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

Chapter 66 California Civil War

News of the governor's assassination spread throughout California via telegram.

In San Francisco, San Jose, Los Angeles, Mariposa, Monterey—Democrats in every city were enraged.

Newspapers printed extra editions with huge headlines: "Killer in the American Party!" and "Governor of Bigler Assassinated."

Blood debts must be repaid in blood!

On the streets, Democratic supporters held signs and marched in front of the homes of American Party members and officials.

Many people clashed violently with Republican supporters, exchanging insults and beatings; some even fired shots.

Mike Doug sat on the sofa in the governor's office, glancing out the window.

This used to be Bigler's territory, but now it belongs to him.

"Good riddance, Bigler. Your death has done more for the party than your entire life."

Doug grinned, swirled the red wine in his glass, its deep crimson hue swirling within, before downing it in one gulp.

By making good use of Bigler's death and maintaining a tough image in front of his party colleagues who are feeling a sense of shared loss, he can surely gain greater benefits for himself and his party.

Boom!Boom!Boom!

There was a knock on the office door.

Doug frowned, his somewhat frivolous expression vanishing as he adopted a solemn demeanor once more.

"Please come in."

"Governor, the state attorney general has already begun the process."

An aide pushed open the door and came in; it was Gan.

"Seven American Party members have been summoned and arrested today, all in connection with the assassination, including a state assemblyman and two city hall bureaucrats."

Doug nodded.

"not enough."

Gan was taken aback: "What did you say?"

"I say that's not enough!"

Doug repeated himself, looking directly into Gan's eyes, and said, word by word, "Seven? Mr. Bigler is dead, and they only captured seven people?"

Gan swallowed hard and said, "Governor, the evidence is still being collected—"

"evidence?"

Doug interrupted him coldly, saying, "The assassin is a member of the American Party. Hundreds, even thousands, of people have seen him participate in various American Party rallies. What more evidence do you need?"

Gan dared not speak.

Doug got up, walked to the window, and looked downstairs.

There was a group of Democratic Party supporters marching there, holding signs that read things like "Blood for blood" and "Hang the murderer."

He said slowly, "Go tell my colleagues at the prosecutor's office that my request is very simple."

"All American party members who had contact with that assassin were arrested."

Those who attended the same rally will be arrested together; those who stayed in the same place will be arrested together; anyone who identifies them as having said radical things will be arrested together!

Gan's expression changed drastically: "Governor, such excessive behavior will provoke a strong backlash from the American Party!"

"Excessive? Backlash?"

Doug scoffed, then retorted forcefully, "I ask you, when those Americans assassinated Mr. Bigler in broad daylight, did they ever consider that things had gone too far?"

The staff members were speechless.

"Go and do it."

"Yes."

Inside a villa.

This is the location of the American Party's rally in Sacramento.

The room was now full of people.

Congressmen, bureaucrats, lawyers, businessmen, newspaper editors—the core members of the American political party are all here.

Shock, anger, and fear were written on everyone's face.

"Which bastard ordered this?!"

A fat businessman slammed his fist on the table and roared, "Assassinate the governor? It's just a difference of opinion, why make such a fuss?"

"Has the assassin's identity been confirmed? Is he really someone from the Party?" another thin, middle-aged man asked.

"Confirmed."

Jason's assistant nodded and said, "His name is Henry Wilson, thirty-two years old, a Sacramento native."

He attended several party rallies and made speeches, but he was never a core member.

"That's a personal matter!" someone shouted. "What does it have to do with us?"

Do you think Mike Doug would care?

An elderly man with gray hair slowly spoke. He was the leader of the moderate wing of the party, named Edwin Blair, who had served two terms as a state legislator.

"The question now is not whether the assassin's actions have anything to do with us, but what Mike Doug wants us to have to do with."

The room fell silent.

Blair looked around and continued, "Mike Doug has just taken over as governor, and his position is not stable."

Because his position is unstable, he needs popular support, he needs a target to unite everyone. And we are that target!

"What should we do then?" someone asked.

"Two options," Blair said, holding up two fingers. "First, cooperate with the investigation, hand over everyone who has had contact with Wilson, sever all ties, and prove that this was not the Party's doing."

"Isn't that just asking us to betray our own people?" the thin, middle-aged man frowned.

Blair glanced at him, did not answer, and continued: "Second, be tough to the end and call on all supporters to resist."

They only acknowledged that it was the assassin's individual act, while everything else was accused of being a Democratic conspiracy, a frame-up, and that Mike Doug was using any means necessary to seize power.

A murmur of discussion arose in the room.

"Which one should we choose?" someone asked.

Everyone looked at Jensen.

Jason remained silent for a long time.

"I suggest choosing the first option," he finally spoke. "Cooperate with the investigation and cut ties cleanly. We can't afford a civil war."

"I disagree!"

The thin, middle-aged man slammed his hand on the table and said in a deep voice, "Cooperate with what? Let them arrest our people one by one and put them in jail? Let them label us as accomplices of the murderer?"

"Anderson!"

Blair couldn't help but address him by his first name, without even using the suffix "-sir." "This kind of behavior will only further divide the two parties. Do you really want to escalate the situation to war?"

"So what if war breaks out?"

Anderson sneered and said, "Do you know Kansas? How long have the Free State faction and the slave state faction been fighting there? Are they afraid? No!"

Because they know that some things can only be solved with bullets!

Blair's expression changed instantly, and he growled, "Kansas? You're comparing it to Kansas? How many people died there? You want California to become like that?"

"Yes, if necessary."

"My God, you're insane!"

"I'm not crazy!"

Anderson's voice grew louder and louder, almost roaring: "It's you, you're all too cowardly!"

Do you know what that bastard Doug said? "Arrest those who attended the same gathering together, arrest those who stayed in the same place together."

"Gentlemen, haven't you seen it yet? They're not here to catch the murderer; they're here to completely eradicate the American Party!"

If we don't resist, we'll just wait to be sent to prison one by one and then hanged on various charges!

The argument between the two sides grew increasingly heated, the noise almost enough to lift the roof off.

Just then, a young man rushed in from outside the door.

"Mr. Jason, something terrible has happened!"

The young man's face was pale, and his voice trembled slightly.

"In Southern California—several counties, including Los Angeles and San Bernardino, have announced they are seeking revenge for Mr. Bigler and are organizing militias, saying they are heading north!"

The room erupted in uproar.

"What?"

"Are they crazy?"

"Are the Democrats trying to start a civil war?!"

The faces of the American party members turned pale.

Anderson jumped to his feet, his eyes gleaming with even more fervor: "Did you see that? They've already made their move! And now you're still saying you want to cut ties? Still saying you want to cooperate with the investigation?"

Blair slumped into his chair, muttering, "It's over—it's all over—"

Jason stood up, his gaze sweeping over every American in the room, his voice hoarse and low.

"Notify all our supporters to prepare their weapons."

"Jansen!" Blair exclaimed, "Are we really going to start a civil war?"

Jason looked at him, his eyes filled with exhaustion.

"I had no choice," he said. "Neither did you."

The counties in Southern California organized themselves faster than anyone expected.

Los Angeles, San Bernardino, San Diego, Santa Barbara, San Joaquin —

Democratic Party supporters from more than a dozen counties spontaneously organized and rallied in the square to express their anger.

Within days, Southern California had organized a militia force of several hundred people, which marched north in a grand procession.

In every city they passed through, they would destroy American Party meeting places, arrest members of Congress and bureaucrats who had joined the American Party, and throw them into prison.

Mike Doug sat in the governor's office, signing orders one after another.

He ordered state sheriffs and militia to maintain order in the cities, but everyone knew that the deeper meaning of "maintaining order" was to help the Democratic Party and fight the American Party.

Soon, the southward-bound American militia and the northward-bound Democratic militia met thirty miles south of San Francisco.

It was an open valley with low hills on both sides and a dry riverbed in the middle.

The two sides faced off, separated by several hundred meters.

The Democratic Party militia numbered approximately 600, while the American Party militia numbered around 800.

The moment they met, the militia on both sides transformed from marching ranks into fighting ranks.

The military band began to play, the drummer pounded out a rapid rhythm, and the flautist played the melody of the Yankee Song.

The two armies quickly loaded their weapons and then began to advance.

The soldiers gripped their rifles tightly. Some walked too fast and were scolded in a low voice by their commander to be forced back to their original positions.

Some people walk too slowly and are pushed forward by those behind them.

The distance of several hundred meters was shortened step by step.

Four hundred meters.

Three hundred meters.

Two hundred meters.

No one spoke; only footsteps and music echoed, creating a terrifying atmosphere that made it hard to breathe.

The commanders on both sides were nervously calculating the distance.

Following the conventions of firing in formation, the two armies typically opened fire at a distance of about 100 meters. That is the effective range of the flintlock musket and also the distance with the highest hit rate.

Particularly brave troops, such as the veterans commanded by the Duke of Wellington, dared to wait until they were 75 meters away before firing in unison.

150 meters.

One hundred and twenty meters.

One hundred meters!

"Halt!" The command rang out almost simultaneously from both sides.

The line stopped.

"Presentarms!" The commander's voice was exceptionally clear in the silence.

With a whooshing sound, hundreds of rifles were raised simultaneously, pointing at the enemy opposite.

Fire!

The moment the order was given, gunfire erupted from both sides almost simultaneously.

Thick smoke rose from both sides of the battlefield, like a white cloud, instantly obscuring the vision of both sides.

The cries of agony mingled with the sounds of military music as the surviving militiamen in the first rank quickly retreated to reload, making way for the second rank.

"Fire!" came another command.

The second volley of fire erupted once again.

The wails grew louder, and the sounds of drums and flutes could not drown them out.

Thus began California's first civil war.

"Holy crap, a governor died and it just started a civil war?"

Chinatown, Yuanfanglou.

Zeng Tai leaned back in the wicker chair by the window, holding a newspaper in his hand, marveling at the sight.

The newspaper headline was simple and direct: "Another Kansas: Hundreds Dead, California Descends into Civil War."

He just wanted to incite the two parties to continue fighting, but now, political differences have turned into physical elimination.

"These Americans have quite the temper."

Guilliman sat on the other side of the tea table, leisurely preparing the tea.

Wisps of white steam rise from the spout of the purple clay teapot, and the tea leaves unfurl in the hot water, releasing a slightly bitter aroma.

He said slowly, "Although it sounds surprising, it makes sense when you think about it."

"Southern California and Northern California have been embroiled in disputes over issues such as slavery, taxes, and land allocation for quite some time now."

"The large plantation owners in the south needed more slave labor, while the free people and factory owners in the north opposed the expansion of slavery."

The north demands higher tariffs to protect local industries, while the south, reliant on exporting agricultural products to other countries, wishes tariffs could be reduced to zero.

With old and new grievances piled up, it's not surprising that a member of the Democratic Party, in a fit of rage, would do something like this.

Zeng Tai took the tea and slowly sipped it.

He clicked his tongue and said, "I originally thought that the top leaders of the Democratic Party would try to stop it or something. After all, it's a big party; there should be a few sensible people who know that fighting would not benefit anyone."

Guilliman shook his head and said, "The lieutenant governor who succeeds to the governorship is eager to consolidate his power and is happy to fuel the flames."

"What could be more effective at quickly establishing a politician's prestige than a war? If he's the victor, he's the savior of the California Democratic Party; if he's the loser, well, he won't be the only one to lose."

"As for the American Party, the majority of the radicals don't want to surrender either. Now that the Democrats have made the first move, they're just going with the flow."

Zeng Tai put down his teacup and said, "Let them fight for now, the more intense the better."

"The more white people die, the easier it will be for Chinese to immigrate to this land."

He looked at Hosea on the other side and asked, "Hosea, have you finished your investigation? Which company are you planning to target first?"

Hosea said, "The target has been identified: Polaris Mining Company."

"The company is headquartered in San Francisco and owns three large gold mines on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains."

According to its disclosed financial reports, Polaris produces a total of 50,000 ounces of gold per month, with even the lowest monthly production reaching 40,000 ounces, making it the richest mining company in California.

However, one thing to note is that this company has British backing.