They found the man where he had been left with Bill, looking much the better for his meal. John sent Bill back to the farm, and then, the Baganda having mounted, the party of three set off to the relief of the safari. The route lay first north and then north-west round a steep hill, which John concluded was one of the foothills of Mount Kenya. It was very rough going at times, the messenger having made his way in a direct line, up hill and down dale, and he had to return over the same ground lest he should lose the track and go astray. Fortunately the donkeys were sure-footed, and only a few stumbles on the sides of precipitous descents reminded John subsequently that he had taken risks in his excitement and haste which he would scarcely have faced in cold blood. He felt that he could have travelled faster on foot, and the Baganda was plainly ill at ease on the donkey's back; but not knowing what might be demanded of him, he had thought it wise to ride so as to husband his strength. They saw no signs of habitation: indeed, the whole of the region through which they passed was a wilderness, owing, as was learnt afterwards, to Masai raids in a not remote past.
It was close upon nightfall when, on topping a rise, they came in sight of the spot where, as the Baganda said, his master was beset by the bad men. It appeared to be about three miles off. The actual place could not be seen, owing to intervening patches of woodland, but on proceeding a little farther, the guide pointed out a dark shape on the plain which he said was a camp of bad men, and some distance beyond it John was able to descry the boma within which the white man had entrenched himself.
On the way he had succeeded in getting a few more details from the Baganda, by the interpreting aid of Coja. It appeared that two wasungu had been making a sporting expedition from northern Uganda by way of Lake Rudolf to the Kenya district. The elder msungu had been seized with swamp fever in the neighbourhood of the lake, but had pushed on southward instead of resting, with the result that he became worse and worse and at last died near Mount Sil, eighty miles north of Mount Kenya. The safari had already found the tribes through which it had passed somewhat troublesome, and as after the bwana's death it travelled southward, it came into a region where the people were openly hostile, and hung on its skirts, watching for any opportunity of taking it at a disadvantage. The party had, however, got safely to the Waso Nyiro river, which they had crossed a week ago; but then they had been attacked one night by a tribe of Embe, one of the fiercest and most quarrelsome of East African peoples. Some of the porters were killed, others deserted, and the young msungu himself was wounded. The attack had been beaten off, and the boma round the camp had been strengthened, and when the messenger left they were holding out against a much larger body of natives and in dire straits because their food was running short.
The safari consisted of forty men, with only ten rifles among them. John tried to ascertain how many the assailants numbered, but the Baganda could only speak vaguely of a very great host. Moving forward cautiously so as not to be seen by the enemy, John soon perceived a second camp on the further side of the boma: it was plain that the savages were subjecting the camp to a strict investment, knowing that, even if they could not break in, want of food would soon compel the beleaguered to surrender. But while it was clearly impossible for the white man's party to make any movement as a body without discovery, it did not appear to John that the blockade was so close as to prevent individuals from entering or leaving the camp under cover of night; indeed, the Baganda had slipped out in the darkness and escaped detection. John therefore asked him whether he was willing to make an attempt to get in during the coming night, and tell his master that help was coming. The man said that he thought he could pass the enemy safely, but he would certainly be shot at from the msungu's camp if his approach was heard, and that was a risk he did not care to run. With some persuasion and the promise of a handsome present John induced the messenger to try his luck, instructing him to make a big fire if he got in safely, or if that was impossible through lack of fuel, to ask his master to fire two shots in rapid succession. John would then endeavour to enter the camp. He did not suppose, of course, that a reinforcement of two would enable the besieged party to turn the tables on the besiegers, but he hoped that his presence would be taken as an earnest of help to come from Fort Hall, and would at least encourage the men to hold out.
The three waited until darkness covered the ground, having meanwhile tethered the animals. Then the Baganda set off on foot just after seven o'clock with a small bundle of food strapped to his back so as not to encumber his movements. The minutes passed slowly; there was no sign from the encampment; and after what seemed hours John ventured to strike a match under cover of the bush and look at his watch. It was only eight. But there had been time enough for the Baganda to have reached the encampment, and John wondered what had happened to him. He did not think he had been captured, for that would have been announced by a shout or a shot. Only a few minutes after he had looked at his watch there was a sudden bright glare in the direction of the encampment: one flash and then darkness. This was followed by a confused murmur of voices, and then by several irregular shots. At the same time two fires were lighted, one on the north and the other on the south of the encampment--a clear sign that the besiegers meant to hold their ground during the night, the fires having been kindled to keep off wild beasts. John guessed that the white man within the boma had adopted the flare as a better signal than the one he had suggested; undoubtedly the Baganda had reached the camp in safety.
The problem now was to follow him without being detected. The flare had shown John the exact direction in which he should go; but it had also put the besiegers on the alert, though it was unlikely that they had any suspicion at present of the meaning of the light. Luckily no fire had been kindled on the west side of the camp, on which there was no gate, and as the night was pitch dark, John hoped with care to escape the notice of the savages. Leaving the animals tethered, he crept forward with Coja, a little nervous lest he should stumble upon some obstruction or go astray in the darkness. The plain was covered with grass up to his knees, and here and there clumps of mimosa. As the two crept forward the sky in front of them was momentarily lit up by another flare. "He's got his wits about him, whoever he is," thought John. Again he heard shots, but he could not tell whether they were fired within or without the boma. The Baganda had not reported that the besiegers had rifles: one or two of them, he said, had very old guns; but the shots were evidently those of rifles, and John wondered whether the besiegers had been reinforced during the day.
The two men, making slow progress, and guided by the flares which were shown at intervals, drew gradually nearer to the camp. Suddenly a flash showed them a clump of bush between them and the boma, which John guessed to be now about a hundred and fifty yards distant. They lay flat in the grass until the flare had died down, then crept to the edge of the bush, John hoping to find a speedy opportunity of making a dash for the camp. Just as they reached the clump Coja stumbled over his rifle, making a slight rustle among the grass. Instantly there was a low call, apparently from the other side of the bush. A man was on the watch there. "Speak to him," John whispered to Coja, who whispered back that he did not know what tribe the man belonged to, and to speak might be dangerous. John felt that the critical moment was come. He dared not retreat: that would arouse suspicion: nor durst he stay inertly where he was, for the man might come towards them. Yet to attempt to dash past him across the open would be to risk a shot or a spear at such close range that the chance of escape would be small, for though the night was dark, there was enough glimmer from the stars to enable an alert enemy to take aim, besides a reflected glow from the camp fires. He made up his mind instantly to venture on a bold course. Whispering to Coja to follow him closely, he wriggled as quietly as possible through the bush, and came upon a man sitting on his haunches with a rifle or musket across his knees, watching the boma. He half turned his head as he heard the slight rustle of John's approach, but did not rise. Dropping his rifle, John gathered himself together and sprang full upon the man, throwing his left arm round his neck in a strangling embrace. Before the captive could utter more than a gurgle, John's handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth. Then in a swift whisper, while he still held the savage firmly, John ordered Coja to take the man's weapon and creep towards the boma. Giving him a minute's start, John suddenly flung the man from him, seized his own rifle, and sprinted across the open, overtaking Coja just as he reached the fence. At the same moment a shout was raised from the rear: the sentry had apparently been too much dazed to give the alarm before. Calling in Swahili and English to warn the garrison of their presence, John and Coja stood at the boma, looking vainly for a place to enter. There was an answering shout of "This way!" They ran towards it, and after stumbling for a few seconds, came to a narrow gap. John felt his hand grasped and was lugged into the enclosure: Coja followed him; and they were barely inside when a spattering volley of bullets tore through the thorn defences.
"You did that jolly well," said a pleasant voice, and John was shaking hands with a young man of about his own height. "Come and have a talk in my blockhouse."
[CHAPTER THE NINTH--A Rearguard Fight]
The stranger led the way to the centre of the enclosure.