He was sitting on the roof of the tiny cabin, surveying the coast with a critical eye, while every now and again he turned his gaze to his crew with a feeling of satisfaction. For this was some reward for the disappointment occasioned by his illness. He was again on the move, with the very same crew, and in addition there was with him young Emmett, a youth some few months older than himself, tall and straight, and now entirely recovered from the sickness which had prostrated him and sent him to the hospital ship Simoon.
Jack Emmett was just the sort of fellow to take our hero’s fancy, for he was a genial, high-spirited lad, fond of a joke, and still keener on seeing some fun with the enemy. So far he had done nothing more than inspect the Gold Coast from the sea, for he had fallen ill on the voyage out. But he was eager to meet the enemy, and more than that, Dick found that he took a great interest in the coming operations, intelligently following the movements and preparations on our side. More than all, he had a huge admiration for his young leader, who had in so few weeks managed to meet with so much adventure.
“What is this news?” demanded Jack, for up till now Dick had kept his counsel to himself. “It is new to hear that we are to make into Elmina. Are there any Ashantis there?”
“You will hear,” was the answer. “This I can tell you, that Sir Garnet has had a big palaver since he reached the coast, and called in all the kings of the tribes under British protection. Some came in all state, with umbrellas and tom-toms, and with the accompaniment of rattling bones and war-drums. Others stayed away, and sent defiant answers. Those fellows live in the neighbourhood of Elmina, and it struck me, when I heard the tale, that they would hardly have dared to act as they have done had there not been some sort of encouragement.”
“I follow the argument. Then you think—?”
“That the Ashantis are somewhere in the neighbourhood. Yes,” responded Dick. “Let’s talk to Johnnie.”
He sang out for the native stoker, who relinquished his firing shovel, and came trotting along the miniature deck, still clad in his tattered garments, and still with the clay pipe of which he was so fond, gripped between his teeth. But there was a little difference. Johnnie had added dignity. His was a proud mien, and whenever he stopped to speak to a white man or even a black nowadays he always turned his right cheek to the stranger, for there was the scar, livid and red against his dusky skin, an honourable scar which told of fighting, of a battle in which his master had gained a name, and he, Johnnie the stoker, a proportion of the glory.
“Massa call,” he said, raising his hand to his battered cap after the custom of the seamen. “Johnnie here. What yo want?”
“Repeat this tale of Elmina,” said Dick, quietly. “Tell this officer what you told me.”
Johnnie greeted the youth beside his master in similar fashion, with an elaborate salute, and treated him to a critical survey.