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

by F. S. Brereton

The groan came to his ears again, and after it a second, deeper in tone, as though forced from the lips of the wretch who uttered it by the utmost depths of misery and pain. It was horrible! If Dick’s blood had stirred at the sight of the cruelties perpetrated by the executioners, it boiled now at the thought of those two unhappy natives, captives of the Ashantis, who had been tied up in the forest, their cheeks perforated with the knives to hold down the tongue so that they could not talk, and left there to moan and die soon if the fates were to be kind to Kumasi and its King, and to the unfortunate victims also, or to live on in abject suffering for many days, till thirst and starvation brought unconsciousness.

“I’ll go to them,” he said, after a minute’s thought. “I can’t leave this awful place with their groans in my ears. I’ll risk releasing them, and perhaps they may help me.”

His resolution was made and adhered to in spite of the obvious delay and danger it would cause. But he had a soft heart, and could not bear to think of such misery. Turning aside he slipped down between two of the houses and came to a foetid stream, in which, no doubt, lay the bodies of many of yesterday’s victims. He crossed it in safety, standing back a little way and jumping as far as possible into the darkness. Then there were other houses to pass, and another row of dying embers, before none of which could he see a single Ashanti. They were all abed, and the only denizens of this loathsome place who were awake were a few stray mongrel curs, one of which started from its lair beside one of the houses, and hearing the thud of Dick’s feet as he landed on the far side of the stream, set up a loud barking, which was taken up almost instantly by a score of others elsewhere. But suddenly a gruff voice from within one of the huts commanded silence, and the baying ceased.

“Then I can go on,” said Dick. “I thought it was going to lead to more trouble, for if the dogs were to sight me they would follow, making enough noise to awake the whole of the town. Here we are. Here is the forest, and I fancy I am in the right direction.”

It was still very dark, and, in fact, had it not been for the many fires, he would hardly have found his way as he had done. Perhaps he would have blundered against one of the huts, or even come upon some wanderer. Not that he would therefore have been discovered to be an escaping prisoner. He would have carried out his rôle of being the half-caste, and if that failed there was the revolver. But fortune favoured our hero on this occasion, and in a little while he gained the forest and plunged into its black depths. Groping his way blindly through it, striking his shins against fallen boughs and trunks of trees, and sometimes almost breaking his head against similar obstructions, he finally found himself on a native path, along which the way was easy.

“A piece of great luck,” he thought, “and this probably leads to the spot where the poor fellows are imprisoned. I’ll keep along for a little, and then give them a whistle.”

But he had no need to do that, for after a little while, when he had traversed some fifty yards or more, the same miserable groan came to his ear, and gave him indisputable evidence of the proximity of the captives. A few minutes later he was close to them, and, passing to the two trees to which they were bound, ran his hands over their bodies. The miserable natives had been placed some two feet from the ground against the trunks of enormous cotton trees, and their hands and feet had been dragged backwards by means of ropes, and so tightly that they did not slip to the ground. The agony of such a position can be imagined, and if to that be added the torture of two native knives thrust right through the cheeks, some estimate can be obtained of the barbarities practised by the Ashantis, of their insane and meaningless cruelty, and of the urgent need there was for some more enlightened nation to come to the town and stop the practice. Dick slid his hand up to the cheek of the first of the unhappy men, and gently withdrew the knives. Then he spoke to him in low tones.

“Who are you?” he asked, first in Ashanti, and then in the Fanti tongue.

“We are Assims,” came the answer, low and indistinct, for the knives had almost robbed the man of the power of speech. “We were captured months ago and imprisoned at Kumasi. Who are you?”

“A white man from the coast, also a prisoner, till an hour ago. Will you swear to follow me if I set you free?”