But though he was anxious he was not yet dismayed. He saw that his men, fighting with unquenchable ardour, were slowly getting the better of their assailants. Several times he was moved to utter cries of commendation and encouragement as he witnessed some skilful feat of arms. Mwonda was bearing his huge bulk resistless into the thick of the fight, and largely by his individual prowess and contagious recklessness the enemy were at last driven off pell-mell at all points. But while some ran to a safe distance and threw themselves exhausted on the ground, others clung tenaciously to their position outside the zariba, deriving almost as much protection from the earthwork as the garrison inside. For some minutes there was a strange lull, like that which occasionally interrupts the fiercest hurricane. The war-cries were hushed; the clash of arms was stilled; nothing could be heard but the moans of the wounded. Both sides were gathering strength for a renewed struggle. The sun was rising hot in the heavens, and Tom's men in the glare and heat were too much fatigued even to reload their muskets. Tom allowed them to go in small batches to the water-pitchers, where they gulped down a few mouthfuls, then returned to their posts. The enemy all the time were exposed to the fierce pangs of unassuageable thirst, and many lay panting on the ground, while some crept away to the extreme edge of the swamp, and lapped up the foul scum-cloaked death-dealing water there.
"Will Mbutu never come?" was Tom's unuttered cry.
The restful interval was not of long duration. Tom, whose attention never flagged, noted a movement on the knoll. He saw the gaunt figure of the veteran leader stand before his men, draw his sword from its scabbard, and wave it above his head, while the gestures of his other hand showed that he was addressing the warriors in a fervid harangue. These were doubtless the flower of his army. With the insight born of long experience he had recognized that a supreme effort was necessary to turn the scale, and he was resolved to play his last card.
"Bahima and Bairo and all you my brothers," said Tom, "the great Rumaliza himself is preparing to come against us. You have done well; you have fought valiantly, and fulfilled my highest hopes; but now still more is required of you. Play the man, my brothers. The great chief who has enslaved your people for so many years must not escape. Every man of you must fight like three men this day; every man of you must say within himself: 'Rumaliza shall not return to his stronghold, nor take slaves any more for ever.' He is advancing now, my brothers; be strong, be strong and brave!"
Kuboko's bold words infused fresh spirit into his men. They sprang to their places; the musketeers reloaded their weapons, and every man of them, for all his weariness, stood with a grim look of obstinate resolution. Away on the plain Rumaliza had put himself at the head of his men; Ahmed was at his side. They marched slowly to within a hundred and fifty yards of the eastern face of the zariba, and were received with an irregular volley from the musketeers. Even Tom's stout heart sank for an instant as he saw that the desperate fighting of the past two hours had rendered his men's aim so unsteady that, though the advancing mass offered an easy mark, there were now but few casualties in their ranks. The Arabs shouted as they too observed this fact; they halted, and summoned to them the men who still clung to the earthwork, along with those who had scattered after their repulse. Already Tom had seen what was impending. He massed the whole of his reserve on the eastern face, placing the hardiest and least-wearied men alternately with the others so as to equalize the strength of the fighting line. He was himself pale with anxiety; his whole body seemed to him a bundle of tingling nerves; and as he contrasted his worn-out troops with the fresh and buoyant Arabs advancing, their unstained swords and spears gleaming in the sunlight, he prayed that Mbutu with the missing eight hundred might still come in time to redress the balance. He had so often looked in vain towards the forest that he was scarcely disappointed when, turning in that direction for the last time before the impending shock, he saw no sign of aid. And now with shouts of "Allah-il-Allah!" the Arabs came forward at the charge, Rumaliza himself, whom the breath of battle seemed to have infused with the vigour of youth, maintaining his place unfalteringly at the head of his men for many yards until he was distanced by them. It was a matter of seconds. Then, as Tom turned his head finally from the forest whence no help came, with the stern determination to hold out till the last gasp, his eye caught a glint of light little more than half a mile distant. It was just above the swamp itself. His heart leapt, his eye gleamed with hope. A second instantaneous glance showed him that it was the sunlight reflected from a spear-head; dropping his gaze, he descried a number of small dark objects moving on the very surface of the swamp--the heads of a band of men wading almost breast-deep in the ooze. There were no turbans, no white garments; they were coming from the north-west; surely they must be no other than the long-expected eight hundred! A glad cry broke spontaneously from Tom's lips; despondency went to the winds; and at that instant the onrushing force of the enemy fell like a thunderbolt upon the staggering parapet. Slashing, hacking, hewing, the fierce-eyed Arabs surged into the gaps made in the last attack. An almost audible shudder passed through the ranks of the defenders as they braced themselves for the last dread struggle. Not a man blenched; they all knew that they could expect no quarter; and Tom, looking at them, felt that with the battle fever in their veins they would dare all.
"Mbutu is with us!" he shouted, knowing that the news would act upon their spirits as a tonic.
The Arabs, with Ahmed, wounded as he was, at their head, were cutting their way steadily through the gaps, enlarging them as they did so, and pressing the defenders backwards by sheer weight of numbers. Behind them Rumaliza raised his shrill voice in encouragement. Every now and then a desperate rally regained a few yards for the garrison, but they were unable to maintain their advantage, and Tom began to dread lest all should be over before Mbutu could arrive. Standing in the centre of the square he felt like the man in the iron room of old fable, with a wall approaching inch by inch to crush him. His last hope rested on the men he had placed at the corners of the zariba. Protected from external assault by the stakes, they had faced inwards at his order, and taken the encroaching Arabs in flank. But Tom saw that they were too few to delay the invaders for more than a minute or two. Could Mbutu arrive in time? Fierce shouts rent the air all around him; the heavy clash of weapons, the flash of scimitars in the hot sunbeams, the gleaming eyes and distorted features, the pants and cries of the warriors, the shrieks of the wounded, made up a terrible scene that well-nigh broke down his nerve. Arabs were still springing into the zariba; the Bahima were engaged on every face, fighting an unequal fight, doing manfully, but receding foot by foot, inch by inch. Tom felt that he must throw himself into the fray. He sprang from his boulder; seizing a bayoneted musket, he leapt to the side of Mwonda as he smote thick and fast upon the serried mass, and shoulder to shoulder with him tried desperately to beat back the overwhelming tide.
Suddenly a tremendous shout rang out to the north. Tom, at that moment beset by three Arabs, thrilled with relief as he recognized the familiar battle-cry of the Bahima. Unperceived by the enemy, Mbutu and his eight hundred had waded through the swamp, formed up, a shivering miry crowd, under cover of the thick growth of rushes fringing the swamp, and darted out upon the rear of the Manyema attacking the northern face of the zariba. Taken completely by surprise, the bewildered negroes turned about, were seized with panic, and without a thought of resistance broke and fled, Mbutu's men pouring after them with jubilant shouts, and taking with their long spears a terrible toll of the fugitives. The pressure in front of Tom was immediately eased, for without knowing exactly what had happened the whole Arab force seemed to have become aware that the tide was turning. But Rumaliza behind his men lifted his quavering yet penetrating voice in adjuration, and the throng immediately about him threw themselves again into the fray. Tom would gladly have recalled Mbutu's troops to take the main Arab force in flank, but, intoxicated with their success, they were streaming away to the north-east after the fleeing enemy. It was not an opportunity to be lost, however, and Tom seized the moment by the forelock. He saw that the defenders of the northern face, finding themselves suddenly without an enemy, were hesitating what to do. Ordering Mwonda to continue his exertions with even double energy--an appeal to which the weary Titan nobly responded--Tom instructed the commander of the northern line to bring his pikemen to the support of the eastern contingent. Then, gathering about him the panting musketeers who remained on this side of the square, Tom led them out rapidly by the northern gate towards the right rear of the Arab main body. This movement, being covered by the wall of the zariba, was not perceived by the Arabs until the sallying party, skirting the stakes, emerged into the open. Of the four hundred and fifty musketeers who had originally been posted at the northern face less than three hundred remained to follow Kuboko, but coming unexpectedly on the Arabs' flank and rear they were more than sufficient to throw consternation into their ranks. Too late Ahmed saw the peril threatening him. His men were already disheartened by the sudden strengthening of the resistance in their front, due to the reinforcement of pikemen; they had been startled by the joyous shouts of Mbutu's men, informing them that in that quarter the fight was going against them. Before Ahmed could make any disposition to meet the new attack, the exultant Bahima, flushed with the anticipation and assurance of victory, flung themselves with a fierce yell upon the Arab right. At once it crumbled to pieces; there was a general sauve-qui-peut. Away into the open plain swarmed Arabs and Manyema; arms, ammunition, everything that might impede their flight was flung away by the panic-stricken mob. Away and away, heedless of direction, trampling on fallen men, stumbling over obstacles, on they sped, some dropping and dying of exhaustion and fright, others flinging themselves on the ground and whining for mercy as the pursuers overtook them.
"Thank God!" murmured Tom, as he stood still a few yards from the zariba. "The fight is won."
There was no need to order his captains to continue the pursuit; they were leading on their men with fresh ardour, and would not return until they had thoroughly dispersed the remnant of the hostile force. Thankful to the bottom of his heart, yet pitying the wretches who lay all around him, Tom returned with a few men to the zariba to do what could be done for the wounded. The square presented a terrible sight--a sight that Tom could not banish from his memory for many a long day. The ground was strewn thick with the bodies of the slain. More than five hundred of his own men had fallen, and at least twice as many of the enemy. As he surveyed the scene, and set some of his men, tired as they were, to tend the wounded, friend and foe alike, only one thought consoled him for the suffering and the loss of life that day's work had entailed. "It is a retribution and a promise," he said to himself; "retribution on the Arabs for the years and years of untold misery they have inflicted on the people, and a promise of long years of freedom and peaceful industry. It is worth the price."