The ruins of Kisanga, picked clean by Harrison's men and then by Jabari's scavengers after the British departure, stood as a stark monument to the brutal first act of their war. Within Jabari's main camp, the mood was a somber tapestry woven from threads of fierce pride and fresh grief. The warriors who had defended Kisanga, though lauded as heroes, carried the haunted look of men who had stared into the fiery maw of European artillery and disciplined rifle fire and somehow survived. Their accounts, recounted around flickering fires, painted a vivid picture of red-coated automata, of thunder that shook the earth, and of a courage born from desperation.
Jabari, with Kaelo's mind meticulously sifting through every detail, convened his war council daily. Goro, his arm now bound in fresh poultices prepared by Kibwana, gave his unsparing assessment of British tactics: their disciplined volleys, the terrifying accuracy of their officers' pistols, the way their sergeants bellowed them back into formation even after taking losses. Lبانجى, his usual ebullience tempered, spoke of their frustrating ability to absorb flanking attacks and maintain cohesion. Mzee Kachenje listened intently, occasionally murmuring old proverbs about the dangers of underestimating a wounded leopard.
Kaelo, through Jabari, focused their analysis. "They are men, not demons," he insisted. "They bleed. They hunger. Their thunder-sticks need powder and ball, just as ours do, only more of it. Kisanga cost them dearly. Juma's scouts," he nodded to the young man whose eyes now held a new, hard-won maturity, "confirm their burial parties worked through most of a night. And their askaris… many are said to be disheartened."
Juma's latest intelligence, gathered by his most daring scouts who shadowed Harrison's fortified camp in the ruins of Kisanga, was crucial. The British Major was clearly frustrated, his initial arrogance replaced by a grim, beleaguered determination. Food was becoming a critical issue. The scorched earth policy and Lبانجى's relentless harassment of any small foraging attempts had taken their toll. Sickness, too, was reportedly spreading within the cramped, unsanitary conditions of the ruined village – dysentery mostly, the 'running sickness' that could cripple an army faster than spears.
"He cannot stay in Kisanga indefinitely," Kaelo reasoned with the council. "He is too far from any conceivable supply base. He will be forced to move, either to retreat south and admit defeat, or to make a desperate attempt to seize food and reassert his dominance." He looked at the maps Juma had updated, the terrain around Kisanga now intimately familiar. "If he moves to forage, he will likely target the villages of the Wamara clan, two days march west of Kisanga. They are not yet formally allied with us, and Harrison may believe them to be a softer target, their lands said to be rich in cattle and grain."
It was a calculated gamble on Kaelo's part, an educated guess based on his understanding of military necessity and Harrison's likely psychological state. He knew a commander in Harrison's position would be loath to retreat without at least one more attempt to achieve a tangible objective.
Preparations were made with a quiet urgency. Jabari would not directly garrison the Wamara villages; they were too exposed, and he needed to conserve his main force. Instead, he would let Harrison commit himself, draw him out, and then strike when the British were most vulnerable – laden with plunder, perhaps, or strung out on the march. Lبانجى, with an even larger force of skirmishers, including many Wanyisanza archers and Juma's best scouts, was tasked with a relentless campaign of attrition: "Make every step he takes a torment. Deny him sleep. Deny him easy water. Make his men see shadows in every thicket, feel Nyamwezi eyes on their backs at every moment."
Meanwhile, Jabari, with Hamisi and the core of the Batembo army—including the now fifty-strong Nkonde sya Ntemi musketeers, their ranks swelled by the best shots from allied clans, all now armed with captured or newly traded firearms—would position themselves along Harrison's likely route to the Wamara lands, choosing their ground with care.
The waiting was a torment. Kaelo found himself pacing, Jabari's body thrumming with a restless energy. He reviewed Seke's progress – the smith was now able to make surprisingly good repairs to the captured British rifles, and his own spearheads were things of deadly beauty. He consulted with Kibwana, not just about battle wounds, but about ways to keep his own army healthy, learning about local remedies for fever and dysentery. He spent hours with Mzee Kachenje, absorbing more Nyamwezi history, trying to understand the intricate web of clan loyalties and ancient feuds that Harrison, in his ignorance, was blundering into.
Then, as Kaelo had predicted, Juma's scouts brought the news: Major Harrison, with the bulk of his remaining effective force—perhaps one hundred and fifty red coats and a similar number of still-loyal askaris, along with his two remaining field guns—had marched out of Kisanga, heading west towards the lands of the Wamara. He left only a token garrison in the ruined village.
"He is hungry," Jabari told his war leaders, a grim smile on his lips. "The jackal seeks a forgotten kill, but the lion awaits him."
This time, Kaelo's plan was not to defend a fixed point, but to orchestrate a running battle, a series of ambushes and strategic disengagements designed to wear Harrison down, to separate his units, and to exploit the Nyamwezi warriors' superior knowledge of the terrain. He chose a stretch of broken country characterized by dry riverbeds, dense acacia thickets, and rocky kopjes – terrain utterly unsuited to disciplined European formations or the effective deployment of artillery.
As Harrison's column, already weary from Lبانجى's constant harassment during their march, entered this difficult country, the attacks began. It was not a single, concerted assault, but a series of sharp, vicious encounters. A volley of musket fire from the Nkonde sya Ntemi, concealed on a wooded ridge, would rake Harrison's advance guard, felling men and horses (Harrison and his officers were now mostly on foot, their mounts lost to sickness or earlier skirmishes). Before the British could deploy their cannons or organize a counter-attack, the musketeers would have vanished, only for Lبانجى's spearmen to erupt from a seemingly empty donga on their flank, launch a flurry of spears, and then melt away again.
Harrison, a brave and experienced soldier, tried to maintain control. He sent his red coats to clear the ridges, but they found only empty ground, sometimes walking into cleverly concealed pits or tripwires that sent showers of rocks down upon them. His askaris, their morale already brittle, grew increasingly reluctant to advance into the dense bush where unseen enemies lurked. The cannons, dragged with immense difficulty over the broken terrain, were often unable to find clear targets or were too slow to deploy against such fleeting foes.
For two days, this deadly game continued. The British were taking casualties, not in large numbers at any one time, but steadily, a constant drain of men and morale. Their progress was agonizingly slow. They found the Wamara villages deserted, their granaries empty, their water sources fouled – Jabari's orders, carried out by Lبانجى's advance parties, had been ruthlessly efficient. Harrison's massive foraging raid was turning into a desperate search for sustenance in a land that had become actively hostile.
Kaelo, receiving reports from Jabari's command post – a mobile headquarters that shifted constantly to avoid detection – knew that Harrison was approaching a breaking point. The Major had to either commit to a full-scale, all-out battle to try and destroy Jabari's elusive forces, or he had to retreat.
The climax came near a place called Mwamba Mweusi – the Black Rock – a jagged outcrop surrounded by a labyrinth of thorn-choked gullies and dry stream beds. Lبانجى, with a daring feint, lured a large detachment of Harrison's best red coats, led by the Major himself, deep into this treacherous terrain, promising the illusion of a cornered Nyamwezi force.
Once they were fully committed, Hamisi, with the main body of Batembo and allied spearmen, launched a furious assault from concealed positions on their flanks and rear, while Jabari, leading the Nkonde sya Ntemi and the remaining musketeers, opened up a devastating fire from the crest of the Black Rock itself.
Caught in a perfectly executed crossfire, surrounded by unseen enemies in terrain that negated their discipline, Harrison's detachment fought with the courage of despair. But they were doomed. Their volleys, though deadly, were often undirected. Their officers struggled to maintain control in the chaos. The Nyamwezi warriors, fighting with a confidence born of recent victories and intimate knowledge of every rock and bush, pressed their advantage relentlessly.
Major Harrison himself was seen rallying his men, his voice hoarse, his uniform torn, a pistol in each hand. But even his bravery could not turn the tide. A musket ball from one of Jabari's own Nkonde sya Ntemi struck him in the leg, sending him sprawling. Seeing their commander fall, the remaining red coats wavered, then broke, their retreat quickly turning into a desperate, every-man-for-himself flight. The askaris had already scattered.
The Battle of the Black Rock, as it came to be known in Batembo lore, was a slaughter. Few of Harrison's detachment escaped. The Major himself, his leg shattered, was captured by Hamisi's warriors, his face a mask of disbelief and agony. His remaining field gun, its carriage broken during the chaotic retreat, was abandoned.
When Jabari finally stood before the captured British Major, who lay propped against a boulder, his face pale with pain and humiliation, Kaelo felt a complex mix of emotions. There was triumph, yes, but also a weary understanding of the terrible forces he had unleashed, and those he had yet to face.
"Your Queen's protection, Meja Harriseni," Jabari said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of undeniable victory, "does not extend this far into Unyamwezi, it seems."
Harrison glared up at him, speechless with rage and pain.
Kaelo knew this was a pivotal moment. He had not just defeated a British expedition; he had captured its commander. The repercussions would be immense. But for now, in the blood-soaked dust of the Black Rock, the Batembo lion reigned supreme. The weary warriors had earned their rest, but for their Ntemi, the true burdens of victory, and the challenges of shaping a future amidst the shifting sands of a dawning colonial war, were only just beginning to unfold.