lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “It’s possible,” admitted the major. “Perhaps they want to signal to us that they are on their way.” The news that the Ashanti were coming spread quickly through the town. By late afternoon a straggling column of Africans could be seen approaching us from the jungle inland of the castle. Villages there were being abandoned before the enemy army rolled through them, killing and taking prisoners. Others were heading away from the town. Some along the coast west to Elmina where they would seek the protection of the Dutch, who had been friendly with the Ashanti. More were heading east, along the coast into Fantee territory and beyond to get out of the way of the coming attack.

  I wandered back up to the tower I was destined to defend. There was a handful of sailors in one of the gun batteries – the rest were still enjoying some rest in town. I saw them whispering and nodding at me as I came up the hill. By now they all knew that I was the officer who had been captured at Nsamankow and one of the few survivors of that awful day.

  “Don’t you worry, sir,” called out one of the gunners. He patted the breach of his gun and added, “When they come, our guns will mow them down like hay.” They did not seem to have the slightest concern about the coming conflict, but then they had not faced the Ashanti before.

  I did not want to dishearten them and so I forced a smile and replied, “Just make sure you have plenty of powder and ammunition to hand when they do come, for it will be a prodigious harvest.” They chuckled at that and then I noticed a score of men moving at the edge of the forest in front of our guns. “Hey, who are they?” I shouted, pointing. I felt the first twitch of alarm: surely the enemy were not here already?

  “They are our lads,” called back one of the gunners. “That big fella took a couple of ’undred of them into the jungle when ’e ’eard that the ’Shanti were on the way. Look,” he pointed at the other side of the tower and I noticed now a pile of long straight sticks. “I reckon they are makin’ bleedin’ spears, although Christ knows why they want those when they ’ave all got bloody muskets.”

  “Perhaps they are going to throw them when the Ashanti get close,” I wondered. I did not recall the Ashanti using spears at Nsamankow. There had been a few archers, I remembered, but most had muskets, swords or axes. They did not have shields, yet I did not imagine that throwing sticks at them would do much damage. I started to walk down the hill to find Hercules and see what he was about, but I had underestimated just how boggy the ground was. I slipped on my arse twice climbing down the slope below the moat and then when I got down to the valley bottom I found my feet sinking ankle deep into the muddy ooze. “To hell with this,” I muttered to myself and turned to go back the way I had come. I would find out what Hercules was about in the morning.

  Things were little clearer the next day, not least because it was pouring with rain again when I climbed the hill to the fort. There must have been a hundred of Appea’s men industriously working in the downpour, but at what I was not entirely sure. Most of them were cutting the sticks that they had gathered the previous day into two-foot lengths. At first I thought they were making arrows, but then I saw that they were sharpening both ends. The pointed sticks were tied into bundles and one end of them then dipped into a large pail that seemed to contain black tar.

  “What on earth is going on?” I asked Hercules when I saw him. Even though the translator was not on hand, he must have guessed what I was asking by the confused look on my face.

  “Come,” he said and he led the way down the side of the hill. He took a different route to the one I had taken the previous day and as we got to the bottom of the slope I saw that a thin trail of logs and tree trunks had been laid over the mud. Some of them were slippery or partly submerged, but it was still much easier to walk across them than the boggy ground I had slipped on. We headed out across the valley floor. Squinting through the rain I could see more men working at the forest edge. As I got closer I saw they were digging, which seemed a pointless exercise as the ground was sodden and the holes must have filled with water as soon as they were dug. We stepped off the wooden trail and Hercules led me splashing through the mud to the nearest group of workers. Only then did I realise what they were doing.

  The holes they were digging were filling with water as I had suspected, but they did not mind a bit. The excavations were only a foot deep and about the same distance square. Into each hole a warrior pushed five of the sticks with the blackened ends pointing upwards. They were pushed down hard into the mud at the bottom of the hole so that the points were submerged. The hole looked no different to the thousands of puddles that now littered the plain but if one of the Ashanti stepped in it, he would be out of the fight. I guessed that the black liquid the stakes had been dipped in was some kind of poison. Appea’s warriors had kept several paths marked with taller canes through their field of traps. Men were using them to scatter large leaves and other foliage over the ground to make the traps even harder to spot.

  As I stared about I could see that holes were being dug across our entire front; virtually all of Appea’s two thousand soldiers were working industriously on the task. I had to admit it was a stroke of genius. Even if they did not kill many of the Ashanti, the traps would force our enemy to advance slowly across the mud, for they would have no idea where the ground would be safe. Our guns would scythe through them as they edged forward. I beamed with delight and reached up to clap Hercules on the shoulder so that he knew I was pleased with what they were doing.

  I was soaked to the skin when I got back to the top of the hill. I saw the gunner who had thought that they were making spears the previous evening. With his mates he was standing under the roof of thatch over his guns and staring with barely disguised contempt at the warriors as they cut and shaped their sticks and dipped them in the tar. I went over to them and pointed out to the valley. The rain was still coming down in sheets and it was impossible to see the forest edge from the hill top. “Do you want to know what they are doing with those sticks?” I asked. When I told them, the sailors were delighted.

  “They are crafty bleedin’ buggers, aren’t they, sir,” said the gunner, grinning. “That will slow the ’Shanti right down, we will have a field day with them.”

  “That is if we can bloody see them in this rain,” said one of his mates gloomily.

  “Well,” I said. “As they are helping you and you are all bone dry while I am soaking wet, I think you can come out from under your roof and give them a hand.” A couple of the sailors looked resentful at the order, but the rest jumped out handily enough. “But don’t touch whatever is in that bucket,” I warned. “It smells foul and will not do you any good.”

  The rain only began to ease off later that afternoon. It reduced to a light shower and from the top of the tower I could now see the full extent of the work of Hercules and his men. They had dug holes in a strip of land fifty yards wide from the jungle near the central observation tower all the way round to our right flank. Judging from the men beetling backwards and forwards down the safe paths into the forest for more wood, they were not stopping yet. A score of gunners sitting in the mud behind me with other warriors were busily turning sticks into sharpened stakes, while we had got through at least half a dozen buckets of the black tar. As I stood on the tower watching, heavy footfalls up the steps behind me heralded the arrival of Hercules and his interpreter.

  I asked him how many stakes they were planning to put in and got a reply that the job was half done. A hundred yards of the pit traps would be a daunting obstacle, although if we had a few days of dry weather they might be easier to spot. “Do the traps work well in the rainy season?” I asked.

  The translator did not bother to check with his master to answer. “We never normally fight in the rainy season,” he said. “The Ashanti have never attacked during the rains before. Nobody fights then.”

  It was an unwelcome reminder that the timing of their attack was down to my invention of modern weapons, while we were now relying on traps that had probably been used since the b
eginning of time.

  “Do you know why they are attacking during the rains?” asked the translator, who had been watching me closely.

  “No idea at all,” I said hastily and then changed the subject by asking about their stores of ammunition.

  Hercules came up to stand beside me. He stared proudly around at the growing arc of traps. Then he looked to our left, across the valley that was now waterlogged with big puddles of standing water, to the far tower. Rickets had done a good job of building in more batteries there too and King Dinkera’s men looked a fearsome bunch. Many of them had been in the group that had fought their way clear at Nsamankow and they were now burning for revenge. With a score of cannon in the main castle aimed out across the valley, we had built a formidable defence. Hercules rumbled some words from that huge chest as he surveyed the scene and the translator said, “He thinks we will stop them here.”

  At that moment I wondered if he could be right. I turned and stared back out to sea, looking at the spot where the fishing boat should be waiting for me when the battle started. Then out of the corner of my eye I spotted a new sail coming down the coast. Little did I realise the danger it contained.

  Chapter 25

  Lieutenant Colonel William Sutherland was possibly the biggest fool I have ever fought with. He was a lieutenant at the start of the Peninsular War and his regiment fought in many of the fiercest actions. Simply by staying alive, any half-decent officer should have seen at least one and possibly two promotions by stepping into dead men’s shoes. Hell, even a regimental mascot could probably manage at least one promotion in that bloodbath. Sutherland remained a lieutenant for the whole campaign – clearly no one thought he could be trusted with the command of a single company of British infantry.

  He must have purchased his promotions after the war and bought the cheapest he could find. His colonelcy was in the West India Regiment. They had bought slaves to fill their ranks until the practice was abolished and now they sought volunteers, not from West India as their name suggests, but from the West Indies. Like the well-meaning Christians in America, who thought that any black man would thrive in Africa, the British Army often sent the West Indies men to the Gold Coast, but they suffered from the fever just like everyone else. That was bad enough, but to put a cloth-headed dunce like Sutherland in charge of them was just brazen cruelty.

  Even though he had previously only spent one day at Cape Coast Castle, during which he had ordered a near disastrous attack, given his rank, Colonel Sutherland was the senior officer for our defence. His ship appeared on the twenty-second of June, two days after the Ashanti had been spotted. I got the distinct impression that he thought he had rather mis-timed his arrival – not that I could blame him for that. Given half a chance, I would have much preferred to be safely in his regimental barracks up the coast in Sierra Leone too.

  “The enemy were spotted here on the twentieth,” explained Chisholm, pointing at D’Jouquah on the map. “They advanced to within five miles of us yesterday and now King Dinkera’s scouts report that they are just three miles away. It is impossible to ascertain numbers clearly as they are spread out through thick jungle, but Dinkera’s men captured a prisoner who claimed that the Ashanti have brought at least fifteen regiments with them.”

  We were standing in Chisholm’s office around a map on his table. As well as Chisholm and me, there was Rickets, the midshipman from the observation tower, a couple of the garrison officers and two of the naval captains. “Can this Dinkera be trusted?” asked Sutherland imperiously. He pronounced the king’s name as though it was some kind of disease and wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was clear that he would rather put his trust in a Cheapside pickpocket. “Perhaps we should interrogate the prisoner ourselves,” he suggested.

  “I rather think that the prisoner did not survive King Dinkera’s questioning,” said Rickets, suppressing a grin. “They are not in the habit of keeping prisoners alive for long.” Sutherland shuddered with distaste as the captain continued, “But King Dinkera is entirely loyal. His men stood with Governor McCarthy until it was clear that all was lost. I would trust his men with my life. Indeed, I did after Nsamankow, as they were the ones who got me clear when the Ashanti were in pursuit.”

  “Mmm,” Sutherland made the noise with a frown to indicate he was still far from convinced. “But Major Chisholm, you reported that most of our native allies ran away at the first shot during the attack that I ordered when I was last here.”

  “They were from the Fantee kingdom,” Chisholm reminded his commander. “Their lands have been ravaged by the Ashanti in the last few years and this has instilled considerable fear in their people.”

  “And how do we know that these others will not lose their nerve as well?” Sutherland grumbled as though Rickets had not spoken at all. He paused staring at the map, his brow furrowed in concentration while one hand drew on the sides of his chin. He was the picture of a man lost in calculating thought, but I doubt that many of us around that table were deceived. Nobody was expecting inspiration from that quarter, for he had already proved himself to be a dangerous bloody menace with his previous visit. Most of the garrison officers had complained bitterly of his arrival as soon as they realised who was in the approaching vessel. Many had been in Chisholm’s abortive attack and knew how close they had come to disaster.

  “I would have preferred to see the Ashanti arrive than that rascal,” one of the militia officers had grumbled.

  Sutherland had already complained that the guard of honour who greeted his arrival looked dirty and disreputable and that parts of the castle were flooded from the heavy rain. Then he had been offended by my presence in his military council. “What the deuce is a civilian doing here?” he demanded, jabbing a finger in my direction.

  “While he does not hold rank here, Mr Flashman has had a most distinguished career. Most recently as a captain in the Brazilian Navy.” Chisholm started to explain my presence although mention of my South American experience only caused the Colonel’s frown to increase. “But prior to that he served as a British diplomat; he was with Wellington at Waterloo and was a major in the army serving in Canada and the peninsula. You may recall him from your service there,” added Chisholm hopefully.

  “Flashman,” grunted the colonel, “Yes that name does ring a bell.” Would he remember my charge with General Cuesta at Talavera, advancing with the Connaughts at Busaco, being one of the first through the breach at Badajoz, I wondered? Of course not. I knew all too well what story was likely to come to mind – it had haunted me ever since a damned Catholic priest had vowed to blacken my name with the exploit. “Ah yes,” muttered Sutherland as the memory came to him. “You were with some girl in Seville, weren’t you? Disgraceful behaviour. You had better not indulge in any of that damned nonsense here.”

  I ground my teeth in frustration as the other officers stared with open curiosity. It does not matter what acts of unintended valour you perform, fornicate with a girl in Seville Cathedral and the tale will follow you around like a bad smell. “There were some scurrilous rumours about me that circulated in the peninsula,” I admitted. “But I assure you, sir, that they were grossly exaggerated. The Bishop of Seville himself condemned them as tavern gossip.” That was true as far as it went, but then the cleric had been half asleep during my misdemeanour and had even blessed me while I was in the act.

  “Major Flashman has proved himself to be a very able officer since he was shipwrecked on our shore, sir,” Chisholm added hastily, while he shot me another inquisitive glare. “He was one of the few to survive the action at Nsamankow and was captured by the Ashanti. After interrogation by the Ashanti king, he managed to escape from his prison and make his way back here. I have put him in charge of the defences around the east tower on our right flank.”

  “Mmm,” grunted Sutherland again as he stared at the map. At last he came to a decision. “It won’t do, gentlemen,” he announced. “I do not trust our native allies and if they do give way, half of the garr
ison could be trapped outside of the castle walls. Let this Dinkera and Appea and their men defend the towers if you must, but we should keep the garrison within the castle walls.” He paused, ignoring the stunned look amongst his audience and then added, “And while I think of it, there are a couple of houses in the village that are too close to our walls. They should be knocked down, or they will provide cover for the enemy to fire on us when they reach the town.”

  As he finished speaking everyone else started at once, voicing their protests over each other so that no one could be heard. Sutherland held up his hand for silence and only one of the naval captains ignored him. “But what about my sailors, sir? I have gunners at both of the towers manning cannon taken from my ships.”

  “Who authorised cannon to be taken from the ships?” Sutherland demanded. “They will fall into enemy hands and be turned against us. No, no that will not do at all. They must be brought back to their vessels at once.” He turned to a bewildered Chisholm, “I am surprised at you, Major, for allowing such a thing.”

  Rickets was red-faced with repressed fury and opened his mouth to retort, but an anxious Chisholm waved him to silence. “With respect, sir,” the major started, “we have carefully calculated a double line of defence, to which the cannon are a critical part. We hope to hold the enemy well away from the castle and the town. We currently have around three hundred men in the garrison fit to fight, but over four and a half thousand men from our native allies. They are better equipped to fight in the open, and in any case, there would be no room for them all to fight from the castle.”

  “If we retreat to the castle,” I added, “we cannot expect any great relief force to rescue us. The Ashanti will probably hide in the rocks on the beach and kill anyone trying to move between the castle and the ships offshore.”