The calm that had settled over the Batembo Kingdom following Major Harrison's ignominious departure was the deceptive stillness of a crouching leopard, muscles coiled, senses straining for the first hint of renewed threat. Kaelo, looking through Jabari's eyes, allowed no complacency. Harrison's dispatches, carried by swift, unseen runners to the coast before his capture, would have already painted a picture of Nyamwezi defiance. The subsequent news of his defeat and dictated treaty would only amplify the alarm in the colonial corridors of Zanzibar and, eventually, London. Retaliation was not a matter of if, but when, and with what overwhelming force.
Months passed, marked by the relentless rhythm of Jabari's preparations. The good harvest, secured through a combination of expanded cultivation and Boroga's meticulous organization, filled the kingdom's granaries. Seke's forges glowed day and night, the improved iron spearheads and axe blades now standard issue for most Batembo warriors, and the painstaking work of repairing captured rifles and attempting to replicate their simpler mechanisms continued. The Nkonde sya Ntemi, Jabari's elite guard, now numbered nearly two hundred, their firearm discipline honed by Hamisi and Lبانجى into a formidable fighting edge. Juma's maps grew ever more detailed, charting not just Batembo lands but the surrounding territories, noting defensible passes, hidden water sources, and the strengths and weaknesses of neighboring clans.
The Wanyisanza alliance, cemented in shared battle, became the cornerstone of Jabari's regional power. Ntemi Gwala, his initial caution replaced by a profound respect for Jabari's leadership, effectively integrated his skilled trackers and warriors into Jabari's command structure. Lبانجى was now a fixture in Jabari's war council, his fiery spirit a valuable counterpoint to Mzee Kachenje's measured wisdom and Hamisi's stoic pragmatism. Several other smaller Nyamwezi clans, seeing the tangible benefits of Batembo protection and the charisma of its young Ntemi, formally joined the confederation, swelling Jabari's military levy and expanding his resource base. He was no longer just a chief; he was the undisputed paramount leader of a significant Nyamwezi bloc, a nascent kingdom forged in the crucible of resistance.
Then, as the dry season once again began to bite, painting the grasslands a pale, dusty brown, the Wanyisanza scout who had brought the first terrifying news of General Ashworth's massive expedition returned, his face gaunt, his eyes haunted.
"Ntemi," he gasped, collapsing before Jabari after a non-stop, three-day run. "The Red Tide… it has swept through the southern lands like a fire through dry thatch. Village after village… burned. Chiefs who resisted… their heads now adorn the Jenerali's camp poles. He leaves a trail of terror. And his column… it is vast, far greater than we first knew. He has many more cannons, and his warriors march with a terrible, silent discipline. He is making for the Black Hills. His captured guides say he knows it is your chosen stronghold."
A cold dread, sharper than any Kaelo had felt even during Harrison's campaign, settled in Jabari's heart. The "Butcher of the Indus" was living up to his name, systematically crushing all opposition in his path, clearly intending to make an example of the Batembo that would echo throughout East Africa. The Black Hills – a rugged, defensible cluster of kopjes and narrow ravines Kaelo had identified months ago as their ultimate fallback position if diplomacy failed – was now to become the anvil upon which Batembo resolve would either be forged anew, or shattered completely.
There was no time for elaborate councils, no room for doubt. Jabari's orders, honed by Kaelo's months of contingency planning, flew swift and sure. All remaining outlying Batembo villages were to be immediately evacuated, their people and livestock driven towards the comparative safety of the more rugged interior or towards the Wanyisanza lands. All surplus grain was to be moved to the secret caches within the Black Hills stronghold itself, or, failing that, burned. The land before Ashworth was to be a barren waste, offering no sustenance to his advancing legions.
Lبانجى, with five hundred of the swiftest Batembo and Wanyisanza skirmishers, was dispatched immediately with a grim but vital task: not to halt Ashworth, for that was impossible, but to harass his advance relentlessly, to bleed him for every mile, to slow his momentum, and to buy precious days for the main Batembo force to fully occupy and prepare the Black Hills defenses. Juma and his scouts would act as Lبانجى's eyes, using their knowledge of the terrain and their precious spyglass to anticipate Ashworth's movements and guide the harassment.
Jabari himself, with Hamisi, led the core of the Batembo army – nearly fifteen hundred warriors, including the two hundred Nkonde sya Ntemi and their contingent of allied firearm-bearers – on a forced march to the Black Hills. It was a grim procession, not of conquest, but of desperate defense. Seke and his apprentices accompanied them, carrying their tools and bellows, ready to make last-minute repairs and forge emergency weapons within the stronghold itself. Kibwana came too, his pouches filled with herbs, his spirit serene amidst the rising tide of fear. Even Mzee Kachenje, his old bones protesting, insisted on accompanying his Ntemi, his presence a link to their ancestral courage.
The Black Hills stronghold was a natural fortress, a jumble of granite kopjes connected by narrow, defensible ridges, its slopes thick with acacia and tangled thornbush. For months, under Kaelo's direction, Batembo warriors had labored to enhance its defenses. Deep trenches had been dug before the most accessible passes. Stone sangars and reinforced earthworks provided cover for the musketeers. Hidden paths allowed for rapid movement between defensive positions. Caves within the hills had been stocked with water, grain, and ammunition. It was as formidable a position as Nyamwezi ingenuity and sheer hard labor could make it.
As General Ashworth's column, a seemingly endless river of red coats, dark-uniformed askaris, rumbling gun carriages, and a vast train of supply wagons and porters, finally emerged onto the plain before the Black Hills, they found a silent, watchful enemy awaiting them. Lبانجى's harassing forces, having fought a brilliant delaying action for nearly a week, now melted back to rejoin Jabari's main body within the stronghold, their ranks thinned but their spirits unbroken. They had made Ashworth pay for every step.
The British General, a portly, florid-faced man with a voice like gravel and eyes like chips of ice, surveyed the Nyamwezi defenses through his own powerful telescope. He had expected to find a cowering rabble; instead, he saw a well-chosen, fortified position, manned by warriors who showed no sign of immediate panic. His intelligence, gleaned from terrified villagers and a few captured Batembo scouts who had died under interrogation, told him that Ntemi Jabari himself was within those hills. This, Ashworth decided with grim satisfaction, would be the decisive battle. Here, he would crush the heart of the Nyamwezi resistance and avenge Harrison's humiliation.
He gave his orders with brutal efficiency. His artillery – six gleaming Armstrong field guns, far superior to Harrison's light mountain pieces – was unlimbered and positioned on a slight rise, their muzzles aimed at the most prominent Batembo fortifications. His infantry, a full brigade of seasoned British regulars and several regiments of well-drilled colonial askaris, deployed in textbook formation, ready for the assault.
The bombardment began at mid-morning. The roar of the Armstrong guns was a physical blow, a terrifying, continuous thunder that shook the very granite of the Black Hills. Shells shrieked and exploded, tearing huge chunks from the earthworks, splintering log barricades, and sending shrapnel whining through the air. The Nyamwezi warriors, many of whom had never experienced such concentrated firepower, cowered in their trenches, their initial bravado replaced by a primal fear. Kaelo, moving with Jabari from position to position, felt the ground tremble beneath his feet, his ears ringing. He knew, with chilling certainty, that their physical defenses, however well-prepared, could not withstand such a pounding indefinitely. Their hope lay in inflicting maximum casualties on the attackers when they finally came, and in the resilience of the Nyamwezi spirit.
"Hold your positions!" Jabari's voice, amplified by Kaelo's iron will, cut through the din, reaching his terrified warriors. "Let them waste their thunder on empty rocks! Our ancestors guard these hills! We are the shield of our people! We will not break!" Hamisi and the other watwale echoed his commands, moving among their men, steadying nerves, reminding them of their training, of their past victories.
After nearly two hours of relentless shelling, during which several sections of the Batembo outer defenses were reduced to smoking rubble and a score of warriors were killed or wounded by shrapnel or collapsing earthworks, Ashworth judged the defenders sufficiently demoralized. The trumpets blared, and the first wave of British infantry, red coats advancing in perfect, unwavering lines, bayonets gleaming, began their assault on the main pass leading into the heart of the Black Hills.
This was the moment Kaelo had planned for, the moment all their preparations had been leading towards. From concealed positions on the higher slopes, overlooking the pass, the Nkonde sya Ntemi and Jabari's other musketeers opened fire. Their initial volley, though not as disciplined as a British fusillade, was concentrated and aimed. Red coats stumbled and fell, gaps appearing in their perfect lines. The British faltered, then pressed on, their officers urging them forward, their own rifles cracking in response.
The fighting in the pass became a desperate, close-quarters inferno. The British, with their superior numbers and firepower, tried to force their way through. The Nyamwezi, fighting from behind rocks and hastily rebuilt barricades, met them with a furious barrage of spears, arrows, and musket balls. Seke's improved spearheads bit deep. Lبانجى, leading a contingent of Wanyisanza and Batembo warriors in a wild counter-charge, actually managed to push one British company back from the mouth of the pass, his Nyamwezi sword, a gift from Jabari, reaping a bloody toll.
Jabari himself, with Kaelo's mind a vortex of tactical calculations, directed the defense from a central command post on one of the highest kopjes, using runners and horn signals to shift reserves, to plug gaps in their line, to concentrate fire on the most dangerous threats. He saw his warriors fighting and dying with a courage that tore at his soul, even as Kaelo's detached intellect registered the brutal calculus of attrition. He saw Hamisi, a bloodied lion, rallying a wavering group of allied warriors. He saw Juma, no longer just a scout but a young war leader, directing the fire of a section of musketeers with surprising coolness. He saw Kibwana moving among the wounded, his presence a calm oasis in the storm of battle.
The British artillery continued to pound any visible Nyamwezi concentration, but the broken terrain and the dispersed nature of the defenders made it less effective than Ashworth had hoped. His infantry, taking heavy casualties in the narrow, rock-strewn passes, found their discipline sorely tested by the ferocity of the Nyamwezi defense and the disorienting terrain. Several times, they gained a foothold on the lower slopes, only to be driven back by desperate counter-attacks.
The sun beat down, the rocks radiated heat, and the air was filled with the unending roar of guns, the screams of men, and the stench of blood and cordite. Hours passed. The British launched assault after assault. The Nyamwezi line bent, it buckled in places, but it did not break. Kaelo knew they could not hold indefinitely. Their ammunition was finite, their numbers were dwindling faster than the British, despite the losses they were inflicting. But every hour they held, every red coat that fell, was a victory in this war of attrition, a blow against the myth of European invincibility.
As dusk began to approach, General Ashworth, his face grim, his uniform stained with dust and the smoke of battle, surveyed the scene. His casualties were far higher than he had ever anticipated. His repeated assaults had failed to achieve a decisive breakthrough. The Nyamwezi, led by their young, seemingly possessed Ntemi, were fighting with a tenacity and skill that defied all his colonial experience. The "Butcher of the Indus" was finding the thorns of Unyamwezi far sharper, far more deeply rooted, than he had ever imagined. The anvil of the Black Hills, though battered and bloodied, still held. But for how much longer, Kaelo wondered, as he watched the red coats regroup for what looked like one final, desperate twilight assault. The fate of his kingdom hung in the blood-reddened balance.