Eleanor and Arthur acknowledged that they had been asked not to interrupt, so they simply smiled their encouragement. Charlotte went across to a kitchen drawer and extracted a green folder. ‘This contains the full story. Arthur, I leave you to decide how much of it you pass on to dear Eleanor although having seen you so close for six years or more I can guess the answer to that.’ She clasped the folder tightly, resting it on her lap. ‘This contains the full and awful facts that I’m passing to you; I think it best you read it privately. However, I must first explain how this came into existence.’ Eleanor noticed the tremble in her voice, a tear appear and a slight movement of the shoulders which prefaced a determined effort to continue.
‘The whole saga goes back many, many years and I’m still not sure why your father told me what had been a secret with him for nearly forty years. When I asked him, he said that he did not want to die without telling me. I think it was more that he had begun to feel poorly at that time and did not want to die without forgiveness. It was only when he realised he was confronted with the inevitability of dying that his conscience got the better of him. I wish he had never told me; that I had been allowed to die in ignorance. If he was hoping for my forgiveness I have never been able to bring myself to grant that. Arthur, maybe you can help me to know how to forgive, I would love that. But let me continue.
‘You may remember that we came up to Rusfield three years ago. As always it was lovely to share that Easter in your friendly village, but in other ways it was an awful time. You see, it was about two months before coming to see you that your father had first felt unwell and the doctor had hinted at a heart problem.’
Eleanor thought back to that visit and recalled how she had felt a distance, a gulf between Arthur’s parents.
‘I didn’t want to worry you with the news of his heart condition, and certainly couldn’t bring myself to tell you what I had so recently heard, although at first he only told me half the story. Whatever his reason for telling me, it was about what happened only a few years after we were married, when you were just a young boy. Arthur, you and I, friends, army colleagues and many others know the event of forty years ago when as a young officer your father was the only one to escape from a group of ferocious natives in a village in the Gold Coast.’
She paused; clearly this was a moment about which she had warned her listeners. Both Arthur and Eleanor wanted to comfort her, but again refrained from interrupting.
‘In a few words, what we have believed for forty years was so far short of the truth that in reality it was the most awful lie any of us could ever hear. Yes, some of the story was true, but the part missed out is what I find unforgiveable. You must be wondering why and how things are recorded in this folder. Well, his experience made him aware of army bureaucracy and he knew some record would have been made of what happened on that day in January 1874. Whilst he had retired from the army, he still had important connections and made a visit to Aldershot. The record office there made available the report he had in mind. In fact, this was a record of the story he had told after he recovered from his injuries; with the additional record of the army officer who had found him when he had collapsed. Indeed, that captain was leading a small number of men to carry a message to your father when they came across him. If that had not happened your father would not have survived.
‘Copies of your father’s report and the brief notes of that captain are in this folder. What surprised, indeed really frightened your father was a third document. I don’t know all the details of what was happening over forty years ago in that part of Africa, but I do know that there was a war going on with the Ashanti people; it was an important possession of the British. As always, lots of innocent people suffered, but a few months later peace treaties were signed between the Ashanti and the British. Some of the terms imposed by the British were harsh, but they conceded a few fairly unimportant points. One of these was that the British would deal with any of their officers who had needlessly brought suffering to the local people. Some kind of tribunal was set up in Accra and local witnesses made statements. One of these concerned your father and a copy of it is in this folder. Of course, the British had no intention of acting on the tribunal findings and I doubt if anything was done other than record witness statements.
‘It’s a statement signed by two tribesmen that reveal the events that were kept hidden from us; it’s what your father eventually told me about. He admitted it was all true. I still can’t really understand why he told me everything so many years later. Do you think it might have been his conscience, Arthur?’
Arthur was clearly thinking hard what to say and Eleanor was glad he offered no quick answer. What, indeed, could he say?
‘Mother, of course what Eleanor and I have heard from you is distressing. We don’t yet know what happened, but it is clearly something that has had a terrible effect upon you. It sounds likely that the events have been on father’s mind for years, so perhaps it is about a feeling of guilt. Maybe he does not want to die with a secret still on his conscience. I don’t know. Let me read the documents and, perhaps, we can all share in knowing what we should do.’ He got up, walked two short paces to his mother, bent down and kissed her. The tears were streaming down her face.
It was Eleanor who spoke. ‘I hope you won’t think I’m interfering in something between both of you, but as Arthur said, I am so sorry that you are being caused so much grief. Why don’t you and I go and look round your lovely garden? This will give Arthur time to read everything. How does that sound?’
Eleanor’s suggestion was immediately accepted; Charlotte kissed Arthur and arm in arm with her daughter-in-law walked from the kitchen through the conservatory and into the garden.
As Arthur lifted up the flap of the folder he wondered just what he would find. Yes, three separate documents, none more than a few pages. He flattened out the one entitled: In the words of Lieutenant Hector Richard Windle: 30th March 1874. The names of the two recorders of the statement and a further witness were given along with name of regiment, previous service and other military details.
On 31st December 1873 I was stationed near Bekwai along with a large contingent of troops recently transported from London. At a briefing I learnt that 2,500 of our men together with several thousand West Indian and African troops were to advance towards Kumasi, the Ashanti stronghold. There were also smaller habitations where law and order was to be brought to bear, hopefully by peaceful means. I was in the force to move eastwards and deal with some small villages.
After a two day march we set up camp by a river. Major Flatman formed us into five groups, each to deal with specific villages. It was the first time I had led men on such an important mission.
The first settlement was peaceful. It was then a long march mainly through forest, although later we crossed a large area which had been cleared and previously farmed. One of the guides had spoken of Akrowbi as a primitive village occupied by two hundred natives. At around 11.00 hours on 6th January 1874 we were on a slight rise from which we could see smoke; I assumed this to be Akrowbi. We advanced until we were close. In an open area cut into the jungle I could see a number of crude huts with around sixty natives including women and children. We must have been seen, because suddenly a spear plunged into the ground just in front of us. My guide told me this was the way the natives would indicate we had been seen, that now we should go forward and speak with the village leader. I ordered my sergeant and two men to accompany me as I went forward, the rest giving us cover. The chieftain came forward and raised his hand, but then everything changed. Two of the men with me fell, I could see the spears in their bodies; there was a great commotion as a horde of natives descended upon the men who were giving cover. I raced to the nearest trees to find myself with my sergeant and one other. We opened fire, but the numbers against us were overwhelming. My sergeant fell and I retreated. Only then did I realise I was wounded, blood was flowing freely from my upper arm. All I could see were bodies of men and some natives
going from one wounded soldier to another and spearing them. I could barely lift my gun, so opposition was impossible.
I waited through that day but could see none of my men, I am sure they must all have been killed. That night I moved away from the village in the direction that we had advanced. My arm was increasingly painful and I had difficulty in walking. I have only a vague memory of the time from then until finding myself in hospital. I believe that was the middle of February.
This is an honest statement which I give freely and willingly.
Arthur sat back and placed the document alongside the others. Yes, this was what he knew of his father over forty years ago, a story he had learnt when a child. A story that had made him proud and, he thought now, revere his father. So what of the other documents? He picked up the second one, much briefer: a statement by Captain Bertram Oliver Pickering dated 20 January 1874. Arthur realised this second document was recorded just under a week after his father had been brought back severely injured:
On the 10th January I was ordered by Major Greensmith to convey messages to two groups that had not returned, including that of Lieutenant Windle. We were to provide any necessary backup.
I organised 20 men and with 3 guides and carriers we set out, a march of five days.
It was very hot and regular rests were necessary. After much forest we came to a cleared area probably by natives for farming. It was barren with just tree stumps and rocks. I ordered a ten minute break.
My sergeant suddenly pointed to a bird flying low. Probably a quarter mile away. It landed on a tree stump and as I looked I saw a slight movement nearby.
With two men I went to investigate. I realised it was a wounded soldier, unconscious but still breathing.
We poured water over him; there was little else we could immediately do.
In relays we conveyed him back to base, arriving on 20th January. He was admitted to hospital.
It was later I learnt this was Lieutenant Windle.
This confirmed the story Arthur knew so well, there was nothing that should have caused his mother undue distress so many years after the event. He picked up the third document dated 19 September 1874, with names of recorders, a witness to the proceedings and the two members of the Ashanti people who gave evidence. It was clearly a combination of what the two had said but in the translator’s words.
Our village is Akrowbi. The people are good and peaceful. Many of our men were away hunting. Women were repairing two huts. We were skinning animals. Suddenly we saw many soldiers. Their guns were pointing at us. Three of the soldiers, one with white hair was their chief, came forward. Kwaku our chief went to greet them. Two of our young men went with him. As they got nearer, the young men raised their spears in greeting, but suddenly the white haired soldier shouted. The guns made big noises and the three men all fell. The guns went on firing and many were killed. The women and children ran into their huts. We hid. We watched the white haired chieftain give orders. He and other soldiers took the branches for repairing the hut roofs, held them in the fire and set the huts alight. As the children and women came out to escape the fires the soldiers shot them. There was much screaming and fire. One of the huts near the edge set fire to some nearby trees, it was the dry season. All the people except the soldiers and the two of us were dead. We were very frightened, we should have tried to stop it but just watched. The fire had been seen by our many men who were hunting. The soldiers were resting and later there was sudden noise as our men came out of the trees and attacked the soldiers. There was very much fighting and many were killed. Soon most were dead. We saw the white haired chieftain and one other run into the trees. They were chased by Yoofi. We do not know what happened to them.
We stayed hidden and later searched. Soldiers and our people were all dead except two young children who were injured. We each picked one up and carried them to another village a long way. There was much smoke and some trees were burning. After a long time we got to the village.
Horror at the enormity of what he had read descended upon Arthur. How much had the interpreter and the recorder fairly translated the witnesses’ stories into a record? Yet his mother said that his father admitted to everything in the document. Across the bottom of the third page were written three comments in a different hand, the writing clear, but the signature indecipherable. This addition to the report was dated 10 November 1874. Anxiously, Arthur tried to understand these comments:
Captain Windle indicated it was totally untrue and was to deflect attention from the natives’ barbaric behaviour.
No further action to be taken.
File.
Arthur involuntarily dropped the document alongside the others. This was a terrible nightmare. It may have been forty years ago, but Arthur could see it happening: the screaming children and women, the pointless killing, the burning. On the first occasion that his father had led men on such a mission, had he panicked? That seemed to have started the senseless slaughter. He felt sick, the sickness turned to anger. Anger at what his father had done, anger at how he was now causing misery to his wife, how he had built his life, his army career on such a terrible lie. How could anyone talk of forgiveness?
Where was God in all this? What did God tell him about forgiveness; was it for him to forgive and what of his mother? He waited and prayed, but could hear nothing. Each of his forty-seven years had been torn away. Yet he still believed there was a God, somewhere. ‘Oh God, help my unbelief. Bring comfort to my mother. I know it is alone for you to forgive, yet help me to forgive my father for all the years of this secret. You alone know that I, too, am guilty of sinning.’
Arthur turned as the door opened. Eleanor was shocked at her husband’s face; she could see misery and despair. He stood and went towards his mother. They flung their arms round each other and cried. Eleanor had never seen her beloved Arthur in such a distressed state even though he had borne so much sad news in his life and she shuddered at what she still had to learn. A sense of great pain lay upon the house. A little later, Eleanor read the papers and shared the pain with the others; no words could be found to speak their thoughts.
An hour later, Arthur went upstairs. His father, his hair sparse and white, was asleep. How could this old, dying man have carried out such an atrocity over forty years ago? How much grief had he caused his wife since telling her; did he really believe that confessing to her would remove his guilt? Arthur sat on a small chair in the corner of the bedroom. His head sank into his hands.
He just did not know how to comfort his beloved mother. As he paused in the hope that God would speak to him, some other words from a confessional prayer came to him: ‘Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hidden’. Perhaps God had always known of his father’s dreadful act and had forgiven him. But what of his own secrets, was he not as guilty as his father; surely everyone has secrets?
Later that day Arthur’s mother quietly fed her husband some warm soup, but he could manage only a little. Arthur and Eleanor sat with her. The next day the doctor visited Colonel Windle; he had now fallen into a deep sleep from which he could not be roused. That night he died.
THIRTY-FIVE
April 1915
News of the death of the vicar’s father reached Rusfield through Arthur’s letter to Frederick Richards, who had enabled St Mary’s to continue with minimum disruption. Whether through age, illness or war, death brought a united sympathy from the villagers.
Charlotte Windle clearly needed time away from all the unhappiness of her home. The funeral took place in the small village church four days after Colonel Windle died; the large gathering of friends swollen by many army dignitaries. One of his father’s contemporaries had sought Arthur out and offered to render a eulogy, but Arthur, knowing full well what would be said, graciously declined.
Eleanor and Arthur were worried about Charlotte’s health; she was dreadfully pale and listless, so unlike her normal self. The day after the funeral, the old farmhouse wa
s closed down and accompanied by six cases, Eleanor, Arthur and his mother left the house. After all that had happened, the Rusfield vicarage was wonderfully welcoming. On the hall table were many cards of sympathy and the rooms were full of flowers. Eliza Carey had received much help from Olivia Atkins in preparing for their homecoming.
For Robert Berry and Violet Rushton, the vicar’s departure to Dorset had created a dilemma. ‘What do you think we should do?’ asked the old soldier. ‘It would seem to be insensitive to go ahead with the parcel project without the vicar and his wife, but I don’t think they would want it delayed.’
‘Let’s wait a few days. Maybe they will stay with Mrs Windle for several weeks, maybe not.’
When word came that the couple were returning, Robert was delighted as were many others; not only churchgoers had missed the vicarage residents. It was after the Sunday service that Robert, with some hesitation, approached Arthur and asked if he felt able to meet. Remembering his mother’s recent advice, Arthur concurred; he would get on with life even though his mind was not without some turmoil. It was agreed they meet on the following Wednesday. Many offered words of sympathy, but it was Olivia Atkins who was the first to speak with Arthur’s mother: ‘Mrs Windle, all of us are so saddened by your husband’s passing. We all want you to know how much we are thinking of you. Please feel very welcome here in Rusfield.’ Charlotte Windle stepped forward and kissed the attractive widow on her cheek, tears in her eyes.
Three days later, Violet Rushton, Robert Berry, Eleanor and Arthur shared tea and biscuits in the vicarage conservatory. The quartet knew rumours of the parcel project had already swept round the village. Eleanor had been surprised when going into the butchers, she heard Susannah Jones talking about the plan as if it were a fait accompli. ‘Our boys need all the things we can send them,’ she heard Susannah saying to Rita Small. ‘We make up parcels for Albert, but I’m not sure all the lads do so well.’
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