Henceforth he sees the world through Gordon's eyes. With him he scoffs
at the diplomatists; despises the Government; becomes impatient--
unreasonably, perhaps--with a certain Major Kitchener in the Intelligence
Branch, whose information miscarried or was not despatched; is wearied by
the impracticable Shaiggia Irregulars; takes interest in the turkey-cock
and his harem of four wives; laughs at the 'black sluts' seeing their
faces for the first time in the mirror. With him he trembles for the fate
of the 'poor little beast,' the Husseinyeh, when she drifts stern foremost
on the shoal, 'a penny steamer under cannon fire'; day after day he gazes
through the General's powerful telescope from the palace roof down the
long brown reaches of the river towards the rocks of the Shabluka Gorge,
and longs for some sign of the relieving steamers; and when the end of
the account is reached, no man of British birth can read the last words,
'Now mark this, if the Expeditionary Force--and I ask for no more than
two hundred men--does not come within ten days, the town may fall;
and I have done my best for the honour of our country. Good-bye,' without
being thrilled with vain regrets and futile resolutions. And then the
account stops short. Nor will the silence ever be broken. The sixth
instalment of the Journals was despatched on the 14th of December;
and when it is finished the reader, separated suddenly from the pleasant
companionship, experiences a feeling of loss and annoyance.
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