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, 



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