Flashman and the Golden Sword
© Robert Brightwell 2018
Robert Brightwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This e-book may not be reproduced or copied except for the use of the original purchaser.
This book is dedicated to my friend and weaponry expert, Garry James, whose help and advice was essential to the tale.
This book is also dedicated to Fiona, my partner and soulmate for thirty years and wife for twenty-six years, who died completely unexpectedly the day after the launch of this book was announced. Our son and I miss her so much.
Introduction
Of all the enemies that our hero has shrunk away from, there was one he feared above them all. By his own admission they gave him nightmares into his dotage. It was not the French, the Spanish, the Americans or the Mexicans. It was not even the more exotic adversaries such as the Iroquois, Mahratta or Zulus. While they could all make his guts churn anxiously, the foe that really put him off his lunch were the Ashanti.
“You could not see them coming,” he complained. “They were well armed, fought with cunning and above all, there were bloody thousands of the bastards.”
This eighth packet in the Thomas Flashman memoirs details his misadventures on the Gold Coast in Africa. It was a time when the British lion discovered that instead of being the king of the jungle, it was in fact a crumb on the lip of a far more ferocious beast. Our ‘hero’ is at the heart of this revelation after he is shipwrecked on that hostile shore. While waiting for passage home, he is soon embroiled in the plans of a naïve British governor who has hopelessly underestimated his foe. When he is not impersonating a missionary or chasing the local women, Flashman finds himself being trapped by enemy armies, risking execution and the worst kind of ‘dismemberment,’ not to mention escaping prisons, spies, snakes, water horses (hippopotamus) and crocodiles.
It is another rip-roaring Thomas Flashman adventure, which tells the true story of an extraordinary time in Africa that is now almost entirely forgotten.
Check out the other books in the series and a gallery of some of the historical characters featured at www.robertbrightwell.com.
As always, if you have not read the adventures of Thomas’ more famous uncle, Harry Flashman, edited by George MacDonald Fraser, then these are strongly recommended.
Chapter 1
I doubt you have ever found yourself in the death hut of the Fantee tribe in Africa, and you should give fervent thanks for that every day. The whitewashed mud walls were daubed with various signs and symbols in a dark reddish-brown paint that I strongly suspected was blood. I shuddered as I sat tied to the central post that held up the roof and wondered if the contents of my veins would soon add to the primitive mural before me. I could have wept, and possibly did, as I thought back on the appalling luck which had brought me to that place.
Readers of my last adventure will recall that it ended with me being pitched from an open boat, alone on an unknown African shore. I had planned to walk north along the coast until I found some sign of civilisation. But having been chased by an improbably huge and fast grey beast with big teeth in both jaws, I tried to make my way inland. Two days’ struggling through the impenetrable jungle and I found myself back by the sea; scratched, stung, bitten, hungry and thirsty. I began to think that my game was up. I had not seen any sign of mankind since I had landed. I knew I needed help to survive. Then I had the first promising idea since I had beached on that hostile shore: I would let the locals come to me. Apart from the rags I stood in, my only other possession was my Collier revolver pistol. I used some of the powder in the cartridges and a spark from the flint to start a fire. I piled on kindling until I had a good blaze and then some large damp leaves, which soon had a dark column of smoke rising into the air. I sat back then, wondering what kind of visitor I might be summoning. Would they be some friendly tribe who would know of European missions or forts on the west coast of Africa; or alternatively some murderous savages, who would kill me on the spot and then possibly eat my remains.
Twice I nearly stamped out the fire as my imagination filled with thoughts of death by torture. Then, I wondered, if no one saw the smoke, whether I would just die a long and lingering death on the beach or be stamped on and gored by one of those vast grey creatures. Finally, just as I began to conclude that there might not be another living soul within a hundred miles, the drumming began. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed a dark and sinister rhythm, a rapid tattoo of beats that were regularly repeated. Then the same staccato noises were replicated from a new direction in the jungle and later a third. I knew then that they would come for me, whether they be angels or demons.
I crept away from the fire that night and hid in the dunes down the beach, where I was half eaten by sand-flies as I watched for my visitors. I must have fallen into an exhausted sleep for at dawn I awoke to the low murmur of alien tongues. As I warily opened one eye I saw that I was surrounded by a forest of black legs. Their owners stood in a circle about me staring down at my prostrate form, more with expressions of disgust than any sign of aggression. As I stirred, two stepped back and wrinkled their noses in distaste, as though I was the town drunk rolling out of the church porch on a Sunday morning. I must have looked and smelt pretty foul. I had not been able to change my clothes or shave for nearly a month, after I had abandoned a sinking ship to find land in its longboat. I was covered in cuts and bites and my throat was dry, but I managed to croak, “Please, do any of you speak English?”
They stared at me blankly as I added somewhat desperately, “Do you know of any other white men like me?” I pointed at my skin, which was now more grey than white.
Surely some Europeans had come this way in the past, I thought, but then I realised that if they had, they were probably slavers who would not have endeared themselves to the local populace. Most of the men about me had long spears, but two had muskets, which were still slung on their shoulders. At least they had not butchered me on the spot, I thought, but then I began to wonder if they would help me at all. As I stared about me, looking for any sign of comprehension, two of them stepped back to make way for a beaming new arrival.
“Good morning, sir, I am Mr Fenwick.”
I stared at the man in bewilderment as while he spoke in perfect English, he was dressed in just a loin cloth and a homespun tunic, like the others standing about me. Wait, though; while the others were as black as the ace of spades, this warrior clearly had some European among his recent ancestors, for his skin was brown. I realised that I was still gaping at the fellow and pulled myself together. “Er, Mr Fenwick, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” I gasped. “I have been shipwrecked here. Is there a British settlement nearby or someone who can help me get back home?”
Fenwick beamed back. “The British are at the Cape Coast Castle, but that is several days’ march away. We have a white man in our village, would you like to meet him?”
I could have wept with relief; instead of being killed I was being helped. I could recover my strength at this village and then make my way to the British settlement. Once there it would only be a matter of time before a ship came to take me home. “That would be most agreeable,” I replied, feeling a weight of worry lift from my shoulders.
I had long since learned not to take people at face value, for in my time I have met the most treacherous villains dressed as princes and some of the most generous appearing to have little to give. I’m not proud, I will take advantage of ’em all to get what I want, which is invariably a way back to a safe, warm bed in Leicestershire. My new friends gave me water and a grey paste to eat – it had a strangely fermented taste, but I was far too hungry to care. Then we set off
back to their village.
They found paths and tracks through the jungle that I had missed and, in a few hours, we were approaching the outskirts of a settlement. It looked a poor place – two score of mud-walled huts with grass roofs. As we approached curious children stared at me from behind their mothers, the braver ones running alongside my escorts, shouting to announce our arrival. By the time we reached the little clearing in the middle of the village there must have been over a hundred people gathered there, the arrival of a dishevelled white stranger clearly being a rare occurrence. I stared around for the other white man that Fenwick had mentioned, but he was nowhere to be seen. There was a gnarled lump of wood in the centre of the clearing, covered with scraps of cloth, knotted leaves and some bloody pieces of flesh that were half covered in flies. I felt the first twinge of alarm as I looked about me and saw that many of the men present had brought spears or muskets. Why did they need those? Had they lured me here under false pretences?
I searched out Fenwick, “Where is this other white man?” I asked.
“He will be here soon, they are just getting him ready.” Fenwick beamed a reassuring smile and gestured over my shoulder as a horn sounded nearby. I turned around to see a white man being carried into the clearing on a chair raised on the shoulders of four natives. I could tell he was white as I could see his calves, but his face was obscured by a large drooping parasol. The crowd had acclaimed his appearance, jumping up and down, shouting and waving weapons in the air. Whether they were cheering their white chief or threatening me it was hard to say. He was set down ten yards in front of me and Fenwick went forward to announce my arrival. I glanced again at the decorated lump of wood; perhaps it was my imagination, but the gnarled surface looked like the face of an angry man. I could not help but wonder at what awful sights it had scowled down on that had resulted in its bloody varnish. I remembered stories we had been taught at school of the ancient British druids making human sacrifices, but surely times had moved on. I tried to convince myself that no European would countenance such a thing. No, I thought, whoever this fellow was, he would welcome one who could share news and talk to him in his own tongue. I was no threat to him and he, in turn, could help me reach the British fort. I would leave him to rule his little kingdom.
Then Fenwick stood back and the parasol was raised. My jaw dropped in astonishment, while my bowels must have danced a polka in terror.
It was Jonah, the half-mad bastard who had tried to kill me as we had been shipwrecked on this coast. As readers of my previous adventures will know, I had last seen him as I had tightened a coil of rope around his ankles that was attached to an anchor embedded in the reef off shore. How in heaven’s name he had got to land I could not say, but it had evidently not been easy as I now saw that he had a splinted and bandaged thigh. He must have dragged himself onto the beach while I was trying to find my way through the jungle.
If his appearance had shocked me, then certainly the reverse was true. Jonah gaped for a moment like a gaffed codfish. His mouth was working but no sound came out. He had drunk seawater on our voyage and consequently had lost at least half the wits he once possessed. But now his voice came back as he screeched and pointed an accusing finger.
“You foul and treacherous fiend. You tried to kill me, but God has spared me again. Now you will pay for your crimes. I will have you torn limb from limb!” He was raving now, spittle flying from his mouth, and he was positively shaking with fury. “Your entrails will be taken from you before your very eyes and your bones will be fed to the dogs. But wait…” He paused and stared up at the heavens for a moment as though seeking divine guidance. “No,” he declared, “he has spoken to me. You will be burned, you will be consigned to the flames of hell.” He turned to Fenwick and shouted, “Seize that villain. Tie him up to the post!” he cried pointing at the gnarled wood in the clearing, “and make a fire around him.”
Fenwick stared open-mouthed at Jonah and then at me. He was clearly astonished at the violent reaction my appearance had generated. But there was confusion too on his face and I realised that as Jonah had been raving in Portuguese, the African had not understood a word of it. “Your chief is mad,” I shouted at my interpreter. “He has drunk sea water and it has addled his wits.”
Before I could say any more, Jonah also realised the problem and reached down to grab Fenwick by the arm. “He is a diablo, an amigo of the great Satan himself,” he hissed in pidgin English, making a sign of the Devil’s horns with his fingers. “He is enemy of Cristo, of Christ the Christian God, do you understand?”
Fenwick now looked even more bewildered as others about him shouted for him to translate what Jonah and I had been saying. He started to gabble the news in the local tongue and it caused a sensation. In a village where a goat with a boil probably had them talking for weeks, to have a personal friend of the Devil delivered to their doorstep unsurprisingly had them all screaming and shouting. There was only one sensible thing to do and I did it: I turned on my heel and ran for my life back the way I had come. I had only gone twenty yards when I was brought down by a crunching tackle that would have been worth house points at my old school.
“Get off me, you fool,” I shouted as I tried to kick the fellow off, but he had a grip on my legs like a cooper’s iron hoop. I felt something hard pressing into my side and remembered my Collier pistol was still tucked into my belt. But I had barely got my fingers around the hilt before I was rolled over and the weapon snatched from me. I tried to get to my knees but there was half a dozen of the shouting fiends around me, several with spears levelled. “He is mad,” I protested, but they weren’t listening as they pulled me to my feet and yanked my arms behind me, tying them with some rough cord. “Look, I am a Christian too,” I babbled. “Baptised Church of England, go to church every Sunday when I’m home. I even give money to the collection.”
It was no use, those holding me could not understand a word I said. I stared over their heads and could see Jonah shrieking in delight at my capture. He was pointing to the wooden post in the centre of the square and demanding that a fire be built at once. He could not wait to have me embraced by the flames. Fenwick was arguing with him that it would take some time to build a proper pyre, but Jonah was only half listening. He was also shrieking up into the heavens that God’s unworthy enemy had at last been captured and would soon be consigned to hell.
I had been in some pickles in my time, but I was damned if I could see a way out of this one. Even if I could get away, I had no idea in which direction to run. It did not matter as I suspected that the villains who held me would be experts in tracking me down. It was a choice between being burned as a heretic, getting speared by some local or at best being killed and eaten by wild animals.
I struggled to take it all in; just five minutes ago I had expected to meet a white stranger, with every expectation that he would help me to the nearest British outpost. There would be no reasoning with Jonah, I knew that. The man was as mad as a March hare. As I was dragged back into the clearing, he giggled like a young girl at the sight of me still struggling with my captors. “Lock him away,” he shouted gleefully, “until we are ready to burn him.” And that was how I came to be in this wretched death hut awaiting my grisly end.
Chapter 2
I must have been in that damned hut for a good couple of hours. I twisted around so that I could see through the low doorway. Two warriors now guarded the entrance, but they did not stop a succession of children and even some adults crouching down in the threshold to gawp at me as though I was a sideshow freak. Perhaps to them I was, although their viewing time was set to be limited, as over their heads I could see a crowd of villagers industriously building a large pile of tree branches.
“Mr Flashman,” called a cheery voice and a new pair of legs appeared in the hut entrance. “I have come to see how you are.”
As the native I knew as Mr Fenwick ducked down to enter I stared at him in bewilderment. “How I am?” I repeated incredulously. “I am abou
t to be burned alive on the orders of a raving lunatic. How the bloody hell do you think I am?” I took a deep breath to calm myself. Fenwick was my only hope and it would not serve to upset him. “You must tell the elders that…” My words trailed away as a new figure entered the hut. I was to learn that every time I thought Africa had no more horrors to offer, it would prove me wrong – and this one was a corker.
He was a creature of your worst nightmares. Wearing a cloak and headdress made of grass and leaves, he scuttled sideways into the hut like a crab, rattling some gourd in one hand and loudly sniffing the air with an expression of distaste. He only had one eye, but it wasn’t that which drew your attention. Nor was it the grotesque false eye which had been painted on his cheek below the sunken empty socket in his face. No, what drew your gaze was the object hanging around his neck on a long cord: a severed human hand clenched into a fist. At first, I could not take my eyes away from the grisly thing. It had shrivelled in age and glistened with some varnish that presumably helped to hold it together as it decayed. Not entirely successfully, though, for as this new arrival scampered around the hut muttering incantations, I saw that the end of one of the fingers had broken off with the white end of a bone visible.
“May I have the pleasure of introducing you to Banutu,” said Fenwick calmly as though he were introducing a fellow member of a London club. He smiled at me encouragingly as I twisted my head around the central pole in the hut to keep an eye on the fiend as he danced around me. “He is, I suppose, what you would call our priest,” continued my guide as the capering creature continued to circle me.
The last vestige of hope that I could still talk myself out of this, melted at that moment. If this was an example of their village headmen, then in comparison, Jonah probably did seem perfectly sane. “Forgive me if I do not shake hands,” I muttered sardonically while tugging again at my bonds. “But then if the last proffered hand is the one hanging around his neck, perhaps that is just as well.”
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