ABSTRACT
A ST A R T L ED cry of “ Webbi ! asan ! dig ! ” (River ! red ! blood !) roused the camp at dawn next morning. I knew the first word meant river, and the last meant blood. I seized my revolver and cartridges, crawled through the low doorway of the hut, and ran across the village clearing to the river bank. I quite thought that Fumo Omari’s men were already crossing the river, and that our sentry’s cry of “ Blood ” meant that he was wounded. The mist hid the opposite shore, and in vain I scanned the river for any sign of a foe. The man then pointed to the water, and said it had turned to blood. During the night an extraordinary change had occurred in it ; instead of the usual muddy brown its colour was now a dark blood-red. The floods in the upper part of the river must have washed into it some material coloured by red oxide of iron, and effected this startling change in its hue. “ This is a bad river ; we shall never go up it ; this is a sign,” said my old cook. I said it was only the result of “ rain-wash,” and joked about it, to try to prevent the men attaching any importance to the incident. But nothing I could say would shake its significance to them.
