steamers waited at their moorings with full heads of steam in their boilers. A mood of indecision and uncertainty descended on the regiment. Nobody knew what the next step would be, or when it would be taken. Sir Charles Wilson issued no orders of consequence.
On the evening of the third day Penrod went down to the camel lines and found Yakub. While he made a pretence of inspecting the animals, he whispered, “Have the camels ready and the waterskins filled. The password for the sentries when you leave the zareba will be Waterloo. I will meet you at midnight by the little mosque on the far side of Metemma village.” Yakub looked at him askance. “We have been ordered to take messages to Gordon Pasha.”
Yakub was at the rendezvous, and they set out southwards at a rate that would take them beyond pursuit by dawn.
Two days to Khartoum, Penrod thought grimly, and my career in ruins. Wilson will throw me to the lions. I hope Rebecca Benbrook appreciates my efforts on her behalf.
Osman Atalan, riding hard with a small group of his aggagiers, left the main body of his cavalry many leagues behind. He climbed up through the gut of the Shabluka Gorge. On the heights, he reined in al-Buq and leapt on to the saddle. Balancing easily on the restless horse, he trained his telescope on the City of the Elephant’s Trunk, Khartoum, which lay on the horizon. “What do you see, master?” Al-Noor asked anxiously. “The flags of the infidel and the Turk are flying on the tower of Fort Mukran. The enemy of God, Gordon Pasha, still prevails in Khartoum,” said Osman, and the words were bitter as the juice of the aloe on his tongue. He dropped back onto the saddle and his sandal led feet found the stirrups. He gave the stallion a cut across the rump with the kurbash, and al-Buq jumped forward. They rode on southwards.
When they reached the Kerreri Hills they met the first exodus of women and old men from Omdurman. The refugees did not recognize Osman with his black head cloth and unfamiliar mount, and an old man called to him as he cantered by, “Turn back, stranger! The city ii lost. The infidel has triumphed in a mighty battle at Abu Klea. Salida, Osman Atalan and all their armies have been slain.”
“Reverend old father, tell us what has become of the Divine and Victorious Muhammad, the Mahdi, the successor of Allah’s Prophet.”
“He is the light of our eyes, but he has given the order for all his followers to leave Omdurman before the Turks and the infidels arrive. The Mahdi, may Allah continue to love and cherish him, will move into the desert with all his array. They say he purposes to march back to El Obeid.”
Osman threw back the head cloth that covered his face. “See me, old man! Do you know who I am?”
The man stared at him, then let out a wail and fell to his knees. “Forgive me, mighty Emir, that I pronounced you dead.”
“My army follows close behind me. We ride for Omdurman. The jihad continues! We will fight the infidel wherever we meet him. Tell this to all you meet upon the road.” Osman thumped his heels into al-Buq’s flanks and galloped on.
He found the streets of Omdurman in turmoil. Heavily armed Ansar galloped down the narrow streets; wailing women were loading all their possessions on to donkey carts and camels; crowds hurried to the mosques to hear the imams preach the comforting word of Allah at this terrible time of defeat and despair. Osman scattered all before his horse, and rode on towards the mud-walled palace of the Mahdi
He found the Mahdi and Khalifa Abdullahi on the rooftop, under the reed sunscreen, attended by a dozen young women of the harem. He prostrated himself before the angareb on which the Mahdi sat cross-legged. He had agonized over his decision to ride for Omdurman and face the successor to the Prophet of Allah, rather than taking his aggagiers and disappearing into the eastern deserts of the Sudan. He knew that if he had taken that course the Mahdi would certainly have sent an army after him, but in his own territory he would prevail against even the largest and most skilfully led host. But to wage war on the Mahdi, the direct emissary of Allah on earth, would have meant the end of him as a Muslim. The risk of death he ran now was preferable to being declared by the Mahdi an unbeliever, and having the gates of Paradise closed to him through all eternity.
“There is only one God, and no other God but Allah,” he said softly, ‘and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is the successor to his Prophet here on earth.”
“Look in my face, Osman Atalan,” said the Mahdi. Osman looked up at him. He was smiling, the sweet smile that showed the small, wedge-shaped gap between his front teeth. Osman knew, with the cold hand of death laid upon his heart, that this did not mean he was forgiven. The Mahdi was certainly infuriated by his failure to stop the relief column. It was necessary only for him to raise his hand and Osman would suffer death or mutilation. Often the Mahdi would offer the condemned man his choice. On the long ride up from Metemma Osman had decided that if the choice were offered him he would choose beheading, rather than the amputation of his hands and feet.
“Will you pray with me, Osman Atalan?” the Mahdi asked.
Osman’s spirit quailed. This invitation was ominous, and often preceded the sentence of death. “With all my heart and the last breath of my body,” Osman responded.
“We will recite together the al-fatihah, the first sura of the Noble Koran.”
Osman adopted the appropriate first prostration position, and they recited in unison: “In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,” then went on through the remaining four verses, ending, “You alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help, for each and everything.” When they had finished, the Mahdi sat back and said, “Osman Atalan, I placed great faith in you, and set a task for you.”
“You are the beat of my heart, and the breath in my lungs.” Osman thanked him.
“But you have failed me. You have allowed the infidel to triumph against you. You have delivered me up to mine enemy, and it is all finished.”
“Nay, my master. All is not finished. I have failed in this one thing, but not in all.”
“Explain your meaning.”
“Allah has told you that it will not be finished until a man brings you the head of Gordon Pasha. Allah told you that I, Osman Atalan, am that man.”
“You have not fulfilled that prophecy. Therefore you have failed your God as well as his prophet,” the Mahdi replied.
“The prophecy of God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, can never be brought to naught,” Osman replied quietly, feeling the breath of the dark angel upon his neck where the executioner’s blow would fall. “Your prophecy is a mighty rock in the river of time that cannot be washed away. I have returned to Omdurman to bring the prophecy to fruition.” He pointed across the river to the stark outline of Fort Mukran. “Gordon
Pasha still awaits his fate within those walls, and the time of Low Nile is upon us. I beseech you, give me your blessing, Holy One.”
The Mahdi sat silent and unmoving for a hundred of his rapid heartbeats while he thought swiftly. The Emir Osman was a clever man and an adroit tactician. To refuse his plea was to admit that he, Muhammad, the Mahdi, was fallible. At last he smiled and reached out to lay his hand on Osman’s head. “Go and do what is written. When you have fulfilled my prophecy, return to me here.”
An hour before midnight a small felucca lay in the eastern channel of the Victoria Nile. It was hove to against the night breeze and the current, with sail skilfully backed. Al-Noor sat beside Osman Atalan on the thwart. Both men watched the Khartoum bank. Tonight the rocket display was extravagant. Since the onset of darkness a continual succession of fireworks had soared into the sky and burst in cascades of multi-coloured sparks. The band was playing with renewed alacrity and verve, and at intervals they heard singing and laughter, carried faintly across the dark waters.
“Gordon Pasha has heard the news of Abu Klea,” al-Noor whispered. “He and his minions rejoice in their heathen hearts. Hourly they expect the steamers to appear from the south.”
It was long after midnight before the sounds of celebration slowly subsided, and Osman gave a quiet order to the boatman. He let the lateen sail fill, and they felt the ii way in closer to the shore below the walls of Khartoum. When they reached a point opposite the maid an al’Noor touched his master’s arm and pointed at the tiny beach, now exposed by the retreating waters. The wet mud glittered like ice in the starlight. Osman spoke a quiet word to the boatman, who tacked and sailed in closer still. Osman moved up to the bows and used one of the punt poles to take soundings of the sloping bottom as they crept along the beach. Then they sat quietly, listening for the sentries doing their rounds, or other hostile movements. They heard nothing except the hoot of an owl in the bell tower of the Catholic mission. There was lamplight within the upper floor of the British consular palace which faced on to the river, and once they saw shadowy movement beyond the window casement, but then all was still.
