The Shame of Christianity (2)

There are always reasons when nations fall into ruin.

Unstable politics, backward finances, stagnant development. Usually even one of these flaws is enough to expose a fatal weakness somewhere, yet the Spain of today had achieved a near-perfect trinity of all three.

Politically, the Spanish government had become little more than a revolving-door dictatorship in which two generals took turns looting the country. Queen Isabella II sat at the pinnacle, but real power rested with the Prime Minister, who also served as Minister of War. Coups d’état broke out as routinely as meals.

The current holder of supreme authority was Leopoldo O’Donnell. A realist by nature, he was therefore even less inclined to release Cuba. Without Cuban revenue, Spain’s finances would collapse within a year—perhaps even six months. That outcome was already accepted as fact.

Beneath him lurked the “Iron General,” Ramon Maria Narvaez, waiting for his chance. A thoroughgoing hardliner, he believed slavery was an order ordained by God Himself; to free the blacks would be an act of treason that shattered the social order.

Finally there was the Minister of Overseas Territories, Antonio Canovas del Castillo. Regarded as the greatest intellect and schemer of his generation in Spain, he understood perfectly that slavery could not be sustained forever. Even the American South—their once-reliable shield—had abolished it, and worried voices inside Spain were beginning to ask how long they could continue the practice.

In such circumstances he advocated gradual reform, but his true intentions were transparent: prohibit slavery on paper while continuing to exploit black labor under the euphemism of “contract work.” A clever sleight of hand. Slight differences existed, yet when viewed together the impression was unmistakable. There was no need to weigh who was reasonable or rational; they were all the same.

No matter which faction prevailed or how the revolving door turned, whoever held power would still have to wring Cuba dry. That slavery must continue was, to them, nearly a law of nature.

Of course these men possessed, if not conscience, at least the minimal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠social decency to keep up appearances. Their public justification for defending Cuban slavery was, naturally, the good of the nation and the royal family.

Queen Isabella II could not comprehend those who opposed slavery. Without slaves, who would supply her with money? And without money, who would purchase gifts for her beloved paramours?

“I hear that abolitionists opposing slavery have been multiplying everywhere of late. Deal with those vile traitors severely the moment they appear.”

“As you command. However, the recent emancipation in the United States has drawn unfavorable attention from Britain and France. They may attempt to interfere…”

“Interfere? In our internal affairs? Moreover, one might think from such talk that we are engaged in some criminal enterprise.”

The Queen snapped her fan open and gave a contemptuous laugh.

“We have prohibited the slave trade. Let them bring evidence. Evidence.”

She spoke with the confidence of one who knew the prohibition existed only on paper, sanctified by Christian rhetoric. Anyone familiar with the truth ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would have been left speechless by her brazenness, yet it was brazenness backed by absolute certainty. Any investigation would yield nothing. The Spanish royal house did not merely turn a blind eye; it actively concealed the evidence.

In truth, the royals were the largest shareholders and chief architects of the filthy enterprise. The Queen’s own mother, the Dowager Maria Christina, had been a legendary figure in the slave trade; no further explanation was necessary.

During her regency she had established a phantom company with her second husband, the Duke of Muñoz, and issued secret directives to the governors of Cuba: one ounce of gold for every slave landed. Hundreds of thousands of blacks had been shipped to Cuba like cargo beneath her petticoats, and the enormous dividends flowed into secret accounts in Paris and Le Havre.

Even after the Dowager was driven from power by revolution, the system had not been dismantled. It had only grown more sophisticated. Now that ounce of gold no longer ended in the Dowager’s purse but in the deep vaults of the Madrid royal palace and in Isabella II’s opulent bedchamber.

The Queen’s eyes blazed with naked greed—a light bordering on obsession, vowing that no one would touch her coffers. It had to be protected at all costs. If that inexhaustible spring ever ran dry, her only true pleasure—the hobby of collecting handsome men—would end.

“Then, Your Majesty…”

“Handle it as always. I remain forever grateful to you, Prime Minister.”

There was no point hiding it. In truth the Queen was obsessed with men in uniform. Weary of her frail, effeminate husband, she had begun summoning sturdy, muscular officers to her bedchamber each night, and the tragedy had unfolded from there.

From Serrano, once called the “pretty general,” to the engineering officer Puigmolto—who would later father the king—to the recent scandal of appointing the handsome Italian actor Carlos Marfori as royal secretary. Whether critics sneered at her as Isabelona, the lewd Isabella, mattered not at all.

Jewels were needed to win the hearts of handsome lovers; the latest Paris gowns were required to maintain dignity. The money earned by black men in distant Cuba—arms sliced off by mill rollers during twenty-hour shifts—paid the gambling debts of the Queen’s latest favorite here in Madrid.

Of course, this was simply the noble duty blacks were meant to perform. And they would continue to perform that sacred duty.

For the happiness of the Queen.

“Ah, now that you mention it, your report spoke of an American… James Serget, was it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A most excellent gentleman who assists our royal finances. Perhaps we should award him a decoration. He seems fully qualified to receive the Order of Isabella the Catholic.”

It was the perfect performance: securing American capital while publicly flaunting friendship between Spain and the United States. The Queen appeared rather pleased with her own spontaneous inspiration.

“If I invite him to Madrid and bestow it upon him myself, will he not be moved to invest even more? By the way, what is the man’s age?”

“To my knowledge he is still a young man who has not yet reached thirty.”

The Queen fell silent for a moment, then asked in a voice meant only for the Prime Minister’s ears.

“…Is he said to be handsome?”

“I shall ascertain at once.”

It would be ideal if the man were tall and striking as well. For the first time in a long while, the Queen felt a flutter of genuine anticipation.

While Queen Isabella II indulged in the pleasant fantasy of adding a handsome businessman to her collection, Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, having just arrived in the South, decided to cautiously sound out John Brown.

Even he, a former Cuban plantation owner, knew the name well. A living legend of slave emancipation, revered by abolitionists everywhere. If they could bring this man to their side, they might win every abolitionist in the United States as an ally. From there, influencing the American government would no longer be a dream. Through John Brown they might even deliver their plans directly to President Lincoln.

“To speak frankly, I am confused,” Céspedes said, adopting the expression of a tormented intellectual and sighing heavily. “As a Cuban Creole, I spent my entire life believing that freeing the blacks would cause the world to collapse. I was certain Haiti’s massacre would repeat itself. That is why I came here—to witness the tragedy of the South and reinforce my convictions. Yet…”

He made a show of looking around. The vibrant port, the orderly black workers, the meticulous system directing them.

“I am beginning to wonder whether my thinking was wrong. The order visible here proves that emancipation need not lead to ruin.”

Since he was genuinely astonished, the performance required no effort.

A slave owner repenting his sins and walking toward the light—what better script could move the heart of that fanatical old man?

As expected, John Brown took the bait at once. He seized Céspedes’ hand in his own rough, calloused grip and spoke with solemn intensity.

“Mr. Brown…”

The old warrior’s passionate speech sent spittle flying. Céspedes nodded as though deeply moved, while inside he exulted.

Perfect. The old man was easier than I expected.

After allowing a suitable interval for emotional reflection, he lowered his voice and turned to the real purpose.

“Your words have given me courage. In truth… my comrades in Cuba are preparing to rise against Spanish tyranny. In that struggle we intend to grant freedom to the blacks.”

“Oh! A truly magnificent resolution!”

“Yet we lack strength. Though our will is firm, we need a powerful patron who can offer concrete assistance. Could you perhaps introduce ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us to someone capable of lending real force to this great undertaking?”

Céspedes’ eyes had been fixed on Washington figures—Lincoln, Secretary Seward, men of that stature. The name that emerged from John Brown’s mouth, however, was entirely unexpected.

“If you truly intend to attempt a great enterprise, should you not first meet the man who manages the largest number of blacks in this land, and does so with the greatest efficiency?”

“Who would that be?”

“James Serget.”

Céspedes’ brow furrowed. Of all possible names, this was the one he least wanted to hear.

“Chairman Serget? But… did he not join hands with the governor who expelled us from Havana only days ago? How can we trust a man enjoying a honeymoon with Spain?”

He still remembered the ruthless efficiency with which Serget had destroyed a white plantation owner over a single black employee in Havana harbor. That had not been justice; it had been calculated showmanship for business purposes. Would such a man stake everything on the dangerous gamble of revolution?

Reading the doubt in his face, John Brown shook his head with an enigmatic smile.

“You do not yet know him.”

“……”

“He is not a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man bound by creed or nationality. He is a devil drunk on money.”

It seemed John Brown did not particularly like Serget either. Yet his reasoning was sound. In a great cause, one did not choose by affection but by utility.

“He joined hands with the governor because it is profitable at present. If he concludes that an independent Cuba with emancipated slaves would yield greater profit? He would plunge a knife into the governor’s back tomorrow and supply you with weapons the day after.”

Having no ideology, he felt no hesitation in betrayal. Profit alone was his compass.

Paradoxically, this explanation inspired greater confidence in Céspedes than any signature from Lincoln. Politicians betrayed for the sake of principle; businessmen stayed loyal so long as the profit remained. Moreover, Serget Cotton’s influence over the South and the black community was absolute. Bringing him in could solve the problems of troops, supplies, and even tacit American governmental approval in a single stroke.

Céspedes ran the calculations through his mind dozens of times. If one had to clasp even the devil’s hand, better a devil whose tastes were predictable.

“Mr. Brown, then do you have any effective bait with which to lure James Serget?”

“As I said, first, last, and always—money. The reason he works the blacks so hard is, in the end, money.”

The repeated emphasis made it clear what sort of man James Serget was. They said he had once been the most vicious of slave owners; now he was the businessman who treated blacks better than anyone. The only consistent principle was profit.

Céspedes set off toward Natchez with a considerably lighter step. At least with a man who cared only for money, there was solid reason to join hands.