The acrid smoke of battle still seemed to cling to the warriors of the Batembo confederation as they made their somber, yet undeniably triumphant, return from the Black Rock Hills. The grim task of collecting their own fallen, an agonizing thirty-two brave men from various clans, had tempered the initial wild elation of their victory over Major Harrison's column. Each body, carefully wrapped in a warrior's sleeping hide, was a stark reminder of the price of defiance. But amidst the sorrow, a fierce, almost incredulous pride was taking root. They had faced the red coats, the soldiers of the distant, powerful Queen, and they had not only bloodied them but had broken them and captured their chief.
Jabari, with Kaelo's consciousness a cold, analytical core within his weary frame, led the procession not directly to his main ikulu, but first to a pre-arranged temporary camp closer to the battle site. Here, Kibwana and his assistants, their faces etched with concern, worked tirelessly to tend the wounded, their numbers almost double those lost. Kaelo had insisted on this; in his former life, he knew that swift, competent medical attention, however rudimentary, drastically improved survival rates. Kibwana, though his methods were traditional, possessed a profound knowledge of herbs that staunched bleeding, poultices that drew out infection, and techniques for setting broken bones that Kaelo, despite his modern understanding, watched with respect.
Major Alistair Harrison, his leg crudely splinted and his face a mask of stoic pain and disbelief, was among the wounded, though his treatment was overseen with a particular, detached diligence. Kaelo had given explicit orders: the British Major was to be kept alive and his suffering minimized as much as possible. A dead British commander was a martyr who would invoke a terrible vengeance; a live one was a bargaining chip, a source of intelligence, and a potent symbol of Batembo power.
The eventual entry into the main Batembo ikulu a few days later was met with an explosion of emotion that shook the very earth. Wails of grief for the fallen warriors mingled with thunderous roars of acclamation for Jabari and his victorious army. The sight of Batembo warriors carrying captured British rifles, the distinctive red coats of fallen soldiers displayed like trophies, and, most astonishingly, the bound but still imposing figure of Major Harrison himself, his face pale and drawn, paraded before the assembled populace, sent waves of near hysteria through the crowd. Children stared wide-eyed, women broke into spontaneous songs of praise for Jabari, and even the oldest, most cynical elders murmured that the ancestors themselves must be guiding their young Ntemi.
Jabari, Kaelo carefully orchestrating his public persona, moved through the celebrations with a solemn dignity. He first led the elaborate Nyamwezi funeral rites for his fallen warriors, ensuring each clan that had lost men felt their sacrifice was honored by the paramount chief himself. He spoke of their bravery, of their role in securing the future of their people, his voice, Jabari's voice, resonating with a genuine sorrow that Kaelo allowed to surface, knowing its power to bind the community together.
Once the dead were laid to rest and the initial fervor of victory had settled into a more sober understanding of its cost, Jabari convened his full war council. The central, unavoidable question hung heavy in the air of the great hut: what was to be done with Major Alistair Harrison?
Lبانجى of the Wanyisanza, his youthful face still flushed with battle-pride, was blunt. "He came to our lands to kill and conquer, Ntemi! He is a wolf caught in a snare. We should make an example of him! Let his head adorn the highest pole of your ikulu, a warning to any other sun-haired dogs who dare to follow his path!" Several younger Batembo war leaders grunted their approval.
Hamisi, his expression thoughtful, shook his head. "Vengeance is sweet, Lبانجى, but sometimes it leaves a bitter aftertaste. This Harrison is not like Steiner, a mere company man. He is a warrior of his great Queen. To kill him out of hand… it would be like kicking a hornet's nest the size of a mountain." He paused. "He is a valuable prize. Perhaps he can be ransomed? His Queen must value her war chiefs."
Mzee Kachenje, his ancient eyes holding a deep wisdom, spoke next. "Ransom is the way of bandits, Hamisi, not of great Ntemis forging a kingdom. And what would we ask for? More guns? More cloth? Such things are fleeting. This man represents a power far greater than any we have faced. Killing him invites their full fury. Holding him indefinitely makes us a target. We must use him to speak to that power, to tell them that the Nyamwezi are a people to be respected, not trampled."
Kibwana, who had been tending to Harrison's wound and observing him closely, added his perspective. "His spirit is strong, Ntemi, though his body is broken for now. He is a leader of men in his own land. Such men carry weight. Their words, even words spoken in defeat, are heard by their own great spirits and their distant councils."
Boroga, ever watchful of the political currents, suggested, "Perhaps, Ntemi, you should question him yourself. Learn his secrets. Discover the full extent of his Queen's plans. Knowledge is power, and he holds much of it."
Jabari listened to all, Kaelo's mind dissecting each argument, weighing every potential consequence. Execution was out of the question; it was strategically idiotic, guaranteed to provoke a devastating response. Ransom felt demeaning and insufficient. Holding him indefinitely was a logistical and political nightmare. Kachenje's counsel resonated most closely with Kaelo's own assessment. Harrison was a conduit, a means to an end.
"Major Harrison will be treated as a prisoner of war, with the respect due his rank, as far as our customs allow," Jabari declared, his voice cutting through the debate. "He will not be harmed. Kibwana will continue to tend his wounds. But he is our captive, and through him, we will send a message."
Kaelo's plan began to form. They would not demand mere goods for Harrison. They would demand political recognition. They would use Harrison's defeat to attempt to establish terms for future interactions with the British, from a position of demonstrated strength.
In the days that followed, Harrison was moved to a secure but clean hut within the ikulu, guarded by a rotating detachment of the Nkonde sya Ntemi. His leg was healing, though he would likely walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Jabari, accompanied only by Mzee Kachenje (as a witness and advisor on custom) and a trusted warrior who spoke some English (a rare skill, learned from coastal trade, whom Kaelo had identified), began a series of "conversations" with the captured British officer.
These were not interrogations in the brutal sense, but subtle, probing discussions. Kaelo, through Jabari, was a master of extracting information without appearing to demand it. He spoke to Harrison of Nyamwezi traditions, of their ancestral lands, of their desire for peaceful trade if conducted fairly. He then skillfully steered the conversation towards Harrison's own land, his Queen, the structure of the British military and colonial administration.
Harrison, initially sullen and defiant, found himself in an unprecedented situation. This young African chief, who had so comprehensively defeated him in battle, spoke with an unnerving intelligence and a grasp of concepts that seemed far beyond his years or his supposed "primitive" background. Jabari (Kaelo) could discuss supply lines, the importance of naval power (a concept Kaelo knew was key to British global dominance), the politics of European alliances (gleaned from Steiner's journals and Kaelo's own historical knowledge), all with a calm assurance that bewildered the British Major.
Kaelo learned much. Harrison, proud even in defeat, spoke of the vastness of the British Empire, its global reach, its inexhaustible resources. He confirmed that his expedition was officially sanctioned, aimed at securing British interests in the region against German and Arab influence, and ultimately, at bringing "order and civilization." He inadvertently revealed details about the chain of command on the coast, the key colonial officials in Zanzibar and further south, and the general British attitude towards African rulers – to be managed, cajoled, and if necessary, crushed.
In turn, Kaelo, through Jabari, painted a picture of a rapidly unifying Nyamwezi confederation, a regional power with a disciplined army, secure trade routes, and a leader who would not be easily intimidated. He made it clear that any future European presence in their lands would have to be on Nyamwezi terms.
While these verbal chess matches continued, Jabari did not neglect the consolidation of his kingdom. The victory at Black Rock had sent his prestige soaring. More Nyamwezi chiefdoms sent delegations, offering allegiance and tribute. The Wasumbwa, hearing of the fate of the even more formidable red coats, became models of subservient tributaries. The Wanyisanza alliance was now ironclad, Lبانجى practically Jabari's blood brother.
The captured British rifles, nearly a hundred of them, were a transformative acquisition. Seke and his apprentices worked day and night, learning to maintain and repair these superior weapons, even beginning to understand the principles of their breech-loading mechanisms and metallic cartridges – though replicating such complex items was still far beyond their capability. The Nkonde sya Ntemi were now almost entirely armed with these captured rifles, their firepower dramatically increased. Boroga oversaw the careful rationing and storage of the captured ammunition, understanding its immense value.
After nearly two weeks of these "conversations," Jabari (Kaelo) decided the time was right. He made his proposal to Harrison.
"Meja Harriseni," he said, his tone formal. "You have seen the strength of the Batembo and their allies. You have tasted the bitterness of defeat in our lands. I do not wish for endless war between my people and your Queen. I offer you your freedom, and safe passage for yourself and any other true Englishmen among your surviving men, to the coast."
Harrison stared, suspicious. "Freedom? What is your price, Chief?"
"My price is not in ivory or cattle," Jabari replied, Kaelo's carefully chosen words echoing in the hut. "It is in understanding. You will carry a message to your superiors on the coast, to your Queen's representatives. You will tell them that the Nyamwezi under Ntemi Jabari are a sovereign people who govern their own lands. We desire peace and fair trade with all, including the British. But we will not surrender our lands, nor our right to rule ourselves. Any future dealings must be on the basis of mutual respect, between equals. You, Major Harrison, will sign a document, witnessed by my council and your own officers if any are fit, attesting to these terms, acknowledging our sovereignty within these defined borders"—he gestured to one of Juma's now quite detailed maps—"and pledging that British forces will not again enter our lands with hostile intent without formal declaration and just cause agreed between us."
Harrison was stunned. This was not ransom; this was a demand for a treaty, dictated by an African chief to a defeated British Major. It was audacious, almost unthinkable.
Kaelo knew such a treaty, signed under duress by a captured officer, would likely hold little legal weight in London. But its propaganda value in Africa would be immense. And it would force the British colonial authorities on the coast to acknowledge Jabari as a significant power to be reckoned with, not just another tribal chieftain. It would, at the very least, create a diplomatic pause, buying more precious time.
"And if I refuse?" Harrison finally asked, his voice hoarse.
Jabari's gaze was like polished stone. "Then you will remain my… guest, Meja Harriseni. For a very long time. And my warriors will continue to ensure that no unauthorized person, be they Arab, German, or British, finds easy passage through our lands. Your Queen will eventually learn of your fate, one way or another. How she learns of it, and what message accompanies that news, is, to some extent, still in your hands."
The Major stared at the young chief, seeing not a savage, but a formidable, calculating mind. The price of his red coat, it seemed, was not just his freedom, but potentially a piece of his Empire's pride. The echoes of his defeat at Black Rock were about to resonate far beyond the confines of Unyamwezi.