08 The City of Dreadful Death (Jack Windrush #8) by Malcolm Archibald

Author:Malcolm Archibald [Archibald, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Legionary - A Next Chapter Imprint
Published: 2020-07-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

CAPE COAST CASTLE OCTOBER 1873

Moving with impressive speed, Wolseley called together the chiefs and kings to a palaver the next day. Rather than squeeze the kings into Government House, Wolseley had ordered the servants to erect a large marquee on the grounds.

“It's a bit like the umbrellas of the Ashantis,” Jack remembered the colourful gatherings at Kumasi. Perhaps we are even more similar than Yaa Asantewaa thought.

“On this coast,' Wolseley said, “They call such a gathering a palaver. Old India hands such as myself know it better as a durbar, where we meet the local kings, rajahs and whatnots, listen to their points of view and then tell them what we're going to do.”

Jack thought that Wolseley seemed very sure of himself for a man so new to the coast. “I've attended a few durbars myself,” he said. “Mostly on the Frontier.”

Wolseley gave Jack a sharp look. “We must treat these people with respect and dignity,” Wolseley said. “Remember, they were here long before us.”

Meeting Jack's eye, Hook winked.

In mid-afternoon, the kings arrived from all around, each with his entourage of followers. Some had sword-bearers or men with gold-topped canes. Many sheltered under the umbrellas which denoted their status, and others marked their approach by beating drums. All filed into the marquee and perched on beautifully carved stools, pompous with self-importance like the senior class at a public school or newly appointed politicians in the House of Commons.

Some chiefs were too intent on their own affairs to notice anything else, while others studied the raised dais where Wolseley waited with Lieutenant Wood pristine at his side.

“Bring them up,” Wolseley stood up. “One at a time.”

As a mere major, Jack stood in the background as the kings ascended the dais to shake Wolseley's hand. The general greeted each with great cordiality, smiling as the translator repeated the king's words. Wolseley remained on his feet until all the chiefs had returned to their seats before he addressed them. Speaking slowly through the translator, Wolseley reminded the chiefs of the continuing threat from the Ashantis and asked them to call up their men for mutual defence.

“May as well ask them to whistle down the moon,” Buller whispered.

Nodding politely and giving promises of co-operation and help, the kings accepted Wolseley's gifts of gin, traditional for West Africa and filed away as noisily as they had arrived.

“And that's the last we'll see of them,” Buller lit a cheroot, passing one over to Jack. “All smiles and promises.”

“Aye,” Jack agreed. “I don't think they'll raise their men. Why should they fight for themselves when we're here to do the fighting for them?”

“They are very divided,” Buller said. “The native peoples here are split into hundreds of small clans, tribes and nations. In the east, there are Awoonah, Krepe, Akeamu, Accra, Akim and others. To the north or west are Wassaws, Amanaheas, Denkyiras and Assins, with Fantis and Kroomen along the coast.” He puffed on his cheroot, “and that's only the tribes I know about.”

“I've heard some of these names,” Jack said.

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