The Project Gutenberg EBook of With Wolseley to Kumasi, by F.S. Brereton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: With Wolseley to Kumasi A Tale of the First Ashanti War Author: F.S. Brereton Illustrator: Gordon Browne, R.I. Release Date: June 20, 2010 [EBook #32910] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH WOLSELEY TO KUMASI *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Captain F.S. Brereton "With Wolseley to Kumasi" Chapter One. Great Misfortune. Dick Stapleton tossed restlessly on his bamboo bed, till the rickety legs creaked ominously and the mosquito net waved to and fro, threatening to descend upon his head. The heat was stifling. Inside his room the thermometer stood at an unusual height, even for this Gold Coast country, where high readings are a common occurrence, and where hot nights are the rule rather than the exception. The windows of the house in which he slept, or vainly attempted to do so, were thrown wide open, but despite that fact, they admitted nothing but the deep and ever-recurring boom of the surf, which beats upon the sandy beach of the Fanti country without ceasing. Boom! Boom! The thunder of the waves seemed to shake even the land, while in his mind’s eye Dick could see the spray rise high, and then fall back as white as milk, seething and foaming, to be swallowed by the next breaker as it curled its green crest on to the sand. Not a breath stirred on this sultry night. The leaves on the forest trees within a stone’s-throw of the house made no movement. Nothing, in fact, appeared to have the energy for movement on this night save the myriad mosquitoes, which seemed to revel in the heat, and an occasional beast in the forest, whose piercing cry was wont at one time to startle our hero. “Oh, for a breeze!” sighed Dick. “If only a cool wind would play into the room a fellow might fall asleep. This mosquito net stifles me, and yet I dare not throw it aside or I shall be well-nigh eaten. I feel, too, as if I had a little fever, and that is just the very thing I wish to avoid. I’ve work before me; difficulties to set aside, and—and affairs to arrange.” For some reason his hand sought for a box deposited beneath the bed, and his fingers touched the lock to make sure that it was closed. “All that stands between me and starvation,” said Dick. “Just a bare two hundred pounds in gold, a store almost depleted of goods, and two houses which no one seems to want. There’s the business, too, and James Langdon.” For a while his thoughts went to the man whose name he had mentioned, and he brooded uneasily. “He ought to go,” he said to himself. “Father trusted him, I know; but I am sure of his dishonesty. He has been robbing the store for years, and he will rob me if I let him stay. He is a sneaking half-caste, a rogue who cannot be trusted, and if it were not for father he should be dismissed. Well, to-morrow I will go into the matter. I’m tired to-night. If only it were not so frightfully hot!” Dick was peevish and out of temper. He had worked hard all day, and was very tired, for the heat had been great. And now that he had thrown himself on his bed he could not sleep. The old worries filled his mind, only instead of being lessened, the silence of the night, the droning insects, the shrill cries from the forests, and the deep boom of the surf, intensified his difficulties, till they sat upon his young shoulders like a millstone. Presently, however, he fell into a doze, and later his deep breathing showed that he was asleep. Asleep? No! For he started suddenly and sat erect on his bed. “I thought I heard something,” he said in a whisper. “That was a step outside. Some one knocked against the chair on the platform and tipped it over. I don’t like that noise.” He threw one leg half out of the bed and waited, for, to be candid, Dick had no liking for an encounter with some evil-doer in the small hours. Then, mustering courage, he threw the mosquito net aside, rearranged it over the bed, and stealthily crept to the farther side. His hand sought the box which contained his worldly possessions, and tucking it beneath his arm he stole softly out on to the verandah. There was a brilliant moon, high up in the sky, and the silvery rays played softly upon the sandy beach, upon the crests of the breakers, upon the white street and the white houses, and upon the bush and forest which formed at this time the surroundings of Cape Coast Castle. There were deep shadows everywhere, and Dick’s eyes sought them, and endeavoured to penetrate to their depths. He stood still and listened, though the thump of his fast-beating heart was all that came to his ears above the boom of the surf. That and the eternal droning of the insects which swarmed around. No one seemed to be abroad this night, and yet— “Some one was here,” thought Dick, with conviction, as he stepped across the wooden platform, with its overhanging roof, which went by the name of verandah. “Here is the deck-chair in which I was sitting just before I turned in, and it is now on its side: I left it all right. And— That’s some one!” He drew back somewhat suddenly, while his breathing became faster. For some one, an indefinite shape, a native perhaps, had stepped from one of the shadows and had peered at the verandah. Then detecting the white youth, he had vanished into the shadow again, as silently and as stealthily as any snake. “I don’t like that at all,” thought Dick. “I’m alone here, and the people know that there is gold. They know that father kept his money in the house, and now that he is gone they must be aware that I have it. I’ll camp out here for the night. I wish to goodness I had gone down to the Castle and left this box under lock and key.” He stepped back into the room which he had just vacated, and felt along the wall till his hand hit upon a rifle. Then he sought for cartridges, and, having found a handful, tucked them into the pocket of his pyjamas, and one into the breech of his weapon. That done, he went on to the verandah, and, pulling his chair into a corner, sat down with the gun across his legs and the box beneath his feet. “I could have slept,” he grumbled. “But that’s out of the question. Some blackguard wants the money, and that must be prevented. Besides, these Fantis would knife me with pleasure. I don’t care for the thought of that, so here goes for a night-watch, Dick Stapleton, my boy, you’ll be anything but fresh tomorrow.” Had he been an older soldier, Dick would have remained on his legs, and would have patrolled the length of the verandah, and even shown himself beyond the house, out in the brilliant patch where the moon rays fell. But he was only a young fellow, and, in addition, he was tired, fagged out by work and anxiety. The heat told upon him, too, and the booming of the surf, instead of helping to keep him wakeful, seemed, now that he was outside his room, to lull him to sleep. His excitement, and the forebodings which the strange figure had brought to his mind, soon calmed down and disappeared. His head drooped. A cool wind got up and gently fanned his heated cheek, and within half an hour he was asleep—far more deeply, too, than he had been when stretched beneath his mosquito net. He snored loudly and contentedly. The gun slipped to the ground, and caused him to stir uneasily. But he did not awake. He slipped farther down into his chair, and slept the sleep of the exhausted, oblivious of his danger, forgetful of the vow he had made, and of the watch which he had meant to keep. And his snores, the click of his rifle, and the shuffle of his feet as he stretched them out, were as a signal to the rascal who lurked in the shadows. He slipped into the open and listened. Then he dropped on all fours, and stealthily crept towards the verandah. At times he was hidden in the deep shade cast by the many shrubs which surrounded the house, while at others he knelt fully outlined—a short, broad-shouldered savage, as naked as the day when he was born, dark grey in colour, and glistening under the moon’s rays, for his body was freely anointed with oil. At such moments his pace quickened till he reached another friendly shadow, where he lurked for a minute or more, only the whites of his eyes showing occasionally as he stretched his head from the shade. Soon he was near the verandah, and seemed on the point of leaping the low rail which enclosed it, when an unearthly shriek— the familiar night-call of a forest animal—broke the silence, and set him trembling. “I’d wring its neck!” he growled hoarsely, while he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. “The brute startled me, and may have awakened the young fool on the verandah. If it has—well, I must have the money. I must have it this night, too, and without further waiting. To-morrow will be too late. He’ll know the truth then. He’s cunning, this young Stapleton—cunning. He’s deep and too knowing, and he suspects. To-morrow the books will show what has been happening these five years and more, and then—” His eyes rolled, and an oath escaped his lips, for he thought of the Castle, of the cell which would receive him, and of the labour to which he would be condemned. “To-night or never!” he muttered. “And if the youngster stirs or attempts to hold me, why, there’s something here to make him alter his mind. Something to stop him altogether, to shut his mouth, and keep his evidence from reaching the authorities.” The thought seemed to please him, for he sat back on his heels and gripped his revolver more tenaciously. But a moment later reflection brought some doubt to his mind, and his breathing became deeper and more hurried. “They’d know,” he said, with an oath. “They’re bound to know, in any case, for I must go. Once I have the money, I must take to the forest, and trust to picking up a boat along the coast. Even then I shall have to wait for months, for there will be a hue and cry. I’ll have to make for King Koffee’s country, and take service with him. He’ll remember who has been so good about the supply of guns and ammunition. Yes, I’ll make for Kumasi, and wait there till the storm has blown over. Ah! he’s snoring again. I must be quick. The morning will be coming in a couple of hours.” The thought that he had a haven near at hand seemed to spur the miscreant on to his purpose, for he rose to his feet and emerged into the open, where the brilliant moon showed him even more clearly. It was obvious that he had purposely darkened his skin, for behind his ears, on the broad of his back, and on the palms of his hands were dusky-white patches, which he had omitted to cover. In fact, the robber who lurked so close to the house, and whose fingers grasped the revolver, was none other than James Langdon, whose name was uppermost in Dick Stapleton’s mind. This thief, who came stealthily in the night, was the half-caste manager of the store which Dick’s father had kept for many a year in Cape Coast Castle. Short and squat he appeared in the moon’s rays, but the light was insufficient to show what manner of man he actually was. Had it been lighter one would have seen a heavy, ugly face, with thick lips and splayed-out nose, telling unmistakably of his negro origin. Crisp, airly locks, jet black in colour, covered his head, while some straggling hairs grew from his upper lip. The brows were low; the eyes too close together, while the thickness of the lips alone seemed to denote a cruel nature. James Langdon was, in fact, far from prepossessing in appearance, while he bore a character which was none of the best. He had a dusky complexion, sharp, white teeth, and that whiteness of the eye which belongs to a native. For years he had acted as Mr Stapleton’s manager, and tales were whispered in the place that he robbed his employer, that he had dealings with the natives of the interior which, had they come to the knowledge of Mr Stapleton or to the ears of the authorities, would have gained for him instant dismissal, and in all probability imprisonment. But Mr Stapleton had never suspected, and the apathy of the officials had caused them to disregard rumours. And so it happened that James went on with his peculations and his illicit trading till Dick came out to the Gold Coast, just four months before, and at once plunged into the business with the intention of mastering every detail. Gradually, as the books and the working of the store became familiar to him, Dick had begun to suspect, and then had become almost certain of the fact that the manager was dishonest. “I’ll make sure first of all,” he had said. “I am new to ledgers and journals, and, in fact, to trade of any sort, and it is possible that I may be mistaken. I’ll go through the entries again, so that there shall be no room for doubt.” Unconsciously his manner had altered to the manager. He was too honest to be on familiar terms with a man whom he suspected of robbing his father and as a result James guessed that he was found out, that this young Englishman regarded him with suspicion. He would have fled the place then and there had he had the means. But he had long since spent all his ill-gotten wealth. He remained, therefore, and while still contemplating the step, went on with his work as if he had nothing to fear. A few days later a sharp bout of fever, not the first which he had suffered by any means, attacked Mr Stapleton, and to Dick’s inexpressible grief he succumbed. “Then I must go,” said James Langdon, and with that he promptly decided to rob the son and decamp. Only a week had passed since Mr Stapleton’s death, when the half-caste proceeded to put his plan into execution; and there he was, disguised in order that Dick should not recognise him, naked and well smeared with oil, so that if his young employer happened to awake and endeavoured to detain him, his grip would instantly slip from his body. “He’s fast asleep, and now’s the time,” whispered James, running his fingers across his forehead to wipe the perspiration away. “I’ll creep in and search for the box.” He stood to his full height and peered over the rail of the verandah at the sleeping figure. Then he hoisted himself over the low wall and stole along the wooden flooring. It took more than a minute to reach the door of the room which Dick had recently vacated, for the sleeper was evidently troubled with dreams, and he breathed and snorted heavily, each sound bringing the robber to a stop, and setting him shivering with apprehension, for this half-caste was a coward at heart. But at length he found himself within the room. “Beneath the bed,” he said to himself. “That’s where his father kept the gold, and no doubt the young fool does the same. He’ll have left the box there, and I shall be able to get it and slip away without discovery.” He was at the bed by now, and his arms were groping vainly beneath it. An oath escaped him when he discovered that the box was gone, and he sat back on his heels trembling, and furious with disappointment. “Perhaps he has moved it,” he said at length. “He guessed that some one was about, else why did he go on to the verandah to keep watch, and why the gun? I’ll strike a match and take a look round. First of all, is he quiet?” He stole to the open door and peered at the recumbent figure, now half illuminated by the moon. He could see the head lolling forward, the hands and arms trailing to the floor, and the stock of the rifle. The legs and feet, and the box for which he sought, were still in the shadow. “All’s well,” he thought. “A match will not awake him, and there is no one about to see the light.” There was a faint, rasping sound, and the glimmer of a flame lit the room. The half-caste searched each corner diligently till the match burned to his fingers. Then he flung it aside with an oath and rapidly struck another. “Then he must have the box with him,” he exclaimed hoarsely, while the frown on his ugly brows increased as he realised that his difficulties were suddenly increased. “He’s asleep. I’ll capture the prize and run to the nearest shadow. If he follows—” His fingers felt the lock of the revolver while he lifted the weapon and took aim at the moonlit doorway. “I could hit him with ease, though I have never fired one of these before,” he said. “Time’s going. It must be done at once.” Bracing himself with the thought, the miscreant stole to the door, and then along the verandah till he was close to Dick. His hand went out to search for the coveted box, and then drew back suddenly, while the blood in his veins froze with terror. For Dick moved restlessly and spoke in his sleep. Had he discovered the attempt? Was he about to pounce upon the intruder? The doubt set the half-caste shivering till desperation lent him strength, and he levelled the revolver. His eyes shone strangely in the moon’s rays as they fixed themselves on the unconscious youth, while the finger which lay on the trigger stiffened, causing the hammer to rise slowly into cocking position. Another movement would have been Dick’s last. But the dream had passed, the nightmare which had troubled him was gone, and he slept easily. “I thought it was all up,” growled the robber hoarsely, to himself. “He startled me. There’s the box.” His eye had suddenly lit upon it, and lowering his revolver he stretched out to it, caught the handle, and with a tug dragged it from beneath Dick’s feet. Then he scrambled from his knees, and was in the act of leaping the rail of the verandah when the sleeper started erect. A cry escaped him, and in an instant he was on his feet. Then with a shout of fury he threw himself upon the robber. One hand gripped the ruffian’s neck, while the other closed about his arm. For a second, perhaps, he retained his hold. Then a quick movement of the half-caste threw him off, his hands slipping from the well-oiled surface. There was a sharp report, and the flash of a revolver in his face. Then he was left, still gripping at the air, while James Langdon sought safety in flight, his dark figure flitting across the brilliant moonlit patch to the nearest shadow. “Stop!” shouted Dick, now thoroughly awake. “I know who it is. I recognised you by means of the flash. It is James Langdon, the man who has robbed my father for years. Stop, and return the box this instant. I promise to let you go free afterwards. If you refuse I will shoot you down as you run.” He stooped swiftly and picked up his weapon. Then he leapt over the rail and ran into the open. “Now,” he said, as he faced the deep shadow in which James had disappeared, and in which he still lurked, fearful that his figure would be seen as he crossed to the next, “come out and return the box. I give you half a minute. After that I fire.” He could see the faint outline of the man, while the moving leaves told of his probable position. Dick levelled his weapon, and waited till he judged the half-minute had passed. “Once more,” he called out, “are you coming?” There was no answer, only the leaves shook more violently. Dick took careful aim, and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the very centre of the figure which he had dimly perceived. But he had a cunning fox to deal with, and forgot that he himself stood brilliantly outlined in the open. James Langdon knew that he had but to draw his fire to escape to the forest, for long before Dick could load again he would have gained the woods. He waited, therefore, till our hero’s patience was exhausted. Then he threw himself flat on the ground till the shot rang out. An instant later he was on his feet racing into the forest. And after him went his pursuer, hot with rage and anxiety. Dashing into the thick bush he endeavoured to come up with the fugitive, but all was dense darkness here. He struck his head against an overhanging bough, and a moment later caught his feet in a twining vine, coming with a crash to the ground. He was up in a moment, only to meet with the same fate again, while the half-caste, better versed in the ways of the forest, crept steadily along on all fours, feeling his way through the tangle. Dick was beaten, and in his rage he blazed right and left into the forest; but the shots did no harm to the fugitive, while hardly had their reverberation died down when there followed the mocking calls of the half- caste. “Set a watch and keep it, Dick Stapleton,” he shouted, “and learn to be wary when James Langdon is about. As to the box, have no fear for its safety. I promise to take care of the gold which it contains.” He gave vent to a boisterous laugh, a laugh of triumph, and then went on his way, leaving Dick trembling with fury. “Listen to this, you ruffian,” he shouted back. “You are a knave, and have robbed me as you did my father. Don’t think to escape. Some day we shall meet again, and then you shall answer for this crime.” A jeering laugh was his only answer, and dispirited, and well-nigh on the verge of tears, he retraced his steps to the house, and threw himself into his chair, a prey to the worst misgivings, wondering what he should do next, how he was to live, and how to repair his ruined fortunes. Chapter Two. Gallant Rescue. Moderately tall and broad, with well-tanned skin and pleasant features, Dick Stapleton looked a gentleman and a decent fellow as he lolled on an old box which lay on the beach at Cape Coast Castle. He was dressed in white ducks from head to foot, while a big solar topee covered his head. His collar was thrown wide open, a light scarf being tied loosely round the neck, while his whole appearance gave one the impression that he was decidedly at ease. And yet he was not happy. A week had passed since the robbery, and in that time he had given full particulars to an apathetic police force. He had offered a reward for the recovery of the treasure, and he had wondered how and where he was to live. “There are the two houses,” he had said over and over again to himself. “One is the store, and has perhaps fifty pounds worth of goods in it. The other, the living-house, is of greater value. But they are useless to me, for without capital I cannot run the store, while without means I cannot live in the house. And I haven’t, so far, been able to come across a tenant. I’ve five pounds in cash, and when that goes I’m penniless.” He began to throw pebbles aimlessly, vaguely wondering what he could do to lighten his difficulties. “It is plain that there is no work for me here,” he said at length. “Practically every white man between this and Elmina is an official of some sort, while the natives don’t count. Of course there are the merchants and the storekeepers, but then I am neither the one nor the other now. Father even never made much more than a bare living, thanks, perhaps, to that robber. Ah, if I had had the means to organise an expedition I would have followed him; but then where should I have obtained an escort? These Fantis, fine fellows though they look, are really cowards, so I am told.” He watched one of the ebony natives lounging in the shade some little distance away, and noted his tall and well-proportioned figure. Then he turned to others, who sat with their toes dipping in the water, and their knees submerged every now and again as a big wave thundered on the sand. They were the kroomen, who were accustomed to play between shore and ship, and bring off passengers and baggage. “They will have work soon,” thought Dick, as his eye lit upon a steamer approaching. “But they know that it will be an hour yet before she is at her moorings off the coast. She’s a big vessel. One of the regular callers.” For a little while he gazed at the ship, wondering who were aboard, and which of the white officials who had gone away on leave some time before, fagged and debilitated by the trying climate, would return, and come ashore fresh and cheery, with that ruddy complexion common to Europeans and to natives of the British Isles. “Lucky beggars,” he thought. “They will have everything dear before them. They will take up the old work as if they had merely been for a day’s shooting up-country, and their friends whom they relieve will take their bunks and sail away. It would be a fine thing for me if I could get a billet under the Government.” He lay there for a long time reflecting, and as he did so the ship came rapidly closer. W hen a mile from the sandy coast she dropped her anchor, and those ashore could easily see the splash as it entered the water. Then she lay to, with her broadside facing the land, rolling and heaving with monotonous regularity. Dick watched the bustle aboard listlessly, for it was no unusual sight for dwellers on the Gold Coast, the W hite Man’s Grave. Time and again he wondered whether there might be some one aboard to whom he could offer the store and the house, or some one who would befriend him and perhaps obtain some post for him which would enable him to work for a living. For as the reader will have learned, Dick was in difficulties. He had come out some months before at his father’s urgent call, and had barely had time to look into the business of the store when his father died. Then came the theft of the gold, and here was our hero stranded indeed, with little experience, and with very few years behind him. No wonder that he was dismayed. That as his fingers closed on the five golden sovereigns in his pocket his mind went time and again to the future, wondering what would happen when those golden coins had perforce been changed into silver, and the silver had dwindled away. “If it had been in London,” he said, “I should have soon found work of some sort, or I would have eagerly taken the Queen’s shilling and enlisted. Here there is no work, at least not for a white man, and there is no supervising or overseeing job that I can get. Lastly, there is no recruiting station.” He had but stated the facts. For the past week he had been the round of the town, and had even gone, cap in hand, to the Governor. “We’re sorry for you, Stapleton,” the hitter’s secretary had said, as he shook Dick’s hand, “but we have nothing to offer. We can’t even take over your property, nor promise to look after it while you may be away. The best thing for you to do will be to get back to the Old Country, and try your luck there. You think of enlisting, do you? Well, it’s a fine profession, is soldiering, and you are the lad to do well. Perhaps you might even find your way out here again, for let me tell you something. That rogue, King Koffee, is stirring his Ashantee tribesmen up for war. He is itching for a fight, and means to force one. So you might pay us a visit. By the way, are you really in earnest?” “About the army, sir?” asked Dick. “Yes, about enlisting. So many young fellows threaten to take the step, but fail for want of pluck when the critical moment comes. You see, there are not so many gentlemen rankers, and whatever others say, there’s no doubt that the life is a rough one, and particularly so to the son of a gentleman. That’s barrack life, of course. Out on active service it’s different, for then officers and men live practically the same life, and put up with the same hardships.” “I know it’s not all a feather bed, sir,” replied Dick, respectfully. “But I’m stranded. I can’t be kicking my heels out here in idleness, and I see few prospects of selling the store and the property. So I shall take what I can get for the goods now on hand and get a passage to England. If I can I shall work my way back, for it would be as well to learn to rough it from the first.” “And perhaps I could help you,” was the answer. “Look here, Stapleton, we’re sorry for you. It was very hard luck losing your money in that way, and if you are really keen on returning home with a view to entering the army, I’ll get you a post aboard a steamer. A word from the Governor would influence the captain, and as you say, it is better to rough it now, and get a little practice, before joining the ranks. There, too, I can do something, I imagine. Come again when you have thoroughly made up your mind, and I will see what can be done.” Dick had to be satisfied with that, and as he lay there on the sand he had firmly come to a decision, and resolved to ask for a post aboard the steamer then lying in the roads, and return in her to England. “But first I’ll see whether there is any one there who wants a store or a house,” he said. “They’ll be coming soon. I see the surf-boats are on the way, and the rope gangway has been lowered.” He watched as some passengers clambered down the gangway, their white drill clothing showing crisply against the dark background of the ship, while others, less capable of the somewhat difficult feat of descending a swaying ladder, were lowered in a chair slung from the yard. Then his eye lazily followed as the kroo boys thrust their long paddles into the sea, and shot the big craft from the vessel’s side. A second took its place at the gangway, and another load of passengers, all in gleaming white clothes as before, descended or were slung into the boat, and were rowed away. After that he could see the baggage being lowered down till other boats, which had now gone alongside, were well filled. “There’s Brown, who went home six months ago, just before I came out,” said Dick, suddenly, as the first boat drew near the outer margin of the surf. “I remember he brought a message to me from father. How well he’s looking. When I saw him last he was a skeleton.” He rose to his feet and strolled down to the edge of the sandy beach, where he waited to greet his friend. There were one or two others whom he recognised, and they waved to him. But for a little while passengers and friends ashore were completely divided, for a wide belt of raging surf stretched between them. On the outer fringe of this the surf-boat lay to, the kroo boys standing along the sides with the tips of their paddles just dipping in the water. They made no movement save every now and again when a big swelling breaker caused them to roll, and threatened to carry the boat into the surf. Then there was a word from the headman, the paddles dipped deeply, and the boat swung back from the surf. “It wants doing to-day,” said an officer, who had now taken his place beside Dick. “There’s no wind to speak of, but there’s quite a heavy surf. I always like watching those kroo boatmen. Clever beggars, Stapleton, and full of pluck when engaged in a job of this sort. Ah, they are off.” A shout came over the water, and at once all the paddles were plunged deep into the sea. The boat, helped by a breaker, sprang forward into the surf, and then being caught up by an enormous rolling billow, she shot forward on its crest, being lifted many feet into the air, till, in fact, those aboard her seemed to be far above those on the beach. But in a moment she dropped down again, and for a few seconds was out of sight. “Looks as though the following wave would cover her,” said the officer, as he watched keenly for another sight of the boat. “Those beggars are paddling as if for their lives.” At that instant the surf-boat had again come to view, and as the officer had remarked, the kroo boys were plying their paddles with tremendous energy. They looked over their shoulders with some apprehension, and then at the repeated shouts of their leader they dug their blades into the boiling surf and struggled to push the craft towards the shore. But in spite of their exertions the surf-boat seemed to be receding. She appeared to be slowly gliding backward down the far side of the billow which had just passed, falling, in fact, towards the gulf which lay between it and the monstrous wave which followed. “They’re done,” cried the officer. “They’ll manage it, I think,” said Dick, quietly. “But it’s touch and go.” And that it proved to be. The men aboard shouted, and drove their paddles with fierce energy, while the spray licked about them, and the following wave seemed to surround them. The passengers, seeing their danger, behaved like sensible beings. They sat still and clutched their seats, while they looked backward apprehensively. Suddenly the boat began to move forward. The efforts of the paddlers were having the desired effect. It slowly gathered way, though the following wave, with its green curling crest now erected high above the craft, seemed to be about to fall upon it and swamp the passengers. Another shout, another fierce struggle, and the boat shot forward, the crest of the wave doubled up, caved in at that point, subsided into the seething boil about it, and then glided under the surf-boat, lifting it swiftly into the air. How it moved! It might have been shot from a gun. And the kroo men had reversed their paddles. They were now doing their utmost to restrain the boat, to keep her from being dashed on the shore. It was a magnificent struggle. The curling wave, a huge mass of foam and water, burst with a thunderous boom on the sand, and breaking into a million cascades, shot its torrents up on to the beach. The boat fell as suddenly till its keel was close to the sand, when it leapt forward again and finally came with a bump to the ground. At once the kroo boys leapt over the side, waist-deep in the receding water. They were almost dragged from their feet, but they clutched the boat, and putting their united strength to the task, ran her a few feet higher up, till, when the water subsided, she was left almost high and dry. “Bravo!” shouted the officer and Dick together. “It was a narrow squeak. Ah, how are you, Preston?” went on the former as he recognised a friend, while our hero turned to the young fellow whom he had last seen in England. By now a number of other residents had arrived, and there was an animated meeting, the passengers leaping out and shaking hands. Amid all the excitement, the hand-gripping, the questions as to friends at home, and as to matters on the Gold Coast, no one took notice of the following boats save Dick, who had greeted his friend and left him to pass on to others. He watched, therefore, as the second craft approached, and stared at the occupants as the stout vessel lay off the breakers waiting for the propitious moment to arrive when it would be wise to push forward. There were five passengers in all, three of them officers returning to duty, and two others, of whom one seemed to be a man of some fifty years of age, thin and almost cadaverous, while the last by all appearances was a very stout, short man, who found the heat trying, for he fanned his face with an enormous topee, then mopped his brows with an exceedingly red bandana handkerchief, and finally, with a start of surprise, stood up and stared back at the oncoming waves with every appearance of dismay. Dick heard him shout, and a moment later the tall, thin man had swept him to his seat again with an adroit movement of the arm. “A stranger, evidently,” thought Dick. “He has never been in the surf before. The other man knows the ropes well, while the officers I recognise as old residents. Ah, they’ve started. The little fat beggar doesn’t like it.” The stout man evidently felt some tremors, for he clutched at the side, pushing his head in between two of the kroo men, till his companion, seeing that he was in the way, dragged him back and spoke sharply to him. After that he remained as if rooted to his seat, staring at the wave which followed, and shuddering as the boat was lifted to the summit of a crest, and again as she as quickly slid back into the abyss behind. A shriek escaped him as the craft slowly receded, while the harder the paddles worked and their leader shouted, the more did the terror of the unaccustomed situation seem to fill this little stranger. A moment later a shout from Dick and a chorus of yells attracted the attention of those ashore. They turned to find the boat gone. She had been completely engulfed by the following wave, and for a minute nothing but seething water could be seen. Then a black arm shot up, and later the whole of the kroo rowers bobbed to the surface like corks, and knowing what was wanted, merely struggled to keep their heads above the surface while the water swept them ashore. Then the three officers appeared, and rapidly followed the example set them. “Two are missing,” shouted Dick, “the fat little man and the thin one.” “Then one at least has gone for good,” replied one of the passengers who had just come ashore. “The Dutchman couldn’t swim if you paid him. The other could, no doubt. Hullo! What’s happening, Stapleton?” “I’m going in,” said Dick, quietly, as he tore at his coat and kicked his shoes off. “Look; there’s one, and he’s helpless!” He had no time for more, but coolly nodding to the group, ran into the water, and as a wave crashed into seething foam at his feet he dived into the mass and disappeared. A minute later he was in the trough beyond, and the wave which followed merely lifted him high in the air. There was a warning shout from the shore, and a dozen fingers pointed to his right. But did did not see them. Nor did he even hear, for the roar of the surf was so great. But he happened to catch sight of an arm, which was instantly submerged. “That is one,” he said to himself. “I’ll get him if I dive.” Dick had learned to be wary, and knew that it is as dangerous to approach a drowning man from behind as from the front when he is still full of vigour. He dived, struck out beneath the water, touched something, and struggled to the surface, clutching the tail of a coat. He pulled at it, and slowly the fat face of the stout little passenger appeared, and close to his that of the thin man, the one with cadaverous cheeks. Then a pair of arms came into sight, and Dick gathered that the stout stranger had gripped at the nearest person and had dragged him down with him, making escape impossible, making it even out of the question for the taller man to struggle for existence. “Better get them ashore like this,” he thought, with wonderful coolness considering the danger. “There’s a wave coming. I’ll copy the kroo boys and wait for it. Then I’ll try to get all three of us flung on the beach.” He took a firm hold of the collar of the stout man, who was apparently unconscious, for his eyes were tightly closed, though his arms still retained their grip. But the hold which Dick had obtained enabled him to keep the fat stranger’s lips just clear of the water, while it also raised the other man’s face. Then Dick lifted his free arm for a second. Those ashore saw the movement and shouted, while three or four of them ran down into the sea. A wave was coming. Dick could see it in spite of the blowing spray which whisked across the water. He took a deep breath and gripped the coat with both hands. The curling crest of a green wave shut out the horizon. There was a crash in his ears. The torrent caught him and almost tore his grip from the collar. Then he felt that he was moving. He and the weight to which he clung shot towards the shore, a foot or more of water covering them. Then there was a second crash, loud shouts from those on the beach, and afterwards— “Hullo! Does it hurt? Broke just above the elbow and we had such a job. No. Lie down, sir! You are not to move. Lie down, I say! You are safe out of the water.” Dick collapsed flat on his back and stared indignantly at the individual who had dared to give the order. He was a trim, dapper Englishman, with a small beard, and as he returned our hero’s gaze he showed every sign of being a man who meant what he said, and would have no nonsense. He was minus his coat, and his sleeves were rolled to the shoulder. “That’s an order,” he laughed. “Remember that, youngster. An order. See that you obey it.” He shook his fist, laughed merrily, and proceeded to unroll his sleeves and don his coat. They were in a large, airy room, and when Dick turned his head, he could catch, through the widely opened windows, a view of the sea, of the ship which had just reached the roads, and a small section of the sandy beach. No one was stirring. The sun was right overhead, and the shadows short and barely perceptible. The atmosphere quivered with the heat. Even the birds and the insects seemed to have succumbed. An unnatural quiet reigned over that portion of the Gold Coast, and only the surf thundered and roared. But that was partly imagination. Dick could not shake off the impression that he was even then swallowed in that huge mass of water, and that he could still hear, was deafened, indeed, by the crash of the billows. He looked again down at the sands. A solitary Fanti boy languidly sauntered across the view. There was a boat drawn up clear of the breakers, and another lay off the ship, a mile from the shore. Was it all a dream, then? “I say,” he suddenly remarked, and he felt surprised that his voice should sound so low and weak. “Er, I say, if you please, where am I, and what has been happening?” “Happening?” exclaimed his companion, with elevated eyebrows. “Oh, nothing at all. You acted like a madman, they tell me. You dived into the surf, and, as a result, the surf threw you back as if it objected to you. It threw you hard, too, and wet sand is heavy stuff to fall on. You’ve a broken arm, and may thank your stars that that is all. It ought, by rights, to have been a broken neck and hardly a whole bone in your body. Where are you? Why, at the Governor’s, of course. In clover, my boy.” The jovial individual laughed as he spoke, and came close to the bed. “You’ve been an ass,” he said bluntly, and with a laugh. “Seriously, my lad, you’ve done a fine thing. You went into the surf and brought out those two drowning men. It was a fine thing to do, but risky. My word, I think so!” He took Dick’s hand and squeezed it, while the bantering smile left his lips. “A nigger is at home sometimes in the surf,” he explained; “but when you know the coast as I do, you will realise that to get into those breakers means death to most white men. You want to be a fish in the first place, and you need to be made of cast iron in the second. I’m not joking. I’ve seen many a surf- boat splintered into bits as she bumped on the beach. Men are thrown ashore in the same way, and they get broken. Your arm is fractured, and a nice little business it has been to get it put up properly. The Dutchman is still unconscious, and I fancy he swallowed a deal of salt water. Mr Pepson, the other individual whom you saved, is quite recovered. He’s one of those fellows who is as hard as nails. But there, that’ll do. I’m talking too much. Lie down quietly and try to sleep like a good fellow.” So it was real after all. He had not dreamed it. He had gone into the surf, and the Dutchman was saved. “And who’s this Mr Pepson?” thought Dick. “And this fellow here must be the doctor. One of the army surgeons, I suppose. Fancy being at the Governor’s house. Phew! That ought to get me the billet aboard the ship.” Suddenly he recollected that his fractured arm would make hard work out of the question for a time, and he groaned at the thought. “Pain?” asked the surgeon. “No? Then worry? What’s wrong?” Dick told him in a few words. “Then don’t bother your head,” was the answer. “The Governor is not likely to turn you out while you are helpless, and the time to be worrying will be when you are well. You’ve friends now, lad. You were no one before—that is, you were one amongst many. Now you have brought your name into prominence. We don’t have men fished out of the surf every day of the year.” He spoke the truth, too, and Dick soon realised that his gallant action had brought him much honour and many friends. The Governor came that very afternoon to congratulate him, while the members of the household, the ladies of the Governor’s party, fussed about their guest. Officers called to see the plucky youngster, while, such is the reward of popularity, two of the traders on the coast made offers for Dick’s houses and the good-will of the stores. It was amazing, and if our hero’s head had hummed before with the memory of his buffeting in the surf, it hummed still louder now. He was in a glow. The clothes on his bed seemed like lead. The place stifled him. He longed to be able to get out, to shake off the excitement. “An attack of fever,” said the surgeon that evening, as he came to the room and found Dick wandering slightly. “The shock, hard times for the last few weeks, and thoughtless exposure to the sun, are probable causes. That’s what many of the youngsters do. They think that because an older hand can at a pinch work during the heat of the day and in the sun, they can do the same. They can’t. They haven’t the stamina of older men. Here’s an example. He’ll be in bed for another week.” And in bed Dick was for more than that time. At last, when the fever had left him, he was allowed to get into a chair, where for a few days he remained till his strength was partially restored. Another week and he emerged into the open. And here at length he made the acquaintance of the men he had rescued from the surf. Chapter Three. A Mining Expedition. Dick could have shouted with merriment as the two strangers whom he had rescued after their upset in the surf came up the steep steps of Government House to greet him, and still more was his merriment roused as the stout little man came forward to shake him by the hand. For this rotund and jolly-looking individual was dressed in immaculate white, with an enormously broad red cummerbund about his middle, making his vast girth even more noticeable. His round, clean-shaven face beamed with friendly purpose, while there was about him the air of a leader. He struggled to appear dignified. He held his head high, and showed no sign of feeling abashed, or ashamed at the memory of his conduct aboard the boat. “Ah, ah!” he gasped, for the climb had taken his breath away. “Bud id is hod for walking, Meinheer Dick, and zese steps zey are sdeep. I greed you brave Englishman as one brave man would anozer. I render zanks for your aid. I am proud to shake ze hand of mine comrade who came into ze wild sea to give me ze help.” “Goodness!” thought Dick, “he speaks as if he had actually been attempting to save his friend, and had not really been the means of almost drowning him.” He glanced furtively at the second stranger, as the fat man grasped his hand and pumped it up and down, while at the same time he vainly endeavoured to mop his streaming forehead. But Dick could read nothing in the face of Mr Pepson. Perhaps the keen sunken eyes twinkled ever so little. Perhaps that twitch of the thin lips was a smile suppressed. Beyond that there was nothing. Mr Pepson gazed at his rescuer with evident interest, and seemed barely to notice the presence of his companion. At length, however, he moved forward a step and addressed himself quietly to Dick. “Let me introduce our friend,” he said, with a quaint little bow, removing his topee as he did so. “This is Meinheer Van Somering, of Elmina.” “Dutch by birdh and a Dutchman to ze backbone, Meinheer,” exclaimed the stout man, as he released Dick’s hand. “I am one of ze residents of Elmina, which was in ze hands of mine coundry till ladely, you undersdand. Id is a spod to visid. Ah! zere you will find comford. But I have nod zanked you.” “Indeed you have. You have said enough. I did nothing to speak of,” exclaimed Dick, hastily. “How are you? None the worse for your adventure?” “None, we thank you,” answered Mr Pepson, interrupting the voluble Dutchman as he was in the act of launching forth into a speech. “We grieve to hear how badly you have fared, and we hope that you are now on the mend. You do not like thanks. I see that plainly. Then I will say very little. I owe you my life, Mr Stapleton, and I and all consider your action to have been an extremely plucky one. Now, may we sit down? It is hot, as Meinheer says. And these steps are steep.” “Sdeep! Mein word! In Elmina zere are none like dese. Here, in Cape Coast Castle, everyzing is sdeep. You climb or you run downhill. Zere is no level. Id is derrible!” The fat little Dutchman threw his hands into the air with a comical expression of disgust, and then flung himself back into a basket chair, causing it to creak and groan and bend to one side, till Dick thought it would certainly collapse. Mr Pepson smiled. “Our friend does not think greatly of this English possession of ours,” he said, “and there I agree with him, for Elmina is by contrast a charming spot. You have been there, Mr Stapleton— Dick I think they all call you?” “No, I have never been to Elmina,” Dick was bound to admit. “Ah, well, it lies some sixteen miles to the west, as you will know, and the Dutch held it for many years—in fact, till recently, when England bought the place. It is beautiful in many ways. There is little fever. The spot is drained and the bush cut back into wide clearings.” “Ah, yes, Meinheer, and led me add, zere is a harbour. Look zere!” The little Dutchman danced to his feet and tiptoed to the edge of the steep steps by which he had so recently ascended. Then he pointed a condemning finger at the white sandy beach, and at the thundering surf which crashed upon it. “See id! Ze cruel waves, which so nearly robbed me of a dear, dear friend, for whose life I struggled till Meinheer Dick plunged do ze rescue. Zere is none of zat at Elmina. We Dutchmen made a harbour years ago. You can land at Elmina as you mighd in Holland. There is nod even a—ah, whad do you call h...