Chapter 12: The Avatar of Efficiency (2)
TL: Hanguk
They say young people among today's office workers don't much care for company dinners.
It's not that the younger generation is uniquely rude, or that they've been rotted through with individualism or anything.
After clocking out, the natural human instinct is to go home, wash up with some warm water, flop onto the bed and bang out a round of some game, watch a variety show or a drama, not go suck up to your higher-ups. Who'd want that?
It's not like they're being taken to some jaw-dropping hot spot, and in 21st-century Korea most working young people can cover the kind of meal they actually want on their own salary.
That's right. In the end, this too comes down to cost-effectiveness.
Suppose some company held its dinner at an ultra-high-end buffet with all-you-can-eat caviar, lobster, and snow crab, or rented out a Michelin three-star restaurant for the night.
Would people still insist that their post-work hours were precious and want to go home?
No way. They'd show up no matter what, snap a ton of photos, and immediately go brag on social media about the killer perks they were enjoying.
The workers on our plantation are no different.
For them, the monthly company dinner is nothing more and nothing less than exactly that kind of thing, which is why they had no choice but to go wild with joy.
"Truly, truly, thank you, Master!"
"We'll work even harder from now on! Please, please do it again next month, pleeease!"
"That depends on how you all perform. Not on me."
I told everyone who'd been drinking to down a glass of Switchel each to cure their hangovers, then dismissed all the workers with a promise of more to come.
Of course, my grand scheme to turn every last slave into a devoted follower of mine couldn't possibly rest on company dinners alone.
They'd eaten and drunk their fill, so now it was time to get their bodies moving, wasn't it?
The day after the merry company dinner.
The moment the regular worship service ended, I had all the slaves gathered in the open lot.
Faces still flushed with last night's excitement looked up at me, murmuring.
The lot already had lines drawn across it in white powder, and at four points, wooden boards covered with scraps of cloth had been driven into the ground.
"You are my most important assets. But if you keep doing nothing but work, you'll wear yourselves down to the bone and your productivity will only drop. The human body isn't like a machine. I cannot stand by and watch the value of my assets decline. From now on, I'm going to maximize your value, and the profits of my plantation, through improved fitness and stress relief."
Believe it or not, in my past life I was a man who'd even mastered amateur rec-league baseball to get in good with my bosses.
Teaching the slaves how to enjoy baseball was about as easy as chugging a beer.
Fortunately, baseball did exist in America at this point too, but it was only being dabbled in over in New York, and the rules were a lot different from the modern game.
Since this was a time when town ball was more popular than baseball, it also made for the perfect pretext: just let the Blacks play the unpopular sport, baseball.
"The name of this ball game is 'baseball'. The rules are simple. Over there, the pitcher throws the ball, and the batter whacks it and runs. Step on all four of those bases and come back home, and that's one point. Simple, right?"
First, I called out Ben and Henry and gave a demonstration myself.
"But the most important thing is preventing injuries. If you get hurt, that's just one fewer pair of hands to work. So throwing the ball to hit a runner is forbidden. You have to tag him directly with your hand, or it's not an out. And even with gloves on, catching the ball straight could hurt you, so I'll allow it as an out even if you catch the ball after it's bounced off the ground once."
I added a few more core rules: three swinging misses is an out, three outs in an inning means the sides switch between offense and defense.
"Teams will be reshuffled every month, mixing together field workers, skilled workers, and house servants. The women won't play in the games, but pick a team to cheer for and raise their morale, and you'll share in whatever reward that team earns."
"Ohhhhhh!"
Men being men, they'll wring strength they don't even have out of themselves when a woman's watching.
Tacking on a cheering culture would surely make for a more entertaining game.
But honestly, if they only ever just played the game, they'd get bored of it fast, wouldn't they?
Finally, I dangled the carrot.
"The team with the best monthly record will receive a special reward at the company dinner. Extra beer, of course, plus practical prizes like flour or salt. Oh, and to build teamwork among the players, I'll also be selecting a 'Fair Play Award'. You'll vote for this yourselves, but you can't vote for your own teammate. Keep that in mind."
"Yes, sir!"
"Henry kept running his mouth about how the real beer is on a whole other level."
"Think we'll get to try whiskey too?"
The Sergent plantation's baseball league, a mix of excitement, anticipation, and elation, JLB (James League Baseball).
Its very first game began.
The result, naturally, was utter chaos.
Whiffing was the cute part; the ball flew off toward the feet of the women spectating rather than to the catcher.
There was a runner who got a hit and then ran back to first base instead of going to third, and five or six fielders charging at the ball all at once and tangling up and tumbling over each other was a regular occurrence.
"Pfft! Look at that guy's footwork!"
"Hey, hey! Sam! That's foul over there!"
A total mess, just as I figured.
I sat on the cool veranda and slurped away at a glass of Switchel with a slice of lemon floating in it through a straw.
"Hey! You keep swinging like that, no wonder you're not making contact! Watch the ball and swing!"
Of course, I didn't forget to holler out a bit of coaching at the top of my lungs every now and then.
The women shrieked with laughter, utterly absorbed in this amusement the likes of which they'd never seen in their lives.
The first day ended at the level of everyone just getting a feel for it, and it seemed the warm, friendly mood would carry on from there, but anyone who's ever watched a single baseball game knows that's not possible.
Because baseball is a sport that drives people crazy.
The very next Tuesday, the moment the brief rest break they were granted after work began, the slaves gathered in the open lot under the overseers' watch as though by some prior agreement.
"Henry, you've got a strong shoulder, so try throwing the ball more like you're driving it down from up high!"
"No, no! The Master said yesterday that if you throw like that you'll blow out your shoulder!"
The reward was the reward, but the point was that once they were competing, they'd damn well have to win.
Without my even telling them to, they started correcting each other's form and quickly falling into sync.
Leo, being the brains of the bunch, was even analyzing the game itself and breaking down the strategy.
"The way I see it, you can't win this game if you can't catch the ball!"
"Is that so?"
"Everybody's about the same at hitting. But defense is different. If we just position ourselves efficiently and stand in the right spots, it can change everything."
Ahh, that's my attendant Leo for you.
While all the other beginners were only discussing how to hit the ball well, leave it to him to be the first to see through to the importance of defense.
"The number-one spot this month is ours to take!"
"Wooooooo!"
The truth is, controlling the discontent of the masses through sports and circuses is a venerable tradition that's been carried down all the way from the days of Rome.
I couldn't say the spread of baseball was entirely free of that purpose, but honestly, this was also just part of my own hobby.
In this age with no smartphones and no computers, I figured I ought to have at least one or two more things to enjoy myself.
The beginners bickered as they scrambled to win by any means, and I, watching it all, played up the manager vibe, doling out this bit of coaching and that from the best seat in the house while tearing into fried chicken and drinking beer.
"Hey, you son of a bitch, anyone could see that was a foul, so why the hell are you running to first base, what's with this bullshit?"
"What? Are your eyeballs just for decoration? Anyone could see it landed inside the line by a hair!"
Going nuts over sports is practically a built-in American trait, so sure enough, our Black friends here were every bit the genuine Americans too.
Without anyone telling them to, the Sergent plantation's slaves sank deeper and deeper into the obsession, and the heat on the field grew hotter and hotter.
*
The second Sunday afternoon of November, 1856.
A carriage carrying a man and a woman rolled into the Sergent plantation, which had recently barred outsiders from entering.
Everyone who came trying to learn the secret to wringing more out of slaves had been turned away, but the owner of this carriage was James's family, so they met with no obstruction whatsoever.
Stepping down from the carriage, James's older sister, Kate, turned to her husband standing beside her and asked, as if reluctant.
"John, are you really going to try and stop James?"
"I told you. No matter that they're slaves, they shouldn't be treated so inhumanely."
"I didn't get the impression that James treats his slaves particularly harshly, though."
"Hoo... Kate. The rumor's already spread all over Mississippi. You heard yourself how enormous a profit James's plantation is turning."
Ever since the banquet held at the Melrose mansion last time, a certain rumor had spread from Mississippi out across the whole South.
That this fellow named James, who'd newly inherited a plantation in Mississippi, was wringing profit out of his slaves with positively artistic skill.
How exquisitely, you ask? They said he pushed them to the absolute limit while holding precisely to the line where the slaves stayed healthy and just barely didn't die.
There were a tremendous number of slaveholders itching to learn this secret, so many that people kept coming to ask even Kate and John.
Naturally Kate would say, just look at our own plantation's profits, we know nothing about it, and John openly raised his voice to declare that he did not agree with James's methods.
"This may put distance between me and my brother-in-law, but this inhumane business has to end. Later, when we close our eyes and stand before the Lord, what on earth do you think He'll say to us?"
"John... I love that about you, but if you break James's will, the other Southerners might actually kill you."
"Even so, someone has to say something. I don't believe my brother-in-law is evil by nature. Surely, if I talk to him calmly, step by step."
Just as he was about to put into words his hope that he could get through to him.
"Wooaaaaaaaaaah!"
A tremendous roar came rolling in, as if dozens of people were shouting all at once.
Did that mean the slaves were being abused so badly that they screamed like that even on the Sabbath, of all days, and not some ordinary day?
John squeezed his eyes shut and let out a sigh.
"Brother-in-law... how on earth did you become this kind of man?"
Yes, even if it meant speaking some rather harsh words, someone had to set this right.
John and Kate strode up to the front of the mansion, where they found the very James they'd been searching for shouting at the top of his lungs from up on the veranda.
"No, no, that's a balk! You can't stop in the middle of your pitching motion, all right? How many times do I have to say it, you idiots!"
"That's right, that's right! The Master hates having to repeat himself over and over! You cheating bastards!"
"What's that? Cheating? Hey, you sons of bitches, that hit you just got, you only got it because you listened to the Master's pointers. If that counts, then you're cheating too!"
The sight of the slaves bellowing at the top of their lungs and tearing around every which way left them momentarily at a loss for words.
"Master! If you're going to give pointers from now on, give them fairly!"
"He's right! What we're saying is, the Master's coaching has a direct effect on the outcome of the game!"
"All right, all right. Then from now on I'll give each team the best advice, taking turns, nice and fair."
He was wringing them harshly dry? That?
Catching sight of the two dumbfounded visitors, James shot to his feet and called out to the slaves playing their town-ball-ish game.
"We've got guests, so I'm going to step away and see to them for a moment. You all keep playing!"
"Yes, sir!"
James came down to the ground floor at practically a run and greeted the two of them.
"Sis, it's been a while. Brother-in-law, welcome. What brings you here?"
"Uh, that's-"
He'd meant to say that if you abuse your slaves so terribly, all of this karma will come back around on you later.
"Hyaaah!"
Crack!
"He hit it! He hit it! Round 'em! You can totally make it home! Run!"
"Bwahahahaha! You see that?! The swing of the great Henry, JLB's top slugger!"
Was that the atmosphere of people being abused?
What in the world had the rumor now spreading through the South even been about?
"Uh, brother-in-law, the thing is... I..."
"James, John heard that you abuse your slaves far too harshly, and he came because he was worried. But the mood here is a lot different from what we'd imagined."
"Ahh, this? Healthy slaves work better, so I'm having them exercise hard, that's all."
"Are they playing town ball?"
"No. If I let the slaves play a sport white folks enjoy, of course people would come picking fights about it. So I took the ball game they play in New York and overhauled it my own way."
That looked more polished than town ball, if anything. In any case, no matter how he looked at it, it didn't seem like slaves being abused.
To begin with, could people being abused so badly they couldn't even breathe ever turn around and chide their master to quit giving pointers?
Unlike the bewildered John, Kate, who had traveled all the way to New York with James, was able to grasp the situation more or less.
"Don't tell me, did you deliberately spread that strange rumor to hide your real method?"
"Yeah. You think I'm crazy enough to leak my plantation's management secrets to outsiders?"
"I see. But James, you do realize people are extremely interested in your methods right now? There's more than one or two friends begging me to please find out for them. You can't keep a method like this hidden forever, can you?"
"Obviously I can't keep it hidden forever. But not for the time being. Even when I do reveal the secret, I should reveal it only after I've climbed to a level where no one can touch me and no one can copy me."
Of course, with rumors running this rampant, sooner or later people determined to confirm the reality of it would come flooding in.
James glanced back and forth between Kate and John, then slowly nodded.
"In that case, since the two of you came all this way in person, mind if I get a little help from you?"
"Sure. My husband did misunderstand, so we'll help with anything."
"I'll give those friends who asked you a proper tour of our plantation. Just, weekdays are out, since it would interfere with the harvest, so how about next Sunday?"
What he meant was that he couldn't show them the actual working scenes, those were trade secrets, but he'd show them how he let the slaves rest and managed them.
"Are you sure that's all right?"
"Of course. It's better this way, even. I just have to stage exactly the scene they want to see."
If uncertain rumors were spreading thick and fast, all he had to do was give those rumors substance and lock them in as fact.
Just what the coldest, most vicious Slave King in Mississippi, James Sergent, was really up to behind the scenes.
The Southerners whose heads were stuffed with nothing but the thought of wringing their slaves dry could never even imagine it.
*****
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