As soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons. They brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their shields. Then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards to scale the ramparts. “Blood! blood!” was their battle cry.
Well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon be butchered, Dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. He himself did so.
“Bang! bang!” they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close and serried ranks of the cannibals. The rifles kept up a withering fire. Again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it.
Not even savages could stand this. They became demoralised, and fled incontinently. And they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead with them. Far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to starve.
One of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was their intention.
He returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going on. A night attack was determined on, and they believed they would inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. That was the scout’s report.