You Are the Best
After Kate and John departed, I immediately summoned all the plantation workers.
"Gentlemen, I have some regrettable news. It seems our dear planter brothers and sisters of Mississippi are twisting with curiosity, dying to know how I managed to achieve such a dramatic improvement in profit margins."
Truth be told, a day like this was inevitable. In fact, I had to overcome this hurdle to achieve the plans I’ve set for myself.
In that sense, one could say the sense of justice that drove John to come all the way here to stop his brother-in-law—while making a scene all by himself—actually helped me.
"Master! If the other planters try to persecute you, we shall become your shield and block them!"
"Just give us the order!"
My heart is gladdened, but I cannot allow that.
By Southern standards, they were the ones in the right, and I was the anomaly itself.
"I am truly grateful for your loyalty as your master, but unfortunately, we cannot make them understand this method itself. Those old fogies are so stubborn that they would never accept this approach, no matter how much more money it makes."
To be blunt, no matter how efficient and superior my methods appear, they are difficult to tolerate within the 'current' framework of slavery.
But from the very beginning, I have been prepared to respond whether slavery persists, is moderately reformed, or is abolished entirely.
Right now, since everyone is running their plantations with slaves, they are only falling slightly behind my profit margins, but what happens when the war ends?
It is a historical fact that after transitioning to a sharecropping system, the profit margins of planters plummeted.
In other words, once the slave system changes to be more moderate or is abolished altogether, those planters who try to adapt too late will naturally be weeded out.
That means I will be the only 'Cotton King' left in the South who manages such a large number of Black people.
"The reason I told you to keep this an absolute secret was not just because I didn't want my trade secrets leaked, but also to avoid getting caught up in unnecessary trouble. And since you all know that, I assume that’s why you’ve cooperated so well in maintaining security."
"We will do anything you ask of us!"
"Just give us the order!"
Whether they were field hands, house servants, or attendants, I could feel their desperate desire to uphold the current policy. Seeing them react even more fiercely than I do, it’s clear they’ve become bodies that simply cannot live without me now. Heh heh heh.
"Good. Then I will tell you what needs to be done. Next Sunday afternoon, several planters from all over Mississippi will visit our plantation. They will be touring the grounds."
"Then does that mean they won't see us working?"
"Correct. In the first place, if outsiders loiter around during the harvest, our profit margins will drop immediately, which is something I cannot tolerate. They are all planters who run their own farms, so no one will be able to find fault with that."
It’s not as if they’ve only been running farms for a day or two; those with some experience can grasp how things work here just by looking at the facilities.
"So, the conclusion they must reach after touring our farm should be as follows: 'Wow, this bastard James Sett is really grinding his slaves to dust to squeeze out profits. Even I couldn't go that far.' Does everyone understand?"
"······."
"Simply put, we want them to think that our improved profit margins came from me squeezing you even more harshly. Then no one will find fault with this policy, and they will instead praise me as an exemplary slave owner."
Through the public image I gain this way, I can engage in external activities stably, and my workers can continue to lead their current lives.
This is the completion of a world where no one gets hurt.
What if rumors of me being a heinous slave exploiter spread and cause trouble after the war ends?
I guarantee it: whether the slave system is drastically reformed or abolished, my workers will not go anywhere else; they will stick right by my side.
After all, a person's value is determined by their actions, not by a hundred words.
Even if they bark that I am a slave exploiter, the very people who were supposedly exploited will all take my side, so will there really be a scratch on my reputation?
"Now, if you all understand, give me some plausible ideas. I’ll give a special glass of whiskey to whoever comes up with the best one."
Leo was the first to raise his hand high.
"The best thing would be visible marks. How about we clearly carve whip marks into their backs? Since it’s hard to distinguish from a distance anyway, what if we apply something like oak juice to create the marks? Or maybe smearing charcoal would be good!"
"A fine suggestion. We shall test it immediately after the meeting."
Not to be outdone, Ben followed right after.
"Everyone must act with one mind, as if they don't have the strength to lift a finger. And, what if we show ourselves forcing someone to rest if they try to do any other activity?"
"Hmm, that’s good too. It would give the impression of resting a machine that has overheated from overwork, rather than a break."
As expected, the power of collective intelligence is great.
Useful ideas continued to...
"Every time the visitors pass by, we should act startled! We'll prepare to be hit on our own."
"That’s a bit excessive."
"What if we stage a scene where one of us dies!"
"Then I’ll be dragged away for illegal activity."
"How about we look like we're addicted to the pain from being whipped too much?"
...Nothing good is coming out. This is the fast track to ochlocracy.
I thought one or two might be useful, but everyone went beyond the second and third act and straight into madness.
What’s with the suggestion to dig a pit and act like corpses in it?
The role I’m supposed to play is a vicious slave owner, not a psychopath!
"...I understand well. The level of your creativity. We'll end the meeting here. You all just go and practice your acting."
It can't be helped. As a 21st-century person who has received at least a modicum of creative education, I have no choice but to take up the burden myself.
Fortunately, it didn't take long to devise a method.
Thus, the JLB entered a brief rest period, and the slaves of the Sett family began special training to improve their acting skills.
The last Sunday of November, 1856.
Perhaps because the harvest season was almost over, the planters' steps seemed much lighter.
"My, if he wanted to invite us, he should have done it sooner; he’s only opening the farm now that the harvest is nearly finished."
"It can't be helped. In fact, I think that just showing us indirectly like this is enough of a favor from the master of Sett to his peers."
"Well... I suppose so. I heard from the brokers that his net profit rose by almost 15 percent, but I doubt such improvement is possible just by changing how slaves are managed."
"Still, it must be true that he drives them hard. Why, didn't they say the Minor family was so shocked they rushed over there?"
The planters exchanged information briefly and entered the Sett plantation, the talk of the town recently.
They said they came on the weekend to avoid harvest hours, but everyone here was a farm owner who managed at least 50 to over 100 slaves.
Just by looking at the rest facilities or the schedule, one could roughly grasp how the work was being run.
That he wouldn't show them the real thing? If he did that, he wouldn't be able to avoid suspicion that he was hiding something.
Whether it’s equipment actually used on the farm or something prepared in a hurry, it’s obvious at a glance, so there’s no way not to know.
Now then, let’s see just how far this James Sett goes. Let’s see just how honest a man he is.
When the work carriage finally arrived, the planters elegantly stepped down to the ground, and James, the master of this land, greeted them.
"Welcome to the Sett Cotton Plantation. There have been many who wished to tour recently, so I arranged this time; I hope this experience will be a useful one for you."
"We are the ones who should thank you for the invitation."
"The Sett-style management method has been the hottest topic in Mississippi recently, and I’m glad to finally see even a glimpse of it."
James responded to the planters' remarks with a polite smile and guided them immediately.
"I won't say much. I don't want my work interrupted by various rumors either. I will show you my farm without hiding anything, so please judge for yourselves."
James’s first stop was a giant wooden board erected next to the bell tower.
Filled with schedules, rules, and all sorts of symbols, it looked more like a military operational situation board than a farm bulletin board.
"My god... what on earth is this..."
Stanton, the second-wealthiest man in Natchez after Sett, was the first to let out a groan filled with astonishment.
"James... are you controlling your slaves by the minute?"
"Time is money. A one-minute delay accumulates into an hour of loss. I do not tolerate loss."
At the dry response, the planters' faces turned pale.
Their gazes were fixed on a red sign that read, 'Maximum Efficiency, Maximum Happiness.'
This young man’s farm was truly transforming slaves into precision machines.
The next place they headed was the hut for rest periods.
James deliberately left the doors of a few of the shabbiest huts wide open.
The planters peered inside without hesitation and gasped.
"Ugh..."
"You there! Sleep properly. You need to sleep even a little to replenish your strength!"
The men were sprawled out on the beds as if they had fainted.
Weary breathing filled the hut, and every time someone tossed and turned, dark red stripes were visible through their sweat-soaked shirts.
As expected, such thorough control couldn't have been achieved without a price.
Even on a Sunday, it was at a level where he forced them to sleep to recover even a little more strength, as if cooling down an overheated machine.
"Look here, Sett... if you keep doing this, won't you be caught by the authorities? Even so, this seems to be on the border of legal and illegal."
"If you push them to the limit, injuries inevitably follow. Of course, they must never die. They have to pick cotton tomorrow, too. And I have already thoroughly studied the statutes and am running things within the bounds of what is not illegal. Look, I’m even ensuring they get their rest periods right now."
Let's not talk about it.
Having toured the farm further, they realized for certain just how merciful and devoted they themselves were as slave owners.
And the final course of the long-awaited tour was the vacant lot where the JLB league was held.
The planters looked at the vast vacant lot with strange lines drawn on it with puzzled expressions.
"What is this? Is it some kind of training ground?"
"That is correct. It is a training ground and a place of punishment."
James tapped the baseline, where dust was kicking up, with his shoe.
It was a dirt path that had been hardened by countless footsteps over a long period of time.
"Those who make mistakes or fail to meet their quotas run here. Until I tell them to stop, running around and around along that line."
"My god... just how much have they run for the ground to be worn down like this?"
"I’m sorry, but I don't remember. I’m the type to calculate profit margins rather than count how many times the slaves run around the lot."
Just then, another planter discovered a pile of planks leaning against a wall.
Out of curiosity, he picked up the plank on the very top.
Under the crude word 'TALLY', countless lines were drawn next to numbers from 1 to 9.
1: I I I I
2: I I I
3: I I I I I I
"James, what on earth is this mark?"
James smiled awkwardly without a word, but they, whose intuition had already reached the heavens, could guess its identity without difficulty.
'This crazy... this is a record of the number of corporal punishments! He even recorded how many times he hit them!'
This crazy man said he wasn't interested in how many times the slaves ran around the lot, but in fact, he was managing even every single lash with numbers.
Riddell, a middle-aged man in his 40s from Louisiana, saw James like that and, seemingly genuinely impressed, spread his arms wide and shouted.
"Daaaamn! James! I’ve seen many planters, but you are the best! Yes, yes, a man of the South should be this bold."
A radical who had a duel with a planter who treated slaves compassionately and even killed two people.
To him, the young man before his eyes looked like a sparkling jewel, so dazzling it was blinding.
"This is how you should treat those darkies! This is a real man!"
There was no one to raise an objection.
Through this tour, where awe, astonishment, and surprise intersected, the planters of the South reached a conclusion.
James Sett’s method is ideal, but if handled incorrectly, slaves could die in large numbers, so actual application must be cautious.
And someday, when the struggle to defend slavery intensifies, James Sett will surely become the most reliable guardian of Mississippi.
It stands to reason, as there is no way such a farm owner would not be for the South.
"...Are they gone?"
"Yes, Master. They have all left."
"Leech-like bastards. Leo, you worked hard too. Give the other workers a drink or something for their hard work."
With this, no matter what I do now, the suspicion that I might be trying to betray them won't come up, right?
After all, if you look at the world through black-tinted glasses, everything is bound to look black.
Now I can invest as I please with peace of mind.
I should immediately buy up the Oil Creek area in Pennsylvania in bulk, railroad stocks, and... a hospital wouldn't be bad either.
If I do it right, I’ll be able to secure both image and money at once.
Of course, it goes without saying that I must also expand the scale of my farms and slaves in the South little by little with the money I’ve grown.
While I was happily looking for my next investment, Leo, who had gone downstairs, came back up with a bundle of papers.
"Master, I have organized the proposals from the new agricultural supply companies you requested last time. Most of them had conditions no different from the existing ones... but one proposal from Cleveland, Ohio, stood out in particular."
"Cleveland? Isn't that quite a distance away?"
"Yes. But they skipped a lot of the intermediate distribution processes, so the unit price is actually lower. On top of that, there are three additional proposals, and each one looks quite good. They seem to have advantages in logistics, communications, and asset management, so I brought it because I thought it would be good for you to review it."
"I see, what is the name of that company?"
Leo pushed forward the phrase written at the very bottom of the paper and read it.
"It says 'Hewitt & Turtle, submitted by clerk John D. Rockefeller.'"
"...What did you say?"
"Hewitt & Turtle, it seems they are an agricultural brokerage firm."
No, no, not that.
Who did you say it was?