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Updated: June 10, 2025
Bela Moshi, wearing a broad smile, saluted. "Brass Pot, him head-bone blown inside out," he replied, as cheerfully as only a Haussa can when reporting losses amongst his comrades. "Nimshi Pali, him no good maquisha. Dat all dead, but plenty much Haussa hurt so many."
About this time one of the three soldiers, who had been suffering under mental derangement, died. Their course lay towards the kingdom of Haussa, and they were obliged to keep constantly on their guard against the natives, who frequently sailed up to them in armed canoes, and molested them from the banks of the river.
Just as the second canoe was running aground one of the natives uttered a cry of surprise, and pointed to a water-logged dug-out drifting broadside on down stream. It was a prize well worth having, and without waiting to put Wilmshurst and the rest of the passengers ashore the blacks paddled out and secured the derelict. "Golly, sah!" exclaimed the Haussa sergeant.
"Sorry," muttered the Rhodesian apologetically, for he had respect for a brave foe. "You asked for it, Fritz." The next instant Beta Moshi stumbled, the subaltern only just contriving to avoid tripping over his prostrate body. Thinking that the Haussa sergeant was hit one of the covering party began to raise the machine-gun from the ground, but the Haussa was holding it tightly in his arms.
Before he could deliver the stroke Bela Moshi grasped his officer by the shoulders and unceremoniously jerked him aside; then lifting a rifle to his shoulders the Haussa sergeant pressed the trigger. Down in a convulsive heap fell Spofforth and the lioness, the brute frantically pawing both her antagonist and the dust in her death agonies.
"Cut off and pack your kit. We have only ten minutes." Well within the time specified the Haussa was ready for the trek, his kit consisting of a blanket, rifle and ammunition, a haversack and his cooking utensils. In addition he carried his master's water-filter and a light waterproof tent weighing together with the socketed poles a little over two pounds.
"Why, he's an officer in the English Army, and he's been in command of Haussa troops on the Gold Coast, and he's been some sort of a Resident, or political thing up in one of those nigger towns at the back there. What's he want to go for?" "Said he'd come for the fun of the thing." Captain Image gave a grim laugh. "Well, I think he'll find all the fun he's any use for before he's ashore again.
Dudley looked enquiringly at his cabin-mate, knowing that Mutton Chop was Laxdale's servant. "Oh, so that rascal's the culprit," declared Laxdale. "Didn't I say I thought so?" "Bring Mutton Chop here," ordered Wilmshurst, addressing the broadly smiling Tari Barl. The Haussa vanished, presently to reappear with almost an exact counterpart of himself.
"Very good," said the subaltern, without admitting his failure. "If you hear foot of Macgreg come this way before sergeant come for reliefs then you send and tell me. Savvy?" "Berry good, sah," replied the Haussa. Having twice visited the sentries Wilmshurst returned to the bivouac to snatch a few hours' sleep.
I should reduce the latter figure to 600, and propose for 1882, before the May emigration, 1,500 to 1,600. The people are Coast-men and islanders of every tribe, with a fair sprinkling of dissolute ruffians, 'white blackmen, from Sierra Leone and Akra, drunken Fanti policemen, and plundering Haussa soldiers.
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