lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  After my bearers had carried me for half a mile through the streets, we turned down a narrow alley. At last I was set down and as I heard a gate close my lid was removed. I found myself in a small courtyard surrounded by a substantial property. I gathered that this was the home of the leopard skin-adorned chief as a young child came running out to greet him. The general threw him laughing up into the air as a father would a son.

  For a man who had previously tried to kill me, he now seemed most concerned with my comfort. While his son watched me curiously, I was shown into a store room, which had already been prepared for me. There was a bed with a straw mattress, a bucket for a toilet, a small table and a stool to sit on. It was far more comfortable than I had been expecting. As I sank gratefully down on the bed, the chief stood in the doorway, telling his son all about me. While I could not understand the words, he acted out pulling me from a bush and my flailing reaction, which had the lad howling with laughter. Then before he left, a servant came in with a bowl of meat stew and a wooden spoon. I was famished and fell on it with relish. It seemed that I was a guest of this man, but I also noted that after he’d turned to leave, the door was bolted behind him.

  I did not even think of escaping. I was now a hundred miles from the coast in an enemy capital and with my white skin, I doubted I would get a hundred yards before being apprehended. I was just grateful I was not losing my head or being taken down a mine. In fact, for reasons I did not understand, I appeared to have fallen on my feet. It at least gave me the opportunity to regain some of my strength. The previous days of near starvation and the long marches over rough country had taken their toll. My cheeks were sunken and my ribs showed to such a degree they made a Whitechapel orphan look like an army cook. I ate greedily whatever was provided in the Dutch blue and white china bowl my food came in. Whether it was the strange vegetables I was not used to or the cloudy water, I cannot say, but on the third day my stomach was hit with the gripes. I spent two days filling my bucket and I had to take to my bed. I had dysentery and in my weakened state it, nearly did for me.

  I was ill for several weeks and even though I was a prisoner, I could not fault my care. My memory is vague as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I must have also had a fever. I remember a kindly woman of the house who came often to my bedside to dribble water into my mouth. I may be wrong, but I think at one point some of their doctors put a burning brazier in the room and wrapped me with leaves and then tightly in a cloth so that I could not move. I have other memories, too, that must be due to the delirium, for example I clearly recall the severed heads of McCarthy and Wetherell having a heated conversation about their favourite cheese.

  As the illness abated the old lady still came to sit by my bed and brought me small pieces of freshly roasted meat from the kitchen. She would stay there, feeding me like a child, while talking to me quietly in a language I did not understand. I have no idea who she was, but without her I fear I would never have left Coomassie. Eventually I had the strength to get up and walk unsteadily around the courtyard, with my constant companion holding my arm. Others must have been watching my recovery, for three days after I started walking again I had another visitor.

  I was at my table, soaking up some meat juices with a flatbread my companion had brought me, when the door to my room opened. I looked up to see the leopard-skinned general walk in and behind him a stranger. The woman immediately jumped to her feet and, bowing, tried to make for the door, but the general stopped her. He spoke to her kindly and gestured at me. I guessed he was complementing her on my recovery, but she was still frightened and slipped away as soon as she could. Then the general said something to me, but of course I could not understand him. It was then that his companion spoke.

  “Would you please tell us your name?” asked the newcomer in perfect English.

  I goggled at him in astonishment. It was the first time I had heard words I understood in over a month. “It is Flashman, Thomas Flashman,” I admitted. The stranger looked down at a document he had taken from his pocket and started to refer to a list of names before pointing at one and whispering something to the general. The reaction from my captor was extraordinary; he gave a yelp of delight and punched the air as he discovered who I was. I felt a twinge of unease: what did all this mean for me?

  The stranger looked up and must have seen the concern etched on my face. “Please do not be alarmed. Your owner thought you were an important prisoner as you had an extraordinary pistol. Now we know that you were McCarthy’s champion and a renowned British soldier.”

  It was the first time I had ever heard anyone referred to as my ‘owner’ and it did not make me feel any more comfortable. It only served to show how powerless I now was. “What, er, what does he intend to do with me?” I asked hesitantly, not sure what to hope for.

  The stranger smiled and came over to sit on the bed beside me. “Did you know that the old Ashanti king has died?” he asked.

  I shook my head and then a memory came back that filled me with horror. I recalled Fenwick telling me that at the funeral of a previous king they had sacrificed thousands of prisoners. Was that why they were so pleased, I wondered? Was my death to be the finishing touch to an old man’s burial?

  “He died on the same day as your battle,” the stranger continued. I sagged slightly in relief. That must have been nearly two months ago; surely they had planted the old bastard in the ground by now? But before I could relax the stranger continued, “The new king is building his court and the general wishes to win favour with him. He is going to present you to the king as a gift.”

  “Oh,” was all I said as I wondered what this new development would mean for me. My mind was distracted with an image of me standing, freshly scrubbed, before a throne with a big ribbon around my neck as one might present a kitten. I looked down at the bowl of meat on the table and now understood a little more. My host had not been arranging such extraordinary care for me out of any sense of kindness; I was his slave and he merely wanted me fit and healthy so that I would be more valuable as a bribe. A few extra pounds around my ribs might make the difference between him getting a promotion or not. I doubted that my new owner would be so considerate. “What will the king do to me?” I asked.

  Instead of answering my question, the stranger asked one of his own. “What will the British king do when he learns of the defeat of his army?”

  I had been wondering about this myself on the march to Coomassie and had concluded that the government would do very little. It would be the fever more than the Ashanti that would deter them. They could land enough soldiers and guns to capture the capital, but it would take a large army, for it would be bloody work. I suspected that the Ashanti would retreat into the jungle and, avoiding the main force, attack the lines of supply. It is what I would have done in their place. The British might well burn Coomassie, but I would be long gone if they did. Then like Napoleon in Moscow, the redcoats would lose more men on the retreat. This time with fever instead of frostbite adding the coup de grâce. If they were still there during the fever season then they might, with battle casualties, lose three-quarters of the total force. You can fight men, but there is nothing you can do about disease. Tens of thousands of casualties to conquer a place few Britons had heard of. This was the kind of shambles that could bring down a government and I was sure our politicians knew it. So they would play down the defeat and perhaps suggest McCarthy had been reckless. Then after a respectable delay, a new emissary would be sent to rebuild bridges with the Ashanti. They would not want to lose the prospects for trade. It turned out that I was right about much of that too, but at the time, I did not see how it would help me to say so.

  “Our king will be angry,” I told them. “What he does next will depend on what he is told of the Ashanti and whether they are honourable men.” I nearly added something about treating prisoners fairly, but I thought that it would be too obviously self-interested, which would diminish my earlier statement.

  “The British king is
not honourable. His people have broken treaties with the Ashanti. It is well known that they are not to be trusted,” the visitor responded.

  “That was the African Company of Merchants, not the king. Only McCarthy was appointed by the king and while you might not have liked what he said and did, he was straight with you.” The stranger nodded to acknowledge the point. He appeared well informed on state affairs and Ashanti politics and so I asked, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Quashie, I am one of the king’s official interpreters. I suspect your owner did not bring me sooner in case you died and I told the king about your death. We interpreters speak to all the king’s foreign guests and tell him if we think that they are telling the truth.” He was in effect, then, a councillor to the king and, I guessed, a pretty shrewd one.

  “What do you think the king will do with me?” I asked. “Will he send me back with a message for the British?” I continued hopefully.

  Quashie smiled and gently lowered my expectations. “I rather think he is more likely to hold you hostage to deter your people from doing anything rash. But at least you will be kept safe, unless of course the British launch another attack.” He paused then to hold a brief conversation with the general, presumably to bring him up to date on our exchange, and then he turned back to me. “The general will present you tomorrow. The king is new and is still finding his way. He must appear strong to his court to deter rivals from challenging him.” He looked me sternly in the eye then and waved his finger at me. “It is important that you remember this – your life may depend on it. You are a slave now and not a British master. You must not look the king in the eye or challenge him in any way or he will be compelled to treat you harshly.”

  If he was worried that I was some proud officer who would not bend the knee to save his own life, then he was utterly mistaken. If my skin was at stake I would kiss the king’s royal black arse if that was what it took. Stay alive and wriggle out at the first opportunity was my motto, not like those fools who put their honour above everything. I well remembered how my old nemesis, Colquhoun Grant, had dragged me all the way to Paris during the war to avoid breaking a promise – nearly getting us killed on several occasions. I assured them both that I would not cause offence and while they did not seem entirely convinced, they nodded and took their leave. I was left alone again with my lunch, but now my appetite had gone.

  Chapter 14

  I awoke the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. I had been lulled into a sense of false security in my little store room. My world had thus far only extended into the courtyard outside and as I recovered from my sickness, with regular meals and even the occasional cup of palm wine, things had been very comfortable. Now I was to face an enemy king and by all accounts, a deuced sensitive one, who could get the vapours if I so much as looked at him. One false move and it could be my last.

  I was reminded of my changing status when I came to get dressed. The old lady had taken away my locally made gown and on the table I found folded neatly the clothes I had been captured in. It was an unwelcome reminder of my earlier plight. At least there was a healthy breakfast of meat, eggs and flatbread although I wondered what the food would be like in a royal prison. As I munched disconsolately on this final repast, I watched as soldiers gathered in the courtyard outside. The general appeared, resplendent in two leopard skins and with a thick gold band like a crown around his head. He climbed into a chair with a bearer at each corner and then looked around to my store. One of his soldiers entered and as I got up, a rope leash was once more slipped over my neck. It was clear I was to be presented as a captive of the victorious commander. I was led to a place behind the general’s chair in the middle of the little procession and then the gates were thrown open.

  Trumpets blared to announce we were on our way and with musicians to the fore, we set off down the street to the palace. I was led along by my halter, like a prize bullock at a county fair for others to gawp at. I could only hope that my fate would be better than those creatures. I knew that other white men had visited Coomassie, but they had been honoured guests, not prisoners. My appearance was a novelty. Even though I was an enemy, there was no great hostility from the crowd, probably because they had won the war so easily. Indeed, several were pointing and laughing, no doubt commenting on what a miserable specimen I was. My one-sleeved shirt was tattered and torn while my trousers were barely decent. I had not been able to shave in captivity and so I now also sported a shaggy beard.

  The cacophony of instruments from the front of our procession was attracting more and more people and so by the time we got to the end of the first street, the crowds were several deep. There were wealthy local citizens, slaves, Arabs with their veiled women and some other strange black tribesmen who did not look like Ashanti at all. All were cheering the general while I received less favourable attention. Several children ran alongside me now, darting between the soldiers guarding me and, when they had the chance, throwing mud in my direction. Perhaps I am prouder than I think, for when one of their balls of dirt hit me on the side of the neck, I dearly wanted to give the little brat a damn good thrashing. Instead I was yanked on by my tether.

  We went down two wide avenues in this manner, with me feeling increasingly vulnerable as the mob jeered. I was sweating in the heat and covered in dust and mud by the time we reached a large square. Opposite us I saw a huge complex of buildings. The outer walls facing me were plain and windowless single-storey structures, but beyond them two- and even three-storey edifices could be seen. Many of the taller buildings were covered in ornate decorations and glittered from gold ornamentation. It had to be the royal palace; I felt a tightening of my stomach. I looked around at a sea of unfriendly faces surrounding me and wondered if I would ever see the outside of this complex of buildings again. Leicestershire had never felt so far away.

  As it turned out, it is probably easier to get out of Newgate Gaol than it is to get into Coomassie Palace. The general and his men had to negotiate with the guards at the palace gates for a full five minutes before they would let us enter. We then found ourselves in one of the outer courtyards, surrounded by store rooms and barracks, before progressing on again. A new gate and a new debate on whether we should be admitted led us into a second square, much like the first. The third square with its two-storey residences looked to be where some of the courtiers lived. Many of those who stopped to give me a curious stare I saw were wearing gold jewellery. We had turned at least twice when we reached the fourth square. I was already losing my bearings in this maze of buildings as I saw a gate glittering with gold decoration on the far side. This time negotiating our entry took nearly half an hour and even the general had to get down from his chair to speak to whoever was on the other side of the little window in the gate.

  Eventually, however, the portal was pulled open and we entered the space beyond. Unlike the previous squares, this one was nearly empty. Down the left side was a most ornate building, covered in carvings that were painted or covered with thin sheets of gold. I thought it must be the king’s residence, yet it was a dark and secretive building, with intricately carved screens over the windows to hide those inside. Silhouettes of the occupants could be seen moving within the palace, though. Several were watching us cross the ground in front of them. There were guards at the entrance to the building; the only other way out of this square was through a gate on the far side and that was where we headed. My companions had fallen into a hushed silence now and I guessed we were close to the inner sanctum. The band, the general’s bearers and most of the soldiers stood back – only the general and the man holding my tether went forward to the far gate, with me forced to follow reluctantly behind them. There were yet more discussions at the gate and beyond it I could hear the murmur of voices. Then finally we were admitted into the royal presence.

  I have been in a fair few foreign courts in my time, but none like that one. As the gate opened we found ourselves at one end of a long open-air corridor. On either side sat rows o
f richly dressed courtiers, many clothed at least partly in silk and glittering from jewellery of every description. Above their heads were huge colourful umbrellas to keep them in the shade. As they turned to stare curiously at us, I in turn looked at the figures at the far end of the space. Fifty yards away, under a canopy of gold cloth a large man sat with what must have been a score of courtiers all gathered behind him. He was glaring at us and seemed annoyed at our intrusion, before reaching forward to rummage in a large bowl of fruit held by a slave at his side. Even the general hesitated in his presence, but a fat, gold ring-adorned finger gestured to us to come forward. The man holding my rope snarled something at me that I did not understand, but I remembered that I should not look the king in the eye and so I advanced with my eyes fixed on the heels of the general.

  We came to a halt around ten feet short of the throne, which I now saw was a stool that appeared to be made from solid gold. I felt a downward yank on my rope and had little choice but to fall to my knees. I watched the general’s feet as he stepped forward a couple of paces to speak to the king. I could not understand a word but could imagine the gist.

  General: My king, I present to you as a gift this miserable specimen of a British soldier. I found him cowering in a bush after the battle.

  King: He is a squab-kneed little wretch, isn’t he. I hope you are not expecting a big favour in return. I would have much preferred another of these bowls of fruit.

  General: I agree he is not worth a bunch of grapes, but he does seem to be one of their officers.

  King: Then why on earth did you not cut his head off with the rest? His skull could have been fashioned into something useful, like the drinking cup I had made from McCarthy’s.

  General: Because he had this, Your Highness and I thought he might show you how to use it. If we had more of them, our army would be even more powerful.