CHAPTER VI.
THE NIGHT WEARS ON
As may be imagined, at the very first sign of a Masai the entire
population of the Mission Station had sought refuge inside the stout
stone wall, and were now to be seen—men, women, and countless
children—huddled up together in little groups, and all talking at once
in awed tones of the awfulness of Masai manners and customs, and of the
fate that they had to expect if those bloodthirsty savages succeeded in
getting over the stone wall.
Immediately after we had settled upon the outline of our plan of action
as suggested by Umslopogaas, Mr Mackenzie sent for four sharp boys of
from twelve to fifteen years of age, and despatched them to various
points where they could keep an outlook upon the Masai camp, with
others to report from time to time what was going on. Other lads and
even women were stationed at intervals along the wall in order to guard
against the possibility of surprise.
After this the twenty men who formed his whole available fighting force
were summoned by our host into the square formed by the house, and
there, standing by the bole of the great conifer, he earnestly
addressed them and our four Askari. Indeed, it formed a very impressive
scene—one not likely to be forgotten by anybody who witnessed it.
Immediately by the tree stood the angular form of Mr Mackenzie, one arm
outstretched as he talked, and the other resting against the giant
bole, his hat off, and his plain but kindly face clearly betraying the
anguish of his mind. Next to him was his poor wife, who, seated on a
chair, had her face hidden in her hand. On the other side of her was
Alphonse, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, and behind him stood the
three of us, with Umslopogaas’ grim and towering form in the
background, resting, as usual, on his axe. In front stood and squatted
the group of armed men—some with rifles in their hands, and others with
spears and shields—following with eager attention every word that fell
from the speaker’s lips. The white light of the moon peering in beneath
the lofty boughs threw a strange wild glamour over the scene, whilst
the melancholy soughing of the night wind passing through the millions
of pine needles overhead added a sadness of its own to what was already
a sufficiently tragic occasion.
“Men,” said Mr Mackenzie, after he had put all the circumstances of the
case fully and clearly before them, and explained to them the proposed
plan of our forlorn hope—“men, for years I have been a good friend to
you, protecting you, teaching you, guarding you and yours from harm,
and ye have prospered with me. Ye have seen my child—the Water-lily, as
ye call her—grow year by year, from tenderest infancy to tender
childhood, and from childhood on towards maidenhood. She has been your
children’s playmate, she has helped to tend you when sick, and ye have
loved her.”
“We have,” said a deep voice, “and we will die to save her.”
“I thank you from my heart—I thank you. Sure am I that now, in this
hour of darkest trouble; now that her young life is like to be cut off
by cruel and savage men—who of a truth ‘know not what they do’—ye will
strive your best to save her, and to save me and her mother from broken
hearts. Think, too, of your own wives and children. If she dies, her
death will be followed by an attack upon us here, and at the best, even
if we hold our own, your houses and gardens will be destroyed, and your
goods and cattle swept away. I am, as ye well know, a man of peace.
Never in all these years have I lifted my hand to shed man’s blood; but
now I say strike, strike, in the name of God, Who bade us protect our
lives and homes. Swear to me,” he went on with added fervour—“swear to
me that whilst a man of you remains alive ye will strive your uttermost
with me and with these brave white men to save the child from a bloody
and cruel death.”
“Say no more, my father,” said the same deep voice, that belonged to a
stalwart elder of the Mission; “we swear it. May we and ours die the
death of dogs, and our bones be thrown to the jackals and the kites, if
we break the oath! It is a fearful thing to do, my father, so few to
strike at so many, yet will we do it or die in the doing. We swear!”
“Ay, thus say we all,” chimed in the others.
“Thus say we all,” said I.
“It is well,” went on Mr Mackenzie. “Ye are true men and not broken
reeds to lean on. And now, friends—white and black together—let us
kneel and offer up our humble supplication to the Throne of Power,
praying that He in the hollow of Whose hand lie all our lives, Who
giveth life and giveth death, may be pleased to make strong our arms
that we may prevail in what awaits us at the morning’s light.”
And he knelt down, an example that we all followed except Umslopogaas,
who still stood in the background, grimly leaning on Inkosi-kaas. The
fierce old Zulu had no gods and worshipped nought, unless it were his
battleaxe.
“Oh God of gods!” began the clergyman, his deep voice, tremulous with
emotion, echoing up in the silence even to the leafy roof; “Protector
of the oppressed, Refuge of those in danger, Guardian of the helpless,
hear Thou our prayer! Almighty Father, to Thee we come in supplication.
Hear Thou our prayer! Behold, one child hast Thou given us—an innocent
child, nurtured in Thy knowledge—and now she lies beneath the shadow of
the sword, in danger of a fearful death at the hands of savage men. Be
with her now, oh God, and comfort her! Save her, oh Heavenly Father! Oh
God of battle, Who teacheth our hands to war and our fingers to fight,
in Whose strength are hid the destinies of men, be Thou with us in the
hour of strife. When we go forth into the shadow of death, make Thou us
strong to conquer. Breathe Thou upon our foes and scatter them; turn
Thou their strength to water, and bring their high-blown pride to
nought; compass us about with Thy protection; throw over us the shield
of Thy power; forget us not now in the hour of our sore distress; help
us now that the cruel man would dash our little ones against the
stones! Hear Thou our prayer! And for those of us who, kneeling now on
earth in health before Thee, shall at the sunrise adore Thy Presence on
the Throne, hear our prayer! Make them clean, oh God; wash away their
offences in the blood of the Lamb; and when their spirits pass, oh
receive Thou them into the haven of the just. Go forth, oh Father, go
forth with us into the battle, as with the Israelites of old. Oh God of
battle, hear Thou our prayer!”
He ceased, and after a moment’s silence we all rose, and then began our
preparations in good earnest. As Umslopogaas said, it was time to stop
“talking” and get to business. The men who were to form each little
party were carefully selected, and still more carefully and minutely
instructed as to what was to be done. After much consideration it was
agreed that the ten men led by Good, whose duty it was to stampede the
camp, were not to carry firearms; that is, with the exception of Good
himself, who had a revolver as well as a short sword—the Masai “sime”
which I had taken from the body of our poor servant who was murdered in
the canoe. We feared that if they had firearms the result of three
cross-fires carried on at once would be that some of our own people
would be shot; besides, it appeared to all of us that the work they had
to do would best be carried out with cold steel—especially to
Umslopogaas, who was, indeed, a great advocate of cold steel. We had
with us four Winchester repeating rifles, besides half a dozen
Martinis. I armed myself with one of the repeaters—my own; an excellent
weapon for this kind of work, where great rapidity of fire is
desirable, and fitted with ordinary flap-sights instead of the
cumbersome sliding mechanism which they generally have. Mr Mackenzie
took another, and the two remaining ones were given to two of his men
who understood the use of them and were noted shots. The Martinis and
some rifles of Mr Mackenzie’s were served out, together with a
plentiful supply of ammunition, to the other natives who were to form
the two parties whose duty it was to be to open fire from separate
sides of the kraal on the sleeping Masai, and who were fortunately all
more or less accustomed to the use of a gun.
As for Umslopogaas, we know how he was armed—with an axe. It may be
remembered that he, Sir Henry, and the strongest of the Askari were to
hold the thorn-stopped entrance to the kraal against the anticipated
rush of men striving to escape. Of course, for such a purpose as this
guns were useless. Therefore Sir Henry and the Askari proceeded to arm
themselves in like fashion. It so happened that Mr Mackenzie had in his
little store a selection of the very best and English-made
hammer-backed axe-heads. Sir Henry selected one of these weighing about
two and a half pounds and very broad in the blade, and the Askari took
another a size smaller. After Umslopogaas had put an extra edge on
these two axe-heads, we fixed them to three feet six helves, of which
Mr Mackenzie fortunately had some in stock, made of a light but
exceedingly tough native wood, something like English ash, only more
springy. When two suitable helves had been selected with great care and
the ends of the hafts notched to prevent the hand from slipping, the
axe-heads were fixed on them as firmly as possible, and the weapons
immersed in a bucket of water for half an hour. The result of this was
to swell the wood in the socket in such a fashion that nothing short of
burning would get it out again. When this important matter had been
attended to by Umslopogaas, I went into my room and proceeded to open a
little tin-lined deal case, which contained—what do you think?—nothing
more or less than four mail shirts.
It had happened to us three on a previous journey that we had made in
another part of Africa to owe our lives to iron shirts of native make,
and remembering this, I had suggested before we started on our present
hazardous expedition that we should have some made to fit us. There was
a little difficulty about this, as armour-making is pretty well an
extinct art, but they can do most things in the way of steel work in
Birmingham if they are put to it and you will pay the price, and the
end of it was that they turned us out the loveliest steel shirts it is
possible to see. The workmanship was exceedingly fine, the web being
composed of thousands upon thousands of stout but tiny rings of the
best steel made. These shirts, or rather steel-sleeved and high-necked
jerseys, were lined with ventilated wash leather, were not bright, but
browned like the barrel of a gun; and mine weighed exactly seven pounds
and fitted me so well that I found I could wear it for days next to my
skin without being chafed. Sir Henry had two, one of the ordinary make,
viz. a jersey with little dependent flaps meant to afford some
protection to the upper part of the thighs, and another of his own
design fashioned on the pattern of the garments advertised as
“combinations” and weighing twelve pounds. This combination shirt, of
which the seat was made of wash-leather, protected the whole body down
to the knees, but was rather more cumbersome, inasmuch as it had to be
laced up at the back and, of course, involved some extra weight. With
these shirts were what looked like four brown cloth travelling caps
with ear pieces. Each of these caps was, however, quilted with steel
links so as to afford a most valuable protection for the head.
It seems almost laughable to talk of steel shirts in these days of
bullets, against which they are of course quite useless; but where one
has to do with savages, armed with cutting weapons such as assegais or
battle-axes, they afford the most valuable protection, being, if well
made, quite invulnerable to them. I have often thought that if only the
English Government had in our savage wars, and more especially in the
Zulu war, thought fit to serve out light steel shirts, there would be
many a man alive today who, as it is, is dead and forgotten.
To return: on the present occasion we blessed our foresight in bringing
these shirts, and also our good luck, in that they had not been stolen
by our rascally bearers when they ran away with our goods. As Curtis
had two, and after considerable deliberation, had made up his mind to
wear his combination one himself—the extra three or four pounds’ weight
being a matter of no account to so strong a man, and the protection
afforded to the thighs being a very important matter to a fighting man
not armed with a shield of any kind—I suggested that he should lend the
other to Umslopogaas, who was to share the danger and the glory of his
post. He readily consented, and called the Zulu, who came bearing Sir
Henry’s axe, which he had now fixed up to his satisfaction, with him.
When we showed him the steel shirt, and explained to him that we wanted
him to wear it, he at first declined, saying that he had fought in his
own skin for thirty years, and that he was not going to begin now to
fight in an iron one. Thereupon I took a heavy spear, and, spreading
the shirt upon the floor, drove the spear down upon it with all my
strength, the weapon rebounding without leaving a mark upon the
tempered steel. This exhibition half converted him; and when I pointed
out to him how necessary it was that he should not let any
old-fashioned prejudices he might possess stand in the way of a
precaution which might preserve a valuable life at a time when men were
scarce, and also that if he wore this shirt he might dispense with a
shield, and so have both hands free, he yielded at once, and proceeded
to invest his frame with the “iron skin”. And indeed, although made for
Sir Henry, it fitted the great Zulu like a skin. The two men were
almost of a height; and, though Curtis looked the bigger man, I am
inclined to think that the difference was more imaginary than real, the
fact being that, although he was plumper and rounder, he was not really
bigger, except in the arm. Umslopogaas had, comparatively speaking,
thin arms, but they were as strong as wire ropes. At any rate, when
they both stood, axe in hand, invested in the brown mail, which clung
to their mighty forms like a web garment, showing the swell of every
muscle and the curve of every line, they formed a pair that any ten men
might shrink from meeting.
It was now nearly one o’clock in the morning, and the spies reported
that, after having drunk the blood of the oxen and eaten enormous
quantities of meat, the Masai were going to sleep round their
watchfires; but that sentries had been posted at each opening of the
kraal. Flossie, they added, was sitting not far from the wall in the
centre of the western side of the kraal, and by her were the nurse and
the white donkey, which was tethered to a peg. Her feet were bound with
a rope, and warriors were lying about all round her.
As there was absolutely nothing further that could be done then we all
took some supper, and went to lie down for a couple of hours. I could
not help admiring the way in which old Umslopogaas flung himself upon
the floor, and, unmindful of what was hanging over him, instantly sank
into a deep sleep. I do not know how it was with the others, but I
could not do as much. Indeed, as is usual with me on these occasions, I
am sorry to say that I felt rather frightened; and, now that some of
the enthusiasm had gone out of me, and I began to calmly contemplate
what we had undertaken to do, truth compels me to add that I did not
like it. We were but thirty men all told, a good many of whom were no
doubt quite unused to fighting, and we were going to engage two hundred
and fifty of the fiercest, bravest, and most formidable savages in
Africa, who, to make matters worse, were protected by a stone wall. It
was, indeed, a mad undertaking, and what made it even madder was the
exceeding improbability of our being able to take up our positions
without attracting the notice of the sentries. Of course if we once did
that—and any slight accident, such as the chance discharge of a gun,
might do it—we were done for, for the whole camp would be up in a
second, and our only hope lay in surprise.
The bed whereon I lay indulging in these uncomfortable reflections was
near an open window that looked on to the veranda, through which came
an extraordinary sound of groaning and weeping. For a time I could not
make out what it was, but at last I got up and, putting my head out of
the window, stared about. Presently I saw a dim figure kneeling on the
end of the veranda and beating his breast—in which I recognized
Alphonse. Not being able to understand his French talk or what on earth
he was at, I called to him and asked him what he was doing.
“Ah, monsieur,” he sighed, “I do make prayer for the souls of those
whom I shall slay tonight.”
“Indeed,” I said, “then I wish that you would do it a little more
quietly.”
Alphonse retreated, and I heard no more of his groans. And so the time
passed, till at length Mr Mackenzie called me in a whisper through the
window, for of course everything had now to be done in the most
absolute silence. “Three o’clock,” he said: “we must begin to move at
half-past.”
I told him to come in, and presently he entered, and I am bound to say
that if it had not been that just then I had not got a laugh anywhere
about me, I should have exploded at the sight he presented armed for
battle. To begin with, he had on a clergyman’s black swallow-tail and a
kind of broad-rimmed black felt hat, both of which he had donned on
account, he said, of their dark colour. In his hand was the Winchester
repeating rifle we had lent him; and stuck in an elastic cricketing
belt, like those worn by English boys, were, first, a huge
buckhorn-handled carving knife with a guard to it, and next a
long-barrelled Colt’s revolver.
“Ah, my friend,” he said, seeing me staring at his belt, “you are
looking at my ‘carver’. I thought it might come in handy if we came to
close quarters; it is excellent steel, and many is the pig I have
killed with it.”
By this time everybody was up and dressing. I put on a light Norfolk
jacket over my mail shirt in order to have a pocket handy to hold my
cartridges, and buckled on my revolver. Good did the same, but Sir
Henry put on nothing except his mail shirt, steel-lined cap, and a pair
of “veldt-schoons” or soft hide shoes, his legs being bare from the
knees down. His revolver he strapped on round his middle outside the
armoured shirt.
Meanwhile Umslopogaas was mustering the men in the square under the big
tree and going the rounds to see that each was properly armed, etc. At
the last moment we made one change. Finding that two of the men who
were to have gone with the firing parties knew little or nothing of
guns, but were good spearsmen, we took away their rifles, supplied them
with shields and long spears of the Masai pattern, and took them off to
join Curtis, Umslopogaas, and the Askari in holding the wide opening;
it having become clear to us that three men, however brave and strong,
were too few for the work.