Chapter 22: Debut Stage
TL: Hanguk
February 1857.
The talk of the town across Mississippi, the James Clinic, finally opened its doors.
Verified MSMA doctors saw the patients, and a separate whites-only wing was attached so that white patients never had to be treated alongside Black ones.
The response was nothing short of explosive.
"Wait, this is a hospital?"
"Why is it so clean? Then what the hell were all those hospitals I've been going to?"
"And on top of that, it's cheap?"
The James Clinic had been designed from the very start as a product for laundering James's image, so for whites without money it was practically a new world.
They had only ever gritted their teeth through their illnesses because of the steep doctor's fees, but now they could actually get seen somewhere that looked the part.
What's more, per James's policy, the MSMA doctors wore clean white coats like a badge of office.
The facilities inside the hospital were always spotless, and the doctors were cleanliness itself, so comparison with other hospitals was inevitable.
Something about this place is different.
Just walking in feels like it could cure you.
Because people were used to seeing doctors strut around in blood-stained coats worn like medals, the contrast hit all the harder.
And it wasn't merely image; patient outcomes improved markedly as well.
"Is it just my imagination? I have the sense that patients fare better when we treat them here than when we see them anywhere else. Am I the only one who feels that way?"
"I feel much the same. Perhaps keeping the facilities clean truly was the secret?"
"Clean air lingers in a clean environment... it certainly stands to reason."
Though it had been operating only a short while, the James Clinic and the MSMA traced an endless upward curve of renown across the state of Mississippi.
And naturally, among the slaves, the hospital's greatest beneficiaries, James was becoming something more than a god.
At the same time, Leo, who was for all purposes James's secretary, had taken on the weighty duty of inspecting his protection arrangements.
"Sarah, you understand, don't you? The safest place for the Master is the mansion, but the hospital is another matter. Someone could slip in disguised as a patient and strike when the Master makes his rounds."
"Yes. That's why at least one nurse accompanies the Master at all times. If anything should happen, we'll throw ourselves in the way to stop it if we must."
Protecting James Sergent isn't simply for her own sake.
It's for every brother, sister, and kinsman on this plantation.
Sarah had long since resolved that she could lay down her very life for James, from the moment he had made it possible for her not to be parted from her son Toby.
In truth, this was hardly Sarah's thinking alone.
Every slave rendered James tremendous loyalty, but the ones harboring something close to fanatical religious devotion were, surprisingly, the women.
To be precise, the women with children.
Wanting to pass a better life on to one's children is a feeling every parent carries.
For them, James and this plantation were the sole means of giving their children a better life.
That is no exaggeration; it truly was the sole means, which is why their loyalty defied all imagination.
"And Mr. Leo, the nurses are already sharing information seamlessly and checking every patient who seems even the slightest bit suspicious."
"That's a relief, then. The Master puts no ordinary effort into this hospital and visits often, so we must work all the harder on our defenses."
"Yes. The Master truly seems to pity those stricken with grave illness. Almost as though he had once suffered a terrible sickness himself."
"As far as I know, the Master has been the picture of health from childhood to this day?"
"Then he must simply be good by nature. Ahh... truly, that's our Master."
How can someone who has never known the pain of illness possess a heart so generous?
But of course, that must be exactly why he sympathizes with the suffering of slaves and built such a magnificent system for them, mustn't it?
Having sweetly banked one more stack of delusion for the day, they held a little revival meeting among themselves, cheering long live the Master.
Even so, professionals that they had become, they did not forget the work before them.
"In any case, the security for the hospital and the plantation is airtight, but there's no law saying the Brown affair can't repeat itself. I think we need to share information more actively and overhaul the watch system."
"I agree with that."
"So, I discussed it with Ben, and openly showing that we're standing guard here doesn't seem wise. Even our catching Owen Brown this time... it's not as though we caught him because we were on alert beforehand."
John Brown had become the Master's business partner, but where was it written that a second Brown could not appear?
It would be good to have some way of keeping a firmer watch, but as slaves, there were limits.
After all, if it ever came out that the slaves were banding together on their own to run a vigilance patrol, the authorities would obviously disband it on the spot.
"Then how do we catch suspicious people without standing guard?"
"It's easier than you'd think. The ones who come to harm the Master are people burning with the conviction that they will save Black folk, like Mr. Brown. And people like that usually assume we're ruled by fear."
"Ah, that's true. Mr. Owen and Mr. John both took that for granted."
"Right. So as long as we don't look tense and on edge, they won't suspect us much either. Better still, if we pretend to warm to outsiders and feel out the suspicious ones, it'll work every single time, guaranteed."
Everything they had observed of white people's behavior left no room for doubt on that point.
Those who came to assassinate James would mostly have come after hearing of the master's infamy, so all this side had to do was approach them as if pleading for help.
Watch tightly, approach loosely.
No one will shake this paradise.
The security of the Sergent plantation and the hospital was improving by the day.
*
"So you just let John Brown walk?"
"Of course I let him walk. He's going to play a vital role in growing my assets from here on."
Having heard about John Brown's earlier raid, Kate sighed and shook her head.
"I know you spread that wicked reputation on purpose, but do be careful from now on. There's no guarantee more people like that won't come swarming, is there?"
"I'm well aware. And I'm putting countermeasures in place, of course."
"That's a relief, then... come to think of it, aren't you due at the inauguration soon? Washington D.C. is no short trip from here, so I worry."
"I'll be fine, I'm telling you. I'm only famous in Mississippi; in the capital I'm just some young pup with money. If anyone were going to assassinate somebody, they'd aim for a Buchanan or a Breckinridge."
"Mmm... I suppose that's true. The guest list did look terribly impressive."
Exactly one month before the inauguration.
Breckinridge, as promised, sent me an invitation to the presidential inauguration.
The date was March 4, and the venue, naturally, Washington D.C.
The thought of the future ringleaders of rebellion assembling in a neat row in, of all places, the capital of the United States nearly made me laugh out loud, but with the invitation in hand, not going was hardly an option.
I asked Kate to see to a minimum of oversight while I was away, and together we discussed the schedule ahead.
"Apparently most of the attendees will be staying at the National Hotel in Washington. Slavery's legal in Washington, so I'm planning to bring Leo and Sam."
"Why not take one more strapping guard along, just in case? With so many prominent people about, nothing should happen, but... hm? Wait, the National Hotel... isn't that the place? Where the diarrhea cases have exploded these past few months."
"What? That's happening at the hotel where the President and the Vice President-elect are staying? No way."
"I'm telling you it is. I saw it in the paper. Wait here a moment."
Kate sprang from her seat and fetched a newspaper from her room.
"Look at this. It's the National Hotel, see?"
"It really is?"
The words Washington D.C. and National Hotel were printed on the page clear as day.
[What Is Happening at the Capital's Finest Hotel?
Distinguished guests lodging at the National Hotel have of late complained one after another of abdominal pains and diarrhea, and conspiracy theories of every stripe are pouring forth.
Rumors are spreading thick and fast that radical Northern elements, defeated in the election, have laid poison in order to assassinate key figures of the government.
The National Hotel has announced that, in preparation for the coming inauguration, it has thoroughly searched every guest room and will rigorously ventilate the premises so that no bad air may circulate.]
Good God, a disaster of this size is unfolding and they're still lodging the President and the Vice President there?
I had thought I'd already seen rock bottom in nineteenth-century America, but I was reminded once more that beneath the bottom lies a basement.
"I've had so much on my plate lately that it must have slipped right past me. Thank you."
"Oh, it's nothing. You be careful too. If you happen to catch something there, your slaves might just burn the National Hotel to the ground. Watching them lately, they honestly might."
She has a point; these days I do feel less like the owner of the Sergent plantation and more like the founding prophet of the Church of Sergent.
If only to keep my frenzy-gripped followers from putting a hotel to the torch, I'd better nail down the truth behind whatever strange rumor has wrapped itself around the National Hotel.
And so, the moment I returned to the mansion, I petitioned the authorities and received detailed records concerning the National Hotel.
How many of the hotel's guests had fallen ill, and precisely what the symptoms of that illness were.
After reviewing everything, I felt in my bones, yet again, just how appallingly moronic the state of nineteenth-century medicine was.
– Victims to date number over 200, with 14 dead.
– Symptoms are acute diarrhea, abdominal pain, cramps, vomiting, dehydration, and debility. Some cases progressed to severe complications following enteritis.
"Poison, my ass. This is plain waterborne diarrheal disease."
Taking the scale of the damage and the symptoms together, the cause is glaringly obvious even to a non-specialist like me.
Something has clearly gone wrong with the hotel's water and sewage system.
Either sewage seeped into the aging pipes, or a rat took a shit in the water tank; one of the two.
And this is supposed to be the finest hotel in the capital, the lodging for the highest figures of government?
It's enough to make my chest shrivel up and cave clean in.
Still, pathetic as it all was, the fact that I could easily pinpoint the cause of the mystery illness was no bad thing for me.
What was the reason I'd been invited to the inauguration in the first place?
Because unlike the hypocrites up north, I am the kind-hearted planter who extends medical care not only to Black folk but to poor whites as well.
I had been planning to use the inauguration to advertise myself and my businesses in grand style anyway, and now the perfect prey had rolled right into my lap.
<The hotel's mystery affliction, a hotbed of every conspiracy theory for months on end, was resolved cleanly the moment James Sergent and his medical team arrived>
Where in the world could you find better ad copy than that?
What's more, Buchanan won't have to deliver his inaugural address gaunt and leaking diarrhea, which means I'll be putting even the President himself in my debt.
The James Clinic... he'll have to throw his weight behind it, won't he?
"Leo, send for Dr. Gadberry. It seems he'll need to accompany me to the capital. And give orders to boil the drinking water and store it in sealed wooden casks so it keeps for the long haul."
"Yes, sir. I'll see to it at once."
"Oh, and once the inauguration is over, we'll carry straight on to New York. Since we're going all that way up, I ought to grease the wheels so the new ventures can grow good and fast."
"Yes, sir! I'll have every preparation in place for a comfortable and safe journey!"
"Ah, and one more thing, truly the last. Pack plenty of salt and sugar as well."
Operation name, Defend the President's Toilet.
Though its beginning be humble, its end shall be exceedingly great.
Of all the ventures I had running, it was the hospital, of all things, that showed signs of striking it big first.
*****
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