lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “No, no,” Fenwick laughed politely at my attempt at gallows humour. “That hand was taken from someone who tried to steal his daughter. You are quite safe.”

  “Not for long,” I insisted, gesturing at the growing pyre visible through the door. “Look, if he is here to administer the last rites, then I would really prefer him not to bother.”

  “So, you are not a follower of the Christian god, then?” Mr Fenwick pounced on my words. I was about to reply when Banutu finally spoke in a deep gravelly growl. “He wants to know,” continued Fenwick, “if it is true that Jonah’s name is in the Christian Book and if he is a friend of Jesus.”

  “Of course he is not a friend of Jesus!” I exploded. “Jesus lived nearly two thousand years ago. This fool is a Portuguese sailor who went mad after drinking sea water when we were lost together in an open boat.”

  Fenwick hurriedly translated my words for this nightmare cleric, who stared at me impassively with his one remaining eye. He gave a grunt in response and reached out his arm towards my chest. I tried to move back to avoid him, but as I was still tied to the central pole this was impossible. His thumb pressed me on the breastbone. It seemed improbably cold, almost icy, and I felt a chill move into my chest.

  “Hey, what is he doing?” I shouted as the strange sensation spread across my torso. I did not want some damn local warlock spreading his magic into me. I tried to twist away but he kept me pinned to the pole like some wretched specimen. This Banutu ignored my protests, but the sensation did not get any worse and he continued to examine me. You could not look him in the eye, you found your gaze drawn by the false one painted on his cheek and I did not want to look down at the hideous severed hand dangling just a few inches away from me. In the end I stared at his bare chest at roughly the same point he was touching mine. I saw that his skin had various tattoos that were barely visible on his dark skin. One was vaguely familiar; it was a rough diamond inside a circle, but the top of the diamond had a narrower angle and thinner inked lines than the bottom half.

  Banutu at last said something in his rumbling voice. He talked for a while and Fenwick listened closely before he started to translate. “He does not think you are a good man,” Fenwick spoke in almost a whisper. “He feels your hatred for Jonah and thinks that you have tried to kill him already.” For a moment I was shocked as I had told no one that, but then I realised that Jonah had probably peached on me in his mad ravings to this so-called priest. Fenwick looked at me sadly as he continued, “He knows Jonah’s name is in the Christian Book, I have seen it myself, and he thinks that Jonah is a powerful spirit for the Christian god.”

  “Nonsense,” I protested. I had almost resigned myself to my fate now, but I would not go quietly. “That was a different Jonah who died a long time ago. Your new king is nothing more than a mad sailor who hates me because I know the truth about him.”

  “He is not our king,” said Fenwick, his brow creasing in puzzlement that I could come to such a conclusion.

  “But you carry him around on a throne and you are obeying his orders to burn me to death.”

  “We carry him because he has an injured leg,” started Fenwick, but he got no further as Banutu wanted to know what we were talking about. Fenwick started to translate but then the priest asked more questions and for the first time a smile crossed his lopsided features. While the painted eye bore into me I looked again at the mark on his chest and I remembered where I had seen something similar before. When I was in Rio, I had been in a brothel after a masonic gathering and I was sure that amongst the banners they were taking down, was one with a symbol very like the mark on the priest’s chest.

  “Not king,” Banutu now barked at me directly while pointing out through the hut door in the direction Jonah had been taken. Then he pointed at himself and announced, “King.”

  “But I thought you said he was the village priest?” I asked Fenwick.

  “He is that too,” said Fenwick simply. “We worship Nyame and the king is also the priest. He serves the local spirit, the carving in the centre of the square.” I looked through the doorway and saw again the strangely twisted wooden tree stump. Only now did I realise that they had not built the pyre against it as Jonah had instructed, but some distance away.

  Now I was more confused than ever. “But then why do you want to burn me to death?”

  “The Christians try to make people worship their God and so the Christian god is an enemy of Nyame. Banutu thinks that you are a bad Christian because Jonah hates you.”

  “Oh I am,” I prattled, seeing a glimmer of hope after all. “I am a very bad Christian indeed, I regularly take a piss in the font. You don’t want to waste that big pile of logs on me. No, just give me some directions and I will take myself off to the English fort and never bother you or your gods again.”

  Fenwick smiled at me, “The pile of branches is not for you. Now Banutu has examined your soul, there is no danger for you.” As proof of his words, he leaned forward and tugged on my bindings and in a moment my hands were free. I felt a wave of relief come over me as I sagged down against the central pole, rubbing my wrists as my hands tingled with renewed circulation.

  “You bad,” stated Banutu, clearly a man of few words. He treated me to another of his lopsided grins, which suddenly looked a lot less intimidating, now I knew I was not about to be roasted. I smiled back and then looked again at the strange mark on his chest.

  “I say,” I started, thinking as I spoke that what I was about to ask was an absurd question. “That mark on his chest, he is not a mason, is he?”

  Fenwick’s face lit up. “Yes he is, and my father was a mason too. Are you of the brotherhood?”

  My jaw must have dropped in astonishment. I knew nothing about masonic rites, but it must have been a deuced queer lodge if the likes of Banutu was a member. But I was not fool enough to admit my ignorance. All I remembered about masons was that they looked after each other and if there was one thing I needed right then, it was some help. “Yes, I am a mason.”

  Fenwick beamed with delight at this news but as he translated for Banutu, the chief looked more than a bit suspicious. He pointed at my chest and his voice rumbled a question.

  “He says that you do not have the masonic mark,” pointed out Fenwick as he gestured to the unblemished skin visible through the open top of my tattered shirt.

  “Ah, well, no,” I admitted. I had no idea what masons did in England, but I had never seen such a mark on anyone there. “We had badges,” I lied, “but mine was stolen while I was in Brazil.”

  When this was translated, Banutu shook his head in dismay at the perfidy of the Brazilian thieves. Doubtless there would be a hand or two missing if he had a say on things. Then he burrowed into a pouch hanging around his waist and pulled out a pierced metal disc. It looked to be made of gold and was beautifully engraved, showing clearly the compass and set square that made up the masonic symbol within the circle. Then he gestured for me to remove my shirt.

  “He says you must lie down while he gives you the mark,” said Fenwick. It would not do to upset my new friend and so I pulled the shirt over my head. I heard them both exclaim as they saw the old musket ball scar in the middle of my chest. Fenwick was sent off to get some supplies from the chief’s tent while the old man stared at me with his good eye. After a while he pointed to my chest and mimed firing a musket. I nodded and turned to show him the smaller entry wound on my back and through hand gestures explained that the other was the exit scar. He sat and chanted for a moment – whether he was praying for me I could not say – and then Fenwick returned with several earthen ware pots. I lay down and Banutu smeared some green paste from one of the pots in a circle towards the top of my chest. Then, with some more incantations he laid the gold disc on top. Finally, he picked up a wooden tool that had a sharp thorn on the end and dipped the point in a pot of ink. I realised with alarm that he was planning to tattoo the mark onto my skin, but I was in no position to protest. I braced myself for the pain, but
strangely I felt nothing as he started to mark out the shape using the golden template.

  I have no idea what was in that green paste, but it would be worth its weight in gold to a surgeon as I had no pain at all while the chief gradually inked in the masonic crest. In fact, whether it was due to the paste or exhaustion from the previous trying days, but I fell asleep while he worked. I woke up to find myself alone in the hut with my shirt folded neatly by my side and my Collier pistol lying on the top. There was a steadily growing chant coming from the square outside and I guessed that it was this noise that had brought me from my slumber. I stuck the pistol back in my belt and pulled the shirt up over my head. Looking down, I could see the glistening black shape of the tattoo and pulled the shirt back to keep it on display. It would do no harm to show that I had the same mark as their chief.

  I crawled out of the hut and stood up. There were no guards now and several villagers who saw me emerge just watched me curiously, making no effort to stop me. The sun was low in the western sky, it would soon be dark. Banutu and several others were making incantations in front of the gnarled wood that Fenwick had told me was their spirit and most of the other villagers were watching them. Several though, I was slightly alarmed to discover, were adding logs to the wood pile that was also still in the clearing. I felt a chill of unease at the sight of that but before I could consider it further, Fenwick saw me and came across.

  “Why are they still building the pyre?” I asked.

  “Because Jonah told them too,” he replied.

  “But he also told you to burn me on it,” I queried taking a step back and wondering if I had dreamt the conversation in the hut.

  “Do not worry,” said Fenwick, grinning. “You will not be harmed now.” The words were barely out of his mouth before a horn sounded from somewhere behind the huts on the far side of the square. Cheering and spear-waving broke out once more among the masses as between the huts my old shipmate appeared, carried aloft again on his wooden chair. He was oblivious to any danger and you can hardly blame him, for the reaction of the people did not seem a whit different to when I thought that they were planning to burn me. They set him down in the middle of the square and nearly tipped him out of his chair in the process. I watched as he surveyed the crowd, looking for me. He did not seem to notice as two warriors passed around his chest a rope made of plaited creeper stems that tied him firmly to his seat. Still not entirely convinced of my own safety, I looked around to check that no warriors were waiting to pounce on me and bind me at the last minute, but they all were giving me a wide berth.

  “There he is!” shrieked Jonah as he picked me out in the mass of people. “Seize him and set him on the pyre. Let him suffer the fires of hell!” Then as he saw Banutu walking towards me, he must have thought that his orders were about to be obeyed, for he started laughing. As the chief reached me, the noise from the crowd died away until there was silence broken only by Jonah’s maniacal cackle. There was a tension in the air now that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. In the next few moments one of the two white men in the clearing, or possibly both, was about to be horribly disabused.

  Banutu stood beside me and started to shout to the crowd. I could not understand a word but then he reached towards me and pulled my shirt wide open to show my new tattoo and then pointed to his own. I finally felt a surge of relief. It was clear that he was indicating that I was now a player on the home team. There was another roar of acclaim from the crowd and Jonah’s throne was hauled once more up into the air. Only then did he seem to realise that something was wrong.

  “Seize him,” he shouted down from his chair while pointing at me. Still oblivious to his own predicament he yelled, “Don’t let him get away!”

  Now I knew I was going to live, I felt that familiar surge of bravado at escaping death once more and instead of moving away I stepped up in front of his throne, forcing his bearers to stop. I pointed at the tattoo and spoke to him in Portuguese so that only he would understand what I was saying. “The Devil has saved me again,” I crowed. “Now you will pay for killing João and for trying to kill me. I’ll see you in hell.” I stepped back then and watched as his throne went past towards the log pile. Jonah was properly raving then. He was yelling for God to smite us all down and send us to the fiery pit. He did not seem to notice when his throne was set down on the heap of lumber.

  It was only when two torches were lit that he finally seemed to appreciate his own fate. “Noooo, Noooo!” he yelled as they came closer, but Banutu gave an order and the burning brands were tossed onto the bottom of the pile.

  Until that moment I think I had been happy to see Jonah burn. He had after all tried to kill me twice, once on the boat as we came ashore and again in the village. But as the kindling began to crackle and the flames started to leap up the pyre, I had a feeling of revulsion. Perhaps it was because until a few hours ago, I was convinced that it would be me tied to the top of this bonfire. But as Jonah began to thrash about in his bonds and call out for more divine assistance, I knew that I could not let him die by fire. You would not do that to a mad dog, never mind a lunatic. While the old English queen Bloody Mary and the Spanish Inquisition might disagree, I could not see a man consigned to the flames. I reached into my belt and pulled out my Collier pistol. I rotated the chambers so that some powder fell in the priming pan and hoped that it would not be too damp to fire.

  “Don’t kill him,” shouted Fenwick. “If you do, the Christian god will take his revenge on you.”

  I rather thought that the reverse might be the case should I ever reach the pearly gates, which was unlikely. I ignored him and took careful aim. The flames were licking around Jonah’s legs now and he was writhing and screaming in either pain or fury, it was hard to tell. I slowly squeezed the trigger and as the pistol kicked in my hand, I saw his chest slammed back in the chair by the impact of the ball. Through the heat haze I watched his head fall forward onto his chest and he was finally at peace.

  Chapter 3

  I was pleasantly surprised that Banutu and the rest of the village were not cross with me for putting Jonah out of his misery. Instead, they viewed me as some sort of hero as I had saved their spirit from the retribution of the Christian god. As my old shipmate’s corpse was slowly cremated in the centre of the clearing, food and drink were produced and an impromptu feast began. I had not eaten properly for days and gorged myself on various mysterious meats and vegetables, washing it all down with a milky liquid called palm wine. I was beginning to feel I had landed on my feet again.

  Instead of the death hut, I spent the night in a lodge on a comfortable bed made of wood, ropes and an animal skin. I slept until well past dawn. To add to my good humour my breakfast was delivered that morning by a pretty young woman wearing nothing above the waist but some strings of beads. Now there is a custom we should start at home, I thought. A pair of bouncers like that made a boiled egg and a flatbread look far more appetising.

  I could not remember when I had last laid eyes on such a bounteous vision and growled my appreciation as I sprang up to welcome this handmaiden into my humble abode. I even managed to cup one of them in my hand, feeling a pang of familiar desire course through me as she put my breakfast down. She twisted away but did not seem the least offended as she giggled and backed demurely out of the hut.

  “Come back,” I called after her. “You can help me dip my soldier,” I added, and I was not referring to a strip of flatbread in the egg. I laughed at the thought, for suddenly the world was a much brighter place. That sensation lasted just a few seconds, though, as a moment later Fenwick entered the hut.

  “You must not touch that girl, Mr Flashman. She is Banutu’s daughter and he is very protective of her.”

  “Oh Christ,” I muttered as my imagination was filled with the gruesome image of a new white hand hanging around the chief’s neck to match the black one he already had. I looked down at my offending digits and asked, “You don’t think she will tell him, do you?”

>   “It does not matter. He has asked me to take you to the British at Cape Coast Castle. We will leave as soon as you have finished your breakfast.”

  I don’t think I have ever bolted down an egg and bread so fast. I have encountered enough protective fathers in my time to know that it does not pay to outstay your welcome. I well remembered an angry blacksmith in Spain, who had wanted to pound my manhood flat on his anvil after I had dallied with his daughter. Yes, possessive fathers could be most unreasonable creatures and I felt a sense of relief as we set off down the jungle path.

  There were four other warriors with us, armed with long blades to cut through the thick jungle where necessary. For the first mile we were able to walk two abreast, but then the paths began to narrow and we travelled in single file. The warriors took turns to be point man, swinging their knives to clear foliage that was quick to encroach on the track. We crossed a river using a wide fallen tree trunk as a bridge; Fenwick explained that as well as the big grey beasts they called water horses I had already seen, there were crocodiles in the rivers too. The jungle was a dangerous place for the unwary traveller.

  While we walked, I found out more about my guide. As I had suspected, his father had been a slave ship captain who had sired several children from his cargo. But Fenwick felt no resentment at his parentage. With a note of pride, he explained how his father had brought his mother back to Africa when he discovered that she was carrying his child.

  “He did not sell my mother again until I was five,” he boasted, as though this was some exceptional kindness. By then she had borne him at least one other son and when they were old enough, Captain Fenwick had sent the brothers to a missionary school at Cape Coast Castle. There they had learned to read and write as well as speak perfect English, while also studying how to calculate numbers in a ledger. It seemed it was his father’s plan to use his sons as clerks to help him conduct his trade on the coast, but the doting paternal intentions were thwarted when Britain outlawed the slave trade.