The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 761: Amitabha, the Emperor of Longevity, We Are the True Americans
The rain curtain enveloped the mountains and forests of Tennessee. On the muddy road, three thousand Mongolian American cavalrymen formed a long column and moved forward. They wore pointed hoods, bison leather robes, machetes hung on their waists, and Mississippi rifles were tied to their saddles. Rain dripped down their hat brims and soaked the copper cross on their chests - it was a sacred object of the "Tantric True Testament Sect" with "Amitabha Heavenly Father Emperor God" engraved on it.

Hong Yunhan rode on his horse, listening to the soldiers behind him singing the military song in a low voice: "We are the real Americans. Mountains, plains, lakes, from sea to sea, are all the land of our ancestors. Until the white devil came and took everything away... We want revenge! We want to take back the land that belongs to us! Amitabha, the Eternal Emperor, Amitabha, the Eternal Emperor"

The singing was deep and long, like the wind on the prairie or the flowing water of the Mississippi River. Hong Yunhan squinted his eyes, and the rain slid down his cheeks. He remembered that a few years ago, he was just a small chief of the Arapaho tribe in Colorado. His people were scattered and driven away like hares by the white cavalry. Until "Amur Buddha" under General Zhao Si came to the Great Plains with the gospel of Amitabha Heavenly Father and Emperor God, and told them:

"You are not Indians, you are Americans! You should roam like the Mongols, ride and shoot like the Manchus, and fight like the Taiping Army!"

Amur Buddha was not just a charlatan who could only talk big, but a real Buddha who led 300 "Tantric True Yue Sect" priests who were good at riding and shooting to perform armed shaman dances and "use virtue to axe people". Many Indians in the Rocky Mountains, not American tribes, were "saved" by him, and they followed him to chant "Amitabha Changsheng Tianhuang Shangdi" and learned to live a nomadic life and fight like the Mongols.

Thus, the scattered tribes began to unite, and they learned the riding skills of the Mongols, the tactics of the Manchus, and the discipline of the Taiping Army. They were no longer "Indians", but "Americans" - real Americans!
"boom!"

Suddenly, a gunshot was heard in the rain ahead.

Hong Yunhan pulled the reins of his horse suddenly, and the cavalry behind him stopped instantly. The Dharma Protector Shutonga beside him slowly raised his hand. He was a bishop of the "Tantric True Yue Sect" wearing a monk's robe and holding a prayer wheel. He was one of the 300 "Tantric True Yue Sect" priests who followed Amur Buddha to "convert" the Rocky Mountain tribes. The prayer wheel in the Dharma Protector Shutonga's hand stopped, and the copper bell on the prayer wheel made a crisp sound in the rain. He listened with his ears tilted, and the rain slid down his bald head.

"Three and a half miles to the northeast, there may be two or three hundred people." Shu Tonga whispered, "It should be the Kentucky militia who encountered our people."

Hong Yunhan nodded and turned to look at "Black Whirlwind" Tom beside him. The Black Knight commander was wearing the gray woolen uniform of the Confederate Army, with a saber on his waist, a spear on his back, and his eyes were cold.

"Tom, take a battalion of black cavalry to deal with them." Shutonga raised the prayer wheel and chanted a scripture in a low voice, "Amitabha, may the Eternal Life Emperor God bless you!"

Tom grinned, revealing his white teeth: "Amitabha, the Emperor of the Immortals, the first battalion - attack!"

He kicked his horses hard, and five hundred black cavalrymen rushed out of the rain like a hurricane, their horses' hooves crushing the mud, their spears raised high, and rushed straight to the direction where the gunshots came from.

The raindrops pierced into the mud like silver needles, and the Kentucky militia phalanx swayed in the mud. Captain Old Boone had water drops on his beard, and he squinted at the rain curtain - dark shadows loomed, and the sound of horse hooves rolled in like thunder.

"Damn it! It's the black cavalry!" Billy, the new recruit, said with a trembling voice, "There are more behind them... My God, are they Indians? Why are they wearing Mongolian robes?"

Old Boone's thumb pressed the trigger of the flintlock. His experience fighting the Mexicans in his early years told him that these were not ordinary cavalrymen - the black soldiers in the front row were wearing the gray woolen uniforms of the regular army, but behind them were Indians wearing Mongolian hats, with brass crosses hanging around their necks and rifles stuck on their saddles.

"Form a hollow square!" Old Boone's roar was mostly drowned out by the sound of rain. The militiamen hurriedly set up their guns. Someone slipped on the mud and his flintlock shot through his companion's calf. Amid screams, Black Tom's cavalry had rushed within fifty yards.

"Fire!"

Because many people's gunpowder was damp, they couldn't fire at all, so only a few lead bullets tore through the rain curtain, and the three black cavalrymen in the front row fell like broken sacks. But more black shadows were rolled in front of him like a whirlwind - Billy saw the face of the leading black soldier: it was a face like a gorilla, with a big nose, prominent brow bones, and a thick neck under the not-too-big head.

"Amitabha, the Eternal Emperor!" Black Tom's spear pierced Billy's throat. The young man's last sight was the bloody tip of the spear being pulled out of his neck.
The square collapsed instantly. A bespectacled militiaman knelt in the mud and vomited, his chest crushed by the horse's hoof. Old Boone's saber just hit the thigh of a black cavalryman, and his left arm flew out at the shoulder - he staggered and turned around, and saw a hooded "American" shaking the blood off his scimitar.

"You nigger Mongolian bastards!" Old Boone cursed with blood foam. The sound of the copper bell of the prayer wheel answered him - the strange man in monk's robes was standing in a pool of blood and chanting, holding a brass cross instead of Buddhist beads in his hand.

Black Tom, who had always been ruthless, had improved a lot this time. He did not kill all the Indians, but deliberately let dozens of them go, allowing them to escape back to the towns in Kentucky and spread fear - "The Indians have returned from Mongolia after learning skills - they want revenge!"

After the battle, Hongyun Khan and Tom's cavalry joined together and continued to advance. As the rain gradually subsided, the outline of a white plantation became clearer on the hills in the distance.

"There are black slaves there." Tom whispered. Hongyun Khan nodded and raised his scimitar: "Go in and liberate them!"

Plantation owner Cartwright stood on the porch, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

"Guard the door! Don't let those niggers in!"

But the manor was guarded by only twenty or so white gunmen, who hid behind the stone wall and aimed their guns at the cavalry that was pouring in like a tide. However, they could not even withstand the first wave of charge launched by the black cavalry and the "American cavalry".

The oak gate of the manor collapsed with a loud bang, and Black Tom rushed in on a tall horse, stepping on the broken door panels, holding the reins in one hand and a Colt revolver with smoke still coming out of the muzzle in the other.

"Nigger!" Cartwright spat, holding up the empty shotgun with both hands, and still pulling the trigger. "Nigger, take your monkey soldiers back to Africa!"

Hong Yunhan appeared silently behind Black Tom, blood flowing on his fur coat. Cartwright suddenly laughed wildly: "Another yellow monkey! You damn Asians."

There was a flash of knife light. Cartwright felt a chill on his chin - Red Cloud Khan's scimitar had torn off half of his beard.

"My father is Shawnee," Hongyun Khan said slowly in a Kentucky accent, "My mother is Cherokee. My ancestors have been hunting deer here for generations before the Europeans came!" The tip of the knife cut across Cartwright's carotid artery, "Who do you think should go?"

Cartwright covered his neck with his hands, unable to say anything. The last thing he heard was someone chanting: "Amitabha, the Eternal Life Emperor, God bless you."

Suddenly cheers broke out from the direction of the barn. Black Tom's guards used axes to split the shackles, and more than forty skinny black slaves rushed into the rain. A one-eyed old man suddenly pounced on Cartwright and bit his terrified, lifeless face hard.

The sound of Shutonga's prayer wheel pierced through the rain: "Amitabha, the eternal emperor of heaven, will punish the slave owners today."

When the cavalrymen left with the freed slaves, the rain had stopped, and the fire in the manor's granary reflected the red rain clouds. There was a leather bag next to the saddle of Hongyun Khan - it contained Cartwright's scalp.

In the morning mist at the Memphis dock, a rusty steamer towed a dozen barges slowly to the shore. The barges had a deep draft, and the decks were piled with wooden boxes nailed with Russian letters. The smart bishop stood at the bow, his golden curly hair was blown by the river wind, and his young face was a little tired from months of running around, but his blue eyes were surprisingly bright.

"General Zhao!" He opened his arms from afar, his pure London accent filled with excitement, "5 M1841 rifles, 1000 million rounds of ammunition, barrels of gunpowder, cannons, shells, all arrived!"

Xianfeng strode forward, his boots making the springboard thump. He put his arm around Lingli's shoulders, his fingers almost sinking into her cross-embroidered vestments: "You are so good, Lingli! I have heard that there is a capable foreign brother like you under the command of King Luo Wu. Today, I see that you are indeed worthy of your reputation!"

"It's all thanks to the blessing of Emperor Amitabha," Lingli winked playfully and pulled out a stack of documents from her sleeve. "This is the document signed by Prince Napoleon that Her Highness Rinko got. The French are now the backers of the Southern Confederacy, and New Orleans is a French-speaking area. My journey has been very smooth."

Bell, who was standing nearby, looked even paler as he watched boxes of munitions being unloaded from the barge by the black soldiers under Zenk. This southern beauty, who was once as beautiful as a rose, was now a little haggard, with sunken eye sockets and a few red marks on her neck - left by her last arrest. She mechanically recorded the unloading list, and her feather pen drew trembling ink marks on the paper.

"Big White," Xianfeng suddenly turned around and pinched Bell's chin affectionately, "You can now send a telegram to your General Grant - tell him that my main force has marched to Nashville, and there are only 4,000 old, weak and sick people left in Memphis."

He applied a little force with his fingertips, forcing Bell to raise his head and force a flattering smile on his cheeks.

(End of this chapter)