It is no part of my intention to dilate upon the events of the Ashanti war. It will be in all men’s minds how early mischances brought the enemy close to our gates and rendered imperative the despatch of some capable leader to grapple with the emergency; how Sir Garnet Wolseley, the hero of the hour, accompanied by a brilliant staff, was desired to drive back the foe with such forces as he found to his hand; how Fantee allies proved the most despicable cowards, and the small force of British seamen and marines were clearly unequal single-handed to the task of marching upon Coomassie, the objective point; how the demand for British regiments was at length complied with by the home Government, and how, when these had arrived and all was ready for the forward movement, a sudden collapse in transport arrangements threatened to paralyse the whole of the operations. Hence it was that the British regiments were not immediately disembarked, but cruised the seas till a new and more vigorous organisation of transport could be devised and carried out. We will take up the thread of our narrative at a time when the little invading army was across the Prah and almost within striking distance of Coomassie. No serious collision with the enemy had as yet occurred, but some sharp fighting was obviously imminent. It was thought that the Ashantis would hold the Adansi Hills, and, even if forced therefrom, would make more than one subsequent stand; and it was probable that by nothing less than obstinate fighting would the ends of the campaign be achieved.
They had been long days of weary waiting for all concerned. The country was hateful and noxious in the extreme; yet all fought bravely, not against the foe, with whom they had scarcely been pitted, but against the malaria, the ever present fever, the intolerable heat. None behaved more pluckily than the Duke’s Own. Wellington once said, ‘Give me the dandies for hard work,’ and the apothegm might be extended, into including crack corps. Now that they were at the real business of war, they bore hardships, privations and continuous discomfort without a murmur. The once splendid mess was now represented by a scratch meal under the fetich tree of a deserted village; its entertainments were to offer to comrades a cup of chocolate, a slice of tinned meat or sardine au naturel upon biscuit instead of toast. Luxury was a thing forgotten by all. Days of toilsome marching through the interminable forest, nights in drenching rain, with short commons in almost everything except quinine, were but poor substitutes for what they had left behind at Gibraltar and at home. Yet the Duke’s Own took everything as it came, indulging only in the occasional grumble which is deemed the British soldier’s birthright, and which, if nothing else, is an outlet and safety-valve for discontent.
But the regiment had suffered considerably from sickness. Colonel Diggle was down with fever. He had been one of the first attacked, and though he had borne up with all the fortitude he could muster, his nature was not of that resolute kind which successfully resists disease. Very soon after disembarkation he had succumbed, and while he was lying in his cot on board the hospital ship Major Greathed had the honour of commanding the Duke’s Own in the field. Several other officers were also on the sick list, and a large percentage of the rank and file. Among the latter was Herbert Larkins.
He had fought with extraordinary pluck against the insidious advances of the fever. He had doctored himself, had taken quarts of quinine, had refused persistently to seek for medical advice lest he should be struck off duty and sent to hospital. With it all he had stuck manfully to his work—no easy task—for during a portion of the time the quartermaster-sergeant had been hors de combat, and Greathed had selected Herbert to act in his place. All this told on him.
One day after many hours’ unremitting toil whipping up the craven carriers who tardily brought forward the regimental supplies, followed by long labours in issuing rations, Herbert suddenly dropped as if he had been shot through the head. They laid him in a hammock and carried him with them for a time, as they were then approaching the Adansi Hills, and an action seemed imminent. Nothing of the kind, as is well known, occurred. After a short breathing space the advance was resumed. Herbert, who had at length recovered consciousness, saw to his mortification the regiment march out of the village in which they had been encamped, while he was left with a score or so of sick and helpless behind. It was the more aggravating because the crisis of the campaign was seemingly near at hand. Coomassie itself was not more than five and twenty or thirty miles distant; the enemy was known to be in force in front and in flank. Fighting more or less severe there must be, and that very soon. To think that he should miss it after all!
But, as will be seen, Herbert’s luck was not entirely against him. Young, strong, and sound as a bell, he had rallied wonderfully from his attack, and was already on the high road to convalescence within a day or two of the regiment’s departure.
‘If ye gae on like this, ye’ll be as fit as a fiddle in a week,’ the Scotch doctor said.
‘And when may I go to the front, sir?’
‘At once, if the commanding officer here’ll let you.’
Herbert almost jumped off his bed, and hurriedly smartened himself as well as he could, to appear before the commandant.