The Shame of Christianity (3)
The British Empire, the very incarnation of disruption, stirring up conflicts across the globe.
Yet contrary to this reputation, it could not be denied that they had exerted considerable influence on the issue of slave emancipation.
While politicians consistently turned a blind eye to Spain’s system of slavery, British intellectuals regarded the situation with extreme displeasure.
In particular, Frederick William Chesson—who had risked his life to illuminate the bravery of Southern blacks during the Civil War and drawn praise from countless people—was fiercely searching for any opportunity to condemn Spain.
Now the London Emancipation Society he led was also criticizing Spain’s current course, employing the provocative term “the shame of Christianity.”
“They engaged in smuggling again this time?”
“What on earth is our navy doing? They should just blow those ships to pieces!”
“They’re probably pretending not to notice for fear that fluctuating sugar prices will drop their approval ratings. The filthy bastards.”
It was utterly maddening to hear them claim that because sugar for a gentleman’s essential tea was a serious matter, Cuba could be left alone.
Chesson and the London Emancipation Society were determined to bring down the shameless Spanish royal family once and for all.
Yet when they actually tried to launch their offensive, they unexpectedly could not secure proper evidence.
“This is all garbage! The court won’t even treat it as scrap paper!”
Chesson roughly crumpled the bundle of documents and scattered them into the air.
The floor of the London Emancipation Society’s office was already so covered with letters and petitions exposing the tragic conditions of slaves smuggled from Cuba that there was no room to step.
But among those countless scraps of paper, not a single one possessed the legal force capable of seizing the Spanish governorate by the collar and dragging it down.
“Calm yourself, Frederick. Getting excited won’t make nonexistent evidence appear.”
The society’s advisory lawyer pointed out coolly while adjusting his glasses.
“Look at this report. Last month the ship Santiago anchored near Havana carrying four hundred African blacks. A British naval cruiser was openly watching.”
“Then we can indict them with that!”
“We can’t. It’s obvious what documents the governorate will produce.”
Baptism Certificate and Residence Registration
“According to the governorate records, all four hundred individuals who disembarked from that vessel are Ladinos born in Cuba prior to 1820. They are legal laborers who briefly traveled abroad before returning to their homeland.”
“That’s absurd nonsense! The people who got off that ship are Bozals who can’t even speak Spanish properly, to say nothing of wearing proper clothes! How could fellows who aren’t even twenty years old have been born in 1820?”
“You and I can tell at a glance. But the court believes the documents. With a Spanish official’s seal on them, they are officially Cuban natives over fifty years old. You know this, don’t you? That side has the government in their pocket.”
It was truly enough to drive one mad.
Sighs and curses burst forth simultaneously from those gathered.
An administrative system that laundered nationality with a single sheet of paper and falsified ages with a few gold coins.
How could one call such a thing a country?
Unless they raided the site and seized the double ledger in which bribes were exchanged, breaking this solid fraud seemed a distant prospect.
One might suggest waging a war of public opinion, but that too was not as easy as it sounded.
After all, in London there were certainly those who believed Cuba should not be liberated.
“For starters, the City’s financiers are watching with sharp eyes, so we cannot act on this alone. The moment we condemn Spain as a slave-trading nation without concrete evidence, they will sue us first for defamation and interference with business.”
“Ha… those money-mad bankers.”
“You know how many bonds from Cuban railway companies and sugar mills are in their vaults, don’t you? If Spain collapses, they all become worthless paper. To them, we are devils trying to gnaw away at their assets.”
In front, the Spanish governorate that falsified documents; behind, the London bankers holding the purse strings.
No matter how one looked at it, there was no method. No method at all.
Chesson clutched his head in frustration and walked to the window.
“I must go myself.”
“Where? To Cuba?”
“I’ll go personally, steal that filthy double ledger or copy it somehow. I cannot simply sit with my hands folded…”
“If you want to kill yourself, do it alone.”
“Yes, yes. Cuba is different from the South. You know that as well.”
His colleagues frantically tried to dissuade him.
“The American South had openings because it was in a state of war, but Cuba is different. That place is a prison isolated by the sea. Moreover, your face has already become famous. The moment you set foot in Havana harbor, the governor’s private troops will feed you to the Caribbean sharks without anyone being the wiser. Why invite such a pointless death?”
Yes… that was true.
It was an undeniable reality, so he could say nothing more.
Ironclad security and the geographical isolation of an island.
For an outsider to infiltrate such a closed region and extract evidence was virtually impossible.
Without the cooperation of an insider…
Knock, knock.
Amid the heavy gloom, the clerk cautiously opened the door.
“Chairman, a telegram has arrived.”
“Can’t you see we’re in a meeting? Later…”
“It’s an urgent cable from America.”
Chesson blinked in bewilderment.
The transatlantic cable had only recently been laid; the cost of a single telegram now exceeded a laborer’s monthly wage.
It was not something one would dare send unless the matter was truly urgent—or unless one possessed considerable wealth.
Yet who would send such an expensive telegram to the London Emancipation Society?
Unable to conceal his curiosity, Chesson tore open the envelope.
The content was so short and concise as to seem almost trivial.
The moment he saw the sender written beneath it, Chesson froze as if rooted to the spot.
“······!”
In that instant, a powerful memory flashed through Chesson’s mind.
The man who had rescued him with a benevolent smile beneath the scorching Mississippi sun.
A great plantation owner in the South who secretly supported the slave liberation army behind the scenes—an inscrutable, mysterious figure.
…James Serget?
Chesson’s hand holding the telegram trembled as he stared blankly.
After the Civil War ended, the man had employed a tremendous number of blacks. Was he now pouring that vast wealth and influence into the emancipation of slaves in Cuba?
You truly are…
A burning sense of respect welled up from the depths of his chest.
The world called him a cold-hearted capitalist planter, but to Chesson he was a genuine human rights crusader with a hotter heart than anyone else.
Ah, so that was it.
Only now could he fully understand James Serget.
Saving those who were oppressed and suppressed was his life’s purpose.
Earning money was merely a means to that end.
Wasn’t it obvious from how he had immediately turned his attention to Cuba right after liberating the South?
He was undoubtedly a man of a completely different caliber from those London financiers.
“Gentlemen, we may be able to land a heavy blow against Spain after all.”
There had been no mention of when the materials would arrive, but he trusted Serget.
The London Emancipation Society summoned the journalists they were close with and began drafting articles and statements condemning Spain.
Céspedes, guided by John Brown, crossed the threshold of our Serget Cotton without the slightest suspicion.
I kindly assigned him a secretary and even gave him a full tour of the headquarters.
Although he had heard about it from other comrades in Cuba, upon actually seeing black people in important positions, he couldn’t maintain his composure and stood half-dazed.
The massive door to the chairman’s office on the top floor of headquarters opened.
“Mr. Brown, is this another donation? I recall providing a generous sum last month under the name of church construction funds.”
“Chairman Serget, do you believe the sins you accumulated by enslaving thousands in the past can be washed away with mere checks? Even as an act of repentance, you ought to contribute more to the Lord’s work.”
I clicked my tongue, feigning exasperation at the old man’s brazen scolding that was obvious to anyone.
“I’ll tell Leo, so collect the check on your way out. However, this concludes matters for this month.”
“Hmm, may the Lord’s grace be upon you.”
At any rate, that old man’s acting skills had improved considerably.
After concluding that bit of farce, my gaze finally shifted to Céspedes, who stood beside John Brown.
The Cuban intellectual stood there, tense to the extreme.
I rested my chin on my hand like an arrogant chairman and looked up at him askew.
“So, you’ve come because you wish to liberate the slaves of Cuba?”
“Y-yes, Chairman.”
“But why should I help you people? As you know, I already maintain an excellent business partnership with His Excellency the Governor.”
At the cynical response, Céspedes swallowed hard.
But since I had given him ample time, he must have completed his calculations thoroughly on the way here.
Present the best conditions that might tempt me.
“The contract with the governorate is unstable. As you are aware, Chairman, the greed of Spanish officials knows no bounds, and their administration is the height of inefficiency.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“If we seize power, we can remove the Spanish leech that parasitizes the intermediate distribution channels. We will guarantee Serget Cotton exclusive commercial rights in Cuba and exemption from tariffs.”
Céspedes offered the prepared proposal document.
The argument was to eliminate the taxes and bribes flowing to Spain and divide the resulting profits between Serget Cotton and the independent government.
Since two parties eating would clearly generate more profit than three, the increased benefit was readily apparent.
“The conditions themselves are not bad. However, in business, the probability of success matters as much as the rate of return.”
“If the United States—and you, Chairman—assist us, then Spain, a mere paper lion, would…”
“Spain is not the issue. The problem lies in the Europe behind it.”
Why couldn’t the United States simply swallow Cuba?
Not because of Spain, which was already rotten to the core, but because nations like Britain and France existed.
“If we make a move, the bondholders in London and Paris will go berserk. If they pressure their governments to intervene, the situation will become troublesome. We need justification to prevent that.”
“Justification, you say…”
“Conclusive evidence that will shut the mouths of the European scoundrels and leave the White House and Congress with no choice but to engage in humanitarian intervention.”
I leaned forward and lowered my voice.
“Simple testimony is unnecessary. We need irrefutable physical evidence—something that would stand up in a London courtroom—that the Spanish governorate is systematically conducting the slave smuggling trade.”
“Physical evidence… you mean the double ledger?”
“That would suffice nicely.”
Céspedes’ pupils trembled.
“Records of the governorate issuing fake baptism certificates in exchange for bribes, the original register laundering newly arrived Bozals as Ladinos. And the remittance records showing those bribes flowing all the way to the Queen in Madrid.”
That was first-class confidential, essentially the heart of the Cuban governorate.
But at the same time, as a member of the Creole ruling class, Céspedes was in a position to access it by paying enormous bribes to the Peninsulares.
“If you need funds, I can provide support. If you make full use of your connections to obtain even a copy of that ledger, Europe will not dare side with Spain. Then President Lincoln will move as well.”
“…Understood. That does seem the most effective approach.”
With the greatest obstacle resolved, he cautiously raised the next issue.
“However, to launch the uprising we must organize the blacks… who will handle that?”
“You need not worry about that. By leveraging Mr. John Brown’s fame, rousing the blacks throughout Cuba will be no difficult task.”
“But they are untrained slaves. Wouldn’t we need professional personnel such as commanders or instructors?”
Céspedes’ worried gaze turned toward the elderly John Brown.
No matter how legendary a human rights activist he might be, it was natural to question whether he could command real military operations.
I smiled comfortably, as if to set his mind at ease.
“There is no need to worry about that aspect at all. Mr. Brown will carefully select and dispatch highly suitable individuals.”
“Ah, you mean Mr. Brown’s comrades?”
“Correct. They are excellent friends armed with firm conviction. You are aware of the massive uprising that occurred in the South, yes? Whose handiwork do you suppose that was?”
Suppressing slave owners was, after all, John Brown’s specialty.
Without needing lengthy explanation, Céspedes immediately understood and nodded.
He still hadn’t completely shaken off his nervousness, but with their clumsy understanding, there was no way they could stop us.
After all, the ones going were none other than the top aces from the Serget Rehabilitation Center.
They were veterans forged through real combat, not merely training, so they could adequately handle any unforeseen issues.
All the secret agreements were complete.
The premium whiskey Leo had brought rippled in the crystal glasses.
To commemorate this historic conspiracy, Céspedes, his face flushed with excitement, raised his glass first.
John Brown raised his glass without hesitation as well.
Finally, I smirked and lightly clinked my glass against theirs.
Clink.
The clear, cheerful ring echoed through the office.
For my… no, for our Cuba. Cheers.