The
first thing I knew a cloud of spears sailed out of the mangrove
swamp at me. At least a dozen were sticking into me. I started to
run, but tripped over one that was fast in my calf and went down.
The woolly heads made a run for me, each with a long-handled,
fantail tomahawk with which to hack off my head. They were so
eager for the prize that they got in one another's way. In the
confusion I avoided several hacks by throwing myself right and
left on the sand. Then Otoo arrived--Otoo the man-handler. In
some way he had got hold of a heavy war-club, and at close
quarters it was a far more efficient weapon than a rifle. He was
right in the thick of them, so that they could not spear him,
while their tomahawks seemed worse than useless. He was fighting
for me, and he was in a true Berserker rage. The way he handled
that club was amazing. Their skulls squashed like overripe
oranges. It was not until he had driven them back, picked me up
in his arms, and started to run, that he received his first
wounds. He arrived in the boat with four spear-thrusts, got his
Winchester, and with it got a man for every shot. Then we pulled
aboard the schooner and doctored up.
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