The Civil War (3)

Extra editions flooded every neighborhood, and there didn't seem to be a single planter who wasn't intoxicated by the swelling dream of independence. Turning his gaze away from the fuss of his fellow countrymen, Colonel Robert E. Lee closed his eyes and stared at the two letters resting before him.

"Hoo... this is maddening."

If they had been simple letters of well-wishes, he could have easily wiped them from his mind, but unfortunately, the names of the senders were far from ordinary.

- Winfield Scott

- Jefferson Davis

Scott, his mentor and former superior during the Mexican-American War, who had served as the highest commander of the Union Army. The reason he had sent the letter was, naturally, to recruit Robert E. Lee for the Union.

It wasn't just a simple offer; they were offering him the position of supreme commander of the Union Army. Robert E. Lee had almost seriously considered Scott's words, as he hadn't expected such an extraordinary proposal.

A soldier is someone prepared to sacrifice their life for their country and for a superior who recognizes their ability. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have even hesitated.

However, the problem was that Jefferson Davis, his superior back at West Point, had also sent a letter wanting to recruit him.

It was a dilemma where choosing one meant abandoning the other. He spent several days and nights wide awake.

'A soldier must follow orders. But... whose orders should I follow?'

His heart was already leaning. General Scott's offer was exceptional, but how could he point his gun at his homeland, at Virginia, where his family and friends lived? Before being an American, he was a Virginian.

Yes, in the end, shouldn't he fight for his homeland? He was just about to resolve himself to head South with a heavy heart.

"Master."

The Black foreman of the Arlington plantation approached him and bowed politely. "You look very unwell. Is there something troubling you?"

It was a sight unimaginable even a month ago. Just a month prior, his plantation had been fueled by harsh exploitation to pay off debts, and the eyes of the slaves had been filled with resentment and hatred. But after accepting James Seuret's advice, everything had changed.

Seuret had subtly taught Lee how to increase the efficiency of the plantation, and Lee, half-doubting, had tried the slave motivation project Seuret suggested. The results were dramatic. The slaves' resistance had noticeably decreased, and productivity had actually risen. Above all, the dissatisfaction had vanished from the eyes of the slaves looking at him. Even now, the foreman's eyes, filled with genuine concern for him, were proof of that.

"No. It's just that I have a lot on my mind."

Lee felt a strange sense of relief at the title "Master," which overflowed with respect, and the peculiar peace he had been feeling on the plantation lately. Perhaps that was why the contents of General Scott's letter pierced his heart once again.

'Do you intend to let your homeland be recorded in history as a place that defended slavery and oppressed the Black people?'

Standing on the side of the South. That meant agreeing to a barbaric declaration to keep those who had just begun to show him respect—and their children—as slaves forever, for generations to come. Was he to take up his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sword for such values? Not to protect those who called him "Master" with respect and offered him warm bread, but to fight to lock the shackles around their necks for eternity?

Lee shook his head. He hadn't been keen on it before, but now, he couldn't bring himself to do it. 'Hoo... I'm going crazy.'

Yet, he had even less confidence in becoming the Union's supreme commander and crushing his homeland. Even if they were doing something wrong, he couldn't make the planters of his homeland beggars or point his gun at his old comrades.

In the end, unable to choose either side, he kept delaying his decision, repeating to both Scott and Davis that he "needed more time to think."

Then, one day. It was early dawn, exactly one week after Fort Sumter fell.

"Father! Father! It's the newspaper!"

His family rushed in, breathless, and spread the morning paper before him. Lee reflexively looked at the front-page headline.

What is this? For a moment, Lee doubted his own eyes. Several plantations had been burned to the ground, and in some, entire families had gone missing. He jumped up from his seat, clutching the newspaper. His heart was pounding like crazy.

He was about to contact the militia immediately, but in that moment, he discovered the perfect shield to dodge the arrows of both Scott and Davis simultaneously. A golden excuse to avoid joining either side. No. This wasn't an excuse. It was a duty he had to fulfill.

Feeling as if he had been granted a new lease on life, Lee immediately picked up his pen. The content of the letters to Scott and Davis was the same. Let the Union and the Confederacy fight as they pleased. He, himself, had to protect his homeland.

Rewinding time slightly, two days after Fort Sumter fell and the North formally declared war on the South, even the slaves working on the plantations could feel the excitement of the South, which had decorated its first battle with a victory. At the same time, this news of victory was the signal to awaken the "85 Swords" that James Seuret had planted throughout the South.

Alabama, Cypress Hollow. Nick was closing his eyes silently in their cabin, like a monk. Titus and the other awakened ones, as Nick had named them, were waiting for his mouth to open.

"Did you hear? The sound of the era calling us."

"...I could hear the excited Dixies singing."

They didn't need newspapers or telegrams. The Master's final message was clear. He had said that when the first gunshot rang out, it would be the Day of Judgment.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"The time has come. I convey the Master's final order." Nick looked around at Titus, Old Sam, and the core agents who followed him.

"First. This is not a massacre. Remember that we are not avengers, but judges executing justice. Minimize casualties."

"Meaning, don't commit indiscriminate slaughter."

"Second. You may kill the heinous if necessary. However, you must secure 'evidence' to prove their evil deeds." Nick pointed to their scar-covered backs. "This plantation, your wounds, and the confessions they gave to the Master will be the evidence."

In his hand, he held a portion of the customer data that plantation owner Vance had submitted to the [There Are No Bad Slaves in the World] lecture series.

"Third. Never touch the innocent or their families. A revolution stained with the blood of children is not the justice the Master desires. Do not do anything that will cause a backlash from the start."

He added in the lowest voice, for the last time. In fact, this was the most important part.

"And fourth. Even if they have committed evil, there are plantations the Master has pointed out. Do not touch a single hair on the families there."

Titus frowned. "What does that mean...?"

"Because those plantations are not for destruction. Making their owners worry about their 'homes.' That is our mission. Do not try to know more than that."

Nick perfectly understood the Master's will. Even though he had been educated at the rehabilitation center, how could he fathom the full depth of the Master's intentions? He just had to execute what the Master wanted. He opened the door and inhaled the night air.

"As of today, Cypress Hollow will be engulfed in the flames of hell. This is the beginning of the beacon that will burn across the South."

Whoosh!

Judgment descended upon Cypress Hollow, Alabama, that evening.

"What is that noise!"

In the middle of the night, when everyone was drunk and asleep, wishing for the South's victory, plantation owner Vance jumped out of his bedroom at the sudden noise. But what he saw before his eyes were Nick and Titus blocking the hallway, holding his own rifle.

"Nick! You rascal! How dare you...!"

"Elias Vance." Nick's voice held no human emotion. "Your crime is selling twelve slaves due to gambling debts. This is the ledger where your atrocities are recorded. The crime is so clear that I don't even need a verdict."

Vance backed away in terror. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He didn't even have the courage to sternly scold them, asking what slaves dared to do.

"Spare... spare me! If it's money, I'll give you as much as...!"

"Your money is already burning with the mansion." Nick pointed out the window. Old Sam's arson squad had already set fire to all the cotton warehouses and the main house of the plantation.

"I will give you the honor of being buried with the property you cherished so much."

"Ugh, argh! Hey, is anyone there! It's a slave rebellion! The darkies are rebelling..."

Bang!

With a single gunshot, the fortress built on the tears and blood of countless people was stained with the master's blood.

Other places were no different. Georgia, Twin Oaks.

"Cough! Cough! Fire! It's a fire!"

"The master...! The master has collapsed!"

She didn't burn everything spectacularly like Nick, but Jenny efficiently paralyzed the plantation she had infiltrated. "What's going on, Jenny! Bring water quickly!" the white overseer shouted, but Jenny ran toward the well while opening the stable door.

"Overseer! The horses are startled and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠running wild because of the flames!"

"Damn it! Catch the horses first! If the flames spread to the stables, we're finished!"

While the overseer and servants ran to catch the horses, several slaves who received Jenny's signal disappeared into the darkness. In their hands were several travel permits stamped with the plantation owner's seal and heavy money bags. She hadn't set fire to the owner's study, nor had she put poisonous herbs in the brandy he would drink. Someone had just "accidentally" knocked over a lit lamp right next to his most cherished cigar box. Everything was an accident.

Conversely, the movements in the areas near the Northern border were larger and faster.

"The signal has come! Move!"

"Burn it all down!"

Instead of the armory, they set fire to four massive tobacco drying warehouses that had finished harvesting at the same time. Riding the Northern wind, the largest tobacco plantation in Virginia was instantly engulfed in flames.

"You crazy bastards! Militia! Militiaaaa! The traitors are abandoning the farm and running away!"

"No! Those guys, they're running North! They're going to the river!"

"Chase them! Militia, immediately...!"

"Shut up! You have to put out the fire first! If that all burns, we're ruined!"

While the overseers screamed between their burning future and their fleeing past, they led over 400 slaves through the darkness and raced toward the Potomac River. Already on the other side of the river, as discussed in advance, John Brown and his supporters were preparing to welcome the runaway slaves.

Of course, the graduates of the education center dispatched by Seuret did not mix with the fleeing slaves but silently remained on the plantation, desperately helping to handle the situation. Because they were exemplary slaves who had nothing to do with the evil devil of the North, John Brown. Naturally, as faithful slaves, shouldn't they remain under their masters and comfort them in their grief?

In other words, the current uprising was just an appetizer. The truly sharp blade hadn't even been drawn from its scabbard yet.

"John Broooown! You torn-to-pieces son of a bitch!"

"I thought it was quiet, but this son of a bitch was doing this kind of thing?"

"What is the government doing! Send defensive troops immediately!"

The major slave rebellion incidents that occurred across the South before the excitement of the fall of Fort Sumter had even faded blew the wind out of the lungs of the Dixies, who had been puffed up to the brim. Certainly, the name John Brown was good; whenever a problem related to Black people occurred, they reflexively looked for John Brown first.

I stood at the Mississippi State Capitol with the most serious expression, with gestures that were clearly full of anger.

"Everyone! Didn't I warn you! The North is never an easy opponent! Of course, I am not free from this responsibility either. Even if no one listened, I should have warned you even more loudly! I should have shouted without rest that ominous signs were rampant everywhere, but I couldn't!"

"Seuret, what responsibility do you have?"

"That's right. It's our responsibility for ignoring your warnings."

"They say that although some plantations suffered tragic accidents, there are places where damage was minimized thanks to the quick response of the graduates you raised."

Repentance poured out from all sides from those who had not listened to the warnings of the prophet James Seuret. And probably, by tomorrow, countless testimonies that my warnings were correct would overflow across the South in the form of articles.

"I am just grateful that you say so. So, I would like to make one more proposal here. The war is not just happening on that front line. All this land in the South, where we are, has become just like a battlefield. I think an excellent general who will protect us must take charge of the rear."

"Correct!"

"The only person who can take on that heavy responsibility is Colonel Robert E. Lee, who is staying in Virginia with the sole intention of protecting his homeland!"

Since we don't know when John Brown's people will raid the rear, we also need competent generals who can stop him. Of course, this wasn't an issue limited only to Robert E. Lee.

Three out of the South's five great generals. Beauregard's St. Bernard Parish sugarcane plantation had an accident where warehouses were burned and slaves escaped. Albert Sidney Johnston's Texas plantation had all its crops destroyed and livestock stolen. General Longstreet's parents' plantation luckily ended with only the fence smashed and the grain warehouse collapsed, but the family was trembling with anxiety.

With the rear so unstable, how could our competent generals fight with peace of mind on the front lines!

"Please turn General Beauregard or General Johnston to the rear! Shouldn't at least one person check the Northern bastards from stabbing us in the back!"

"No, the war is in full swing now..."

"That's why the rear where we are is also a battlefield!"

State legislatures, lawmakers, and planters across the South began to urge the preparation of practical measures that could protect them immediately. Well, well. No matter what happens to the war, we have to survive first. This is why I truly love the South.