A Tale of Two Brothers E-Book

Charles Hohmann

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 489

Beschreibung

From the war-torn skies over Britain during the 2nd World War, the story transports us to the blood drenched desert sands of Victorian England's campaign in the torrid Sudan and the monasteries of the Sketian desert, from which a military chaplain joins his brother in England, an academic who is struggling to preserve his marriage. The two dissimilar characters, whose paths have crossed again, envision a brighter future but they fail to see the spectre of the ghostly hand on the wall that conjures up the end of the world order as they know it.....

Leseprobe

Favente Deo et sedulitate

By favour of God and by assiduity

‘There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!’

George Gordon Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III, XXI

Contents

Prologue: Air combat

Chapter I: Bloody Sand

Chapter II: The Bibliophile Prince

Chapter III: Betrayal and Escape

Chapter IV: Visit from the Beyond

Chapter V: Of Druids and Monks

Chapter VI: A Wedding

Dramatis Personae

Acknowledgments

Picture Credits

Biography of the author

Prologue

Air Combat

At dawn on 15 August 1940, the residents of Storrington in southern England witnessed a dogfight between a Royal Air Force Spitfire and a German Heinkel. The Heinkel was a straggler from a squadron that had dropped its bomb load and was on its way back to France. The Wehrmacht plane, having already suffered a damaged rudder from the flak over London, was caught by several bursts of fire from the Spitfire’s machine guns. Catching fire, it started to plunge towards the houses below, trailing a long black plume of smoke. Losing altitude, it grazed the roof of one house and then dug itself into the soil of the garden behind. Apart from the four-man crew, who all failed to bail out and perished, no one was injured, although the attic of the house was set ablaze.

Fire trucks were quickly on the scene and paramedics attended to the residents who, once they´d fled from the house, now feared for their possessions. The fire was soon extinguished, and the firefighters salvaged what they could. While everyday items of furniture and clothes lay discarded and badly damaged, it was the condition of the many books, stuck together by water, and smoke damaged, that was the disaster of greatest proportion. They were the remnants of a Prince’s library. Among the few items rescued from the fire were two metal chests, both marked “Rev. Reginald Collins, Field Chaplain”. They contained documents, books, uniforms and medals. The contents of the chests were intact.

In 1901, the American Newberry Library had bought the book collection of the comparative linguist Prince Louis Lucien Bonaparte, who died in 1891. A remnant of the collection remained in the possession of the Prince's librarian Dr. Victor Collins, who, after the dispersion of all the miscellaneous household items, he´d had the books moved to his house in Storrington.

Dr Collins, the former librarian of the Prince, was not among the occupants of the house; he had died before the outbreak of the Second World War in Davos, Switzerland. But present on the lower floors, during the fire, were his widow, Ellen O'Connell Bianconi Collins, then 80 years-old; her daughter, Maud Collins, 63; her son, Charles O'Connell Collins, 54; his French wife, Anne Marie Thierry; and their eight-year-old, son Dan O'Connell Collins. Family members, not then present were three adult children, namely Charles James O'Connell Collins, who served in the Royal Engineers; Ellen Collins and her sister Michelle Collins, who were both serving in the Royal Air Force in the Telegraph Service.

Charles O'Connell Collins and his wife Anne Marie Thierry returned to France after the war, without their children; they moved into Anne Marie's parents’ house, taking with them the two chests. These they stowed in the attic of the house in Bar-sur-Aube.

One summer, the grandson of Charles and Anne Marie O'Connell Collins climbed the ladder to the attic in Bar-sur-Aube. He found the two chests, opened them and began to rummage through the contents: diaries, letters, cards from Africa, a uniform and two medals within.

I was this boy. The contents of the chests, the reading of the documents, as well as my mother's stories about our family history, absorbed my thoughts for years and finally awoke in me the desire to write. The more I wrote, the stronger this desire became, so that my ancestors eventually became creatures of my imagination who wanted to burst into life. Is there a secret connection between fantasy and reality? Could it be that there is an interaction in which reality changes, grows and then morphs in the same way as fantasy? Could there also be a kind of co-dependency and interaction between life and poetry, a kind of quantum entanglement? Maybe.

The following chapters depict events during the spring of 1885, starring my great-grandfather, Victor Collins, and my great-uncle, Reginald Collins. The settings are Suakin, Alexandria, Valletta, Paris and Oxford. I have travelled to all these locations in the footsteps of the protagonists. My narrative is mostly fictional, but it remains faithful to the documents found within the chests.

Charles Hohmann, Wylägeri, in the year 2023.

Rev. Reginald Collins, DSO

Chapter I

Bloody Sand

On a small circular island at the end of an arm of the Red Sea, about 750 miles south of Suez, lies the city of Suakin. A causeway built by General Charles George Gordon connects the port city to the village of Geyf on the mainland, where most of the inhabitants live. It is surrounded by a rampart of fortifications, and beyond it are the district's wells, the Shata Springs.

Behind the defensive walls, the mainland is mostly desert, sometimes covered by a thin stand of tufty grass, an occasional Samr tree, and Mimosa and Tundub bushes. During the rainy season, the khors, (or waterways) swell, filled by water flowing from the surrounding hills; they then flood the land and the pathways, whereupon everything briefly turns green before the sun dries it all out again.

Suakin is by no means the oldest port on this side of the Red Sea, but it is probably the most famous. In its heyday, it was a hub for trade between Arabia, Abyssinia, Egypt, India and even distant China, with ships from all over the world docking here.

There is an old Suakin legend, widespread among the locals, which tells the tale of the friendship that existed between the kings of Egypt and Abyssinia. On one occasion, the Abyssinian king gave seven beautiful virgins to the Egyptian king. They were accompanied on their long journey by the ruler’s most faithful eunuch, during which journey the virgins spent a night on the island. There the women were safe, for the eunuch had had all the approaches well-guarded, but slept himself on the mainland. The next day the troop continued the journey and finally arrived at the Egyptian royal court. The king received the gift with gratitude but his mood changed when he discovered that the women were pregnant. The women said they had been visited by seven djinns during the night in Suakin and these spirits had impregnated them. Fortunately for them, the king believed their story, which saved the eunuch from the scaffold. Not wanting to offend his friend, the king of Abyssinia, the king of Egypt now sent the women back to Suakin with gifts of clothes and food. Later, he sent more food and supplies on camels, as well as a Sambuke, a two-masted sailing ship, for the transport of goods. With her, maritime trade began, and the island was named “Sawwa Jinn”, which means “The Jinn did it”. The ghost children, descendants of the djinns, haunted the people of the island, inspiring them to evil intention; and indeed, they were regularly seen: handsome strangers with bronze skin.

Saturday, 7 March, 1885

Arrival at Suakin

A tall officer and his aide, carrying a leather suitcase, both wearing pith helmets and khaki uniforms, step out of a dinghy in Suakin. It is 7 March 1885. Before them, many generations of caravans had travelled along the coast from the interior of Abyssinia and Sudan and met up with the ships here that transported their goods to other regions. Even the Queen of Sheba is reported to have disembarked from her ship here on route to Egypt.

The two men are heading towards the Hanafi mosque. The officer, Padre Reginald Collins, already knows the way, having been here during the British Expeditionary Corps' spring campaign. They join the crowd of helmeted British soldiers in sweaty khaki uniforms, proud Turkish officials, Egyptian fusiliers, recognizable by their red tarbush and white uniforms, and bearded Indian mercenaries with artfully tied orange Dastars, turbans that hide their uncut hair.

The Padre’s appearance is sufficiently impressive that even distracted passers-by notice him. He has sharp, penetrating black eyes, which give his countenance the expression of lively alertness. He is about forty and slender. His aide-de-camp, Shanahan, is younger by several years, has brown eyes, and his broad chin betrays a strong will.

As they move through the narrow streets, the Padre points out to Shanahan that the houses and mosques of Suakin resemble those in Turkish ports on the Red Sea like Jeddah or Massawa, except that in Suakin, the walls are hewn from coral. On their way, they cross a veritable army of pilgrims in white galabias and elaborately curved turbans.

Behind them, the white HMS Jumna shines in the blazing morning sun. She dropped anchor beyond the bay, for the entrance is narrow and the coral reef too dangerous for a warship of its draft. The dinghy that took them to shore, had passed the quarantine island for Mecca pilgrims on the right, then then past Condenser Island with its slender, obelisk-like chimney, important during the 1884-85 campaign as the starting point of the Suakin Berber line, and finally landed them at the customs house in the north of the town.

The men continue along the tamped sand alleys, which narrow as they eventually lead to the souk. Wheeled traffic is unknown here and they stride past loaded camels and their Arab drivers on the way to the caravanserai in Geyf. Nubians with fully loaded baskets on their shoulders, Hadendowas, dressed only in a loincloth, Hadrerebes and Bejas, who are the indigenous people of the land on the other side of the island, and veterans of past Dervish wars drift along in the oncoming stream of people. The loud confusion of Beidawi and Khasa languages, dominated by Arabic, echoes off the walls of the houses, as do the voices of Portuguese and Greek merchants who store their goods under torn tarpaulins and trade loudly with any potential customers.

In their displays are shiny fish and half carcasses of raw meat dangling from butcher's hooks, covered by swarms of flies. On the ground are cages with poultry, leered at by wild dogs, heavy sacks filled to the brim with spices, exotic goods, carpets, necklaces and bracelets, swords and caftans, all offered at bargain prices. On one wall, Shanahan notices an old Dervish with an amputated hand who squats and begs, apparently a victim of Sharia law.

The light breeze that carried the smell of salty seaweed from the harbour has given way in the narrow streets to a strong odour of dusty cattle, pungent incense, garlic and onion, Turkish tobacco, biting urine and sour sweat.

The Padre and his aide-de-camp leave the market and head towards the Gordon Gate and the expeditionary corps headquarters at House Beit Sham. Two guards salute the arrivals at the entrance of the three-storey Turkish-style house. As Collins explains, Major Graham is expecting them. Roshans from the second-floor cast shade over the men. Now they go through the gate into the courtyard, where the officer on guard asks them their business.

“Major General Graham is expecting us.”

The officer points to a door on the right across the courtyard. On it is written “General”. The Padre knocks, and a deep voice bids him enter. General Graham, a sixfoot-tall giant, smoothes his walrus moustache and rises to greet the new arrivals. He is a veteran of Victorian campaigns, who fought with the expeditionary armies in the Crimea and China.

“Father Collins, glad to see you back to your old self. How was the hospital ship? Nasty case of sunstroke you suffered; glad your eyesight wasn’t affected. I envied you your stopover in England, and quite apparently, that certainly helped with your recovery!”

“Thank you, General. Full thanks to the doctors and their good care, my recovery was swift, and I am now back again to continue my duties.” The Padre then introduces his companion, aide-de-camp Shanahan.

The general invites them both to sit down and offers them a drink, which both politely decline. He opens a folder, takes out papers, which he skims, and then addresses the Padre with a serious but benevolent expression: “You joined the army in 1879 as a Catholic field preacher; stationed in Aldershot until 1882; a state scholarship from Her Majesty's Government to learn Arabic. Ah, interesting, your command of the language is going to be useful to us. In 1882, you took part in the Battle of Tel-El-Kebir. I see a letter from General Wolseley praising your bravery, and a Khedive medal to boot, for having succeeded in getting through to some Indian troops, at great personal risk, to stop them from mistakenly firing at a detachment of British troops. (I do say, it’s quite noisy in here, but we must keep the windows open; my apologies.) There is also a note here saying that your comrades also admired your self-sacrifice during the cholera epidemic in Alexandria that same year. After a stay in England, you are now back with us. Padre, I am proud to have you in my regiment. Many of our Irish-born soldiers remember you. Will they have a chance to welcome you back at Mass this Sunday?”

“That is indeed my intention, Sir”, replies the smiling Padre.

“Our main camp is on the mainland”, continues the General,” in the Geyf, where you and your aide will occupy an officer's tent. As for the Mass, we will need something larger than an officer’s tent, the sun is murderous.” He pauses briefly, then continues, “I will make the necessary arrangements.”

They stand and salute and Graham invites the men to join the officer’s table in the mess that evening. Then the Padre and his orderly leave the headquarters.

“Shanahan, I think we need a drink, don’t you? I’ll introduce you to a Portuguese friend, Olivera da Figuera, who has a store and a bar here. Will you join me?”

Da Figuera lives in a side street of the souk, where he runs a drinking establishment. On the first floor, in two adjoining rooms, there are several tables. About a dozen guests sip tea, puff shisha or play checkers. The Padre and his orderly take a seat at an empty table. A young Hadendowa recognizable by the tufts of frizzy hair at his temples and on the crown of his head asks what they would like. The Padre replies that he would like to speak to Señor da Olivera da Figuera. The boy then calls the innkeeper over.

“Father Collins! How good to see you. I trust that you are quite well again? Last year, if my memory serves me correctly, I think it was the end of May, you suffered heatstroke, with a high fever and needed to be treated on the hospital ship. I can still remember how you were transported to the harbour in a dhoolie.” Da Figuera is short, broad-shouldered, and wears a blue shirt with an open collar.

“Yes, I have recovered very well, thank you, thanks to the good care on the hospital ship and a stay in England.”

Shanahan notices Da Figuera’s rolled-up sleeves revealing powerful arms and hands covered with frizzy, dark hair. He is waiting beside Collins, holding his helmet in his hands until after he is introduced.

Da Figuera then turns to Shanahan with a broad, welcoming smile and says, “The Padre's friends are my friends, so why don't you both come up to the second floor, where we'll be undisturbed.”

Up a wooden staircase and along a small corridor there is a room where guests are received in private, a majlis. The corner room has two roshans, one of which overlooks the souk, the other the side alley where the entrance to the coffee house is located. Through the half-timbered window on the souk side one can see the tower of Condenser Island in the distance, and through the other the Muslim cemetery on the mainland to the east as well as the two domes of tombs of revered sheikhs.

“You have to be careful in the coffee house on the first floor; the walls have ears,” whispers the publican.

The Padre turns to Shanahan: “Spies from Osman Digna, the representative of the Mahdi in the Eastern Sudan, are trying to learn as much as possible about the intentions of our expeditionary force.”

Before sitting cross-legged on the cushions on the floor, Collins loosens his belt. While Olivera sits there comfortably in his galabija, Shanahan has trouble in his tight-fitting uniform and also has to loosen his belt a bit.

A Hadendowa servant brings a decanter and fills small glasses with a cloudy liquid that he dilutes with ice water.

“You must try my mastic!” Says Da Figuera, waving his arm in an expansive gesture.

The servant then places a large platter of dates, pistachios, falafel, baba ganoush, hummus and other mezze on the floor in front of his guests. Shanahan notices a pungent smell that seems to waft from the hair of the domestic.

He then sips his glass, screws up his face and coughs.

“My God, that burns like fire in the throat!” Says Shanahan between coughs, smiling sheepishly at the publican.

“It's a distillation of figs in which we dissolve mastic: a resin of the mastic bush that tastes like anise,” da Olivera explains.

“You could bring the dead back to life with it!” says Shanahan.

When the servant departs, Shanahan says, “I can breathe again now. Why does he smell so unpleasant?”

“The Hadendowas rub their hair with sheep fat to give it volume, but the sun melts it, causing that rancid smell.”

The Padre begins a new conversation. “Unbelievable how this Osman Digna keeps himself in power despire the fact that we defeated him in the second battle of El Teb at the end of February last year. Admittedly, the first battle of El Teb in early February was somewhat disastrous for us what with General Valentine Baker being seriously wounded.”

Da Figuera adds: “As you know, Digna was a slave trader all his life. But since the British were trying to stop the slave trade, he saw his hides swim away and joined the Mahdi in the uprising against the British.”

“But why does he have so many followers?” asks Shanahan.

“He owes his following to his talent for speech,” remarks Da Figuera. “In his weekly tirades he calls his followers to strive for what he calls ‘greedlessness’. His men, however, reluctantly sacrifice their wives' gold for the holy war, knowing that they will only have to replace the jewellery at a later date. In his deep voice, he extorts his followers by telling them that ‘he who is poor will be richly rewarded on the day of resurrection’.”

“Have you ever seen him?” asks Shanahan. “What does he look like?”

“I was able to see him once with his followers on his steed in the streets,” replies the publican. “He is stocky and of medium height, silent and hardly ever laughs, has fearsome bushy eyebrows. When angry, his forehead wrinkles like crumpled paper.” Da Figuera continues with a raised forefinger: “The most important events for him are the regular letters of the Mahdi, which a messenger from Khartoum carries to him. In them, the Mahdi describes his intention to subjugate all of Central Africa, invade Egypt, cross the Red Sea, conquer Mecca, then all of Turkmenistan, and finally convert people all over the world to Islam. Those who do not join the Mahdi uprising may be killed, and their wives become fair game. His final sentence is always: 'Reveal your breast to seek your death! For you are the true believers, and if a bullet strikes you, that is your greatest reward.'“

“Men like him exert a great attraction on those around them and find many admirers,” the Padre counters. “In a way, if I may say so, Digna's determination and charisma among his followers can be compared to the character of General Gordon, who was impaled by a lance in Khartoum last month. Gordon, too, knew no fear, and his strong Christian faith in the resurrection made him face death with composure. He died at the zenith of his glory and his death forced the government to invade Sudan again due to public pressure.”

After taking a sip of water, the Padre resumes: “Very few people know that Digna was born in France, in Rouen, to French parents, and his name was George Vinet. He went to school in Rouen and Paris, but then emigrated with his parents to Alexandria. When his father died, his stepfather took him in and sent him to the military academy in Cairo, where he learned tactics and the craft of war along with Arabi, who was soon to be the future leader of the military revolt. Subsequently, the family moved to Suakin, where his stepfather continued to ply his trade. After his stepfather's death, he took his stepfather's name, Osman Digna. When war broke out a few years later, in 1882, he joined his old friend Arabi, who had managed to get the army behind him and organize an uprising in Alexandria, which we then put down at the battle of Tel-El-Kebir.” The Padre pauses briefly, musing, and then continues. “I myself participated in this battle as a field preacher. Osman Digna then became a lieutenant of the Mahdi and England's bitterest enemy.”

“Does anyone know where he is now and what he intends to do?” asks Shanahan.

“Well, the rumour mill is bubbling properly,” replies Da Figuera. “I hear that his Berber fighters are positioned to advance units in Ariab and in the hills of Khor Taroi. Freebooters have shot from a distance, but more significant formations are likely. Inshallah the British will put an end to this nonsense soon!”

The Camp in Geyf

The sky resembles a polished brass plate, and the sun relentlessly scorches what is already a parched wilderness, save for a few poor bushes. As the Padre and Shanahan approach Geyf, they encounter a group of soldiers at the end of the land bridge. The Padre asks for guidance. A private explains: “Welcome to the furnace.” The private points his tanned arm forwards towards the barracks. “Those are the Egyptian regiments,” he says. He moves his straight arm clockwise identifying the regiments. “To the east, behind those huts, are the Berkshire and Yorkshire regiments. Next to them are the Shropshires. East again are the Surrey, Scots Guards and Coldstreams, and further back, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and the Royal Irish.” He continues with a mischievous smirk: “You can't miss those. There is always a riot of some kind there, or a brawl.” Then reverting to a more serious tone: “As an officer, your tent is safely positioned, but I can’t promise you’ll sleep well. Most nights, the guards on the ramparts are returning fire in response to the Dervishes taking pot shots at them.”

“I thank you for that information”, replies the Padre.

There were two styles of tent: either made out of double white canvas fastened in a circle around a post providing good protection from the scorching sun, but also with large openings to catch any breeze; or else pyramid tents with a characteristic cylindrical base. The larger tents could accommodate 20 soldiers, the officers' tents four.

The Padre finds his tent in the Royal Irish Fusiliers´, compound, where he is warmly greeted by soldiers who remember him from the spring campaign. They shake his hand and besiege him with questions, “The last we saw, you were being taken to the hospital ship. You’re looking much better now!” they quipped.

“It was the spring campaign where the heat got the better of me, lads. But I’m okay now,” replies the Padre.

In the officers' tent designated for them, they are welcomed by two men who jump up from their cots and introduce themselves. They are Dick Heldar, draftsman and portraitist, and Herbert Belling-Tarpenhow, war correspondent from The Times.

The Padre and Shanahan place their belongings on the empty cots.

“At least we don't have to worry about our salvation now that you're with us,” Heldar says with a grin. He has dark, curly hair, and a moustache that gives him a youthful appearance. “Tell me Padre, don't we know each other from somewhere? Weren't you at Downforth, too?”

“Heldar? Yes, I remember you. I think you were a couple of years below me and well known for those caricatures you used to draw.” The Padre ribs him: “Yes, I remember them well, they weren’t always flattering to the teachers, right? How did you fare? Is the Sudan your first campaign as a cartoonist?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it will be entertaining to hear some of the antics you got up to, and it should help relieve the boredom to hear a few choice Benedictine school anecdotes.”

The other man, Belling-Tarpenhow, looks to be in his thirties, is rather short, feisty and bulky, balding and sporting a bushy moustache. Instead of a uniform, he has on a flannel shirt. He pulls out a hip flask from his backpack and offers the arrivals a sip. “A welcome drink! I look forward to our hours together in this humble hotel of Her Majesty's. I just hope none of you snore.” He pauses. “And here we have a fifth roommate in the tent.” Tarpenhow points to a beetle scurrying in front of them. It senses lurking danger and quickly hunkers down. “That one must have travelled from England as a stowaway in an army biscuit box. Whether he'll survive in this incubator, I have my doubts.”

“You might be wrong,” Shanahan suggests, “You'll find beetles on every continent except Antarctica. There are more than 100,000 different species that have adapted to virtually all habitats on earth, and not all humans are disgusted by them. A few years ago, a researcher found a 1.5 centimetre scarab carved from mammoth ivory in a Laugerie-Basse cave. The 20,000-year-old piece had a hole in it and so was probably worn with some sort of string around the neck, like an amulet, a sort of good luck charm.”

The Padre adds: “It was also considered a lucky charm amongst the Egyptians, as a symbol of protection. The Egyptians observed that the scarabs, as they refer to the beetles, sense when the Nile is about to flood and provide an early warning system. The animals migrate away from the water and appear in the houses, thus announcing to the Egyptians the imminent and longed-for Nile flood. Later, the scarab took on the meaning of 'resurrection and life' when worn as an amulet.”

“Why would that be?” asks Shanahan.

“Well, the scarab's behaviour of rolling balls of dung backwards and burying them in the mud, and the subsequent appearance of new bugs from the earth, was interpreted as a symbol of rebirth after death.”

“So that would give us a good luck charm in the tent,” says Tarpenhow.

“Not only that,” adds Shanahan, “there are biologists who suggest, based on observation, that dung beetles orientate themselves according to a map of the Milky Way that each of them has in their heads. And I wish to point out that this one, armoured with its carapace, is actually also a warrior.” A jovial laugh breaks out.

Shanahan starts unpacking his overseas case namely the cholera belts, back protectors, goggles and so on and hangs them up to join the water bottles, swords and neck veils of the first two occupants that are already dangling from the middle post. The sandy floor is lined with the bags in which the tents were transported. A few boxes in the middle of the room serve as tables.

The Padre notices documents lying on one of the cots: “Aha, here we have folded calico cloth maps of Suakin and the surrounding area, and one showing the route to Berber. This will be help us find our way around.” There is also an English Arabic dictionary which he scrutinizes and sees that the Arabic is translated into Latin characters. He further comments “Not much help for a private with a Scottish or Irish brogue trying to talk to an Arab. I also see here that Intelligence has distributed a document they expect us to read entitled ‘Report on the Egyptian Provinces, the Sudan, Red Sea, and Equator.’ Good stuff, eh?”

Shanahan points to a tube of quinine: “I suppose these will be necessary when we move inland.”

The Padre opens his leather case and checks the contents under the curious gaze of his companions. Missal, Bible, chalice, crucifix, stole, two vessels for the Mass wine, a small casket with hosts, candle with candlestick, and an oil vessel for the last rites, all intact. It is 7 March, a Saturday, and tomorrow he must say Mass. He recloses the suitcase and looks at his watch: 6 p.m. The General Staff dinner is at 6:30 at the headquarters on the island, so the four roommates have to hurry as it will take 20 minutes to cross the land bridge, the Gordon Causeway, and reach the gate to the island, Gordon's Gate. The time presses!

As they leave the tent, they hear cannon fire coming from the guns of HMS Dolphin, firing across the camp at groups of enemy irregulars. While the Padre and Shanahan flinch, Tarpenhow and Heldar remain unimpressed, familiar with the sound. At a distance outside the perimeter of the protective ramparts, they observe the fountains of sand, 30 or 40 feet high, as each shot lands.

In the Officers' Mess

General staff and officers are gathered on the flat roof of the headquarters. Half of the terrace is protected by a suspended straw mat, under which a large table is festively set. In front of it and on the balcony, uniformed guests have gathered with their glasses filled. A private announces them on arrival. Old campaigners who have already completed several tours of duty meet the young officers who are in Africa for the first time, the staff doctors, Anglo-Egyptian officers, accredited reporters, and anyone else that is important to an occupying army. Sailors from HMS Jumna had brought in the place settings plus wine, champagne and whisky. The mood is relaxed.

Padre Collins is greeted and introduced to others by an Anglican field preacher he knows. The group is on the balcony of the terrace and from here there is a panoramic view of the mainland to the south-west, where the pyramid tents of the army camp are visible, lined up with military precision. Behind them, one sees the city’s defensive wall with the five forts and, in the distance, the Erkowit hills. To the east, behind two fig-roofed minarets with their beehive domes, the Red Sea can be seen with the white HMS Jumna and HMS Dolphin lying at anchor, shining brightly in the evening sun. The sea is calm, with only a few rippling waves daring to come close to shore. A light breeze has displaced the stuffy and oppressive heat of the afternoon. The relief is palpable among all present.

The conversation, predictably, turns to the coming days. Would Digna attack the city’s fortifications, and could the Hadendowa hoards breach the defences by sheer weight of numbers? Or would they dispatch their troops in the direction of Sinkat or even Tambuk? Would contingents be moved further south down the coast to the port of Trinkitat, where General Baker and General Graham had already confronted the natives and satisfied General Graham’s need to avenge the defeat of the first battle? Contingents could well be moved there as well. For the Dervishes, had made the area unsafe again.

Father Collins is aware that some officers eye him with a degree of scepticism as Catholic field chaplains had not been allowed in the army for so long since Catholics took an averted oath instead of an oath of allegiance to the Queen, because they did not recognize the monarch as the head of the church. Their loyalty was to the Pope, which possibly created issues of trustworthiness. Furthermore, many Englishmen saw Catholicism as incompatible with modern society, believing that Rome maintained a whole network of agents with the intention of infiltrating British society and propagating the dogma of papal infallibility, which had been proclaimed at the First Vatican Council in 1870. However, many of the soldiers were Irish Catholics and wanted to receive the sacraments that a Protestant or Anglican priest could not administer.

At the request of General Gerald Graham, those present move to the tables and sit down. The General rises, clears his throat and gives a short welcome speech. He begins with a grin: “We meet here so that I can look at you and you at me not that I am particularly proud of my features, but because we need to get acquainted with each other now that we are all part of this expedition in the Sudan.” Then moving on to a more serious note, he continues, “We are a long way from home, and I know that some of you feel that you are neglected or forgotten. I can assure you, however, that the success of your upcoming mission will be the talk of the town; for, as British soldiers, we represent a set of principles and a level of morality that have been maintained and survived during our long history.” Approving murmur. “Among you are soldiers from all over the Empire: British, Irish, Indians, Canadians and soon Australians. The latter will join us voluntarily, reaching out to their mother country a strong sign of colonial solidarity and a warning to our enemies.” Applause follows, 'with shouts of ‘Hear! Hear! and clinking glasses. The General takes advantage of the pause to take a sip of water. “Together we are working towards an indissoluble union, with the aim of defending British trade, British possessions and the sovereignty of the flag. Ultimately, however, it is about peace in our realm, Pax Britannica, and one day you will be able to say with pride, 'I was there!'“ And again there is loud applause.

The General looks round and continues emphatically: “We have been entrusted by Her Majesty, our glorious Queen, God bless Her, with the task of liberating the Sudanese people from the corrupt rule of the Mahdi and to avenge the death of General Gordon.” Cries of “God save Her Majesty” and “Long live the Queen” are heard around the table.

“In addition, our aim is to improve the lot of the beleaguered locals by ensuring that the Sudanese people are fed. There should be no more famines, the people should be protected from epidemics like malaria, typhoid and cholera with our new medicines, and national security should be upheld. It is also important to us to put an end to the barbarism of the slave trade and to exemplify our Christian values of charity, mercy and justice.

A further objective of our campaign is the construction and protection of a modern railway between Suakin and Berber to ensure efficient and effective supplies to our troops in Khartoum. In this matter alone we bear a heavy responsibility. Our enemy, in that particular part of the country, is called Osman Digna, another follower of the Mahdi, against whom we have been fighting for a long time. Time and again, he succeeds in mobilizing his confounded Dervishes, courageous opponents who fight for their way of life and their religion. They willingly embrace death in battle because it promises them a happier life in the hereafter, a misguided belief. So, we look forward to taking out their leaders; then, when deprived of power, they will allow themselves to be open to the benefits of civilization and will determine their own future in a peaceful fashion. Our role is to pave that path for them.”

Some of those present are starting to feel impatient with the length of the speech and look around for the servants to serve up the food or gaze a little wistfully at their glasses.

“Lastly, it is with great pleasure that I express my thanks for the work of the Royal Engineers, the Army Ordnance Corps, the Telegraph and Post Office Detachments. They were our vanguard, and by their efficient organization greatly facilitated our arrival. May God help us!” A sustained round of applause follows at the end of the speech.

During the after-dinner discussion, General Graham approaches the Padre and requests a meeting for the following day: 3 p.m. is agreed upon.

At 8:30 the bugle sounds the “First Post”, the signal for departure. The General intones “God Save the Queen” and everyone sings along heartily before bidding farewell and hurrying back to camp in the Geyf.

That night it is oppressively hot because the sea breeze has subsided, although towards dawn it becomes cooler, making a blanket a pleasant addition.

During the night, further shots are fired; and in the morning, the sad news is told that the Mahdi fighters killed two soldiers from the Berkshire Regiment. It is the first of such night attacks, and will become the source of nocturnal disturbances, jolting the soldiers uncomfortably from their sleep.

After morning roll call, Shanahan reaches for his uniform, still hanging on the post. “Why is my uniform damp? ... So is yours!”

Padre Collins then points out that the ground is also damp.

Tarpenhow explains, “Unfortunately, our camp is in a depression. And since we are near the sea, and since the ground is salty, it absorbs moisture during the night. This moisture penetrates our uniforms. We can only hope that they dry soon in the heat, or we can expect skin abrasions.”

Shanahan, Heldar and Tarpenhow wash and shave. Padre Collins trims his goatee.

“To think you keep your beard in this heat!” comments Shanahan.

“The beard protects my skin, because hair doesn't conduct heat”, says the Padre, “Not only does direct sunlight damage the skin, but the refraction of the light off the sand can also be dangerous. It's no coincidence that the Hadendowas and other locals have impressive heads of hair and beards. The hair naturally makes them look bigger, which is more frightening, so maybe that's part of their reasoning”, observes Shanahan.

They head to the food bank, where everyone gets a piece of bread, a quarter pound of sweaty cheddar, and plenty of water. Only Father Collins goes without, for he must remain fasting prior to Holy Mass.

Sunday, 8 March 1885

Holy Mass

At 9 a.m., the Catholic soldiers adjourn to a larger tent, set up for the purpose of celebrating Mass. A large cross has been carved from a beam, casting a long dark shadow in the morning sun.

Shanahan has agreed to be an altar server and so Padre Collins and he are on a small stage in front of an altar, constructed of army biscuit boxes. The Padre has draped his green stole over his uniform and spread his Mass paraphernalia out on a blanket in front of him. The soldiers take off their caps and stand reverently on the sandy floor. Some have prayer books or rosaries in their hands, they then kneel for the start of the Mass.

“Introibo ad altare Dei,” intones Padre Collins in Gregorian chant and so Mass begins.

In his homily, the Padre discourses upon the sacrament of the Eucharist: “Jesus offered the Eucharistic sacrifice at the Last Supper. He teaches us that his blood is the blood of the New Covenant, shed for many for the forgiveness of sins. The sacrifice of the cross is to continue throughout the ages until his return, thus entrusting to us the memory of his death and resurrection. In this celebration of the Mass, then, Christ is present in our community, where we have gathered in his name.”

He proceeds to the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ with the formula for the bread: “Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes. Hoc est enim Corpus meum.” And the words for the chalice: “Hic est enim Calix sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem pecatorum. Haec quotiescumque feceritis, in mei memoriam facietis.”

After having consecrated the bread and wine, he continues with a prayer, his eyes closed:

“Almighty God, in whose hands victory rests and who also gave David the miraculous strength to defeat the rebellious Goliath: Humbly we beseech thee for the grace to give thy servants the necessary strength and courage, so that they may be victorious in strengthening and defending the widows, the orphans, and Holy Mother Church against attack from of all our enemies, whether visible or invisible, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Communion follows. The soldiers kneel in line. The heat is oppressive and some loosen their collars or wipe drops of sweat from their foreheads. The Padre places a host on each of their tongues with the words, “This is the body of Christ.” He then returns to the altar and announces, “Ite, missa est.”

The soldiers leave the tent, some of them considering, with no small degree of anxiety, whether it might actually be their blood that will be shed for the glory of their England.

The Padre tidies up the altar; whilst looking at the crucifix, numerous thoughts swirl around his head; “They pray during Mass because they want to be spared death in battle. Their prayers are like an assurance that covers their bets on immortality. I can't blame them for that. Few pray contemplatively, and even fewer understand the symbolism and formulas of the liturgy or consider them to be truly meaningful.”

After the Holy Mass, Shanahan, the Padre, Tarpenhow and Heldar, his drawing pad under his arm, cross in a dinghy to the quarantine island to look at the arriving camels and horses. The island is the main collection point for all the goods the army needs. There are long columns of camels loaded with supplies and equipment or with animal feed and fuel, setting off towards the camp. Soldiers on duty toil under the scorching sun; orderlies gallop across the plain; generals and staff officers scrutinize the newly arriving troops; all this in the oven-like heat of this ghastly port, whose air is polluted by the sulphurous stench of the foul-smelling swamps that surround the island. The most unpleasant task is the unloading of the camels from India and Aden, which are hoisted ashore using lifting devices. Many have suffered during the transport; also, being forced to stand close together, mange has spread from one to the other and countless fleas and ticks have bitten into their hides.

The Padre, having previously travelled in Egypt and the Sudan and having ridden camels, explains: “A dromedary is a strange animal. It seems constantly ill-tempered, even downright bad-tempered, grunting and groaning when it gets up or lies down, as if this were painful, and emitting hideous sounds like a bellowing bull or a loudly grunting wild boar. Some are vicious, and woe betide anyone who gets bitten or kicked. This can result in serious injury. It is known that camels can go a long time without water, some say up to nine days, but this is accompanied by a loss of strength.”

“But how much water should they be given daily?” asks Shanahan.

“During hard work and hot weather, they should drink twice a day. It must be 25 to 30 litres each time,” replies the Padre.

They notice how in the paddock, the animals pull off the branches of thorn bushes, which they chew with relish. But they don’t just confine themselves to mimosa bushes - ”whose thorns can pierce the sole of your boot”, adds the Padre.

Heldar has set up his easel and starts sketching the scene with a set of charcoal pencils, commenting, “They look down from their much too small heads, almost snootily on us. Very casually and somehow contemptuously they blink with their only half-opened eyes, as if to say: ´Get stuffed, you camels down there. But it’s not only the camels I want to depict, I also want to draw their Indian and Somali drivers in their colourful attire. No doubt, these are tough fellows who know how to handle their animals.”

“Soon we will have to make friends with these beasts,” Father Collins reflects aloud. Tarpenhow moves away to look at the unloaded track material. Shanahan and the Padre remain on site.

“But what's the point of all this?” asks Shanahan. “These vast preparations, this huge gathering of people of all stripes, the almost limitless financial resources expended here, the dangerous diseases, the lurking death, what's it all for?”

“We are soldiers,” Padre Collins returns. “We go where we are sent and do what we are ordered to do. Among other things, we are to teach Christian values to the heathen, defend human dignity by fighting slavery, and use the achievements of our civilization to prevent famine, eradicate disease and enforce law and order so that Her Majesty's peoples may live in peace.”

“I understand that. But look how disproportionate are the means we use to achieve these goals. We are employing all our technology and using, among other things, a reconnaissance balloon that we fill with compressed gas from Chatham, wheeled guns pulled by mules, Gardner machine guns that can fire from five barrels, rockets and rapid-fire carbines and all in a war against whom? An enemy armed with hand-made, primitive spears, and with swords and shields made of crocodile skin, equipment that could have been left over from the Crusades and some Remingtons that they can barely use properly. Their main weapon is their courage!”

“But what distinguishes them,” the Padre interjects, “is the determination of a people, fuelled by fanaticism. They seek death for two reasons: firstly, because it will lead them to a happier land, and second because that same death is preferable to an existence in which they’ve lost their way of life, their freedom and their land. However, I do agree with you that the resources we expend seem out of proportion to our noble goals. Having said that, I’m here as a chaplain, not as a politician, and I'm here to help the wounded and the dying in their spiritual needs. When soldiers sacrifice their lives for Queen and country on foreign battlefields, I owe it to them to give them the assurance, that their sacrifice has not been in vain, and that the gate to paradise is open to them with the last rites.”

“Strangely enough, both Christians and Muslims share the same desire for a place in paradise, when they die in battle,” says Shanahan.

They follow the goings-on in front of them for a while longer, watching Heldar sketch from over his shoulder.

Suddenly, the Padre looks at Shanahan questioningly, “Why did you volunteer for this posting in the first place?”

“I'm looking for my big brother. He went off the rails and father threw him out. We know he registered under a false name and got himself drafted. In the meantime, our father has died and I promised my mother I would look for Thomas.”

“What kind of dispute was it, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Our family were at odds with each other. Some of them were supporters of the United Irishmen and their leader, Wolf Tone, who colluded with Napoleon to try to end British rule in Ireland. French troops actually landed in Ireland, but were defeated. Tone was executed and the United Irishmen were hunted down mercilessly, even to this day. Our father, on the other hand, was a moderate nationalist. He believed in negotiating with the British occupiers. My brother, however, had a strong desire for justice and so he joined the resistance fighters. Then later when our family ran out of money, father was forced to find work and he did so, across the sea in Liverpool and so we all moved to England. There the quarrel between my brother and my father really came to a head.”

“But why then did he volunteer for Her Majesty's army?”

“Since father threw him out of the house over that quarrel, the only options were either emigration to America or join the army to earn a living. Not being able to afford the cost of a sea passage, he was forced to enlist and fight under the flag he hated. My sister told me that he had written to her that he had been sent to the Sudan. The recruiting officers don't look too closely. That's why I'm here.”

“Maybe I can be of some help to you? I talk to a lot of soldiers. Describe him to me.”

“I haven't seen him in a year. Like me, he has a saddle nose and broad face. He keeps his brown hair parted in the centre and is a little taller than me. But I don’t want him exposed, he has a lot to answer for! If his true identity were known, he would be arrested, brought back to England, tried and thrown into jail. We must let him keep his cover name!”

The Padre says he understands, and Shanahan returns to his tent.

At 3 p.m., Padre Collins presents himself to the General. With him is another officer from the general staff, Major Pembroke.

“Please be seated, Padre.” He uncorks a whisky bottle and pours a nip into each of three glasses. He then flips open a silver case.

“Cigarette?” The Padre declines politely. “Thank you for coming. Major Pembroke has a request to make of you.”

“Yes, sir, I'm listening.”

The Major looks puny next to the hunky General, though he stands to attention. He adjusts his glasses and takes the floor.

“You were in England at the end of January when Irish terrorists carried out simultaneous attacks on Westminster Abbey, the House of Commons and the Tower. At the time, it was referred to as Dynamite Saturday. Since 1881, American-Irish Fenians have been committing bombing atrocities in England, their aim being to wear down the British people and the government and so be able to establish an Irish Free State by force.”

“I am indeed aware of that situation.”

“I have a confidential request for you, Padre. We suspect that the Fenians are up to mischief in the Irish regiments and are trying to recruit Irish soldiers to their cause. You look after our Catholic Irish, and I would be grateful if you could ask around and report any suspicious persons or incidents to me.”

Father Collins looks up in surprise and makes a dismissive gesture. He replies dryly: “Major, as much as I would like to help you, I represent religion here, and espionage activities in the service of Her Majesty is not one of my duties. My role as a pastor relies on the trust of the soldiers. Furthermore, I am bound by the secrecy of confession. I hope you will understand, but I cannot comply with your request.”

“Perhaps you could ask confessors to repeat what they have confided to you about Fenian activities outside confession?”

“I strictly separate religion and politics. Anything else would be a betrayal of my own beliefs. Please, bear with me.”

General Graham twirls the tips of his moustache thoughtfully and coughs softly. “Of course Father, we understand your position. Major Pembroke will not pursue this matter. You may step down.” They salute and the Padre leaves the room. Collins wonders what has come of Army leadership that they could ask such a thing of him. His earlier conversation with Shanahan comes to mind. “Dear God, they don't need to know about that.”

Later that afternoon, he is called to headquarters again. A scout has reported back, looking much the worse for wear. The Padre is asked to translate the Arab's account. He is immediately recognizable as a member of the Dinka tribe, for he has three typically long horizontal scars on his forehead. Above the elbow, as is often the case with Muslims in the Sudan, an amulet is fastened.

The Padre translates: “When he approached Hasheen at night, he hid behind a rock for several hours because on the other side, just a few steps away, Dervishes were sitting around a fire. What he heard worried him. They said they would put anyone who helped the English in chains and cut their throats. For a long time, he did not dare to move but later he was able to creep away and hide in a small cave nearby, where he stayed until the next night. At dusk he made a wide circle around the enemy camp and approached it from the other side.”

The General interrupts the report and asks the Padre to find out if the scout could count the number of Dervishes.

“There were so many warriors that he could not count them, but as he moved away, he was captured. He somehow managed to talk his way out, but the guards remained suspicious, tied him up, gave him a beating and then just left him lying there.”

“But how did he free himself?” asks the General.

Fortunately, he had some relatives among the insurgents who untied him again, and he was able to escape. So much for his report.”

“Thank you very much for your great help, Padre You are truly a polyglot.”

Monday, 9 March 1885

Night attacks

The ramparts around Suakin and Geyf form a semicircle, the two ends of which are bordered by forts at the seaward ends. These are used as signal stations, practically impregnable, thanks to deep trenches and Gardner machine-gun emplacements. Along the rampart are several redoubts, circular fortifications surrounded by 3-metrewide trenches that can be accessed via a small footbridge. Nevertheless, small units of Arabs repeatedly manage to sneak past the guards at night, stealthily like snakes, then in order to selectively stab or shoot soldiers from the inside of the fortifications and also on the flanks of the camp.

On the following two nights, the attacks worsen as they take place in different places at the same time. At 7 p.m., as soldiers sit down to spoon their soup, they hear shots fired by the Remingtons of the guard units. At midnight, the gunfire increases. Two hours later, the occupiers fire back from all guns. HMS Dolphin, anchored at sea, supports the soldiers with its massive searchlights. But while they make it easier to spot targets, they also give away to the enemy their own positions. The 30-metre-wide cones of light illuminate the landscape as brightly as daylight, only to move on after a few minutes. When the light beams approach, the Arabs know how to conceal themselves by hiding behind bushes or covering themselves with sand. The defenders, however, remain visible, even though their enemies might be blinded. To gain an advantage, the searchlights would have to shine into the enemy’s territory from the side or from the fortifications.

During the night, the Padre is asked to attend to a wounded guard. He grabs a paraffin lamp, his missal, stole, rosary and the vial of oil for the extreme unction and follows the messenger to the rampart. A guard is lying on the ground, covered in blood and unresponsive, fatally stabbed in the back. The Padre can therefore no longer hear his confession, but still administers the last rites.

Later he is called again to the same part of the rampart because another guard has been shot in the abdomen. The sand beneath him is darkly discoloured. He is still responsive so, to keep him from losing consciousness, the Padre has him talking: “Where are you from, my son?”

The colour of the wounded man's face is pale gray. He answers in a weak voice, “Cashel.”

The Padre responds humorously, “You may know the story: when a soul escaped from the devil’s cart on its journey to hell, he became so enraged that he bit off part of a mountain ridge and spit it back out over Cashel, the same rock on which the castle was to be built. You are apparently one of those lucky ones who manages to escape the devil’s clutch.”

The injured man cannot suppress a laugh, despite the pain. “Maybe he's biting his teeth out on some desert rock because of me at the moment,” he stammers.

“Do you have a family?”

“Married, two children.”

“Do you want to make confession?”

The soldier nods and after the absolution, the Padre gives him his rosary. The soldier presses his lips against the crucifix and thanks him.

A squad of marines, from MS Dolphin, equipped with paraffin lamps, come to the rescue of the wounded fusilier. A medic bandages him and stops the bleeding. They carry him away in a dhoolie to the dinghy that will take him out to the hospital ship.

The next day, a sandstorm breaks out which becomes a pattern repeated every three days. The hot breath of the wind creates an up draft, lifting the sand and, creating a fast approaching wall of dust. Nothing can escape the sand. Within seconds, it buries all the objects in the tents. Everything edible is penetrated by fine dust and becomes inedible. Eyes and hair are full of it. Outside the tent, people are only shadows and move even more blindly than in the London fog. Meanwhile, the goggles with which they have been equipped and the cloths they hold in front of their mouths do nothing but filter out the large grains; the fine ones still penetrate and mix with the saliva, so that one has the feeling of chewing on cardboard. During these storms, the temperature becomes unbearably hot.

As a rule, the wind always dies down around 3 p.m. and the air becomes clear again. The Padre folds up the canvas door flap of the tent and steps into the sunlight. The white houses of Suakin and the squat defence towers are visible in the distance. Behind them stretch the shallow shores of the sea, where the waves break on the coral reefs and the horizon dissolves into a haze. In front of them lies the bare, flat, inhospitable desert, with only an occasional clump of thorn bushes here and there, a monotony interrupted only by mirages at the hottest time of day, when parts of the desert are transformed into luminous lakes, on whose smooth surfaces bizarre shapes are reflected. Behind the whole spectacle rises a magnificent mountain range bathed in a dark purple light a majestic sight!

Letter to my brother Victor

Suakin, 12 March 1885:

To Mr Victor Collins

15 Cranwell Road

Oxford

My dear brother!

I hope you are well. Have you recovered from your exertions with the Prince in the Basque country? You told me in your last letter that you accompanied Louis-Lucien on his expedition and that you diligently collected samples of the various Basque dialects. The professional world of linguists is waiting for an evaluation of your research, which I feel certain will continue for a while longer.