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

by F. S. Brereton

“Give him some water, and put him in the shade,” ordered the half-caste. “Two of you stand over him with your guns, and if he moves thrash him with the vine. We will teach him how to behave while he is in our hands.”

He glared at his prisoner, who took not the slightest notice of him. But as soon as the water was brought Dick drank it greedily, for he was parched. Then he lay down, his hands still secured behind his back, and very soon, utterly wearied by his night’s work, and by his struggle with the enemy, he fell fast asleep, enjoying a dreamless rest which was of the greatest service to him.

What would have been the feelings of those gallant souls away down the river had they known of the treachery to which their young leader had fallen a victim! Had they but guessed that the fleeing native was only part of a clever plan, laboriously thought out by the half-caste robber whose thefts had driven him to take to the forests, and who, like so many of those who have wronged the man whose salt they have eaten, had turned all his hate and vengeance upon that man or his representative! But how could they guess? It had all been so real. The native boat appearing at dawn, with a shouting mob in full pursuit, as if the light had only then enabled them to discover the runaway. Their shots, falling recklessly about the boat, and the desperate haste of the native himself, his wound and his apparent exhaustion, had all aided in misleading the crew of the launch. They never imagined that their presence in the river had been instantly detected, and that when they lay to for the night, their exact whereabouts had come to the ears of James Langdon and his roving band of free-booters. But that was what had happened.

The half-caste had learned that Dick Stapleton had formerly come up the river, and had been taken back to the sea owing to an attack of fever. His spies, of whom there were many on the coast, had told him how the young fellow fared, and had sent news as soon as preparations for another expedition with the launch had been commenced. Then he had hatched his plot to trap his master’s son, and with fiendish ingenuity had relied upon the gallantry of his dupe to lead him into the net. What was easier than for this man, accustomed to clerical duties, and, as it chanced, acquainted with Meinheer, to scrawl a few letters on a piece of linen, and sign the Dutchman’s name? for he knew well that the fraud in the signature would never be detected. It was a well-planned plot, and had succeeded only too well, though the victim had made a hard fight for his liberty and had given unexpected trouble.

And so while Dick lay there in the shade, fast asleep, the crew of the launch dozed the hours away, knowing well that they could not look for his return till late the following night.

Some few hours after Dick had fallen asleep he was kicked and ordered to stand up.

“We start for Kumasi,” said James Langdon, with a leer, “for the seat of the great King Koffee. There is a prospect before you, young man, and you will have time to think about it. Make sure of him,” he went on, turning to his followers, “for the captive is no longer mine. He belongs to the King, and it will be a bad day’s work for the one whose carelessness results in his escape. Now, march on, and let us push the pace.”

Three days later the procession marched into the town of Kumasi, their prisoner still in their midst, footsore and weary, but with courage undaunted. They passed at once along the principal street, and Dick was astonished to find that it was very wide, that neat huts stood in an orderly line on either side, and that trees grew here and there, offering a welcome shade. The thousands who came to stare and mock at him seemed neat and tidy, though they boasted little clothing, while the whole air of the town was one of prosperity and orderliness. But there was one huge drawback, which attracted the prisoner’s attention the instant he set foot in Kumasi, indeed, even before he reached the town. Where there should have been the pleasantest of breezes there was the most ghastly and nauseating odour of dead men, and as the procession advanced the cause of this became more and more apparent. For Kumasi was like a charnel house. The bodies of the hundreds of poor wretches who were slain were simply thrown into the nearest stagnant stream, or were piled in a narrow grove, the fetish grove, adjacent to the house of execution. In truth, the smell of blood was everywhere, and on every hand dark stains told of its presence. No wonder that he shuddered, while his courage began to evaporate.

“How awful!” he thought. “The place makes one feel deadly sick, and the sights on either side are shocking. If that is to be the end, then the sooner the better. But I am not done yet. I will have a try for freedom, and it may be that I shall succeed. To think I have been made a fool of, and that letter was a forgery. Poor old Meinheer is dead after all.”

Even in the depths of his misery he could think unselfishly of others, of the unfortunate Dutchman whose name had been sufficient to bring his young agent to this plight. A moment later his thoughts were interrupted by James Langdon.