoughnone of them explained how they got there; while the men spoke ofimpending promotions, peerages, and what not.
As for the Khalifa, he sat next to Bimbashi Jones at supper, and didhis very best to convert the young man to Mohammedanism; and toeverything that the Khalifa advanced, the Sirdar, sitting on Jones'sleft, would remark,--
"There's a good deal in what the old boy says."
There was indeed, Jones thought, for--and this was the only circumstancein the whole affair that caused him some surprise--the Khalifa simplypreached at him a sermon which Jones's own father (Vicar of StokeNetherby, Yorkshire, and certainly not a follower of the Prophet) haddelivered from his own pulpit on the very last Sunday that the bimbashihad spent in the old home.
"Why," he remarked, when the Khalifa had quite finished, "you are apious fraud, my good man. Are you aware that you have stolen thatsermon, word for word, from my own father, who preached it--"
"Bimbashi Jones--Alaric, my boy--don't you know me?" said the Khalifavery gushingly; and Jones was just about to recognize his parent, whomindeed the Khalifa promptly declared himself to be in very flesh, and torush to his arms, when he awoke, and the whole thing was spoiled, thedream ending and the curtain falling upon a highly-dramatic situation,somewhat mysterious withal, and left entirely unexplained. PoorBimbashi Jones was now no longer the victorious preserver of the honourof England and the safety of Egypt;
he was but his own unfortunate self,a forlorn piece of jetsam cast ashore upon the sand-ocean of the Soudan,with sand-scud flying like solid sea-spray, and filling his eyes andnose and mouth and clothes, blotting out tracks and directions, andreducing poor Jones to a condition of great misery and wretchedness. Hewould have felt even more wretched had he realized that, by falling offhis camel and sleeping on while it walked away, he had landed himself ina very serious position indeed. He was in the midst of a sand-storm.
The bimbashi stood and raged, shouting for his servant Ali, upon whosehead he showered many useless abuses and sundry flowers of speech.
But Ali was far away by this time, and so was Jones's camel; and afterwaiting for half an hour or more, the lost youth decided that he mustmake a guess at the direction to be pursued, and at any rate keepmoving, even though he followed a wrong course; better that than beburied alive in the abominable moving desert of flying and stingingsand.
It was only natural that Jones's guess as to the direction in which layAtbara should be somewhat out; it would have been strange indeed if hehad guessed right. As a matter of fact, his attempt to do so was by nomeans a bad one; for, had he directed his steps but a point or two lesstowards the east, he would have hit off the English position nicely, andwould soon have encountered the search-party which presently came out tofind him, or have been overtaken by some other friendly company hurryingforward from Berber towards the scene of operations at the junction ofAtbara and Nile.
Luckily Jones had sandwiches in his pocket, though he would rather havehad a gallon or two of water. The drop or so of whisky in his flask didnothing to assuage his thirst. His throat was parched with the sand, histongue dry and hot and gritty. He could scarcely see; his ears wereclogged. Jones plodded along, now praying for help in his most seriousplight--he knew that it was serious, though he scarcely realized perhaps_how_ serious; now recalling his dream and laughing at it; now thinkingof every conceivable thing that would serve to blot out the disagreeablepresent, if but for a few minutes.
Meanwhile the sun had come out, and was blazing away in a manner whichmade life under its direct rays an unpleasant and almost impossiblefunction. Soon it became unbearable. The wind had dropped, and the sandceased to fly--a mercy for which Jones felt devoutly grateful. But theheat! The poor lost bimbashi scooped a hole in the ground, piling thedisplaced sand as high as he could, and lying behind it, in order to geta little shade for his face; and there he lay and sweltered until thesun climbed too high, and drove him out of his shelter. Then hetravelled on, his brain on fire, until the burning disc above him hadsunk sufficiently to allow him to repeat his expedient of earlier in theday; and now he lay half asleep, half comatose, until the cool ofevening revived him, and he rose and plodded forward once more.
"I shall go on till I drop, anyway!" soliloquized Bimbashi Jones, likethe brave man he was; and then, because he was still a very young man,and because he felt, as any one justly might do under the circumstances,extremely sorry for himself, he shed a few tears of pity over themelancholy fate which impended. "I might have done rather well," hereflected. "I had made a good start--every one said so; but misfortunedogs me wherever I go!" and Jones thought of his disappointment inEngland, of his illness at Cairo, of this crowning disaster; and he sheda few more consoling tears.
That night Jones, plodding obstinately forward, stumbling, weary, onlyhalf conscious, nearly dead with thirst, struck suddenly into country ofa different character from the unbroken sand plain through which he hadbeen travelling up to this moment. There was scrub to be pushed through,mimosa bushes, and other greenery.
"Thanks be to God!" exclaimed the bimbashi, for even his baked brain wasable to comprehend the significance of the change. "I am coming to theNile!"
It was not the Nile but the Atbara which Jones had struck well above theAnglo-Egyptian portion; but, oh! the joy of that first big drink ofnasty water, and the long-continued, delicious sluicing of the burninghead, wherein the fire had raged without ceasing for a twelve-hourround, and would scarcely now be extinguished even though Jones wouldbring the whole flood of the Atbara to bear upon it.
Then Jones finished his sandwiches and felt a man once more, though aweary one. He thanked Heaven for mercies received, and lay down to sleepuntil wakened by--yes, actually by the cold. He must move on.
How different the travelling was now! He would not leave the riveragain, the wanderer wisely resolved. He would follow it until theBritish position was reached; it could not be far now.
Poor bimbashi! The British fort lay behind him, and he was speeding awayin the wrong direction--into the arms, indeed, of Mahmoud, had he onlyknown it.
Part of the night he pushed forward, and part of it he rested and slept.
"It's a ghastly long journey when one does it on foot," thought the lostbimbashi. "However, I shall be in camp by breakfast time;" and his mouthwatered over imaginary repasts of tinned meats and tea and otherdelights.
Morning came, and the sun, and still there were no signs of the camp.Jones was very hungry, but the tinned delicacies were still the fairoffspring of imagination, which filleth not the stomach.
He travelled on, in despite of the sun, for the camp _could_ not now befar off; and he would have continued to plod forward until he dropped,but that he received before noon a terrible fright, which sent him intocover for many hours of dangerous daylight.
There were sounds of hoofs, and the soul of the bimbashi rejoiced. "Itis some of our fellows doing a cavalry reconnoitre," he reflected; andwhen they came, as he judged by the sound, within earshot, he treatedthem to a "coo-ee," and stood up to look out for a view and to heartheir reply.
Presently the troop passed across an open patch between mimosa bushes,and Jones saw, not hussars or lancers, but a number of Bagghara horsemenpushing rapidly upstream, and evidently looking about for the owner ofthe voice lately upraised.
Down bobbed Jones behind a mimosa bush, his heart beating loudly. Hedrew his revolver in case of accidents. Would they see him? if so--
There were ten men, dirty, savage-looking fellows. They wore white,patched, linen garments, which fluttered behind them, and carriedspears. They passed within twenty paces, peering about, and repassedagain fifty yards away, talking together and arguing; then theydisappeared.
"Thank God for that!" thought the bimbashi. "One wouldn't care to bechewed up by a set of such forsaken-looking fellows at close quarters!"
So he lay low till dark, and then pushed on once more--desperatelyhungry now, nearly starving. Would that breakfast never come? Could hehave made some mistake? Ought he to have gone downstream?
Reason said no--upstream undoubtedly. But, you see, the bimbashi'sgeography was imperfect, and he was not aware of the existence of theAtbara, as a river, or he had forgotten it. He only knew of Fort Atbara;he thought he was following the Nile.
So Jones tried to satisfy the cravings of his appetite by chewing leavesand grasses, failing utterly; and long before morning came he sankexhausted to the ground, assuring himself that he could not possiblywalk another yard.
Then, or soon after, a wonderful thing happened.
The dozing bimbashi heard in his dreams the droning of bagpipes, thesharp notes of the bugle, the dull booming of guns. His old dream beganto flutter vaguely through his brain. He was the conquering hero again;he had put the Dervishes to flight; he had--but the noise was too loudfor dozing and dreaming, and he awoke with a start.
"Good Heavens!" said poor Jones, half demented with weakness, "it isreally the battle; my dream is coming true."
"_It is really the battle._" Page 98.]
The firing increased; it became almost continuous; it could scarcely bemore than a mile or two away. The noise deafened and bewildered theyouth, who was, as a matter of fact, _in extremis_.
Jones listened a little while. Then he started to his feet and rushedmadly towards the din.
"I must have a hand in it!" he cried; "they may want me!"
A mile and a second mile the bi
mbashi covered, now running, now forcinghis way through dense scrub, now stopping a moment to recover breath. Hewas very near the scene of operations now; the din was deafening. He hadcome up, though he guessed it not, behind Mahmoud's position. The entireDervish host lay between him and the Sirdar's men. Already the Britishstorm of lead was pouring over his head; already bodies of flying,frightened creatures, camp followers of the Dervish army, dashed by him,some close, some more distant. A party of these nearly ran over him,rushing blindly forward, jabbering to one another.
Jones fired his revolver in their faces. One of them, as he passed,swung some weapon at him, striking the bimbashi flat-wise on theshoulder. The thing was blunt, and made no wound, but it needed only atouch to send the scarcely animate youth upon his nose in the sand; andstraightway upon his nose he went, dead as a log for the time being; andin the sand, half hidden by a mimosa bush, he lay, while the subsequentproceedings, to quote a great poem familiar to most of my readers,interested him no more.
When the bimbashi returned to conscious existence, the battle of Atbara,or Nakheila, was over. A great flood of escaping humanity had passedover and around him, fleeing for dear life, but he had known nothing ofit. He was roused by English voices. A sergeant was directing his men.
"Look out there, Bill," said the sergeant; "see that chap doesn't letout at you as you pass."
"I'll cook him if he does," said Bill, blood-hot and savage. He had beenstruck at by wounded Dervishes, and was not disposed to treat treacherywith loving-kindness. "Why," he continued, "darn me if it isn't anEnglishman--an orficer, too. See here, Joe!"
The sergeant came and looked. Jones had opened his eyes, and lookedmildly around.
"Good Lord!" said the sergeant; "you're right; badly wounded, too. Goback for an ambulance, Bill.--Hold up, sir; he won't be long. Are youbadly hurt?"
"I want something to eat. I haven't had anything for three days,"murmured poor Jones.
The sergeant was too amazed to reply.
"I'm Bimbashi Jones," continued the officer, "and I want my breakfast."
"_I'm Bimbashi Jones, and I want my breakfast._"Page 102.]
Then the bimbashi fainted.
The name of Alaric Jones, bimbashi, 20th Egyptian Regiment, wasincluded among those entitled to receive a medal for the battle ofAtbara. Jones had qualms of conscience as to accepting this, but hisfriends said, "Rot, my good man; you fired your revolver during thefight, and perhaps wounded an enemy; it's all right." And Jones admittedthat he had certainly taken this share in the hostilities.
Later on, at the battle of Omdurman, the bimbashi, having recovered now,and a stronger man by many breakfasts and other meals, did well. He wasmentioned in the dispatches, as all may see for themselves. He is stilla bimbashi, of course, and will not be a bey for a long while; but thereis an old man in Stoke Netherby who is proud indeed to be the father ofBimbashi Jones. His mess-fellows in the old "Clodshires" often drink hishealth as of one of their most distinguished companions; indeed "ourbimbashi" is quite a favourite toast on guest days, when theexplanation, "Bimbashi Jones, of ours, you know," is added for theinformation of the ignorant.
Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys Page 3