With Wolseley to Kumasi: A Tale of the First Ashanti War

“Then we will make for the edge higher up and see what we can do. Double!”

A few minutes later the firing taking place on their left warned them that they were now level with the lurking enemy, and at once they came to a halt.

“Take post in the trees on this side,” came the order. “Then you will be able to see down into the bush and clear it. Smartly, lads, for there will be people watching us.”

He could not have set the sailors a more enjoyable task. They slung their rifles, and at once set to work to swarm into the trees which grew so plentifully close at hand. Then one gave a lusty shout.

“There they are, sir,” he cried, “and I can see our own troops.”

“Then take care that they don’t see you, or you may be shot by mistake. Now, make every bullet tell.”

Perched in their trees the party could look down upon the bush, for it happened that they had halted at a spot which was elevated well above the surrounding country. To this the height to which they had climbed gave them added advantage, so much so that they could distinguish the figures of the enemy crawling and running amidst the creepers and bracken. Every now and again the Ashantis would halt and fire, running on at once, bent double, and busily engaged in putting another charge in their guns. And all the while the Houssas and West Indians, who were advancing into the bush, exposing themselves to this fire, could not see a single enemy, and were suffering severely in consequence. However, Dick and his bluejackets soon made a difference to their comfort. Their rifle shots broke the silence in that spot, and brought an answering shower of slugs from the enemy. Then, so telling was their fire, that the Ashantis broke and fled to the forest.

“Bravo! Well done! Well done, indeed, bluejackets! Who is your officer, please?”

An officer of some importance, who had been advancing with a small escort along the side of the bush, suddenly rode up, mounted on a mule, and halted beneath the trees occupied by the sailors. Dick glanced down and recognised him as one of Sir Garnet’s staff, an officer of great distinction. He scrambled to the ground, rifle in hand, and advancing took off his cap.

“Dick Stapleton, sir,” he said. “Sir Garnet put me in command of a small party, with orders to operate as well as I was able on the right flank. We heard the firing and answered.”

“Mr Stapleton. Yes; I know all about you,” was the reply, as the officer returned the salute. “I congratulate you on the fruits of your discovery. You have given us an excellent chance of punishing the enemy. Whose idea was it to take to the trees?”

“Mine, sir,” admitted Dick. “I am in command.”

“Exactly so, my lad, and it was a smart movement. It is not every commander who would have thought of it. May I ask if you have been operating in the clearing on our right? I have just passed through it.”

Dick again admitted the fact, and described in a few words what had happened.

“Not all quite so simple as you imagine, or as you have stated,” was the hearty answer. “You give all the credit to your men. Quite right, sir. Every good officer who has good men to command does that. It is only right and fair. Allow me to say that something is also due to the one in command, upon whom all the responsibility of every movement depends. Do you know the result of that little action? No. Then I will tell you. The enemy were practising a favourite manoeuvre: they were attempting to close in on our flanks. On the left the sailors and marines put a stop to the movement, while here on the right they would have succeeded had it not been for you. Gallantly done, men; a very fine piece of work. You accounted for thirty-seven of the enemy, and beat back their flank attack. I shall take good care to mention the matter at headquarters. Now we will advance along this flank, and see if we cannot induce some of the enemy to halt and give us a fight.”

Dick and his men were delighted and glowing with pride. They had worked hard, and fought hard, too, all knew that. But, though they were aware that the force opposed to them was a large one, they did not imagine that such an important movement had been in progress, and that they had been the means of putting a summary stop to it. It was therefore with light hearts and spirits raised to the highest point that they continued the advance. Then as the troops swept the enemy before them, and turned along the beach, where they encountered another of the hostile villages and burned it, Dick and his party received an order to halt, and the same officer addressed them.

“We shall be moving well away from the river now,” he said, “and it will hardly be safe for you to advance with us. Return to your launch now, for otherwise you might have to fight every inch of the way.”

Turning about the party retraced their steps past the bush and into the forest. Then they entered the clearing, and came upon the results of their impetuous charge. It was not pleasant work to look upon, and they hurried away, and very soon were at the river. A loud halloo brought the launch in close to the bank and all embarked, those who had been left aboard muttering deeply and bitterly against the cruel fate which had caused them to miss such an opportunity and such distinction.

Meanwhile our troops had advanced still farther parallel to the beach, and had fired two other villages. They came upon numerous signs that the Ashantis had been there in force, and in one spot sure evidence of the ferocity of these people. For they discovered the body of an unhappy Fanti captive, suspended feet in air, and with the head slashed from the trunk. It was a horrible sight, and caused many of the Ashantis to lose their lives, for our men were roused to fury, and the musketry fire was so searching, and the rockets so well directed, that numbers of the enemy fell. Finally, fully satisfied with their day’s work against the enemy, the troops returned to their quarters, Sir Garnet steaming back to Cape Coast Castle.

Late that night an officer came to Mr Pepson’s in search of Dick Stapleton. For the report of his conduct had come to headquarters, and he was required to be thanked for his fine services.

“A dashing young fellow, and a valuable officer,” said the Chief of the Staff, with enthusiasm. “I am empowered to offer him a commission in the regular service. A gallant fellow, indeed!”

But there was no trace of our hero. Indeed, he and his men had not returned. No sooner had the battle ended, as far as they were concerned, than they steamed down the river and along the coast. When night fell they were lying within the mouth of the river leading to the Pra, and as the sun came up on the following morning he looked down upon the rakish little launch surging up the river at full steam, in search of more information and also of a little more adventure. Nor was it long before one of these came to them, for late on the following morning a shout came echoing down the river, while the eyes of all aboard the launch flew to an object moving swiftly towards them.

Chapter Sixteen.

News from Ashanti

“A boat! a native boat!” shouted Jack, who was keenly alert. “And with only one occupant in it. Look how he’s paddling!”

“For his life, I should say,” chimed in Dick. “Ah, there goes a gun; and see where the bullet splashed. The man who fired must have been hidden in the forest. I don’t think the poor beggar stands a chance, unless he steers right across to the far side of the river.”

“And if he did, sir, he’d be had sure enough,” sang out one of the sailors. “I can see a boat creeping along in the shadow. Shall we try a shot, sir?”

For a little while there was no answer. It was difficult to say whether this man – for there was undoubtedly only one in the flying craft – was an enemy or a friend. If he were an Ashanti, then he was certainly the former. But then were those who pursued him friendly natives, living under the nominal protection of the British, therefore opposed to the Ashantis?

“He’s in trouble, of that there is no doubt,” said Dick, suddenly, as the native boat, propelled by the frantic strokes of its single occupant and helped by the current, swept down towards them. “And he has some scores of enemies pursuing him. What if he is carrying news to us? Perhaps he is coming down with important information. Get your rifles ready, and if that other boat pushes out into the river get her range and wait for the word. Ah, he’s seen us. Did you see him wave his paddle?”

For a moment the unhappy wretch who was coming down the stream in such desperate haste lifted his paddle and waved it overhead with an eagerness there was no mistaking. Then he plunged it into the water again, and plied it for his life. That he was threatened with death if captured there could be little doubt, for the unseen foes who manned the far bank thrashed the water about him with their slugs, while the silence and peace of the river was disturbed by the loud boom of their muzzle-loaders, and by their excited shouts. In a moment Dick made up his mind to help the fugitive, whoever he might be, and at a word the sailors lay down and commenced to fire at the bushes from which came the puffs of smoke. Meanwhile Jack Emmett kept the launch steadily in mid-stream, Johnnie supplying her with a small amount of steam, which was sufficient to keep her under way and prevent her being swept back by the current. As for the men who had appeared, lurking in the shadows in their boat, a single shot sufficed to send them back round the bend of the river.

“Perhaps they have had a taste of our rifles before,” thought Dick, as he watched the boat and saw the splash of the shot where it struck the water close beside them. “Anyway, they have retreated fast enough, and I fancy the fire from the shore is dying down. Steady, men! I think we have done enough. Our fusillade has stopped their advance and that fellow in the boat is getting out of their range. Look at him!”

It was indeed a sight to behold, for if the fugitive had shown eagerness before, he now displayed the utmost delight and excitement. He shouted to the launch, and waved his paddle again. Then he turned, and noticing that the slugs which were still fired at him now fell far astern, he laughed, and standing up, shook a defiant fist. Then once more he threw himself on his knees, and dug his paddle into the stream, sending his light craft ahead till the water was churned into froth at her bows. A few minutes later he came level with the launch, when he threw himself down in the bottom of his boat, and lay there exhausted and out of breath with the struggle.

“Pull him aboard and let him lie under the awning,” said Dick. “Make his boat fast, and then we’ll push along up the river. Keep well under cover, for we may have some trouble. That’s the way, Jack. Keep in the very centre, for it is so wide here that we need have little fear should they fire, while we can reach either bank with our weapons.”

Obedient to a nod from his master, Johnnie opened the throttle a little, till the launch attained a good pace. Meanwhile the sailors had rapidly transferred the fugitive from his boat to the deck of the steamer, and had made his craft fast right aft. Only then did Dick notice that the native was not an Ashanti, while a half-healed wound on one thigh, now bleeding afresh after his exertions, or perhaps because of a second injury, showed that he had little cause to thank those from whom he fled. As for the latter, an occasional shot from the bank told that some were still there, though their slugs were quite harmless at that distance, and, indeed, failed to reach the launch. But even these soon ceased to trouble, particularly when the sailors directed their rifles at the flashes, and sent in a withering volley. Of the other boat nothing was seen, and in all probability she had long since been hidden.

“They must have rounded the bend and then dragged her into the forest,” said Dick. “I think we might steam on another mile, and then talk to this fellow. He’s not an Ashanti, Jack.”

“And he’s no friend of theirs, either,” sang out Jack, from his post at the tiller. “He looks thin and ill-used, and may very well have been one of the wretched beggars you have told me about who are kept prisoners at Kumasi, till some uncle or grandmother of King Koffee’s dies, when hundreds of captives are sacrificed.”

“More than likely,” was our hero’s answer, for he had been in this part of the country long enough to have learned all that was known of the Ashantis and their ferocity. He knew that it was said that thousands were slain in cold blood every year in this horrible den called Kumasi, and that the death of a king’s son necessitated the slaying of at least two thousand wretched girls, children and men, to satiate the hideous Moloch reigning over the fetish house at the capital. And no doubt this poor fellow was one. Dick nodded to him and smiled, and at the sign of friendship the man rose and crept towards him till he crouched at his feet. Then he did a strange thing. He fumbled with his twitching fingers in the masses of his hair, and finally produced a discoloured piece of linen.

“For the white chief,” he said; “I have risked my life to bring it to you. These Ashanti men would have killed me as I came, and if they had captured me – ”

The very thought of what might have followed unnerved the man, who was still suffering from the effects of his desperate efforts to escape. His teeth shook while his limbs trembled. Then he seized our hero by the hand and clung to it as if his life now depended upon doing so.

“Who are you?” asked Dick, using the Ashanti tongue. “Where do you come from, and why have you been pursued?”

“Look at the letter, chief. See the figures there and I will talk. I am an Assim. I hate these cruel Ashantis.”

The native watched with eager eyes as the strip of discoloured linen was unfolded, and started back as if in terror as the white youth suddenly rose from the roof of the deck cabin to his feet and glared at the strip. It was an important missive, evidently, for he grew red with excitement, and gave a prolonged whistle of astonishment. Then he called in loud tones to Jack to come to his side. There was a tone of profound astonishment and relief in his voice, and he waved the strip of linen above his head.

“News!” he shouted. “News at last! Look at the signature. Poor beggar! How he must be suffering!”

“Who? Who’s the poor beggar? Is it one of the captives about whom there has been such a row? You know whom I mean. The Europeans for whom King Koffee demanded a ransom.”

“Yes; it is his latest prisoner,” was Dick’s answer. “Look here.”

He spread out the tattered piece of dirty linen upon the roof of the cabin and showed it to his friend. It looked as though it might at one time have formed a portion of a white linen handkerchief, or perhaps it was a strip torn from a man’s shirt. In any case it had been pressed into the service of the writer of the missive for lack of other and better material; and the ink with which the letters were scrawled was in all probability derived from the diluted juice of some berry growing in the forest. They straggled across the strip, some large and some very small, all more or less blotched and blurred, while many unmistakably pointed to the fact that a pointed twig or some such primitive implement had done service for a pen.

“From Meinheer Van Somering,” said Dick, impressively. “Poor beggar! He is one of the owners of the mine, as I have already told you, and it was he who was attacked with Mr Pepson on their way down to the coast. The agent whose place I took was killed at the first volley, while Meinheer capsized the boat. The last that Mr Pepson saw of him was as he plunged into the river. We thought him drowned, and he is, or was, a captive. Listen, and I will read.”

He spread the strip out once more, smoothing the many creases, and having again run his eye over the letters commenced to read.

“‘For the love of Gott, help me, mein friends. I have made the escape from these terrible Ashanti men. I have come to the creek where was the mine, and, alas! there is no boat. All are gone. With me is one friend, a native, who make the escape also. He say he can find boat down the stream and make for the coast. He will try. Brave man! If he live, then he return with mein friend, and make the rescue. Mein word! how I wait for him. Christian Van Somering.’”

It was a pathetic missive, scrawled as it was on this dirty strip of linen, and Dick’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of the miserable condition of Meinheer. His face assumed an expression of determination, and he swung round upon the native with a question. So sudden and unexpected was the movement, that the man cringed to the deck again, and placed his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.

“Have no fear,” said our hero, in the Ashanti tongue. “Tell me all about this matter; how you came to meet the white man, and how you made your escape. Where is he living now?”

It was pitiable to watch the relief depicted upon the face of the fugitive as he heard the words. He knelt upon the deck and looked about him as though he could hardly believe his ears. He might have been a culprit who expected discovery at any moment, and who suddenly found that suspicion had passed over his head and had settled upon some other individual. He sighed, stood up, and then began to answer.

“It is a long tale, but I can tell it shortly,” he said. “I was in the village when the enemy came upon us, and with many others was taken prisoner. Here is the mark of the wound which I received as I endeavoured to escape. I was taken towards Kumasi, the place where slaves are killed in the house of execution, and I knew that death was before me. Like many another I longed to effect an escape, and it happened that I succeeded with the help of the white chief. Yes, chief, he was a prisoner also, being dragged towards Kumasi, and it was he who, as we lay side by side one night, bit through the lashings which secured my arms and legs. Then I set him free and we stole away to this place where the white chief had once been. None suspected that we were there, and we had hoped to find another white chief at the mine, and boats in which to make down the river. But there was no stockade. The place had been burned, and the boats were gone.”

“How long ago is this?” demanded Dick. “When did you meet the white chief?”

The native counted the days off on his fingers and thought for a moment. Then he stretched out his hands and lifted his ten fingers into the air four times in succession.

“It is so many days, perhaps more,” he said. “I cannot say. The days were so much alike. We lived in terror of our lives, for the enemy were on the river and about the mine. We hid in the forest, living on yams and plantains. Then the chief fell sick, and for a little while I thought he would die. But he recovered, and bade me go down the river with this scrap of linen. He lies there near the creek, chief.”

“Yes, but that does not explain how you managed to make this journey,” interposed our hero. “How did you obtain the boat?”

“I stole it. At night I crept through the forest close to the water, till I came to the camp of the enemy. Then I searched and found a boat. After that I fled, and the chief knows what happened. He saved my life.”

It was a simple tale of escape, and there was nothing wonderful about it. The incidents of it escaped the minds of the hearers at once, for their thoughts were turned to Meinheer Van Somering, lying there in the forest, struck down with the all-prevailing fever, no doubt.

“Of course we shall go up-stream and take him back to the coast,” said Dick, promptly. “But first we must find out something about the enemy. It would never do to be caught in a trap. Tell me about the Ashantis,” he went on, addressing the native. “Where are their camps?”

“There are two on the river,” was the answer. “From the first I stole the boat, and the second, which is lower down, discovered me as the dawn came.”

“Then they would certainly discover us,” said Jack, when Dick had explained matters to him. “We should find ourselves in a regular hive, and that would not be very pleasant. Mind, Dick, I don’t want to discourage this idea of rescue; still, we must think of the men. Could we run up in the launch without being seen and followed?”

A vigorous shake of Dick’s head was the answer. “We should be discovered as sure as eggs. Then they would put a fleet of boats on the river and follow. Their guns would attract the attention of their comrades higher up, and, well – I couldn’t expect such good fortune again as befell Johnnie and myself on a former occasion. Frankly, to run the launch up under, such circumstances would be madness.”

There was silence for some minutes amongst the group gathered about the cabin, the throb of the miniature engine alone breaking the silence of the river. A difficult question had to be settled, and the longer the two young Englishmen stared at the strange missive written, or scratched rather, upon the dirty strip of linen, the greater did the difficulty become. It was clear to both that, however big the stake, however important the life to be rescued, they had no right to risk the safety of the whole of the launch’s crew, and there would be risk if they went. More than that, the attempt to ascend, with the certain information that there were two camps on the banks of the river, would be madness, and deserving of the utmost censure.

“Ask him if he thinks we could rush through, and how far it is,” suggested Jack, suddenly.

“It would mean death. There are thousands of the enemy,” was the answer. “As to the place, it is not very far. I stole the boat last night and by dawn I reached this part. For some hours the stream carried me, for I would not risk the use of the paddle.”

“Twenty miles at least,” muttered Dick, staring out across the water.

“And too far to risk a rush. There is no moon to-night, Dick, and that would be against us, for if we steamed up, it would be at full speed, and we should come back at the same pace also. Well, for that we want light. There may be banks here and there. The risk of collision would be great. In short, I’m dead against it. Don’t think I’m funking; I’m not. We are here to gather information, and, of course, we would effect a rescue if possible. We are not authorised to act rashly, and endanger the whole expedition by making an attempt which is foredoomed to failure. In short, we are supposed to possess common sense and courage, and in the decision of this question it appears to me that it requires more courage to say, ‘no, it can’t be done; we must leave the poor beggar,’ than it does to stoke our fires and steam up the river at full speed.”

There was no doubt that Jack Emmett had placed the facts of the matter in a nutshell, and that it pained him to say what he had said. Dick knew him well enough now to be sure that his companion had, sufficient dash and daring for this or any other expedition, and he knew well, too, that if he, the leader of this little party, gave the word, the movement would be commenced without a murmur, and every effort made to carry it through to a satisfactory conclusion. But had he the right to give such an order? Might he risk the lives of all for one, and that one not an Englishman? Could he leave him to his fate, knowing that he only lay some twenty miles away?

“Impossible! I would rather risk anything,” he said aloud. “You are right, Jack,” he exclaimed, turning to his friend. “I am not justified in asking the men to join in such a dash – hair-brained attempt it would be called. Besides, this expedition is sent here for a purpose, and that is to gather news of the utmost importance. That is our aim and object in coming here, and we must keep it prominently before us. There is just one saving clause.”

“That is?” demanded Jack, breathlessly.

“That I have a subaltern, as I may call you. If I am shot, or fall ill, the launch need not return, as once before happened to us, on my account, I grieve to state. The launch would remain and carry out the work.”

“Quite so. But I don’t follow. I hope you won’t be shot. If you are, then, of course, I shall command, and it will be a case of the fortune of war.”

He might have been a Frenchman by his manner of shrugging his shoulders. His handsome, open face showed clearly that he disliked this conversation wherein the possible fate of his friend and commander was discussed.