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I PR E-OWNED BOOK
§ i

onutntion
THE AMAZING HEALTH
BENEFITS OF NUTRITIONAL
SUPPLEMENTS

2ND EDITION

Ray D. Strand, M.D.

m
"Finally, a book with truth we can trust. Dr. Strand offers a priceless gift to

improve the quality and quantity of life. Laser accurate and scientifically docu-
mented, it will help you win the war against degenerative disease and premature
aging."

Denis Waitley, Ph.D., author

The Psychology of Winning

"At last, someone has written a book that explains, based on the medical litera-

ture, why we need to provide all the nutrients in supplementation to the cell in
balance and at optimal levels. Everyone should read this book in order to begin
taking control of their own health."

Dr. Myron Wentz,

Immunologist, microbiologist, and

founder of Gull Laboratories and USANA

This book is superbly written, and once I started reading it I could not put it

down. I congratulate you on composing an excellent authoritative publication,

which will be uselful for enlightening both physicians and patients alike on the
health benefits of nutritional supplements.

M. Coyle Shea, M. D. F.A.C.S.

Thank you for your book, which I think is very well written and informative.
I especially liked your comments regarding the label of "alternative medicine" as

there is certainly nothing alternative about sound, rational, nutritional advice and

supplementation to optimize the body's own defenses and healing potential.

o
Peter H. Langsjoen, M. D., F. A. C.C.
 t^ 1 1

trition
THE AMAZING HEALTH BENEFITS OF
NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENTS

Jo fi(^jza*t&

Ray D. Strand, M.D.

2ND EDITION

Comprehensive Wellness Publishing

Rapid City, SD 57709
 ©1998 Ray D. Strand, MD. Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-

except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or

newspaper-without permission in writing from the publisher.

information, please contact

Comprehensive Wellness Publishing

P.O. Box 9226. Rapid City, SD 57709.

Every effort has been made to make this book as accurate as possible. The purpose of this book is to

educate. It is a review of scientific evidence that is presented for information purposes. No individual

should use the information in this book for self-diagnosis, treatment, or justification in accepting or

declining any medical therapy for any health problems or diseases. Any application of the advice herein

is at the reader's own discretion and risk. Therefore, any individual with a specific health problem or who
is taking medications must first seek advice from their personal physician or health care provider before

starting a nutrition program. The author and Comprehensive Wellness Publishing shall have neither

liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to loss, damage, or injury caused or

alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

We assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.

Any slights of people, places, or organizations are unintentional.

First printing 1998

Second printing 1999

ISBN 0-9664075-7-1

LCCN 98-71598

Editing, design, typesetting and printing services provided by Sound Concepts, 500 South Geneva Road,

Vineyard, Utah 84958 (Phone SOI 225-9520). Cover Design and Art Direction b> John M Adams.
ATTENTION MEDICAL FACILITIES, CORPORATIONS. UNIVERSITIES. COLLEGES, AND
PROl BSSIONAL ORGANIZATIONS: Quantity discounts are available on hulk purchases ol this book

foi educational purposes. Special hooks or hook excerpts can also be created to tit specific needs For

information, please contact Comprehensive Wellness Publishing, (8i

-
 : — i

fable of Contents

Section
Chapter 1 Degenerative Disease and Oxidative Stress 7
Chapter 2: The War Within 11
Chapter 3: Oxidized LDL Cholesterol

The Truly Bad Cholesterol 19

Chapter 4: Homocysteine—The New Kid on the Block 27
Chapter 5: Cardiomyopathy — New Hope 35
Chapter 6: Chemoprevention and Cancer 45
Chapter 7: Oxidative Stress and Your Eyes 59
Chapter 8: Other Degenerative Diseases Related
to Oxidative Stress 63
Chapter 9: Antioxidants and the Immune System 73
Chapter 1C ): Diabetes Mellitus 79
Chapter 1 ] : Osteoporosis 85
Chapter 12 : Fibromyalgia 91

Section
Chapter 12 : Bionutrition versus Recommended
Daily Allowances 99
Chapter \Ak Nutritional Supplements 105
Chapter If : Mineral Supplementation 117
Chapter \t >: Safety of Nutritional Supplements 123
Chapter 11 ': Physician's Bias Against

Nutritional Supplements 129

Chapter I i >: Bionutrition-Putting It All Together 135
Conclusioi i 143
References 147

o
z
a
TO
—
z
ife
 Acknowledgments
I want to give a special thank you to Dr. Myron Wentz. His unwavering
dedication in the fight against degenerative disease has truly been an inspiration.

I also appreciate the boldness with which Dr. Kenneth Cooper is speaking out to
the medical community in recommending that everyone needs to be taking
nutritional supplements.

This book is a reality primarily because of my wife, Elizabeth. She has been a
gift from the Lord. Her constant encouragement and loving support is what
really kept my focus. With my busy private practice and strong commitment to

my family, it was the late night hours that allowed me the time to complete the

writing of this book. Thank you, Elizabeth, for continually reminding me I

needed to finish what I had started. She has been a loving wife and a beautiful
mother to my children: Donny, Nick, and Sarah. I am truly blessed.

The more I learn of how intricate our bodies are, the more I appreciate our

divine design. This is not an accident. Our own bodies are our best defense

against disease, especially when they are properly nourished. I must acknowl-
edge His working in my life and His guidance in the writing of this book. We are

marvelously and wonderfully made.

The Author
 ntroduction

Nothing curls physicians' toes more than when patients come into their office

and ask if they should be taking nutritional supplements. I had all of the
patented answers - they're snake oil; they just make expensive urine; one can get
all the required nutrients by eating the right foods. If my patients persisted, I told

them nutritional supplements probably wouldn't hurt them but they should take
the cheapest they could find.

Maybe you have heard some of these same comments from your physician.
For the first 23 years of my clinical practice, I simply did not believe in nutri-
tional supplements. During the past five years, however, I have reconsidered my
position based on recent studies published in the medical
literature. r*^^*
Should you be taking nutritional supplements? This
5 °° ok ls
book is dedicated to open-minded skeptics who are .

willing to look objectively at medical evidence. If you • , , , . ,

who
.

are a close-minded skeptic,

,

book down now and save yourself a

, , . .
,

you might as well put

lot
„ ,

this

of time. Vitamins
. minded
^ vy////
skeptics

objectively at
^ %o ^
are an emotional issue within the medical field. One medical evidence.
hopes logic will prevail and readers will begin to
understand what is likely the next major breakthrough in medicine - nutritional
science.

Physicians are disease oriented. We look for disease. We are pharmaceutically

trained to treat disease. We know our drugs. In medical school, we study pharma-
cology and learn how each of these drugs is absorbed, and when and how they
are excreted from the body. We know the chemical pathways they disrupt to
create a therapeutic effect. We learn their side-effect profile. We balance the
therapeutic benefit of these drugs against their potential danger.

Pharmaceutical representatives try to gain access to our offices to display their

goods. If that is not possible, they sponsor continuing medical education meet-
ings in the hope of sharing their newest drugs. They highlight the latest double-
blind, placebo-controlled clinical trial they believe supports the use of their drug
in our patients. They take out full-page ads in national newspapers and maga-
zines encouraging patients to talk to their physicians about their newest drug.

You can't watch your favorite TV program without a pharmaceutical company

 I N I
RO D LI C T I ON

selling its wares. This is the reality of medicine... This is the economics of
medicine.
According to Peter Langsjoen, MD, a biochemist and cardiologist from Tyler,

Texas:

Modem medicine seems to be based on an 'attack strategy' a philosophy of treatment

formed in response to the discovery of antibiotics and the development of surgical/anesthetic

techniques. Disease is viewed as something that can be attacked selectively with antibiotics,

chemotherapy, or surgery - assuming no harm to the host. Even chronic illnesses, such as

diabetes and hypertension, yield simple numbers, which can be furiously assaulted with

medications. Amidst the miracles and drama of the twentieth century we may have forgotten

the importance of host support, as if time borrowed with medications and surgery were

restorative in and of itself

He concludes by saying that disease-attacking strategies, along with host-

supportive treatments, would yield much better results in clinical medicine.

The greatest defense against disease is our own body. Common sense tells us

we need a strong and healthy immune system to protect our health. Nutritional
supplements are needed to support the host (our bodies) in this battle against

chronic disease. This is not in opposition to traditional medicine and all of our
pharmaceutical and surgical advances. This is not alternative medicine. The main
theme of this book is that supplements work along with pharmaceuticals and
surgery to create significantly better results in clinical medicine.

Penicillin may help shorten the course of streptococcal throat infection by a

few days. It also helps prevent rheumatic fever in younger patients. Without a
strong immune system present within the patient, however, the treatment is of
little value. A good example of this is infection in patients that are immunocom-
promised because of chemotherapy or complications from full-blown AIDS.
Most of the medical studies presented in this book are not from abstract
medical journals. They are from main-line medical journals, such as the New
England Journal of Medicine, Journal of the American Medical Association. The
Lancet, and so forth. Pharmaceutical companies will not take out full-page ads to
tell you about the health benefits of nutritional supplements. There isn't much
money to be made by promoting natural products. Nutritional supplements

cannot be patented via the Food and Drug Administration. It is up to physicians

to take an open-minded look at these studies and be advocates for their patients.
I have been in the trenches of a private family practice for more than 26 years.
 INTRODUCTION

I have seen my share of gimmicks and quackery peddled to my patients.

Physicians must be skeptical and protect their patients against any scheme or
product that could be harmful to their health. Double-blind, placebo-controlled,
clinical trials (the standard in clinical medicine) are needed to assess what truly
benefits our patients and what does not. This is the type of evidence I present in
this book.
In this age of biochemical research, where we are now able to determine what
is happening in every part of each cell, the very essence of degenerative diseases

is now coming to light. Oxygen necessary to sustain life on this planet also has a
"dark side"- oxidative stress. One must understand how this affects the body and
how to protect against it. This book is the culmination of three years of research

into oxidative stress and how it relates to health and disease.

Prevention of disease is the first order of business for any physician. In the
early 1970s, I began to recommend moderate exercise. Evidence in the medical
literature now shows there is a health benefit with moderate exercise. In the

1980s, I recommended that my patients eat a low-fat, high-fiber diet with at least

five to seven servings of fruits and vegetables each day. The medical literature

convinced me there was a definite health benefit in this recommendation. Today I

recommend nutritional supplements to my patients, which I am convinced offer

definite health benefits to my patients. Therefore, my patients need to have a
modest exercise program, eat a low-fat, high-fiber diet, and take high quality
nutritional supplements in order to best protect their health. I firmly believe the

medical literature strongly supports ALL of these recommendations. This is not

alternative medicine - it is common sense preventive medicine.
When we provide the body with micronutrients at optimal levels, the body is

able to function at a much higher level. Recommended Dietary Allowances

(RDA) were developed to prevent acute nutritional deficiencies (scurvy, rickets,

and pellagra). Bionutrition provides the optimal level of nutrients to prevent, or

at least delay, chronic degenerative diseases (heart attack, stroke, and cancer) and
to enable the body to do what God intended. Physicians across the country are
now beginning to discover this truth. I sincerely hope this book benefits your
health and your life.
k

SECTION
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 'Very good.'

'Swords or pistols, monsieur?'

'Oh, the devil—pistols, of course,' replied Cadbury, as if he was in the

habit of fighting a duel every morning.

'Merci, monsieur, we shall not fail you, and now good evening—bon
soir.'

'Bon soir.'

The manner of Captain Gabion, who had been eyeing him with some
contempt, twirling his moustache the while, changed completely now, and,
bowing with studious politeness, he withdrew to report progress to Bevil
Goring.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN THE LUNETTE ST. LAURENT.

At first a kind of—shall we say it?—savage joy and exultation swelled

up in the breast of Goring at the prospect of being face to face with Cadbury
again, and already in fancy he was covering with his pistol the spectrum of
the peer's thick-set, pudgy person, for he had at first serious doubts—though
they were both on the Continent—that the latter would accept his challenge.

'Well, I have faced much in my short time, and figured in many things;
but I never thought to do so in such an old-fashioned affair as a duel!' he
said, with a grim smile, to his new friend Gabion.

And he wondered what Tony Dalton, Jerry Wilmot, and others of the
battalion now far away beyond the equator, would think of the event, when
tidings would reach them that he had been shot by Lord Cadbury, or had
shot the latter—and in a duel!

How strange it sounded to English ears now!

He wrote to his solicitors to settle a sum stated—a handsome annuity on

Alison, if she was found—one that would keep her every way independent
alike of her father and Lord Cadbury, if he fell by the hand of the latter—
instructions which made those quiet and very acute legal practitioners,
Messrs. Taype, Shawrpe, and Scrawly, open their eyes very wide indeed,
when the letter reached them at Gray's Inn Square.

His reveries were not very rose-coloured, as he might be a dead man

long before this time to-morrow, he thought, while looking at the clock;
however, it did not impair his appetite, and he and Victor Gabion spent the
evening at the Café Grisor, in the Rue Von Shoonhoven, listening to the
grand organ which is played by machinery, while enjoying their wine and
cigars, far into the small hours of the morning.

Yet we may be sure that there are few men, if they told truth, but would
acknowledge that they felt a very unpleasant emotion when thinking that
when another round of the clock was achieved their part in this world might
be over—ended and done with!

In the morning he was in a brighter mood, and, though infuriated

against Cadbury, had no desire to kill, but only to wound him, to the end
that he might wring from him the secret of what he had done with Alison.
He was a good marksman—had been a musketry instructor—and with rifle
and revolver had done some great things among the big game and hill tribes
in India.

A revelation was all he wanted. On his own life, save in so far as Alison
Cheyne was concerned, he set little store. How short seemed the minutes he
used to spend with her under the old beeches at Chilcote, or when in Laura
Dalton's at the Grange. Short and few, and how much alone he used to feel
when not with her!
 Now how much more alone he felt, when he seemed to have so
mysteriously and painfully lost her!

After some coffee, backed by a chasse—i.e., dashed with cognac—he

and Gabion—with the latter's case of pistols—departed before sunrise in a
voiture for the citadel—a pretty long drive, through winding and tortuous
streets, crossing between the great shipping basins at the Quai Hambourg,
and ere long the houses were left behind, and the great grassy embankments
of the fortress rose before them.

Every feature of the scenery, every detail of what he saw, however petty
and trivial, impressed itself curiously upon the mind of Bevil Goring on this
eventful morning.

A group of old peasant women, with wide dark-blue or black cloaks and
coal-scuttle bonnets, gossiping in the roadway; children at cottage doors;
Flemish labourers, with hard and earnest types of face, leisurely filling their
huge pipes with tobacco; a boy sitting on a gate, munching a straw, and
dreaming perhaps of the future; the view of the vast Scheldt, curving in a
mighty sweep round the flat green Tête de Flandres, with all its steamers
and other shipping.

The mighty cathedral spire, and all the thousands of high-peaked roofs
and masses of the quaint city, thrown forward in dark outline against the
lurid and vapoury red of the winter morning sky, all seen like a vast
panorama from the green heights of the citadel. Goring recalled the first
morning he had seen the latter from the deck of the Rotterdam, and had
looked at its great gaping embrasures and lunettes, well flanked out, with
the leisurely interest it cannot fail to have in a soldier's eye.

He was now perhaps looking upon Nature, with all her beauties, for the
last time, and the coming spring and summer might be as nought to him,
even after the wealth that had come upon him so unexpectedly; but if he
was fated to fall by Cadbury's pistol his chief regret was not for these
things, but the fear that, unless those in another world are cognisant of what
passes in this, he would never know the fate of Alison Cheyne, or penetrate
the veil that hid her whereabouts in mystery now!
 He listened somewhat as one in a dream to Victor Gabion, who was
drawing his attention, with no small pride and enthusiasm, to the features of
the mighty model citadel, which is now so deserted in aspect, and the streets
in the immediate vicinity of which consist chiefly of the ruins of the
arsenals and magazines, that were destroyed in the great siege of 1832,
when only 4,500 Dutchmen, under old General Chassé, defended
themselves with such desperation against 55,000 Frenchmen, under
Marshal Gerard.

'My grandfather commanded a regiment on that occasion,' said Gabion,

'and opened the ball by attacking this part—the Lunette St. Laurent, which
lies nearest to the town. The trenches were nine English miles long, and
sixty-three thousand shot and shell were fired into the place before Chassé
hauled down his colours. Sapristi! but that was something like fighting!
Diable!' he added, 'we are not first on the ground.'

Bevil Goring was much mortified to think that in that matter he had
been anticipated by Lord Cadbury, when some dark figures appeared
hurrying towards them along the terre pleine of the ramparts; but it was not
so, for those who approached proved to be brother-officers of Gabion's,
who, having been informed by him of the affair, had come forth, as one
said, to see 'le sport.'

All touched their caps, and, after a few passing remarks, looked round
for the appearance of Cadbury and his second, but no one, save themselves,
seemed to be in the misty space, or amid the wet grassy works of the
citadel, and no voiture from the town was as yet seen approaching the
entrance to it. All these Belgian officers, to Goring's eye, seemed very
square-shouldered, as they wore blue cloaks over their gold epaulettes. All
were chatting and laughing merrily, while smoking as if their lives
depended upon it.

'Sapristi! Sacré Dieu!' muttered Victor Gabion, looking at his watch,

'ten minutes past eight, and no appearance of milord.'

Time passed on. The cathedral clock struck half-past eight, and
eventually nine; but there was no appearance of Cadbury.
 'Can he have fallen ill?' was the last of many surmises as to this most
unexpected turn in the matter.

'Not likely; he would surely have had the courtesy to send a message,
and not keep us loitering here,' said Captain Gabion.

The Belgians twirled their moustaches, and exchanged glances of

derision.

Bevil Goring felt keen shame that any Englishman should act as
Cadbury had done, and at last they all left the citadel and drove back to the
city.

'Sapristi!' was of course muttered by everyone; 'what is to be done

now?'

Goring thought, if he could meet his lordship, he would certainly attack

him rearward with his foot, and, as Hudibras has it:

'Because a kick in that place more

Hurts honour than deep wounds before.'

At the very time that Goring and his companions were cooling their
heels on the Lunette St. Laurent, the Firefly was steering close-hauled
against a head wind, mid-way between the city and Flushing, with Lord
Cadbury on board! Since coming there he had imbibed in his wrath and
tribulation of spirit so many of Pemmican's brandies and sodas that Tom
Llanyard was puzzled what to think, and his temper was horrible.

On the preceding afternoon, immediately after the departure of Victor

Gabion, he had gone to the telegraph-office near the Bourse, and
telegraphed a message to himself that he might confidently open it in the
presence of Sir Ranald Cheyne. This he accordingly did, and, saying
nothing of his recent visitor's purpose, he suddenly announced that he must
instantly depart for London by steamer and train, but he hoped that Sir
Ranald, whom he left alone in his misery, would telegraph to his club the
moment he heard tidings of Alison, on which he, Lord Cadbury, would
instantly return to Antwerp. And, after this, the hereditary legislator (by one
descent) took his hurried departure.

Goring and his new friend Gabion, by making inquiries, were not long
in discovering that he had sailed in his yacht. Could Alison, under any
circumstances, be on board that yacht too?

His departure so suddenly, if no puzzle to Goring, was certainly one to

Sir Ranald, upon whose acceptance the peer pressed a little cheque for any
present necessities, and he was just then sick of the whole affair.

Bevil Goring could go near Sir Ranald no more, but, as he loitered near
the hotel, could he have looked in upon him just then he would have
forgiven him, and more than forgiven him all, his passion and fury.

'A letter for you, Sir Cheyne,' the concierge had said.

It was in a lady's hand, foreign in style, and addressed to 'Sir Ranald

Cheyne, Hôtel St. Antoine, E.L.V.' He opened it, and read the contents in
tremulous haste.

'Ailie—my own bird Ailie—it is about her, but what?' he exclaimed, as

his old eyes filled with salt tears. Then he covered his face with his hands,
and added, hoarsely, 'Oh, my child, my darling Ailie!'

He strove to rise from his chair, but fell faintly into the arms of the
startled concierge.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ON THE MARCH TO PRAH.

 And now, while Bevil Goring is lingering somewhat hopelessly in
Antwerp, hearing nothing of Alison, and with all aim apparently taken out
of his life, feeling how terrible is the unknown; and Laura Dalton and Bella
Chevenix are counting the days of separation from those they love—the
long-lost husband in one case, the misjudged lover in the other—the
transport with the Rifles on board, was running along the western coast of
Africa, and some twenty days or so after the departure from Southampton
saw her, with the rest of the sea and land armament, at anchor off the Gold
Coast.

Save in so far as it concerns the adventures and fate of our friends Tony
Dalton and Jerry Wilmot, we do not intend to write the story of how we
fought there and marched to Coomassie, or what was the cause of the war,
as there are never wanting old soldiers to tell the true tale of the fields in
which they have fought.

Sir Richard Steele, that pleasing old essayist, in one of his fugitive
papers gives us an amusing account of an ordinary in Holborn, where a
veteran captain, furnished with a wooden leg, was never weary of telling
long stories about the battle of Naseby, in which he had borne a part; and it
is always the result of every battle or campaign of note to have survivors of
it, who become perhaps after-dinner bores.

Thus the veterans of Blenheim and Malplacquet would hear with

impatience the terrors of the great Civil War, but inflicted their
reminiscences in turn on the victors of Dettingen and Culloden. So in turn
the heroes of the glorious Peninsula have now given place to those of Alma
and Inkerman, and even their annals are fading now beside those of the
luckless and disastrous fields of Southern Africa.

'The Army is full of men with stories in their lives,' said Dalton to Jerry
one day, when talking of this very subject; 'but I think, by Jove, that mine is
an exceptionally strange one.'

Jerry, on the other hand, was thinking it strange that he should have
proposed to his friend's wife; but that fancy was all a thing of the past now,
and—when his genuine love for Bella Chevenix was considered—seemed a
phantasy, an absurdity, out of which the brilliant Laura had herself laughed
him, and he had ceased to think of her before he ever thought hopefully of
winning Bella; but surely love in these days of ours is not what it was a
hundred years ago, when, as the author of 'Guy Livingston' has it, 'our very
school-girls smile at the love-conceits which beguiled their grand-dames,
even as they may have smiled at the philandering of Arcadia.'

New Year's Day, 1874, was to witness the landing of Sir Garnet
Wolseley's expedition—army it could not be called—on the Gold Coast,
consisting in all of about fifteen hundred men, exclusive of officers. The
Black Watch—clad in grey for the first time since the regiment first
mustered on the Birks of Aberfeldy, a hundred and forty years before—
reckoned only nine hundred bayonets, nominally, with the 23rd Welsh
Fusiliers and the Rifles, formed the infantry. The pipers alone wore the kilt.

Long before daybreak, the Rifles came ashore. The seamen of the ships
of war and transports were supplied with lanterns, in case the landing
should occur in the dark; but a brilliant moon, shining in a clear, blue,
cloudless sky, rendered their use unnecessary, and the dark grey column,
with its black accoutrements and tropical helmets, was soon massed on the
beach, and began its march alone under Colonel Arthur Warren—a veteran
of Alma and the Eastern campaign—and long ere the sun of the tropical
noon was high overhead, had marched seven miles on its route to the front;
the rest of the troops, with the Naval Brigade, came on within five or six
days, and the advance was continued towards the Prah. The troops did not
—as the people at home curiously expected—proceed towards that now
famous river by railway, as the materials which were brought out for its
construction were not laid down, so 'that wondrous jungle, with its foot-
track, some twenty or thirty inches wide, between close walls of luxuriant
greenery, swarming with strange and lovely birds, hateful reptiles, and
monstrous insects, was not as yet to be disturbed by the locomotives
steaming and screaming across the land.'

The troops marched without music. The pipes alone at times—playing

the warlike airs of other ages—woke the echoes of the path to Coomassie,
scaring the turkey buzzards, the scavenger bird, and others of the feathered
tribes in the far recesses of the dense primeval forests.
 But there were some parts of the route where it lay through still and
lifeless dells like those in the south of Scotland, without shelter, and then
the fierce sun of Africa shone upon them with its pitiless glare, till rifle-
barrets and sword-blades grew hot to the touch, and, like many others, Jerry
Wilmot and Dalton sighed as they thought of iced champagne, of bitter beer
'in its native pewter' (as Dickens has it), and the fleshpots of Aldershot.

But anon, near Accrofal, the march lay through groves of cotton-trees
some two hundred and fifty feet high, like the giant vegetation of another
world—trees with stems like the Duke of York's column, as Sir Garnet
Wolseley afterwards said—shutting out the sun from the wilderness of bush
below; and, as trees of other kinds were already shedding leaves, the men
often marched more than ankle deep through fallen foliage.

The desertion of five thousand Fantee burden-bearers threw their task

on the troops, who—the 42nd setting the example—carried the stores, in
addition to their kits, arms, and accoutrements, with seventy rounds of ball
cartridge, three ball-bags, haversacks, belts, bayonet, and Snider-Enfield
rifle—terrible toil for white men in such a climate.

At each halting-place food was cooked by men in advance, and

whenever a half-battalion came in it was fed at once, and the cooks went
forward to the next. Jerry's man, O'Farrel, was 'invaluable as an improviser
of grub,' as Jerry said, though his cuisine was somewhat inferior to the
luxuries of the transport mess.

The first halt on New Year's night was at a place called Barraco, of
which a party of the Naval Brigade were the first to possess themselves, and
there they were as hearty and happy as British sailors could be, as the whole
campaign in the bush seemed to them but a spree ashore. But they were
chiefly in their glory at night, when an enormous camp fire was kindled by
them—a fire upon which the absolute and entire trunks of trees were
heaped—throwing its flames skyward and its red light far into the recesses
and dingles of the untrodden forest.

So on New Year's night, in that strange and isolated spot, were gathered
the general and his staff, the sailors and their officers, and all made merry—
the blue-jackets stepping forth in succession to sing their best, and often
raciest, forecastle songs.

On the next day's march, the second of January, the advanced guard
raised a cheer.

'What's up?' asked Dalton—'the Ashantees in sight?'

'No,' replied an officer, 'but the Prah is—that famous river which they
believe no white man will ever be able to cross.'

Nevertheless, it was crossed that evening—the first man who stemmed

its current being Lieutenant William Grant, of the 6th Regiment. It is
sometimes called the Boosemprah, or river of St. John.

Swift and muddy-coloured, here it was rolling with great force between
banks that were almost perpendicular—it was seventy yards wide and nine
feet deep. The foliage on the banks was singularly beautiful, and there the
stupendous cotton-trees were towering high in the air above a rich
undergrowth of palms and plantains.

The troops crossed it by a pontoon bridge, and a trimly-hutted camp for

three thousand men was speedily formed by the engineers, and then tents
were pitched for Sir Garnet and his staff. Near them were parked the
artillery under Captain Rait. It consisted of two batteries of steel guns, rifled
muzzle-loaders, with one capable of throwing a seven-pound shell, or an
oblong twelve-pound shell—sources of unutterable terror to Ashantees.
There was also a multiplying Gatling gun for musketry.

It was here that letters came from Koffee, the barbarous Ashantee king,
expressive of a desire for peace, but not on such terms as the general could
grant after having come so far; thus the advance on Coomassie, the capital,
was still resolved on. The only written language of the people is Arabic, and
the only persons who can write it are Moors; but their verbal language is the
softest and most liquid on the Gold Coast, abounding in vowels and nearly
destitute of aspirates.
 The black and nearly nude ambassadors remained in camp for a brief
time, and one of them, on seeing the practice of the Gatling gun, which sent
streams of bullets in every direction to which its muzzle was turned, told his
colleagues that 'it was vain to fight against foes so terribly armed.'

On this they taunted him with cowardice, of which they threatened to

inform King Koffee, and, knowing what his doom would be, the
unfortunate creature shot himself, and was buried on his own side of the
river, when each Ashantee, in accordance with some ancient custom, threw
a handful of dust on his body and took their departure.

It was evident that there would soon be fighting now. 'Sir Garnet's
demands were that the king must release all European prisoners' (of whom
he had several), 'pay £200,000 for the cost of the war, and sign in presence
of our forces a treaty securing firmly the British Protectorate from future
aggression. Private warnings, however, and the information gained by Lord
Gifford and Major Russel in their scouting advance beyond the Prah, caused
Sir Garnet to distrust completely all the king's overtures for peace.'

On the night after the dusky ambassadors had departed, Tony Dalton
had command of an out-piquet in the direction of the enemy, and as the
sunset passed away he had, as in duty bound, examined carefully all the
ground in his vicinity.

A night piquet, especially in a wood and in a savage country, is always a

post of danger. By day sentries can see about them more or less, but not so
in the gloom of night, and in a jungly wilderness where savages might creep
upon them unawares—even past or between them—and cut the piquet off.
Hence no man thought of sleeping, and Dalton had at least one connecting
sentry on the narrow track that led to the front where his line was posted.

The pipers of the Black Watch, playing tattoo in the hutted camp, had
made the mighty woods of the Prah re-echo to the notes of the 'Pibroch of
Donuil Dhu,' its last notes had died away in the leafy dingles, and as silence
stole over the plain Dalton gave way to thought.

The war in which he was engaged had been stigmatised as one against
savages, but they were savages who were far from being feeble foes; and if
(as a print of the time said) 'by honour and glory is meant the creditable
performance of duty at the call of the State, then is that just as applicable to
soldiers and sailors who fight savages as to those engaged in the more
showy scenes of European war. Her Majesty's troops do not pick and
choose either the enemies they have to encounter, or the regions wherein
their valour and fortitude are to be displayed; and it is unjust to shower
laurels on one set of men, while another, equally employed in defending our
empire, are deprived of due recognition.'

It was with a consciousness of this—the high sense of duty—that our

troops landed cheerfully on the perilous Gold Coast; yet Dalton, like many
of his comrades, had been elsewhere engaged in 'the big wars that make
ambition virtue,' and he felt that this Ashanti strife, though a petty one, was
fraught with many dangers peculiar to itself. Would he escape them, and yet
be spared to enjoy the society of the now brilliant and beautiful Laura and
their sweet little daughter? How hard if the bullet of a naked savage
deprived him of that double joy, and gave him a grave amid the eternal
forest that spread from the Prah to Coomassie!

He tried to shun this thought—that almost fear, which came to his

naturally gallant spirit—but failed. It would come again and again, with a
persistency that troubled him; for life seemed dearer, sweeter now, than it
had ever been before. He never thought of sleep, but indulged in waking
dreams of scenes and faces far away in pleasant Hampshire, and in hopes
that the wild work would soon be over, and hideous Coomassie won.

The night wind was whispering among rushes and reeds of wondrous
growth, or stirring the foliage of the cotton-trees, between which could be
seen the stars—constellations unknown in our northern hemisphere; and he
could hear the ripple of the Prah as it poured between its banks on its way
to St. Sebastian, the chirp of enormous insects, the twitter of brilliantly
plumaged birds, scared by the red gleams of the watch-fire. Round the latter
were the men of the picket, in their grey Ashanti uniforms and tropical
helmets, in groups, sitting or lying beside their piled rifles, the barrels of
which reflected the sheen of the flames.

As Dalton looked and listened, he felt as one in a dream, amid

surroundings so strange, and far over the seas his heart seemed to go, to
where no doubt at that hour little Netty, his daughter—his daughter, how
strangely it sounded!—was sleeping by her mother's side 'like a callow
cygnet in its nest'—Netty so recently found, one of whose existence he had
been so long ignorant.

The two tresses of hair he had got in such hot haste at Southampton
were many a time drawn forth from the breast-pocket of his Ashanti patrol-
jacket, to be tenderly unfolded, kissed, and replaced, for as yet no locket
had been procured in which to enshrine them, and such an ornament was
not likely to be procured among the reed-built wigwams of Coomassie.

Not far from him lay Jerry Wilmot, indulging in thoughts of his own—
wondering on what terms were now Bella Chevenix and haughty Lady Julia
Wilmot, his cold and heartless mother, who had seen him depart from his
father's house to face peril, disease, toil, and, it might be, death, so
callously!

Adjacent to Dalton's post was many a horrid souvenir of the hasty

retreat made across the Prah by the army of King Koffee, by torchlight, on
the night of the 29th of the preceding November, when three hundred men
perished. On the skirts of our camp—the foreshore of the Prah—their
festering corpses lay in scores, and many that were half skeletons hung
curiously and terribly from the branches of trees that arched over the
stream. In one place a dead Ashanti sat propped against the stem of a palm-
tree, with his head between his hands and his elbows on his knees; around
him lay heaps of bones, among which the turkey buzzards waddled. All
these men had perished by having failed to achieve a passage by the use of
their rope bridge.

Suddenly the sound of musketry close by, ringing out sharply upon the
air of the silent night, made the whole picket start to their feet.

'Stand to!' cried Dalton, drawing his sword. 'Unpile!' was the next order,
and the picket faced its line of sentries.
 END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.

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