He spoke cheerily, but I afterwards learnt he was almost distracted when on the arrival of the rescue party, too late as he feared, we had been found bound to the altar stone.
I staggered to my feet, and, dizzy and faint from the effects of being in a cramped position during those terrible hours, I had great difficulty to prevent myself from falling, but a draught from a tin pannikin revived me wonderfully. My sporting rifle was hopelessly lost, so, picking up a revolver and a well-filled bandolier, I made my way across the courtyard to where the Maxim was trained ready to open fire.
The natives had gathered in a dense and disorderly mob around the chief's house and were making preparations to rush the gateway of the stockade. There were, I should think, nearly a thousand of them, against which a little band of Britishers, fifteen in all, had an almost superhuman task to perform, the result of which was to be either victory or a dreadful death.
"Steady, lads! Here they come!"
The two men at the Maxim, cool and collected, worked as calmly as if taking part in a sham fight.
"Commence!"
How shall I describe the terrible scene that followed?
Pop-pop-pop! Pop-pop-pop! The cartridge belt with its string of 250 rounds of .303 ammunition began to run swiftly through the breech-block, and from the water-jackets the steam rose in a thick cloud.
The centre of the dense mass of natives was literally crushed and beaten to the earth, but with redoubled shouts the flanks converged on the gate. At the critical moment there was a sudden pause in the firing—the Maxim had jammed!
Rapidly the men withdrew the belt, to find that a badly placed cartridge had projected sufficiently to prevent its passing through the breech; but even as they were thus engaged the foremost of the savages were almost within striking distance of the gate.