The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
At daybreak the ordet was given to attack 
Nimbi, and a flotilla was formed, led by a 
pinnace under the command of the first lieu- 
tenant of H.M.S. St. George. 
Facing down the long creek was a wooden 
house, one of the principal landing-places to the 
town, and here the natives had set up some old 
muzzle-loading guns, loaded with solid shot. So 
soon as the pinnace came within range, they 
fired point-blank at the leading boat, their aim, 
unfortunately, being only too correct, for the first 
shot hit the edge of the shield, behind which 
the first lieutenant was standing. Glancing off, 
the round shot hit the poor fellow in the face, 
killing him instantly. Another try sent a second 
death-dealing shot through one of the port-holes. 
Now several three-pounders joined in the 
fray, the boom of which mingled curiously with 
the incessant chatter of the Maxims and the 
shrieking war rockets. Presently the firing from 
the house ceased, a landing was effected, and 
the bush cleared by the firing of volleys into it 
—a necessary precaution, for there was a narrow 
path on which our party might very easily have 
been ambushed. 
I was more or less “‘ on my own,” not being 
attached to any force in particular, and went at 
once to the wooden landing-house, where the 
walls stood honeycombed with Maxim bullets— 
it would have been hard to find a square foot 
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