Life of Being a Crown Prince in France-Chapter 729 - 637 The Lament of the North American

Chapter 729 -637: The Lament of the North American Continent (Seeking Monthly Tickets at Month’s End) Chapter 729 -637: The Lament of the North American Continent (Seeking Monthly Tickets at Month’s End) A Black officer in a white uniform hesitated after looking at Book’s expression but finally spoke out loud, “Great Hougen, we should avoid these white troops; their numbers are too many. It would be best to enter the South Carolina mountains or retreat to the west.”

The “Hougen” he referred to was the Great Wizard of Voodoo, the religious position that Book now held.

Book glanced at him coldly and shoved the binoculars into his hands, pointing forcefully at the American Army’s camp and said through clenched teeth, “I can’t leave them behind.”

The officer didn’t follow the command; he knew that within those white-manned plantations, over 200 Black people were being hanged, which he had seen up close when he led a team to scout the day before.

Those Black people should have been preparing to join Book’s movement, but before they could leave the area of South Carolina, they were captured and brought back. Then the American Army tied their wrists and hung them from the tree branches.

These people had already been hanging for three days, and at least a third of them had died, but there were still over a hundred people struggling painfully.

The white people deliberately hung them in front of the camp so that their own side could easily see them.

Book paced anxiously and suddenly turned and grabbed the officer by the collar, “I’ve been hung like that before; I know how painful it is! I swore an oath to the Spirit of Nature to end all such torment for Black people, to kill all the whites who torture us.

“The Spirit of Nature saved me; I did not die. Now, I must save them too!”

The surrounding Black soldiers immediately followed with roars, “Kill all the whites!”

“Rescue the sufferers!”

Book looked around at his soldiers with satisfaction and spoke loudly, “Our ancestors will bless us, the Spirit of Nature will guide us!”

The soldiers prostrated one after another, repeating his prayers.

Book released the officer and said in a deep voice, “Ansen, I will lead an attack from the south side. You take advantage of the chaos to sneak into the plantation and rescue them. Then we’ll retreat to the mountains on the north side.”

Ansen glanced at the direction of the American Army camp and finally nodded calmly, “Yes, great Hougen.”

At two o’clock in the afternoon, Book led 2,600 soldiers and circled around to the right flank of the American Army.

Among his troops, many were still holding machetes, not because they had no flintlock guns, but because they didn’t know how to use them. Just half a month ago, they had been cotton picking under the whips of plantation owners, but now they resolutely attacked the slave owners for their and their fellow Black men’s freedom.

Major General Anthony Wayne, the commanding general of the “American Legion,” quickly received cavalry reports and a smile appeared on his face. He turned to several officers and issued a series of orders.

Book’s attack had not yet unfolded when it encountered the elite infantry of the American Army’s First Army Corps, coupled with the counter-sniping of three militia groups.

Book, shouting the prayers of Voodoo, fought desperately in hand-to-hand combat with the Americans like a wild beast.

But it wasn’t long before the American Army’s Cavalry Camp appeared behind him.

Ansen, hearing the gunfire from the north, immediately led over 1,500 soldiers and charged toward the plantation near the border.

Just when he could see the faces of those who were hanging, a burst of dense gunfire erupted around him.

Those slaves who had been hung for three days ended their pain in an instant, their bodies mangled by the shots.

At the same time, as many as six or seven thousand American soldiers converged from all directions, marching to the beat of drums.

The battle lasted until twilight, and Ansen’s men were completely wiped out. Not a single Black warrior surrendered, and in the face of an overwhelming enemy force, they still desperately took more than 300 American soldiers’ lives with them.

The situation on Book’s side was equally tragic.

His veterans from Santo Domingo bravely held off the American cavalries, even capturing quite a few war horses.

At last, Book escaped with barely over 500 people under their protection, breaking through the encirclement of the American Army.

The remnants of Book’s forces joined up with the 800 soldiers tasked with support, and upon learning that Ansen had already died in battle, they could only flee westward.

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The pursuing Americans followed them relentlessly. Book, following the previous instructions of “Duke of Leeds’ subordinates,” forded the southwest side of the Savannah River in Georgia, entering the territory of the Indians’ Ortamaho Tribe.

At the break of dawn the next day, Book met with the chief of the Ortamaho, Opeyimic Hopoais.

Upon learning that Book was engaged in combat with the Americans, the latter immediately hosted them warmly, not only providing food and tents but also dispatching tribesmen to patrol along the Savannah River to guard against sudden attacks by the Americans.

In the Rebel Army’s camp.

Book kicked a moaning black soldier who was wounded, scolding sternly, “Shut up, you useless fool!”

The moans around them immediately quieted down.

Book then noticed the wound in the soldier’s abdomen and grimaced, gesturing to a guard behind him to “end it.”

The guard immediately drew a dagger and plunged it into the wounded soldier’s chest. The latter struggled for a moment and then fell still.

Book walked among the soldiers, without hesitation executing thirty or forty wounded — their injuries were such that at best, they would live for only a few more days, yet they would become a burden to the army.

At that moment, a black officer came with two Indians.

The Indian wearing red feathers courteously saluted Book by pressing a hand to his chest, “Commander, the Chief has prepared a banquet for you, and he hopes you can attend.”

Book was quite clever; in his time in the United States, he had come to roughly understand English. He bowed in response, “Thank you, Chief Hopoais, I will certainly attend the banquet.”

Before long, escorted by a few Indians, Book rode to the chief’s village with more than a dozen officers.

After traveling for over an hour, Book suddenly saw a group of robust creatures with two horns on their heads casually grazing on a distant hill.

“What is that?”

An Indian casually said, “Those are bison, Commander.”

Book was immediately drawn to the animal’s sense of freedom and tranquility and, on a whim, spurred his horse towards the bison to get a closer look at them.

The herd, seeing someone approaching, immediately turned and fled.

Book chased after them, cresting the top of the hill, ready to look down upon the fleeing herd, but he suddenly froze — on the other side of the mountain was a vast expanse of cotton fields.

He quickly grabbed a telescope from beside his saddle and looked through it to see countless black slaves bending over to sow cotton, while dozens of fierce-looking Indians wielding whips stood beside them…

On the banks of the Savannah River.

Several American officers rode abreast, one of them, a middle-aged colonel, frowned towards the opposite side of the river, saying, “General Wayne, I can’t believe we’re actually going to collaborate with those lowly Indians.”

Major General Anthony Wayne smiled, “If it can solve our problem with those Negroes, why not?”

“Honestly, I detest those savage bunch; they’ve killed many of our men.”

“Indeed,” Wayne nodded, “so after this collaboration, you are entirely free to do whatever you’d like.”