The southern United States.
Georgia.
The small town of Baxley on the south bank of the Altamaha River.
More than five hundred warriors of the Cherokee Tribe watched the American Militia set up several Cannons across the river, their faces filled with anguish and terror. Chief Chinabe Hase rode past the defensive line, but unlike before the start of past wars, he did not loudly encourage his warriors. Instead, he kept his head lowered in silence, his face dark.
He knew full well that there were at least eight hundred American forces on the other side, all equipped with Flintlock Guns, and even three Cannons.
He had led his tribe in resistance for nearly two months, suffering grievous casualties, yet he still could not halt the Americans' invading advance.
At present, his warriors had only a little over a hundred Flintlock Guns, with no more than a thousand rounds of Ammunition.
None of them feared death, but bows and spears simply could not drive back the American forces before them.
Behind him lay the tribe's last dozen or so towns, where nearly ten thousand tribespeople had gathered.
Once the Americans crossed the Altamaha River, they could only wait to die in those towns—yes, they had lost all their territory, and fleeing would lead only to starvation.
"Why don't you give it a try?" A hoarse voice came from beside him. "You will surely receive salvation."
Without turning his head, Hassai knew it was Longhorn, the chief priest of the Creek Tribe.
Half a year ago, he had come to preach among the Cherokee Tribe. It was a form of Catholicism entirely different from that preached by the people of the United Kingdom and Spain. Yet Longhorn's teachings did not conflict with the tribe's legends, and he also acknowledged the spirituality