Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 123 The National Guard Arrives Late
When the sunlight fully illuminated this terrifying spectacle, the politicians and elites who had been hiding in Chinatown finally emerged, trembling.

"vomit!"

The scene before him was so overwhelming that one banker couldn't take it and vomited up his breakfast on the spot.

"Oh God, oh my God..."

The congressman's wife screamed, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted again.

Barkley stood at the street corner, facing the endless avenue of corpses, his legs shaking so badly he could barely walk.

He knew this road; he passed through here by carriage every day.

Now, this road has become a corridor to hell.

He wasn't looking at the corpses of the thugs, but at an absolute power that he couldn't comprehend or resist.

This Chinese man, this green hill, is simply a devil.

After the initial shock, many people experienced a morbid sense of pleasure.

"Well done!"

A hardware store owner, whose shop had been burned to the ground, clapped his hands excitedly: "That's how you deal with these bastards! Hang them all, leave no one alive!"

"That's right, this is the law, this is order!"

They walked past Crestwood's body in twos and threes.

They took off their top hats and offered feigned condolences, but there was no sadness in their eyes.

Everyone's attention was drawn to the two thousand flags hanging high.

It's both a deterrent and a source of security.

Mayor Samuel Black, escorted by two police officers in black, walked up to Green Hill.

He leaned close to Qingshan's ear and whispered tremblingly, "Thank you, Director."

Qingshan knew what he was thanking him for.

It cleared away the biggest political obstacle for him.

Aoyama said nothing. He looked up at Penny Black, who was standing not far away.

Penny happened to be looking over as well.

Eyes facing each other.

The woman's cheeks flushed bright red instantly, and she hurriedly turned her head away, unable to look any longer.

"Director..."

After the mayor's initial excitement, the cowardice typical of politicians took over: "So many people hanged at once, without any court trial, what will the federal government think...?"

Aoyama looked away, smiled, and patted him on the shoulder.

“In times of chaos, harsh measures are necessary, Mr. Mayor.”

“There are 40,000 Irish and more than 20,000 Mexicans in San Francisco. The one you hang tonight is less than one-twentieth of them.”

"If you don't use severe punishment, aren't you afraid that one of them will follow suit, and another will follow suit?"

Aoyama leaned close to the mayor's ear.

"Or do you want the National Guard to come next time to collect the bodies of you and everyone else present?"

"hiss!"

The mayor gasped, breaking out in a cold sweat.

His pitiful womanly compassion was immediately replaced by a deeper fear.

He gritted his teeth and glared fiercely at the corpses.

"They deserved to die, they deserved it, they should have been hanged, this was the end they deserved!"

"That's right. The cleanup is now your responsibility at the city hall. Clean up all this trash."

After saying that, Qingshan mounted his horse and rode away in a cloud of dust.

The riots have been quelled.

Meanwhile, in Sacramento, the thugs who had harassed the National Guard also quietly withdrew at the same time.

After a day and a night of turmoil, the militia battalion finally continued its march toward San Francisco on the evening of the third day.

But it was too late for them.

The San Francisco Police Department headquarters was almost completely burned down to a shell.

Qingshan stood on horseback in front of the ruins and flicked the ash from his cigarette onto his fingers.

He has already dressed the 180 Chinese suicide bombers in brand-new police uniforms and registered them. From today onwards, they are official police officers in San Francisco.

But this is not enough.

The staffing quota is 300, but we are still short 120 people.

Qingshan squinted his eyes.

He planned to fill all 120 spots with English-origin assassins.

A police station composed entirely of Chinese is too conspicuous.

He needs a white face to serve as a facade, to balance the fears of those white elites.

This is both a balancing act and an effort to make this new machine of violence more acceptable to San Francisco officials and citizens.

The reconstruction of the police station and the newspaper began simultaneously.

Or rather, the staff of the California Chronicle, under the protection of the people in Qingshan, never stopped working.

Jerry and Peter haven't slept in a long time.

Their eyes were bloodshot, but they were extremely excited.

That great photo was taken by them.

The smashed newspaper office, Editor-in-Chief Martin lying in a pool of blood, the appointment ceremony in Chinatown, the scene of the senator's assassination, and the street covered with two thousand corpses.

Any one of these photos would be enough to go down in history, and they were all taken by just the two of them.

This feeling is so great.

"Hurry up, get the layout done, work overtime, print! Get all the machines running like a fucking hot potato!"

Henderson, now the former boss, sat dejectedly in the corner, watching the group of people work frantically for their new boss, Aoyama.

……

Early morning on the fourth day.

The tightly closed doors and windows of San Francisco were finally opened one by one.

Citizens were allowed to go out.

When they took to the streets and saw the aftermath of the riots in San Francisco, everyone was deeply moved.

The streets were littered with charred wood, broken glass, and dried blood.

But what truly made them stop and feel a chill was the road in front of the city hall.

Corpses hanging there.

The stench of blood, already foul, filled the nostrils, causing many people to vomit on the spot.

"It's scary!"

"It's good that he's hanged!"

A baker looked at his emptied shop and gritted his teeth.

"But I heard that our new director is a Chinese guy?"

A coachman muttered to himself.

A tall butcher next to him immediately slapped him on the back of the head.

"Shut the fuck up, you idiot!"

The coachman shrank back, not daring to speak again.

The surrounding residents also agreed.

During their three most desperate days, they didn't see a single National Guard soldier.

On the contrary, it was this new director who used swift and decisive measures to pull them back from the brink of despair.

Is the new director Chinese?

This point suddenly becomes less important in the face of a tangible sense of security. A good chief is one who can suppress rioters and maintain order in San Francisco.

The former San Francisco police chief and those incompetent cops?

They weren't even worthy to carry Director Qingshan's shoes.

This city needs someone like Qingshan—tough, ruthless, and willing to hang people in the street.

"Newspapers for sale! Newspapers for sale!"

"The California Chronicle: The Most Comprehensive Coverage of the San Francisco Riots!"

"A senator was assassinated, and three thousand rioters were hanged in the street!"

People flocked to the newsboys, rushing to buy the newly printed newspaper as quickly as possible.

The newspaper was incredibly thick, divided into five full pages, all dedicated to reports about the catastrophe.

First edition, front page headline: [San Francisco Police Department Falls, Rioters Run Rampant, City Burning]

The accompanying image shows a horrifying scene of a police station fire and the charred bodies of police officers.

The report details how the Irish, Dutch, and Mexicans joined forces to storm the police station, kill all the officers, and then embark on a three-day celebration throughout the city.

Second edition, [The Appointment in Chinatown: In a Moment of Desperation, the Mayor Invokes Emergency Bills]

The photo was taken inside the main hall of the Aoyama Association.

Mayor Samuel, Senators Crestwood and Barkley, all the big names in San Francisco were present.

They were solemnly handing the appointment letter to the only calm Chinese man, Aoyama.

Third edition: [Disgrace, Senator Crestwood, brutally assassinated by thugs.]

The accompanying photo is a close-up shot taken by Jerry at great risk.

Crestwood lay in the mud, the dagger in his neck clearly visible.

The report was extremely harsh, calling it the most shameless provocation against the United States.

The fourth edition is the largest and most shocking double-page spread: "The Iron-Fisted Chief's Thunderous Trial: Two Thousand Thugs, Bodies Hanging on the City Boulevard..."

That photo sent chills down the spines of everyone who saw it.

It was a panoramic photo taken from a high vantage point.

The road leading to the city hall was densely packed with things hanging on it.

If you don't look closely, they look like sausages.

The title, written in blood-red font, read: "With the blood of senators, restore order to San Francisco!"

The fifth version, however, raises a huge question mark: "San Francisco is bleeding, where are our National Guard?"

A sharply worded editorial questioned the state government's sluggishness and incompetence.

Why did the riots last for three days, with the entire city falling, yet the National Guard was nowhere to be seen?
The citizens of San Francisco, as witnesses to this catastrophe, were deeply moved after reading the entire contents of the newspaper.

They finally understood everything that had happened in those three days.

San Francisco, which they had always been so proud of, almost fell and was destroyed by rioters.

Fortunately, Director Qingshan turned the tide.

Not long after.

The hooves of the 3rd Battalion of the California National Guard finally trod the cobblestone streets of San Francisco.

Major Turik let out a weary breath.

Damn it, this support mission was even more torturous than the most awful infiltration behind enemy lines during the Civil War.

They set off from Sacramento, first the railway was bombed, the tunnel collapsed, and then they had to damned take a detour on horseback.

Along the way, they were like a hornet's nest stirred up by bandits. Shots, traps, and hit-and-run attacks caused them to lose more than a hundred brothers.

Turik's heart was bleeding; more than a hundred lives had been lost on the way.

However, he is now prepared for a bloody battle to reclaim San Francisco inch by inch from the rioters.

But as they turned the last street corner into the city center, Turik suddenly reined in his horse.

The 353 militiamen behind them were also frozen in place as if under a spell.

Major Turik slowly raised his head, his gaze following the nearest gas lamp post upwards, then froze.

There was a corpse hanging there.

He mechanically turned his neck to look at the second lamppost, the third, the fourth...

From the square all the way to the steps of the magnificent city hall building, every lamppost in sight was covered with corpses.

Nearly two thousand corpses, like strings of bloated, dried sausages soaked in rain, swayed neatly in the damp, cold morning breeze.

"Holy...shit!"

One of the young militiamen couldn't hold back any longer and immediately dismounted, grabbing the saddle as he began to vomit.

Even Major Turik felt a churning in his stomach at that moment.

He had fought in battles, seen battlefields where blood flowed like rivers, and seen mountains of corpses.

I've never seen anything like this before.

"Major, Major."

The adjutant stepped forward, trembling, and asked, "Are we too late?"

Turik didn't answer; his mind was in complete turmoil.

Who did it?

Who has such power that, during the three days they were stranded on the road, they not only quelled a riot involving thousands of people, but also turned them all into decorations on streetlights?

"Major Turik, oh thank God, you've finally arrived!"

A figure suddenly rushed over; it was Barkley.

"Where have you all been?"

Barkley immediately complained, "Senator, Senator Crestwood, he's dead, right there!"

He pointed to the other side of the square.

Major Turik's face immediately turned ashen.

A US senator died in San Francisco? That's a fucking huge scandal.

Turik dismounted and grabbed Barkley by the collar: "One hundred and forty-seven of our brothers died on the way here, and you dare to complain that we're late?"

Barkley shuddered in fright and quickly put on a fawning expression: "Oh no, Major, that's not what I meant. I meant, it's good that you're here, it's good that you're here."

He leaned closer and lowered his voice: "Major, there's a big problem in San Francisco right now."

"I fucking saw it!"

Turik irritably shook him off.

"No, you haven't seen the whole thing yet."

Barkley said menacingly, "Do you know who did all this? Who quelled the riots, and who ordered these people to be hanged?"

"Who?"

Barkley said, word by word: "A Chinese man! A Chinese guy named Qingshan, and that idiot mayor appointed a yellow-skinned monkey as police chief!"

Major Turik paused, taking a full three seconds to process the information.

He then gave a disdainful smile.

"A Chinese guy became the police chief of San Francisco?"

He looked Barkley up and down: "Has the mayor lost his mind? You bunch of city hall cowards have really disgraced California. This will soon become the biggest joke in the entire federal government!"

"We were forced into this situation; that Chinese man took advantage of our misfortune!"

Barkley quickly explained, "Major, you have to help us. That Chinese man has guns and men now. He's practically turning San Francisco into his private domain. You've come at the right time with the National Guard. You are the legitimate representative of order in San Francisco. You have to get him out of that position!"

Major Turik squinted.

His hatred of Chinese people is ingrained in his bones.

How can those yellow-skinned monkeys with queues, smoking opium, and stealing jobs from white people on the railroads be qualified to give orders in a white city?
"Leave this to me."

Turik put his military cap back on: "I'd like to see how much guts this Chinese bureau chief has to be arrogant in front of me."

"Everyone, follow me to the police station!"

(End of this chapter)