On 2nd September we rose from our broken slumbers in the dull grey light of daybreak, and by the time the first sunlight had flushed the surface of the Nile everybody was hard at work over his breakfast. When one knows that within an hour or two the normal routine of regular meals may be rudely interrupted by the exigencies of a whole day's fighting, it behoves one to eat at least as substantial a breakfast, if it can be got, as one does in London before catching a morning express to Edinburgh. Certainly it is impossible to imagine a more agreeable prelude to a battle than that which we experienced in our zeriba. There was plenty of time for a really comfortable meal, without being interrupted by an unpleasantly early visit from the Dervishes.

As Cross and I strolled up towards that part of the line held by the British, I stopped for a few minutes at the huts which had been converted into temporary shelters for the wounded. Everything was in its place, and the angaribs and stretchers ready for prospective employment. Having just emerged from the floating hospital, Cross was naturally very weak, and one of the medical staff, having noticed this, gave him a dose of sal volatile. Every British soldier carried on him a little packet of medical requisites for "first aid to the wounded." The packet was a marvel of condensed utility—lint, bandages, medicated silk, and other things, all compressed into a tiny parcel about three inches square.

By the time I reached the British portion of the zeriba the men were all in their places, with reserve companies in position a little to the rear. Every officer had seen to the working of his revolver, and all the Tommies had opened the breech of their Lee-Metfords and tested the magazine action—a very necessary precaution amongst the sand and dust of Egypt. The two batteries on the extreme left were drawn up, with the grim muzzles of the fifteen-pounders and the Maxim-Nordenfeldts pointing towards Gebel Surgham. Case upon case of shells lay ready to hand, and a number of these missiles were spread out on the sand close beside the gun-carriages.

Long before the advancing Dervishes came within range and sight of our infantry, the Egyptian cavalry, some two thousand strong, had left the northern side of the zeriba, and with the Camel Corps had come in touch with a large body of the enemy under the Sheikh Ed-Din. The Dervishes, certainly not less than fifteen thousand in number, immediately advanced against the Khedival cavalry, expecting, no doubt, an easy victory over the Egyptians: how often in the past had the fellahin horsemen fled in utter rout before them! But now the despised Egyptians retreated in excellent order, dismounting and firing volleys as steadily as on the parade ground at Cairo. The Camel Corps were blundering slowly along, scarcely able to keep ahead of the native spearmen, and were threatened every moment with annihilation. In fact, throughout the day's fighting, no troops were exposed to more serious risk than the cumbrous Camel Corps. The cavalry acted splendidly, halting repeatedly under a hot fire until the camel men came up. Captain Ricardo of the 17th Lancers, who was attached to the Egyptian cavalry, told me that he never wished to command better troops than the "Gyppies" showed themselves to be under these trying circumstances. Nevertheless, many saddles were emptied by Dervish bullets, two field-guns had to be temporarily abandoned, and it would have fared very ill with this gallant corps if they had been compelled to rely solely on their own efforts. As it was, the Egyptian battery posted on a knoll at the north-west corner of the zeriba had got the range of the Kerreri ridge accurately, and as the triumphant Dervishes appeared amongst the rocks in full pursuit of the retreating cavalry, round after round of twelve-pounder shells burst amongst them. At the same moment the Melik and Sultan had trained their quick-firing guns upon the Dervishes, and did splendid execution amongst the crowded ranks. Under this combined fire the enemy wavered, but not for long. They tried to dodge the projectiles and advance more cautiously under cover of various rocky gullies amongst the broken ground. It was like a terrible game of hide-and-seek. The white gibbehs, hidden for some minutes behind the hill, suddenly reappeared by fresh exits from the ridge; but shells met them at every turn, and finally the fanatics, balked of their prey, sullenly withdrew beyond the hills altogether with most of their wounded, leaving some twelve hundred of their number dead or dying on the field.

Inside the zeriba we were all alert and ready. Breakfast was over, and we simply waited for the enemy. I looked down into the hollow beside the river where the baggage camels, camp followers, and servants were stowed away in safety, and saw Ali grasping his enormous sword. The faithful creature came up and informed me that he intended to devote his attention exclusively to the defence of my person during the coming fight. I gently restrained the vaulting ambition of my cook, and pointed out to him the value of less ostentatious heroism—the protection, for example, of the camels from bullets, and the groceries from theft. Having shaken off this enthusiast, I walked along the zeriba to a point some way below the Lincolns. A large number of the Tommies had never been under fire before, e.g. the Guards and the Lancashire Fusiliers, and there was a curious look of suppressed excitement in some of the faces, as they stared over the desert to catch a glimpse of the enemy they were at last destined to behold, after many long marches by day and false alarms by night. Now and then I caught in a man's eye the curious gleam which comes from the joy of shedding blood—that mysterious impulse which, despite all the veneer of civilisation, still holds its own in a man's nature, whether he is killing rats with a terrier, rejoicing in a prize fight, playing a salmon, or potting Dervishes. It was a fine day, and we had come out to kill something. Call it what you like, the experience is a big factor in the joy of living: one speaks f????ta s??et??s?. Lower down the line the Sudanese showed their white teeth as they grinned with delight at the prospect of slaughter.

Suddenly the Lancers came trotting over the ridge between Gebel Surgham and the Nile, while several officers galloped across the plain and reported to the Sirdar that the Khalifa's forces were now rapidly advancing. The signallers from Gebel Surgham had come in by this time, and the cavalry, after a temporary halt beyond Geren Nebi, entered the zeriba by the gap beyond the batteries, and there waited ready for future emergencies.

"When they do show themselves," said an artillery officer, "we'll give them beans," and "beans" they certainly got! Even as he spoke, a long white streak far away in the distance suddenly spread itself over the yellow sand; the longed-for moment had arrived! "Here they come!" was on everybody's lips, and a rustle of excitement ran down the ranks.

True enough, on either side of Gebel Surgham, and then on towards the western slopes of Kerreri, line upon line of Dervish infantry and cavalry appeared. Gigantic banners fluttered aloft, borne on lofty flagstaffs. The rising sun glinted on sword blades and spearheads innumerable, and as the mighty host drew nearer, black heads and arms became visible amongst the white of the massed gibbehs. And now, too, a dense volume of sound came rolling over the desert as the fanatical Arabs raised continuous shouts of defiance, mingled with chants to Allah and the Prophet—their final battle-cry before the inevitable death awaiting them—the veritable requiem song of Mahdism! In the clear morning air the pageant was truly magnificent, a splendid panorama of some forty thousand barbarians moving forward all undismayed to do battle with the largest army which Great Britain has placed in the field for forty years. So marvellous a picture—once seen, never to be seen again—must surely have impressed itself indelibly upon the memory of all who witnessed it!

Our men stood unmoved within the zeriba. Suddenly a cloud of white smoke massed itself along the enemy's front, and one realised that the Dervishes had opened fire on us. The Khalifa's forces possessed eighteen thousand Martinis and a still larger number of Remingtons, captured from the ill-fated army of Hicks Pasha and the various garrisons of the Sudan. But as none of the Dervishes understood the sighting of their rifles, and many of them had actually knocked off the back-sights as a useless encumbrance, their opening volleys at over two thousand yards, being fired point blank, were useless. They simply wasted ammunition; for most of the bullets of course struck the sand hundreds of yards in front of us, and comparatively few got as far as the zeriba. No response came from our silent ranks for another five minutes. Then at 6.20 a roar came from the batteries on the left, and a shell shrieked through the air and burst about twenty yards in front of the formidable line advancing against the southern face of the zeriba. Almost simultaneously the other batteries opened fire on the dense masses of the enemy advancing round the western slopes of Surgham, and still farther away towards the ridge of Kerreri.

The battle had now commenced in dire earnest. As the enemy rapidly advanced, bullets of all sizes and shapes soon began to whistle over the zeriba from the Martinis, Remingtons, and nondescript weapons of the enemy. A battery, too, which they had placed on the western slope of Surgham, fired at the portion of our line held by the Camerons and Seaforths. More than forty rounds were fired from these Dervish field guns, but the shells did little, if any, damage, as, although the fuses were beautifully timed and the projectiles burst at an excellent height above the ground, the range was too long, and they all fell short. Moreover, after the fight some fragments of these shells were picked up and found to be made of very thin brass casing; so that the damage they could have inflicted, even had they reached our lines, must have been inconsiderable. As it was, they burst like maroons at the Crystal Palace, with a loud report and little else.

Our own artillery had very soon found the range accurately. The British fifteen-pounders and the short Maxim-Nordenfeldts of the Egyptian gunners were admirably worked, and the precision of the shell fire was marvellous. Scores of shrapnel burst just over the advancing line, and other shells struck the ground under their feet, tearing huge gaps in the ranks and throwing up clouds of earth and stones. The division of the enemy nearest to the zeriba was advancing over the ridge between Surgham and the river, and with a good field glass I could see the fearful havoc played by the fire of our guns. Beneath the descending shower of bullets from a well-placed shrapnel, a little crowd of men would fall torn and bleeding upon the sand, and sometimes a shell splinter would crash into a horse and hurl the animal with its rider to the ground. Despite this awful fire, the brave Dervishes came steadily on down the slope, though the line of their march was thickly strewn with dead and wounded. At length, to complete their discomfiture, the enemy in this part of the field came within long range of the rifles of the Guards, the Warwicks, and other battalions lining the more southern face of the zeriba. As withering volleys were poured into them, in addition to the incessant shell fire, the remnants of this brave division seemed to realise the hopelessness of a direct advance, and swerved to their left without any disorder to join their comrades who had advanced round Surgham from the west.

The main attack upon our position had now fully developed, and it was at this juncture that the Egyptian cavalry and the Camel Corps regained the shelter of their comrades' trenches after their lucky escape from Sheikh Ed-Din's spearmen. Thousands upon thousands of Dervish infantry and cavalry advanced all along the line in a rough semicircle, with frenzied shouts and a continuous but irregular fire upon the western face of the zeriba. Towards the left centre the Khalifa's black ensign stood out above the white gibbehs and red sashes of his bodyguard—that heroic and devoted band who rallied to the last round their leader's flag, and died to a man in its defence!

The din of battle was terrific. The roar of the artillery, the shriek of shells, the crisp volleys of the Lee-Metfords, and the unceasing rat-tat-tat of the deadly Maxims were so deafening that it was only occasionally in brief intervals that one realised that bullets by hundreds were flying around us.

Other proofs, however, of this were soon in evidence. In every direction the medical service men were to be seen carrying the dead and wounded on stretchers to the rear. As I walked across the zeriba with the Rifle Brigade, who were ordered to reinforce the line facing west, three men were hit by Dervish bullets, and immediately afterwards I saw a corporal of the Camerons shot clean through the head. As I said above, comparatively few bullets were heard, but every now and then a man fell to the ground. Colonel Money's horse was shot under him; he secured another mount, and in a few minutes his second horse rolled over, pierced by another Dervish bullet. Shortly afterwards, as I was watching the Maxim fire, a Highlander suddenly fell over two yards to my left. He was, I think, shot through the upper part of the arm; but what amused me was the self-conscious, shamefaced look which came over his face when the stretcher arrived. He looked sheepishly round to see if anybody noticed it, and was evidently quite ashamed of being carried off!

It was interesting to hear various occasional remarks which were made as flying bullets whistled overhead or made a splash in the loose sand of the zeriba. After a little experience in being under fire the ear gets to appreciate the relative distances of these invisible messengers, but the tendency at first is to imagine that the passing bullet is much nearer to one than it really is. I remember hearing a young soldier remark as a bullet whizzed over us, "By Jove, that nearly got me on the head!" whereas the missile was yards up in the air. It is, indeed, always satisfactory under such circumstances to note the whizz of bullets through the air; for, of course, if you hear the missile, it can't do you any harm. Some of the Dervish bullets played the oddest tricks. My friend, Captain Maclachlan of the Camerons, suddenly felt his side drenched with water, and, looking down, found that his water-bottle had been pierced from side to side. I found that this little anecdote had already reached England when I arrived, and had, moreover, been duly improved upon; for an old lady in the train spoke in sympathetic tones of the providential escape of the poor invalid officer who had been saved from a bullet as he lay in bed by the hot water bottle applied to his side! Another bullet passed through an ammunition pouch, cutting eight cartridges in half just between the lead and the cordite without exploding a single one. In another case, a Dervish bullet bored a hole through the helmet of the man in front, tore the shoulder-strap from the man behind, then wounded a sergeant in the leg, and finally dropped harmlessly on the toes of a private in the rear.

Between the two Highland battalions was posted a battery of Maxims under Captain Smeaton, whom I had seen in Crete a year and a half ago. Just behind the Maxims a detachment of Engineers did excellent work in organising the ammunition supply. One is always glad to hear the conduct of this fine corps appreciated, for frequently the sappers, from the nature of their work, are not sufficiently noticed in the literature of our "little wars." They did much excellent work at the Atbara, with scarcely a word of subsequent recognition from the Press; and here in the Omdurman zeriba they were posted in the middle of the fighting line, and took their chance as well as anyone else.

The Maxims poured forth an unceasing stream of bullets. A belt of cartridges was fixed, and instantly began to glide through the breech mechanism; then ta-ta-ta-ta-ta—the belt was empty and thrown aside to make way for another. It was not difficult to see how the gun was doing its terrible work, for if the aim became unduly depressed, a screen of dust and sand was thrown up in front of the enemy's line, and the only thing needed was a trifling elevation of the barrel.

There is a sort of fascination about a Maxim in full swing. Water is placed round the barrel in a metal casing, in order to keep the steel from becoming red hot. As it is, in three minutes after the water is poured in it boils furiously, and steam rushes out of the valves. Still, as long as the barrel is in contact with water of any kind, all goes well. In the midst of the Dervish attack the water suddenly gave out in Captain Smeaton's battery, and the machinery would speedily have ceased work from overheating but for the ready help of the men who stood by, and immediately emptied their water-bottles into the empty tubing. The Maxims, thus refreshed, continued their work, and up to 8.30 a.m. no less than ninety thousand rounds of ammunition had been fired from these weapons alone.

About seven o'clock a marvellous attempt to break our lines was made by the enemy. The Dervish leader in the centre—perhaps Yakub, the Khalifa's brother—actually dispatched a body of about one hundred and fifty cavalry against the British position. That any sane man could be guilty of such criminal folly is almost incredible. The devoted band galloped towards the zeriba over the open desert in the very teeth of Maxims and Lee-Metford volleys! Needless to say, not one of these brave fellows got within five hundred yards of our lines. The Maxims and rifles rained bullets upon them, the murderous sheet of lead mowed them down, and they simply vanished from sight. One heroic leader struggled on in front of his comrades, until he too, with his beautiful Arab charger, went down like the rest, and lay there, a silent witness to the magnificent valour of the Khalifa's followers. Not one man in twenty returned from this wild charge, which, for the utter recklessness of its bravery, must be almost unexampled in military history.

The interchange of shots continued until about 8.30, by which time the Dervish forces had been practically annihilated, with the exception of two or three large masses, which had retreated in excellent order behind the hills on the south-west and north-west. In fact, during the last half-hour of this portion of the engagement, the actual rifle fire of the Dervishes had been confined almost exclusively to a small body of sharpshooters, who had ensconced themselves in a sandy hollow some nine hundred yards away on our left centre. These riflemen, being sheltered from the hail of bullets which whizzed over their heads, continued to make very fair practice on our ranks for some time. At last a shell from Major Williams' battery pitched right into the middle of their retreat. What exactly happened I do not know, but, at anyrate, we were troubled by no more bullets from that quarter. Throughout the fighting up to this point I never saw a Dervish run; whenever he retreated he simply walked off the field. I noticed many of the wounded struggle to their feet, attempt to walk away, and then fall to rise no more as merciless volleys again struck them to the ground.

As the Sirdar appeared to think that all danger from Dervish attack was now past and over, the entire army received orders to leave the zeriba and march in Échelon straight on Omdurman. Meanwhile, however, the Lancers had advanced over the ridge towards the river, with orders to harass the enemy and head them off from Omdurman as far as possible. The troopers trotted off in excellent spirits, glad to get a chance of some fighting after their forced inaction under cover during the assault upon the zeriba.

And now occurred the most graphic and sensational bit of fighting in the whole battle. A continuous stream of Dervishes was traversing the plain between Gebel Surgham and the suburbs of Omdurman. But before the Lancers had advanced far upon the flank of these fugitives they noticed what appeared to be a body of some two hundred spearmen, who were partly under cover of a low ridge of sand. These Dervishes soon showed that they had rifles as well as spears, for a hot fire was opened upon the cavalry. A charge was at once ordered, and the line of Lancers galloped down upon the enemy. Before they had reached the hollow, however, they saw beyond the riflemen a considerable body of Dervishes, whose presence, thanks to a further inequality in the ground, had not been revealed till that moment. I have heard it said that, previous to falling foul of these partly concealed Dervishes, the Lancers had advanced without any scouts being thrown forward who might have easily discovered how the land lay. Again, even when the white mass of men, some fifteen deep, suddenly rose up before the eyes of the cavalry, there would have been absolutely no shadow of discredit in retiring; for cavalry are not ordinarily required to charge unbroken infantry, nor was this course rendered necessary by the Sirdar's orders. There can be little doubt that if our men, immediately on sighting the large compact body in the rear of the riflemen, had withdrawn, dismounted, and poured volleys from their carbines into the massed ranks of the enemy, they would have inflicted far greater damage upon the Dervishes, with scarcely any appreciable loss to themselves. This course was not taken. So far from halting and retreating, our gallant Lancers quickened their chargers' pace, and hurled themselves boldly against the double rampart of fighting men. Colonel Martin led the way, riding well ahead of his regiment, and, without attempting to use his weapons, forced a passage through the dense masses in front of him. He did not, I believe, receive a scratch during this perilous exploit, though it was almost a miracle that he escaped with his life. A friend of mine who took part in this famous charge told me that as the cavalry galloped forward they were met by a perfect hail of bullets from the riflemen in front, which ought to have emptied many a saddle, but for the most part flew harmlessly overhead. As is usually the case in desperate fighting, none of the men who came safely through the charge appeared to know much about its details. My informant told me that he noticed an officer—probably Lieutenant Grenfell—standing a little on one side and fighting with a ring of Dervishes, three of whom suddenly turned upon himself. As they advanced he realised that he had better make some use of his weapons, so whipped out his revolver and shot the foremost Dervish. After this his horse struggled onward past the rest of the assailants. Until he had shot this man, he had quite forgotten to draw either sword or revolver!

The outer line of the enemy was soon broken up by the impact of the cavalry, and the riflemen tumbled head over heels amongst the horses' feet. But much greater resistance came from the two thousand Dervishes at the back. The confusion was terrible. Lances are not of much use in a crowd, and if our troopers had used their sabres they would have suffered less from the heavy sword blades which were hacking their bodies and hamstringing their horses. If any man was unhorsed he was as good as dead. The furious Arabs leapt upon him and slashed at his face till his features disappeared and his flesh hung in strips. Lieutenant Clerk's charger stumbled and fell forward as it breasted the edge of the nullah, but most fortunately its master kept his seat, and managed to get through the mÊlÉe unhurt. This officer was on September 2nd far too ill and weak for any sort of military duty, but he pluckily kept to his regiment till the day's arduous work was over, and was then obliged to go into hospital worse than before. The fighting through the brief period of this charge—a few minutes all told from beginning to end—was wild and fierce. The Lancers never flinched in the face of an enemy six times as numerous as themselves, and, doing what they could with the clumsy lances, forced a path for their squadrons through the crowd in front. On the other hand, the Dervishes rejoiced, no doubt, to get to close quarters with the hated infidels after all the futile attempts and cruel losses of the morning. Their eyes gleamed with fury as they crowded round the hated Englishmen, and showered spear thrusts and sword cuts upon man and beast alike. The cross-handled Dervish sword is terribly heavy, and the long straight blades of several which I picked up had been freshly ground for subsequent employment upon the person of Tommy Atkins. The large Dervish spear, too, when properly handled, is a most formidable weapon, and if a thrust is driven well home into the body, the wound from the broad iron head is so wide and deep that a man has little chance of recovery.

My readers have all read in the newspapers of some of the many acts of heroism and narrow escapes which were crowded into the space of a few minutes. They have heard how gallantly men like Lieutenant Montmorency and Private Peddar, who had fought their way unhurt through the Dervishes' line, turned back to save their wounded and dismounted comrades—how Major Wyndham, when his horse fell dead beneath him, managed with the help of his friends to push his way through the press and escape the death which overtook almost every other Lancer who was unhorsed.

The enemy's line was completely broken up by the cavalry, and about seventy of the Dervishes were killed or wounded. But when the Lancers formed up some three hundred yards on the other side of the hollow, it was evident from even a cursory glance that the gallant charge had cost them dear. Lieutenant Grenfell with twenty troopers were missing, and of the fifty wounded men many were streaming with blood and scarcely able to keep their saddles. No less than one hundred and nineteen horses out of three hundred and twenty were killed or hopelessly wounded, and in some cases the faithful creatures, who had carried their masters safely through the fight, just managed to rejoin the ranks and then fell dead.

After the charge Colonel Martin ordered his men to dismount and fire volleys at the enemy, who still held their ground. The magazine fire of the carbines speedily dispersed the Dervishes, and the victorious Lancers returned to the scene of their charge and recovered the dead. All the bodies had been horribly mutilated; the faces were quite unrecognisable, and the flesh of the neck and shoulders was scored and lacerated in every direction with sword cuts and spear thrusts.

Indignation against the Dervishes for such mutilations may easily be exaggerated. Sickening as it is to gaze upon a comrade's features hacked out of all human semblance, one cannot forget that the men who did the deed had seen thousands of their brethren slain by our awful fire without a possibility of retaliation. It is worth remembering, too, that the mutilation of the human body is not the exclusive monopoly of barbaric peoples; anyone who has seen the effects of shell fire—bodies ripped open, jaws torn off, and kindred horrors—may find it difficult to differentiate very markedly between the accursed usages inseparable from every system of warfare—civilised and barbarous alike.

While the Lancers had met and engaged the enemy beyond Gebel Surgham, the whole of the infantry, artillery, and baggage-train had left the zeriba and advanced in Échelon upon Omdurman. The British battalions led the way on the left; on the right marched the Egyptians and Sudanese—Maxwell's brigade in front, Lewis's next, and Macdonald's bringing up the rear. I joined Lewis's men, and as the line of our advance led us over the ground covered by a portion of the attack, we speedily found ourselves amongst dead and dying Dervishes. The first of these I came across was the brave leader who had led the charge of the Baggara cavalry. He and his horse were quite dead—both of them riddled with bullets. His spear lay beside him, and was seized by a Sudanese soldier as a present for his bimbashi. As we marched towards Gebel Surgham, and further out upon the plain, the efficacy of our shell and rifle fire became more apparent every yard we advanced. In every direction rows and clusters of white gibbehs and black bodies lay scattered over the sand.

Here and there, too, horses were stretched motionless, or else tossed restlessly to and fro, unable to rise. I cannot account for the fact, but the sight of a wounded horse is much more painful to myself, and, I know, to many other men, than the sight of a wounded man. As one walks over a battlefield one gazes with indifference or vague curiosity on mangled heaps of human bodies, but where one sees a horse cruelly torn by a shell splinter, raising and drooping its head upon the sand, with terror and anguish in its beautiful eyes—such a sight as this must fill the heart of any lover of animals with pain and pity.

Our native battalions were soon busily engaged in killing the wounded. The Sudanese undertook this task with evident relish, and never spared a single Dervish along their path. On our left front, at the foot of the Surgham slope, where the opening shell fire of the batteries on the left had covered the hillside with dead and wounded, a large number of servants and camp followers were also busy. These harpies, intent solely on loot, had armed themselves with various weapons. Some carried clubs or spears, others had managed to secure old rifles. They advanced with great caution, and I saw them fire repeatedly into bodies which were already quite dead, before they dared to rush in and strip the corpse of its arms and clothing. These cowardly wretches ought most certainly to have been prevented from carrying on this irresponsible shooting. They fired anyhow, without looking to see who was in front, and their bullets continually ricochetted against the rocks. One of these bullets passed quite close to the front of our brigade as we advanced, and I heard that an officer was wounded by another.

The barbarous usage of killing the wounded has become traditional in Sudanese warfare, and in some cases it must be looked upon as a painful necessity. The wounded Dervishes—as I saw with my own eyes, and on one occasion nearly felt with my own body—sometimes raised themselves and fired one last round at our advancing line. On one occasion a wounded Baggara suddenly rose up from a little heap of bodies and stabbed no less than seven Egyptian cavalry troopers before he was finally dispatched. Still, when all has been said in defence of this practice, it is certain that in many cases wounded Dervishes, unarmed and helpless, were butchered from sheer wantonness and lust of bloodshed. The whole formed a hideous picture, not easy to forget.

Some of the wounded turned wearily over, and paid no attention to our advance. For many of them, indeed, the bitterness of death was already past. They lay in the scorching heat, with shattered bodies and shattered hopes, awaiting the final thrust of the merciless bayonet. Many of them were doubtless good as well as brave men. They had trusted in Allah that he would deliver them, but their prayer had been in vain. There are few experiences in this world more cruel than the sudden extinction of religious hope, and the dying thoughts of some of these Dervishes must have been exceeding bitter.

As I tramped along with Lewis's brigade towards Omdurman, we were suddenly aware that something had gone wrong on the right flank and rear of the column. The "ispt," "ispt" of bullets was heard in every direction, and men began to fall. Turning round, I soon saw what had happened. The enemy had actually renewed the fight, and an orderly attack was being made on Macdonald's brigade by the large Dervish force under Sheikh Ed-Din, which had retreated under the fire of the gunboats at the beginning of the engagement, and held itself in readiness behind the Kerreri ridge for this flank attack. At the same time several other bodies of Dervishes appeared to the west of Surgham, and also from behind the low hills straight in front.

The brunt of this fresh attack fell upon the rear brigade. Colonel Macdonald did not lose a moment. His blacks were at once formed into two lines, meeting at an obtuse angle, and a steady fire was opened on the enemy, who advanced with marvellous rapidity. Towards the left centre, the black standard of the Khalifa rose again to view, and behind this, and on either flank, line after line of infantry swept once more over the undulating desert.

This was the only portion of the fight in which any part of our position was seriously threatened, and during this second battle—for it practically amounted to this—the Sudanese and Egyptian infantry had most of the fighting to themselves. Right well they fought—one native brigade against some twenty-five thousand Dervishes. Any wavering or panic on the part of these battalions would have been fatal, for during the really critical period of the fight they were quite isolated. Lewis's brigade—their nearest support—was at least nine hundred yards away, and most of the British columns were actually out of sight, advancing along the river a mile and a half in front. The men of the brigade, which comprised the 9th, 10th, and 11th Sudanese and the 2nd Egyptians, were armed with Martinis; and the smoke of the black powder they used interfered to some extent with the accuracy of their fire, which always tends, in the case of native troops, to become rather wild as the excitement of battle grows upon them. Thus it happened that the enemy managed to get to much closer quarters with us than previously. Their foremost ranks sometimes seemed to advance within one hundred and fifty yards of the Sudanese, and when a perfect flood of Sheikh Ed-Din's infantry was let loose from the Kerreri slopes upon Macdonald's rear, some of the Dervishes, despite the withering rifle fire, actually ran up and used their spears against our men, until they were bayoneted or shot down at the very muzzles of the rifles. Another brilliant attempt was made by the Khalifa's cavalry to break the Sudanese lines, and some of the horsemen got within a few yards of the line before they were shot down in detail. One determined standard-bearer, with nothing in his hands except his flagstaff, struggled on heroically to within a dozen yards of the blacks before he fell, riddled with bullets.

Efforts had, of course, been made all along the line to lend assistance to Macdonald in his one-handed struggle. The gunboats had joined with his own three batteries in shelling the dense masses under Sheikh Ed-Din, while on the left other batteries had galloped up, and now from the northern slopes of Surgham poured round after round of shell upon the indomitable enemy. Three battalions, too, of the 1st British Brigade had come up at the double, and the Lincolns had been dispatched to aid in the final dispersion of Ed-Din's Dervishes amongst the rugged slopes of Kerreri.

Still, valuable as this help was in completing the rout of the Dervishes, and driving them off finally beyond the hills to the west, there is no doubt that the repulse of the enemy was already a fait accompli long before the British battalions had wheeled to the right and traversed the long distance—at least one and a half miles—between their position near the river and the rear of our advance on the right. Colonel Macdonald had proved once more his sterling qualities as a leader. The Sudanese had shown that they could stand absolutely steady under a prolonged fire as well as rush impetuously to an attack. The "Gyppies," who in the old days of El Teb and Hicks Pasha's disaster threw away their rifles and were butchered as they fled or knelt to beg for mercy—these very Fellahin soldiers, now disciplined and taught the value of self-respect by British officers, fired regular volleys and stood firm as a rock against the stream of Dervishes which threatened every moment to engulf them.

I noticed, by the way, one very smart bit of fighting during the movement in support of Macdonald. The brigade under Colonel Maxwell advanced almost directly upon Gebel Surgham, and a number of Sudanese were ordered to clear the hill of Dervishes. Up went the blacks like monkeys. The whole eastern slope of Surgham was dotted with little white puffs of smoke as the lithe creatures leapt from boulder to boulder and drove the enemy before them. At the top of the hill the surviving Dervishes, under the Emir Osman Azrak, made a desperate stand, but were killed to a man.

It was not till nearly midday that "Cease fire" again sounded, and the victorious march to Omdurman was resumed. Scattered bands of Dervishes were to be seen in the distance, making westward to the shelter of the hills. Upon the rear of these fugitives the Egyptian cavalry was let loose; and as they galloped away to the right, and cut up the stragglers, they felt, no doubt, that they were getting some sort of compensation for their bad luck in the early morning. Captain Smeaton lent me his field glasses, which were more powerful than my own, and far away in front, on a ridge of rock, safe from cavalry and rifle bullets, I saw a little band of Dervishes—some sixty in all—painfully making their way to the west. With the fine binoculars in my hand I could even see the faces of the poor wretches, the majority of whom seemed to be wounded. Some limped along unaided over the rough hillside, others were supported by their comrades. How many hundreds, nay, thousands, of these wounded Dervishes ultimately succumbed to the fearful injuries inflicted by the "man-stopping" bullet, no one, I suppose, will ever know accurately; but one may be tolerably sure that behind the hills many a poor creature lay down to die.

In handing Captain Smeaton's glasses back, I noticed that one of the mules harnessed to the Maxims had just been struck by a bullet, which passed clean through the animal's neck. The wounded mule, by name Tommy, was evidently quite a pet amongst the gunners, and though it looked rather anxious and depressed, it dragged the Maxim with unabated vigour.

In places, as we marched along, the ground was strewn thickly with bodies, as the fire had struck the enemy down in little heaps. In one spot I saw a ring of nine men and three horses, all evidently slain by the explosion of a single shell. One Dervish, as I passed, raised his face to mine with a ghastly smile, as if deprecating our vengeance, and throwing his gibbeh on one side, displayed an awful wound. A shell splinter had struck the miserable man full in front, and literally ripped his body open from side to side. Another man lay face downward upon the sand, breathing bubbles through a pool of gore, and actually drowning in his own blood! As a rule, however, the features of the dead were not distorted. They lay as if asleep, with a peaceful look upon their faces, and many of them were handsome men of magnificent build.

The sun by this time was terribly hot, and, after the excitement of the fight, the fatigue of the day's work, and the absence of sleep on the previous night began to tell upon the men. Several halts were made, and at last a string of camels laden with fantasias (metal water tanks) made their appearance. The men crowded round, and filled their bottles to the brim. The water was quite warm, but the troops drank it with avidity. I filled my bottle, and then, plunging the whole thing into a bucket, waited till evaporation should cool the contents. Meanwhile I crawled under a Maxim carriage. The scanty shade was perfectly delicious, and I should have gone to sleep but for the mules, which became restless, and kicked out occasionally with their hoofs in unpleasant proximity to my head.

After half an hour's halt the onward march was resumed, and we saw the troops in front about two hundred yards away actually marching through a mirage of water, rocks, and bushes! Cross tried to photograph the curious scene, but the result did not prove a success. Why does one never get a decent photograph of a mirage in the desert? Men still fell out of the ranks from sheer exhaustion. One would see a soldier totter on for some yards, trying to pull himself together, and then suddenly step to one side and sink down on the sand, saying, "It's no good; I can't go on." On two occasions when this happened, the exhausted man had drained the entire contents of his bottle, which had been full an hour ago, and not a drop of water was to be got from any of the soldiers near! I mention this to show the utter lack of self-control in the matter of drink which prevailed amongst the "Tommies." My own bottle was the only one within reach that contained any water at all, and of course I did what everyone else would have done, and divided what remained between the two men, who seemed to be actually dying of thirst. They then got up and managed to struggle on to Omdurman, their rifles being carried for them by some of their comrades. A private of the Warwicks suddenly dropped down dead from heat apoplexy, and was buried on the spot. The comparatively mild sufferings of our own men turned one's thoughts to the crowded heaps of wounded wretches left behind us in the desert to the added tortures of that thirst which invariably accompanies gunshot wounds. How many thousands, too, of women and children would soon be weeping with all the wild lamentation of the East over the brave men who lay in the sleep of death far away upon the plain! Sorrow is the same all the world over—that dread factor in human life—and the terrific carnage of the day's fighting had taken away the bread-winner and protector from thousands of poor homes in the Sudan, and doomed many a household to starvation.

The battle was now to all intents and purposes over, and already vast flocks of vultures were wheeling round and round over the expanse of desert. Another halt was made on the edge of a khor on the outskirts of Omdurman. The water of this inlet was thick and yellow, and in the shallower parts dead animals—horses, mules, and donkeys—lay about in various stages of decay. Nevertheless, the thirsty troops rushed down the bank and drank greedily of the foul water. The want of self-control and common sense at this khor may quite well be partly responsible for the large number of typhoid cases which subsequently occurred. As I thought that ten minutes more of dry throat and parched lips were better than the chance of enteric fever, I walked down to the Nile. Here I found Captain Ricardo, Lord Tullibardine, and one or two others sitting under the scanty shade of a mud-hut, where I joined them after some tremendous draughts of running water, drunk out of a calabash which I had cut from the neck of a dead Dervish. Lord Tullibardine kindly gave me some brandy to flavour the water, and Captain Ricardo recounted the good deeds of the "Gyppy" cavalry. Then we all lay at full length and indulged in a little siesta.

The bugles soon sounded the "advance," and the final order came that the army was to occupy Omdurman forthwith. The weary troops advanced once more, and we all waded through the muddy khor. The water reached to our knees, and was very refreshing after the long tramp over the hot sand. Alongside one of the battalions rode the Presbyterian chaplain, mounted—oh tell it not in the Kirk, neither publish it amongst the Elders—upon a looted pony! It was, I think, a colt which I had seen earlier in the day standing unhurt amongst a heap of dead Dervishes, and calmly nibbling some scanty blades of desert grass.

As we marched on through the apparently interminable suburbs of the city, the regimental drums and fifes and the Highlanders' bagpipes struck up some lively tunes. The effect of music at such a time was simply marvellous: it put fresh heart and vigour into all of us. The Sudanese, with broad grins on their shiny black faces, played the various marching tunes of the British regiments, and were loudly cheered by their white comrades. All along the broad street which runs through Omdurman to the central square we were greeted by bands of women, who stood in clusters at the doors, and welcomed us with curious trilling cries of joy.

The Khalifa had escaped from the southern end of the town about an hour before our foremost troops arrived, and had been followed by a panic-stricken mob of men, women, and children, with camels and donkeys. In spite, however, of this exodus, the advance battalions, with the Sirdar and his staff, had met with some resistance from Dervishes still concealed in the houses along the main street. Here and there bullets were fired from windows and roofs across the line of our advance, and troops had to be detailed to clear out these dangerous assailants. Fortunately, a little light still came from the setting sun, and the Sudanese were soon able to rid themselves of their antagonists. Bullets had been repeatedly fired at the Sirdar and his staff as they advanced, and a little further on destruction nearly overtook them from the shells of our own field guns. The Sirdar had ordered the 32nd battery to shell the Khalifa's palace, and nevertheless saw fit to advance with his staff into the zone of fire. Suddenly four shells burst in rapid succession above their heads, close to the Mahdi's tomb and the great square. Everyone hurried away to shelter, but Howard had already dismounted and reached an upper room in the Khalifa's palace. Another shell screamed over the houses, and as it burst a fragment struck Howard on the back of the head, and killed him instantly—a tragic and untimely death, when the perils of the day seemed over and rest nigh at hand! Thus perished a man who was, I believe, absolutely fearless in the presence of danger. He was my junior at Oxford, but I remember that as an undergraduate at Balliol he was known for that reckless daring and courage which in after years led him to seek for adventure in Cuba, Matabeleland, and finally the Sudan. During the campaign in South Africa Howard displayed signal ability as adjutant of his corps; in fact, the splendid courage and unceasing energy which marked his whole career gave every promise of ultimately securing for him a still higher fame and distinction. As it was, his young life was cut short in the very midst of his restless activity, and he died as he had lived, eager to do his best, and utterly fearless of everything except failure.

"The untented Kosmos his abode

He passed, a wilful stranger—

His mistress still the open road

And the bright eyes of Danger!"