------------------------------------------------ [u][b]May 24th: The Siege of Mombasa[/b][/u] ------------------------------------------------ What were the white men thinking when they saw what was being built on the other side of Mombasa Harbor? Over the last couple of days, Thomas Jefferson Murungaru often found himself grinning at the absurdity of Agricola's plan. It looked like it would work, but it was still hard to take seriously. Five wood contraptions, like massive versions of the shadufs farmers used to draw water out of rivers, stood quietly on a rise looking out toward Fort Jesus on the Mombasa side. Most of the thing was simply the supporting base for the swinging arm, the front holding a bucket full of lead shot serving as a counterweight. When released, the counterweight was supposed to fling a sling on the other end of the arm and send an artillery shell flying through the air. It would be horribly useless on a modern battlefield, but Murungaru's unique problems gave the ancient devices a chance to relive medieval glories. "They are trebuchets." Agricola told another set of tourists. Soldiers from other parts of the siege line found excuses, or straight up deserted their posts, to see the strange phenomena on the left flank. "Tre-shays?" a wide eyed soldier replied, leaning against his rifle, gazing up at one of the wooden monsters. "This thing will win the battle?" "I hope so." Agricola looked to Murungaru, addressing both men at the same time, "If we can get these things moving quickly enough, I think we'll put Fort Jesus into shock." "They can destroy the fort?" the soldier said, running his hand over a support strut. "No." Agricola said, "Fort Jesus was built to resist canon fire. But Fort Jesus was built to be manned by soldiers." The soldier grinned wide. "I want to see it go." "It'll go soon." "We have more work to do." Murungaru walked up to the gawking soldiers. "You have work too. Return to your lines. This will be done soon, and we will be in the city, then you will have whatever you can find." They went, leaving the commander alone with his engineer. "Come." Murungaru said, "I haven't worked on a boat yet. Time to show me how it is done." Behind the stoic trebuchets, in a stand of palm trees, catamarans were being produced in the open air at an industrial speed. Li Huan was at work here. She was a veteran of catamaran production, and she was showing the less skilled workers how it was done. They were carving new canoes here too, having exhausted the supply of those that could be requisitioned from fishermen. The workers who looked up were surprised to see Murungaru pick up rope and begin to work. He ignored their shocked faces. His eyes were on Agricola, and he twisted his Hou beard as he watched his engineer demonstrate the work. It was understandable that his men were surprised. Murungaru was an educated man, having received an education from a mission near the village her grew up. This patronage put his nose in a book at young age and kept it there. He didn't enter into Kenyan politics through tribal affiliation; he entered it through his studies, and his prominence in the party came when Chairman Lutalo chose him as the man to write on the matters of theory the Chairman didn't really understand, which was most of it. "I always meant to ask" Agricola stopped working for a moment. Sweat was on the white man's brow. The white ones were easily affected by the head. "Thomas Jefferson? Was that the name your parents gave you?" Murungaru shook his head. "No. Edward was my childhood name. But that is the name of a King. I changed my name to that of a revolutionary." "That answers it." Agricola went back to work, "This is a good idea, you know. Soldiers like to see it when their commander joins in the tough work." "That is true." Murungaru was distracted. He was clumsy at working with his hands. Something as small as tying a knot took more effort than he knew it should, and it frustrated him. Agricola was a natural, and Murungaru found himself comparing his speed and comfort at work to that of his engineer, which frustrated him more. "Look at you!" Li Huan came over, eyes beaming, to watch her lover at work. "My thumbs are made for holding a pen." Murungaru excused himself. "Your thumbs are made for whatever you do with them." Li said in her bubbly way, "You work quicker and we'll be sleeping inside the city by tonight. Here you go, I'll help you, I want to see the sun rise without gunfire..." She smelled nice. Even on the battlefield she somehow managed that. Being close to her was a salve on his cramping arms, and he worked more contented with her by his side. It was almost over. Finally. This damned siege. He was ready to go back to work in Uganda, work relevant to the theories he'd spent his whole adult life studying. Work those damned racists in Mombasa were holding him back from. As the makeshift catamarans stacked up, they counted down the hours until this would all be over. Noon-time came, and so did the trucks carrying artillery shells. They'd been moved thirty miles around the city, avoiding use of the network built for the siege, kept instead on old farm roads that avoided Tudor Creek altogether. With them came several columns of soldiers who'd marched behind the trucks on foot. These new men gawked at the strange wooden things ahead of them. "It's time to warm up the crew." Agricola said. Murunguru nodded. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Gunners! Form!" The gunners made up most of the men putting together the catamarans. They were Agricola's engineering staff, who carried out the work he needed done. Agricola lead them up the the machines, everyone already knowing their place, while Murungaru followed behind. Large stones played the part of ammunition for now. Two men carried each stone, wrestling it underneath the machine and placing it firmly in the pouch. Then they got out of the way. Another man stood by, and the moment his comrades were clear, he pulled the trigger. There was a wooden groan and a woosh as the counterweight swung down, slinging the arm in the air and throwing the stone. Five stones slammed into the water of Tudor creek. "The weight of the artillery shells will be different than these rocks" Agricola said to Murungaru, "But the shells will be uniform. We'll be able to range find." Murungaru said nothing. He watched the crews of the machines grab onto straps, pulling down the long arm with all their weight, the one ton counterweight lifting back into place with the help of simple machinery. "I wish they were faster." Murungaru said. "So do they." Agricola replied, "But we are all new to this." They tested again, and again. Some rocks landed on the beach, though most hit the water. "It will be different when it comes time to use real ammo" Agricola said, almost to himself, "I did my calculations based on the shells you have." A rock hit the wall of distant Fort Jesus and let out a crack that could be heard across the channel. It did nothing of course, but that was to be expected. He hoped the enemy heard it. He wondered what they thought now. "The men should have rest before tonight." Agricola said. Murungaru agreed. There was more on their minds then the question of whether or not the projectiles would hit their target. The things had been built down where the boats were being put together now; a natural precaution against snipers. When they were pushed into place, those doing the work assumed they'd have to dodge sniper fire but none came. The whites in their island city had the machines in their sight, but they didn't seem to care. Sandbags were put in place around the machines to protect the crew when it was time, but that was was limited. Murungaru's gut told him the whites allowed construction to go on just to for the spectacle of the thing. But it was hard to tell what they were thinking, seeing beasts from their own ancient history revived on the other side of Tudor Creek. Murungaru feared they'd be able to stop them from operating when time came. The men ate [i]Irio[/i]; a starchy blend of boiled peas, potatoes, and corn. It was a simple meal, but one that represented the Communist's control of the surrounding countryside and the ease they had feeding their armies. When the armies came together, the arrived in their tribal groups, but Murungaru split them up, attempting to keep units multi-tribal as a first step in building an identity. Houism dominated the Swahili discussion, bringing with it a distrust of nationalism, but Murungaru knew a national character had to exist before a revolutionary one could be brought about, and he worked under that principle. But with the flanks mingling now, men sought out their tribal brothers, and swapped stories with them. A culture of counting coup and capturing trophies pervaded the besieging forces, and this moment gave the men a chance to show off their finds. An hour passed by. Agricola and Li Huan helped finish up the catamarans, leaving Murungaru alone. He sat there, eating his green paste, thinking about the night to come. Fort Jesus was their target. It was built in the 16th century by the Portuguese, an early step in the march of white colonialism. Now it was a useful anachronism, a thick stone fort with timeworn plaster, watching over the harbor like an ancient monument. To take it was to take the last chance for Mombasa to feed itself, controlling the port as it did. But it was a fort. It was meant to defend against attack. "We're going to need to start soon." Agricola sat down next to him, "My crew has to find their range before the sun sets." "Give it some time." Murungaru replied, "We want most of the ground attack to happen at night. That'll mitigate their advantage." "I'm not so convinced." Agricola said, "Darkness means confusion." "I believe the African will handle the confusion better than the white man. The men we fight are organized in their defense, if we can break that organization, the warrior spirit will prevail." "I hope so." "A little longer." Murungaru asked again. -- The battle started slowly, Agricola's men walking to their trebuchets as coolly as if they'd been called to dinner. The big explosive shells were brought to the wooden machines by hand, the ammo trucks parked a distance away for extra protection. Agricola himself dodged under a machine to load the first shell and trigger the rigged fuse. When all five were loaded, the triggers were pulled, and five shells were slung toward the quiet fort. All five landed in the water. Three exploded and sent up geysers. The engineers got to work. Unlike artillery, adjusting this machine was only a step removed from taking it apart entirely, and Murungaru regretted the time he had requested. It was twenty minutes before they were ready to fire again. Everyone held their breath as they watched the shells arc toward Mombasa a second time. Three hit the shallows on the other side. Two hit the beach, cratering the sand in a blow that shook the dust of Fort Jesus's stone walls. A cry rose up from the Communist lines. Nobody but Murungaru seemed to notice the bullet that whizzed above all their heads, fired from the direction of Mombasa. Fifteen minutes later, in the falling twilight, they fired another round, and a shell hit the wall, fire dancing up the stone walls. The celebration was cut off when one of the engineers hopped up to grab a strap on the long arm and was struck by a sniper's bullet. He was carried away bleeding. Their enemy might have found their efforts too strange to stop before, but now they were fighting back. When the trebuchets found their range, no more adjustments needed to be made and the bombardment sped up. So did the return fire. Fountains of flame jumped from the enemy ramparts, and sniper fire cut down engineers as they prepared for the next round. Splinters were visible in the beams, lit up ominously by torches. War drums began to play. Shadows came from over the hill behind them. They were communists soldiers, boats hefted on their shoulders, ready to begin the attack. "Get all fronts moving" Murungaru told his radio-man, who went away to retrieve his equipment. He pulled out his pistol. There would be no reason to use it, but when his blood was up the feeling of the grip in his hands comforted him. Bombs flew above the heads of Communist warriors pushing their catamarans into the water. Sniper fire struck the sand, and sometimes flesh, but it was too weak to turn them back. A sound of cracking wood crashed right above him. "Their targeting the machines." he shouted. Agricola looked up, their eyes on a ugly hole in one of the supporting beams. The engineer stared for a long while, and Murungaru waited, hoping he had an answer. "They'll be busy in a minute." Agricola pointed toward the fort, where Catamarans were landing on the other side. Gunfire was being exchanged. Murungaru knew this was the part of the battle where all he could do was wait, watching a dark battlefield lit only by bursts of fire. Another bullet struck a trebuchet, hitting it in the long arm as it swung, causing it to snap in two. Men ran out of the way as the counterweight came crashing down and the rest of the machine split apart like a cracked nut. They were down to four. Something about this attack felt different. His warriors used rope-hooks to scale the wall, and they did so with little resistance. More men crossed the channel, the sniper fire slowed, and the gunfire remained stable. In the firelight, he saw a red flag waving above Fort Jesus. The question was; would it stay there until morning?