“What are hot-air balloons?” she asked.
“They are huge silken bags, as big as this square that are filled with hot air and rise high into the sky. Underneath is a basket which can carry two or three people and the balloonist who guides the craft.”
“There is truly such a thing?” There was no doubting her interest now.
“There is, I swear it, and if you help me I will show you, although we may have to go to Paris to see them. I have even seen a woman jump from the basket when it was high in the air. She used a huge umbrella to drift safely back to the ground.”
We walked a few paces in silence as she considered the wonder of what I had told her, but then her natural cunning reared its head again. “Wait, how can I trust you? You whisper of these fantastic things to get my help, but how do I know you will show them to me? If I get you to Cape Coast Castle, you might leave me behind when the ship comes or denounce me to the British as an Ashanti spy.”
I was ready and waiting for that one. “The very fact that you have helped me escape from the heart of the royal palace and guided me to safety will be proof to anyone that you are not an Ashanti spy. If anyone remembers you from before, I will vouch that you had no choice and believed that the Ashanti army was divided. It is the least I can do if you get me out of here. As for the rest, you will have to trust me, just as I must trust you not to betray me.”
She thought about that for a few more paces and then stopped and studied me carefully. “You are very different today,” she said at last. Then a more knowing look crossed her features and she asked quietly, “Do the British soldiers really have Collier rifles and artillery and accurate rockets?”
I smiled. “No,” I admitted. “And did you ever visit me unless you wanted information?”
She smiled back, “No,” she conceded. “So, we are both liars and yet now you say we must trust each other.”
“If we don’t, we will both spend the rest of our days in our respective prisons. I imagine that you cannot turn down a marriage proposal from the king.”
“Not if I want to keep my head. But you are asking me to give you what you want first; how can I be sure that you will keep your end of the deal?”
“Look, I’m not going to travel the world with you, I have a wife and family that I want to get back to. But I can show you around London when we get there, Paris too once I have spent some time at home. If you want to go to India or Canada, I have contacts in those countries that I can introduce you to. I also know people who would pay handsomely to hear all the details of the mysterious Ashanti army that has just vanquished the British governor. But let us suppose I let you down; if you have gold, you will still be able to find your own way in London or Paris. I imagine that you can get your hands on some gold. That bracelet you are wearing now would pay for a small town-house with a maid for a year. But I will not let you down. If you bring her husband safely home, my wife would not allow it.” I grinned at her and I think she was convinced. Mind you, back then I wasn’t lying. I did not trust her an inch, but if she got me away from this nightmare existence then I would happily do all I promised and still feel I had got a bargain from the deal.
“Wait though,” she said frowning. “This is all very well, but I still cannot get you out. The guards open the gates for me here as we are still in the heart of the palace. They may let me take you into the next courtyard too, but no further. You are the only white man in Coomassie and everyone knows that you are a prisoner of the king. The guards would never let you walk out of here, even if I ordered them too. They know that their heads are at stake if you escape.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“You cannot walk out of here and don’t think you can go out hidden in a cart either, for they are all searched. Unless you have one of those hot-air balloons hidden in your cell, I cannot see how you can escape.”
“I have a plan,” I insisted. “It will give us both what we want and if you swear to help me, I will tell you what it is.” I held out my hand to shake on the deal and after a final moment’s hesitation she took it.
Chapter 17
If Malala had been doubtful of the plan when I had revealed it, her reservations were nothing to those of Jasmina. I whispered my idea to her through the bars of the women’s house during the next day’s game of pebbles. She was sure that Malala would betray us and wanted nothing to do with the scheme at first. We had to play the game past her window twice for me to assure her that while she had the least to lose, like the rest of us, she would get what she wanted if it worked. Reluctantly she agreed.
There was not a moment to waste if the plan was to work and that night I paced impatiently up and down my cell, listening for any noise to indicate that the scheme was afoot. All I heard was the gentle snoring of the guards at the end of the passage. Then at last I heard the familiar creak that indicated that the door to the little prison was opening. I held my breath as a shadowy figure appeared at my cell door and there was a scrape as the locking bar was lifted out of the sockets.
“Quickly,” Malala whispered as she pulled the door open. I did not need asking twice as I went past her into the corridor. Three more dark figures stood silently at the end of the passage, right next to the sleeping guards. “Don’t worry,” Malala continued as she saw me stop at the sight. “The guards have been drugged – they will not wake up for hours.” She closed my cell door again and put the bar back in place.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked.
“It might buy us more time before they realise you have gone,” she explained. Nodding at the guards she continued, “They will wake with sore heads, so it will be a while before they bother to check on their charges. Now come on, we must get you ready.”
Malala had led three veiled Arab women into the part of the palace that contained the prison, but there were four with her when she came out. The maid walking behind Jasmina was unusually tall. Close inspection would reveal that her left breast was larger and lower than her right and where her robe stopped an inch above her ankles, some large manly boots were visible. Her mistress looked rightly terrified at the risk of being caught and for good reason, it was as well that the escape was taking place at night.
While we were still in the prison, the maids had helped me on with my gown and then pinned the dark scarf around my face so that only my eyes were showing. With all the time I had spent in Brazil and Africa, I was sufficiently dark to pass for an Arab. One of the maids, a large black girl, had insisted I stroll up and down the prison passage for their inspection. I had been walking nearly all my life and grumbled that I did not really think practice was necessary. But they insisted and when I turned around after a brief strut down the corridor I found them in a state of horrified consternation.
The small thin maid threw up her hands in resignation and issued a stream of voluble oaths that appeared to suggest that they would save time by handing themselves to the executioner right then and there. I had no idea what she was complaining about and she must have seen the bewilderment on my face. Cursing again, she then did an imitation of my gait, which I had to concede was not exactly feminine. The robe came off again then while they adorned me with breasts made from cloth bundles tied in place with a strip of linen. The small maid then had to teach me to walk like a girl, involving a step more like that of a tightrope walker, which she gestured would make my backside swing in a more authentic manner. It is not often I have been invited to study a woman’s behind as she walked, and I know mine was not nearly as comely as hers.
With my gown and veil back on, a generous dose of a pungent perfume, and a large bundle of clothes to carry like the other maids, they said I was finally ready to step outside. Despite my near total covering, I still felt exposed and vulnerable. There was one more thing I wanted: a weapon. As I cast a final look around the prison that had been my home for the last two months, I noticed a sheathed knife tucked under the belt of one of the snoring guards. I gently pulled it from him and buried it deep i
n my bundle of clothing.
“Say nothing, whatever happens,” Malala warned us as she led the way. The first gate was something of an anti-climax. The guards had already let Malala pass once and were pulling the timber door open again as soon as they saw us heading in their direction. I kept my head down to keep my features in shadow from the flickering torchlight, but they did not seem to be paying us any attention.
“We are through,” sighed Jasmina as the gate shut behind us.
“There are three more gates,” warned Malala. “That was the easiest. Now, no more talking in English.” We were walking past the front of the women’s house now and I saw her glance across at its brooding black mass. If we were caught, at least for Malala and I, we were likely to lose our heads. I was frightened but elated at the same time. Before my situation had looked entirely bleak; I may have been alive, but it was hardly a life worth living. Now I had hope and that is a marvellous thing. I had a chance of going home, seeing my family, feeling the bite of a frosty morning in Leicestershire and never going near Africa again.
I was still lost in these happy thoughts when Malala rapped her gold-topped cane on the next gate. A tired soldier wearily emerged from the gatehouse but leapt smartly to attention when he saw who had summoned him. I knew that Malala would be explaining to him that Jasmina was being sent to her new husband in the city and that this was being done at night to save any embarrassment to her and to the king. The palace was a tight-knit community and the guards would have known that the king was adjusting his harem to his own tastes. Some of the wives had left already. The story evidently was plausible to the guard, for with very little ceremony he threw the gate open, seeming anxious only to get us through it so that he could return to his bed.
The next square was completely dark apart from a flickering torch by the gate on its far side. Shadows danced across the ground and I started a couple of times as I thought sinister figures were moving in to ambush us. The big black maid behind said something in Arabic and patted me on the shoulder with a quiet chuckle to calm me down.
Once more the gold-topped cane rapped on the door and again a man emerged from the nearby guardhouse. This one, though, did not rush to open the gate. Instead he took the flaming torch from its bracket and walked towards us, asking a question of Malala. I imagined that he wanted to know what the deuce we were doing wandering around the palace in the dead of night. She answered his questions and followed him as he held up the burning log to illuminate our little party. As he ran his watchful eyes over Jasmina just in front of me, I shifted the bundle of clothes I was holding to cover my uneven breasts. I had a bad feeling about this encounter and slowly slid my hand inside the bundle until my fingers closed around the hilt of the knife inside. Then as I kept my head bowed I sensed him coming alongside me. I was slightly taller than the guard and out of the corner of my eye I saw him glaring at me with suspicion. He gave a sniff, probably catching the pungent perfume I had been doused with earlier and then grunted. I could feel my heart racing; in the next few seconds everything could fall apart. Malala must have seen my hand inside the bundle and quickly distracted the guard by asking him a question. He turned to her and replied then she passed on the information in Arabic to Jasmina, but at the end of the words I could not understand, she said something in English that was really intended for me. “There are two more guards watching us through the gatehouse door, so do not do anything stupid with that knife.”
Now the guard was turning his attention back to me. The hand holding the knife was on the far side from him and I dared not move it. He started to run his eyes down my body and I cursed myself for not changing out of my boots. Barefoot or sandals would have been far less conspicuous. Then I heard a squeal from behind. The big black maid had dropped her bundle at my feet and turned to berate the younger maid behind. The two of them started a furious row in Arabic, with one pushing at the other. The guard laughed and stepped forward with Malala to keep them apart. As peace in our little party was restored, the guard strode off and to my relief headed towards the gate. One more courtyard between us and freedom and I desperately hoped that the next guard would be as pliant as the first two.
I was to be disappointed, though, for as the doors to our square opened, we could immediately see the far portal that led to our liberty. It was illuminated by four torches, two on either side, and around the gate were the same number of guards. Getting past one man had been hard enough, but four in a well-lit space felt impossible. I heard Jasmina give a little wail of despair, but Malala was swiftly alongside and whispering something in Arabic. Then she turned to me and said quietly, “This is the last gate so for God’s sake, when you approach it remember to walk like a woman.”
We went forward once more, this time with a sense of foreboding. The fair maiden Flashy swung her hips for all she was worth and while it may not have been aimed at me, one of the guards gave a low whistle of approval. This time they did not seem the least bit intimidated by Malala’s cane of office and it was soon obvious why. They reeked of palm wine and I saw a jug on the ground near the gate. As Malala tried to negotiate with the man in charge, the other three crowded around us. As a former wife of their king, they steered clear of Jasmina, but clearly thought that her maids were fair game for their amorous attention.
One leered up at me with unfocused eyes and whispered what I think were some words of admiration. I glared back silently in response, but then the impertinent swine took a mauling clutch at my left buttock. Well I have clutched a rump or two myself in my time and I knew all too well what the response was to an unwelcome approach. It was refreshing to be the giver rather than the receiver for a change. I emitted a suitably feminine high-pitched squeal of indignation and swung my open palm round to give him a resounding slap across the cheek as hard as I could. He staggered back a pace or two and rubbed his face. But rather than being cowed by this robust defence of my womanly virtue, he was only encouraged and cackled with delight.
The black maid was clearly a resourceful woman who had come prepared for just this type of encounter. She tried to distract my assailant by unpinning her veil and beaming broadly at the guards around her. She had uncovered a black gown that had been cut to reveal a generous glimpse of a very ample cleavage. The guards hooted in delight and I thought I might escape any more amorous attention, but my admirer was not going to give up that easily.
The man turned back to me and cooed more Ashanti words of endearment, while gesturing for me to remove my own veil for him. I doubted three months’ beard growth would do much for his ardour and stepped back, but now I was up against the wall. I kept my cloth bundle tight against my chest in case he tried to grab me there and looked around desperately for help. The black maid was keeping two of the guards fully entertained by virtually pushing their heads into her breasts while Malala was still arguing with the man in charge. Jasmina stepped forward and tried to order my admirer away, but he was having none of it. He was still cackling as he rubbed his cheek again and then squeezed his own bicep before pointing at me. He seemed to be saying that he liked his women nearly six-foot-tall and with the slap of an angry costermonger. Then, before I realised what was happening, the lecherous villain lurched forward and grabbed me between the legs.
For a split-second time stood still. I remember gaping in astonishment and seeing that expression mirrored in the drunken face in front of me, as the man realised he had got a handful of far more than he expected. The younger maid gave a little squeal as she realised that the game was up, while her companion grimaced in horror. Then, almost unable to believe what had just happened, I dropped my bundle and roared in indignation. I remember my right fist swinging. The man stepped back but had no time to defend himself. I struck him plum on the jaw. His knees were already buckling as my left fist hit him hard in the solar plexus. I sprang forward past my victim who was now falling to the ground and gasping for breath. I expected the other guards to rush me and raised my fists again to defend myself. My veil had slipped ro
und as I had thrown my first punch and so I could only see from one eye. But when I looked up instead of charging, I saw that the guards were backing away, holding up their hands in submission.
Malala stepped forward and spoke sharply to me in Arabic, wagging a finger as she scolded me, and pointed to the man lying at our feet who was still wheezing and struggling to breathe. Then she turned to the man in charge, who to my astonishment was now gesturing for the other guards to open the gate. Jasmina stepped up beside me and whispered, “She is telling them that you are a bashful virgin, determined to protect your honour.” She chuckled before adding, “I think it will be a while before they assault an Arab girl again.”
Already the gate was swinging open and I stared across the open ground at the dark silhouette of the streets of Coomassie. “Well we had better leave quickly,” I said in the highest voice I could manage, “before that fellow can tell the others what he just got a handful of.”
We grabbed our bundles and hurried out of the gate, walking quickly. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting at any moment the start of a pursuit, but instead I saw the gate close behind us. We broke into a run then, all the way to the first street and then Jasmina led the way up an alley between two rows of houses. “This way, we will go by the Arab quarter. Veiled women will not stand out there and I know a place we can hide if they raise the alarm.”
I fell in behind the maids and heard Malala come up beside me. She gave me a sideways glance and grinned, “Perhaps you should walk a little less like a woman after all if you are going to attract that kind of attention,” she suggested.
Chapter 18
We waited for half an hour in the Arab quarter, where we would not be so conspicuous, expecting at any moment to hear shouts of alarm coming from the palace and the sound of soldiers running through the streets. Instead the place was as quiet as a grave. We heard nothing; no one was moving. We had to be out of the city by dawn, when my escape was bound to be discovered, and so now Malala led the way. She went at a fast pace and we all stumbled once or twice moving over rough ground in the dark, but as the sun began to lighten the eastern horizon, we found ourselves in the green hills that surrounded the city.
lashman and the Golden Sword Page 16
