Damon's Ascension-Chapter 60: The Attack on Kumasi Fort 1

The distant crackle of musket fire echoed through the thick, humid air, a rhythmic reminder that the battle for Kumasi Fort was well underway.

Smoke curled above the treetops, drifting in thick plumes and making the area above the fort quite desolate. The stench of black powder mixed with the earthy scent of damp soil and blood was a terrible blend that clung to the nose and refused to let go.

Damon scanned his surroundings and found that he was in the area near the northwestern part of Adum. This was close enough to the fort that it would take him and his troops only about 10 minutes to get there, giving him ample time and space to assess the battlefield.

Deciding to make the most use of this, Damon silently gestured to the men to follow him, and they all nodded. Unlike previous excursions, there were no superfluous identities here, only soldiers and their leader.

None were inclined to give him random advice nor incessantly ask him what to do next. They simply remained alert and tense, ready for anything and everything.

Soon, the group reached the area near the fort, and since the ancient Ghanaians were not fond of high-rise structures, the group could only climb some nearby houses to scout the fort area.

The terrain surrounding the fort was a chaotic blend of lush African vegetation and the marks of countless battles, including the current one.

Tall trees, their branches warped and scarred by years of fire and hardship, now faced a new wave of suffering as cannon fire ripped through their trunks, and bullets sliced through their leaves, turning the once-resilient forest into a battlefield.

The dirt paths leading toward the fort were uneven and riddled with shallow trenches hastily dug by Ashanti warriors in preparation for their assault.

Beyond those makeshift defenses, hundreds of bodies littered the ground. There were British soldiers in torn redcoats, their lifeless forms sprawled in unnatural angles, and Ashanti warriors, draped in cloth designed with traditional patterns, their weapons still clutched in rigid hands.

Vultures circled overhead, drawn by the inevitable feast to come.

From where Damon was crouched, the fort itself loomed in the near distance, a thick-walled structure of stone and mortar, its foreign architecture a stark contrast to the land it occupied in this era.

What should have been an imposing symbol of British control now looked like a battered beast, pockmarked with holes from musket volleys and crude explosives. The once-pristine whitewashed walls were now covered with soot and blood, as though the fort itself was bleeding from its wounds.

Could this be why it was painted red in the modern era? Another snippet of hidden history, it seemed.

Ashanti war horns sounded from the treeline, their bloodthirsty calls sending a shiver down the spines of the British forces locked within the fort, for they knew another volley was coming.

In the slowly dimming light, figures moved like ghosts in the background, being the Ashanti warriors adorned with talismans and war paint, their eyes burning with defiance. They clutched their rifles and spears with an iron grip, bodies tense with anticipation, waiting for the command to charge.

Somewhere within the fort, Damon could hear the shouts of British officers, barking orders in clipped tones, their desperation barely concealed beneath forced authority. The defenders were trapped, starved, and exhausted, but they were still dangerous.

The entire situation was quite interesting to say the least. The Ashanti fielded nearly 20,000 men and women, while Damon was sure that the number of survivors within the fort didn’t surpass 600 people, only about 400 of them were combat-worthy fighters, while the rest were either service personnel or civilians from Britain here to visit the land of savages.

How did Damon know this? Naturally, due to the battle report from modern history books.

The young man stood up, deciding that he had seen enough. Even though this mission provided him a lengthy timer of one month for completion, he did not have that much time as he had an auction to hold in 12 hours, so everything had to be wrapped up by then.

In other circumstances, Damon would send out one of his men to make contact with the leader of the Ashanti forces, Yaa Asantewaa, but he was in a rush, so he directly jumped down from the building and gestured for his men to follow.

When the Ashanti warriors, who were filled with bloodlust, first saw them, they pointed their fingers at the group and roared with menacing intent, lifting up their guns to shoot. Damon’s group, though frightened, remained stoic and lifted up their matchlocks to shoot back in the case of an attack.

Damon himself remained calm and did not even lift up his weapon, only glancing around and then shouting in the local Ashanti language.

"Where is your commander?"

A rather buff warrior snarled as he aimed his matchlock right at Damon’s head. "And who are you to ask?!"

"The Obetse of the Ga Tribe, here to offer support to our brethren against the invaders!" Damon introduced himself formally.

This made the Ashanti warriors hesitate greatly. Firstly, Damon’s use of perfect Ashanti to speak to them proved he was not one of those dog Hausa who joined the British forces, and secondly, his well-equipped entourage were clearly of the Ga tribe, given the motifs on their redone uniforms.

The burly man lowered his matchlock, and so too did the others.

"Fine, you may follow me to the Queen Mother." The fellow said with a scowl, turning without glancing at Damon a second time.

Damon gestured for his men to lower their guns and followed the burly warrior through groups of Ashanti warriors who glared at him like flesh-eating monsters, their hatred and rage towards the British being focused on him.

Damon stepped carefully through the camp while being led, his eyes scanning the organized chaos of the Ashanti war front as his lips were stretched into a frown. While he would love to smile confidently, that would be misplaced in this place, given that everyone wore expressions of hatred and anger.

Someone daring to smile would easily attract all the hostility of these warriors, and Damon was not here to cause trouble with them. Since they all squeezed their faces, Damon would too.

In the war camp, fires flickered in small pits, their smoke curling into the sky as night approached. Ashanti warriors sharpened their blades on rough stones, while others adjusted the charms and talismans hanging from their necks, whispering quiet prayers to their ancestors.

The air was thick with sweat, gunpowder, and the iron tang of blood. Drums beat a slow, steady rhythm, a heartbeat guiding the siege, keeping the warriors focused.

Even those who weren’t on the front lines were engaged in preparations by repairing muskets, tending to the wounded, or simply sitting in silence, their gazes fixed on the fort with burning intensity.

At the heart of it all, the command area stood, and it was not a lavish tent that was marked by extravagant symbols, as most African tribes like to have during inter-tribal wars.

Instead, a large, sturdy wooden platform had been erected, giving a clear vantage of the battlefield. Around it, warriors moved with purpose, mainly messengers running back and forth to deliver correspondence, war leaders gathering to discuss tactics, and guards standing with unwavering discipline.

And at the center of them all was Yaa Asantewaa.

She sat upon a carved wooden stool, her posture straight, radiating authority even in stillness. Her frame was strong despite her age, her dark skin gleaming with sweat and war paint.

A cloth of deep red and gold wrapped around her, embroidered with the Akan symbol of power and resistance respectively. Her head was wrapped in a matching turban, her sharp eyes peering from beneath it like a hawk surveying its prey.

A short rifle rested against her knee, and a long curved sword lay across her lap, its blade worn but deadly sharp. There was no crown, no typical excessive jewelry... only the presence of a leader who had fought her way here, one whose command needed no decoration to be acknowledged.

She looked up as Damon approached, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp as daggers.

"You are the Obetse of the Ga people?" She asked, her voice steady and without hostility.

Damon nodded. "That’s right. My warriors and I have come to assist our brethren to the north in this fight."

For a moment, there was silence. Yaa Asantewaa studied him, then let out a short breath of slight relief, her lips pressing into a firm line.

"If you have come to fight, then fight with all your soul, dear Obetse. The British will not hand us our freedom. We must take it with blood and fire." She said strongly, her fists clenching tightly.

Her words were met with murmurs of agreement from the gathered warriors. Damon held her gaze, then smiled faintly.

"I wouldn’t be here otherwise."

Yaa Asantewaa nodded approvingly. Then, without another word, she gestured toward the fort.

"The next attack begins soon. Prepare yourself and your elite warriors, Noble Obetse."