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

by F. S. Brereton

At once the native slipped completely into his engine well, where he lay, rifle in hand. As for our hero he could not afford to take cover just yet, for he had to direct the course of the launch. And magnificently he stuck to his post. A slug struck him on the point of the knee as he sat, and caused him anguish. A second, fired at the same close range, thudded against his ribs and dropped to the deck, while another from the same discharge carried away his hat. But he stuck grimly to the tiller. His eye was glued on the war vessel, and he watched her like a cat. She was just beginning to cross his track, but the angle at which she moved would bring the two boats almost alongside one another, and then—

“They would hang on and be aboard before we could look round. No, thank you. We’ll try some other plan.”

The muscles in his steering arm were like steel bands. There was a look of determination on his face. He moved the arm with a sudden jerk, and sent the launch over when she was within thirty feet of the enemy. A second later he was bearing down upon her broadside. Then, indeed, there were shouts. The natives saw their danger and paddled furiously in the vain endeavour to alter their position. But they had no chance, for the steersman aboard the launch, conscious of the superiority which steam gave him, countered every move instantly. It was a matter of seconds. He was within five feet of them, going full speed. The natives saw now that they had no chance of coming alongside, and Dick watched them drop their rifles, draw their swords and crush to the centre of the boat. He moved the tiller again, ever so little, and bore right down upon the huddling group. Then he dived into his well and sat on the boards, one hand still gripping the tiller, while the fingers of the other sought for his revolver.

Crash! The launch shuddered, and stopped on her way. But she had weight behind her, and her frame was of sound construction. Also she was running at full pace, and her propeller never ceased to grip the water. She moved again, rose at the bows for a second or so, and then subsided again, to the accompaniment of shouts and the sounds of splintering wood. Dick heard the scraping as the native boat passed beneath the keel, and there was a gentle thud as the propeller blade struck a portion of the wreck.

“Right over her! What luck!”

That was all he could say, for other matters engaged his attention. Of the huddled group in the centre of the native boat half a dozen had managed to gain the launch, while their comrades were already far behind struggling in the water. And these men who had been able to reach her had not all contrived to get aboard. Two reached the deck of the steam craft at once, while the remainder clung to her side, and were now clambering up, no easy task considering the speed of the vessel. A rifle cracked and one of the men aboard fell on his face. Then Dick saw Johnnie lift his weapon again and aim. He pressed the trigger as the man leaped to one side. As he opened the breech and stretched out for another cartridge, the native ran at him waving his short sword above his head. Dick’s arm went up from the well, he rested the muzzle of his weapon on the edge, and took a rapid aim. A moment later the Ashanti fell headlong across the boiler, while his sword clattered on the iron floor of the miniature stokehold.

“Soon settle um hash!” shouted Johnnie, as he leaped to the deck and ran forward, armed with his shovel. “Hah! off yo’s go. To de riber wid you.”

He leaned over the side, and one by one he beat the Ashantis into the water. Then he returned to his engine, and our hero heard the furnace door open once more.

“Steady,” he called out with a laugh, which showed the relief he felt. “Go easy, my lad, for we are out of the wood, and must husband coal. How’s the store?”