A Tale of Two Brothers E-Book

Charles Hohmann

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

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

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: Treason 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, a small village in southern England, witnessed a dramatic aerial battle. A Spitfire of the Royal Air Force engaged in combat with a German Heinkel bomber, which had fallen behind its squadron. The bombers had already dropped their deadly cargo and were on their way back to France. The German aircraft had already sustained heavy damage from anti-aircraft fire over London—its tail section in particular had taken serious hits. Now, it came under attack once again. A Spitfire fired multiple bursts until the Heinkel caught fire. A thick plume of black smoke trailed behind as the plane steadily lost altitude. Finally, it grazed the roof of a house before crashing with full force into the garden behind it. The four-man crew had no chance to escape by parachute. However, aside from the crew, no one was injured. Nevertheless, the house’s roof structure was engulfed in flames.

Firefighters and paramedics arrived quickly at the crash site. The residents, who had managed to reach safety in time, stood in shock before the ruins of their home, fearing for their belongings. The fire was swiftly brought under control, and the firefighters salvaged what they could. However, many clothes and discarded pieces of furniture fell victim to the flames.

The greater loss, however, was the destruction of countless books, blackened by soot and irreparably damaged by fire and water. These books had belonged to the last remaining collection of what had once been a princely library. Among the few items rescued were two metal chests, both bearing the inscription: Rev. Reginald Collins, Field Chaplain. Their contents—documents, books, uniforms, and medals—had fortunately remained unscathed.

In 1901, the American Newberry Library had acquired the majority of the book collection of comparative linguist Prince Louis Lucien Bonaparte, who had passed away in 1891. However, a small portion remained in the possession of Dr. Victor Collins, the Prince’s former librarian. After Bonaparte’s household was dissolved, Dr. Collins had these books transported to Storrington, where he had purchased a house.

Dr. Collins himself had already passed away at the time of the disaster—he had spent the last years of his life in Davos, Switzerland, where he died before the outbreak of the war. In the house during the fire were his 80-year-old widow, Ellen O’Connell Bianconi Collins; his 63-year-old daughter, Maud Collins; as well as his 54-year-old son, Charles O’Connell Collins, with his French wife, Anne Marie Thierry, and their eight-year-old son, Dan O’Connell Collins. Three adult children of the family were not present: Charles James O’Connell Collins, who was serving with the Royal Engineers, as well as Ellen and Michelle Collins, both of whom worked as telegraphists in the service of the Royal Air Force.

After the war, Charles O’Connell Collins and his wife, Anne Marie Thierry, returned to France without their children. They moved into the house of Anne Marie’s parents in Bar-sur-Aube, bringing with them the two chests, which they stored in the attic.

One summer, a young boy was visiting his grandparents, Charles O’Connell Collins and Anne Marie Thierry. He climbed up a ladder to the attic, where he discovered those two chests. He broke them open and curiously began rummaging through their contents. He found diaries, letters, maps of Africa, a uniform, and two medals of distinction.

I was that boy.

The discovery of these documents, reading them, and hearing my mother’s stories about our family history haunted me for years. They burned in my thoughts until the urge to write awoke. And the more I wrote, the stronger this desire became—until my ancestors turned into creatures of imagination, pressing their way into life.

Was there a secret connection between imagination and reality? I wondered whether there was an interaction—whether reality changed, expanded and contracted in the same way as the imagination. Is there a kind of symbiosis between life and literature, a form of quantum entanglement?

The following chapters recount the events of a spring in the year 1885, centring on my great-grandfather, Victor Collins and my great-granduncle, the field chaplain Reginald Collins. The settings range from Suakin to Alexandria, Malta to Paris, and Oxford. I have followed in their footsteps, tracing the paths of the protagonists. My account is partly fictional, yet always committed to the documents found in the chests.

Charles Hohmann, Wylägeri, 2023

Chapter I

Bloody Sand

At the end of an inlet of the Red Sea, about 750 miles south of Suez, lies Suakin—a small, circular island connected to the mainland by a causeway. This causeway was once built by General Charles George Gordon. It leads to the neighbouring settlement of El Geyf, where most of the inhabitants reside. El Geyf is protected by a ring of fortresses, behind which lie the vital Shata springs.

Beyond the defensive structures stretches a barren desert landscape, occasionally covered by a thin layer of grass. Samr trees, mimosa shrubs and tundub bushes provide sparse green accents. During the rainy season, the khors—waterways flowing down from the surrounding hills—swell, flooding the land and bringing it to brief bloom before the scorching sun once again dries everything out.

Suakin may not be the oldest port on this side of the Red Sea, but it is undoubtedly the most famous. In its heyday, it served as a hub of trade between Arabia, Abyssinia, Egypt, India, and even distant China. Ships from all over the world docked here, and the bustling activity of merchants lent the town a cosmopolitan character.

Among the locals, a fascinating founding legend endures: Once, the kings of Egypt and Abyssinia were close allies. As a sign of their friendship, the Abyssinian king gifted his Egyptian counterpart seven beautiful virgins, accompanied by his most trusted eunuch. On their long journey, the group stopped for a night on the island of Suakin. While the women slept safely—guarded at every entrance—the eunuch spent the night on the mainland.

Rev. Reginald Collins, DSO

When the delegation finally arrived at the Egyptian court, the king initially received the gift with favour. However, his joy quickly turned to outrage when he discovered that the women were pregnant. Upon questioning, they recounted that on that night in Suakin, seven djinn had appeared to them and made them conceive. The king believed their story—fortunate for the eunuch, who thus escaped certain death.

To avoid offending his Abyssinian friend, the king decided to send the women back to Suakin, providing them with food and clothing. Later, more supplies followed, transported by camels, along with a sambuk—a two-masted sailing vessel—for trade. Thus, maritime commerce began, and the island was given its name: Sawwa Djinn—“The Djinn did it.”

It is said that the descendants of the mysterious spirit children lived on Suakin for a long time. An old man from the town often tells how, as a young man, he had seen strange-looking people with bronze-coloured skin still living there. Rumours claimed that they were the last descendants of the djinn—beings who pursued those who approached them with ill intent.

Saturday, 7 March 1885

Arrival at Suakin

A tall officer, a field chaplain in Her Majesty’s army, and his adjutant, carrying a leather suitcase, both dressed in khaki uniforms and wearing pith helmets, step out of a small boat onto the island of Suakin. It is 7 March 1885. Centuries earlier, caravans from the interior of Abyssinia and Sudan had unloaded their goods here onto ships bound for distant regions. Even the Queen of Sheba is said to have rested at this very place on her journey to Egypt.

The two men make their way through the dense crowds towards the Hanafi Mosque. The officer, Padre Reginald Collins, knows the way—he had already been here during the spring campaign of the British expeditionary corps. They push through the throng of British soldiers in sweat-soaked khaki uniforms, proud Turkish officials, Egyptian fusiliers wearing red tarbooshes and white uniforms, and bearded Indian mercenaries, whose intricately wrapped orange dastars conceal their uncut hair.

Collins’ presence is so striking that even distracted onlookers take notice. His sharp, piercing black eyes give his face an expression of intense alertness. He is around forty, lean, and carries himself with rigid posture. His adjutant, Thomas Shanahan, a few years younger, has brown eyes and a broad chin, hinting at a strong will.

As they navigate the narrow alleys, Collins explains that Suakin’s architecture resembles that of Turkish port cities on the Red Sea, such as Jeddah or Massawa—with the notable difference that here the walls are carved from coral stone. Along the way, they encounter a stream of pilgrims dressed in white galabiyas, their turbans elegantly wrapped.

Behind them, HMS Jumna gleams in the dazzling morning sun. It remains anchored in the bay, as the narrow entrance and treacherous coral reef make it impossible for a warship of its draft to approach any closer. During their journey in the small boat, the two men had passed the quarantine island for Mecca pilgrims on their right, followed by Condenser Island with its slender, obelisk-like chimney—a landmark of the Suakin-Berber line during the campaign of 1884–85. Finally, they had reached the customs house in the northern part of the city.

Now, they push further through the increasingly narrow alleys and reach the souk. The island's streets are made of compacted sand, so wheeled traffic is unknown here. They weave their way between heavily laden camels and their Arab handlers, who are on their way to the caravanserai in Geyf. Black Nubians with heavy baskets on their shoulders, nearly naked Hadendowas, Hadrerebs, and Bejas—the true indigenous people of the region beyond the island—fill the market alongside grizzled veterans of past Dervish wars.

The clamour of voices speaking Beidawi and Khasa, interspersed with Arabic, echoes off the coral walls, while the shouts of Portuguese and Greek merchants ring out as they store their goods under tattered awnings, haggling loudly with potential buyers.

The market stalls gleam with the silvery shapes of freshly caught fish, while raw slabs of meat dangle from iron hooks, surrounded by dense swarms of flies. On the ground are cages housing of agitated poultry, watched closely by emaciated, stray dogs. Amid heavy sacks brimming with fragrant spices, exotic goods are piled high—intricately woven carpets, glittering necklaces and bracelets, opulent kaftans and ornate swords—all offered at seemingly tempting prices.

Against a sun-scorched wall crouches an old Dervish, his right hand mutilated, perhaps a victim of Sharia justice. His clouded eyes are half-closed as he murmurs a quiet plea for alms.

The breeze, which had carried the salty scent of the sea in the harbour, is replaced in the narrow alleys by a pungent mix of odours: dusty livestock, sharp incense, garlic and onions, heavy Turkish tobacco, acrid urine, and the sour sweat of merchants and passersby.

Collins and Shanahan leave the market and head towards Gordon Gate. Just beyond it stands Beit Sham, a three-storey house in the Turkish style, within whose walls the headquarters of the expeditionary corps is housed. Two guards at the entrance salute as the men approach. Collins returns the gesture with a brief nod and informs them that General Graham is expecting them. The soldiers acknowledge his words and allow them to pass.

From the second floor, intricately carved wooden roshans cast delicate shadows over the sand-covered courtyard. The men step through the heavy gateway. The officer on duty gives them a quick once-over and enquires about their business.

"We have an appointment with General Graham. He is expecting us."

The officer gestures towards a door on the right, above which the simple inscription General is displayed. Collins knocks. A deep voice from within calls them inside.

Behind the desk, a towering figure of a man rises to his feet. General Graham, over six feet tall, strokes his walrus-like moustache and scrutinises the newcomers with a measured gaze. It is said that he fought in the Crimea and in China with the expeditionary forces—a seasoned soldier of the Empire.

"Padre Collins! A pleasure to see you in good health once again. How was the care aboard the hospital ship? We feared you might lose your sight—that nasty sunstroke could have been far worse. I imagine the stopover in England contributed to your recovery."

"Thanks to the doctors and the excellent care, I was able to recover quickly and am ready to resume my duties."

Collins introduces his companion, Adjutant Shanahan. The General gestures towards two chairs and offers them a drink, which both politely decline.

He opens a ledger, retrieves a few documents, and scans them with a serious yet approving expression.

"You joined the army as a Catholic field chaplain in 1879 and were stationed in Aldershot until 1882. In August of that year, you sailed to Egypt, where you received a scholarship from Her Majesty’s Government to study Arabic. Interesting—your language skills will be of great value to us."

He turns a few pages.

"In 1882, you served with the Royal Irish Fusiliers, 1st Battalion. You took part in the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir. I see here a letter from Colonel Beasley, sent three days before he succumbed to his injuries. He explicitly praises your bravery."

Graham looks up.

"You were awarded the Khedive’s Bronze Star with clasp. During an incident of friendly fire, when Indian troops mistakenly fired upon a British detachment, you managed—at great personal risk—to reach the Indians and clarify the misunderstanding. A remarkable feat."

From outside, the noise of the market drifts in—the hum of voices, shouts, the shrill cry of a camel. Graham frowns.

"We cannot shut the windows—the heat would be unbearable. My apologies."

He continues:

"There is another note here. Your comrades admired your selflessness during the cholera epidemic in Alexandria that same year. After a period in England, you have now returned."

The General leans back, folding his hands.

"Padre, I am proud to have you in my regiment. Many of our Irish-born soldiers remember you and will welcome you warmly. Will you be celebrating Mass this Sunday?"

"That is my intention."

"Our main encampment is on the mainland, in Geyf. You will be assigned an officer’s tent there," Graham explains. "For the Mass, we will need something more spacious—the sun is merciless, as you yourself have unfortunately experienced. I shall make all necessary arrangements. May I invite you to dine at my table in the officers' mess this evening?"

"With great pleasure."

The men rise, salute and leave the headquarters.

"Shanahan, I think we’ve earned ourselves a drink," says the Padre. "I have a Portuguese friend here—Olivera da Figuera. He runs a shop and a tavern. I’d like to pay him a visit. Will you join me?"

Da Figuera’s establishment is tucked away in a side alley off the souk. On the ground floor, in two adjacent rooms, simple wooden tables are set up, around which a dozen or so guests are seated. Some sip tea, others puff on long shishas, while a few play draughts. The Padre and Shanahan take a seat at an empty table.

A young Hadendowa—easily recognised by the thick, curly tufts of hair at his temples and crown—approaches and enquires about their order. The Padre waves him off.

"We would like to speak with Señor Olivera da Figuera."

The boy disappears and soon returns with the tavern keeper.

"Padre Collins! What a pleasure to see you! You look fully recovered. Last year, you had to be taken aboard the hospital ship with a fever, didn’t you? I remember well—you were carried to the harbour in a dhoolie."

Da Figuera is a stocky, broad-shouldered man, his shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, darkly haired arms.

"Yes, thanks to the excellent care aboard the hospital ship and my time in England, I have made a full recovery."

Shanahan removes his pith helmet and waits politely until the Padre introduces him.

Da Figuera laughs heartily.

"The Padre’s friends are my friends as well. Come, we’ll have more peace upstairs."

He leads them up a creaking wooden staircase. A narrow corridor ends at a door, behind which lies a private reception room—a majlis. The corner room is furnished with thick carpets and cushions arranged along the walls. Two intricately carved roshans offer different views: one overlooks the bustling souk, while the other faces the side alley where the entrance to the coffeehouse is located. Through the lattice window, the tower of Condenser Island can be seen in the distance, while the opposite side reveals a Muslim cemetery, where two domed tombs of revered sheikhs rise above the gravestones.

Leaning in slightly, Da Figuera lowers his voice. "Downstairs, one must be cautious. The walls have ears."

He turns to the Padre.

"Osman Digna’s spies are everywhere, trying to uncover the Englishmen’s intentions."

The men settle themselves onto the cushions. Before sitting, the Padre unfastens his belt. Da Figuera, dressed in a loose galabiya, reclines comfortably, while Shanahan, stiff in his tight uniform, appears somewhat awkward. Eventually, he too loosens his belt.

A servant enters, carrying a glass carafe, and fills small cups with a milky, cloudy liquid, which he then dilutes with iced water.

"You must try my mastic!" Da Figuera declares proudly.

Moments later, a large platter of mezze is served—dates, pistachios, falafel, baba ganoush, hummus, and other delicacies. Shanahan pulls a face as a sharp, pungent smell fills the air, seemingly emanating from the servant’s hair.

He takes a sip from his glass, coughs, and gasps, "My God, that burns like fire!"

Da Figuera grins.

"A distillate made from figs, infused with mastic—a resin that tastes similar to anise."

Shanahan shakes his head. "That could bring the dead back to life."

As the servant walks away, he mutters, "I can breathe again now. But why does that man smell so awful?"

"The Hadendowa take great pride in their hair. To keep it voluminous, they rub it with sheep fat. Unfortunately, the fat melts in the sun, producing that rancid odour."

The Padre changes the subject.

"It’s incredible how Osman Digna manages to cling to power. We defeated him in the Second Battle of El Teb at the end of February last year. The first battle was a disaster—General Valentine Baker was severely wounded."

Da Figuera nods.

"As you know, Digna has been a slave trader all his life. But when the British began suppressing the slave trade, he saw his fortunes slipping away. That’s why he joined the Mahdist uprising."

Shanahan frowns. "But why do so many follow him?"

"He owes his following to his gift for oratory," says Da Figuera. "In his weekly speeches, he calls for sacrifice. Husbands are told to surrender their wives’ jewellery—reluctantly, knowing they will have to replace it sooner or later. ‘Those who are poor today will be richly rewarded on the Day of Resurrection,’ he proclaims in his deep voice."

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

"Once, on horseback, surrounded by his followers," Da Figuera replies. "He is stocky and of medium height, silent, and rarely laughs. His thick eyebrows give him a fearsome appearance. When he is angry, his forehead wrinkles like crumpled paper."

He raises his index finger.

"The most important event for him is the regular arrival of letters from the Mahdi, delivered by a messenger from Khartoum. In them, the Mahdi outlines his vision: to subjugate all of Central Africa, march on Egypt, cross the Red Sea, conquer Mecca, seize Turkmenistan, and finally convert the entire world to Islam. Those who do not join the Mahdist uprising are to be killed, and their women are fair game. His deep voice carries his sermons to the farthest rows, and he always concludes with the words: ‘Bare your chest and seek death! For you are the true believers, and if a bullet strikes you, it is your greatest reward.’"

The Padre nods thoughtfully. "Men like him exert an immense pull on those around them and find many admirers. If I may say so, Digna’s determination and charisma in some ways remind me of General Gordon. He too knew no fear. His deep Christian faith allowed him to face death with composure. Last month, he fell in Khartoum, pierced by a spear—at the very height of his fame. His death has forced the government, under public pressure, to march back into Sudan."

He takes a sip of water and adds in a quieter tone, "But what few people know is this: when war broke out in 1882, Osman Digna aligned himself with Arabi, the man who managed to rally the army behind him and orchestrate an uprising in Alexandria—an uprising that we crushed in the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir."

The Padre pauses briefly, his expression darkening.

"I was there as a field chaplain at the time. After that, Osman Digna became a lieutenant of the Mahdi—and England’s most relentless enemy."

Shanahan leans forward.

"Does anyone know where he is now? What is he planning?"

Da Figuera snorts. "Rumours are flying. Some say he has gathered his fighters in Berber and set up outposts in Ariab and the hills of Khor Taroi. Time and again, raiders appear, firing from a distance. I think you’ll soon be facing far more significant forces. Inshallah—may the British put an end to his schemes."

The Camp in Geyf

The sky gleams like polished brass, and the sun beats down mercilessly on the parched wilderness—a landscape where only a few straggly bushes manage to survive. As the two approach Geyf, they come across a group of soldiers at the end of the causeway. The Padre asks for directions.

A corporal grins and says, "Welcome to the oven." With his tanned arm, he gestures towards the barracks. "Over there are the Egyptian regiments." Then, swinging his arm clockwise, he continues, "To the east, behind those huts, you’ll find Berkshire and Yorkshire. Next to them, the Shropshire Regiment. Further east, Surrey, the Scots Guards, and the Coldstreams. And right at the back, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and the Royal Irish."

He smirks mischievously.

"You can’t miss them—there’s always some kind of riot or brawl going on there."

Then his expression turns serious.

"As an officer, you’ll be safe in your tent, but I can’t guarantee you’ll sleep well. Almost every night, the guards exchange fire with the Dervishes at the fortress walls."

Some of the tents are made of double-layered white cotton canvas, stretched in a circular fashion around a central pole to provide shade from the scorching sun, while also featuring large openings to catch any passing breeze. Others are pyramidal tents with a distinctive cylindrical base. The larger ones accommodate twenty soldiers, while the officer’s tents house four.

The Padre spots his tent among the Royal Irish Fusiliers. There, he is warmly greeted by soldiers who remember him from the spring campaign. They shake his hand and bombard him with questions.

"We last saw you when you were taken aboard the hospital ship. You’re looking well now."

"Yes, lads, the heat got the better of me back then. But I’m doing fine now," the Padre replies.

Inside the officers’ tent assigned to them, they are welcomed by two men who jump up from their field beds and introduce themselves. One is Dick Heldar, an illustrator and portrait artist; the other is Herbert Belling-Tarpenhow, a war correspondent for The Times. The Padre and Shanahan stow their belongings on the vacant cots.

"Well, I suppose we won’t have to worry about our souls with you around, Padre," Heldar remarks with a grin. He has dark, wavy hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, and a youthful appearance.

"One question—haven’t we met before? Were you at Downforth as well?"

The Padre furrows his brow, then his face brightens. "Heldar? You were a few years below me—and well known for your caricatures."

He laughs.

"I recall our teachers weren’t always amused by them, were they? How have you fared since? Is this your first campaign as a cartoonist?"

"It is."

"Then we’ll have plenty of Benedictine school anecdotes to keep us entertained."

The second man, Belling-Tarpenhow, is in his mid-thirties, short, stocky and broad-shouldered. He has a bald head, a thick moustache and, instead of a uniform, wears a crumpled flannel shirt. Reaching into his rucksack, he pulls out a hip flask and offers it to the newcomers.

"A welcome drink! To our shared time in this humble hotel of His Majesty. I just hope none of you snores."

Suddenly, he stops mid-sentence and points to a beetle scurrying around a biscuit tin. The insect pauses, seems to sniff the air, then quickly scuttles away.

"We’ve got a fifth tentmate, it seems. He probably hitched a ride in a biscuit tin from England. I doubt he’ll last long in this furnace."

Shanahan raises an eyebrow.

"You might be mistaken. Beetles exist on every continent except Antarctica. Over 100,000 species are known, and they’ve adapted to almost every environment. Not all people find them repulsive, either. A few years ago, a researcher found an inch-long ladybird figurine carved from mammoth ivory in a cave at Laugerie-Basse. The 20,000-year-old piece was probably worn as an amulet—a symbol of good luck."

The Padre adds, "The ancient Egyptians also saw beetles as symbols of fortune and protection. They noticed that scarabs—what they called these beetles—could sense the rising Nile waters in advance. The insects would retreat from the river, appearing in houses and effectively predicting the long-awaited flood. Later, the scarab amulet came to represent resurrection and life."

"Why?" Shanahan asks.

"The Egyptians observed how the scarab rolled dung balls ahead of it and buried them in the mud. Later, new beetles emerged from the earth. To them, this symbolised rebirth after death."

"So, we’ve got a lucky charm in our tent," comments Tarpenhow.

"Not just that," Shanahan adds. "Some biologists suspect that dung beetles navigate using a mental map of the Milky Way. And one more thing—he’s got armour, so he’s also a warrior."

A burst of laughter breaks out.

Shanahan begins unpacking his travelling trunk. From the central tent pole hang cholera belts, back braces, goggles, water flasks, swords, and neck veils belonging to their comrades. The sandy ground is covered with the canvas sacks used to transport the tents. A few crates in the middle of the room serve as makeshift tables.

The Padre spots some documents on a field bed.

"Aha, here we have folded calico maps of Suakin and the surrounding area—and one showing the route to Berber. That will help us find our bearings. And an English—Arabic dictionary." He flips through the pages. "The Arabic words are transcribed in Latin script. Not much use for a private with a thick Scottish or Irish accent trying to talk to an Arab. And here’s a document from the intelligence service that we’re supposed to read: Report on the Egyptian Provinces of the Sudan, Red Sea, and Equator. Fascinating reading."

Shanahan points to a tube of quinine.

"I suppose we’ll be needing this once we head inland."

The Padre opens his leather case and checks the contents under the curious gazes of the others: missal, Bible, chalice, crucifix, stole, two vessels for Mass wine, a small box of communion wafers, a candle with a holder, and an oil vessel for the Last Rites—all intact. It is 7 March, a Saturday, and tomorrow he must celebrate Mass.

He snaps the case shut and glances at his watch—six o’clock. The General Staff dinner is at half-past six at headquarters on the island. The four roommates will have to hurry. Crossing the Gordon Causeway, to reach the island gate—Gordon’s Gate—will take at least twenty minutes. That will have to be enough!

As they step out of the tent, they hear cannon fire. HMS Dolphin’s deck guns are firing over the camp at bands of enemy irregulars. While the Padre and Shanahan flinch at the noise, Tarpenhow and Heldar remain unfazed—they have grown accustomed to the din.

Some distance beyond the protective wall, they see a plume of sand rise into the air after each shot, 30 or 40 feet high.

In the Officers' Mess

The General Staff and officers have gathered on the flat rooftop of headquarters. Half of the terrace is shaded by a straw matting, beneath which a large table is elegantly set. In front of it, and on the balcony, uniformed guests stand together, glasses in hand. A corporal announces the newcomers.

Experienced soldiers who have seen multiple campaigns mingle with young officers setting foot in Africa for the first time. Staff doctors, Anglo-Egyptian officers, accredited newspaper correspondents and high-ranking military officials are among the assembled guests. Sailors from HMS Jumna have laid out the table and brought in wine, champagne, and whisky. The atmosphere is relaxed.

Padre Collins is greeted by an Anglican field chaplain he already knows and is introduced to the other guests. From the balcony of the terrace, a panoramic view stretches across the south-western mainland, of endless numbers of pyramidal tents, neatly arranged like an army in formation. Beyond them rises the protective wall, with its five forts, and in the distance, the Erkowit Hills loom against the horizon.

To the east, behind two minarets with beehive-shaped domes, the Red Sea shimmers in the fading light. The white hulls of HMS Jumna and HMS Dolphin glow in the evening sun as they lie at anchor. The sea is calm, with only faint ripples disturbing its surface near the shore. A gentle breeze relieves the oppressive heat of the afternoon—a welcome respite felt by all.

Conversation turns to the days ahead.

Will Digna attack the defensive wall? Could the Hadendowas, with their hordes, force a breakthrough? Or will the army advance towards Sinkat—or even Tambuk?

Further south, in Trinkitat, General Baker and General Graham had already faced the locals—and Graham had avenged the defeat of the first battle. Perhaps troops will be deployed there as well, as the Dervishes continue to stir unrest in the region.

Padre Collins senses the sceptical glances of some of the officers. Catholic field chaplains have only recently been allowed in the army. A Catholic priest does not take the standard oath of allegiance to the Queen, as he does not recognise her as the head of the Church, but instead recites a modified version. Many in England still see Catholicism as incompatible with modern society. Some even believe that Rome maintains a secret network of agents aiming to infiltrate Britain and spread papal infallibility—the doctrine proclaimed at the First Vatican Council in 1870.

Yet, many of the soldiers here are Catholic Irish. They wish to receive the sacraments, which an Evangelical or Anglican clergyman cannot administer.

At the invitation of General Gerald Graham, the assembled officers move to the tables and take their seats. The General rises, clears his throat and begins his short speech with a grin:

"We are meeting here so that I can see you and you can see me—not that I’m particularly proud of my face, but we need to get to know one another now that we are all part of this expedition in Sudan."

Then his tone grows more serious.

"We are far from home, and I know that some of you feel forgotten. But I can assure you that the success of this campaign will soon be on everyone’s lips. For here, we stand for values and achievements that we have forged through our long history."

A murmur of approval runs through the gathering.

"Among you are soldiers from across the Empire: Britons, Irishmen, Indians, Canadians—and soon Australians as well. They have voluntarily joined us, extending their hand to the Motherland—a sign of colonial solidarity and a warning to our enemies."

A round of applause erupts, some call out "Yippee!" and "Yay!", glasses clink together. The General takes advantage of the pause to sip some water.

"Together, we are working towards an unbreakable union, with the goal of defending our trade, our possessions, and the sovereignty of our flag. But in the end, it is about peace within our Empire—the Pax Britannica. And one day, you will be able to say with pride: ‘I was there!’"

Once again, thunderous applause breaks out.

The General scans the room and continues with emphasis,

"Her Majesty, our glorious Queen—God protect her!—has entrusted us with the mission of liberating the Sudanese people from the corrupt rule of the Mahdi and avenging the death of General Gordon."

Shouts interrupt him:

"God save Her Majesty! Long live the Queen!"

"But our mission goes further: we seek to improve the lives of the local population, ensure food security, and prevent famine. Our new medicines will protect them from epidemics such as malaria, typhoid and cholera, and we must establish stability and security. Equally, it is our duty to end the barbarity of the slave trade and to uphold our Christian values—charity, mercy and justice."

His voice grows firmer.

"Another crucial task is the construction and protection of a modern railway between Suakin and Berber, ensuring the efficient supply of our forces in Khartoum. A great responsibility rests upon our shoulders. Our enemy in this region is Osman Digna, a devoted follower of the Mahdi, whom we have long been fighting. Time and again, he has managed to mobilise the Dervishes. They are brave adversaries, fighting for their way of life and their religion. For them, death is not the end, but a path to a happier existence in the afterlife.

But they are misguided.

Once their leaders are overthrown, they will come to embrace the benefits of civilisation. Then, they will be able to determine their own future in peace. And it is we who will pave the way for them."

Some of the listeners begin glancing impatiently at their glasses or scanning the room for the servants bringing the food. Darkness has now settled over headquarters.

The General raises his voice once more: "In closing, I would like to express my deep gratitude for the outstanding work of the Royal Engineers, the Army Ordnance Corps, and the telegraph and postal detachments. They were our vanguard, and through their excellent organisation, they have greatly facilitated our arrival. May God be with us!"

A prolonged round of applause follows.

After dinner, General Graham approaches Padre Collins and requests a meeting the next day. They agree on 3 p.m.

At half-past eight, the horn of First Post sounds—the signal for departure. The General begins singing "God Save the Queen", and everyone joins in heartily. Then, the guests disperse, returning to the tent camp in Geyf.

The night is stifling, as the sea breeze has faded. Only towards morning does it cool down, and a blanket becomes welcome relief.

But gunfire breaks out once again.

By morning, news arrives that Mahdist fighters have killed two soldiers of the Berkshire Regiment and wounded three others. It is the first of many night raids that will rudely awaken the soldiers from their sleep.

At morning roll call, Shanahan reaches for his uniform, which hangs on the pole. He frowns.

"Why is my uniform damp? … Yours too!"

Padre Collins notices that the ground is also damp.

Tarpenhow nods.

"Our camp is in a depression. Near the sea, the salty ground absorbs moisture at night. It settles into our uniforms. Let’s hope they dry quickly in the heat—otherwise, we’ll be dealing with chafing."

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

Shanahan shakes his head.

"I can’t believe you’re keeping that beard in this heat!"

"A beard protects the skin," Collins explains. "Hair doesn’t conduct heat. It’s not just the sun that’s dangerous, but also the light reflecting off the sand. It’s no coincidence that the Hadendowa and other locals have such impressive heads of hair."

Tarpenhow laughs. "Makes them look bigger—and more fearsome. Maybe that’s part of the reason too."

They head to the food distribution point. Each receives a piece of bread, a quarter-pound of sweating Cheddar, and plenty of water.

Padre Collins abstains—he must remain fasting before celebrating Holy Mass.

Sunday, 8 March 1885

Holy Mass

At nine o’clock, the Catholic soldiers gather in a larger tent specially set up for the Mass. A roughly carved wooden cross stands before them, casting a long shadow over the sandy ground.

Shanahan has agreed to serve as altar boy. Together with Padre Collins, he stands on a small platform made from biscuit crates, in front of the makeshift altar. The Padre wears a green stole over his uniform, and the liturgical objects are carefully arranged on a cloth. The soldiers reverently remove their caps, some kneeling, prayer books or rosaries in hand.

"Introibo ad altare Dei," intones Padre Collins solemnly, and the Mass begins.

In his sermon, he speaks about the Sacrament of the Eucharist:

"At the Last Supper, Jesus instituted the Eucharistic sacrifice. He teaches us that His Blood is the Blood of the Covenant, shed for the forgiveness of sins. The sacrifice of the Cross remains for all time, until His return. In this Holy Mass, Christ is in our midst, for we are gathered in His name."

He lifts the chalice and speaks the words of consecration:

"Accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes. Hoc est enim Corpus meum."

Then he continues:

"Hic est enim Calix sanguinis mei, novi et aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei: qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum. Haec quotiescumque feceritis, in mei memoriam facietis."

After consecrating the bread and wine, he closes his eyes and prays:

"Almighty God, in whose hands rests victory, who gave David the strength to defeat Goliath: we humbly ask for Your grace. Strengthen Your servants with courage and resolve, that they may defend widows, orphans, and the Holy Mother Church against all enemies—visible and invisible. Through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."

During Communion, the soldiers kneel in neat rows. The heat is stifling, and some loosen their collars or wipe the sweat from their brows. The Padre places the Host on their tongues: "This is the Body of Christ."

As he returns to the altar, he announces the end of the Mass: "Ite, missa est."

The soldiers leave the tent, while Padre Collins tidies up the altar. His gaze lingers on the crucifix, as thoughts swirl through his mind:

They pray because they hope to be spared in battle. Their prayers are like an insurance policy, a wager on immortality. I can’t blame them. But only a few pray out of true conviction; only a few understand the deeper meaning of the liturgy.

After Mass, Shanahan, Padre Collins, Tarpenhow, and Heldar step into a small boat. Heldar carries his sketchbook under his arm. Their destination is the Quarantine Island, where they intend to inspect the arriving dromedaries and horses.

The island serves as the main transit hub for the army’s supplies. Across the dusty plain, endless caravans of loaded dromedaries move, carrying provisions, equipment, animal fodder, and fuel. Soldiers labour under the scorching sun, while orderlies gallop past, delivering dispatches. Generals and staff officers examine the newly arrived troops. The air is thick with the foul stench of the surrounding swamps.

The most arduous task is unloading the camels from India and Aden. Using heavy lifting equipment, they are hoisted ashore. Many of the animals are weakened, having scarcely survived the cramped transport conditions. Mange has spread, and fleas and ticks swarm in their coarse fur.

Having travelled through Sudan and Egypt, Padre Collins watches the animals thoughtfully.

"A dromedary is a strange creature," he finally says. "It always looks sullen, grunting and groaning when standing up or lying down, as if the effort is unbearable. Its sounds are ghastly—it bellows like a bull or grunts like a wild boar. Some are vicious. A bite or a kick can cause serious injury."

Shanahan furrows his brow.

"But they can go a long time without water, can’t they?"

The Padre nods.

"They say up to nine days. But it costs them energy. When working hard in this heat, they need 25 to 30 litres twice a day."

Before them, the dromedaries tear thorny branches from bushes with stoic calm, chewing them contentedly.

"They don’t pass up mimosas either," notes the Padre. "Their thorns can pierce any boot sole."

Heldar sets up his easel and begins to sketch.

"These creatures look down on us—from their absurdly small heads, with half-closed eyes, as if they’re saying: To hell with the lot of you! They exude a kind of effortless arrogance." He chuckles softly.

"But I don’t just want to draw the camels—I want to sketch their handlers from India and Somalia. These men know how to manage them."

Padre Collins watches the scene.

"We will have to make friends with these animals soon enough."

Tarpenhow wanders off to inspect the unloaded railway materials, while Shanahan remains with the Padre.

After a moment, Shanahan sighs.

"What is all this for? These colossal preparations, the countless people gathering, the immense cost in money and resources—and yet, disease and death lurk everywhere. For what?"

Padre Collins remains calm.

"We are soldiers. We go where we are sent and do what we are ordered. But we also bring order and justice. We fight against slavery, we protect people from hunger and disease, we bring them law and stability, so that the peoples of Her Majesty’s Empire may live in peace."

"I understand that," Shanahan replies. "But look at the disproportionate scale of what we are doing to achieve these goals. We are deploying all the technology available to us: a reconnaissance balloon, filled with compressed gas from Chatham, mobile artillery drawn by mules, Gardner machine guns with five barrels, rockets and fast-firing carbines. And who are we fighting? An enemy whose courage is undeniable and who is armed—but with what? Handcrafted, primitive spears, swords reminiscent of the Crusades, crocodile-hide shields, and a handful of Remington rifles, which they can barely operate properly."

Padre Collins nods.

"What sets them apart, however, is their unshakable resolve, fuelled by a fanaticism that does not fear death—in fact, they seek it for two reasons. First, because they believe it leads them to a better world. And second, because to them a life in which they lose their culture, their freedom and their land is even worse. But I do agree with you. Even to me, the scale of our efforts seems out of proportion to the noble ideals we claim to uphold."

He pauses briefly, then continues,

"But I am not here as a politician—I am here as a chaplain. My duty is to stand beside the wounded and dying in their spiritual distress. When a soldier lays down his life for Queen and country on a foreign battlefield, it is my task to give him the certainty that his sacrifice was not in vain—and to open the gates of paradise for him through the Last Rites."

"Strange," Shanahan muses thoughtfully. "We Christians share the same desire for salvation as a Muslim who dies in battle to enter paradise."

They watch the activity before them in silence, occasionally glancing at Heldar’s sketches.

Eventually, the Padre turns to Shanahan and asks, "Why did you volunteer for this mission?"

"I’m searching for my older brother. He went astray, and our father disowned him. We know he enlisted under a false name. Our father has since passed away, and I promised my mother I would find Thomas."

"May I ask what the dispute was about?"

Shanahan sighs.

"Our family was deeply divided. Some of our ancestors were United Irishmen. Even Wolfe Tone negotiated with Napoleon to end British rule in Ireland. French troops landed in Ireland, but they were defeated. Tone slit his own throat in a Dublin prison before they could hang him. Ever since, the United Irishmen have been relentlessly persecuted—to this very day.

"Our father, on the other hand, was a moderate nationalist. He believed in negotiating with the British occupiers. But my brother, driven by a strong sense of justice, joined the resistance. When we ran out of money, our father took a job in Liverpool, and the whole family moved to England. That’s when the conflict between him and my father finally escalated."

"But why did he voluntarily enlist in Her Majesty’s army?"

"After our father threw him out of the house, he had only two options: emigration to America or joining the army as a means of survival. Since he couldn’t afford the passage, he had no choice—he had to fight under the very flag he despised. My sister told me that he wrote to her, saying he had been deployed to Sudan. The recruitment offices don’t look too closely when it comes to verifying identities. That’s why I’m here."

"Perhaps I can help you—I speak with many soldiers. Can you describe him to me?"

"I haven’t seen him in a year. Like me, he has a saddle nose and a broad face. His brown hair is parted in the centre, and he is slightly taller than I am. But he must not be exposed! He has a lot to answer for. If his true identity were discovered, he would be arrested, brought back to England, convicted, and imprisoned. He must be allowed to keep his cover name!"

The Padre nods in understanding, and Shanahan returns to his tent.

Around three o’clock, Padre Collins reports to the General. Sitting beside him is another General Staff officer, Major Pembroke.

"Please, take a seat."

The General uncorks a bottle of whisky and pours three glasses. Then, he opens a silver cigarette case.

"A cigarette?"

The Padre politely declines.

"Thank you for coming. Major Pembroke has a request for you."

"I’m listening."

Compared to the towering General, the slight Major Pembroke looks almost lost. He straightens up, adjusts his glasses, and begins.

"You were in England at the end of January when Irish terrorists carried out attacks on Westminster Abbey, the House of Commons, and the Tower. At the time, it was called Dynamite Saturday. Since 1881, American-Irish Fenians have been carrying out bombings in England. Their aim is to wear down the British population and government to forcefully establish an Irish Free State."

"I am aware of the situation."

"I have a confidential request for you. We suspect that Fenians are stirring unrest within the Irish regiments, attempting to recruit soldiers to their cause. You minister to our Catholic Irish troops—I would like you to listen carefully and report any suspicious individuals or incidents."

Padre Collins raises his eyebrows in surprise and makes a dismissive gesture. He replies dryly:

"Major, much as I would like to assist you, I am here as a chaplain, not a spy. Espionage in Her Majesty’s service is not among my duties. My relationship with the soldiers is based on trust. Furthermore, I am bound by the seal of confession. I hope you understand that I cannot comply with your request."

"But surely, you could ask those who confess to you to repeat outside confession what they have told you about Fenian activities?"

"In my ministry, I maintain a strict boundary between religion and politics. Anything else would be a betrayal of my beliefs. I ask for your understanding. "

General Graham twirls the tip of his moustache thoughtfully and clears his throat softly.

"Of course, we understand your position. Major Pembroke will not pursue this matter further. You may dismiss."

The men salute, and the Padre leaves the room.

As he walks down the corridor, he wonders what has become of the army leadership that they would ask such a thing of him. Then, he recalls his earlier conversation with Shanahan.

Dear God, they don’t need to know about that.

Later in the afternoon, he is summoned again to headquarters. A scout has returned, and the Padre is asked to translate his report.

The scout is immediately recognisable as a member of the Dinka tribe—three long, horizontal scars are prominently marked across his forehead, a distinctive feature of his people. Around his upper arm, he wears a tightly fastened amulet, as is common among Muslims in Sudan.

"As he approached Hasheen during the night, he had to hide behind a rock for several hours. Only a few steps away, Dervishes sat around a fire. What he heard unsettled him: they swore that anyone who helped the English would be chained up and have their throat slit. For a long time, he did not dare move. Eventually, he crept away and took shelter in a small cave, where he remained until the next night. At dusk, he took a wide detour around the enemy camp and approached it from the opposite side."

The General interrupts.

"Ask him if he was able to estimate the number of Dervishes present."

The Padre turns to the scout, listens to his answer, and translates:

"There were so many warriors that he could not count them. But as he tried to retreat, he was caught. He managed to talk his way out of it, but the guards remained suspicious. They tied him up, beat him, and then simply left him lying there."

"How did he escape?" asks the General.

"Fortunately, he had some relatives among the insurgents. They untied him, and he was able to flee. That is his report."

The General nods approvingly.

"Thank you, Padre, for your invaluable assistance. You are truly polyglot."

Monday, 9 March 1885

Night attacks

The fortified wall surrounding Suakin and Geyf forms a wide semicircle, with its ends secured by forts at the sea. These signal stations are almost impregnable, thanks to deep trenches and Gardner machine guns. Along the wall, several redoubts are positioned—circular fortifications surrounded by trenches 9 feet wide. Narrow footbridges provide access.

Despite these defences, small Arab units frequently manage to slip past the guards like silent serpents. Undetected, they infiltrate the perimeter, targeting soldiers in the flanks or inside the compound, stabbing or shooting them before vanishing into the darkness.

The assaults are particularly ferocious over the next two nights, striking the camp simultaneously at multiple points.

As the soldiers sit down for dinner around seven o’clock, the silence is shattered by the sudden crack of rifle shots—the Remingtons fired by the guards.

At midnight, the fighting reignites, at which the defenders retaliate with fire from all barrels.

Off the coast, HMS Dolphin lies at anchor. Its powerful searchlights cut through the night, aiding the soldiers in spotting their enemies. But the light is a double-edged sword—it also reveals their own positions.

Blazing cones of light sweep across the landscape, briefly illuminating the battlefield in daylight before moving on. The attackers know the drill: as soon as the beam approaches, they dive behind bushes or bury themselves in the sand. Meanwhile, the defenders remain exposed, even when their enemies are blinded. A better strategy would be to angle the lights from the fortifications, casting them diagonally into enemy territory.

That night, the Padre is summoned to attend a wounded guard. With a kerosene lamp, his missal, a rosary, and the oil for the Last Rites, he follows the messenger to the fortified wall.

There, a soldier lies motionless, his body soaked in blood—a fatal stab wound in the back. A confession is no longer possible. Still, the Padre performs the sacrament of the dying.

A short while later, he returns to the same spot. Another sentry has been hit—a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The sand beneath him is dark with blood.

He is still alive, but the Padre fears he will soon lose consciousness. So, he asks,

"Where are you from, my son?"

The wounded soldier’s face is ashen. With a weak breath, he whispers,

"Cashel."

The Padre smiles.