But the numbers of the enemy were so overwhelming that John feared that nothing could now save the day. Said Mohammed in his agitation had allowed his raft to drift away from the island into the stream, and a rush was immediately made towards it. John sprang on to the boom, and ran with all speed to Ferrier’s help, his men close behind. Catching a big negro by the throat, he hurled him off the boom into the water, jumped the breastwork, and came to Ferrier’s side just as he staggered and fell with a spear wound in the thigh. The arrival of John’s party checked the assault for a moment, but meanwhile the enemy had clambered into his raft, overthrowing Said Mohammed, and the current brought it once more against the boom. The little party was now surrounded. One after another fell. Two men, a Swahili and a negro, had at last broken through the defence and gained a footing on Ferrier’s raft. John felled the Swahili with a sledge-hammer blow of his rifle; the negro was killed with a thrust from Bill’s knife. But while these first invaders were thus disposed of, others had forced their way on to the raft, and before John could recover himself, a spear was driven through his arm and he was hustled to the deck. There was a yell of triumph from the enemy. But all at once, above the uproar there came the sharp crackle of rifles, followed by a ringing cheer. Juma, who was at that moment in the act of springing from the boom into the raft, halted for a second, and turned to discover the origin of these new sounds. He saw, on the right bank of the river, not two hundred yards away, a party of mounted white men, riding at a gallop towards him. For an instant he hesitated. While his back was towards the raft, Bill, with an agility amazing in a man of his years, leapt the breastwork, knife in hand, and hurled himself upon the Swahili. Both together, they fell into the river. Juma was undermost. For an instant they disappeared beneath the surface. Bill never relaxed his grip. When they emerged, he plunged his knife up to the haft in the Swahili’s throat; then flung his enemy from him. Juma was dead. So he expiated the cruelties and tyrannies of many years, at the hands of a member of the tribe which had suffered most wrong. While this tragedy was being enacted, the riders came to the brink of the stream, and ten rifles sped their bullets among the swarm of black men. Again the air rang with a British cheer. With screams of pain, yells of consternation and affright, the enemy broke and fled, some towards the island, some scrambling up-stream, those who were in the rafts plunging into the water and swimming in all directions. And John, rising to his feet, beheld his father and Mr. Gillespie, and eight men whom he did not recognize, and waving his rifle aloft with his uninjured arm, he answered cheer with cheer. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH--Back to the Farm