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"Thanks, Bela Moshi!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, catching sight of the sergeant as the latter thrust a fresh clip of cartridges into his magazine. The struggle in this part of the line was now over. The Haussas were engaged in firing shots into the dug-outs to intimidate their German occupants. Fifty or sixty prisoners were being disarmed and rounded up, while the wounded had to be given attention.
In open order with flankers thrown out the Waffs hurried through the bush, the sound of continuous rifle-fire growing louder and louder. "Button's holding out all right," declared the company-major to Wilmshurst, referring to the lieutenant left in charge of the camp. "He has MacGregor and young Vipont to back him up and twenty-five Haussas. Hullo, what's that?"
Bela Moshi and half a dozen Haussas as attendants the five men left Kilwa camp at about two hours before sunset. An hour and ten minutes' ride brought them to a native village where several lions had been terrorising the inhabitants by their nocturnal depredations. Here the horses were left under the charge of one of the Haussas, and the party set out on foot into the bush.
Good trackers all, they ought to experience but little difficulty, notwithstanding the fact that hundreds of men had been trampling the ground, for the Haussas vie with the Australian aborigines and the Red Indian in the act of tracing a man or an animal for miles with uncanny skill and persistence.
"Take cover, all of you!" shouted the subaltern, loath to hamper his task by additional casualties. The Haussas obeyed with one exception Bela Moshi. The sergeant, slipping a clip into the magazine, stood right in the centre of the path along which the second bush-cow was tearing, eager to avenge its mate. Wilmshurst made no further attempt to order Beta Moshi to take refuge.
They brought his rifle and ammunition, his field glasses and a small electric battery. In connection with the latter wires were run from the sniper's lair to the bush from which the puffs of smoke had been seen. Here small charges of black powder had been placed so as to be exploded from a safe distance and thus deceive the Haussas as to the rifleman's actual position.
Hardly had the Haussas departed on their errand when a couple of British naval officers literally staggered into the bivouac. At first they were too utterly done up to speak. They were parched with thirst, their drill uniforms torn in their long trek through the scrub, and their boots were cut almost to pieces. One of them was limping badly as the result of a sprained ankle.
Here the men were halted to take a "breather" before essaying the final task, while the company officers foregathered, consulting their synchronised watches. In another ten minutes five minutes before the time for the bombardment to cease the Haussas were to start on their desperate frontal attack.
At any rate I'll risk it, and if I'm not back an hour before dawn my name's not MacGregor." "Let me know if the major agrees," said Wilmshurst. "I don't want my sentries to take pot shots at you when you return and they are all jolly good marksmen," he added in a tone of pride, for he had good reason to pin his faith upon the Haussas' accuracy with a rifle.
It meant that either the returning Huns had disturbed the feathered denizens or else the advance of the Haussas had driven them over the enemy position, in which case the wily Hun would "smell a rat." It was noon before Wilmshurst gained his preliminary objective. The tropical sun was beating down with terrific violence, the scrub offering scant shelter from its scorching rays.
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