Sagai, Northern Sudan
November 20, 1896
There was nothing more soothing than the evening wind that blew across the desert. These were the moments that Horatio Kitchener lived for…the times when all of the troubles of the world seemed to vanish, when the clime was just right and everything seemed temporarily insignificant. All that mattered at such junctures was him and his surrounding; there may as well have been no other people, for he paid no heed to them once in such trances.
Everything seemed so pure and meaningful. Horatio noted the lulling back and forth of the fez that sat haphazardly atop his head, and the horse that rocked beneath him like the powerful beast that it was, its muscles straining to carry him over the humps of dry mud that lined the Nile shore. He could almost hear the tide as the surf lapped gently against the tender ground. The Briton drew in deep, satisfying breaths, gulping at the air like refreshing water. The sun that hung in the sky was at its most resplendent; a sunset just before the nighttime gloom.
Then there was that whistling. Once more unto the breach, and all that, he thought sardonically.
As the creature he sat upon ambled over the nearest grassy knoll, Kitchener broke himself out of the dream-like state and began shouting orders to his men, already quite engaged with the enemy. “Lancers, get off of your asses ass’s and move to flank the enemy.” He paused for a moment, silently enjoying his own wit. “General MacDonald!”
“Yes, sir!” Hector MacDonald rode up from behind him, instantly recognizable by his Scottish brogue. Kitchener studied the man for a second. He had a plain face, resembling very much Kitchener’s own. A thick, black mustache, tinged slightly with the gray that came from stress rather than old age (he was only in his forties), stretched proudly across his upper lip, and currently retained a few dribbles of sweat. That, too, came from stress. MacDonald was a good friend and a fine general. He had merit enough to spare, and had risen through the ranks based solely on his impressive skills as a commander. Although he was currently under the command of Kitchener, that didn’t hamper his fighting ability at all. He was just as capable of following as of leading. There was a reason he was known as ‘Fighting Mac’. At the moment, he sat as erect as possible, doing his best to honor his superior with a salute despite the trouble he had in riding a horse.
“General, this isn’t some joke. Get your Egyptians moving!”
“I’m with you sir.” Histrionically rearing his horse in place, the Scot shouted “Charge!” at the top of his lungs, cracking his voice ever-so-slightly. Had this been any other place in the world, Kitchener might have called it a miracle that he hadn’t been hit during that little maneuver, but this was the Sudan. The Mahdists they were fighting against were, for once, few in number, and would have been wiped out in a matter of minutes (probably through one of their own idiotic charges) if not for the fact that this unit, if that it could be called, possessed guns. It wasn’t a serious issue. The savages were so poorly trained that, when combined with their fervor and inability to show discipline, there wasn’t a chance of them hitting either of the large, horse-mounted targets, no matter how much they might try. That being said, both Kitchener and MacDonald were in a dangerous position, advancing in plain sight with no fear of the bullets whizzing past their heads and slamming into the ground at their feet.
With that impressive display of bravado, the Scotsman successfully roused his Egyptian Brigade from its indolence. All around them, tan-skinned men wearing fezzes and armed with modern rifles advanced in defiance of the threat of death. Here and there, one was gunned down, but there were plenty of men to take their place. Showing true discipline (in contrast to their enemies and ethnic brothers, the Sudanese), the Egyptians advanced under the covering fire of their allies. Kitchener looked through his telescope to see the withering line of ardent Mahdists, men who would surely defend Sagai, the next target of the Sudanese Expedition, to the last.
In Kitchener’s eyes, these enemies fell with a certain glory. Although he was a firm believer in the Christian God, he could respect the faith which impelled these men to die for their beliefs. That wasn’t to say he liked facing such determined enemies. It would have been so much easier if he could but dispel them of their Muslim notions, but such was probably not going to be the case in any situation. The best he could do was have his men shoot them down, probably giving them exactly what they wanted. And maybe, for all he knew, as they went screaming to the ground in physical agony, perhaps they became awash with a mental euphoria. After all, they were only moments away from Paradise.
The 21st Lancers performed their job splendidly, taking a wide-right turn
to vanish beyond the sand dunes, only to reappear right beside the flank of those unsuspecting defenders. What now struck Kitchener was that the reason his opponents hadn’t charged probably had more to do with their lack of cavalry than any sort of apprehension or, god forbid, tactical soundness. The west side of Sagai which the Lancers were set to attack was only lightly defended. Even through his telescope, the supreme commander could only catch snippets of the action that was unfolding.
First, the cavaliers made their bold entry onto the scene, galloping with a premature sense of triumph towards the entrance to the town. Amidst its mud and thatch houses, the horsemen parade through the hamlet in complete disregard of the danger to their own lives. Then, just as they are about to suffer for their neglect, they prove their own skill by wiping out the last vestiges of enemy resistance inside the village. Hook, line, sinker.
It was a brilliant, if predictable, execution. Kitchener almost felt anxious about the battle. Any European commander would have known to watch his flank, something these Sudanese barbarians hardly managed. Then again, he was definitely thankful for the ease with which the day had been won.
The battle looked to be in its final stages. There was no more enemy resistance in the tiny town of Agori, and thus no place for those defending the north entrance to fall back upon. They were essentially surrounded. Granted, it was only on two sides, but that was all that was needed in such a hostile environment. To their south was the cavalry unit which had wiped out their comrades, and to the north, the advancing juggernaut that was the main body of the Anglo-Egyptian force. To the west was the desert; vast, inhospitable, empty for miles. It wasn’t really an option. Then there was the Nile to the east. It’s cool, blue waters were chilled even further by the descent of the sun, bringing on the desert’s customary night cold.
They fought for a while longer. Just as before, they fired their weapons to little affect at the advancing Egyptians, who ducked behind hillocks and shrubs, adroitly evading the poorly-aimed bullets. These same Egyptians were firing back, making dents in the weakly-constituted line of Mahdists that had already been lesser in number than was usual. The cavalry then made its move from the south, emerging from the village with newfound resolve and a desire to end this fight once and for all. Some of the Mahdists turned around, and looked to be having greater luck in thinning the herd of advancing, galumphing equines, but it was too late.
There was a new development at this juncture. Usually, foot-soldiers of the enemy camp fought to the death, both desiring Paradise and seeing no way to avoid their fate either way. That could and should have been the case here as well, especially since the odds were entirely against them. But here were the Muslims, tired and scared; they made a mad dash for the waters of the Nile.
The move practically shocked Kitchener and his men, who had never expected them to try such a route. Shaking himself out of his own state of disbelief, however, Kitchener brought his men back to action once more. “Don’t stop firing, boys. Take them down.” The Egyptians, dismayed though they were by the orders, instantly followed them. No longer needing to fear getting shot, the men lined up in plain sight behind the fleeing enemies and, at the order of the Sirdar, let loose with all they had. It was a terrific volley, one that reminded him so much of the days of old, when whole units of infantry and cavalry kept formation and roved about the battlefield in squares, firing just as his men had now. The only thing missing was the gunpowder-smoke, something he could gladly go without.
Up ahead, a number of the running men fell to the ground like dominoes—no, dominoes were too orderly—or rather like sacks of potatoes. How they ran from him now, how they screamed in fear and, when hit, pain, made the foes seem much more human than ever before. He could hear the fear in their voices, even if he didn’t understand what they were saying.
Another volley of shots was let loose, followed by the cavalry taking the initiative. They began their charge anew, moving to strike down the running Muslims before they reached the great river. There were only fifteen or twenty of them now, and the path along which they had run was littered with bodies. Kitchener gave the order to his infantry to cease-firing, allowing the Lancers to finish up the dirty work.
As the great chase commenced, Horatio’s horse trotted along to the body of one such collapsed foe. Taking a sick sort of interest in the work of his men, Kitchener dismounted and turned the body over. There was so much fear in his eyes. His thick eyebrows, a deep brown with spots of yellow where the sand had stuck, were raised in horror, and his mouth was still open. Perhaps he had died saying a prayer. The corpse’s weapon lay far behind him, back where it had been ditched once the flight started.
The horsemen caught up with the remaining Sudanese souls as they reached the river. Three or four were mowed down right then and there. As the survivors plunged into the water, the cavaliers jauntily dismounted and began taking potshots at the stragglers as if it were a damned sport. Kitchener rode up behind the soldiers, and watched with disgust at what they were doing. One man took aim and planted a bullet in the head of an escaping Mahdist just as he resurfaced from underwater. The side of his head imploded unceremoniously, and blood filled the area around his watery grave, floating across to his living companions. Three or four more men went down in just such a fashion, until at last the commander intervened.
“Cease this madness!” he shouted with divine fury, enraged at the conduct of his soldiers. “What are you, daft?!”
“But General Kitchener”—his British soldiers still called him general, while his Egyptians called him Sirdar—“they’re the enemy.” The man who spoke was a tall, ugly, ogre-of-a-human-being. How befitting, Kitchener thought poetically.
“This is war, Leftenant, not a bloody sport! Show some respect.” The commander actually grabbed the rifle out of his inferior’s hand and tossed it to the ground.
“But General Kitchener, sir,” responded another one of his soldiers, “why are we stopping?” This one was also tall, but with a thin-nose, elevated cheek-bones, and all-around fine features. How unbefitting, the general revised his earlier thought.
Though shorter, the commander didn’t back down, instead walking up to the young Captain and staring him down. “Just look at them, damn it.” To allow him to do just that, he backed out of the way, and let the men gaze at the situation as it truly was.
The sight was a piteous one. What little remained of the initial group of deserting enemies was now struggling to tread water. How did Kitchener not guess it before? They couldn’t swim! Those men would either save their lives or die trying. The irony of it all was that the man who had tried most to spare them was the self-same commander who had done his utmost to stop them. Yet here they were—just under ten men and drowning fast. One head went slowly under amidst a fit of splashing and fighting, but it went under nonetheless. Another such fellow went down calmly, allowing himself the dignity of a final prayer to his god before the end came. It was…sad, really.
But Kitchener was no sentimental fool. He would have destroyed these men without a moment’s hesitation if he thought they constituted any threat.
Of all those who had fled from him, only two made it to the other side alive. The rest just floated there, their bodies becoming an eternal part of that grand, indefinitely-flowing river called the Nile. As for the two that had by some miracle made it, drenched, tired, and confused, they looked back at what lay in their past; an entire horde of soldiers from the enemy army was simply standing there on the opposite bank, watching the life-or-death struggle that had been the swim across the lazy river. Now they stood still as well, and the two sides remained like that for awhile. Kitchener could sense that, despite his lesson, the men still wanted to shoot. He restrained them.
Alas, after a time spent in a sort of twilight zone, the likes of which neither side was likely to see again, the two surviving Muslims fled into the distance, towards villages they had probably entered on their way to Sagai.
“Do you see?” Kitchener spoke softly now. His voice was the only noise, save that of the crickets chirping calmly in the Nile reeds. “Do you understand why I stopped you?” For the life of them, his cavaliers couldn’t. They just stood and stared. “Never you mind,” he said in disgust. “You’ll learn one way or another soon enough.”
