Delphi collected works o.., p.220
Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 220
‘No, not here,’ the Governor answered, with his quiet smile. ‘My duty lies elsewhere. I had thought once, if Khartoum fell in God’s good time, of blowing the palace up, with all that was in it. But I see more wisely now. I elect rather, with God’s help, to die standing. Besides, we must make an effort at least to save Hansel. He has sent to me for help. He holds out in the consulate. I must go and meet him.’
Hansel was the Austrian consul, whose house lay not far off down one of the neighbouring narrow alleys. To attempt to reach it was certain death; but, still, the attempt must be made, for all that. Some twenty black Egyptian soldiers, with Kashim Elmoos at their head, still rallied feebly round the adored Governor. They started on their last march, that little forlorn-hope, fighting their way boldly across the open square, now one wild scene of havoc, and keeping together in a compact mass, with Gordon at their head, leading the party bravely. Only once the Governor paused on the way to speak to Sir Austen.
‘Better a ball in the brain, after all,’ he said quietly, ‘than to flicker out at home in bed unheeded.’
Near the corner, a fresh body of dervishes rushed upon them down a side-street. The Governor halted at once and drew his sword. Sir Austen endeavoured to fling himself in front of him.
‘For heaven’s sake, sir,’ he cried, in an eager voice, ‘fall back among the men! These wretches recognise you! Unless you fall back, you’re a dead man, and our one last hope is gone for ever.’
For even then he could hardly believe that Gordon would be unsuccessful.
But the Governor waved him back with that authoritative hand that no man on earth ever dared to disobey.
‘March on!’ he said in a military voice unshaken by fear. ‘I know my duty. We must go to Hansel’s.’
Before the words were well out of his mouth, a volley of musketry rang loud in their ears. A rain of bullets rang against the wall behind. Linnell was aware of a strange dull feeling in his left arm. Something seemed to daze him. For a moment he shut his eyes involuntarily. When he opened them again, and steadied himself with an effort, he saw a hideous sight in the square beside him. Gordon’s body was lying, pierced by three bullets, bleeding profusely on the dusty ground. And half the Egyptians lay huddled dead around him.
What followed next, Linnell hardly knew. He was dimly conscious of a terrible swoop, a cry of wild triumph, a loud tumultuous yell of diabolical vengeance. The naked black warriors fell upon the body of their famous enemy like ants upon the carcase of a wounded insect. A great wave of assailants carried Linnell himself resistlessly before them. He felt himself whirled through the midst of the square once more, and carried by the press up the steps of the palace. His cousin was still by his side, he knew; but that was all. They two alone remained of the defenders of Khartoum. No trace of resistance was left anywhere. The whole town was given over now to indiscriminate massacre.
All round, the smoke and heat of a great conflagration went up to heaven in blinding mist from the ruins of charred and blackened houses. Men and women were running and crying for their lives; black ruffians were seizing young girls in their brawny arms, and carrying them off, struggling, to places of temporary safety. All the horrors of a sack by victorious barbarians were being enacted visibly before his very eyes. The scene was too confused to yield any definite sensation, and great red drops were oozing copiously from Linnell’s wounded arm, which he had bound round now with a fragment of his burnous. He almost fainted with pain and loss of blood. Just at that moment, a naked black fanatic, with a blunted sabre lifted high in the air, seized him violently by the shoulder.
‘Are you for Allah and the Mahdi, or for the infidel?’ he cried in broken African Arabic.
‘I am for Gordon and the English!’ Linnell answered with spirit, flinging the man away from him in the wild energy of despair, and drawing his knife, for he had no cartridges left. ‘Lay your hand on me again, and, by God, I’ll send your wicked black soul to judgment!’
Sir Austen by his side tried to draw his sword feebly. Then for the first time Linnell observed in his flurry that his cousin, too, was seriously wounded.
The sight of an infidel in European uniform who dared to offer resistance, and of a man in Arab dress who drew a knife to defend him, brought whole squads of marauders to the spot in a moment. Another horrible rush took place in their direction. Once more there was a loud noise as of a volley of musketry. Once more smoke and fire flashed suddenly before Linnell’s eyes. The unhappy man saw Sir Austen fling up his hands aloft in the air and heard him give a loud wild cry. Then he knew himself that blood was trickling again from his own right breast. The rest was dim, very dim indeed. Big savages pressed on up the steps of the palace. Sir Austen was lying like a log by his side. Naked black feet trampled him down irresistibly. A fellow with a bayonet seemed to thrust him through a third time. Linnell knew he was weltering in a great pool of blood. The din grew dimmer and still dimmer all round. Light faded. The consciousness of the outer world melted slowly away. All was over. Khartoum was taken, Gordon was dead. Sir Austen lay stark and stiff by his side. He himself was dying — dying — dying. Numb coldness spread over him. And then a great silence.
But that morning at Khartoum, for six long hours, the city was given over to massacre and rapine. The men were slaughtered and stripped of everything they possessed, the women were hailed off and divided as booty. Four thousand of the townspeople lay rotting in the streets under a tropical sun. At least as many Egyptian and Soudanese soldiers were bayoneted by the fanatics in cold blood. And Gordon’s headless body cried out to heaven for mercy on his murderers from a corner of the square by the gate of the palace.
So much, we all learned long after in England.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN HOUR OF TRIUMPH.
At Petherton, during all that fearful time, how closely Psyche followed the march of events; how carefully she reckoned the chances of war; how eagerly she watched the slow advance of the relieving force up the Nile to Dongola and across the desert to Abu Klea and Metamneh! Early in the morning, before even Dumaresq came down to his Spartan breakfast, Psyche was already scanning with anxious eyes the Times or Daily News she hardly held in her trembling fingers. When papa went out on the Downs for his mid-day walk, Psyche brought forth the big atlas from the study shelf, and, pen in hand, pounced down, all eagerness, on those strange unknown names, fixing for herself with minute care the exact spot where Wolseley had last arrived, or the utmost point on the wide blank of sand yet reached by Stewart with his desert advance-guard. Here they camped last night: there they go to-morrow. Love had turned the pink-and-white maiden unawares into an amateur tactician of the first water. She read with more than military fervour the latest views of distinguished authorities as to the chances of the Camel Corps; the conflicting opinions of newspaper scribes as to the tactical value of Beresford’s Naval Brigade. General Maitland himself could not have been more eager as to the possible merits of the mounted infantry; the very War Office could hardly have been more excited when the van of the relief party arrived at Gakdul.
And all this in the silence of her own heart! For Psyche did not dare to confide in any one. When she heard papa’s footstep on the gravel path outside, or Ida Mansel’s voice by the garden gate, the Atlas was hurriedly thrust back into its place on the shelf, the Daily News was carefully folded away in the rack by the fireplace, the tears were hastily brushed from those clouded eyes, and the poor self-restrained girl came back at one bound from Khartoum or Dongola to Petherton Episcopi. No one but herself knew with what anxiety she followed every move in that terrible and protracted game; no one but herself knew how often, as she gazed at that hopeless map with its impassable stretches of desert sand and its long curves of interminable Nile, names and places faded suddenly from her failing eyes, and a vast blank alone rose up visible before her — a mingled blank of despair and blindness.
Now and again, to be sure, there were gleams of hope. It was not all pure unmixed despondency. On New Year’s Day, for example, came a message, a glorious message, from Gordon to the relieving force: ‘Khartoum all right on the 14th of December.’ A fortnight ago, then, Psyche thought with a thrill, Linnell was safe; but, ah, how many things may happen in a fortnight! Yet even so, that cheery message, despatched by a brave man in stifled despair, brightened up her New Year not a little. For a full week afterwards her sight never suddenly failed her unawares; she walked with a firmer and a freer tread; there was still hope, for Stewart’s force was now well on the way for Metamneh. Then came the flicker of victory at the Abu Klea wells — why, now they were almost at the gates of Khartoum. How very short a distance it looked on the map! Psyche measured it carefully by the scale of miles with a pin and some thread: her heart sank within her when she found the result! How many days’ journey, how many days’ journey, if one came to look at it by that sterner method!
On the 22nd another message arrived from Gordon: ‘Khartoum all right. Could hold out for years.’ Her heart bounded with joy within her as she read. All would yet be well — and Linnell would come home again.
When Linnell came home, she would tell him all. She could stand it no longer, this misery of misinterpretation. She would ask her father to release her from her promise, that horrible promise that had wrought so much harm. She would fling herself freely, for all her pride, on her painter’s neck, and with tears and entreaties beg him to forgive her. A Dumaresq as she was, she would beg him to forgive her.
The end of January, though full of suspense, was indeed a happy time in anticipation for Psyche. Everything was going on so well at the front. The relief of Khartoum was now all but accomplished. Day after day came brighter news. Gordon’s four steamers, sent down the Nile to assist Wolseley, had united with the expeditionary force at Metamneh. Then all was still safe in the beleaguered city. Sir Charles Wilson had started for Khartoum; in three days more the siege would be raised — the siege would be raised, and Linnell would be free again! The whole world of England had its eyes fixed during that period of suspense on one man alone; to Psyche, too, there was but one man in all Khartoum, and that man was — not Gordon, but the Special Artist of the Porte-Crayon newspaper.
On a Wednesday afternoon towards the end of the month, Ida Mansel stopped with her pony-carriage in front of the Wren’s Nest gate, and called out to Psyche, who was busy in the drawing-room, to come in with her that minute to Melbury.
Psyche flung down her needlework at once. Melbury was the nearest country town, and she was delighted indeed to have such a chance; for the evening papers could be bought at Melbury. Every hour was of breathless importance now: nobody knew how soon tidings might arrive of the relief of Khartoum. She would buy a Pall Mall or a St. James’s at Melbury: she would get the latest news, that way, twelve hours earlier. So she hurried on her hat and jacket anyhow, and rushed out in haste to Ida.
It was a lovely afternoon, and the sun was shining. Such a January day Psyche scarcely remembered. The hedgerows were bright with hips and haws; the feathery streamers of the clematis, or old man’s beard, as village children call it, festooned the bare boughs with their flower-like fluffiness; the chirping of robins from the shelter of the holly bushes made her almost forget it was the depth of winter. Rooks cawed from the rookery in cheerful content; young lambs already bleated from the pasture-land. Everything spoke of spring and hope. And Psyche’s heart was glad within her; for had not England sent out help to her painter? Was not an army well on its way, all to bring her lover back to her at Petherton?
For the very first time, as they drove along through the brisk clear air, Psyche ventured to broach the subject that lay nearest her heart to Ida Mansel. ‘Do you think,’ she asked timidly, with a deep blush, ‘there’s any chance — we might hear to-day — that they’ve relieved Khartoum?’
Mrs. Mansel was in her most oracular Girtonian mood.
‘Perhaps,’ she answered vaguely, flicking the pony’s ear, ‘and perhaps not. But, for my part, it simply surprises me to find how much importance everybody attaches to the particular question whether this one man, Gordon — an estimable person, no doubt, in his own way, but one among ten million — does or does not happen to get shot in an expedition on which he volunteered for the express purpose of going to shoot other people. To my mind, the interest the world displays in his fate smacks of provincialism.’
Psyche, with her poor heart fluttering within her, was not disposed to contest this abstract proposition.
‘But there are so many more people in Khartoum with him!’ she ventured to interpose, her thoughts all full of one among that nameless, unthought-of number.
‘So there are many thousand estimable Chinamen dying every day in Pekin, I believe,’ Mrs. Mansel answered, with chilly persistence. ‘It seems to me irrational, in a world where hundreds must die daily of endless misfortunes, to make so much fuss over a few dozen Englishmen, more or less, who’ve sought their own death over yonder in Central Africa.’
‘Perhaps you’d feel it more if you were personally interested in any one of them,’ Psyche ventured to suggest, very tentatively, though her heart misgave her for even trenching so far on the dangerous question.
‘That’s just it, you see,’ Mrs. Mansel replied, with philosophic calm, replacing her whip in its stand carefully. ‘As it happens, we have a friend out there ourselves, you know. Mr. Linnell — you remember, that nice young man who was here in the summer, and who painted your portrait and your father’s too — has gone out to Khartoum; and you recollect he’s a very old chum indeed of Reginald’s. Reginald’s very much concerned at times about him. But what I say is, if we, who have acquaintances actually in danger there, don’t make any unnecessary noise or fuss about it — if we’re content to look on and watch and wait to see what time and chance will do for them — why should all the rest of the world go crying and shrieking and wringing their hands in wild despair, like a pack of children, about Gordon and his companions, who are the merest names to them? War’s an outlet for our surplus population. It replaces the plagues of the Middle Ages. There are plenty more soldiers where those came from.’
The tears stood full in Psyche’s eyes, though with a violent effort she held them back. But she could talk no more about Khartoum after that. ‘Mr. Linnell, you remember, who painted your portrait,’ indeed! As if she could forget — as if she could forget him! Oh, strange irony of accidental coincidence! How little she knew — how little she understood poor Psyche’s sorrow!
They drove on into Melbury in silence almost, and up the long, white High Street, stopping at the grocer’s and the wine-merchant’s and the draper’s, till at last they reached the one shop in the place that had now any interest for poor eager Psyche — the bookseller and newsagent’s. There were no placards displayed outside the door as usual. Mrs. Mansel pulled up the pony at the door and let Psyche jump out.
‘Have the evening papers come in yet?’ Psyche asked, trembling.
‘No, miss,’ the shopman answered, with glib unconcern; ‘they’re a little late. Behind time this evening; but Punch is to hand if you’d like to look at it.’
Psyche took it up in a vague, uncertain, half-dreamy way. Punch for her indeed! What sarcasm — what irony! Of how much interest to her were its jokes and its caricatures now, with Linnell imprisoned by that mob of fierce fanatic blacks in Khartoum! She opened the paper, hardly knowing what she did. It almost fell from her hands in her intense excitement. Oh, heavens! what was this? A terrible joy burst over her as she looked. The cartoon was a picture of two weather-stained soldiers shaking hands together amid loud huzzas and tossing-up of caps, while a body of faithful Egyptian and negro allies looked on from behind and shared in the universal rejoicing of their deliverers. Underneath was the simple legend, ‘At Last!’ Remote as Psyche lived from the great world of men and events, she took in at a glance what the picture meant. Love sharpened her senses to read it aright. She recognised even the faces of the two leading men. One of them was Wilson; the other, Gordon.
Then all was well! Khartoum was relieved! The steamers with the Sussex regiment on board — those steamers whose course she had followed so anxiously — must have run the gauntlet of the Mahdi’s fire, and succeeded in forcing their way up the Nile to the besieged city. Wilson had thrown himself into Khartoum at last, and Linnell would now come back to England.
All England was thinking of Gordon that night — Psyche was thinking only of her artist lover.
She turned, on fire, and laying threepence hastily down on the counter, rushed out of the shop with her priceless treasure in her hands, all trembling. At the door space disappeared for a moment before her swimming eyes, but she cared nothing at all for all that now. What was blindness itself with Linnell safe? She groped her way, with her precious paper in her hand, to Ida Mansel’s pony-trap, and in a second, as the wave of joy passed through her once more, she saw again as distinctly as ever she had seen in all her life, for no tonic on earth can equal happiness.
‘Mrs. Mansel!’ she cried, ‘he’s safe, he’s safe! They relieved Khartoum, and defeated the Mahdi!’
‘Who’s safe?’ Mrs. Mansel repeated, half incredulous.
And Psyche, too proudly honest to answer ‘Gordon,’ replied with a scarcely conscious blush:
‘Why, your friend Mr. Linnell! I’m so glad to hear it!’
Ida Mansel took the paper sceptically from the girl’s hand. It was that all too historical number of Punch with the famous cartoon, so soon to be falsified, representing the supposed junction of Wilson’s reinforcements with the handful of defenders still left with Gordon; and, as everybody now knows, it was prepared beforehand, as such things must always necessarily be prepared, in anticipation of the shortly-expected triumph of that futile relief party. But neither Psyche nor her friend was critical enough to reflect, in their woman-like haste, that the drawing and the block must have been put in hand, at the very latest, several hours before the arrival of the last telegrams in that morning’s papers. They were not critical enough to remember that Punch, with all its acknowledged virtues and excellences, has never laid any claim of any sort to rank as an independent purveyor and dispenser of authentic intelligence. They accepted the hypothetical announcement of the cartoon in good faith as so much honest comment upon established fact, and they made no doubt in their own minds that in London that evening the news of Gordon’s safety was common property.
