On the morning of the 18th they rested, placed their wounded in the small fort they had built, and buried their dead.  In the afternoon they continued their advance, marched all through the night, and, having covered twenty-three miles, halted exhausted, almost within sight of the river, at daylight on the 19th.  Meanwhile the enemy had again collected in great strength, and an effective rifle fire was opened on the column.  Sir Herbert Stewart received the wound of which a few weeks later he died.  The command devolved upon Sir Charles Wilson.  The position was desperate.  Water was running short.  The Nile was only four miles away; but the column were impeded by their wounded and stores, and between the river and the thirsty men lay the Dervish army, infuriated by their losses and fully aware of the sore straits to which their astonishing enemy was now reduced.

It now became necessary to divide the small force.  Some must remain to guard the baggage and the wounded; the others must fight their way to the water.  At three o’clock in the afternoon of the 19th, 900 men left the hastily made zeriba and marched towards the river.  Without their camels or those of the transport they appeared insignificant, a mere speck on the broad plain of Metemma.  The Dervishes hastened to clinch the matter.

The square advances slowly and painfully over the stony ground, with frequent jerky halts to preserve order and to pick up the wounded.  Little puffs of white smoke dot the distant sandhills.  Here and there a gaudy flag waves defiantly.  In front the green tops of the palm-trees by the Nile tantalise but stimulate the soldiers.  On the left the great mud labyrinth of Metemma stretches indefinitely.  Suddenly the firing stops.  The low scrub in front is alive with the swarming figures of the enemy.  All the flags dance forward together.  Ragged white figures spring up in hundreds.  Emirs on horses appear as if by magic.  Everywhere are men running swiftly forward, waving their spears and calling upon the Prophet of God to speed their enterprise.  The square halts.  The weary men begin to fire with thoughtful care, The Dervishes drop thickly.  On then, children of the desert! you are so many, they are so few.  They are worn with fatigue and their throats are parched.  You have drunk deeply of the Nile.  One rush will trample the accursed under the feet of the faithful.  The charge continues.  A bugle sounds in the waiting square.  The firing stops.  What is this?  They lose heart.  Their ammunition is exhausted.  On, then, and make an end.  Again the smoke ripples along the line of bayonets and fire is re-opened, this time at closer range and with far greater effect.  The stubborn grandeur of the British soldier is displayed by desperate circumstances.  The men shoot to hit.  The attack crumples.  The Emirs—­horse and man—­collapse.  The others turn and walk—­ for they will not run—­sullenly back towards the town.  The square starts forward.  The road to the river is open.  With dusk the water is reached, and never have victors gained a more longed-for prize.  The Nile is won.  Gordon remains.