The voices of the Ashangos became fainter and fainter, and there were no more answers to our cries of defiance.
Some of us had been wounded again. As we came to a little stream, my exhaustion was such that every thing became dim before me; the trees of the forest seemed to be moving, and finally I fell almost unconscious to the ground. After a while I drank copiously of the refreshing water of the stream, for the poisoned arrows had given me an unquenchable thirst. The men drank also; none of us seemed ever to be satisfied. A few minutes after, and we drank again. Now we breathed more freely, and rested a little while, keeping a sharp lookout, however, at the same time. I examined the wounds of Igala and the others, and said, "Igala, don't be afraid; you are not going to die from the effects of the poisoned arrow. I am going to put in your wound something that will burn you, but do you good." It was ammonia. I applied it, and he gave a piercing shriek.
The slender, small, sharp-pointed, bearded arrow had remained in my body the whole of the day; two or three times I tried in vain to pull it out, but it seemed to stick fast in the flesh; so I took off the belt of my revolver, and said to Igala, "Pull that arrow out for me." He tried gently, but it would not come. I said, "Pull it with all your strength."
Oh how it pained! It was like a little fish-hook—a little bit of a thing, but it so tore the flesh that I felt like giving a cry of anguish. I became deadly pale, but did not utter a word; I wanted to set an example of fortitude to my men. Then I put ammonia in all my wounds and those of my men, for I always carried a little bottle of it to use in case of snake-bites. The blood had flowed freely from my finger, and I was sorry to see that my clothes were quite saturated, but the effusion of blood had carried off the poison.
I found that the effect of the poison was to bring on mortification of the flesh, and was not so dangerous as I had been led to believe, though I was very sick a few days after the fight.
After resting a while, and after equalizing our munitions of war, we shouldered our empty otaitais. Just as we were ready to start we heard again a rustling of leaves. Are the Ashangos coming back? We are silent, and look in the direction of the noise. We see a man—our guns are directed toward him. I make a sign not to fire, I do not know why—God directs me. Now and then he hides himself—stops—watches—he is advancing, not in the path, but a little way from it. The man comes nearer; we see a gun in his hand—it is Mouitchi! I am the first to recognize him. "Mouitchi!" I shouted. "I am Mouitchi," the answer was. He rushes toward us; he is safe; he is not even wounded, and with tremulous voice I said, "Boys, God is with us; I thank thee, Father." I could say no more, but this came from the inmost depths of my heart.
Mouitchi's story was this: He had mistaken the path in the panic, and finally had gone through the jungle and followed us by the halloing of the fierce Ashangos, but kept at a good distance from them. He heard them crying out that the great warriors of Mobana and of Mouaou were killed. They had fled in the utmost terror.
Poor Commi-Nagoumba was the only dog left; all the others had been killed. If I could have collected their bodies I would have dug a grave for them at the foot of a big tree, and written on it the words,
HERE ARE BURIED