CHAPTER XXVI.
A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.
The victory of the Mahdi over the Fashodans was telegraphed all over the world.
In London as well as Constantinople, in Paris alike with Cairo, the people could talk of nothing but the wonderful advance of the Mahdi.
Mohammed Ahmed was shrewd.
He knew that his victory would rouse all the animosity of the Egyptians and Turks against him.
A delay would be dangerous.
The Soudan must be his, and that at once.
He called together his chosen friends and told them that the victory must be followed up by still greater victories.
Sherif el Habib, full of the religious devotion which made men rejoice in being martyrs, advised the instant march on Khartoum.
“The presence of the Mahdi is enough; all men must acknowledge your mission,” he said, and really believed that the Mahdi could scatter his enemies by a mere word.
But the prophet shook his head.
“No, my friend, Allah works by men’s hands, and it is only by the sword that the prince of darkness can be crushed. To march now would be to invite defeat.”
Max opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent.
“Speak, my son,” said the Mahdi.
Max blushed a deep crimson as he was thus addressed.
“I am the youngest here and I may offend,” he replied, modestly.
“Thou canst not offend me. Speak just as you think. I will hear all and condemn not.”
The madcap was emboldened, and clearing his throat made, for him, a long speech.
“I left Cairo on a special mission of my own,” he began. “Fate, or, as you would say, Allah, guided me to you. I have fought under your banner.”
“And right bravely, too,” the Mahdi interjected.
“I don’t believe in your religion, but I know that you”—looking at the Mahdi—“are by a long shot the best man in the Soudan to-day. As Englishmen have joined your enemies, I don’t see why I should not join you, and I’ll be hanged if it isn’t a good work you are engaged in. Now, I’ve got an idea—just forget that you are the Mahdi and, to put it plainly, a rebel——Oh, don’t wince; George Washington, the greatest man who ever lived, was a rebel until he was successful, then he was a patriot.”
“I have already told you to speak as you think,” said Mohammed Ahmed. “I shall not be offended.”
“My plan is this: Let some one go secretly to Khartoum, to Kordofan, and Senaar, and preach rebellion. Let whoever goes rouse the people—talk to them of the way they have been robbed, and then spring upon them the idea that you, their Mahdi, will deliver them. You see, by this means you would have friends waiting for you in each place.”
“That is good, my son, but the messengers may be killed.”
“Very likely. When I took up the sword I just said to myself: ‘Max, old fellow, make your will, reconcile yourself to your enemies, and go in a buster.’”
Although the slangy manner in which Max spoke seemed incoherent, his hearers knew that he was in earnest, and that the plan was a good one.
“Better leave out Khartoum,” said the prophet; “let the plan be worked in other places first.”
“The plan is a good one,” said Sherif el Habib, “but who could carry it out?”
“I would go to one place,” exclaimed Mohammed.
Ibrahim whispered to Girzilla’s father:
“What would become of your harem?”
“I will go,” said Sherif el Habib, with enthusiasm.
“No, no, no!” interrupted Max, excitedly, “it would never do. Both the illustrious Sherif el Habib and Mohammed have too much to lose.”
“Do you think we value our possessions more than principle?”
“Not at all; but it would be mighty inconvenient to lose all, and perhaps your lives as well. Let me go to Kordofan.”
“You?”
“Yes; I can talk—why, great Cæsar! I’d just glory in the adventure.”
“But you are not of our faith.”
“So much the better. I am an American, and every body will know that the cause is a good one if an American takes it up.”
“Go, my son, and may Allah bless you!”
“May I not go to Senaar?” asked Ibrahim.
“What do you know about revolutions?” asked his uncle, with almost a sneer.
“Not much, unky, and that’s a fact; but Max will tell me what to do.”
“Go, then; and if you die, you will know it was for the truth.”
“Just so, only we shall not die; at least, not just yet. When do we start, Max?”
“At once; earlier, if possible,” and the madcap laughed as he spoke.
He walked away to think out his plan of action, and was joined by Girzilla.
“You were going without bidding me good-by.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel brother. Remember, Max, wherever you may be, I am not Kalula to you, but Girzilla.”
“I shall never forget it, my true one. May you be happy.”
The girl was deeply agitated, for she realized from what Mohammed, her father, had told her, that the mission in which both Max and Ibrahim were to be engaged was one of deadly peril, and that the chances were that neither would ever be seen again alive.
But, like the grand old martyrs of olden times, the young men went forth, their lives in their hands, in support of the cause they had espoused.
Max was not quite so much in love with his mission when he entered Kordofan alone, and knew that he, in all probability, was in antagonism to several regiments of soldiers and an excited populace.
He needed rest.
It was a treat to reach a town after all the horrors of caravan life on the desert. Yet his mission was so urgent that he dare not delay more than that one day.
He had been provided with a letter of introduction to a merchant with whom Sherif el Habib had done business. That letter opened the merchant’s heart and home, for Max was at once invited to make Shula’s house his home during his stay in Kordofan.
Shula was a shrewd business man, a faithful religionist, and a man of wealth, and therefore of great influence.
It was not long before he asked Max the pointed question:
“Do you believe the Mahdi has come?”
Max parried the question in order to find out Shula’s belief.
“I believe Mohammed Ahmed to be the Mahdi,” said the merchant.
“Do the people of Kordofan believe it also?” asked the American.
“Yes; but I hope the Mahdi may not come here.”
“Why?”
“The people would be disappointed.”
“In what way?”
“You will laugh.”
“Indeed I will not. Tell me, for I am interested in this Mohammedan Mahdi.”
“They expect too much.”
“How?”
“They say the Mahdi is ten feet high. I told you that you would laugh.”
“I apologize. I could not help it.”
“They think, also, that he never walks.”
“Never walks?”
“No; they imagine that he floats whenever he desires to reach any place.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes; they say that he has the blood of Mahomet in his veins, as well as that of Emin Bey.”
“Whom did you say?”
“Mahomet.”
“Yes, but the other name?”
“Emin.”
“What Emin?” asked Max, excitedly.
Shula was now in his glory, for he, above everything, loved to tell a story, and one story was always entrancing to him.
He sipped his sherbet and caused a cloud of tobacco smoke to eddy and curl up to the ceiling before he commenced his story.
“It was in the year 1811, as you would call it, that Mohammed Ali determined to destroy the Mamelukes——”
“Yes,” interrupted Max, “I know, but what has that to do with the Mahdi?”
Shula looked at Max with astonishment.
It was as much as to say: “How dare you interrupt me in the midst of a story?” He puffed away at his chibouk, closed his eyes, paused for a minute or so, and then continued:
“The Mamelukes attended the banquet to which Mohammed Ali invited them, the portcullis fell behind the last of their splendid army, and they were trapped like rats.”
“I know, but one escaped the slaughter.”
“One, didst thou say? Yes. Emin spurred his stanch Arabian over a pile of dead and dying. He sprang on the battlements, his horse was killed, but with a shout of Allah il Allah, he leaped into the darkness and escaped to the mosque.”
Again Shula paused.
Max was impatient, and could not wait.
“I would give my right hand to find the descendants of Emin,” he said.
“Would you?”
“Indeed I would.”
“Then listen. Emin was wounded. He had entered the mosque without removing his shoes. He pleaded to his own conscience that his wound would excuse his sacrilege. He fell asleep, and as he slept he dreamed—that is, some say so; he declared that he was awake all the time. But he fancied he saw a great ring of light, and in the center, Mahomet, the great prophet. ‘Rise,’ said the prophet, ‘thy wound is healed.’ Emin began to excuse the wearing of shoes in the mosque, but the prophet stopped him. ‘Thy shoes were removed by me,’ he said, and sure enough, Emin was shoeless. ‘Go to the ruins of Thebes and hide thee until I bid thee go to the desert, and there thou shalt stay, thou and thy sons, but thy son’s son shall be the Imaum of his people.’ ‘But,’ said Emin, ‘the Imaum shall be of thy race, illustrious prophet;’ and then the prophet answered: ‘Thou art of my race, thou art blessed, indeed.”
Shula called for his servant and ordered him to bring some grapes.
Holding a cup, the servant squeezed the grapes until the cup was full of the ruby-colored juice.
Another cup was filled for Max, and when the servant had withdrawn, Shula continued:
“The Mahdi, according to tradition, should be the grandson of Emin——”
“And I never thought of it—I, who have been seeking the last of the Mamelukes—I——”
“What! do you know the story of the Mamelukes?”
“I have given my life to finding Emin’s descendants, and I never told the Mahdi.”
“Do you know the Mahdi?”
“I will reveal all, most noble Shula. The Mahdi sent me here. He is coming in all the glory of victory, and I am to prepare a way for him.”
Shula sprang to his feet and hugged and kissed the American until poor Max began to think his breath would all be squeezed out.
Had he wanted rest?
If so he made a mistake in telling Shula his mission.