But he is too late! "Lokolobolo! Lokolobolo!" Two hundred voices roar the name. And Lokolobolo himself sees a portion of the northern stockade black with moving figures, and rifle barrels, spear heads, gleaming red in the light of the flaming huts. Towards him rushes the greater part of the garrison, their first fright trebled. These guards of the forest can fight unarmed despairing rubber collectors, but their hearts are as water when the villagers prove to be men. Let the men in uniform, the clad soldiers of Bula Matadi, fight if they will; this is no place for forest guards; the gate! the gate!
Van Vorst's handful of more disciplined men present a bolder front to the enemy. But it would need many times the number he can muster to break the wave of exultant warriors now swarming over the stockade. There is Barney! Jack sees him drop to the ground, brandishing in one hand a rifle, an ancient cutlass in the other. "Hurroo! hurroo!" he shouts. A second, no more, and then the crest of the wave breaks over the stockade into the camp.
"Barnio! Lokolobolo!" With a great roar the men of Ilombekabasi follow their leader. They are already sweeping the garrison like sea-wrack before them, when another wave comes tumbling behind, the shrill cries of boys mingling with the deeper shouts of the men. See, they come, furiously, irresistibly! And who is this? A tall white-clad figure springs over with the movement of a hurdle-racer. It is Mr. Arlington himself, stirred for the nonce out of his habitual calmness, caught up and carried away in this roaring current.
The enemy fire once, then, though Van Vorst may rave and storm, they turn their backs and flee helter-skelter for the gate. "Lokobololo! Barnio!" The tempestuous war-cries pursue them. Struggling, yelling, they converge to the narrow gateway. It is jammed, wedged tight with human forms, squeezed by the presence of the frantic crowd behind into a solid mass of feebly struggling wretches lost to all consciousness but that of a great fear. The weaker men fall and are trampled to death; the stronger push and pull, and scramble over the fallen, mad with fright. Some win through or over, and rush with blind haste into the forest. Others, despairing of escape by that one constricted outlet, climb the palisade. Some impale themselves on the sharp-pointed stakes, and, hapless benefactors! serve as gangways for their comrades who follow.
Seeing the utter rout of the enemy, Jack had already ordered his men to cease fire. His end was gained; he had no lust for useless slaughter. But although Makoko and Lingombela and the rest with him loyally obeyed, nothing could check the storming party. They heard nothing, saw nothing, but the enemy in front. Not one of them but had a father, or mother, a wife or child, to avenge—a ruined home, a blasted life. As well attempt to bridle the whirlwind as this infuriate flood. On and on they pressed, past the spot where Jack held his men in leash; and as they ran they shot and stabbed, yelling "Barnio! Lokolobolo!" And as they were accustomed to receive no mercy, so now, in this hour of retribution, they gave none.
As Jack made his way towards the gateway, hoping to do something to ensure quarter for the fleeing wretches, he caught sight of a figure crawling painfully forth from a burning hut. At one moment he recognized the man and the man him.
"Nando!" he cried.
"Sabe me, massa!"
"Getaway to the other end. Wait for me there. Any other men in the hut?"
"No, massa, no! only me!"