From Cape Coast Castle the troops marched to Inquabin as a first stage, and from there through various stations, all with more or less unpronounceable names, till they came finally to the Prahsu, sixty-nine miles from the sea. There they found Sir Garnet completing his preparations for the march upon Kumasi. The troops had toiled for the most part in single file along the narrow forest tracks, and they knew that the same work was before them. But they did not know what their leaders had taken to heart; that the forest on the far side of the river might and probably did hide thousands of enemies, and that that tract must be crossed, and the town of Kumasi captured within the next fortnight. For already there were not wanting signs that the rains were about to commence, and when they set in tracks through the forests would become swamps and narrow streams great swirling rivers. Worse than all, rain and wet soon play havoc with a man, and in a fever-stricken country, such as the land of Ashanti, predispose to an immediate attack.
Having dealt with the movement of the troops, and shown how Sir Garnet and his men had diligently pushed forward to the Prahsu, and had, by dint of bush fighting, and particularly by their actions at Dunquah and Abracampa, driven the Ashantis from the protectorate, we can now return to Kumasi.
The night was rather dark, but fine. Overhead the stars twinkled, and could be seen through the leaves of the trees which lined the main street. One tree grew in front of each house or hut, and was fetish or sacred. At its roots were placed odd bits of crockery, a rough doll-shaped image, and other objects, all regarded as fetish and likely to lull the anger of the mighty fetish which kept the people in its grip, and which held sway at the execution house and temple to which Dick had been led.
“If it had been raining it would have been better, perhaps,” thought the escaping prisoner. “But I don’t know. All depends on the luck I have. The plan may work well, and our friend may find himself caught in a net of my weaving this time. If so, then I shall not mind the light so much. Now for the chance to enter.”
He had crept across the open space between the two huts, and was now close against the wattle wall behind which James Langdon was sleeping. As he lay at full length Dick could hear the ruffian’s deep breathing, and when a few minutes had passed could catch his mutterings. He stirred, and Dick heard the soft bed of palm-leaves, upon which he lay, rustle at the movement. But our hero made no attempt at escape, nor did he move from his position. He waited, as calmly as he could, though it was hard to smother his excitement and still the thumping of his heart. There was so much to be attempted, and such a terrible ordeal to look forward to if he failed. Across his mind’s eye flashed the memory of that awful scene close to the brass sacrificial bowl. The rows of intended victims, forced to look on at the sacrifice, their hunted looks, and the agony on the face of the one about to be sacrificed. Then there was the mob, with the warriors dancing their wild dance of death and brandishing their weapons; while in the background, smug and complacent, like Nero of old, sat King Koffee, tall and fat, nodding a signal when the moment for execution came. For half an hour, as Dick crouched in the shadow, the memory of the horrid scene flitted continuously before him. Then he stood up suddenly and clenched his hands together.
“I won’t let such things take my pluck away,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll think of the friends on the river and at the coast. This brute is responsible for all my miseries, and it is his turn to suffer. He has brought me here. Well, he shall help me to return.”
He pulled up the cuffs of his tattered sleeves, as if to prepare for a struggle, then he crept round to the door of the house. There was a native stool there, a heavy article, and he grasped it and lifted it well above his head. Then, without hesitation, he knocked loudly upon the door.