The Cotton Empire
The process of normalizing the South, orchestrated by James Seuret and Chairman Pharr, was unfolding like a storm.
Northern media and citizens, who loathed the Southern "Dixies," were having a field day, shouting, "Down with the Dixies! Down with the South! Planters, get lost and don't come back!" But for those directly involved, it was nothing short of hell.
The average Southern citizen had it slightly better.
Had the war dragged on, they would have tasted true hell through the devastation of their farmland, but the fact that they were quickly crushed in just a year turned out to be a blessing in disguise for them. Of course, it was impossible to avoid the blow entirely, and for the citizens of the South, whose infrastructure was weaker than the North's to begin with, every day was an agonizing, frustrating ordeal.
"Ugh... this is truly insane. I wonder if we can even make it through this year."
"Life was already tight enough as it was, but now I really don't know what we're supposed to do."
If things continued this way, the average income of Southern commoners after the war was projected to drop by 15 to 20 percent. It might sound like a mere 15 percent, but even in the 21st century, if you told office workers their salaries would be cut by that much, there would be wailing and gnashing of teeth. And the South was already poorer than the North to begin with.
However, unlike the Northerners who were ground down as mere cogs in factory machines, the Southern commoners had held on with the pride of being self-sufficient farmers who weren't employed by anyone. But as the war ended and the Southern economy began to reorganize rapidly, their lack of resources slowly began to show.
Still, even so.
It was no exaggeration to say that the suffering of the average citizen was nothing compared to that of the planters. If the average Southern citizen could at least scream in pain, the sounds coming from the planters were like the death rattles of those on the verge of breathing their last.
"The loan limit is only this much? Listen here, bank manager! What kind of nonsense is this! My farm, the appraised value is only this much? Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea who I am?"
The ledger in the hands of Wade Hampton III, the leader of South Carolina and the wealthiest man in the South, trembled violently. However, the stiff-looking bank agent from the North sitting across from him merely pushed up his glasses and replied dryly.
"I am well aware, General Hampton. But reputation does not pay off debts. 1,500 slaves, who accounted for 80 percent of your assets, have evaporated from the books. What are we supposed to trust to extend your loan as before?"
"Th-that is...!"
"Furthermore, the land value of your Wild Woods plantation in Mississippi has plummeted. Who would buy a cotton field without slaves at the old price? To be frank, you should consider yourself lucky that even 20 percent of your assets remain."
Hampton’s face flushed red, rendered speechless. A mere bank manager, someone he wouldn't have even deigned to make eye contact with before the war, was lecturing him?
But the real nightmare wasn't the blow to his pride. The problem was that his cash flow was about to be shattered.
"What is this expected rate of return? In previous years, my farms should have easily shown a net profit of 150,000 dollars by now! But only 30,000 dollars? How can you say it’s been slashed to a fifth of what it was!"
"After accounting for rising labor costs, fertilizer prices, and the new land and income taxes introduced by the Emergency Committee, that is what remains. Oh, and by the way, the weekly wages for the now-freed Black laborers are due again next week. I advise you to prepare as much cash as possible in advance."
The income of the man who was called the King of the South, earning over 100,000 dollars a year before the war, had been cruelly crushed. If Hampton, the apex predator, was in this state, the small and medium-sized farm owners were even worse off. Those who had enjoyed a life like nobility, earning 3,000 dollars a year, were now reduced to barely scraping together 1,000.
"Th-this cannot be. I... I am on the same level as those grease-stained factory managers of the North!"
"On the same level, you say."
Wails flowed from planters across the South who were facing the cold reality.
"Northern factory owners at least don't have to worry about going to bankruptcy court. But aren't you in a situation where you're barely managing to pay the interest on your mortgaged loans?"
"..."
"You heard the news about Howell Cobb in neighboring Georgia, didn't you? They say he collapsed from a heart attack. He couldn't handle the debt collectors."
Howell Cobb. A giant among giants who had even served as a member of the Confederate Congress, dead from the pressure of debt collectors. The titans, whom the small-time bank clerks of the past wouldn't have dared to look in the eye, were collapsing one after another.
But to be cold about it, those who could somehow keep their farms running were in a better situation. In places where workers had left en masse during the boycott that had spread like wildfire among Black people recently, the farms were declared beyond recovery.
These people were forced to sell off all their land and live on small pensions. Even those like Hampton, who used their vast capital to appease the Black workers and keep their farms running, couldn't go anywhere and complain. The only response they would get was, "Aren't you still earning enough to live like a decent aristocrat?"
'This cannot be. I have to take my money and distribute it to the blacks? To those who were my slaves?'
The expected rate of return calculated by the bank was unbelievable no matter how he looked at it. Not only had management costs doubled, but he couldn't rule the now-emancipated Black tenant farmers with a whip anymore. On top of that, he had to worry about the government’s eyes, fearing he might be branded a rebel sympathizer... he had to accept that his former aristocratic life was over.
The planters were now nothing more than weary managers struggling with debt, taxes, and labor management. And the devils of the North were gleefully chewing, tearing, tasting, and enjoying this pitiful downfall.
Especially places like New York, which had been in sharp conflict over slavery, carried articles mocking the South on their front pages almost every day.
Just a few years ago, the South had mocked and laughed at the sight of Northern factories going bankrupt, but now the exact opposite situation was unfolding. And they couldn't even complain. They were just getting back exactly what they had dished out.
In fact, strictly speaking, the situation now was much more serious than back then. Because this downfall of the South wasn't due to a recession. The Northern newspapers, knowing this fact well, made sure to record the cruelly cold reality in their articles.
As blocked exports resumed, cotton was selling out as soon as it was produced, just like in the old days. Then why on earth were the Southern planters wailing? The decisive cause was that the sales proceeds, which they had been monopolizing under the name of slavery, were leaking out in all directions.
"Aha~ The South is ruined!"
"Was the Cotton King perhaps from the Bourbon dynasty? They say his head was chopped off by the revolution. Hahaha."
A bizarre phenomenon where producers were becoming poorer than before even as demand exploded and goods poured out. The meaning of this fact was clear. The "new normal," where the planters' pockets would not improve no matter how much the demand for cotton increased, had become reality. A death sentence handed down to the cotton aristocrats. The party for the planters, who used to rake in money with rakes, seemed to be over forever. Except for one place.
* * *
Around the time when the wails of the planters were echoing throughout the South, the chairman's office of Seuret Cotton was overflowing with screams of joy.
"Chairman, we have finished placing tenant farmers on all the acquired farms. Since the foremen have been dispatched from headquarters, we can begin maintenance work for planting starting tomorrow."
"Is that so? Then the preparations for this year are all finished. You’ve calculated the expected profits, right?"
Unlike a general factory, a cotton farm doesn't produce products all year round; it can only harvest during the harvest season. Conversely, this means that barring any natural disasters, one can roughly estimate the annual profit. After all, cotton right now is practically a money-printing product where production volume equals sales volume.
"First, we have matched the workers' wages to be similar to the Northern average of 1.08 dollars. 1.1 dollars if you combine the 1-dollar base with the performance bonuses that everyone gets. With the significant support for food and rent, they will effectively be able to live a life at least 1.5 times more comfortable than Northern workers."
On top of that, there are benefits like being able to use annual leave during the off-season, so a comparison with Northern workers is impossible. The efficient personnel system, task distribution, and employee motivation that I have polished until now have combined to create efficiency on a different level from other farms.
"And this is the result of all that, right?"
"That is correct. Even if we conservatively apply the production volume of the currently secured farmland and the futures trading prices, the expected net profit for this year will exceed at least 300,000 dollars."
300,000 dollars.
It means 300,000 in net profit remaining in my hands, excluding all costs, not revenue. During the days called the Golden Age of the South, even the greatest wealthy men like Stephen Duncan or Wade Hampton found it difficult to touch 150,000 dollars in their prime. Even after the abolition of slavery, twice the cash that those who boasted of earning profits comparable to the great aristocrats of England were making was entering my pockets.
At this level, I am a holder of cash flow that would make not only the United States but also England, the current world’s strongest power, drool. Profits that allow me to stand shoulder to shoulder with the ducal families reigning at the top of England. Of course, all other influence besides money would be incomparably lacking, but in any case, am I not a person whose marriage to an aristocratic family is confirmed?
The moment I set foot in London's high society, I could clearly see the high-nosed aristocrats scrambling to send party invitations and clamoring to grab even the hem of my clothes. Above all, since the title of a slave owner who denies God's providence has disappeared, I am an even more mouth-watering target.
"What do the banks say? Are they saying we should adjust the scale of transactions because the slaves have all left and asset values have fallen?"
"Of course not. You know how thorough those people are. James Seuret's personal assets have plummeted, but the value of the corporation called Seuret Cotton is hitting a new high every day."
When I go to gatherings of old planters, they all complain that the bank guys have become stiff-necked, but for me, it was the exact opposite. They were clinging to me, saying they would give me loans at the best conditions and low interest rates, just please, let them have a transaction. But I had no intention of being satisfied with that. This was, after all, just taking baby steps, laying the foundation for the empire.
"Now that next year comes, funds will pour in and I'll be able to pull off some heavy leverage, so shall we expand the board? Send a telegram to the SS and SM sides. Tell Rockefeller and Carnegie to sweep up all the land in the South."
"...Pardon? Right now? The resentment of the Southerners is still at its peak. If Northern capital starts buying land openly, it will get noisy... Ah, is that what you are aiming for?"
Indeed, indeed. Leo, who could now be said to be a perfect "dog of the study," understood my meaning immediately and let out a sly smile.
"Yes. That’s it, so make sure to set aside some slush funds to slip to a few newspaper companies. The more provocative the headlines, the better."
Let's see,
[Greedy Northerners, Ravaging Our Southern Land.]
[The Carpetbaggers' Raid, Gnawing at the Soul of the South.] would be appropriate.
"Kek... Even hearing it myself, it makes me angry and my insides twist."
"Even if Rockefeller or Carnegie don't step forward, Northern capitalists are bound to move anyway. Our job is to make sure everyone knows about it a little faster."
In real history, the "carpetbaggers" from the North, who came with nothing but a bag and took away land deeds from Southerners whose pride had been wounded by the defeat in the Civil War, were the very objects of hatred. So, what I am doing is a kind of... yes, a public service announcement. The evil capitalists of the North are taking away our Southern assets when we are already resentful enough about losing the war, aren't they? This is the time for a face like mine, a Southern representative, to step up.
So, I will just go around the neighborhood, beating a gong and letting everyone know.
"Hey neighbors! Look over here!"
So that everyone in this world can know. That the soul of the Southerner, the land that is the pride of the Southerner, is leaking away to the North.
* * *
The Northern looting of land! The effect of this rumor, which was not just a groundless rumor but had substance, was tremendous.
"You damn bastards! Are you saying you want to take away even our last remaining pride!"
"Who is the son of a bitch! The ones who said we should at least take money from Northern capitalists to rebuild the economy!"
"Don't sell! Those who sell are also accomplices!"
"No, but who would sell their land if they didn't want to? We are selling our land because we are blocked from making a living, but are the people who curse us if we don't sell going to buy it?"
"Th-that... still... you could sell it to a fellow Southerner!"
Of course, in the South, where most people were struggling to keep their own heads above water, there were only a very few who could actively acquire someone else's land. And these people naturally recalled the incident that happened a while ago. The existence of a benevolent planter who had handed over a small pension while acquiring the land of Southern planters who could not pay their debts. Rumors even spread throughout the South that banks were scrambling to lend money to Seuret, even if he didn't have cash on hand right now.
The invasion of Northern capitalists like devils. The guardian who protects the pride of the South from them, Seuret Cotton. The path toward an empire, not a kingdom, was becoming reality through the fervent support of the subjects.