Still, valuable as this help was in completing the rout of the Dervishes, and driving them off finally beyond the hills to the west, there is no doubt that the repulse of the enemy was already a _fait accompli_ long before the British battalions had wheeled to the right and traversed the long distance--at least one and a half miles--between their position near the river and the rear of our advance on the right. Colonel Macdonald had proved once more his sterling qualities as a leader. The Sudanese had shown that they could stand absolutely steady under a prolonged fire as well as rush impetuously to an attack. The "Gyppies," who in the old days of El Teb and Hicks Pasha's disaster threw away their rifles and were butchered as they fled or knelt to beg for mercy--these very Fellahin soldiers, now disciplined and taught the value of self-respect by British officers, fired regular volleys and stood firm as a rock against the stream of Dervishes which threatened every moment to engulf them. I noticed, by the way, one very smart bit of fighting during the movement in support of Macdonald. The brigade under Colonel Maxwell advanced almost directly upon Gebel Surgham, and a number of Sudanese were ordered to clear the hill of Dervishes. Up went the blacks like monkeys. The whole eastern slope of Surgham was dotted with little white puffs of smoke as the lithe creatures leapt from boulder to boulder and drove the enemy before them. At the top of the hill the surviving Dervishes, under the Emir Osman Azrak, made a desperate stand, but were killed to a man. It was not till nearly midday that "Cease fire" again sounded, and the victorious march to Omdurman was resumed. Scattered bands of Dervishes were to be seen in the distance, making westward to the shelter of the hills. Upon the rear of these fugitives the Egyptian cavalry was let loose; and as they galloped away to the right, and cut up the stragglers, they felt, no doubt, that they were getting some sort of compensation for their bad luck in the early morning. Captain Smeaton lent me his field glasses, which were more powerful than my own, and far away in front, on a ridge of rock, safe from cavalry and rifle bullets, I saw a little band of Dervishes--some sixty in all--painfully making their way to the west. With the fine binoculars in my hand I could even see the faces of the poor wretches, the majority of whom seemed to be wounded. Some limped along unaided over the rough hillside, others were supported by their comrades. How many hundreds, nay, thousands, of these wounded Dervishes ultimately succumbed to the fearful injuries inflicted by the "man-stopping" bullet, no one, I suppose, will ever know accurately; but one may be tolerably sure that behind the hills many a poor creature lay down to die.