I sat at the edge of the road and opened the satchel. Inside was a small gold chain. I cut it in half with the knife – it would not do to show the traders too much wealth. Then with some thread from one of the gowns I fashioned a necklace and put it around Jasmina’s neck.
“Go to one of the Arabs and see if you can barter this necklace for some food,” I told her. “Try to drive a hard bargain so that they do not suspect we have more. They would probably kill us both for what is in this satchel.”
She laughed. “An Englishman does not need to teach an Arab to haggle, we are gifted with this skill from birth.” She headed off a little unsteadily down the track. I watched anxiously, wondering what we would do if they refused or worse, held her captive. I needn’t have worried, though, for five minutes later she was back with some fruit she had got for nothing.
“We are on the road from Coomassie to the Dutch port of Elmina,” she told me. “We are invited to their camp and for two links of the gold they will give us bowls of meat stew, but it will not be ready for an hour.”
I grinned with relief. Elmina was just seven miles up the coast from Cape Coast Castle. The Dutch, though, did a lot of trade with the Ashanti and I doubted they would help us, but I knew there had to be a way to get to the castle from there. “I can’t go into their camp,” I said. “They would soon realise I’m not an Arab woman if I do.”
“I have told them that you are deaf, said Jasmina brightly. “So ignore their questions and just sit quietly, you will be fine.”
So it was that just over an hour later I was in the traders’ camp. There were several fires; most of the men sat around one and all of the women around another. To my horror I saw that the Arab women removed their veils to eat. Jasmina had already removed hers and one of our hosts gestured for me to remove mine. I shook my head and shot a mute look of appeal to my companion for assistance. She said something to the others, but whether she claimed I was horribly disfigured or just shy I could not say. Whatever, they were satisfied with the explanation although one or two looked at me curiously as I shovelled food behind the veil and into my mouth. It was good to feel full again.
We stayed with that caravan for the next two days and as it happened it was a good job we did. But it was a struggle not to show that I could hear. Twice when I looked up as people called out, I caught a woman with a red headscarf looking at me curiously, but she did not say anything. When we were back on the road we passed several groups of travellers heading inland. Then early on the afternoon of the second day we saw a group of men blocking our path. There must have been at least fifty of them, all well-armed; they looked to me like Ashanti soldiers. I started to hang back but the woman in the red scarf shouted at me. When I looked up she smiled, by then she must have known full well that I was not deaf and she clearly suspected that we were on the run. She gestured for us to come forward and pushed us into the middle of the group of women. We stood nervously, hiding in the centre of the crowd as two of the leaders went forward to talk with the Ashanti. Knowing the way of things, I saw that they had taken gifts to smooth our passage. After a couple of minutes, the soldiers stood aside and the caravan moved on. Once more I breathed a sigh of relief and wondered how many more obstacles there might be left between us and our goal.
I’ll swear I smelt it, before we saw it. There was a definite tang in the air just before dusk. Then as we rounded a bend a cheer rang out from the men in front. I ran forward to where they were standing. In front of us was a town with another large castle but beyond that was the sea. It was a joyous sight, like liquid gold in the setting sun. I reached around and hugged Jasmina and there may even have been a tear in my eye as I gazed along the shore.
“Elmina,” said the woman with the red scarf behind me. “Dutch,” she added pointing at the town. Then giving me a shrewd look, she pointed east and added, “British.” The jungle obscured any view of the British settlement, but I knew it was little more than a couple of hours’ walk along the beach. The woman had started talking Arabic to Jasmina, who explained that we would have to wait a little bit longer.
“The Ashanti are on the shore between here and Cape Coast Castle,” she warned. “They have the British surrounded. There are also many of them in Elmina and if they discover we are there, the Dutch may hand us over. But this lady says we can hire a fisherman in Elmina to take us around them.”
I wondered if I was about to jump from the frying pan into the fire. It sounded like Cape Coast Castle was already under siege and I did not fancy our chances of fighting off thousands of Ashanti. But what was the alternative? I could hardly stay dressed as a maid in Elmina. At least one woman had already seen through my disguise. Staying in the town, it would only be a matter of time before I was discovered. I could not bear the thought of being taken back to Coomassie and whatever fate awaited me there. At least at Cape Coast Castle I could get rid of the wretched gown and veil and if there was a God in heaven, there might also be a ship in the bay to carry me home.
Chapter 21
To get into the town of Elmina, you had to cross a bridge over a river by its castle. It stands on a little promontory out to sea. As we walked over the rough-hewn planks, I eagerly looked to my left, down the coast. My veil hid a beaming smile as I saw anchored just off Cape Coast Castle, not one but several ships. My heart soared; salvation was at hand. We spent that night in one of the traders’ warehouses, but I barely slept. I was burning with impatience to complete the final stage of our journey. Then at first light the lady in the red scarf took us down to the river mouth and found us a boatman who could be trusted. She hugged us both and we climbed down into the canoe, which was soon being skilfully paddled out through the waves.
“The woman said you should keep your veil on until we are sure you are safe,” shouted Jasmina over the sound of the surf. “The Ashanti will have spies and agents in the town and possibly in Cape Coast Castle itself.”
“One more hour won’t be a hardship,” I yelled back. “Then I might burn the bloody thing.”
“I doubt my father would approve of me doing the same,” Jasmina laughed and then she reached forward in the canoe to grip my hand. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said. I could see that her eyes above the veil were brimming with tears. “I would never have made it without you.”
“Come now, I could not have made it without you either. I would have looked damned odd in this rig by myself and that caravan would probably have set the dogs on me rather than helped.”
“But you risked your life to kill Malala and save me. I owe you a great debt.”
Veils can be damn useful after all, for they hid a smile of surprise at that remark. Yes, I had been feeling protective of the girl, but there was more than a shred of self-interest involved when I tried to pitch Malala off that log. It was only a matter of time before the translator would have tried to kill me too. Jasmina knew nothing of the dart that the translator had threatened me with and I thought it better that she remain in ignorance. In fact, I spent a moment wondering just how indebted she might feel she was.
The fisherman soon had a sail up and the canoe fairly skidded over the water until we were coming up fast on the beach by the British settlement. He was not landing in the town but on the beach just outside, I did not care as there were no Ashanti in sight. Soon came the welcome hiss of the wooden bottom of the boat on sand. We jumped out onto the shore and just hugged each other as our captain used a paddle to get the boat turned back into the waves. Against all the odds we had made it, we had only flaming well escaped! We had done what had seemed utterly impossible during those weeks I was held in a cell in Coomassie. Breaking out of what was probably the tightest palace in Africa, evading the whole Ashanti army and killing a ruthless agent to boot. As Jasmina dropped to her knees to offer a silent prayer of thanks to her god and perhaps for the souls of her maids, I did not know whether to laugh or cry with relief and came close to both. I looked up and saw the mud brick wall that marked the edge of town just twenty yards away.
I remembered too well walking up to the identical wall on the opposite side of the settlement all those months ago. As we held hands and strolled towards the gate now I recalled how Ensign Wetherell had welcomed me on my previous visit. Then, unbidden, came the memory of his severed head on the upturned trough.
Instead of soldiers, two sailors appeared in the gateway as we approached. They ran their eyes over us and then one turned to the other and said, “I don’t fancy yours much. That tall one is a right ugly munter. I’ll take my chances with the pretty young one.”
Jasmina burst out laughing but I was less impressed.
“’Ere, that girl understands English,” said the other sailor.
“So does the ugly munter, damn your eyes,” I growled. I took off my veil and had the satisfaction of watching their jaws drop in astonishment as my bearded features were revealed. “Major Thomas Flashman,” I announced, resuming my former military rank. “Now I would be obliged if you would let us through so that I can report to whoever is in charge.”
With a final embrace, we parted once we were through the gate. Jasmina running to the town surrounding the fort to look for her father, while I headed to the gate of the castle. A bearded white man wearing a woman’s gown brought me more than a few enquiring stares, but I did not give a fig about that, for I was finally safe. I must have been striding with an air of authority – the goggling sentries did not attempt to stop me – and soon I was in the main courtyard. I glanced across to where I had seen Eliza giving her lessons, it must have been at least six months before, but there was no sign of her. I had just climbed some steps to the officers’ quarters when I was finally intercepted.
“You, sir, what is your business here?” A captain was standing in a doorway. He was so cadaverously thin, that it took me a second to recognise him, but when I did I beamed with delight.
“Rickets, what kind of welcome is that to an old comrade? The last time I saw you, I was plugging someone running at your back with my Collier and now you treat me like the town tramp.”
“Flashman?” he gasped and he took an unsteady step back as though I had punched him in the gut. “But we thought you were dead.”
“I damn nearly was on several occasions,” I told him, enjoying the look of astonishment on his face. “You must forgive my attire, I have recently been disguised as a veiled Arab woman as we passed through Ashanti patrols hidden as part of a trading caravan.” If I had told him I had passed through the jungle as the back end of a pantomime horse I doubt he would have looked more astonished, for he just goggled at me speechless.
“But… but where have you been?” he stammered. “The battle was four months ago.”
“I was taken prisoner along with Mr Williams, although he was wounded in the leg and when I last saw him it did not look like he would survive their medical ministrations.”
This explanation only left Rickets more dumbfounded. “But Williams is here. He was returned to the Dutch at Elmina a couple of months ago, naked and bound. He has written a report of his captivity, but he did not mention you.”
Now it was my time to be surprised. “Damn the man, is he here? Can I see him?” Rickets led the way along a veranda. As we went I stripped off my Arab gown to reveal the tattered garments I wore underneath.
I was shown into a room with an old bearded man lying on a bed, that I only just recognised as the secretary. He had evidently endured a tougher ordeal in captivity than I, not that I felt too sorry for him at that moment. “Williams, why did you not tell them that I was a prisoner with you?” I pointed to my bare arm, “Do you not remember me tying this sleeve around your wounded leg or helping you walk all the way to Assamacow?”
By way of response, poor Williams gave a start of surprise and then fainted clean away. When he came around again, he explained that he had been delirious for much of his captivity and could not remember what was real and what was not.
“I thought you were some kind of guardian angel,” he admitted sheepishly. “You weren’t there when I recovered. I was half out of my mind back then, I used to have long conversations with those severed heads and in my imagination, they answered me and talked amongst themselves.”
Well it was the first time I had been confused with an angel. “They did not argue about their favourite cheese, did they?” I asked idly, but seeing a mystified expression on his face, I went on. “They took me away while they were trying to get that ball out of your leg.” I turned to Rickets, “They tied ropes to either side of the wound and tried to squeeze that and the pus out.”
The captain went green at the thought, but Williams spoke up. “I don’t know how, but they did get the ball out and the wound is now healing well.”
“Did you hear anything about a new Ashanti king?” asked Rickets. “We have had rumours that the old king has died and a brother of his has taken the throne.”
“I have done more than hear about him. I have met him and was his prisoner in Coomassie for two months before I escaped.”
“You have been to their capital and escaped all the way back here?” repeated Rickets, fresh astonishment crossing his features. “But how?”
I laughed, “Who is the governor here now? Perhaps we should go and find him so that I only have to tell this tale once.”
I discovered that the acting governor was still Major Chisholm and I was soon shown up to the study where I had first met McCarthy. On the way Rickets explained that he had escaped the battle running after King Dinkera, but he could not keep up in the jungle. He and a warrior had hidden up as the Ashanti search parties roamed about after them and during this time he had come down with a bad dose of fever. Chisholm’s part of the army had found him days later being cared for in a village and close to death.
The major himself was in no great shakes when I finally met him. He was reclining on a day bed and occasionally shivering despite being wrapped in a blanket.
“No, don’t get up,” I said as I saw him struggle to rise. Is everyone in this fort ill, then?” I asked.
After expressing surprise at my miraculous return from the dead, Chisholm explained that of the three hundred and sixteen men then in the garrison, no less than a hundred and four were listed as sick.
“Things would not normally be this bad,” added Rickets, “but for damned Sutherland.”
“Captain,” reprimanded Chisholm, “there is no need for that in front of Mr Flashman.”
Rickets stuck his chin stubbornly out. “Major Flashman is ex-army and he deserves to know what is going on. He saved my life at Nsamankow and this affects him too.”
I was already feeling more than a qualm of disquiet and this only grew as I was then told of the involvement of Lieutenant Colonel William Sutherland. He was a ruthlessly ambitious officer who had been sent to West Africa to take charge of military affairs after the death of McCarthy. He had arrived at Cape Coast Castle with a new surgeon, a quartermaster and forty men. He had assumed command of the army and on hearing that an Ashanti force had been spotted some ten miles away, he ordered an attack by the entire garrison. Then to the disgust of his new officers, he ordered Chisholm off his sickbed to lead the assault. Sutherland was taking no chances of suffering the fate of his predecessor: he sailed back to the safety of Sierra Leone the very next day.
“I warned him that this would leave the castle undefended and that we had no idea of the size of this enemy force, but he would not listen,” complained Chisholm. “We hacked through jungle paths for a week before we encountered the Ashanti. We had five hundred Fantee warriors with us too, but they ran on hearing the first shots, taking a number of our militia with them. We fought a running battle for five hours. I have no idea how strong the enemy was as we only had fleeting glimpses of men running between the trees, but eventually they retreated, taking their dead and wounded with them. We only lost four men killed and twenty-one wounded in the battle, but by the time we got back to the castle around a third of the command were unfit for duty.”
“That is not t
he worst of it,” added Rickets. “We have seen a copy of a despatch that Sutherland sent to Lord Bathurst in London. In it, he claims that under his command, we beat a force of ten thousand Ashanti.” He gave a snort of disgust. “We know all too well the outcome if an army of that size meets a small British force. He is just trying to prove he is better than McCarthy. We hear that he is pressing his friends in London to find him another appointment before he is proved wrong.”
“More worryingly,” added Chisholm, “if London think we can beat ten thousand Ashanti with just a few hundred men, then we will get precious few reinforcements above what we have now.” He gave a heavy sigh, “We have no idea what size force they might attack us with.”
It was a depressing picture and while at last I thought I had some information to add to the discussion, I did not think it would lighten the mood. I shared it nonetheless. “One of the king’s most trusted advisors, a woman called Malala, told me that the Ashanti would send around fifteen thousand against us.”
There was a silence in the room as the other two officers considered the almost inevitable outcome of such an imbalance of forces. Then Rickets’ brow furrowed. “Malala,” he repeated. “Wasn’t she the translator that King Appea used? He is convinced that she had betrayed us all to the Ashanti and he now blames himself for McCarthy’s death.”
“The poor devil insisted on accompanying me when Sutherland ordered us into the jungle,” added Chisholm gloomily. “Now he is down with the fever too. His men and those of Dinkera, are the only reliable native troops we have. Heaven help us if he dies and they go home.”
“Well in that case he will be pleased to learn that she was torn apart by crocodiles in a river a week’s walk from here. I saw her die myself.” I remembered something then, and suddenly I saw grounds for hope. “But I don’t think they will attack yet. When I was here before, people told me that the fever comes with the rains. The worst of the fever season is in August: that is when they will attack.”
lashman and the Golden Sword Page 19
