The City Of Dreadful Death E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Shipwrecked on the African coast, Major Jack Windrush and his wife Mary find themselves embroiled in a war, as the Ashantis attack the British colony of the Gold Coast.

While Jack leads a company of the West India Regiment, Mary tries to help the refugees in Cape Coast Castle. Soon, they both find themselves deeply involved in the war, and will need to make sacrifices they could have never anticipated.

The City Of Dreadful Death is the eighth novel in Malcolm Archibald's series of historical war novels, this time set in the tumultuous late 19th century West Africa.

Leseprobe

The City of Dreadful Death

Jack Windrush Series – Book VIII

Malcolm Archibald

Copyright (C) 2020 Malcolm Archibald

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Cathy

We could not move in that city of dreadful death without coming across signs of human sacrifices and suffering. Sergeant J. Flynn, Rifle Brigade

Wha saw the Forty Second?Wha saw the Forty Twa?Wha saw the bare ersed buggersComing frae the Ashanti War? Traditional

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank Dr Zachary Beier of the Department of History and Archaeology, University of the West Indies for clearing up a couple of historical points.

Prelude

DENKYIRA, WEST AFRICA, SUMMER 1800

The family sat together in the courtyard of their house with the wind rustling the leaves of the palm tree in one corner and the food set up before them. Kodzo knew that with the first harvest of the year successfully gathered, there was plenty for everybody, plantains, yams and manioc, together with sweet potato and gourds of beer.

Koshiwa Badu sat at the head, joking with her family, chiding where necessary, allowing the children all the freedom of childhood while keeping them from danger, as was the Denkyira tradition. Beside Koshiwa was Yawo, her daughter, and Kofi and Fifi, her sons. Further away, Kwabena and Kodzo, her grandsons, played happily with the fowls, not caring about the conversation of their elders. They were at home and life was as it had always been.

Koshiwa looked up when she heard the frantic barking of a dog. She glanced at Kofi, who pulled a face and continued to eat, while Fifi reached for his second gourd of beer. A shift of wind rustled the palm leaves and brought the sound of a man shouting in the distance.

“That's Kwasi Bekoe,” Kofi said. “He's probably drunk again.” He laughed, with his family joining in. Kwasi Bekoe was something of a standing joke in the village, always getting drunk and falling out with his wife and anybody else who had the misfortune to meet him.

When the dog's barking ended in a high-pitched squeal, Fifi lowered his gourd, wiped the beer from his chin and smiled. “Kwasi has kicked the dog!”

“I wish he would shut his teeth,” Koshiwa said, as the shouting continued. “Kofi, go and tell him to keep quiet. Either that or I will.”

“You would start a quarrel,” Kofi said. “I'd better go.” Taking a sip at Fifi's gourd, he stepped outside the courtyard, walked through the open front room and into the village. He saw Kwasi running towards him, his legs blundering as if he were exhausted, and blood sliding down his face.

“Kofi!” Kwasi said. “Run! Run now!”

“What is it?” Kofi dropped his smile as he saw what was behind Kwasi. “Edwesu Asanti slave hunters!”

“Mother!” Kofi only had time for one word before the rush of men overpowered him. Knocked to the ground, he struggled for only a moment as two men held him, and a third cracked a heavy stick on the back of his head. Other men rushed past him and into Koshiwa's house.

Koshiwa rose from her seat, screaming as the Edwesu warriors charged into her courtyard. Naked except for white loin-cloths, each man had two white stripes painted down each side of his face, and carried a heavy club in his hand.

Fifi was first to react, throwing his gourd at the first man and leaping for the long spear in the corner of the courtyard. The gourd caught the striped man square in the face, sending him staggering back. His companions blocked Fifi's path, swinging their clubs, knocking him to the ground. The white striped Edwesu circled the courtyard, grabbing everybody, smashing their clubs on the heads of those who tried to resist.

Only Kodzo managed to escape, ducking under the long arms of one Edwesu warrior and side-stepping another to run into the street outside. Panting with fear, he saw more of the white striped warriors all around the village, gathering together the Denkyira people and shoving them under the fetish tree in the small village square. Sliding into a patch of bushes, Kodzo watched the Edwesus grab the Denkyiras and manacle their ankles and wrists, hugged his knees to his chest and lay still, sobbing in fear.

As soon as night came, Kodzo slid free from his hiding place. By that time the Edwesus had marched the Denkyiras away, leaving the village deserted. Wiping away his tears, Kodzo ran home to search for food. He did not notice the man with the white stripes until it was too late.

“Another for the slave market!” The Edwesu said. “Come with me, little slave.”

Kodzo began to scream. It was a sound he would grow used to in the long, bitter years ahead.

Chapter One

ATLANTIC OCEAN, JUNE 1873

“The barometer's falling fast.” Harry Young, mate of the three-masted barque Lady Luck, tapped the glass, swore softly, and checked the set of the sails.

“Aye,” Captain Hobson glanced aft, where dark clouds piled up from the darkening horizon, and a greasy sheen tinted the sea. “We're in for the very devil of a blow, I reckon, Mr Young.”

“Best get below, Mary.” Lounging by the rail, Jack Windrush had been listening to the conversation. “If the captain thinks there's a storm coming, I don't want you swept overboard.”

Mary smiled. “It's not stormy yet, Jack. All we have is a fresh breeze.”

Jack grunted. “Aye, but a fresh breeze can soon turn into a howling gale.”

“If that happens,” Mary said, “I might go below.” She stepped along the deck with the wind whipping her long hair around her shoulders and threatening to lift her straw hat. “I can't stand being cooped up in that tiny cabin, Jack. I'll stay on deck as long as I can.”

“You're a stubborn hussy, Mary Windrush!”

Mary gave a small curtsey, with a stray shaft of sunlight reflecting from the silver Celtic cross she wore around her neck. “Why, thank you, Captain Jack. Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment.”

“That's Major Jack, hussy, and I'll thank you to remember it!”

Mary laughed. “You've been Captain Jack to me for too long to change now, Captain Jack!”

The wind increased, coming from the south-west, cracking the canvas against the spars and whistling through the standing rigging. Jack put a protective arm around Mary, who shook it away. “I can stand on my own two feet, thank you!”

“All hands aloft!” Captain Hobson roared. “Make fast the skysails, royals and royal staysails!”

Mary watched the seamen scramble aloft with the wind flapping their loose clothing and shirts and threatening to blast them from their precarious hand-and-foot-holds. “Brave men up there,” she said, tucking her purple-and-gold scarf around her neck.

Jack tapped the glass. “The barometer is still falling.”

“Aye,” Harry Young glanced at the gathering clouds. “We'd better shorten all sail before we're caught out here.” He watched the seamen return to the deck, some to slip below to the foc'sle.

Captain Hobson grunted, paced the deck for a few moments, checked the sea and made his decision. “All hands!” he roared. “All hands shorten sail!”

“Time for us to get below,” Jack said as a rush of nimble-footed seamen filled the deck and once more swarmed aloft.

“It is getting blowy!” Mary grabbed at her hat a second too late as the wind finally whisked it from her head and tossed it overboard. She watched as if floated for a moment then was lost in the rapidly rising waves.

“The lads are struggling up there,” Jack gestured aloft, where the seamen balanced on the footropes fought with the gaskets. Unfurled, the heavy canvas of the sails billowed and bellied as the wind rose. One bald seaman momentarily lost his footing and wrapped both arms around a spar as the rising gale blasted the sails from the gaskets, thrashed the canvas to pieces and hurled the ragged remnants into the heaving sea.

“Mary!” Jack grabbed his wife as the deck heeled to starboard. After stripping the canvas from the masts, the wind pressed down on Lady Luck, forcing Jack and Mary to hold onto anything solid. The bald seaman slipped and nearly fell until one of his mates hauled him back to comparative safety.

“I can hardly breathe!” Mary gasped as the wind clutched at her.

“Get that woman below!” Jack could hardly hear Captain Hobson's bellow above the howl of the wind that was now forcing the ship further and ever further over. Waves leapt up the side of Lady Luck, reaching for the frail life on board.

“She's broaching to!” Harry Young yelled as Lady Luck tilted onto her beam ends, with her lower yards dragging in the frothing white water to leeward. Her seamen held on with white-knuckled hands, while their feet scrabbled for purchase on ropes that were no longer taut.

“Hold on!” Jack held Mary, who had wrapped both arms around the mizzen mast. He saw the white faces and gaping mouths of the helmsmen, both unable to move as the wind pressed them against the wheel.

“Dear God help us!” a half-shaven seaman yelled.

“Aye, Peter,” a rough voice replied. “I knew you were a Christian at heart. I told you before that there are no atheists in a storm.”

After that, there was no speech as the gale mounted, and the waves broke green and white over the heeling deck. Unable to speak, scarcely able to breathe, Jack fought to see through the curtain of spindrift and driving rain. The light had died, with the occasional burst of lightning the only illumination, each flash revealing a nightmare of leaping dark water topped with crests of foaming white. Looking aloft, Jack saw the storm had carried away the main topmast, while the mizzen topgallant hung in the rigging, threatening to fall with every fresh assault of the wind.

Sodden, with her dress and hair slicked close to body and head, Mary wrapped her fingers around Jack's thumb. He met her gaze, saw no fear in her brown eyes, and tried to muster a smile.

Then the wind died. A great sea broke over the stern, sweeping up the length of the ship, carrying away the steering and standard compass, splintering the ship's longboat into a thousand pieces and breaking the cover of number two hatch. As that wave receded, Lady Luck dipped by the head, thrusting her bowsprit underwater.

“Are we going to sink?” Mary asked with surprising calmness.

“No,” Jack said. “The storm's easing. I can hear you talk.”

Mary nodded. “So you can.” Her smile did not look forced. “I can hear you as well.”

Although the wind had receded, Lady Luck still wallowed in a tremendous sea, with waves around her higher than the broken mizzen.

“Sound the well!” Captain Hobson ordered the carpenter. “See how much water we're making.”

“I tried, sir,” the carpenter was a balding, middle-aged man with a worn-out face. “There's too much water slopping in there to get an accurate reading.”

“Try again.” The captain stepped aft to examine the damage aloft, holding onto the rail to keep his balance on the heeling deck. “You're still with us I see, Major and Mrs Windrush?”

“We're still here, Captain,” Jack confirmed. “How's Lady Luck?”

Captain Hobson grunted. “Deserted us, Major, deserted us.” He continued his scrutiny of the masts and rigging. “The cap of the lower masthead is broken,” he said to the mate, “and the storm's wrenched the masthead around. The main yard and both topsail yards are also down.” He nodded to the splintered spars as they lay across what remained of the rail, “and the topmast, topgallant mast and all the upper yards and their gear are floating to leeward, hammering at our hull.”

“Yes, sir,” the mate nodded to the ten-foot-high tangle of broken spars, cordage and various pieces of ship's timbers that lay across the main deck. “There's that, too, and the mizzen topgallant mast and yards could fall at any minute.” He raised his voice slightly. “Major Windrush, you and the missus would be better moving elsewhere. If that raffle falls, you are right underneath.”

Jack looked up at the mess above, with only the straining lower rigging holding it in place. He shifted further along the deck as Captain Hobson watched, unsmiling.

Brushing wet hair from her face, Mary looked around Lady Luck. “What happens now, Captain? Can you repair your ship out here at sea? Or do we continue the voyage with only half our masts and no sails?”

The captain glanced at the mate, who screwed up his face.

“We'll set up a temporary jury rig,” Captain Hobson said, “but we're making too much water to sail right to London. No, Mrs Windrush, we'll have to head to the nearest land to fix her up. I'm sorry, but your journey home will be delayed by a few weeks.”

“Sir!” the carpenter appeared from below, “we're making water fast. About two feet since I checked below. I reckon we're stove in below the waterline.”

“Well, that confirms it,” Captain Hobson said. “We head for the nearest sheltered anchorage.”

“That would be somewhere in West Africa,” Jack said. “Over there beyond the horizon.”

“Aye,” the captain said. “The Gold Coast; Cape Coast Castle if we can make it, although it's not the best anchorage in the world.”

“And if we can't make it?” Mary was still calm. “We don't seem to have many boats left.”

“We make for Elmina.”

“I don't know that place,” Jack said.

“It's part of our Gold Coast colony,” the captain's eyes were never still, checking the rigging, the set of the masts, the actions of his crew and the slowly decreasing swell of the sea. “It used to be Dutch, but we took it over last year. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it.”

Jack frowned. “Our regiment has been in Ireland, dying of fever in Hong Kong and doing a little soldiering in Penang. I've not had much interest in politicians redrawing maps in West Africa.”

“Well, Major, you'll see it for yourself soon, if the old Lady holds out until we get there.” Captain glanced looked aloft as another line parted. “I believe the anchorage at Elmina is more sheltered than Cape Coast although I've no charts.”

“No charts?” Mary began to look worried.

Jack glanced at the waves, marbled grey-and-white and still as high as the mizzen-mast, their tips white and curling, with the remnants of the storm flicking spindrift onto Lady Luck. “We'd best leave you to carry on.”

“Jack?” Mary clung to his arm as they inched along the deck. Pieces of loose gear rattled above them, with a block swaying precariously a few feet above the deck.

“It's as bad below,” Jack said. Their cabin was a wreck, with seawater swirling three feet deep through a smashed porthole.

“All our possessions are in there,” Mary gripped Jack's arm.

“The sea chests are water-proofed,” Jack held her tight as the ship rolled from side to side. “Everything will be fine.”

Captain Hobson shouted orders which saw the crew working aloft, clearing the worst of the mess and tossing cordage and splintered spars overboard. As the wind kicked up again, Lady Luck lurched, with seawater surging over the port quarter.

“Come on, old Lady!” Captain Hobson revealed a tenderness towards his ship that surprised Jack. “We'll get you sorted out.”

With the south-west wind driving her on, Lady Luck plunged over the sea, raising clouds of spray as the crew worked frantically to save the ship. Captain Hobson and Harry Young nursed Lady Luck towards the shore, chasing the hands from difficulty to crisis as spars broke and water surged through holes in the hull.

“We won't make Cape Coast,” Harry Young shouted. “We'll be lucky to reach Elmina.”

“We'll be lucky to reach anywhere,” Captain Hobson said.

With the waves only gradually decreasing and the masts creaking ominously, Mary lifted her head. “Can you smell that?”

“I can,” Jack said.

“It's like the Indian jungle,” Mary said, “yet different.” She drew a hand over her head, pushing back her long black hair. “It's wilder.”

“Aye,” Jack peered eastward, trying to see through the curtain of spray.

“Have you ever been to Africa?” Mary asked.

“Never to stay,” Jack said. “I passed through Egypt on my way to India back in '52, and touched at Cape Town a couple of times, but that's all.”

“We're both strangers here, then,” Mary said.

Battling against the offshore wind, Lady Luck limped closer to the shore, hour by wave-battered hour until Jack heard the call from the wreckage aloft. “Land ho!”

“We're going to make it,” Jack said.

“I've never doubted it.” Mary had somehow rescued Jack's sole remaining dry cheroot and lit it with a salvaged Lucifer. Waving the match in the air to extinguish it, she drew on the cheroot. “So that's Africa.”

“That's Elmina,” Captain Hobson said. “Thank you, Lord, for small mercies. If we can cross the bar, we might find the river there a better anchorage than Cape Coast.”

“It's not what I expected.” Borrowing the mate's telescope, Jack studied the large white building that dominated the town of Elmina. “It's like a mediaeval castle.” He checked to ensure that it was the Union flag that hung from the flagpole. “Aye, it's British, thank God.”

“It's charming. I'd like to visit that place.” Shifting the cheroot to the corner of her mouth, Mary relieved Jack of the telescope. “I wonder if the captain will allow us to land.”

“How long will repairs take?” Jack asked.

“Weeks,” Harry Young said. “You'd be as well taking Mrs Windrush ashore as letting her remain here in a flooded cabin.”

“We're making water fast,” the carpenter looked even more worried than he had with his previous report. “There are more planks stove in.”

“Let me see.” Without hesitation, Captain Hobson swung down a length of rope to inspect the hold. He emerged swearing and sodden a few moments later, and in that short space of time, Jack saw the ship had settled further into the water.

“She waited,” Mary murmured, still studying Elmina.

“Who waited?”

“Lady Luck,” Mary said. “She waited until we were close to shore before she decided to sink. She was looking after her crew and passengers.”

“Aye,” Captain Hobson said. “The old Lady would do that.” He gave Mary an approving nod before raising his voice. “Get the hands together! Salvage all that can be salvaged and then abandon ship.”

Chapter Two

ELMINA JUNE 1873

The news spread through Lady Luck in seconds. Most of the seamen looked over the side and towards the land, calculating how far they could swim.

“Are there sharks?” The carpenter asked.

“Not that I am aware of.” The mate raised his voice to a roar. “Come on, lads; get what you need from the foc'sle and off we go.”

“Wait here,” Jack said and splashed down the companionway to the tiny cubicle he had shared with Mary for the past three months. Seawater lapped nearly to the deck above, ruining the bedding and any loose clothing. Fortunately, both he and Mary were experienced travellers and had packed their essentials into two sea-chests, with the remainder of their possessions travelling separately. Both chests were floating, chest-height in the cabin, washing back and forth with the movement of the ship.

Calling on a reluctant seaman to help, Jack hauled the chests on a deck which was now nearly on a level with the waves.

“Major Windrush,” Captain Hobson said. “Take your wife ashore at once. You're no good to us here.”

“How the devil do we get the chests to land?” Jack stared at the heaving sea between Lady Luck and the shore, and the white line of surf that crashed on the beach, a quarter of a mile distant.

“These men may help.” Mary pointed the stump of her still smouldering cheroot at the half dozen canoes that came out from the shore, their prows rising high with the waves. “They seem to know what they are doing.”

Propelled by two grinning, near-naked men, the first canoe came alongside, with the men handling their paddles with unconscious skill.

“Kroomen,” Harry Young said. 'They're everywhere on this coast.”

“Are you going ashore, my lady?” One youngster asked Mary.

“Yes,” Mary said. “Our ship is sinking. Have you room for two people and two sea chests?”

The young Krooman said something to his companion, who swarmed on board without hesitation and helped Jack lift the chests into the canoe as if it was something he did every day.

“Your ship is sinking fast,” the younger Krooman said. “Better hurry, my lady.”

The second paddler waited until Jack helped Mary into the canoe before he joined them. “Sit in the centre,” the paddler said, still smiling. Jack noted that his teeth were filed to sharp points, and close to he looked older than he had appeared from the deck. The Kroomen pushed off without another word, guiding the canoe through the waves to the beach beside the castle where tall palm trees waved in the breeze, and the surf boomed like thunder.

“Hold on,” the leading paddler steered the bow of the canoe up the next wave. The muscles in his back shone like oiled ebony as he dug in the paddle, then abruptly changed hands and paddled from the other side. For a minute the canoe rode the surf, with growling waves on both sides of them and the beach approaching at a terrifyingly fast pace, and then they were hissing onto the sand with the roller breaking around them. The whole operation from boarding the canoe to fetching up on the beach had taken less than fifteen minutes.

“Welcome to Africa,” Jack said.

“Elmina,” the leading paddler said, as he leapt from the canoe, nimble as a youth although the more Jack saw him, the more he realised the Krooman was well into his middle age.

“Elmina,” Mary repeated, stepping clear of the canoe into knee-deep water without turning a hair. She curtseyed to the paddlers. “Thank you, gentlemen. My husband will pay you.”

Jack fumbled in his pocket, produced a silver crown and pressed it onto the first paddler's eager palm.

“Five shillings for twenty minutes work,” he said. “That's good wages.”

“Yes,” Mary said absently. “I am not so sure I like this place, now I am close to it. There's a sinister atmosphere.”

“Maybe so,” Jack agreed.

The castle loomed above them, its white walls reflecting the sunlight while the snouts of cannon poked menacingly toward the sea. Whoever had built this place knew his job, for it stood securely on an outcrop of black rock at the end of a peninsula of sand. Jack saw the scarlet splash of military uniforms on the walls, and the multi-crossed Union Flag alternatively straining at the rope or hanging limp against the pole, depending on the vagaries of the wind.

“It's very impressive,” Jack said, watching as the Kroomen unloaded the chests and carried them above the high-water mark. “I wonder what it was for, and who built it.”

“So do I,” Mary said. “Look, Jack, the ship's going. The old Lady.”

As Jack looked out to sea, the last of Lady Luck's masts dipped underwater, leaving only a litter of wreckage. A dozen canoes ferried most of the crew towards the land.

“Nobody has drowned, at least.” Jack watched as an unmistakable Royal Navy ship pulled alongside the canoes, and bluejackets shouted out to the survivors. Captain Hobson and Harry Young were last to be rescued, clambering on board the naval ship as a host of bluejackets clustered to help.

“Jack,” Mary nudged Jack with her elbow. “We have company.”

“Halloa!” The man wore a uniform that reminded Jack of the French Zouaves he had seen in the Crimea. “Castaways are you?” He glanced at Mary. “Venus rising from the waves, no less!”

“How do you do?” Jack extended his hand.

“Welcome to Elmina and all that.” The man was about twenty-five, with an open, freckled face and the voice and bearing of an officer however unfamiliar his uniform. He wore baggy blue trousers below an open scarlet jacket, while on his head he wore a turban wrapped around a red fez. His handshake was firm and vigorous. “You'd better get off the beach and into the castle.” He glanced at the chests. “I'll have some of the lads bring your kit up. I'm Walter Hopringle by the by, or Lieutenant Hopringle, 2nd West India Regiment if you're interested.”

“I thought the uniform was unfamiliar,” Jack said. “I've never met your regiment before. I am Major Jack Windrush, 113th Foot.”

Hopringle's smile vanished. “Major!” He straightened to attention. “My apologies, sir. I had no idea.”

Jack glanced down at his civilian clothes. “There is no reason to apologise, Hopringle. You could not have known.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hopringle gave an awkward bow to Mary. “Mrs Windrush.”

“Lieutenant Hopringle.” Despite her sodden clothes and sand-stained boots, Mary still managed to make an elegant curtsey.

“This way, if you please,” Hopringle spoke over his shoulder. “You might have chosen somewhere quieter to be shipwrecked, sir, and Mrs Windrush. We expect all sort of excitement here over the next few days.”

“What sort of excitement?” Jack's military eyes noted that the fort had a river on one side and the sea on the other. It would have been a secure defensive position except for the ramshackle village that straggled along the spit to within pistol-shot of the castle walls. A curious crowd gathered at the edge of the settlement, watching the drama offshore.

“Oh, the Ashantis, of course.”

“The what?”

“The who,” Hopringle corrected. “The Ashantis are the dominant people of the Gold Coast area.”

“The local tribe,” Mary said.

“The Ashanti are a bit more than a tribe,” Hopringle led them to a flight of steps ascending to a gateway in the white wall of the castle. “This is the Door of No Return,” he said, “from the old slave trading days.”

Mary lifted her head. “Slave trading?”

“Yes, Mrs Windrush. This castle, St George's, was a major slave trading post for the Portuguese and the Dutch.”

Mary looked around her in disgust. “I knew I didn't like this place.”

“I'll have your baggage brought in.” Hopringle lifted his voice. “Sergeant Wickham! Bring four men!”

They entered a long chamber, dimly lit by flickering lamps. The arched ceiling seemed to press down on them. Mary shivered as the echoes of their voices seemed to waken memories of past suffering. “I like this place even less,” Mary said.

A file of a sergeant and four West Indian soldiers clattered into the chamber, all wearing the same Zouave uniforms as Hopringle. The sergeant saluted Hopringle while the men looked sideways at Jack and Mary.

“Go to the beach, Sergeant Wickham,” Hopringle said quietly. “You'll find two sea chests there. Take them to the officers' quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant was a broad-shouldered man with two scars on his left cheek. He glanced at Mary as he hurried past, with his men as smart as guardsmen.

“This chamber is where the Dutch and Portuguese held the slaves,” Hopringle said. “Some of them may have been the ancestors of my men.”

“I can feel them,” Mary shivered. “Their sorrow is still here.” She felt for Jack's arm.

From the slave dungeons, Hopringle escorted them to the sun-blessed castle courtyard, from where tall white walls, punctured by shuttered windows, rose all around. Stairways led to defensive platforms, wrought iron railings, partly rusted by the salt air, eased around balconies and soldiers of the 2nd West India Regiment spoke to blue-coated Royal Marines. Jack was relieved to escape from even that brief visit to the dungeons.

“That's the church,” Hopringle nodded to the most significant building within the fort.

“Shackle the slaves and pray for forgiveness,” Mary did not hide her distaste.

“And up there,” Hopringle said, “is where you will be staying.” He led them up a flight of wooden stairs to the upper stories where the rooms were lighter and airier, with an onshore breeze ruffling the cane curtains.

“I hope you're comfortable here,” Hopringle opened a heavy door to a surprisingly fresh chamber. “I only pray you have time to get used to it.”

“Why is that?”

“The Ashantis,” Hopringle's grin merged his freckles into an orange mass. “They don't want us here.”

Jack grunted as his mind took stock of the situation. “You have an impressively strong fort here. How big is your garrison?”

“We can rustle up a couple of hundred on a good day, including Hausas, that is native police from Lagos, further up the coast, plus bluejackets, Royal Marines and my own Wests.”

Jack nodded. “Two hundred men behind the walls of a strong fort. How many men can these Ashantis muster?”

Hopringle stepped aside as the Wests bustled up with his men and the sea chests. “We estimate around fifty thousand.”

“So many?” Jack did not hide his surprise.

“So many,” Hopringle said. “And they also have allies and friends among the neighbouring tribes.” He nodded to the small window. “If you look out there, sir, you'll see Elmina village.”

“I noticed it when we arrived,” Jack said.

“The Elminas are staunch allies of the Ashantis.” Hopringle said, “which could be awkward as they're so close to the fort.”

Jack became aware of Sergeant Wickham listening at the door.

“You'll have duties to attend, Sergeant,” Hopringle acknowledged Wickham's salute with a nod.

Jack felt Wickham's gaze as the sergeant left the room. He raised his head and stared back until Wickham dropped his eyes and withdrew.

“Why allow the natives so close to the fort if they are hostile?” Jack surveyed the native village, estimating the numbers. “There must be a few thousand people there.”

“The village was there long before we took over Fort St George,” Hopringle said.

“I see.” Jack accepted the explanation. “How effective are your men, Hopringle? I confess I know nothing about West Indian soldiers.”

Hopringle's smile was back. “They are about the best in the business, Major. Loyal and brave to a fault.”

Watching as Mary inspected the room, Jack invited Hopringle to sit on one of the three cane chairs. “I have not heard anything of them, Hopringle.”

“No,” Hopringle suddenly sounded defensive. “As they are black troops, they don't get the credit they deserve. Our lads serve in the worst conditions and have the toughest and most thankless tasks in the British Army.”

“Where do they serve?” Jack sank into a second chair.

“In the fever jungles of West Africa, the White Man's Grave,” Hopringle's smile had vanished as he spoke of his regiment, “and across the West Indies and Central America. My lads did a lot of good work against the French and Americans last century, and Private Hodge of the 3rd Wests won a Victoria Cross in the Gambia only a few years ago.”

Mary had stepped closer to listen. “Why are these things not better known?”

Hopringle shrugged. “Either because we're a regiment of black soldiers, or because British newspapers don't write about regiments where there is no local interest.” He leaned back in the chair. “Newspapers exist to make money, and where there is no interest, there are no sales. So my Wests are destined to work without recognition.”

“Except by their officers and the men who fight alongside them,” Jack said. “A bit like the 113th Foot or the Sepoys from what they call non-martial races.”

“Quite so,” Hopringle said. He rose from his seat. “Now, if you'll excuse me, sir and Mrs Windrush, I am sure you'll want to get settled in. Colonel Festing will no doubt wish to see you later.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Hopringle,” Mary said. “It was very kind of you to help.”

Jack heard the distant thud of a musket but said nothing. A shipwreck and a slave station in one day was sufficient drama for Mary.

Chapter Three

ELMINA, GOLD COAST COLONY, JUNE 1874

The setting sun brought the drums. Mary heard them first, lifting her head and frowning as she walked to the window.

“Can you hear that, Jack?”

“I hear them,” Jack said. He remembered the drums beating out their warning along the North-West Frontier of India. “There is something ominous about drums at night. They sound more menacing when you can't see the drummer.”

“I wonder what they are saying.” Mary stood at the window for a few moments with her head cocked to one side.

The drumming increased in volume, seeming to penetrate the walls of the fort and creep into Jack's head, so they became part of his mind, rhythmic, alien and intrusive. Lying on the hard bed in the heat of the night, he swatted at the circling insects, listening to the insistent beat.

“I can't sleep either,” Mary threw herself on the bed.

“The drummers are trying to unsettle us,” Jack said. “Don't allow them.”

“I'd be unsettled even without the drums,” Mary said. “This is a bad place, Jack, worse than any we've been in.”

“The slave chambers?” Jack asked.

“I can feel the slaves, Jack,” Mary said. “I can feel the despair down there. The people have gone, but they left something behind them. It's as if a part of them never went away.”

Jack pulled her closer. “It's nearly seventy years since we stopped the slave trade. It was all a long time ago.”

“How much time doesn't matter, Jack. That depth of hurt doesn't disappear. It haunts the place,” Mary said. “Some people can sense the tragedy on places of distress. Others, such as you, Captain Jack, are cold-blooded Englishmen with no sense of the spiritual at all.”

“Not all Englishmen are cold-blooded,” Jack said quietly. “Anyway, I'm part Indian, remember?”

“You know what I mean!” Mary moved to the edge of the bed and sat up.

Aware of the effect the idea of slavery had on Mary, Jack decided it was best to say nothing.

“I've had a recurring nightmare ever since I was small,” Mary spoke so softly that Jack had to strain to hear her words. “I dreamt I would be a slave, being led away in chains. I used to wake up crying and in a terrible state. I can't imagine anything worse.”

“It won't happen,” Jack assured her.

“It happened here,” Mary said. “It happened to hundreds of thousands of people right in this building.”

“It's stopped now,” Jack said.

“No, it still happens,” Mary contradicted him. “The Arabs still have slaves and so do some tribes up there,” she jerked her head towards the interior of Africa. Rolling over, she clung to him. “Promise me something, Jack.”

“What's that?”

“Promise me that you'll never let anybody take me as a slave.”

“That's an easy promise to make, Mary. You know I wouldn't let that happen.”

Mary nodded. “I know, but that place scared me. I could feel the anguish of these poor people.”

The drumming continued, a resonant throb that seemed to echo around the room, rattling the pitcher and ewer on the dressing table, making it difficult to think.

“I thought I'd sleep after all the excitement of the day,” Mary rolled back to her side of the bed and lay back, watching the stars through the open window. “I was wrong.”

“Maybe you're overtired,” Jack said.

“I don't like this place, Jack. I hope we can get a ship home soon.”

“So do I,” Jack realised that the drumming had stopped as suddenly as it started. Somebody shouted, high and clear, and then there was silence except for the distant crash of surf.

Mary was asleep, with both hands behind her head. Smiling, Jack rearranged her to be more comfortable, eased out of bed and stepped to the window. In the open ground on the other side of the Benya River, beyond a suburb of Elmina village, Jack saw moonlight gleam on something. Although he could not be sure, he thought it looked like an umbrella, but why anybody should be walking in the night under a yellow umbrella, he could not imagine.

Pulling the shutters closed, he lay down beside Mary. He was an old enough campaigner to grab sleep whenever he could, for the morrow could bring unpleasant surprises. In his head, he still heard the drums.

* * *

“Major Windrush!”

“Sir.” Jack drew himself to attention, with the air already stuffy in this small room.

“Lieutenant Colonel Francis Festing, Royal Marine Artillery.” Heavily bearded, the colonel stood erect beside his desk. He surveyed Jack through level grey eyes on either side of a straight nose. “I heard you were shipwrecked here yesterday.”

“That's correct, sir.” Jack knew that Festing was a veteran of the Baltic and Crimean campaigns and the Chinese War. Festing knew his business.

“Well, that was a piece of damned bad luck for you, but could be opportune for us.” Festing remained standing as he spoke, forcing Jack to do the same. “You have some experience in action, I believe.”

“Yes, sir, Burma, Crimea and the Mutiny, as well as the North-West Frontier.”

“I remember hearing about a Windrush in the Crimea. Royal Malverns was it not?”

“No, sir,” Jack said. “That was my half-brother. I was with the 113th Foot.”

“I don't know them,” Festing dismissed the subject. “What do you know about Africa?”

“Not much, sir. I've never served in Africa.”

“Well, now is your chance. I am requisitioning you for my little army. Do you know of the situation here on the Gold Coast?”

“Only what I've picked up since we came ashore, sir. We bought Elmina from the Dutch a few years ago, and now the Ashantis are massing to attack us.”

Festing managed a small smile. “I suppose that's all a soldier needs to know. However, I'll give you a little more background information. Sit down, Windrush.”

It was an hour before dawn, and they were in a small office on the upper floor of St George's Castle. From the window, Jack had a view to a starlit beach, festooned with waving palm trees and a few canoes, while a line of phosphorescence marked the crashing surf. Successive occupiers had furnished the room with a very ornate desk that looked as if it had been in the castle since the Portuguese were in charge, a heavy Dutch armchair and half a dozen cane-chairs. Jack settled on one of the latter, feeling the structure creak under his weight. Festing positioned himself behind the desk.

“The Portuguese built this fort back in the fifteenth century,” Festing said, “and the Dutch grabbed it, either by agreement or war, I don't know or care which.” He shrugged his shoulders to show his contempt of other European nations. “However the Ashantis – I'll come to them later – claimed the place, and rather than fight, the Dutch paid them about £9000 a year rent or tribute. That suited both parties, for the Ashantis were the chief suppliers of slaves, so the Dutch were guaranteed a steady supply and the Ashanti, a regular customer.”

Jack nodded. “Thank God we stopped that hellish business.”

“Aye,” Festing looked up. “Thank God we did, but in doing so, we made some dangerous enemies. When we ended the Slave Trade back in '07, the Ashantis, and other tribes who had made a good living supplying European states and others with slaves, got a rude shock. The Ashantis had expanded their empire at the expense of neighbouring tribes partly to capture slaves; it became the reason for the Ashantis' existence.”

Festing fixed Jack with a long look. “As you can imagine, the Ashantis were displeased when we stopped the slave trade and instituted anti-slavery patrols along the coast.”

“I imagine so, sir,” Jack said.

“We've had a few difficulties with them, including a war back in the twenties when the Ashanti killed our Sir Charles McCarthy, cut off his head and made the skull into a drinking cup.”

“Charming people,” Jack murmured, wondering where Festing was leading.

“Oh, absolutely delightful,” Festing said. “Just the sort you wish to bring home to tea with mama.”

Jack decided he could smile.

“We had another Ashanti war in the 60s, and then, a few years ago, the Dutch transferred Elmina to us. King Kofi Karikari of the Ashantis, or the Asantahene, as they call him, claims he owns the place and wants us to continue the payments that the Dutch made.”

“And will we pay them?” Jack asked.

Festing visibly stiffened in his seat. “Her Majesty will not pay a penny to people who use the heads of British generals as drinking cups.”

“No, sir,” Jack said. “Of course not.” He paused for a few seconds. “Although paying the rent might save the treasury a fortune. Wars tend to be expensive in currency and lives.”

“National prestige is more important than mere money,” Festing said. “If one foreign potentate gets away with it, who knows who'll try it next? Perhaps Spain will demand tribute for Gibraltar, or Prussia for Heligoland.” He shook his head. “No, Windrush, Great Britain cannot go along that road. We don't want war, but we'll draw a line in the sand. If the Asantahene wishes to co-operate, then we can all be friends. If he chooses war, then war it shall be.”

“I believe we only have a few hundred men in the colony, sir,” Jack said.

“The bulk of the Second West India Regiment is coming from Bermuda to reinforce us.” Abruptly standing, Festing walked to the window. “Ah; that's what I like to see. Come here, Windrush and I'll show you Her Majesty's response to demands.”

The ships sailed past the coast in line astern. Even without the White Ensign at the masthead, there would be no mistaking them for anything except Royal Navy warships, with the neatness and precision that Jack expected from the Senior Service. There were only two warships, a sloop and a gun-vessel, with their size hardly impressive by navy standards, but each towed several ship's boats from which a cannon or rocket-trough projected, and they joined another sloop off Elmina.

“HMS Decoy, Druid and Argus,” Festing indicated each vessel in turn, “towing boats from the squadron we have at Cape Coast Castle, eight miles up the coast.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must have noticed the native town beside the castle wall,” Festing said.

“I did, sir,” Jack said.

“The men of Elmina have openly supported the Ashantis, and they want the Dutch back here,” Festing explained. “The Ashantis store weapons in the town and the Ashantis strut around with great arrogance as if they rule the roost. Now that the navy's here, I can do something about it.”

“Yes, sir. What do you wish me to do?”

“I want you to go along with the 2nd West India,” Festing said. “A man with your experience could be a steadying influence.” He looked at Jack. “I am well aware that you have never worked with West Indian soldiers but the more British officers, the better.”

“Yes, sir.” Used to army life, Jack accepted the command without expression although internally he felt the old familiar slide of mixed dismay and excitement.

“Captain Brett is in charge of the West Indians; report to him and offer your services.” Festing sighed. “I hope there won't be any awkwardness because you outrank him.”

“None at all, sir,” Jack said. “It is his regiment.”

* * *

From the battlements of St George's Castle, Jack looked down on Elmina, a village of brushwood and timber houses that had grown up in the lee of the castle. While the larger section of the town, the King's Quarter, was on the same side of the river as the castle, the smaller, the Garden Quarter, was on the opposite side, across a low, broad bridge. Jack watched the navy's boats take up their positions on the river, with their cannon pointing toward the King's Quarter.

“What about that part of the town?” Jack indicated the Garden Quarter.

Captain Brett was a steady, sober man with the lines of responsibility etched deeply in his face. “The people there are friendly to us.”

Jack nodded, noting that the Garden Quarter had some decent stone-built houses.

“And there?” Jack indicated a smaller fort further inland.

“That's Fort St Jago. We don't have the manpower to occupy that.” Brett shrugged, “we've scraped up all our reserves for this little operation today, let alone garrisoning anything inland.”

“What's out there, Brett?”

Brett screwed up his face. “Past St Jago, there is a lagoon and a chain of small hills; I've never been out there, but I hear the local people are hostile. They preferred the Dutch, who did not interfere with their quaint local customs such as slave-owning and human sacrifice.”

Jack grunted. “I see.”

“Here we go,” Brett said as Festing stepped into the courtyard of the castle, where a score of the local chiefs and dignities had gathered. Some sat on elaborately carved stools, others sheltered under elaborate umbrellas and two had little boys at their feet, either their sons or for purposes that Jack did not wish to consider.