rmed the strength of
its army. The repose that even this uncivilized people longed for was
denied them by a most unfortunate incident.

Asim was a province tributary to the Ashantee empire. Two of the
chiefs of Asim became insubordinate, gave offence to the king, and
then fled into the country of the Fantis, one of the most numerous and
powerful tribes on the Gold Coast. The Fantis promised the fugitives
armed protection. There was no extradition treaty in those days. The
king despatched friendly messengers, who were instructed to set forth
the faults of the offending subjects, and to request their return. The
request was contemptuously denied, and the messengers subjected to a
painful death. The king of Ashantee invaded the country of the enemy,
and defeated the united forces of Fanti and Asim. He again made them
an offer of peace, and was led to believe it would be accepted. But
the routed army was gathering strength for another battle, although
Chibbu and Apontee had indicated to the king that the conditions of
peace were agreeable. The king sent an embassy to learn when a formal
submission would take place; and they, also, were put to death. King
Osai Tutu Kwamina took "_the great oath_," and vowed that he would
never return from the seat of war or enter his capital without the
heads of the rebellious chiefs. The Ashantee army shared the desperate
feelings of their leader; and a war was begun, which for cruelty and
carnage has no equal in the annals of the world's history. Pastoral
communities, hamlets, villages, and towns were swept by the red waves
of remorseless warfare. There was no mercy in battle: there were no
prisoners taken by day, save to be spared for a painful death at
nightfall. Their groans, mingling with the shouts of the victors, made
the darkness doubly hideous; and the blood of the vanquished army, but
a short distance removed, ran cold at the thoughts of the probable
fate that waited them on the morrow. Old men and old women, young men
and young women, the rollicking children whose light hearts knew no
touch of sorrow, as well as the innocent babes clinging to the
agitated bosoms of their mothers,--unable to distinguish between
friend or foe,--felt the cruel stroke of war. All were driven to an
inhospitable grave in the place where the fateful hand of war made
them its victims, or perished in the sullen waters of the Volta. For
nearly a hundred miles "the smoke of their torment" mounted the skies.