Night was falling and the position was desperate. Bosambo had no doubt as to that. A wounded bushman fell into his hands—a mad little man, who howled and spat and bit like a vicious little animal.
"Burn him till he talks," said Bosambo—but at the very sight of fire the little man told all—and Bosambo knew that he spoke the truth.
The lokali on the high watch tower of the city beat its staccato call for help and some of the villagers about answered.
Bosambo stood at the foot of the rough ladder leading to the tower, listening.
From east and south and north came the replies—from the westward—nothing. The bushmen had swept into the country from the west, and the lokalis were silent where the invader had passed.
Big Ben Hold, an automatic pistol in his hand, took his part in the defence of the city. All through that night charge after charge broke before the defences, and at intervals the one firearm of the defending force spat noisily out into the darkness.
With the dawn came an unshaven Sanders. He swept round the bend of the river, two Hotchkiss guns banging destructively, and the end of the bush war came when the rallied villagers of the Ochori fell on the left flank of the attackers and drove them towards the guns of the Zaire.
Then it was that Bosambo threw the whole fighting force of the city upon the enemy.
Sanders landed his Houssas to complete the disaster; he made his way straight to the city and drew a whistling breath of relief to find Big Ben Hold alive, for Big Ben was a white man, and moreover a citizen of another land. The big man held out an enormous hand of welcome.
"Glad to see you," he said.