lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  You could smell the Ashanti camp long before you could see it. There was a terrible stench of sickness and decay, but little could prepare me for the sight of the clearing when we rounded the last bend. Bodies covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Some were dead and bloated in the heat, although there were moans from many still alive. A stream meandered through the campsite. A score of men had expired, leaning half over the bank to drink, while a similar number of bodies now formed a small damn, which half flooded one end of the clearing. The corpses were wedged tightly between the narrow banks and a waterfall splashed over the top of them. The native soldiers as well as the British were quick to spread out to loot the dead. O’Hara and I moved through the bodies too, quickly tying kerchiefs around our faces to fend off the stench and the crowd of flies that rose into the air as soon as a body was touched.

  “There are piles of shit everywhere,” moaned O’Hara. “They must have had fever and dysentery. I’m not surprised if they were drinking from that,” he said, gesturing at the stream. “The rain must have washed the filth into the water.”

  There were shouts from the centre of the camp. Hercules and others were helping some men, presumably prisoners, who they had found in chains. As I looked back on the ground I saw a large axe and was about to take it over to help break the bonds when I hesitated.

  “If ye don’t mind, sor, I will check those bodies over there. No one has been there yet and there might be something worth taking.”

  “No, wait,” I called O’Hara back. There was something familiar about that axe. Then I saw a small stool lying on its side in the mud and I remembered where I had seen it before. I searched among the nearby bodies and then I saw him. In death his shoulders were still broad and powerful, but now he looked a pathetic figure. He was wrapped in a cloak and had died lying face down and clutching his guts. “Help me turn this one over,” I gestured to the man. “If I am right, we will find rich pickings to share.”

  I grabbed the man’s shoulder and with his good arm, O’Hara helped heave him over. The released stink and flies made me wretch, but above my gagging I heard the sergeant exclaim in wonder, “Jaysus, there is enough gold there to choke an elephant.”

  Through now-watering eyes I looked down. Four fingers on each hand were still adorned with heavy gold rings while around the dead man’s neck was the gold axe head I remembered. It had several links of thick gold chain connecting it to a cord that went around his neck. “We’ll share the rings half each and you can have the links in the chain, but I want that gold axe head,” I stated. “He was the royal executioner. I thought the bastard was going to do for me when I was back in Coomassie.”

  We swiftly split our haul and hid it away before anyone else noticed what we had found. The axe head was too big for my pockets and so O’Hara hid it for me in his coat lining. “If I ever get out of this accursed shithole of a country, a haul like that will make me a rich man in Galway. I’ll be able to drink brandy like a gentleman.”

  I laughed. “Trust you to think about drinking your wealth. If you get out of here, you can afford to get sober occasionally and buy a farm.”

  He grinned, “Or I could buy a distillery and brew the finest poitín in Ireland. Then I could get drunk and rich at the same time.”

  “Not if it is anything like what you brew here. Now pass me that big axe and let’s go and see who those people in chains are.”

  One of them turned out to be a brother of the king of the Fantee people, who had been a prisoner of the Ashanti for over fifteen years. He sobbed with delight as Hercules brought the axe down to break his bonds. He had been an umbrella-bearer to the king and had come with him on his slow progress from Coomassie. He told us that his master had ordered his army to wait for his arrival and then the right weather before starting their attack, as he wanted to witness his victory over the British. While they kicked their heels in frustration, the soldiers soon found that their rations were running low and then fever or dysentery broke out. It had spread like wildfire in the crowded and dirty camp. When the attack was thwarted the king tried to blame his soldiers, but many had endured enough. Whole regiments deserted and marched off. The king then left in a hurry, presumably worried he would be overthrown if his army arrived home before him. Hostages like the Fantee king’s brother were just forgotten in the rush to get away.

  I found Chisholm and King Dinkera with Hercules and his interpreter discussing what to do next. Dinkera was preparing to take his men on to pursue the Ashanti and force them to leave the lands of his people. I was more than a little relieved to hear that Chisholm thought our work was done. “If the Ashanti are heading back to their own territory then that is good enough for me. We have taught them a lesson and had our revenge for McCarthy’s defeat, but it makes no sense to humiliate them further. We are here for trade, after all; we do not want a long and bloody war.”

  I agreed wholeheartedly with him there. Then Hercules started to speak, gesturing at the dead around him. We waited for the interpreter. “He says he does not understand why the Ashanti attacked during the fever season. In all the wars we have ever had, he does not remember any other time when an army has chosen to attack during the rains. It makes no sense, for an army will always get sick when so many are living closely together in the open. He thinks that the gods have chosen to punish the Ashanti for their arrogance.”

  Chisholm agreed that divine assistance was entirely possible, but I could not help but smile. After the battle at the tower I had been showered with praise for my planning, when in reality, many of the events had happened by chance. Now this final defeat of the Ashanti was being attributed to heavenly help, but I wondered if there might have been an earthlier explanation. Had my tales of Collier artillery and other inventions driven the timing of the enemy attack? Of course, they had probably not anticipated a lengthy wait for their king to arrive and that was what had allowed the disease to take hold so vigorously. But if they had attacked outside of the rainy season, with their huge numerical superiority, they would probably have rolled over us with ease.

  Things even out; I had received plaudits for a battle that I had stumbled through while drunk and now no words of praise or admiration for persuading the Ashanti to attack at the worst possible time. But suddenly I did not care, all I wanted now was to go home.

  Chapter 31

  It was the middle of July 1824 when I stood on the beach with Chisholm for the last time. We had been in the Ashanti camp just two days before and now, at last, I was destined to leave that accursed shore. It was not a moment too soon, for August, with its heavy mists that would carry the fever into every nook and cranny, was a bare two weeks away. The sickness looked like it was already creeping up on the major – he looked terrible.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “You look like death only slightly warmed up.”

  “Well the last week or two has been a little tiring, but I am sure that I will recover in time.”

  “If there is any justice, you should get a promotion and a new posting for what you have achieved here,” I told him. I meant it too, for apart from his appalling sense of direction, he had done a sterling job. He had been everywhere during the defence, leading the garrison and helping, encouraging and liaising with the disparate groups of our allies. I thought that Sutherland was bound to claim all the glory for himself, but I was wrong about that. Chisholm was promoted to lieutenant colonel, although he died of fever that October before the news reached him.

  “I am grateful to you for taking the boy,” Chisholm said gesturing at the little group gathered by the ship’s boat waiting to take me away. There, holding the hand of a woman in an Arab robe and veil was McCarthy’s young son. He was cajoling O’Hara into a sword fight with two sticks. “If you can get him to the governor’s sister then I am sure she will take him in. It will be a weight off my mind to have the lad taken care of.”

  I patted my pocket where I kept the paper with the name and address of the Countess de Mervé. Don’t worry,
I will take care of it and I’m grateful to you in turn for releasing O’Hara from his enlistment.

  Chisholm laughed, “Well you’ll need an orderly and between ourselves, with that Irishman and his foul concoctions out of the way, I suspect that incidents of drunkenness in the garrison will drop dramatically. He has served more than half of his sentence and I know he saved your life at the tower. I am happy for you to take him. But,” he gestured to my fellow travellers, “I hope I am not going to have to deal with Jasmina’s angry father when he learns that you have taken her as well.”

  “Fear not,” I replied. “I can assure you that Jasmina’s father is entirely happy with that arrangement.” I held out my hand, “Good luck to you and thank you for your help in arranging our passage.”

  Our party climbed into the cutter as they saw me walking towards them across the sand. I was feeling jubilant and anxious to get on our way. I helped the two sailors push the boat the final few feet over the sand until it was afloat and then swung myself on board. The others made room for me on the thwarts and I stared down at the pile of luggage between us. Among it was Malala’s leather satchel, which was now impressively heavy with the big gold axe blade emblem inside as well as the recently captured rings. I had left England nearly three years before hoping to gain a fortune in silver from South America. Instead, I was coming home with a fortune in gold and gems from Africa. I just hoped that I had not gone bankrupt while I had been away, although if anyone could keep me solvent it was my wife. She knew the farmers and lands on my estate better than anyone.

  “Is France further away than Sara Lone?” asked the boy.

  “Sierra Leone,” I corrected. I guessed that young John must have been there with his father in the governor’s brig. “Yes, it is much further away than that and we will have to sort you out some more clothes on the way, for it is much colder than here too.” I looked up at the merchant ship we would be travelling in, a sturdy three-masted barque. Already I could feel my pulse quickening at the thought that I would soon be on home soil.

  I waited on deck while they raised the anchor and the first sheets of canvas pulled the bow around to the open sea. I watched that fetid green shore fall astern and wished with every fibre of my being that I would never lay eyes on the wretched place again. My thoughts were interrupted by someone who shared them. “I wanted to thank you for gettin’ me off, sor.” O’Hara stood beside me and added softly, “I’ve left some good mates buried back there.”

  “What are you going to do when you get back home?” I asked.

  “Well I have been thinking about what you said. I might get my own distillery after all. I have enough gold to get a business started. I sold enough of my brew out here and even you got a taste for it.”

  “Mmm. That was largely because you were the only producer. I don’t want to be rude, O’Hara, but do you seriously think that people will drink your tonic if there is anything else available?” He looked a little hurt at that and so I suggested we went below and joined the others. As we swung open the door to the cabin, the woman half jumped up in alarm. “It is all right,” I told her. “We are underway, you can remove the veil now.”

  She reached up and unpinned it. Instead of the dark hair of Jasmina, the blonde locks of Eliza were revealed. “Do you think anyone guessed?” she asked.

  “Chisholm certainly didn’t, he was worried about Jasmina’s father.” I replied. “They will all think you are still at your husband’s side.”

  “Perhaps I should be,” Eliza replied and I saw her eyes fill again with tears. Reverend Bracegirdle had heard of my imminent departure the previous day and had insisted that I take Eliza with me. He knew he had only days to live and was worried that she would succumb to fever in the August mists. He made her swear on the Bible that she would go, but she could not bear the thought of being seen to abandon her husband on his deathbed. That was when we came up with the idea of using my old Arab gown as a disguise. I have to say that she looked a lot better in the robes than me.

  “Bessie will look after him,” said O’Hara kindly, “and he has enough tonic to make sure that he is not in any pain. He will go more peaceably knowing that you are safe.”

  “I know,” said Eliza, dabbing her eyes.

  “Where is the boy?” I asked looking around.

  “One of the crew has taken him off to the galley,” she said. “I have been thinking,” she continued. “If you wish, I will take him on to his aunt for you when we dock in France.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. I had been wondering if I could persuade O’Hara to do the job for me.

  “Yes. My father would not welcome me home. All that waits for me there is scandal. I would like to see France. Perhaps I will stay in Paris for a while.”

  “You will need money, then.” I pulled the leather satchel towards me and took out one of Malala’s thick gold bracelets. “Take this, you can sell it to a gold dealer in Nantes. There will be more than enough to pay for your journey and some time in Paris. There is an army officer I know well who lives in the city. I can write you a letter of introduction and he will help you settle in.” The last I had heard from de Briqueville was that his wife had died. I wondered if my old comrade would offer Eliza rather more than a roof over her head…

  I got up and walked to a sideboard, feeling the ship moving on the swell under my feet. There were some ship decanters in a rack and having removed a stopper and smelt the contents, I poured three glasses. Taking them back to the table I put them in front of my companions.

  “What is this?” asked O’Hara suspiciously.

  “From the smell of it, fine French brandy.” I winked at him, “It’s the drink of gentlemen, remember, the stuff that you hope your tonic can compete with.”

  He sipped it warily and then his eyes widened in surprise. “It’s as smooth as a babe’s arse,” he declared with relish before having another taste.

  “Perhaps you should go to France too,” I suggested. “You could find out how they make it. The best is made in a region called Cognac. It is not that far from the town of Mervé.”

  “I might just do that,” he agreed, glancing at Eliza to see if she would mind him coming with her at least part of the way.

  She smiled back at him and then raised her glass. “Gentlemen, let us have a toast: to the future.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the Irishman, as our glasses clinked together.

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  Historical Notes

  As usual, I am indebted to a variety of sources for confirming the information in Flashman’s account. Principal amongst these were Captain Rickets, who wrote a detailed account of the first Ashanti War and the situation in West Africa at that time. In addition, Mr Williams reported his experiences, which were recorded by others, including Rickets. Sutherland’s despatches to the British government are also in the archives. While none of these individuals visited the Ashanti capital, Thomas Bowdich, employed by the African Company of Merchants and Mr Dupuis from the British government did and they both left detailed accounts of life there, including illustrations in Bowdich’s case, which can be viewed in the copy available from the British Library website. This also confirms the existence of Quashie as one of the Ashanti interpreters.

  Flashman uses the same place names and spellings as Rickets, possibly as he had the captain’s account with him when he was writing his own memoir. However, over the intervening years, the spelling of many place names has changed. Coomassie is now Kumasi, D’Jouquah is now Jukwa and Donquah now Dunkwa. Annamaboe where McCarthy went to meet King Appea is now Anomabu. There are some vestiges of Flashman’s time still standing and these include Cape Coast Castle and the Dutch fort of Elmina seven miles up the coast, of which there are plenty of photographs online as these are now major tourist attractions. Rickets’ journal includes drawings showing the towers around Cape Coast Castle built for its defence and at the right level of magnification you can still see McCart
hy Hill (the site of Fort McCarthy) marked on Google Maps.

  Other elements of Flashman’s tale have also been confirmed by online resources. While the masonic organisation is notoriously secretive, there are references to Masonic Lodge No. 621, Torridzonian Lodge at Cape Coast Castle, which was inaugurated in 1810.

  Sir Charles McCarthy

  Charles McCarthy was born in Ireland to French parents. He joined the Irish Brigade in the French Army and changed his surname to McCarthy at around that time. He enlisted in the British Army in 1799, spending much of his time in Canada before being appointed to the Royal African Corps in 1811. In 1814 he was appointed governor of Sierra Leone and took an active role in managing the colony. He founded various settlements for freed slaves and supported missionaries in their attempts to establish schools. He was knighted in 1820.

  The African Company of Merchants was abolished in 1821 for its failure to suppress the slave trade and the Gold Coast became a crown colony. McCarthy became the territory’s governor while also retaining the governorship of Sierra Leone. He was soon introducing the same improvements for freed slaves in the Gold Coast that he had already established in his first colony. The dispute with the Ashanti arose originally as a result of the murder of a sergeant in the Royal African Corps. Opinion is divided as to whether McCarthy was just taking a firm hand with the Ashanti or whether he wanted to provoke them into war. Regardless, it is certain that he catastrophically underestimated their ability to prosecute that war once it began.

  He did have a sister who married the Comte de Mervé. One of McCarthy’s sons, also called Charles, was adopted by them and succeeded to the title on his uncle’s death. The fate of his son John by Hannah Hayes/McCarthy is not recorded.