lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “We thought he might take us to England,” said Fenwick sadly, “but we never saw him again after that. I heard that he did at least one more slave run from a Danish camp down the coast, but then he disappeared. My mother was a Fantee and so we went back to her people and that is how I ended up in the village.”

  We pressed on. It was hot and humid and I was soon tired even though I had not taken a turn swinging the machete to clear our path. My legs were still weak after so long in that wretched open boat and several times we had to stop so that I could regain my strength. Towards dusk another village appeared through the jungle, but I quickly saw that it had been abandoned. Only one hut had a roof and the rest had been torched, with black scorch marks showing on the walls. The central clearing was now overgrown, but a long mound was still visible between the plants. The end near me had been dug out by animals and I could make out several old bones that looked distinctly human.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  “Ashanti,” said Fenwick simply as though that explained everything.

  “What is that? Some kind of disease like the plague?”

  Fenwick gaped at me in disbelief. “You must have heard of the Ashanti? Even you British pay them tribute to recognise their dominance over you.”

  “We do?” I queried. I admit that my ignorance of happenings in West Africa was almost complete. I was aware that the Royal Navy sent ships this way to dissuade slavers from their trade, but beyond that I knew nothing. Yet I do not feel any great guilt for that. Why even now if you stopped ten people in London and asked them to tell you about the Ashanti, I would bet a guinea to a farthing that none could. For despite everything that follows in this tale, those who survived have little reason to boast of their accomplishments. Most like me slunk away, vowing never to return to this dark and pestilent shore.

  “The Ashanti dominate all of this land,” explained Fenwick. “Some years ago, the Fantee refused to pay them tribute and they came through our territory like a horde of termites. They killed all who stood against them, captured all the men, women and children they could find as slaves and destroyed all our villages. When their old king died three thousand were sacrificed at his funeral rites, including two thousand Fantee prisoners. One of them was probably my brother,” he added sadly.

  “Three thousand sacrifices,” I repeated in awe. I could not imagine such a slaughter; there must have been literal rivers of blood. “But if they killed that many and captured even more, how large is the Ashanti army?”

  “They are numberless like the termites they imitate. They make their prisoners fight for them too and so now some Fantees are fighting in their army. They get weapons by trading gold, slaves and goods from the interior so they all have muskets and plenty of ammunition.”

  “Are they nearby?” I asked, staring into the forest as though a horde of the murdering fiends could appear at any moment.

  Fenwick laughed. “No, their capital, Coomassie, is nearly one hundred miles away. But from what we hear, they are again demanding tribute from all the surrounding tribes, including the British. They killed a British sergeant last year and there is talk of war.”

  I tried to reassure myself that the situation was not as dire as Fenwick described. Many a time in my career, I had seen enemies underestimate the resilience of a line of redcoats. In India I had watched experienced British troops and Indian sepoy soldiers defeat Mahratta armies several times their size. I struggled to believe that some wild African tribesmen would stand up against well-drilled volley fire and a bayonet charge. Perhaps the British had artillery too. If Napoleon had managed to defeat the Paris mob with ‘a whiff of grapeshot,’ then surely, we could do the same to the Ashanti with some well-aimed blasts of cannister. But whatever happened, I intended to be long gone by then. As long as marauding bands of these Ashanti were not at large in the forest now, I would have time to get to Cape Coast Castle and then board a ship home.

  We spent the night in the only hut to retain a roof and in the morning, set off again. By the end of the second day we emerged once more on the coast, further west than where they had found me. Seeing the ocean again made me feel a little closer to home and walking along the damp sand was thankfully a lot easier than hacking our way through the jungle. On the morning of the third day I finally got my first glimpse of Cape Coast Castle: I was very impressed. I was half expecting a wooden palisade affair, but it looked as secure as the Tower of London and about the same size too. There was a mud brick wall encircling the town that had built up around the castle, complete with loopholes for muskets. But beyond that we could see the castle itself, a very stoutly built stone affair. It had a row of cannon in the battlements, with the guns all facing out to sea. But the finest sight, anchored out beyond the breakers, was the sweetest little schooner you ever did see. A vessel I desperately hoped would soon be homeward bound.

  A small stone tower marked the seaward end of the mud wall and as we walked towards it, a young British ensign, followed by two redcoats, stepped out of its doorway. The soldiers looked a miserable pair, their faces flushed with the heat, and they were still pulling on their uniform jackets. They might not have been happy to be there, but they reminded me of all the times I had stood in their ranks. I felt a wave of relief wash over me at the sight of them. They gave a sense of familiarity, security and home, which contrasted strongly with the tropical beach they stood on.

  “What is your business here?” demanded the young ensign.

  “By Christ, am I pleased to see you,” I replied cheerily. “My name is Flashman. I was shipwrecked up the coast some days back and these fellows,” I gestured at my escort, “have guided me here.”

  “Shipwrecked?” repeated the ensign. “We have not heard of any vessels foundering on the coast. What ship was she, sir, and are there other survivors?”

  “There are no other survivors,” I admitted. There was no point in telling them about the one who had just been burned to ash. “The ship sank out at sea and I was the only survivor of an open boat that came ashore east of here.”

  The ensign’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he gazed on a stranger who had appeared from nowhere with a fairly implausible story. The soldiers were also staring at me with hard faces and one snorted in derision. “He is a bleedin’ slaver who has upset one of the local tribes. Now he’s come running to us for protection.”

  Well that was just too much. I had not expected to be welcomed like the prodigal son, but I was damned if I was going to be treated like some common felon. “How dare you speak to me like that, you impertinent dog,” I fumed. “I was formerly Major Thomas Flashman and I served on General Wellington’s staff for much of the Peninsular campaign as well as at Waterloo.”

  The young officer pulled himself to attention and introduced himself, “Ensign Wetherell, sir.” But the truculent soldier still showed no sign of backing down.

  “If you were in Spain, what battles were you at?” he challenged.

  I glared at the young ensign, expecting him to reprimand the soldier, but the boy just shrugged. “It is an unusual tale, sir. Gentlemen do not normally end up on these shores.”

  “Very well,” I agreed testily. “I was at Talavera, Busaco, Badajoz and Albuera.” I fixed my gaze on the soldier, “Were you at any of those?”

  “Busaco, sir,” said the soldier, now shifting uncomfortably.

  I noticed that he was at least now calling me ‘sir’ and so I continued. “Well if you were there you will know that Picton was commanding the right of our line and for some reason he chose to fight while still wearing his nightshirt.”

  The soldier finally stood to attention. He turned to the ensign and confirmed, “That is correct, sir,” before turning to me and saying, “Apologies, Major, but we ’ave had some right rum sorts in ’ere lately.”

  The soldier had a point, I could not imagine why anyone would come here willingly. “Well now you are satisfied as to my bona fides,” I told them, “perhaps you could direct my companions t
o somewhere they can get some food and point me in the direction of whoever owns that ship.”

  “That is the governor’s schooner,” said Wetherell. “He only got back yesterday from Sierra Leone. I had better take you to him and we can drop your companions off at the cook house on the way.” Leaving the soldiers in the tower, the young ensign led our party further along the beach and through the ramshackle shanty town that surrounded the castle. Most of the buildings were circular huts with grass roofs similar to those that I had seen in the Fantee village, but I noticed a small church, some European style houses and a variety of market stalls selling everything from muskets to what appeared to be dead mice. We stopped there briefly while Wetherell arranged some food for my companions and I gave Fenwick my heartfelt thanks for his assistance. The ensign told them to stay in the town as he was sure that the governor would provide a more tangible reward for their help to a lost British officer.

  Wetherell and I moved on into the town centre. Twice we passed more white soldiers but none of them bothered to salute the junior officer.

  “You seem to have a pretty slack command here,” I said pointing at a soldier lounging in a hammock with his musket leaning up against one of the supporting trees.

  “Well things are a bit different here than in Spain, sir,” said Wetherell defensively. “Almost all of our men have only accepted a transfer to the Royal African Corps as an alternative to punishment. Most have been court martialed for desertion, theft and drunkenness and some for all three. Many would still prefer to be flogged than come here. They know that up to half of our replacements are likely to be killed by fever in their first year. It is hard to impose strict discipline on soldiers who think they will die anyway.”

  “Good god,” I exclaimed. I had thought I had been given some rough postings, such as when I was first sent to the Iroquois, but nothing like this. “What were you court martialed for?” I asked. “Surely you did not come here voluntarily?”

  “I did, sir,” grinned Wetherell. “It was a free commission and if you survive the first year’s fever season then you can stay here with much less risk of harm. The governor has been in Africa for ten years now.

  “Who is your governor?” I asked, wondering if it was someone I had heard of.

  “Sir Charles McCarthy. He has had several roles in the region, but this territory was made a crown colony two years ago. It was previously overseen by a trading company that was not doing enough to abolish slavery. Sir Charles is our first governor and I think you will find he is a good man, sir.”

  “Is he Irish?” I asked guessing from the name.

  “His parents were French, sir, and he first served in the French Royal Army. He fought for the royalists in the Revolution before fighting for us.”

  By now we were approaching the main gates of the fort and there at least the sentries did salute as we went passed. “It is a huge castle,” I said staring around at a large central courtyard. “Much bigger than I was expecting.”

  “In the old days it was used to keep captured slaves before they were shipped to the Americas,” explained Wetherell. “There are big dungeons beneath us that could hold hundreds of them, enough to fill a ship or two. The Dutch have a similar fort just a few miles up the coast at Elmina and the Swedes and Danes have settlements to the south.”

  “But they are not still trading in slaves, surely?” I asked. I knew from my recent adventures in Brazil that the Brazilians and Portuguese were still making shipments of slaves to their South American plantations. But the British had outlawed the slave trade back in 1807. I had been in London for a while back then and well remembered the campaigning marches for and mostly against slavery.

  “Not from here they aren’t and we have a naval squadron looking to seize ships involved in the trade. But it is a lucrative business. There are some captains of fast ships who still think it is worth the risk.”

  I heard some children chanting the alphabet and looked around to find a class of young black boys being taught in the shade of a canvas awning by the fort wall. But it was not the lads that drew my attention; it was their teacher. She was the first white woman I had seen in the settlement, or indeed anywhere for well over a month and what a magnificent specimen. Tall, slim, blonde and I guessed in her mid-twenties. Now there is one I would not mind seeing in the traditional bead attire of Fantee women, I thought. As my eyes devoured her, I noticed that the humidity had caused her linen blouse to begin to cling to the curves of her perfectly formed breasts.

  “Who is that?” I gasped, noticing that my voice had gone hoarse with desire.

  “That is the wife of Reverend Bracegirdle, one of the missionaries here,” answered Wetherell. As he spoke, the delightful Mrs Bracegirdle sensed my attention. She turned and appraised me coolly before moving her gaze across the courtyard where two more soldiers were leaning against a rail and ogling her with barely disguised lust. The object of our longing returned her attention to her charges, but I noticed she straightened her back almost imperceptibly, pushing her breasts tighter into the surrounding cloth, while brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. By George, the scheming coquette knew the effect she was having on her audience and I suspect enjoyed the power. In a town where white women were in such short supply, a one-eyed hag with a limp would have gathered an army of admirers. This prime piece could have ruled the colony if she chose.

  The man who did rule the colony was not in his office when we reached it. His secretary, a Welshman called Williams allowed me to wait alone in his study and sent a boy to find him. It felt incongruous to step inside the governor’s well-appointed quarters still dressed in the stained and tattered shirt and breeches I had now been wearing for weeks. A woman came in with a tray and I was given a cup of tea. As I sat in a comfortable armchair made in some British workshop and held the delicate porcelain cup and saucer, I realised that I was back among the things familiar to me. After all the weeks at sea in that damn boat and the foreign surroundings of the Fantee village, the jungle and Africa generally, these simple household items had a strange effect on me. I found tears welling up in my eyes and tried to dash them away before the woman noticed. The masters at Rugby would have been appalled at such a show of emotion. I thought I had succeeded in hiding it, but then I looked up and saw her walking to a sideboard. A moment later she put her hand on my shoulder and a large glass of whisky on the table in front of me.

  “You look like you need something stronger,” she said, smiling kindly.

  I took a swig of the strong spirit feeling that familiar sensation of it warming my insides. “Thank you,” I replied. “It has been a trying few weeks getting here. The sight of your crockery… I have seen that pattern in England, just reminded me of home.” I tried to pull myself together and asked, “Are you the governor’s housekeeper?”

  Before she could reply, the door to the room banged open and a small boy stood in the threshold. He looked no more than three with blonde hair but a brown complexion and if I was a judge, his mother’s nose. “I am a little more than that,” she replied, and her son ran to stand beside her. “My father was another official here and my mother a local woman. My name is Hannah, Hannah Hayes and this is our son, John McCarthy.”

  The boy ran to his mother and then pointed at the Collier still stuck in my belt and shouted, “Gun.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said smiling at him. “I have a daughter your age back home. No wait, that was when I last saw her, she will be around five now.” I turned to Hannah, “The schooner at anchor off the coast. Will it be heading back to Britain soon or do you know of any other homeward bound craft?”

  “Charles uses the schooner to move up and down the coast. The territory he governs stretches a thousand miles up to Sierra Leone. That ship won’t be going back to England, but vessels from the naval squadron put in here as well as merchant ships and some of those will be heading home. Charles will know more when he gets here – he is out inspecting new farms. While you wait, I will get you a new shirt and t
rousers. He won’t mind you using his razor if you want to shave.”

  Chapter 4

  When I finally met Brigadier General Sir Charles McCarthy, governor of the British possessions on the Gold Coast and Sierra Leone, I was wearing his clothes and my clean-shaven chin was courtesy of his razor. Given that he had fought for the pre-revolutionary French Royal Army he must have been close to retiring from service, but there was a youthful energy to him. He was tall and while his hair was now grey, there were still streaks of the blonde that was evident in his son.

  “So you are the stranger I have been hearing about,” he exclaimed while shaking me by the hand. If he noticed that my duds looked familiar, he did not say. His own clothes were covered in sweat and dirt after a day out in the fields and the jungle. “Here, you will be wanting a drink and I could certainly do with one.” Another whisky was pressed into my hand while he gestured for me to sit and tell him how I came to be on this shore. I told him a creditable tale of my adventures in South America and how I had ended up on the coast. Omitting any reference to Jonah, I explained how Fenwick had brought me to the settlement.

  “An extraordinary tale,” he said at last. “You have been most fortunate to survive and Wetherell tells me that you were previously an army man.”

  “Well that is a long time ago now, but I served in India, Portugal, Spain, Canada and…” I was going to mention Waterloo, but before I got the chance McCarthy slapped his knee and interrupted me.

  “That’s where I have heard your name!” he cried. “When you said it was Flashman I knew I had heard it before. You were in the Canadian port of Halifax briefly, weren’t you?” Before I could reply he continued, “I was stationed there for seven years and left just before you arrived. My subaltern wrote to me about you. He said that you had been a spy in Paris but before that you had led cavalry charges at Talavera and had been badly wounded at Albuera but were still one of the first into the breach at Badajoz. And now you mention you were also in India. You are clearly a very capable soldier, sir.”