The Shame of Christianity
In truth, when it came to the question of slavery, our proud Southern Dixies had no choice but to keep their mouths shut.
After the war, having been beaten like dogs by both the North and Europe, even the Southerners with a conscience had no choice but to shrink back in silence.
But what if, for such men, a perfect punching bag appeared—one even more wretched than themselves, one they could beat to their heart’s content without consequence?
When Jonathan, who had just returned from Cuba, began recounting his story with genuine outrage, the Southern audience responded with reactions that rivaled those of professional broadcasters.
“No, aren’t those European bastards the ultimate hypocrites? They called us beasts who had abandoned Christian values. I heard them curse us so much I actually thought we were the only country still practicing slavery!”
“To be honest, I thought the same. So the Europeans were raising hell only at us while a country right next door to them was openly working slaves?”
“Exactly. And when I went there this time, the Spanish were doing things even worse than we ever did. They don’t lift a finger themselves—just use local whites to exploit the blacks. Aren’t they the truly insane ones?”
“If we’re being real, the British are the worst of the lot. Those self-proclaimed gentlemen drink five cups of tea a day. Where do you think all that sugar comes from?”
At Jonathan’s heated outburst, the audience nodded vigorously.
He had struck the nail on the head.
As soon as the British Empire abolished slavery in its own colonies like Jamaica and Barbados, sugar production plummeted and prices skyrocketed.
When the cost of sugar for teatime reached the price of gold, the British needed somewhere else to turn.
That place was Cuba.
Cheap sugar produced by the Spanish grinding slaves into the mills.
The British happily consumed it, all while calling Spain a barbaric nation with their mouths—yet never applying any real pressure.
After all, if Spain got rid of slavery, who would make the sugar for their tea?
The fact that Spain was no longer even a toothless tiger but a sick cat not worth checking certainly played a part, but in the end, it all came down to money and luxury goods.
“And everyone, the sugarcane fields of Cuba… my God, compared to them, our cotton fields were heaven.”
Not only Jonathan—even the black workers of Serget Cotton, who had firsthand experience in the cotton fields, could not hide their disgust after seeing the Cuban plantations.
Even by objective data alone, Cuba’s slavery was on an entirely different level of hell compared to the South.
During the harvest season known as the ‘zafra,’ Cuban slaves were forced to labor eighteen to twenty hours a day.
This was no exaggeration. They truly had to work more than eighteen hours in the fields.
Because once sugarcane is cut, its sugar content begins to degrade immediately.
From the moment they woke until they collapsed from exhaustion, they had to cut, haul, and immediately press the cane without rest.
Accidents where drowsy workers had their arms sucked into massive rollers and severed were commonplace. Falling into boiling sugar cauldrons and suffering horrific burns happened constantly. Yet there was never any rest.
“At least we treated slaves as property. Over there, they were treated as disposable consumables.”
After the importation of slaves was banned in 1808, the South began to regard slaves as valuable assets. They allowed them to marry, have children, and managed them with some degree of care.
Why? Because dead slaves meant financial loss.
But Cuba did not even do that.
Slave trade banned? Just smuggle them in.
If we don’t smuggle, it’s Europe that loses out.
With this astonishing logic, Spain smuggled nearly one hundred thousand black slaves into Cuba every year.
On top of that, the governor took extra bribes for each slave. It was a creative economy in which everyone except the blacks was happy.
Why bother with expensive management? Just squeeze them until they died and buy new ones. Why impose any limits on labor intensity?
As a result, the average life expectancy of slaves sent to Cuban sugarcane plantations was a mere seven years.
Not seventy. Not seventeen. Truly seven years.
“When I asked where the slaves slept, they said they were crammed into huge barracks—only men—chained together with iron shackles. Even prisoners aren’t treated that way.”
Spain excused this brutal treatment by blaming their neighbors.
The slaves in Haiti had killed all their masters and founded a nation. What if the same thing happened in Cuba? It was an extraordinarily crude logic.
The reaction of Southern politicians upon hearing these shocking truths was a masterpiece.
“Well… hm, that does sound a bit harsh.”
“I thought it was about the same as us…”
“Good heavens, those beastly bastards pointed fingers at us and called us uncivilized? Don’t they have any shame at all!”
The Dixies, who had initially pretended to be champions of human rights for political theater, were now genuinely beginning to feel moral superiority.
To a third party it was nothing but absurd self-justification, but at least the South had already clearly abolished slavery.
In the battle for moral justification, the South actually had more to say.
Southern public opinion now had a clear direction.
They must drive out those hypocritical and cruel Spanish imperialists and “save” Cuba.
Of course, in return for that salvation, they would take the sugar and the money—but how could any Christian simply stand by and watch such a hell exist?
While public opinion was ripening step by step in this manner, Spain’s response was, as expected from a country already in decline, utterly lacking in originality.
“We’ve increased taxes on Cuba, but we still cannot cover the fiscal deficit. What should we do?”
“For now, raise tariffs even higher so Cuba cannot even dream of using British or American goods, and introduce a new income tax category.”
“Let’s raise it by exactly ten percent. That should plug the holes somehow.”
Yes. We will simply squeeze them harder.
They truly knew how to pick fights.
* * *
The tax increase order that flew in from Madrid, and the unprecedented expulsion of whites that occurred at Havana harbor.
These two events were like torches thrown into the massive powder keg that was Cuba.
Carlos Manuel de Céspedes del Castillo, the great plantation owner of Manzanillo in the east, gazed down at the map spread across his table, bathed in moonlight slipping through the tightly closed window.
His eyes were not filled with rage, but with cold, calculating reason.
“We can endure no longer! Céspedes! Our countrymen were beaten like dogs in front of blacks and driven out! And now they want us to pay ten percent more in taxes? Does that make any sense!”
The meeting place of the secret society ‘Buena Fe (Good Faith).’
The furious shouts of young Creole landowners filled the narrow underground chamber.
Their anger was justified, but Céspedes had already reached a cold conclusion.
Anger alone could not win a war.
No matter how furious one became, it did not increase the accuracy of bullets or create strength where none existed.
Céspedes slowly raised his head and looked around at his comrades.
Well-bred young masters.
Men who had never once dirtied their hands with soil in their lives. The heaviest things they had ever lifted were wine glasses or whips.
What chance did these people have against Spain?
“Calm yourselves. Anger may serve as our fuel, but fuel alone cannot launch the ship called independence upon the sea.”
At their leader’s composed voice, the commotion in the room gradually subsided.
“Let us look at reality with cold eyes. Suppose we rise up. Who will we fight? The Spanish regular army, that’s who. They are killing machines who have waged war for decades across South America and Africa. And what about us?”
Silence fell.
Most of them did not even know how to load a gun, let alone fire one.
“War is not romance. We need soldiers who can cut through jungles, roll in mud, and drive blades into the enemy’s throat. If we simply grab guns and rush out, we will be annihilated in three days.”
“Then what do you suggest? Should we hire mercenaries?”
“There is a force more reliable than mercenaries, more desperate, and already all around us.”
Céspedes’s gaze turned toward the sugarcane fields outside the window.
“…You mean the slaves?”
“Correct.”
For a moment, someone swallowed hard.
Emancipation.
The taboo that Cuban whites were not even allowed to imagine had just come from the mouth of none other than their leader.
“Are you insane? Give them weapons? You want to turn this place into Haiti! The moment those bastards get guns, they won’t shoot the Spanish—they’ll shoot us first!”
The history of the neighboring island of Haiti—where black slaves had massacred their white masters and founded a nation—was a primal terror engraved into the DNA of Cuba’s Creoles.
Until now, Spain had used that very fear to rule Cuba through violence and oppression.
But Céspedes did not waver.
“That is precisely why we must take the lead.”
“…?”
“It is a bomb that will explode whether we like it or not. Has anyone seen the look in the blacks’ eyes when they watch Serget Cotton? If we hesitate and they rise up on their own, that will be the second Haiti—and our throats will all be cut.”
Céspedes slammed his fist hard onto the table.
“If we cannot prevent the explosion, then we must control its direction! Reform from above. If we are the first to promise them freedom and draw them under our flag, we can control them sufficiently.”
“B-but if we free all the slaves, who will work the fields…”
“Who said we should free them all at once?”
Céspedes believed the slaves must be freed, but he was no empty idealist.
No—in fact, he was a thorough realist and a conscientious member of the ruling class.
“Let us free only those who participate in the war of independence. After the war ends, we can promise gradual emancipation in exchange for compensation.”
Using the blacks as cannon fodder to protect their own lives and property.
It was a proposal perfectly tailored to the Creoles’ nature, and the commotion died down considerably.
“……”
“After all, if we stay like this, what future is there except to end up like Carlos? Being treated like slaves under Spain seems far worse. Am I the only one who thinks so?”
The eyes of his comrades began to waver.
Indeed, it was far more appealing than having their property confiscated by the Spanish governor and being driven out.
“But… even if the manpower problem is solved, what about weapons? A few flintlocks won’t be nearly enough.”
“For that, we have no choice but to bring in outside help.”
Until now the situation had been precarious, but a perfect partner for cooperation had just appeared.
The vast continent directly north of Cuba.
“Let us borrow the strength of the United States of America.”
“Will America help us?”
“I believe everyone here knows that the atmosphere has changed since Chairman Serget’s visit. Besides, consider who currently sits in the White House.”
“…Ah.”
“I will go to Mississippi under the pretext of business. I will gauge the mood in the South and see if there are any who might support us.”
If America merely offered support, the path to independence would open far more easily.
His comrades nodded silently.
Rather than living as second-class citizens under the Peninsulares, it was better to become first-class citizens themselves while making the blacks second-class.
Moreover, as Céspedes had said, the current President of the United States was that Lincoln.
If they used the cause of black emancipation, would he not naturally take their side?
Honestly, even they themselves felt that what had happened here lately had gone too far.
Although they had done it, it was all at the orders of the mainland.
In the end, the real villains were clearly Spain and the Peninsulares.
They had already reached their conclusion.
* * *
“Hmm… so this is America. It really is incomparably busier than Cuba.”
“Wait, good sir. Are you from Cuba?”
“Yes. Is there something you need from me…?”
“I have heard of the terrible sins being committed in Cuba and could not remain silent. I am gathering comrades. Do you truly believe it is right for those poor blacks to continue being exploited like this?”
The old gentleman he happened to meet at a port in the Union forcefully handed Céspedes his business card while passionately calling for slave emancipation.
Was he mistaking him for a Creole who exploited slaves and trying to preach at him?
Céspedes was about to give a vague reply and leave when he saw the name on the card and froze on the spot.
“…John Brown?”
Was this fate, or was it divine revelation?
It had taken him less than thirty minutes to accomplish the purpose for which he had come to America.