In September, 1888, it had been reported to my wife that, having made an attempt to escape, I had been recaptured, and taken back to Omdurman and executed. It was therefore very kind and considerate of the Intelligence Department to see the error rectified, but I venture to think that the sweets of the good news need not have been converted into gall and wormwood by telling her that I owed my release to my “assistance” in betraying the caravan of the loyal Sheikh Saleh into the hands of the dervishes. Even had there been any truth in such a statement, I think that an English lady might have been spared this unnecessary heart-pang. I thank God nightly—ay, hourly, that He has brought me alive from the hell I lived in, to rescue my wife from the hell she was thrown into with such reports as these. It must not be imagined, from the foregoing, that there is the slightest intention on my part to cast aspersions on the War Office or the Consulates. I place plain simple facts before you, and these because at the time when I was anxiously awaiting the return of my messengers, picturing to myself the efforts my friends were making to ensure success—though, as has been seen, they were very differently occupied—reports were being circulated that I refused to escape, and my wife in consequence was the recipient of numberless letters of sympathy, in which some were “praying to the Almighty to turn the heart of your erring husband,” while others were expressing the hope that the ties which bound her to me would soon be severed by my meeting my deserts at the hands of the Khaleefa’s |169| executioner! Those who prayed for me I thank; One who knew the truth, heard those prayers: those who condemned me I do not blame, and feel no resentment against; they merely believed what was communicated to the Press. |170| CHAPTER XIV A PRISONER AT LARGE