A Tidy Little War E-Book

William Wright

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

In 1882 the British invaded Egypt in an audacious war that gave them control of the country, and the Suez Canal, for more than seventy years. William Wright gives the first full account of that hard-fought and hitherto neglected campaign, which was not nearly as 'tidy' as the British commander would later claim. Using unpublished documents and forgotten books, including the discovery of General Sir Garnet Wolseley's diaries, Wright highlights how the Egyptian War, climaxing in the dawn battle of Tel-el-Kebir was altogether a close-run thing. The major combined services operation of the late Victorian era also saw the Royal Navy sail into battle for the last time in its old glory and the book has the first full account of the Bombardment of Alexandria.

Leseprobe

A TIDY LITTLE WAR

A TIDY LITTLE WAR

THE BRITISH INVASION OF EGYPT 1882

WILLIAM WRIGHT

For the ladies – Gladys who will never read it, Emma who will and Krisztina who made it happen.

First published 2009

Spellmount

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

All rights reserved

© William Wright, 2009, 2011

The right of William Wright to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 752 4 7584 4

MOBI ISBN 978 0 752 4 7583 7

Original typesetting by The History Press

Contents

Preface

Prologue

1 Mutiny

2 Riot

3 Bombardment

4 Invasion

5 Kafr Dawar

6 Ismailia

7 Mahsama

8 Kassassin I

9 Kassassin II

10 Tel-el-Kebir

11 Trial

Epilogue

Notes

Select Bibliography

Preface

A few minutes before dawn on 13 September 1882 a British army launched itself in a surprise attack on a heavily fortified Egyptian camp at Tel-el-Kebir. The resounding victory won here gave Great Britain control of Egypt for more than seven decades.

This book is the first attempt to tell the story of that war in any detail since the Official History was published in 1887. The author of that work, Colonel John Maurice, called it a ‘military’ history, with little political or naval background, so it could be argued that this book is the first to give an overview of the whole campaign. I have tried, wherever possible, to use the words of those who were actually involved – statesman, sailors and soldiers – in an attempt to add flesh to the bones of Maurice’s pithy and rather dry text.

Why has the Egyptian War been largely ignored while lesser campaigns of the period have been written about in detail? In the past half-century, for instance, there have been at least three full accounts of the short Transvaal War 1881, a fine full-length study of the 2nd Afghan War 1878–80 and frequent accounts of the Sudan campaigns 1884–85, while hardly a month seems to go by without another book appearing on the Zulu War 1879.

Events that happen quickly and end successfully, are usually of less interest than those which take longer or seem fraught with difficulties. General Sir Garnet Wolseley, the victor of Tel-el-Kebir, called it his tidiest little campaign, and so it seems at first glance – a slick operation that was over in less than two months. A huge admirer of the general and one of his staff officers during the war, Colonel Maurice made sure in his short narrative of barely 100 pages, that his Chief ’s view of things predominated.

On close examination and after more than a century, the Egyptian War is far more interesting than a cursory glance first tells us. For a start its six battles were no mere walkovers but tough and bloody affairs which on at least three occasions the Egyptians had a fair chance of winning. Twice they caught the British general with his pants down – literally! Warfare is often a gamble and Wolseley was a lucky player, yet at Mahsama he almost over-played his hand; in private letters and diaries he was honest to admit that his careful strategy could be compromised at any moment by the enemy and things often did not go to plan. I have tried to show that the background, development and actual campaigning in 1882 was much more complex, fraught with difficulties and minor disasters, and altogether a more near run thing than Wolseley’s later bombast, varnished by Maurice, have led us to believe.

The campaign also began with the Royal Navy’s only battle of any size between the close of the Crimean War and the start of the First World War. The Bombardment of Alexandria by Admiral Seymour’s fleet was also not so one-sided as it might appear; it was here that the Egyptian gunners first showed their prowess as excellent marksmen and won the respect of their adversaries, while the British actually only effectively destroyed two enemy forts and almost ran out of ammunition.

The campaign was the only major combined services operation in 60 years of the Pax Britannica. The Royal Navy fought a bombardment, conveyed a whole army, helped to seize the Suez Canal in a complex night operation and provided a Naval Brigade which saw service in all the battles on land. Beauchamp Seymour, who got into the thick of things in two of these actions, was a fascinating old salt who sadly left no autobiography and precious little is known about him; by sifting through his papers at the National Maritime Museum I hope he now comes alive for the reader. A better man than I may one day do him the justice he deserves and write a full biography.

Looking at documents in various collections has helped me try and get an idea of what was going on in the minds of Seymour at Alexandria, Northbrook at the Admiralty and various politicians in Whitehall. I especially wanted to discover if some skulduggery or plot was at work to draw Britain into Egypt by the hawks in Gladstone’s administration. I have tried to show how events developed; other historians have and will continue to view matters differently. My general feeling is that Seymour acted more prudently that I first thought, in fact, prudence was part of the problem after the bombardment when he singularly refused to stop the fires and wanton destruction until he got clear orders to do so. In this sense he must be held partly responsible for the chaos.

Wolseley based his plans on information collected by the Intelligence Department’s network of spies. Much has been made of his ‘secret’ move to Ismailia; I have tried to show how several people were in the know. Nothing went quite the way Sir Garnet first envisaged things and information almost leaked out.

The Egyptian commanders can be accused of being over cautious, of refusing to commit their troops to an attack, since they knew their poorly trained raw recruits might panic and run at any moment. But when the British clashed with regiments like the Egyptian Guards, or the Sudanese, or came into conflict with enemy artillery they had a stiff fight on their hands. Before the 2nd Battle of Kassassin the Egyptians marched into position through the night and almost surprised the British camp. Yet this night march has been completely forgotten while that of Wolseley four days later is celebrated as a rare feat in the annals of warfare. The British war dead were moderately few, but the wounded at Tel-elKebir alone exceeded the combined wounded in all battles of the Zulu War. It was no mere walkover.

This book is primarily a history for English-speaking readers. I am no Arabic scholar and must pay a huge debt to the late German historian, Alexander Scholch, whose fine study of the Arabist Movement, first published in Germany in 1972, with an English edition nine years later, remains the definitive work. Scholch barely touched on the conduct of the war itself and the same is true of the American academic, Juan Cole, who added much to our knowledge of the social structure and philosophy of the nationalists in his 1993 book.

There is a goldmine of biographies and autobiographies by statesman, sailors and soldiers who served in the campaign. These all proved most useful. Fifteen years ago the military writer Donald Featherstone gave us a short but excellent account with superb battle plans in the Osprey campaign series. More recently Spink and Son Ltd published a new compilation of the despatches, casualty figures and awards by Peter Duckers that I found very helpful.

Various libraries and collections were consulted and can be found in the bibliography. I must especially thank two librarians. At Hove the indefatigable Zoe Lobowiecka showed me around the Wolseley Collection and dragged down various scrapbooks from the attic. When I found, with great sadness, that the Egyptian War section of Lord Wolseley’s unpublished autobiography was (rather mysteriously) missing she mitigated my misery by telling me she had just heard that some of his diaries had surfaced at a library in Scotland. A quick phone call put me in touch with Aileen Anderson at the Low Parks Museum in Hamilton who confirmed they had several of his personal diaries. The 1882 diary turned out to be extremely interesting and I must thank Aileen and her colleagues not only for their help and enthusiasm but also the excellent cups of tea during the three days I spent with them.

I have already referred to Admiral Seymour’s papers at the National Maritime Museum. Several diaries and letters were also examined at the National Army Museum. I was particularly pleased to find that the papers of General Sir Herbert Macpherson turned out to be nothing of the sort but a set of captured Egyptian Army telegrams from Tel-el-Kebir. These were helpful in fleshing out the actions of Arabi after the battle. A friend, Mr Peter Metcalfe, was kind enough to allow me to see his collection of letters by officers of the Coldstream Guards. I was also able to draw on the letters in my possession of Colonel Robert Rogers who commanded the 20th Punjab Native Infantry in the campaign, along with copious notes in books once owned by Sir Charles Dilke and General Sir George Willis.

A final word on spelling; to the irritation of Arab scholars and linguists I have retained the style in most cases best known by the British in the 1880s – thus ‘Tel-el-Kebir’ and not ‘Tal-al-Kabir’ and so on. ‘Arabi’ Pasha should, in pronunciation and spelling, be more correctly shown as ‘Ourabi’ and I thought long and hard about this but one thing swayed my judgment: I possess the first letter the great patriot ever wrote in English. It was sent eighteen months into his exile from Colombo to an English lawyer. In a firm and flowery hand it is signed clearly ‘Ahmed Arabi the Egyptian’. It seems hardly right to argue with one of the main characters in my narrative. So I won’t.

I ask the reader to forgive any lapses of style and hope that the events of 1882 might seem by the end of the book to have been worth the effort in staying the course with me.

William J. Wright

Budapest

Prologue

We are all Europeans now!

Khedive Ismail

The loud rumble of cannon fire could be heard all across Cairo. People stopped their usual chores to listen and then digest what the gun salute meant for each of them. It was the hot afternoon of 26 June 1879. Earlier that day the Khedive Ismail, ruler of Egypt, but a vassal of the Ottoman Sultanate in Constantinople, had received the news he had dreaded for so long: a strange telegram addressed to ‘Ismail Pasha, ex-Khedive of Egypt’. The gist of this message was that he should pack his bags immediately. The new Egyptian ruler would be his eldest son, Prince Tewfik.

Sixty-eight years earlier the dynasty to which Ismail and Tewfik were heirs had been audaciously created by their ancestor, Muhammad Ali, after his skilfully planned and bloody massacre of the Mameluke princes who had ruled Egypt for centuries. The small one-time tobacco merchant from Macedonia now proved that he was just as intelligent and perceptive as he was cunning and ruthless. By the time of his death in 1849, at the ripe old age of 80, Muhammad Ali had fathered 95 children and found time to transform his country along European lines. A huge admirer of Napoleon, he had enlisted the French to advise him on everything from growing cotton to constructing canals to control the annual Nile floods.

Abbas, who succeeded Muhammad Ali, was described by Flaubert as ‘a moron, almost a mental case’. His reactionary views were in deliberate contrast to his grandfather yet, as Scholch has noted, the Egyptian peasants – the fellahin – found his rule comparatively benign since he ‘did not wage wars, he did not build or dig canals and he did not constantly raise new taxes’.

Next, in 1854, came Said Pasha. A roly-poly pudding of a ruler, stout, genial, generous, but also easily excitable and thoroughly spoiled. It was this lover of French food, wine and culture, who agreed to permit Ferdinand de Lesseps to start work on his canal across the isthmus of Suez.

This massive project dragged on past Said’s death until 1869 by which time Ismail Pasha was on the throne. A remarkable man, the new Viceroy combined a grand vision and high ideals with low cunning and unscrupulous behaviour. His detractors squarely lay the largest share of the blame for the debt crisis and the chain of events it precipitated at his door. In this they are probably correct. Yet his dream of an Egyptian empire, his military forays into Abyssinia, Somalia and the Sudan, the completion of the Suez Canal, construction of hundreds of miles of railway track and telegraph lines, the erection of more than 100 bridges, 15 lighthouses, 64 sugar mills and 1,250,000 acres of land reclaimed from the desert, the improvement in customs, postal services and judicial procedure, the increase in elementary schools from 185 in 1863 to 4,685 just twelve years later (including the first state-run one for girls in the Ottoman Empire), all help explain why the Khedive Ismail still has his admirers. To them he will always seem badly maligned and a scapegoat for the Europeans who wanted his country.

In appearance the Egyptian ruler was short and stout, though not so fat as Said, and he tended to waddle when he walked. Usually wearing a black frockcoat known as a ‘stambouli’, and with a tarboosh on his head, visitors noted his dark brown bushy eyebrows and reddish beard. Some were made nervous by the way his right eye seemed smaller and half closed while the left tended to behave independently and fix on whoever was speaking. Generally in good humour, Ismail made witty conversation in slow, deliberate, well-modulated French, often sipping his favourite wine, Haut-Saternes. ‘But it was in the private interview that he excelled,’ notes Peter Mansfield, ‘for he had a prodigious memory, and the gift of convincing even the most sceptical that he was supremely interested in their their lives and welfare’.

Many in his service adored him. One ex-Confederate soldier who spent ten years in the Egyptian Army wrote that Ismail was a man ‘of sleepless energy and wonderful ability … sincere in his desire to pay his honest debts.’1 Others found the Viceroy to be, by turns, kindly, generous, affectionate, cunning and incorrigible. One opponent called him ‘an astute and superficial cynic’, and although it was true, there was more to Ismail than mere cynicism. Charm was the chief weapon in his armoury and in a later age he would have made a superb public relations man. His major stunts, such as the lavish celebrations staged for the Suez Canal opening were, in Ismail’s eyes, simply ways of endorsing the image of a progressive Egypt. They won him backing in his attempts to break away from Ottoman control and impressed future and current creditors with his wealth. Such displays, noted John Marlowe, who wrote a history of the debt crisis, served a purpose ‘for as long as, and no longer than, he was able to pay his debts’. European bankers and officials were willing to turn a blind eye to Ismail’s mis-government, his oppression of the fellahin and wild extravagances just so long as he seemed solvent.

On his visits to London and Paris the Viceroy was first hailed as an enlightened ruler. At the Suez Canal opening ceremony he told his visitors: ‘We are all Europeans now!’ One of his best coups designed to impress European public opinion was the creation of a Chamber of Notables. This was lauded as a major step towards turning Egypt into a constitutional monarchy. ‘In fact’, wrote Marlowe, ‘the Council had no legislative power and possessed neither the desire nor the means to exercise any control over, or even to criticise, Ismail’s despotic acts.’

The bankers who were lending the Viceroy money at high interest, the contractors supervising his extensive engineering works, the European residents benefitting from his largesse, all basked in Ismail’s geniality and generosity while carefully maintaining ‘a conspiracy of silence’ over his misrule. His image was to tarnish gradually. Before the end of the 1860s two women writing in different countries had castigated Ismail and his new Egypt. Olympe Adouard denounced him in France as a blood-sucking savage who seized whatever estates he wanted, used forced labour, and even treated his wives brutally. Lady Lucie Duff-Gordon, an aristocratic Scot who chose to live in Upper Egypt for health reasons, wrote in 1865: ‘Egypt is one vast plantation there the master works his slaves without even feeding them.’2 Two years later the situation was even worse: ‘The fellahin can no longer eat bread … taxation makes life almost impossible.’3

Superficially at least some of Ismail’s excesses – bribes that totalled £50,000 in a single day, the construction and furnishing of new palaces (four in Cairo alone) – make him seem a mere playboy. But he was no silly debauchee. Every day the Viceroy worked like a businessman in his simply furnished office, seeing financiers, discussing and approving schemes, dreaming up his public relations entertainments and as time went on, worrying where he could procure the next massive loan. Most nights he found time to give a banquet. Where, for a few precious hours, he and his guests would enjoy the best French wines and fabulous food served off silver plate. He would take his cigars and cognac on the terrace and then it would be back to his office until midnight. This he did ‘13 hours a day for 300 days a year, a cross between a delinquent prince and a diligent clerk’.4

There is no doubt that in all his dealings Ismail thought of himself as a clever, sophisticated and wily manipulator. Unfortunately, for both him and the Egyptians, his financial speculations were terrible and the much sharper European bankers and merchants ‘managed to ensure that every one of Ismail’s major achievements contributed to their own enrichment’. As his debts mounted, the Khedive, as he was now styled, was to become involved in a risky game of high stakes diplomacy with the European Powers, especially Great Britain and France. Frequently he tried to play one country off against the other. In the end this skulduggery was his own undoing.

It was Said who organised the first Egyptian loan – a modest one of 60 million francs. But Ismail took this borrowing to undreamed of heights. Colossal loans meant that by 1875 he had no option but to sell Egypt’s only remaining unpledged assets – its 177,000 Suez Canal shares worth approximately £3,500,000. Forewarned that the Egyptian ruler was disposing of this ripe plum, the British Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli, moved swiftly to snatch it up. Parliament was not sitting at the time and the only way Disraeli could obtain the shares was by a bank loan. According to the oft-quoted legend, Monty Corry, his private secretary, waited outside the Cabinet room for a pre-arranged signal from his master. Finally the door opened and the Prime Minister simply said ‘Yes!’ It was the word Corry had been waiting to hear. He rushed to the home of Baron Lionel de Rothschild, head of the British wing of the famous banking firm and told him Disraeli needed £4 million (about £400 million in modern terms). ‘When?’ asked Rothschild. ‘Tomorrow’ replied Corry. Slowly the banker peeled a grape before asking, ‘What is your security?’ ‘The British Government’ responded the young civil servant. Rothschild’s eyes lit up. ‘You shall have it!’ was the answer. Next day, 24 November 1875, Disraeli wrote excitedly to Queen Victoria of his Suez Canal coup: ‘It is settled; you have it, Madam. The French Government have been out-generalled.’5

With the Suez Canal now under their control and many millions owed to their banks, Britain and France began putting the squeeze on Ismail. Other European countries with vested interests in Egypt, such as the Germans and Italians, added their support. Ismail used all his wiles and skills to delay his creditors. It was, noted Marlowe, ‘a virtuoso performance, a classic example, of the ingenuity of a bankrupt in keeping his creditors at bay.’ Slowly but steadily some financial reforms were enacted; Britain and France set up a ‘Dual Control’ of the Egyptian Government with the intention of getting back all monies owed to their citizens and financial institutions while doing the best they could to return the country to solvency.

The Khedive fought back. He procrastinated, fired, re-instated, then fired again various officials and ministries. It was all to no avail. Far away, in the gloomy Topkapi Palace, Sultan Abdul Hamid had been watching events with mounting distaste. He viewed Ismail as a foreign stooge whose clownish behaviour had led to the humiliating necessity of granting official European participation in the running of not just a large Ottoman province but the most important of them all.

Hence Ismail’s rude deposition. He spent four days packing, everything from Aubusson carpets to 22 of his best dinner services, though the rejected harem ladies ran amok and smashed furniture and mirrors to the tune of £8,000. On 30 June, just four days after being de-throned, Ismail and his wives set sail on the Royal yacht, along with as much treasure as he could stash aboard. Ships in the harbour at Alexandria gave him a cheery salute as he set out for Naples and a comfortable exile of sixteen years. An eventful reign was over and Egypt was on the brink of a new era.

1

Mutiny

We are not slaves and shall never from this day forth be inherited

Ahmed Arabi

Honeymoons are by their nature unique affairs, short, sweet, and never to be repeated.

So it was for the first few months of the new Khedive’s reign. Tewfik had decided that stability was vital and it required him not to antagonise the Europeans. A short-lived ministry under traditionalist Cherif Pasha resigned in August, and charming old Riaz Pasha returned from exile to form a government, taking for himself the Finance and Interior Ministries.

That summer the spirit of change was everywhere in Egypt. The Khedive proclaimed 17 July a patriotic feast day; notables from all over the country were invited to Tewfik’s palace near Alexandria to be received by him, watch parades and a grand firework display. Decrees now prohibited the use of the whip and placed the army and courts on a new legal basis. A good harvest, improved and fair tax collection controlled by the European Commissioners, a drop in the rates of interest that money-lenders could charge and an increase in the price of land – all were substantial improvements for the fellahin.

The ordinary Egyptians, it seems, were as fascinated with their new ruler as he was by them. It was a land which, under Ismail, had changed dramatically. Telegraph lines now snaked across the desert to all towns and most villages, railway tracks and bridges dotted the landscape, especially in Lower Egypt, where hundreds of thousands of reclaimed acres were under cultivation.

The biggest changes were in the cities of Cairo and Alexandria, one the centre of government, the other of commerce. Cairo in particular had been remodelled by Ismail into almost two cities; the citadel still stood on its hill, but a new quarter had arisen to the west of Esbekiah Square laid out to a French design with straight streets and roundabouts. Initially the buildings had been residential, but soon banks, consulates, hotels, restaurants and clubs followed. Gas lighting adorned the new European quarter by 1870. A year previously a white wooden opera house was opened; Ismail had commissioned a new opera from Verdi but the great Italian composer was not in a creative mood and ‘Rigoletto’ was the debut attraction. Two years later, on Christmas Eve 1871, courtiers and soldiers, diplomats and pashas, all squeezed into the building to see the premiere of ‘Aida’ (sadly without the maestro who could not abide long sea voyages).

Shepheard’s Hotel, on the corner of Esbekiah Square, was the centre of European life in Cairo and the most famous hotel in the Middle East. Entered by a flight of carpeted steps, visitors found themselves on a celebrated terrace where Europeans-only could survey the bustling panorama of oriental life passing in the street below. The hotel’s public rooms were made even more fascinating to Westerners by a profusion of flowering greenery and an exotic garden where weary travellers could relax beneath shady palms. The building was demolished to make way for a new Shepheard’s Hotel in 1890 but, years later, old soldiers would wistfully recall that first hostelry as ‘one huge club … And fun and flirtation was the first rule’,1 a great place for conversation or lounging about on the blue divans in the cool stone corridors or the long cane chairs festooned with plump cushions on the wide verandah. Dinner each night was a sparkling candlelit affair, the guests all in evening dress, the room noisy with laughter and banter, while smartly dressed Arab waiters scurried about the huge, high-ceilinged restaurant, its white-washed walls decorated with bright frescoes. At night a wealthy gentleman could enjoy a whisky and soda on the marble terrace of Shepheard’s, see an opera or play, then try to wine and dine the young actresses of the Comedie Francaise, or a chorus girl, in one of the French, Greek or Italian cafes in the neighbouring streets, many with orchestras or bands in their lantern-lit gardens.

A building boom began in the mid 1860s and lasted for more than a decade. Cairo was one colossal building site; the beanfields and desolate country near the railway station were replaced by bijou villas and small shops. By 1877 a traveller alighting from a train found the old style donkey transport replaced by an omnibus or carriage direct to Shepheard’s. Already several thousand tourists were arriving in Cairo each year. This band of sightseers, eager to experience the mysterious fleshpots of Arabian Nights fantasy, started in 1860 when Thomas J. Cook sent the first 32 ladies and gentlemen of the Victorian middle classes to the city.

In 1870 Brigadier-General William Loring, recently a divisional commander in the Army of the Confederacy, arrived in Cairo on a second visit to take up his duties as Inspector-General of the Egyptian Army. Waxing lyrical he wrote:

The plains were golden with rich harvests and dotted with elegant villas, embowered with roses. On one side, in full view, stood the Mokuttum Hills, the citadel on their slope … But, leaving these familiar scenes, one is impressed by the stately beauty of the new city immediately alongside of it with its comfortable hotels and commodious mansions, its broad avenues tastefully planted with costly shade trees and skirted by modern cottages surrounded by parterres of flowers, shrubs and trees.2

Loring was one of about 50 former Union and Confederate officers who entered Khedival service in the early 1870s at a time when Ismail was thinking seriously of breaking away from Ottoman control. The Americans were useful recruits since he knew that soldiers from European countries could not be trusted to give their full allegiance to a fledgling Egypt. The Civil War veterans were collected by Thaddeus Mott, a Union colonel, with the blessing of General Sherman. They kept their American pay rates and agreed to fight any enemy of Egypt except the United States. Quickly Mott brought to Cairo three generals, nine colonels, two majors, a doctor and a professor of geology. All but four of the bunch had fought for the South.

The most important one of them, who soon replaced Mott as the Khedive’s favourite, was Colonel Charles Pomeroy Stone. A West Pointer, and veteran of the Mexican War, with greying hair and a neat imperial beard, not unlike a slimmer Napoleon III, Stone was a general by 1860, in charge of the defence of Washington, and credited with being the first soldier of the Union’s volunteer army, but had argued with Edwin Stanton, Lincoln’s Secretary of War and been demoted. In 1870 Stone was appointed Chief of Staff of the Egyptian Army. In that capacity he would faithfully serve first Ismail and then Tewfik for thirteen years.

Stone Pasha’s task to reform the Egyptian Army was immense. He had to deal not just with a Turko-Circassian officer class who resented his interference, along with the usual problems caused by inefficiency and corruption, but a disparate collection of Americans under his command. They ranged from penniless alcoholics, like General Henry Hopkins Sibley; devil-may-care mercenaries such as Colonel Henry McIver who, at the age of sixteen, had almost been killed by a tulwar blow to his skull as a John Company ensign during the Indian Mutiny, but went on to fight under 17 other flags; religious fanatics like Major Cameron, who tried to poison other officers; and hot blooded youngsters such as Captain James Morgan.

A proud Southerner, Morgan had the temperament and good looks of someone born to get into trouble. On his first night in Cairo, for instance, he found his hotel too stuffy and went around opening all the doors and windows, to the fury of more seasoned travellers who knew this was an open invitation to dust and mosquitoes. More than once his pride and hot Louisiana temper led Morgan into fights. Flirting one day with a Royal princess in her carriage led to a chase by two guards waving scimitars. A fine horseman, with a splendid arab bay called ‘Napoleon’ (an unwanted gift from Ismail to Empress Eugenie), he only eluded his pursuers in true ‘Wild West’ style by jumping a double gate across a railway line in the path of an oncoming train. One night at the theatre the Prefect of Police, Ali Bey, ordered Morgan to fetch him a glass of water. The American, who was only a junior officer, carefully filled the glass, then threw it in the Egyptian’s face and slapped him for good measure. A furious Ali Bey rushed over to the royal box and told the Khedive who replied: ‘serves you right. I did not bring Americans here to wait on you … Go and ask his pardon.’ Which the Prefect, no doubt smarting from the double humiliation, was forced to do.3

With his innate ability to offend almost everybody during his stay in Egypt it is not surprising that Morgan also managed to argue with the colonel of one of the infantry regiments. Inspecting Ahmed Arabi’s regiment at the Abbasieh Barracks, the American was suspicious of the number of men who suddenly desired to pray; their weapons, uniforms and equipment thus going uninspected. Morgan felt this was a ruse by lazy soldiers and so recorded all their weapons as unfit for service. When the Minister of War reprimanded Colonel Arabi he defended his men and accused the American of being prejudiced against Muslims. Then, to make matters worse, Morgan made a surprise inspection the next morning and took away several rifles from praying soldiers which were found to be ‘disgracefully out of order’. Unfortunately the incident only served to embarrass the Minister of War. It was decided to let the foreigner cool his heels by the coast and so Morgan was sent to inspect ancient cannon.

In his memoirs Morgan is full of praise for General Stone who he describes as ‘a born manipulator of men’, handling his troublesome Americans like ‘so many naughty children’. Eventually by 1879 only Stone was left, but not before General Sherman had made a visit and been impressed by the efforts of his countrymen to improve Egypt’s coastal defences and develop a general staff along modern lines. Ismail was so grateful to Sherman that he presented him with a bag of diamonds worth $60,000 and a special Act of Congress had to be passed to let him take the gems home untaxed.4

The task of Egyptian army reform was complicated by the country’s social structure. Power rested with the Turco-Circassians and native Egyptians were only admitted to the lower ranks. By 1882 the population of Egypt was about 7,000,000 and less than 100,000 of these were Turco-Circassians. It is true that by this period Arabic was more likely to be spoken than Turkish or French, but other than this they lived apart from native Egyptians and despised them, while owning one quarter of all land. The duties of this elite were rather odd since they changed frequently. ‘A pasha might, in the course of one or two years’wrote Scholch, ‘be appointed to successive posts as Prefect of Police of the capital, Wakil (Under-Secretary of State) in the Finance Ministry, murdir of a province, president of a tribunal, and finally a commander in the army. The provinces might have up to five different governors in one year.’5 Such rule had one clear advantage for the Khedive – no position of power was allowed to become a rival power base. Politically the Turco-Circassians divided into two groups. Those, like Nubar, who demanded closer economic and diplomatic ties with Europe, cemented by autocratic Cabinet rule, and a pro-Ottoman group led by Cherif Pasha, wanting close ties with the Porte and less Western interference.

Reforms begun by Muhammad Ali soon needed more men than could be found among the sons of the Turco-Circassian elite. This meant that native Egyptians were also sent on missions to Europe and to the new state schools. But while they became the technicians or scientific experts, all decision-making roles stayed with Turco-Circassians. Long wars had also seen a necessity for Egyptians to enter the lower officer ranks. Their numbers rose and fell under the whims of different Viceroys and created a vast reservoir of resentment. In his autobiography Arabi Pasha expressed it well:

I remained lieutenant-colonel for nineteen years; I had to look on as junior officers, who had been under me in the time of Said Pasha and Ismail Pasha, were promoted above me. Some of them rose to the rank of colonel, some to that of brigadier-general and division-general, and not because they knew more than I did, or because of special skills, or because they had been particularly courageous in battle, but because they were Mamelukes or Mameluke’s sons of the Khedive’s family. The Khedive bestowed on them ranks, decorations, beautiful slaves, extensive and fertile lands, and spacious houses, he gave them gifts of money and precious jewels sucked from the blood of the poor Egyptians and the sweat of their brows.6

Those Egyptians who for whatever reasons, were prosperous in the towns and villages, such as the local sheikhs, had high social prestige among their own people. The new Khedive continued the tradition of his ancestors by showering them with minor honours – a personal visit here, a small role in the provincial administration there – to keep them loyal. It worked surprisingly well.

Religion and religious fanaticism, until about 1879, played little part in Egyptian politics. The holders of the important religious positions, such as the Grand Mufti of Cairo, depended on the Khedive for their appointments and to keep them in line he dispensed liberal gifts of property. Occasionally in the provinces of Upper Egypt Sufi fanaticism would rear its head, such as the rebellion of Sayyid Ahmed at-Tib in 1865 at Girga, but soldiers and cannon always ended such rebellion efficiently and ruthlessly. The Nubar-Wilson Ministry changed things by stirring up a wasps nest of clerics opposed to reform. Ulama and religious students were suffering from savage financial cutbacks. Both Nubar and Riaz were denounced as the friends of Christians. Fundamentalist Muslims began to unite.

In the countryside the fellahin lived a life wedded to the land, its rhythms dictated by the seasons and the rise and fall of the Nile. Scholch described things well:

The existence of the village depended on the Nile’s uncertain blessings,but it was further put into question by the inevitable demands from Cairo. If the river spared it, the village looked towards the representatives of the the mighty: how much tax would be demanded of the inhabitants of the village; how many men for the army; how many … to dig canals which did not irrigate the fields of their own village or to work on the estates of the ruler.7

Several other distinct communities were vital to town and country life. About 500,000 Copts lived mainly in Middle and Upper Egypt. In most villages the local clerk was a Copt. By 1880 many of these clerks had lost their jobs to French speaking Syrians and others preferred by European officials. This was creating resentment, not just among the Copts, but also among villagers who disliked the European style bookkeeping methods of the foreigners.

There were about 20,000 Jews in Egypt in 1880, mostly concentrated in Cairo and Alexandria as craftsmen, small shopkeepers and money-changers. It was possible for Armenians such as Nubar to enter the ranks of the elite, but Syrians never did so, although the first important Egyptian newspapers were published by Syrian Christians. Finally, on the fringes of society, were the nomadic Arabs of the desert, the Bedouin. In 1882 they numbered about 500,000 and were ‘an incompletely integrated society’, with marginal respect for the Khedive and none at all for most others.

By far the most influential group in the country were the Europeans. The 1882 census put their number at 90,886 persons – just 1.34 per cent of the population. More than half lived in Alexandria, with a further 21,650 in Cairo and 7,000 at Port Said. Less than 2,000 lived in Middle or Upper Egypt. Some 37,000 Greeks represented the biggest national group and few contemporary observers have a good word to say about them. Not because they were, in many cases, law-abiding shopkeepers and publicans, but the role they played as money-lenders. They seemed to figure in most fights, brawls and riots. This ill-feeling is hardly surprising when one considers that by 1882 the fellahin of Lower Egypt owed almost £4,000,000 in interest on their debts, a larger sum than the official land tax.

At the start of 1882, 6,118 British subjects resided in Egypt. Some were directly employed by the Khedive, such as Baron de Kusel, Comptroller-General of Customs, and Frederick George, Chief Engineer of the Telegraph Service, while others such as Edward Malet were on diplomatic assignments. The majority were based at Alexandria where they controlled most of the foreign trade. On the whole they were quiet, hard-working and law-abiding. The richer ones could enjoy the raffish lifestyle seen in Cairo, but even a modest clerk at Alexandria was able to sip an Italian coffee in the Place Muhammad Ali after a day’s work, or escape occasionally to the delta to shoot quail and snipe. Almost all of them thought they were infinitely superior to those around them, that God had given them the ability to rule native peoples and the vast chunks of red on any map proved it. Only the French were perhaps their equals in arrogance and the policy makers of the Quai d’Orsay tried to match British influence every step of the way.

The treaties granted by Muhammad Ali to Europeans gave them freedom of travel, the right to be tried by consular courts, immunity from Ottoman taxes and the presence of a consular official at any arrest or search of their premises. In 1876 Nubar Pasha tried to bring all of them under Egyptian jurisdiction by setting up what were called ‘Mixed Tribunals’. He was only partly successful and the Mixed Tribunals were especially unfair to peasant debtors sued by Europeans, since the proceedings took place in a language unknown to them, presided over by mainly European judges and based on legal concepts Muslims often found alien. The fellahin often felt themselves to be foreigners in their own country.

Not surprisingly, voices started to be raised against these injustices. Chief among them was that of Jemal el-Din al-Afghani, a fanatical Persian Sufi demagogue (though in Egypt he claimed to be a Sunni Afghan), who arrived in Cairo in 1871 after being exiled from Constantinople. During his travels in Afghanistan and India he had developed a fierce hatred of the British and imperialism in general. In May 1879 Jemal el-Din joined many others calling for a national anti-European alliance to combat foreign influence in Egypt. For a time Ismail, and then Tewfik, had been his patrons, but by the summer of 1879 this strident anti-European message was making the Egyptian ruler nervous. Without warning, Jemal el-Din was arrested and made to leave the country. His disciples, initially unmolested, continued disseminating anti-Western propaganda via radical newspapers.

About this time a group of intellectual young Syrians living in Egypt formed the ‘Union de la Jeunesse Egyptienne’ and began demanding constitutional rule. Installed as chief minister, tough old Riaz Pasha was no lover of radicals. In his youth he had been made to perform dances for homosexual Abbas, but was ‘now a fragile little man of 50 with a wizened face and a harsh, high-pitched voice’.8 In the late summer and autumn of 1879 he cracked down on all forms of dissent. Newspapers and journals received a warning and the most inflammatory were banned altogether. Parliamentary democracy was not something Riaz felt Egypt could handle. The newspaper of La Jeune Egypt was banned, along with the very different journals of Jemal el-Din’s followers, and radicals were advised to go into exile.

In protest at these actions a group of politicians and notables formed the Helwan Society. They opposed Tewfik’s acceptance of British and French control over that section of the budget mortgaged to foreign credit and wanted Egyptians to administer debt repayment themselves. Leaders of the Helwan Society included old school Ottoman traditionalists like Cherif Pasha and his friend, Shahin Pasha, staunch opponent of all things European. Later the group would make extravagant claims that they were the first real political party in Egypt, but Scholch concluded that

… the term political party cannot be applied to any Egyptian political group at the time … there appeared at different times different groupings with different intents and aims. To serve them all up together as the ‘National Party’ would make it impossible to understand the events of that time.9

While on the surface Egyptians seemed happy with things generally, and even the London Times correspondent called it ‘the best administration which Egypt has enjoyed’, storm clouds were on the horizon. The first of these – and the first date which can be said to have led inexorably to the British invasion – was the appointment, on 18 August 1879 , of a new Minister of War. The man chosen was a 40-year-old pure blooded Circassian named Osman Rifky. He was told by Tewfik to reorganize the army and impose a strict discipline. Rifky saw this as a chance to return the army to strong Circassian roots and reduce the number of native Egyptian officers. Arabi Pasha later called Rifky ‘a Turk of the old school, who hated the fellahin’.10 He was not alone in these views and Loring Pasha called him ‘a notorious scoundrel’. Another American, General Dye, a plain-speaking man and no friend of Loring, was even more blunt; after the disastrous 1875 expedition into Abyssinia he thought Osman Rifky should not have been decorated, but shot.

That Spring a General Election in Britain had swept the Gladstone back into power; Queen Victoria was aghast at having to accept him as her Prime Minister for a second term. A patrician cabinet was formed with the plum jobs of Foreign Secretary, Colonial Secretary and Secretary of State for India going to Lords Granville, Kimberley and Hartington. No one seemed to want the War Office while recent disasters were still front page news and it was reluctantly filled by the 52-year-old MP for Pontefract – Hugh Childers.

At the same time that changes were taking place in the Egyptian and British governments, events were about to push into the spotlight two Englishmen who would play key roles in the drama of the next 20 months. The first of these was Edward Malet, the new British Consul-General, who took up his duties in November 1879. Handsome and suave, Malet had been educated at Eton and followed his father, Sir Alexander Malet, into the well-mannered world of embassies and diplomatic intrigue. He dreamed one day of being ambassador in Berlin and eclipsing his father’s old posting at Frankfurt where 16-year-old Edward started his career. On his arrival in Cairo, after a stint at Constantinople, where he had been embassy secretary, the ‘placid, cold moon-like’ man was soon disliked by colleagues and it created a sensation when he made his first joke. Years later a colleague, who had known him since his teens, praised Malet’s discretion, but concluded he lacked imagination,

… nor any power of dealing on his own responsibility with occasions requiring strong action and prompt decision … Personally he was amiable, without being attractive and he had retained a certain boyishness of mind which in his unofficial moments was very apparent. His industry was great and his conduct irreproachable … He always preferred his work, however little interesting, to any form of amusement, and even when on leave would spend his spare afternoons copying despatches.11

Peter Mansfield has noted how Malet’s private letters ‘reveal an extraordinary lack of inner self-assurance combined with a powerful ambition’.12 His Egyptian despatches would be marred by a lack of critical judgment. Warned by statesmen like Lord Salisbury against any move that could encourage armed intervention in Egypt he still chose to ignore good advice. Initially he would support the army officers and try to steer nationalistic opinion down a European path. When events moved away from this route he would resort to misleading remarks to create an exaggerated picture in his despatches.

If Malet was to be the often hated mouthpiece and figurehead of British interference in Egyptian affairs then his éminence grise was Auckland Colvin. Later Malet would deny he was ever under Colvin’s spell but the denials and excuses seem lame. An Anglo-Indian, Colvin was appointed to replace Baring as Controller when the latter was made Financial Secretary to the Government of India. He comes across as a tough, no nonsense man, dismissive of orientals as ‘mere children in deceit’. Like Malet he was cautiously optimistic about Arabi and the nationalists, but once he had decided they must go he stuck firmly to that view. He was in a unique position to influence British public opinion since he was the Cairo correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette, mouthpiece of Liberal opinion and Gladstone’s favourite journal.

In some ways Malet and Colvin made an odd couple. The former was terribly sensitive to criticism and displayed neurotic tendencies while the latter was as steady as a rock. Somewhat oddly, Malet later described his mentor as ‘not a man of many words, nor had he a suave and all-embracing manner, but there was something about him which was attractive to those whom it did not repel’.13 (Author’s italics).

In Cairo it was all change in the army as Osman Rifky began appointing Circassians to colonelcies over the heads of senior and more competent Egyptians. He followed this with a recruitment law that limited active service to four years. This Act horrified native Egyptian officers because they knew soldiers from poor families could not reach officer rank by merit in so short a time. In January 1881, 40-year-old Abd-el Al Hilmi, commander of the 6th (Sudanese) Infantry Regiment heard that he was to be replaced by a much older Turco-Circassian officer. The same news was also received by Lt-Colonel Ahmed Abdul Ghaffar of the Cavalry Regiment. At a banquet on the evening of 16 January Colonel Ahmed Arabi (Urabi) of the 4th Infantry Regiment heard with alarm that he too, as a popular Egyptian commander, along with his friend, Colonel Ali Fehmy of the 1st Regiment of Guards, might also be dismissed. In his memoirs Arabi says that he had already avoided assassination attempts and his mood was jittery. Arriving home he found Al Hilmi and Fehmy waiting for him. A noisy and brash officer, Al Hilmi’s blood was up and he wanted to go to the war minister’s house and arrest or murder him. Arabi replied: ‘No, let us petition the Prime Minister, and then, if he refuses, the Khedive.’ His friends asked him to draw up the document. In it Arabi pointed out that nearly all native Egyptian officers had been dismissed from active service and there was not one non-Egyptian on the temporary retirement list. Osman Rifky, the petition concluded, must go and in future, military merit alone should decide who was worthy of promotion. All three officers then signed the document and it was delivered to the government the next day.

Riaz Pasha was no friend of Osman Rifky and did not want to see the three colonels dismissed so he let the matter drift. When it finally came up for discussion at a Council of Ministers meeting on 30 January an indignant Rifky argued for immediate punishment. The Khedive, who always had a soft spot for the Guards, swore they would be loyal to the throne. After much talk it was agreed to lure the three officers to the War Ministry on a pretext, then arrest and swiftly court martial them. Hearing on 1 February that they should meet with Rifky at the Ministry made a suspicious Arabi recall the old story of the Mamelukes in the citadel. ‘We were on our guard,’ he wrote later, ‘and made preparations necessary for our rescue.’14

Sure enough, when the three colonels entered the building as ordered they were seized, disarmed, insulted by several Circassians and put in custody. A court-martial, under the presidency of Stone Pasha hastily got under way. At the same time three Circassian officers set out to take command of their regiments. When Colonel Basmi, tried to take over the Guards he was promptly arrested by Major Muhammad Abaid, a young officer exceedingly loyal to Colonel Fehmy. A battalion of Guards now took up a position facing the Abdin Palace, while two other battalions surrounded the War Mininstry. About noon, on a pre-arranged signal, one battalion charged the building. There was no serious fighting, but some splendid scuffles, as tables and chairs were overturned and the Circassians inside fled for their lives. Osman Rifky only got away by jumping out of a window. To whoops and cheers the three colonels were carried shoulder-high out of the building to the Abdin Barracks. Sitting largely alone in a wrecked room General Stone tried to carry on with his ghost court-martial until someone pointed out everyone had left the building.

The scene at Abdin was repeated at the 6th Infantry barracks near Turah, south of Cairo, where Major Khadr Khadr locked up six officers hostile to Colonel Al Hilmi, left a company to watch over the prisoners and set off with the rest of the Sudanese for the city. Only in Arabi’s own regiment did a transfer of command take place but, as Scholch remarked: ‘Even then the regiment did not march against the rebellious soldiers.’ At the Abdin Barracks, after the troops had calmed down, Colonel Arabi thanked them and pointed out that their opposition had been legitimate. All they wanted, he told his deliverers, was justice and quality. He then wrote a letter to Baron de Ring, the French Consul, blaming Osman Rifky squarely for all that had happened and asking for the support of the European Powers. All three colonels signed this letter, while colleagues went and delivered a similar message to Raphael Borg, the British Vice-Consul.

Baron de Ring, along with Malet, rushed to see the Khedive. The mood of the meeting was bleak. Surrounded by his ministers and several generals Tewfik received a catalogue of bad news: not one single company of soldiers was willing to support him, the garrison of the citadel had gone over to the mutineers, attempts to prevent the Sudanese reaching Cairo had been in vain and the Circasians commanding Arabi’s regiment said it was proving difficult to keep the men confined to barracks. General Stone hopped around with impatience, his neat imperial bristling, and offered to take what Europeans he could find along with a volunteer company of Circassians and attack the Abdin Barracks. It was a suggestion that made Tewfik shudder and he firmly rejected it.

If no resistance could be offered then it was necessary to negotiate. This was the joint view of the British and French consuls. Malet personally thought the arrest plot had been ‘stupid’. Nursing dreams of revenge the Khedive accepted the diplomatic solution; Osman Rifky was dismissed and Mahmud Sami el-Barudi, a distinguished courtier from an old Circassian family, became the new War Minister. Up to that time he had little or no acquaintance with Ahmed Arabi but things would change dramatically in the coming months and Mahmud Sami was destined to be one of the intellectual powerhouses of the nationalist movement. He and Arabi would make a grand team – much to the distress of the British Consul-General. A good deal of Malet’s antagonism towards the Egyptian officers and the nationalist movement generally, described by him as ‘a cancerous growth’, seems to have been wrapped up in a dislike of Sami. He wrote 20 years later:

To me he was, I confess, very antipathetic. I did not like looking at him. He had small shifty eyes set in pink and white eyelids. Some people become thoroughly uncomfortable if there is a cat in the room. I fancy that the feeling they experience is much the same as what I felt when Sami Pasha was about.’15

In the barracks soldiers greeted the news of Rifky’s dismissal with cheers followed by shouts honouring the Khedive. The men, fearing for Arabi’s safety, would not let him go home that night. It was not until next day that he discovered his wife had given birth on the previous evening to a baby girl. Shortly after the delivery she had heard of her husband’s release and so named the child ‘Bushra’, meaning ‘Happy Message’.

The next 20 months were to be ones of great upheaval in Egypt. The hero of the times, at least in the eyes of the army rank and file, native-born officers, and vast numbers of ordinary Egyptians, was the unassuming commander of the 4th Infantry, Colonel Ahmed Arabi. Son of a village sheikh, Arabi was born at Horiyeh near Zagazig in 1841. His education began at the local mosque-school but an elder brother taught him to do sums. He went away to Cairo for further studies but in 1854, when Said Pasha was trying to get more sons of village notables into the army, Ahmed, now ‘a tall, well-grown lad’, gave up his education for the life of a soldier. The fact that he could read, write and do arithmetic now proved useful and an officer relative in his unit helped him gain the post of quartermaster of the 7th Co., 4th Battalion of the 1st Infantry Regiment. In 1857 he was made an officer. His superiors were so impressed with the young man that in a rapid series of promotions over the next three years he was a lieutenant-colonel by the tender age of 20. The American, General Dye, said Arabi would have made a good soldier in any army, and a duly impressed Said took him to Medina as his adjutant in 1861.

Later Arabi insisted that it was in the desert that Said Pasha prophesied the Egyptian nationalist movement. It was during this period that Arabi read the first non-religious book that impressed him – an Arabic Life of Napoleon. The book had belonged to Said who threw it dismissively on the ground with the words: ‘see how your countrymen let themselves be beaten!’ Arabi picked it up and read all that night. ‘Then I told Said Pasha that I had read it and that I saw that the French had been victorious because they were better drilled and organized, and that we could do as well in Egypt if we tried.’16

Active service in the Russo-Turkish War eluded him but during the Abyssinian campaign Arabi was in charge of the transport service between Massowa and the army. Mistakes made in this disastrous conflict, by TurcoCircassians like Ratib Pasha and Americans such as Loring, along with the poor treatment meted out to the Egyptian rank and file, haunted him. Officers and men alike were in arrears of pay and Arabi started to pay close attention to the grievances voiced by his troops. Later he wrote that ‘it was then I began to interest myself in politics’.17

What happened next is sketchy but Arabi seems to have started to get a name for himself among the top brass as the complaining type. This led to his discharge from the Army on charges of corruption, but these accusations were almost certainly trumped up (Arabi always lived off his Army pay, and his home and personal lifestyle, scrutinised upon his arrest in 1882, were found to be extremely modest). He was unemployed for a time, then got a job in the civil service. During this lean spell Arabi returned to attending lectures at the El Azhar Mosque in Cairo and gained a reputation for eloquence.

Marriage to a slave girl from the Royal harem, a happy union by all accounts, led to reinstatement in the army with his former rank. After the February 1879 fracas Arabi was accused of being a ringleader, but he hotly denied it, and he was separated from his regiment. By this time his hatred of Ismail was intense, as he freely admitted in his autobiography:

I proposed that we should … depose Ismail Pasha. It would have been the best solution of the case, as the Consuls would have been glad to get rid of Ismail in any way, and it would have saved after complications as well as the fifteen millions Ismail took away with him … The deposition of Ismail lifted a heavy load from our shoulders and all the world rejoiced, but it would have been better if we had done it ourselves as we could then have got rid of the whole family of Muhammad Ali, who were none of them, except Said, fit to rule, and we could have proclaimed a republic.18

This, then, was the colonel who emerged into the spotlight in 1881, a nationalist whose ideas were still developing, a non-intellectual who had slogged a quarter-century in the service of his country and became increasingly disgusted by most what he had seen. The events of February 1881, not surprisingly left him with little trust in the words of Tewfik or his ministers, but Arabi was no wild revolutionary. He had pledged his sword to the Ottoman Empire and fully accepted the Sultan as his Master under God. Perhaps it was an excellent knowledge of the Koran that made him seem so self-assured to his comrades; already some called him ‘Sheikh Arabi’, and as he increasingly became their spokesman and his fame grew, coupled with a genuine aura of humility and sanctity, men would call him ‘El Wahid’ – ‘The Only One’.

Europeans who met him were initially ready to write the colonel off as a peasant – ‘tall, heavy-limbed, slow-moving, dull-eyed, with a dreamy look on his plain features’. He failed to impress Malet who called him ‘a presentable-looking officer of the peasant type, thick-set, burly … but clumsy in his gait. It was easy to see that in the elasticity of youth he had probably been good-looking and, possibly, smart.’19