The Terrible Seven
folder
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
700
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
700
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Prologue
Author's Notes:
My other story on this site, Katana and the Peacemaker, is on hold while I sort out some problems and a bout of writer's block involving it.
Meanwhile, I have been working on what I call "indirect sequels" to it, meaning sequels which are linked by minor characters or various minor commonalities. This is one that I just now finished a prologue for.
The idea came to me while watching a Western called The Magnificent Seven. It's a classic where some Mexican townsfolk/farmers being terrorized by bandits have finally had enough and hire seven American gunfighters to defend them and drive the bandits off.
I'm essentially telling the same story (only set in the Phillipines during the Phillipine-American War) in another context: What if the seven hired gunmen were just as cruel and terrifying as the bandits?
Also, keep in mind that this story is set during a racist time, so there will be slurs and other such offensive material involved.
Anyway, off we go!
*******************
Hold a moment longer! Not quite yet, gentlemen!
Before you go, I would like to say just a word about the Philippine business. I have been criticized a good deal about the Philippines, but don’t deserve it. The truth is I didn’t want the Philippines, and when they came to us, as a gift from the gods, I did not know what to do with them. When the Spanish War broke out Dewey was at Hong Kong, and I ordered him to go to Manila and to capture or destroy the Spanish fleet, and he had to; because, if defeated, he had no place to refit on that side of the globe, and if the Dons were victorious they would likely cross the Pacific and ravage our Oregon and California coasts. And so he had to destroy the Spanish fleet, and did it! But that was as far as I thought then.
When I next realized that the Philippines had dropped into our laps, I confess I did not know what to do with them. I sought counsel from all sides—Democrats as well as Republicans—but got little help. I thought first we would take only Manila; then Luzon; then other islands perhaps also. I walked the floor of the White House night after night until midnight; and I am not ashamed to tell you, gentlemen, that I went down on my knees and prayed Almighty God for light and guidance more than one night. And one night late it came to me this way—I don’t know how it was, but it came:
(1) That we could not give them back to Spain—that would be cowardly and dishonorable;
(2) that we could not turn them over to France and Germany—our commercial rivals in the Orient—that would be bad business and discreditable;
(3) that we could not leave them to themselves—they were unfit for self-government—and they would soon have anarchy and misrule over there worse than Spain’s was; and
(4) that there was nothing left for us to do but to take them all, and to educate the Filipinos, and uplift and civilize and Christianize them, and by God’s grace do the very best we could by them, as our fellow-men for whom Christ also died.
And then I went to bed, and went to sleep, and slept soundly, and the next morning I sent for the chief engineer of the War Department (our map-maker), and I told him to put the Philippines on the map of the United States (pointing to a large map on the wall of his office), and there they are, and there they will stay while I am President!
– William McKinley, President of the United States
*******************
Prologue
1901
Everything was black.
Then again, the boy’s face had been so brutally beaten earlier, his left eye was too bruised and swollen to be able to open and see properly out of anyway.
Daring to open his one good eye, all he could see anyway was his home burning. Dozens of homes were burning. The palm trees had caught fire from the blazing tongues leaping from the grassy roofs.
All the people who had lived in these dwellings had fled. The soldiers had chased them. He was among those who had been caught. The others had been led behind him into some trees.
The soldiers were all about, searching the area or talking amongst themselves. They wore khaki uniforms and had rifles slung casually over their shoulders. A few were mounted on horses, even.
He looked up at one with his good eye. The man had divested himself of the jacket and undershirt of his uniform, his muscular skin glistening with sweat from the heat of the high sun and the infernos just a few yards behind him. He was smiling at the scene under that wide-brimmed hat of his, hands on his belted hips.
The boy did not whimper or show any expression on his face. All the emotion he felt in watching his home being razed to the ground was shown in his eyes and the tears sliding subtly down his cheeks.
The tall man before him turned to glance at the boy. His smirk was gone, but he still did not look upon the child with any positivity. His eyes expressed only loathing.
The boy dared to take a step back, his bare feet shifting nervously along the ground under him. He tugged at the ropes binding his hands behind his back to occupy himself while he stared at the ground to avoid having to look at the scary man in front of him.
“Míreme,” spoke the man in Spanish.
The boy's ears perked. He knew Spanish?
“Look at me!!” he barked, again in Spanish.
Shaking from the thunderous voice, he looked up at the man's face again.
He was smoking a cigarette and simply stood there, staring. It was like he was trying to bore holes into the boy and inflict pain with his eyes.
It was incredibly difficult for the boy to resist turning away. This man terrified him. He shifted his gaze to the man's arm, where a tattoo of a flag and some words below it were placed.
Looking down at the tattoo and realizing that was what the boy was looking at, the man grinned and leaned in closer to the boy's face, now more fearful than before.
“You like these, boy?” he inquired in Spanish.
The boy responded with a single nervous nod.
Pointing to the tattoo, the man told him, "This is the flag of my country, America. The words below that say, ‘Proud to be an American.’ Understand?”
Before the boy could respond, another soldier still in uniform approached the bare-chested man and spoke to him in English, a language the boy did not understand.
“Hey, Claude, we're gonna be headin’ out soon. Captain says to shoot the prisoners.”
Exhaling a small cloud of smoke, Claude removed his cigarette from his lips. Then he gripped the boy by the shoulder and put the cigarette out by pressing the lit end into the flesh of his forehead, causing him to scream and fall to the ground wailing in pain.
Bababababababang!
Claude looked to the trees where the other prisoners had been taken and smirked. Now, that’s how executions should be done. No fuss, he thought while drawing his own service revolver from its holster.
“Alright, Arthur. I got this one,” he told his fellow soldier as he checked the chamber and watched the boy writhe around like a worm with his hands still tied behind his back.
“Damn, Claude… The gook looks younger than ten. How old is he?”
Claude cocked the gun and aimed it at the boy on the ground, waiting until he had turned belly up and seen the weapon pointing at him.
The boy was more terrified than ever, tears flowing from his eyes as he whimpered in Spanish, “Padre… Mamá…”
BANG!
“AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!” The moment the bullet tore into the boy's gut, a bloodcurdling scream was torn from his lungs.
Claude holstered the gun and picked up his clothes, unfazed by the boy screaming and thrashing about in the dirt in agony like a chicken that had lost its head. He calmly walked in the direction the other soldiers were heading along the road, leaving the boy to squirm for hours in the middle of it before eventually dying.
Arthur followed, looking back only once at the boy. He certainly was not all that concerned for the boy either. From the looks of it, neither were any of the other soldiers, who did no more than glance at the child for a moment before turning their faces forward.
Not once looking back, Claude gave a cold reply to Arthur's question, “Does it matter?”
My other story on this site, Katana and the Peacemaker, is on hold while I sort out some problems and a bout of writer's block involving it.
Meanwhile, I have been working on what I call "indirect sequels" to it, meaning sequels which are linked by minor characters or various minor commonalities. This is one that I just now finished a prologue for.
The idea came to me while watching a Western called The Magnificent Seven. It's a classic where some Mexican townsfolk/farmers being terrorized by bandits have finally had enough and hire seven American gunfighters to defend them and drive the bandits off.
I'm essentially telling the same story (only set in the Phillipines during the Phillipine-American War) in another context: What if the seven hired gunmen were just as cruel and terrifying as the bandits?
Also, keep in mind that this story is set during a racist time, so there will be slurs and other such offensive material involved.
Anyway, off we go!
Hold a moment longer! Not quite yet, gentlemen!
Before you go, I would like to say just a word about the Philippine business. I have been criticized a good deal about the Philippines, but don’t deserve it. The truth is I didn’t want the Philippines, and when they came to us, as a gift from the gods, I did not know what to do with them. When the Spanish War broke out Dewey was at Hong Kong, and I ordered him to go to Manila and to capture or destroy the Spanish fleet, and he had to; because, if defeated, he had no place to refit on that side of the globe, and if the Dons were victorious they would likely cross the Pacific and ravage our Oregon and California coasts. And so he had to destroy the Spanish fleet, and did it! But that was as far as I thought then.
When I next realized that the Philippines had dropped into our laps, I confess I did not know what to do with them. I sought counsel from all sides—Democrats as well as Republicans—but got little help. I thought first we would take only Manila; then Luzon; then other islands perhaps also. I walked the floor of the White House night after night until midnight; and I am not ashamed to tell you, gentlemen, that I went down on my knees and prayed Almighty God for light and guidance more than one night. And one night late it came to me this way—I don’t know how it was, but it came:
(1) That we could not give them back to Spain—that would be cowardly and dishonorable;
(2) that we could not turn them over to France and Germany—our commercial rivals in the Orient—that would be bad business and discreditable;
(3) that we could not leave them to themselves—they were unfit for self-government—and they would soon have anarchy and misrule over there worse than Spain’s was; and
(4) that there was nothing left for us to do but to take them all, and to educate the Filipinos, and uplift and civilize and Christianize them, and by God’s grace do the very best we could by them, as our fellow-men for whom Christ also died.
And then I went to bed, and went to sleep, and slept soundly, and the next morning I sent for the chief engineer of the War Department (our map-maker), and I told him to put the Philippines on the map of the United States (pointing to a large map on the wall of his office), and there they are, and there they will stay while I am President!
– William McKinley, President of the United States
Prologue
1901
Everything was black.
Then again, the boy’s face had been so brutally beaten earlier, his left eye was too bruised and swollen to be able to open and see properly out of anyway.
Daring to open his one good eye, all he could see anyway was his home burning. Dozens of homes were burning. The palm trees had caught fire from the blazing tongues leaping from the grassy roofs.
All the people who had lived in these dwellings had fled. The soldiers had chased them. He was among those who had been caught. The others had been led behind him into some trees.
The soldiers were all about, searching the area or talking amongst themselves. They wore khaki uniforms and had rifles slung casually over their shoulders. A few were mounted on horses, even.
He looked up at one with his good eye. The man had divested himself of the jacket and undershirt of his uniform, his muscular skin glistening with sweat from the heat of the high sun and the infernos just a few yards behind him. He was smiling at the scene under that wide-brimmed hat of his, hands on his belted hips.
The boy did not whimper or show any expression on his face. All the emotion he felt in watching his home being razed to the ground was shown in his eyes and the tears sliding subtly down his cheeks.
The tall man before him turned to glance at the boy. His smirk was gone, but he still did not look upon the child with any positivity. His eyes expressed only loathing.
The boy dared to take a step back, his bare feet shifting nervously along the ground under him. He tugged at the ropes binding his hands behind his back to occupy himself while he stared at the ground to avoid having to look at the scary man in front of him.
“Míreme,” spoke the man in Spanish.
The boy's ears perked. He knew Spanish?
“Look at me!!” he barked, again in Spanish.
Shaking from the thunderous voice, he looked up at the man's face again.
He was smoking a cigarette and simply stood there, staring. It was like he was trying to bore holes into the boy and inflict pain with his eyes.
It was incredibly difficult for the boy to resist turning away. This man terrified him. He shifted his gaze to the man's arm, where a tattoo of a flag and some words below it were placed.
Looking down at the tattoo and realizing that was what the boy was looking at, the man grinned and leaned in closer to the boy's face, now more fearful than before.
“You like these, boy?” he inquired in Spanish.
The boy responded with a single nervous nod.
Pointing to the tattoo, the man told him, "This is the flag of my country, America. The words below that say, ‘Proud to be an American.’ Understand?”
Before the boy could respond, another soldier still in uniform approached the bare-chested man and spoke to him in English, a language the boy did not understand.
“Hey, Claude, we're gonna be headin’ out soon. Captain says to shoot the prisoners.”
Exhaling a small cloud of smoke, Claude removed his cigarette from his lips. Then he gripped the boy by the shoulder and put the cigarette out by pressing the lit end into the flesh of his forehead, causing him to scream and fall to the ground wailing in pain.
Bababababababang!
Claude looked to the trees where the other prisoners had been taken and smirked. Now, that’s how executions should be done. No fuss, he thought while drawing his own service revolver from its holster.
“Alright, Arthur. I got this one,” he told his fellow soldier as he checked the chamber and watched the boy writhe around like a worm with his hands still tied behind his back.
“Damn, Claude… The gook looks younger than ten. How old is he?”
Claude cocked the gun and aimed it at the boy on the ground, waiting until he had turned belly up and seen the weapon pointing at him.
The boy was more terrified than ever, tears flowing from his eyes as he whimpered in Spanish, “Padre… Mamá…”
BANG!
“AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!” The moment the bullet tore into the boy's gut, a bloodcurdling scream was torn from his lungs.
Claude holstered the gun and picked up his clothes, unfazed by the boy screaming and thrashing about in the dirt in agony like a chicken that had lost its head. He calmly walked in the direction the other soldiers were heading along the road, leaving the boy to squirm for hours in the middle of it before eventually dying.
Arthur followed, looking back only once at the boy. He certainly was not all that concerned for the boy either. From the looks of it, neither were any of the other soldiers, who did no more than glance at the child for a moment before turning their faces forward.
Not once looking back, Claude gave a cold reply to Arthur's question, “Does it matter?”