The Taste of the Original
The British Empire, the undisputed ruler of the 19th century.
In London, at 23 St. James's Square, stood Derby House.
Unlike the Carlton Club, where many gathered, the private chamber of the Earl of Derby—a place reserved strictly for the inner circle of the Conservative Party—was currently the site of a heated meeting.
“The early conclusion of the American Civil War is directly linked not only to our economy but to our diplomacy as well.”
Benjamin Disraeli set down his teacup with a bitter expression.
The atmosphere was nothing short of gloomy.
By all rights, this should have been a day for popping champagne.
“Damn it. If things had gone according to plan, I should be grabbing that hypocrite Gladstone by the collar and shaking him right about now.”
“Indeed. I truly believed we would finally be able to expose their hypocrisy in all its nakedness and bring them to shame.”
The Earl of Malmesbury smacked his lips and downed his black tea as if it were liquor.
The scenario they had drafted from the beginning was perfect.
William Gladstone, who had pretended to be so high-minded by calling the war against the Qing Dynasty barbaric, was now approving the marriage of a senior member of his own party to a daughter of a notorious Southern slaveholder?
Furthermore, unlike his stance on the war with the Qing, Gladstone had shown an unusually sympathetic gaze toward the South.
The Conservative Party’s calculation was that if they wove these threads together and detonated them, they could completely bury the Liberal Party’s moral standing in the dirt.
'Hypocrites who pretend to be noble, only to join hands with slaveholders when money is on the line!'
With this one slogan, they could have branded the duplicity of those disgusting hypocrites into the minds of the citizens.
“Who could have known the war would end in just a year? And so one-sidedly at that.”
“I never imagined the Southerners would collapse so helplessly. I thought they had something up their sleeves, but it turns out they were truly blockheads with heads stuffed with cotton.”
The Earl of Derby, Edward Smith-Stanley, clicked his tongue.
Had the war dragged on, the Liberal Party would have been trapped in the worst possible frame: hypocrites who coddled slaveholders while failing to stabilize the people's livelihoods.
But the reality?
As soon as the war ended, Seuret changed his mask, hiring Black workers and paying them proper wages, transforming himself into a respected, exemplary capitalist.
On top of that, the Liberal Party had responded to the American Civil War with unbelievable agility, stifling the economic impact to a negligible level.
Since the citizens were now praising the Palmerston cabinet for protecting their bread and jobs, any talk of slaveholders would only result in them being mocked in return.
“Did I not tell you? They are hypocrites, but they are not stupid hypocrites.”
Disraeli tapped the report lying on the table.
“We sat in the comfortable chairs of the opposition and were far too optimistic about the situation. They wouldn't have pushed for such a marriage proposal without any countermeasures.”
“Hmm...”
“Revisit the Liberal Party’s actions. Just before the war broke out, they acted with such conviction, buying and stockpiling cotton in massive quantities. As if they knew exactly when the war would start and when it would end.”
The timing was too precise to be a coincidence.
Add to that the intelligence that Baron Eldery had been frequently meeting with the Prime Minister’s residence and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gladstone, and there was only one conclusion.
“Baron Eldery brought the information. And the source of that information is...”
“James Seuret, his future son-in-law.”
The Earl of Derby’s eyes sharpened.
“Are you saying an American hick acted as an informant for our cabinet?”
“It is likely a much tighter relationship than that. It is closer to a symbiotic relationship where each provides what the other needs.”
Disraeli continued in a voice filled with conviction.
“Southern planters admire the aristocracy. They have money, but no roots, so they crave the titles and honors of ancient families. Conversely, from the perspective of the nobility, is it not a bad deal if they can send off a second or third daughter and suck up that wealth?”
A nouveau riche craving honor, and an aristocrat craving money.
What could be a more perfect union?
Moreover, since the only obstacle—the label of 'slaveholder'—had been stripped away along with the war, Seuret was now, quite literally, a goose laying golden eggs without a single flaw.
“Look at how Baron Eldery is strutting about in high society. He’s been bragging that he civilized his son-in-law, that thanks to him, Seuret has become a gentleman with aristocratic grace... his mouth is practically stretching to his ears.”
“Tsk, acting all high and mighty just because he snatched up a cotton plantation owner.”
“He is not a mere plantation owner, Earl.”
Disraeli shook his head at the Earl of Malmesbury’s grumbling.
“According to the information I have obtained, Seuret Cotton’s net profit this year exceeds at least 60,000 pounds (approximately 300,000 dollars). And the income is expected to increase even further next year.”
For a moment, silence fell over the room.
The Earl of Derby asked back, as if he couldn't believe it.
“60,000... dollars??”
“Pounds. 300,000 in dollars.”
“Ha!”
It was a profit that even the Earl of Derby, one of the greatest landowners in England, couldn't help but laugh at.
60,000 pounds was an amount that easily surpassed the annual income of most ducal families.
And the fact that this was not just asset value, but cash immediately in hand, made Disraeli wonder if he had made some mistake.
“I heard the Southern planters were all ruined by the emancipation of slaves? How is it that only that fellow is an exception?”
“Strictly speaking, he is making money precisely because the planters were ruined, just as you said, Earl.”
Disraeli, who was almost the only one in the Conservative leadership keeping a close eye on this situation, spread out a map he had prepared in advance.
“The ruined planters are putting their land up for sale to pay off their debts. And because of their antipathy toward Northern capital, those lands are being handed over at bargain prices to Seuret, the hero of the South. Even the banks are desperate to lend money only to him.”
“If that is the case...”
“Calculations suggest that next year, his profits could exceed 100,000 pounds.”
100,000 pounds?
This would place him among the top five wealthiest men in England.
The Earl of Malmesbury shook his head at this unrealistic figure.
“That is nearly five times my own. Isn't that roughly the annual income of the Earl of Derby himself?”
“Similar to mine, or perhaps a little less. But... if he continues to buy land and expand his scale, doesn't that mean in theory, his profits could eventually grow to equal the sum of everyone here?”
The scale of the Southern cotton industry was beyond imagination, and even if he only secured a portion of it, he could possess wealth far superior to any aristocrat in England.
It was deeply unpleasant to think that a mere American hick could rise to such a position, but that was not what was important right now.
“It is not just that he has a lot of money. If he exerts a powerful influence on the cotton market, the spinning mills of Lancashire will naturally have no choice but to pay attention to him.”
The Earl of Malmesbury added in a concerned voice.
“The cotton industry of the American South could even become intertwined with the Liberal Party as one body. This is terrible. Imagine that hypocrite Gladstone running wild with that massive capital and influence at his back.”
For the cotton that was the heart of British industry to become the private treasury of a specific political party was certainly a nightmare for the Conservative Party.
Of course, at the current scale, it was impossible, but who knew what the future held?
Considering that James Seuret was only in his mid-twenties, no one knew what might happen in the distant future.
The Earl of Derby stroked his chin and looked at Disraeli.
“You are the one who gathered this information so diligently, so surely you have some thoughts?”
“First, I must meet him. I can only make a decision once I know what kind of human being he is.”
Disraeli’s eyes shone coldly.
“To what extent is the ambition he harbors in his chest, and to what extent is his vanity? Is he merely a snob chasing honor, or a strategist who knows how to read the board?”
Cotton was not just an economic necessity for the British Empire; it was also a tool for diplomacy.
However, they could not let the Liberal Party gulp down that honey pot entirely.
Even if it meant, in the worst-case scenario, overturning the entire honey pot.
***
May 1862.
During a time when the South was bustling with committee activities and cotton planting, our family crossed the Atlantic.
My sister and brother-in-law were thrilled, saying it was their first time attending a wedding where aristocrats would be present, and Cecilia didn't leave my side, radiating the energy of pure happiness.
I’ve put her through some emotional distress with the war and all, so I hope this serves as at least a minimal consolation, but... it’s still not enough, is it?
London in the 19th century is a place that feels incredibly grand even to me, so I had planned to enjoy some intimate sightseeing and shopping with my wife, and make our mark on high society.
That was the original plan—to enjoy it in a refined, aristocratic manner—but unfortunately, an uninvited guest tagged along.
“Hahaha, Seuret. Look at this. My heart is pounding already; it must be that the horse-racing spirit within me is resonating with the home of horse racing, right?”
“Considering your age, it might be an arrhythmia, so wouldn't it be better to just rest and not overdo it?”
“I’m too excited to sleep, so what would you have me do? Aren't you nervous?”
“I am nervous. I have a wedding coming up.”
“No, no, not that. You, who are marrying into a British noble family, have the duty to elevate the horse racing of the United States to the next level, as I have told you repeatedly. I am certain that the Earl of Derby coming to your wedding is because he shares the same thought as I do.”
No, you are the chairman of the Mississippi State Legislature and the Committee of Public Safety.
As soon as I arrived in England, I had to suppress the impulse to shove him onto a ship heading back to America.
“Even if the committee activities are almost finished, they haven't ended completely, so what are we to do if both you and I leave the South?”
“Representative Quitman will handle it well enough. Honestly, what does it matter if those traitorous bastards die or not? It is more important that I meet the Earl of Derby.”
“You were the one who said you absolutely could not miss my wedding...”
“That is, of course, sincere as well. Hahaha, how could I miss your wedding? But the Earl of Derby, of all people, is coming to that wedding? I cannot pass this up. I will certainly meet the Earl and tell him of the grand dream that you and I harbor.”
Thinking about it, wouldn't it be fine to have Chairman Parrer handle the Conservative Party figures before they do anything strange at the wedding?
Before they can ruin the atmosphere, if I steer the conversation toward horse racing and completely distract them, it seems like I could pass through the situation without incident.
Good. To grant Chairman Parrer’s wish, I will attach him to the Earl of Derby in a man-to-man fashion.
I thought this would perfectly block the variables of this London journey, but what do you know.
“Excuse me, I am the London correspondent for the New York Tribune. I am writing a special article about James Seuret, who is currently an issue in both London and the United States, so I would like to request an interview.”
“Judging by your accent, you don't seem to be British or American...”
“Ah, yes. But I have been writing articles for the New York Tribune for 10 years. Hearing that James Seuret was coming, I was determined to write a feature article...”
The bearded reporter showed me a business card symbolizing a New York Tribune correspondent.
If it’s an article to be published in New York, it wouldn't be bad to subtly leak how well I am being treated in England.
I told Cecilia to go inside first, then shook hands with the reporter and decided to grant him a brief interview.
“As you may know, I have a wedding coming up, so I cannot spare much time. It is said that not only the Prime Minister of the Liberal Party but also the Earl of Derby, the leader of the Conservative Party, will be showing their faces at the wedding.”
As I naturally leaked how grand the bigwigs attending the wedding were, the reporter’s hand moved busily.
The mere fact that such people were coming one after another to the wedding of a mere Southern planter was enough to churn out an article that would stimulate national pride without mercy.
If he were a person without that much sense, I would have slipped him some pocket money...
“However, I heard that you, Mr. Seuret, not only liberated Black people faster than anyone else but are also providing them with a more comfortable life than Northern workers.”
“Well, yes. This, too, was after a heated debate with Baron Eldery, who is also my father-in-law...”
“Could that perhaps be a kind of experiment not just for economic subjugation, but to bind even their souls? An intention to create a structural prison from which a worker can never leave the capitalist’s side... a kind of social experiment, perhaps?”
What is this? These sentences that make my spine chill, and for some reason, feel like they are overflowing with a red aura.
“Wait, Mr. Reporter. What is your name?”
“Yes? Didn't I show you earlier?”
The moment I saw the business card the bushy-bearded reporter showed me again, my brain stopped functioning.
Noooo!
Why are you working as a New York Tribune reporter?
No wonder I didn't like that bushy beard.
The capitalist soul within me began to sound a frantic alarm.