“Yes; it is his latest prisoner,” was Dick’s answer. “Look here.”
He spread out the tattered piece of dirty linen upon the roof of the cabin and showed it to his friend. It looked as though it might at one time have formed a portion of a white linen handkerchief, or perhaps it was a strip torn from a man’s shirt. In any case it had been pressed into the service of the writer of the missive for lack of other and better material; and the ink with which the letters were scrawled was in all probability derived from the diluted juice of some berry growing in the forest. They straggled across the strip, some large and some very small, all more or less blotched and blurred, while many unmistakably pointed to the fact that a pointed twig or some such primitive implement had done service for a pen.
“From Meinheer Van Somering,” said Dick, impressively. “Poor beggar! He is one of the owners of the mine, as I have already told you, and it was he who was attacked with Mr Pepson on their way down to the coast. The agent whose place I took was killed at the first volley, while Meinheer capsized the boat. The last that Mr Pepson saw of him was as he plunged into the river. We thought him drowned, and he is, or was, a captive. Listen, and I will read.”
He spread the strip out once more, smoothing the many creases, and having again run his eye over the letters commenced to read.
“‘For the love of Gott, help me, mein friends. I have made the escape from these terrible Ashanti men. I have come to the creek where was the mine, and, alas! there is no boat. All are gone. With me is one friend, a native, who make the escape also. He say he can find boat down the stream and make for the coast. He will try. Brave man! If he live, then he return with mein friend, and make the rescue. Mein word! how I wait for him. Christian Van Somering.’”
It was a pathetic missive, scrawled as it was on this dirty strip of linen, and Dick’s eyes filled with tears at the thought of the miserable condition of Meinheer. His face assumed an expression of determination, and he swung round upon the native with a question. So sudden and unexpected was the movement, that the man cringed to the deck again, and placed his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.
“Have no fear,” said our hero, in the Ashanti tongue. “Tell me all about this matter; how you came to meet the white man, and how you made your escape. Where is he living now?”
It was pitiable to watch the relief depicted upon the face of the fugitive as he heard the words. He knelt upon the deck and looked about him as though he could hardly believe his ears. He might have been a culprit who expected discovery at any moment, and who suddenly found that suspicion had passed over his head and had settled upon some other individual. He sighed, stood up, and then began to answer.
“It is a long tale, but I can tell it shortly,” he said. “I was in the village when the enemy came upon us, and with many others was taken prisoner. Here is the mark of the wound which I received as I endeavoured to escape. I was taken towards Kumasi, the place where slaves are killed in the house of execution, and I knew that death was before me. Like many another I longed to effect an escape, and it happened that I succeeded with the help of the white chief. Yes, chief, he was a prisoner also, being dragged towards Kumasi, and it was he who, as we lay side by side one night, bit through the lashings which secured my arms and legs. Then I set him free and we stole away to this place where the white chief had once been. None suspected that we were there, and we had hoped to find another white chief at the mine, and boats in which to make down the river. But there was no stockade. The place had been burned, and the boats were gone.”
“How long ago is this?” demanded Dick. “When did you meet the white chief?”