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

As evening fell, the setting sun cast a blood-red glow.

After a day's journey, the two steamships docked at a simple wooden pier. Hosea's two hundred elite warriors disembarked in an orderly fashion and assembled on the shore.

Hosea stood at the bow of the boat, watching the group disembark in orderly columns of five. In less than ten minutes, they had formed four neat square formations on the flat ground by the riverbank.

He straightened his clothes, smiled slightly, and walked to the other end of the dock.

There stood a lean man with a meticulously trimmed short beard. He was about thirty years old, dressed in dark casual clothes, and had extremely sharp eyes.

"Mr. Sherman, it's been a long time." Hosea extended his hand.

Sherman reached out and shook hands with Hosea, his face filled with undisguised surprise: "Mr. Matthews, I never imagined that our reunion would be here."

"What I didn't expect was that these elite soldiers would be your men."

He dared to use his experience studying at West Point and serving in the military to guarantee that Matthews' men were absolutely elite soldiers.

His discipline was impeccable, and his actions were measured and measured. Even General Winfield Scott's expeditionary force, which captured Mexico City during the Mexican-American War, couldn't achieve this level of discipline.

"Times are tough, Mr. Sherman."

Hosea gave a polite smile: "A businessman doing business in California always needs reliable people to protect his assets, especially when local government isn't so reliable."

Just as the two were talking, a loud argument suddenly broke out at the other end of the dock.

They turned to look and saw a burly man, soaking wet, grabbing another man by the collar, the two wrestling. The rest of the crowd watched the spectacle, some even whistling and egging each other on.

"For God's sake, Charlie, beat him up! Let him taste the river!"

"Don't back down, if you're a man, take care of him!"

"Don't be a coward, just pull out your guns and fight!"

Sherman's expression suddenly darkened. Looking at the chaotic scene in the distance, he asked, "Mr. Matthews, these people aren't your soldiers, are they?"

Hosea shrugged. "Of course not, they are the private soldiers of other enthusiastic merchants."

Sherman stormed forward, pulled out his revolver, and fired three shots into the air. He then yelled, "You bunch of shit, stop right there!"

Gunshots rang out in the wilderness, startling a flock of waterbirds.

The crowd that had gathered was startled by the gunshot and all looked at Sherman.

"I am Captain William Tecumseh Sherman, appointed by the governor to command this team."

He roared, "Now, you all get over here and line up! Just like the soldiers behind me! If you don't know how to line up, I can teach you with my whip!"

After a brief silence, a young man with freckles chuckled, "So you're a captain. Judging from your tone, I thought you were General Winfield Scott himself!"

"Listen, we're here to help, not to be ordered around by you."

"Yeah, who the hell do you think you are, trying to boss us around?"

Hearing these words, Sherman's face flushed red. He was about to shout at them when he suddenly heard a voice behind him.

Those were the sounds of synchronized footsteps.

Hosea's two hundred men moved in perfect unison, their four square formations unfolding into four rows of fifty men each within ten seconds, forming a long, winding line.

Two hundred Springfield muzzle-loading rifles were raised simultaneously, their dark muzzles aimed at the noisy group of troublemakers.

"Everyone, obey my command and stand at attention!" Hosea's calm voice rang out. "I repeat, obey my command and stand at attention! Otherwise, you will be killed without mercy!"

Faced with absolute violence, troublemakers are always more obedient than they imagine themselves to be.

In less than a minute, they had obediently lined up in several rows. Although they were crooked and their shapes were not particularly impressive, at least they were passable.

Hosea stepped forward, clapped his hands, and the assassins, who were in a line formation, retreated and regrouped like a tide, returning to four square formations.

"Mr. Sherman, you can continue."

Sherman took a deep breath and launched a barrage of attacks at the group of troublemakers: "From now on, you can only speak when I tell you to, and the first and last words that come out of your stinking mouths must be 'Sir'!"

"You bunch of stinking shit, did you understand?!"

"Sir, yes sir!" they responded sparsely.

"Shit, your voices sound just like women's. Calling you idiots is an insult to idiots; I doubt you even deserve to be called human!"

Sherman had given up all hope for these men. He turned back to the assassins and shouted, "What about you? Did you hear me?!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The assassins' voices boomed, making the wooden planks of the dock vibrate.

"very good!"

Sherman nodded in satisfaction, then looked at Hosea and complained, "The governor had absolutely no reason to send them. They're completely disorganized and undisciplined. I bet they'd have scattered after the first round of shooting, if they hadn't already killed their own men in a drunken brawl."

Hosea laughed and said, "So Mr. Sherman, you don't need to pay any attention to them. Just leave everything to my lads."

"So, shall we head straight into San Francisco now?"

Sherman frowned slightly, a hint of hesitation in his voice: "Now? But the governor's orders are for us to camp outside the city and await the arrival of the militia."

Hosea said, "Mr. Sherman, there is an old Chinese proverb that says, 'When the general is on the battlefield, all decisions should be made by the general, not the king.'"

"We have two hundred elite soldiers, while the San Francisco Vigilance Committee is nothing but a mob that has been incited."

"If you enter the city tonight, take control of City Hall and the telegraph office before dawn, and quell the riots, you will be the hero who saves San Francisco."

He paused, then said, "But if we just wait outside the city for the militia to arrive, we won't get any credit."

"Mr. Sherman, don't forget, Lucas Bank is in San Francisco. Once this storm passes, the Democrats won't remember a conservative commander, but the American Party will remember a banker who led troops to threaten them."

"After the riots end, how will the supporters of those rioters who haven't been purged view you, and how will they view the banks where you hold shares?"

Sherman's pupils contracted as he instantly envisioned the consequences.

Capital withdrawal, business suppression, personal threats...

He was persuaded and took a deep breath: "You are right, Mr. Hosea, I had not thought things through."

He shouted, "Everyone, form columns! Destination: San Francisco! Forward!"

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.

Meanwhile, in Chinatown, inside a weapons factory.

Having once shared Hosea's perspective, he whistled, "Hosea and his men are about to enter the city; the show can continue."

"Everyone says that politics is the art of compromise. Just a couple of days ago, I thought the Democratic Party would compromise with the American Party, and I was even thinking about whether I should fan the flames again."

"Now it seems we don't need to go to great lengths; a gentle push is all it takes for them to smash their brains out."

At a nearby table, Killman, who was writing an article for tomorrow's newspaper, casually remarked, "My lord, politics is indeed the art of compromise, but there's a crucial question: who is compromising and who is profiting?"

"The Americans in San Francisco want to gain judicial power through this action, so they refuse to back down. The Democrats are portraying this action as a riot to gain support from a broad centrist base, and they probably have their own calculations as well."

"The cost of compromise is too high and the benefits are too small, so there is only one way to go."

He stroked his chin and said, "Come to think of it, the name Sherman sounds somewhat familiar."

"Is he related to the Sherman tanks of the US military in his previous life?"

After all, he wasn't very familiar with American history or World War II history; he only knew the famous figures and battles written in textbooks.

The thought was fleeting, and he didn't dwell on it, since he had something else to focus on right now.

Half an hour ago, news came back about the shooting on Jackson Street. Six foreigners are dead; this is definitely not going to end well.

Chinatown must be sealed off first.

Upon receiving the news, Jian Yuan led his elite guards out. They divided into groups of ten and began blocking more than a dozen intersections leading from Chinatown to Nob Hill, Montgomery Street, and the port area.

Four-wheeled freight wagons were laid sideways, connected to form a makeshift barricade, topped with sacks filled with mud. Behind the barricades stood assassins armed with long guns, their muzzles pointed towards the outside of Chinatown, vigilant for any disturbance.

The remaining suicide soldiers served as the general reserve force, and they also had the Danko Type 1 machine guns in their hands. They would go to support whichever side of the defense line was in danger.

At the same time, people from the six major guild halls were also mobilized.

The mobilization of the six major guild halls was launched simultaneously. The sound of gongs echoed through the streets and alleys, and shouts in Cantonese, Hokkien, and Mandarin rose and fell.

"Keep doors and windows closed! Do not go out tonight if there is any noise!"

"Don't open the door if a stranger, a foreigner, is knocking!"

"Each household should prepare enough rice and water for three days!"

Some hot-blooded young Chinese gathered at the barricades, demanding to join the fight. Zhang Wugang, a suicide squad member in charge of one side of the intersection, tried to drive them away, but was stopped by Jianyuan, who was patrolling around.

"Let them come," Jianyuan said. "This is Chinatown. They want to protect their home; why should we refuse?"

"But they haven't been trained..." Zhang Wu frowned.

"That's why they weren't allowed to go to the front lines."

Jian Yuan's gaze swept over the young faces, and he said, "But they can be assigned to the auxiliary team. They can handle tasks such as transporting ammunition, relaying messages, and post-battle cleanup."

"Besides, these people are young and energetic. Soon we will definitely be carrying out national education in the United States to completely erase the mark that the Manchu Qing Dynasty imposed on the Han people. And these people will be our first batch of seeds."

Zhang Wudao said, "Alright, alright, I'll make the arrangements."

Jian Yuan said, "Well, just teach them the most basic things like obeying orders and following rules first."

"Oh, and remember to mention that all spoils must be handed over, but each of them will receive two dollars as compensation after the war."

Zhang Wu nodded and went to make the arrangements.

Jianyuan looked at the map of San Francisco and drew a crooked line near the interior of Chinatown.

If the foreigners break through the street corner, this spot can serve as a second line of defense. Using the high ground, machine guns can sweep away all the foreigners on the street…

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.

In the dead of night, the moonlight was like water.

Inside the mayor's office in the city hall, Mayor Webber opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass for himself, as well as for Councilor Hawke and Blake Monroe, who were standing not far away.

"To our victory!"

The three clinked glasses, and Weber took a sip, chuckling, "This time, those Democratic bastards really got a bad taste of their own medicine."

Hawke swirled the red wine in his glass and said, "The city and county police were wiped out, and judicial officials connected to them were arrested or expelled."

"The next step is to replace all the people with our own, and then expel the Democratic lawmakers from prison. This operation can be considered a great success."

Monroe put down his glass and said slowly, "Mr. Weber, Mr. Hawke, I want to remind you that the operation was unsuccessful."

"There's a lot of filth in San Francisco, like those damn Catholics, those disgusting Irishmen, Italians, Mexicans, and scavengers."

"Without cleaning them up, San Francisco will never become a true American city, and California will never be the promised land of Anglo-Saxon Protestants."

Weber put down his glass and made a reassuring gesture with both hands: "I understand your urgency, Mr. Monroe. But things must be done one step at a time."

"After that, we'll introduce targeted heavy taxes on those groups, just like the Foreign Miners Tax Act of that time. Then we'll have your people act as tax collectors and police officers. That way, we can have a legitimate reason to..."

Before he could finish speaking, there was a loud and urgent knocking on the door.

"Come in." Weber frowned.

The door was flung open, and his private secretary, James Peterson, cried out in alarm, "Mr. Mayor, it's an emergency! An army has entered the city!"

"What army?" Weber's voice suddenly turned deep.

"It should be the team that was transferred from Sacramento, as mentioned in the telegram during the day. There are at least three hundred people, maybe more."

Peterson spoke rapidly, "According to reports from our informants, they marched directly into the city center in formation. The ranks were as orderly as a regular army, and they were all equipped with standard-issue rifles."

Monroe immediately stood up from the sofa and said, "I'll go gather the vigilance committee members and call on any other residents who are still awake nearby. I don't believe a mere four hundred people would dare to storm a demonstration of over a thousand!"

"Uh, Mr. Monroe, I guess you won't be able to get anyone."

Weber's subordinate said, "There was just another message that six or seven of our own men died on Jackson Street, shot by the Chinese. Most of your vigilance committee members have spontaneously organized to go to Chinatown after hearing the news."

They said they were going to massacre people on that street.

"My God!" Hawke exclaimed, "Of all times?!"

Weber took a deep breath, his mind racing, and then said, "Mr. Monroe, go to Chinatown immediately and gather as many people as you can find."

"Peterson, go and inform the city guard. Have Wellington take his men and hold off that army. Tell him to stall them for at least an hour, no matter what."

"But the city guard only has one hundred men," Peterson said hesitantly.

"A hundred men are enough, as long as they don't fire!" Weber put on his hat as well. "And I'll go there myself!"