Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
The result was instantaneous. The Black Kendah who, be it remembered,
were totally unaccustomed to the effects of rifle fire and imagined
that we only possessed two or three guns in all, stopped their advance
as though paralyzed. For a few seconds there was silence, except for
the intermittent crackle of the rifles as my men loaded and fired. Next
came the cries of the smitten men and horses that were falling
everywhere, and then—the unmistakable sound of a stampede.
“They have gone. That was too warm for them, Baas,” chuckled Hans
exultingly.
“Yes,” I answered, when I had at length succeeded in stopping the
firing, “but I expect they will come back with the light. Still, that
trick of yours has cost them dear, Hans.”
By degrees the dawn began to break. It was, I remember, a particularly
beautiful dawn, resembling a gigantic and vivid rose opening in the
east, or a cup of brightness from which many coloured wines were poured
all athwart the firmament. Very peaceful also, for not a breath of wind
was stirring. But what a scene the first rays of the sun revealed upon
that narrow stretch of pass in front of us. Everywhere the pitfalls and
trenches were filled with still surging heaps of men and horses, while
all about lay dead and wounded men, the red harvest of our rifle fire.
It was dreadful to contrast the heavenly peace above and the hellish
horror beneath.
We took count and found that up to this moment we had not lost a single
man, one only having been slightly wounded by a thrown spear. As is
common among semi-savages, this fact filled the White Kendah with an
undue exultation. Thinking that as the beginning was so the end must
be, they cheered and shouted, shaking each other’s hands, then fell to
eating the food which the women brought them with appetite, chattering
incessantly, although as a general rule they were a very silent people.
Even the grave Harût, who arrived full of congratulations, seemed as
high-spirited as a boy, till I reminded him that the real battle had
not yet commenced.
The Black Kendah had fallen into a trap and lost some of their number,
that was all, which was fortunate for us but could scarcely affect the
issue of the struggle, since they had many thousands left. Ragnall, who
had come up from his lines, agreed with me. As he said, these people
were fighting for life as well as honour, seeing that most of the corn
which they needed for their sustenance was stored in great heaps either
in or to the rear of the temple behind us. Therefore they must come on
until they won or were destroyed. How with our small force could we
hope to destroy this multitude? That was the problem which weighed upon
our hearts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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