A joke of a nation

The United States, at this particular juncture in its tumultuous history, was a truly paradoxical nation. It was a country fundamentally built by a disparate group of ambitious capitalists, which meant it inherently lacked the deep-seated cohesion, the unifying centripetal force, and the ancient traditions and spirits that a normal, organic country should naturally possess. In its surprisingly short history, just over a mere hundred years, its overall structure, its very bones, had barely changed, leading to certain fundamental, systemic problems in every aspect of its society.

The issue concerning veterans was glaringly simple and brutally clear. First, the United States Government completely, utterly disregarded the well-being of its veterans after they were discharged. These parliament members, inextricably entangled in a web of capital and political ambition, would not spare a single cent, not a single drop of compassion, to subsidize these brave men who were, in their cold calculation, no longer useful to the United States.

(Historically, during World War I, American soldiers were paid a dollar a day, and promised an additional twenty-five dollars in subsidy after discharge. However, after the war, the United States Government notoriously refused to pay, and when veterans, desperate and broken, marched to claim their promised money, two were infamously shot dead.)

Second, Americans at this time fundamentally lacked a true, unifying patriotism, so they harbored no so-called 'respect' for veterans, no genuine gratitude. These men, who had faced unimaginable horrors for their country, would not receive any preferential treatment because of their veteran status; in fact, they were often openly discriminated against, shunned, which was truly disheartening, a profound betrayal.

(this sadly also happened after 'Nam)

Therefore, the dignity these battered, forgotten veterans received from Mr. Dutch Van der Linde today was far, far more inspiring, more meaningful than any paltry sum of money. They had long been fed up with the casual, cruel discrimination from passersby and the insidious deception from the very government they had fought for! They had sacrificed, fought for their country, only to end up becoming outlaws, desperate vagrants, just to survive. And now, all their accumulated grievances, all their years of helplessness, had finally found solace, had finally found a voice, with Mr. Van der Linde.

They are the true heroes!

They are the true heroes!!!

The group of veterans completely erupted, a collective, cathartic roar. The cheers and passionate shouts from inside the saloon could be heard echoing throughout the very streets of Rhodes, a testament to their unbridled emotion.

Watching Dutch, who was passionately, theatrically giving his speech at the front, Arthur, Hosea, Charles, Flying Eagle, and John, who were sitting stoically to the side, all stood up somewhat helplessly. After all, it would be a bit awkward, a bit undermining, for them to sit and calmly drink coffee at such an exciting, emotionally charged moment, as if they were detached, unfeeling observers.

But it was impossible for them to be as passionately swept away as these newly converted veterans, and in fact, none of them were particularly excited right now. Arthur and the others had truly heard too many of Dutch's grand speeches and were, by now, immune to their intoxicating effects.

And Flying Eagle himself, an Indian, harbored no particular fondness for these American soldiers; although he felt Mr. Van der Linde's speech was very powerful, very persuasive, he simply could not empathize with their specific grievances.

"Shit! Dutch's way of speaking is getting harder and harder to guard against, Hosea," Arthur whispered to Hosea beside him, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. "Hosea, listen to what he just said, 'You are the true heroes,' shit! I can't even imagine how Dutch, the cynical bastard, could say such cringeworthy things with a straight face!"

"Shit! Hmph, Arthur!" Hosea glared at Arthur, a hint of genuine offense in his eyes. "Didn't you enjoy listening to Dutch's speeches in the gang normally? You were always the first one to cheer!"

"Oh, that's different, Hosea," Arthur retorted, shaking his head. "What Dutch says in the gang, among us, those are his true feelings, his honest beliefs. But what he's saying now…" His voice trailed off, a hint of discomfort.

"What he's saying now is also his true feelings, Arthur," Hosea insisted, a surprising earnestness in his voice. "Otherwise, why would he make so many changes? Why would he go to such lengths?" Hosea, it seemed, truly didn't think there was anything wrong with what Arthur said. He, too, genuinely believed that what Dutch said within the gang was sincere, a reflection of his deepest convictions.

Damn it, Arthur thought with an internal groan. Both of them are deeply poisoned and beyond saving. It felt like if Arthur still had tuberculosis now, the tuberculosis bacteria in his body would also be loyal, devoted bacteria, utterly charmed by Dutch's rhetoric.

The atmosphere on the second floor of the saloon reached its peak, a fever pitch of devotion, fueled by Dutch's impassioned speech. However, Dutch himself, the orchestrator of this emotional crescendo, calmly sat down after his speech, a picture of serene satisfaction.

"Alright, Arthur, Hosea, don't stand there anymore; it's time we discussed our problems," Dutch said, looking at the few who were still standing, conspicuously, amidst the cheering veterans.

The speech in the small saloon had been a resounding success; it was foreseeable that the name of Dutch Van der Linde would spread far and wide with this speech, drawing the hearts of soldiers, active and discharged alike, towards Dutch, towards his cause. However, as the saying goes, there is give and take, and trouble will naturally follow the heels of success.

"So, is there something we need to discuss this time, Dutch?" Arthur asked, sitting back in his seat, his expression now serious, pragmatic.

They were originally still at Van Horn Trading Post, deep in their clean-up operation, but Dutch had called them back abruptly, which meant something significant, something troublesome, must have gone wrong.

"Yes, Arthur, yes!" Dutch picked up his glass, took a small sip of the red wine inside, and looked at Hosea beside him. "Let Hosea explain."

"Alright," Hosea nodded, then pulled a crumpled letter from his inner pocket and placed it on the table, its folds speaking of anxious rereading.

This letter had been sent from Saint Denis, a frantic message racing back to Hope Ranch. Arthur and the others looked over, their faces grim, and Hosea began to explain, his voice calm, but with an underlying tension.

"It seems our actions during this period have attracted the attention of some… undesirable people. Mr. Henry Lemieux of Saint Denis had our tailor shop employees convey a message. He demands that we take action against Signor Bronte and, more crucially, close the Veteran Club. The price for this, he states, is our identity issues, our very right to exist without constant harassment."

Hosea's voice hardened.

"If we don't take action, they will use our identities against us, allowing Pinkerton Detectives to gain law enforcement authority in Lemoyne, effectively preventing us from entering Lemoyne at all, and also seizing our tailor shop in Saint Denis, as well as our hard-won sheriff's position in Rhodes. At the same time, a batch of clothing we were delivering to other states was intercepted at sea by Mr. Fusal. The value of this batch of clothing is a full ten thousand dollars; although not a huge amount, it's not small either, a clear sign of aggression."

Hosea finished reading the chilling contents of the paper to the grim-faced men in front of him. Clearly, Mr. Fusal had already begun to act, and the corrupt nobles of Saint Denis could no longer tolerate Dutch's burgeoning influence. As Hosea spoke, Arthur and the others' faces grew increasingly grim, their jaws tight.

"Shit!" Arthur cursed, slamming his hand on the armrest of the chair he was sitting on, the wood groaning. "Damn it, are they preparing to move against us? Are they preparing for war? We haven't provoked them recently, have we? We've been nothing but legitimate!"

Listening to Arthur's heated question, Hosea shook his head. "No, child. We've only been dealing with the lingering issues in Van Horn Trading Post and New Hanover recently. There's been nothing unusual in Saint Denis, nothing overtly provocative from our side. But these upper-class folks don't care about us that much; they only want profit. Their loyalty extends only as far as their wallets."

"Fuck, didn't we help a few of their families promote women's rights before?" John, who was beside them, unable to contain his anger, burst out, his voice sharp with betrayal. "Why are they still coming after us?! I thought our relationship was quite good before? Why did they suddenly start threatening us, after all we did for them?"

Seeing John's genuinely confused expression, a rare moment of naiveté from the grizzled outlaw, Dutch burst into laughter, a sharp, cynical sound. "Hahaha, John, I told you before that there is only eternal profit between these upper-class people, no so-called friendship, no loyalty beyond the ledger. Now, it is profitable for them to deal with us, so they naturally will. But they made one crucial mistake, John. That is, I am not Signor Bronte, and I will not follow their rules!"

No sooner had Dutch finished speaking than, before Arthur and the others could even open their mouths to question or concur, the veterans on the second floor, who had been constantly watching their benefactors, surrounded them, a spontaneous, protective phalanx.

"Mr. Van der Linde, who is trying to harm you?!" a burly veteran roared, his face contorted with rage. "Damn it, tell me, and I'll go kill him directly! I'll carve him myself!"

"Shit! I was here first, if anyone's going, it's me first!" another shrieked, jostling for position, his eyes wild with fervent loyalty.

"Mr. Van der Linde, I'm a scout, and excellent at assassination!" a third cried, pushing his way through the throng. "Please let me go; I will surely bring back the head of whoever is against you! A trophy for your kindness!"

"Mr. Van der Linde, I'm a machine gunner!" a fourth bellowed, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll go directly and mow them down, then I'll shoot myself! You just need to take care of my family, and I'll do the rest!"

A furious, almost violent scramble ensued as the group of veterans surged to surround them, each one eager to draw lots on the spot, vying desperately to be the one chosen to deal with Mr. Van der Linde's perceived enemies. Damn it, they thought, a collective, furious resolve hardening their faces, to go after such a kind and great Mr. Van der Linde, it's clear that this person must be no good; killing him would be an act of supreme virtue, a righteous purge!