This edited article about General Gordon originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 705 published on 19 July 1975.

General Gordon of Khartoum by Graham Coton

In London, the bells were ringing to celebrate the arrival of the New Year. In houses, great and small, glasses were being raised, and in the streets people were linking arms to join in the singing of Auld Lang Syne. It was a time for jollity, of optimism and hope for a better and more prosperous year than the last. A time when the future was something to celebrate.

But far away in the besieged city of Khartoum there was no cause to celebrate the New Year for the very good reason that it promised only suffering and probably death for everyone behind its walls. For nearly three hundred days, the men, women and children there had been surrounded and hemmed in by an evergrowing army of rebels under the control of the fanatical Mahdi, the self-styled Messiah of the Mohammedans.

Already the situation seemed hopeless. The streets swept by shell fire; rations down to the barest minimum for survival; hundreds already carried away by disease; troops continually deserting; the city held daily with the greatest difficulty and loss of life; communications with the outside world completely cut off: it was hardly surprising that those who still survived saw no reason to celebrate that first day of 1885.

It was, sadly, a situation which would not have occurred but for the stubborn pride of General Gordon, who had been sent to the Sudan charged with a commission to withdraw the British from the Egyptian garrisons of Suakin, Berber and Khartoum. Instead, on arriving at Khartoum, he had decided that its fall would inevitably lead to a widespread revolt and the eventual control of the whole of the Sudan by the Mahdi.

Fearing nothing, and convinced that he was an instrument in the hands of God, he had decided to hold Khartoum. After coming to this decision, he wrote cheerfully in his Journal: “I own to having been very insubordinate to Her Majesty’s Government and its officials, but it is my nature, and I cannot help it. I know if I was chief I would never employ myself, for I am incorrigible.” The possible fate of those under his care apparently did not seem to have worried him unduly.

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This edited article about Toussaint Louverture originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 703 published on 5 July 1975.

Toussaint Louverture and his forces fought back against the British when they invaded St Domingue, by C L Doughty

Toussaint Louverture’s dark eyes flamed with fury as he wheeled his horse around the Place d’Armes at Le Cap on a late September day in 1801. Transfixed, the rebel soldiers quailed. For several minutes, Toussaint circled the Place, a small skinny figure, his protruding jaw giving his gaunt face a look of menace. Then, he spoke, his voice tearing through the silence that pervaded the square.

“Look at me!” Toussaint shricked. “I unshackle you from slavery to the French planters here in St. Domingue. I led you to victory over our French, Spanish and English enemies. And how do you repay me? With treachery! You will be punished, as Moise, your leader, will be punished!”

Toussaint reined in his horse and fixed one of the rebel officers with a malevolent gaze. “Traitor! Brigand!” Toussaint yelled. “Draw your pistol and shoot yourself!”

As if spellbound, the officer raised his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. As he fell lifeless to the ground, Toussaint moved on. He stopped again. “You, too!” he roared at another rebel officer. “You don’t deserve to live!” A second pistol shot rang out. A second body slumped onto the stones of the square. Minute by minute, it went on, with Toussaint screaming out the command for suicide and his victims obliging without demur. Corpses lay scattered all over the square before Toussaint was finished. Not once had any of the rebels attempted to save himself by shooting Toussaint instead.

No man can have greater power over other men than to order them to kill themselves and be obeyed. Yet Toussaint Louverture was the most unlikely of candidates for such a role. For Toussaint, an Afro-Caribbean, was born that basest, most degraded of creatures, a slave, one of the millions whom white men put to ceaseless toil on the sugar, cotton, coffee, indigo and other plantations of the New World two centuries ago.

However, unlike the great majority of slaves in St. Domingue, the French Caribbean colony now known as Haiti, Toussaint and his family were lucky. Their master did not beat, torture and starve them as other French planters did. Instead, he treated them humanely, and when he saw that Toussaint was unusually intelligent and capable, he gave him responsible work to do, as steward of his livestock.

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This edited article about the Zulus originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 691 published on 12 April 1975.

Massacre of the Zulu army at Ulundi by James E McConnell

It seemed as if a silence had fallen upon the South African battlefield of Isandhlwana. In fact, the intermittent popping of rifles and the groans of wounded men just seemed like silence after the roar of British volleys and the crash of cannon.

Suddenly the Zulu warriors realized that their red-coated foes were out of ammunition. All around lay heaps of dead and wounded Zulus, while further back hundreds of dark-skinned warriors crouched in the long grass, stunned by the ferocity of British rifle-fire.

All at once, a tall Zulu warrior leapt to his feet and cried out:

“Cetywayo has not ordered us to run away!” and with a single terrifying shout, the Zulus sprang forward.

This army of Zulus, these “impis” so feared and respected by the British, was no disorganized horde of savages. They were a disciplined army of experienced fighting men who learned fast. Though the British had field-guns at Isandhlwana on the 22nd January 1879, these were of little use against the quick-witted Africans. The Zulu impis immediately realized that when the British gunners stood to one side, the gun was about to fire. At that moment, they would throw themselves to the ground.

But now the British were out of ammunition and the Zulus could at last close with their broad-bladed assegai stabbing spears.

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This edited article about Julius Wernher originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 690 published on 5 April 1975.

De Beers diamond merchants found their precious gemstones in the diamond mines of Kimberley, by John Henry Frederick Bacon

Sir Julius Wernher, head of De Beers great South African diamond combine, was a very worried man. One day in 1906, a report reached him that a Frenchman named M. Lemoine had discovered a way of making first-class diamonds at a cost of less than a penny apiece.

Diamonds are costly because of their scarcity. To flood the market with mass-produced man-made diamonds would ruin De Beers and the world’s diamond industry almost overnight.

Sir Julius acted promptly. He arranged a meeting at which Lemoine was to demonstrate his process to Sir Julius and a number of his friends, all leading figures in the diamond industry. Their idea was that if Lemoine could convince them of the truth of his claim, it would be well worth trying to buy him out at his own price.

On an appointed day, the party assembled in Lemoine’s laboratory. As a precaution against trickery, Sir Julius insisted that Mr. Jackson, an expert employed by De Beers, should mix the chemicals. This was agreed to, and under Lemoine’s instruction Jackson mixed the ingredients in a crucible and placed the crucible in an electric furnace.

At the end of half-an-hour, the crucible was withdrawn and allowed to cool. The solidified mass was then broken up by Mr. Jackson and, to the onlookers’ amazement, a number of fine, uncut diamonds were revealed. The smiling M. Lemoine then invited Sir Julius himself to do the mixing for a second trial. The result was even more successful for, this time, more than twenty fine diamonds were produced.

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This edited article about Rene Caillie originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 689 published on 29 March 1975.

Rene Caillie in search of Timbuktu by Angus McBride

The young French boy read on, lost to his humdrum surroundings. His imagination, through the pages of the book, had already transported him to mysterious, far-off places. Little did he know that one day, he would actually be setting forth on a journey that other travellers had declared to be impossible.

The most comfortable place to curl up with a good book was the bakehouse. It was warm, the smells were inviting and the ten-year-old Rene had a secret hideout behind the sacks of flour where he could read undisturbed for hours. His father grumbled that he did not help more in the bakery but Rene knew the exact time to come out of hiding and work hard for half an hour in order to avoid a beating.

On this day, however, his usual good sense deserted him. He was so absorbed in his book that he quite forgot the time and even failed to hear the shouts of rage when he did not appear. Only when the sacks were suddenly shifted and his father’s angry face appeared, did he realise that he was in trouble.

“Give me that book!” roared his father. Rene reluctantly handed over his precious copy of Robinson Crusoe, only to watch, horrified, as his father muttered “Trash” and sent it spinning towards the ovens. Regardless of the consequences, Rene bounded over and rescued it, shaking with fear and anger. But the expected fight to keep his most valued book never came. He was saved by the urgent need to get on with the jobs he should have done over the last half hour.

Rene Caillie never forgot the incident because it was reading Robinson Crusoe, he said, which changed the course of his life. Although he was only the son of a poor family in Western France, he determined to find fame as a traveller and explorer. In an era when well organised parties, backed by learned societies and rich patrons were filling in the empty spaces on the maps of the world, Rene set off, alone and almost penniless, to tackle the dangers of the Sahara desert.

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This edited article about the Boers’ Great Trek originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 686 published on 8 March 1975.

Andries Potgieter leading Boer families on the Great Trek by Angus McBride

Chaka, the bloodthirsty king of the Zulus was dead, slain in 1828 by his half-brother Dingaan, but the slaughter was to continue in South Africa for many years to come. One of Chaka’s generals, Moselekatse, had broken away with his own army of 14,000 Matabele warriors and was pursuing an independent campaign of destruction through the country of the Bechuana people, which lay between the Vaal and Orange rivers.

In 1833, to the indignation of the Boers, the British declared, slavery to be illegal in South Africa. Boer farmers were compensated for the loss of their farm workers, and many freed slaves stayed on as paid servants. Nevertheless, numbers of Boers, still resenting the presence of the British in the Cape, preferred their independence and decided to trek into the unknown interior and found new countries for themselves.

There were only a hundred in the first party of the Great Trek, which set off in 1835. With all their possessions stowed into thirty lumbering wagons, each drawn by a team of up to eighteen oxen, and a host of slaves and servants, they made their slow way north-eastwards across the hot, dusty, shadeless veld, at a pace which was never more than two miles an hour.

On reaching the mountains on the northern edge of the veld, the party divided. Some turned eastwards to find a way to the coast. Only two got through. The rest died of fever or were killed by natives. The other party made their way down to the fever-infested valley of the Limpopo and their fate was equally tragic. All but a few died of malaria, and the cattle were killed by tsetse fly.

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This edited article about Hannibal originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 682 published on 8 February 1975.

Hannibal’s elephants crossed the Rhone believing they were on terra firma because the rafts were covered with earth, by Severino Baraldi

The great general was preparing to sacrifice an animal before setting out to fight the Romans, when his nine-year old son came to him and asked if he could accompany him to the wars. Hamilcar looked down at the boy, led him to the altar, and killed the beast to make sure of success. Then he told his son Hannibal to put his hand on the dead animal and swear that he would never forget as long as he lived that Rome was the deadly enemy of their city, Carthage. Young Hannibal swore, and all his life he honoured his oath.

He grew up to become one of history’s greatest fighting generals, yet all we know about him was written by his enemies. But the Roman propaganda machine could not hide his greatness, not least because so many of his opponents admired him. He is best remembered because he was the first – and last – to lead elephants over the Alps as part of an army, but there was far more to him than that. He lived from 247 to 182 B.C., when the two great super-powers of Rome and Carthage were battling it out for supremacy of the Mediterranean.

Carthage, situated near the present city of Tunis, had dominated the Mediterranean for several centuries. Its people, fine sailors and keen traders, had only one weakness: they preferred a luxurious life to fighting, and hired others to do their dirty work for them. Not that this would have mattered if a master race had not arisen in central Italy who by 280 B.C. controlled nearly all Italy from their city of Rome. At this time the Romans were tough citizen farmers, believing in law and order and enforcing both with a superb army. The luxury came more than a century later.

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This edited article about Africa originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 677 published on 4 January 1975.

Ian Smith signs Rhodesia’s UDI (inset) as black freedom fighters listen on the radio, by John Keay

During the last twenty years the wind of change has blown dramatically through the continent of Africa, and the white colonial powers have been deposed almost everywhere from the dominant place they had occupied for over a hundred years.

Much of Africa has had less than a decade and a half of freedom from European powers. In 1970 seventeen nations celebrated their first ten years of independence. Ghana, the first black colony to gain freedom, altered her name from the Gold Coast and has been self-governing since 1957. Many other African States have since changed their names, among them the former French Sudan, now Mali, the old Belgian Congo, now Zaire, and Britain’s Basutoland has become the Kingdom of Lesotho.

Recently Portugal’s new government announced the decolonisation of her African territories Angola, Guinea (Bissau) and Mozambique, and now that the people of these countries are to ‘take into their own hands their destinies’, the only large areas left which are still ruled by white men are the Republics of South Africa and Rhodesia, and South West Africa.

The Republic of South Africa (471,445 square miles), with some three million whites in complete domination over some twelve million non-whites, is not only the most powerful but also the most advanced country in Africa. Their government operates a policy of apartheid which means a separate life for black and white. Black people are not allowed to mix with white people, and even the glorious beaches with the Atlantic on the west coast and the Indian Ocean on the east are divided into sections. The African is allowed to work in the cities but not allowed to live in the same house as a white person, and if his place of work is in a city such as Johannesburg, he is made to live in townships specially created for the blacks, where usually a million men, women and children are herded together.

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This edited article about Barney Barnato originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 676 published on 28 December 1974.

Barney Barnato realised he had walked all the way to Kimberley

Everyone knew there were diamonds in South Africa. Not just ordinary diamonds, but massive gems that were just waiting to be picked up like pebbles from a beach. Men had made themselves rich for life in just half an hour. Wilder and wilder grew the stories from the diggings and soon every ship that arrived at Port Elizabeth and Cape Town was packed with prospectors eager to lay their hands on any sort of transport that would carry them the 600 miles to the get-rich-quick township of Kimberley.

It cost £40 to hire a coach that would cover the distance in comfort, £12 for a place on a bone-shaking ox wagon. But so far as 20-year-old Barney Barnato was concerned, both were hopelessly beyond his means. He had landed in South Africa in the summer of 1873 with barely enough money for food, let alone transport, yet he wandered up and down the sand-covered streets with cheerful optimism. The son of a poor Jewish family that had scraped up a living buying and selling old clothes off London’s Commercial Road, he was used to bargaining. Sooner or later he’d find someone who’d come down to his price.

Finally he succeeded.

“Ja. I take you for five pounds.” The Boer wagon driver studied his customer with amusement, seeing a youngster who was only five feet three inches tall, with golden hair and wearing small, wire framed spectacles. Then he added hastily, “But your food you find yourself. Also I have only six oxen, and they are old. So when there is bad going you walk, yes?”

“That’s all right. So long as you show me the way.”

It was an agreement, and Barney Barnato stuck to it. Even though, when he finally arrived at Kimberley two months later, he realised it had been bad going all the way and he had walked the whole six hundred miles.

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This edited article about African deserts originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 676 published on 28 December 1974.

Drillng for oil in the African desert

Much of Africa contains some of the most hazardous, dangerous and difficult country to be found anywhere in the world. The deserts are awe-inspiring, and a large proportion of this huge continent is desert or semi-desert.

The sands of the Sahara stretch from the Red Sea to the Atlantic, and isolate the coastal regions of the Mediterranean Sea from the rest of Africa below the equator. From north to south the Sahara extends for about 1000 miles, and in its 3000 miles span west to east it is broken only once where the River Nile spills over from the lakes of Central Africa – it is truly a desert on a vast scale.

The Sahara includes the Western desert of Egypt and the Libyan desert. It is not all flat or all fierce heat, as there are mountains with peaks of up to a thousand feet where one can freeze to death. There are also oases with thousands of palms where the air is moist, but most of the desert is hot and arid, and some areas are so blindingly hot that no man or beast can survive there.

In Arabic, Sahara means nothing, emptiness or wilderness, and the people of the desert, the Tuareg, Berbers, Bedouin and other tribes are the nomads who wander from one oasis to another. For centuries the Tuareg ruled the central Sahara by robbing the camel caravans.

It is estimated that the Sahara desert has a total population of two million, which would seem a lot, but as it is about two-and-a-half million square miles it only represents an average of one person to a square mile.

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