Chapter 10: The Rebel Ringleader and the Extremist
TL: Hanguk
This is a seriously strange feeling.
Having two middle-aged men stare at me hard enough to bore holes in my face was, in a lot of ways, awkward.
And the fact that those two were political heavyweights of some renown in the present-day South made my feelings all the more complicated.
The nineteenth century really is the age of romance.
I mean, just take a stroll and a rebel ringleader, the worst president in history, and core members of an extremist faction all come popping out one after another?
So for now, it's intel-gathering time.
Just as I had when I met Lincoln and Buchanan, I lowered my head, radiating an air that was as courteous and as amiable as I could manage.
"It is an honor to meet the heroes of the South."
"Yes, the pleasure's mine. I'd thought we might part without meeting at all, since I couldn't spot you anywhere. I have to head straight to West Point, you see, so my stay in Mississippi is short. My term may be ending soon, but I have to carry out my duties as Secretary right to the very end."
Jefferson Davis was the Secretary of War in the current Franklin Pierce administration, and once his term ended next year, he was slated to become a Senator for the state of Mississippi once more.
He'd become a Senator for the first time in his thirties, and even after serving as Secretary of War he still wasn't quite fifty, so one could say he was treading the path of a political elite quite steadily.
I guess even a rebel ringleader needs a résumé like this to pull it off?
The truth is, the average leader of a rebel army usually doesn't come to a good end once the war's over, but as far as I knew, Jefferson Davis would receive a pardon and live well, eating well right up until he died.
I'd definitely seen records that even his funeral was held on a grand scale.
I suspect it was out of concern that punishing Davis might instead get him worshipped as a martyr.
Still, the fact that he was a rebel ringleader didn't change, and while Davis himself might have been fine, the people around him didn't fare so well.
He was, one could say, an even more get-tangled-up-with-at-one's-peril figure than Buchanan, the worst president in history.
"The job of Secretary of War keeps you so busy. Still, you're visiting your alma mater, so isn't that something to be glad about?"
So what about John Quitman, who was tossing in a comment here and there from the side?
This was a man who seriously argued that the South ought to secede right this instant, gobble up Mexico, Cuba, and the whole Caribbean, and build a vast colonial empire.
Hmm, not even worth bringing up, right?
Conclusion: both of them were a hopeless duo who would do nothing to help my life.
The problem was that this hopeless duo kept trying to win me over.
"Young man, a gifted prodigy with a higher education like yourself must surely have given deep thought to the future of our South."
"You met Buchanan in New York, I hear? Word is going around that Buchanan's taken quite a liking to you."
"Pardon? To me?"
Was that ten thousand dollars too effective? If I'd known it would turn out like this, I should've just given half.
"If our South is to avoid being torn apart and devoured by those jackals of the North, we need far more capable young men to step forward. That's why I wanted to know your thoughts."
"It's no different for me, young man. You wouldn't happen to be a feeble Unionist like Davis here, would you?"
"Feeble, Quitman? How many times must I say it? The strength of the Union comes from this confederation standing as one. Can't you see that if we split in two, our South will inevitably wither away as well?"
"Which is exactly why we shouldn't waste any more time, and should attack Mexico even now. Take Mexico, then turn every island in the Caribbean into our colony, and we won't have any reason to lament the empty seat the North leaves behind."
The two of them, who'd suddenly launched into a debate that left me out of it, turned their gazes back toward me.
They were exuding pressure as if to ask whose side I was on, so much that I nearly let out an incredulous laugh.
As the one holding the answer key, I wanted to tell them they were both wrong, but what could I do?
Here, my tongue, the one that melted even the corporate division heads of the twenty-first century, had no choice but to break into a dazzling dance.
"I believe the South should remain in the Union."
"There, you see. Why can't you grasp what even a young man like this understands?"
Davis wore a victor's smile and Quitman scowled hard, but I paid it no mind and continued.
"This is for an entirely practical reason. If the South were to leave the North, the North would stop it by force if necessary. And then, could the South beat the North? The population difference is vast, and the naval power isn't even worth comparing."
"Which is precisely why we must swiftly complete a colonial empire to the south."
"If that was the plan, I think you should have actually moved on it at least ten years ago. But I don't believe Senator Quitman's argument is meaningless in the slightest."
"Oho? Is that so?"
"Yes. It's precisely because there are men like Senator Quitman raising their voices that the North feels the fear that our South might really walk out if push comes to shove. And, if there's no option left but to actually leave, well, then leaving is all that remains."
The two of them fell silent for a moment.
I suppose it gave them a lot to think about, the fact that even a greenhorn like me, barely just turned twenty, was taking the threat of division seriously.
"As expected of the Sergent family's heir, you're keenly attuned to political currents. So then, do you think the day will realistically come when North and South split apart?"
"If the South could give up the slavery system, mightn't we avoid splitting?"
"Ha! What a laugh."
Quitman snorted as if he found it absurd.
"You're raising slaves yourself, so you must know? They merely wear the shape of men; they're an endlessly inferior breed. Ruling over and guiding those inferior blacks is the very mission of us white men. Those Northerners are a disgrace to the white race, abandoning this mission!"
Gaaah, I don't know this man, folks.
This is the average Fire-Eater?
The feeble spirit of a twenty-first-century man can't handle it.
Even Davis, who'd been arguing with Quitman, didn't actively push back against these words.
He may have been a Unionist, but that was strictly for pragmatic reasons; he probably still agreed that slavery was a just institution.
And so I was convinced once more.
The Civil War wasn't some result that just happened to come about, it was a fate that simply had to occur.
"Quitman's views are a touch extreme, and there are parts where we differ, but we regard each other as true patriots and pay one another respect. So, what do you say, young man, won't you join us in doing greater things for the South, beyond just the state of Mississippi?"
"I'm sorry. I told Candidate Buchanan the same thing, but if a young pup like me went charging into politics, I'd make a prime target for the North to sink their teeth into. That's why I'd like to do what I'm good at and support patriots like yourselves."
"What you're good at?"
"Squeezing the slaves to wring out more cotton, of course. The strength of our South, and its diplomatic clout, comes from this cotton."
"Hahahaha! Now that's also true."
One of the reasons the South was able to rise in rebellion against the North was the delusion that the whole world depended on their cotton.
They figured that if war broke out and cotton exports were cut off, Britain and the other European powers would actively step in to mediate.
But it's not exactly cutting-edge semiconductors, is it? As if cotton of all things couldn't be replaced.
Since it wasn't as though regions that could substitute for the South well enough, like India and Egypt, didn't exist, this ambitious plan of the South's ended up thrown straight into the trash.
Davis, who didn't have the faintest dream of such a future, looked at me with contented eyes and gave my shoulder a few light pats.
"Yes, for now keep building up your substance from behind the scenes like that. But you're a talent who's meant for politics. In about ten years or so, set your sights on the political arena in earnest. I'll throw my full weight behind you."
"Thank you."
After that, Davis and Quitman spent the rest of the banquet hours trash-talking the Republican Party and the North, while I gave lively reactions to the two division heads' yarn-spinning like some kind of reaction bot.
These were the men who'd be running Mississippi's Senate and House for the next several years, so there was no harm in coming across like one meek little lamb.
"My word, Senator Quitman! You really hit the nail on the head."
"Truly, Secretary Davis. A man who serves as a nation's Secretary sees the very same thing from a different perspective!"
"Hahaha, the young man's so humble, too."
"It's only because you, Senator, and you, Secretary, toil day and night without rest that ordinary fellows like me can make our money in comfort, isn't it? Now, in that spirit, please accept this, however modest, as a small contribution."
"Oh dear, this fellow, really. Ahem, I didn't come here to receive anything like this, but..."
Easy.
Anyway, between Lincoln and Buchanan and now Davis and Quitman, to think they'd all be reeled in this easily.
In my past life, the division heads doted on me the second they saw me, too. Could it be that the thing I'm best at is sweet-talking middle-aged men?
If that's the case, it's going to be a truly sad thing.
*
After the banquet ended, back in the carriage, I buried myself in the plush seat and let out a groan.
"Ugh, what's with those geezers and their stamina? Just keeping up the chitchat is exhausting."
"Master, if you're tired, shall I at least rub your shoulders?"
"No, that's all right. Playing along was a bit tiring, sure, but it wasn't without results."
Getting cornered by a rebel ringleader and the head of the extremists was unexpected, but it hadn't been fruitless.
Not simply because I'd made a good impression on those two, but because I'd confirmed firsthand that the South's opinions weren't firmly unified into one.
They were the same in defending the slavery system, but Fire-Eaters like Quitman and Moderates like Davis pursued fundamentally different policies.
If I could put this to good use, mightn't I widen my room to maneuver considerably before the war broke out?
I figured it might be worth gently pushing the frame that, differing views aside, they were all patriots who cared for the South.
"Anyway, here or there, wherever people live it's all the same. Even folks who seem to be on the same side secretly think completely differently and quietly keep each other in check. Isn't it funny, Leo?"
"Pardon? Ah, no, I, h-how did you know?"
"Huh? Know what?"
I'd just muttered it like I was talking to myself, so why was this kid stammering and stumbling like someone whose secret had been hit dead-on?
Once again Leo seemed to have jumped to some conclusion. He studied my expression for a moment, then carefully opened his mouth.
"The truth is, I'd been wrestling with whether or not I should tell you this, but since you seem to have caught on anyway, I'll just lay it all out honestly."
"What is it? You didn't go messing with one of the same female slaves, did you?"
"N-no! It's nothing like that! What do you take me for?"
If he wasn't the one who'd caused trouble, then maybe he'd witnessed someone else causing it.
"It's fine, so go ahead and say it. If it's something I can fix, I'll fix it."
"Yes. The thing is... the field workers and the house servants have always had a slightly delicate distance between them."
"Well, that's only natural."
Even within a single company, the production line and the office workers are split into openly separate camps, so what about slaves?
No matter how much they share the same status, the ones grinding it out on the ground are bound to feel that they've got it far harder, a kind of victim's mentality.
"Lately the field workers have been getting rewarded for exceeding their workload quotas, and the corporal punishment has gone down, so the mood is that life's gotten more bearable. But now that things have gotten better, the gap between them and the ones working inside the house actually feels like it's widened."
"The reason?"
"Ever since you bundled the field workers into teams, Master, that side has grown tighter-knit, and so I think they may be keeping their distance from the house servants, whom they've long thought of as having the easy work."
I'd been laughing at how Davis and Quitman, both Southern Democrats, were at odds with each other, never realizing the very same thing was happening on my own plantation.
Right, the world people live in really is all the same.
Twenty-first century or nineteenth, Democratic Party or cotton plantation, the sorry state of things looked about the same, so a wry chuckle came out of me naturally.
"All right, I get it for now. So that's the house servants' take on it, is it?"
Hearing only this, it would sound like the field-worker slaves were petty-minded, but I guarantee that hearing the field workers' side would be a different story again.
Most conflicts arise precisely because both sides believe they're in the right.
"In any case, the heart of the problem is that they work in such different spaces that there's barely any sense of camaraderie. Isn't that it?"
"That seems to be the root cause."
Usually the best way to unite two groups that don't get along is to give them a common enemy, but that's not something I can use right now.
"You're aware, aren't you? If you all fall out with each other and work efficiency drops, my plantation's profit margin drops too."
"My apologies."
"An apology's enough. Just get along from here on out and that'll do."
As it happens, I can just hold that event now, the one I'd been meaning to try out as an experiment.
You pitiful creatures, splitting into factions and feuding even in a situation like this. Get yourselves a little taste of twenty-first-century corporate culture.
*****
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