The Butterfly's Wings
The British Empire might be called the world's strongest power, but this was still very much the 19th century.
No matter how powerful the European Great Powers were, not a single one had yet laid telegraph lines all the way to Qing China.
Even the mighty British Empire had only managed to run lines as far as India, and was now planning to extend cables through Singapore to Hong Kong.
Naturally, real-time communication was still impossible, no matter how urgent the situation.
And yet.
[British subjects murdered by Japanese mob. Request immediate naval support.]
[Casualties reported. Please advise on response protocol.]
The dispatches kept arriving without pause.
There was a British legation in Japan, but it was far smaller in scale and authority than the one in Qing China, and lacked the power to handle such a grave matter on its own.
“What the hell is this? The Japanese killed our citizens? For real?”
The Namamugi Incident.
In the village of Namamugi near Yokohama, Japan, a British merchant named Richardson had been riding past a procession belonging to Shimazu Hisamitsu, the daimyo of Satsuma. For the crime of crossing their path, he had been hacked to death by samurai.
The reports grew increasingly gruesome. It wasn’t a simple slash as he passed; they had cut off his arms, sliced open his belly, and left him to die.
Of course, there had been cultural differences and misunderstandings at play, but in the age of imperialism, no civilized nation was willing to make excuses for such barbarity.
“Politics really is impossible to predict, isn’t it?”
I set down my teacup and stared directly at Minister Bruce.
Who was it that had been lecturing me just two days ago about the complexities of politics and how impenetrable Japan was?
“W-well, quite so. Heh heh… who could have imagined such a savage event would occur?”
Minister Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly and averted his gaze.
He had gone on and on about how difficult Japan would be to crack, how they would need to wait for the perfect opening. And now those same Japanese had flung their gates wide open and practically screamed, “Come and beat us, please!”
Still, he was a seasoned diplomat of the British Empire.
Embarrassment lasted only a moment.
It took his mental calculator less than a minute to spit out the result: This is an opportunity.
Bang!
Bruce shot up from his seat, his face flushed red.
“How dare they! These primitive monkeys lay hands on subjects of the British Empire? And not just any subjects—unarmed civilians butchered with swords?”
The bewilderment from moments ago had vanished, replaced entirely by righteous fury and a thirst for vengeance.
A truly flawless about-face, worthy of a British Empire diplomat.
“This is not a mere murder case. This is a challenge to the civilized world, a declaration of war against the dignity of the British Empire! We cannot simply demand reparations. We must teach them a lesson they will never forget!”
“Please calm yourself, Minister.”
“Calm? Do I look calm to you?! I’m contacting London at once to assemble the fleet!”
He paced furiously around the office, then turned sharp eyes toward the American minister, Burlingame, who stood nearby.
“Minister Burlingame, this is not merely Britain’s problem. A Briton died today, but an American could die tomorrow. Shouldn’t we make it crystal clear to these savages that ‘the lives of white men are not to be touched’?”
A blatant request for joint intervention.
Britain had already agreed to acknowledge America’s leading role in opening Japan, since the United States had been the first to force the country’s ports open.
Two fists hurt more than one, and there was no better partner than America when it came to building international legitimacy.
Burlingame nodded as if he had been waiting for exactly this.
“Of course. The White House has been quite dissatisfied with how slowly Japan’s opening has progressed. Both President Lincoln and Secretary Seward stand ready to lend their full support in the name of protecting our citizens and securing freedom of commerce.”
They had been looking for an excuse to get involved, and now Britain was rolling out the red carpet. Why on earth would they refuse?
The justification was perfect, too.
Delivering the righteous judgment of civilization upon the barbaric Japanese.
As Minister Burlingame rose, claiming he would contact his government immediately, he hid the twitch at the corner of his mouth by leaning over and whispering to me.
“Advisor Serget, this feels like things are falling into place rather nicely.”
“Indeed they are.”
It wasn’t even American citizens who had died, so the government wouldn’t take any political heat. And if they intervened alongside Britain, there was almost no chance of suffering losses.
“It seems the day when our United States truly stands as the Pacific Empire is not far off.”
As expected of fellow Anglo-Saxons—their thought processes were identical.
No matter how much they denied it, they really were brothers.
* * *
While my extended stay in Asia was being prolonged by this unexpected incident, Serget Cotton back home—waiting for my return—was also being swept up in a strange transformation.
The 1863 House of Representatives election.
The Southern Democrats were torn apart more viciously than ever before.
“We may have lost the war, but we still have our pride! How can we roll over and wag our tails for those Northern bastards?! Even a beaten dog would show more dignity than this!!”
“Does pride put food on the table? If the South wants to survive, we have to join hands with the North and move in whatever direction brings in money!”
The so-called “Moderate faction (Reconstruction faction)” led by Chairman Farrar and the “Orthodox faction (Extremist faction)” centered around ruined planters and fire-eaters had a rift between them that could never be bridged.
In the end, the moderates drew their swords.
“In this nomination process, we will purge every last outdated old fart who cannot read the flow of the times!”
The party’s control already rested firmly with the Reconstruction faction.
The Lincoln assassination and the congressional coup had greatly diminished the extremists’ influence.
And now Chairman Farrar, who had used the Emergency Committee to block Northern military governance, was openly swinging his blade. Who could possibly stop him?
“Chairman Farrar, why is my name not on the nomination list?!”
“Please calm down. This wasn’t my personal decision. It was handled mechanically according to strict principles.”
“I poured so much money into this party! You think the party can run properly after discarding me like this?!”
“Of course it can. The exit is right over there.”
“Y-you… just because you’ve gained a little power, you’ve changed completely! This won’t end here! We’ll see what happens in the election!”
Thus began the bloody nomination massacre.
The Orthodox faction, furious at the purge, packed their bags and left. Once again, the Southern Democrats that had split from the North fractured into two.
The slogans put forward by each side were simple.
“We will rebuild the Southern economy and bring political peace!”
“Don’t be fooled! These self-proclaimed Reconstructionists are nothing but Northern puppets. Chairman Farrar is plotting to privatize the power he gained through our trust and sell the South to the North!”
Economic logic versus pride-based logic.
The two sides clashed fiercely with no room for compromise, but there was one district where the battle took on a completely different shape.
The constituency located in Natchez, Mississippi.
The reason was simple.
More than three thousand black voters who had overcome the triple barriers of poll taxes, literacy tests, and examinations had earned the right to vote.
A single bloc representing thirty percent of the district’s roughly ten thousand total voters.
There wasn’t a single fool who didn’t understand that whoever captured their votes would wear the congressional badge.
But there was a dilemma.
If one courted the black vote too blatantly, there was a risk of losing the white voters who still formed the majority.
So the Orthodox candidate, Thompson, came up with what he thought was a clever strategy.
“Everyone! Employees of Serget Cotton! You are different from ordinary blacks!”
He stood outside the company gate, shouting through a megaphone until his voice nearly gave out.
“You are civilized people who can read and pay taxes! You are on an entirely different level from those ignorant field hands! If you stand with our Orthodox faction, you too can be treated as honorary whites!”
A strategy of discriminating against blacks while trying to win their votes—a scorching hot iced Americano approach.
His calculation was that by strictly separating Serget Cotton’s black workers from regular blacks, he could still peel away a decent number of votes.
However, Jonathan, the white director of Serget Cotton who had been watching with his arms crossed from inside the gate, suddenly stepped forward.
“Excuse me, Candidate Thompson.”
“Oh! Director Jonathan, isn’t it?!”
“So what you’re saying is that the black employees here are on the same level as me?”
He had only come to say a few nice things the blacks would want to hear. How could he have known a white director would pop out?
Thompson’s face turned deathly pale.
“N-no! That’s not what I meant… what I was saying about different levels…”
“Then what? That they’re beneath me but still better than other niggers? I’m not following. Could you explain it properly?”
“No, what I meant was… that is…”
“Honorary whites, you said! Honorary whites!”
“So what I’m saying is… um… even though honorary whites are still black, they are nevertheless inferior to whites… I mean, just a tiny bit lacking, and compared to other blacks they are still…”
Thompson’s incoherent rambling earned him curses from his white supporters for being spineless and mockery from the black employees. In the end, he was driven away in disgrace.
The moderate candidate, Williams, took a completely different approach.
He accepted an invitation from Serget’s wife, Cecilia, and entered the company cafeteria.
“Everyone, I hope you enjoyed your meal?”
Standing firmly beside Williams as he toured the spacious cafeteria was Chairman Farrar.
“You all know who I am, right? I’m Farrar, Serget’s soulmate—the man who goes to the racetrack with your chairman and drinks with him!”
“Waaaaah!”
“This very suit was tailored by the same craftsman who makes Chairman Serget’s suits. Hahaha!”
Cheers from the employees filled the cafeteria.
Policy? Campaign promises? None of that was needed.
“While Chairman Serget is away in Asia, we need someone to carry out his will and lead the South. Who could that be? None other than his friend—me!”
It’s me. Me. Serget’s best friend, Farrar.
That single line was enough to secure ninety-nine percent of the black vote.
Of course, if he delivered nothing afterward there would be complaints, so behind the scenes he exchanged a discreet memorandum with Cecilia.
- Legal protection for the Serget Worker Education Program.
- Establishment of exclusive voting booths for Serget employees at polling stations.
- Full support for port budgets to secure Asian trade routes.
What Farrar paid special attention to was the exclusive voting booths reserved only for Serget employees.
Rather than favoritism, it was a protective measure to ensure blacks could vote safely.
No one could predict what excuses the rampaging discriminators might use to interfere.
Naturally, the public justification was that blacks and whites could not possibly share the same polling place, so no one could openly object.
A few extremists did try to raise objections, but they were immediately silenced by the counterattack: “So you think whites should have to vote in the same place as blacks?”
“Everyone knooooows this, right? Chairman Serget likes me! And I like all of you just as much as he does!”
“Long live Chairman Farrar!”
The game was over.
On election day, the employees of Serget Cotton marched to the polling station in perfect order under Will’s leadership.
The overwhelming, almost military-like procession left the white supervisors speechless.
The vote count was brutally clear.
Williams (Moderate/Reconstruction): 6,632 votes
Thompson (Orthodox/Extremist): 3,924 votes
The meaning was painfully obvious.
From now on, in Natchez, no one who failed to receive the endorsement of Serget Cotton could ever be elected.
Ever again.