The Witnesses' Reversal (3)
People usually experience a momentary brain freeze when confronted with a situation their worldview cannot possibly comprehend.
It is often described as a breakdown, and this holds true even for the most experienced and battle-hardened individuals.
Even the great Amos Lawrence was no exception.
“Uh… uhh?”
“I asked who the next witness would be.”
Even if this could not completely destroy Serget, the strike Lawrence had expected to land a heavy blow had been rendered utterly ineffective.
No, it was worse than ineffective. He now looked like nothing more than a fool who had clumsily blown himself up. Lawrence glared at Tom with murderous intent.
That bastard… he lied to me…
Yet when he thought about it again, the man had not actually lied.
The education had been harsh enough to make one vomit blood, and those who failed to produce results had indeed resorted to self-harm. Those things were true.
In other words, the deception had been intentional from the very beginning, and Lawrence had been completely played by that Black man.
The side that had naively taken his claim about providing concrete examples during the debate at face value—simply because the memories were too painful—had been far too soft.
Or rather, who could have imagined that someone who fled to the North immediately after the war, having been in the Rehabilitation Center, would actually hold James Serget in high regard?
Even now, it made no sense.
It almost felt more plausible to believe that Serget truly could control the minds of Black people through some form of dark magic.
“Th-the next witness…”
In that brief instant, thousands of calculations raced through Lawrence’s mind.
Tom, that bastard, intended to deceive us from the start. Then what about John Brown, the man who brought him?
Was it wise to send this old man out now?
Honestly, a wave of unease washed over him.
Having been betrayed once, he could not help but wonder whether this stubborn old man might also be a spy planted by Serget. The suspicion rose like a chill.
But there was no other choice.
If they stopped here, Tom’s statement would harden into accepted truth.
To reverse the atmosphere somehow, they needed an authority the Northerners trusted absolutely.
Yes, Tom might have been bought, threatened, or even hypnotized.
But John Brown was different.
He was a warrior who had devoted his entire life to the fight for slave emancipation.
Wasn’t he the man so consumed by conviction that he had even lost his own sons in the process?
For such a person to defend James Serget—a Southern landowner who had once commanded thousands of slaves?
That would require a miracle on the scale of the sky splitting open or British cuisine somehow tasting better than Italian.
“I will call Mr. John Brown to testify!”
At Lawrence’s shout, the audience stirred.
“…John Brown?”
“Is it really that John Brown?”
A massive cheer erupted, dwarfing the reaction Tom had received.
“Waaaaah! John Brown!”
“The father of slave emancipation!”
An old man emerged from behind the stage with a Bible tucked under his arm.
His face was deeply lined, as though it had stood directly in the storms of time, yet his eyes still burned with a fierce, living light. A living legend.
When John Brown took his place at the witness stand, Lawrence let out a sigh of relief.
Look at that overwhelming support.
The atmosphere had already reversed with his mere entrance.
John Brown had always been an eccentric who favored Black people; he must have been deceived by Tom just as Lawrence had.
Having convinced himself of this, he approached Brown and offered a polite greeting.
“Sir, thank you for traveling such a long way.”
“I came only to do what must be done.”
Brown answered curtly and swept his gaze across the audience.
Four thousand spectators.
The North’s foremost capitalists and politicians.
His eyes flashed.
“Sir, you have devoted your life to the struggle for Black human rights and freedom. Every Northern citizen remembers that noble sacrifice.”
Lawrence heaped praise on Brown while smoothly turning the blade toward Serget.
“That is why I must ask. How do you evaluate the man seated over there—James Serget? I speak of that Southern planter who once owned thousands of Black people and fattened himself through their exploitation.”
Go on. Tear into him.
This is what you do best, isn’t it?
A thunderous condemnation of the vile slave owner!
One sentence from him would surely obliterate the warm teacher-student farce Tom had created.
“Serget… yes, he is indeed a major figure in the South. It is true he commanded a great many Black people.”
That’s right!
“However, what I wish to say from this platform today is not a condemnation of him.”
“…Pardon?”
Brown suddenly rummaged inside his coat and pulled out a crumpled bundle of pamphlets.
“Many white people harbor misconceptions. That Black people are stupid. Lazy. That teaching them is pointless. But given the chance, Black people can become outstanding citizens!”
What in God’s name is he saying?
Lawrence’s eyes trembled as though struck by an earthquake.
It was not the same backstabbing sensation he had felt when Tom sided with Serget, yet an entirely different kind of suffocating frustration closed around his chest.
He had brought the man here to attack Serget, and now he was suddenly preaching Black enlightenment?
“Sir, over th—”
He waved the pamphlets toward every corner of the audience, as if searching for reporters.
“Right now our brothers across the North are thirsting for knowledge. Your single dollar can change a child’s future! To those who sponsor us here today, I will personally present a Bible commentary annotated by my own hand!”
“……”
“Those who donate ten dollars or more will also receive a signed copy of my autobiography! Come, open your wallets, brothers and sisters! For the day when we all stand equal!”
The hall fell deathly silent, as though cold water had been dashed across it.
Lawrence stared at Brown with his mouth hanging open, jaw slack.
Serget, and even Pastor Beecher at the moderator’s seat, were rendered speechless by the sheer absurdity.
This damned… crazy, senile old fool.
He had said the man’s appearance would help with publicity, and the old lunatic had done nothing but promote his own cause.
Ah. So this was what it felt like to have one’s blood run backward.
If Lawrence had a gun, he would have been sorely tempted to draw it.
Wow! Special limited edition of the autobiography bearing John Brown’s personal autograph.
I couldn’t possibly pass that up.
The moment his speech ended, I promptly donated five thousand dollars and accepted the books.
In full view of Northern citizens and the magnates seated in the boxes, a Southern planter was making a substantial donation to an abolitionist.
Where could one find a more perfect piece of black comedy?
“Thank you, brother! May the Lord’s blessing be upon you!”
Brown examined the money, then handed over several thick volumes with a deeply satisfied smile.
Lawrence’s face, now reduced to the role of an unwilling stage prop in a live sales pitch, had gone from red to something closer to purple-black.
“Mr. Brown! Leave the book-selling for later and answer me! That man was a vicious plantation owner who once held more than a thousand slaves! That fact remains unchanged, does it not!”
Lawrence’s cry bordered on a scream.
Brown paused in the middle of straightening the books and stared straight at me.
The cool, prophetic gaze of a man from the wilderness returned to his eyes.
“Correct. James Serget is a sinner.”
The hall fell silent once more.
“No matter how well he treats Black people now, the fact that he once owned and ruled over more than a thousand human beings does not vanish. That is an original sin he must carry with him until the day he enters the grave.”
Color flooded back into Lawrence’s face.
At last—at last the answer he wanted had come. Seeing him so overjoyed almost made me feel sorry for him.
But I had no intention of stepping into that quagmire by engaging in pointless debate.
“I will not deny it.”
With something like this, the best approach was to admit it quickly and move on.
“I was born within the limits of my era and built my fortune atop its order. To those possessed of moral perfection, I am indeed a sinner who can never be forgiven.”
My calm admission seemed to throw Lawrence off balance.
Most men would have offered excuses—“It could not be helped” or “Such were the times”—yet by simply saying Yes, I was a bad man, I had left him with nothing left to attack.
“However, Chairman Lawrence.”
I understood the urge to dig up even the smallest flaw in hopes of salvaging public opinion.
But if we were to speak of karmic reckoning, could his side truly claim to be innocent?
“My being a sinner does not make you a saint.”
“Wh-what?”
“Whether the individual named James Serget was a slave owner or not, it does not justify your hypocrisy. Now it is my turn. I will call another witness. Nick, come forward.”
At my gesture, a neatly dressed young Black man stepped onto the stage.
He stood before the audience with absolute composure, showing not a trace of nervousness.
“My name is Nick. I was originally a slave in the South. I fled North in search of freedom, only to be recaptured and sent to the Rehabilitation Center.”
Unlike Tom, he was one of the countless Black men who had chosen to remain in the South after the war and become employees of Serget Cotton.
It was only natural that he would take my side, yet Nick differed fundamentally from ordinary freedmen.
“But I never had the slightest desire to leave Serget Cotton. I even persuaded my entire family and relatives to move South with me.”
“……Pardon?”
Nick paused to steady his breathing, then drew a small Bible from his coat.
Nick’s gaze moved past Lawrence to the textile magnates seated behind him.
“What is your fruit? Fifty-cent wages? Rotten bread? The freedom to be fired the moment you fall ill?”
“This insolent—!”
The roar that answered was not mere applause.
Workers packed into the third and fourth floors stamped their feet and unleashed cheers thick with pent-up resentment.
They could not help but sympathize.
They knew only too well how viciously the Northern capitalists exploited labor beneath the pretty banner of freedom.
If we continued to reframe and repeat the fifty-cent exploitation Will had mentioned earlier, the Northern factory owners would be left with nothing but wounds.
I patted Nick on the shoulder and walked back to the center of the stage.
“Behold. This is reality.”
Riding the momentum, I had a large prepared panel brought onto the stage so that everyone could see it clearly.
“People accuse me of silencing Black mouths with money. They are correct. I love money. I will not deny it. After all, how could someone who does not love money ever become an entrepreneur?”
I had never intended to present myself as a flawless man.
Those who craft such spotless images may earn great respect, but human beings cannot be perfect.
The praise and fame they accumulate will, almost without exception, rebound against them later.
The wiser course is to build an image that can shrug off a little mud with the simple question, So what?
Therefore I declared it shamelessly, yet with absolute confidence.
“But because I love money, I look not one year ahead but fifty. Profit squeezed from workers lasts a single year. Skill and loyalty cultivated through investment in those workers lasts fifty.”
Leo, who had stepped onto the stage, flipped through the charts with practiced efficiency.
Economic indicators from the Mississippi Delta region had been rendered into clear, easy-to-read graphs.
“Observe. Store revenues in regions where Serget Cotton operates are 2.3 times higher than in neighboring areas. Crime rates are lower. Death rates are lower. Bank deposits are more than five times greater. Why? Because our employees are paid well! They buy meat, purchase clothing, and save money. That is what revives the local economy!”
Next we displayed graphs of commercial activity around the factories belonging to the Boston Associates.
The contrast was so stark that no one could miss it.
“Yet what of the areas around your factories? Are not the merchants there also dying because their workers’ debt ledgers only continue to grow?”
Lawrence opened and closed his mouth without producing a single rebuttal.
They were facts.
“If you believe these figures are false, refute them. Ah, but of course you have not investigated. Because you care only for the contents of your own pockets and spare not the slightest thought for how those around you live.”
If one intended to fight with morality rather than law, one should have prepared emotional appeals to match.
Having learned a few tricks somewhere, they had tried to win through nothing but agitation and fabrication. It was not enough.
Above all else, human beings are creatures of emotion.
“Citizens of the North, and workers. You will have heard the news that I am building a new factory in New Bedford.”
“Ooh!”
Eyes sparkled throughout the audience.
“I make this promise. The James Clinic will now be expanded and reorganized as the Serget Clinic, providing medical services to our employees at the lowest possible cost. As for wages? I believe there is no need for me to spell it out. Rest periods? We will align them as closely as possible with those of Serget Cotton employees.”
Every word I spoke today would be printed verbatim in articles and spread across the entire North.
In an era without television or radio, there could be no finer advertising medium.
“Will you continue to labor beneath hypocrites who feign morality while draining your blood? Or will you stand with me—a man who openly loves money and therefore shares it with you in equal measure?”
“Serget! Serget!”
“Chairman, hire me!”
A victorious trumpet blast shook the opera house to its foundations.
I turned slowly and looked at Amos Lawrence, who stood deathly pale.
The moderator’s awkward silence said everything. The contest was already over.
He had been utterly defeated in morality, in justification, and even in economic logic.
Who, until now, had reigned upon the throne built from the blood, sweat, and tears of the people?
The time of judgment had come.
Nevertheless, as a Southern gentleman who understood etiquette, I approached the slumped Lawrence and politely extended my hand.
Come now, you bastard. That seat belongs to me now.