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

by F. S. Brereton

“A boat! a native boat!” shouted Jack, who was keenly alert. “And with only one occupant in it. Look how he’s paddling!”

“For his life, I should say,” chimed in Dick. “Ah, there goes a gun; and see where the bullet splashed. The man who fired must have been hidden in the forest. I don’t think the poor beggar stands a chance, unless he steers right across to the far side of the river.”

“And if he did, sir, he’d be had sure enough,” sang out one of the sailors. “I can see a boat creeping along in the shadow. Shall we try a shot, sir?”

For a little while there was no answer. It was difficult to say whether this man—for there was undoubtedly only one in the flying craft—was an enemy or a friend. If he were an Ashanti, then he was certainly the former. But then were those who pursued him friendly natives, living under the nominal protection of the British, therefore opposed to the Ashantis?

“He’s in trouble, of that there is no doubt,” said Dick, suddenly, as the native boat, propelled by the frantic strokes of its single occupant and helped by the current, swept down towards them. “And he has some scores of enemies pursuing him. What if he is carrying news to us? Perhaps he is coming down with important information. Get your rifles ready, and if that other boat pushes out into the river get her range and wait for the word. Ah, he’s seen us. Did you see him wave his paddle?”

For a moment the unhappy wretch who was coming down the stream in such desperate haste lifted his paddle and waved it overhead with an eagerness there was no mistaking. Then he plunged it into the water again, and plied it for his life. That he was threatened with death if captured there could be little doubt, for the unseen foes who manned the far bank thrashed the water about him with their slugs, while the silence and peace of the river was disturbed by the loud boom of their muzzle-loaders, and by their excited shouts. In a moment Dick made up his mind to help the fugitive, whoever he might be, and at a word the sailors lay down and commenced to fire at the bushes from which came the puffs of smoke. Meanwhile Jack Emmett kept the launch steadily in mid-stream, Johnnie supplying her with a small amount of steam, which was sufficient to keep her under way and prevent her being swept back by the current. As for the men who had appeared, lurking in the shadows in their boat, a single shot sufficed to send them back round the bend of the river.

“Perhaps they have had a taste of our rifles before,” thought Dick, as he watched the boat and saw the splash of the shot where it struck the water close beside them. “Anyway, they have retreated fast enough, and I fancy the fire from the shore is dying down. Steady, men! I think we have done enough. Our fusillade has stopped their advance and that fellow in the boat is getting out of their range. Look at him!”

It was indeed a sight to behold, for if the fugitive had shown eagerness before, he now displayed the utmost delight and excitement. He shouted to the launch, and waved his paddle again. Then he turned, and noticing that the slugs which were still fired at him now fell far astern, he laughed, and standing up, shook a defiant fist. Then once more he threw himself on his knees, and dug his paddle into the stream, sending his light craft ahead till the water was churned into froth at her bows. A few minutes later he came level with the launch, when he threw himself down in the bottom of his boat, and lay there exhausted and out of breath with the struggle.

“Pull him aboard and let him lie under the awning,” said Dick. “Make his boat fast, and then we’ll push along up the river. Keep well under cover, for we may have some trouble. That’s the way, Jack. Keep in the very centre, for it is so wide here that we need have little fear should they fire, while we can reach either bank with our weapons.”

Obedient to a nod from his master, Johnnie opened the throttle a little, till the launch attained a good pace. Meanwhile the sailors had rapidly transferred the fugitive from his boat to the deck of the steamer, and had made his craft fast right aft. Only then did Dick notice that the native was not an Ashanti, while a half-healed wound on one thigh, now bleeding afresh after his exertions, or perhaps because of a second injury, showed that he had little cause to thank those from whom he fled. As for the latter, an occasional shot from the bank told that some were still there, though their slugs were quite harmless at that distance, and, indeed, failed to reach the launch. But even these soon ceased to trouble, particularly when the sailors directed their rifles at the flashes, and sent in a withering volley. Of the other boat nothing was seen, and in all probability she had long since been hidden.