The Revolution Came

Chapter 33: Cotton Rebellion

January 4, 1936
Heltic

The streets of Brooksville roared with unrest, the furious shouts of the people echoing through the square as they pressed against the National Soldiers holding the line. The banners of farm unions and local militias waved high, their cries against the excise tax drowning out any attempt at reason.

On the steps of the municipal hall, Governor Jeremiah Torneda stood, his voice strained against the growing hostility.

"The Federal Government has passed an excise tax on all farm goods, most especially on cotton. As requested, the new tax is to be effective immediately," he announced.

A moment of silence. Then, the crowd erupted.

The people surged forward, their rage boiling over as stones and debris rained down upon the soldiers. The National Guardsmen, standing in reserve, braced themselves as the tension thickened. Torneda tried to plead with the people.

"Please stand down! Our Republic is still recovering from the Revolutionary War!"

But his words only fueled the fire.

Commander Gilliad Thompson of the Heltic Battalion stood firm, watching as the Governor was quickly escorted away under a hail of thrown stones. The National Guard moved in, pulling agitators from the crowd, trying to prevent escalation but it was already too late.

"You cannot do this! This is unconstitutional!" David Braddock's voice rang out before he was seized by the National Guard. His cries only emboldened the protesters, who pushed harder against the soldiers.

Then, a shot.

The crack of a revolver split the air.

One of the National Soldiers crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. For a brief, fleeting second, everything stood still. The stunned silence hung over the crowd, broken only by the ringing in their ears.

Commander Thompson felt his stomach sink. He knew this moment had been coming, the Imperialists had made sure of it. They had spent months deepening the divide between the Red Youths and the Young Lawrencians, exploiting old resentments and new fears. Brooksville was only the latest battleground in a war waged from the shadows.

And now, with one pull of a trigger, the point of no return had been crossed.

Slowly, Thompson removed his hat and held it over his chest, honoring the fallen soldier. His heart pounded as he met the gaze of his men, their hands gripping their muskets with white-knuckled tension.

"Take aim!" His voice was firm, but inside, he wavered.

The soldiers hesitated, muskets rising into position. Some lowered their heads, the brims of their hats casting shadows over their troubled eyes.

"Steady!"

He saw the crowd shift, saw veterans of the Revolutionary War reach for their pistols, saw the final fracture in what remained of peace.

"Shame on you, Commander!"

John Zacharias stood defiantly among the people, pistol raised, his face contorted in fury.

This was no longer just a protest. It was a battle.

Thompson swallowed hard. The weight of history pressed upon him. He had once fought to free this nation; now, he stood on the precipice of repeating the sins of the past.

But he had no choice. He closed his eyes, gripping his hat one last time before lowering it. Then, with a heavy heart, he gave the command.

January 5, 1936
Revilla