“Tjean, come into our dance.”
Finally, little by little, Jean was completely overcome by weariness, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But he had decided nothing....
XXII
The great day, the day of battle, had come.
At three in the morning the whole encampment of Dialdé was astir—spahis, riflemen, Bambara friendlies, were getting ready to set out on their march, with their arms and ammunition.
The Marabouts had prayed at great length; numbers of talismans had been distributed. By order of the chiefs the black warriors, according to their custom on the occasion of great battles, had loaded their carbines with powder half-way up the barrel and with bullets up to the muzzle. With such thoroughness had they carried out the order that most of the firearms burst at the first discharge, not an infrequent occurrence in negro warfare.
The orders were to make for the village of Djidiam, where, according to the report of the native scouts, Boubakar-Ségou had ensconced himself with his army behind thick palisades of timber and mud. Djidiam was the principal fortress of this personage, who had become almost legendary, the terror of the country—a sort of fabulous hero, whose strength lay in retreat, in hiding himself always in the recesses of his murderous country, and in baffling discovery.
They were to camp during the afternoon in the great woods adjoining the enemy headquarters, and finally to fall upon Djidiam by night, to set fire to the village, which would burn in the moonlight like an auto-da-fé of straw. Then they were to return victorious to St Louis, before fever should have had time to decimate the expedition.