Kicking Away the Ladder (3)
After the war ended, Americans came to share one unshakable conviction.
Slavery was an absolute evil that must never be allowed to exist in this world.
Even those who quietly disagreed could no longer voice their true feelings without committing a social crime. Those who had once loudly praised slavery before the war now clamped their mouths shut and vanished into silence, while the reputations of the men and women who had fought for abolition soared overnight.
And amid all this stood one figure who never boasted of his own deeds. Quietly, tirelessly, he worked to improve the lives of Black Americans and earned the profound respect of countless people.
“Oh! So you are the John Brown. It is the greatest honor to meet the legendary John Brown in the flesh.”
“I was told you wished to see me.”
John Brown.
The name that rose first and most often whenever the slave liberation movement in the United States was discussed.
Lawrence, struck by the rugged, iron-like aura radiating from the old man before him, offered a handshake.
“Director Pinkerton told me. You said that a man engaged in righteous work does not assist in digging up another man’s past.”
“That is true. Yet Director Pinkerton pleaded so earnestly that I came anyway.”
“Haha, I am deeply grateful. It seems I chose the right man for the job. But Mr. Brown, before I am a businessman I am a human being. Even before the war, I knew of your tireless devotion to the freedom of Black people.”
Lawrence rose from his chair, removed his hat, and bowed with genuine respect.
At least in the North, no one could deny John Brown’s contributions to the sacred cause of emancipation.
“To accomplish such monumental works and yet never claim credit is truly admirable.”
“You praise me too highly. I merely followed the will of God. I have done nothing extraordinary.”
Brown answered with calm simplicity.
It was the truth.
The countless miraculous operations—extracting intelligence from Southern plantations, spiriting slaves to freedom, educating them to destabilize the South. The world called them John Brown’s achievements, but Brown himself knew exactly whose hand had guided them. Unlike other Northerners, he had witnessed those scenes with his own eyes.
Because he knew the facts better than anyone, Brown had no desire to hear others claiming credit for the great cause of liberation.
To Lawrence, however, it sounded like the very pinnacle of humility. Faced with Brown’s one-hundred-percent sincere, understated reaction, he could not hide his genuine admiration.
“As expected… Ah, but tell me, has there been any progress in the movement for Black civil rights lately?”
“It is not as easy as people imagine. Laws can change overnight, but human hearts are far more stubborn.”
“I thought as much. Since you have come all this way, we would like to express our gratitude with a contribution.”
Then, with natural grace and careful subtlety, Lawrence steered the conversation to its true purpose.
“It is a tragic reality. Some devote their entire lives to saving Black souls, while others build vast empires on money earned from abusing slaves in the past—and now seek to swallow even the Northern market.”
Brown listened in silence, sipping his coffee.
“What is your opinion of a man named James Serget?”
“…James Serget.”
Brown’s eyes narrowed. Lawrence caught the complex emotion that flickered across them and felt certain the old man’s feelings were far from favorable.
Of course the living legend of abolition would not look kindly on a former Southern slave master.
“That man… did things I could never have imagined.”
“Indeed. How could a man like you possibly have imagined them?”
To someone like John Brown, Southern planters must have seemed like the lowest vermin, the sort one wonders why God does not immediately hurl into hellfire.
Lawrence smiled with open delight and revealed his plan.
“Just as I thought! You dislike him as well.”
“……”
“We intend to hold a public tribunal soon to expose his true nature. A place where every past crime of Serget’s will be laid bare. It will draw tremendous attention. Would you consider making a statement on that occasion, Mr. Brown?”
If John Brown—the very symbol of emancipation—stepped forward and declared that Serget was a hypocrite, the game would be over.
Northern public opinion would explode like wildfire. Serget Cotton would be branded morally bankrupt. The company might survive in the South, but the Northern market would be theirs.
Brown remained silent for a moment, then nodded with an inscrutable expression.
“It seems reasonable. Since all eyes will be watching, it would not be a bad platform to speak on behalf of Black advancement.”
“Thank you! You have made a truly courageous decision!”
The great fish had been landed.
All that remained was concrete evidence.
“In that case, sir, do you happen to know anyone who was once at the place Serget operated in the South—the one called the Rehabilitation Center?”
“Ah, Director Pinkerton was looking for such a person. I brought him with me.”
“Truly?”
“Would you like to meet him?”
At Brown’s gesture, a young Black man waiting outside entered hesitantly.
“This young man’s name is Tom. He came North after the war. He is definitely a former inmate of the Rehabilitation Center you seek.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tom. Please, sit down and don’t be nervous.”
Lawrence seated him in the place of honor as though he were handling a priceless jewel.
“Tell me honestly, Tom. What was it like inside the Rehabilitation Center?”
“…It was hard. So hard I thought I would die.”
Tom kept his head bowed, voice trembling.
“Northerners could never imagine it. Training from before dawn until long after dark… It was literal hell.”
“Dear me. Tsk, tsk. Was there corporal punishment? How strict was the discipline?”
“The discipline was… suffocating. And if we failed to meet our targets, we fell into terrible despair. So we punished ourselves.”
“You punished yourselves?”
“Yes. We cut sleep to train longer… or even worked our bodies until they broke.”
Just as expected. Welfare for Black people? Nonsense. The truth spilled out the moment one dug beneath the surface.
“So you’re saying they were driven to self-harm? Serget… that man is a true demon.”
Rather than beat them himself and leave evidence, he had brainwashed the slaves into tormenting themselves. It was a more vicious, soul-destroying torture than simple violence.
Shocking as it was, Lawrence found it difficult to hide his admiration.
“Then what sort of man was Serget? Did he ever harm you directly?”
“The master…”
Tom flinched and covered his mouth.
“Ah, f-forgive me. I misspoke. The habit is so deeply ingrained…”
“Hehe… ‘Master,’ you say.”
Lawrence clicked his tongue.
How brutally must they have been conditioned that even in the free North the title still slipped out unconsciously?
To summarize: They had endured unimaginably harsh training. When their results fell short, the Black inmates punished themselves. On top of that, the brainwashing had been so severe that even after reaching the North they still unconsciously called Serget “master.”
If all of this were revealed, the names of James Serget and Serget Cotton would be finished in the North from that very day.
Hehehe. So you should have minded your own cotton business instead of getting greedy.
How dare those Southern Dixie upstarts try to muscle in on the business of their betters.
Every card was now in his hand.
The Boston Associates compiled all the testimonies into documents and distributed them to the newspapers. In any fight, the one who strikes first already holds half the advantage. Confident of victory, they threw the first punch.
Shocking Confession: Is James Serget a Two-Faced Hypocrite?
The Golden Tower Built on Money Earned from Exploiting Slaves. Does Serget Cotton Deserve It?
The Hell on Earth That Forced Self-Harm. What Exactly Happened at That Rehabilitation Center?
The textile barons of Boston had sharpened their blades well. Almost every major Northern city released articles with nearly identical rhetoric on the same day, each one dredging up Serget’s past sins and slicing them open with clinical precision. Sensational headlines blanketed the newsstands of New York and Boston.
The public reaction was immediate.
“I knew it! James Serget was just another planter after all.”
“He played the gentleman while raking in money, but you can’t change your roots.”
Of course, some voices defended him.
“Still, doesn’t Serget Cotton hire Black workers in huge numbers and pay them decent wages? I heard it’s better than most Northern factories.”
“My nephew works on one of their ships. He says they even eat at the same table as Black sailors.”
But the pamphlets released by the Boston Associates cleverly twisted even those defenses.
Are Serget’s High Wages Nothing More Than Bribes to Silence Black Workers?
Paying for Hypocrisy: Using Money to Whitewash Past Atrocities.
They reframed Serget Cotton’s generous wages and welfare programs as mere “performative atonement” for past crimes. Even the satisfaction of Black employees was portrayed as a tragedy—bought and paid for so they could not speak the truth.
Just as public opinion seemed ready to collapse, the board flipped the very next morning.
Is Boston Afraid of Serget Cotton? Petty Agitation and Dirty Tricks.
Shocking Exposé: Boston Associates Caught Bribing Major Northern Newspapers.
The Disgrace of Elderly Capitalists Who Resort to Personal Attacks When Competition Scares Them.
The counter-articles I had prepared in advance detonated at the perfect moment. The media networks controlled by Carnegie and Rockefeller, along with fragments of the bribe ledgers Pinkerton had obtained, were leaked in pamphlet form.
Northern citizens fell into confusion.
“What? I thought Serget was the villain, but it was the Boston factory owners pulling the strings?”
“Makes sense. Serget Cotton is doing too well lately. They must be terrified their own businesses will shrink.”
“Wow… those guys really are dirty.”
When the battle over truth devolved into a mud-slinging contest, I stepped forward to drive in the final nail.
The interview that dominated the front pages was not merely confident—it was arrogantly unyielding.
“Stop whispering like rats from the shadows. If you have something to say, if you have evidence, then let us debate openly in a public place.”
I now understood the level of 19th-century propaganda and fabrication. In return, I would give them a small taste of 21st-century methods.
“Are you scared? Did I hit a nerve? If not, then step into the ring and prove it.”
This was no simple clarification. It was a direct challenge: if you have nothing to hide, come up and prove it.
Northern public opinion surged once more.
“Look at that confidence. If he had skeletons, he couldn’t talk like that.”
“Clearly the Boston side is the one running scared.”
The arrows now pointed at the Boston Associates—specifically at their leader, Amos Lawrence. Named the mastermind in public, he could no longer remain hidden.
Lawrence was rattled, yet he still carried himself with considerable bravado. Outright denial would have dragged them into a messy war of attrition, but he judged that he still held the upper hand. He accepted the challenge head-on.
“We possess clear evidence and witnesses that will expose Serget’s hypocrisy.”
Instead of a one-sided beating, the fight became a fierce exchange of blows. One could almost feel the dopamine-starved public’s interest growing hotter by the day.
“Very well. This time, instead of pistols, let us duel with evidence, witnesses, and logic. The loser, however, must confess before the entire nation that he is a petty fraud and offer a public apology.”
Not a simple debate, but a deathmatch staking honor and corporate survival.
The clash between the old, established Northern capitalist alliance and the new Southern magnate naturally drew explosive attention from both North and South. New York, Boston, Washington—and even faraway London—watched to see whether this duel of the century would truly take place.
In the end, the Boston Associates delivered their solemn answer.
The Boston Associates hereby declares, staking the pride and conscience of the North, that it will expose every facet of the corrupted slave-owner’s hypocrisy.
The duel was now official.
In truth, I had no particular desire to criticize their attempt to kick the ladder away so no one else could climb it. Kicking away the ladder? Of course it must be done.
But that is not how you do it.
Allow me to show you the proper way.