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

Chapter 62 Extermination of the Clan and Burning of the City

Taking advantage of the tide, the Wind Chaser and Wave Breaker slowly sailed away from their berths, turned their bows westward, and headed towards the Pacific Ocean outside Kinmen Bay.

The sea breeze filled the sails, and the two ships gradually shrank into two black dots, eventually disappearing where the sea and sky met.

Meanwhile, messengers from Sacramento boarded ships bound for Panama.

He was on his way to Washington to seek help.

Before the telegraph lines connected the West and the East, all communication between the two places required a journey by boat to Panama, followed by a transfer to mules to cross the isthmus, then a boat north to New York, and finally a horseback ride to Washington.

If all goes smoothly, this trip will take at least four weeks.

The messenger entered his room and was about to turn around and close the door when he saw a red-haired man dressed in a sailor's uniform standing at the doorway.

"Who are you?" he asked, puzzled.

The red-haired sailor said in a muffled voice, "Sir, just a passing sailor, what else could I be?"

After saying that, he left without looking back.

The messenger breathed a sigh of relief and went to rest.

The red-haired sailor stopped at the corner, his lips moving slightly: "Found the messenger. I'll take care of him tonight."

"Don't worry, I guarantee it will be done without anyone noticing."

"What we need is a chaotic California. Asking for federal aid? No way!"

Southern California, San Bernardino Mountains.

The tribe of Kavila has been reduced to ashes.

The fire consumed everything—tents, haystacks, trees, corpses—and thick smoke billowed up, obscuring half the sky. The history of the Kavila people's survival on this land vanished with the fire.

Tribal chief Juan Antonio knelt on the ground, watching all of this in despair.

"I obey your orders—"

He muttered to himself, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible, "I've explained, it wasn't us—it wasn't us—why—"

"Shut up, you red-skinned bastard!"

The white militiaman beside him didn't hesitate to hit him with the butt of his rifle, knocking Antonio to the ground. Not satisfied, he stomped on him several more times.

"Alright, Jack, don't be so rough."

Another militiaman came over and tried to dissuade them, saying, "We'll leave a few of those red-skinned bastards alive; we still need to take them back for trial."

Jack spat, indignantly saying, "These beasts who attacked the church deserve to be hanged!"

Someone pulled Antonio up from the ground and threw him onto the horse's back like cargo.

Eight hundred White militiamen, lined up in a column, escorted the prisoners and carried furs and miscellaneous items plundered from the tribes, embarking on their journey home.

The militia leader was a middle-aged man with a meticulously groomed beard and sharp eyes. He rode a tall horse with a slightly furrowed brow.

"Mr. Sherman, we achieved a great victory under your command, so why do you look so pleased?"

Beside him, a blond young man rode up on horseback and offered his compliments.

At first, when this gentleman from San Francisco was appointed as the leader of the militia, he was somewhat resentful.

After all, in order to completely wipe out the Cavilla tribe and deter other Native Americans in California, a total of 800 militiamen were recruited from Southern California, which is the size of a regiment.

Sherman only quelled the riots in San Francisco; he could have done the same with just a few hundred men.

But when he actually witnessed the composure and command skills of the man in front of him during the suppression of the Native Americans, he was immediately convinced.

"Clark, I just feel like something's not right."

Sherman casually remarked, "I've examined the battlefields left behind by those two riots in Los Angeles in detail. Those Native American mobs must have used metallic cartridges; the yellow shell casings in the dirt prove it."

“But look,” he said, pointing to the guns carried on the horses’ backs, “these captured old-fashioned smoothbore muskets all use lead bullets.”

"Either the Indian thugs with those advanced weapons just happened to be away, or we really misunderstood the Cavilla tribe."

There was something Sherman didn't say.

He had only ever seen this kind of ammunition in one force—a Chinatown in San Francisco.

The Qing Chinese used this kind of ammunition when they killed the Vigilance Committee. He had picked up many such shell casings on the street when he went to investigate out of curiosity.

"Chinatown, Chinese people, Mr. Matthews, does all this have anything to do with you?"

Upon hearing this, the blond youth named Clark nonchalantly replied, "Misunderstanding? The spears and arrows on Mr. Baker and his men aren't fake. What misunderstanding could there be?"

"Even if Mr. Baker and his men fired at the Indians first, those red-skinned bastards should have obediently met their deaths."

"As for metallic fixed-load ammunition—"

Clark paused, then offered a possibility. "Mr. Sherman, do you think it's possible that the Mexicans provided it?"

Sherman shook his head and said, "The Mexicans are too busy taking care of themselves. The dictatorship in Santa Ana is militarily suppressing liberals and conservatives within the country, and both factions are planning an uprising to overthrow the dictatorship. How can they possibly have the mind to pay attention to the United States?"

He waved his hand, indicating he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Alright, there's no point in guessing. Have the scouts expand the search area further outwards."

"If we're attacked by Native Americans on the way back, we'll be forever shamed."

at the same time.

The San Joaquin Valley lies between the Coast Mountains and the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

This is where San Joaquin County is located, and Stockton, the county's only city, is built in a valley.

The San Joaquin River flows through the city, meandering westward until it merges with the Sacramento River and flows into the Pacific Ocean.

Chongyue, with hundreds of Indian warriors, hid on a hillside not far from a city, using his brass binoculars to look at Stockton in the distance.

This is a city with two thousand inhabitants, with straight streets and wooden houses and shops stretching along the banks of the San Joaquin River.

Several inland river cargo ships were moored at the dock, and workers were loading and unloading goods. People came and went on the main street, and horse-drawn carriages kicked up clouds of dust as they rolled over the dirt road.

"The Kavila tribe is completely finished," Black Soil suddenly said, clearly having learned the news from the group chat.

Bai Yun sneered, "They deserved it. They killed the white people but didn't relocate, hoping to build relationships and reason with them. Now look what happened, the white people wiped out their entire race."

Black Earth chuckled: "The white people went to exterminate our race, so we attacked the city. That's what you call an eye for an eye."

Chongyue waved his hand, interrupting their conversation.

"The sun is shining brightly, the light is perfect—it's the perfect time to kill."

He mounted his horse, his voice not loud, but clearly reaching the ears of everyone behind him.

"Once you enter the city, sweep away all the white people you can see along the main streets. But don't linger; go in and come out as quickly as the wind."

"If all the white people are hiding in their houses, then just throw Molotov cocktails and block all possible escape routes outside the city and along the rivers."

"There's only one target this time: kill them all!"

No one spoke; only the crisp sound of a bullet being chambered could be heard.

Four hundred and seventy pairs of eyes were fixed on the unknown city in the distance.

"Walk."

Chongyue took the lead, and his 470 riders poured down the gentle slope like a flood bursting its banks, heading straight for Stockton.

When the first shot rang out, pedestrians on Stockton Street didn't even have time to react.

They turned their heads blankly and saw a black tide of people surging from the far end of the street, saw the rifles and hunting knives in their hands, and even more so, the murderous intent in their eyes.

Then came the second shot, the third, the fourth —

Gunfire intensified, and the white men at the front of the group fell to the ground almost simultaneously, their blood seeping onto the dirt road.

"Indians!"

"They're Native American thugs!"

"Run!"

Screams, cries, curses, the sound of horses' hooves, and gunshots erupted on the main street in an instant.

Chongyue charged into the street corner first, firing his revolver in rapid succession, and two white men who had just rushed out of the store fell to the ground.

Behind him, more than four hundred soldiers surged in like a tide, spreading to every street.

A white man leaned out of a window with a shotgun, but before he could aim, he was hit by three or four bullets at the same time and fell out of the window.

Several dockworkers grabbed wooden sticks and shovels in an attempt to resist, but were riddled with bullets.

On cargo ships along the San Joaquin River, sailors frantically untied mooring lines and raised sails, trying to escape the dock.

Heitu arrived with his men, and fired a volley of shots from his rifles and revolvers at the deck. Eight people fell to the ground instantly, their bodies riddled with bloody holes.

The horse beneath Heitu neighed and leaped from the dock onto the cargo ship's deck, where it began a killing spree.

They came and went quickly; the Indian cavalrymen were like the wind, leaving behind a trail of blood before departing the city.

As the sound of horses' hooves faded into the distance, the surviving white people in the city, who had just recovered, suddenly turned pale.

Because they heard the sound of horses' hooves that had not long ago receded, now rapidly approaching the city.

Just like the scene before.

More than 400 soldiers surged in again like a tide, spreading to every street.

This time, however, they had Molotov cocktails in their hands.

Every few houses along the main street were pelted with Molotov cocktails. The wooden structures caught fire instantly, and the flames spread rapidly, turning the entire street into a fiery inferno.

The cargo ships at the dock were all set ablaze, billowing black smoke straight into the sky. All the cargo on board was used as fuel.

Gunshots, screams, the sound of shattering glass, and the crackling of burning houses echoed throughout Stockton.

The San Joaquin River reflected the towering flames, as if the gates of hell had been opened in mythology.

The Native American warriors quickly rode away from the city, but did not go far.

They stopped at several locations outside the city and along the river, began loading their rifles, and prepared to hunt.

"They've only swept through the city twice. How many people do you think are left in the city?" Black Earth asked.

"There are still about a thousand people, after all, those white people on the street can run and hide."

Baiyun aimed at a figure preparing to jump into the river in the distance and pulled the trigger.

Half a day later, outside a small town outside the San Bernardino Mountains.

Sherman's 800 militiamen had just returned, exhausted and ready to rest.

A horse galloped from the telegraph office in town, the rider almost lying on the horse's neck, shouting something.

Sherman listened intently and finally understood what the man was shouting: "Stockton under attack! Indian mobs are burning the city!"

"Stockton attacked, Indian mobs burn the city!"

Everyone's expression changed drastically, and dozens of militiamen immediately set off on horseback to Stockton.

They were the militia from Stockton.

"Stop them!" Sherman shouted.

The militia leaders rushed forward and, with a combination of pulling and persuasion, stopped the dozens of people.

"When did this happen?" he asked the man.

"This morning! At least four or five hundred Indians stormed into the city, and fires spread throughout the entire city. Anyone who tried to escape was shot dead by them while they were outside."

Sherman took a deep breath and said, "Order everyone to dismount and set up camp to rest. We'll head to Stockton tomorrow!"

Clark was stunned: "Mr. Sherman, now? But Stockton is under attack, shouldn't we get there sooner?"

Sherman shouted sternly, "The team has been traveling through the mountains all day. Rushing over without resting is suicide!"

"Besides, this place is hundreds of kilometers away from Stockton. Even if we get back early, all we'll find is ruins!"

the next day.

Sherman then led his militia away from the town and began a forced march toward Stockton.

Despite many people complaining and even dropping out along the way, he did not change his mind.

The closer one is to Stockton, the more detailed the messages that come from there become.

A third of the residents died in the attack, and bodies were found everywhere in the streets and waterways;

Apart from the government buildings, which were constructed entirely of brick and stone, all other houses were burned down.

Along with the message came a telegram with an increasingly urgent tone.

Under immense pressure, Sherman had no choice but to lead the militia on a shortcut through the mountains in order to reach Stockton as quickly as possible.

In the afternoon, at a pass 30 kilometers from Stockton.

Chongyue and his more than 400 men had been lying in ambush in the mountains on both sides for more than three hours.

A message came through a group chat from a white comrade of Sherman's militia, urging them to take a shortcut to Stockton.

This gave Chongyue and his men the opportunity to ambush.

The sun slowly moved westward from overhead.

The mountain road was deserted.

But the Native American warriors maintained the same posture throughout, like stone statues.

Finally, around 3 p.m., a few figures on horseback appeared at the end of the mountain road.

Those were scouts.

They quickly surveyed the surroundings, left one person to go back and report, and then chose to continue on their way.

About twenty minutes passed after the scouts left.

At the end of the mountain road, a large, dark procession appeared.

The line was very long and scattered, clearly indicating that everyone was extremely tired.

Black Earth's finger rested on the trigger.

"Wait," Chongyue said in a very low voice, "Let them walk a little further, let more people into the encirclement."

The procession continued forward.

The ambush continued until the leading group passed the optimal firing point, and two-thirds of the people had entered the ambush zone.

Chongyue slowly raised his right hand, then swung it down suddenly.

"Fire!"

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