Emperor Weber:
Hey guys, check these nutjobs out.
Link to Conspiracy Website
Basically, they think that the Mahdi was assassinated by an organization that was a precursor to the EIA, and continue, saying that just about every fortunate turn of events that happened for Ethiopia for the next 100 years was because of the EIA.
What loonies.
Tewodros2: What are they, insane? The Mahdi? What was that, 1880? :rofl:
Half-Shell: Early 1881, actually, and yeah, they are nuts! :rofl:
Excerpt - Enigma Entertainment WorldNetwork Forum Archives, June 19, 1994
Damn, I need a drink, thought Markos Jonathan Bell as he waded through the crowded camp. The camp was very crowded indeed, as it would be if an army of twenty thousand men from all over the Sudan were bivouacked in one spot. Khartum, the capital of the Mahdi’s empire. So naturally, there would be no drinks. While Markos knew that many of the Mahdi’s followers were far from perfect observers of the restrictions against alcohol set forth by the Qu’ran, they were not likely to break them in the presence of the Mahdi himself.
Which was unfortunate, because one of the things that Markos needed the most right now was a drink, a very cold one, preferably. One that would get him very drunk, as fast as humanly possible. His mission had been simple enough. Infiltrate the camp of the Mahdi, gain the Mahdists’ trust, and pass critical information back to the ESS and the Ethiopian Army via contacts. And Markos fit into the role of Egyptian adventurer and soldier, Abdul Hassan, quite well. But over the past few days, his mission had become decidedly more complicated. A month ago, the Emperor’s Army began moving into the Sudan itself, down the Nile. It was the perfect time, as the Mahdists had still not recovered from losing nearly their entire army during the Emperor’s relentless march from Tigray to the Red Sea coast. In addition to that, much of their soldiers were still in Kordufan and northern Buganda, instead of the heart of the Sudan. All the same, the Mahdists fanatically resisted every step the Empire‘s soldiers took into the Sudan, and the losses were horrendous. Things grew worse when two divisions of Egyptian regulars, freed from having to fight the British in the north, reinforced the Mahdist forces fighting in the harsh terrain of the Sudan. So it was decided that the time had come to break the Mahdist organization once and for all.
He had been preparing the way for the assassin to infiltrate the camp, but yesterday the assassin had been compromised. All of his contacts had been compromised as well, and they had all been beheaded. He was probably the only agent left in the Mahdi’s camp, facing a failed mission. What he had to do next would surely kill him, which was why he needed that drink.
It was suppertime, and the air was filled with the aromas of dozens of cuisines, and the smoke of thousands of cookfires. All twenty-thousand, it seemed, were now solely concentrating on shovelling food into their collective mouths. Someone offered Markos a plate consisting of a slab of fish, freshly caught from the Nile, and a heap of dried figs. Markos politely declined, in perfectly Egypt-accented Arabic, saying that he had already eaten. Which he had not. He kept moving between the cookfires and the groups of Mahdists that surrounded them, towards the centre of the camp, where the Mahdi himself was enjoying his meal. There he was, surrounded by his personal bodyguard, who were all armed with the latest breech-loaders. Undoubtedly taken from the Emperor’s own soldiers. The Mahdi was easy to recognize, as he was the only one in the camp to wear robes of pure white. Anyone else that wore a white robe had sewn patches of coloured cloth onto them, signifying that they were not pure, like the Mahdi purportedly was.
The Mahdi, damn him, was acting in complete moderation and serenity, and everyone within his immediate vicinity was doing so as well. When he spoke, the entire camp seemed to fall under his spell, enchanted. When he laughed, ten thousand laughed with him, and when he cried, grown men were in tears. Markos saw it in the eyes of each and every man there. They would gladly die for him, die for the Mahdi’s cause. They would follow him into the fiery depths of Hell itself, without hesitation. Be it they were black Africans from the al-Sudd or Arabs from the north. Animist tribesmen or devout Sunni Muslims. Whether they were Fuzzy Wuzzys, with their ridiculous hairstyles, or sleek, dark Dinkas. There were a thousand tribes and tongues in the deserts and the swamps of the Sudan, and the Mahdi had managed to unify them all. Against Ethiopia.
It was a shame that he had to die. It really was, as he seemed to be the only decent fellow in the whole camp. Throughout the weeks that Markos had been living and fighting alongside the Mahdists, he had not seen the man slip once. But he was an enemy of Ethiopia, and a powerful enemy, as well, and that was all the excuse that he needed. He caressed the derringer hidden away in his robes. He preferred something heavier and more accurate, but he needed concealment. He was at first very sceptical of the little pistol’s accuracy. Derringers were meant to be fired when your target was close enough for you to smell his breath. But this one was a compromise, somewhere between the easily concealable derringer and the more conventional and more accurate handgun. It was also far better manufactured, and more accurate than its smaller cousins.
He mentally lined up his shot, and determined that he could draw the pistol and blow the Mahdi’s head off before anyone could react from at least twenty-five yards away. What would happen next... He preferred not to dwell on that. But on the other hand, it would really be a shame to lose such a capable agent as himself so early in his career. Perhaps he needed another plan.
Just then, he saw his opportunity. Yusuf abd-Allah, an officer consisting of twenty parts hot air, and one part actual fighting ability, was bragging of his latest feats to his comrades. Markos did not really like him all that much. He had seen his type all too often back when he was just a low-grade officer in the Army of the Emperor of Ethiopia. People like Yusuf were universal in all armies across nation and era, it seemed.
“Greetings, Yusuf,” Markos greeted the ruddy-faced Arab, who looked and acted as if he were drunk, though he certainly was not.
“Ah, greetings, Abdul! I was just telling everybody about the time my men completely destroyed an infidel battalion! Thanks to my bravery and leadership, of course!”
Of course, Markos thought drolly. “Of course, my friend. May I take a look at that pistol?” Markos indicated one of the many pistols that Yusuf had attached to his belt. It was a new one that Markos had not seen on Yusuf’s person before.
“Very well, Abdul! This is the very one I took off of that Ethiopian battalion commander.” He handed the British-made firearm to Markos, who looked it over. It was standard for many of the higher-ranking officers in the Emperor’s Army, but somehow it seemed familiar to Markos. He suddenly wondered how his old
Shambal was doing.
“Congratulations on your successes, Yusuf. Though I am sorry to say that I missed the tale of how you came to acquire the pistol. Perhaps you could tell it to me.” He handed the pistol back to Yusuf, who took it in his hand.
That Yusuf proceeded to do, in boastful tones. To illustrate the vivid scenes of grandeur and glories that he described, he began to move his arms and body forcefully, as if feeling the story itself. He was always an enthusiastic storyteller, and incorporated all sorts of movements into his story. At one point in the tale, his arms kept swinging around in wide circumlocutions, just as Markos expected and wanted. At just the right moment, Markos took his chance. In a split-second, it was all over. The Mahdi slumped down, a small hole having suddenly appeared in his forehead, though Markos was unable to see it, due to the Mahdi and his bodyguards being sixty feet
behind him. What Markos could see was that Yusuf’s pistol just happened to be out there, in Yusuf's hand, facing directly towards where the Mahdi had been sitting.
The entire camp was stunned, most of all Yusuf. He stared at the pistol in his hand, and protested, “I swear, the gun did not fire!” Of course, it did not. But it did not matter, for the man next to Yusuf pushed him to the ground and beheaded him on the spot. No one tried to stop him. Shortly after, the Kalifah Abdullah ibn Muhammed, the Mahdi’s successor, announced that the Mahdi was indeed, dead. Anyone with eyes could see that.
Head shot, twenty yards, behind my back, without even looking, with a bloody derringer. Seven years, my ass. I’m better than I thought, thought Markos, very silently, as the camp raged into chaos around him. He joined in the chaos as well. No reason to stand out, after all. Entire tribes began leaving the camp, for without a Mahdi to lead them, they did not see why they should cooperate with people who had been their worst enemies before the Mahdi came. Though the Kalifah may try, he would never have the forceful charisma that Muhammad Ahmad had had.
The Mahdists were falling apart at the seams, and Khartum would undoubtedly become a bloodbath as the various factions fought against each other to lead the Mahdist movement. There were still two divisions of Egyptian regulars, of course, and taking the Sudan will be far from easy. But without the Mahdists to worry about any longer, it would be far easier.
Mission accomplished.
The sudden and accidental death of Muhammad Ahmad, more commonly known as the Mahdi, would prove to be a very great boon for the Army of the Emperor of Ethiopia, as it slogged its way down the Nile, through the Sudan. Within a week, the Mahdists were completely gone as an organized fighting force, and the remaining Egyptian regulars did not have the numbers to hold back the Ethiopian onslaught. Despite this, the Khartum Offensive would last for another six weeks, at the end of which the Ethiopian Army would have lost more than thirty thousand men to battle, desertion, and disease. But at the end of it, Ethiopia held Khartum, Atbarah, and Kuraymah, and was knocking on the doors of Dongola and Egypt itself.
Excerpt - The Military Campaigns of the Three-Corner War
