The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
six hundred or seven hundred yards long, and 
half-way up it a small canoe, full of men, was 
crossing. At the extreme end was a stockade, the 
defenders of which opened fire on me. Their aim 
was very bad, being low. I saw the puff of smoke 
—a man in a white shirt fired the piece—and then 
the shot ricochetting along the water. I emptied 
my magazine rifle at the marksman, putting the 
sights up to six hundred yards, but without hurt- 
ing him in the very least. The first shot I fired 
must have gone very close, however, for he 
jumped behind the stockade like a rabbit. Some 
marines saluted him with several volleys, but to 
no purpose. That man came out and loaded his 
old gun and fired it time after time as though 
his life was charmed—even as we left the place 
he let us have a parting reminder. Most of the _ 
natives had taken to the bush; a few of the 
bravest only remained behind to face the troops. 
It was a very sad day for the St. George, and 
a curious instance in this connexion was that a 
year previously, to the exact day, the prede- 
cessor of the lieutenant who lost his life in the 
attack on Nimbi was killed on a similar expe- 
dition farther down the coast. 
These natives deserved a thrashing for taking 
the law into their own hands. Of the forty 
Krooboys whom they had taken prisoner when 
sacking Akassa not one remained—all had been 
sacrificed, being beheaded by the machete, a long, 
62 
