Chapter 799: Chapter 23: Marching on Mississippi

"For Her Majesty, cheers!"

The collision of glasses spilled amber-colored liquid.

In the Miner’s Tavern, a group of miners with coal-dusted faces and reeking of sweat were cheerfully drinking, alleviating the day’s toil.

A young man in slightly antiquated silk attire pushed the door open and walked in, the bell ringing crisply.

The bartender pointed to a sign beside him, "Mate, this is the Miner’s Tavern."

"Not serving other guests?"

"Of course not, just..."

The bartender looked at the guest’s fancy attire, which seemed worlds apart from the miners nearby. What was such a big shot doing in his stinking tavern?

If anything happened, his tavern could not bear the responsibility.

The man sat down by himself, smiling as he said, "That’s good then."

The bartender felt helpless, thinking, haven’t you noticed your presence has quieted my little tavern significantly? These miners aren’t ones to mess with. By this moment, who knows how many have their eyes on this fat lamb.

The man pointed to the menu, "I’ll have a glass of your signature drink, this ’Iron Ore’."

"Alright then."

The bartender turned around to mix the drink.

Sitting at the table, a relatively well-dressed miner couldn’t help but strike up a conversation, "I see you’re a newcomer, just arrived from Europe, right? Where are you from?"

The man didn’t boast, smiling as he replied, "I guess you’d say I’m from Germany."

The miner chuckled, "You sure don’t look as stiff as they do."

"Maybe because I’m from Southern Germany."

Losa shrugged, the differences between northern and Southern Germany were more than just high and low German dialects.

The far-reaching impacts of the Thirty Years’ War still haven’t been eliminated.

Leading to the current Habsburg-ruled German Federation being even more fragmented than the Second Reich.

Yet, no matter how fragmented, it was always better than Austria-Hungary’s two-headed monstrosity.

The miner laughed, "You’re definitely not an ordinary person, maybe a noble’s collateral branch, coming to the New Continent to start a business?"

"You could say so."

"You might need a guide, I’m old Henry, been hanging out in this town for years. No one knows the ins and outs of every trade better than me, and I’m British, from Nottinghamshire, ever heard of it?"

"Robin Hood’s hometown?"

"Yes, that’s the place!"

Mentioning his hometown, the miner’s face was full of pride.

Losa didn’t pick up the thread, instead, he inquired, "I’ve heard the southern black insurgents are about to break through. Why does it seem like you’re not worried at all?"

"Ha, those black slaves? They’ll soon be crushed to pieces by the Empire’s army. Have you heard? The Empire has even sent steam airships — those warships flying in the sky, just one shot can flatten a small mountain."

Another miner who was eavesdropping couldn’t help but interject, "Maybe the Louisiana state militia will defeat them. I heard they’ve stationed a whole regiment of Massachusetts Chest Armor Cavalry and a detachment of the Saint George’s Knight Order."

Speaking of the motherland’s strength, even a mere miner could not help but straighten his chest.

Connected as it was to every aspect of their lives.

Especially for Britons overseas, even if back home you’re just an illiterate nobody, arriving in the colonies, you can rise above.

And not merely above black people; in the colonies, fourth-class citizens were black slaves, third-class were Hispanic, Italian descent, second-class were French descent, German descent, Irish descent.

He belonged to the first-class citizens, his salary considerably higher than others, able to serve as overseers or other leisurely positions, naturally giving him reason to be content.

Instead of worrying about those guys, it’s better to be concerned about the wild beasts creeping in.

Last night, old Henry’s household lost another sheep, the clergy they invited took one look and told old Henry to hire a hunter.

Unfortunately, they probably didn’t know that the Chest Armor Cavalry regiment had already been wiped out, despite their opponent being a band of Texas cowboys.

"It’s indeed spectacular, mate. My personal advice to you is, don’t linger around here any longer."

Losa said this, stood up, leaving behind advice no one would heed, then swiftly walked out of the tavern.

The sky was turning gloomy, clouds weighing heavy, a torrential rain was imminent.

The warmly-lit tavern appeared like the only sanctuary in the darkness, emanating a soothing glow.

Shortly after Losa’s departure, a stern recruitment officer barged into the tavern with a squad of guards.

"Everyone follow me, you’ve been drafted by the Mississippi Third Infantry Regiment."

The heavily armed, fierce soldiers looked coldly at the drinking miners, as if just one utterance of "no" would lead to them having their heads blown off the next moment.

"Mates, no time to hesitate. Those rebellious slaves have arrived outside the city. If you don’t want to end up on the gallows at the hands of those slaves, don’t want your wives and daughters carrying black bastards, don’t want your cradle babies skewered on bayonets, pick up your weapons now!"

Inside the tavern, the atmosphere was terrifyingly heavy.

The miners had never expected it, the newspapers clearly described a ragtag crowd, supposedly nothing to do with themselves, how did the black slave revolt reach them so fast?

...

Meanwhile, at the Mississippi border.

In the twilight, countless black soldiers were charging toward the enemy’s position in loose formation, clutching rifles.

Cannon fire roared, and every so often someone was hit by a shell, their torso completely disappearing, those antique solid cannonballs plowing through the earth like grinders of flesh.

Behind them, the Supervision Team, composed of strong black soldiers, watched the troops’ backs like predators and couldn’t help but feel relieved for pledging loyalty to the leader early on, otherwise, they’d be the ones charging now.

Their leader was an old warrior with a white beard but who still appeared fierce.

He hailed from West Africa Niger Delta, a wild warrior who could chase lions on the plains, vastly different from the majority of Louisiana blacks who had been cultivated and bred.

Captured during a tribal conflict, he was one of the few black slaves with "war" experience, quickly chosen as the Alliance Leader after early defeats of the black insurgents.

This was quite a capable man, given that the insurgents were a mess, able to roughly unite them, partly relying on the looming threat of the British army and partly his skills.

Over time, the state militia’s defense line was gradually penetrated.

Their weapons and equipment, training level were not much stronger than the black insurgents, rather, due to Losa’s support, they seemed weaker than those black elites equipped with new advanced firearms.

All the way, the black insurgents chased the retreating soldiers, the distance between the two sides shrinking ever closer.

Many of the retreating soldiers could only utter desperate cries, watching helplessly as these black slaves, dark under the moonlight, thrust bayonets into their bodies.

The color black, initially seen by the retreating soldiers as a symbol of inferiority and baseness, now seemed synonymous with death, with unexpected black soldiers emerging from the darkness to pierce their bodies with sharp bayonets.

"God, save your people."

"Make those black beasts halt their steps, do not harm your most loyal subjects."

Amidst the cries, the river of black soldiers flooded into town.

The newly conscripted militia stacked wood and stones to create crude fortifications, men stayed home, gripping rifles to protect their families.

As a rumble echoed.

A shell pierced a house, erupting along the street.

The black slaves, pushing captured cannons, laughed wildly, they knew nothing about calibration or trajectory calculation, but they knew that if they pushed the cannons close enough, they would definitely hit the target!