“There is a better thing on earth than wealth, a better thing than life itself, and that is to have done something before you die, for which good men may honour you, and God your Father smile upon your work.”

—Geo. Macdonald.

The last Arab messenger that came from Khartoum before it fell, said, “Gordon goes every morning at sunrise to the top of his Palace wall, and with his large field glass, sweeps the horizon as far as possible, and notes as clearly as may be the position of the Madhi’s forces, which now surrounded the City. As night falls, he visits the men at their various stations, to give them advice, or encouragement, as the case might be deemed necessary. In the daytime he studies his maps and reads his Bible, and a work on “Holy living,” by Thomas À Kempis, and preserves such a faith in God as inspired all around him with a courage akin to his own.

“He held the city, he so long
Faithful mid falterers, mid much weakness strong,
Upon those ramparts now he fought, he planned,
That Citadel was by one true man well manned.”

A letter from Kitchener reached Gordon, which raised his hopes and considerably brightened his prospects for the time being. It ran thus:—

“Dear General Gordon.—Mr. Edgerton has asked me to send you the following:—‘August 30th. Tell Gordon steamers are being passed over the Second Cataracts, and that we wish to be informed through Dongola exactly when he expects to be in difficulties as to provision and ammunition.’ Message ends—“Lord Wolseley is coming out to command; the 35th regiment is now being sent from Halfa to Dongola. Sir E. Wood is at Halfa, General Earle, Dormer, Buller, and Freemantle are coming up the Nile with troops. I think an expedition will be sent across from here to Khartoum, while another goes with steamers to Berber. A few words about what you wish to be done would be acceptable.”

Gordon’s last slumber

In Gordon’s journal he says:—“My view is this as to the operations of British forces. I will put three steamers each with two guns on them, and an armed force of infantry at the disposal of any British authority; will send these steamers to either Methemma opposite Shendy, or to the cataract below Berber to meet there any British force which may come across country to the Nile. . . . I cannot too much impress upon you that this expedition will not encounter any enemy worth the name in a European sense of the word; the struggle is with the climate and destitution of the country. It is one of time and patience, and of small parties of determined men backed by native allies, which are to be got by policy and money. . . . It is the country of the irregular, not of the regular. If you move in mass you will find no end of difficulties; whereas if you let detached parties dash out here and there, you will spread dismay in the Arab camps. The time to attack is the dawn, or rather before it, but sixty men would put the Arabs to flight just before dawn, while one thousand would not accomplish in daylight. The reason is that the strength of the Arabs is in their horsemen, who do not dare to act in the dark. I do hope that you will not drag on the artillery, it will only cause delay and do no good.”

To his sister he writes:—

November 5th, 1884.

“Your kind letter, August 7th, came yesterday. We have the Madhi close to us, but the Arabs are very quiet. . . . . Terrible news—I hear the steamer I sent down with Stewart, Power, and Herbin (French Consul) has been captured and all are killed. I cannot understand it—whether an act of treachery by someone, or struck on a rock, it is to me unaccountable, for she was well armed and had a gun with her; if she is lost, so is the journal of events from Jan. 3rd, 1884, to Sept. 10th, 1884. A huge volume illustrated and full of interest. I have put my steamers at Metemma to wait for the troops. I am very well but very gray, with the continual strain upon my nerves. I have been putting the Sheikh-el-Islam and Cadi in prison; they were suspected of writing to the Madhi. I let them out yesterday. I am very grieved for the relatives of Stewart, Power, and Herbin.”

Again he writes:—

Dec. 14th, 1884.

“This may be the last letter you will receive from me, for we are on our last legs, owing to the delay of the expedition. However, God rules all, and I know He will rule to His glory and our welfare. I fear that, owing to circumstances, my affairs pecuniarily are not over bright.

Your affectionate brother,
C. G. Gordon.”

P.S.—“I am very happy, thank God, and, like Lawrence, ‘I have tried to do my duty.’”

Meanwhile, Gordon is thus hemmed in. General Wolseley and his noble band are on their way to his relief. Many and peculiar are the difficulties of both climate, country, and foes; yet they face them like brave, true Englishmen. The journey from Cairo to Ambukol, a distance of more than one thousand miles, had been traversed without serious opposition. From here, however, as they near Khartoum, now about two hundred and fifty miles, taking the nearest desert route. Lord Wolseley seems here to halt and hesitate, whether it is best to go by the Nile, which, as shown on a map, takes a bend, forming the shape of a letter ‘S’ nearly; or whether to take the shortest cut and risk the opposition that may be expected. He eventually decides that the Camel Corps and a portion of the Infantry shall take the short cut; the desert route to Metemmeh: the rest to go by the Nile. It is evidently Wolseley’s wish to punish the tribes who murdered Stewart, and his companions; so he orders the South Staffordshire, 38th, and the Royal Sussex, 35th, and the Black Watch, 42nd, to advance to Abu Hamed, which lies at the northern bend of the ‘S,’ which the Nile makes between Dongola and Metemmeh.

The Camel Corps are ordered to make a dash across the desert to the same place. Little did our force dream of the difficulties, dangers and deaths that lay before them as they entered upon that desert march. We only indicate some of them. On their march we are told that having nearly reached Abu Klea “we were turning into our zareba, when it was noticed that a group of some two hundred Arabs were on the hills, not far from us. Two shells were sent amongst them, which caused them to retire, but we soon found their sharpshooters had crept to within 1,200 yards of our right flank. Also they began to drop bullets into our midst, which were annoying and destructive. Half a company of Mounted Infantry were told off to drive them away. All officers were to see that the men were at their posts, with bayonets fixed, ready to jump to their feet at the very first alarm. With their overcoats on and their blankets wrapped around them, men lay down on that memorable night. All lights put out, all talking and smoking strictly prohibited. A deadly stillness, disturbed only by the whizzing or thud of the shot from the enemy’s guns. Colonel Burnaby, who had managed somehow to find a place in the Expedition, expressed his great delight in having arrived in time to engage in what he now saw to be the prospect of a terrible struggle.

He stated, “that he had arrived at that time of life when the two things that interested him most were war and politics; and was just as happy in the desert fighting the Arabs, as he was at home slating an unworthy politician. Here, however, he was, and must face the conflict.” January, 16th, 1885. About 10 p.m. The sentries came rushing into the lines. The officers called out, “stand to your arms men.” The alarm, however, was false—only a feint on the part of the enemy. Still (says the writer), they kept harassing us by a continual dropping of shot from their long rangers. About 7.30 a.m., General Stewart prepared to send out an attacking column, with the object of driving them from the wells, which were now only four or five miles distant. The troops marched out—Mounted Infantry, Royal Artillery with three guns, Guards (this was the Front Face); Right Face—Guards, Royal Sussex; Left Face—Mounted Infantry, Heavy Cavalry Regiment. The 19th Hussars, under Colonel Barrow, numbering 90 sabres, were sent to left flank to advance along the spur of land on the north of the wady. Their duty was to move forward on a line paralleled with the Square, and prevent the enemy on our left from gaining the high ground across the little wady. A squadron of the 19th, thirty sabres strong, followed the Square, marching by the front right to assist the skirmishers. The Heavies were in charge of Colonel Talbot; the Guards by Colonel Boscowen; the Mounted Infantry by Major Barrow; the Naval Brigade by Lord Charles Beresford; the Royal Sussex by Major Sunderland; the Royal Artillery by Captain Norton; and the Royal Engineers by Major Dorwood. So they marched slowly forward. The progress was like that of some ponderous machine, slow, regular, compact, despite the hail of bullets that came from front, left and right, and ultimately from the rear. Some ten or twelve thousand Arabs it was seen had surrounded the Zareba. There was no retreat; it was “do or die!” About 9.50 a.m., about 5000 of the enemy were seen on the opposite side of the square, 400 or 500 yards distant, and seemed as if they would make a dash for our square. Dervishes on horseback, and some on foot, marshalled them, standing a few paces in front of the frantic host. With banners fluttering, tom-toms clamouring, and shouts of Allah, they began to move towards our square. The skirmisher’s fire seemed to have no effect; though a few of them fell, they ultimately made a run towards us like the roll of a black surf. Lord Charles Beresford’s superintendence was moved to the left face, rear corner, to be brought into action; for here they seemed to press the attack. Unhappily, before many rounds had been fired, the cartridges stuck and the weapon was useless. Still down came the Arab wave. One terrible rush of swordsmen and spearmen—scarcely any carrying guns—their rifle fire had practically ceased. In wild excitement, their white teeth glistening and the sheen of their brandished weapons flashing like thousands of mirrors; onward they came against us.”

The writer says:—“A volley of shot was sent into them at 150 yards; at least one hundred Arabs fell, and their force wavered, as a man stops to get his breath; but the forces behind them came leaping over their falling brethren, and came charging straight into our ranks. I was at that instant inside the square, when I noticed our men shuffling backwards. Some say Colonel Burnaby issued an order for the men to fall back, but I did not hear it. Burnaby rode out apparently to assist our skirmishers, who were running in, hard pressed: all but one succeeding in getting inside the square: Burnaby went, sword in hand, on his borrowed nag, for his own had been shot under him that morning—he put himself in the way of a Sheik who was charging down on horseback. Ere the Arab closed with him a bullet from some in our ranks brought the Sheik headlong to the ground. The enemy’s spearmen were close behind, and one of them clashed at Colonel Burnaby, pointing the long blade of his spear at his throat. Burnaby leant forward in his saddle and parried the Moslem’s thrusts; but the length of the weapon (8 feet or more) made it difficult to deal a blow as desired. Once or twice the Colonel managed to touch him. This only made him the more alert. Burnaby fenced smartly, just as if he was playing in an assault-at-arms, and there was a smile on his features as he drove off the man’s awkward points. With that lightning instinct which I have seen the desert warrior display in battle, whilst coming to another’s aid, an Arab who had been pursuing a soldier, passed five paces to Burnaby’s right and rear, and, turning with a sudden spring, this second Arab ran his spear point into the Colonel’s right shoulder! It was but a slight wound, enough though to cause Burnaby to twist round in his saddle to defend himself from this unexpected attack. One of our soldiers saw the situation, and ran and drove his sword bayonet through this second assailant. As the soldier withdrew his steel the ferocious Arab wriggled round and tried to reach him. This he could not do, for he reeled and fell over. Brief as was Burnaby’s glance at this second assailant, it was long enough for the first Arab to deliver his spear-point thrust full in the brave officer’s throat. The blow brought Burnaby out of his saddle; but it required some seconds before he let go of the bridle-reins, and tumbled upon the ground. Half-a-dozen Arabs were now about him. With the blood gushing in streams from his gashed throat the dauntless Burnaby leaped to his feet, sword in hand, and slashed at the ferocious group. They were the wild shrieks of a proud man dying hard, and he was quickly overborne, and left helpless and dying! The heroic soldier who sprang to his rescue, was, I fear, also slain in the meleÉ, for though I watched for him, I never saw him get back to his place in the ranks. But the square had been broken. The Arabs were driving their spears at our men’s breasts. Happily, however, the enemy’s ranks had been badly decimated by our bullets; yet they fought desperately, until bullet or bayonet stopped their career. Then from another quarter came a great onrush with spears poised and swords uplifted straight into our rear corner, the Arab horse struck like a tempest. The Heavies were thrown into confusion, for the enemy were right among them, killing and wounding with demoniacal fury. General Stewart himself rode into their midst to assist, but his horse was killed under him, and he was saved from the Arab spearmen with great difficulty: Lord Airlie received two slight spear wounds, and so did Lord C. Beresford. The Dervishes made terrible havoc for a few minutes. It was an awful scene, for many of the wounded and dying perished by the hands of the merciless Arabs, infuriated by their Sheiks, whose wild hoarse cries rent the air, whilst the black spearmen ran hither and thither thirsting for blood. Lord St. Vincent had a most providential escape. So great was the peril that the officers in the Guards and Mounted Infantry placed their men back to back to make one last effort to save the situation. “To me,” says the writer, who was outside on the right face: “they appeared to spin round a large mound like a whirlpool of human beings.”

Soon the enemy showed signs of wavering, for the fire of our English lads was fierce and withering. A young officer rallied a number of men on the rear; and these delivered a most telling fire into the enemy’s ranks; the strained tension of the situation had been most severe, when at last the Arabs, two or three at first, then twenties and fifties, trotted off the field and in a very few minutes there was not an enemy to be seen. With cheer upon cheer, shouting until we were hoarse, we celebrated this dearly won victory. “Thus ended one of several terrible conflicts the men of the Expedition had to go through on their way to the beleaguered city.” These lines of poetry, were written shortly after the news of this fierce engagement reached England:—

“They were gathered on the desert,
Like pebbles on the shore,
And they rushed upon the Christian
With a shout like cannon’s roar;
Like the dashing of the torrent,
Like the sweeping of the storm,
Like the raging of the tempest,
Came down the dusky swarm.
From the scant and struggling brush-wood,
From the waste of burning sand,
Sped the warriors of the desert,
Like the locusts of the land:
They would crush the bold invader,
Who had dared to cross their path;
They were fighting for their prophet,
In the might of Islam’s wrath,
They were savage in their fury,
They were lordly in their pride;
There was glory for the victor,
And heaven for him who died.
They were mustered close together,
That small devoted band;
They knew the strife that day would rage
In combat hand to hand.
And wild and weird the battle-cry
Was sounding through the air,
As the foe sprang from his ambush,
Like the tiger from his lair.
They knew the distant flashing
Of the bright Arabian spear,
As, spurring madly onward,
They saw the host appear
In numbers overwhelming,
In numbers ten to one;
They knew the conflict must be waged
Beneath the scorching sun;
They knew the British soldiers grave
Might lie beneath their feet;
But they never knew dishonour,
And they would not know defeat.
And swifter, ever swifter
Swept on the savage horde,
And from the serried British ranks
A murderous fire was poured;
And like the leaves in autumn
Fell Arab warriors slain,
And like the leaves in spring-time
They seemed to live again.
Midst the rattle of the bullets,
Midst the flashing of the steel,
They pressed to the encounter
With fierce fanatic zeal.
One moment swayed the phalanx,
One moment and no more;
Then British valour stemmed the tide,
As oft in days of yore.
At length the foe was vanquished,
And at length the field was won,
For the longest day had ended,
And the fiercest course was run.
Ye smiling plains of Albion!
Ye mountains of the north!
Now up and greet your heroes with
The honours they are worth.
Then pause and let a nation’s tears
Fall gently on the sod
Where thy gallant sons are sleeping,
Whose souls are with their God.”

Mr. Burleigh tells us that “History records no military events of a more stirring character, or situation more thrilling and dramatic than those through which Sir Herbert Stewart’s flying column passed on this dreadful march. Through those terrible struggles with the followers of the Madhi, many a brave soldier fell and his body lies in the grave of the African desert. It did, however, seem as if through all the difficulties of the relieving forces, that Lord Wolseley would soon give the gallant defender of Khartoum succour and relief. The splendid victories won at Abu Klea Wells, and other places, and their march to join the Nile forces, clearly showed that they were terribly in earnest, and that they had the true British sympathetic heart.

Finding some of Gordon’s steamers on the Nile, it was their first impulse to man them and force their way up to Khartoum at once. This was on January 21st, 1885. The General in Command learned that the steamers needed some repairs, and he (Sir Charles Wilson) deemed it necessary for the safety of his troops to make a reconnaissance down the river towards Berber before starting up to Khartoum. He took the steamers, which, though small as the Thames pleasure boats, had been made bullet-proof by the ingenuity and industry of the hero in distress; and with a small British force and two hundred and forty Soudanese (they also had in tow a nugger laden with dhura), they proceeded towards Berber some distance, and then, returning for their important work of relief, they pressed on to Khartoum in the face of the greatest dangers from the numerous fanatical Arabs, until they could see the city, and found to their horror and disappointment that Gordon’s flag was torn down. The city had surrendered to the forces of the Madhi, and it could be seen to swarm with his followers! Treachery had been at work, as Gordon feared; and the brave defender of Khartoum sealed his fidelity with his own blood. We never doubted but he would “die at his post.”

The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone was on a visit to Holker Hall to see the Duke of Devonshire, when the sad tale was told of Gordon’s betrayal and death. To add to the grief, the Queen, whose inmost soul had been stirred by the terrible news, sent to Mr. Gladstone and Lord Hartington a telegram couched in terms of anger and of blame, and this, not in cypher as was her wont, but plain and open.

Mr. Gladstone addressed to Her Majesty by return, in the most courteous manner possible, what may be considered a vindication of his actions in the matter and also that of his Cabinet:—

“To the Queen,—

“Mr. Gladstone has had the honour this day to receive your Majesty’s telegram, en clair, relating to the deplorable intelligence received this day from Lord Wolseley, and stating that it is too fearful to consider that the fall of Khartoum might have been prevented and many precious lives saved by earlier action. Mr. Gladstone does not presume to estimate the means of judgment possessed by your Majesty, but so far as his information and recollection at the moment go, he is not altogether able to follow the conclusion which your Majesty has been pleased thus to announce. Mr. Gladstone is under the impression that Lord Wolseley’s force might have been sufficiently advanced to save Khartoum, had not a large portion of it been detached by a circuitous route along the river, upon the express application of General Gordon, to occupy Berber on the way to the final destination. He speaks, however, with submission on a point of this kind. There is, indeed, in some quarters, a belief that the river route ought to have been chosen at an earlier period, and had the navigation of the Nile, in its upper region, been as well known as that of the Thames, this might have been a just ground of reproach. But when, on the first symptoms that the position of General Gordon in Khartoum was not secure, your Majesty’s advisers at once sought from the most competent persons the best information they could obtain respecting the Nile route, the balance of testimony and authority was decidedly against it, and the idea of the Suakin and Berber route, with all its formidable difficulties, was entertained in preference; nor was it till a much later period that the weight of opinion and information warranted the definite choice of the Nile route. Your Majesty’s Ministers were well aware that climate and distance were far more formidable than the sword of the enemy, and they deemed it right, while providing adequate military means, never to lose from view what might have proved to be the destruction of the gallant army in the Soudan. It is probable that abundant wrath and indignation will on this occasion be poured out upon them. Nor will they complain if so it should be; but a partial consolation may be found on reflecting that neither aggressive policy, nor military disaster, nor any gross error in the application of means to ends, has marked this series of difficult proceedings, which, indeed, have greatly redounded to the honour of your Majesty’s forces of all ranks and arms. In these remarks, which Mr. Gladstone submits with his humble devotion, he has taken it for granted that Khartoum has fallen through the exhaustion of its means of defence. But your Majesty may observe from the telegram that this is uncertain. Both the correspondent’s account and that of Major Wortley refer to the delivery of the town by treachery, a contingency which on some previous occasions General Gordon has treated as far from improbable; and which, if the notice existed, was likely to operate quite independently of the particular time at which a relieving force might arrive. The presence of the enemy in force would naturally suggest the occasion or perhaps even the apprehension of the approach of the British army. In pointing to these considerations, Mr. Gladstone is far from assuming that they are conclusive upon the whole case; in dealing with which the government has hardly ever at any of its stages been furnished sufficiently with those means of judgment which rational men usually require. It may be that, on a retrospect, many errors will appear to have been committed. There are many reproaches, from the most opposite quarters, to which it might be difficult to supply a conclusive answer. Among them, and perhaps amongst the most difficult, as far as Mr. Gladstone can judge, would be the reproach of those who might argue that our proper business was the protection of Egypt, that it never was in military danger from the Madhi, and that the most prudent course would have been to provide it with adequate frontier defences, and to assume no responsibility for the lands beyond the desert.”

“Heroes have fought, and warriors bled,
For home, and love, and glory;
Your life and mine will soon be sped,
Then what will be the story?”

—J. Rushton.

The agonizing suspense in which our nation had been kept for weeks, was now at an end, and we learned the worst. The news fell like a thunderbolt upon our country! Within forty-eight hours of the time when Gordon would have heard the triumph ranting of English cheers, and once more clasped the faithful hands of British brother soldiers; treachery had done its worst. Thus ended this unique life’s drama of one of the noblest hearts that ever beat in soldier’s bosom, and one of the truest to his Queen, to his country, and to his God. The heart that had caused him to share his home with the homeless, and his bread with the hungry, that had led him to kneel in prayer by the dying; the heart that had so often throbbed for the misery of slavery, and the slave trade, as to risk his life as of no value to stop that cursed practice and traffic; that heart was pierced by the treacherous hands (in all probability) of the very man Gordon had made the greatest sacrifice to save. Such terrible news threw our land into universal mourning, and thousands wept for the hero that would never return.

The military correspondent of the “Daily News” at Dongola, writes: “Two men arrived here yesterday, April 11th, 1885, whose story throws some light on the capture of Khartoum. They were soldiers in Gordon’s army, taken at the time and sold as slaves, but who ultimately escaped. Their names are Said Abdullah and Jacoob Mahomet. I will let them tell their own history.” “After stating they were first taken at Omdurman, subsequently to the capture of Khartoum; were then stolen by arabs and sold to two Kabbabish merchants, and afterwards escaped from Aboudom to Debbah, from which place they had reached Dongola; they went on to relate the doings of Farig Pasha previously to the taking of Khartoum. I have given you some account of the story by telegraph, and it has been partly made familiar substantially through other channels. They continued: “That night Khartoum was delivered into the hands of the rebels. It fell through the treachery of the accursed Farig Pasha, the Circassian, who opened the gate. May he never reach Paradise! May Shaytan take possession of his soul! But it was Kismet. The gate was called Bouri’; it was on the Blue Nile. We were on guard near, but did not see what was going on. We were attacked and fought desperately at the gate. Twelve of our staff were killed, and twenty-two of us retreated to a high room, where we were taken prisoners, and now came the ending. The red Flag with the crescent was destined no more to wave over the Palace; nor would the strains of the hymns of His Excellency be heard any more at eventide in Khartoum. Blood was to flow in her streets, in her dwellings, in her very mosque, and on the Kenniseh of the Narsira. A cry arose, “To the Palace! to the Palace!” A wild and furious band rushed towards it, but they were resisted by the black troops, who fought desperately. They knew there was no mercy for them, and that even were their lives spared, they would be enslaved, and the state of the slave, the perpetual bondage with hard taskmasters, is worse than death. Slaves are not treated well, as you think; heavy chains are round their ankles and middle, and they are lashed for the least offence until blood flows. We had fought for the Christian Pasha and for the Turks, and we knew that we should receive no mercy. The house was set on fire: the fight raged and the slaughter continued till the streets were slippery with blood. The rebels rushed onward to the Palace. We saw a mass rolling to and fro, but did not see Gordon Pasha killed. He met his fate, we believe, as he was leaving the Palace, near the large tree which stands on the esplanade. The Palace is not a stone’s throw, or at any rate a gun shot distance from the Austrian Consul’s house. He was going in that direction, to the magazine on the Kenniseh, a long way off. We did not hear what became of his body, nor did we hear that his head was cut off; but we saw the head of the traitor Farig Pasha, who met with his deserts. We have heard it was the blacks that ran away; and that the Egyptian soldiers fought well; that is not true, they were craven. Had it not been for them, in spite of the treachery of many within the town, the Arabs would not have got in, for we watched the traitors. And now fearful scenes took place in every house and building, in the large Market Place, in the small bazaars; men were slain crying for mercy, but mercy was not in the hearts of those savage enemies. Women and children were robbed of their jewels of silver, of their bracelets, necklaces of precious stones, and carried off to be sold to the Bishareen merchants as slaves. Yes, and white women too, mother and daughter alike were carried off from their homes of comfort. Wives and children of Egyptian merchants, formerly rich, owning ships and mills; these were sold afterwards, some for 340 thaleries or more, some for 25, according to age and good looks. And the poor black women already slaves, and their children, 70 or 80 thaleries. Their husbands and masters were slain before their eyes . . . . this fighting and spilling of blood continued till noon, till the sun rode high in the sky. There was riot, wrangling, hubbub and cursing, till the hour of evening prayer. But the Muezzin was not called, neither were any prayers offered up at the Moslem Mosque on that dark day in the annals of Khartoum. Meanwhile the screeching devils bespattered with gore, swarming about in droves and bands, found very little plunder, so were disappointed, and sought out Farig Pasha, and found him with the Dervishes. ‘Where is the hidden treasure?’ they at once demanded of him. ‘We know that you are acquainted with the hiding place. Where is the money and riches of the city and its merchants? We know that those who left Khartoum did not take away their valuables, and you know where it is hid.’ The Dervishes seeing the tumult questioned him sharply, and addressed him thus: “The long expected one our Lord, desires to know where the English Pasha hid his wealth. We know he was very rich, and every day paid large sums of money; that has not been concealed from our Lord. Now therefore let us know that we may bear him word where all the money is hidden. Let him be bound in the inner chamber and examined; and the gates closed against the Arabs.” Farig was then questioned, but he “swore by Allah and by the souls of his fathers back to three generations, that Gordon had no money, and that he knew of no hidden treasure.” “You lie (cried the Dervishes); you wish after a while to come and dig it out yourself. Listen to what we are going to say to you. We are sure you know where the money is hidden. We are not careful of your life, for you have betrayed the man whose salt you had eaten; you have been the servant of the infidel, and you have betrayed even him. Unless you unfold this secret of the buried treasure, you will surely die.” Farig with proud bearing said, “I care not for your threats. I have told you the truth, Allah knows. There is no money, neither is there treasure. You are fools to suppose there is. I have done a great deed, I have delivered to your lord and master (the Madhi), the city which you never could have taken without my help. I tell you again there is no treasure, and you will rue the day if you kill me.”

One of the Dervishes then stepped forward and struck him, bound as he was, in the mouth; then another rushed at him with his two-edged sword, struck him behind the neck so that with this one blow his head fell from his shoulders; (so perished the arch traitor); may his soul be afflicted! But as for Gordon Pasha the magnanimous, may his soul have peace!” The story of these men may, or may not be true, but it seems on the face of it trustworthy.

It is, however, out of harmony with the description given of Gordon’s death by Slatin Pasha, who was taken a prisoner at the time of the fall of Khartoum, and had been kept for eleven years in captivity, but eventually made his escape. He was in attendance at the International Geographical Congress held at the Imperial Institute, and devoted to African affairs, when he told the story of his escape from Khartoum. He says “The City of Khartoum fell on the 16th Jan., 1885, and Gordon was killed on the highest step of the staircase of his Palace. His head was cut off and exhibited to Slatin whilst the latter was in chains, with expressions of derision and contempt.”

We have no doubt now as to the fact that Gordon Pasha, the illustrious, the saintly, the brave defender, died doing his duty. In all civilized lands there are still men who tell of Gordon Pasha’s unbounded benevolence; of his mighty faith, of his heroism and self-sacrifice, and they mourn with us the loss of one of the most saintly souls our world has ever known.

“Warrior of God, man’s friend, not laid below,
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan,
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.”

Tennyson.

A most interesting and exquisitely touching letter was forwarded to the bereaved and stricken sister of our hero from the Khedive of Egypt, written from

“Abdui Palace,
“Cairo,
“Feb. 24, 1885.

“Madam,—

“Altho’ I do not wish to intrude upon the great sorrow which has fallen upon you in the death of your distinguished brother, the late General Gordon Pasha, yet as Egypt and myself have so much reason to deplore his loss, I desire to convey to you my heart-felt sympathy in the terrible bereavement it has been God’s will you should suffer. I cannot find words to express to you the respect and admiration with which your brother’s simple faith and heroic courage have inspired me: the whole world resounds with the name of the Englishman whose chivalrous nature afforded it for many years its brightest and most powerful example,—an example which I believe will influence thousands of persons for good through all time. To a man of Gordon’s character the disappointment of hopes he deemed so near fruition, and the sudden manner of his death were of little importance. In his own words, he left weariness for perfect rest. Our mourning for him is true and real; as is also our loss, but we have a sure hope that a life and death such as his are not extinguished by what we call death. I beg to renew to you, Madam, the assurance of my sincere sympathy and respectful condolence.

“Mehemit Tewfik.”

Also from the Queen, a letter full of womanly and queenly sympathy is here recorded from The Daily News:

“Dear Miss Gordon,—How shall I write to you, or how shall I attempt to express what I feel? To think of your dear, noble, heroic brother, who served his country and his Queen so truly, so heroically, with a self-sacrifice so edifying to the world, not having been rescued: that the promises of support were not fulfilled—which I so frequently and constantly pressed on those who asked him to go—is to me grief inexpressible: indeed it has made me ill. My heart bleeds for you, his sister, who have gone through so many anxieties on his account, and who loved the dear brother as he deserved to be. You are all so good and trustful, and have such strong faith, that you will be sustained even now, when real absolute evidence of your brother’s death does not exist—but I fear there cannot be much doubt of it. Some day I hope to see you again to tell you all I cannot express. My daughter Beatrice, who has felt quite as I do, wishes me to express her deepest sympathy with you. I hear so many expressions of sorrow from abroad; from my eldest daughter The Crown Princess, and from my cousin the King of the Belgians—the very warmest. Would you express to your other sister, and your elder brother my true sympathy, and what I do so keenly feel, the stain left upon England for your dear brother’s cruel, though heroic fate! Ever, dear Miss Gordon, yours sincerely and sympathizingly,

V.R.I.”

A second letter from Her Majesty the Queen to acknowledge Miss Gordon’s gift of her brother’s Bible. The very Bible he used when with me in Manchester. His companion at Gravesend, and during his sojourn in the Soudan (first time). “It was so worn out (says Miss Gordon) that he gave it to me. Hearing that the Queen would like to see it, I forwarded it to Windsor Castle.” And this Bible is now placed in an enamel and crystal case called “The St. George’s Casket,” where it now lies open on a white satin cushion, with a marble bust of General Gordon on a pedestal beside it.

Her Majesty writes:—

“Windsor Castle,
“March 16th, 1885.

“Dear Miss Gordon,—It is most kind and good of you to give me this precious Bible, and I only hope that you are not depriving yourself and family of such a treasure, if you have no other. May I ask you, during how many years your dear, heroic brother had it with him? I shall have a case made for it with an inscription, and place it in the library here, with your letter and the touching extract from his last to you. I have ordered, as you know, a Marble Bust of your Dear Brother to be placed in the corridor here, where so many busts and pictures of our greatest Generals, and Statesmen are, and hope that you will see it before it is finished, to give your opinion as to the likeness.—Believe me always yours very sincerely,

“Victoria R.I.”

A most touching and I think true epitaph has been written in Greek and translated by Professor Jebb, of the University of Glasgow touching the death of General Gordon:—

“Leaving a perpetual remembrance, thou art gone; in thy death thou wert even such as in thy life; wealth to the poor, hope to the desponding, support to the weak. Thou couldst meet desperate troubles with a spirit that knew not despair, and breathe might into the trembling. The Lord of China owes thee thanks for thy benefits; the throne of his ancient kingdom hath not been cast down. And where the Nile unites the divided strength of his streams, a city saw thee long-suffering. A multitude dwelt therein, but thine alone was the valour that guarded it through all that year, when by day and by night thou didst keep watch against the host of the Arabians, who went around it to devour it, with spears thirsting for blood. Thy death was not wrought by the God of war, but by the frailties of thy friends. For thy country and for all men God blessed the work of thy hand. Hail, stainless warrior! hail, thrice victorious hero! Thou livest and shalt teach aftertimes to reverence the council of the Everlasting Father.”

Should he have been spared to return to our land—

“We had the laurels ready
That patient brow to crown,
But the traitors steel was swift and sharp
To strike our honours down.
God His own victor crowneth,
He counts not gain nor loss,
For the dauntless heart that battles
’Neath the shadow of the Cross.
Rest for the gallant soldier,
Where’er he lieth low,
His rest is still and deep to-day,
’Mid clash of friend and foe.
He stands amid the light he loved,
Whence all the clouds depart,
But there’s a gap within our ranks,
And a void within our hearts.”

Great men are usually measured by their character, not by their successes; but measured by either standard Gordon must be considered a great man. In him were incarnated all the highest characteristics of the heroes of our land, and other lands, and of the illustrious servants of God in all ages. His life was swayed by a noble purpose, and by this he was borne onward and upward in a career of noble doing and daring. He had courage of the very highest quality, and by this he carved his way into the very front rank of our heroes, and won remarkable distinctions in life’s fiercest battles. His crowning characteristics were, I think, his genuineness, and unfailing trust in God. These, especially the latter, were the inspiration of his life; and these alone offer the truest explanation of his heroic deeds. Even in Spain his name had a fragrance that was attractive and beautiful. One of the papers The El Dia, of Madrid, wrote: “Where even the greatest events which occur abroad hardly attract the attention of the general public, the daring enterprises of General Gordon had excited the greatest interest. This was partly because of the immense importance of the drama which was being played in the Soudan, and because of the extraordinary development of the drama; but it was chiefly due to the sympathy of the people with the heroic champion of light and civilization; for his spotless honesty; for his valour, tried times without number; for his British tenacity; for his faith in his religion and country; for his keen insight; for his heroic unselfishness, and for all his other fine qualities. Gordon has become recognised in Spain as an original character, grand and complete, whom future generations will idealize, and whom history will call by the name of genius.”

But Gordon, the great soldier and loveable Saint is dead; and he himself could wish no nobler ending of an unselfish life, after such a life of adventure, of heroism, and of humble trust in God.

A combination of strange, rare qualities helped to make him one of the most remarkable men our country has ever seen. As a Christian of rarest purity and consecration, and as a hero whose fame has filled two hemispheres, “His name shall be had in everlasting remembrance.” He has added new chapters to the glorious stories of British pluck and heroism, and has left a name to which our young men will look back upon with pride; and the best of us will reverence, so long as truth, faith, self-devotion, and lofty sense of duty stir the admiration of men who are worthy to be called his fellow-countrymen. Our British nation thrills with a proud joy as it reflects upon the splendid achievements of that stainless life, now crowned with the laurels of martyrdom, and of an Empire’s love.

The memorial in St. Paul’s Cathedral most beautifully sets forth the leading traits in his character:—

“Major General Charles George Gordon, C.B., who at all times and everywhere, gave his strength to the weak, his substance to the poor, his sympathy to the suffering, his heart to God.

“Born at Woolwich, 28th Jan., 1838.

“Slain at Khartoum, 26th Jan., 1885.

“He saved an Empire by his warlike genius, he ruled vast provinces with justice, wisdom, power. And lastly, obedient to his Sovereign’s command, he died in the heroic attempt to save men, women and children from imminent and deadly peril. ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’—St. John, xv. ch., v. 13.

The Memorial in St. Paul’s Cathedral

“This monument is erected by his only surviving brother, whose eldest son also perished in the service of his country, as Midshipman in H.M.S. ‘Captain,’ and is commemorated with others in the adjoining recess.”

“Gordon! thou lost ideal of our time,
While men believe not, and belief grows pale,
Before the daring doubters that assail;
We need thy child-like faith, thy gaze sublime,
That pierced the nearer gloom,
And still onward strode
Through death and darkness, seeing only God.”

“Servant of Christ, well done,
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour’s joy.”

FINIS.