I nearly laughed at him. With our lives hanging by a thread, he was more worried by calling me out for the coward that I was. “It’s nothing,” I grunted as I raised the butt of my musket again to bring it down on the top of the second barrel. Then I stared, frozen in horror.
I have looked aghast on a fair few grim sights in my time: the final advance of the Imperial Guard at Waterloo; Procter’s army dissolving before the charge at Moraviantown or the last desperate defence at the Alamo, but none was as horribly unexpected as what I saw that day. For as McCarthy and I stared down into the barrel, we saw not the desperately needed cartridges, but instead… macaroni. I remember plunging my hand into it, willing my sense of touch to correct what my eyes were telling me. The governor stepped back as though he had been struck, his jaw sagging in disbelief. Then shaking himself like a bear from a stream, he snatched up my musket and smashed it through the lid of the third and final barrel. I did not need to see the contents, for I could tell from his reaction.
“You bloody fool,” he roared at the hapless Brandon. “See what you have done!”
The quartermaster was similarly stunned as he gazed into the barrels and saw what he had been struggling through the jungle with for the past few hours. “I… I didn’t know,” he gasped, which only served to make McCarthy angrier.
“You incompetent imbecile,” he shouted. “You will be court martialed for this, I promise you that.” He turned and called out to Rickets, “Captain, the quartermaster is to be placed under arrest.”
The poor captain, who was desperately overseeing the defence at one of the tree bridges, glanced over his shoulder in astonishment. Men were running towards him with the first hat-fuls of cartridges to be distributed amongst his men. He was too far away to hear the exclamations of dismay as others looked into the two barrels of macaroni. “Please sir,” he shouted, “first we should get cartridges to the defenders.” The single barrel of ammunition was already half empty as a steady stream of soldiers and warriors came up to replenish their comrades still fighting.
I could see more Ashanti pouring over the log bridges and Rickets shouting at men to stop them. Brandon, still in a state of shock, was staggering towards the river while McCarthy started to stride through the camp, muttering something about having his quartermaster hanged. Everyone had forgotten about me and as I looked about, I saw two of the men who had carried the barrels, start to back away into the jungle. They were obviously quick-witted lads who had seen that the situation was lost. There did not seem a second to lose as I followed their example.
As I pushed my way onto the trail behind them, they looked over their shoulder, perhaps expecting me to stop them. “Run, you fools!” I bellowed, gesturing them on and despite their earlier efforts to carry the barrels, they went like the wind. I followed, puffing, in their wake, but they were soon twenty yards ahead and then forty, barely visible amongst the thick foliage as they went down twisting forest paths. I caught a glimpse of one as he crested a shallow rise and was just in time to see him throw up his hands and fall. With the noise of the battle behind echoing through the trees around me, it took me a second or two to realise what had happened. Indeed, if a new warrior with a smoking musket had not appeared to stand over the corpse, I might have even run on. Instead, I threw myself behind the thick trunk of a tree and stared around in a fresh burst of panic. The newcomer was not another porter. Before I could even begin to gather my wits, I heard other men moving in the jungle around me. Was it Chisholm’s men here at last? Or was it one of the columns I had anticipated the Ashanti would send across to attack our flanks?
My deliberations were answered succinctly by a yell to my right. I looked up and saw some evil, black villain running towards me, a large cleaver raised in his hand. The Collier barked in my fist, without me even thinking about it. Before his corpse had hit the ground I was off and running, back the way I had come, with what sounded like a dozen shrieking fiends hot on my heels.
I don’t think I have ever run so fast in my life, certainly not over rough ground. I would have won the cross-country cup at Rugby with ease if I had been pursued by murderous Ashanti. I did not dare look over my shoulder, for to stumble would have been fatal. I remember crashing through a bush and finding myself back in the clearing with the three barrels and a few startled soldiers. I did not stop, but I heard the Ashanti behind me begin to engage with those in the clearing. It was a scene of utter confusion. More Ashanti had made it over the log bridges and now men were fighting and running everywhere I looked. My overarching memory is one of terror and it is hard to say what happened when. As I write this, I have before me the account of the battle from young Rickets and between our two memories, I will try to recount what happened.
The British and their allied warriors were trying to fall back from the river, but there was no order to the withdrawal. I remember Brandon staggering back towards me with his shirt covered in blood, then a dozen redcoats in a tight circle trying to fight their way clear as Ashanti soldiers poured fire into them. One of the attackers virtually ran into me and I pulled the trigger again to send him sprawling in the mud. Then I saw King Dinkera’s feathered hat, visible above the heads of his men as they fought their way back into the trees. Rickets shouted out a warning to a soldier as another Ashanti ran towards the captain’s exposed back. Instinctively I thumbed back the flint of the Collier and twisted the chamber round to shoot the man down, earning a nod of appreciation from Rickets as I cursed my impulsiveness. The Collier only had five chambers and now there were just two left.
“Where is the governor?” I shouted at the captain. If the Ashanti were to spare anyone, it would be McCarthy. Now my instinct was to be with him when he was captured, in the hope of being spared too. Rickets gestured over his shoulder and I ran on in that direction, weaving between various running battles. I distinctly remember dodging two wild-eyed jungle deer stampeding through the clearing. They must have been driven towards the battle by one of the flanking forces and were now desperate to escape to safety. I knew how they felt. As I moved among the trees I caught a glimpse of my quarry. McCarthy was a hundred yards away, one hand clutching at a dark stain in his yellow waistcoat, the other holding a pistol. He was shouting angrily over the heads of around a dozen soldiers who were desperately trying to keep the Ashanti away from him, while young Wetherell stood protectively at his side, sword in hand. The governor showed no fear even then; I am still not sure he understood the situation. Perhaps he yet believed that a stern reprimand would make the Ashanti back down. I lost sight of him then as a score more Ashanti ran through the trees in front of me to attack his party. It was more than enough to overwhelm the small group around him and in a moment, weapons were rising and falling. It was clear that no one at all would be spared.
I stared frozen in horror but did not have time to think, for at that moment an Ashanti burst out of a gap between two big bushes. He was right in front of me and swung his musket round in my direction as I moved the Collier to cover him. It was just a second of raw survival – I had less distance to move and fired first. He went down, but then I heard another man running towards my back. I twisted and dropped to one knee as I thumbed desperately back on the Collier’s flint to re-prime the gun and move round the last loaded chamber. He was just a yard away as I fired into his chest, the ball knocking him back off his feet. All around me now was hand to hand fighting as soldiers and allied natives desperately tried to fend off a rising tide of Ashanti.
My gun was empty: I needed to hide within the next few seconds or I would be a dead man. I stared wildly around but saw no one else coming for me. The only cover nearby were the two bushes that the first warrior had come through. I half rolled in that direction and as I squeezed through the branches I saw that there were three large shrubs growing together. An Ashanti, one of their chiefs with a leopard skin over his shoulder, ran past. I was sure he had seen me crouching in the gap, but he did not stop. He just ran on towards the group around McCarthy. It would only
be a moment before someone else saw me and then it would be all over. I had to find a better hiding place. I pushed myself into the largest bush, half climbing into the middle of it, careless that the foliage must have been moving wildly as I did so. Then, half-lying over two forks of branches, I froze. I expected rough hands to grab me and pull me out at any second, but none did. I cautiously moved my head to check that my whole body was enclosed in the thick leaf cover. It was, but I then discovered that I was sharing my hiding place with a green snake, who hissed angrily at the intrusion. I bit back a sob of terror, for I hate snakes and for a moment I was torn between fear of the serpent in the bush and the Ashanti outside it. The Ashanti won and I stayed where I was, watching as the snake slithered higher into the branches.
I don’t remember much about the next few minutes other than I could hear my heart beating in my ears at an alarmingly fast rate and I gradually started to tremble, whether through fear or shock I could not say. Probably both. I twisted my head occasionally to check on my scaly companion, but other than that I stayed as still as a rock.
Around me the noise of battle gradually moved away. Peering through the gaps in the leaves I could see the ground covered by the dead and the dying and beyond them, several hundred Ashanti who were celebrating their victory. A large crowd had gathered around where McCarthy had made his last stand and there was lots of shouting from that direction, but no English voices that I could hear. I wondered if I was the only survivor, and then, if I would survive much longer. It would soon be getting dark, but the Ashanti did not look like they were moving any time soon. I doubted I could spend a whole night and a day suspended in the middle of a bush without being discovered. If the snake did not bite me in the night, then I would probably be crippled by cramp and give myself away.
As my shaking started to diminish, I watched the Ashanti warriors move across the clearing to loot the dead. Occasionally they would finish off a badly wounded man. Although most had muskets slung across their shoulders, they would use a knife for this purpose, usually slashing across the throat. I offered a silent prayer that I had not attempted to hide amongst the dead, a sentiment that became even more fervent a few moments later.
Ten yards from my bush lay the body of one of the allied warriors. The fellow had a cloth over his shoulder that marked him out as one of their chiefs. I watched as one of the Ashanti walked up to the prone figure and kicked him. The wounded man groaned and it clearly pleased the Ashanti that he was still alive as he called some of his mates over. The Ashanti talked with the wounded man, which only served to make the warriors about him even more excited as they whooped and taunted the poor devil. Then, to my undying horror, one of them bent down to cut away the wounded man’s loin cloth. Taking a firm grip of the fellow’s wedding tackle, with a swift cut of his knife he emasculated his victim. The wounded man screamed then all right, as blood gushed all over the leaves between his legs. He tried to sit up as they waved his genitals in the air, but, perhaps mercifully, he was pushed back and despatched with a gurgling cut across his throat.
I watched the scene feeling whatever is far beyond appalled. Even the snake above me was indignant, for it hissed angrily, but that could either have been due to all the shouting or because it smelt that I had just pissed myself. Unconsciously I reached one arm back to cup myself to reassure that all was present and correct. Then realising that I had been holding my breath as I watched the awful stroke of the knife, I slowly breathed out. It was at that precise moment that I felt a hand close around my ankle.
After what I had just witnessed I could not begin to describe my terror. The hand at my foot tried to pull me out of the bush while instinctively I grabbed at the branches to stay inside it. The bush was swaying now as we tussled and I remember the snake hissing angrily again just above my head as it was shaken about. My assailant was shouting and now more hands reached in to grab me. I saw the snake strike one with its fangs before it fell through the bush to the ground. My shirt was torn open and I was punched and pulled in two different directions. The men around me were laughing in triumph.
Then one of the branches I was holding on to for my life snapped and I found myself tumbling out at their feet. I was surrounded by a circle of grinning faces, one of whom I recognised as the chief with the leopard skin who had seen me earlier. The bastard must have come back to get me. Several of them were holding knives and I nearly spewed at the thought that they would serve me as they had the native chief. A new panic gripped me and I struggled desperately to get away from them, anywhere, even though I knew it was impossible. My feline-coated friend shouted an order and arms grabbed at me again. Before I knew it I was being born aloft, my limbs held tightly as I twisted and turned in their grip.
“Please don’t kill me!” I wailed, and I wept as they carried me forward, still frantically trying to escape. I managed to get an arm and leg free at one point and half fell to the ground, but all I got for my trouble was a musket butt around the side of my head and then I was carried face down. That was even worse, as I was hauled, half-stunned, over various dead bodies with terrible fresh wounds to remind me of my imminent fate. I managed to look up and realised that I was being carried towards the group of men standing where McCarthy had made his last stand. There was a crowd of well over a hundred of them and they started cheering and waving their weapons in the air as they saw me approach. I was still howling when they threw me down in the centre of the circle. Then I properly retched to bring up my breakfast at the sights I saw.
The little clearing was puddled with blood and there, on one side, was young Wetherell’s body. At first I just registered the familiar uniform of an ensign, but then to my horror I saw that it was missing its head. I whirled around to see, half leaning against a fallen log, another headless corpse, this one wearing what was left of a yellow waistcoat, although there was little of the yellow left to be seen. For as well as removing McCarthy’s head, they had also cut his chest wide open, leaving lungs and entrails gaping from the wound. Another chief pointed at me. He must have been wounded in the mouth as there was blood all down his chin and I noticed it around his gums as he shouted for me to be laid over a log. I struggled again but they forced me down on my back, the log under my neck. A man behind me gripped my head to keep it still; I could no longer see my own body, but I felt others holding me down. Then above me, in my line of vision, came a new Ashanti. He was grinning and in his hand he hefted a massive bloodstained axe. That was when I knew I was about to die.
Chapter 12
Heaven was surprisingly warm and humid, I thought, as I drifted back into consciousness. But then I heard the crackle of flames and realised that I was in the other place. Not surprising, really, given the life I had led. Slowly I opened my eyes to see what hell looked like and found it was remarkably similar to the jungle clearing I had died in. Perhaps hell was what you feared most, and as I had just proved, I was more afraid of Ashanti than snakes. There were several of them talking and laughing by a big campfire in the centre of the space. From the light of the flames, I could still see headless corpses lying on the ground.
I went to move but found that my legs were tied together by a strip of creeper. That seemed odd – after all you cannot run away from hell. Gingerly I raised my hand up to my neck and found it intact.
“You’re awake, then,” gasped a voice beside me. I turned to find Williams resting his back against the same log as I. He clearly had not been as fortunate, for he had a bandage around his neck and from the blood, it looked like someone had tried to cut his head off. There was another wound to his thigh.
“Am I still alive, then?” I asked in wonder.
“For now,” he grunted ominously.
“But how?” I gasped. “I mean, I remember their executioner swinging his axe.”
“I think you fainted. Then one of the chiefs saw that mark on your chest and stopped the killing.” He winced in pain and added, “That is a masonic mark, isn’t it?”
I looked down at the
tattoo on my chest in wonder. “But surely the Ashanti are not masons?”
“You would know more about that than me. From what little I know of masons, they do favours for each other and help their brothers to trade. The Ashanti are the biggest traders in the region. While precious little of that goes through Cape Coast Castle, they would want to avail themselves of every advantage.”
“I am not a mason either,” I admitted quietly. “I let a Fantee chief called Banutu give me this mark as I thought it would stop him killing me.”
Williams was quiet for a moment as he considered this and then he began to chuckle. He laughed until the tears were streaming down his face and then slowly the tears were accompanied by sobs. I said nothing, waiting for the outburst to pass.
“How were you saved?” I asked as he lapsed into silence. At first I thought he would not answer, but then he whispered, “Two years ago during a visit to their capital, I helped one of their chiefs negotiate for a wife. He saved me, but not before someone had started sawing at my neck with a knife.”
I thought back to the man who had ordered my own execution. “Was it the chief who had been punched in the mouth?”
“What?” asked Williams, puzzled.
“The man who was going to have me killed had been punched in the face. There was blood in his mouth and all down his chin,” I explained.
“Are you feeling strong, Mr Flashman?” asked Williams quietly. Now it was my turn to look confused and on seeing my expression the secretary continued. “That chief is one of their leaders. He had not been punched. He had the governor’s heart cut out of his body; he ate it.” I thought back to McCarthy’s mutilated body and knew it must be true. I swore softly but Williams held up his hand to stop me. “I know it is hard for us to understand, but to them it is a sign of honour. They were impressed by his courage.”
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