lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “Were you hoping to join Major Chisholm, sir?” he asked before continuing. “They say he is the most likely to see some fighting. Some of the chiefs do not want the governor in the field at all, they say it demeans him to fight unless the Ashanti king personally leads his army, but word is that the king is ill at Coomassie and may be dying. The governor only has a small group with him and is well surrounded by allies. I doubt we will see the enemy.”

  I did not take too much comfort from that for I had heard similar platitudes before, normally preceding some terror-stricken disaster. Instead I searched for an excuse that I could use to return to the coast, but none came to mind. McCarthy would lose face with his allies if his ‘champion’ was not on hand and I did not want to lose the governor’s goodwill. If he did not help me get home, then I could still be here during the next fever season – the thought filled me with horror. No, I would have to go and rely on McCarthy’s promise that I would not be expected to fight – something that Wetherell’s news about the Ashanti king being ill made more likely.

  We set off early the next day. It is difficult to describe how disorientating travel through the jungle is. At times it was hard to see the sun through the tree canopy and we crossed several paths along the way. Within an hour, I doubt I could have found my way back to Donquah through the maze of tracks we had passed. Wetherell and his guide, though, were confident that they knew where we were going and so, proceeding in single file, we did not have to cut through too much of a trail. At one point we came to a particularly wide stretch of track that had been recently cleared, with lots of broken branches lying about. I thought it was pleasant to have some space around us again, at least until Wetherell told us that we had to hurry along it.

  “It has been made by one of the water horses or possibly elephants,” he explained. “They are creatures of habit and often use the same paths repeatedly. We don’t want to come across the owner of this one while we are using it, or they will charge and trample us.” I had already discovered that those water horses were surprisingly fast over short distances and felt a sense of relief when we emerged on a narrower trail.

  At length we arrived at Assamacow, which was another prosperous town, similar to the one I had departed from. I found McCarthy in one of the merchant’s houses. He had been waiting there for three days, not for me but for the rest of his supplies, and he was fuming with impatience.

  “Most men want to carry weapons and fight rather than act as porters. Those that will carry things are demanding a ridiculous amount. Instead of solving the problem, Brandon has come on ahead to complain to me. The man is useless,” he grumbled of his quartermaster. He lashed the table top with a fly whisk in frustration, sending several of the insects into the air. I got the impression that if McCarthy had been the head of a school, the unfortunate Brandon would be heading for a caning. “Now Captain Rickets has to manage the rear-guard,” he continued, “and press women, boys and old men into service as porters, many of whom have abandoned their loads at the first opportunity.”

  Assamacow was a sizeable place to wait for them to catch up and I was not unduly perturbed until McCarthy spoke again. “Two local tribes claim that they have Ashanti warriors in their territory, but I do not believe that they could be that close. I have sent Williams to investigate. He has negotiated with all the local kingdoms, including the Ashanti in the past. He should be able to give them some backbone. They are timid and nervous people and will run from their own shadow if we are not careful.”

  From what I had heard of the Ashanti, the caution of the local tribes was entirely reasonable and I began to feel a familiar twinge of alarm. “How many men do you have here?” I asked.

  “When they all arrive, there will be around five hundred, but half of those will be Fantee tribesmen. The rest are soldiers and militia.”

  “If those local tribes are right and even just one of the Ashanti divisions is in the vicinity,” I cautioned, “then we could be outnumbered two to one. That is if the Fantee men stand and if the local tribes are falling back, there is no guarantee of that.” Even as I spoke I felt a growing sense of trepidation. Each Ashanti army was said to be a thousand men. In thick jungle they could advance virtually unseen until they burst among their unsuspecting enemy. “As a precaution, sir, should we not order Major Chisholm to close with us? He has six hundred redcoats with him not to mention another three thousand warriors.”

  “Are you sure that is really necessary, Flashman?” McCarthy gestured vaguely out of the window towards the nearby jungle, “Williams should be able to give the local tribes a stern talking to. Then, once our men arrive, we should have plenty to teach one of their columns a lesson – if such a force exists, which I doubt.”

  “I have fought in numerous countries around the world, sir,” I said reminding him that I had more military experience. “And if you do not know precisely where your enemy is and in what strength, then I would strongly advise caution and summoning Major Chisholm’s forces.”

  I could not have put it more firmly than that and McCarthy sat back in his chair for a moment as he considered what I had said. To unite his forces would slow them down as they travelled through the jungle, but he must have been conscious that he had not been in a battle for twenty years and had never commanded a force in the field. “Well you are my military adviser as well as my champion here, Flashman, so I suppose that I should heed your judgement. Get Wetherell to send a runner to Chisholm, would you? He is only three days’ march away and it will take nearly that long to gather up our supplies.”

  I went away feeling well satisfied, confident that for once disaster had been averted. The young ensign sent one of his best men to Chisholm with orders to join us a few miles further forward on the banks of the Pra River, which was to be our next stop. Then I went to check on the supply situation, which was suitably shambolic, guaranteeing that we would not be moving any time soon. A steady stream of bearers had started to arrive in the town and now surrounded Brandon, squabbling over how much they should get paid. They were all shouting and following him around, like a pack of dogs at feeding time. How he worked out how much to pay was anyone’s guess as some were coming in with a single load while others arrived in pairs sharing a burden – perhaps having abandoned one on the way. Once paid, around half went back down the track to collect some more, but the rest slipped away down other trails into the jungle. I sat and watched as a pile of supplies steadily built up. There were barrels of cartridges and the macaroni, which had to be kept dry; large sacks of meal, cooking pots and the poles and canvas for tents, but not yet nearly enough for five hundred men on a march.

  Williams, the secretary, arrived back in Assamacow the next day. He told us that the nearby chiefs were sure that Ashanti were in the area, but did not know how many or precisely where. While the local warriors were said to be retreating before this force, Williams had spoken to their leaders, who had assured him that they would stand and fight with us. Despite these reports, McCarthy was still not convinced on the existence of the Ashanti. He thought frightened villagers might have invented them to save face as they moved back. But nodding at me he told Williams, “Mr Flashman has persuaded me to recall Major Chisholm’s force, which will rendezvous with us at the Pra River. That should give the tribes some comfort. Go back to their chiefs and tell them that I expect their warriors to meet us at the river too.”

  Two days passed after that meeting as we sat in relative comfort at Assamacow. Slowly the pile of supplies in the centre of the village grew and more soldiers gathered in the town. It was a paltry force to go to war with, but by then Chisholm’s force was marching towards the river too. I thought I would feel more comfortable when I was surrounded by sturdy backs draped in red cloth.

  We finally had enough supplies to leave Assamacow, with a twenty-mile march to reach the river where I hoped Chisholm would be waiting. As we stood in the central square preparing to depart, it was clear that we had nowhere near enough bearers to carry the barrels
and bundles that the army needed on the march. There were wails of complaint as Brandon’s men started to round up virtually every villager they could find to serve as porters. Old men, women and children were all protesting that they did not want to go near the Ashanti. Meanwhile McCarthy and the quartermaster insisted to all who would listen, that the rumours were false and the Ashanti would be nowhere near the line of march. The chief of Assamacow supported the governor. He was a thin, crippled old man who needed porters himself, as he was carried down the track suspended from a pole in a large basket.

  I was soon envious of the old chief and his mode of transport, for it was a miserable journey. There was torrential rain that made the paths almost impassable. The heavily laden bearers soon fell behind and even unburdened; it was a struggle to make progress. At the bottom of one valley we must have spent hours crossing a mile of malodourous ooze. Each step saw you sinking knee deep in the foul-smelling mud, so that every pace was an energy-sapping effort. I ceased to care about the leeches or even snakes that I saw worming away from our path. The exhaustion even dulled my fear of the Ashanti.

  We had hoped to make the meeting point by nightfall but as the sun came down we were still several miles short. I found some high ground and slumped down, content to let a fresh rain shower rinse some of the mud from my clothes. It was at least warm. I must have fallen asleep in the rain, as I awoke the next morning with my clothes still damp and muscles as stiff as boards.

  Many a time I have topped the crest of a hill to see an army, friendly or hostile, spread out before me. But when I came over the last rise before the meeting point, I saw nothing but jungle. This was despite shinning up the slimy bark of a nearby tree for a better vantage point.

  There were supposed to be thousands of men beneath the forest in front of me but there was no sign of them: no recently hewn clearing, no campfires, no glimpses of men moving through the trees. I knew that there had to be several hundred of our force down there as they had gone past me on the path, but the jungle was so thick there was no trace of them either. All I could see was a solid wall of green separated by a meandering strip of brown water, the Pra River. On the positive side, there was no sign of the enemy either, for the far shore of the river looked just as peaceful as the bank I was on. Perhaps McCarthy was right, I thought as I pressed on, searching eagerly for any sight of Chisholm and his men.

  It was mid-afternoon when I finally tracked down McCarthy. For once his ebullient energy had deserted him. He was covered in mud and looked exhausted, having surveyed the jungle for several miles around the camp.

  “Any news on Chisholm?” I asked, having already established that none of his men had arrived.

  “No,” sighed McCarthy wearily. “But he must be close, I have sent out half a dozen messengers in various directions to guide him here as quickly as possible.”

  The urgency of the governor’s orders gave me a frisson of alarm. “Do you think that the enemy is close, then?”

  “The local tribes are convinced they are and some of their warriors have already tried to desert. I had to summon their chiefs, who have again insisted that their men will stand with us and fight.” He looked up at me then and I must have looked nearly as tired as him for he smiled and gestured to a metal pot hanging over a small fire. “There is tea in that, help yourself.” He stretched his tired limbs and looked around to check we could not be overheard before continuing. “I doubt the chiefs can control all of their men, especially at night. We will put the local tribesmen in the centre of the camp and I have asked Captain Rickets to have some men stand guard to stop them escaping.”

  I sipped my tea with a growing sense of anxiety. “If there is one of those Ashanti armies out there, then they already outnumber us two to one. More if some of those natives manage to run while it is dark. You don’t think the Ashanti will attack during the night, do you?”

  “That is one thing that you do not have to worry about,” McCarthy grinned. “Williams tells me that the Ashanti will only attack in daylight. They have probably learned that battles at night are too chaotic with warriors blundering about in a pitch-black jungle. Anyway, I am still not convinced that they are there at all and if they are, they still have to cross the river, and that bloody thing is full of crocodiles.”

  “Well I for one will be damned glad to see Chisholm and his men,” I said fervently. “That will change the balance of things. We will outnumber the enemy and our allies will be less prone to run away. Are you certain he will arrive tomorrow?”

  “I am sure he will,” breezed the governor, although I noticed he did not look me in the eye as he said it. Instead he stared into the flames of the small campfire. I suspected that, like me, he was praying that the stupid bastard had not got himself lost again.

  Chapter 10

  Dawn on the Pra River at the place now known as Nsamankow on the twenty-first of January 1824, gave no hint of the horror that was to follow that day. The night had passed relatively peacefully, apart from one bloodcurdling scream when a sleeping warrior had been snatched by a crocodile. I had slept close to McCarthy’s fire with the loaded Collier in my hand, in case one of the great scaly beasts came our way. Supplies were still only slowly trickling into the camp from the long train of exhausted porters that we had left on the path behind us, but some meat and macaroni were boiling in the pot for breakfast.

  I went to find Rickets to take him a bowlful and discovered that he had managed to stop most of the local warriors from escaping during the night. Some eighty of them had slipped away, though, and judging from the resentful glances of those that remained, I would not have bet a farthing on the ones left staying long if we were attacked.

  “I would send some of them out to look for Chisholm if I thought that they would actually search rather than run away,” grumbled Rickets, who clearly shared the same opinion of their resolve. I walked cautiously down to the water. While there were some reptilian marks in the mud, the crocodiles had moved away in daylight. The river was sixty feet wide and its muddy waters the colour of milky tea and about as transparent. Heaven knew how deep it was and what manner of deadly creatures could be lurking unseen beneath its surface. I was reassured that it was a considerable obstacle to stop any attack. I studied the far shore and listened for any sign of distant voices or of men cutting their way through the forest, but apart from the usual screeches of jungle creatures, there was nothing. It looked as benign as the other landscape we had passed through, and yet the hair on the back of my neck was prickling with alarm.

  By noon there was still no sign of either Chisholm or the enemy. But spirits had been lifted by the arrival of two hundred fresh warriors from Appea, which the king had sent to reinforce the governor’s party. If these men had found us having covered a longer distance than Chisholm, then surely, we tried to convince ourselves, the major could not be that far away. We had a small marching band with us amongst the redcoats and McCarthy now ordered the bugler to sound the ‘recall’ every hour, in the hope of guiding our reinforcements towards us. As the strident notes echoed through the trees at midday we all strained our ears for an answering call, but there was nothing. I remember cursing the silent jungle, but, as it happened, you should be careful of what you wish for. When the bugler put his instrument to his lips an hour later there was a response, a distant strident blare of a horn… but from the other side of the river.

  I was standing with Wetherell, Rickets and McCarthy and for a moment we all stared at each other in silent astonishment. “Could Chisholm somehow have crossed the river?” I asked.

  “That was not a bugle,” replied Rickets. “It sounded like a native instrument.” We looked around; virtually the whole camp had fallen silent at the sound and of those we could see between the trees around us, all were staring expectantly in our direction. Rickets turned to McCarthy, “We do not have much ammunition yet, sir. The men only came with twenty rounds each and only one of the barrels of spare ammunition has arrived so far.”

  McCarthy
nodded thoughtfully. “We still do not know who they are or what they want, but it pays to be prudent.” He turned and found the person he was looking for standing by a pile of supplies. “Mr Brandon, a word please.” The quartermaster came over, his eyes widening in alarm as the horn sounded again from over the water. “Brandon,” said the governor quietly so that only those near him could hear. “Is it true that you only have one spare barrel of ammunition?”

  “Yes sir,” replied the quartermaster. “The rest are scattered back down the trail. A lot of the porters have abandoned their loads and left them in the mud, but some are still getting through.”

  “Take half a dozen strong men,” instructed McCarthy, “go back down the trail and bring back some of the barrels of ammunition as quickly as you can.” He nodded across the river, “I pray we don’t, but we might need it later this afternoon.”

  “Right away, sir,” said Brandon moving off, the colour draining from his face as the implications sank in. He was not the only one going pale; I could feel a familiar tightening of fear in my stomach and Rickets had begun licking his lips nervously. Then we heard a second horn sounding through the trees, this time two rising notes instead of one. I saw the young ensign immediately stare at Rickets, who nodded as though this new sound had special significance.