THE RUSH OF THE SLAVES
Well, we did all that we could in the way of making ready. After we had
strengthened the thorn fence of our _boma_ as much as possible and lit
several large fires outside of it to give us light, I allotted his place
to each of the hunters and saw that their rifles were in order and that
they had plenty of ammunition. Then I made Stephen lie down to sleep,
telling him that I would wake him to watch later on. This, however,
I had no intention of doing as I wanted him to rise fresh and with a
steady nerve on the occasion of his first fight.
As soon as I saw that his eyes were shut I sat down on a box to think.
To tell the truth, I was not altogether happy in my mind. To begin with
I did not know how the twenty bearers would behave under fire. They
might be seized with panic and rush about, in which case I determined to
let them out of the _boma_ to take their chance, for panic is a catching
thing.
A worse matter was our rather awkward position. There were a good many
trees round the camp among which an attacking force could take cover.
But what I feared much more than this, or even than the reedy banks of
the stream along which they could creep out of reach of our bullets, was
a sloping stretch of land behind us, covered with thick grass and scrub
and rising to a crest about two hundred yards away. Now if the Arabs got
round to this crest they would fire straight into our _boma_ and make it
untenable. Also if the wind were in their favour, they might burn us out
or attack under the clouds of smoke. As a matter of fact, by the special
mercy of Providence, none of these things happened, for a reason which I
will explain presently.
In the case of a night, or rather a dawn attack, I have always found
that hour before the sky begins to lighten very trying indeed. As a rule
everything that can be done is done, so that one must sit idle. Also
it is then that both the physical and the moral qualities are at their
lowest ebb, as is the mercury in the thermometer. The night is dying,
the day is not yet born. All nature feels the influence of that hour.
Then bad dreams come, then infants wake and call, then memories of
those who are lost to us arise, then the hesitating soul often takes its
plunge into the depths of the Unknown. It is not wonderful, therefore,
that on this occasion the wheels of Time drave heavily for me. I knew
that the morning was at hand by many signs. The sleeping bearers turned
and muttered in their sleep, a distant lion ceased its roaring and
departed to its own place, an alert-minded cock crew somewhere, and our
donkeys rose and began to pull at their tether-ropes. As yet, however,
it was quite dark. Hans crept up to me; I saw his wrinkled, yellow face
in the light of the watch-fire.
“I smell the dawn,” he said and vanished again.
Mavovo appeared, his massive frame silhouetted against the blackness.
“Watcher-by-Night, the night is done,” he said. “If they come at all,
the enemy should soon be here.”
Saluting, he too passed away into the dark, and presently I heard the
sounds of spear-blades striking together and of rifles being cocked.
I went to Stephen and woke him. He sat up yawning, muttered something
about greenhouses; then remembering, said:
“Are those Arabs coming? We are in for a fight at last. Jolly, old
fellow, isn’t it?”
“You are a jolly old fool!” I answered inconsequently; and marched off
in a rage.
My mind was uneasy about this inexperienced young man. If anything
should happen to him, what should I say to his father? Well, in that
event, it was probable that something would happen to me too. Very
possibly we should both be dead in an hour. Certainly I had no intention
of allowing myself to be taken alive by those slaving devils. Hassan’s
remarks about fires and ant-heaps and the sun were too vividly impressed
upon my memory.
In another five minutes everybody was up, though it required kicks to
rouse most of the bearers from their slumbers. They, poor men, were
accustomed to the presence of Death and did not suffer him to disturb
their sleep. Still I noted that they muttered together and seemed
alarmed.
“If they show signs of treachery, you must kill them,” I said to Mavovo,
who nodded in his grave, silent fashion.
Only we left the rescued slave-woman and her child plunged in the stupor
of exhaustion in a corner of the camp. What was the use of disturbing
her?
Sammy, who seemed far from comfortable, brought two pannikins of coffee
to Stephen and myself.
“This is a momentous occasion, Messrs. Quatermain and Somers,” he said
as he gave us the coffee, and I noted that his hand shook and his teeth
chattered. “The cold is extreme,” he went on in his copybook English by
way of explaining these physical symptoms which he saw I had observed.
“Mr. Quatermain, it is all very well for you to paw the ground and smell
the battle from afar, as is written in the Book of Job. But I was not
brought up to the trade and take it otherwise. Indeed I wish I was back
at the Cape, yes, even within the whitewashed walls of the Place of
Detention.”
“So do I,” I muttered, keeping my right foot on the ground with
difficulty.
But Stephen laughed outright and asked:
“What will you do, Sammy, when the fighting begins?”
“Mr. Somers,” he answered, “I have employed some wakeful hours in making
a hole behind that tree-trunk, through which I hope bullets will not
pass. There, being a man of peace, I shall pray for our success.”
“And if the Arabs get in, Sammy?”
“Then, sir, under Heaven, I shall trust to the fleetness of my legs.”
I could stand it no longer, my right foot flew up and caught Sammy in
the place at which I had aimed. He vanished, casting a reproachful look
behind him.
Just then a terrible clamour arose in the slavers’ camp which hitherto
had been very silent, and just then also the first light of dawn glinted
on the barrels of our guns.
“Look out!” I cried, as I gulped down the last of my coffee, “there’s
something going on there.”
The clamour grew louder and louder till it seemed to fill the skies with
a concentrated noise of curses and shrieking. Distinct from it, as it
were, I heard shouts of alarm and rage, and then came the sounds of
gunshots, yells of agony and the thud of many running feet. By now
the light was growing fast, as it does when once it comes in these
latitudes. Three more minutes, and through the grey mist of the dawn
we saw dozens of black figures struggling up the slope towards us. Some
seemed to have logs of wood tied behind them, others crawled along on
all fours, others dragged children by the hand, and all yelled at the
top of their voices.
“The slaves are attacking us,” said Stephen, lifting his rifle.
“Don’t shoot,” I cried. “I think they have broken loose and are taking
refuge with us.”
I was right. These unfortunates had used the two knives which our men
smuggled to them to good purpose. Having cut their bonds during the
night they were running to seek the protection of the Englishmen and
their flag. On they surged, a hideous mob, the slave-sticks still fast
to the necks of many of them, for they had not found time or opportunity
to loose them all, while behind came the Arabs firing. The position
was clearly very serious, for if they burst into our camp, we should
be overwhelmed by their rush and fall victims to the bullets of their
captors.
“Hans,” I cried, “take the men who were with you last night and try
to lead those slaves round behind us. Quick! Quick now before we are
stamped flat.”
Hans darted away, and presently I saw him and the two other men running
towards the approaching crowd, Hans waving a shirt or some other white
object to attract their attention. At the time the foremost of them had
halted and were screaming, “Mercy, English! Save us, English!” having
caught sight of the muzzles of our guns.
This was a fortunate occurrence indeed, for otherwise Hans and his
companions could never have stopped them. The next thing I saw was the
white shirt bearing away to the left on a line which led past the fence
of our _boma_ into the scrub and high grass behind the camp. After it
struggled and scrambled the crowd of slaves like a flock of sheep after
the bell-wether. To them Hans’s shirt was a kind of “white helmet of
Navarre.”
So that danger passed by. Some of the slaves had been struck by the Arab
bullets or trodden down in the rush or collapsed from weakness, and at
those of them who still lived the pursuers were firing. One woman, who
had fallen under the weight of the great slave-stick which was fastened
about her throat, was crawling forward on her hands and knees. An Arab
fired at her and the bullet struck the ground under her stomach but
without hurting her, for she wriggled forward more quickly. I was sure
that he would shoot again, and watched. Presently, for by now the light
was good, I saw him, a tall fellow in a white robe, step from behind the
shelter of a banana-tree about a hundred and fifty yards away, and take
a careful aim at the woman. But I too took aim and--well, I am not bad
at this kind of snap-shooting when I try. That Arab’s gun never went
off. Only he went up two feet or more into the air and fell backwards,
shot through the head which was the part of his person that I had
covered.
The hunters uttered a low “_Ow!_” of approval, while Stephen, in a sort
of ecstasy, exclaimed:
“Oh! what a heavenly shot!”
“Not bad, but I shouldn’t have fired it,” I answered, “for they haven’t
attacked us yet. It is a kind of declaration of war, and,” I added, as
Stephen’s sun-helmet leapt from his head, “there’s the answer. Down, all
of you, and fire through the loopholes.”
Then the fight began. Except for its grand finale it wasn’t really
much of a fight when compared with one or two we had afterwards on this
expedition. But, on the other hand, its character was extremely awkward
for us. The Arabs made one rush at the beginning, shouting on Allah as
they came. But though they were plucky villains they did not repeat that
experiment. Either by good luck or good management Stephen knocked
over two of them with his double-barrelled rifle, and I also emptied
my large-bore breech-loader--the first I ever owned--among them, not
without results, while the hunters made a hit or two.
After this the Arabs took cover, getting behind trees and, as I had
feared, hiding in the reeds on the banks of the stream. Thence they
harassed us a great deal, for amongst them were some very decent shots.
Indeed, had we not taken the precaution of lining the thorn fence with a
thick bank of earth and sods, we should have fared badly. As it was, one
of the hunters was killed, the bullet passing through the loophole
and striking him in the throat as he was about to fire, while the
unfortunate bearers who were on rather higher ground, suffered a good
deal, two of them being dispatched outright and four wounded. After this
I made the rest of them lie flat on the ground close against the fence,
in such a fashion that we could fire over their bodies.
Soon it became evident that there were more of these Arabs than we had
thought, for quite fifty of them were firing from different places.
Moreover, by slow degrees they were advancing with the evident object
of outflanking us and gaining the high ground behind. Some of them, of
course, we stopped as they rushed from cover to cover, but this kind of
shooting was as difficult as that at bolting rabbits across a woodland
ride, and to be honest, I must say that I alone was much good at the
game, for here my quick eye and long practice told.
Within an hour the position had grown very serious indeed, so much so
that we found it necessary to consider what should be done. I pointed
out that with our small number a charge against the scattered riflemen,
who were gradually surrounding us, would be worse than useless, while
it was almost hopeless to expect to hold the _boma_ till nightfall.
Once the Arabs got behind us, they could rake us from the higher ground.
Indeed, for the last half-hour we had directed all our efforts to
preventing them from passing this _boma_, which, fortunately, the stream
on the one side and a stretch of quite open land on the other made it
very difficult for them to do without more loss than they cared to face.
“I fear there is only one thing for it,” I said at length, during
a pause in the attack while the Arabs were either taking counsel or
waiting for more ammunition, “to abandon the camp and everything and
bolt up the hill. As those fellows must be tired and we are all good
runners, we may save our lives in that way.”
“How about the wounded,” asked Stephen, “and the slave-woman and child?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, looking down.
Of course I did know very well, but here, in an acute form, arose the
ancient question: Were we to perish for the sake of certain individuals
in whom we had no great interest and whom we could not save by remaining
with them? If we stayed where we were our end seemed fairly certain,
whereas if we ran for it, we had a good chance of escape. But this
involved the desertion of several injured bearers and a woman and
child whom we had picked up starving, all of whom would certainly be
massacred, save perhaps the woman and child.
As these reflections flitted through my brain I remembered that a
drunken Frenchman named Leblanc, whom I had known in my youth and who
had been a friend of Napoleon, or so he said, told me that the great
emperor when he was besieging Acre in the Holy Land, was forced to
retreat. Being unable to carry off his wounded men, he left them in
a monastery on Mount Carmel, each with a dose of poison by his side.
Apparently they did not take the poison, for according to Leblanc, who
said he was present there (not as a wounded man), the Turks came and
butchered them. So Napoleon chose to save his own life and that of his
army at the expense of his wounded. But, after all, I reflected, he
was no shining example to Christian men and I hadn’t time to find any
poison. In a few words I explained the situation to Mavovo, leaving out
the story of Napoleon, and asked his advice.
“We must run,” he answered. “Although I do not like running, life is
more than stores, and he who lives may one day pay his debts.”
“But the wounded, Mavovo; we cannot carry them.”
“I will see to them, Macumazana; it is the fortune of war. Or if they
prefer it, we can leave them--to be nursed by the Arabs,” which of
course was just Napoleon and his poison over again.
I confess that I was about to assent, not wishing that I and Stephen,
especially Stephen, should be potted in an obscure engagement with some
miserable slave-traders, when something happened.
It will be remembered that shortly after dawn Hans, using a shirt for a
flag, had led the fugitive slaves past the camp up to the hill behind.
There he and they had vanished, and from that moment to this we had seen
nothing of him or them. Now of a sudden he reappeared still waving the
shirt. After him rushed a great mob of naked men, two hundred of them
perhaps, brandishing slave-sticks, stones and the boughs of trees. When
they had almost reached the _boma_ whence we watched them amazed, they
split into two bodies, half of them passing to our left, apparently
under the command of the Mazitu who had accompanied Hans to the
slave-camp, and the other half to the right following the old Hottentot
himself. I stared at Mavovo, for I was too thunderstruck to speak.
“Ah!” said Mavovo, “that Spotted Snake of yours” (he referred to Hans),
“is great in his own way, for he has even been able to put courage into
the hearts of slaves. Do you not understand, my father, that they are
about to attack those Arabs, yes, and to pull them down, as wild dogs do
a buffalo calf?”
It was true: this was the Hottentot’s superb design. Moreover, it
succeeded. Up on the hillside he had watched the progress of the fight
and seen how it must end. Then, through the interpreter who was with
him, he harangued those slaves, pointing out to them that we, their
white friends, were about to be overwhelmed, and that they must either
strike for themselves, or return to the yoke. Among them were some who
had been warriors in their own tribes, and through these he stirred the
others. They seized the slave-sticks from which they had been freed,
pieces of rock, anything that came to their hands, and at a given signal
charged, leaving only the women and children behind them.
Seeing them come the scattered Arabs began to fire at them, killing
some, but thereby revealing their own hiding-places. At these the slaves
rushed. They hurled themselves upon the Arabs; they tore them, they
dashed out their brains in such fashion that within another five minutes
quite two-thirds of them were dead; and the rest, of whom we took some
toll with our rifles as they bolted from cover, were in full flight.
It was a terrible vengeance. Never did I witness a more savage scene
than that of these outraged men wreaking their wrongs upon their
tormentors. I remember that when most of the Arabs had been killed and
a few were escaped, the slaves found one, I think it was the captain of
the gang, who had hidden himself in a little patch of dead reeds washed
up by the stream. Somehow they managed to fire these; I expect that
Hans, who had remained discreetly in the background after the fighting
began, emerged when it was over and gave them a match. In due course out
came the wretched Arab. Then they flung themselves on him as marching
ants do upon a caterpillar, and despite his cries for mercy, tore him to
fragments, literally to fragments. Being what they were, it was hard
to blame them. If we had seen our parents shot, our infants pitilessly
butchered, our homes destroyed and our women and children marched off
in the slave-sticks to be sold into bondage, should we not have done the
same? I think so, although we are not ignorant savages.
Thus our lives were saved by those whom we had tried to save, and for
once justice was done even in those dark parts of Africa, for in that
time they were dark indeed. Had it not been for Hans and the courage
which he managed to inspire into the hearts of these crushed blacks, I
have little doubt but that before nightfall we should have been dead,
for I do not think that any attempt at retreat would have proved
successful. And if it had, what would have happened to us in that wild
country surrounded by enemies and with only the few rounds of ammunition
that we could have carried in our flight?
“Ah! Baas,” said the Hottentot a little while later, squinting at me
with his bead-like eyes, “after all you did well to listen to my prayer
and bring me with you. Old Hans is a drunkard, yes, or at least he used
to be, and old Hans gambles, yes, and perhaps old Hans will go to hell.
But meanwhile old Hans can think, as he thought one day before the
attack on Maraisfontein, as he thought one day on the Hill of Slaughter
by Dingaan’s kraal, and as he thought this morning up there among the
bushes. Oh! he knew how it must end. He saw that those dogs of Arabs
were cutting down a tree to make a bridge across that deep stream and
get round to the high ground at the back of you, whence they would
have shot you all in five minutes. And now, Baas, my stomach feels very
queer. There was no breakfast on the hillside and the sun was very
hot. I think that just one tot of brandy--oh! I know, I promised not to
drink, but if _you_ give it me the sin is yours, not mine.”
Well, I gave him the tot, a stiff one, which he drank quite neat,
although it was against my principles, and locked up the bottle
afterwards. Also I shook the old fellow’s hand and thanked him, which
seemed to please him very much, for he muttered something to the effect
that it was nothing, since if I had died he would have died too, and
therefore he was thinking of himself, not of me. Also two big tears
trickled down his snub nose, but these may have been produced by the
brandy.
Well, we were the victors and elated as may be imagined, for we knew
that the few slavers who had escaped would not attack us again. Our
first thought was for food, for it was now past midday and we were
starving. But dinner presupposed a cook, which reminded us of Sammy.
Stephen, who was in such a state of jubilation that he danced rather
than walked, the helmet with a bullet-hole through it stuck ludicrously
upon the back of his head, started to look for him, and presently called
to me in an alarmed voice. I went to the back of the camp and, staring
into a hole like a small grave, that had been hollowed behind a solitary
thorn tree, at the bottom of which lay a huddled heap, I found him. It
was Sammy to all appearance. We got hold of him, and up he came, limp,
senseless, but still holding in his hand a large, thick Bible, bound in
boards. Moreover, in the exact centre of this Bible was a bullet-hole,
or rather a bullet which had passed through the stout cover and buried
itself in the paper behind. I remember that the point of it reached to
the First Book of Samuel.
As for Sammy himself, he seemed to be quite uninjured, and indeed after
we had poured some water on him--he was never fond of water--he revived
quickly enough. Then we found out what had happened.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I was seated in my place of refuge, being as I
have told you a man of peace, enjoying the consolation of religion”--he
was very pious in times of trouble. “At length the firing slackened, and
I ventured to peep out, thinking that perhaps the foe had fled, holding
the Book in front of my face in case of accidents. After that I remember
no more.”
“No,” said Stephen, “for the bullet hit the Bible and the Bible hit your
head and knocked you silly.”
“Ah!” said Sammy, “how true is what I was taught that the Book shall be
a shield of defence to the righteous. Now I understand why I was moved
to bring the thick old Bible that belonged to my mother in heaven,
and not the little thin one given to me by the Sunday school teacher,
through which the ball of the enemy would have passed.”
Then he went off to cook the dinner.
Certainly it was a wonderful escape, though whether this was a direct
reward of his piety, as he thought, is another matter.
As soon as we had eaten, we set to work to consider our position, of
which the crux was what to do with the slaves. There they sat in groups
outside the fence, many of them showing traces of the recent conflict,
and stared at us stupidly. Then of a sudden, as though with one voice,
they began to clamour for food.
“How are we to feed several hundred people?” asked Stephen.
“The slavers must have done it somehow,” I answered. “Let’s go and
search their camp.”
So we went, followed by our hungry clients, and, in addition to many
more things, to our delight found a great store of rice, mealies and
other grain, some of which was ground into meal. Of this we served out
an ample supply together with salt, and soon the cooking pots were full
of porridge. My word! how those poor creatures did eat, nor, although
it was necessary to be careful, could we find it in our hearts to stint
them of the first full meal that had passed their lips after weeks
of starvation. When at length they were satisfied we addressed them,
thanking them for their bravery, telling them that they were free and
asking what they meant to do.
Upon this point they seemed to have but one idea. They said that they
would come with us who were their protectors. Then followed a great
_indaba_, or consultation, which really I have not time to set out.
The end of it was that we agreed that so many of them as wished should
accompany us till they reached country that they knew, when they would
be at liberty to depart to their own homes. Meanwhile we divided up the
blankets and other stores of the Arabs, such as trade goods and beads,
among them, and then left them to their own devices, after placing a
guard over the foodstuffs. For my part I hoped devoutly that in the
morning we should find them gone.
After this we returned to our _boma_ just in time to assist at a sad
ceremony, that of the burial of my hunter who had been shot through the
head. His companions had dug a deep hole outside the fence and within
a few yards of where he fell. In this they placed him in a sitting
position with his face turned towards Zululand, setting by his side two
gourds that belonged to him, one filled with water and the other with
grain. Also they gave him a blanket and his two assegais, tearing the
blanket and breaking the handles of the spears, to “kill” them as they
said. Then quietly enough they threw in the earth about him and filled
the top of the hole with large stones to prevent the hyenas from digging
him up. This done, one by one, they walked past the grave, each man
stopping to bid him farewell by name. Mavovo, who came last, made a
little speech, telling the deceased to _namba kachle_, that is, go
comfortably to the land of ghosts, as, he added, no doubt he would do
who had died as a man should. He requested him, moreover, if he returned
as a spirit, to bring good and not ill-fortune on us, since otherwise
when he, Mavovo, became a spirit in his turn, he would have words to say
to him on the matter. In conclusion, he remarked that as his, Mavovo’s
Snake, had foretold this event at Durban, a fact with which the deceased
would now be acquainted he, the said deceased, could never complain of
not having received value for the shilling he had paid as a divining
fee.
“Yes,” exclaimed one of the hunters with a note of anxiety in his voice,
“but your Snake mentioned six of us to you, O doctor!”
“It did,” replied Mavovo, drawing a pinch of snuff up his uninjured
nostril, “and our brother there was the first of the six. Be not afraid,
the other five will certainly join him in due course, for my Snake must
speak the truth. Still, if anyone is in a hurry,” and he glared round
the little circle, “let him stop and talk with me alone. Perhaps I could
arrange that his turn----” here he stopped, for they were all gone.
“Glad _I_ didn’t pay a shilling to have my fortune told by Mavovo,” said
Stephen, when we were back in the _boma_, “but why did they bury his
pots and spears with him?”
“To be used by the spirit on its journey,” I answered. “Although they do
not quite know it, these Zulus believe, like all the rest of the world,
that man lives on elsewhere.”