The Battle of Black Creek
By mid-February, a massive operation to suppress the Freedom’s Arrow was launched across Texas and Louisiana, forcing the bands of outlaws to temporarily halt their looting sprees.
Others toasted in advance, assuming that those bastards had finally reached their limit.
It was true that they had raided countless plantations with reckless abandon, so it was high time they stopped.
However, Owen predicted that this was merely a ruse; even if they truly stopped their raids, it would only be after they had attacked my plantation.
I shared the same sentiment, so I did not alter my plans.
However, I did not forget to play the part, appearing at parties here and there like other planters, acting as if everything was over and letting my guard down.
Since I didn't know through which channel the information was leaking, I had to widen my range of activity and make my appearance of being off-guard widely known.
"Indeed, that’s how bandits always are. With our brave soldiers conducting thorough searches, how could such lowly scoundrels continue to run wild?"
"They must have made quite a fortune from all the looting, so I suspect they’ll flee to the North and live like mice now."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Those despicable Northerners, as always."
I blathered on here, laughed heartily there.
While I didn't stop the work of fortifying the other plantations, I certainly slowed the pace.
It would be a problem if they got scared and went elsewhere because we worked too quickly.
Yet, in the meantime, under the cover of darkness, dozens of the latest military-grade Springfield 1855 rifles, obtained secretly through unofficial channels, were transported in.
Taking advantage of the dawn, we turned the fence areas at the 3 o'clock and 9 o'clock positions—the most likely paths for the enemy to invade—into muddy quagmires and covered them with thick piles of weeds.
By day, it looked like a peaceful, ordinary plantation, but in reality, it was steadily transforming into a human slaughterhouse that would lead every invader to hell.
Finally, I secretly selected the best marksmen from each plantation to handle the defense and called them to one place.
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
They maintained steady postures even during live-fire practice, and their accuracy was enough to be selected as elite marksmen even at a real training camp.
Ah, did I say they were called elite marksmen recently?
Anyway, these men, who possessed the highest level of skill even within the self-proclaimed Sett Personal Guard, already had a unique resolve overflowing in their eyes.
However, I could not be entirely at ease.
No matter how much they handled guns or how good their accuracy was in peacetime, these people had never experienced real combat.
Black combatants with real combat experience?
Such beings could not exist in the South to begin with.
Our Dixies would never plant the seeds of a black rebellion—the very thing they fear most—with their own hands, would they?
That is why, no matter how fit or physically capable most black people were, they had never properly swung a sword or a club, let alone fired a gun.
Our plantation was an exception, but even so, practice and reality were worlds apart.
Even at training camps, hearts pound when firing real guns or throwing grenades; imagine aiming that at a person.
There was more than enough possibility that they wouldn't even show half the shooting skill they displayed in training.
Conversely, the bandits expected to invade were scum who had already experienced raiding plantations several times.
It meant they were the type to laugh and pull the trigger toward a head if the black people guarding the plantation showed even a hint of resistance.
How was I to bridge this overwhelming gap in combat experience?
"Leo, Ben, have the others all become accustomed to the firearms?"
"Yes. The rifles fire so well that it's almost scary."
"I suppose so. They are military rifles, incomparable to old smoothbore muskets."
Most of the invaders would likely be using old muskets, hunting rifles, or shotguns that could be easily obtained.
If we used the Springfield 1855s I brought in through my connections, we could show overwhelming range and firepower, but this alone wouldn't be enough to put my mind at ease.
We needed more—adrenaline strong enough to erase the tension and fear of their first real battle.
Whiskey or Love House vouchers were too weak for this.
This was, quite literally, a fight where lives were on the line, a fight of kill or be killed.
I stood them all in one place after the final shooting practice and raised my voice solemnly.
"Now, attention everyone! As you have all heard, it is highly likely that the final target of the bandit gang sweeping through this area is our plantation. They will swarm toward Black Creek Plantation, where we have laid traps in advance."
"......"
"And from today, we will stand guard at Black Creek Plantation at night and dawn, waiting for them to fall into our trap. Naturally, those of you on night guard duty will be exempt from morning labor, and you will receive at least fifteen days of paid leave after the battle ends."
Two weeks of not working, just eating and playing.
Expectation clouded the eyes of my warriors, and one by one, they began to stir.
"However, I will be clear. Someone among you standing here may die and not be able to enjoy those benefits. This is different from shooting at a stationary target! Never forget that this is reality, where you shoot at living people, and conversely, you can be hit!"
"Master! We are prepared!"
"No! That resolve of yours is merely a fiction based on imagination. Have you ever actually seen a person you shot bleed and writhe in pain? Have you ever seen a friend who was laughing and chatting just a moment ago pouring out blood with a hole in their head?"
Bewilderment began to fill the eyes of the black men who had been excited about their vacation just a moment ago.
One might ask why I would dampen the morale of my own troops before the battle, but if their morale could be shaken by mere words like these, it should be considered non-existent from the start.
Therefore, I had to inject not clumsy resolve or courage, but anger and hatred toward the enemy.
So that they wouldn't hesitate for even 0.1 seconds to pull the trigger against them.
"Unlike you, those bastards currently enjoying their looting will pull the trigger without hesitation if you get in their way! They don't see you as people, but as just another obstacle blocking their path!"
"Then we will shoot them too!"
"Yes! That's it! Remember just one fact! You can briefly erase from your minds the education you've heard like brainwashing—that you must absolutely obey white people. The ones you will face are white people you are allowed to kill. Repeat after me: White people you are allowed to kill!"
"W-white people... allowed to kill?"
"Your voices are small! You bastards, those are white people you are allowed to kill, they are White Trash!"
My personal guard, who hadn't even dared to think of connecting the words 'allowed to kill' and 'white people,' were momentarily stunned.
But perhaps feeling something boiling within them, their expressions began to change.
"Ooh! Ooooooh! White people you are allowed to kill!"
"It's not a crime to shoot and kill every single one of those bastards who invade!"
"That's it! No, I'll go all out this time. One day of additional leave for every bandit killed! Understand? Those bastards are just walking paid vacations who came to die for you, so show absolutely no mercy!"
"Uaaaaaaah!"
An unthinkable situation where a black person dares to aim a gun at a white person.
Tension or fear was no longer visible on the faces of my personal guard, who had become the first warriors to break this taboo.
Instead, there was only the worry of what to do if the bandits didn't come, and the desire to quickly aim their guns at the bastards' heads.
Yes. Mental conditioning should be enough at this point.
Not just now, but if a war breaks out in the future, there will be countless times they will have to pull the trigger unintentionally.
But who will be the target of their muzzles then?
I guarantee that 100 out of 100 times, it will have to be white people.
Those blockheaded Southern Dixies will shout that they cannot hand weapons to black people, even if it means losing the war.
In that sense, this was the perfect environment for a rehearsal.
Because even if a black person shoots a white person, they would have no choice but to hush it up and cover it up rather than charge them with a crime.
"Now, move secretly to Black Creek Plantation as soon as it hits midnight. Rest deep within the plantation during the day, and never let it be known that you are staying there!"
The preparations were all complete.
Now, I only had to wait for the rats to be lured in by the scent of fragrant cheese.
* * *
Gary Dawson, who led the Freedom’s Arrow, was originally the son of a small-time farmer in Mississippi.
When he was young, he also dreamed of growing up to become a planter who owned black niggers.
But reality was not so easy, and his family's situation never improved.
Even in this situation, his anger was directed not at the government or society, but at the black people.
If there were more of those niggers, if twice as many black people lived in the South as now, couldn't he have owned slaves too?
This miraculous logic eventually reached the fantastic conclusion that his life became difficult because the North opposed slavery.
Isn't that so?
If only the Northerners had agreed to slavery, if only they had resumed the Atlantic slave trade, wouldn't there be far more black people in the South now, and wouldn't the prices have gone down?
After all, it is a very simple law of the world that if supply increases, prices decrease.
Having become a radical separatist like that, Gary shouted the slogans of 'North Out, South Independent' with his comrades and continued radical activities day after day, and one day, an opportunity came to him like a miracle.
The Cedar Grove overseer murder case, the terrorist group called Freedom’s Arrow, and John Brown.
Upon encountering these events, he began to conceive a plan to use them to rob other plantations and frame the group called Freedom’s Arrow.
Luckily, a supporter who shared his will provided him with weapons and information, and as he continued his activities day after day, he was able to become the leader of a large group with dozens of comrades.
"Boss, are we disbanding after this raid?"
"We have to. If we run around any more than this, our tails might get caught someday. And haven't we collected quite a bit? Especially since the plantation we're raiding this time is the famous James Sett’s plantation, there will be plenty of money and valuable goods."
"Hehehe, that’s good. James Sett has so much money that he won't even notice if we take a share."
After distributing the money looted so far and laundering their identities, they could just live in the South as if nothing had happened.
"Where are you going after we disband?"
"I'm thinking of going to Virginia and buying a small plantation. What about you, Boss?"
"Me? Won't I live the life of a planter, enjoying the luxury of owning niggers wherever it may be? Hehehehe."
Now, if they decorated this finale brilliantly, they could live the life of a planter they had dreamed of since they were young.
Excited, they approached Black Creek Plantation, visible in the distance, under the cover of darkness as always.
Thanks to the map the supporter had stolen in advance, they hadn't been spotted by anyone while coming this far.
"Everyone has studied the plan in advance, right? Based on the map, if we just cross the fence on the left side, we can approach the material warehouse immediately. So, break the fence as quickly as possible and occupy the warehouse. If there's anyone trying to interfere, shoot them to death as quickly as possible."
"Yes!"
"The people here think we've disbanded, so the defense won't be very tight, but James Sett is a name known even in Natchez, so if news of the raid spreads, the militia might come running quickly, so don't ever let time drag on. Understand?"
"Yes!"
Gary, having warned them strictly, scanned the surroundings quickly and rode his horse carefully.
Even though they had approached quite closely, there was almost no sign of life from the plantation.
They must all be fast asleep, never imagining that they would come.
Of course, even so, once they started raiding the plantation, those who woke up would surely come running out in a panic, but that wouldn't be a problem.
To begin with, niggers were a breed that, like their low intelligence, couldn't find loyalty to their master even if they washed their eyes and looked.
If you fire a few bullets, most of them will get scared and run away to find a way to save their own lives.
It had always been like that until now, and as they approached the left fence and lit their torches, convinced that this would be a repetition of familiar work, that very moment.
Bang!
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-bang!
"Argh... Argh!"
"Ugh!"
"Argh! Ambush, it's an ambush!"
Without any warning or shouting, a ruthless hail of bullets poured into their bodies.
Something flashed as the guns fired, but it wasn't even easy to accurately grasp where the enemies were ambushing from.
On the other hand, because they had just lit their torches, their own locations were clearly exposed, making them perfect targets.
"Damn it! It's an ambush! First, grasp the enemy's position and retreat while responding..."
Did our information leak in reverse?
I didn't know if it was the regular army or the militia that was always one step late, but the hail of bullets pouring down was sharp.
As his comrades fell one after another in an instant, Gary desperately hid his body and looked in the direction from which the bullets were presumed to be coming.
And.
"Enemy... huh?"
Gary, who saw the faces of the enemy soldiers that appeared momentarily every time a light flashed in the distance, lost his words for a moment.
They were black.
...Why?
What the... don't tell me, not the regular army or the militia, but... niggers?
No, that can't be. Is it a story that makes sense, that niggers are holding guns and shooting?
It must be dark at night, so they just look black.
"B-Boss! The guys shooting guns over there right now are nig... Argh!"
The subordinate who had been talking about returning to buy a plantation after the battle fell backward, blood spurting from his forehead.
And Gary, looking at the blackish objects visible in the distance, had no choice but to face the unbelievable reality.
They were being attacked by black people.