To break the monotony, we tried whatever sport was possible in the sand.  The national game, cricket, came in for a trial, but was more laughter-provoking than recreative:  a bundle of rags tightly rolled up in a sphere served as a ball, and pieces of boards of old packing-cases served as bats and wickets.  Leapfrog and the three-cornered game of “cat” were favourite pastimes, but nothing broke the monotony.  It was depressing, and it was not an unusual sight to see men weeping from homesickness—­utterly unable to keep back the tears.  There were attempts at suicide also, and men eagerly sought opportunity to endanger themselves.  Actual fighting on the desert was to us the greatest possible godsend, for it meant either death or relief from the game of waiting.

Despite the fact that the love of Gordon had brought me there, I was not enamoured of the way in which the campaign was carried on.  Of course, when in actual conflict, I wanted this black horde wiped off the face of the earth; but when I saw boys and girls, ranging from six to ten years of age, approaching the phalanx of British bayonets with their little assagais ready to do battle, I was thrilled with admiration for them.  Some of our officers described this as fanaticism, and I remember a discussion that took place between two of them as to whether it was fanaticism or courage, and a unique experiment was tried.  We had with us always a contingent of friendly natives, and in order to test the question, one of them was to bare his back (for a shilling) and an officer applied to it, with all his strength, a horsewhip.  I saw the black man’s body writhe for an instant as he puckered his mouth; but it was only for an instant—­then he smiled and asked for another stroke for another shilling.  This seemed to indicate to the officers that there was something more than fanaticism in the Soudanese.  Their warriors were tall, powerfully built men—­we used to say they were dressed in palm oil and mosquitoes.  Their hair stood straight up, and their bodies were greased.  I think it was the general opinion of our officers that if these men could be disciplined and drilled as European soldiers are, they would make the finest fighters in the world.  Perhaps Kipling has described this opinion better than anybody else when he says: 

    So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan;
    You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
    An’ ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air—­
    You big black boundin’ beggar—­for you broke a British square!

There was somewhat of a mixture of my sentiment and feeling on this war.  I wanted Gordon released, I wanted the war ended and the Soudanese beaten; but when I contrasted the spirit of the campaign with the spirit of Jesus, I often wished that I could lend my assistance to these black men of the desert who were fighting for the thing under their feet, and the home life of their tribe.  But it was not