Mayne took the paper, holding it for a moment hesitantly. He had already entered a netherworld where the execution of his mission would prevent him from openly contacting Wolseley ever again, and a document like this would not be believed unless it were passed on by authoritative hands. He put the thought from his mind, and slipped it inside his tunic pocket. Gordon stood up, came round to the front of the desk and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the open doorway with a view over the balcony. It was the dead of night, a heavy, overwhelming darkness that blocked out all the stars, allowing only a hint of moonlight to penetrate. Dawn was at least eight hours away, but the same thought was on both of their minds. Gordon gestured towards the river. ‘When it is time, I will tell my Sudanese guards to escort you to the steps leading down to the landing stage, so that you do not have to go out through the gates.’
Mayne suddenly remembered something. ‘The corporal at the gate. I believe he has gone over to the Mahdi.’
‘Indeed. But he has served a purpose, as the other guards tell me what he preaches. Doubtless you have heard that forty thousand angels will descend upon this place tomorrow.’
‘I believe those were his words.’
‘It’s from him that I ascertained with certainty that the Mahdi is attacking tomorrow. The man’s treachery is of little consequence now, but I have ordered my bodyguard to do away with him during the night. It means that when they fight to the death tomorrow, as they surely shall, they’ll know that they have a unity of purpose. They will fight and die as a band of brothers.’
Mayne could just make out his reed boat pulled up on the shore, beside the three posts with their macabre festoonings that looked so much like an image of the crosses bearing the three thieves on the hill of Calvary. He thought of asking, and then stopped himself. There was nothing untoward about executing miscreants in a place like this; it was part of Gordon’s job, and the Mahdi doubtless did the same on the opposite bank to those who had dissatisfied him.
Gordon followed Mayne’s gaze and then turned to him, his face spectral in the reflection from the river. ‘I would say this to the world. I stay here because I believe Jesus of Nazareth would have done as I do and not forsaken these people. But I am no messiah. I fear death as would any other man; even when it stares you in the face as it has done me for so long now, let me tell you, it is not something you welcome gladly. I do not want to die a lingering death with the Mahdi’s men goading me as the Romans did Christ with their spears. I want to die as a soldier, not like a martyr, and like all soldiers I would say that when it comes, I would like it to be clean and quick. Can you see to that for me?’
Mayne did not know what to say. Gordon walked across to the rifle on the stand by the window, leaning down and peering over the sights. ‘I’ve amused myself by taking pot shots at the dervishes on Tutti island. But our batch of ammunition is faulty; some of the cartridges have been overloaded with powder. The excess gas blowing back from the breech nearly blinded me a few weeks ago. It’s the reason I took to sleeping during the day. Even the hazy daylight in this place makes my eyes water uncontrollably.’
‘General Wolseley and his staff think you deliberately stand on your balcony at night in order to taunt the dervishes, and also to impress your own soldiers with your inviolability. The press have got hold of the notion, and there is even an illustration in a publication of the evangelical movement showing you on the balcony with your arms raised, illuminated by the sun, the people of Khartoum below eating the food that has poured from your hands, the bullets and shells of the Mahdi whizzing by you harmlessly.’
Gordon went to the open window and stared out over the river, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. ‘I keep a telescope on the roof, in full view of the dervishes, I own you that. I used it to look out for the relief force, but I gave up on that long ago.’ He snorted. ‘But as for the proposition that I have become immortal, what tosh. What utter tosh. What kind of a man do they think I am?’
‘Some think you are a saint, sir, and others that you have become unhinged.’
‘A saint. Well, those poor wretches outside the gate believe I have barak, the life force, as some too believe of the Mahdi. But it’s just that we are both providers, and whether you offer food to the starving or a cause to the directionless, from their position at your feet you can appear very much larger than you really are. As for unhinged.’ Gordon paused, and took another drag. ‘Enraged, frustrated, enfeebled, exhausted, yes, but unhinged? I ask any of them to take my place and survive a siege of three hundred and thirty days, days of false promises, of a relief force that was never going to arrive. All they had to do was send a hundred soldiers and two steamers; that would have been enough to take off all of my staff and their families. I told Wolseley as much; I sent endless messages. In their absurd concoction of my character, they decided that I did not want to be rescued. And since then, the Mahdi’s army has increased many fold, making those hundred men of my plea an absurd proposition.’
He picked up a sheet from a pile on the desk. ‘There are forty thousand people in this city. Forty thousand starving wretches, most of them slaves for whom the only day of liberation in their lives is this one. They may see me as their saviour, yes, but it is because I give them food. That is what I spend my time doing here. I calculate the figures, and I work out how much is left; I give them just enough to stay alive. I keep the hospital running so that the few Arab doctors may relieve the sufferings of those diseased people who are not bound to perish. I own that what I am doing is merely giving sustenance to a dying man. The Mahdi will arrive, and these people will be slaughtered. I can do nothing about that, but I cannot leave them while I am still able to give them food. I cannot leave. If that is unhinged, then so be it.’
Gordon dropped the sheet, letting it flutter to the floor, and put his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. Then he ran them through his hair and let them drop to his sides. He looked pale, almost luminous, and suddenly fragile, and Mayne realised for the first time how emaciated he was. This was a man who chain-smoked to keep his appetite down, who had made it his task to distribute scant supplies of biscuit among forty thousand starving people, to make them last as long as possible. Mayne thought of the tedious hours they had spent in the School of Military Engineering learning about the economics of garrison management. This was hardly what the instructors would have had in mind, but Gordon was doing the job as he had been trained to do it.
Mayne pointed to the carefully laid-out jibba on the floor. ‘There are some who believe you have been influenced to convert to the cause of the Mahdi.’
Gordon passed his hand over his face, and then replied with an edge to his voice, as if trying to restrain himself. ‘It is true that I have a considerable correspondence with my friend Muhammad Ahmad. He is from a family of boatbuilders, you know, and he and I have a considerable shared interest in the technology of Nile watercraft.’ He gave a wry smile, and then went over to the desk and picked up another sheaf of papers, taking one and reading from it. ‘“In the name of God the merciful and compassionate, the Destroyer of him who is obstinate against his religion, blessings and peace be upon our Lord Mahomed and his successors, who have established the foundations and solid pillars of our faith.”’ He put the letter down. ‘It goes on in the same vein. My Sudanese clerk translates them for me. They invariably end with the Mahdi offering me sanctuary and an exalted place beside him if I see his particular version of the light. He cites the case of my friend and his prisoner von Slatin, pretending to believe that von Slatin’s conversion to Islam was not just an act of desperation to encourage his Sudanese troops before their final battle, and an act of expediency to save his life when he was captured. And he mentions our mutual interest in the prophet Isaiah, as if I would believe that Isaiah from on high would be instructing me to join a holy war and destroy all those who are obstinate against my religion.’