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

From Cape Coast Castle the troops marched to Inquabin as a first stage, and from there through various stations, all with more or less unpronounceable names, till they came finally to the Prahsu, sixty-nine miles from the sea. There they found Sir Garnet completing his preparations for the march upon Kumasi. The troops had toiled for the most part in single file along the narrow forest tracks, and they knew that the same work was before them. But they did not know what their leaders had taken to heart; that the forest on the far side of the river might and probably did hide thousands of enemies, and that that tract must be crossed, and the town of Kumasi captured within the next fortnight. For already there were not wanting signs that the rains were about to commence, and when they set in tracks through the forests would become swamps and narrow streams great swirling rivers. Worse than all, rain and wet soon play havoc with a man, and in a fever-stricken country, such as the land of Ashanti, predispose to an immediate attack.

Having dealt with the movement of the troops, and shown how Sir Garnet and his men had diligently pushed forward to the Prahsu, and had, by dint of bush fighting, and particularly by their actions at Dunquah and Abracampa, driven the Ashantis from the protectorate, we can now return to Kumasi.

The night was rather dark, but fine. Overhead the stars twinkled, and could be seen through the leaves of the trees which lined the main street. One tree grew in front of each house or hut, and was fetish or sacred. At its roots were placed odd bits of crockery, a rough doll-shaped image, and other objects, all regarded as fetish and likely to lull the anger of the mighty fetish which kept the people in its grip, and which held sway at the execution house and temple to which Dick had been led.

“If it had been raining it would have been better, perhaps,” thought the escaping prisoner. “But I don’t know. All depends on the luck I have. The plan may work well, and our friend may find himself caught in a net of my weaving this time. If so, then I shall not mind the light so much. Now for the chance to enter.”

He had crept across the open space between the two huts, and was now close against the wattle wall behind which James Langdon was sleeping. As he lay at full length Dick could hear the ruffian’s deep breathing, and when a few minutes had passed could catch his mutterings. He stirred, and Dick heard the soft bed of palm-leaves, upon which he lay, rustle at the movement. But our hero made no attempt at escape, nor did he move from his position. He waited, as calmly as he could, though it was hard to smother his excitement and still the thumping of his heart. There was so much to be attempted, and such a terrible ordeal to look forward to if he failed. Across his mind’s eye flashed the memory of that awful scene close to the brass sacrificial bowl. The rows of intended victims, forced to look on at the sacrifice, their hunted looks, and the agony on the face of the one about to be sacrificed. Then there was the mob, with the warriors dancing their wild dance of death and brandishing their weapons; while in the background, smug and complacent, like Nero of old, sat King Koffee, tall and fat, nodding a signal when the moment for execution came. For half an hour, as Dick crouched in the shadow, the memory of the horrid scene flitted continuously before him. Then he stood up suddenly and clenched his hands together.

“I won’t let such things take my pluck away,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll think of the friends on the river and at the coast. This brute is responsible for all my miseries, and it is his turn to suffer. He has brought me here. Well, he shall help me to return.”

He pulled up the cuffs of his tattered sleeves, as if to prepare for a struggle, then he crept round to the door of the house. There was a native stool there, a heavy article, and he grasped it and lifted it well above his head. Then, without hesitation, he knocked loudly upon the door.

Chapter Nineteen.

Dick Strikes a Blow

Bang! Dick’s knuckles struck the door of the native hut with a sharp rap, and he repeated the knock immediately. Then he listened eagerly for some sound from the sleeper within. There was no answering call, and nothing to denote that the man was there.

“Fast asleep,” thought Dick. “But he is there, I know, for on the far side I could hear his breathing. I’ll knock again.”

He was in the very act of doing so when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of one of the drowsy guards who lay beside the dying fire. The man had, apparently, heard the knock, and had sat up now to see what it meant. Then he sauntered towards the prisoner’s hut as if to investigate the matter. The escaping prisoner’s heart stood still, while his wits worked rapidly.

“If I returned and crept through they might discover the opening, and then good-bye to liberty,” he thought. “If I stay here he will see me. I’ll get behind the hut, and if there is an alarm I’ll run for it. Yes, that will be the best plan.”

He watched the guard closely as he rose to his feet, and then silently slid along behind the hut. And as he did so the native strolled towards the place where the half-caste lived and peered at the door. Then he retraced his steps to the prison, and throwing the catch down, stared in. Once more the prisoner held his breath while he tingled with excitement. He stood on his toes, ready at the first alarm to sprint away down the street, while his eye rapidly picked out the most likely path to take. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, relief the like of which none can appreciate but those who have found themselves in similar positions. The guard must have mistaken a shadow, perhaps a portion of the palm-leaf bed, for the prisoner, and been satisfied. He emerged from the hut, and once more sauntered up to the door of the one in which James Langdon lay. As he did so, a sound within told that the sleeper had awakened. He stirred, came to the door and threw it open, staring out at the man suspiciously.

“You knocked?” he exclaimed. “It roused me, but I was heavy with sleep and did not rise at once. What is wrong? You have let the prisoner escape! Dog! You have let him go at the very last moment!”

He sprang from the doorway and gripped the man by the throat, digging his fingers in till the native choked and dropped his musket. His eyes dilated; he struggled with all his might, striking fiercely at the half-caste, and then suddenly became limp. Indeed, when James Langdon released his hold, the man fell helpless to the ground. But it seemed that he was more frightened than hurt, for Dick had long since discovered that all in Kumasi treated the rascal who had decoyed him into captivity with unusual deference, owing perhaps to his friendship with the King, though of late his power had been declining as that of the British rose. The native gasped, held up an arm, and endeavoured to speak, while the half-caste stood over him with the musket as if he would club his brains out with the butt.

“Say he is gone and I will kill you on the spot,” growled the ruffian. “If he is safe, well and good. You shall be uninjured. But why, then, did you knock?”

“Knock! I was lying at the fire keeping watch on the prison when I heard a sound and came to see what it was. Doubtless, some one moved in a neighbouring hut and disturbed me and you also. Then I went to the prison, and found the dog there, fast asleep in his corner.”

“But some one knocked. I swear that. It roused me, I tell you!”

The native rose feebly to his feet and glanced askance at the half-caste.

“It must be as I say,” he ventured. “The sound came from some other hut. In any case, the prisoner is safe.”

He went off to his fire again, muttering beneath his breath, for of late the ruffian who had taken up the cause of the Ashantis had been somewhat curious in his manner. Gathering troubles, perhaps an uneasy conscience, and the ever-present dread of impending punishment, which seemed to come closer and closer in spite of all his efforts, were having their effect. His temper was harsh and easily aroused, he was hard to please, and wore nowadays a haggard look, showing clearly that his sleep was disturbed.

“Dreams! dreams!” growled the sentry, as he took his seat again. “Dreams and the fire-water which he has been drinking. It is said that he and the King sit in the palace of a night, smoking and taking fire-water. No wonder he sees and hears things which do not exist. I have felt the same myself.”

And the same conclusion must have been dawning upon the troubled mind of the rascal standing at his door. He began to wonder whether he had actually heard the knocking, or whether it was another of those dreadful nightmares which had troubled him of late, in which a huge bluejacket, with bristling beard, had stood above him waiting for the word to thrust his cutlass to his heart. He groaned, then stretched his arms and yawned, and turned towards the prisoner’s hut. He walked a few paces in that direction, and, seeming to change his mind and be satisfied with the tale of the sentry, he turned about and entered the hut again. Dick at once stole round to the door, his stool still grasped in his hand.

“I would rather have it like that,” he thought. “He is awake and able to take care of himself. He had a revolver strapped at his belt, and therefore is armed, far better than I am. He shall have a glimpse of me, and then – Well, it is his life or mine, and I have given him warning.”

There was no time to hesitate, and though Dick would have scorned to strike a defenceless man, he had every excuse for making an attack upon this rascal who had so often injured him. He hardened his heart, therefore, and having ascertained that the guard, who had so recently appeared, was seated near the fire some little distance away, and with his back turned in that direction, he slipped up to the door and knocked ever so gently.

“Again! It is a knock! I am not mistaken. Well!”

James Langdon, boiling over with indignation, and with his fiery temper fully roused, strode to the door revolver in hand and threw it open. Then he fell back a pace in sheer amazement, while he stood for an instant staring at the figure barring his path. Used to the dense darkness of the interior of the native hut, his eyes picked out the features of his prisoner almost instantaneously. It was his turn to gasp this time. The suddenness of the apparition took his breath away and robbed him of his energy. Then, in a flash, he realised that this must actually be his prisoner, the youth to whom he put down all his miseries. A snarl escaped him, and his fingers closed tighter on his weapon. In less than a second he would have had it at Dick’s head and pulled the trigger had not the latter acted. He was satisfied now; he was attacking an armed man who had due and proper warning. Dick struck with the swiftness of lightning, the heavy stool hitting the half-caste across forehead and face and knocking him senseless. But the matter was not finished yet, and as the rascal fell, Dick was swift to follow up his advantage. He clutched at the man and lowered him gently to the floor. Then he took his revolver, and, throwing himself on his knees, peered out at the sentry. The man had turned on his elbow and was looking towards the hut, for he had heard the sound of the blow and he was not quite satisfied.

“Fighting with his shadow,” he growled at length. “It will be a good thing for us when the fire-water kills him, or a British bullet settles his account. But for him I should be sleeping in comfort, and not sitting here, feeling as if I still had his fingers about my gullet. Bah! Let him dreamt. Let him shoot himself if he wishes.”

The fellow expressed little surprise when, some few minutes later, the figure of the half-caste emerged from the hut and stood out in the open. The native watched him through half-closed eyes, while one hand sought for his musket.

“At the risk of my life I will shoot him if he lays a hand on me again,” he said. “But it would lead to certain execution.”

The figure stood lolling against the wall of the hut, with his hat drawn down over his eyes, his collar turned up at his ears, while his hands were sunk in his pockets. He was cold. He shivered and then stamped his feet. A little later he began to pace backward and forward, and as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, went to the door of the prison. He threw it open, glanced in, and then shut and barred the door again with every sign of satisfaction.

“Safe and sound,” he said. “He will not escape the knife of the executioner. You can go. You and your comrade. I cannot sleep, and will keep watch myself.”

Astonishment and delight were written on the features of the guard, but he did not demur. The opportunity to be rid of a hated duty was too good to be ignored, and at once, rousing his comrade, the two went off down the street. And Dick watched them as he lolled there, hands in his breeches pockets. He had taken an enormous risk in acting as he had done, but he felt that it was the surest way to regain his liberty. He argued with much justice that dressed in the clothes of the half-caste he would be taken for that ruffian, while the darkness would hide all deficiencies. As to the voice, he could simulate that. He could speak gruffly, as if the night air affected his throat, while he had sufficient command of the language now to carry the plan out fully. And so far it had succeeded.

“Which means that my escape will probably not be discovered till to-morrow morning. Perhaps not even then. That will give me a start, and with a little luck I shall be able to get well away. Now for food and ammunition.”

He dived into James Langdon’s hut again, and searched for the articles which he required. Some minutes later he reappeared, and having ascertained that the coast was clear, he strode down the wide street of Kumasi, his eyes peering in all directions in search of an enemy. He had arrived at a point only a little distance removed from the opposite end of the town, when a sound suddenly startled him. It was the voice of a man in agony – a deep, heart-rending groan, which brought him to an abrupt halt, and set him listening to its repetition.

“One of the poor beggars whom these ruffians tied up in the forest to die,” he said to himself. “If I could I’d help him. But how can I manage such a thing? I’d not leave this place without trying to rescue the other Europeans if I thought that possible. But it’s not. They are scattered, and the attempt would be fatal. My word! what cruelty!”

The groan came to his ears again, and after it a second, deeper in tone, as though forced from the lips of the wretch who uttered it by the utmost depths of misery and pain. It was horrible! If Dick’s blood had stirred at the sight of the cruelties perpetrated by the executioners, it boiled now at the thought of those two unhappy natives, captives of the Ashantis, who had been tied up in the forest, their cheeks perforated with the knives to hold down the tongue so that they could not talk, and left there to moan and die soon if the fates were to be kind to Kumasi and its King, and to the unfortunate victims also, or to live on in abject suffering for many days, till thirst and starvation brought unconsciousness.

“I’ll go to them,” he said, after a minute’s thought. “I can’t leave this awful place with their groans in my ears. I’ll risk releasing them, and perhaps they may help me.”

His resolution was made and adhered to in spite of the obvious delay and danger it would cause. But he had a soft heart, and could not bear to think of such misery. Turning aside he slipped down between two of the houses and came to a foetid stream, in which, no doubt, lay the bodies of many of yesterday’s victims. He crossed it in safety, standing back a little way and jumping as far as possible into the darkness. Then there were other houses to pass, and another row of dying embers, before none of which could he see a single Ashanti. They were all abed, and the only denizens of this loathsome place who were awake were a few stray mongrel curs, one of which started from its lair beside one of the houses, and hearing the thud of Dick’s feet as he landed on the far side of the stream, set up a loud barking, which was taken up almost instantly by a score of others elsewhere. But suddenly a gruff voice from within one of the huts commanded silence, and the baying ceased.

“Then I can go on,” said Dick. “I thought it was going to lead to more trouble, for if the dogs were to sight me they would follow, making enough noise to awake the whole of the town. Here we are. Here is the forest, and I fancy I am in the right direction.”

It was still very dark, and, in fact, had it not been for the many fires, he would hardly have found his way as he had done. Perhaps he would have blundered against one of the huts, or even come upon some wanderer. Not that he would therefore have been discovered to be an escaping prisoner. He would have carried out his rôle of being the half-caste, and if that failed there was the revolver. But fortune favoured our hero on this occasion, and in a little while he gained the forest and plunged into its black depths. Groping his way blindly through it, striking his shins against fallen boughs and trunks of trees, and sometimes almost breaking his head against similar obstructions, he finally found himself on a native path, along which the way was easy.

“A piece of great luck,” he thought, “and this probably leads to the spot where the poor fellows are imprisoned. I’ll keep along for a little, and then give them a whistle.”

But he had no need to do that, for after a little while, when he had traversed some fifty yards or more, the same miserable groan came to his ear, and gave him indisputable evidence of the proximity of the captives. A few minutes later he was close to them, and, passing to the two trees to which they were bound, ran his hands over their bodies. The miserable natives had been placed some two feet from the ground against the trunks of enormous cotton trees, and their hands and feet had been dragged backwards by means of ropes, and so tightly that they did not slip to the ground. The agony of such a position can be imagined, and if to that be added the torture of two native knives thrust right through the cheeks, some estimate can be obtained of the barbarities practised by the Ashantis, of their insane and meaningless cruelty, and of the urgent need there was for some more enlightened nation to come to the town and stop the practice. Dick slid his hand up to the cheek of the first of the unhappy men, and gently withdrew the knives. Then he spoke to him in low tones.

“Who are you?” he asked, first in Ashanti, and then in the Fanti tongue.

“We are Assims,” came the answer, low and indistinct, for the knives had almost robbed the man of the power of speech. “We were captured months ago and imprisoned at Kumasi. Who are you?”

“A white man from the coast, also a prisoner, till an hour ago. Will you swear to follow me if I set you free?”

There was no mistaking the earnestness of the reply, or the man’s eagerness to be cut free of his lashings.

“Release us, and we shall owe you our lives,” he answered. “We are set here to die, and if you give us life and liberty, we will follow you and fight for you. We are allies of the great white chiefs, and you can trust us.”

Without more ado Dick took one of the ghastly knives and cut the man down, doing the same for his comrade a minute later. Stretching them with all care and gentleness on the ground, he set to work to rub their limbs, for it was not so long ago that he had experienced the cruel result of tight lashings. He had known what it was to feel a tingling in his extremities, and then acute pain, as if feet and hands would burst. And later, when the cords were cut loose, the agony of returning life to his limbs, the inability to move finger or toe or to support his weight. And to cure him the inhuman monster who had borne the name of James Langdon had thrashed him till strength had come. Well, the half-caste was dead. Dick had struck him a blow which had crushed in his skull as if it had been an egg-shell, and thinking of it now as he rubbed the limbs of these poor fellows, he could only rejoice, and congratulate himself that he had done bare justice.

“It was man to man,” he thought. “He deserved his death, and he had due warning. It was not as if I had knocked and then struck him in the darkness of the hut. I gave him a chance, and – well, the best man won. Now, how are you both?”

The poor fellows were trembling with joy, and wept freely. By now they had regained to some extent the use of their hands, and they, too, rubbed at their feet till they were able to stand and hobble a few paces.

“We will wait till you are quite able to walk,” said Dick. “We have far to go to-night, and it will be better to sacrifice a few minutes here than to lose them on the road. Do not hurry. Soon you will be strong again.”

“We are fit to go now,” at last said the spokesman of the two. “Where will the white man turn his face?”

“To the Pra. Our troops are there, and if we can meet them we are safe. Do either of you know the road?”

There was an exclamation from both at once.

“We have marched it time and again,” said one. “As slaves we have accompanied the Ashanti armies, and we can find the road even in the dark. But we must be careful. There are thousands of men about, and if we met them we should be killed.”

“Then you will want weapons. Pick up the knives and tuck them in your waist cloths. Now lead the way. Better still. We will cut a vine and hold on to it. Then there will be no straggling.”

A little later the three set out, the leader setting the direction along the path without a moment’s hesitation.

“It will lead us to the main war road,” he explained, “and after that all will be easy. There is but one way to the Pra, for the forest is too thick for many paths to be cut. Follow, white chief, and I will take you to the river.”

All that night the trio kept on through the forest, their way made easy by the path cut and kept free of undergrowth with constant labour. Now and again they would call a halt, for the two captives whom Dick had rescued were still very feeble, and their feet and ankles were greatly swollen. But it is wonderful what an amount of ill-treatment a native can put up with at times, and how marvellously they recover from the most serious of wounds. True, they have as a rule little stamina, and sickness cuts them down by the hundred. But perhaps because of the life they lead these natives of Africa often show less sensitiveness to pain than do Europeans, and therefore can put up with injuries which with the majority of white men would prove quickly fatal. And so, in spite of the hours that these men had been dangling, they were able to march, for the wounds in the cheeks were of small consequence. When day dawned many miles intervened between themselves and Kumasi.

“We will seek for a hiding place and rest,” said Dick, as the light beneath the trees grew stronger. “As the afternoon comes we can push on again. Let us gather some fruit and have a meal.”

Late on the following afternoon three weary men, one a white youth dressed in tattered clothing which showed signs of much travelling, tottered across the bridge which the engineers had erected across the Prahsu, and made for the hutted camp of the British. On all sides men were bustling to and fro. Natives were carrying bales and boxes on their heads, sailors and soldiers were lolling about the open camp fires, smoking their pipes and yarning, while at the far side of the bridge was a kilted sentry, striding to and fro. He stared at the new-comers, brought his rifle from the slope, and dropped the bayonet level with Dick’s chest.

“Not so fast, me lad,” he said gaily. “Where from? Whom do you want to see? ’Alt, or there’s going to be trouble.”

That brought them up suddenly and set Dick laughing.

“A fine welcome after two months’ absence,” he said. “Sentry, I want to see the Chief of the Staff, and after that Mr Emmett. As for where I’ve come from, Kumasi is the answer. Now, how long have you been here?”

“My business, young feller,” was the reply, when the sentry had recovered from his astonishment at being answered in his own tongue, for Dick might have been of any nationality. “Yer want the chief, do yer? ’Ere, Corporal McVittie, take these fellers to the sergeant of the guard.”