Gatling guns were Osman’s prime targets. The memory of his last encounter with those weapons was etched deeply on his mind. He wanted no recurrence of that slaughter. The first battalion ashore would go straight for them, and put them out of action.
Once the guns had been captured or destroyed, they could roll up the fortifications along the waterfront, then wipe out the Egyptian troops in the barracks and the arsenal. Only then would it be safe to turn his men loose on the populace.
The previous night Muhammad, the first Prophet of Allah, had visited Muhammad, the Mahdi, his successor. He had brought a message directly from Allah. It was decreed that the faith and devotion of the Ansar should be rewarded. Once they had delivered to the Mahdi the head of Gordon Pasha, they must be allowed to sack the city of Khartoum. For ten days the sack would be allowed to run unchecked. After that the city would be burned and all the principal buildings, particularly the churches, missions and consulates, would be demolished. All traces of the infidel must be eradicated from the land of Sudan.
At nightfall Osman marched his two thousand back from the Kerreri Hills to Omdurman. Across the river in the city of Khartoum, Gordon’s nightly firework display and the recital of the military band were more subdued than they had been the previous evening. There was widespread disillusionment that the steamers had not yet arrived. When the rocket display fizzled out, and silence settled on the city, Osman led his first battalion down to the riverbank, where the twenty boats were moored. This small flotilla was an eclectic collection of feluccas and trading dhows. The crossing of the Nile through banks of river mist was conducted in an eerie silence. Osman was the first man to wade ashore. With al-Noor and a dozen of his trusty aggagiers close on his heels, he raced up the beach.
The surprise was total. The Egyptian sentries were sleeping complacently, in the certainty that dawn would show the steamers of the relief force anchored before the walls. There was no challenge, no shot or shouted warning, before Osman’s aggagiers were into the first line of trenches. Their broadswords rose and fell in a dreadfully familiar rhythm. Within minutes the trenches were clear. The dead and wounded Egyptian troops lay in heaps. Osman and his aggagiers left them and raced for the arsenal. They had not reached it before the second battalion landed on the beach behind them.
Suddenly a rifle shot clapped on the silence, then another. There were shouts, and a bugle sounded the call to arms. Erratic and isolated gunfire built into a thunderous fusillade, and the ripples and echoes spread across the city as the startled Egyptians blazed away at shadows or cravenly fired into the air. Down near the little beach an ombeya howled and a war drum boomed as another battalion landed and rushed through the breach into the city.
“There is only one God and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.” The war chant was carried through the city, and suddenly the streets and alleys were alive with running, struggling figures. Their screams and entreaties rose in a babble of terror and anguish like voices from the pit of hell.
“Mercy in the Name of Allah!”
“Quarter! Give us quarter!”
“The Dervish are within! Run! Run or die!”
All Gordon’s famous forts and redoubts were sited to cover the river approaches. Taken in the rear they were swiftly overwhelmed. Osman’s aggagiers massacred the stunned defenders in their trenches or hounded them through the streets and alleyways, rabbits before the wolf pack.
David was at his desk, working on his journal. He had kept it up to date faithfully throughout the ten long months that the city had been under siege. He knew that it was an invaluable document. With the promise of relief so near, it could only be a matter of weeks before he and his girls were aboard a P&.O steamship on their way back to England. One of the first goals he had set himself on arrival was to work up his journal into a full-length manuscript. The public appetite for books of adventure and exploration in the Dark Continent seemed insatiable. Baker, Burton and Stanley had each made several thousands of pounds from their publications. Sam Baker had even received a knighthood from the Queen for his literary efforts. Surely David’s own first-hand memoirs of the valiant defence of the city would please many, and his account of the bravery and suffering of his three girls would tear at the heartstrings of every lady reader. He hoped he might have the book ready for the publishers within a month of reaching England. He dipped the nib of his pen in to the silver inkwell, and wiped off the excess carefully. Then he stared dreamily into the flame of the lamp on the corner of his desk.
It might bring in fifty thousand. The thought warmed him. Dare I hope for a hundred thousand? He shook his head. Too much by far, I would settle happily for ten thousand. That would help immeasurably with re-establishing ourselves. Oh! It will be so good to be home again!
His musings were interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot. It was not far off, somewhere down by the maid an He tossed down his pen, splattering the page with a blob of ink, and strode across his office to the window. Before he reached it there were more shots, a volley, a crackling storm of gunfire.
“My God! What is happening out there?” He threw open the window and stuck out his head. Close at hand a bugler played the shrill, urgent notes of ‘stand to arms’. Almost immediately there came a faint but triumphant chorus of Arab voices: “La il aha ill allah There is but one God!” For a brief moment he was rooted to the spot, too shocked to draw breath, then he gasped. “They are in! The Dervish have broken into the city!”
He ran back to the desk and swept up his journal. It was too heavy to carry so he crammed it into the safe that was concealed behind the panelling of the back wall. He slammed the steel door and tumbled the combination of the lock, then closed the panelling that concealed it. His ceremonial sword was hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was not a fighting weapon and Kc was no swordsman, but he buckled it round his waist. Then he took the Webley revolver from his desk drawer and thrust it into his pocket. There was nothing else of value in the room. He ran out into the lobby and up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Rebecca had moved Amber into her own room so that she could care for her during the night. Nazeera was sleeping on an angareb in the far corner. Both women were awake, standing indecisively in the middle of the room.
“Get your clothes on at once!” he ordered. “Dress Amber too. Don’t waste a moment.”
“What is happening, Daddy?” Rebecca was confused.
“I think the Dervish have broken in. We must run to Gordon’s headquarters. We should be safe there.”
“Amber cannot be moved. She is so weak it might kill her.”
“If the Dervish find her she will fare far worse,” he told her grimly. “Get her up. I will carry her.” He turned to Nazeera. “Run to Saffron’s room, quick as you can. Get her dressed. Bring her here. We must leave immediately.”
Within minutes they were ready. David carried Amber, and the other women followed at his heels as he went down the stairs. Before they reached the bottom, there came the crash of breaking glass and splintering wooden panels from the main doors, and savage shouts of Arab voices.
“Find the women!”
“Kill the infidel!”
“This way,” David snapped, and they ran into the back rooms. Behind them came another thunderous clap of sound as the front door was torn from its hinges and fell inwards. “Keep close to me!” David led them to the door into the courtyard. Gordon’s headquarters were on the far side. He lifted the locking bar and pushed it open a crack. He peered out cautiously. “The coast is clear, for the moment at least.”
“How is Amber bearing up?” Rebecca whispered anxiously.
“She is quiet,” David answered. Her body was as light as that of a captured bird. She did not move. She might already have been dead, but he could feel her heart beating under his hand, and once she whimpered softly.
Gordon’s headquarters were only a hundred paces or so across the courtyard. The main gate at the opposite end was bolted. There were open staircases on the side walls leading up to the second store, where General Gordon had his private rooms. There was no sign of any Egyptian troops.
“Where is Gordon?” David asked, in consternation. It did not seem there was any shelter for them even in the general’s stronghold. At that moment the main gates shook, and heavy blows resounded on the outside. A terrible chorus of Dervish war cries swelled the uproar. While David tried to make up his mind as to what he should do next, three Egyptian troopers emerged from the headquarters building and ran across the courtyard to the main gates. They were the first David had seen.
“Thank God! They are waking up at last!” he exclaimed, and was about to lead the women out through the door when, to his amazement, he saw the soldiers lifting the heavy locking bars. “The craven bastards are
