novelSusiti Chapter 68 Zhang Yuan's Army
Chapter 68 Zhang Yuan's Army
Chapter 68 The Returning Army
An hour later, at the headquarters of Polaris Mining Company.
Ferguson was sitting in his office, enjoying another leisurely day.
He was smoking a Havana cigar and casually flipping through a newspaper.
Boom!Boom!Boom!
There was a rapid knocking at the door.
Before he could say "Come in," the young man in the collared white shirt burst through the door. He was deathly pale and covered in sweat, looking as if he had been possessed.
"Boss, something terrible has happened! The Lily—the Lily has been hijacked!"
Ferguson's eyes widened, and he instantly sprang up from the sofa, dropping his cigar and burning a mark on the carpet.
"What? How is that possible?"
"With over twenty cannons and eighty experienced sailors, who can hijack our ship? Who dares to hijack our ship?"
'
The young man's voice trembled as he said, "A sailor escaped and reported that the bandits had disguised themselves as customs officers to board the ship for inspection. In addition, there was a traitor in the crew, and they were caught off guard, so some of them were shot dead."
Ferguson's face turned deathly pale instantly.
That's over 200,000 ounces of gold.
A full eight tons.
A full eight tons.
At today's market price, it's worth $5.37 million, or £1.07 million.
That's enough to buy a first-class sailing battleship with hundreds of cannons, and still have some money left over to buy a house in London.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. After pacing around the office several times, he gritted his teeth and said...
"Send someone to London to find my uncle. Tell him his gold has been stolen. Use the fastest ships and the fastest horses, without delay."
He said, word by word, "At the same time, we should hold the customs accountable."
The robbers were wearing their uniforms and carrying their badges; that's fucking dereliction of duty!
Tell that tax official named Musk that Polaris Mining is demanding full compensation from Customs. If they shortchange us by a single penny, I'll take it all the way to the Supreme Court, to the White House, to Capitol Hill!
"Finally, contact Pinkerton and all the private investigators and security companies you can find."
"Get them to San Francisco and find me clues about those bastards! I'll make those scum who dared to steal my gold pay a bloody price!"
The young man nodded repeatedly, then turned and rushed out the door.
Ferguson was the only one left in the office.
He stared at the sky outside the window, his teeth grinding together.
"No matter who you are, you will regret this. I swear in the name of the Ferguson family, you will regret this."
Meanwhile, in the Pacific Ocean.
The Lily is sailing at full speed.
Dutch stood on the boat, looking at the San Francisco coastline receding into the distance, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Inside the cabin, wooden crates were pried open one by one, the creaking sounds of crowbars separating from wooden planks echoing throughout.
The golden metal reflected a dazzling light under the kerosene lamp.
John squatted down beside the chests and reached out to touch the gold bars: "Dozens of chests! This is the first time I've ever seen so much gold—"
"The inventory is complete. There are twenty-seven boxes of gold, each weighing around three hundred kilograms."
Arthur emerged from the depths of the ship's cabin and slowly exhaled a breath of stale air.
"We've got the gold, where do we go next?"
The middle-aged man standing nearby said, "Dutch said that the ship will first go to Mare Island, where it will be refitted before setting sail again."
"They need money to build armored cruisers over there, and this gold will come in handy."
Meanwhile, in San Francisco.
The atmosphere inside the customs administration office was tense.
Customs officer Joseph Musk sat behind his desk, his face ashen.
Standing before him were the heads of various departments: prosecutors, warehouse staff, administrative staff—
"Can someone explain to me why there are bandits wearing our uniforms and badges, swaggering onto the Lily?"
Why didn't anyone question the identities of those unfamiliar faces?
Musk's voice was hoarse, clearly indicating his frustration.
No one speaks.
Musk's gaze swept across everyone's faces, and he sneered, "Not saying a word? You think you can evade responsibility by not saying a word?"
"Those robbers wore our clothes, used our name, and stole gold worth more than five million dollars!"
People from Polaris Mining Company just came by and said they want us to compensate for all our losses, even if it means taking the case to the federal court!
He slammed his fist on the table and roared, "Over five million US dollars! Even if we sold this entire building, even if we disassembled and sold every single part of ourselves, we still couldn't afford to pay for it!"
A younger inspector curled his lip in dissatisfaction: "Sir, those uniforms came from the warehouse. What does that have to do with the inspectors under my command who actually do the work?"
"Besides, with so many people coming and going from the port every day, everyone's focused on their work. Who the hell would have thought someone would be so audacious as to impersonate customs officials?"
His gaze drifted to a middle-aged man in the corner, and he pointed at him, saying, "Besides, the whole mess was made by the warehouse department. If anyone's going to cause trouble, it should be the warehouse department!"
All eyes turned to the middle-aged man.
The middle-aged man was Richard Brown, the head of the warehouse staff. He was deathly pale, and his forehead was covered in sweat.
"Mr. Brown," Musk said, "please explain."
Brown swallowed hard. "Mr. Musk, let me explain."
I've had the warehouse key all along, and there are daily records of people coming and going. I checked, and the uniforms did indeed leave the warehouse, but the paperwork is complete, with signatures and dates.
"Whose signature?" Musk interrupted him.
Brown's hands trembled as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.
"It's Jason's. Thomas Jason, but he hasn't come to work since the day before yesterday."
Silence fell over the room.
Musk closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"In other words, your men forged the delivery documents right under your nose and handed over eleven sets of uniforms to a group of robbers."
Then he ran away, and he's been running for two days now, and you're only telling me now?
Brown lowered his head, not daring to speak.
"Find that bastard named Jason! Live or dead!"
Musk said, word by word, "Let the police go to the docks, to the train stations, to wherever they can run."
Even if he hides in a mouse hole, we'll drag him out!
A stagecoach station outside San Francisco.
Thomas Jensen wore a hat and kept his head down, with a face mask covering most of his face, revealing only his eyes.
He is 32 years old and has worked in the customs warehouse for five years. He has always been an honest and conscientious clerk.
His monthly salary was barely enough to live on. He liked drinking and gambling, but he never made any major mistakes.
Until a month ago.
That day he was having a bad day and lost twenty dollars at the casino. He went to a bar to drown his sorrows and that's when he met a man who called himself Smith.
The man bought him a drink, chatted for a bit, and then asked him if he wanted to earn some extra money.
It's a very simple task: just keep an eye on the supplies in the warehouse and occasionally give them a little information.
Five dollars per time.
He agreed.
Then came the second time, and the third time.
As the amount of money he received increased, so did the amount of work he did.
Instead of keeping an eye on things, they secretly sold the smuggled goods that had been seized from the warehouse.
Three days ago, Smith told him that he needed his help to do something important, for a price of one thousand dollars.
Tempted by the thousand dollars, he took eleven uniforms out of the warehouse.
That night he got completely drunk at the tavern and spent two days gambling at the casino with the money Smith had given him.
Then he saw the newspaper.
The Lily was hijacked, and more than five million US dollars in gold went missing. The hijackers were dressed in customs uniforms.
He knew he was doomed.
"No problem, no problem. If you can't stay in California, then head north to Oregon, or east to Utah. The Mormons in Salt Lake City don't meddle in other people's business."
Jason reassured himself as he anxiously awaited the arrival of the stagecoach.
Once he gets on the bus, he can escape and even if the customs officers try to find him, they won't be able to.
The sound of horses' hooves and wheels could be heard not far behind.
Jason tried to keep his balance and turned to get into the car.
Then his movements froze.
He saw three men wearing police badges riding horses alongside the carriage.
Jason's heart nearly stopped beating.
Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately turned to leave.
This action instantly attracted the attention of three police officers not far away.
The fact that Jason had pulled his hat down and was wearing a face mask made them even more wary.
"Sir, you wearing a scarf," a policeman called out, "please stop!"
Jason took off running.
How could a human's legs possibly outrun a horse's legs?
The sound of horses' hooves came from behind, getting closer and closer.
A rope fell from above, looped around his shoulder, and tightened suddenly. The immense force pulled him to the ground.
Oregon.
Rogge River Canyon.
Nine hundred men from the U.S. 1st Dragoon Regiment have blocked every exit of the canyon.
The artillery company, with four M1841 6-pound bronze smoothbore cannons and two M1841 12-pound howitzers, was firing continuously at the Native American tribal camp in the canyon.
The shotgun shells whistled across the makeshift fortifications in the camp, covering a distance of hundreds of yards.
The makeshift shacks built of wood and animal hides were torn to pieces by the artillery fire, with debris flying everywhere.
The Indian warriors hiding behind their bunkers dropped to the ground the moment they heard the cannon fire, but many unlucky ones were still hit by the scattered shrapnel, creating a cloud of blood.
The cavalry commander, observing the battle through a monocular, began to give orders: "Send the men of the first company up."
Tell that idiot Smith that the artillery company has already suppressed most of the red-skinned bastards for him. If he can't take this place soon, he can go to hell!
The messenger beside the commander saluted, mounted his horse, and headed straight for the First Company with the orders.
The battle in the canyon has lasted for three days. The tribe has nearly two thousand people, including six or seven hundred warriors. Under the attack of the American troops, they have been retreating step by step to the deepest part of the canyon.
They had run out of ammunition and food, and the cries of women and children could be heard hundreds of yards away.
Upon receiving the order, the First Company, led by Company Commander Smith, began its charge.
They brandished their sabers and charged into the camp, tearing apart the Native American formation.
The commander continued to order: "The speed is too slow. Send the men from the second and third companies as well."
The cavalry of the second and third companies also charged forward, cutting down every Native American who was still resisting.
Finally, the Native Americans could no longer withstand the casualties and began to surrender.
Seven days later, Oregon City.
As the first city to be incorporated in the Oregon region, it has a small population but still boasts a certain level of prosperity.
Brigadier General John Ellis Wool sat in his barracks office, looking at the latest news from California, his brow furrowed.
"California Indian tribal riots, Stockton burned, heavy casualties —"
He rubbed his temples and sighed. "God, I hope this is the only bad news. There have been enough Native American riots in the West already."
A staff officer leaned over and whispered, "Sir, should we send troops back to reinforce?"
Brigadier General Wool nodded and said, "In this situation, we definitely need to send troops back to reinforce, but I haven't decided yet who to send or how many men to send."
He stood up and walked to the huge map hanging on the wall. He traced his finger from Oregon all the way to California, finally pointing to San Francisco.
"California is the core of the United States on the West Coast. If California falls into complete chaos, the entire West Coast will be in trouble. The British are also eyeing Canada to the north, and the Russians are not resting in Alaska either. The riots must be quelled as soon as possible."
"The message said that the Native Americans involved in the riots were spread throughout Southern California. Moreover, the weapons used by the Native American tribe that burned Stockton were suspicious."
Metal-filled fixed ammunition, high rate of fire—this is equipment typically found only in regular armies. There must be a powerful force supporting them behind the scenes.
In this situation, sending too few reinforcements will definitely be useless.
After thinking for a moment, the staff officer suggested, "Sir, I recommend sending the First and Second Dragoon Regiments back to California."
The fighting between the two regiments in the southwest has ended, and for the time being, those Native Americans will not have the ability to cause trouble.
After two days of rest and replenishment of ammunition, we can immediately set off and board the ship back to California.
Wool tapped his fingers on the table and said, "But the Blue Mountains to the northeast, the Indian riots there—"
The staff officer said, "We also have the Third Regiment and the local volunteer militia division in Oregon. As long as we proceed steadily, it will only take a few more months to quell the riots."
Wool took a deep breath and said, "Order the First and Second Dragoon Regiments to assemble within two days. Three days later, board the ships and head south."
Three days later, at the Oregon City docks.
Eighteen hundred soldiers lined up and boarded more than twenty transport ships docked in the port.
They would travel north along the Willamette River until it joined the Columbia River, where the soldiers of the two regiments would transfer to large ocean-going vessels at Astoria at the river's mouth and head to California.
The First Dragoon Regiment, nine hundred men. The Second Dragoon Regiment, nine hundred men.
The two regiments together numbered 1,800 men and possessed 14 cannons, enough to quell any uprising launched by Native Americans.
At least, he hoped so.
An officer approached and saluted: "Sir, the first regiment has completed boarding, and the second regiment is currently boarding. We expect to be fully boarded by 4 PM and depart at 5 PM."
Wool nodded.
"How long is the flight?"
"If the winds are favorable, it will take about four days. If there's a storm, it could take a week," the officer replied. "However, the North Pacific should be relatively calm this time of year."
"Four days," Wool murmured. "Hopefully, it'll all be in time."
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