First Jihad: Khartoum, and the Dawn of Militant Islam (24 page)

That left Lord Hartington with only one course—to threaten to resign as Secretary of State for War unless a relief expedition was sent.
In a Cabinet meeting on July 31 he drove the Prime Minister into a corner, stating that, unless an expedition was sent, he would resign.
It was, he said, “a question of personal honour and good faith, and I don’t see how I can yield upon it.”

Gladstone was left with no choice.
Lord Hartington’s position in the Liberal party was second only to his own; as the leader of the Whig aristocracy his influence with upper, middle and lower classes alike was immense.
Because of the influence and wealth that came with his title, no one would ever suggest that his political decisions were motivated by anything other than his perception of duty.
Gladstone knew that he faced no idle threat, and that the resignation of Lord Hartington would be enough to bring the Prime Minister’s government down.
Less than a week later, on August 5, the House of Commons was asked to vote the sum of £300,000 in order “to enable Her Majesty’s Government to undertake operations for the relief of General Gordon, should they become necessary.” The resolution passed overwhelmingly.

Even then Gladstone was trying to find a way to avoid carrying out the commitment he had just made.
A proviso he inserted into the resolution gave him the authority to suspend expenditure of the money if the Prime Minister found reason to believe the relief expedition was unnecessary.
Hartington would have none of it.
When Lord Granville wrote him, “It is clear, I think, that Gordon has our messages, and does not choose to answer them,” implying that Gordon was in fact safe and that the relief expedition was unnecessary, Hartington made it clear that his threat to resign still held good.
Gladstone was outmaneuvered and knew it.
On August 26th, General Sir Garnet Wolseley was appointed to command what became popularly known as the “Gordon Relief Expedition.”

Regarded by many as the outstanding British general of the second half of the 19th century, Wolseley had, at some level, taken a hand in every campaign fought by the British Army from the Crimean War to the Boer War.
A dedicated professional with a genius for organization and logistics, Wolseley was once called “Our Only General” by Prime Minister Disraeli—a phrase not calculated to endear Wolseley to his fellow senior officers.
To soldiers and civilians alike he seemed to embody all the Victorian virtues: exceptional courage, personal integrity, diligence, and an unshakeable belief in the Empire.
“All Sir Garnet” became a catchphrase, first within the Army, then among the public, for situations well in hand.

Already well acquainted with Egypt after having successfully put down the Arabi revolt in 1882, Wolseley saw himself as being given a task which could be easily and safely accomplished if undertaken with the deliberateness that was his hallmark, but which was dangerous and doubtful if attempted in haste.
Originally the size of the relief force was envisioned by Gladstone as little more than a brigade of infantry, perhaps some three thousand strong.
After reviewing the situation, and in particular the critical position at Khartoum, Wolseley concluded that such a force was woefully inadequate for the task at hand, and recommended that the single brigade be expanded into three.
The result was an expedition of more than ten thousand men, from regiments to be selected from the whole army.
Wolseley was not about to allow his force to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers of the Mahdi’s army, a la William Hicks.
Such was the public’s perception of the “Gordon Relief Expedition” that Wolseley knew, whether he liked it or not, that the whole of his reputation was riding on its success.
It’s hardly remarkable then that he chose to be deliberate and careful rather than swift and reckless.
A wild, glorious rush into Khartoum might well achieve an astonishing success–but it could just as easily result in a horrible disaster.

There was another element at play in Wolseley’s developing campaign which had a significant effect on his planning.
His orders, drawn up by Baring, were explicit in the latitude he was permitted, as well as in regard to the ultimate purpose of the expedition.
“The primary object of the expedition up the Valley of the Nile is to bring away General Gordon and Colonel Stewart from Khartoum.
When that object has been secured, no further offensive operations of any kind are to be undertaken.” In other words, the entire purpose of the campaign would be to carry out Gordon’s initial instructions—there was to be no “smashing” of the Mahdi or occupying the Sudan.
Baring, though he believed that the Sudan was still Egypt’s responsibility, was of a mind with Gladstone in wanting to keep British troops out of that country.
His concern, however, was not avoiding another imperial adventure, but rather avoiding any circumstance which might damage Britain’s position in Egypt.
The outright defeat of a British army at the hands of the Mahdi, however unlikely, could fatally undermine Britain’s authority in Cairo.
It appeared as if Gladstone, thwarted in his effort to avoid sending troops at all, would achieve his goal after all—there would be no expansion of the British presence in Africa.
As for the fate of the city and its inhabitants, Wolseley’s orders gave no instructions: Khartoum would be left on its own.

Throughout August and September Wolseley assembled his forces, and the regiments he chose read like an honor roll of the British Army.
Among them were three battalions of the Guards: the 1st battalions of the Grenadier Guards and the Coldstream Guards, and the 2nd of the Scots Guards.
Line regiments were represented by battalions from the Royal Sussex Regiment, the South Staffordshire Regiment, the Royal Berkshire Regiment, and the West Kent Regiment (once carried on the Army List as the 50th Regiment of Foot, the West Kents were known as the “Black Half Hundred” from the facing color of their uniforms), and Princess Victoria’s Regiment.
Light infantry units selected were the King’s Royal Rifle Corps and the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.
There were two Scottish regiments: the Royal Highlanders (the world-famous “Black Watch”) and the Gordon Highlanders, as well as two Irish regiments: the Royal Irish Fusiliers and the Connaught Rangers.

Squadrons from eight different cavalry regiments were added to Wolseley’s expedition, coming from the Life Guards, the Royal Dragoon Guards, the 2nd, 4th, and 5th Dragoon Guards, the Scots Greys, the 5th Lancers, and the 19th Royal Hussar Regiment.
In support of the horse and infantry were six batteries of the Royal Artillery and a detachment of Royal Marines.
The total strength of what was now known as the “Gordon Relief Expedition” came to 10,500 officers and other ranks.
While the regimental lists were being assembled, Wolseley made arrangements with the Thomas Cook Company to provide supplies and transportation for the journey up the Nile once the troops reached Egypt.
Then, while his forces were gathering in London and boarding transports at Portsmouth, he went to Cairo, where he arrived on September 9, and began planning his campaign.
Wolseley, who so perfectly embodied the quintessential Victorian commanding officer that he was almost a caricature—indeed he was the inspiration for William S.
Gilbert’s “very model of a modern Major-General”—was probably the worst possible choice to command an expedition that required dash, determination, and, above all, a willingness not to be bound by the conventional wisdom of past experiences.
Methodical, single-minded, not lacking in imagination but only in the will to use it, Wolseley didn’t have a sufficient grasp of the details of desert warfare to understand the need to move both swiftly and decisively.

In a message borne to Wadi Halfa by a native runner, Gordon had made very clear what those details were, and at the same time offered what could have been a blueprint, not only for a relief expedition to Khartoum, but for operations against irregular forces and guerillas in wild, open country that would stand as perfectly valid for the next century.

I cannot too much impress on you that this expedition will not encounter any enemy worth the name in a European sense of the word; the struggle is with the climate and the destitution of the country.
It is one of time and patience, and of small parties of determined men, backed by native allies, which are got by policy and money.
A heavy lumbering column, however strong, is nowhere in this land.
Parties of forty or sixty men, swiftly moving about, will do more than any column.
If you lose two or three, what of it—it is the chance of war.
Native allies above all things, whatever the cost.
It is the country of the irregular, not of the regular.
If you must move in mass you will find no end of difficulties whereas , if you let detached parties dash out here and there, you will spread dismay in the Arab ranks.
The time to attack is the dawn, or rather before it (this is stale news), but sixty men would put these Arabs to flight just before dawn, which one thousand would not accomplish in dark.
I do hope you will not drag on that artillery: it can only produce a delay and do little good.

It’s not clear whether Wolseley ever saw this communication from Gordon; if he did, he apparently ignored it.
Of course, the idea of professional jealously cannot be entirely discounted either.
Gordon was junior to Wolseley; therefore, according to the strict system of seniority that existed in the British Army at the time, it was presumptuous for Gordon to believe that he knew more about warfare of any kind than did Sir Garnet, and that any of Gordon’s ideas, however wellintentioned, could be superior to the tactical and strategic thinking of any senior officer was pure balderdash.
Unfortunately, Wolseley’s career would demonstrate that he was capable of exactly this sort of pettiness.

Wolseley had always considered himself something of a military innovator and constantly sought to produce some new tactical twist to his campaigns, though most often his “innovations” were more novelty or nuisance than useful.
There were two strategies open to him in his effort to relieve Khartoum, the first was to land his forces at Port Sudan on the Red Sea, just north of Suakin, and from there march southwest across the Sudan to Khartoum.
Recommending this strategy was that it was the shortest distance to the city, little more than three hundred miles, while its disadvantage was that the terrain was rugged and might offer the Mahdi an opportunity to make a defensive stand before the relief column reached the city.
The other course of action, which Wolseley eventually chose, was a long, laborious trek up the Nile from Wadi Halfa.
The distance was almost four times as great as from Suakin, but it offered the advantage of a secure line of supply and communications, namely the Nile itself.

Wolseley chose to draw on his experience in the Red River Campaign of 1870, fought in the upper reaches of Canada, adopting the same methods for moving his troops and supplies.
The men, guns, and horses would be carried in a “river column” of specially constructed whaleboats drawn by a flotilla of shallow-draft Nile steamers, deploying where and when the enemy was encountered.
While Wolseley was planning the advance, one of his officers was anxiously pressing to be allowed to take command of a “flying column” of camel-mounted troops which, once the relief force reached Korti, at the bottom of the great loop the Nile takes before it passes into Egypt, would dash across the intervening two hundred miles to the besieged city.
Once there it would offer whatever support it could or bring out Gordon and the garrison, whichever course of action seemed best.

That officer was Major Herbert Horatio Kitchener, who was destined to become one of Britain’s greatest soldiers, but who at this time was only beginning to make a reputation for himself as a particularly energetic and courageous officer.
Chafing at Wolseley’s refusal to sanction the “flying column,” Kitchener eventually secured his commanding officer’s permission to depart Cairo well in advance of the main column, which left the Egyptian capital on September 27.
Kitchener’s mission was to reach Debba, not far from Korti, where he hoped to set up an outpost where runners could make their way into and out of Khartoum with messages and intelligence.

It was more than just a daring endeavor—Kitchener was literally staking his life on the plan.
Tall (he stood six feet, two inches) with piercing blue eyes that looked out from an exceptionally handsome face, Kitchener looked every inch the professional soldier.
A dedicated officer, intelligent and insightful, and a gifted amateur archeologist, Kitchener spoke fluent French, Arabic, and some Turkish, and would run incredible risks in the months ahead to get messages to and from Gordon.
Venturing deep into Arab territory, closely disguised as one of the Ansar—though one glimpse of his blue eyes would have given him away—Kitchener carried a bottle of poison with him at all times lest he fall alive into Arab hands.
His exploits in the Sudan would eventually make his career in the Army, as well as turn his name into a household word in Great Britain, but none of that mattered to Kitchener: he was probably the most duty-bound officer to serve in the British Army since Wellington.

As for his request for a “flying column,” Wolseley declined to consider it, worried that if the flying column were to encounter the Mahdi’s army, the sheer numbers of the Ansar might overwhelm it before the rest of the expeditionary force could be brought up in support.
It was perfectly sound thinking according to conventional military wisdom.
Only time would reveal whether Kitchener’s daring or Wolseley’s prudence was the proper course to save Gordon and Khartoum.

CHAPTER 8

THE DUEL

In Khartoum Gordon had no knowledge of the drama that was unfolding in London as Gladstone was slowly being coerced into sending troops to the Sudan.
When the telegraph was cut on February 13, all direct contact with the outside world was lost; the nearest telegraph terminal was now in Berber, and while the occasional message could get through when a river steamer chose to fight its way up or down the Nile, regular communication with the outside world had ceased.
Messages that could be smuggled into or out of the city by native runners passing through the Madhi’s lines would be almost the only means of news to and from the city, and those would be infrequent and fragmentary.
The fate of Khartoum and its inhabitants now rested on the outcome of a duel of wills and wiles between Gordon and the Mahdi.