Frederick Brereton - With Wolseley to Kumasi - A Tale of the First Ashanti War

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.

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.