The Horrible Things
January 1858.
The great champions led by Harris, editor-in-chief of the Boston Advertiser, finally arrived in Natchez, Mississippi—the den of evil.
"We must capture every single detail of the landscape here and the miserable state of the slaves working on these plantations, and commit it all vividly to our pages!"
Though they were all critics of slavery, many of the reporters in the group had never actually set foot in Mississippi. Yet, the panoramic view of Mississippi they witnessed with their own eyes was truly horrific.
At a glance, it was a pre-modern, backward rural society far more primitive than Boston. Their pens and eyes began to move busily. This was not just a simple article. It was an indictment sent to the civilized world, a record proving the existence of the devil.
Their first target was a large cotton plantation on the outskirts of Natchez. They parked their carriage on a forest path and hid behind the bushes, shivering in the cool January wind.
What unfolded before them was an endless, desolate cotton field where the harvest had already concluded. And upon it, black dots crawled.
"Even though the harvest is over, it seems they still have to work until their backs break," a young reporter groaned involuntarily. Through their binoculars, they confirmed the reality of those black dots. Dozens of black slaves, regardless of age or gender, were plowing the fields in long lines.
Those well-versed in the realities of slavery didn't need an explanation to guess the method. It was the so-called gang system, the most notorious method of forced labor in the South.
The artist moved his pen rapidly. He didn't draw individual faces. There was no need. He simply drew a long, hunched organism—a giant centipede-like figure made of rags and black skin, crawling while stuck to the earth.
Behind them, a white overseer on horseback acted like a shepherd herding a flock, though instead of a staff, he held a thick leather whip in his hand.
"They don't even rest all day," veteran reporter Thompson muttered low. Instead of cynicism, cold fury permeated everyone's voices. The long procession of slaves reflected in their eyes did not stop for a single moment. Whenever someone tried to straighten their back, the mounted overseer approached like lightning, and the drivers swung their whips.
It was exactly as it appeared. Violence and normalized terror ruled this place.
That evening, the atmosphere of the reporting team gathered at a shabby inn in Natchez was heavy. Sketches drawn during the day and hastily scribbled notes were scattered across the table.
"Indeed, this place is beyond anything we imagined..." Editor-in-chief Harris broke the silence.
"You all felt it clearly, didn't you? Facing their empty eyes in person is a completely different dimension from seeing words on a newspaper page. It seems the very word 'hope' does not exist for them."
Everyone agreed, looking down at their own notes. And if typical plantations were like this, they couldn't even fathom what the notorious James Sett's plantation would be like.
"If we can just meet Will, we will be able to expose the truth about that detestable James Sett."
"But... isn't there a reason he willingly told us to come down?"
"Well, he must have some scheme up his sleeve to have accepted our challenge."
"Could he have already broken Will through abuse and torture?"
"Then we just need to take back evidence of that abuse. Whatever it is, we just need to record the facts as they are."
The reporters burned with fighting spirit, gazing at the best photo they had captured that day. "As soon as we return, let's decorate the front page of our newspaper with this picture."
"If we take a photo of Will and place it right next to it, the effect will be maximized."
They exchanged heated discussions on how to make their special feature's cover stand out. However, their masterpiece would never be used as a cover. Having poured all their energy into the subsequent reporting, they were forced to accept the reality unfolding before them, as if it were a lie.
"I heard rats from Boston are scurrying around Mississippi. I heard you were the one who called them here; is that true?"
On the very evening the reporters entered Mississippi from Boston, John Quitman, who had come to my mansion without warning, did not hide his displeasure.
"Yes. They kept clinging to what I said in Boston, pestering me to keep my promise. So I told them to do so."
"That is the hallmark of those Northern bastards. Hypocrites who only have mouths. If it's troublesome for you, shall I clear them out? There wouldn't be many Southerners who would feel sorry if some drifters from the North met with an 'unfortunate accident'."
"You don't need to do that. And the Boston Advertiser is a fairly prominent newspaper over there. If they meet with misfortune, other media outlets will naturally rise up like a swarm of bees."
"Tsk, then I think it would have been better to just stop them with some excuse."
"If I did that, they would surely go crazy, claiming I was hiding something. It's better to just pretend to fall for their schemes."
As expected of the leader of the Fire-Eaters, his way of thinking is truly one-dimensional. Logically speaking, does it even make sense to dispose of reporters by faking an accidental death?
However, absurdity aside, confirming the fact that their intelligence network is spread like a spiderweb throughout Mississippi was a significant harvest for me. It meant that if an outsider came here and wandered around, information would reach the ears of someone like Quitman in less than half a day.
"If you say you're 'pretending to fall for it'... that means you have a plan."
"It's nothing that grand. They will try to highlight how miserable Will is, having been returned to slavery after enjoying freedom, even if it was difficult. So, we just need to let them meet Will as they wish."
"...And when they meet?"
"I'll have him tell them a story they'll absolutely love to hear."
In these situations, if coercion or manipulation is involved, the other party ends up having more to say. So, this time, I will do nothing and intervene in no way. They must have suffered quite a bit coming all the way from Mississippi from Boston; it would be too pitiful if they returned without doing everything they wanted.
The meticulousness of looking after even the Northern reporters who came down to attack me. I am such a considerate person.
Exactly two days after James told Quitman to leave Harris alone, Harris and his reporting team finally headed to the place of the decisive battle: Cedar Grove Plantation.
They steeled themselves, expecting a sight even more horrific than the hellscape they had seen the day before. James Sett would surely try to obstruct their reporting and block their meeting with Will in all sorts of cunning ways.
That should have been the norm...
"Will will be here shortly. The Master has permitted you to converse freely without any interference for two hours."
The black gentleman who emerged from the plantation's thick iron gate politely guided them to the parlor. Could it be some kind of trap? Are they trying to gather them in one place and wipe them out?
Harris was wary for a moment, but everything was far too peaceful. A sense of incongruity, wondering if it was really okay to be like this, enveloped his entire body, but he decided to focus on the goal before his eyes for now.
Finally, the door opened, and the protagonist they had been waiting for, Will, entered the room. As soon as Harris saw Will, he was swept up in even greater agitation. His face had much more color than when he had seen him in Boston, and his eyes were sharp and focused.
He was certain he would be much thinner; what on earth had happened? Was the time spent at the courthouse that painful? It must have been. Most people who are dragged to court as suspects and suffer through the ordeal are said to shudder just by recalling those memories.
"Will, are you alright? We have come. I am Harris of the Boston Advertiser."
Harris comforted him in the warmest voice possible. "How much mental anguish you must have suffered. To be dragged back to this land of barbarism... it must have been truly horrific."
They expected Will to be moved, but his reaction was different from their expectations. He nodded absentmindedly and let out a faint sigh.
"...Thank you for coming."
"Don't give up, Will! We haven't forgotten you. We will print your tragedy on the front page of our newspaper to make every conscientious citizen in the North furious. We will surely liberate you again!"
No matter how much the evil business owners squeezed him, the good and conscientious citizens would never abandon him. Despite Harris's passionate declaration, Will only muttered with a listless expression.
"...Thank you."
As expected... something is strange. Harris instinctively felt that something was going wrong. That was not the resignation of someone in despair. It was clearly closer to indifference, having no interest in conversing with them.
"Will, it's okay to tell us honestly. What kind of abuse did you suffer from that devil James Sett? Did he threaten to break your ankles so you couldn't run away again? Or did he blackmail you by saying he would cut out your tongue?"
At Harris's question, Will's brow furrowed slightly for the first time. He avoided their gaze, revealing his discomfort.
"There was no such thing."
"Then, were you bullied by other slaves because of the stigma of being a runaway slave? Speak, Will! We must let the world know of your suffering!"
As the reporters poured out questions as if pressing him, Will finally lifted his head. In his eyes, not resignation, but an unidentifiable annoyance and anger were burning.
"Ah, damn it... seriously."
He parted his lips for a while, then spat out words that were like a bomb.
"I am truly sorry to you all who have come this far, but I do not want to return to Boston."
"Wh-what?"
What on earth does this mean? The reporting team doubted their own ears. Harris asked back in astonishment.
"Are you in your right mind? What on earth did that devil do to you that you would voluntarily give up the freedom you wanted so much! He must have destroyed your mind! Speak, Will! What on earth did James Sett do to you?"
The arch-devil who had mercilessly trampled the will of a young man who had wanted freedom so much. Harris had ranted with a sense of justice to expose James Sett.
"Damn it, stop it!"
Instead of the indifference he had shown until now, volcanic anger erupted from Will's face.
"Stop it already! Don't spout nonsense as you please! Don't insult Mr. Sett!"
"Mr... Sett?"
"Are you that curious about what I've suffered? Fine, I'll tell you!"
He jumped up and rolled up his sleeves. His arms, which had been nothing but bone in Boston, were well-fleshed and muscular.
"From the first day I came here, I ate three meals a day until my stomach burst! In the morning, warm soup and bread; for lunch and dinner, even if it was scraps, there was meat! This is the 'horrible thing' I have suffered until now!"
His voice, unable to contain his excitement, rang loudly through the room.
"When work was over, no one bothered me! Every evening, I played ball and ran around with my friends at the baseball field, and on weekends, I could even sleep in! This, too, is what I have suffered!"
Will finally approached Harris until he was right in front of his nose, looked him straight in the eye, and said:
"And... and Mr. Sett introduced me to a lovely lover. Her name is May, and she works in the plantation laundry. He told me that even a guy like me deserves to have a family... and that I should try loving someone!"
"N-no, that..."
"Just yesterday! I decided to officially date her! Everyone on the plantation is celebrating the birth of our couple right now! This! This is all the 'horrible things' I have suffered at the hands of James Sett!"
What can you do even if you hear all these facts? Harris could not utter a single word in response to Will's exposure, where he kept listing the 'horrible things' he had suffered at the hands of James Sett—the runaway slave who had been repatriated from Boston and was now howling that he never wanted to return to Boston again.
The pen that had fallen onto the desk was rolling on the floor, but no one could even think to pick it up.