novelSusiti Chapter 50 Indian Riot
Chapter 50 Indian Riot
Meanwhile, in Sacramento, at the governor's residence.
Inside the magnificent hall, Bigler saw off what seemed to be the umpteenth group of party colleagues who had come to "visit" that afternoon.
He stood wearily before the fireplace decorated with a deer head and a California bear flag, gazing at the roaring flames.
News of the sinking of the Joan of Arc after being shelled by unidentified armed forces, and the deaths of dozens of people on board, reached back in the afternoon, instantly causing an uproar in Sacramento's political circles.
Humphrey was lucky; he and a guy named Howard managed to escape together.
But the rest of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors were not so lucky; they all died in the icy river, and their bodies were never recovered.
In one afternoon, he received dozens of guests. Relatives of the deceased, political allies, Democratic Party donors... they came one after another.
Some were filled with grief and indignation, some were ashen-faced, and some were weeping uncontrollably, but they all shared one demand—
eye for eye!
They demanded that the Democratic Party retaliate against the American Party in a manner equal to or even double the scale of such retaliation!
"Gan, how about we shake hands and make peace with the American Party?"
Bigler rubbed his temples and slowly exhaled a breath of stale air: "I have a feeling something's not right. Too many people have been dying lately. Abnormally many."
San Francisco is awash in blood, Calistoga Estate is reduced to ashes, and now even the Sacramento River is unsafe. This has gone beyond the realm of normal political struggle.
Gan listened quietly from a short distance away. Only after Bigler finished speaking did he slowly shake his head and advise, "Governor, please be sure to abandon this idea. The American Party's retaliation is so bloody; your party colleagues will not agree to it."
Your compromise at this point will be seen as weakness and betrayal, and your prestige within the party will collapse instantly.
Bigler said, frustrated, "The key question is, what are they retaliating against? What right do they have to retaliate?"
The San Francisco riots were initially instigated by the rabid, dog-like Vigilance Committee under the American Party. While it's true the mayor, officials, and council members died in the gunfight, it was the Vigilance Committee members who initiated the assassinations!
Samuel Brannan, that old Mormon, who knows how many people he offended? What does his death have to do with us?
But look at those bastards from the American Party, and those newspapers, they're all insisting that we did it all! That it was a 'premeditated and systematic purge'!"
Is it really okay?
Gan did not refute Bigler's words; he simply said, "In any case, we are now irreconcilable enemies."
"According to intelligence, the core of the American Party has reached a consensus to initiate a formal impeachment motion against you in the state legislature, with the charges tentatively set as 'dereliction of duty' and 'condoning violence that undermines the stability of the state.'"
At the same time, all the Allied-America senators and representatives will use parliamentary procedure to launch endless debates and demand the most cumbersome committee reviews of all bills, especially our California Partition Act, with the aim of completely paralyzing the legislative function of the state legislature.
He paused for a moment, then continued with the bad news.
"In addition, the American Party mobilized city and county officials within its sphere of influence, asking them to delay and postpone the state government order from Sacramento."
On the legal front, the district attorneys they control are prepared to launch independent investigations into the San Francisco and Calistoga cases, attempting to subpoena our people and create legal trouble.
In terms of public opinion, a barrage of news reports and large-scale demonstrations are on the way...
He shrugged and said, "At this point, the American party won't agree to peace talks. Instead, they'll think you're powerless and will only attack you more fiercely."
After hearing this, Bigler slumped onto the sofa, scratching his head with a worried expression.
He now regrets his actions, regretting that after the San Francisco incident, his public attacks on the American Party and subsequent suppression were too high-profile and too harsh.
As things stand, Senator Brennan has been murdered by some ruthless member of his party who mobilized his private army, and he has been unable to find out the truth despite asking around.
The American party group is even more ruthless; they've even used cannons.
According to Humphrey's telegram, the attackers' artillery fire was extremely fierce, with astonishingly short intervals between shots. He estimated that at least six cannons were firing in shifts to unleash such a dense barrage of bullets in such a short time.
Six cannons! That's the standard configuration for a field artillery company!
Where does the American party get such a well-trained and well-equipped private army?
He didn't even dare to think that if the situation continued, it might escalate to the point where Southern California and Northern California would come to blows.
While Bigler was deep in thought, Gan suddenly walked over with a telegram: "Governor, an urgent telegram from Los Angeles!"
Bigler looked up, his face tilted back, and said weakly, "What is it now? Read it to me."
Gan repeated the contents of the telegram word for word:
"Indian riots, requesting federal armed support!"
This morning, a large-scale armed attack occurred outside a courthouse and jail in downtown Los Angeles.
The attackers were an unspecified number of Native American militants who used rifles, revolvers, and other weapons. They were tactically skilled and brutal. The attack resulted in the deaths of at least 76 white people, including jail guards, police officers, and ranchers, and many others were injured.
They stormed the courthouse and prison, freed all the Native American prisoners, and then escaped.
Los Angeles law enforcement is conducting a manhunt, but so far there have been no results!
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.
A little earlier.
Los Angeles County, Southern California.
Although Los Angeles County had already been split once, with San Bernardino County taking away a large area of land in the east, it was still one of the largest counties in California.
As dawn broke, old Bob rode his horse away from his ranch on the banks of the Los Angeles River, speeding towards downtown with his nephew.
Nephew Jack, riding on horseback, was so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. He complained, "Uncle, it's still early, why are you in such a hurry?"
Old Bob snapped, "Early? It's already daylight, you lazy pig! We should have gone earlier; I'm afraid by the time we get there, the Indians will have all been sold!"
Jack yawned, the cold wind barely keeping him awake: "Buy Native Americans? Uncle, isn't California a free state? How can they still buy and sell slaves?"
Old Bob scoffed, "What a shitty free state! Without slaves, who's going to farm all this land? Do you think you, me, and our families can even manage?"
"Or should we spend a fortune hiring those lazy, expensive Irishmen who demand wages all the time?"
"But that's what the state constitution says! It can't be that the constitution is wrong, can it?!" Jack complained in a low voice. "Buying Native American slaves is clearly illegal."
"That's why I hate idiots like you the most. You went to that church school in Santa Barbara for two years, read a few lousy books, and think you know everything!"
Old Bob clicked his tongue. If this idiot weren't his own sister's son, he wouldn't have bothered with all that talking and would have just lashed him out with a whip.
"First, the state constitution did indeed prohibit traditional Black slavery, so there was no slavery in California."
"Secondly, the Anti-Wandering Act stipulated that sheriffs had the power to arrest any unemployed Native American on the grounds of 'lack of stable employment or livelihood.'"
"Third, the Indian Governance and Protection Act allowed white people to pay bail for convicted Native Americans. These Native Americans were then required to repay the bail and cover their food and lodging expenses through labor."
"Finally, to prevent Native Americans from escaping during their labor service and committing further crimes, the law allowed their guardians to take reasonable measures to ensure they remained at the work site—for example, by chaining their feet."
"Do you understand now, you idiot!"
Jack blinked and blurted out, "Isn't this still slavery? It's just that buying has been changed to bail, and slaves are called prisoners."
"How is this any different from an ostrich burying its head in the sand and deceiving itself that there are no enemies?"
Old Bob finally lost his last bit of patience, glared at him, and roared, "The difference is, it's allowed by fucking law! It's legal!"
"Even if those idiotic politicians in the East who are always yelling about abolition stood here now, they wouldn't be able to find a single 'no' to them!"
"If you, you piece of dog shit, dare to utter another word involving law or morality, I'll stop right now and let you taste the whip!"
Jack shuddered in fear, shrank back, and obediently shut his mouth.
The two stopped talking and urged their horses onward.
Two hours later, they finally reached the edge of Los Angeles.
By this time, Los Angeles was one of the largest cities in Southern California, with a population of over five thousand. Mud houses, timber-framed buildings, and a few brick and stone houses were mixed together, and dust filled the streets.
Horses were not allowed to gallop in the city, so old Bob and Jack controlled the horses' speed and slowly made their way towards the city center along the main road.
Soon after, a three-story brick building came into view.
That's where the Los Angeles courthouse and Los Angeles jail are located.
Twenty or thirty people had already gathered in the open space in front of the courthouse.
They were all dressed in wide-brimmed felt hats, wool or twill trousers, and muddy leather boots—typical Southern California rancher attire.
"Thankfully, I made it in time."
Old Bob breathed a sigh of relief, tied his horse to a thick wooden stake used for tethering horses by the roadside, and squeezed into the front of the crowd, causing a chorus of curses.
Just then, the prison door slammed open, and several uniformed guards herded a group of people out.
These people, both men and women, were all ragged, barefoot, and their hands and feet were bound.
The guards drove them like livestock, poking them with sticks and forcing them onto a makeshift wooden platform in the center of the open space.
The head guard shouted, "Gentlemen, quiet. Last week, our valiant sheriff's team caught another thirty-two illegal vagrant Indians."
The men are young and strong, guaranteed to be good laborers for clearing wasteland, herding livestock, and digging irrigation ditches. The women are all in their teens and twenties, in their prime childbearing years.
He paused, then chuckled, "Also, the Indian Boarding School recently received a new batch of children; those who want to adopt can go to the school now. By the way, both the girls and boys are quite good-looking."
A low murmur of laughter and snickers, tinged with greed and lewdness, immediately rose from the crowd. Several priest-like figures who happened to be passing by involuntarily stopped in their tracks, their eyes gleaming.
The warden was pleased with the effect and raised his voice: "Alright, enough said. Men, bail starts at two hundred dollars. Women, bail starts at one hundred dollars."
Same old rules: inspect the goods on-site, highest bidder wins, payment is made on the spot, and you can leave immediately.
The crowd began to stir, and the white people rushed to the wooden platform to carefully examine the goods.
Some people roughly pried open the mouths of Native American men to check their teeth, judging their age and health; others slapped their chests and arms to test their muscles; still others reached out and pinched the breasts or buttocks of Native American women to assess their potential...
The sounds of discussion, laughter, angry curses, and fearful sobs from the Native Americans mingled together.
After some evaluation, everyone started making offers.
"I want the tallest man on the left, two hundred and twenty dollars."
"I want the strongest man in the middle, two hundred and thirty dollars."
"Where did this poor wretch come from? You think you can get your hands on such a small amount of dollars? I'll give you three hundred!"
"I want this woman. She has a big butt and looks like she can give birth. I'll pay $120."
Warhawk, strapped to the platform, had a numb expression, letting the white men treat him like livestock.
His people died completely, like leaves on trees in winter, and his heart died with them.
"Four hundred dollars, is anyone offering higher bail?"
The guards grinned and loudly repeated the bids, encouraging the competition.
Seeing that no one offered a higher price, he shoved him hard and pushed him into the hands of the buyer who had been waiting nearby.
"Sir, this Native American is yours now. Go to the courthouse behind me to post your bail!"
A weathered-looking white man led the warhawk into the courthouse on a leash, like leading a dog.
Zhan Ying staggered behind, and just before entering the courthouse, he suddenly heard the sound of horses' hooves in the distance.
It was not the sound of one or two horses, but the thunderous sound of dozens of horses galloping at the same time.
Thump! Thump thump thump! Thump thump thump thump!
Everyone who heard the sound stopped in their tracks and looked in the direction from which it came, puzzled.
The next second, they witnessed a scene that terrified them.
At the end of the street, a group of Native Americans, their faces painted in bright colors, were galloping along the street.
The cavalry surged forward like a burst dam, mercilessly knocking over and trampling all the white men who couldn't dodge in time, their screams drowned out by the thunderous hooves.
Their guns were already raised, the dark muzzles pointed directly at the crowd in front of the courthouse.
"kill!"
The Indians roared, their guns flashing, and gunfire erupted.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!
A bullet pierced the policeman's head, leaving specks of red and white. A bullet shattered the farmer's kneecap, forcing him to his knees and howling in agony. Several more bullets simultaneously struck another man, turning him into a sieve.