The Seeds of Malice

While staying in Montgomery, I attended every core meeting of this crumbling organization in my capacity as the deputy commander of the security forces.

It had become a daily ritual; if he didn't scream like this once a day, it felt awkward.

Secretary of War Breckinridge threw a fresh copy of the New York Times, brought down from the North, onto the office floor.

"Those damn Yankees! It must have been them behind this incident. A struggle? A struggle, you say? Hundreds of thousands of blacks killing their masters and burning down plantations?"

President Davis was holding another telegram. It was tragic news from London.

"It's the same in Europe, Secretary. Prime Minister Palmerston has officially notified us that they cannot recognize us as a 'nation.' Their media is spewing nonsense, claiming this uprising is God's judgment on our barbaric slavery."

The air in the meeting room turned icy. King Cotton. You could almost hear the sound of their pride snapping.

"...Those bastards."

Governor Joseph Brown, who had been half-dazed since being chased out of Georgia, spoke for the first time.

"Those arrogant British... let's see how they survive the winter without our cotton. When winter comes, they'll be crawling at our feet, begging for it!"

Of course, there wasn't a single idiot in the room who truly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠believed Britain had cast them aside without a plan. But they couldn't survive without this kind of mental gymnastics, clinging to the delusion that European textile mills would grind to a halt without their cotton.

Unfortunately, their hope didn't even last five minutes.

"Mr. President! The latest trade report from Liverpool! Britain has begun importing massive amounts of substitute cotton from India and Egypt!"

The room fell into a silence deeper than before. Governor Brown's mouth hung open like a fish.

"E... Egypt? India?"

It wasn't as if they didn't know cotton could be grown in India and Egypt. But the war had barely been going on for a year. They couldn't fathom how production could have started so quickly.

This confirmed that Palmerston hadn't ignored the intelligence my father-in-law had provided. I should remember to send him an invoice for the information later.

"Then..." Davis swallowed hard. "It means victory through diplomacy is impossible."

"We were fools to expect anything from those Europeans in the first place." For once, Breckinridge didn't blame Davis, pointing coolly at the map. "How long do you think they can last with Indian and Egyptian cotton? One year? Two? Fine. Let's see who lasts longer. We must drag this war into a long-term conflict."

"A long-term conflict! Georgia is burning right now!"

As Governor Brown started having another fit, Breckinridge and Davis sighed and looked at each other. If they were truly considering a long-term war, they had to retake Atlanta, which meant they had to reclaim Georgia.

"We have no choice. We must retake Georgia!"

"We must reclaim Georgia and rearm Johnston to survive this long war! President Davis! You must conscript the troops from Tennessee immediately. They are the only reserves we can send to Georgia."

Unless they were going to surrender, retaking Georgia wasn't an option—it was a necessity. Eventually, Davis nodded, and an agreement was reached to deploy the Tennessee militia to put out the fire in Georgia.

I watched what was essentially a piece of black comedy and returned to my assigned temporary office. The security force office was empty, but that was actually a good thing. I didn't have to worry about blacks coming and going as they pleased.

"Leo. Did you hear the result of the meeting?"

"Yes, sir. They say they're sending the Tennessee militia to Georgia."

"Right. An unreasonable order to break a rock with an egg. Did you find out who the sacrificial lamb is?"

Leo scratched his head while checking the list. "They didn't appoint anyone. A lieutenant colonel volunteered."

Volunteered? To jump into this hellfire?

"So, who is it? This brave victim."

"His name is Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Bedford Forrest."

If someone volunteered in this situation, it meant they were absolutely out of their mind. Perhaps that was why the name felt so familiar.

Nathan Bedford Forrest. Yes, I remembered.

According to my memory, he was a man who had amassed enormous wealth through slave trading and plantation management. He was considered one of the wealthiest men in the South, yet he had volunteered for service, earning praise as the model planter.

In short, he was the incarnation of "I love slavery, defend slavery at all costs."

"In that regard, he's just like you, Master."

"...Is that so? I suppose to outsiders, I look like no different a man."

"Not 'no different,' Master—you're much worse!"

"That's right. The nerve of that guy, trying to challenge you with his notoriety for squeezing blacks. Not a chance, pal."

Indeed. No matter how much he strutted around, he couldn't touch me with mere slave abuse and donating his private fortune to the military. If the blacks themselves vouched for me like this, my support in the South wouldn't be shaken anytime soon. Even better.

"Still, investigate that man thoroughly. I have a bad feeling about him; I feel like I've heard his name elsewhere."

I left orders to investigate Nathan Forrest and returned to Natchez to handle the remaining business. The road back was quite a sight. White militias, gripped by anxiety and fear, stood at every village entrance with guns, treating every black person they encountered as a potential rioter. It was no exaggeration to say the entire South was one giant funeral parlor.

But the moment my carriage entered the boundaries of Seuret Cotton, a roar of cheers erupted—a sound you couldn't hear anywhere else.

"The Master has returned!"

Two of Ben's guards, who had been standing watch at the plantation entrance, spotted me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠snapped to attention, and thrust their fists into the sky. At that signal, the tightly shut main gate swung wide open.

Once through the gate, the very air around me changed completely. In the fields, slaves were working while humming, and in the central plaza, children were playing to the sound of cheerful music.

"The Master is back!"

"Woooooo!"

"Congratulations on your return!"

Someone's shout became the spark. Those working in the fields stopped in unison, took off their hats, and waved them like towels toward my carriage.

"Long live the Master!"

"The Chairman has returned!"

Hundreds, thousands of voices became one, chanting my name. Children ran alongside the carriage, throwing flowers.

'Chairman...'

I suddenly recalled seeing a company get absolutely roasted in my past life for forcing employees to sing songs shouting, "We love you, Chairman."

"Leo, you didn't give them any instructions to cheer when I pass by, did you?"

"Of course not, sir. In fact, I've been telling them to refrain from excessive praise because it makes you uncomfortable."

That's a relief. Still, the war was raging outside, yet our plantation was no different than it was before the conflict. No, it was actually more prosperous, as we'd been quietly expanding our smuggling operations with the budget we'd siphoned from the government.

The delicious smell of meat grilling in the middle of the plaza said it all. In the middle of this hellish war, in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heart of a South suffering from food shortages, a festival was being held as if to mock the hunger and anxiety outside.

"Master! I'm so glad you returned safely!"

May, who had become Will's wife, ran out with fresh-baked bread, her eyes glistening with tears. I stepped off the carriage and waved leisurely at their cheers.

"I am very pleased to see everyone doing well and staying healthy. Let's all eat, drink, and enjoy the festival tonight!"

"Woooooo!"

But the real stage wasn't here. I left the hundreds of gazes following me behind and headed to the real office in the basement of the mansion's warehouse. As the door opened, the festival noise outside was completely cut off.

Leo, Ben, Henry, and Will were standing in perfect attention before a map. The moment I entered, *snap*—the four of them, as one, clicked their heels and raised their fists.

"Sit."

As I sat down first, the others sat in a circle around me. "Inform the agents of the decision in Montgomery. The South plans to drag this into a long-term war."

"Yes, sir."

"And pass this information directly to Lincoln. Tell him the South plans to suppress Georgia."

Will reported in a voice he couldn't keep from trembling with excitement. "Master, most of the agents who finished their work in Georgia have begun moving to neighboring states. The agents who infiltrated Alabama and South Carolina have already penetrated local organizations and begun the second phase of operations."

"Is that so? How is the reaction?"

"Explosive."

"They already have the precedent in Georgia, don't they? The confidence and desire that 'we can do it too' is moving them all. They say it will be much easier than Georgia."

The success story of 460,000. What better motivation could there be?

I pointed back to the map of Georgia. "Use the moment Forrest's militia from Tennessee fails to suppress Georgia and retreats as our signal."

"Understood. We're giving them a defeat as a parting gift."

"Exactly. Don't miss that opening. Make the wave of uprisings occur simultaneously in Alabama and Carolina. We need to engrave into the brains of these Dixies that this won't end just because Johnston is doing his little song and dance."

"Ohhh!"

"We might soon see an uprising on the scale of a million."

The core staff gathered in the room couldn't hide their shock and excitement at my series of instructions. Even Will, who was usually cold as ice, felt his voice tremble with emotion.

"If such a massive uprising occurs across the entire South! The white bastards won't dare look down on us anymore!"

"Indeed!"

Henry and Ben's faces were also glowing. A million is just a number, but if a riot of that scale truly broke out, the country would effectively be finished. And if Alabama and South Carolina followed Georgia in flipping, would the other states just sit still? Tennessee, Virginia, Mississippi—they would all fall like dominoes, completing a massive current that no one would dare touch.

"If the war ends like this, won't our treatment and our children's future surely be better? After all, we won't have gained our victory for free; they'll have no choice but to recognize our contributions."

Contrary to my pessimistic prediction that things wouldn't improve much even after the war, their eyes were burning with hope. Perhaps it was because, as instructors at the rehabilitation center and participants in this massive revolution, they felt the pride of opening a new era.

Instead of pouring cold water on their hope, I swallowed a bitter smile. Of course, it would be better than the original history. But would everything change with just this?

It wasn't just my pessimism; this was a rational deduction from the perspective of the omniscient whites. The previous Georgia uprising had clearly given the blacks confidence. But looking at it from a different angle, that confidence was a kind of terror to the whites. The terror that blacks would no longer be helplessly victimized.

Could this terror truly turn into respect in a short time? No. Based on my knowledge and experience, terror breeds greater hatred, and that hatred will bring about more subtle and cruel controls. And the blacks have now built the experience of success, knowing they can repay that control with violence.

If one side cannot force the other to its knees completely, a massive clash is bound to happen at least once more.

Looking at their faces as they laughed and continued the meeting, I had a premonition that the tomorrow we would face might not be peace, but a new battlefield.