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

by F. S. Brereton

Dick looked up wearily, blinking at the light, and then seeing who it was, and pretending that he had only just discovered the presence of his enemy, he rolled over again, treating him with scorn and silence, as was his custom.

For a little while the half-caste and his attendant stared at him thoughtfully, then they turned and left the hut.

“I felt ill at ease,” Dick heard James Langdon mutter; “I fancied that he had escaped, and I came to see for myself. I can sleep peacefully now if I do not dream of these British.”

He clenched his hands again as he moved away, and Dick heard him muttering still as the door was slammed. Then came the sound of his steps, a fierce kick as he pushed open the door of his own abode, and a sharp crash as he swung it to again.

“Sick and weary,” thought Dick. “His conscience is hurting him, or rather, perhaps, he begins to feel the net closing round him. We shall see. I gave him due warning, and if the time comes I will kill him as if he were a fly. Now for business.”

He rose stealthily to his feet and went to the door, where he remained for some minutes staring out into the street, and taking note of the position of his guards. Then he went in succession to some half-dozen tiny peep-holes, which he had diligently bored through the wattle wall of the hut.

“All clear,” he said, with a satisfied chuckle. “It’s quite dark now, and as these people go to bed early the place will soon be quiet. I’ll give the guards a little time to settle down and then I’ll move. This is the side for operations.”

He went to the wall which faced the hut in which dwelt the half-caste and set to work upon it. Slipping his hand into his sleeve, he produced an angular piece of iron, a fragment of a cooking-pot which he had picked up in a corner of the hut. Many an hour had he spent in sharpening an edge of the fragment upon a stone dug up from the dried mud floor, and now it was as keen as a razor. Holding it firmly in his hand, he swept it slowly and in a circle over the wattle wall, his fingers following the cut. Then he repeated the process, very slowly and very carefully, severing the stems one by one. Like all the habitations in Kumasi, the prison in which he was incarcerated was built of wattle, woven roughly together, and plastered with mud to fill the interstices. Thus when he had contrived to cut through the stems a large piece of the wall was freed, with the mud still clinging to it. Dick swung it open very slowly and peeped out. Then he replaced the section, and once more went the round of the hut, peering in all directions. Not a soul was moving, and even the guards had thrown themselves down beside the log fire disconsolately, for the news received that day was most disheartening.

“Not time to move yet,” he thought. “They look quiet enough, but they are not sleepy. I’ll wait a little, and then we’ll see what happens.”

An hour later he swung the section open and stared out. Then he squeezed through the opening and threw himself flat on the ground. Wriggling a few inches along beside the hut he soon obtained an unobstructed view of the street, and could see the twinkle of the dying embers, with, here and there, a figure crouching over them. There were the guards, too, drowsing near one of the fires, their weapons dangling beside them. A dog barked in the distance, and for a little while a number of the curs which infested the streets of the horrible town set up a chorus of responsive howls, which were more than disconcerting. One of the guards stirred, while a man who had been crouching over one of the distant fires, no doubt thinking of the fighting in prospect, rose and sauntered along till he arrived near the hut, where he opened up a conversation on the same old subject.