Behind the stockade the defenders were keenly alert; Barega had command of the north-western section, and the katikiro, who, genial time-server as he was in peace, was a very paladin in war, commanded on the south-west. Seeing that all along the western boundary the defence was in good hands, Tom hastened to the south-east to assure himself that no danger need be feared in that direction. Barely half a minute after he reached a smithy in the south-eastern corner, from the yard of which he could scan the whole country to the horizon, he saw a strong body of men spring out of the banana plantation he had vainly urged Barega to cut down. They, like their fellows on the other side, had with them a long piece of trellis-work. Evidently there was not a moment to lose. Tom despatched Mbutu to inform Barega of the danger; but so quickly did the enemy move, that in less than two minutes they had arrived at the edge of the ditch, flung the trellis bridge across, and begun to swarm over to the other side, nimbly evading the planted stakes.
Tom looked around. Only some ten men were within call. Summoning these to his assistance, he turned to defend the stockade. He had no weapon but the musket got in the forest, and that, in default of ammunition, he could only use as a club. By the side of the smith's rude anvil he saw a recently-sharpened sickle, with a handle eighteen inches long. This he seized, and sprang to his post again. Some twenty of the enemy, he saw, bore light scaling-ladders, hastily constructed since the previous fight. These they placed against the stockade and began to clamber up. There was a fierce hand-to-hand fight. Tom caught hold of the top of one of the ladders, on which two Arabs were ascending, and putting forth his utmost strength, flung it back so that it fell on the climbers. Some of the Bahima were thrusting their spears through interstices in the stockade, and cries of agony bore witness to their success. But for every man that fell another sprang up to take his place. Already several of the enemy had reached the tops of their ladders, and were firing, fortunately with erratic aim, at the panting defenders. Three, indeed, had clambered down on the inner side, and still there was no sign of the expected reinforcements. Tom had been slashing with his sickle in his right hand, and warding off with the musket in his left the blows of Arab swords and Manyema spears. Seeing three of the enemy within his lines, he was down in a moment at the foot of the stockade. One of the three he clubbed with his musket, and then, while Mbutu, who returned at this moment, fiercely engaged the second, he pressed hotly upon the third. Two of the Bahima were prostrate; the remaining eight were vainly attempting to stem the torrent now pouring over the palisade, and Tom was in the thick of the mêlée, laying about him doughtily. It was a tense moment; Tom and his little band were outnumbered ten to one; and the fate of the village hung in the balance. The enemy were creeping up behind for a final rush, when the katikiro charged down at the head of two hundred yelling Bairo. The stockade was cleared in a few seconds and the baffled enemy driven back over the ditch.