The silence was brief. Suddenly a whistle sounded. The air was rent with a great shout as the enemy askaris leapt from the trench and surged forward towards the barricade. Instantly Tom gave a signal; two blazing flares soared over the barricade and fell on the ground beyond, lighting up a wide space around them. Peering through a gap, Tom saw the line of black men pressing on. Some carried axes, others oblong hurdles--pontoons for throwing across the moat. Only a few seconds after the signal for the attack had been given, another whistle cut the air. From the barricade and the trenches above rifles flashed, and there were gaps in the ranks of the assailants. In the pressure of a moment like this regular volleys were impossible: each man fired as fast as he could. In spite of their losses the enemy pushed on with scarcely a check. They had not yet fired a shot. Some crossed the moat with flying leaps and began to hack at the barricade with their axes. Others rushed over on the hurdles, and thrusting their rifles into the gaps, fired at random. The defenders here, having emptied their magazines, lunged at the foremost assailants with their bayonets, while the men in the raised trenches kept up a hot fire on the supports rushing up behind. But the stream seemed never to slacken. If a man fell back from the barricade, another took his place. A big askari forced his way through a gap, and wounded two men before he was transfixed by Mirambo’s bayonet. Almost before the bayonet could be withdrawn others of the enemy came through at the same spot, and Mirambo and the men about him found themselves engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle. The same thing happened at many parts of the defences, and though for every man who got through two or three had been hurled back into the moat or among their comrades, it was clear that by pressure of numbers the Wahehe must soon be overwhelmed.