“We got the cannons on the land wall, Sarge.”
“So we ‘ave, and in the day time they’ll keep ‘em off. They ain’t much use at night. We got to ‘ave men on the walls, with bayonets more than powder and ball, for not being able to see a target when its dark.”
“We’re buggered then, Sarge. There ain’t barely enough men now.”
The word spread and the realisation came to them all that they were more likely than not to be massacred within a few months. The bulk of the men reacted in what seemed to them to be the most sensible manner; they drank even more.
The colonel reacted by ordering more floggings; he put twenty men into the sickbay and lost four to wound fever before he realised that he was doing the tribesmen’s work for them. He stopped flogging; the men, and the officers, carried on drinking.
Mollie saw what was happening; she was not happy, because after the fort had fallen the township would go next.
“What about you soldiers gives our boys they muskets, Harry? That way they gets a chance to fight.”
Harry thought about the possibility; then he took the idea to Sergeant Hollis.
“We got blokes what keeps watch in the daytime, Sarge. Suppose we trains them up with the spare Besses. So many men dead we must ‘ave two hundred in the stores. Stick them up on the walls, man and man with us, and we maybe got a chance of keeping our throats uncut.”
“Most of ‘em ain’t whole blacks, Harry; ‘alf and quarter and eighth white, some of ‘em. The colonel might go for it. Dunno about the governor, though.”
“What I hears, Sarge, if the governor don’t want it, then the colonel’s goin’ to do it to spite ‘im.”
“I’ll talk to Lieutenant Dabney. I can’t speak direct to the colonel, got to go through the chain of command.”
Lieutenant Dabney was not very bright and had been an ensign still at age thirty; he had been congratulating himself on finally achieving his step until he had realised that the chances were he would be die badly as soon as the next Dry Season came in. Being inclined to value his own skin rather highly he jumped on the prospect of salvation that Sergeant Hollis held out. He took Hollis directly to the colonel’s office.
“Can’t trust ‘em, can we. Give guns to the blacks they’ll like as not turn ‘em on us!”
“Beg pardon, sir. But these blokes ain’t real blacks, not like them lot up in the villages, sir. Most of ‘em got a father or grandad what was one of us, sir. If the men from the villages kill us, then they’ll go into the town and do them next. They ain’t got much choice other than us, sir.”
“Good point, Sergeant! I’ve looked at these buggers on the gate at day time, wondered why they looked a bit different. Straight hair, some of them; others don’t have the right sort of nose; one or two a bit on the pale side. Never thought of that reason though. Obvious, now you mention it. They’ve got no hope except us. Can we find two hundred of them, Dabney?”
“So I am told, sir. Should be possible, sir. Go into town and there’s swarms of ‘em all over the place. Start with the lads at the gate and ask them if they have brothers, sir, that’s the easiest way.”
“Do you agree, Sergeant Hollis?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hollis did not think it necessary to point out that he had made the suggestion to Dabney before they had come to the colonel.
“Very good. We don’t want them in the battalion. If we did, we would have to take them back to England with us next year, and that would do us no good, or them. Best if we make them into a unit of their own. Cape Coast Irregulars, eh, Dabney?”
Dabney was not very clever, but he knew enough to applaud the colonel’s decision, to be amazed by its genius.
“Can’t do it meself! Got to get the bloody governor to establish a local force of militia. Dabney, you go about finding the men. Get them together and start drill with the muskets. I shall talk to the local merchants. If we get killed, then so do they. They’ll ‘speak’ to the governor, I don’t doubt.”
A week and the Cape Coast Irregulars were a reality. Each volunteer wore the red coat of a dead soldier and carried his musket and bayonet. Many of them had seen the soldiers at drill and the majority had watched as a musket was loaded; they learned the basics very quickly. It was slower work teaching them to take an aim and to fire volleys, but they were very willing to learn, knowing that their whole family would die if they failed in their defence.
Two months and they progressed to the bayonet, taking to that very quickly, most of them having some knowledge of the spear.
They made the request to carry their bush knives at night.
“Short cutlasses, sir. Very useful in the dark, sir.”
Sergeant Hollis was much in favour and Dabney made no protest, merely taking the matter to the colonel who agreed instantly.
“The governor has decided that the Irregulars must have an officer of their own, Sergeant Hollis. He would remain in command of them, staying on the Coast when the battalion went home. The merchants are willing to cough up a generous wage and provide a bounty for the fortunate man to purchase his outfit as a lieutenant. Quarters in the Castle, though not to use the Officers’ Mess here. I can offer you the commission, Sergeant Hollis, you being the best man for the post. Eight shillings a day, and free messing; fifty pounds bounty.”
“Thank you, sir! I shall be very pleased to accept, sir.”
“Very good! Congratulations, Lieutenant Hollis! Your appointment is to take immediate effect. Uniforms can be made up from the effects of our dead officers – too easily, I am afraid. It will be possible to modify the chest plates for your own battalion – there are brass workers in town who can do that. You must appoint your own NCOs, Mr Hollis. Two sergeants and four corporals. A Reverend Quaque has volunteered his services as chaplain to your people. He offered them to us as well, says he’s C of E, believe it or not. I sent him on his way, rejoicing! You can use him if you want.”
“He is a very good man, sir. He ‘as offered to teach reading and writing to any of our men who want it. Corporal Belper ‘as learned from ‘im, sir, so that ‘e could be made up. Reverend Quaque was taken to London, sir, when ‘e was a boy, and ‘e was, what do you call it, ordained there, sir.”
“Damned fool missionaries! Not to worry, Lieutenant Hollis. Piece of advice, sir: if you want any respect from the officers in the next battalion posted here – and that will be a bare year from now – then make yourself acquainted with the letter Aitch, sir. They will listen to you and make their judgement on the way you speak, nothing else. It’s your choice, man, but it is what I would advise. Now then, Lieutenant Hollis, a drink to celebrate your promotion!”
Chapter Five
The doldrums ushered in the Wet Season, Harry’s second and he expected his last on the Fever Coast. The previous year’s Wet had been a time of idleness, but this time they had to work a few hours of each day, teaching volley fire to the Irregulars and themselves learning gun drill. The colonel had decided that they must have men to provide a back-up on the big guns. Six or eight of the eighteen pounders enfilading the rear wall with canister, a load of a gross of musket balls and firing every three minutes, would break the back of any assault, however wild the warriors making it.
“They say that the natives chew leaves to make ‘em fierce, Harry.”
“Better get some of them for the lads, sir. Some of them ain’t feeling that bold.”
Lieutenant Hollis nodded; he had seen the lack of spirit among the Fusiliers. A combination of the fevers, too much booze and too little meaningful work had broken many of them; a goodly number had never possessed much in the way of martial ardour in the first place, signed on one step ahead of the law. They had not come to the Coast to fight, they had expected only to stand guard and hope to be lucky, to survive the diseases and go back home again.
“Pass the word, Harry, that the Asante have promised to protect the fortress and the town – they want to sell slaves next season. No need to tell the lads that
they will only move if they have to – they won’t stand guard on us. Time they find out we’re being attacked and move down to the coast, well, it’ll be all over one way of the other.”
“It will be your Irregulars doing most of the work if it comes to it, sir. Most of the Fusiliers will do well enough while they’re behind the stones of the wall and shooting their volleys to order; if it comes to hand-to-hand… well, I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, the chances are you’re going to find out within a week of the Wet ending, Harry. Some of my lads ‘ave, have, talked with blokes from up-country a bit, and they say the word’s out in the small tribes. They say that the Castle is a soft touch, that the redcoats have forgotten how to fight. Five ‘undred, hundred, of fighting warriors, that’s what they say is coming our way, marching out the day after the Wet ends.”
“That ain’t enough to take the Castle, sir.”
“It will be if the men run or try to surrender, Harry. The chief from the village by the trading post says that the redcoats got no balls. He says they just need to stand outside and fire at the walls and wait until the redcoats try to talk about giving up. He says that they can promise to take our surrender, then they collect up the guns and powder and tell us that the fort is theirs, then they kill us all as soon as we go outside. Then they take the town for theirs as well. Then, he says, they will have so much power that they can fight the Asante and drive them back inland. He will then be king of the Coast and all of the tribes who supported him will get a share in the slave-trading money. Some of them believe him, but most of them have sent runners inland to the Asante to tell them everything.”
“What will the Asante do, sir?”
“Wait. They want to see if the chief’s right. If he is, they will let him kill us, so they get none of the blame, then they’ll stamp him and his five hundred flat and take over the Castle themselves. They’ll explain what happened to next Season’s traders and make new arrangements for trading – a bigger share of the money for them.”
“If the chief’s wrong, then they’ll wipe out his village, and all the others what supported ‘im, sir. That, they will reckon, will show us and the traders what good friends they are and always have been.”
“That’s right, Harry. We are on our bloody own!”
Lieutenant Hollis reported his findings to the colonel; he was ignored. He spoke as well to the acting-commandant of the Castle, and he listened but did not know what he could do.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you could shift another six fortress guns to the rear wall – there’s embrasures and mountings for the breech ropes, sir. No need to keep them manned, but load them with canister, sir and point them to sweep the ground outside the walls. Wait till we’ve fired the first round from the guns they know are manned, then take ‘em by surprise when they charge. Teach six of my lads how to use a linstock to touch ‘em off, sir, that’s all what would be needed.”
The fevers were kind to them this year, no more than a touch of ordinary typhoid that killed a dozen and made fifty ill for a few weeks. The bulk of the men were within reason fit as the Dry Season approached.
The Rainy Season petered out and the sun shone again, the clouds all gone. On the next day the alarm went up in the fort.
The Fusiliers ran to the walls, every man who could lean a musket in a loophole and pull a trigger pushed into line. One hundred and eighty barrels showed along the crenellations.
The twelve long cannon were run out, and largely ignored. The chief knew that there were no more than six gun crews; the redcoats were putting up a show, an attempt to frighten him.
Three men stood forward, escorting the chief; one of them spoke some English, having been sent to Quaque’s classes as a boy.
“The chief, he calls you to open the gate, Mister Redcoat. You let him in; you go out; give him your musket; no problem, no fight, all good.”
Only the four were visible; the five hundred, if they existed, remained hidden in the bush, a hundred yards back from the wall.
“Answer him, Lieutenant Hollis.”
The colonel and the acting-commandant had argued for half the night and had come to no agreement on what to do if a parley was called.
Hollis stood on the wall beside the gate, shouted down to the four.
“Why? We do not give in to four men.”
The chief shouted and waved in response and his army showed themselves, four lines of men enveloping the rear wall of the fort and pressing forward onto the cleared grassland.
Hollis turned his head and called behind him.
“Less than five ‘undred, sir. Kill ‘em all is best, sir!”
The acting-governor had not expected that response; the colonel stayed silent, intending to let the governor make a fool of himself before giving his own orders to save the day.
“Lieutenant Hollis…”
Hollis took the acting-governor’s words as an order and cut him off in mid-sentence.
“Irregulars, up!”
The two hundred men had been sat out of sight on the walkway, now stood to the wall itself.
“Take aim! Fire!”
The gunners followed suit and the six men at the extra cannon touched them off as well.
The Fusiliers had no orders, delayed for them. Harry turned to his squad of six.
“At the chief, take aim!”
A few seconds while he pointed his own musket, then he called them to fire.
The chief and one of his companions fell and then the remainder of the Fusiliers fired their volleys. No orders came and the sergeants and corporals fell into their routine, reloading, pointing, firing, all together, three rounds a minute. Clouds of powder smoke obscured their vision but they continued to fire blind.
Harry heard Lieutenant Hollis calling his people to cease fire, raised his own shout together with the other corporals. They checked their loads and then leaned on their weapons while they waited for the smoke to clear. The gunners reloaded their own cannon and then ran to the extras and quickly swabbed them out and loaded canister and pointed them again before trotting back to their own posts.
The cleared grass was a bloody mess, the great bulk of the tribesmen butchered, hit repeatedly by musket balls, even blown to pieces by the heavier canister rounds.
“Permission to tidy up, sir?”
The acting-governor, who had never experienced battle, swallowed back the vomit as he inspected the mess and nodded to Lieutenant Hollis. The Irregulars ran out of the gate and split into platoons, machetes in hand, working their way through the debris. They tidied up the easy way, killing every man not already dead in ten quick and possibly merciful minutes; there was no medical care available to the sufferers and few if any would have lived more than a handful of slow hours.
“How many, Lieutenant Hollis?”
“My lads have counted the heads, sir – not easy to just go by the number of bodies, not the way they’re spread, sir. They say three hundred and seventy, sir. I would reckon that to be close to the number, sir. There was a few less than the five hundred that they talked about, and some will have made it off the field, sir, untouched perhaps or only hit a little bit. They’ll be running, because they know if they go into the town then they’ll be chopped, for shouting their mouths off about the women they were going to take and the men they were going to kill. They’ll be in the bush, sir, legging it as fast as they can and trying to work out what to do. They won’t go back to their villages.”
“We should chase them, I presume, Lieutenant Hollis.”
Hollis shook his head, pityingly. The acting-governor really did not know what was what.
“Listen, sir.”
There was a drum pounding in the town; deep-toned, a section cut from a very large tree-trunk to make so great a noise.
“They’ll hear that miles away, sir. I dunno just how far. But there’ll be another one in the next village, and more across the whole of the bush. They say they talk with them drums, sir. Send messages, like. The Asante will know every
thing that happened here before evening, sir. They’ll be out by morning, and into every village that let its young men go to this war. The land will be part of Asante by breakfast time, sir, and the most of the men remaining in the village will be dead if they’re old, in slave chains if they can be sold. Boys as well.”
“So… What do we do? How do we clear that mess up? We don’t want them stinking us out of the Castle as they rot.”
“Thruppence each, sir. Make the offer to my lads and they’ll have their womenfolk come up from town to do the most of the work. They’ll throw them into the swamp and get buckets of water to sluice the grass down a bit. Be glad to, most of ‘em, sir. They’ll collect up their spears and machetes and any guns they had as well; the good they’ll keep, the broken can be sold to the smithies, they always need iron.”
The acting-governor nodded his consent; the smell was getting to him and he wanted to be back in his office, preferably with a glass of something strong.
“Colonel Roberts? Do you agree, sir?”
“Wholly.” The colonel raised his voice, called the Fusiliers to stand down, to get out of the hot sun, with the exception of the Grenadiers who should remain as guard on the walls.
“There might be as many as a hundred of them still out there. They might be running, but we must not leave the walls open while Lieutenant Hollis and his people are busy.”
It was a nuisance, but it did make sense. If the warriors who had survived could not realistically expect to go home or find a welcome in the town, then they must go somewhere.
Harry asked Lieutenant Hollis what would happen to the survivors; had his Irregulars told him?
“They’ll die, Harry. They might be able to live out in the bush for a while, but with no villages, no gardens, no goats, no mates to form hunting parties with them, they ain’t going to last long. The best hope they’ve got, so the lads say, is to make it a few miles along the coast to the Frogs or Goosers and show themselves to them and get captured as slaves.”
Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks Page 10