Chapter 146: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity (10) "Hm… something's strange…? The numbers shouldn't look like this."
Had staying locked in this cramped room for almost a week finally driven him insane?
A Ministry of Finance employee, being ground down in real time inside the livestock pen of the wicked slave-owner Guillaume de Toulon, set down his pen and rubbed his eyes several times.
"…Why are they the same?"
Despite his hopes, the numbers written in the documents continued babbling nonsense.
"Section Chief. No matter how I look at this, the numbers are strange."
"Why? They don't add up?"
"It's not just that they don't add up… Rather than me explaining it, I think it would be better if you looked at it yourself."
"Hmm, all right. Let's see."
The section chief slowly read through the ledger titled [1791 Saint-Domingue Crop Yield] that his subordinate handed him. After a moment, he tilted his head and spoke.
"It does look a bit strange."
"Right? Until just now I wondered if I was seeing things."
"…This should probably be shown directly to the Minister."
August 30, 1792.
It was evening, the sun slowly setting beyond the Seine River outside the window.
"It's finished! Finished! I can finally lie down on a bed…!"
"Oh, you're done?"
"Yes, sir! I've finished my portion!"
The Ministry of Finance staff, who had been pushing through a final sprint in preparation for tomorrow's trial, began leaving their seats one by one while humming.
After placing a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee on the desk, I took the key from beneath the cushion I was sitting on and opened the front door.
"You've all worked hard. You don't have to come to work for about a week, so go home and get some rest."
"Minister, we wish you success in tomorrow's trial!"
I waved back at the employee who raised his fist toward me with a bright smile. Then I returned the key beneath my cushion and sat back down.
Lately I sometimes felt people looking at me as though I were a wicked slave owner. But Guillaume de Toulon is infinitely generous to those who work hard and produce results.
"Minister."
"Hm? Section Chief, you haven't gone home yet?"
"This ledger… there's something strange about it. Could you take a look?"
"Isn't it natural for a secret ledger to be strange?"
"That's not the kind of strange I mean."
At the section chief's serious tone, I straightened in my seat.
"This is the Saint-Domingue Governor's Office internal harvest report for 1790."
"Hmm."
I skimmed through the report he handed me.
Yes. The contents matched.
"Minister, the Black resistance movement only began toward the end of 1791. So naturally the harvest figures for 1790 and 1791 should be fairly similar."
"That's right."
"But please take a look at this. This is the harvest report for 1791."
"…The harvest suddenly dropped. It looks like almost thirty percent vanished."
A crop failure of that magnitude in just one year.
Come to think of it, I clearly remembered something…
—Sir, something felt a little strange. Normally when cargo ships arrive, they fill the hold with coffee and sugar beet before returning. But recently they're barely carrying half that amount.
Corruption and misconduct continued to appear one after another.
"Could you bring the official report that was submitted to the Ministry of Finance, rather than this secret ledger?"
"Yes, Minister!"
The "official" report the section chief brought showed considerable differences from the Saint-Domingue "internal" report. Well, of course. The official report had been sent up so their embezzlement wouldn't be noticed.
More importantly, one thing became clear: the internal report wasn't fabricated. There was no reason for them to tamper with it twice, and no reason to falsify their own internal ledger.
That meant there must have been a real cause for the sudden production collapse that looked suspicious enough to suggest manipulation.
"…Section Chief."
"Yes, Minister."
"What could cause production to fall this sharply in such a short time?"
I stroked my chin.
"Well… first, poor climate conditions."
"But the climate in 1790 and 1791 was almost the same. Let's rule that out."
"Hm. The second possibility would be embezzlement by field administrators."
"Rule that out as well. This document was meant for them to divide and devour among themselves."
"Then… perhaps the labor force being mobilized decreased."
"A decrease in the labor force…"
According to Toussaint, the people who were massacred weren't whites but Blacks.
A thirty-percent harvest decline.
Blacks said to have been slaughtered.
The pieces seemed to fit.
And if my guess was correct…
My brow furrowed.
"…Minister, surely that can't be the case? No matter how terrible those people are, they wouldn't go that far."
"…Section Chief. How many Black laborers are there in Saint-Domingue?"
"Minister! No! That can't be true!"
"If I remember correctly, around seventy thousand to fifty thousand."
The section chief's face instantly turned ashen as he handed me the document.
"Section Chief, is the number I just said correct?"
"…It is."
"…If we roughly estimate it by instinct… then the number of victims would be around ten thousand."
"…Dear God. Dear God."
The civil servant who had spent his entire life in Paris shuddered at the horror—something he could not believe a civilized human could commit.
For a long time we stood there biting our lips in silence. Then, at the same time, we made the sign of the cross toward the heavens.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Toward the nameless people far away.
August 31, 1792.
Paris, France. Revolutionary Tribunal.
"…Haah."
"Strange. I think my heart is racing more now than during the revolution."
"Indeed."
The three judges sighed deeply and slowly walked toward the bench.
—How can Toussaint be innocent! How can a black man be human!
Some colonial businessmen who owned plantations and slaves across islands of the Atlantic and East Indies.
—How can a creature that speaks like us, eats like us, sleeps like us, and feels emotions like us not be human? Revolution! Marianne! Save Toussaint!
The Mountain faction, Robespierre, and intellectuals.
—So does he have a crime or not?
—Every newspaper says something different.
Even ordinary citizens.
All of France's attention was fixed upon the Revolutionary Tribunal—upon which direction the three judges' gavels would fall.
"Very well. The third and final trial of the defendant Toussaint Bréda, August 30 session, will now begin."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three heavy sounds filled the courtroom.
"Our Ministry of Finance has uncovered the largest corruption case in French history during a week of forensic examination! This deception of the citizens and the government—!"
"Governor's Office, is that true?"
"…We admit there were some irregularities."
"Hm. The Ministry of Finance report will be admitted as evidence for the defense."
"This has nothing to do with the subject of the trial!"
"Governor Blanchelande, mind your words!"
The results of several sleepless nights by our Ministry of Finance staff finally began to shine.
And finally—
"Witness Guillaume de Toulon, please come forward."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"The Ministry of Finance claims that the Governor of Saint-Domingue severely damaged the spirit of the Revolution. Could you explain what that means?"
"Yes, Your Honor. As stated earlier, the Ministry of Finance has concluded that the Saint-Domingue Governor's Office violently suppressed a massive number of Black people for approximately one year."
The judge stroked his chin and asked.
"How many victims does the Ministry estimate?"
"The exact number is unknown, but roughly eight—"
"Eight hundred?"
"Between eight thousand and ten thousand."
"…Surely the court misheard?"
"It is ten thousand."
All three judges stared at each other at once.
"Mi—Ministry of Finance, are you saying ten thousand Black people were beaten to death by the Governor's Office?"
"…Regrettably, yes."
"Governor's Office! Is that true!?"
"Your Honors! Those people were rebels! Our Governor's Office merely executed rebels on the spot!"
"Huh. So it is true."
Shock spread across everyone's faces.
How could civilized people who believed in Catholicism and God commit such barbarity?
"Blanchelande… are you even human?"
"This court expresses its deep regret toward Governor Blanchelande, who deceived both the legislature and the citizens and repeatedly gave false testimony during three trials."
"And to the innocent victim Toussaint Bréda, the court offers its sincere apology."
"Finally, this court declares Toussaint Bréda not guilty."
Once again, three heavy sounds filled the courtroom.
I slowly turned my head and looked at the man standing behind me in the defendant's seat.
His black eyes shone in the warm August sunlight of Paris.
Those black eyes curved into crescents as transparent tears began to fall.
I slowly walked toward him and spoke to the guard standing beside him.
"Please give me the key."
"Yes, sir."
"This is the handcuff key."
The guard pulled a heavy metal object from his belt with a clanking sound and handed it to me.
I inserted it into the hole of the wooden shackles and turned it.
Click.
The symbol of oppression that had bound a man for months fell to the floor with a dull sound.
"Toussaint, you've suffered greatly."
"…Liberty, equality, and fraternity are not an illusion. They truly are not an illusion… truly…"
The great revolutionary who had traveled 7,314 kilometers from Saint-Domingue to Paris was finally free.
No—every Frenchman had become free.
"You bastards! Don't touch me! Do you know who I am?!"
"Who are you? A condemned prisoner."
"Quiet down and get inside already. We need to go eat."
The two non-commissioned officers snorted and tossed Blanchelande onto the damp stone floor before walking away.
"You bastards! Let me out!"
"…Du… du…ri… water…"
"What—who's there!? If someone's there, speak!"
"Dumouriez… Dumouriez… why did you betray me? Why did you betray me?"
"Who's there!?"
"…Heh… heh…"
What was this?
"Wo…rk…er… pe…as…ant…"
"Who—who are you?"
"I was not wrong. I was not wrong! The nation of workers and peasants will endure forever!"
"…What the…?"
The new resident of the Temple Tower in Paris's 4th district found his situation utterly unfamiliar.
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