The Hope of the South
December 1856.
The warehouse in front of the Under the Hill landing in Natchez, Mississippi, was packed with overseers and slaves who had arrived from plantations across the region. Because large-scale planters possessed such vast estates, it was rare for slaves from different plantations to cross paths while working or resting. However, there was one occasion where even the slaves of such massive estates were bound to see one another: when they had to have the quality of their cotton inspected at the landing.
The cotton brokers and the factors who inspected the quality were never easy men to deal with. Since the revenue per bale could fluctuate by as little as 10% or as much as 20% depending on the grade, everyone watched with eyes burning with intensity, and today was no different.
Ben, the head foreman of the Sett plantation, used to hate this time of day with a passion.
Usually, both the overseer and the field foremen come to the landing together. Among them, overseers were typically on one-year contracts, meaning if the cotton quality was poor, they were destined to be fired. And where would they vent that frustration?
CRACK! CRACK!
“You bastards! How the hell is the Middling ratio this pathetic! You lazy, freeloading sons of bitches!”
“P-please, have mercy!”
Sure enough, from the line on the opposite side, the sound of an overseer screaming like a madman and cracking his whip echoed through the air. In fact, Ben had been in a similar position until last year.
Due to the nature of cotton harvesting, the proportion of high-quality goods inevitably decreases as time passes, and December—the final harvest season—was especially difficult. Thus, it was practically customary for field foremen to return home with more whip marks on their bodies every time they came here.
But strangely, this year, that had never happened once.
“Well, well, Mr. Sett. You’ve come yourself today. You didn’t have to go through the trouble; I would have taken care of everything for you.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, sir. It’s just my nature—I can’t rest easy unless I see things with my own eyes. Please, don’t mind me and carry on with your work.”
“Yes, yes. Then, we shall begin the quality inspection of the Sett plantation’s cotton.”
It was because James, the young master—a large-scale planter himself and the man whom every broker was desperate to build a relationship with—had come in person. Of course, just because he came this far didn’t mean he was negotiating or chatting with others. The young master simply sat in the chair Leo had brought, watching quietly as the judgment was rendered.
The factors, for their part, did not slack off on the inspection just because the plantation owner was present. They spread out the samples, checking them twice, then three times, with the utmost caution, terrified of making a mistake.
“Number one, Good Middling. Number two, Middling. Number three, Good Middling. Number four, Good Middling. Number five, Middling. Number six, Good Middling... Good lord, I’m speechless. It’s December, and yet Middling grades are pouring out like this?”
At a phenomenon they had never seen in their lives, the factors shook their heads with incredulous laughter. Overseer John, meanwhile, couldn’t wipe the beaming smile off his face, patting the shoulders of the foremen, Ben and Henry, to praise their hard work.
It goes without saying that they didn’t smile so familiarly here. After all, these results were the product of James’s brand of “squeezing,” and they had to play the part of the downtrodden victims suffering under this suffocating management style.
“This is truly... Mr. Sett, hasn’t your revenue increased significantly this year? I’d wager it’s up by at least 20%.”
“The final settlement isn’t out yet, but I suspect that’s the case.”
Considering the number of slaves James managed and the scale of his cotton sales, it meant his net profit had increased by nearly $20,000 this year alone. At that very moment, as envious gazes poured in from all sides, a sample from a neighboring plantation was downgraded to Good Ordinary as leaves and husks were found mixed in.
“Hey, you bastards! I told you clearly to be careful not to mix in the leaves!”
CRACK!
“Ugh...”
“I’m... sorry.”
Despite the sharp shouting and the flying whip, the slaves could only repeat their groans and pleas for mercy; they couldn’t even let out a scream. Right. Until last year, they had been in that same position. Ben looked at the oak juice he had applied to his body to disguise the whip marks, feeling once again how incredibly lucky he had been.
At the November dinner, he had been able to drink beer until he was full, and James had even poured him a glass of whiskey himself, praising his hard work as a head foreman. The intensity of that high-end whiskey—which he’d heard was hard to come by even for poor white men, let alone Black men—was unforgettable. The burning sensation in his throat had even brought tears to his eyes.
Henry and Leo had teased him, asking why he was crying while drinking such good liquor, but it was because the alcohol was so strong—he hadn’t been crying out of sentimentality, and it was frustrating to be misunderstood. No... to be honest, since no one else was around, I’ll admit it: I was crying because I was overwhelmed with emotion.
At first, I had been cynical, wondering how much a young, inexperienced brat could really change, but now, that brat was the hope of every slave on the plantation. The slaves in the kitchen were desperate to prepare even healthier meals for the master, and the attendants kept a vigilant watch, fearing there might be some vagrant lurking outside who meant him harm.
That hadn’t changed even now.
“Master, the inspection is finished. They say the overall judgment isn’t much different from last month.”
“If the December volume is at that level, we’ve done well. Alright, let’s go.”
As James rose from his seat, Henry and Ben naturally stood by his side, guarding him to prevent others from approaching. “Master, we shall escort you.”
If anyone dared to trample on this paradise, they would stop them, even if it meant drawing a blade. Having steeled his resolve, he bowed respectfully to James as he climbed into the carriage.
“Master, thank you for your hard work today.”
“Yes. You worked hard, too. Being in such a rotten place makes me feel like my own mind is being contaminated, so let’s head back quickly.”
“Yes! Then, about this month’s dinner...”
“You passed the criteria, so we’ll have it this month, too. Since the guy who always sings wins first place every time, why don’t we try something different—how about a talent show?”
Ben and Henry, who had little talent for singing, suppressed the laughter bubbling up inside them and nodded vigorously.
Whenever their paths crossed with other plantations like this, they always made the same wish:
‘Please, if there is a God, bless Master James so he lives to be at least 100 years old—no more, no less.’
Surprisingly, that was the prayer every slave on the Sett plantation offered during every worship service.
* * *
After the quality inspection at the landing was finished and I returned home, I took Leo and Sam with me to visit the hospital construction site. I had told the MSMA that I wanted the hospital to be built entirely according to my specifications, and fortunately, they viewed the hospital I intended to build quite favorably. It was thanks to the fact that I had racked my brain in advance to come up with 19th-century justifications.
“In my opinion, we must build an isolation ward. The contaminated air exhaled by critically ill patients can have a negative impact on other patients nearby.”
“That is a reasonable point.”
“Additionally, I will make the basic ventilation structure such that air always flows through by installing windows on both sides of the building. We will also introduce a style where each wing is separated rather than building the entire structure as one connected block.”
Dr. Geddes, the founding chairman of the MSMA, nodded at my words. It was an argument that perfectly aligned with the ‘Miasma Theory,’ the prevailing medical belief at the time that bad air caused disease. Of course, my real intention was to block airborne droplet infection.
“That’s not all. The inpatient rooms will be placed on the floor with the best lighting, and as a rule, all surgical instruments will be placed in boiling water in a copper boiler for ‘purification’ before use without exception.”
“You’re going to... boil the surgical instruments?”
One doctor asked, looking horrified. To the doctors of that era, blood-stained surgical gowns and instruments were like medals proving their extensive experience. To them, my suggestion might have sounded like the ravings of a germaphobe, but my sense of hygiene simply couldn’t tolerate it. People, I can literally see the bacteria having a wild breeding party in real-time.
“Contamination cannot be purified by contamination. Every surgery must begin in the most pristine state possible. Of course, washing one’s hands and wearing a clean apron is the bare minimum.”
My attitude on this was so firm that the doctors couldn’t argue further. Besides, I was the one footing the bill, so what were they going to do? If they didn’t like it, they could either become the investors themselves or pack up and leave the project. Naturally, no one could do that, so Geddes chuckled and suggested they move on.
“Haha... it will be a very clean hospital indeed. I guarantee that this hospital will be the most sanitary medical facility not just in Mississippi, but in the entire United States. I’m sure patients will feel their hearts cleansed just by looking at the interior of the hospital.”
“Indeed, indeed.”
In any case, a few months after it opens, the statistics will immediately show how much more effective this is compared to the filthy medical facilities nearby. As I watched the hospital being built according to my plans, I saw a group of strangers entering the construction site.
“Honestly, what is wrong with the security? I clearly ordered them to control access for outsiders.”
I was instantly annoyed, but the moment I saw the handsome man in his early thirties standing at the center of the group, I understood the situation immediately. With a full entourage in tow, he was radiating an aura that screamed, ‘I am no ordinary person.’ Sure enough, the young man spotted me and approached directly. His face was filled with curiosity and admiration.
“You must be Mr. James Sett. When Governor Macrae told me about you, I honestly thought he was exaggerating. But to think you are truly pulling off such an incredible feat. It is truly astonishing.”
“Excuse me... but who might you be?”
At my question, the young man looked startled, then pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me politely.
“Oh, my apologies. My introduction was late.”
John C. Breckinridge. Former U.S. Representative from Kentucky.
John C. Breckinridge. The moment I confirmed the name on the card, my head cleared as if I’d been doused in cold water. The man who had run as the running mate for the Democratic candidate Buchanan in the current presidential election. In other words, the man effectively confirmed as the next Vice President of the United States.
At just 35 years old, he was the youngest Vice President in the history of the United States. He was the politician most supported by the Democratic Party and the man who would effectively be the power behind the White House in the future. He looked at me, holding the business card I had accepted, and smiled.
“The election results won’t be officially confirmed for another month, but as you know, Buchanan’s victory is certain. Therefore, we are already preparing for the post-inauguration period.”
“I’ve heard as much. That it’s effectively a confirmed victory.”
Election results are usually officially announced in January, but Buchanan had essentially secured his victory by default this time. In reality, everyone around him would be treating Buchanan as the President and Breckinridge as the Vice President.
“Yes. Therefore, one of our top priorities is to prepare examples that prove the moral superiority of our Southern system in the face of the hypocritical criticisms from Northern abolitionists. Governor Macrae recommended you as the very best example.”
“Ah... me?”
I had expected the political sphere to take notice, but I hadn’t expected the confirmed Vice President to come in person. Was he just that proactive, or was the South that desperate for ammunition to attack the North?
“In the North, the reality is that sick Black people are left neglected on the streets to die. But what about you? You are building this magnificent facility to care for not only your own slaves but even the poor white people. We want to promote this hospital’s example extensively to point out the hypocrisy of the North and to widely publicize the warm paternalism of our South.”
“I’m not doing anything worthy of such respect... I’m embarrassed to receive such high praise.”
Breckinridge shook his head as if to say, ‘What are you talking about?’ and reached out to shake my hand politely once more.
“So, please, I would like you to attend our inauguration ceremony and grace us with your presence. You are, after all, one of the ‘Hopes of the South’ that our new administration intends to champion. As soon as the official results are announced, I will send you a formal invitation in the name of the White House.”
Look at that audacity—the hospital isn’t even finished yet, and he’s already trying to use me as a promotional mannequin. It’s ruthless, truly ruthless.
It wasn’t the right time to dive directly into politics, but now that the Vice President-elect had come all the way here to request it, the option to refuse was effectively off the table. He probably came all the way here in person because he’d heard I’d rejected Buchanan’s scouting offer, claiming I had no interest in politics.
“It is an honor that someone who will become Vice President would think so highly of me. If you send an invitation, I will accept it with gratitude.”
I had no intention of entering politics, but if they were determined to use me as a promotional tool, then fine—so be it. There were still about two months until the inauguration anyway, so I would prepare thoroughly and take the stage. When you think about it, it was a golden opportunity to use the presidential inauguration—of all places—as my own advertising stage.
I wouldn’t decline; I’d suck every bit of value out of it. Because in this world, nothing is free.