Birnier cursed his own stupidity as he thought swiftly. If Mungongo and the others ran at the same time the numbers would confuse the soldiers the more. He spoke across to Mungongo in the Wongolo dialect, hoping that the Munyamwezi would not understand.
“Let thy heart be like unto the bullet of my big gun, and obey me! When I throw up in the air this [pg 110] cigarette, thou shalt run and plunge into the river, but not into the depth; lie hidden in the reeds of the bank until thou shalt hear a frog croak thrice and then once. Come out and go to the frog, and be not afraid, for thou shalt see me in the spirit form. Dost understand?”
“Truly, my master!”
“Tell the washenzie that they also obey or shall my spirit eat them up as it shall these children of dung!”
“Truly, master!”
Birnier glanced at the horizon. The shadows had melted into the violet twilight, which in equatorial Africa is almost as short as the snuffing of a candle. The stars were popping out. Dusky forms were circling round the yellow of the fire which threw pale flickers on the figure of Corporal Inyira, revealing the beginning of the hysterical gleam in the yellows of his eyes as, reverting to habit, he squatted on his haunches in the chair. They might make a rush for the victims at any moment. The sentry, excitement overcoming discipline, was, rifle still in hand, dancing round the outskirts of the throng.
Birnier threw the cigarette towards Mungongo. As he dived round the thorn bush he heard the rustle of movement and the “boy’s” gasped exclamation to the others. The bank of the river was not fifteen yards away. On the brink Birnier crouched and listened. He heard a splash a little to the right, which was Mungongo or one of the others literally obeying his instructions.
The mosquitoes buzzed and stung in clouds. A cricket shrilled persistently above the chorus of the [pg 111] frogs and the throb of the hand-drum and the chanting. The sentry had not yet discovered the flight; he was probably drunker than Birnier had guessed. By raising himself on his hands he could see the gleam of the fire and the inverted V of the tent through the scrub. He hesitated whether to begin operations immediately or wait until after they had discovered the flight and were further intoxicated. Yet the excitement of the loss of the prisoner might sober them a little, Birnier reflected. No, it did not matter even if they were completely sober. The spirits of the night would be perhaps more real to them then than when they were drugged by alcohol. Yet he would wait. They might come as far as the river with lanterns and should he be compelled to take to the water he would have to take the risk of crocodiles seizing him. Almost had he begun to curse the askaris for being so slow, when a rifle cracked and a bullet hummed over his head.
He scrambled hastily down the bank, thinking for a moment that he had been spotted. But it must have been a random shot. The chanting ceased. A hoarse shout from the sentry was echoed by uproar from the others.
Birnier crawled up the bank cautiously and peered. He could not see well, for one eye was nearly closed by mosquito bites, but he could make out vague forms passing and repassing across the glow of the fire. Lights glimmered. Amid shouts and yells, figures began to advance towards the river. Whether the water was deep or shallow he could not know; only could he make out in the sheen of the stars a dark patch of reed or bushes for some yards. He slid [pg 112] down the slope as noiselessly as possible, although the pursuers were making noise enough to scare all the spirits in Africa. He sank to his chest, standing on stones. He waded out a little, buried his head and shoulders behind a half-submerged bush, and remained still.