One of those served with ammunition went as hard as he could go up stream to be out of harm's way, and another preferred hugging the dark shade of the rushes to keeping the clear open, which I desired for the benefit of our guns.

It was not getting painfully dark, and the Wanyoro were stealing on us, as we could hear, though nothing could be seen.

Presently the shade-seeking boat was attacked, spears were thrown, fortunately into the river instead of into our men, and grappling-hooks were used to link the boats together.

My men cried, "Help, Bana! they are killing us;" whilst I roared to my crew, "Go in, go in, and the victory will be ours;" but not a soul would--they were spell-bound to the place; we might have been cut up in detail, it was all the same to those cowardly Waganda, whose only action consisted in crying, "N'yawo! n'yawo!"-- mother, mother, help us! Three shots from the hooked boat now finished the action.

The Wanyoro had caught a Tartar.