The Great Fight
Rumaliza takes the Field--Exit Mabruki--Tom checks a Rout--Mbutu
Protests--The Great Zariba--Coming to Grips--Beaten Off--The Second
Attack--Tom in the Breach--Rumaliza’s Last Charge--The Eight
Hundred--Nemesis
When morning broke in cold and mist, the scene showed how complete had
been the surprise of the camp, and how one-sided the fight. More than
two hundred men lay dead and wounded within the two stockades, and Tom’s
heart bled as he realized how helpless he was to do anything effectual
for those whose wounds were serious. His own losses had been very
slight; many of the men had nothing but insignificant bruises and cuts
to show, only a few had been killed. All the equipment of the camp, and
a large quantity of arms and ammunition, had fallen into his hands,
forming a very welcome addition to his resources. He estimated that the
captured rifles and muskets would enable him to arm nearly six hundred
men.
With the morning light came the katikiro with a hundred of his men. He
was wild with delight at the discomfiture of the Arabs’ scheme, and
furious with rage at the trick played upon him, which, but for Tom’s
vigilance and energy, would probably have succeeded only too well.
Despatching three hundred men in pursuit of the Arab force, with orders
to bring back what prisoners they could, Tom led the katikiro aside and
questioned him on the extraordinary mistake he had made. Msala said
that, on the evening of the day on which Kuboko started for the forest,
a messenger had come into the village from an Arab force two marches
away demanding its surrender.
"I cut off his head," said Msala simply.
Tom started, but the moment was not opportune for a reprimand.
"What happened then?" he asked.
"Nothing. I posted sentries as you bade me; nothing happened."
"Where was Mabruki?"
"He heard the man’s message and saw me cut his head off, and he said he
would go into the fields and search for herbs and charms to keep the
village safe."
"And you let him go?"
"What could I do, master? Mabruki is a strong man, and the people would
have grumbled if I had not let him go on such a good errand."
"Always a moral coward, Msala," said Tom to himself. "Well, what then?"
"He came back at dead of night with his herbs. Next day came the
messenger from you, showing me the rag with the mark. I sent him back
to you. I did not wish to send him, I thought he was tired, but Mabruki
said send him, for he would know the way, and would tell you himself
that his errand was fulfilled."
"I sent no messenger; that man never reached me. Go on."
"Then I sent the second message to say how weak I should be without the
eight hundred. I did not tell Mabruki, for I thought he would be
offended."
"No doubt."
"And then I sent the eight hundred men to the burning mountain, as you
bade me. And that is all I know till I saw the Arabs coming from the
north and making their camp. I was ready to fight. I sent off another
messenger to you; but you came, O Kuboko, and you have smitten them like
hares."
"I do not understand it yet. Where is Mabruki now?"
"I left him burning grass in honour of your victory."
"Very well. Go back to the village and keep a watch over him. Don’t
let him escape."
The katikiro returned, with a very crestfallen look, to the village.
Tom then gave orders that the Arab camp should be destroyed after
everything of any value had been removed. By and by his three hundred
returned in twos and threes, bringing with them prisoners captured on
the confines of the forest. From one of these, an Arab, Tom succeeded
with some trouble in extracting information about the previous movements
of the force to which he belonged. He found that, about a week before
the main body of the Arabs had left their stronghold, a smaller force of
one thousand picked men had started under the leadership of De Castro,
all armed with firearms. Their destination was not known when they set
out, but they had approached the village by a circuitous route through
the forest, some thirty miles to the west of the route adopted by the
main force. Their object was to surprise the village after its
defenders had been decoyed away. De Castro had not reckoned on finding
any force in the village, believing that its full strength would, by the
time he arrived, have been drawn into the forest. What had happened
after his messenger failed to return, this prisoner did not know.
Questioning him further, Tom was rewarded with information of the
greatest interest and importance. The Arab stronghold lay many marches
to the north-west, on an island in the middle of a lake. It was
strongly fortified, and so cleverly concealed that no one could suspect
from the shore that the island was anything but a wilderness of bush and
trees. The forest surrounding the lake was dense, broken here and there
by clearings where slaves were kept. The officials of the Congo State
had never once made their appearance there. No path led through the
forest to the shore. The Arabs reached the lake by a river, their canoes
being kept on the island and paddled out and in when required. No white
man had ever seen this fortress--stay, one white man was probably there
now. On the way towards the village De Castro’s force had met a big
red-faced man with brown hair all over his face, four eyes, two of them
stuck on wires of gold, and a stomach like a tub. They had captured
with him several bags containing all sorts of curious and useful things,
and four donkeys. He had blustered and stormed, saying many things in a
strange tongue, but De Castro had ordered him to be carried in bonds to
the fortress, to be kept there until the return of the expedition.
Tom could not help smiling as he thought of Herr Schwab, so full of
confidence and cheerful assurance, kept a prisoner in the Arab
stronghold.
"And who is your leader?" he asked the man.
It was Rumaliza himself, he replied. He was an old man, much broken
since his last great fight with the Belgians, but retaining still all
his indomitable spirit. He was actually accompanying the force through
the forest; for he seemed persuaded that the final crisis of his life
had come, and he wished to superintend the inevitable fight and match
his known skill and craft against the white man, who, rumour said, was
pitting himself against him. With Rumaliza came his tried lieutenant,
Ahmed. Mustapha would probably have come also, but for the failure of
his ambush against the British force, which had somewhat shaken the old
chief’s confidence in him. He had been left in charge of the island
fortress. There were not many men left with him, but an expedition
which had been sent out several months before to the north was long
overdue when De Castro’s column started, and Rumaliza would probably
leave these men behind to strengthen Mustapha’s garrison.
All this acted like wine upon Tom’s spirit. Rumaliza himself, the chief
whose name was everywhere held in horror as a synonym for cruelty,
fraud, cunning, and barbarous valour, was leading his host forth on an
enterprise on which he staked all! Tom’s imagination was stirred at the
prospect of meeting the redoubtable chief, and still more at the news of
the mysterious island fortress.
From another prisoner, an Arab of higher rank, he obtained, later in the
day, particulars which enabled him to piece together a coherent story of
the attempted ruse. De Castro had waited and waited for his messenger
to return, fuming at his delay, and vowing to teach him a lesson. At
length a Muiro appeared, who explained that the man was dead, but
brought an offer from the medicine-man to treat. De Castro had gone
forward after dark and met Mabruki. This, Tom conjectured, was the time
when the katikiro had supposed him to be gathering herbs. The prisoner
had himself accompanied the Portuguese to the rendezvous, ten miles from
the village, and had heard the terms of the compact. Mabruki had
promised to get rid by a trick of the greater part of the katikiro’s
force. The Portuguese would find it easy then to enter the village.
The katikiro would be cut in pieces, after which the white man was to be
inveigled back and handed to De Castro. In return for these services
Mabruki was to receive a present of ivory, and to be allowed to make
himself chief in Mwonga’s stead, thus getting possession (Tom supplied
the detail from his own knowledge) of the store of ivory and treasure
which lay beneath the chief’s hut. It was evident that only the
katikiro’s after-thought, to send a second messenger into the forest,
had foiled the plot.
There were still two points that puzzled Tom. The first was, why had
not De Castro gone direct to the village instead of camping within a
mile of it, three hours before sunset? The Arab explained that his chief
had acted in the teeth of the advice of his lieutenants. They were all
for proceeding without delay. It was sheer indolence, so characteristic
of the Portuguese, and overweening self-confidence, that had determined
De Castro to rest after his march and enjoy his evening meal in peace,
deferring the attack until dawn. The other point was: How had the
medicine-man got possession of the paper? The Arab knew nothing about
this, Msala was equally in the dark, and Tom resolved to question
Mabruki himself and probe the plot to the bottom.
Having now a pretty clear idea of the course of events, Tom returned to
the village, where the people were holding high festivities in honour of
the great victory. Tom did not check the mirth of the non-combatants,
but he gathered the fighting-men together and told them gravely that the
hardest fight of all was still before them. A few minutes after his
return Msala came to him boiling with rage.
"Mabruki is gone!" he said. "While I was away he gathered his basket
and bell and piles of charms and fetish-grass, and went away towards the
setting sun. Many men saw him go, but they feared his evil eye and the
might of his magic, and none dared to stay him."
"Well, we are rid of a villain, and I am spared the necessity of
employing a hangman."
"A hangman!" cried the indignant katikiro. "I would myself have cut off
his head, though all his devils plagued me for ever after."
"Msala," said Tom gravely, "that sort of thing will not do. Have I been
with you so long, and yet you are ignorant of the true way of justice?
You will think better of it when your anger has passed away, my friend."
Msala was silent.
"Now, we have no time to waste," Tom went on. "We have had a little
rest, and there is the great fight before us in the forest. We must
have the men back from the burning mountain. Mbutu, I will send your
brother for them. He will go to the volcano and bring back the eight
hundred men there. On reaching the village they must rest for a short
time; then, Msala, you will send six hundred of them on with all speed
northwards, along with two hundred fresh men. The rest will remain with
you to defend the village."
This having been arranged, soon after twelve o’clock Tom led his men out
towards the north. He had expected a messenger to come in with news
from the force he had left in the forest, and he could not but regard
his non-arrival as an indication that the men were at least holding
their own. After a march of nearly five hours he reached the largest
block-house, which stood two miles from the edge of the forest. He found
that, though firing had been heard in the distance, no message had been
received from the front, and after his troops had made a rapid meal he
hurried on.
He had not gone far before he heard irregular firing ahead. Hastening
his pace he soon saw, amid the scrub and thin copses at the extreme edge
of the forest, scattered bodies of men approaching in the direction of
the block-house. Keen as his eyesight was, he could not distinguish
whether the men were friends or foes, but some of his own troops at once
exclaimed that they were Bahima. The men he had left in the forest were
evidently, then, retreating, but the firing showed that they were
retiring slowly, fighting, as he had commanded them, every inch of the
way. He at once made dispositions to prevent a rout, and to give his
men a strong position to retire upon. Sending out a small body of
picked men to rally the retreating troops, he ordered the seventy
spademen he had with him to throw up a rough breastwork behind which the
musketeers might take secure aim. The work was only half-completed when
loud shouts, with the boom-boom of trade guns and the sharper crack of
rifles, showed that the Arabs were pressing hard upon the retreating
Bahima. Suddenly a larger body of men emerged in confusion from the
dense scrub, followed closely by another body evidently in hot pursuit.
The retreat would soon have become a rout, for the Bahima were
outflanked and outnumbered, and the Arabs, assured of victory, were
pressing hard upon them, with exultant cries, and the manifest
determination, as soon as the whole of their force had debouched, to
finish the struggle with a crushing charge. But the opportune arrival
of the small rallying force sent forward by Tom enabled the retreating
troops to draw off in comparatively good order. The reinforcements
occupied a small copse on the extreme right of the Arab advance, and
from this place of vantage they poured in so harassing a fire that the
enemy, taken by surprise and fearing a trap, halted, undecided whether
to press forward or retire, in the meantime taking what cover the ground
afforded. The few minutes’ respite was all that was needed to enable
Tom to withdraw his discomfited troops behind the breastwork, and when
the Arabs made up their minds to clear the copse they found it deserted.
They then showed some disposition to advance against Tom’s main
position, but, meeting a sharp musketry fire, they changed their minds
and prepared to form a camp, from which Tom concluded that they had
decided to postpone their attack in force until they had surveyed the
ground and taken a rest.
It was now past five o’clock, and little more than half an hour of
daylight was left. The Arabs had had a hard day’s work. They had found
the ford so stoutly defended that a passage at that point was
impossible, and they had had to march for some miles before they found
another fordable place, and then to cut their way through dense forest,
harassed all along by the persistent Bahima. Thus they were much in
need of rest. To attack by night, moreover, is foreign to all the
Arab’s habits and traditions, and Tom recognized thankfully that he had
the whole night in which to prepare for the fateful conflict.
Obviously, with a force so largely outnumbered by the enemy, he could
not afford to risk a fight in the open. The questions occurred to him:
Suppose he took up a strong defensive position, could he tempt the Arabs
to attack him directly? was there no danger of their creeping round on
his right and overwhelming the village? The first question he easily
answered. The Arabs had come purposely to attack him, and all that he
had ever seen or heard about them warranted the belief that they would
waste no time in tactics, but would come on in a furious onslaught,
trusting to sheer weight of numbers to carry them through. The second
question gave him more difficulty; but when he remembered that in order
to reach the village without fighting him the Arabs would have to make a
detour of nearly twenty miles, through a country already stripped of
food and waterless, with the danger of their rear being harassed all the
way, he regarded such a movement as very improbable, and decided that
the approaching battle would in all likelihood be fought on ground of
his own choosing.
He had already marked what seemed to him an ideal spot for such an
encounter. Extending for nearly a mile into the plain, there lay, to
the west of the path into the forest, an extensive swamp, fringed with
thick reeds, and so much swollen by the recent rains that it was bound
to present great difficulty to an advancing enemy. He resolved to form
during the night a strong zariba, resting one side of it upon this
swamp. He ordered his men, therefore, to remove all the ammunition and
provisions from the block-house to the edge of the swamp, and to obtain
a good supply of water from a stream running across the plain half a
mile in his rear, and then to set fire to the block-house, which could
not be held if seriously attacked, and yet might prove a source of
danger if left as a means of cover for the enemy. Collecting, then, his
whole force, he led them to the swamp, and set a large number digging a
trench and erecting an earthwork around three sides of a square, each
face being about one-fifth of a mile in length. Another body he ordered
to collect mimosa-scrub and cactus from the clumps in the neighbourhood,
to plant these in the earthwork, and to weave among them all kinds of
thorn-plants, so as to make a thick hedge, almost impervious to bullets.
It was dark before the task was weir begun, but posting a number of
pickets and sentries round his position, to prevent any interference on
the part of the enemy, he got some thirty of his men to light the
workers with torches, which, being seen extended over a large area,
would no doubt also serve to give the Arabs an exaggerated notion of his
strength. Soon after the torches were lit, shouts from the Arab camp
more than a mile away apprised him that they had noted his movements,
and the beating of drums at first suggested that an attack was imminent;
but Mbutu explained that the Arab drummers were merely amusing
themselves by signalling the terrible deeds that were to be done on the
following day, and how the Bahima force was to be scattered to the four
winds.
Tom merely smiled, and pressed on the work, allowing his men short
spells of rest, until about eleven o’clock, by which time the zariba was
complete. He would have liked to protect his position still further, by
means of pointed stakes planted all round it, driven deep into the
ground, and projecting only four inches above the surface. In the
half-light, when he expected the attack to be made, these would be
invisible to the enemy. But, walking round in the moonlight among his
men, he saw that their work on the entrenchments had told heavily upon
those he had brought from the village, while those who had been fighting
all day in the forest were obviously incapable of further exertion. It
was absolutely essential that they should regain their strength and
freshness for the morrow’s combat. He therefore contented himself with
protecting only the two exposed corners of the zariba, knowing that
these are always the most vulnerable points, and the first to be
attacked.
Soon after eleven he turned in himself for a short nap, taking every
precaution against surprise by posting pickets and maintaining a regular
series of patrols, of which Mwonda was left in charge. At two he was up
again, going the round of the sentries, and he ordered Mwonda to get
what sleep he could before dawn. He had expected that by this time the
eight hundred men from the village would have joined him, but when at
three o’clock there was still no sign of them he called Mbutu to him.
"You must go and hurry on the advance of those eight hundred men," he
said. "We have tremendous odds against us, and it may make all the
difference in the world to have those men. If, when you return, you
find us fighting, take them round the swamp and fall on the rear of the
enemy. I depend on you, Mbutu."
Tom had spoken in Mbutu’s own tongue, and was somewhat surprised to miss
the bright eager look with which the boy usually received his commands.
Mbutu’s face was expressionless, and he made no remark.
"What is it, Mbutu? You are not afraid?"
"I am not afraid. I am never afraid."
"Tell me, then, why you look so strangely solemn?"
Mbutu was silent for a few seconds. Then he said:
"I vowed never to leave you, master, to stay always by your side, to be
your right arm. You send me from you; I obey. But if any harm comes to
you, if a spear pierces you, or a bullet plunges into your flesh, I
shall not be there. It is not well, master."
Tom was touched by the boy’s devotion.
"I am proud of you, Mbutu," he said. "It is because I trust you that I
give this task to you. Do not fear for me; you will do me the best
service by leading the eight hundred faithfully to my support. It is my
command, Mbutu."
"I will do as you say, master," said Mbutu, and hastened away.
Tom employed the two hours before dawn in still further strengthening
his position. He got his men to throw up a semicircular entrenchment
inside the zariba and resting on the swamp, as a protection for his
reserve. Near the middle of this was a boulder from which he could
survey the whole battlefield. For the safe-keeping of his ammunition
and hand-grenades he directed his men to make a number of bullet-proof
shelters--holes about a yard deep, dug near the earthwork, roofed with
wood, and covered with the earth excavated. These shelters were ample
protection except against powerful artillery, which Tom knew that the
Arabs did rot possess, and he was no longer in any anxiety lest an
unlucky shot should explode his reserve ammunition.
At one point on each face of the zariba he so arranged the screen of
mimosa and cactus that it formed a rough gateway opening outwards, thus
allowing, if opportunity should arise, of a rapid sally by the
defenders. On the northern and southern faces the gateways were at the
extremity resting on the swamp; on the third face the opening was at the
south-east corner, clear of the stakes.
While a small force of workers was carrying out these operations, Tom
sat down to take a final cool review of the whole situation. His own
advantages were: a strong position, ample supplies of food and water, a
certain number of disciplined troops, and some novelty of armament in
the shape of pikes and hand-grenades. On the other hand, he was weaker
in numbers than the Arabs, and was not nearly so well equipped with
firearms. They, on their side, had the larger force and the better
weapons, but these advantages were to some extent counterbalanced by the
defects of their strategical position. They were bound to attack, for
their supplies were limited. They could only safely obtain water from a
stream five miles in their rear; while in regard to food, the whole
region for a hundred miles was so sparsely peopled, and had been so
thoroughly scoured during their advance, that it could not now maintain
a tithe of their number for a week. To assault the village would be, as
he had already decided, to court disaster, and after their previous
experience, they must themselves feel that they had very little chance
of capturing it with a rush. It was quite possible--indeed, more than
probable--that they had already heard of the crushing blow suffered by
De Castro. Many of the fugitives from his force had no doubt sought
safety in the forest until their friends came in sight, and then had
joined them. Tom thought it not unlikely that De Castro himself was in
the neighbourhood, and he at any rate would stimulate the Arabs to
attack, and seize what opportunity there might be of crushing their
enemy at a single blow. Weighing all these points, Tom saw that a task
of great difficulty and tremendous import lay before him, but he did not
quail; his courage and determination rose to meet the manifest danger,
and it was with a feeling of confidence, a consciousness that every
faculty was nerved to the encounter, that he quietly, about five
o’clock, gave the order for the camp to be aroused.
"Breakfast!" he said, for he well knew the fighting value of a good
square meal. The natives were wildly excited, and no amount of
discipline would suffice to make them hold their tongues. All the time
that the food was being prepared, and throughout the meal, their tongues
clacked and chattered with unchecked volubility. Soon responsive sounds
came from the Arab camp, and the drummers on both sides started a
tempestuous duel of threats and malediction. Tom, however, put a stop
to this on his side, and when the meal was finished he collected the
men, and in a few quiet and earnest words impressed upon them the
gravity and moment of the impending conflict. Then he ordered them to
their posts.
On each of the three exposed sides of the zariba he placed a front rank
of musketeers and a rear rank of pikemen, the double line accounting for
two thousand seven hundred men. The six hundred trade guns and rifles
captured from De Castro’s force had been distributed among the allies.
These included a fair percentage of hunters who knew how to use
firearms, although only one in a hundred was the happy possessor of a
flint-lock. At each of the corners of the zariba Tom posted fifty
additional pikemen, forming thus a double line. The pikemen were
supplied with three hand-grenades apiece. The remainder of the force,
consisting of four hundred picked men, was stationed in reserve within
the inner entrenchment, ready to be thrown towards any threatened point.
This reserve was under the command of Mwonda. Tom himself took up his
position on the boulder, whence he looked through the gray dawn towards
the Arab camp.
It was a cold morning, and a thin mist lay clammy over the plain,
wrapping the scattered bushes and trees in a fleecy garment of white.
The scouts whom Tom sent out soon vanished, but a breeze was springing
up, and pale streaks of light struggled through the haze. Half an hour
went by, a period of anxious expectancy. The noises from the Arab camp
were hushed, and Tom’s three thousand men stood to their arms, and
strained eyes and ears towards the enemy. The mist was rolling towards
the swamp, and suddenly, as it were behind it, two of the scouts
reappeared, with the news that the enemy was on the move. Soon
afterwards shots were heard, the remaining scouts came hastening back,
and in the distance, dimly through the wisps of vapour, appeared the
Arab host, a compact mass, moving directly and rapidly towards the
north-east corner of the zariba. It advanced in dead silence. The
zariba was still partially curtained by mist; but the Arabs could not
have expected to surprise the camp, for the shots fired by the scouts as
they were driven in must have shown that Tom’s troops were on the alert.
From his post of observation on the boulder Tom saw that behind the main
body, which he judged roughly to be about four thousand strong, a
smaller body was advancing at an interval of a hundred and fifty yards.
A few white burnouses were dotted among the serried mass of Manyema in
the van, but the reserve force was Arab throughout.
The light was growing, and the mist hanging over the zariba was
gradually rolled by the breeze back on to the swamp. Shouts arose from
the foremost ranks of the Manyema as they saw their enemy, who responded
with a bellowing roar. On came the hostile host, and Tom marked every
foot of their progress, ready at the right moment to give the word to
his eager troops. The Manyema would charge, he knew; he made up his
mind that the force of their charge must be broken ere they came too
near, so that they might have less energy for hand-to-hand fighting.
The effective range of his muskets was no more than three hundred yards,
but he had a few Winchesters, captured after the siege and in the rout
of De Castro’s force. When the enemy was within about a third of a mile
of the zariba, Tom ordered twenty picked riflemen to open fire. A sharp
volley rang across the plain; several men in the front ranks of the
Manyema dropped, and there was an instant reply.
"Down, men!" shouted Tom, immediately after his men had fired. Not a
head was visible above the parapet, and the enemy’s scattered volley
passed harmlessly over the camp. Many of the bullets, indeed, were
nearly spent when they struck the earthwork; and Tom concluded that the
best-armed among the Arabs were certainly not in the van.
He threw a hasty glance at the Arab reserve, now about half a mile away.
It was advancing leisurely to the support of the main force, as though
the leader expected the zariba to be carried easily at the first shock
of the huge mass. Only two faces of the zariba were threatened, and
Tom, seeing that there was no immediate danger of an attack from the
south, ordered the musketeers on that face to issue from their gateway
and post themselves behind the stakes at the corner, whence they could
bring a flanking fire to bear on the dense crowd approaching. At the
same time he moved the pikemen-grenadiers on this face to the eastern
front, to assist in meeting the expected rush, and ordered part of his
reserve to sally out by the north gate, and, lining the edge of the
swamp, to threaten the flank of the attack.
Rapidly as these movements were carried out, they were barely completed
when the Manyema broke into a run, and with fierce exultant yells surged
forward, firing as they came. Their fire was wild and unsteady, while
Tom’s riflemen, taking careful aim from their position behind the
earthwork, did much execution among them. The remainder of the
musketeers, stooping behind their shelter, eagerly expected the order to
fire, but Tom stood silent and watchful, waiting until the enemy were
well within range. Even in that tense moment he felt proud of his men’s
self-restraint. Then, when the shouting negroes were within two hundred
yards of the zariba, the long-awaited order was given. A sheet of flame
burst from the two sides of the zariba on which the attack was directed.
There were many gaps in the advancing ranks, but so dense was the throng
that these were instantly filled up, and the Manyema came on like a
swiftly-moving wall. There was no time for Tom’s musketeers to reload.
At fifty yards he gave the word to his grenadiers, who were stooping,
match in hand, their eyes fixed on his face, their limbs strained like
springs. At the command, three hundred grenades were hurled into the
seething mass, and amid the deafening clatter of the explosions the
grenadiers seized their pikes and stood close to stem the advancing
torrent. Yelling with fury, the horde swept forward. Standing grim at
his post, Tom wondered whether anything could resist the impending
shock, and glanced with a momentary anxiety at his embattled ranks. But
there he saw no sign of flinching, nothing but gleaming eyes, and hands
clenched firmly about their weapons.
Suddenly the centre of the enemy’s line came upon the row of stakes at
the north-eastern corner of the zariba, so cunningly planted that in
their impetuous rush the Manyema failed wholly to perceive them. The
advancing wave broke like surf upon the shore; the onrushing force split
into two sections, with a confused heap in the centre, stumbling
helplessly over the sharp points, screaming with pain, yet pushed on by
their comrades behind, these in their turn to fall upon the stakes. As
they struggled there, a heavy fire broke from the musketeers who, pushed
out from the southern face, had just taken up their position behind the
stakes at their corner. A moment later an answering volley came from the
ranks of the reserve thrown out on the north side. Bullets fell thick
among the maddened heap. Five hundred yards away the Arab leader
recognized that his main body was in imminent danger of rout, and
hurried forward a portion of his reserve. But it was too late. His
riflemen could not fire without doing more damage among their own
friends than among the Bahima. Before they had covered half the distance
separating them from the zariba, the vanguard was in full flight,
rushing pell-mell from the withering rifle-fire, bursting into the ranks
of the reserve, and sweeping them away in their mad dash for safety.
Fierce yells followed them; the musketeers behind the earthwork had had
time to reload, and, leaping up, poured a volley into the retreating
ranks. Some of the pikemen were preparing to fling themselves over the
fence in pursuit, but a curt word from Kuboko fixed them to their posts.
Tom saw, a quarter of a mile away, some fifteen hundred well-armed men,
the flower of the Arab force, and recognized that before he could get
his own troops clear of the zariba the broken ranks of his enemy might
re-form and return with the supporting force to outflank and crush the
Bahima, by superior numbers, to say nothing of superior armament, which
in the open would tell much more in the enemy’s favour. He therefore
checked the incipient pursuit, and ordered the troops he had thrown out
on each flank to return within the shelter of the zariba.
It had been a breathless moment. Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed
since the advancing tide had rolled towards him in the full confidence
of victory, and now it had rolled back again, leaving four hundred
strewn over the field.
"Well done, my men!" cried Tom, and a great shout rose from his exultant
troops. Their loss had been but slight. Tom ordered the wounded to be
attended to, and allowed the panting warriors to drink their fill of
water.
He was under no illusions upon the situation. The first attack, an
impetuous rush _en masse_, had been repelled; but he knew that he was
not dealing with mere savages, or even with Arabs of the Soudan, but
with experienced warriors who had borne the brunt of many a fight, and
who had every motive for nerving themselves for a second and more
formidable onslaught. It was now broad daylight; the sun lay large and
red upon the horizon. In the distance Tom descried the Arab camp
occupied only by a horde of slave carriers; between them and him was the
baffled enemy, and he saw the Arab leaders slashing at their retreating
troops, and adjuring them with vehement cries to rally and stand firm.
The conflict was evidently still to come, and Tom was glad of the
breathing-space to allow his men to rest, and to enable himself to make
preparations for meeting an attack which he knew would strain the powers
of his force to the uttermost.
The exertions of the Arab leaders had checked the rout among their men,
who were gradually rallying and forming up on either side of the
reserve. There was an interval, and then Tom saw emerging from the
hostile force three tall figures, two of them wearing turbans and long
white robes, the third a gigantic negro, taller even than Mwonda. Tom
looked anxiously at the other two as they approached, no doubt to see
for themselves the position which had so unexpectedly disconcerted their
men. They drew nearer.
"That is Ahmed, I suppose," said Tom to himself. "Who is his companion,
I wonder? Can it be the hakim?"
But no; the figure was that of an older and a taller man than the hakim,
a venerable figure with long white beard reaching almost to his waist.
He was slightly bent, and walked with the tottering steps of an old and
feeble man. "Rumaliza!" ejaculated Tom; "it must be Rumaliza himself,
the old chief who has deluged Central Africa with blood. He comes
breathing out threatening and slaughter. He means to direct the fight;
he does me honour."
The three figures still advanced. They were now within musket shot.
"Impudent, not to say foolhardy," thought Tom. "I can’t allow them to
come any nearer."
He called up half a dozen of his sharp-shooters and bade them open fire.
Six bullets sped across the earthwork; next instant Ahmed staggered, and
was supported out of range by his companions.
"There’s no want of courage, at any rate," thought Tom. "The real
business is only just beginning."
When the three intrepid leaders had regained their lines, about a
thousand men advanced in skirmishing order towards the zariba, taking
advantage of what slight cover was afforded by the inequalities of the
ground and the little scrub which Tom’s men had not removed. Halting
out of range of Tom’s muskets, though not of his few Winchesters, they
opened a brisk fire on the zariba. A moment’s observation sufficed to
show Tom that he was outranged; he therefore made no attempt to reply to
the fire, but ordered his men to lie close, withdrew them from the north
and south faces, where they were exposed to the cross-fire over the
earthwork, and set a number of spademen to dig a shelter trench and
embankment parallel to the northern and southern faces of the zariba.
Beginning under the eastern face, the men were in great measure
protected from the enemy’s bullets, and though every now and then a man
was hit, the new defences were completed with surprisingly little
damage.
[Illustration: The Zariba and its defences at the moment of the 2nd.
Arab attack.]
The firing went on more or less fitfully for nearly an hour, and Tom
could see that his persistent refusal to reply caused first surprise and
then anger among the Arabs. A general movement began on their part.
Some fifteen hundred men detached themselves from the main body and
marched northwards; a similar body, not quite so numerous, moved to the
south; and Tom instantly concluded that a combined attack was to be made
simultaneously on each face of the zariba. Taking advantage of some
scrub, the northern party was able to advance safely to within two
hundred yards of the earthwork, while the southern force in the open
halted at a rather greater distance, out of range of all but the
Winchesters. Owing to lack of ammunition for these, Tom was unable to
touch the enemy, and had perforce to await developments. As soon as the
flanking forces had taken up their positions, a compact body of five
hundred Arabs advanced to join the skirmishers in his immediate front,
and the whole force there, some fifteen hundred men in all, formed up in
four ranks over a frontage of about two hundred and fifty yards. Of the
whole Arab host only five hundred men remained in the rear, stationed on
a knoll selected as their head-quarters during the fight. Among these
Rumaliza and Ahmed were conspicuous.
Tom, watching every move of the enemy with lynx-eyed keenness,
imperturbably gave his orders. He recognized that it was this time to
be a hand-to-hand struggle, with all the odds against him. He divided
his reserve into three portions; one, under Mwonda’s command, to
reinforce any point threatened on the northern face; the second, under
the kasegara, to watch the southern face; and the third, under his own
direction, to stand in readiness to lend any assistance required at the
eastern face. He cast his eye round the position; the men stood to
their arms, expectant, eager, confident; there was not a sign of
timidity or cowardice.
From the knoll, five hundred yards away, came the roll of a drum.
Raising their weapons aloft and uttering a fierce war-cry, the three
divisions of Arabs and Manyema sprang forward at the same moment upon
the three sides of the zariba. The lesson taught by their former mishap
had been well learned; this time they avoided the stakes at the corners,
and charged in directions perpendicular to the three fronts. For the
first hundred and fifty yards they fired as they came, and though, when
well within range, they were met by a murderous discharge of bullets and
grenades from the earthwork, they pressed on regardless of their many
casualties, and within half a minute had reached the thorn-protected
zariba.
Then began a desperate and mortal struggle. With the exception of the
reserve, still held by Tom as in a leash within the inner entrenchment,
every man was at grips with the enemy. Firearms were useless. It was
pike and bayonet against scimitar, clubbed musket, and spear. So fierce
was the onset that in many places the thorn hedge was cut or torn down,
and through the gaps a wild horde of black and turbaned warriors
struggled to force a way. The defenders had lost heavily during the
enemy’s advance, and Tom’s anxious eye had noted many weak spots in the
double rank of musketeers and pikemen. He himself stood in the middle
of the square, to outward appearance impassive, the target for
snap-shots still fired, when opportunity offered, by the assailants. A
half-spent bullet struck him on the left forearm, inflicting a slight
wound which he hardly felt. He mechanically took off his turban and
handed it to one of his men to bind tightly about the arm, all the time
having his eyes fixed on the thin line of troops fighting gallantly
against such desperate odds. No detail of the fight escaped him. On the
northern face the enemy were making but little headway; their force
there consisted mainly of Manyema, and as yet the screen of mimosa and
cactus was almost intact. But on the eastern face, where tall Arabs
were led by the gigantic negro, the strength of the garrison was taxed
to the uttermost. Most of the Arabs were attacking with scimitar in
their right hand and clubbed musket in their left. At first the
Bahima’s long pikes, thrust out through interstices in the fence, were
too much for them, but as the combat progressed they instinctively
adapted their method of fighting to the new conditions. Approaching
just out of reach of the pikes, they tempted the pikemen to lunge, and
then with a sharp stroke of their keen blades either severed the head
from the shaft or so weakened it as to render it useless. Tom saw the
trick, and was about to give instructions how to meet it when he was
delighted to perceive that his men, after one or two of them had been
caught, had themselves seen how to avoid the danger by shortening their
lunge. Even when the heads of their pikes were knocked off, however,
they still made good use of the shafts, bringing them down with
tremendous force upon the heads and bodies of all who came within reach.
[Illustration: Tom in the Breach]
So far, though the Arabs fought like tigers, they had been kept outside
the wall of the zariba. But suddenly, at the eastern face, a portion of
the fencing collapsed as though it were made of paper. Through the gap
instantly poured a gang of yelling Arabs headed by the negro captain,
before whose huge two-handed sword pikemen and musketeers went over like
grass before the mower.
"Bahima, with me!" shouted Tom, springing from his boulder, and dashing
forward at the head of his reserve company to stem the torrent. He saw
that there was not a moment to lose; if the breach was not instantly
dammed the invading horde would carry all before them and sweep the
garrison into the swamp.
Among the nine thousand men on that stricken field, Tom alone had, until
this moment, been unarmed; but stooping now as he ran, he snatched from
the ground the weapon of a dead musketeer, just in time to parry a
sweeping stroke of the negro captain that fell upon his musket and cleft
the wood to the barrel. He saw the look of exultation in the negro’s
fierce eyes, but the force of the blow caused the assailant to recoil;
before he could recover, Tom was in under his guard and with the butt of
the musket struck him square between the eyes. No skull but a negro’s
could have survived the force of the blow; he did not fall, but halted,
dazed. His arm hung for a brief moment helpless at his side, and then
Tom, dropping his broken musket, dealt him a body blow with the bare
fist which from school experience he knew must be conclusive. The negro
swayed, reeled, and dropped like a log; Tom was swept on over his
prostrate body and saw him no more. The fight had occupied but a few
seconds. Tom’s men had thrown themselves furiously upon their
opponents; the Arabs, missing the inspiriting presence and voice of
their gigantic leader, faltered; in a few seconds more they were
overpowered, and now tried to regain the outside of the square.
"Guard the gap, my men!" cried Tom, and seeing that there was no
immediate danger of another irruption in this quarter he extricated
himself from the mêlée, and made his way towards his post of observation
to see how the fight was going elsewhere. Before he reached the centre
he knew that the whole of his reserve was now engaged. Two breaks had
been made on the southern face and one on the northern, and a small band
of Manyema was threatening the flank of the defence by wading some yards
into the swamp. On the south, as Tom knew by soundings that he had
taken, the ooze was so deep that any man venturing into it would
speedily be sucked down and submerged, but on the north there was a
fordable though difficult approach, and it was important to repel this
attack once for all. Calling, therefore, a few of his best musketeers,
he stationed them at the north-western corner, and assured himself that
by keeping up a steady fire there they could prevent a dangerous assault
in that quarter.
Turning again, he saw, with a pang, that his force had already suffered
very heavily. On every face of the zariba the ground was strewn with
prone bodies, and it was a harrowing thought that, in the heat of the
fight, nothing could be done for the wounded men, whose groans mingled
with the yells of the combatants.
"Where is Mbutu?" was the unspoken question that ever and anon formed
itself in Tom’s mind. It was past nine o’clock; there had been ample
time, surely, for the eight hundred men to arrive from the village, and
Tom more than once looked anxiously towards the forest in the hope of
seeing Mbutu appear with the reinforcements so urgently needed. Would he
never come? On the knoll the five hundred Arabs were still held in
reserve; so confused had been the contest hitherto that it must have
been impossible for the Arab leaders to form a just idea as to how the
fight was going; but they had seen at any rate that their men had not
yet been driven away; and if they threw their reserve into the scale, as
they might do at any moment, Tom felt that it would be impossible to
maintain his ground.
But though he was anxious he was not yet dismayed. He saw that his men,
fighting with unquenchable ardour, were slowly getting the better of
their assailants. Several times he was moved to utter cries of
commendation and encouragement as he witnessed some skilful feat of
arms. Mwonda was bearing his huge bulk resistless into the thick of the
fight, and largely by his individual prowess and contagious recklessness
the enemy were at last driven off pell-mell at all points. But while
some ran to a safe distance and threw themselves exhausted on the
ground, others clung tenaciously to their position outside the zariba,
deriving almost as much protection from the earthwork as the garrison
inside. For some minutes there was a strange lull, like that which
occasionally interrupts the fiercest hurricane. The war-cries were
hushed; the clash of arms was stilled; nothing could be heard but the
moans of the wounded. Both sides were gathering strength for a renewed
struggle. The sun was rising hot in the heavens, and Tom’s men in the
glare and heat were too much fatigued even to reload their muskets. Tom
allowed them to go in small batches to the water-pitchers, where they
gulped down a few mouthfuls, then returned to their posts. The enemy
all the time were exposed to the fierce pangs of unassuageable thirst,
and many lay panting on the ground, while some crept away to the extreme
edge of the swamp, and lapped up the foul scum-cloaked death-dealing
water there.
"Will Mbutu never come?" was Tom’s unuttered cry.
The restful interval was not of long duration. Tom, whose attention
never flagged, noted a movement on the knoll. He saw the gaunt figure
of the veteran leader stand before his men, draw his sword from its
scabbard, and wave it above his head, while the gestures of his other
hand showed that he was addressing the warriors in a fervid harangue.
These were doubtless the flower of his army. With the insight born of
long experience he had recognized that a supreme effort was necessary to
turn the scale, and he was resolved to play his last card.
"Bahima and Bairo and all you my brothers," said Tom, "the great
Rumaliza himself is preparing to come against us. You have done well;
you have fought valiantly, and fulfilled my highest hopes; but now still
more is required of you. Play the man, my brothers. The great chief who
has enslaved your people for so many years must not escape. Every man
of you must fight like three men this day; every man of you must say
within himself: ’Rumaliza shall not return to his stronghold, nor take
slaves any more for ever.’ He is advancing now, my brothers; be strong,
be strong and brave!"
Kuboko’s bold words infused fresh spirit into his men. They sprang to
their places; the musketeers reloaded their weapons, and every man of
them, for all his weariness, stood with a grim look of obstinate
resolution. Away on the plain Rumaliza had put himself at the head of
his men; Ahmed was at his side. They marched slowly to within a hundred
and fifty yards of the eastern face of the zariba, and were received
with an irregular volley from the musketeers. Even Tom’s stout heart
sank for an instant as he saw that the desperate fighting of the past
two hours had rendered his men’s aim so unsteady that, though the
advancing mass offered an easy mark, there were now but few casualties
in their ranks. The Arabs shouted as they too observed this fact; they
halted, and summoned to them the men who still clung to the earthwork,
along with those who had scattered after their repulse. Already Tom had
seen what was impending. He massed the whole of his reserve on the
eastern face, placing the hardiest and least-wearied men alternately
with the others so as to equalize the strength of the fighting line. He
was himself pale with anxiety; his whole body seemed to him a bundle of
tingling nerves; and as he contrasted his worn-out troops with the fresh
and buoyant Arabs advancing, their unstained swords and spears gleaming
in the sunlight, he prayed that Mbutu with the missing eight hundred
might still come in time to redress the balance. He had so often looked
in vain towards the forest that he was scarcely disappointed when,
turning in that direction for the last time before the impending shock,
he saw no sign of aid. And now with shouts of "Allah-il-Allah!" the
Arabs came forward at the charge, Rumaliza himself, whom the breath of
battle seemed to have infused with the vigour of youth, maintaining his
place unfalteringly at the head of his men for many yards until he was
distanced by them. It was a matter of seconds. Then, as Tom turned his
head finally from the forest whence no help came, with the stern
determination to hold out till the last gasp, his eye caught a glint of
light little more than half a mile distant. It was just above the swamp
itself. His heart leapt, his eye gleamed with hope. A second
instantaneous glance showed him that it was the sunlight reflected from
a spear-head; dropping his gaze, he descried a number of small dark
objects moving on the very surface of the swamp--the heads of a band of
men wading almost breast-deep in the ooze. There were no turbans, no
white garments; they were coming from the north-west; surely they must
be no other than the long-expected eight hundred! A glad cry broke
spontaneously from Tom’s lips; despondency went to the winds; and at
that instant the onrushing force of the enemy fell like a thunderbolt
upon the staggering parapet. Slashing, hacking, hewing, the fierce-eyed
Arabs surged into the gaps made in the last attack. An almost audible
shudder passed through the ranks of the defenders as they braced
themselves for the last dread struggle. Not a man blenched; they all
knew that they could expect no quarter; and Tom, looking at them, felt
that with the battle fever in their veins they would dare all.
"Mbutu is with us!" he shouted, knowing that the news would act upon
their spirits as a tonic.
The Arabs, with Ahmed, wounded as he was, at their head, were cutting
their way steadily through the gaps, enlarging them as they did so, and
pressing the defenders backwards by sheer weight of numbers. Behind
them Rumaliza raised his shrill voice in encouragement. Every now and
then a desperate rally regained a few yards for the garrison, but they
were unable to maintain their advantage, and Tom began to dread lest all
should be over before Mbutu could arrive. Standing in the centre of the
square he felt like the man in the iron room of old fable, with a wall
approaching inch by inch to crush him. His last hope rested on the men
he had placed at the corners of the zariba. Protected from external
assault by the stakes, they had faced inwards at his order, and taken
the encroaching Arabs in flank. But Tom saw that they were too few to
delay the invaders for more than a minute or two. Could Mbutu arrive in
time? Fierce shouts rent the air all around him; the heavy clash of
weapons, the flash of scimitars in the hot sunbeams, the gleaming eyes
and distorted features, the pants and cries of the warriors, the shrieks
of the wounded, made up a terrible scene that well-nigh broke down his
nerve. Arabs were still springing into the zariba; the Bahima were
engaged on every face, fighting an unequal fight, doing manfully, but
receding foot by foot, inch by inch. Tom felt that he must throw
himself into the fray. He sprang from his boulder; seizing a bayoneted
musket, he leapt to the side of Mwonda as he smote thick and fast upon
the serried mass, and shoulder to shoulder with him tried desperately to
beat back the overwhelming tide.
Suddenly a tremendous shout rang out to the north. Tom, at that moment
beset by three Arabs, thrilled with relief as he recognized the familiar
battle-cry of the Bahima. Unperceived by the enemy, Mbutu and his eight
hundred had waded through the swamp, formed up, a shivering miry crowd,
under cover of the thick growth of rushes fringing the swamp, and darted
out upon the rear of the Manyema attacking the northern face of the
zariba. Taken completely by surprise, the bewildered negroes turned
about, were seized with panic, and without a thought of resistance broke
and fled, Mbutu’s men pouring after them with jubilant shouts, and
taking with their long spears a terrible toll of the fugitives. The
pressure in front of Tom was immediately eased, for without knowing
exactly what had happened the whole Arab force seemed to have become
aware that the tide was turning. But Rumaliza behind his men lifted his
quavering yet penetrating voice in adjuration, and the throng
immediately about him threw themselves again into the fray. Tom would
gladly have recalled Mbutu’s troops to take the main Arab force in
flank, but, intoxicated with their success, they were streaming away to
the north-east after the fleeing enemy. It was not an opportunity to be
lost, however, and Tom seized the moment by the forelock. He saw that
the defenders of the northern face, finding themselves suddenly without
an enemy, were hesitating what to do. Ordering Mwonda to continue his
exertions with even double energy--an appeal to which the weary Titan
nobly responded--Tom instructed the commander of the northern line to
bring his pikemen to the support of the eastern contingent. Then,
gathering about him the panting musketeers who remained on this side of
the square, Tom led them out rapidly by the northern gate towards the
right rear of the Arab main body. This movement, being covered by the
wall of the zariba, was not perceived by the Arabs until the sallying
party, skirting the stakes, emerged into the open. Of the four hundred
and fifty musketeers who had originally been posted at the northern face
less than three hundred remained to follow Kuboko, but coming
unexpectedly on the Arabs’ flank and rear they were more than sufficient
to throw consternation into their ranks. Too late Ahmed saw the peril
threatening him. His men were already disheartened by the sudden
strengthening of the resistance in their front, due to the reinforcement
of pikemen; they had been startled by the joyous shouts of Mbutu’s men,
informing them that in that quarter the fight was going against them.
Before Ahmed could make any disposition to meet the new attack, the
exultant Bahima, flushed with the anticipation and assurance of victory,
flung themselves with a fierce yell upon the Arab right. At once it
crumbled to pieces; there was a general _sauve-qui-peut_. Away into the
open plain swarmed Arabs and Manyema; arms, ammunition, everything that
might impede their flight was flung away by the panic-stricken mob.
Away and away, heedless of direction, trampling on fallen men, stumbling
over obstacles, on they sped, some dropping and dying of exhaustion and
fright, others flinging themselves on the ground and whining for mercy
as the pursuers overtook them.
"Thank God!" murmured Tom, as he stood still a few yards from the
zariba. "The fight is won."
There was no need to order his captains to continue the pursuit; they
were leading on their men with fresh ardour, and would not return until
they had thoroughly dispersed the remnant of the hostile force.
Thankful to the bottom of his heart, yet pitying the wretches who lay
all around him, Tom returned with a few men to the zariba to do what
could be done for the wounded. The square presented a terrible sight--a
sight that Tom could not banish from his memory for many a long day.
The ground was strewn thick with the bodies of the slain. More than
five hundred of his own men had fallen, and at least twice as many of
the enemy. As he surveyed the scene, and set some of his men, tired as
they were, to tend the wounded, friend and foe alike, only one thought
consoled him for the suffering and the loss of life that day’s work had
entailed. "It is a retribution and a promise," he said to himself;
"retribution on the Arabs for the years and years of untold misery they
have inflicted on the people, and a promise of long years of freedom and
peaceful industry. It is worth the price."
While the men fulfilled his orders he mounted his boulder once more, and
looked across the field. Away in front, on the knoll whence they had
started on their last fatal charge, a band of some twenty turbaned
warriors had taken up their position, and in a roughly-formed square
stood at bay, to defend their aged chief. All around them surged a
throng of Bahima, among whom Mwonda was conspicuous. The Arabs were
armed with rifles, and as they grouped themselves closely about Rumaliza
they did deadly execution among the assailants. But the cordon was
gradually closing around them. Calling one of his men, Tom despatched
him with a message to Mwonda.
"Spare all who surrender," he said.
The man hastened on his mission. He delivered the message. Mwonda, with
instant obedience at which Tom rejoiced, ordered his men to halt, and in
a loud voice, audible at the zariba, called on the Arab chief to
surrender. The only answer was a rifle-shot that killed the man by
Mwonda’s side. With a yell of rage the giant sprang forward at the head
of his men. He had obeyed Kuboko; his duty was done; the Arabs gave no
quarter, nor should they receive any. Rushing on, heedless of bullets,
heedless of the men dropping around him, he forced his way up the knoll,
his men pressing on knee to knee. They reached the top; there was a
short hand-to-hand fight; then, bursting through the devoted body-guard
that encircled the gaunt figure of the chief, Mwonda swung the huge
two-handed sword he had taken from the prostrate negro captain earlier
in the day, and with one blow cleft Rumaliza to the chine.
Then Mwonda lifted his wet sword towards the sun and shouted; and
instantly, from hundreds of voices over that reeking field, rose a vast
echo of his cry:
"RUMALIZA IS DEAD!"