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

“To add to our trouble, there is no gold to be had,” he almost shouted. “The dogs carried their day’s takings to the stockade, where the remainder is stacked, I suppose. There are weeks of profit there, comrades; and we have heard that they have done well. Shall we retire now till our friends come to help us, or shall we make a second attempt? In a day we can have a hundred men to aid us, and then there will be no doubt of success.”

“While the booty will be the smaller, for the reason that it must be divided,” added one of the natives.

“Which is better than losing more lives,” exclaimed James Langdon. “Besides, there will be plenty of booty for us all, for you know what is happening. We are on the way to Elmina. Your king is going to drive these white men out of the country, and that means plenty of loot for every man of us. But I will leave it to you. We will attack again now, for there are fifty of us, or we will make a ring round them, and hold them tight till our friends come. We have them safely, in any case.”

Dick listened with all his ears. At the mention of reinforcements his heart sank into his boots, while the news that war with Britain had broken out came as a shock to him. True, there had been grave rumours of trouble before he and the expedition had left the coast. But it was expected that the difficulty would be settled amicably. If there was war, he was cut off from his friends. In all probability the enemy were already between him and the coast, and, in any case, they would make for the river. It was a serious situation, and had he been in any other place, and not beset by foes, Dick would then and there have sat down and thought deeply, for, young and inexperienced though he was, his wits had been sharpened by the responsibility thrown upon him. He was naturally a shrewd young fellow; but till he came to Africa he had never been called upon to settle questions of great moment. He had hardly given a command in his life, save to the boys in his company in the cadet corps at school, and there, there had been no difficulty about the matter. Here, in the heart of the Ashanti forest, it was all so different. And yet Dick did not fall short of the estimate his employers had formed of him. Long before they had departed from the mine they had approved, time and again, their appointment of him as their agent.

“He is born for command,” Mr Pepson had said. “He is quiet, and inclined to be cool. He will not be hurried. I’ve watched him. Rather than give a hasty decision he will slip away for a time, and then one sees him smoking his pipe and evidently cogitating. That’s the sort of lad I can rely on. Ready, if there is need to act in haste, but given to reflection, weighing his words, and venturing no opinion unless he has considered beforehand. As to courage – well, that he has, we know.”

Meinheer Van Somering had invariably replied that Dick was indeed brave, and who could realise the fact if he – a Dutchman – did not do so?

But under the present circumstances who could give thought to any question? Dick was crouching beneath the archway of roots within easy reach of a band of cutthroats who had made an attack upon his stockade. And in their midst was the ruffian who had systematically robbed his father, and who had wound up his crimes by robbing Dick, and then making a murderous attack upon the expedition. Would James Langdon spare him if he happened to discover his whereabouts? Would he cause the forest to be searched if he suspected that hidden within it was the youth whom he had wronged, and against whom he was so embittered? If Dick had had any doubts, the next few words of the miscreant relieved his mind of them, and set the perspiration again pouring from his forehead.

“Yes,” said the half-caste, reflecting. “Our course is clear. We have failed to rush them, thanks to this white man and his precautions. I felt that he would be suspicious of a second attack, and would be ready for us. Then we will surround the stockade, for what hope have we of rushing the place? They are armed with sniders, my comrades, and can fire three shots to our one. Then they are under perfect cover, while we are exposed in the open. No, no, it would be foolish to attack again. It would be wasting lives. We will sit down and wait for our friends, and when they come, ah! then there will be a different tale. These miners shall hand over their gold, and this white man – what shall we do with him? Think of your brothers who are slain!”

“We shall be able to deal with him,” answered one of the natives. “We can send him back to Kumasi, and there he will be slain as a sacrifice. Yes, it will be good to appease our juju with the blood of a white man.”

Dick had heard of the frightful rites perpetrated at Kumasi. He knew that these Ashantis were a warlike race, who were forever battling with their neighbours, and the tale had come to the coast, a tale the truth of which had been proved time and again, of a hideous bowl, of an executioner’s heavy knife, and of the manner in which the captives were killed. He shuddered when he imagined that he was so near to such a fate. That within a little while he might be in the town of Kumasi, and while thousands looked on, hooting and shouting for joy, and James Langdon mocked at him, eagerly watching for a sign that his captive quailed, while the executioner made ready, might be dragged to that awful bowl, forced to his knees, and have his head struck off at a blow, while his life’s blood was caught in the receptacle. Yes, he had heard the details. It was said that many thousand wretched captives uttered their last sigh in this vile town of Kumasi every year, and that King Koffee and his warriors sought constantly to increase the number. No wonder that he shuddered, that he crouched still lower, while his hands became clammy with fear. The thought unmanned him. These natives, with their leader, looked like ogres waiting to take his life, and he, all alone there, was so helpless. But a sudden movement brought the manhood that was within him to the fore again. A native fidgeted. Then he strolled from the band, and noticing the tree, came and sat down with his back leaning against it. Dick could hear his breathing. His own heart, as it thudded against his ribs, sounded even louder, and to him, in the extremity of his danger, it seemed that discovery was an accomplished fact. He gripped the rifle till the cords in his wrists stood out clearly. Then he directed the muzzle at the man’s neck, while his finger went to the trigger.

“Then we will arrange our stations,” cried James Langdon, suddenly, rising to his feet. “We will surround them so thoroughly that there can be no escape. Come, all of you, to the edge of the clearing, so that we may discuss the situation.”

The native rose to his feet at once, to Dick’s huge relief, while the whole band crept to the edge of the forest, and looked across at the stockade. In their centre was the half-caste, eager and confident, in complete command of his men, and though they were now farther away our hero could distinctly hear and understand his directions. The circle was indeed to be complete. Men were told off to occupy the summit of the rocky crest, from which they could look down upon the stockade. It would be a full moon that night, so that these natives could watch the surrounding country almost as completely as in the daytime. Others were ordered to occupy certain scraps of cover, with directions to fire at any one who showed above the stockade. And lastly, a second ring would encompass the inner one, for James Langdon would leave nothing to chance.

“We have a crafty fellow to deal with, and a big stake to win,” he cried, as he glared across at the stockade. “There is gold there, my comrades, and there are men, too, to repay for the death of your brothers. True, they are of your own country, but they have defied you. They are not fighters. They live for wealth, and run when their country has need of them. Think, too, of the white man. He would be a prize indeed in Kumasi.”

How much longer he would have continued to talk it would be unwise to guess, though there was little doubt that these natives under his leadership required no further encouragement. They were warriors of Ashanti, cruel-minded and blood-thirsty, and it was nothing to them whom they fought if they imagined they had a grievance. But there were others paying attention to that gathering. As the half-caste turned to see what effect his words had had, a single shot rang out crisply from the stockade, and a native standing beside him sprang into the air and fell dead on his face. There was a stampede at once, the gathering broke up and melted into the forest, leaving Dick alone, breathing more freely now that the danger was lessened.

“There is some one alert at the stockade,” he said, with satisfaction. “Some one who can shoot, too. Then I need not worry myself for the present. They will do well till I join them. But how is that to be done? Regain the stockade I must, but how, that is the question?”

It was a sufficiently knotty one, and not to be settled in a moment. Dick reflected that he could still make for the launch and steam down the river, for it was hardly likely that she had been discovered, so well were the creek and the tiny tributary hidden. But then —

“Can’t,” he said, with decision. “There are the men and the stockade to be thought of. Besides, I have to think of the gold. I must get to the stockade and join my men. Then we can decide what course to take.”

He lay in his hiding-place for hours, till the twilight came, and then he crept to the clearing and looked out to see if he could discover the position of the natives who formed the inner circle about the stockade. He had heard a shot every now and again, and now as he stared from amidst the ferns and vines, he saw first one and then a dozen dusky prostrate figures, hiding behind boulders of large size, or masses of bush which happened to lie in the open, and which they had been able to reach by stealthily crawling across to them upon their bellies. At the back of the stockade, seeming in that half light to stand on the very top of it, were more figures, half concealed, keeping watch upon the place.

“Very good,” said Dick, as he lay in the bush. “I know where they are at least, and must try to avoid them. Go I must, and if any man comes in my way, why – ”

He rose to his knees and drew the short sword with which Mr Pepson had provided him. Satisfied that it would easily free itself from the scabbard, he inspected his revolver and popped that back into its case. Then his rifle went across his shoulder, and with a hitch he shortened the sling till there was no danger of the weapon swinging about. Half an hour later twilight had gone and darkness had settled down upon clearing and forest.

“This is my only chance,” said Dick, as he rose to his feet. “There will be darkness for a few minutes, and then the moon will be up. I must make a bold dash for it.”

He swung the rifle back on to his shoulders, drew his sword and revolver, and struck off across the clearing in the direction of the stockade.

Chapter Eight.

Besiegers and Besieged

It was intensely dark in the clearing, as our hero struck into it, but by contrast with the shadows in the depths of the forest it was light, so that he could see a few feet before him. He could distinguish vaguely the outline of the rocky crest near the summit of which the stockade was posted, and beyond it and to one side the dull black band of the encircling forest. In one direction there was a faint glimmer in the sky, the herald of the rising moon, while a glare rose above the stockade, not intense, to be sure, but sufficient to tell him that a fire was burning there.

“Then they are not alarmed,” he whispered, in tones of delight. “They are cooking their evening meal, which reminds me that I am hungry and thirsty, too. I must move on. Hullo!”

He fell like a stone, and lay with his body pressed close to the ground, for his ear caught a sound, and his eye detected a figure on his right. In that semi-darkness it looked huge and weird in shape, and might have been an ox or any other animal. But the low tones of men talking showed him that it must be the enemy, and caused him to grip his sword with extra determination.

“Hoot! Hoot!” Once more he heard the call of the night owl, the same cry as had awakened him when ascending the Pra, and which had aroused his suspicion. It seemed certain that this was the signal commonly used by the Ashantis, just as it had been for many and many a year by the Red Indians of America. “Hoot! Hoot!”

The call was repeated, and almost at once, from a point but a few yards nearer to the stockade, came the answer, “Hoot! Hoot!” Then the men advanced, and halted close to their comrade, while a few words of direction passed. Dick could with pleasure have dropped through the earth, so great was his dismay and consternation. Then he could have shouted with delight.

“Just a bit of sheer good fortune,” he thought. “Here was I advancing right on to one of the enemy, and these fellows gave me a warning. Very well. The hoot of the owl is the signal, and why should I not make it? Why should I not follow these beggars on their rounds? They will be visiting the sentries, and I shall then know where all are. I will go a little way with them, and then slip through between two of the men.”

It was a brilliant idea, and he set about carrying it out at once. He lifted his head and kept watch on the natives, while he listened to their conversation. Not that he could hear the words, for these men were experienced warriors, and they knew that a whisper carried far on such a still night. They conversed in the lowest of tones, and then moved on. “Hoot! Hoot!” The weird call again broke the silence, and was responded to. Then the native chiefs who were going the rounds moved on, and after them crept Dick, as silent and stealthy as a snake, one hand placed before the other, groping the ground to see that it was clear of twigs or other material which might betray his presence. Then the other would follow, and afterwards his knees would be drawn up beneath him, and he would repeat the whole process. “Hoot! Hoot!” There it was again. A third sentry had been approached, but Dick could not see him even though he was so close.

“Which shows me clearly how difficult the task is,” he thought. “But for those fellows going the rounds I should have walked right on to this batch of sentries, and then there would have been a row. Hullo! Some one else is on the alert.”

He could have laughed, for as the natives went on their way and repeated their signal, the Ashanti miners in the stockade must have carefully listened. Then they thought they espied the enemy, standing against a piece of open ground which happened to be exceptionally light in colour. Suddenly a single shot rang out, the detonation startling every one, and making our hero jump. For a single instant the stockade became outlined, and Dick thought he saw heads peeping up above the baulks of timber. Then all was darkness again and silence, save for the hoot of the native chief and the answer of the sentry.

“Time to be moving on,” thought Dick. “I have barely half an hour in which to reach friends, and now is my opportunity. These fellows here will have their attention distracted by the call of their comrades going the rounds. I may manage to get through. In any case I shall chance it, and if I am discovered I shall make a dash for the stockade. I suppose I shall have to run the chance of being shot, for how can my own men know that I am not one of the enemy? That also I must risk. Anything better than to be out here alone.”

Inch by inch he made his way across the open in the direction of the hill, his eyes turning from side to side, while he halted every minute. He was quite cool now. The imminence of his danger, the knowledge that there were enemies very near and on either hand, seemed to have braced his nerves. His heart had ceased to thump like a sledge-hammer against his ribs, while he could no longer feel his pulses beating and throbbing till it was almost painful. He had need of every faculty, of coolness and courage, and he did not mean to throw away a chance. Hush! A man, the sentry on his right, sat up suddenly, and as Dick crouched he could see that the fellow was listening. He had heard something which had aroused his suspicions, and with all the keenness of a native for the chase he would probe the matter to the bottom, he would not be satisfied to rest till he had cleared up the mystery. “Hoot! Hoot!” He sounded the signal, and for an instant our hero’s heart failed him. Should he answer? Was he seen?

“Yes, I believe he has heard me,” he thought. “He wonders who I am. I will answer. Hoot! Hoot!”

In very low tones he gave the call, and waited eagerly for what was next to happen. Then he gave vent to a sigh of relief. The man was deceived. He took this other figure for a comrade, and imagining that he was too close, and that the circle would be too open on the farther side, he rose to his knees and crawled to the right, till he was out of sight and hearing. After that Dick waited no longer. He crept forward, stealthily and slowly at first, till he was yards nearer the stockade. Then he increased the pace till he judged that he was clear of the inner line of sentries, and almost within hailing distance of his friends. But still he would not neglect the precautions he had decided were necessary.

“I feel inclined to jump to my feet and make a bolt for it,” he thought. “But no, that wouldn’t do, and I might easily be shot from the stockade. Slow and sure, said the tortoise, and I’ll stick to the motto.”

None but those who have been placed in a similar position can fully appreciate the temptation to which he was put, the huge desire which took hold of him to rise to his feet and run. Dick felt as the man does who is in full view of the rifles of unscrupulous marauders, without cover for many yards, uncertain whether to expect a hail of bullets or not. A sense of dignity, the feeling that it would not be courageous to run, holds one steady; but the temptation is there. There is a queer little feeling in the small of the back, and if one does not run, and conquers the temptation to act as a craven, one longs to look round, to make sure that no violence is about to be attempted. That was how our hero felt, and who will blame him? He was so near a refuge and friends now, and seemed clear of the enemy. It would be so easy to run. However, he stuck to his motto, and, still remaining on his knees, slowly crept closer to the stockade.

Hist! Something caught his ear, and he sat down to listen for some minutes till he felt sure that he was mistaken. Then he crawled on again, till of a sudden he swung round, and, with a cry of dismay, leaped to his feet. There was a man following him, a figure bent almost double, silently coming up with him. Had he but known, it was the identical sentry whose signal he had answered and who, still suspicious, had returned on his tracks. He was within three yards when Dick saw him, and the cry had hardly left his lips when the man was upon him.

With all the ferocity of a tiger he leaped at his enemy, native sword in hand, and as the fingers on his left hand closed on Dick’s shoulder, the murderous weapon swooped upwards in a stroke meant to transfix his body. But again the white man had good fortune. His guardian angel seemed to be on the watch that night, for the point caught the sling of his rifle, and turning aside the whole blade flashed beneath his arm till the hand which held it came with a thud against his side.

“Dog!” shouted the man, thinking he had accomplished his purpose.

Dick made no answer. He knew that if he did not hold that arm which gripped the sword he was as good as dead, and quick as lightning he took the only step to retain it. As the blade flew beneath his arm, and the man’s hand crashed against his side, he brought his own arm down, jamming the native’s hand there. Then he shook his hand from his shoulder, and lifting his own blade, plunged it with all his force into his enemy’s breast.

Hardly had the man fallen at his feet, when a series of shouts rang out, rifles blazed from the stockade, and ere he could move half a dozen natives were upon him. For Dick had made one miscalculation. He had forgotten that he was dealing with men who were from their youth trained as warriors, men accustomed to the trail, to forest warfare, and to every form of artifice. He had not recollected that these Ashanti fighters had the acutest hearing and phenomenal sight, and he, a mere white man, accustomed to city life, had imagined that he could creep through them. Bitterly was he mistaken, for one had first suspected the presence of an enemy and had then followed, while a comrade, discovering the fact in some subtle manner, had come on his tracks, five others following. Gradually they had gained on the chase, so that when Dick struck their leader down the rest were almost on him. Again there was a shout, taken up by a score of voices around the clearing, and in a second a fierce hand-to-hand contest had commenced.

“The white man! The white man! Take him alive! Do not kill him!”

It was James Langdon’s voice, coming from close at hand, for the news that some one was astir had been sent to him and he had followed.

“I give you all warning. Do not slay him, if you value my friendship.”

It was a fortunate thing for our hero, but not so for the natives. Flinging their arms aside they sprang forward to bear him to the ground. But if they had orders not to harm him, he had no scruples in killing them. The fear of captivity and of its consequences was before him. He struck out blindly with his sword, and when that was jerked from his hand he opened fire with his revolver, his shots punctuating the shouts of his opponents. But it was a one-sided engagement, and the darkness was against his chances. Already he had almost been borne to the ground by a huge native, who had leaped on his shoulders. But a sudden turn, the shortening of his pistol arm, and a quick and effective shot, had relieved him of the burden. Then two of the enemy had snatched at his legs, while a third aimed for his back, and missed it by the merest chance. He was about to spring again, while others were there now prepared to take his place should he not succeed. Dick was helpless. He had fired his last cartridge, and though he used the butt of the revolver and his fist, he was already outmatched. The end came quickly. The native behind him caught his rifle in both hands, and then put out all his strength. Dick lost his balance, and dragged by the sling was soon in a heap on the ground.

“Captured! We have him! Tie his legs and carry him off before the other dogs can come!”

There was such a hubbub that the words were hardly heard; but the Ashantis knew what was required of them. They slipped a noose over his hands and shoulders, and were drawing it tight when there was a rush of feet in their direction.

“Dere! Dey here. Come long! Fire!”

Dick could not believe his ears. He was already being dragged away, when Johnnie’s voice broke upon his ear. Then a number of dark figures burst in upon his captors, and a fierce conflict began.

“Here I am. This way!” he shouted, as he struggled with the enemy. “Here! Over here!”

The gallant fellows from the stockade raced after him, Johnnie being at their head. In his hands he held a rifle, and without doubt it was his frantic wielding of this weapon which saved the situation. With a crash the stock fell upon the head of the native who had hold of our hero, causing him to fall. Another movement and the same fate overtook another. There was a scream of alarm, a few heavy blows struck by the knives of the men, and Dick was free, unharmed, and in their midst, boiling over with gladness and exultation. They picked him up as if he had been a child, and bore him in triumph to the stockade.

“Bang de door,” said Johnnie, taking upon himself the command of the station. “Now, yo men, jest put de massa down – so. Not throw him down, silly!”

Utterly oblivious of the fact that the Ashanti gold-miners could not understand, he gave his commands in a tone of comical haughtiness which at another time would have caused Dick to roar with laughter. This was, indeed, a new side to Johnnie’s character. But our hero was to learn more.

“Now man de walls, and shoot dem debils down,” shouted Johnnie, taking his rifle and running to an aperture. “Dat so. You quite understand. Den me see to massa.”