Kitabı oku: «With Wolseley to Kumasi: A Tale of the First Ashanti War», sayfa 11

Chapter Eleven.
Running the Gauntlet

“That stoking bar, Johnnie! Quick! For your life!”

Dick could not wait to explain, for the situation was one which demanded instant action. When he had recovered from his amazement at the result of the unlucky shot from the forest, and had seen that the tiller was broken, he had no time to reflect that but for the movement which he had made a moment before he would have been killed by the very bullet which had wrought the mischief. Action, instant and effectual, was required, and his eye had at once sought for a substitute. Suddenly he remembered the iron bar used for stoking the fire, and as he shouted for it he prepared to place it in position. With a bound he was on the deck right aft, and kicking the butt of the fractured shaft from behind, shot it out of its socket. Then he gripped the rudder post and twisted it with all his strength, contriving to head the launch for the centre of the stream. Two or three seconds later the native was beside him, and as Dick held the post the bar was pushed into the socket.

“Hab um now! Get over oder side plenty quick. Put um over, massa.”

Dick did so, with a heave which again caused the launch to roll till water spurted through her scuppers, while the two aboard crouched on the deck and held on for their lives. Then he set her on a new course, turning her head diagonally across the stream.

“Get to the rifle,” he said sharply. “And first lay mine here so that I can grip them. That’s right. Crouch in your engine well so as to avoid the bullets. Do you hear? Go!”

Johnnie’s eyes had asked a question. He had as good as said to his master when the caution to sit in the engine well had been given, “And what massa do? He not crouch. Plenty ob cover for Johnnie, but what about massa?” But Dick brushed aside his question with one word, and proceeded to fix the bar between his knees, as he had done with the wooden tiller.

“Let ’em shoot at it again,” he said, “and I guess the bullet won’t do much harm. In any case it was a fluke, and not a bad attempt to pot me. Hah! That got one fellow. I shall have to play with these men.”

As he ran the launch across towards the far bank, slanting her down stream all the while, he had seen that the fleet of canoes was now spread out across the river, and though there were fewer of their boats on the far side, and a narrow opening still remained there, yet the path to the sea was barred. He therefore steered for the far side. But a plan to get free was forming in his brain, and he watched for a chance to carry it out, his eye riveted on the two war canoes.

“It’s those fellows I want to dodge,” he said. “I wonder how we should fare if we ran into one of them.”

He was thinking of charging one, and measured the size of the stout launch against that of each one of the native craft.

“We’re about the same length,” he said, “and as to weight it’s a toss-up. She’s crammed with men, and we’ve engines and a boiler aboard. There’s nothing in it. All depends on how we hit her. All right!”

There was something ominous in those last two words. They meant much, and the quiet way in which the helmsman of the launch looked round, the set expression of his face, showed that he meant to choose well and make the most of his opportunities.

“We’ve steam to drive us, and plenty of it,” he thought. “That gives us an advantage.”

Once more he put up his rifle, and for three or four minutes peppered the enemy. But on this occasion he directed his shots to the boats at the far side of the river, now very close at hand.

On the part of the enemy there had been a wild endeavour to close in as the launch, with her tiller shot away, ran down towards the near bank, and this rush had resulted in some of the craft being upset. Then, as Dick fitted the iron bar and steered away again, a still madder rush was made for the far side. And in this the two war canoes were hardly as successful as they had been. They were too much hampered by their comrades, and so it happened that they were separated widely from one another, one only being well on its way across the stream. The second had barely reached the middle, and as he fired Dick turned his eye to it every now and again.

“We shall have our chance,” he thought. “She’s got away, and as she paddles faster than the smaller fry, she’s leaving an opening behind her. I’ll give her a minute more, and then – ”

“See that boat?” he called out to Johnnie. “Well, watch. I shall swing round in a few seconds and steer in behind her. Let her crew know that you have a rifle. Keep at it without ceasing, even after we’ve passed, for I have to work the tiller. Ready? Over she goes!”

He might have been running his launch in a regatta race, so calm was he. There was a smile on his face, for Dick had long got over the sensation of fear which the sight of the enemy had at first caused him. The difficulty with the tiller had roused him, and now, for the life of him, he could only look upon the whole adventure as a race, a race, it is true, which meant life or death for him, but one nevertheless which stirred his blood and brought all the sporting instincts of the Englishman within him to the surface.

“A close thing. Any one’s game!” he said, as he swung the tiller over, and turned the launch on her heel, spinning her round till the water on either side was white with foam. “Now for it!”

The little vessel had obeyed the movement of her new tiller with remarkable celerity. She might have been a torpedo boat by the way in which she behaved. She felt the pull of her rudder, and as if she were a living thing she spun round in a sharp curve, the weight of her engines and deck hamper causing her to roll heavily. Then she righted as she ran, and her nose sought for the narrow opening left in the very centre of the fleet. It was a most exciting moment. The air trembled with shouting, while if there had been a hail of bullets before, there was a torrent now, aimed with all the carelessness of the native, some overhead, some astern, and some even into the middle of comrades. And to these one rifle responded – that of the native stoker. He lay in the engine well, his head nicely clear, and his snider spat out a stinging rain which caused many an enemy to fall in his boat, or overbalance and slip into the river. But though he jerked the cartridges from the breech as rapidly as possible, he could make little impression on the crew of the war vessel. At the first movement of the launch there had been a shout, and as if by magic each one of the paddlers got to his feet and changing round knelt again. Then the paddles dipped and the big craft came surging back.

“She’ll be across our track!” sang out Dick. “Get below, Johnnie. Keep down! look out for those who manage to get aboard the launch.”

At once the native slipped completely into his engine well, where he lay, rifle in hand. As for our hero he could not afford to take cover just yet, for he had to direct the course of the launch. And magnificently he stuck to his post. A slug struck him on the point of the knee as he sat, and caused him anguish. A second, fired at the same close range, thudded against his ribs and dropped to the deck, while another from the same discharge carried away his hat. But he stuck grimly to the tiller. His eye was glued on the war vessel, and he watched her like a cat. She was just beginning to cross his track, but the angle at which she moved would bring the two boats almost alongside one another, and then —

“They would hang on and be aboard before we could look round. No, thank you. We’ll try some other plan.”

The muscles in his steering arm were like steel bands. There was a look of determination on his face. He moved the arm with a sudden jerk, and sent the launch over when she was within thirty feet of the enemy. A second later he was bearing down upon her broadside. Then, indeed, there were shouts. The natives saw their danger and paddled furiously in the vain endeavour to alter their position. But they had no chance, for the steersman aboard the launch, conscious of the superiority which steam gave him, countered every move instantly. It was a matter of seconds. He was within five feet of them, going full speed. The natives saw now that they had no chance of coming alongside, and Dick watched them drop their rifles, draw their swords and crush to the centre of the boat. He moved the tiller again, ever so little, and bore right down upon the huddling group. Then he dived into his well and sat on the boards, one hand still gripping the tiller, while the fingers of the other sought for his revolver.

Crash! The launch shuddered, and stopped on her way. But she had weight behind her, and her frame was of sound construction. Also she was running at full pace, and her propeller never ceased to grip the water. She moved again, rose at the bows for a second or so, and then subsided again, to the accompaniment of shouts and the sounds of splintering wood. Dick heard the scraping as the native boat passed beneath the keel, and there was a gentle thud as the propeller blade struck a portion of the wreck.

“Right over her! What luck!”

That was all he could say, for other matters engaged his attention. Of the huddled group in the centre of the native boat half a dozen had managed to gain the launch, while their comrades were already far behind struggling in the water. And these men who had been able to reach her had not all contrived to get aboard. Two reached the deck of the steam craft at once, while the remainder clung to her side, and were now clambering up, no easy task considering the speed of the vessel. A rifle cracked and one of the men aboard fell on his face. Then Dick saw Johnnie lift his weapon again and aim. He pressed the trigger as the man leaped to one side. As he opened the breech and stretched out for another cartridge, the native ran at him waving his short sword above his head. Dick’s arm went up from the well, he rested the muzzle of his weapon on the edge, and took a rapid aim. A moment later the Ashanti fell headlong across the boiler, while his sword clattered on the iron floor of the miniature stokehold.

“Soon settle um hash!” shouted Johnnie, as he leaped to the deck and ran forward, armed with his shovel. “Hah! off yo’s go. To de riber wid you.”

He leaned over the side, and one by one he beat the Ashantis into the water. Then he returned to his engine, and our hero heard the furnace door open once more.

“Steady,” he called out with a laugh, which showed the relief he felt. “Go easy, my lad, for we are out of the wood, and must husband coal. How’s the store?”

“Plenty black stone, sar. Steam from here to Cape Coast Castle, I tink. Golly! Um hot!”

He groped in the pocket of his greasy jacket and produced a piece of waste with which he mopped his face. Then he turned his attention to the enemy and put up his rifle. Dick followed suit, and together the shots rang out.

“That’s where the big gun is,” said Dick, as he fired at the second of the two large boats, from which had come the bellow of the large piece which had accounted for the fracture of the tiller. “That fellow has got hold of an elephant gun, I think, and he is making good shooting. Whereabouts is he?”

“You watch, Massa Dick. You see dat man near far end of boat? Dat de feller. You watch um while me pot. See um go splash into de water.”

There was a malicious gleam in Johnnie’s eye, for a second or so before the hopes of escape which filled the minds of the fugitives had been suddenly upset by the boom of the heavy piece owned by the enemy, and by the hum of a bullet along the deck of the launch. There was a steady arm holding the gun, and had they but known it this native was one of King Koffee’s chief marksmen, an old hunter from the interior, who held a high place in the army mainly because of his prowess with the rifle in question. And the boat in which he sat, or knelt, was not so far behind that he was out of range, or even nearly so. Indeed, barely a minute had passed since the launch had overrun the first of the big war boats, and had sent her to the bottom. It was only a few seconds since Johnnie had plied his shovel to such good effect, and the enemy were still at close quarters. Nor were they minded to permit these audacious strangers to escape so easily. A yell, a discordant shriek of indignation had gone up as the launch dashed into and splintered the native craft, and that had been followed by a babel of shouts, by the clash of many a war drum, and the blowing of horns, while instantly the whole fleet had swung round and had followed, their guns pouring slugs after the launch. Dick could see them clearly, the paddlers plying their blades with terrific energy, and the fighting men standing or kneeling, ramming charges into their muzzle-loaders in desperate haste. Then had come that boom followed by the hum of the big bullet.

“Dat de man,” said Johnnie, as he held his rifle to his shoulder. “He just ’bout to stand and fire um gun. See um drop de villain.”

At once our hero’s rifle went to his shoulder, and, having waited to hear the snap of his comrade’s, and note that he had failed to hit the mark, he pressed his trigger gently, holding his weapon as rigidly as the trembling of the launch would allow. Instantly there was an answering report from the native boat, and he felt the breath of the shot as it raged past his cheek and flew on ahead. Then the man who had fired staggered, drew himself up and, holding his huge weapon above his head, toppled and fell like a stone into the river.

“Got um! By gum! but dat a fine shot! Johnnie’s no good. Bad. Velly bad. Hear um shout. No more pills ob dat size come after us.”

“It was a lucky shot and may save our lives. The beggar meant potting us, and there is no doubt that he was a fine shot, and knew his weapon. If one of his bullets had hit either of us I imagine that we should have been killed instantly. It must have been like a young cannon firing a very big charge, for did you see how the recoil shook him?”

The stoker nodded emphatically. “Not like shoot such gun often,” he said. “Make shoulder sore. But what massa do now? Stop here and fire, so as make dem sorry dey get in de way?”

“No, thank you,” was the dry answer. “I have seen enough of these Ashantis to last me for a long time. A more fierce and cruel lot of beggars I never saw before, and you don’t catch me waiting to fight with an army. We might burst a steam-pipe or break a connecting-rod and then where should we be? Look at that beggar lying over the boiler, and think whether you would like to become a prisoner.”

“No, tanks, massa,” grinned Johnnie, casting his eye at the native. “But s’pose we move ’um. Him berry fine feller, but though him dead him not like de heat. Golly! Make ’um hop to put de finger dere, on de biler. Him cook nicely if we leab um.”

Things had occurred so rapidly that neither had given a thought to this matter before, but now that they had killed the most dangerous of their enemies, and the battle with the army of Ashanti had developed into a chase between a steam launch, with ample power, and a fleet of unwieldy boats, they had time to look about them, and to observe their own condition. As the stoker had said, the native who had fallen to Dick’s revolver-shot lay across the boiler, and it was more than hot there, for out in this tropical country there was no great need for lagging (a covering of asbestos and wood, often held in position by sheet iron, and commonly applied to boilers in this country to help to retain their heat, and so make steaming easier), and this launch boiler was exposed to the air and weather. In consequence, the unhappy wretch who had fallen was literally cooking, and Dick was thankful when his dusky companion caught the body by one arm, and dragging it to the side hove it overboard. Johnnie had little sentiment. An enemy was an enemy, whether dead or alive, and he made no secret of his delight that here was another native who had fallen to their weapons.

“Good-bye yo,” he shouted, as the body splashed into the river and sank from sight. “Yo foolish man come aboard dis vessel. Not hab invite to do so, and not wanted, not’t all. So jest yo go’ ’way ’gain. Yo hab self to tank for all dis trouble.”

He turned to Dick with a laugh, which was not lessened when he saw the serious expression on his master’s face. For Dick had his own ideas as to how an enemy should be treated, whether dead or alive, and had the task been his he would have endeavoured to do the work decorously. But he had to admit to himself that one of these Ashantis, when dead, was a repulsive-looking object, and that Johnnie was probably justified.

“What does he care?” he asked himself. “He has, no doubt, still a large share of his savage nature left, and he knows that these men would cut him to pieces when alive if they could capture him. So he treats them, dead or alive, with the same ferocity. Well, we’ve cleared decks, and I’m not sorry. As for those beggars behind, they might just as well stop and save their powder; they cannot hurt us more.”

There was little doubt on this point, for since the native with the big elephant gun had toppled overboard, hardly a shot had reached the launch, though showers of slugs cut up the water in the rear. It was the turn of those aboard the launch to smile and enjoy the situation. As they ran down the stream, with the throttle now half closed, for steam might be wanted for another emergency, they could look back at the fast-receding fleet of boats and take full stock of them. Also they could watch the dusky figures bounding through the bush, some still abreast of the launch or even farther down the stream. They could jeer at the frantic shouts, could wave back jubilantly to the angry signals of the enemy, and they could afford to mock at the men who tore through the jungle, firing aimlessly into the water.

“Good as firework!” laughed the light-hearted Johnnie. “Moon not so bright now, me tink, and de gun go pop! pop! wid a splosh of fire. Fine sight, massa! Make de heart young and gay.”

“Because we have something to be thankful for. But don’t you make any mistake about the action, my lad; it was a close thing, a precious close piece of business, and if it hadn’t been for that gap, why, where should we be? That reminds me. How are we for’ard? What’s the damage?”

The native leaped from his well and went scrambling along the deck, the movement giving cause for an increased outburst of shouting and beating of the drums; for the enemy still watched the retreating launch like cats, hoping against hope that she would stop, that their fetish, to which they sacrificed victims innumerable during the year, would step in in time to arrest the flight and hand over the white man. Presently Johnnie came back with a piece of wood in his hand.

“All dat remain,” he said, with a laugh. “De bow hit right into boat, and brake um. Dis stick to de fender. Noding hurt. Launch same as before, only bullet mark eberywhere, I ’spect.”

“Then we’ll look to ourselves. What damages, Johnnie?”

“Golly! I forget um. Tink soon be killed by dem debils and den no matter. But feel um now. Look dar! Johnnie kill dat man if he catch um! What he want to fire so to spoil de beauty? Johnnie’s wife not like dat ’tall!”

Here was a genuine grievance, and the native made the most of it as he showed Dick his wound. For a slug had struck him on the cheek, just below the orbit, and had lacerated the flesh, so that there was every prospect of much scarring; while the bleeding, as in all face wounds, had been excessive, and his coat and breast were covered with blood.

“An honourable wound,” said Dick, with a chuckle, for this little native amused him vastly, and considering his want of good looks, it was rather amazing to hear him talking of lost beauty. “Honourable scars, Johnnie. You will be able to point to that wound and say to your wife and friends, ‘Johnnie get that when he fight whole Ashanti army. Yes, he hab one man only wid him. He fight army alone and kill plenty. Den he wave de hand and leab.’ How’s that, Johnnie?”

They sat opposite one another now, the enemy almost forgotten, and they laughed till Dick had to hold his sides. For the expression on the stoker’s face as Dick took note of his grievance was ludicrous. He looked surprised and grieved at first, and then utterly indignant. Then, as our hero proceeded with the tale, he saw his point, and commenced to smile.

“Yo make um ache, massa,” he cried. “Yes, Johnnie say all dat. He forget. Dis wound show him to be brave man. He fight whole army, alone. He kill heap. He glad dat man hit um here. Dat man friend of him for life!”

It was natural that the two should make the most of the matter and enjoy it to their heart’s content, for the reader must recollect that a few minutes before death stared them in the face, that for a quarter of an hour the odds against their escape had been desperate, and that during all that time they had been working with hand and brain and fighting at full pressure. And as if the danger had been a stone hung about their necks by a cord, it had dropped now that the cord was cut. They had burst their way through the band swung across the river, and they had killed the most dangerous of their enemies. The relief was immense, and they showed it by giddy laughter, by gripping hands, and by shouting and gesticulating.

“You stuck to me like a good ’un,” said Dick, in grateful tones. “Had you funked we should have been taken. I will report to Mr Pepson.”

“And massa save Johnnie. Look at man me jest throw to de fishes. He kill me sure as egg if massa not fire. Fine shot. Big sportman, massa; and Johnnie say so to all de town when him back. But what part you hit? Look! Blood here and dere, and dere. Eberywhere!”

He held up his hands in consternation, for our hero was indeed in a sorry plight. He had been little better than a scarecrow after his dash through the bush, and his escape from the stockade, and the few hours aboard the launch had not improved matters. He was as black as a sweep, for the soot from the funnel had played upon him as the launch bounded forward, while the perspiration had helped it to adhere. Then he had been struck in no fewer than six places by the slugs of the enemy, and in each case his tattered clothes told the tale. Not that the bleeding had been severe. On the contrary, none of the slugs had penetrated far, and in three of the wounds there was merely a large red bruise, now getting more discoloured. The skin had not been broken, and where there had been penetration it had been so slight that the missiles had fallen out into his clothing. Still one cannot stop a slug without feeling the effect, and Dick felt as if he had been playing a very hard and rough game of football. He limped owing to the wound on his knee. When he breathed he suffered considerable pain, for he had had a hard rap over the ribs, while his shoulders were so stiff from a wound just below the neck that he might well have fallen in the scrum and had half a dozen lusty fellows tumbling on him.

“All’s well that ends well,” he cried cheerily. “And that reminds me that I’m hungry again. I have come to the conclusion that fighting is hungry work. What stores are there, my lad?”

“Find plenty, sar. Massa say tree week ago, ‘yo go down to launch and put dis and dat aboard. Den s’pose nigger come ’long, all right for us. Get to launch and steam ’way. Hab grub to fill de tumock.’ Johnnie plenty hungry, too.”

“Then off you go and lay a spread. I’m ravenous.”

Thanks to the fact that the engine well and the one aft from which the steersman guided the launch were close together, the two comrades, for they were that on this occasion if on no other, were able to see to the management of the launch and enjoy a meal at the same time. The attack they made upon the food which Johnnie brought from the cabin was almost as fierce as that which James Langdon had made upon the stockade. They washed the repast down with good hot coffee, which Johnnie made at the furnace door, drawing water from the river. Then they lounged in the easiest position and smoked, the stoker his short clay, which one so often sees gripped between the shining teeth of negro stokers, and Dick his briar, at peace for the time being with all the world, content with the good fortune which had befallen him.

“I’ve a good report to hand in,” Dick said to himself, as he reflected. “The mine has been disturbed, but that was not my fault, and from what I have heard and seen since, I fancy those at the coast will not be surprised at the news. I rather expect that they will hardly hope to see me again, for these Ashantis seem to have gone out to war rather suddenly some little time ago. But the mines are good for the future, the wages are paid, and the men will return when the time comes, and in addition I have a valuable cargo of gold dust and nuggets. Good! The gains are gold dust, and one steam launch saved. The losses are a stockade and two native boats, one destroyed and sunk up the creek to keep the Ashantis from using her, and the other hidden, useless to us for the time being.”

It was pleasant to think of his success, and he passed the hours till dawn came, wondering what would happen at his meeting with his employers. And as the moon waned the dawn spread over the sky, at first a mere rose pink blush, the promise of a fine day. Then the sun got up and peeped at the wanderers out of the river mist, till it looked like another moon. Three hours later the increasing width of the river warned them that they were now approaching the mouth, and presently they were amidst the sandbanks and upheavals of mud which form its delta. Dick still clasped the iron make-shift tiller in his hand, and looked wearily for the central passage, while Johnnie now and again stoked his furnace and looked mechanically to the indicator and the water-gauge. For they were both utterly done up and weary. They had been awake and active for many hours, and the flight and the fight with the natives had helped to exhaust them. It was therefore with little show of excitement that Dick nodded ahead and pointed to a ship lying off the mouth of the river.

“British war vessel,” he said sleepily. “What’s she doing here?”

“Tink she make signal to us, sar,” said Johnnie after some minutes. “She wave de flag and send dem aloft.”

“And there goes a gun. Looks as though she wanted to speak us. If she’d give us a bed, where we could rest without caring about the launch and our store of gold, I’d be thankful. I’d be asleep in a jiffy if it weren’t for the thought that I’ve a big store aboard, and that it might be stolen. Hullo! It must be a signal for us.”

They were still some little distance from the war vessel, which lay to, at anchor off the coast, rolling with the swell. And as there was no one else about and no other vessel, it seemed more than probable that the flags were meant for the man in command of the launch. But how was Dick to tell when he knew nothing of the signalling code? However, his doubts were soon set at rest, for a figure in white suddenly leaped on to the rail of the vessel, and held a big speaking trumpet to his lips.

“Launch ahoy! Launch ahoy!”

Dick waved his grimy hand.

“Come alongside at once. The Commodore wants to see you. Where are you from? Have you seen any of the enemy?”

“Enemy! Then they did know of the trouble at the coast. Perhaps they had already had a brush with the Ashantis.”

Dick stood up in the well and waved again. Then he steered the launch towards the gangway, while Johnnie, awakening to the fact that he was about to run alongside a man-o’-war, with all its sparkle and polish, managed for a few seconds to summon sufficient energy to look to his engine. He rubbed with energy at the metal work till the launch was almost alongside.

“Stand ready,” cried Dick, sleepily. “Hook on. Steady. Back her. Stop her!”

They were hanging to the broad gangway of the war vessel, while a sea of faces looked down upon them. A British tar, bearded and full of strength, stood in his white ducks at the foot of the ladder, his bare feet splashed in the water, while he stared at the strangers in amazement. Up above Dick caught a fleeting glance of a sentry, all in white, marching to and fro under the awning, and looking as though he would have given much for the privilege of leaving his beat for one glance over the side. Then his eye focussed itself sleepily on two officers leaning over the rail, both with medal ribbons upon their white coats, while one carried his speaking trumpet.

“Where from?” he asked politely. “We’ve recently had a brush with the natives. Can you give us news?”

“They’ve been in the thick of it,” suddenly exclaimed the other. “Look at the young fellow. He’s covered with blood, and the boat’s cut to pieces; the sides are in ribbons. Why, it must be young Stapleton, about whose safety there has been such a commotion.”

“And the fellow’s done, done altogether,” said the other. “Who are you, sir?”

“Dick Stapleton, sir. Just got through from up country. We met a whole army, about to cross the Prahsu. We got through with some difficulty, as they were already afloat. We’re dead beat, sir, but I can’t sleep till my store of gold is looked to. It’s worth something. Can you help?”

Dick was weary and done up. He had realised that long ago, but the need for effort had kept both pluckily at their posts. Now, however, with the all-protecting arm of the British Navy to watch over them, the desire for sleep was irresistible. Their eyes were more than half closed. And they winked suspiciously when they attempted to look at any one object for long.

“Sergeant of the guard! Put a couple of men aboard at once,” came the order. “Mr Hilden, oblige by going down to the launch and making an inventory. Glad to see you, Mr Stapleton. We’ll talk later. Meanwhile come aboard and leave the gold. It shall be well taken care of. Help him up, my man, and bring him along under the awnings.”