I Always Hated Dixie
Where, exactly, had everything gone so wrong?
Having snuck out of the temporary capital of Montgomery, Breckinridge still could not believe the reality he was facing at this very moment.
“What is this... what is this, really? How could it end up like this? Damn it, it was the perfect operation...!”
Back when he first became president, he had been certain that he was a president ordained by God.
Everything he did, leveraging his position as president, yielded the best results, and the South praised him daily as their true hope and light.
Looking back, that had been the golden age of Breckinridge’s life.
“Jefferson Davis, that incompetent bastard. The whole thing went wrong the moment a guy like that took the presidency.”
What on earth had the South seen in such a man to entrust him with the heavy responsibility of the presidency? If anyone was meant to lead the South, it should have been him, having already served as the Vice President of the United States.
If he had been president, the situation would have been different. He wouldn't have let James Seuret’s warning about the North targeting the rehabilitation centers go in one ear and out the other. He certainly wouldn't have committed the blunder of appointing a Northern spy like Robert E. Lee.
“That’s right. That idiot had no eye for people. A ‘great general,’ my foot.”
Just look at what that so-called great general had done. He’d hidden in the back, terrified of fighting the North, only to eventually lead all the soldiers of the South and hand them over to the Union on a silver platter.
“Wait. Could Robert E. Lee have been Abraham Lincoln’s spy? If you look at it that way, all the puzzle pieces fit together...”
Using his position as the commander of the South to siphon off information and leak it to Lincoln. And then, at the most critical moment, squeezing out every last bit of the South’s remaining strength to gather a hopeful army, only to surrender them to the North—wasn't that the only way the South could have fallen?
Breckinridge felt a chill run down his spine at his own genius deduction.
That was it.
The South hadn't lost to the North.
They had been castrated of their ability to fight by the enemy’s behind-the-scenes machinations and dirty schemes, and their victory had been stolen by those despicable wretches.
And if this deduction were true, the greatest responsibility for the defeat lay with Jefferson Davis. Because he was the moron who had insisted on bringing Robert E. Lee into the fold.
“Still, it’s not over. Not yet. Once I get to Mexico, the Northerners won't be able to chase me anymore. If I can plot a comeback there, I can raise the South up again.”
As long as his own final flame didn't go out, the South wasn't defeated yet. Anyone else might call him delusional, but Breckinridge’s bloated ego had already equated himself with the South. He had to believe that the collapse of the South in just one year and the impending disappearance of slavery itself were not his fault.
He was a vessel for a great leader chosen by God, but he had been unfairly placed in this situation because of a fake like Jefferson Davis.
Having reached a perfect conclusion, he hurried his steps.
“First, let’s get to Texas. From there, if I cross the Rio Grande into Mexico...”
No matter how much the Northerners struggled, they wouldn't be able to reach into Mexico immediately. Having already successfully escaped from the White House to the South, he was confident in his ability to flee.
One night, while moving secretly, avoiding everyone’s notice.
In the darkness, where only the sound of the river flowed quietly, he spotted a faint light.
‘That is...’
There was no mistake. He could see the shadows of people moving something on the other side of the river. Boxes, carts, and the faint outlines of human figures.
‘Smugglers?’
Breckinridge hesitated for a moment, but he didn't have many options in his current situation. They were likely Confederate-related personnel anyway. If they were people smuggling during this war, there was a high chance they were the type he could talk to. If he just handed them enough money, they would take him to Mexico, just as they were carrying their goods.
He approached them cautiously.
“Hey, wait a moment.”
At his voice, the smugglers stopped moving in unison and leveled their guns at him. Breckinridge, his heart sinking, quickly waved the money pouch he had prepared in advance.
“I’ll pay you handsomely, so please take me to Mexico.”
“......”
One of the smugglers slowly approached him. And at the very moment he raised a torch to illuminate his face.
“...Huh?”
Breckinridge’s eyes widened. The face revealed under the torchlight was far different from what he had expected.
“...A Black man?”
It was a dark night, so he had been slow to realize it.
“Wait, you people...”
Before he could even finish his sentence, those who had approached him from the side in an instant grabbed him.
“H-hey, wait!”
He couldn't even express his anger at the audacity of these darkies daring to touch him. It was because a feeling of absurdity, so profound it left him unable to even feel rage, filled his mind.
Smugglers were Black? And organized like this?
His shock didn't end there.
“Wait, isn't this guy Breckinridge?”
“...What? The former president?”
“Wasn't he the Secretary of War until now?”
The Black men began to murmur, wondering how they had recognized his face.
“Wow, it really is Breckinridge.”
“This is a jackpot, isn't it? Did we catch a big fish?”
He knew he was a famous politician, but he hadn't expected these darkies to identify him so quickly. As various questions piled up one after another...
‘Wait...’
The existence of someone popped into Breckinridge’s mind. A person who was smuggling food and supplies through Mexico. And a person who had countless Black men under his command.
‘Could it be...?’
Dragged to a warehouse near the riverbank, he looked at the mountains of supplies and the dozens of Black men moving in perfect order, and organized his thoughts.
And then.
Through the door that opened with a creak, a white man leading a group of Black men walked inside.
James Seuret.
Breckinridge’s face brightened as he encountered the person he had expected in such an unexpected place.
“Seuret! It was you after all. I knew it! There’s no way you would have obediently listened to the North like the other morons. You were pretending to surrender and waiting for an opportunity like this!”
“...Secretary Breckinridge, what on earth were you doing here?”
“I was trying to defect to Mexico. I couldn't very well swear an oath of loyalty to Lincoln, could I?”
“I recall it being an oath of loyalty to the Union, not to Lincoln.”
“Isn't that the same thing! That man Lincoln will become a tyrant who tramples on the traditions and order of the United States. I guarantee it. He will use his status as a war hero to aim for a third term beyond his reelection and turn our precious Constitution into rags.”
Since he was making a fuss about abolishing slavery, it was obvious he would carve that into the Constitution, so the fact that Lincoln would amend the Constitution was not a wrong statement at all. Breckinridge, his sorrow from fleeing alone exploding, began to pour out all the stories he had buried inside.
“You know it too. Everything went wrong because of Jefferson Davis, that incompetent bastard. He was the one who brought in a Northern spy like Robert E. Lee!”
“General Robert E. Lee is a spy?”
“Think about it. Has that so-called great general Robert E. Lee ever fought the North even once? He hid behind the lines, and at the critical moment, he handed all our troops over to Lincoln. You know that better than anyone, having watched him from the side, don't you?”
Seuret, who had continued to watch Robert E. Lee from the side in the position of deputy commander, couldn't possibly not know. As expected, he nodded with a strange expression.
“I see.”
“Exactly! The South didn't lose to the North. We were defeated by behind-the-scenes machinations and dirty schemes!”
According to his calculations, the South had the strength to fight for three or four years. It was not a nation that should have been defeated so futilely.
“We were defeated because of traitors and incompetent leaders. We didn't even get a proper chance to fight!”
“I agree with that. You’re right.”
He knew it. Breckinridge finally took a deep breath and looked at Seuret.
“To be honest, I was disappointed in you, too.”
“...Yes?”
“When I was president, you showed excellent ability and achieved the best results. But once the war started, honestly... you didn't show the performance I expected.”
Seuret made an indescribably subtle expression, then obediently bowed his head.
“I have no excuse.”
“No, that was ultimately because of Jefferson Davis, wasn't it? He was the one who couldn't properly utilize your abilities. If I had been president...”
Breckinridge, who was about to continue speaking excitedly, stopped instinctively.
‘...Something is strange.’
Something, an eerie sense of incongruity that could not be described in words, brushed against the back of his neck. Although he was half-mad now, Breckinridge was not the youngest Vice President in American history for nothing. His original, brilliant reason, which had been hidden by madness, began to function suddenly.
‘Wait.’
Robert E. Lee is a spy? Really?
But if so... aren't there a few contradictions?
‘If that guy were a real spy, wouldn't it have been more profitable to take the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Army?’
There is a limit to the information that can be extracted from the rear. If he were a real spy, it would have been much more effective to receive the supreme command of the Confederate Army, create the most critical situation, and then fumble it there. But Lee was hiding in a nominal position called the Security Forces.
‘He even refused at first when I told him to go to the Shenandoah. He said I should give the army to Seuret instead.’
Was that acting? If he had really given the army to Seuret, the plan would have gone completely wrong, wouldn't it?
Then what on earth went wrong?
Breckinridge’s gaze slowly scanned his surroundings.
Black men. Black men equipped with regular army-level weaponry. Those who had threatened Alabama were also definitely equipped with such powerful weapons... wait?
Come to think of it, how could those guys have gotten their hands on such weapons? Even if they had raided an armory to get them, what about training? Knowing how to shoot a gun and moving organizationally like an army are completely different problems.
And why are these Black men here still smuggling even though the war is almost over?
His gaze, which had begun to spin, scanned the supplies in the warehouse again. It wasn't just food. There were weapons, too. A much, much larger quantity of weapons than expected.
‘There are more than reported. This isn't the amount smuggled once or twice.’
Furthermore, a significant portion of the smuggled weapons must have already been taken out of the warehouse. Then where did that massive amount of weapons flow to?
Come to think of it, the food that disappeared from the rehabilitation center was the same.
‘The North said they only stole classified information... then where did the supplies stored in the rehabilitation center go?’
Until now, he had simply thought the North was lying, but thinking about it now, there was no reason for them to do so. If so, the result that all these assumptions point to is... could it be...
Breckinridge’s face turned pale. He tried desperately to compose his expression, but he couldn't hide his trembling eyes.
Seuret, who had been tilting his head to the side, looked into his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
“Sigh, you keep blaming Davis and Robert E. Lee. Why did you suddenly regain your composure?”
“...S-Seuret.”
He tried to spit something out, but his voice trembled, and words wouldn't come out. Seuret! You deceived me, Seuret!
Shock, betrayal, anger, confusion, fear. His body, looking at Seuret with eyes mixed with all sorts of negative emotions, trembled madly.
“Could it be... you... y-you...”
Muttering strange sounds like a broken machine, he suddenly came to his senses.
“No, no! I... I will keep my mouth shut. I will never return to the Union for the rest of my life, so please, just send me to Mexico. Didn't I even serve you tea!”
“Tsk.”
At the sight of him clicking his tongue bitterly, Breckinridge, something in his head snapping, raised his voice, spitting saliva from his lips.
“You... you ungrateful wretch! I trusted and cherished you so much! Just how big a price did Lincoln promise you to betray your homeland!”
“A price?”
Seuret replied without any emotion.
“What kind of nonsense are you human scum who run a moronic system like slavery talking about?”
“...What?”
What kind of talk is this again? The planter who owns the most slaves in the South is suddenly saying something a Northern abolitionist would say?
“You... then, could it be... you did this with the conviction to abolish slavery? You crazy bastard! Are you some kind of John Brown!”
No, John Brown was an abolitionist from the start, so let’s say that’s possible. He had never even imagined that a human born as the crown prince of the cotton industry, the envy of all in the South, would view slavery negatively.
“It’s not a conviction. If you’re a human being, you have no choice but to feel disgust toward you people.”
And then, Seuret, who had stood up as if he had nothing more to say, turned his gaze coldly, gesturing to the Black men around him.
“You must be tired, so it would be better for you to rest.”
“D-disgusting? You bastard... then every action you’ve shown from the first time we met until now was acting...”
If every action he had shown to protect the South and defend slavery was fake, then when on earth had this crazy bastard been deceiving them? In the first place, there was no motive to go that far.
The answer to that reason, which he couldn't understand to the end.
“Then did you think I really liked you people? Breckinridge, I always hated Dixie.”
Seuret told him with an expression like he was looking at a smelly restroom. That shocking confession was the last sentence Breckinridge heard in his life.