That night I was asleep in my tent, when I was suddenly awoke by loud
screams, and upon listening attentively I distinctly heard the heavy
breathing of something in the tent, and I could distinguish a dark
object crouching close to the head of my bed.
A slight pull at my sleeve
showed me that my wife also noticed the object, as this was always the
signal that she made if anything occured at night that required
vigilance. Possessing a share of sangfroid admirably adapted for African
travel, Mrs. Baker was not a screamer, and never even whispered; in the
moment of suspected danger, a touch of my sleeve was considered a
sufficient warning. My hand had quietly drawn the revolver from under my
pillow and noiselessly pointed it within two feet of the dark crouching
object, before I asked, "Who is that?" No answer was given - until,
upon repeating the question, with my finger touching gently upon the
trigger ready to fire, a voice replied, "Fadeela." Never had I been so
near to a fatal shot! It was one of the black women of the party, who
had crept into the tent for an asylum. Upon striking a light I found
that the woman was streaming with blood, being cut in the most frightful
manner with the coorbatch (whip of hippopotamus' hide). Hearing the
screams continued at some distance from the tent, I found my angels in
the act of flogging two women; two men were holding each woman upon the
ground by sitting upon her legs and neck, while two men with powerful
whips operated upon each woman alternately.
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