Meanwhile John had poled his raft somewhat to the left of the other, to try in his turn to break through the boom. Like Ferrier, he failed. The rafts were now ranged alongside, and John's men became exposed to the deadly hail from the island.

"We must either cut the boom or run for it," he said, gaining what shelter he could from the breastwork.

"Impossible!" returned Ferrier. "We've no axes. Knives are no good.

The logs are three deep. Any one who tried to cut the lashings would be killed, to a certainty."

"I'll try and rush the island, then. You keep the others at bay."

"I'll do my best."

John ordered his men to lie down, and rapidly explained to them what he meant to do. Then, with a few vigorous thrusts of his pole, he drove the raft against the bank. As it touched, a bullet pa.s.sed through his helmet. He dropped his pole, seized a rifle with his left hand and a revolver with his right, and calling to the men, leapt over the breastwork on to the island. The men followed him with a yell, all but Said Mohammed, whom he had ordered to remain and prevent the raft from drifting away.

As they swarmed up the bank, they were met by a shower of missiles. Two or three men fell; an arrow grazed John's cheek; but the suddenness of the attack had taken the enemy by surprise. Those who had rifles had no time to reload before their a.s.sailants were among them. Discharging his revolver at the nearest man, John dashed straight forward, smiting left and right with his clubbed rifle, the men hacking with their knives and jabbing with their spears. The enemy had thought rather of obtaining good cover from which to attack than of sustaining a hand-to-hand fight.

John's men, emboldened by his example, followed close upon his heels.

For a few moments a fierce scrimmage raged among the trees. Then the enemy gave way, turned tail, and, rushing across the narrow island, splashed through the shallow water that separated it from the next.

Here they stood and faced about, as if to show fight again; but when they saw John and his little band springing after them they lost heart and fled, racing over the second island and the channel dividing it from the left bank of the river, and never halting until they gained firm ground a hundred yards away.

Meanwhile John had become aware by the uproar behind him that a fierce conflict was in progress there. He could not delay to see whether the enemy he had put to flight would return, but rushed back to the a.s.sistance of Ferrier. What he saw filled him with alarm and dismay.

The main body of the enemy, several hundreds strong, and led by Juma himself, had swarmed out from the trees and shrubs among which they had been concealed, and after discharging their weapons, were wading through the river to attack Ferrier's raft. The channel was black with them, yelling, brandishing spears and rifles, a few still shooting their arrows as they plunged through the water. Some had run along the boom, and at the moment when John returned were trying to leap over the breastwork on to the raft. Some had come round on the other side and were attempting to tear down the breastwork. Ferrier was laying about him doughtily with his clubbed rifle; Coja at the further end of the raft was doing the same; and the rest of the men were darting here and there, striking the heads of the negroes in the river, or prodding with their spears at those on the boom.

But the numbers of the enemy were so overwhelming that John feared that nothing could now save the day. Said Mohammed in his agitation had allowed his raft to drift away from the island into the stream, and a rush was immediately made towards it. John sprang on to the boom, and ran with all speed to Ferrier's help, his men close behind. Catching a big negro by the throat, he hurled him off the boom into the water, jumped the breastwork, and came to Ferrier's side just as he staggered and fell with a spear wound in the thigh. The arrival of John's party checked the a.s.sault for a moment, but meanwhile the enemy had clambered into his raft, overthrowing Said Mohammed, and the current brought it once more against the boom. The little party was now surrounded. One after another fell. Two men, a Swahili and a negro, had at last broken through the defence and gained a footing on Ferrier's raft. John felled the Swahili with a sledge-hammer blow of his rifle; the negro was killed with a thrust from Bill's knife. But while these first invaders were thus disposed of, others had forced their way on to the raft, and before John could recover himself, a spear was driven through his arm and he was hustled to the deck.

There was a yell of triumph from the enemy. But all at once, above the uproar there came the sharp crackle of rifles, followed by a ringing cheer. Juma, who was at that moment in the act of springing from the boom into the raft, halted for a second, and turned to discover the origin of these new sounds. He saw, on the right bank of the river, not two hundred yards away, a party of mounted white men, riding at a gallop towards him. For an instant he hesitated. While his back was towards the raft, Bill, with an agility amazing in a man of his years, leapt the breastwork, knife in hand, and hurled himself upon the Swahili. Both together, they fell into the river. Juma was undermost. For an instant they disappeared beneath the surface. Bill never relaxed his grip.

When they emerged, he plunged his knife up to the haft in the Swahili's throat; then flung his enemy from him. Juma was dead. So he expiated the cruelties and tyrannies of many years, at the hands of a member of the tribe which had suffered most wrong.

While this tragedy was being enacted, the riders came to the brink of the stream, and ten rifles sped their bullets among the swarm of black men. Again the air rang with a British cheer. With screams of pain, yells of consternation and affright, the enemy broke and fled, some towards the island, some scrambling up-stream, those who were in the rafts plunging into the water and swimming in all directions. And John, rising to his feet, beheld his father and Mr. Gillespie, and eight men whom he did not recognize, and waving his rifle aloft with his uninjured arm, he answered cheer with cheer.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH--Back to the Farm

One morning, about a month after the fight in the swamp, John was sitting at the table in his bungalow, a paper outspread before him, a pencil in his hand, and Said Mohammed standing at his elbow.

"We must have it all first-rate, you know," he said.

"Quite up to d.i.c.k, sir; you may rely on me."

"Well now, _hors d'oeuvres_--I think we might do without that."

"With respect, sir, _hors d'oeuvres_ is _sine qua non_--correct card, sir, foundation of the _comme il faut_."

"All right, then; stick down sardines: we've got a tin. Now _potage_--why the d.i.c.kens don't you put it in English, khansaman?"

"The English tongue, sir, is great and glorious instrument, but too gross for refinements of culinary art. Soup!--listen to it--soup!

disgusting monosyllable, sir, resembling hiccough. Contrast with the delicate vocables of French."

"Well, what shall the _potage_ be?"

"Clear, sir, for the ladies, _consomme a la Wanderobbo_."

"What on earth is that?"

"I beg you, sir, not to insist on answer," said the Bengali gravely.

"Thick, for masculine gender: Scotch broth, concession to prejudices of great nation."

"That's all right. What's next? _Poissons_! That looks fishy. Take care you don't drop an _s_. What fish can we do?"

"Coja hooked quant.i.ty of finny tribe which, with due sauce, may pa.s.s for trout."

"Now for _entrees_."

"The partridges you shot yesterday, sir, are in prime condition. I suggest _perdrix a la Swahili_. For _releve_ I propose----"

"I say, we'll drop that. Let's come to a good honest roast. Shoulder of lamb, say--but we can't manage mint sauce. There's no vinegar."

"With respect, sir, in intelligent antic.i.p.ation I provide for that. I put quant.i.ty of Bill's honey in ferment, and made acidulous liquid pa.s.sable imitation of vinegar; pious fraud."

"Plenty of vegetables, of course."

"_Croquettes de pomme de terre, choux-fleurs a la Lulu, topinambours a la creme_."

"Look here, I can't spell that crack-jaw. What, in plain English, are _topinambours_?"

"In vulgar tongue, sir, Jerusalem artichokes; but you will agree that final syllable of artichokes is ominous and forbidding, especially to ladies."

"Well, I've had enough of it. Finish the menu yourself. I've no doubt everything will be all right."

John went out and strolled round the farm. It presented a different appearance: four or five new wooden huts, neatly thatched, erected for the accommodation of the visitors expected, stood near the bungalow.

John was at present the only white man on the farm, Mr. Halliday having returned to Nairobi with the rest of the rescue-party to make some purchases, and Ferrier to meet his sister and get attention to his wounded thigh. The evening before, a messenger had come in advance, to announce that the visitors would arrive next day: Mr. Halliday was returning with Mrs. Burtenshaw, her family, and the Ferriers. Said Mohammed was determined "to do credit to the establishment," as he put it; he would show the guests "that the resources of civilization were not dead letter in African wilds."

As the day drew on, John became restless. He had the floor of the bungalow scrubbed twice; set Lulu to scour the pans in the dairy for the third time; and got Coja to cut his hair. He was in some agitation of mind as to what he should wear. He looked out a white shirt, collar, and tie, and a suit of clothes he had not worn since he left England.

His unaccustomed fingers struggled with his collar-stud until he was in despair, and when he had knotted his tie he found that he had no clips, and the wretched thing threatened to ride up to his chin.

He was standing at the door of the bungalow, thus arrayed, and feeling ridiculously got up, when he saw Ferrier galloping up on a pony.

"Hallo, old chap!" shouted his friend. "The others are about half-an-hour behind. Thought I would ride ahead and prepare you. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, don't mind what I say, but you look a bit of a guy, you know.

Your coat's too tight, and your waistcoat too short: are they the things you wore at school? Your tie's wriggling round to your ear; and your trousers display a good deal of ankle--d'you know that you've got on odd socks?"

"Hang it all, Charley, what shall I do? I've got nothing else but khaki and drill, and I can't show up in those."

"Don't see why. The women won't expect to find Bond Street fashions here, and if you'll take my tip you'll tumble out of those things as soon as possible, and rig up in your usual toggery."

"You really think they won't mind?"