The
position was clearly very serious, for if they burst into our camp, we
should be overwhelmed by their rush and fall victims to the bullets of
their captors.
"Hans," I cried, "take the men who were with you last night and try to
lead those slaves round behind us. Quick! Quick now before we are
stamped flat."
Hans darted away, and presently I saw him and the two other men
running towards the approaching crowd, Hans waving a shirt or some
other white object to attract their attention. At the time the
foremost of them had halted and were screaming, "Mercy, English! Save
us, English!" having caught sight of the muzzles of our guns.
This was a fortunate occurrence indeed, for otherwise Hans and his
companions could never have stopped them. The next thing I saw was the
white shirt bearing away to the left on a line which led past the
fence of our /boma/ into the scrub and high grass behind the camp.
After it struggled and scrambled the crowd of slaves like a flock of
sheep after the bell-wether. To them Hans's shirt was a kind of "white
helmet of Navarre.
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