There Is No Power In Europe Which The Average
Englishman Regards With Less Animosity Than France.
Nevertheless, on this
matter all were agreed.
They should go. They should evacuate Fashoda,
or else all the might, majesty, dominion, and power of everything that
could by any stretch of the imagination be called 'British' should be
employed to make them go.
Those who find it difficult to account for the hot, almost petulant,
flush of resolve that stirred the nation must look back over the long
history of the Soudan drama. It had always been a duty to reconquer the
abandoned territory. When it was found that this might be safely done,
the duty became a pleasure. The operations were watched with extravagant
attention, and while they progressed the earnestness of the nation
increased. As the tides of barbarism were gradually driven back, the old
sea-marks came one after another into view. Names of towns that were half
forgotten - or remembered only with sadness - re-appeared on the posters,
in the gazettes, and in the newspapers. We were going back. 'Dongola,'
'Berber,' 'Metemma' - who had not heard of them before? Now they were
associated with triumph. Considerable armies fought on the Indian Frontier.
There was war in the South and the East and the West of Africa. But England
looked steadfastly towards the Nile and the expedition that crawled forward
slowly, steadily, unchecked, apparently irresistible.
When the final triumph, long expected, came in all its completeness
it was hailed with a shout of exultation, and the people of Great Britain,
moved far beyond their wont, sat themselves down to give thanks to
their God, their Government, and their General. Suddenly, on the chorus of
their rejoicing there broke a discordant note. They were confronted with
the fact that a 'friendly Power' had, unprovoked, endeavoured to rob them
of the fruits of their victories. They now realised that while they had
been devoting themselves to great military operations, in broad daylight
and the eye of the world, and prosecuting an enterprise on which they had
set their hearts, other operations - covert and deceitful - had been in
progress in the heart of the Dark Continent, designed solely for the
mischievous and spiteful object of depriving them of the produce of their
labours. And they firmly set their faces against such behaviour.
First of all, Great Britain was determined to have Fashoda or fight;
and as soon as this was made clear, the French were willing to give way.
Fashoda was a miserable swamp, of no particular value to them. Marchand,
Lord Salisbury's 'explorer in difficulties upon the Upper Nile,'
was admitted by the French Minister to be merely an 'emissary of
civilisation.' It was not worth their while to embark on the hazards and
convulsions of a mighty war for either swamp or emissary. Besides, the plot
had failed. Guy Fawkes, true to his oath and his orders, had indeed reached
the vault; but the other conspirators were less devoted.
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