Baptism Of The Sword (Jack Windrush Book 12) - Malcolm Archibald

Baptism Of The Sword (Jack Windrush Book 12) - Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

William Hicks Pasha lifted himself higher in the saddle, wiped the sweat from his face and looked over his men. They had been marching for days, with their guides assuring them they travelled in the correct direction, but he was not sure. Now they were wandering in a dry forest with tree trunks exploding in the heat and men and camels dying with sunstroke by the hour.

“Where are we?” Hicks asked.

Baron Seckendorff, the adjutant, shrugged. “I’m damned if I know, sir. Somewhere in Kordofan.”

“I’m sure the Mahdi is around here.” Hicks looked around at the wilderness of desiccated trees through which his seven thousand infantry, one thousand cavalry and innumerable camp followers straggled. He had ascended the Nile to El-Dumeim, a hundred miles south of Khartoum, and marched westward across the arid, baking plains towards El Obeid, the Mahdi’s headquarters.

The European officers with Hicks looked for inspiration as their army of reluctant Egyptian soldiers and camp followers trudged on hopelessly.

“I calculate we are about thirty miles south of El Obeid,” Hicks said. “If the Mahdi is nearby, he’ll make himself known soon.”

As soon as Hicks had spoken, he heard the faint cry of “Allah! Allah!” from the depths of the forest, and men looked at each other in consternation.

“The Mahdi!” somebody shouted as men jammed cartridges into their rifles.

“Form a square!” Hicks ordered, and his men obeyed, gathering in a confusion of noise. “Build a zareba!” Hicks knew his Egyptian soldiers were fine engineers and would fight better behind the protection of a barricade.

The Ansar, the Mahdi’s army, arrived within the hour, advancing through the trees with loud cries and the glitter of sunshine on spears and rifle barrels. “Volley fire by companies!” Hicks ordered and walked around the zareba’s perimeter, allowing the Egyptian soldiers, Sudanese mercenaries, European volunteers and Bashi-Bazouks to see him. As well as their Remington rifles, the Egyptians possessed modern Krupp artillery pieces and six Nordenfeldt machine guns. Even so, the soldiers’ morale was low, and they were disinclined to fight.

The Mahdi ordered his men forward in wave after wave of screaming attacks. Hicks repelled them with volley fire, with the smoke clouding among the trees and the heat increasing. The Egyptian square held out that first day, despite losing as many men to heat exhaustion and dysentery as to enemy spears and rifles. In the evening, with the forest echoing to the rattle of the machine guns and the acrid stink of gun smoke polluting the dry air, the Mahdi recalled his warriors. The sudden silence was unnerving as the defenders coughed and peered into the trees.

“He’s gone,” the journalist, Frank Vizitelly, said. “We’ve beaten him off.”

“No.” Hicks Pasha shook his head and reloaded his revolver. “The Mahdi’s still out there.”

Night brought little relief as the tom-toms hammered out around the Egyptian zareba and the Mahdi’s men fired at random, hoping to thin out the defenders. At dawn on the second day, the Mahdi’s men prayed to Allah and then attacked again, brave, inspired men throwing themselves at the massed musketry. The Egyptians hefted their Remington rifles and fired, knowing there was no retreat and little prospect of surrender.

“Ammunition’s running low,” Vizitelly said.

“I know,” Hicks replied. “We won’t last much longer.”

Vizitelly nodded, looked around at the smoke drifting through the forest and heard the Mahdi’s drums and the chanting of his army. “There are fifty thousand of the enemy,” he said.

“I haven’t counted them.” Hicks wiped the sweat from his face with a powder-stained forearm. He roared encouragement to his men, knowing they had already lost the battle.

“What are your plans, sir?” Vizitelly asked.

“Fight,” Hicks said dryly. “We have no other option.”

As the smoke cleared, Hicks Pasha saw a group of the enemy watching him. One was a broad-shouldered man of medium height, and even from this distance, Hicks sensed the power of his character.

“That’s the Mahdi,” Hicks said, lifting his field glasses. “He’s smiling!”

The British general and the Sudanese warrior studied each other for a full minute, and then the Mahdi turned away.

Hicks did not lower his field glasses, for the man who had been at the Mahdi’s side was nearly equally impressive. Taller than the Mahdi, he wore the unofficial uniform of the Mahdi’s army, a jibbeh with coloured patches to show the owner was virtuously poor. His turban was neat on his head, his beard well-trimmed beneath three tribal scars, but it was the sword hilt protruding over his left shoulder that Hicks noticed.

“Who are you, my fine soldierly friend?”

The tall man touched the hilt of his sword in a gesture that could have been a salute or a threat, turned away and followed the Mahdi. The instant he disappeared into the trees, the Mahdi’s warriors charged again.

“Volley fire!” Hicks ordered. “Mark your man, and don’t waste ammunition.”

The Remingtons fired, with most shots wild as nervous men jerked the triggers. At the angle of the square, the Nordenfeldt machine guns stuttered and stammered, scything through the forest, and chopping chips and leaves from the trees. The Mahdi’s warriors fell beneath the bullets, dead, wounded, or feigning injury in the hope of rising later and attacking their enemy.

The Mahdi gave an order, and the attackers pulled back.

“He’s not pressing home his attacks,” Vizitelly said.

“He doesn’t have to,” Hicks said. “We’re dying from the heat and lack of water. All the Mahdi has to do is contain us here, and he’ll win.” He spoke calmly, a veteran soldier who had already accepted the inevitability of death.

On the third day of the battle, the Egyptians’ ammunition ran out. The men knew they were in a desperate situation, with the Mahdi’s forces cutting them off from water and home, deep in enemy territory, and without ammunition or hope. Some soldiers sobbed with fear, and others resigned to fighting to the end or decided to surrender and hope for mercy from the Mahdi.

When the Egyptians’ firing ceased, there was a momentary silence in the forest as if the world waited for the inevitable slaughter. Somebody shouted, “Allah!” and a thousand, ten thousand voices echoed the cry as the Mahdi sent his warriors forward. The Ansar advanced through the scarred trees to claim their victory.

“Fix bayonets!” Hicks shouted. “Follow me!”

With a sword in his right hand and a pistol in his left, Colonel William Hicks stepped toward the enemy. His European staff officers followed, yelling their defiance as the Mahdi’s men closed around them, thrusting with their broad-headed spears. The tall warrior Hicks had noticed earlier stepped forward, and rather than draw his sword, he took a spear from one of his followers, aimed and threw.

The point took Hicks full in the chest, and he staggered, lifted his revolver, and fired his final cartridge. He did not see where the bullet went, but he saw the tall Sudanese walking slowly towards him, drawing his sword.

Hicks plucked at the spear, lifted his sabre, and swung at the tall warrior, who parried without apparent effort, poised his long, straight-bladed sword, and sliced off the British officer’s head.

“Good,” the tall warrior, Osman Zubeir, said. “Decapitate the Nazarenes. Save the followers of Mohammed who accept the Mahdi and kill the rest.” Bending down, he cleaned his sword on Hicks’ uniform and slid it back into its scabbard.