But on leaving the hospital, a substantial building which had evidently been the palace of an Ashanti chief, he found the little garrison which held the village—I will call it Yankowfum—in a state of agitation, almost uproar. Important news had come back from the front. There had been a great battle (Amoaful). We had won it, but not without serious losses. The enemy was still full of fight. A special despatch had been received by the commandant at Yankowfum to be on the look-out. His and the other posts along the line of advance would probably be attacked in force, and the Ashantis must be driven back at all costs. This, with many additions, had gone forth among the handful of sailors and West Indians composing the garrison, and was being loudly discussed when Herbert appeared.
‘Where’s the commandant?’ Herbert asked. ‘Who is he?’
‘Don’t know his name; he’s one of your lot,’ said an A.B.
‘And a poor lot, too, I take it,’ said another, ‘to judge by his looks and his ways.’
Herbert was about to retort, when a black soldier in his picturesque Zouave dress came up, and said, ‘Staff colonel one time come. Very much angry with buckra officer.’
It was the officer in general charge of the communications who had hastened back from Amoaful to look to the security of his posts. He was travelling almost alone in a hammock carried by bearers, and seemed to think nothing of the dangers he braved as he passed through the bush swarming with enemies.
He was apparently seeking to infuse some of his own spirit into the commandant of Yankowfum.
‘You’ll do it easily enough,’ Herbert heard him say as he approached them, meaning to offer his services. ‘This place is stockaded, you’ve got a garrison.’
‘But it’s so small,’ said the other, ‘not fifty men, and half of them blacks.’