CHAPTER XIX.
THE SIGN.
Crash! crash! A long, detonating roar, then crash! again. Therock-circle is a perfect ring of flame, sheeting forth in red jetsathwart the hanging sulphurous smoke. Death-yells are mingling with thefearful war-shout. Shields are flung high in the air, and dark bodies,leaping, fall forward upon their faces, to be trampled into lifelessnessas their own comrades tread them down, not pausing, rushing over them asthey lie.
"No, no! no quicker," reproves Hazon, who is directing here, where theassailant's force is the strongest, namely, the main body, the _isifuba_or breast of the _impi_. "Fire steadily and low, as before, but noquicker."
His followers growl a ready assent. They are unmitigated ruffians, butterrible and determined fighters. The fanatical fatalism of theMohammedan creed renders them utterly impervious to panic. They keep upa steady, quick-loading fire into the charging Ba-gcatya, and, aiminglow, every shot tells, committing fearful havoc among the serried,onrushing masses. Yet those terrible warriors are dauntless. Whole linesgo down; still, others surge over them, and now the charge is but twohundred yards from the line of rocks.
The fore ranks hesitate, then come to a halt, crumpling back upon thosebehind them. The slavers, with a shrill, ringing yell, seeing theiropportunity, pour a frightfully raking volley into the momentarilyconfused mass. Shields are clashed together, spears wildly waving. Forthe moment it seems as though the Ba-gcatya were fighting with eachother, striving to hew their way through their own ranks in theirendeavours to escape beyond the reach of that awful and destructivefire.
"Give it to them again!" growls Hazon, a lurid gleam in his deep-set,piercing eyes. "But, aim low--aim low!"
Again not a shot is thrown away. That side of the savage host falls backhurriedly, leaving the ground bestrewn with bodies, dead, dying,crushed. A perfect storm of exultant cheers greets this move.
But if a temporary retreat, it is no rout. In obedience to arapidly-uttered, whistling signal, fully one-half of the main bodyswings round and hurls itself with incredible force and fury uponanother point of the rock-circle, seemingly the weakest point, for herethe rocks are low and apart, and have to be supplemented with bags andbales.
Laurence Stanninghame is in command here. And now his dark face flusheswith the glow of a mad excitement, a perfectly transformingexhilaration. He would thunder his commands aloud, but that a deadlycoolness is as indispensable almost as accuracy of aim. His orders arethe same as Hazon's and uttered as calmly--but for a suppressedtremor--and as audibly.
The very earth seems to rock and reel beneath the detonating roll of thevolleys, the thunderous rumble of charging feet. The dark, glaringfaces of warring demons, the flinging aloft of shields, the groaning andyells, the redness of the sheeting flames, all this renders him mad--madwith the revel of conflict, with the herculean determination which issublime above death. Here again whole lines of the enemy are down. Hereagain those in front would draw back if they could, but the immenseweight behind hurls them on. It is the work of but very few moments.
And now the whole of the Ba-gcatya host is circling around the slaver'sposition, every now and again making a furious rush upon what seems aweak point of the defences. But the defenders have a way of massing uponeach point thus attacked, and that with a celerity which is trulymarvellous, and the result is the same. Yet with each repulse theterrible ranks leap forward immediately, and every such charge bringsthem nearer than the last. Moreover, as each of their fighting leadersis picked off, another springs forward with unparalleled intrepidity totake his place. The while the barking roar of their terrific sloganrends the air in its most demoniacal clamour.
Now an idea takes hold on the minds of these ferocious legionaries, andit is passed like lightning round the ranks. Those in the forefront haulup the bodies of the slain, and, holding them to them, stagger forward,thinking to make a buckler of the dead for the living. But the terriblerifles of the slavers drive their unerring missiles at that short rangethrough dead and living alike, and corpse is heaped upon corpse inghastly intertwining.
In the thickest of the tumult Hazon is here, there,everywhere--directing, encouraging, restraining. But for the demon-glowin the black eyes staring from the pale, set face, the man might havebeen made of marble, so little trace of emotion of any kind does hedisplay. Laurence, too, is wary and self-contained, though getting inhere and there a telling shot. Holmes, on the other hand, is firing awayas fast as he can load. So far not a man has been injured. Theassailants are not quite within spear-throwing distance yet.
"Ammunition hold out? Oh, yes, we have plenty of that," is Hazon's replyto a rapid, low-toned query on the part of Laurence. "But it's time theyturned tail. Isandhlwana was nothing to this."
But now, with a deafening, vibrating roar the Ba-gcatya, massingsuddenly, hurl fully one-half of their force upon the point directed byLutali. They surge up the slope in one dense charge of lightningswiftness. Bullets are hailed upon them. They waver not. The hands ofthe defenders are skinned and blistered by contact with the breeches oftheir own rifles, so hot have these become through quick firing, andstill the firing is not quick enough. Stumbling, leaping, flying overthe defences they come--a great cloud of dark, grim faces, and baredteeth, and protruding eyeballs. They spring upon the defences, then overthem. The whole might of the redoubtable foe is pouring into the naturalfortress.
STUMBLING, LEAPING, FLYING OVER THE DEFENCES THEY COME.]
Now ensues a scene the like of which might be paralleled, but hardlysurpassed, by some lurid drama of hell. In jarring shock they meet,those within and those, till now, without--the savage legionaries of"The Spider," and the no less savage and equally determinedslave-hunters. The Wangoni, seeing their chance, have sprung forward tomeet and roll back the assailants. But they themselves are beaten downby the broad shields, ripped with the terrible stabbing spears of theferocious Ba-gcatya, now maddened to assuage their blood-thirst, andwhose crushing might, now pouring over in countless numbers, thishandful shall never hope to resist. The chief, Mashumbwe, is speared andripped. The struggle is fierce and hand-to-hand, but short. The Wangoni,now a sorry remnant, are rolled back upon their allies.
Of these not a man but knows that the day is lost, that flight isimpossible; that if the other half of the Ba-gcatya host has not swarmedover to take them on the rear, it is only because it is waiting toreceive on its spear points all who flee. But there is no thought offlight. With all their indifference to human suffering, with all theirbrutality, their savagery, the slavers are as brave as any. They areindeed men picked for their desperate courage, and now, standing back toback, they begin to render the victory of the Ba-gcatya a dearly boughtone indeed.
The war-shout no longer rends the air. There is a grim, fell silence inthis hand-to-hand conflict, broken only by the snake-like hiss of theBa-gcatya as an enemy goes down, by the slap and shock of shield meetingclubbed gun or stabbing knife, by the gasps of the combatants. The cloudof powder smoke hanging overhead partially veils the sun, which glowers,a blood-red ball, through this gloomy shroud.
The whole space within the rock-circle is a very charnel-pit ofcorpses, among which the combatants stagger--victorious Ba-gcatya andvanquished slave-hunters alike--stagger and slip on a foothold of oozygore; stab, and strike, and fall in their turn.
In the rush and the _melee_ Laurence Stanninghame has become separatedeven farther from his comrades,--his white comrades, that is,--nor canhe by any effort hope to rejoin them. Several Arabs are around him, hisown followers, swarthy sons of the Prophet, their keen eyes flashinghate and defiance upon the foe, their long ataghans sweeping a circle oflight around them. In their forefront is Lutali--Lutali, whirling agreat scimitar, hewing down more than one of the too venturesomeBa-gcatya, and that in spite of the broad bull-hide shield deftlywielded--Lutali, uttering a semi-religious war-cry, his erect form andkeen, haughty face the very personification of absolute and dauntlessvalour. And he himself, wedged in by those around, can still get in nowand ag
ain a telling shot from his revolver, and with every such shot onemore warrior of "The Spider" has uttered his last battle cry.
No, there is no hope. Swift as lightning, a mighty brain-wave surgesthrough Laurence's mind, and in it he sees the whole of his past life.Yet not even this dismays him--rather does it engender a sort ofhalf-bitter exultation. Life for him has been such a mistake, and thatnot through any fault of his own. It held no especial charm for him. Allits sweetness has been concentrated within one short idyllic period; buteven that could not have lasted--even to it would have comedisillusionment. Lilith would never learn his fate. It, and that ofthose with him, would vanish, as others had done, into the mysteries ofthis great mysterious continent. All this and more--so lightning-like isthe power of thought--passes through Laurence Stanninghame's brain atthis dread and awful moment.
A casting spear strikes him on the left shoulder, penetrating the flesh.Infuriated by the sharp, sickening pang, he discharges his revolver atthe supposed thrower, but his aim is uncertain. Again he draws trigger.The hammer falls with a harmless click; the chambers are empty. And now,hard pressed by the yelling Ba-gcatya, those of his followers yetbetween him and the enemy stagger back, fighting furiously, while thelife-stream wells from many a gashed and gaping wound. No longer can hesee either Hazon or Holmes, for the forest of waving, reeking spearblades. Then one of his own followers, a hulking Swahili, mortallywounded, reels and falls, and, doing so, bears back Laurence beneath hisponderous weight. The rock-rampart is immediately behind him, and is lowhere. It catches the back of his knees, and now, having lost all controlover his balance, grasping at empty air in wild effort to recoverhimself, Laurence pitches heavily backward over the rocks, and lies halfstunned upon the plain without.
Those of the Ba-gcatya host in waiting on that side surge tumultuouslyforward, uttering yells of savage delight. This is the first of thedoomed slavers who has come over; and he a white man, and of course aleader. Each warrior is eager to bury his spear-head in this man'sbody, and they crowd around him, every right hand raised aloft for thedownward stroke.
But the fatal stroke remains undealt. Broad blades quiver aloft in aring of steel. Each grim, bloodthirsty countenance is set and staring,stony in its indescribable expression of mingled marvel and awe, andeyeballs seem to start from their sockets as their owners stand gazingdown upon this prostrate white man. Then from each broad chest a gaspbursts forth:
"_Au!_ The Sign! THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER!"