A terrible disaster had occurred. A political officer had been attacked and killed, and his escort cut to pieces, by the Angami Nagas. A few of the survivors had succeeded in reaching the stockade, and one of them—a bright young fellow who had marched out two days before, leaving behind him a one-week’s bride—was having an ugly wound on his head dressed by the native doctor.
A crowd of terrified women surrounded him, eager to hear his fearful tale, and by degrees they learnt the truth—not one could hope her husband had escaped, for he believed himself and one companion to be the only survivors out of eighty men. It was a sad tale of mismanagement, treachery, and bloodshed.
“We were in a trap,” the young fellow explained in broken sentences. “They fired upon us suddenly and killed a lot before we could escape to open ground. Kama Ram got us together at the foot of the hills, and we fought hard until he fell.”
A fair-faced Nepalese woman covered her face with her cloth and broke into low sobs.
“Yes,” he continued, “we fought hard; but half our men were killed, and the Nagas were there in hundreds. If we could have kept them off till dark we might have got away; but they surrounded us, and after Kama Ram was shot there was no one to lead us, and we got broken up and scattered. He told us to leave him there and fight our way back to warn the Sahib at Kohima; but how could we leave him? We carried him away, firing and then retreating. And so we got away, a few of us; but Kama Ram was heavy—was he not a big man?—and he said, ‘Oh, brothers, let me alone to die! I am dying now, and you must save your lives and get back to Kohima and help the Sahib; they will go there. You cannot save me. Put me where they cannot find me, as they will take my head.’ And then he died. We hid his body well, and then came on, and only two of us are here, and the Nagas are now on their way; they wait to take the heads. By daybreak they will come.”
The little Nepalese woman crept quietly away. Her child was sleeping in a corner of the over-crowded room, and she sat by him with her head turned against the wall and cried not loudly but most bitterly.
“What is the use of crying?” asked the other women in high-pitched trembling voices. “We shall be killed too in the morning.”
“Yes,” said the wounded man, “we shall all be killed. There are thousands of them coming on us.”
Then came the quiet question from a broad-faced rosy Naga woman—
“And my man—did you see him?”