Reaping the Whirlwind
During the inaction of the past two days Jack had been carefully
thinking out his plan. Stout-hearted as he was, he felt oppressed by
the difficulties of his position. He had now four hundred men in all;
scarcely a hundred of them were armed with rifles, and not more than
fifty were practised shots. How could he hope to dislodge from a
stockaded camp more than seven hundred, of whom some two hundred and
fifty, including Van Vorst's advance guard, were riflemen? It seemed
at the best a desperate hazard, but the alternative was worse, and
having resolved upon his course he rejected all half measures. Some
few of his own men must be left in the fort, if only to prevent a
panic; but those must be the minimum--he would need every man he could
muster. He was staking all on the cast of a die; it would never do to
risk failure by timorousness in using all his effective combatant
strength. He would throw his whole available force against the enemy
in one supreme effort to break and scatter him.
The offensive, he knew, counted for much, especially with men who had
not known defeat. Where he and Barney led he felt sure they would
follow. But a check might be fatal. A single well-directed volley
from the enemy might sweep his little company of riflemen away, and his
spearmen would then never get to close quarters.
He gave full weight to all these considerations. But having decided
that the attempt must be made he devoted long hours of anxious thought
to the devising of a plan that would give best promise of success. He
had to do his thinking alone. Barney was a fighter, not a strategist.
He could be trusted to strike hard and carry out orders to the minutest
detail; he could not plan or organize. Mr. Arlington and the
missionary of course must not be consulted. So that when Barney was
called into Jack's hut that afternoon, it was to learn particulars of a
scheme worked out by Jack alone. When he left it an hour or two later,
his eyes were glowing with a new light.
"Sure 'tis me chance that has come at last!" he said to himself.
It was two o'clock in the morning. Ilombekabasi was astir. Men and
boys were moving this way and that. The night was dark, but by the
light of the small lamps kept burning before a few of the principal
huts it could be seen that every face was tense with excitement and a
subdued energy. In one spot congregated the maimed people, armed with
such weapons as they could wield, for the news that a great movement
was intended had spread in the camp, and every man and many of the
girls and women had begged to be allowed to bear arms. Near the
south-eastern blockhouse the bulk of the able-bodied men and boys were
squatting, rifles and spears lying beside them. At the gate in the
north wall stood twenty-five men, the picked men of the corps, the men
whom Lokolobolo had twice led out to victory. There was Lepoko, all
smiles and consequence. There was Makoko, hugging his rifle as though
he loved it. There was Lianza of the brazen throat, and Lingombela the
man of hard bargains, and Imbono, the prudent chief of Ilola, and
Mboyo, solemn and silent, thinking of Samba. On the ground lay a
number of bundles and bales, large and small.
A group approached the gate from Lokolobolo's hut. Lokolobolo himself,
and Barnio, as the natives called him, came first, walking slowly side
by side. Behind came Mr. Arlington, his strong features fixed
impassively. At his side was the litter of Mr. Dathan, borne by four
negroes.
"Is it quite clear?" said Jack to Barney. "You have twenty good men
here, besides another twenty of the maimed who may be of use in an
emergency. Batukuno will be left in command. All the rest will go
with you; yes, let the boys go; they can use their knives even if they
cannot throw a spear. Get them all paraded an hour before dark, ladder
men first. Keep them as quiet as you can. Wait till you hear shots in
the enemy's camp; that will be the signal. Then send your men out,
over the stockade by the south-eastern blockhouse; they can scramble
down the slope there. You had better take half of them first and form
them up at the bottom. The rest can follow as soon as they see you
move off. Lead them at the double straight down the hill and fling
them at the stockade. The second party will be just in time to support
you if the first rush is checked. But there must be no check; we
daren't admit the possibility. This is your job, Barney."
"Amen, sorr. For the honour uv ould Ireland and the sake uv these poor
niggers I'll do me very best."
"I know you will, old fellow."
They grip hands, looking into each other's eyes. This may be their
last good-bye. One long hand-clasp, one moment of tense emotion, then,
clearing his throat, Jack gives an order to his men. They stoop to
their bundles, then file quietly out of the gate. Each man has a
package to carry, such a package as forms part of every white man's
baggage in Africa: one a trunk, another a gun-case, a third a canvas
bag, others bales of various kinds. Two strong negroes at the end of
the line bear, slung on ropes, a package, strangely shapeless, and to
all appearance particularly heavy.
The last has gone out into the darkness. Then Jack turns once more.
"Good-bye, Mr. Arlington."
"Good-bye! Success to you."
"Good-bye, Mr. Dathan."
"God help you, my dear lad," says the missionary.
Then Jack too leaves Ilombekabasi, and the darkness swallows him up.
Towards dusk on the following evening, a party of twenty-five carriers
were marching through the forest in the direction of Elbel's stockaded
camp. In the midst were four men carrying a litter. They followed the
path leading from the river--the path along which Captain Van Vorst had
come a few days earlier. For some time they had been shadowed by a
negro bearing the arms of a forest guard. They paused for a few
moments to rest, and the negro, apparently satisfied by his
observations, came up and accosted them.
"You are the servants of Mutela?"
"Yes, that is so. Has Mutela arrived?"
Mutela was the native name for Van Vorst.
"Oh yes! He came two or three days ago."
"Are we on the right road?"
"Certainly. The camp is but a little way beyond us. I will lead you
to it. You have heavy loads."
"Ah! Mutela is a man of riches. He has many pots, and many bottles,
and very many coats for his back. And guns too; see, here is his
elephant rifle. Mutela is a great hunter; a great man of war."
"True, he is a great man of war. Yesterday he killed a woman in the
fort of the Inglesa. I saw it. I laughed; we all laughed; it was so
funny! But who is in the litter?"
"A white officer. Oh yes! He is as great a man of war as Mutela. But
he is sick; white men so easily turn sick! And he sleeps, although it
is a rough road."
"Aha! It is a pity he is sick. Mutela will be sorry. Mutela is going
to kill all the men in the Inglesa's fort. Lokolobolo they call him.
Aha! we shall see how strong he is! See, there is the camp yonder
through the trees."
When the party were still within some yards of the gate, the scout gave
a hail. It was answered by a negro whose face appeared just above the
stockade. By the time the leading men reached the gate it had been
thrown open by one of Elbel's European subordinates, and a crowd of
negro soldiers and hangers-on was collected to witness the entrance of
the white officer and Mutela's baggage.
Lepoko, who had led the file, deposited his bundle just inside the gate
and burst into a roar of laughter, holding his sides and bending his
body in uncontrollable mirth. He was soon surrounded by a crowd of
negroes, to whom he began to relate a very funny story; how Ekokoli,
the daring Ekokoli, had mounted a crocodile's back just below the
rapids, and had a splendid ride. The comical story set the throng
laughing in chorus, and they begged to hear it again. Meanwhile, the
rest of the carriers had filed in with their burdens, the litter had
been set down, and the white officer, though so sick, stepped out quite
briskly to greet the Belgian, whose attention was divided between the
laughing negroes and his guest. At the same time the four bearers drew
out from the litter a rifle apiece--for a sick man rifles surely made
an uncomfortable couch!--and also half a dozen objects which to a man
of Ilombekabasi would have looked suspiciously like fire-balls. From
the packages which lay near the gate each of the other carriers with a
single pull abstracted a Mauser or an Albini; while the two men who had
staggered along at the end of the line under the weight of a clumsy
heavy bundle dropped it in the gateway with a thud that suggested the
fall of a rock rather than a carrier's ordinary load. It lay against
the gate, preventing it from being closed.
Lepoko was already telling his story for the second time. Elbel's
officer, about to speak to the sick white man, who had just stepped out
of the litter, suddenly hesitated, wheeled round, and with a loud cry
of alarm rushed toward the centre of the camp, where, in a large tent,
Elbel was at that moment regaling Captain Van Vorst with a dinner that
did much credit to his native cook. His cry passed unnoticed by the
delighted negroes whom Lepoko was so humorously entertaining. But next
moment they choked their guffaws, and, without waiting for the end of
the story, scampered with more speed than grace after their white
officer towards Elobela's tent. What had startled them? The sick man
from the litter, after one hasty glance round, had suddenly fired into
the air the rifle he bore. And the carriers who seemed so tired and so
glad to lay down their burdens had all at once sprung into feverish
activity. Dividing into two parties they had disappeared behind the
huts nearest to the stockade on each side of the gateway, and if the
hubbub had not been so great, an attentive listener might have heard
sundry scratches that ensued upon their disappearance. But there was
no one to hear. The garrison of the camp were rushing still towards
the centre with loud cries; the carriers and the sick officer were no
longer to be seen; and what was this? Clouds of smoke, thick, acrid,
suffocating, were floating on the south wind from the huts towards
Elobela's tent.
And now the camp was in an uproar. Mingled with the yells of alarm
were distinct cries, "Mutela!" "Elobela!" "Lokolobolo!" And amid all
the din came ever and anon the sharp piercing bark of a dog.
Monsieur Guillaume Elbel, of the Societe Cosmopolite du Commerce du
Congo, had just opened a second bottle of Madeira for the delectation
of his guest Captain Van Vorst, of the Congo State Forces. The dinner
had been a good one; the Captain had praised his cook, the best cook on
the Congo; and Monsieur Elbel was in better humour than he had been
since the arrival of the State troops. He was even pleasantly boasting
of the coming triumph at Ilombekabasi, and discussing what they should
do with the Englishman after they had caught him, when sounds from
outside so startled him that he poured the wine on to the tablecloth
instead of into the glass, and interrupted himself with the sudden
exclamation--
"What's that?"
He snatched up a rifle and hurried out, followed more slowly by his
companion, who had seen too many camp quarrels to be greatly alarmed by
this sudden outbreak. Elbel at first could distinguish nothing in the
confusion. The short dusk of a tropical evening was already becoming
darkness, but he could see that crowds of men were pouring out of the
huts, rushing, hustling, in a state that was very like panic. And a
pungent smoke saluted his nostrils; it was drifting in great whorls
northwards over the camp, and surely behind it he saw here and there
little red flashes of flame.
Who had fired that shot which had so shaken Monsieur Elbel's hand? He
did not know; it had been a single shot; surely the camp could not be
attacked, for other shots would have followed long before this. But
the moment he appeared outside the tent a volley rang out, and Elbel
saw that it was fired by his own men into the midst of the smoke. He
was hurrying across the camp to inquire into the meaning of all this
when a volley flashed from the other direction--from the very heart of
the smoke. Shrieks proclaimed that some of the shots had told.
"Fools!" cried Elbel, "don't you see they're screened by the smoke,
whoever they are? What's the good of firing when you can't take aim?
Curse that dog! I can't hear myself speak!"
Another volley flashed from the smoke. Men were dropping on every
side; there were wild rushes for cover. Soon the central space was
deserted, and the panic-stricken garrison fled for shelter behind the
huts on the north side of the camp. While Elbel and Van Vorst were
shouting themselves hoarse in a vain attempt to stem this tide of
flight, the sergeant who had opened the gate had rushed to the north
side, where Van Vorst's contingent were quartered, and hastily got them
into some sort of order, together with those of Elbel's men who, having
their huts on that side, has been less affected by the sudden alarm.
Dividing the company of about a hundred men into two parties, he sent
them skirmishing forward in the spaces between the huts towards the
enemy he supposed to be approaching on the east and west.
That enemy, however, was not approaching. Jack had fired the huts and
thrown the camp into confusion; his little party was not strong enough
to turn the confusion to utter rout. Its smallness would be perceived
if he led it into the open; his was a waiting game. The wisdom of his
policy was soon proved. A sharp volley came from the men whom the
Belgian sergeant had got together. Jack heard the man beside him groan
heavily and fall to the ground; then he himself felt a stinging burning
pain below the left knee. He called to his men to keep within cover,
and hastily bound a handkerchief about the wound. And now the wind
dropped, and the smoke which had hitherto screened his movements
floated upwards. A scattering volley from the enemy reduced his band
by two more men. The State troops were working round on each side of
him; and the red glare from the burning huts was lighting up the whole
camp. It would soon be seen how small his little company was; then one
determined rush would annihilate it.
Less than four minutes had passed since he entered the gate; it seemed
an age. Would Barney never come? Why was he delaying? Surely he had
heard the signal shot; surely by this time he must have seen the ruddy
glare! The enemy were regaining confidence; their cries of alarm were
changed to yells of defiance. Elbel and Van Vorst had taken command,
one on each side; each was steadily moving down from the northern
stockade towards the gate. Barney, Barney, will you never come?
Hark! What is that? The cries of the enemy are suddenly drowned in a
babel of yells behind them. They halt, amazed; Van Vorst shouts an
order; the men wheel round and dash northwards, leaving only a few to
watch the rear. The Belgian sees now the meaning of this daring
scheme. What has he to gain by routing the little band behind? Before
him is pandemonium; a whole host must be upon him; here is the danger
to be met.
But he is too late! "Lokolobolo! Lokolobolo!" Two hundred voices
roar the name. And Lokolobolo himself sees a portion of the northern
stockade black with moving figures, and rifle barrels, spear heads,
gleaming red in the light of the flaming huts. Towards him rushes the
greater part of the garrison, their first fright trebled. These guards
of the forest can fight unarmed despairing rubber collectors, but their
hearts are as water when the villagers prove to be men. Let the men in
uniform, the clad soldiers of Bula Matadi, fight if they will; this is
no place for forest guards; the gate! the gate!
Van Vorst's handful of more disciplined men present a bolder front to
the enemy. But it would need many times the number he can muster to
break the wave of exultant warriors now swarming over the stockade.
There is Barney! Jack sees him drop to the ground, brandishing in one
hand a rifle, an ancient cutlass in the other. "Hurroo! hurroo!" he
shouts. A second, no more, and then the crest of the wave breaks over
the stockade into the camp.
"Barnio! Lokolobolo!" With a great roar the men of Ilombekabasi
follow their leader. They are already sweeping the garrison like
sea-wrack before them, when another wave comes tumbling behind, the
shrill cries of boys mingling with the deeper shouts of the men. See,
they come, furiously, irresistibly! And who is this? A tall
white-clad figure springs over with the movement of a hurdle-racer. It
is Mr. Arlington himself, stirred for the nonce out of his habitual
calmness, caught up and carried away in this roaring current.
The enemy fire once, then, though Van Vorst may rave and storm, they
turn their backs and flee helter-skelter for the gate. "Lokobololo!
Barnio!" The tempestuous war-cries pursue them. Struggling, yelling,
they converge to the narrow gateway. It is jammed, wedged tight with
human forms, squeezed by the presence of the frantic crowd behind into
a solid mass of feebly struggling wretches lost to all consciousness
but that of a great fear. The weaker men fall and are trampled to
death; the stronger push and pull, and scramble over the fallen, mad
with fright. Some win through or over, and rush with blind haste into
the forest. Others, despairing of escape by that one constricted
outlet, climb the palisade. Some impale themselves on the
sharp-pointed stakes, and, hapless benefactors! serve as gangways for
their comrades who follow.
Seeing the utter rout of the enemy, Jack had already ordered his men to
cease fire. His end was gained; he had no lust for useless slaughter.
But although Makoko and Lingombela and the rest with him loyally
obeyed, nothing could check the storming party. They heard nothing,
saw nothing, but the enemy in front. Not one of them but had a father,
or mother, a wife or child, to avenge--a ruined home, a blasted life.
As well attempt to bridle the whirlwind as this infuriate flood. On
and on they pressed, past the spot where Jack held his men in leash;
and as they ran they shot and stabbed, yelling "Barnio! Lokolobolo!"
And as they were accustomed to receive no mercy, so now, in this hour
of retribution, they gave none.
As Jack made his way towards the gateway, hoping to do something to
ensure quarter for the fleeing wretches, he caught sight of a figure
crawling painfully forth from a burning hut. At one moment he
recognized the man and the man him.
"Nando!" he cried.
"Sabe me, massa!"
"Getaway to the other end. Wait for me there. Any other men in the
hut?"
"No, massa, no! only me!"
But as he turned to run Jack heard the bark which ever and anon had
struck his ears during these full minutes, and felt a tug at his coat.
The cloth, already tattered, gave way; but Pat caught his trousers,
then ran a little way ahead, then back again, then once more towards
the burning hut. Tearing off his coat, Jack wrapped it round his head
and dashed in. The smoke was so dense that nothing could be seen save
here and there spurts of flame. Scarcely able to breathe he flung
himself on the ground and began to grope round the right of the hut.
By and by his hands touched a human body, and then the shaggy coat of
the terrier. Lifting the body in both arms he staggered with it to the
entrance, guided by the dog's barks. He gasped and drew long breaths
when once again he came into the open air; but as he laid his burden
upon the ground he stumbled and fell beside it, sick and dizzy.
[Illustration: Samba rescued from the burning hut]
He was unconscious but for a few moments. When he came to himself and
sat up, he saw that Samba lay in his father's arms. Mboyo was sobbing,
rocking his body to and fro, murmuring endearing words. Pat was
stretched beside him, his eyes fixed on Samba, his ears pricked forward.
"He dies, O Lokolobolo!" said Mboyo piteously, seeing Jack rise.
"No, no! Get water! Take him to the other end of the camp. I will
come to you when I can."
Jack hurried off. Many of the huts were blazing; now that the fire had
done its part it must be checked, or the stores and ammunition which
would be invaluable in Ilombekabasi would be destroyed. Collecting
such of the men as had not dashed out of the camp in pursuit of the
enemy, Jack set them to beat out the flames where they could, and to
demolish one or two of the still unburnt huts that were most in danger
of catching fire. Luckily the wind had dropped; there was little risk
of sparks or cinders flying through the air.
Then he set some of the boys to make torches, and by their light he
surveyed the camp. He shuddered as he passed over the scene of the
disastrous flight and pursuit. The forms of dead and wounded lay
scattered over the ground. He ordered Nando and other of Mr.
Martindale's carriers who had been left in the camp to attend the
wounded as well as they were able, and sternly forbade the despatching
of those of the enemy who were still alive but unable through injuries
to escape. Then he went towards the gate. It was with a shock that he
saw, amid the black bodies crushed to death in the gateway, the
white-clad form of Van Vorst. In that terrible struggle for precedence
the white man's skin had not saved him. But he was the only European
left in the camp; Jack looked for Elbel and his subordinate; they were
nowhere to be seen.
Complete darkness had settled over the country, and put a stop to the
pursuit. Jack's men began to return, at first in ones and twos, by and
by in groups that grew larger as the night drew on. They came laughing
and singing; once more Elobela, even aided by Mutela, had been beaten
by Lokolobolo. What a night it was for the men of Ilombekabasi! And
Barnio!--was it not Barnio who had led them to the stockade with that
wild war-cry of his? They must not forget Barnio! and Lianza made a
song as he marched back to the camp:
Barnio! Barnio!
Down from the forty
From Ilombekabasi,
Dashed in the night,
Sought Elobela,
Cruel Mutela.
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Barnio leads,
After him black men,
Hundreds and thousands,
Sweep like the wind,
Rage like the torrent,
Over the wall.
Hurroo! Hurroo!
Big clouds of smoke,
Forests of flame,
Into the midst,
Barnio! Barnio!
Over the wall,
Into the camp,
Straight for the gate
Barnio rushes,
After him black men.
Hurroo! In the gate
Thousands of black men,
Only one white man,
Cruel Mutela!
Ha! He will never,
Never whip black men,
Never kill women,
Never kill children,
Laugh again never!
Dead is Mutela!
Why do we sing?
Why do we laugh?
Whom do we praise?
Barnio! Barnio!
Lokolobolo!
Friends of Imbono,
Friends of the black men
Of Ilombekabasi.
Hurroo!
Begorra!