“What’s this?” growled Peters. “They weren’t firing before. I believe they’ve been reinforced; like yesterday.”
And as if to bear out his words, at that moment a furious rush was made on the palisades from all sides, to the accompaniment of a perfect hail of missiles, all fired high, and obviously with intent to confuse the defenders, and cover the advance of a strong storming party. At the same time the crashing of axes was heard against the poles on the side where stood the store and dwelling-house—the side, to wit, where the women and wounded were sheltered.
“Half of you here!” ordered Lamont in clear ringing tones. “Those are no mere flimsy native choppers, but good imported axes.”
They were only just in time. Demon figures, swarming out of the mist by dozens and scores, were on the heels of those who had been told off to cut a way in. The hissing and yells rose hideously above the terrific roar of the volleys. And now upon the farther side the savages were dropping down within the stockade, while the larger section of the defenders were engaged in repelling this more serious menace.
It was of no use. At that point the defenders were helpless. The place was divided into two enclosures, and the one in which the Matabele had secured a footing was the cattle kraal. In less than no time they were blazing away from the inner fence, and all on that side must perforce take cover in the houses.
Not without loss. Several men lay dead or grievously disabled, and the horrible death-hiss of the savages shrilled forth more demoniacally loud as they poured their fire again and again into these.
And now, taken thus in the rear, the situation of the whites seems hopeless. Clearly they are doomed. Those within the houses find it all they can do to keep the assailants already within the cattle kraal from pouring over, and rushing the position. Those on the front side are straining every effort to hold in check the attempt to break down the stockade; for the wily enemy had chosen a spot where the logs stand thick, and there is scarcely a chink to fire through. And above—around—the mist, which had lifted somewhat, descends darker than ever in its dank, thick folds.
Every man there is a desperate and dangerous animal, for every man there is fighting for his life, and not only for his life, for of that he has given up all hope, but maddened by the thought of those helpless women. What of them, when there are no more left to fight for them?
To one we may be sure this aspect of affairs is borne in upon with searing, maddening force. Outwardly deadly calm, Lamont is superintending, directing everything, yet when the head of a savage shows itself above the palings it drops back, drilled by a soft-nosed bullet from the unerring magazine rifle. His back is against the dwelling-house of the store, as he watches and directs operations.
“What chance have we?”