It was dark as Erebus. As we noiselessly formed up on the path, a sort of half sense of impending disaster seemed to have fallen on the men. We did our best to dissipate it, and apparently succeeded. The Masai guide and N’Dominuki’s nephew led the way; next came four of the Somalis as advance-guard; then Jamah Mahomet, who was wearing a waterproof coat over his khaki costume; finally George, El Hakim, and myself. A few yards farther on we found a spear in the path, probably dropped by one of the Wa’Embe in their flight, when fired at by the sentries. If possible, the path grew worse as we advanced, and presently we reached a deep ravine with a swift torrent roaring and tumbling at the bottom. It was spanned by a single tree-trunk, which served as a bridge. Beyond the ravine the path sloped upwards with many twists and turns. On each side the jungle prevented anything being seen more than a yard or two away.
We advanced slowly and cautiously in the order described, when a shot rang out almost under our feet; another followed; and then a volley from the advance-guard showed that something serious was toward. A terrific howl and the long repeated U-u-u-i (the A’kikuyu war-cry) showed us that we were very skilfully ambushed, and the realization was not pleasant. The firing at once became general all along the line. It was a very fierce fusillade while it lasted; the reports of the rifles and the cheers of our men, mingled with the war-cries of the enemy, sounding weird and ghastly in the dense blackness of the early morning (it was then 4 a.m.).
For a few moments pandemonium reigned supreme. Neither El Hakim nor I could see a single native. George, though only a yard or so away, was hidden from us, both by the darkness and by a turn in the path. El Hakim clutched my arm and dragged me into a sitting position on the ground as the whirring, hissing rush and plaintive whine of bullets in unpleasant proximity to our ears warned us that we were in considerable danger of being shot by our own men. Owing to the serpentine winding of the path, they were firing towards every point of the compass, and we were therefore much safer on the ground. In a few moments the war-cries of the enemy died away as suddenly as they came, and the spiteful crackle of the rifles lessened a little. As soon as we were able to make ourselves heard, we gave the order “Cease fire,” and endeavoured to find out what damage had been done. I called to George, and, to my great relief, he answered me.
El Hakim and I then advanced, and turned the corner. We could then dimly discern George amid the gloom. He came towards us saying that Jamah Mahomet was wounded, and was lying on the path a yard or so away. Hastening to the spot, we saw Jamah stretched upon the ground, moaning pitifully. He had a great spear driven right through him. A native had concealed himself in a pit dug on the side of the path and lain in wait, letting both the guides and the advance-guard go past him in the hope of bagging one of the Wasungu. In the darkness he mistook Jamah Mahomet’s tall form, clad in European clothes, for George, and as Jamah passed he thrust upwards with all his strength. Jamah instantly fell. George, who was only a yard behind, saw the thrust, and, raising his rifle, he shot the native through the stomach, but did not drop him. This was the shot which gave us the first alarm.
El Hakim made a hasty examination of the stricken man, and pronounced the wound fatal. The broad spear-blade, over two feet in length, had entered the right side just below the ribs, and, passing through the body, emerged just under the left arm, protruding several inches. Jamah was semi-conscious, and apparently in great pain. Grouped round him, on the alert, were the four Somalis who formed the advance-guard. As El Hakim concluded his examination, Ismail Robli, Noor Adam, and others of the Somalis, came up. When they learnt what had happened to Jamah, such a wail of grief and dismay went up as I hope never to hear again. Ismail behaved like one demented. He wept and cried upon “Allah” in the most frenzied accents.
As we were crowded together in the path over the dying Jamah, N’Dominuki’s nephew crept out of the bush, and, with shaking limbs and horror-stricken countenance, approached El Hakim, attempting to say something which his trembling lips refused to utter. The other guide had disappeared. El Hakim seized him, and was trying to understand what he was saying, when Ismail Robli caught sight of the palsied wretch. His face changed instantly from an appearance of pious supplication to one of demoniacal fury, and, crying “This man is a false guide; he has caused Jamah’s death,” placed his rifle, a ·577 express, against the other’s side, and, before I could raise a hand to interfere, pulled both triggers, literally blowing the poor wretch to pieces.
It was a hideous and revolting exhibition of savage ferocity. Ismail did not even put the rifle to his shoulder—we were too crowded for that—he simply pushed the barrels past me and fired from his hip. The murdered man collapsed in a writhing, moaning heap on the ground. Ismail turned away and reloaded his rifle.
It was no time for recrimination, as at the report of Ismail’s rifle, a fresh burst of firing broke from our men in the rear, which we instantly quelled. It was a dastardly act on Ismail’s part, even though at the time he was almost frenzied with grief at Jamah’s injury, as we had no reason to believe that the unfortunate guide had played us false. As we found out afterwards, the real culprit was the Masai volunteer, who, it appeared, was a native of Embe, who had been sent for the purpose of betraying us. At the same time, N’Dominuki’s nephew had neglected to warn us, or point out that we were going by a bad road. A great deal remained to be explained, but his untimely end put further explanation out of his power for ever.
However, there we were in the dark, stuck on a path eighteen inches wide, with a wounded man and no guides. The question now was how to get out without further loss. We called a council of war, first posting the Somali advance-guide a few yards up the path. We decided to wait till daylight, as we could not move while Jamah was living, and he was too far gone to be carried. It was a ghastly wait. After the firing and shouting, the silence could almost be felt; it seemed absolutely deathlike. We strained our ears to the utmost at the slightest rustle of a leaf, as, for all we knew, the bush might be swarming with natives waiting their opportunity for a rush.
A curious sight we should have presented to a spectator. The Somalis, led by Ismail, were grouped, praying, round the dying Jamah, who was sinking fast and moaning softly at intervals. El Hakim, revolver in hand, stood bolt upright, and intensely on the alert, his face showing faintly white through the gloom. Beside him stood George, drumming with his fingers on his rifle—a habit of his—softly humming an air from “Cavalleria Rusticana.” Crouched down on the path were the men, motionless as bronze statues, conversing in low whispers now and then, while they strained their eyes in the endeavour to pierce the surrounding bush. A yard or so away lay the dead body of N’Dominuki’s nephew; his dirty cotton waist-cloth smouldering where it had caught fire from the explosion of Ismail’s rifle, nearly choking us with the smell of singed flesh and the pungent odour of burning cloth. We tried several times to put out the cloth, but we had no water, and it was in vain we attempted to smother it; so it smouldered all night, and uncommonly unpleasant we found it.