The general stepped forward to present the king with something and instinctively I looked up to see what it was. There in the king’s pudgy fingers was my Collier pistol; I had wondered what had happened to it. He gave a grunt of surprise and as I watched he clicked round the next chamber in the gun to see how it worked. Several of the courtiers standing behind the king leaned over his shoulder to study the weapon as well. They were all wearing robes, and several bore symbols of gold to indicate their office. One had a gold bird hanging around his neck, another had crossed swords while a third had what appeared to be a golden turd against his chest. Whether he was keeper of the royal closet or in charge of yams it was hard to say. Then I saw Quashie. He had a tall gold-topped cane, which was evidently the symbol for the interpreters. As I caught his eye, he glared at me and nodded downwards towards the king. As I looked down I found the king staring at me with small piggy eyes and hastily dropped my gaze back to the ground.
There was a whispered discussion amongst the courtiers as the king played with his new toy. Then his voice rumbled an enquiry to those about him and I heard Quashie respond. He must have been telling them what he had learned from his interrogation of me the previous day, for I heard the word ‘Flashman’ amongst the other unintelligible chatter. I kept my head down as the Coomassie debating society prosed on. Then I heard another word I thought I recognised: ‘Waterloo’. I glanced up and saw an old man, also with the staff of an interpreter, pointing at me and talking urgently in the king’s ear. He paused as someone behind him tugged on his sleeve and whispered something and then continued talking to the king and this time I heard the word ‘McCarthy’. The king said something back and waved dismissively at the old man, who now spoke to me directly.
“We hear that you were McCarthy’s champion,” the old voice quavered, “and that you are a famous general among the British. Is it true that you beat the French king called Noleon at the battle of Watterloo?”
Where on earth had they got that idea? I wondered, but before I could even begin to reply another heated debate broke out amongst the courtiers. An old man with gold swords around his neck was most indignant. He appeared to be implying that Napoleon would have to have been a prize plum to be beaten by me when the Ashanti had defeated us so easily. Then I heard another voice mention someone called ‘Wellyton’ and ‘Watterloo’. The king held up his hand for silence and the old translator started again. “Did you beat the French king?” he repeated.
I looked up, unsure what to say and what they knew of events in Europe. Then I saw Quashie and almost imperceptibly, he nodded at me. “Well, I was at Waterloo,” I told them. “General Wellington and I beat Napoleon together.” That was not an outright lie, I had played my part. I had poisoned the French emperor just before the battle and had been with the British at the end, although I doubt Arthur Wellesley would have agreed with my assessment.
Confirming my earlier suspicions, the old interpreter now asked, “So is the Ashanti army much stronger than the French?” The interpreter repeated the question in their language for the benefit of the king and his courtiers. Most of them smirked happily, confident of my answer. I dearly wanted to tell them that on an open plain, the Imperial Guard would have knocked their vaunted army into a cocked hat in five minutes, but I doubted that would be diplomatic. Again, I saw Quashie nodding at me. So, I swallowed my pride and said, “The Ashanti army is indeed formidable.”
That was the cue for smug looks all round and then the king gestured for me to come forward. “Show the king how to load your gun,” ordered the interpreter. My former owner, the leopard-skinned general, also stepped forward and I saw he had a flask of powder and some balls that looked the right size. He had evidently anticipated this request and he stayed close to see how it was done.
I crouched down beside the king and took the weapon from his hand. There were huge rings on all of his fingers and several necklaces of coloured shells as well as a shell circlet on his head. Most striking, though, was a red cord over his shoulders, from which were suspended three large sapphires mounted in gold. I swiftly removed the ramrod and started to load charges in each of the chambers. Then I showed them how the priming mechanism worked, which prompted a grunt of surprise from the general, who had obviously been trying to work it out for himself. Finally, with the weapon ready to fire, I handed it back to the king.
The king shouted something, clearly intending to test the pistol himself. The courtiers sitting on either side of the corridor I had walked up earlier, now began to move hurriedly back. They must have seen the king shoot before and it was obvious that they had little confidence in his accuracy. As the coloured umbrellas and stools began to topple over in their hurry to get out of the way, I saw soldiers move into the throng and grab slaves, who had been serving food to guests. As five of them were pushed into a rough line just ten yards in front of the king, I realised that these poor devils were the targets for their monarch’s practice. They stared wildly about, struggling to take in their unexpected change in roles. The first man was still holding a large pottery jug that moments before he had been using to refill cups. He glanced over my shoulder and when I looked behind me, I saw that a thickset man had stepped up to join the courtiers. I did not need the large golden axe blade emblem hanging around his neck to tell me he was the royal executioner. He hefted a huge hatchet in hands adorned with large gold rings and there was a bloodstained stool by his feet, which must have left the slaves in no doubt as to their fate if they moved.
The king cocked the flint, pointed a wavering hand at the first slave and fired. The jug exploded into fragments and the slave went down squealing in agony. The king was already laughing with delight as he clicked around the next chamber and cocked again. The second slave was hit in the shoulder and fell writhing in pain. I am pretty sure that the king missed the third slave, but the smart lad clutched his chest and also fell groaning to the ground. The final two were not so lucky. They stood there shaking in terror as their monarch casually pointed the gun in their direction, showing no more concern than if he had been shooting bottles. One was shot in the hip and the last in the throat, which sent a spray of blood all over the courtyard.
There was a burst of sycophantic cheering from the courtiers, who now surged forward to regain their places. The king beamed in delight and passed the still-smoking gun to one of those standing behind him. No one gave a fig for the poor wretches lying in the dirt. With a chill, I realised that I was now a slave just like they were. I was perhaps fortunate not to be prostrate amongst them. More slaves were whistled up to carry their fallen comrades away, while others spread fresh dirt over the bloodstains to stop them attracting flies. I noticed that one of the ‘fallen bodies’ leapt to his feet and ran away as soon as he was through the gate, confirming my suspicions that the king had missed one of his targets.
For a while I was forgotten. I edged back and crouched behind the slave holding the king’s massive fruit bowl and wondered what I should do. The general I had arrived with had joined the courtiers and the fat occupant of the golden stool was shouting to one of the nobles under the umbrellas in front of him. Was I a prisoner or a slave? And how had they heard about my being at Waterloo? They must have had spies amongst Appea’s people and possibly our own too – it was the only explanation. Then suddenly everything became a little clearer, for as I looked up among the crowd of courtiers behind the throne, I saw another familiar face. Holding another gold-tipped staff and standing at the back was a woman I had last seen when we shared a coffee in Donquah. It was King Appea’s comely translator. Now, just a couple of months after I had seen her serving that king, she was looking very comfortable in the court of his most mortal enemy. She must have felt my gaze and looked across at me and at what must have been an expression of shock on my features. Various details now started to make much more sense. She tilted her chin up with a sideways glance, perhaps of triumph, or was it contempt for her enemies, and turned to talk to one of her companions. Before I could even
begin to marshal my thoughts for something to say, I felt a tug on my leash and found myself being led away.
Chapter 15
I have been in far worse confinement than that I experienced at Coomassie. My cell was as well appointed as the store room in the general’s yard. Even the rations were very acceptable; there was no snail porridge here. I got the distinct impression that I was living better than any royal slave. My only complaint was that it was rather dark as there was a thick grill at the only window, which faced onto a yard. We were even allowed out to exercise every day for an hour or two. There was no great security – the covering across my window was made of wood and I could probably have kicked it out, but where would I have gone? I was still in the heart of the palace, less than a hundred yards from where I had met the king. If I broke out I would have to negotiate a myriad of courtyards and gateways. Back then escape seemed impossible.
There were half a dozen other prisoners in the row of cells. Five of them always got together as soon as we were let out while the other wandered alone, spending most of his time throwing pebbles in the dirt. They all ignored me, but I did not mind that, for I would not have been able to talk to them anyway.
I spent the first day and much of the night in a growing rage as I considered how thoroughly we had been humbugged by that wretched woman. As McCarthy had told Appea about our plans, he had been obliged to communicate through her. I did not doubt that every word was passed on to the Ashanti. But it was worse than that. McCarthy had only divided his forces because Appea had convinced him that the Ashanti army was divided into a dozen smaller forces. But it was the translator who had told us that. I would bet a guinea to a farthing that she gave the same news to Appea and told him it came from us. The damned bitch had dangled her tits under my nose and I had answered all her questions without a hint of suspicion. She had played me for a fool and it had worked. How she must have laughed when we set off into the jungle, full of plans for our own attack and completely unaware that a massive army was being guided to literally cut off the head of our command.
On the second day as I strolled in an impotent rage in the sunshine, I looked up to find I had a visitor.
“I trust you are comfortable, General Flashman?” It was the translator called Quashie.
“As I suspect you know, I am not a general,” I admitted grumpily. “I was a colonel in the French Army and a major in the British, oh and a captain in the Brazilian Navy, but I have never been a general.”
Quashie raised his eyebrows at the variety of my appointments and then grinned. “Yes, I know you were just a civilian when you were in the castle. Malala is not the only one to have spies amongst the British. But it enhances her reputation, and that of my friend the general, to have you as a more exalted prisoner. It is better for you too, as you are more comfortable here in the palace than in the mines.”
“Malala, is that the name of the treacherous snake who acted as Appea’s translator and betrayed us?”
“Yes, she is a very ambitious woman. The first to become a court translator, but I suspect that she has set her sights even higher.” I swore softly and he laughed. “King Appea shares your view and is determined to see her killed, but she is well protected here.” He grimaced slightly before adding, “She is becoming very powerful, a favourite of the king, and few would dare challenge her now, especially after she helped to deliver such a decisive victory.”
I got the distinct impression that Quashie did not like Malala. She must have ruffled quite a few feathers when she pushed her way into the inner court circle. I gestured around at the yard we were standing in and asked, “What is this place, is it the royal prison?”
“Only for the most important prisoners,” replied Quashie. “Those men over there,” he said pointing to the five prisoners who always exercised together, “are some of the king’s brothers and cousins who were rivals for the throne. He did not want to kill them, but he cannot trust them not to plot against him and so he keeps them here.”
“What about that one?” I pointed to the old man still throwing his stones in the corner of the yard.
“That is King Azi. The Ashanti conquered his lands, but they keep the king alive so that his people do not rebel.”
“And what is that place?” I asked pointing to another side of the highly decorated building with the shuttered windows we had seen on the way to visit the king. It formed one wall to our yard and I had already discovered that the guards did not allow me to go too close to look inside.
“That is the women’s house, the part of the palace where the king keeps his wives. Apart from his eunuchs, no other man is supposed to see them.
“How many wives does he have?”
“There are all sorts of tales, most to show the prowess of the king. Some say a thousand or even two thousand, but as no one can see them we are not sure. I suspect it is much fewer, a few hundred at most.” As I wondered if I would ever see my own wife again, Quashie continued, “Most of the women in that building were the wives of the old king. Our new ruler is currently deciding which ones to keep, the others will be given to his courtiers.”
“Do you think I will ever get out of here?” I asked, feeling depressed.
“It is possible,” said Quashie patting me on the back. “But only with the king’s permission and that will only come when we are at peace with the British. Perhaps they will exchange you for a thousand of those clever pistols.” He sighed, “But it will not be for a while as it looks like war with the British will continue. The king is planning to send a new force to drive the British from Cape Coast Castle and our shores entirely.”
With that cheery news Quashie left, promising to come back soon. Even if I had still been in the army, I doubted that the British would have traded a hundred Colliers for me, never mind a thousand. But it did not matter for no one in Britain knew I was here. Those in Africa who did were either already dead or, from the sound of things, soon would be. I felt my despair growing. In fact, over the coming days I must have looked so miserable that King Azi tried to teach me his game of stones to cheer me up. It was essentially a game of bowls with pebbles.
Two weeks later I had another visitor and initially this one did not improve my mood at all. I was lying one evening on my bed and feeling sorry for myself when the door suddenly swung open and a female voice called out, “Would you like a book?” I looked up and there was Malala, holding of all things a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. She came in and put the volume on my table and as I swung my feet onto the floor she asked, “Are you being well looked after?”
“What is it to you?” I snapped. “Have you come to gloat over your victory?”
To my surprise her chest heaved a big sigh and she looked tearful. “I knew you would not understand,” she wailed. “I did not want to spy but they made me. They threatened to kill my father if I refused.” As I stood up she threw her arms about my neck, and with those splendid bouncers pressed against my chest, seemed to be sobbing as she pleaded in my ear, “I really did think that the Ashanti army was divided. I had no idea that they were planning to ambush McCarthy. I swear I would have done nothing to put you into danger.”
It was a good job that her chin was on my shoulder and that she could not see my face, for I’ll wager it was a picture. Astonishment, disbelief and then anger chased their way across my features. What kind of fool did she take me for? Had I not seen her standing smugly behind the king as I knelt in the dirt? I was on the verge of pushing her away when I stopped myself. Rather than get angry, I preferred to get even, and this was a delicious opportunity to play her at her own game.
“You mean you really are loyal after all?” I gasped. It was not hard to sound astounded. “I just cannot believe it.”
“I swear it is true,” she whispered, glancing nervously at the door as if worried we would be overheard. “I would not be here if it wasn’t. You must know I am fond of you, that is why I told them that you were a general, so that you would be well treated. Oh please, tell me
that you know I am true,” and before I had the chance to say anything she reached up and pressed her lips passionately on mine.
I kissed her back automatically, my mind still reeling from this sudden change in circumstances. Whatever it is you want, my girl, I thought, you are going to pay handsomely for it. Then, taking advantage of the situation, my hand reached up and popped one of those ripe breasts out of the top of her dress. She stiffened momentarily and then, as though it were an effort, I felt her body melt into mine. I had been led by my loins into enough danger in the past, but this time I was playing a part, one that I hoped would have some compensations. “Could you stay the night?” I gasped as I broke off the kiss. “We never did get to know each other properly, you know.”
“Darling, I wish I could, but they will notice I am missing and come looking for me.” Seeing the genuine disappointment on my face she added, “Perhaps another night I can slip down here after dark, when they think I am asleep.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said with feeling, although I knew she had no intention of a midnight tryst. She backed away from me then for a moment and stared into my eyes, as though struggling to believe that I had been fooled so easily. But I have spent a long lecherous lifetime pursuing all kinds of women and it was not hard to give her a leery grin, running my eye down her body, taking in all of her obvious attributes.
“You know, old girl,” I said, smacking my lips in appreciation, “I think I always knew you would not play me false.”
Apparently reassured that I was just a randy simpleton, she sat down on the bed and patted the space beside her for me to sit down too. “I want to help you escape, but it may not be safe. The king is planning another attack on the coast. What do you think the British will do? Will they stay and fight or will they abandon the port if they know the Ashanti are invading?”
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