One morning about two years after this, I was awakened early—indeed it was hardly dawn—by hearing a tremendous uproar and commotion in the camp, with much warlike shouting and beating of those everlasting tom-toms (Note 1).
The king was running about wildly—too wildly, indeed, for his weight—and was summoning his warriors to arms.
White men were coming to attack the camp!
This was glorious news for me.
But who, or what could they be, or what could they want?
All that day, from far and near, the warriors of Otakooma came trooping into camp. To do them justice they were fond of fighting, and eager for the fray; they loved fighting for its own sake, but a battle with white men was a thing that did not happen every day.
The old men, the women and children, and the cattle were separated from the main or soldier portion of the tribe, and taken westwards towards the distant hills. So it was evident that Otakooma and his people meant business.
What part should I take in the coming fray? I might have fled, and remained away until the victory was secured by the white men, but this would have been both unkind and cowardly. On the other hand, I would not lift a spear or poise a lance against my own people.
That same evening, after all was hushed in the camp, I sought out the king. He looked at me very suspiciously before I spoke.