THE ATTACK
They were in a dense part of the jungle. On all sides of them were
immense trees, growing so close together that one could see only a
little way in either direction. Between the trees grew a great tangle
of vines and pendant moss, making an almost impassable barrier, save to
an elephant or buffalo.
They had followed a rude trail, that, at times, was almost lost sight
of. But Chako seemed to know the road by which he had escaped, and led
on unerringly. Occasionally they would come to a swamp in which there
was danger of sinking to one’s hips. But now they were near to the
place where they hoped to rescue the captives.
“What’s to be done?” asked Blake, as they came to a halt in the midst
of the now almost twilight darkness in the dense jungle.
“Rush right in and rescue my daughter and her friends!” cried Mr.
Duncan.
He actually started forward, catching up one of the guns carried by a
native bearer.
“Hold on! That won’t do!” cried the sergeant. “We must map out a plan
of campaign. To rush in now would be the worst kind of folly. They
would either overwhelm us, for they far outnumber us, or it would bring
about the very thing we are trying to avoid----”
“You mean they might--might do something to the captives?” asked Blake.
“That’s it,” the sergeant went on. “We’ve got to use strategy in this
attack. And one of the first things we’ve got to do is to get to some
place where we can camp without the noise penetrating to the village.
Then we can make our plans.”
Chako indicated that the African camp was still some little distance
in advance, but added the information that scouts from it might be
anywhere in the jungle, and might discover the presence of the rescuers
and give the alarm.
“Then back we go,” decided the sergeant. “We’ll camp at the last spring
we passed and have supper. Lucky we’ve got the fresh meat we killed
this noon, or the natives would go hungry.” For on the march that day
C. C. had managed to kill a big antelope for food.
They feasted--at least the natives did, for they could eat no matter
what impended--but the whites were too anxious to enjoy the meal. No
unnecessary noise was made, for, though they were some distance from
the village, there was no way of telling when black scouts might be
about.
“I think a night attack will be best,” said the sergeant, when it had
all been talked over. “That will take them most by surprise and give
them the least chance of harming those we have come to save.”
“Do you mean attack to-night?” asked Blake;
“No, it is too late to do that now. I suggest that we rest to-night and
to-morrow try to see how the situation is. Then we can attack with some
chance of victory. Chako can probably tell us which side to make the
advance against. And then----”
“By jove! I have it!” suddenly cried Joe. “The very thing for a night
attack.”
“What?” asked Blake.
“Fireworks!” went on his chum. “You know we have quite a box of them
that we got in Entebbe, expecting to use them in trading with some of
the native chiefs, but we haven’t even opened them. They’re still in
the water-tight package. Now what’s the matter with using them in the
attack?”
“The very thing!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Couldn’t be better. We’ll
attack to-morrow night. Now to get some rest and when it’s daylight
we’ll see if we can spy out the camp.”
With Chako to lead them, Sergeant Hotchkiss, Blake and Joe made a
cautious advance on the village early the next day. Mr. Duncan and C.
C. Piper were left behind to stand guard, for there was no telling when
a party of the kidnappers might take a notion to penetrate the jungle.
Approaching cautiously, the two moving picture boys and the sergeant,
guided by the messenger, soon came within sight of the native
village. It was a typical one, with the thatched mud huts--many of
them--arranged in some sort of order. One large hut, in the middle
of the village, seemed to be that of one of the chief men, and Chako
whispered that it was there the king dwelt.
“And what are those smaller huts near his--the huts where the men stand
in front with spears?” Mr. Hotchkiss wanted to know.
“The white captives are there,” was the answer. “The young girl and
Missis Brown and her man.”
“My sister there!” exclaimed Joe, with sparkling eyes. “Oh, I hope I
can soon see her.”
“Patience,” counseled the sergeant. “Now to plot out the best method of
advance.” They were looking down on the village from a little hill to
the north of it. The native town lay in a clearing in the jungle that
surrounded it on all sides.
“I don’t see any better way of making the attack than from here,” said
Mr. Hotchkiss, after a pause. “It is easy to reach from our camp, too.”
“Then we’ll attack from here?” asked Blake.
“One party will. The other will circle around and execute a flank
movement. We’ll have them between two fires, and I guess that will take
them by surprise. It may be possible to rout them without any serious
loss. I hope so, for I don’t want to take lives--not even of these
savages.”
“I think the fireworks will do the work,” declared Joe.
The scouts returned to the camp and the plans were talked over and
finally decided on. The attack was to be made just before daybreak, as
Chako said the Africans always slept the heaviest then, and even the
sentinels would probably be dozing after their hearty meal of meat.
So it was arranged. The night passed slowly--all too slowly for the
anxiously waiting ones. Then the sergeant gave the order to advance.
There was a late moon, which gave enough light for them to see their
way, as silently they approached to the attack.
It was no easy task, marching through the jungle to make the attack.
Hard enough it would have been in daylight, but with blackness all
around them, hardly able to see where they were going, it was difficult
in the extreme.
“I do hope we make out all right,” murmured Blake, who was marching
near Joe.
“So do I, old chum. It’s a slim chance, but we’ve got to take it. If
only we can surprise the beggars before they rouse up enough to know
what hit ’em, we’ll have it easier.”
“Yes, I suppose so. That’s the worst of it, though. They are so used to
awakening at the slightest sound that they may rouse up before we get
ready to attack ’em.”
“We’ll have to take our chance, that’s all.”
“Silence back there!” suddenly called Mr. Hotchkiss, as the murmur of
the boys’ voices reached him. “Don’t talk any more than you have to.”
For a time they marched on silently, the only sound being the crackle
of dried reeds as they broke under foot, or the occasional swish of
the branches of trees under which they passed.
“And to think that your sister is off here in this wilderness,”
whispered Blake, when they had gone on a little farther. “This is a
small world, after all.”
“It is,” agreed Joe. “To think that, only a comparatively short time
ago, you and I were farm-boys. Now we’re in the African jungle and we
don’t know what will happen.”
“That’s right,” remarked Blake. “But if your sister is safe so far,
there’s no reason why we shouldn’t rescue her. I think the idea of the
fireworks is a dandy one.”
“Yes, if they only go off,” spoke Joe.
“Why shouldn’t they go off?”
“Oh, it’s so wet here. Land! when you get up in the morning your shoes
are so damp you can hardly get them on. And as for your clothes, you
might just as well sleep in a Turkish bath.”
“It is damp,” agreed Blake.
“And if the fuses don’t light easily we’ll be out of it,” went on his
chum. “You see the plan is to surprise them, and the fireworks will do
that, if they shoot off quick enough.”
The march continued, until suddenly, from the van, there came a cry of
alarm. It seemed to come from one of the natives.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Blake.
“Quiet up there!” commanded Mr. Hotchkiss.
A low, gurgling cry succeeded the scream of alarm, and Mr. Hotchkiss
ran up ahead. Joe and Blake could hear him questioning.
“What is it? What has happened? Is anyone hurt?”
There was a jangle of sounds as the Africans rapidly explained
something. The marching column halted, and those in the rear fretted
over the delay. Presently Mr. Hotchkiss came back.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Duncan.
“One of the porters bitten by a snake,” was the answer.
“A snake!” cried Blake.
“Well, that’s what he _thought_ it was,” said Mr. Hotchkiss. “It really
was only a big thorn he stepped on, though. But he might have raised
the whole jungle about our ears if he hadn’t been quieted.”
“What did you do for him?” asked Blake.
“I handed him an old key-ring I happened to have in my pocket,” said
Mr. Hotchkiss. “It had some keys on it, and he was tickled almost to
pieces with the jingle. He forgot all about his hurt, and quieted down.
I just had to have silence. It’s ticklish business at best, sneaking up
on an African camp.”
“Are we near there?” asked Joe.
“Yes, pretty close now. Don’t make any more noise than you can help.”
Again the line was formed, and the advance continued. It went on in
silence for some time, until suddenly, off to the left, there came a
sound like distant thunder.
“What’s that?” asked Joe.
“Lions, I guess,” replied Blake.
From the natives about them came the murmur:
“Simba! Simba!”
“Quiet there!” commanded Mr. Hotchkiss. “No lions will come near this
party. Move on!”
The roaring died away, only to be repeated a little later, somewhat
farther in advance.
“This is bad,” murmured Blake.
“It sure is,” agreed his chum. “If those beasts make an attack it’s
bound to give the whole game away.”
“Oh, what a picture this would make!” murmured Blake.
“But we wouldn’t dare try to film it,” said Joe. “It would give us dead
away. Hark to that, would you!”
As he spoke the very ground seemed to vibrate with the sound of the
roaring of the lions. There was almost a panic of fear among the
natives until the white men in charge had assured them that there was
no danger.
A halt was made, and a number of the black men begged that fires might
be lighted to scare away the jungle beasts. But Mr. Hotchkiss knew this
would be risky. Instead, he ordered those of his companions who had
them to display their pocket electric torches. These tiny, flashing
lights seemed to have the desired effect, for the roaring of the lions
died away.
Then the cavalcade advanced once more, Joe’s mind filled with anxious
thoughts about the rescue of his sister.
The natives carried their spears, or bows and arrows. The white men had
their guns, Joe and Blake had a revolver each for use in emergency;
but their main arms were the fireworks, carried for them by several
bearers. On reaching the mound where they had spied on the camp
that afternoon a party, under C. C. Piper, was sent around to begin
hostilities in the rear.
“Fire as soon as you are there,” said Mr. Hotchkiss. “But shoot in the
air. If we can scare them, without hurting any one, so much the better.
Ready now! March! As soon as you attack, we’ll get busy here!”