lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “What is it?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know the answer.

  “The tribes use the horns to keep their regiments together in the jungle,” explained the captain. “They each have their own horn call. It is possible that there are two Ashanti columns out there instead of one.”

  “Oh Christ,” I muttered for this meant that there could be at least two thousand against our five hundred, many of whom were likely to run at the first opportunity. I glanced across to where the native warriors were gathered and noted that the significance of the second horn had not been lost on them either. Some were in a fine old taking, ranting and pointing into the jungle on the verge of panic. I knew exactly how they felt, as when I thought about our plight, I nearly brought back up my breakfast macaroni. Why were the Ashanti closing in on our pitifully small force when there were much larger armies nearer to their lands to attack? The answer came after just a moment’s thought: the Ashanti knew far more about our disposition than we knew about theirs. They must have spies in our forces who told them where McCarthy was and they were evidently determined to capture or kill the governor.

  The man himself seemed blithely unconcerned. “That is only a theory,” insisted McCarthy. “For all we know the man blew two notes because he had inhaled a fly.”

  Well he might have been trying to convince himself, but he was failing with me. I looked fiercely about, like the fearless hero I pretended to be, while inwardly I desperately thought about how to escape. My first inclination was to run back down the path we had used and keep running until I got to the coast. In fact, I may even have taken a couple of hesitant paces in that direction before a new horn call brought me to my senses. It was from the other side of the river and two short notes this time, signifying yet another column was closing in.

  The Ashanti, I realised, had played us for fools. They had tricked us with tales of their dispersed regiments, when in reality, much if not all of their whole army, was together and coming up fast. If they were half as clever as I suspected, they would not just try to cross the river in front of us, but instead send forces – unopposed – over the river on either side of us to come up from behind. If I fled, I was likely to run slap into one of these encircling armies. I would certainly not survive for long in the jungle on my own, especially with thousands of Ashanti combing it for fugitives. “Our only hope is Chisholm,” I said at last, for his force would at least even up the numbers. Then I had an awful thought. “You don’t think that they have destroyed his column already, do you?”

  “Surely he would have sent word if he is under attack?” suggested Rickets uncertainly.

  “Gentlemen, we are getting ahead of ourselves,” announced McCarthy. “We should prepare for an attack, but we have no idea of the enemy’s intentions. Remember that there were reports that some were looking to join our forces. Alternatively, it may just be a show of strength to get us to stop our advance. I am still of the opinion that they are not going to want a war with us.”

  Rickets and I tentatively agreed with him, but I don’t think either of us was remotely convinced and that conviction decreased further over the coming hour. As Rickets lined the force we did have along the river bank and distributed what spare ammunition we possessed, a steady cacophony of horns came from the other side of the river. I counted at least ten different calls, all growing steadily louder. Surely they had not managed to get ten thousand men through the jungle, past Chisholm and without anyone warning us? More in hope than expectation I sought out Williams, as he knew more about the local tribes than anyone.

  “It is possible, I suppose,” he said, in response to my suggestion that they might be blowing different horn calls to deceive us as to their number. Williams was a thin man with the yellowish tinge to his skin of those who had survived the fever at least once. He cocked his ear to listen across the river; we could hear distant shouting now and the noise of branches being broken as they cut tracks through the jungle. “But I fear,” he continued, “that it is more likely that they have ten thousand warriors out there.”

  I felt numb for a moment as the last of my hope evaporated. If they had that number, then even the miraculous arrival of Chisholm’s larger force would not save us. I felt a sudden pang of self-pity as I thought back to my wife and family in Leicestershire, who, it now seemed, I would never see again. I was a white man in Africa, unfamiliar with the jungle, and even if I survived the coming battle, I could not see how I would escape. The Ashanti were bound to hunt down survivors and threaten the local tribes to hand them over. My colour gave away my nationality. “Do the Ashanti er… take prisoners?” I asked hesitantly. “I mean, well the governor does not think that they will want a war with Britain.”

  “Sometimes they take prisoners,” said Williams. “Especially fit young men who they can put to work in their mines.” He glanced across to where McCarthy was supervising men near the river bank. “The Ashanti know a little of Europe and they realise that they would lose a war there. But here in the jungle, they know they will win and so they do not worry about a war with us. I warned the governor that they would not welcome us stirring up other tribes against them and now I fear that it will be us who is taught a lesson.”

  So that was it, then, I thought. The best I could hope for was to end my days slaving away in an African mine. Before I could say more there was a sudden volley of musket fire from our men and looking across, I could see the first Ashanti soldiers appear on the far bank. They did not return the fire, but instead slipped back into the foliage.

  “Don’t shoot,” ordered McCarthy. “They are not firing back. They may be coming in peace, perhaps to join our forces.” He turned to Rickets, “Have the band stand in that clearing and get them to play the national anthem, if they are looking to join us, then they will know who we are.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” asked Rickets, who evidently thought that the Ashanti were already in no doubt as to who we were, but McCarthy insisted. A couple of minutes later the dozen members of the band were – very reluctantly – gathered in full view of the other side of the river. They were arranged in a semi-circle and no doubt only stayed put because the governor himself was standing in their centre. He seemed determined to act as their director.

  “Steady now, men,” he called. “We will play them some proper stirring music and show them some British spirit.” With that he started to wave his arms and count them in.

  The first strains of God Save the King rang out through the jungle and across the river. Understandably, most of the bandsmen were anxious to get through the tune as quickly as possible and were soon playing in different time. Despite McCarthy bellowing at several musicians to slow down, after the first few bars the noise was barely recognisable. The situation was not helped when the Ashanti began to express their musical appreciation with a fusillade of shots. McCarthy stood firm as the balls whistled about him, but when a trumpet was shot from the lips of its player, the band finally broke and ran for cover. The governor, though, was made of sterner stuff and he turned to glare at the Ashanti, who were now visible again on the far bank. He actually wagged his finger at them in admonishment.

  To my dismay, he then turned and walked towards me, bringing a barrage of fire with him.

  “They are starting to get a little unruly,” he commented as I discreetly edged back behind a tree trunk for protection.

  “Unruly?” I repeated in disbelief. “I think that they are way beyond that. They are not errant children; the bastards are trying to kill us.”

  “And you think we should teach ’em a lesson, eh?” replied McCarthy, grinning and completely misunderstanding my point. He stuck his thumbs in his yellow waistcoat pockets and continued, “They are testing us, like boys do a weak master. They want to see if they can smell fear. Well we will teach them some British resolve,” he said triumphantly as a musket ball slammed into my tree trunk just an inch above his head. He patted me on the shoulder and went off to inspect more of his defences. If the Ashanti were tryi
ng to smell fear, I must have reeked of the stuff.

  “Well I think we can rule out them wanting to join us,” I muttered as I watched the governor calmly stroll away. He was brave, I will say that for him, but as Ashanti musket balls began to lash all along our side of the river, I felt a growing anger. He had evidently ignored the warnings from Williams and pressed on with his own foolhardy scheme to suppress the Ashanti. It was clear now that he had totally misjudged not only the Ashanti resolve to resist him, but also their military capability. There was a scream from a few feet away. When I looked around I saw one of the local tribesmen staggering back, whimpering and holding the side of his face, which had been smashed by a musket ball. Two more men immediately dropped their weapons and started running, but I saw now that Rickets had placed a score of redcoats in a line behind the river to stop just such a thing a happening. A gun fired and one of the deserters fell, clutching his leg. The other held up his hands and started to edge back to the river.

  I breathed a sigh of relief; the captain clearly knew his business. If the first two had been able to run it would only have been moments before many others joined them. Not all the natives were ready to flee, though; I saw one of the chieftains berate the deserter as he returned to his post and while I could not understand him, he was obviously haranguing the others about standing firm as well.

  There was a steady crackle of fire from our side of the bank now too, but looking across the river, few Ashanti were to be seen: most of our people were firing blind into the undergrowth.

  “Hold your fire unless you can see one of the bastards,” I yelled. We would be through what little ammunition we had in only a few minutes at this rate. My Collier was useless at such a long range and I edged back to where I had seen the wounded warrior. The man, the first victim of McCarthy’s stupidity, was leaning against a tree, and judging from the blood pouring from his wound he would not be alive for much longer. I found his musket in the bushes and near it a pouch with a dozen cartridges. If I was going to die, I was damned if I would not take some of the swine with me. I settled down beside a tree trunk for cover, but, squinting through the foliage, I could not see a single one of the enemy. There was now just the occasional puff of musket smoke as one fired in our direction, but no sign of an imminent attack.

  Rickets and McCarthy were yelling for our men to hold their fire too and it seemed that the battle might be over before it had really begun. With the river in the way, neither side could reach the other, and I remembered O’Hara talking about the reluctance of the Ashanti to press home an attack. But just as I wondered if there could be a glimmer of hope after all, an ominous sound of axes biting into tree trunks came from the far bank, indicating that this deadlock might not prevail for long.

  I edged back to where Rickets and the governor were holding an impromptu council of war. “Even with the spare cartridges distributed, they still only have about thirty rounds a man,” the captain was saying. “If Brandon does not get here soon with some more barrels, it might be too late.”

  “Ask King Dinkera,” said the governor, gesturing to the chief I had seen railing at his warriors, “to send two of his more reliable men after Brandon to hurry him along. Send some more out after Chisholm too. If the Ashanti know we have reinforcements coming, they may hold back.”

  “Should we not try to retreat back along the path we used to get here?” I asked.

  “No,” said McCarthy. “I will not be seen running away from them. And anyway, if they were to attack us strung out on the trail, they would cut us to pieces. We are in a much stronger position behind the river here and besides, Chisholm must surely arrive soon.”

  I was harbouring doubts that the major would ever arrive or that it would make much difference to the outcome if he did, but I kept those thoughts to myself. For the next half hour very little happened. King Dinkera sent off his various messengers and the rest of us sat behind trees and repeatedly counted the few paper-wrapped tubes of ball and gunpowder we had left. A good soldier could easily fire three shots a minute and so most only had enough ammunition for ten minutes. But then I remembered Williams’ confident assertion that the Ashanti did not fight at night. It was only two or three hours before it would be getting dark. Perhaps, I thought, there was still a slim hope after all. I could slip away after dusk and get as far as I could before dawn. Then I would hide up during the day to escape whatever search parties the Ashanti sent out. I was just trying to convince myself that I stood the ghost of a chance of reaching the coast in this manner, when I heard splintering wood.

  The first tree trunk bridge crashed down into the jungle to my right. There was an immediate flurry of shots from our side of the water, but no one tried to come across. We could still hear the sound of chopping from the jungle opposite as the Ashanti hacked at more trees to bridge the river that would divide our fire when they attacked. A few minutes later another tree crashed down to my left and at almost the same time two more fell across the river to my right. There were now four thick trunk bridges in place and our men gathered around the branches ready to defend them. The Ashanti were certainly organised, however, for nothing happened until one of their wretched horns blew. Then there was a fusillade of fire from their banks, which flailed through the branches at our ends of the bridges. There were screams as men waiting among them were hit but fortunately, the thick wood provided secure cover for many more. I had stayed in my place between two of the bridges and while our men blazed back, obscuring their view with musket smoke, I could see clearly a score of Ashanti who now tried to make their way across. None of them made it. I think I accounted for one myself as the man I aimed at clutched his guts and pitched into the water after I fired.

  A furious volley of fire came from the Ashanti side of the river to clear those who were stalling their advance, and as the smoke gave away their positions, our fellows shot back with equal enthusiasm. I only fired when I had a clear target to aim at, but I was soon down to just five of the paper tubes for my musket and could hear others calling out for ammunition. Rickets yelled at his men to save their cartridges, while McCarthy shouted for his bugler to sound the recall, whether to direct Chisholm or Brandon it was hard to say.

  Sensing a lull in our fire the Ashanti made another effort to cross the bridges, with a dozen men charging across each of the trunks. I watched the bridge to my left and shot into the crowd of men. There were enough of us loaded to take out at least half of the enemy, but a handful made it to our side of the river where they started a frantic melee with our defenders. Spurred on by this success, the Ashanti sent more men across. I now only had four charges left but by the time I had reloaded with one of them, the trunk was full of men pushing others to make their way across. I could not miss as I fired again. I saw another man go down, grabbing at one of his comrades as he fell and taking a second man into the water. The river was littered with bodies now, some dead or dying and others making for one of the banks. Amongst all the splashing, I thought I saw the flicker of a reptilian tail, but I only caught a glimpse as I realised that the Ashanti had nearly broken through on the bridge to my right. I fired two more shots into the men crossing that tree and was down to just one cartridge as I watched King Dinkera lead a band of his warriors to kill those who had broken through. It was desperate hand to hand stuff and I knew that we could not last much longer.

  I glanced up at the sky; it would still be at least an hour before it started to get dark, but I had waited long enough. The sound of shooting from our side had virtually died away as few had any cartridges left. The next charge would see the Ashanti over the bridges and then the defenders would be done for. It’s time for you to leave, Flashy old son, I told myself as I moved back into some undergrowth. I had planned to move discreetly through the camp without attracting attention, but as I reached the first clearing I heard the blare of more trumpets behind me signalling the start of another attack. My nerve broke then; I did not want to die in that infernal jungle and as panic gripped me I ran as fa
st as I could go.

  “Flashman, where are you going?” I heard McCarthy call behind me. Then as I ignored him and pushed one of the local warriors out of my way, he must have realised what I was doing. “Come back, you damn coward!” he roared.

  Chapter 11

  I had spent a career protecting my precious reputation, but I did not care any more. We were all likely to die anyway so what did it matter? I pushed through another bush and then literally cannoned myself into salvation. The next moment my limbs were tangled in the mud with those of two sweating natives, while a barrel lay just a few feet away. I heard my name again and this time looked up into the face of the quartermaster and saw that natives were carrying two more barrels behind him. Ammunition had arrived in the nick of time.

  “It’s Brandon!” I shouted getting to my feet and as I pushed back through the bush I saw McCarthy staring at me in astonishment. “He has more cartridges,” I yelled at the men near the river. Suddenly dozens were running towards us like hungry orphans for the poorhouse gruel pot.

  “It is good to see you Flashman,” gasped the quartermaster, who appeared to have run the last mile. “Break open that barrel, will you?

  I raised my musket butt and brought it down heavily on the circular top of the barrel. The wood splintered easily and then there lay before me a sight for sore eyes: hundreds of fresh, dry cartridges. I grabbed a handful and stuffed them in my pockets before I was jostled out of the way by several soldiers, who raced to fill hats and anything else they were carrying with the precious ammunition before running back to the river.

  I breathed a sigh of relief – we would have enough cartridges now to see us at least until nightfall.

  “I’m so sorry, Flashman, I did not realise…” McCarthy was now at my shoulder and looking distraught as he gripped my shoulder, “… that you had seen Brandon.”