Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

Calistoga, north of Napa Valley.

The soil here is reddish-brown, like cooled lava. The afternoon sun shines obliquely, turning the valley golden.

Along the road carved out by the carriage were meticulously planned and neatly arranged vineyards. The grapevines had emerged from dormancy, and the buds on their branches began to swell and burst open, sprouting the first tender green shoots.

At the end of the road was a manor.

Or rather, a fortress.

It sits on a gentle slope, backed by a mountain ridge, protected from the cold winds of the valley.

A thick wooden fence, made of tightly packed, sharpened logs, covered dozens of acres of land. Outside the fence were countless sharp barricades, clearly intended to effectively delay the charge of cavalry.

Within the wooden fence are many buildings, and even several natural hot spring pools with rising steam. The most central building is a three-story stone fortress with thick walls, narrow windows, and watchtowers with firing ports at its four corners.

"This is Samuel Brannan's hideout? This is definitely going to be troublesome."

John hid on a slightly higher hillside a few kilometers away from the manor, observing the manor and its surroundings with a monocular telescope.

This location was carefully chosen by them, as it allowed them to use the trees and rocks to conceal themselves while also providing a relatively wide field of vision.

"I only glanced at it, but I saw at least a dozen men with fierce expressions patrolling. Judging from their walking posture and the way they carried their guns, they had clearly seen blood."

The middle-aged man beside him nodded and whispered, "I saw sentries on all the roads leading in and out of the manor. A direct assault would definitely be detected immediately."

"And there are the slaves working outside, a large number of them, a mix of Black, Chinese, and Native Americans. They may not be armed, but if someone shouts, it's the best alarm."

"Is it possible to sneak in by offering jobs, and then open the door under the cover of night?" John suggested.

The middle-aged man's lips twitched, and he looked at him like he was an idiot: "Huh? John, I beg you, use your brain if it really exists."

"Please, this is Calistoga, not San Francisco or Sacramento. Nobody comes here looking for work!"

John clicked his tongue in annoyance: "Then what do you suggest we do?"

The uncle pointed to the ridge behind the manor and said, "What's the rush? We still have several days to scout. Let's go around to the other side of the ridge and take a look. Maybe we'll find something new."

Without another word, the two deftly put away their binoculars, untied the reins from the bushes, mounted their horses, and headed towards the distant mountain ridge.

The closer you get to the ridge, the more rugged the terrain becomes, and the hunter's trail that was barely discernible gradually disappears.

Later, the horses found it extremely difficult to move forward and neighed, refusing to go any further.

The two men dismounted and walked forward, using their hunting knives to slash through the vines and drooping branches blocking their path.

Two hours later, they finally reached the ridge.

Having found a suitable spot, they used binoculars to look down at the manor.

The layout of the manor became clearer to the two of them.

You can see stables, warehouses, hot springs, and even a small chapel. The movements of people and livestock are also clearly visible.

As John was searching for the weak point of the manor, he was suddenly patted on the shoulder by the older man.

"John, look over there!"

John moved the binoculars and looked at the spot the uncle was pointing to.

It was a relatively flat and open piece of land located in a mountain valley, quite large, at least thirty to forty acres by sight. The land had been prepared into extremely neat ridges, covered with lush vegetation about half a person's height.

It was late March, and the California climate was warm. The plants were growing vigorously, their branches and leaves dotted with tiny flowers. Most were red, with some white or pale purple interspersed.

They hadn't seen the flower field hidden in the valley earlier because of the angle.

"Why should I look at flowers?" John frowned. "Uncle, we don't have time to appreciate the scenery right now!"

The middle-aged man was silent for a few seconds, then sighed deeply: "Admire my ass, those are fucking poppies!"

John paused for a moment, then turned to the older man: "Are you sure, sir?"

"OK." The uncle nodded.

John looked back at the poppy field.

Dozens of people were working in the field, most of them dressed in tattered clothes, their movements mechanical and slow. A foreman walked back and forth on the ridge of the field with a whip, occasionally lashing out at one of the workers.

"That old bastard Brannan, we have another reason to kill him."

He squinted, took out paper and pen from his pocket, and began to quickly sketch.

The layout of the manor, the fortifications, the patrol routes, the location of the poppy fields... were all marked on it.

"Unfortunately, we still couldn't find any flaws."

The middle-aged man's gaze swept over the area below, a hint of resentment in his eyes. "The slope on this side of the ridge is too steep. Although the trees are dense, they were cleared out near the edge of the manor, offering no effective cover."

John put away his pen and paper and said, "It's getting dark, let's find a place to camp."

"Observe them carefully. As long as they are human, there will definitely be flaws. It's just that we haven't observed them long enough to discover them."

The middle-aged man whistled: "My Lord, John, how could such philosophical words come out of your mouth?"

John sneered, too lazy to pay attention to his teasing.

As they retraced their steps, the uncle suddenly spoke up, "John, did you notice what those people working in the fields were doing just now?"

John nodded: "I see. It's moving very slowly and stiffly, like it hasn't eaten for many days."

"It's not that I wasn't full, it's that I've ruined myself with opium."

The old man shook his head. "It must have been Brannan who got them addicted to opium and then used it as a reward and a tool for control. That way, they'd stay here just to have a puff of opium."

Even if a few individuals with exceptional willpower or a milder addiction tried to escape, their bodies, ravaged by opium and forced labor, wouldn't get very far before being caught and brought back.

John's expression grew even more somber: "Damn bastard!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Evening, San Francisco, at the border of Chinatown.

White people passing by glanced inside with a mixture of hatred and fear before choosing to leave immediately. Some even opted for the longest possible detours, wanting absolutely no connection to this place.

After a day of development, the whole of San Francisco now knows what happened last night.

Those Chinese, with their overwhelming firepower, wiped out most of the Vigilance Committee members in just half a night.

Among those people were their husbands, relatives, and friends.

It wasn't that no one wanted to vent their grief and anger, but faced with the armed patrols in Chinatown, fear temporarily overwhelmed the impulse for revenge, transforming into a pervasive sense of vigilance and alienation.

The scene inside Chinatown was as usual.

Apart from the lingering faint smell of rust and some dark-colored soil, the streets have returned to a peaceful state.

Business people, people heading home from work, people chatting and laughing loudly – ​​it's a scene of everyday life in the city.

Once, Jianyuan and I returned from the factory at Cape Portrero, walking through the bustling streets.

After a busy afternoon, I simply picked a clean-looking restaurant on the roadside, went straight to a private room on the second floor, and ordered a few dishes.

Su Song didn't come back with them; he'll probably be staying at the factory these days, continuing to install and debug the machines.

"My lord, the hostility outside Chinatown is quite severe."

Jianyuan glanced at the occasional white man passing by outside the window and said in a low voice, "Although they dare not act rashly now, I'm afraid they will cause trouble in the future if this continues."

"trouble?"

He had previously remained noncommittal, but then began shoveling hot water into the bowls on the table. "As long as Chinatown remains powerful and has the strength to eliminate them, those cowardly and ungrateful white people won't pose any threat."

He paused, then said sarcastically, "At most, they'll only dare to attack their compatriots who work outside Chinatown, and then hide in the shadows and shout slogans. They can't cause any real trouble."

Jian Yuan frowned slightly: "My lord, this is exactly what I'm worried about. After all, if there are continuous murders, it's easy for people in the town to panic."

"What are you afraid of? Isn't Hosea going to be the police chief of San Francisco soon? We'll send our people to be the police then."

Those who dare to act underhandedly should be apprehended, interrogated, and dealt with by our people through legal means. This will be legitimate and allow us to further control the streets.

He once poured out the hot water in the bowl, and suddenly frowned.

The information John and his uncle had seen on the Calistoga Ridge flooded his mind clearly.

"Samuel Brannan actually grew opium. Was it supplied to opium dens in San Francisco and throughout California, or was it exported?"

Thinking about the rampant opium trade and its harm to the Chinese people during that era, I felt a sudden surge of displeasure.

He despised opium smokers because they were neither human nor ghost.

But he hated opium addicts even more, because it was these beasts who turned people into ghosts!

"I was originally indifferent to killing Samuel Brannan. It would be best if I could kill him, but if I couldn't, I could take my time."

"But I've changed my mind now."

He looked at Jian Yuan and ordered, "Jian Yuan, except for those who need to stay behind, all your men are to be transferred to Arthur's command."

"At the same time, give him that machine gun and all the black powder and picric acid mixture we have right now!"

"When Arthur returns, tell him to launch a full-scale attack and leave no survivors!"

"Burn down the entire poppy field, leave not a single poppy alive!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Calistoga, two days later, in the morning.

Five kilometers from Samuel Brannan's lair, on a relatively open hilly slope.

A cavalry force of three hundred men appeared here, a vast and undisguised procession. Each man carried a Type 1 Pacific rifle, with revolvers holstered at his waist and ammunition belts bulging around his chest.

"Are you sure Brannan is still at the manor?"

Arthur reined in his horse and looked at John and the uncle, who had just come down from the mountain.

John and the uncle took the gun and bullets that Arthur threw to them and said, "We haven't seen his carriages go out these days, and there's been no unusual activity at the manor. He should still be here."

"Then let's get ready!"

Arthur took a deep breath and shouted, "All men, listen to my command! Three hundred men, divide into three teams and move out!"

First team, one hundred men, follow me. Our mission is to feint an attack to draw attention; don't engage in direct combat, just use your horses' speed to maneuver.

"The second team, 150 men, will be under your command, John. You will also have access to the machine guns and gunpowder."

Your task is to launch the main attack. Once the guards inside the manor are distracted by one team, find an opportunity to blow up the fence with explosives.

After blasting open the breach, rush in immediately and seize the cover within the manor. Use these cover as bases to gradually clear out and press inward!

"Third team, fifty men, led by the uncle. Your mission is singular: seal off the manor, disperse and occupy all possible escape routes around the manor, and do not let a single person escape!"

"Understood!" Everyone nodded.

Upon receiving the order, the team quickly moved according to the pre-rehearsed group formations.

Led by Arthur, a hundred men began their charge, rushing down the slope toward the manor in the valley.

The iron hooves struck the earth, producing a dull and continuous rumbling sound, like thunder, which made the earth tremble.

The slaves working in the vineyard looked up blankly, but did not run away. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but their legs were locked in heavy shackles, making escape impossible.

They stared blankly as the unfamiliar caravan swept down like a torrent, heading towards the manor.

As they drew closer to the manor, Arthur raised his rifle on the swaying horse. Without deliberately aiming, relying entirely on instinct, he fired a shot at the figure observing from a distant high vantage point.

boom!

The figure fell from the top of the watchtower, its fate unknown.

The crisp sound of gunfire served as a signal, and a hundred cavalrymen raised their lances and began firing incessantly as they charged. The overseers in the vineyard became the first targets; they didn't even have time to escape before they were shot dead on the spot.

Gunshots, horses' hooves, and screams mingled together.

At this moment, the guards inside the manor finally realized what was happening.

The piercing alarm bells rang, and the guards dropped what they were doing and rushed from all over the manor. They climbed onto the walkway behind the wooden fence, revealing half of their bodies, and set up their rifles in the gaps between the logs, beginning to fire fiercely.

Lead bullets whistled through the air, and occasionally a warhorse would collapse with a mournful cry, its unfortunate rider tumbling to the ground.

Arthur directed his troops not to directly charge the sturdy wooden fence, but to maneuver at high speed in an arc around the perimeter of the vineyard.

Meanwhile, he continuously used precise rifle fire to pinpoint the guards behind the fence, drawing more and more fire towards the front and left.

Meanwhile, on the side of the manor, at the edge of a grove of trees.

Under the cover of gunfire and the sound of horses' hooves, John and his men walked through the forest, carrying explosives, and lay in ambush a few hundred meters from the wooden fence.

"Should we rush over now?" someone asked.

John shook his head and said, "Wait a little longer, keep quiet. The more intense the fighting over there is, the more people we can send to support them."

Judging from the footsteps, there are at least twenty or thirty people behind the fence. Wait until some of them are transferred away.