CHAPTER XXXI.
VICTORY ALL ALONG THE LINE.
Early on the following morning a man, riding at hot haste, asked for the Mahdi.
He bore a letter to the prophet, and another to Sherif el Habib.
When the dispatch was opened the Mahdi read:
“To the illustrious Mahomet Ahmed, the Prophet, Imaum and Mahdi:
“GREETING: Senaar resisted for several hours, but the flag of the Mahdi floats over its fortress. The day is ours.
“IBRAHIM.”
Sherif el Habib handed his document to the Mahdi.
“Dear uncle, we have fought and won,” ran the letter. “I was wounded in the right foot and lost two toes, but that was better than my life. The people were all with us, but the soldiers fought bravely. It was a tough battle. The commander gave me his sword, which I will send to the Mahdi when I hear from him. How is Girzilla? Give her my love. Is Max the Madcap alive? Of course he is. Tell him not to play any pranks in Kordofan.
“Your loving nephew,
“IBRAHIM.”
When the Mahdi had read the letters aloud to his staff, he called Max to him.
“It was your plan which we adopted,” he said, “and we are victorious. You are Max Pasha; and your nephew”—turning to Sherif—“is also pasha, and is made governor of Senaar, while Max, here, shall be governor of Kordofan.”
The people cheered the young governor.
Turning to the Mahdi, Max said:
“I thank you for the honor, but I am about to decline it.”
“You must not.”
“I am about to decline it after to-morrow. I want to be governor and pasha for one day, because I am going back to America, and if I ever go on the lecture platform the people will sooner pay a dollar to hear a real live pasha, than a quarter if the speaker is only Madcap Max.”
The Mahdi laughed.
“Still thinking of the dollars?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Max; “and whenever you get tired of being the Mahdi come over to New York and I will trot you round, and—oh, my! won’t the dollars just flow into our pockets.”
But before the Mahdi could reply another dispatch was placed in his hands.
It was from a trusty agent in the North.
“Giegler Pasha has placed the army of Khartoum under the command of Yussuf Pasha Hassan,” it read, “and is marching with five thousand men against you. Hicks Pasha, an Englishman, with three thousand men, is marching from the northeast. You are to be cut in two by these armies.”
“No! by the prophet—no!” exclaimed the Mahdi. “We will attack both and exterminate them.”
The bugles called the army together and the march was ordered.
With a speed accelerated by the most fanatical enthusiasm, the followers of the Mahdi started to meet Yussuf Pasha Hassan.
The soldiers of Khartoum were well disciplined veterans, but they lacked enthusiasm.
The Mahdi—still without weapon—rode at the head of his people and gave the words of command.
Like a cyclone tearing everything before it on a Western prairie, the army of the Mahdi swept on the veterans commanded by Yussuf.
The Egyptians made a stubborn resistance at first, but the Mahdists were more like fiends.
They seized the soldiers by their hair and deliberately cut their throats.
It was a horrible carnage.
The Mahdi never struck a blow, never made any effort to defend himself, but was ever in the thickest of the fight.
His brow shone as though it were gold.
His presence was remarkable.
Max fought with desperate valor.
At times he stood up in the stirrups to give himself more power in striking a blow.
“The Mahdi forever!” he shouted, with every savage blow.
Yussuf saw the young fellow and knew that, next to the Mahdi, Max was the most powerful leader.
Yussuf would not touch the Mahdi.
He was a trifle superstitious.
If Mohammed was the Mahdi, steel weapons could not kill him, and Yussuf would not risk an encounter; so he rode through the fighting demons until he reached the side of Max.
“The Mahdi forever!” shouted Max, as he suddenly wheeled round and aimed a blow at Yussuf’s head.
The veteran officer parried the blow and made a lunge at Max.
But the American’s sword swung round with cyclonic speed, and Yussuf’s sword merely struck the air.
As the heavy scimiters clashed together sparks of fire flew out, and seemed to keep fiery time to the music of the steel.
Yussuf got angry.
“Do you also bear a charmed life?” he sneeringly asked, during a pause in the duel.
“I am an American,” answered Max, “and fight for liberty.”
Again the fight was resumed.
Great heaps of dead were to be found in every direction.
The horses ridden by Yussuf and Max often had to kick and trample down the dead and dying.
It was a fearful sight.
Yussuf fought bravely.
His left arm had been broken by Max, just below the shoulder, but he would not give in.
“Surrender!”
“Never!”
“Then die!”
“I will, but you will go first.”
Max was of a different opinion, and he kept swinging round his heavy scimiter with the strength of a giant.
Once, when Yussuf parried a blow, the weapon struck the horse’s neck, almost severing the head from the body.
Yussuf was now at a disadvantage.
Max leaped from the saddle and stood by the Egyptian’s side.
“We are equal,” he said.
But it was scarcely the truth, for Yussuf had only one arm to fight with.
The Egyptian slipped in a pool of blood, and as he did so a sword still grasped by a dead man pierced his side.
The brave man could stand no more.
“I surrender!” he gasped, but it was not a surrender to Max, but to the Great Creator, for as the man uttered the words the breath left his body.
Out of four thousand seven hundred men—hale, hearty veterans—who had marched under the crescent of Egypt that morning, only two hundred and one survived at night.
The Mahdists did not lose more than four hundred men all told.
They did not stop to care for the wounded or bury the dead.
Another blow had to be struck, and this time at Hicks Pasha.
It was a two days march to Tokar.
At that place Hicks, with three thousand seven hundred and forty-six men, met the advance guard of the Mahdists, led by Sherif el Habib and Max.
The fighting was desperate, but seemed to be as favorable to the Egyptians as the Mahdists, until the Mahdi himself arrived.
There was a charm and magnetism about the man which made him irresistible.
His presence was equal to a thousand men.
In less than an hour the unfortunate Hicks was dead, and two thousand three hundred and seventy-three of his men lay stiffening under the tropical sun.
The defeat was a thorough one.
The Mahdi was now master of all the Soudan except Khartoum and Equatoria, over which Emin Bey presided.
The people flocked to the Mahdi’s tent.
Dervishes proclaimed him to be the promised Imaum. In the mosques his name was mentioned with that of the prophet, and the people prostrated themselves when reference was made to him.