The Promise Kept
"Welcome. Editor Harris, this is our first time speaking face-to-face, isn't it?"
The day of the decisive battle had finally arrived.
Harris, who had come to Cedar Grove Plantation, forced a smile and gave a light bow the moment he saw me.
Anyone would think he was a knight preparing for the Crusades. He was practically overflowing with grim determination.
"I suppose your conversation with Will last time wasn't enough?"
"Well... it's not that it wasn't enough, but I felt further explanation was necessary, which is why I've unavoidably requested this additional interview. I am truly grateful that you agreed."
"Think nothing of it. In fact, this is a good thing for me as well. Doesn't it prove to everyone that James Sett is a man of honor who keeps his word once he's given it? So, please, make sure you keep your end of the bargain."
"...Of course."
Good. Now, an article declaring James Sett a man of integrity who keeps his promises will be spread across all of Boston by one of the most famous newspapers in the North, not just the South.
A laugh bubbled up inside me.
I wonder what the self-proclaimed 'Will Protection Squad,' who tore me to shreds over the last incident, will say when they see that article.
Will they claim I bribed Harris this time?
"Let's proceed quickly. Both you and I are busy people, after all."
I sank deep into the sofa in the drawing room and smiled at Harris, who sat stiffly opposite me. The reporters standing behind him looked as tense as witnesses in a courtroom.
Conversely, Will, sitting next to me, was sipping the warm tea Leo had brought, looking as comfortable as could be.
Harris swallowed hard and opened his mouth.
"First of all... I'm glad to see Will's health is better than I expected, Mr. Sett."
"Is that so? I consider it the natural result."
"......"
"Now, Editor. I heard you had questions left over from the last interview. What were you so curious about? Were you genuinely worried that I might threaten to cut out Will's tongue?"
Harris hesitated for a moment at my mocking question, which I had masked with feigned innocence, but he soon forced himself to remain calm and continued.
"I want to confirm with you directly, Mr. Sett... whether everything Will said in the last interview is true. Is it really true that you provided him with sufficient meals, rest, and even introduced him to a... lover?"
"Of course. Will has no reason to lie about such things. If you're curious, feel free to grab anyone else on the plantation and ask them."
I turned to look at Will directly.
"Will, did I tell you to lie?"
"No, Mr. Sett."
Will's answer was calm and natural.
Harris couldn't hide his disbelief as he asked again.
"...Why? Why on earth would you show such favor to a slave who even attempted to escape?"
"It's simple, Editor Harris. Because that is more productive."
I explained it as kindly as if I were teaching a slow student that one plus one equals two.
"It is a natural principle that a worker who is well-fed, well-rested, and has hope for the future works better than one who is starving, beaten, and drowning in despair. I am not a philanthropist; I am a businessman. Of course, there aren't many people in the South who would agree, but if you publish this theory, perhaps the stubborn minds of other Southern planters might change a little. 'James Sett increases productivity by making his slaves happy.' Wouldn't that make for a truly wonderful headline?"
Harris's lips, which he had been trying to keep steady, trembled.
He wouldn't be able to write it, would he? The moment such an article went out, the Boston Advertiser and every abolitionist in the North would stop being hypocrites and start being fools.
I didn't lose my good-natured smile as I delivered the final blow.
"Ah, I just had a good idea."
"What are you thinking of now..."
"Will, they say there are still many good-hearted citizens in Boston who worry about you. To put their minds at ease, why don't you write them a letter yourself? Since these kind reporters are here, they can publish your letter in the newspaper."
Harris's face turned deathly pale. He tried to object, but my next words were faster.
"Surely you wouldn't refuse, Editor? Wasn't it your mission to bring the voice of 'poor Will' to the world?"
"No, that's..."
Harris muttered something, sighed, and then pulled out his pen, waiting for Will to open his mouth.
He must have realized that even if he couldn't actually publish it, he had no choice but to write it down.
Will looked back and forth between Harris and me, seemed lost in thought for a moment, and then began to recite the contents of the letter in a calm voice.
Harris's pen crawled across the paper, following Will's voice regardless of his own will.
"To all those in Boston who worry about my well-being..."
Will's voice echoed quietly through the drawing room.
"Please, worry no more. I am spending the most peaceful and happy days of my life here in Natchez. I eat three full meals a day, play baseball with my friends after work, and sleep soundly in a warm bed at night."
The tip of Harris's pen began to tremble slightly.
"Above all, my master, Mr. James Sett, has given me the opportunity to meet May, a lovely lover. Together with her, I dream of a humble but certain future. This is a happiness I could never have dared to imagine on the cold streets of Boston."
Will looked toward the other side of the plantation where May would be waiting, a faint smile on his face.
"I will never forget the grace of all those who fought for me. However, I have found a new life here, so I ask that you please respect my choice. I pray for God's blessing upon all of you who have worried for me."
When the last sentence of the letter ended, only the sound of Harris's ragged breathing and the scratching of the pen on paper remained in the room.
Even so, the fact that he could still feign composure must mean he has something he's relying on, right?
I decided to wait patiently to see what kind of news the messenger he sent would bring back.
As planned in advance, Thompson, the most talented reporter at the Boston Advertiser, hid in the bushes and separated from the group as soon as he entered the plantation.
He couldn't waste even a second of this precious time Editor Harris had bought for him.
He moved secretly toward the inner part of the plantation, trying his best not to be spotted by the guards.
"Damn it... why is it so heavily guarded? And black people carrying guns? It's like I'm living in some terrible nightmare."
Even when he had gone undercover to report on an armed smuggling ring in Boston, the security hadn't been this tight.
Perhaps it was because he was too nervous. Just as he was about to take a step.
Snap.
The sound of stepping on a dry branch rang out unusually loudly in the quiet plantation.
'Damn it!'
Thompson felt his heart stop and immediately threw himself to the ground.
Two black guards patrolling nearby turned their heads toward the sound.
It was over. He couldn't believe it would end in such an absurd way.
But the guards' reaction was strange.
"Hmm? Did you hear a sound just now?"
"Who knows...? Maybe it was the wind? My ears must be getting bad lately."
"O-oh! I guess so! Hahaha!"
They stared at the bushes for a moment, then shrugged exaggeratedly and returned to their patrol route.
Thompson watched their retreating backs, breaking out in a cold sweat.
'...Did they not hear it? Or are they just lazy? Well, I suppose it's only natural since they left the security to slaves.'
He concluded that, contrary to appearances, Sett's security system was incredibly sloppy, and he cautiously resumed his exploration.
However, Thompson soon found himself encountering scenes that made him doubt his own eyes.
The first shock came in a large open space that looked like a training ground.
There were no slaves there, whipped and forced into hard labor.
Instead, several white overseers and black slaves were mixed together, shouting and... playing baseball.
"Run, run! You turtle!"
"That's an out! It's clearly an out!"
Jonathan, the overseer of Cedar Grove, was even covered in dirt from sliding, then put his arm around the black catcher and shared a beer.
Thompson rubbed his eyes several times and looked at the scene again.
Is that really what a slave and an overseer look like?
Or are they putting on some kind of play?
Holding his confused head, he infiltrated deeper, near the slave barracks, and received a second shock.
The slaves sitting on the porch of the barracks were far from the empty-eyed ghosts he had seen at other plantations yesterday.
They were singing hymns, but the melody wasn't solemn; it had a cheerful rhythm, twisting and turning as they pleased.
"Heeey~~ yeah~ the one who saaaaved~ meee~!"
"The grace~ of the Sett~ plaaantation~"
The lyrics were strange, but they sang with such gusto, cracking jokes in between and making no secret of their expectations for their future lives.
"By the way, did you all hear? They say the Master is going to teach us something called card games at the next dinner. They say it's really fun?"
"Is it more fun than baseball? I still think baseball is the best."
"Will is lucky. He's so busy dating May that he probably doesn't care about card games."
Thompson was engulfed in a mental shock that went beyond absurdity.
Torture? Abuse? Starvation?
The evidence of the hell he had been looking for was nowhere to be found.
Instead, what unfolded before his eyes was an incomprehensible peace and vitality.
Could James Sett be an abolitionist disguised as a planter?
No, that's impossible. It was common knowledge not just in the South, but even in the North, how much profit James Sett's plantation was making.
If he hadn't made that much money, how could he have built a hospital and bought up railroad stocks so extensively?
He couldn't understand anything he was seeing. Yet, he was a journalist.
Even if he couldn't understand it, he had to record it.
He took out his sketchbook and began frantically drawing the bizarre scene of white and black men drinking beer together.
Just as he was about to finish the sketch of one of the black men.
"Hey, you there."
At the low voice, Thompson jumped in surprise and looked up.
Black guards with guns were standing in front of him.
There had been no order to allow recording, even if spying was allowed, so they stopped pretending not to see him.
"Hand over what you're holding."
"W-what..."
"Oh, we have to stop that. Hey! Call Overseer Jonathan! A rat has snuck in here!"
In an instant, the situation turned into chaos.
Jonathan, who came running after hearing the commotion, turned beet red the moment he saw the sketchbook in Thompson's hand.
"Hah, look at these guys? You come here officially invited, and you dare to do this behind our backs?"
Jonathan snatched the sketchbook and tore it to shreds in front of Thompson's eyes.
The other black men who had run over after hearing the noise were terrified by Jonathan's menacing demeanor.
"U-uh... Overseer? We'll take this man away, so..."
"No, wait! I'm just trying to have a word with him!"
"Eek! You can't hit people again!"
"Peter! Take this man away before things get worse!"
"I-I'll hold the Overseer for a moment. Hurry!"
Peter and the other slaves desperately grabbed Jonathan's arms and waist.
"No, I'm just trying to talk to him nicely! Let go! Won't you let go?"
"Hey, let's go! You're lucky! If it weren't for us, you would've been beaten to death by the Overseer. Do you know who our Overseer is? He's the type who beats anyone, white or black, if they cross him."
"That's right, that's right. The incident where the overseer at the next farm insulted Mr. Leo and got all his teeth knocked out is very famous."
Thompson, not knowing what was going on, was dragged toward the drawing room by the hands of the black men who were trying to save him.
The news was immediately reported to the owner of the plantation, who was in the middle of an interview.
James smiled for a moment after hearing the report, then stood up with a cold, hardened face.
He spoke quietly to Harris, who had frozen while transcribing Will's letter.
"Editor Harris. I just received a report. It seems one of your reporters was caught sneaking around my private property. You have some idea what this is about, don't you?"
".........!"
"I allowed your visit as a gentleman to a gentleman. Is this how you repay my trust?"
"N-no, that's..."
"The interview is over. Take your subordinate and leave my plantation immediately."
Harris was dragged out of the drawing room by James's slaves, half out of his mind.
He couldn't understand it.
From the day he arrived in Mississippi, from the first interview with Will, and even now, as he was being dragged out, not a single thing made sense.
Before the drawing room door closed, he shouted one last question.
"James Sett! What on earth... are you trying to do?"
Of course, the answer he wanted to hear did not come back.
"Are you trying to interview me even now? I have no reason to answer you."
"Is this the notorious big planter of the South? What on earth are you trying to do... what on earth is this..."
"I won't see you out. Guys! Our guests are leaving! See them off properly."
Finally, James Sett's last words flew out beyond the closing door, embedding themselves in Harris's ears.
"Please make sure you keep your promise. I look forward to the copy that will be printed on the front page of the Boston Advertiser. If you break your promise, you might find a lawsuit for trespassing on private property heading your way."
What more could a loser who got caught trying to spy on a plantation argue?
This devastating sentence, which would make anyone think Boston was a city that supported slavery, was now set to be spread throughout Boston in the name of its most prestigious newspaper.