volume 2 CHAPTER I. THE ROUTE.

Poor old Larkins and his wife were completely broken by Mimie’s terrible mishap. They could not find it in their hearts to speak harshly of their unhappy child; but they were loudly indignant against the man who had tempted her to leave her home. Herbert, too, came in for his share of their reproaches, when he confessed that he had been for some time aware of the intimacy between Mimie and Ernest Farrington, and had long dreaded some such catastrophe.

‘Oh, Herbert!’ Mrs. Larkins had said to him more than once, ‘to think you should[2] have seen her in such danger, and never to let on a word. I thought better of you—after all—’

‘I know I am greatly to blame, mother. You cannot say anything harder of me than I do of myself. But she promised me never—never to meet him again, and I trusted her. Wasn’t it natural?’

‘Trust her? I’d have trusted her with untold gold. I thought she was as good as gold herself, and better. That’s what stings me. To think that she should have held herself so cheap as to be led astray by such a fellow as that, and a Farrington, too.’

‘Farrington or no Farrington, he shall answer for this to me, mother, and that I swear.’

‘Hush, Herbert lad, remember who he is, and who you are.’

‘I warned him that if she came to any[3] harm, I’d be even with him, and I will, so help me Heaven,’

‘Don’t, Herbert, don’t talk like that. You might be court-martialled, and for ever disgraced, even for those words. Do you think he will not be punished some day as he deserves, and that, whether you raise a little finger against him or no? We must leave him in other hands.’

Mrs. Larkins’ resignation hardly chimed in with Herbert’s impetuous mood.

‘I’d be after him now; aye, although I’m a soldier, and tied by the leg. I’d show a clean pair of heels, only—’

It was clear that desertion was in his mind.

‘Promise me, Herbert, swear to me, Herbert, that you will do nothing rash. Don’t desert your colours. Don’t forget your sacred duty, even for us.’

[4]

‘I had made up my mind to follow them last night. I could have got a passage home, and plain clothes and everything, but the steamer did not start, and to-day it’s too late.’

‘Too late? Thank God for that; but why?’

‘Haven’t you heard the news, mother?’ Then he bethought himself that in her grievous trial there was but little likelihood of the gossip of the garrison reaching her ears.

‘The route’s in,’ Herbert went on, using the catch phrase of the soldier. ‘The regiment’s under orders for active service, and we start directly the steamer arrives.’

‘Start? For where?’

‘Ashanti. It was in orders last night, and the generals coming to inspect us this afternoon, with the P.M.O., to see who’s fit[5] for service and who’s not. The whole barrack’s upside down. Officers and men mad with delight. So should I be for this chance, which may not come twice.’

‘Mayhap when you meet him next it will be on more equal terms.’

‘Aye, but when will that be? I may have to wait months before I get my knuckles at his throat.’

‘Surely these orders will bring him out to head-quarters at once?’

‘They ought to; but he’s mean enough to try and shirk the whole business, I’ve heard officers of the regiment say as much—and in any case he can’t arrive before we start for the Coast.’

The staunch old couple came down themselves to the new Mole to bid their boy Godspeed.

‘There’ll be more Larkins’ out there[6] than you, Herkles, boy,’ said the old Sergeant, with a fierce light in his eye. He had made no great demonstrations; but Mimie’s conduct had, perhaps, wounded him more deeply than his wife. Now, for a moment, he brightened up like an old war-horse, but it was with more than the scent of the coming fray. ‘Rechab’s ship ordered to the coast, and maybe they’ll send him ashore with the Naval Brigade. He’s carpenter’s mate and a right handy lad. So you’ll foregather, and between you you might have a chance of bringing yon scoundrel to book.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Herbert, with his teeth set.

‘If he’d only make an honest woman of my sweet bird. If he’d only marry and behave decently to her.’

‘Decently!’ cried Mrs. Larkins, interposing[7] in a strong indignant voice. ‘Was there ever a Farrington who behaved decently to one of us?’

‘I’d like to force him and all his relations too. But time’s up. God bless you, mother, and you, sergeant, and bring all things right in the end.’

With that, amidst thundering cheers and the invigorating strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘The Girl I left behind me,’ the good ship slowly got under weigh.

It is no part of my intention to dilate upon the events of the Ashanti war. It will be in all men’s minds how early mischances brought the enemy close to our gates and rendered imperative the despatch of some capable leader to grapple with the emergency; how Sir Garnet Wolseley, the hero of the hour, accompanied by a brilliant staff, was desired to drive back the foe[8] with such forces as he found to his hand; how Fantee allies proved the most despicable cowards, and the small force of British seamen and marines were clearly unequal single-handed to the task of marching upon Coomassie, the objective point; how the demand for British regiments was at length complied with by the home Government, and how, when these had arrived and all was ready for the forward movement, a sudden collapse in transport arrangements threatened to paralyse the whole of the operations. Hence it was that the British regiments were not immediately disembarked, but cruised the seas till a new and more vigorous organisation of transport could be devised and carried out. We will take up the thread of our narrative at a time when the little invading army was across the Prah and almost within striking[9] distance of Coomassie. No serious collision with the enemy had as yet occurred, but some sharp fighting was obviously imminent. It was thought that the Ashantis would hold the Adansi Hills, and, even if forced therefrom, would make more than one subsequent stand; and it was probable that by nothing less than obstinate fighting would the ends of the campaign be achieved.

They had been long days of weary waiting for all concerned. The country was hateful and noxious in the extreme; yet all fought bravely, not against the foe, with whom they had scarcely been pitted, but against the malaria, the ever present fever, the intolerable heat. None behaved more pluckily than the Duke’s Own. Wellington once said, ‘Give me the dandies for hard work,’ and the apothegm might be[10] extended, into including crack corps. Now that they were at the real business of war, they bore hardships, privations and continuous discomfort without a murmur. The once splendid mess was now represented by a scratch meal under the fetich tree of a deserted village; its entertainments were to offer to comrades a cup of chocolate, a slice of tinned meat or sardine au naturel upon biscuit instead of toast. Luxury was a thing forgotten by all. Days of toilsome marching through the interminable forest, nights in drenching rain, with short commons in almost everything except quinine, were but poor substitutes for what they had left behind at Gibraltar and at home. Yet the Duke’s Own took everything as it came, indulging only in the occasional grumble which is deemed the British soldier’s birthright, and which, if nothing[11] else, is an outlet and safety-valve for discontent.

But the regiment had suffered considerably from sickness. Colonel Diggle was down with fever. He had been one of the first attacked, and though he had borne up with all the fortitude he could muster, his nature was not of that resolute kind which successfully resists disease. Very soon after disembarkation he had succumbed, and while he was lying in his cot on board the hospital ship Major Greathed had the honour of commanding the Duke’s Own in the field. Several other officers were also on the sick list, and a large percentage of the rank and file. Among the latter was Herbert Larkins.

He had fought with extraordinary pluck against the insidious advances of the fever. He had doctored himself, had taken quarts[12] of quinine, had refused persistently to seek for medical advice lest he should be struck off duty and sent to hospital. With it all he had stuck manfully to his work—no easy task—for during a portion of the time the quartermaster-sergeant had been hors de combat, and Greathed had selected Herbert to act in his place. All this told on him.

One day after many hours’ unremitting toil whipping up the craven carriers who tardily brought forward the regimental supplies, followed by long labours in issuing rations, Herbert suddenly dropped as if he had been shot through the head. They laid him in a hammock and carried him with them for a time, as they were then approaching the Adansi Hills, and an action seemed imminent. Nothing of the kind, as is well known, occurred. After a short[13] breathing space the advance was resumed. Herbert, who had at length recovered consciousness, saw to his mortification the regiment march out of the village in which they had been encamped, while he was left with a score or so of sick and helpless behind. It was the more aggravating because the crisis of the campaign was seemingly near at hand. Coomassie itself was not more than five and twenty or thirty miles distant; the enemy was known to be in force in front and in flank. Fighting more or less severe there must be, and that very soon. To think that he should miss it after all!

But, as will be seen, Herbert’s luck was not entirely against him. Young, strong, and sound as a bell, he had rallied wonderfully from his attack, and was already on the high road to convalescence[14] within a day or two of the regiment’s departure.

‘If ye gae on like this, ye’ll be as fit as a fiddle in a week,’ the Scotch doctor said.

‘And when may I go to the front, sir?’

‘At once, if the commanding officer here’ll let you.’

Herbert almost jumped off his bed, and hurriedly smartened himself as well as he could, to appear before the commandant.

But on leaving the hospital, a substantial building which had evidently been the palace of an Ashanti chief, he found the little garrison which held the village—I will call it Yankowfum—in a state of agitation, almost uproar. Important news had come back from the front. There had been a great battle (Amoaful). We had won it, but not without serious losses. The enemy[15] was still full of fight. A special despatch had been received by the commandant at Yankowfum to be on the look-out. His and the other posts along the line of advance would probably be attacked in force, and the Ashantis must be driven back at all costs. This, with many additions, had gone forth among the handful of sailors and West Indians composing the garrison, and was being loudly discussed when Herbert appeared.

‘Where’s the commandant?’ Herbert asked. ‘Who is he?’

‘Don’t know his name; he’s one of your lot,’ said an A.B.

‘And a poor lot, too, I take it,’ said another, ‘to judge by his looks and his ways.’

Herbert was about to retort, when a black soldier in his picturesque Zouave[16] dress came up, and said, ‘Staff colonel one time come. Very much angry with buckra officer.’

It was the officer in general charge of the communications who had hastened back from Amoaful to look to the security of his posts. He was travelling almost alone in a hammock carried by bearers, and seemed to think nothing of the dangers he braved as he passed through the bush swarming with enemies.

He was apparently seeking to infuse some of his own spirit into the commandant of Yankowfum.

‘You’ll do it easily enough,’ Herbert heard him say as he approached them, meaning to offer his services. ‘This place is stockaded, you’ve got a garrison.’

‘But it’s so small,’ said the other, ‘not fifty men, and half of them blacks.’

[17]

That voice? Surely it was familiar, Herbert thought.

‘I can’t give you another man. There isn’t time. Besides, every other post is threatened. However, you’ve got your orders; you must hold out to the last, you understand?’ said the colonel, pretty sharply.

‘But, sir, it’s not fair upon us. I must really protest. We shall be cut to pieces. What can such a handful do? For God’s sake don’t leave us like this—’

The other turned on his heel, but stopped short to say,

‘Upon my word, Mr.—Mr.—Farrington—I cannot compliment you on your demeanour. If there was another officer within reach I’d relieve you of your command. I wish even there was a steady old sergeant or two—’

[18]

Then his eye fell upon Herbert, who had moved a little farther away during the foregoing colloquy, partly because he felt that he ought not to overhear the colonel’s strictures, and partly because he was greatly excited at this unexpected rencontre with Ernest Farrington.

‘Ah, a sergeant, a colour-sergeant too? You have heard, no doubt? The post is about to be attacked. I have been telling the commandant here he must draw in the line of defence. Be careful not to waste ammunition, and hold on like grim death. You understand?’

‘All right, sir,’ answered Herbert cheerily, and the colonel went off, probably a little happier in his mind.

‘Any further orders, sir?’ Herbert quietly asked of Ernest Farrington, who was ashen pale, and too much agitated[19] seemingly to recognise the man who spoke to him.

‘No, no; do the best you can, sergeant.’

Whereat Herbert saluted and walked off.

It would be time enough to settle their differences by and bye. Perhaps by nightfall neither of them would be alive.