To be attacked by night unexpectedly from the rear is an ordeal which the finest trained soldiers in the world find it difficult to stand. It was too much for the Fans. Even M'Wané, who was as brave a savage as any who ever roamed the grassland west of the Lakes, turned on his heels and bolted.
Max turned round, and on the instant the gate of the stockade was closed. He had no alternative but to retire, and even that much had to be accomplished between two withering fires. Five minutes later there was silence in the valley. The assault had been repulsed.
It seemed, indeed, as if this river would hold its mysteries to the end. They had heard weird legends of the Fire-gods from savage lips, dressed up in all the blandishments of fancy. They had thought the problem solved in the slave gangs and ruby mine, but here was another mystery unsolved.
While Max was engaged in his struggle at the gate, the sharp eye of Captain Crouch had seen a long canoe glide out from the darkness where the river penetrated the jungle. Before he had had time to give warning of its approach, the occupants of the canoe had opened fire. When he was asked to explain it, Crouch could not do so. They knew the course of the river from the Makanda to the rapids. The canoe could be nothing but a phantom. At daybreak no sign of it was to be seen.
At first their suspicions rested upon the unfortunate de Costa. But they discovered from the natives that that night the half-caste had not left the refugee camp; indeed, he had actually been seen asleep whilst the assault was in progress. The natives had nothing to gain by defending a man who so recently had been one of their tyrants; and besides, it was not in the nature of de Costa's disposition to conduct a daring attack at dead of night.
Throughout that day they kept a watchful eye upon the stockade. Everything appeared as usual. They could see the white-robed Arabs moving about between the huts, and they subjected these to long-range rifle-fire from the hills. Cæsar's yellow flag still floated on the wind from the flagstaff before his hut.
The three Englishmen went about their business--cleaning their rifles, cooking, or attending to the wounded Fan--sullenly, as if ill-pleased with the world in general, speaking only when spoken to, and then in monosyllables.
The truth was not one of them liked to own that they had been worsted. Their attack had proved unsuccessful. That in itself was sufficiently annoying; but, what made matters worse, was the fact that they could not explain how the catastrophe had come about.
An hour before sundown they sat in silence at their evening meal. They were obliged to feed thus early, because it was necessary that at nightfall they should take their places around the stockade to prevent the Arabs breaking out in the night. The little sleep they got in those days they were obliged to take by day, when it sufficed for one of their number to watch the enemy's movements in the stockade.
Suddenly Crouch drove the knife with which he had been eating into the earth.