The Siege of Black Creek (3)
"Hmm... is this really possible?"
Nick, the sheriff of Mississippi, clicked his tongue as he surveyed the countless corpses strewn across the outskirts of Black Creek Plantation. He had received the report of a massive shootout at the plantation several hours ago, but he had been delayed while hastily assembling a militia. If a large-scale firefight had truly occurred, rushing in alone would have been nothing more than throwing his life away for nothing.
Still, because Black Creek was the plantation of James Sett, a prominent local figure in Natchez, he had prayed that the damage wouldn't be too severe. If the damage were greater than expected, the fallout might land squarely on him. If they accused him of being late to respond, causing the losses to mount, what could he possibly say in his defense? Word was that Sett had close ties to the governor and senators; if they decided to squeeze him, his position as sheriff could be at risk.
But having arrived, he realized there was no need to worry.
The outskirts of the plantation had initially been a scene straight out of hell—a tragedy with mangled bodies scattered everywhere. Some of the bandits had their skulls completely crushed, suggesting they had been beaten with blunt objects until they died. Nick hadn't been a sheriff for just a year or two; he had seen bodies riddled with bullets and corpses horribly mutilated by wild beasts, but seeing so many bodies at once still made him wince.
To think that these Black men had shot and killed over a dozen armed bandits? While killing an armed bandit gang was legally justifiable as self-defense, the thought that they had been brutally slaughtered by "nigger" slaves left a sour taste in his mouth.
Of course, that feeling dissipated somewhat once he heard Sett's explanation.
"This is entirely my handiwork. You don't actually think these niggers fought and repelled the bandits on their own, do you?"
"Well... I suppose not."
This wasn't a case of Black men killing white men. It was more accurate to view it as a young, capable white planter utilizing the tool of Black labor to repel bandits who had invaded his property. Having re-established his perception of the event, Nick wrote down everything he had seen, heard, and discovered as objectively as possible.
"Since there was a large-scale shootout and fatalities, we'll need to summon a coroner and a jury. Could you wait here for a moment?"
"Of course. Sheriff... what was your name?"
"Nick. Nick Parker."
"Sheriff Parker, why don't you rest inside the plantation until the coroner arrives? The smell of blood is overwhelming; there's no need for you to stay at the scene, is there?"
"...That's true. Then, I'll tidy up the basics and take a breather inside the plantation until the coroner arrives."
In this case, the line between good and evil was so clear that there was no need to dig through gruesome corpses to collect evidence. After all, if he just hung around inside with Sett, the slaves would come and testify to everything—why bother with a difficult investigation?
"Alright, just a final wrap-up and the report will be finished. So, when the bandits attacked and threatened the people, Mr. Sett, who happened to be visiting the plantation to finalize the fortification work, took command?"
"That's correct. Leo, you explain it."
"Yes, sir!"
As soon as Sett finished speaking, a Black man named Leo stepped forward. Nick brought his pen to the paper to organize the contents for his report. While a Black slave's testimony was only for reference, if James guaranteed its credibility, it would be worth using to fill out the report.
"Everything was according to the master's wisdom. As if he had received a revelation from heaven, the master accurately foresaw the time and place the scoundrels would attack."
...Hmm, he speaks quite well for a slave.
Nick found himself staring at Leo, pen in hand.
"The very moment the scoundrels tried to sneakily cross the fence under the cover of darkness! The master quietly raised his hand in the darkness, and at that signal, we unleashed our first volley of fire. The sound of gunfire, like thunder, tore through the veil of the night and shattered the enemy's vanguard!"
"Oh..."
"While the scoundrels were in chaos, the master suddenly revealed himself! He appeared like a lighthouse in a storm, pointing to where the enemy's left flank was collapsing, and shouted, 'Concentrate fire on the left!' As we turned our muzzles at his command, the scoundrels fell like autumn leaves in the wind!"
In Nick's mind, a vision formed of James Sett standing against the backdrop of a burning plantation, holding a flag high and commanding his soldiers. Without realizing it, his pen began to move automatically, transcribing Leo's words exactly.
"The master's god-like command created everything; we were merely parts who moved our fingers to pull the triggers. Every movement, every angle of fire, was all within the master's calculations. All we did was play that great score. The master was the Bach of the battlefield, and we were nothing but the instruments..."
Just then, the study door burst open, and a Black man of sturdy build entered. Leo, recognizing his face, paused his elaborate explanation.
"Master! I am reporting on the casualties!"
"Oh, I see. What's the situation?"
"Friendly casualties: two seriously injured, twelve lightly injured. They say the seriously injured will have no trouble surviving if we transport them to the hospital immediately. We've already prepared the wagons, so we just need to transport them. And as for fatalities... there are none."
No fatalities?
Nick doubted his ears. To have zero fatalities in a shootout of this scale—what kind of god-like command must he have exercised? At the same time, he saw James let out a deep sigh of relief, wiping his chest.
"Haha... Mr. Sett. You seem very relieved."
It wasn't that he was suspicious; he just blurted it out because he looked so happy. But Sett didn't react much, looking back at him as if asking why he was asking something so obvious.
"Of course I'm relieved. Sheriff Parker, do you know the value of one skilled worker on my plantation? It's equivalent to two years' salary for a typical free laborer. I almost lost two years' worth of a laborer's salary to a single bullet from those bandit bastards, but there wasn't a single loss. If this isn't God's protection, what is?"
"Ah... two years' salary..."
Well, slaves were expensive. Especially since the slaves on Sett's plantation were famous for their high efficiency, their unit price would be higher than typical slaves. This cold-blooded planter wouldn't have been worried about the slaves' lives. He was simply worried about the loss of his 'assets.' That cold, calculating logic felt even more realistic to Nick.
James, having confirmed that Nick had finished transcribing Leo's explanation, stood up abruptly.
"I must see the seriously injured being moved to the hospital myself."
"By all means."
Stepping outside, he saw the Black men being loaded onto makeshift stretchers. Sett approached them and began to roar in a voice devoid of even a shred of concern.
"You bastards! Don't you dare die without my permission! Your bodies are my precious assets! Tell the hospital! Tell them to fix you up perfectly no matter what it takes! You have to go back to the fields and pick cotton!"
As if this were a daily occurrence, the slaves nodded, saying they understood, and quickly resumed their work. Wow... I guess you have to squeeze them this hard to become that rich. A strange mixture of respect and contempt welled up inside him. Today, Nick felt as though he had encountered a new world and had his eyes opened wide.
***
Not long after, an elderly coroner and the neighboring planters designated as jurors arrived. They cursed as they looked at the corpses of the bandits strewn about.
"These bastards deserve to be torn apart! How dare they eye our Southern plantations?"
"Tsk tsk, serves them right. They died well."
"Sett! Are you alright? These vermin didn't do anything to you, did they?"
The investigation proceeded swiftly. Whenever the coroner asked a few formal questions, Nick read aloud the report he had written. The fierce reactions of the outraged jurors followed each time.
"In the end, thanks to Sett's heroic command, a long-standing nuisance of the South has been pulled out by the roots!"
"Bodies like these should just be thrown in the fields as crow food!"
The coroner, having heard enough of the jurors' heated opinions, cleared his throat and pulled out his documents.
"If there are no objections, I will deliver the verdict."
Of course, no one raised an objection.
"I declare that all deaths in the shooting incident at Black Creek Plantation were acts of self-defense committed to protect one's life and property."
The stamp was applied, and signatures were added. The 'Arrow of Freedom' incident, which had terrified Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi, thus finished all legal procedures in just 10 minutes and vanished into history. Naturally, not a single person raised an issue with the fact that slaves had been mobilized to kill white men. Since all the jurors were planters who owned slaves themselves, wouldn't they have wanted to dance for joy that the bandits who might have attacked them were dead?
In fact, everyone else left the plantation singing fervent anthems of praise until the very end. I remained with the Black men, using the excuse that I needed to handle the remaining damage to the plantation. Watching the sheriff and the jurors leave, Leo let out a sigh of relief.
"It seems we got away with it."
"I told you. These are white men who are okay to kill."
"Still, if the master hadn't been here, I think they would have found some way to pick at us. Even Sheriff Nick didn't look very happy when he first saw the bandits' bodies."
"It's a funny thing. Originally, it's innocent to shoot someone who enters your house with a gun, but they just felt a sense of rejection at the fact that a white man was shot and killed by a Black man."
A situation the heart cannot accept even if the head understands it. So, I presented a new direction so they would perceive this situation itself differently.
"But Master... since we've done something this big, couldn't there be a problem with the plan?"
"Problem? What problem?"
"According to your prediction, Master, the South and the North might go to war. Since you've shown how capable you are, won't you be dragged out if a war breaks out?"
"...That's true. They'll try to make me dedicate myself to the South somehow."
In truth, big planters like me don't need to worry about being dragged to the front lines even if the Civil War breaks out. The excellent '20-Negro Law' that will be enacted in the future legally prevents my conscription. What is the 20-Negro Law? It's a crazy piece of legislation that states white men who own 20 or more slaves are exempt from conscription. In reality, this also had a logical reason. The intent was for planters with 20 or more slaves to monitor their subordinates on the plantation in case the slaves revolted due to unstable security when war broke out.
However, regardless of such laws, if someone with my level of influence existed, there was a high possibility that an offer would come to take a plausible position at headquarters. Because I have the symbolism of a slave owner who owns over a thousand slaves and is engaged to a British noble family. Of course, I could back out based on the law, but if I spend my time cosplaying as a patriot and then don't respond to the nation's call, it's obvious what kind of talk will go on behind my back.
But if I really go to the front lines, it's a 'collaborator' ending where I'm stuck with no way out, so that's out of the question. Many who served as Southern generals were active after the war ended, but their areas of activity were strictly focused on Southern society. If I were only going to live as a big shot in Mississippi for the rest of my life, it wouldn't matter whether I served as an officer in the Civil War or not, but my ultimate goal isn't just to be a Southern big shot, is it?
To become a prominent figure who can influence the entire United States, even if I join the Southern army, I must at least receive a position where I can pull the wool over people's eyes.
"Leo, if you were a high-ranking Southern politician, what would you think if you heard the story of a slave master who turns even Black men into combat weapons?"
"Yes? Hmm... I'd think, 'He trains them incredibly well'..."
"Right? That's it exactly."
A person who makes even niggers, who aren't human, fight like humans—that is James Sett. Shouldn't such a great trainer be used to raise new recruits in the rear, not on the front lines? Therefore, this heroic suppression battle must be made even more widely known. So that the perception that putting James Sett on the front lines is a massive waste is deeply ingrained, even if war breaks out later.
It's time to utilize the title of the South's greatest slave trainer to the extreme.