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

by F. S. Brereton

James Langdon, boiling over with indignation, and with his fiery temper fully roused, strode to the door revolver in hand and threw it open. Then he fell back a pace in sheer amazement, while he stood for an instant staring at the figure barring his path. Used to the dense darkness of the interior of the native hut, his eyes picked out the features of his prisoner almost instantaneously. It was his turn to gasp this time. The suddenness of the apparition took his breath away and robbed him of his energy. Then, in a flash, he realised that this must actually be his prisoner, the youth to whom he put down all his miseries. A snarl escaped him, and his fingers closed tighter on his weapon. In less than a second he would have had it at Dick’s head and pulled the trigger had not the latter acted. He was satisfied now; he was attacking an armed man who had due and proper warning. Dick struck with the swiftness of lightning, the heavy stool hitting the half-caste across forehead and face and knocking him senseless. But the matter was not finished yet, and as the rascal fell, Dick was swift to follow up his advantage. He clutched at the man and lowered him gently to the floor. Then he took his revolver, and, throwing himself on his knees, peered out at the sentry. The man had turned on his elbow and was looking towards the hut, for he had heard the sound of the blow and he was not quite satisfied.

“Fighting with his shadow,” he growled at length. “It will be a good thing for us when the fire-water kills him, or a British bullet settles his account. But for him I should be sleeping in comfort, and not sitting here, feeling as if I still had his fingers about my gullet. Bah! Let him dreamt. Let him shoot himself if he wishes.”

The fellow expressed little surprise when, some few minutes later, the figure of the half-caste emerged from the hut and stood out in the open. The native watched him through half-closed eyes, while one hand sought for his musket.

“At the risk of my life I will shoot him if he lays a hand on me again,” he said. “But it would lead to certain execution.”

The figure stood lolling against the wall of the hut, with his hat drawn down over his eyes, his collar turned up at his ears, while his hands were sunk in his pockets. He was cold. He shivered and then stamped his feet. A little later he began to pace backward and forward, and as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, went to the door of the prison. He threw it open, glanced in, and then shut and barred the door again with every sign of satisfaction.

“Safe and sound,” he said. “He will not escape the knife of the executioner. You can go. You and your comrade. I cannot sleep, and will keep watch myself.”

Astonishment and delight were written on the features of the guard, but he did not demur. The opportunity to be rid of a hated duty was too good to be ignored, and at once, rousing his comrade, the two went off down the street. And Dick watched them as he lolled there, hands in his breeches pockets. He had taken an enormous risk in acting as he had done, but he felt that it was the surest way to regain his liberty. He argued with much justice that dressed in the clothes of the half-caste he would be taken for that ruffian, while the darkness would hide all deficiencies. As to the voice, he could simulate that. He could speak gruffly, as if the night air affected his throat, while he had sufficient command of the language now to carry the plan out fully. And so far it had succeeded.

“Which means that my escape will probably not be discovered till to-morrow morning. Perhaps not even then. That will give me a start, and with a little luck I shall be able to get well away. Now for food and ammunition.”

He dived into James Langdon’s hut again, and searched for the articles which he required. Some minutes later he reappeared, and having ascertained that the coast was clear, he strode down the wide street of Kumasi, his eyes peering in all directions in search of an enemy. He had arrived at a point only a little distance removed from the opposite end of the town, when a sound suddenly startled him. It was the voice of a man in agony—a deep, heart-rending groan, which brought him to an abrupt halt, and set him listening to its repetition.

“One of the poor beggars whom these ruffians tied up in the forest to die,” he said to himself. “If I could I’d help him. But how can I manage such a thing? I’d not leave this place without trying to rescue the other Europeans if I thought that possible. But it’s not. They are scattered, and the attempt would be fatal. My word! what cruelty!”