The Belgian advance across the river collapsed into slaughter.
What remained of the askari spearhead fell back in ragged bursts, splashing through the shallows while men dragged the wounded with them and officers shouted desperately over the confusion. Those who reached the near bank threw themselves behind roots, fallen trunks and whatever cover they could find, rifles snapping up almost at once as bolts worked and uneven volleys cracked back across the water.
"Hold the line! Fire! Fire!"
Smoke gathered low above the river while bodies drifted through the current, leaving slow ribbons of blood behind them.
Then something new came from the far bank.
Glass flashed briefly through the haze. Bottles came spinning overhead.
For an instant nobody understood what they were seeing. Then the first struck the ground and burst.
Flame spread outward in a violent splash. More bottles followed, shattering against roots, trees and equipment as burning liquid clung wherever it landed. Fire crawled across uniforms and wood, forcing men from cover while others dropped screaming into the mud, beating at themselves as the flames refused to die.
A roar answered from across the river.
"Charge!"
The Duala came through the smoke.
Men surged into the water with rifles held high, while others carried spears and machetes above their heads. The askaris recovered quickly enough to fire, and several attackers fell almost immediately, bullets punching through chests and limbs before the current took them. The rest kept coming.
More burning bottles arced overhead and burst among the Belgian positions, filling the jungle with smoke and confused shouting.
Then another cry erupted behind them.
"Duala! Charge!"
The ambush closed.
Warriors poured from the trees behind the Belgian column while others continued forcing their way across the river. The defensive line twisted upon itself as men tried to face two directions at once, firing into the jungle, then back toward the water, officers shouting commands that vanished beneath gunfire and screams.
Order disappeared. What remained was survival.
The two sides crashed together beneath the trees. Bayonets drove into bodies and tore free again. Machetes answered in short, brutal strokes, cutting through arms and shoulders as rifles fired at distances so close that men scarcely needed to aim before using the weapons as clubs. Bodies struck the mud. Men burned where the fire had caught them. Others grappled desperately among roots and fallen packs while mosquitoes gathered almost immediately above the blood.
The porters scattered as well. Some simply threw down their burdens and fled into the jungle. Others, trapped by panic or surrounded by fighting, defended themselves with anything close enough to grasp—branches, stones, tools and bare hands.
Slowly, piece by piece, the Belgian column came apart.
Near the centre of the fighting, however, one young Belgian officer refused to go with it.
He had been thrown from his carrying chair during the first rush and now fought on foot, mud covering his uniform and blood streaking one side of his face. A rifle stock smashed into his head and knocked his cap away, but he caught the weapon before its owner could strike again. With a violent twist he dragged the Duala warrior forward, threw him into the mud and followed him down.
His knife was already in his hand.
He drove it repeatedly into the man's back until the body beneath him stopped moving.
There was barely time to breathe before another attacker lunged from his right.
The Belgian twisted aside. The bayonet passed close enough to scrape his coat, and he seized the warrior from behind, one arm locking around his throat while the knife came up beneath his jaw.
Then he stopped.
Men had emerged from the smoke around him.
Duala warriors stood among the roots and burning brush in a widening circle, bodies streaked with sweat, blood and white ash. Rifles, spears and machetes remained raised, yet none immediately advanced.
The Belgian understood why.
He tightened his grip upon the hostage. The blade pressed harder against the man's throat until a thin line of blood appeared beneath it.
For a few moments the battle seemed to recede from that small patch of ground. Gunfire still cracked somewhere beyond the smoke and men continued shouting and dying through the trees, but the warriors surrounding him held their distance.
The young officer saw their hesitation and smiled.
"Yeah," he rasped through his heavy breathing. "That's right."
He dragged the captive closer.
"Be afraid."
The Duala warrior struggled once against his arm.
The Belgian pulled his head farther back.
"You fucking savages," he spat. "Look at me."
The knife moved.
One hard stroke opened the man's throat.
Blood spilled across the Belgian's hand and sleeve as the warrior went limp. He held the body upright for another heartbeat before letting it collapse into the mud at his feet.
"There," he muttered. "That's your fate."
Then he raised the bloody knife toward the surrounding warriors.
"Come on!" he shouted. "Come and get me! I'll kill every last one of you!"
Nobody moved.
The circle merely tightened.
Then a voice rose from the direction of the river.
"Remember who you are!"
Heads turned.
Through the smoke and scattered flames came a tall man wading from the shallows, a rifle and fixed bayonet held firmly in his hands. White ash marked his bare chest and shoulders in deliberate lines, while blood and river water ran down his body.
"You are Duala!" he shouted. "Do not falter, my warriors!"
Recognition passed through the men almost immediately.
Then the name began.
"Njoh Bell…"
Another voice joined it.
"Njoh Bell!"
Within moments the chant rolled through the trees.
"Njoh Bell! Njoh Bell! Njoh Bell!"
Weapons rose with it.
The man continued forward through the smoke until he reached the circle. He was powerful without being enormous, built by years of work rather than vanity, and there was nothing theatrical in the calm way he regarded the blood-covered Belgian standing among the bodies.
His eyes moved briefly over the dead. Then back to the officer, and his jaw tightened.
"I will avenge them."
He struck one fist against his chest and stepped forward.
"I am Njoh Bell," he said, his voice carrying clearly above the distant gunfire. "Fifth Prince of the Duala."
He lowered the rifle slightly, bayonet pointing toward the Belgian.
"And I stand before you."
The Belgian stared at him for a moment before laughing.
It was a harsh, exhausted sound.
"You?" he sneered, tightening his grip upon the knife. "You think you can face me?"
He wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his wrist, only succeeding in smearing it farther across his face.
"I am Leutnant Finn Martin," he said, pride sharpening his voice. "Trained at the Royal Military Academy in Brussels. Forged for war. And now I think I'll see what the blood of an African prince looks like upon the ground."
Njoh Bell did not flinch.
"I have been trained as well," he replied, his eyes narrowing. "In the German arts of war. Do not mistake me for an untrained tribesman."
He lowered his rifle, detached the bayonet and handed the weapon to one of the warriors beside him without taking his eyes from Finn. The blade looked strangely clean and precise amid the mud, smoke and blood surrounding them.
Finn noticed immediately.
"That is a fine weapon," he said with a thin grin. "Who did you steal it from?"
Njoh raised the blade slightly.
"A gift from Germany. From the Prince of Iron himself—Oskar."
For just a moment Finn's grin disappeared.
Then it returned.
"So you follow him." He lifted his own knife. "Good. Come on, then."
They moved almost together.
Njoh struck first, stepping sharply aside and sweeping his blade low before turning it upward toward Finn's ribs. Finn twisted clear by inches and answered immediately, his knife flashing across Njoh's shoulder and opening a shallow line through the flesh. Njoh recoiled, adjusted his footing in the mud and came again.
From there the duel became a blur of short, vicious movements. They circled through blood and wet earth, blades darting between them as each waited for the other to overreach. Njoh opened Finn's cheek. Finn answered with another cut across his side. Neither wound was decisive, but they accumulated quickly, staining both men red as their breathing grew heavier.
Around them the wider battle continued to rage. Rifles cracked through the jungle, wounded men screamed among the roots and scattered fires burned stubbornly through the wet undergrowth.
Then a new sound rolled over everything. A deep, distant boom.
Both men heard it.
Several seconds later came another.
Finn and Njoh hesitated almost simultaneously, instinct briefly overriding the duel as they looked toward the jungle.
Something screamed through the trees.
The shell tore through branches and saplings before striking a trunk nearby and detonating. The blast hit like a wall. Dirt, bark and fragments swept outward, hurling men from their feet and filling the air with smoke and splintered wood.
Njoh and Finn were thrown apart.
Before either had properly recovered, another shell came shrieking down. This one landed closer.
A Duala warrior running through the smoke was caught in its path an instant before detonation, and then the jungle seemed to come apart around him. Fire, earth and shattered bodies vanished into a choking cloud of debris as men nearby were thrown through the undergrowth.
Njoh struck the ground hard, his ears ringing and his vision swimming. For several seconds the world became little more than heat, smoke and indistinct movement. He pushed himself onto one elbow, coughing as he tried to understand which direction the river lay.
Then Finn crashed into him.
The impact drove him back against a thick root and forced the breath from his lungs. His bayonet slipped from his hand and disappeared somewhere into the mud.
Finn landed on top of him, blood streaking the Belgian's face and shining between his teeth as a wild grin spread across it. Before Njoh could recover, Finn raised the knife high above his head.
"Die, African prince!"
The blade came down.
Njoh caught his wrist with both hands barely inches before the point reached his face. Finn immediately threw his weight behind the weapon, seized the hilt with both hands and drove downward while Njoh strained beneath him, muscles trembling as the knife descended little by little.
"Die!" Finn roared.
Njoh twisted desperately at the last instant. The blade slipped sideways instead of plunging into his face, carving a burning line across his cheek toward the eye before driving deep into his shoulder.
Njoh screamed.
"Damn it!" Finn snarled, trying to wrench the knife free.
Njoh refused to give him the room. He locked his legs around Finn's waist and dragged the Belgian tightly against him, trapping the man's arms and denying him the distance needed for another proper strike.
"What are you doing?" Finn shouted, struggling violently. "Let go of me, you bastard!"
Njoh answered with his teeth.
He lunged upward and clamped his jaws around Finn's ear. The Belgian screamed as Njoh bit down with everything he had and tore his head violently aside. Flesh ripped free. Blood poured down Finn's neck as he recoiled with a howl, one hand flying instinctively toward what remained of his ear.
"You fucking savage!"
Njoh spat the bloody piece into the mud.
Finn's answer was immediate. He drove his forehead into Njoh's face with enough force to break his nose. Something cracked sharply, white light filling Njoh's vision as blood flooded across his mouth. His grip loosened for only an instant, but that was enough for Finn to tear himself free and stagger backward, clutching the side of his head.
Another shell screamed overhead and detonated nearby, showering both men with dirt, bark and splintered wood.
Njoh moved first.
He seized the knife still buried in his shoulder and ripped it free with a strangled gasp. Blood immediately ran down his arm, but he forced himself upright and charged before Finn could recover.
The blade came down toward the Belgian's head.
Finn twisted aside, caught Njoh's wrist and forced the strike away before driving a boot hard into his chest. The kick sent Njoh staggering across the torn ground until his heel caught on a root and he went down heavily, rolling through the mud. One hand struck something cold and metallic. He knew what it was before he even looked: his own bayonet. His fingers closed around the familiar grip at once.
Njoh surged back to his feet with Finn's knife in one hand and his bayonet in the other. Blood ran freely from his broken nose, wounded cheek and shoulder, turning the white ash across his skin into streaks of grey and red. Smoke drifted around him, flames burned among the trees, and through it all a fierce grin spread across his battered face.
"Come, then!" he roared. "White warrior of Belgium—come and meet your doom!"
Finn stared at him.
Njoh stood there with two bloody blades in his hands while Duala warriors still moved through the smoke and Belgian artillery continued tearing the jungle apart around them. For the first time since the fighting began, Finn's pride lost its argument with survival.
"Forget this!"
He turned and ran, disappearing down the jungle trail toward the surviving Belgian positions and the direction from which the artillery was firing.
"Do not run, white man!" Njoh shouted, already starting after him.
"My prince!"
The cry stopped him.
"Your Highness! Orders!"
Njoh froze for a heartbeat, then finally looked around him.
The battlefield had become a ruin. Duala and askari bodies lay together among shattered branches, burning packs and churned mud. Some were still whole; others had been torn apart by shellfire, leaving limbs and bloody fragments scattered through the undergrowth. Wounded men crawled between the dead while smoke hung thick beneath the trees, and another shell struck somewhere to his right with enough force to shake the ground beneath his feet.
Njoh tightened his grip around both blades and looked once more toward the trail where Finn had vanished. Then he exhaled slowly.
"Damn it."
Finn no longer mattered. His people did.
"Pull back!" Njoh shouted, turning toward his warriors. "Back across the river!"
Heads turned through the smoke as the order spread from man to man.
"Retreat! Back to the river!"
Njoh raised one bloodied blade overhead.
"We hold the crossing!" he roared. "Take the wounded and fall back! Let them try to cross the river if they dare!"
The Duala began withdrawing in disciplined groups, carrying those who could still be saved while others fired through the trees to cover them. The dead had to remain where they had fallen, gradually disappearing beneath smoke, mud and the continuing thunder of Belgian artillery.
Njoh lingered only a moment longer, staring down the jungle trail where Finn Martin had vanished, both knives still clenched in his blood-covered hands.
Another shell screamed somewhere overhead.
This time, he did not hesitate. He turned and followed his warriors back toward the river.