The Day of Reckoning
"Master, I have a report. The Southern suppression forces that entered Georgia have suffered heavy casualties, and half of the army is currently in retreat."
"And the other half?"
"They report minimal damage. It seems to be the unit led by Lieutenant Colonel Forrest. They took losses from an ambush early on, but as time passed, they proved too formidable for our volunteers to handle. So, they've avoided full-scale confrontation and are focusing entirely on harassing the supply lines."
"Well done. There's no need to tangle with someone who's too difficult to fight."
No matter how much passion and determination the black volunteers possessed, it was only natural for them to be pushed back by thoroughly trained regular troops. But with Georgia already turning into a massive, chaotic labyrinth, what could a mere lieutenant colonel possibly achieve by fighting well?
Let him struggle for a hundred days. See if he can even make it near Atlanta.
"Then, it’s time to send the signal."
"Starting with South Carolina, they will rise up in Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, Tennessee, Florida, Arkansas, and finally, Alabama and Virginia. But will this be alright? If an uprising breaks out in Mississippi..."
"It’s fine. I’ve already told those who are cooperating that Mississippi isn't safe either. I instructed them that if an uprising does occur, they are to stay quiet and hold their breath, never attempting to fight."
"I’ve already excluded Congressman Quitman and Chairman Farr’s plantations from the targets. I’ve also instructed them to protect those areas discreetly in case of an emergency."
Most of the agents remaining in Georgia, save for those who actually needed to command the battles, had already dispersed to neighboring states to complete their work.
In fact, the atmosphere was such that everyone wanted to rise up as soon as possible because the 'Heroes of Georgia' were supposedly with them; it was actually harder to hold them back.
"Even if Lieutenant Colonel Forrest is fighting well, the other side has retreated, so this should be enough, right? Send the signal. Let’s tell Lieutenant Colonel Forrest to tidy up his own house before he tries to reclaim Georgia."
They rushed over because they heard Georgia had fallen. But when they returned, Tennessee was burning. I shed tears the moment I saw it.
It was time for the Dixie boys, who dreamed of reclaiming Georgia to wage a long-term war, to wake up from their delusions.
In truth, even if the war drags on, isn't it the Southern whites who end up dying?
To put it bluntly, since black people couldn't become soldiers, they were tucked away in the rear, and the ones losing their lives were the whites fighting to defend the institution of slavery.
It would be less bitter if they actually owned slaves, but 99% of the soldiers dying on the battlefield had never owned a single slave in their entire lives.
Isn't it hilarious?
And if they knew their own homes were being looted while they fought so hard to keep shackles on someone else's slaves, how would they feel?
Still, since this was all to save the lives of those being ground up as expendable supplies on the battlefield, shouldn't they be grateful to me in the end?
Of course, I wouldn't insist on receiving their thanks personally.
Didn't Jesus say that the left hand should not know what the right hand is doing?
Good deeds are meant to be done secretly, from behind the scenes, just like this.
"Mr. President, General Grant has sent a reply."
"What are they saying in England?"
"They say they cannot send supplies or troops, but that all of Europe will support the North and they wish us victory."
Lincoln, the master of the White House, was performing an incredible feat: signing approval documents with one hand, receiving reports with the other, and discussing matters with a cabinet member with his mouth.
"The time for a total offensive will come soon. It is fortunate that Commander Grant seems to understand this well, even without my interference."
"Looking at the current situation, wouldn't anyone realize that the opportunity has arrived?"
Seward, the top figure of the Republican Party and the current Secretary of State, clicked his tongue as he watched Lincoln talk while working without rest.
Originally, he had planned to reign as the power behind the White House, wielding influence as Secretary of State. He had calculated that since Lincoln lacked practical experience, a veteran like himself could seize the initiative by acting strongly from the start.
But when the lid was finally lifted, Lincoln gave Seward no room to even stretch his legs, thanks to his own ability and insight.
"The achievements of Commander Grant and General Sherman are truly astonishing. I now understand why you recommended them so strongly, Mr. President."
"In the current situation, I simply needed bold commanders. We were lucky."
"Isn't luck a form of skill as well? And looking at things now, it seems you were already aware of the black uprisings in the South..."
The North's string of victories and the South's crumbling division. Grant and Sherman were digging into Southern territory almost daily, and Atlanta was effectively Northern land now.
Naturally, Lincoln's approval rating was on a vertical climb, and even though there was still a long way to go, it had reached a point where the possibility of losing the next presidential election was non-existent.
It had reached the point where even the cabinet members were joking that this war should just be considered a lesson taught to the Southerners.
"Why that expression? We are continuing to win. Is there something bothering you?"
"Ah, it's not that. It's just that I wish you would share a bit more information with me, Mr. President."
"Information sharing? Are you referring to the black uprisings?"
"Yes. The uprising in Georgia is undoubtedly the work of John Brown. But his name doesn't appear in any of the newspapers coming out of the North. Even John Brown himself, who was so active, has suddenly stopped saying anything. This can only mean there was some sort of exchange with our government..."
Seward had been in politics for a long time; with this much circumstantial evidence, he could grasp the entire inner workings. When Seward laid out his deduction with confidence, Lincoln let out an exclamation.
"I see. So that is what you think."
"It is a rudimentary deduction. I only wonder when you formed such a close relationship with John Brown. And, if we truly win, isn't there an important person we need to take care of?"
"An important person?"
When Lincoln blinked as if he truly didn't know, Seward clicked his tongue inwardly.
"James Seuret. James Seuret. He is currently acting as if he is siding with the South, but once the war is over, we must restore his honor. Come to think of it, he made a great contribution when he attacked the rehabilitation center, so he deserves a medal."
"I have thought about it, but for now, the best policy is to leave him be. If we take his side for no reason and he gets branded a traitor by the South, it could become even more troublesome."
"No... that may be true, but perhaps some alternative reward..."
"Let's think about that later. The war isn't over yet."
Watching Lincoln immediately turn his eyes back to his documents, Seward felt a chill run down his spine. Was this the kind of cold-blooded politician he was?
There had been a perception that his weakness was his adherence to principles and his soft heart, but perhaps he still hadn't properly grasped the person named Lincoln.
Then again, he was the man who had incited John Brown to trigger a massive uprising in Georgia, regardless of when they had made contact. What other president in history would have even conceived of such a bizarre operation?
Lincoln, you are the best.
Seward decided to acknowledge Lincoln as the future and the undisputed leader of the Republican Party. Of course, Lincoln, who hadn't even considered Seward a rival to begin with, was busy processing the mountain of documents, completely unaware of what had just transpired.
The Georgia suppression campaign felt like being stuck in an endless swamp. Even so, just as Nathan Bedford Forrest, who was slowly advancing, was reviewing the next day's operations at his camp, a messenger with a pale face came running.
"Lieutenant Colonel! An urgent telegram!"
"What is it that has you so flustered?"
Forrest's face hardened as he took the telegram.
[Massive riots erupt in South Carolina.]
[Black attacks spreading throughout Tennessee.]
[Simultaneous incidents in Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi.]
"W-what. This... what on earth is this...!"
Forrest shouted without realizing it and crumpled the paper. He had come to save Georgia, so why was Tennessee burning?
"Lieutenant Colonel, an immediate order to return has been issued from Tennessee!"
"Damn it. Do they not realize that if we retreat from here, Georgia will truly become a den of niggers!"
"But if we do that and Tennessee becomes a den of niggers, what would be the point of it all?"
CRASH!
"Those filthy nigger bastards...!"
However, as he was raging madly, a thought crossed his mind.
'Wait a minute. It doesn't make sense for the niggers to do something this organized, does it?'
Behind this, there was someone. John Brown? How could a guy tinkering around in the North manage to pull off such an absurd stunt across the entire South? It wasn't John Brown, but someone even higher than him.
For the first time, Nathan Bedford Forrest could feel the presence of someone who was pushing them toward the guillotine.
Meanwhile, around the time Forrest was making a tearful withdrawal from Georgia, in the temporary capital of the Confederate States, Montgomery, the door to the President's office, where sighs never dried up, was thrown open roughly again.
"Your Excellency! An urgent report!"
"Where has another riot broken out this time!"
He was now afraid even to hear the news. President Davis's voice cracked sharply, and Breckinridge, who had been reviewing the war situation at the table, flinched.
Sure enough, the news that followed was beyond despair—it was fantastical.
"They say 100,000 black people have risen up in South Carolina!"
"Mississippi is the same! 150,000 black people...!"
"Tennessee has been completely overturned, and in Virginia, the number of rioters is estimated at 200,000...!"
Every time the aide reported with a trembling voice, Secretary of War Breckinridge's face twisted further. It didn't end there.
Florida, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, North Carolina, Alabama...
"STOP!"
Davis finally let out a scream at the endless feast of a list that sounded like a master chef's recipe. But what could he do? It was the aide's duty to report.
The aide couldn't stop his mouth.
"If you include Georgia... even if you only count those showing signs of resistance..."
"Don't say it!"
"It's nearly one million. Most of them are actually moving with weapons in their hands."
Silence. Stillness. Quiet.
If he didn't say anything, he might have hoped that all of this was a lie, but unfortunately, the truth remained unchanged.
Breckinridge, who had been standing there with his mouth agape just like Davis, muttered blankly.
"One million? Every single nigger in the South has risen up?"
People often use the metaphor of a 'million-man army,' but in the middle of a war, having a million potential enemies and hundreds of thousands of guerrillas rise up in the rear was likely the first such case in human history.
"O-organize the suppression forces immediately..."
Davis started to speak, then closed his mouth. Suppression forces? Where was he supposed to pull them from?
The Western front had already been breached by Sherman, and Grant was tightening the noose in the East. 'From which state can I draw troops?'
Davis looked at the massive map of the South hanging on the wall. South Carolina? Flooded with reports of attacks. Mississippi? Militia annihilated. Tennessee? Supply lines cut. Virginia? Railroads destroyed. Alabama? Plantations burned.
There wasn't a single place on the vast map of the South that was intact. In this situation, where even his own backyard couldn't be defended, there were no troops left to pull.
"Your Excellency... how..."
"Your Excellency...!"
"Please give us your orders!"
Despite the desperate questions coming from all sides, Davis could not provide an answer. He could only stare blankly at the map before him.
President of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis. He, who had risen with the swelling cause of independence and the establishment of a slave empire, felt his vision go dark.