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

The half-caste had learned that Dick Stapleton had formerly come up the river, and had been taken back to the sea owing to an attack of fever. His spies, of whom there were many on the coast, had told him how the young fellow fared, and had sent news as soon as preparations for another expedition with the launch had been commenced. Then he had hatched his plot to trap his master’s son, and with fiendish ingenuity had relied upon the gallantry of his dupe to lead him into the net. What was easier than for this man, accustomed to clerical duties, and, as it chanced, acquainted with Meinheer, to scrawl a few letters on a piece of linen, and sign the Dutchman’s name? for he knew well that the fraud in the signature would never be detected. It was a well-planned plot, and had succeeded only too well, though the victim had made a hard fight for his liberty and had given unexpected trouble.

And so while Dick lay there in the shade, fast asleep, the crew of the launch dozed the hours away, knowing well that they could not look for his return till late the following night.

Some few hours after Dick had fallen asleep he was kicked and ordered to stand up.

“We start for Kumasi,” said James Langdon, with a leer, “for the seat of the great King Koffee. There is a prospect before you, young man, and you will have time to think about it. Make sure of him,” he went on, turning to his followers, “for the captive is no longer mine. He belongs to the King, and it will be a bad day’s work for the one whose carelessness results in his escape. Now, march on, and let us push the pace.”

Three days later the procession marched into the town of Kumasi, their prisoner still in their midst, footsore and weary, but with courage undaunted. They passed at once along the principal street, and Dick was astonished to find that it was very wide, that neat huts stood in an orderly line on either side, and that trees grew here and there, offering a welcome shade. The thousands who came to stare and mock at him seemed neat and tidy, though they boasted little clothing, while the whole air of the town was one of prosperity and orderliness. But there was one huge drawback, which attracted the prisoner’s attention the instant he set foot in Kumasi, indeed, even before he reached the town. Where there should have been the pleasantest of breezes there was the most ghastly and nauseating odour of dead men, and as the procession advanced the cause of this became more and more apparent. For Kumasi was like a charnel house. The bodies of the hundreds of poor wretches who were slain were simply thrown into the nearest stagnant stream, or were piled in a narrow grove, the fetish grove, adjacent to the house of execution. In truth, the smell of blood was everywhere, and on every hand dark stains told of its presence. No wonder that he shuddered, while his courage began to evaporate.

“How awful!” he thought. “The place makes one feel deadly sick, and the sights on either side are shocking. If that is to be the end, then the sooner the better. But I am not done yet. I will have a try for freedom, and it may be that I shall succeed. To think I have been made a fool of, and that letter was a forgery. Poor old Meinheer is dead after all.”

Even in the depths of his misery he could think unselfishly of others, of the unfortunate Dutchman whose name had been sufficient to bring his young agent to this plight. A moment later his thoughts were interrupted by James Langdon.

“The lions have had a good view of him,” he laughed, as he nodded to the crowd, who evidently held the half-caste in some awe. “In a little while he shall afford them more sport, and they shall see what sort of a captive I have brought them. Pack him into the hut here, next to mine, and watch him while I go to the King. My servant will see to his food. Cut his lashings and bundle him in.”

A man produced his sword, and the lashings were cut. Then, with the smallest ceremony, Dick was bundled into the hut, a one-roomed erection, smelling evilly, and almost devoid of light. But it was his for the moment, and he revelled in the opportunity it gave him to be alone. He sat down in one corner, feeling weary and sore from head to foot, while the evil smell of the place made him horribly sick. He was faint and giddy, and when at length the food was brought which was to be his evening meal, he pushed it from him.

He was down again with fever. No white man can live in the heart of the Ashanti forests, particularly on the river, without subjecting himself to the risk of incessant fever attacks, and once the malady has been gained, the paroxysms are apt to recur very often. Hardship, privation and excitement generally are sufficient to cause them to return, and it is therefore not wonderful to have to record that Dick Stapleton was again a victim. His teeth chattered, he was miserably cold in spite of the fact that the temperature in this stuffy hut was almost unbearable, and he had no appetite. Indeed, he was soon semi-delirious, and it was not till many weeks had passed that he was himself again. The fever, want of nursing, unsatisfactory foods, and incarceration in the hut did their work too thoroughly, so that on this occasion he was longer in recovering. And when he was stronger, and was allowed to step from the hut, it was to find Kumasi in a ferment, to discover the house of execution fully occupied, and the bodies of fresh victims everywhere. For the British advance had begun. Sir Garnet Wolseley, the energetic and indefatigable worker, was already on the way to the capital of the Ashantis, with a goodly following of troops behind him.

Chapter Eighteen.

King Koffee, the Terrible

Kumasi was in an uproar. The long, wide street which cut through the heart of the huge town was alive with Ashanti warriors, and with shrieking women and children. There was consternation on every face, and fierce anger at the news which had just come from the river Prahsu.

“Your soldiers have bridged the river and are about to advance,” growled James Langdon, as he threw the door of the prison hut open and accosted Dick. “These fools here think that their fetish will prevail and keep the British back. I know better, for I have seen British troops. They will reach this place, and perhaps give it to the flames. Then they will retire, and as they go we shall fall upon them and cut them to pieces. You need not think that they will find you here. You are a marked man, and, at the last, when the advance still takes place, the Ashantis will offer you to their fetish in the hope that your sacrifice will arrest the enemy. It would have been better for you, Dick Stapleton, had you never interfered with me.”

“And by the look of you, it would have been easier for you had you hanged yourself weeks ago,” answered our hero, calmly, and with a smile which made his captor writhe. “You look as though you were haunted, and I think that you must have had a very miserable time since you left the coast. You are a traitor and a murderer, and you are bound to be caught and punished.”

“Not if I rejoin the British. What if I set you and the other Europeans free! Would you obtain a pardon?”

Dick emphatically shook his head, for he mistrusted this man. More than that, he was wise enough to know that even though James Langdon might desire to do as he said, the Ashantis would never permit such action. A glance at the face of the half-caste was sufficient to show that he was ill at ease. Matters were beginning to look serious for King Koffee and his people, and the very sight of this half-caste, who had urged them to action and to resistance, angered them. They had lost faith in him, and James Langdon knew that at any time the King’s favour might be withdrawn and he himself fall a victim. He turned away with an oath. Then he called for the guard which kept watch over the house, and gave an order. At once Dick was bound and led off down the street, and having reached a wide open space, close to the horrible fetish grove, he was brought to a halt within a few paces of the enormous sacrificial bowl, with its legs in the form of crouching lions, on the edge of which the Ashantis were wont to slay their victims. Never in all his life had he seen such a hideous sight.

“Terrible! terrible!” he murmured. “To think that men could be such brutes! It is horrible!”

He closed his eyes for a little while, and then opened them again as there was a commotion. Then, indeed, he gave a start, for four white men were slowly led into the arena, all strangers to him, and all miserable prisoners like himself. They looked at him sharply, and one of them called out a greeting.

“Sorry to see you here,” he said, with a foreign accent. “How long have you been a prisoner?”

“About six weeks. And you?”

“A year perhaps. We had hoped to be freed by the payment of a ransom. Now I suppose we must wait for the troops if these brutes will allow us. There is never any saying what they may do. To-day there will be a great sacrifice, and we are always dragged here to witness the awful scene. What news?”

He asked the question eagerly, and in a few words Dick narrated how Sir Garnet had landed and commenced operations, and how by now the troops must be at the coast and probably on the march up.

“Then that accounts for this butchery. They are trying to stop the advance, and these poor people have to suffer. Shut your eyes as long as you can, my lad. I’m hardened.”

But Dick could not. He looked on with dilated eyes and shuddered, for the next three hours were indeed too horrible to relate. Some hundreds of wretched slaves and prisoners were ruthlessly slaughtered, while the mob looked on, gloating. But happily for the white prisoners, there was little noise, only an occasional shriek from some waiting victim. The poor wretches were led to the bowl, and knives were thrust through their cheeks so that they could not utter a sound. Then their heads were forced over the edge of the bowl, and with a sweep of the sacrificial knife they were decapitated.

“It’s done with for to-day,” at last said the prisoner who had spoken before, addressing Dick, wearily. “A few score more of these poor people have been killed – men, women and children, and now the last test of all has been carried out. The fetish priests have said that if men who are tied up in the forest and left alone die quickly, the Ashantis will be victorious. If they live for many days the British will succeed. They have put knives through the cheeks of two of the captives and have led them away. It’s all very horrible and very terrible. But never fear, things may come right yet. By the way, who is that sallow dog who fights with the Ashantis and advises them? See him there. He is watching and listening.”

Dick did not answer, for James Langdon suddenly emerged from the crowd, where he had hidden himself the better to watch his prisoner. Now, however, he came forward at a run, and stood in front of the man who had spoken.

“Sallow dog, you call me,” he cried angrily. “I will tell you who I am. I am the one who has so far kept you white men alive, and to me you may look for the order which will bring you here again for execution. That is your answer.”

He scowled at the prisoner and then went off, giving an order as he left the arena. At once the guards closed round the prisoners, and all were marched away, Dick being taken back and flung into his hut. He sat down at once with his back to the wall, and his eyes fixed on the door, and for an hour he hardly stirred a finger. Now and again his eyes moved a little, as the light which streamed beneath the door altered, and the shadow of a passing man crossed it. Otherwise he allowed nothing to disturb his thoughts.

“I will do it,” he said at last, rising to his feet and pacing up and down. “I am strong now, and once away I can live in the forest with ease, for there are plantains everywhere. I will make an attempt this very night, and if I fail, well it will only hasten my death by a very few hours.”

“Food and water. Take it!”

The door was thrown open by the man appointed to feed the captive, and a bundle of plantains tossed into the hut. An earthen pot containing water was set down just inside the hut, and then the door was slammed, for the man was in a hurry. Like all the inhabitants of Kumasi, he was eager to go into the forest to watch the poor wretches tied up there, and to listen to news of the invaders. The guards also, two of whom were set to watch the hut, had their attention distracted on this day, for as Dick peered through the crevices in the door he could see them gossiping with the passers-by, and straying far from the hut. When darkness fell the town was still in a state of agitation, for further news had come of a British victory, and the watch on the hut was even more careless. But the Ashantis had not entirely forgotten their prisoner, as Dick soon discovered. For as he looked out into the wide street, watching the numerous almost nude figures seated about the fires, and the warriors passing to and fro, a gentle grating on the far side of the door warned him that he might expect a visitor. As quick as a flash he crossed the floor and sank to the ground on the far side, where he feigned to be asleep. He had hardly gained this position when the door was burst open, and two men entered, the second bearing a torch.

“Gone! He has escaped! Those dogs have let him go! Ah, no! He is here!”

The half-caste clenched his hands, and turned furiously upon the native bearing the torch, for as he entered, the half light cast by the flame had illuminated only a portion of the hut, and he imagined that the prisoner had gone. Then he caught sight of his figure in the corner, and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Safe!” he exclaimed, with a growl of satisfaction. “Not escaped. That is good. Have we disturbed your sleep?”

Dick looked up wearily, blinking at the light, and then seeing who it was, and pretending that he had only just discovered the presence of his enemy, he rolled over again, treating him with scorn and silence, as was his custom.

For a little while the half-caste and his attendant stared at him thoughtfully, then they turned and left the hut.

“I felt ill at ease,” Dick heard James Langdon mutter; “I fancied that he had escaped, and I came to see for myself. I can sleep peacefully now if I do not dream of these British.”

He clenched his hands again as he moved away, and Dick heard him muttering still as the door was slammed. Then came the sound of his steps, a fierce kick as he pushed open the door of his own abode, and a sharp crash as he swung it to again.

“Sick and weary,” thought Dick. “His conscience is hurting him, or rather, perhaps, he begins to feel the net closing round him. We shall see. I gave him due warning, and if the time comes I will kill him as if he were a fly. Now for business.”

He rose stealthily to his feet and went to the door, where he remained for some minutes staring out into the street, and taking note of the position of his guards. Then he went in succession to some half-dozen tiny peep-holes, which he had diligently bored through the wattle wall of the hut.

“All clear,” he said, with a satisfied chuckle. “It’s quite dark now, and as these people go to bed early the place will soon be quiet. I’ll give the guards a little time to settle down and then I’ll move. This is the side for operations.”

He went to the wall which faced the hut in which dwelt the half-caste and set to work upon it. Slipping his hand into his sleeve, he produced an angular piece of iron, a fragment of a cooking-pot which he had picked up in a corner of the hut. Many an hour had he spent in sharpening an edge of the fragment upon a stone dug up from the dried mud floor, and now it was as keen as a razor. Holding it firmly in his hand, he swept it slowly and in a circle over the wattle wall, his fingers following the cut. Then he repeated the process, very slowly and very carefully, severing the stems one by one. Like all the habitations in Kumasi, the prison in which he was incarcerated was built of wattle, woven roughly together, and plastered with mud to fill the interstices. Thus when he had contrived to cut through the stems a large piece of the wall was freed, with the mud still clinging to it. Dick swung it open very slowly and peeped out. Then he replaced the section, and once more went the round of the hut, peering in all directions. Not a soul was moving, and even the guards had thrown themselves down beside the log fire disconsolately, for the news received that day was most disheartening.

“Not time to move yet,” he thought. “They look quiet enough, but they are not sleepy. I’ll wait a little, and then we’ll see what happens.”

An hour later he swung the section open and stared out. Then he squeezed through the opening and threw himself flat on the ground. Wriggling a few inches along beside the hut he soon obtained an unobstructed view of the street, and could see the twinkle of the dying embers, with, here and there, a figure crouching over them. There were the guards, too, drowsing near one of the fires, their weapons dangling beside them. A dog barked in the distance, and for a little while a number of the curs which infested the streets of the horrible town set up a chorus of responsive howls, which were more than disconcerting. One of the guards stirred, while a man who had been crouching over one of the distant fires, no doubt thinking of the fighting in prospect, rose and sauntered along till he arrived near the hut, where he opened up a conversation on the same old subject.

“They are at the Prahsu, these white dogs,” he said. “What will be our fortune now? What think you, comrade?”

“How should I know or be able to guess?” was the sulky answer. “Go to our fetish men. Or better, be patient for a little. There are the dogs whom we have bound out in the forest. If they die to-morrow we conquer. If not – ”

“We die. We shall do that. Listen to one of them groaning. Is that the call of a dying man?”

He held up his hand and pointed across the street, and away across the enclosure where the executions had taken place, to the forest beyond, and as he pointed there came the call of a man in pain, strong and clear, and full of power.

Dick shuddered, while the guards and their visitor became suddenly silent. They had much to think about, and could obtain little comfort from their wise men and soothsayers. The auguries were all against them. Strange things were happening. The tale was abroad that a child had just been born who was able to converse fluently immediately after its birth. Then some falling star had struck the town. And now, the men who had sat so patiently at the coast, were advancing in spite of sacrifices, in spite of a liberal shedding of blood. There was little comfort for the Ashantis. Talking made matters worse. It was better to go to the privacy of one’s own hut and brood alone over the trouble.

Dick heard the stranger bid good-night. Then he watched his figure disappearing. A minute later he was on his feet, creeping across the dark patch of ground intervening between his prison and the next habitation, where James Langdon dwelt.

For a moment we must leave Dick, while we turn to the leader of the British expedition at the coast, and see what arrangements he had made for the difficult task before him. For this campaign was no trifling affair. It was not an ordinary war, wherein battles of great importance might be expected, with open fields for manoeuvring, but a conflict wherein our troops and their leaders would have to engage with many unexpected difficulties, and meet face to face a danger greater than that offered by the enemy. It was bad enough at the coast, where there were cool, fresh breezes on occasion, though to be sure the place had well earned its name of “the white man’s grave,” but up-country, in the forest and jungle, with its numerous swamps, its unhealthy exhalations, its damp heat, and its rotting vegetation, there lurked the germs of fever, the worst form of ague, that fell disease which has slain so many men of our race, and with which it may be rightly said our scientists are only now becoming fully acquainted. Its symptoms, its shivering attacks, its racking fevers they know well, as intimately as they can be known; as also the fact that recurrences take place, that many a man long since returned to England has attacks of jungle fever, or whatever he may care to term it. But the method of transmission of this malady to human beings was not so certain a matter, and few knew then rightly how to battle with it. It was, in fact, the enemy to be contended with, and had any one doubted that, he had only to ask at the coast and sum up the number of men and officers already placed hors de combat on its account. This was first and foremost to be a doctors’ war, and when all available precautions were taken, it became next a war against forest and jungle, and the foes who might be lurking there.

To reach Kumasi was no light undertaking, even if no opposition were to be expected, and the decision to advance upon it by land made the difficulty all the greater. It would be hard to say who was responsible for this, though it would seem that those at home, wholly unacquainted with the coast perhaps, were allowed to have a say in the matter. In any case materials were sent out for erecting a light railway, and were disembarked at great cost and labour. And with what result? It was hard enough to cleave a path thirty inches wide through the jungle and forest, let alone one of five feet; while the necessary transport was not forthcoming. And so the railway material lay where it had been landed, while labourers and carriers were employed from amongst the natives, hundreds of whom had flocked to the town owing to the incursions of the Ashantis. Sappers set them their tasks, and as the weeks crept on a path was hewn through the forest in a direct line to the Prahsu. Sometimes open ground relieved the labour, and here and there stations were formed, and food and ammunition collected. At last the bend of the river was reached, and unhindered by the enemy, who were in the vicinity, the sappers bridged it and laid out a little town for the accommodation of the troops and the small escort sent to defend this advance station. Finally the promised troops came, and the advance commenced. Of the force engaged the bulk may be said to have been British, for our native allies, with few exceptions, proved useless cowards. A few men of the Assim tribe made excellent scouts under Lord Gifford, while other natives did like service. But for fighting the majority were hopeless, and very rightly no dependence was placed upon them. Elsewhere, operating from another quarter, was a larger force of more reliable natives, from the Lagos district, close to Benim, under command of Captain Glover, and though their actions were of little service, a small portion of the force was to be heard of later. They were operating on the Rio Volta, the river forming the boundary between the Gold and Slave Coasts.

It must not be supposed that because the Ashantis, who had invaded the protectorate, hesitated to interfere with the working parties hewing a road to the Prahsu and carrying supplies there, they did not come into conflict with our marines and bluejackets who, in many cases, formed the garrison at the depots which had been formed. Those at Dunquah, a place some twenty-odd miles from the coast, had a smart brush with the enemy, while at Abracampa a huge force of Ashantis, numbering ten thousand at least, suddenly surrounded the post. Like so many of the others, it was but a native village, placed in a small natural clearing, and now roughly fortified. The garrison was a very slender one indeed, and yet in spite of that fact they held the enemy at bay, killing very many of them. Time and again the attacks were repeated, till at length reinforcements arrived, and taking the enemy unawares dispersed them with great slaughter. In the enemy’s camp numerous rifles, guns, umbrellas and war-drums were found, besides evidences of sacrifices. In fact, wherever the Ashantis had been, grim relics were left behind, all of which only added to the keenness of our men to reach Kumasi and put a stop to such barbarities.

And now the prospect was brighter. The second battalion of the Rifle Brigade was already en route, while the Welsh Fusiliers and the Black Watch were a little way in the rear. On the road also were Royal Artillery, Engineers, Marines, surgeons, Commissariat officers, and war correspondents, amongst the last the familiar figure of G.A. Henty, whose name must be well known to thousands and thousands of boys and grown men, and whose active brain created heroes in every country and clime under the sun.