lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “Hang on,” I said as I got my bearings. “The sun is behind us and so we are heading west, but the coast is south.”

  “Yes,” said Malala. “What do you think will happen when they find your cell empty? They will think that you have gone south to the British. So the king will send hundreds if not thousands of soldiers south after you. They will sweep through the jungle for several miles on either side of the road and search every village. He will be determined to get you back. So we will head west. First to a village where a guide is waiting for us and then after a couple of days we will turn south, but wide of their search parties.”

  I had to concede that her plan was sensible and an hour later we arrived at a small village. We hid behind a large fallen tree while Malala went in search of our guide. He turned out to be a taciturn grey-bearded fellow, who just nodded at us and led the way into the jungle until we came to a cleared field of crops with a covered yam store on one side. As he led us to it I saw that the yams had been piled up on four sides to leave a clear hidden space in the middle.

  “We stay here until nightfall,” announced Malala. “This close to the city, the villagers may hear of our escape and so we do not want them seeing strange Arab women during the day.”

  I was glad of the rest and as soon as the old man had gone, I pulled off my veil. I doubted my amorous friend would have found me quite so attractive now. I was hot and sweaty. Apart from the beard, I was also a little lopsided as my left tit had fallen out of my gown on the way out of town. The other veils came off too and for the young maid and Jasmina it was the first time I had seen their faces.

  “Why do you think the guard who grabbed you did not raise the alarm when he could speak?” asked Jasmina.

  I had been wondering that too. “Perhaps he was not sure what he had felt, although he got a bloody good grip.”

  The black maid chuckled, but then put forward another theory. “A few years ago, a man was found smuggled into the women’s house. He was killed, but so were all the guards who should have stopped him. Perhaps they were worried for their heads.”

  “They will lose them anyway when the king finds out that they let us escape,” said Malala abruptly. It was a harsh reminder of the brutal world we had just escaped from. Mind you we had a long way to go until we were safe. In fact, knowing that the huge Ashanti army was soon to be on its way to Cape Coast Castle, I knew that I would not feel safe until I was on a homeward bound ship with the white cliffs of Dover on the horizon.

  We sat and ate some boiled yam that our guide had provided and listened as a rain shower began to beat down on the grass roof above us. It was the start of the long rainy season and the shower soon became a deluge. Streams of water were running off the thatch above us and into the field, which was being lashed by the rain. It was now hard to talk, but at least there were few leaks from the covering over our heads. We were all tired from the tension of our escape and a long night-time walk, so we set about trying to make ourselves comfortable to sleep. For a while my mind would not let me rest and I remember looking across at Jasmina, who was dozing curled up in the corner. She was very pretty and looked remarkably like a girl I had known in London over twenty years before. Their names were almost identical. That earlier girl had died horribly in my arms… Even then the memory made me shudder a little.

  When we awoke that afternoon, the rain had stopped and everything looked green and fresh. Our guide brought more food and then as evening drew in, he led us off again into the jungle. He used a machete to cut away the foliage that had encroached on the old path we were using, while the rest of us followed in single file. Apart from Malala, we were back in our gowns and veils as other villagers could be in the jungle or out hunting, even at night. While I saw the sense in it, I hated having the damn cloth over my face. It was hot and stuffy and you could not see clearly where you were going, particularly down by your feet. I was forever tripping over roots and once I heard a rustle in the leaves at my side and just caught a glimpse of a snake disappearing into the trees.

  “Don’t worry,” laughed Jasmina on hearing my shout of alarm. “It is not poisonous and most of them are more afraid of you, than you are of them.”

  I was not so sure about that, particularly after the black maid spoke up behind me. “Apart from the mamba,” she added helpfully. “They don’t give a damn as they know they can kill you. You die within hours if one of those bastards bite you.”

  “What do mambas look like?” I asked nervously.

  “They are green – but they live up in trees and bushes, you rarely see them on the ground.” This was hardly comforting as we were surrounded by trees and bushes, many of them growing over our heads. I had a sudden memory of the green snake I had shared a bush with at Nsamankow and wondered if I had been much closer to death then than I thought. It was now dusk and I opened my mouth to ask if mambas hunted at night, but then decided that I did not want to know the answer.

  We fell into a routine over the next three weeks. Once further away from Coomassie, we travelled by day, although always veiled. After a couple of days heading west we turned south and mercifully, did not see a single Ashanti search party. While the Arab women chattered amongst themselves, the interpreter said very little. Malala would generally stride on behind the guide, her gold-tipped staff in her hand and a heavy leather bag over her shoulder. I heard a metallic clink from it occasionally and guessed that she had followed my advice about bringing gold. It was obvious that she did not like Jasmina – a feeling that seemed entirely mutual – and on the second night she tried to persuade the Arab girl to stay at a nearby village.

  “It will be a long and dangerous journey,” she said. “Stay with your women in the village and we will get word to your father so he can send men to fetch you safely. Perhaps with a boat to save you walking all of the way.”

  It seemed practical advice but Jasmina would not hear of it. “I do not trust you,” she said bluntly. “You say you are loyal, but I have heard you boasting of your victories to the king. How do I know that you will not leave me in the jungle to rot? I have been abandoned before; it is not going to happen again.”

  I had discovered that she was only fifteen when the old king had demanded her as a wife from her father. He had displeased the king over some trade and to refuse would have meant death for her whole family. Even then, once she had been delivered to the palace, the rest of the family were banished from the kingdom. The king had never slept with her, he had a dozen or so favourites for that, and so like many other women, she was kept as a prisoner to his whim. Several times when we were alone she would warn me about Malala, who she was sure would betray us sooner or later. But as the days passed I was more convinced that she was wrong.

  Malala appeared genuine in wanting to see the outside world and if she was going to have us ambushed, it would surely have been on the streets of Coomassie rather than deep in the jungle. Malala had more to worry about in me keeping my end of the bargain, but if I could get myself on a ship before the Ashanti attacked, I did not care who came with me. Malala was welcome and I would keep my promise to show her the sights. It would be more than worth her help in the escape. Mind you, I suspected that Malala was rather more worried about what Jasmina might say to her father about the translator’s loyalty and if this would be passed back to the British authorities. I doubted that Chisholm would believe Malala’s claims of allegiance any more than I did, but rescuing my unworthy carcass would stand in her favour. She would just need to leave the coast before King Appea learned of her return, as I doubted he would be as forgiving.

  Our luck changed one evening and our spirits rose when the guide announced that we had less than a week to travel before we reached the coast. None of us, I think, had realised the progress we had made. It was tough going travelling through the jungle; it rained heavily on average every third day and then the ground was often boggy. There were streams and rivers to cross, two of which we had been forced to wade through with the constant fear of croco
diles. Now it felt we were so close that I could almost smell the salt tang of the ocean in the air. We all went to bed that night with smiles on our faces.

  The next morning, however, one of us was not smiling. It was the young maid. She had been stung on the sole of her foot, I thought, by one of the big scorpions I had seen in the jungle. The things are the size of small lobsters, but while the stings are painful, they soon ease off. In fact, there were loads of vicious creatures in that jungle, which was why I was now very grateful I had kept my boots during our escape. When I looked, there was a small red mark about the size of a farthing on the ball of the maid’s right foot. It did not look too bad and with padding around it we set off as usual. But she was limping and we had to slow our pace so that she did not fall behind.

  By midday the other maid was giving her a piggy back while I carried two of our bundles of supplies. When we stopped and unbandaged her foot, I was surprised to see that the red mark, instead of diminishing, had spread to cover the whole front part of her foot with a livid purple bruise. It looked nasty and the poor girl was in agony. It was obvious that she could not now walk, but we were miles away from any villages where we might get help. The guide cut down a long pole and we used some of the cloth we were carrying to fashion some slings to it so that the girl could be suspended in a form of hammock. Thank heavens it was the lighter maid, as she did not really slow us down at all. We all took turns carrying one end of the pole, but the girl was getting worse. She was feverish now and drifting in and out of consciousness. We were still in the forest at dusk when we put her down. By then the redness had spread to her knee.

  “I have never seen a scorpion sting like this.” Jasmina looked distraught as she raised the girl’s gown to see how far it had spread.

  “I think the poison is in her blood,” Malala said dispassionately and turned to look at me. “I had a brother who had a sting like this. He died, there was nothing anyone could do.”

  “Died?” repeated Jasmina, appalled. “No, she is not going to die. We will build a big fire and try to sweat the fever out of her.” So that was what we tried to do, but privately I thought that Malala was right. There was only one way the girl could be saved and that was to remove her leg, but you would need a skilled surgeon for that. We wrapped her up in every scrap of cloth from the bundles we had been carrying and placed her near the fire. Jasmina and the other maid stayed with her through the night, mopping her brow and trying to encourage her to pull through. Malala and I sat nearby, listening to the maid’s laboured breathing. The rasping gasps for breath got louder through the night until, just before dawn, they stopped. We all sat there in silence for a moment, listening for her lungs to work again, but there was nothing. I felt a sense of relief as it had been obvious for the last few hours that she would not recover. It was no more than twenty-four hours since the poor girl had been stung and now she was dead.

  We sat around feeling shock at the quickness of her death, all too aware that whatever had caused it could have struck at us just as easily. As the sun’s rays started to shine down through the leaves, the guide reminded us that the village we had been aiming for to get help was still a few miles away. We wearily wrapped the corpse back into her slings and carried her on her final journey.

  It was a miserable place when we got there, just a few huts and a handful of families that barely survived on what they could grow and harvest from the jungle. But they welcomed us and if they noticed that one of the veiled women was suspiciously tall and spoke with a deep voice, they kept those thoughts to themselves. They helped the guide to dig a grave for the maid and we stood by it as Jasmina and the other maid said some words from their faith, before a local man muttered some incantations of his own. Then we found that they had cleared one of their huts for us to spend the night in. The five of us ate a meat and yam stew that night, sitting in a small circle outside our hut.

  “I told you that this journey would be dangerous.” Malala spoke in English so that only we could understand. She looked at the Arab women and continued, “Please, it would be much safer if you and your maid stayed here. We can get a message to your father when we reach the coast and he can send a strong party out to collect you. The people here will look after you.” She patted her leather satchel before adding, “I will even give them some gold so that they treat you well.”

  It was a generous offer, almost too generous, and I saw Jasmina’s eyes narrow slightly in suspicion. “No,” she said at last. “I do not trust you. We have travelled for three weeks now and we only have a week to go. It makes no sense to stop now. I want to see my father when he learns I have escaped.”

  “If you do not trust me,” persisted Malala, “then tell Thomas where your father can be found. He will tell him where you are.”

  I nodded in agreement but Jasmina was having none of it. “No!” she shouted, causing the guide to look up in surprise. “You are not leaving me behind,” she said with finality and turned to go into the hut.

  Not a lot was said next morning as we set off once more. The path out of the village was wider than the normal track and Malala walked on ahead with the guide while Jasmina fell in beside me. “I don’t trust her,” she whispered, gesturing towards the pair walking in front of us. “Jana,” she said referring to her surviving maid, “said she saw that witch sneaking around the fire the night that Salma was stung.”

  “Oh come on!” I exclaimed. “You are surely not suggesting that Malala found one of those giant scorpions or a snake and got it to sting Salma. That is ridiculous. She would be at far more risk of being stung herself.” I thought the idea was absurd at the time, but the next morning I was not so sure.

  Chapter 19

  As the camp stirred itself into life, I was surprised to see Jana the maid still asleep. She was normally the first up, cooking breakfast and when we had it, making coffee. The villagers had given us a fresh supply of roasted beans and I had been looking forward to waking up to the aroma of fresh coffee. I went across to shake her shoulder to get her up, but as I bent down over her I froze. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the sky above and from her slack jaw a trail of dribble ran down her chin. Slowly I reached out and touched her shoulder; her skin was cool and the joint felt stiff. She had been dead for a while. I looked up. The guide was busy tying up his blanket ready for the day’s walk and Jasmina was in the trees conducting her toilette. Only Malala, still sitting on her bedding, was watching me. There was no concern or alarm on her face, just curiosity as she waited for me to react.

  “Did you do this?” I asked quietly.

  “Perhaps now she will wait in the village,” she whispered not answering my question.

  “And will you kill her too if she doesn’t?” I persisted.

  “Do you want her to tell your commanders how the great British hero was found hiding in a bush in the middle of a battle, or how you begged for your life and showed the Ashanti king how to use your latest weapons? You have as much reason as me to stop her reaching Cape Coast Castle before we leave.” As she spoke, she uncoiled herself from the floor and stood up. I was not sure if I had shared that bush at Nsamankow with a green mamba, but Malala looked just as deadly. There was an impassive calm to her, with not a shred of remorse over the death of the maid. There were probably countless other victims lining her rise to power and I did not have a shred of doubt that she would despatch me too if I became inconvenient. I was only alive because she wanted something: heaven help me if I stood in her way.

  “Leave her alone today,” I whispered. “I will try to persuade her to stay in the next village.”

  “It is up to you,” shrugged Malala. “You can try your way first, then we do it my way.” She went off into the jungle then to conduct her own toilette and so was not there when Jasmina returned. Malala might not have been present, but she would have heard the screams of anguish when Jasmina found the body. They were swiftly followed by shouted Arabic oaths and curses as she made it very clear who she thought was responsible. We looked
over the maid’s body but there were no signs of any wounds at all, although a tiny insect bite would have been harder to spot on her darker skin.

  “We don’t know what killed her,” I said gently, trying to placate Jasmina. “It could have been anything.”

  “It was her,” spat Jasmina gesturing into the jungle. Malala was nowhere to be seen but I was sure that she was nearby and eavesdropping on the conversation. “She used poison or snake venom and she is going to pay for what she has done.”

  “Look, supposing you are right, and I’m not saying you are. That means that she has killed two people already and she will come after you next. We still have five days to go and neither of us can stay awake all night every night. Stop at the next village and I will get your father to send some people to collect you.”

  Jasmina thought about what I said for a moment. “What if she kills you?”

  “She won’t kill me because she wants me to take her to London. I will get to the castle and then I will speak to your father.” Of course, if Malala was standing over me with one of her scorpions, I would delay speaking to her father until a ship was in sight, but Jasmina was not to know that.

  She seemed to see the sense in what I was saying, “Tell her I will stop at the next village if you want.” I breathed a sigh of relief before she added, “But as soon as you are out of sight I will pay the villagers to take me to the coast. What do the British do with traitors, do they hang them?”

  That’s it, my girl, I thought, certain that Malala was nearby, you have just signed your own death warrant.