The cry of the jackal, he thought, would carry farthest, and from its very frequency in those parts would not be likely to arouse special attention. There was just a chance of a real jackal interposing at an unfortunate moment, and thus precipitating matters; but the risk, after all, was slight, and Mwonda would not be likely to make a mistake, knowing from what direction the expected signal should come. This was therefore arranged; Mwonda was ordered to creep as near to the camp as possible, and lead the assault the instant he heard the jackal's cry. In case either of the parties were discovered before the signal was given, the resulting commotion in the Arab camp was itself to be the signal for a charge.
Then the march was resumed. Rain had been for some time falling in a steady drizzle, which increased to a downpour as they crept down the slope. Uncomfortable as it was, Tom welcomed the rain, for it completely drowned the dull sound of tramping feet. The scrub grew a little thicker as the ground descended, and the patter of the rain on the leaves, the soughing of the wind through the branches of the trees dotted here and there, produced a sense of uncanniness. Down they went, the bare feet of the men sometimes slipping on a rock, and Tom himself once narrowly escaping a headlong fall into the watercourse he had descended in the afternoon.
Half a mile from the camp he called a halt. The downpour was as steady as ever. There was no sign of sentries. If any had been posted outside the palisade the probability was that they had taken refuge in a small clump of trees some three hundred yards to the south. It all favoured the enterprise, for surely no attack would be expected on such a night. The very watch-fires inside the camp were well-nigh extinguished, and the absolute silence indicated that the Arabs and their negroes were sleeping beneath their tents, rude huts, and mats. "Now, Mwonda," said Tom in a low whisper, "that is your way. Lead your men as close to the camp as you can, and wait for the jackal's cry. Then you know what to do."
Mwonda grunted assent. His column filed off, and in the darkness the individual figures could only be dimly recognized at a foot distance by the wisps of light-coloured straw which Tom had ordered them to bind about their left arms to distinguish them from the enemy. Tom hoped that, faint as it was, the glow from the dying camp-fires would make these distinguishing marks of value.
Giving Mwonda's column a few minutes' grace to make the extra circuit towards the north-west, Toms force began to creep silently towards the camp. Slowly, cautiously, nearer and nearer they drew; so cautiously that Tom, leading the way, stumbled over a man huddled half-asleep in a blanket on the lee side of a bush. With a half-cry the man sprang to his feet, but as quick as thought Tom flung out his right fist, and stretched him on the sodden ground. Before he could rise again, or Tom could interfere, two Bahima flung themselves on the body, and only a faint gurgle told that their fatal knives had done their work. Tom felt a pang as he realized that one poor creature had gone to his account; he was not yet case-hardened to the terrible realities of war. But he did not falter; a life taken meant perhaps hundreds of lives saved, and never was war waged in a more righteous cause.
The column was now only four hundred yards from the camp. Yard by yard it crawled along, the squelching of the men's feet on the ground being smothered now by the heavy patter of rain on the palisade and the huts. Suddenly a stifled cry in the distance, far on his left, followed inside the palisade by a sentry's call, told Tom that Mwonda's column had not been so fortunate as his own.
"Now!" said Tom to Mbutu, who had kept close at his side all the way. Instantly the blood-curdling jackal's howl undulated through the drenched air. The men sprang forward, with never a yell or cheer, a quick grunt alone proclaiming their excitement. With a rush they gained the stockade, scrambled up and over, Tom never knew how, and while the startled enemy were still pouring half-dazed out of their shelters, and hurrying up by twos and threes towards the palisade, Tom's men were among them. The Arabs in their long burnouses were distinguishable even in the murk; their dependants formed only a blacker patch. Between the outer and inner stockades there was no real attempt at resistance, the men rushing hither and thither in wild confusion, not knowing which way to turn, many being without arms, others endeavouring in vain to fire muskets with damp powder. The Bahima, now yelling and whooping, ran among them, cutting them down by scores, and the cries of the wounded were mingled with the exultant shouts of the attackers.
Rushing towards the inner stockade, Tom met with a more determined resistance. The Arabs within that had had time to recover from the first shock, and to seize their arms. They made for the side on which, judging by the clamour, the assault was being made. A few shots were fired, at random, for no aim could be taken; but still the storming-party surged on. The foremost of them fell back from the higher palisade, and Tom himself narrowly escaped a blow from a scimitar which, if it had fallen, would have concluded his career there and then. But Mboda fortunately interposed his pike, which was cut clean in two just above the head. Before the Arab could recover himself a second pikeman had run him through. This gave Tom enough time to secure a foothold on the top of the stockade; the next moment he was over on the inside, laying about him doughtily with his clubbed musket. He was speedily joined by several of his men, who lunged and smote at the mass of Arabs before them. There was the remnant of a large fire still smouldering in the centre of the space. Driven back on to this, the combatants sent a shower of sparks into the air, and a flame shot up from the still unconsumed wood, throwing its light full in the face of Tom's immediate opponent, a pike's distance from him. In the features, distorted with rage, Tom recognized those of his old enemy De Castro. The recognition was mutual. With a snarl of hate the Portuguese flung his heavy pistol full at Tom's head, and, changing his sword from his left to his right hand, followed up the throw with a desperate cut. Tom ducked his head; the pistol struck with a dull crack on the skull of the man behind; with the stock of his musket he parried the cut and sprang forward at his enemy. Other warriors were crowding round, and in the press there was no room to swing the weapon; all that Tom could do was to prod heavily with the barrel. De Castro started back, but he failed to escape the force of the blow altogether; it took him in the midriff and doubled him up like a hinge. The surging movement of the throng carried Tom past and out of reach, and though he wrestled his way through and hunted high and low for the Portuguese, he saw him no more.
Their attention having been taken up by Tom's force, which was the first to reach the stockade, the Arabs had not noticed, until it was too late, that they were also threatened from another quarter. Mwonda and his men, clambering over the palisade at the north-west side, found themselves almost unopposed, and, sweeping away the few Manyema in the interval between the two stockades, fell upon the rear of the Arabs in the inner circle. Mwonda himself, by sheer weight and impetus, bore down everyone who tried to make head against him. Nothing could withstand the impetuosity of the charge. Taken thus between two yelling hordes, the Arabs made no further resistance. They fled for their lives, assisted in their escape by the rain and darkness which had so much contributed to their downfall. Scrambling pell-mell over the stockade on the eastern side, they rushed madly away, and became aware that the village a mile before them was astir; shouts were coming faintly on the air. Fearing that still another force was approaching to fall upon them, they swung round to the north in twos and threes, a hopelessly broken force; and falling, stumbling, crashing through mud and bush, over the streams, into the swamps, they ran headlong, fear pressing hard at their heels.
"Measure for measure!" said Tom to himself grimly. Many and many a time, he made no doubt, had panic-stricken negroes fled from their oppressors in the same way. It was a turning of the tables. The measure the Arabs had meted was being indeed measured to them again, and Tom rejoiced in the thought that just retribution was at last falling on men by whom human life had been held so cheap.