The Tearful Patriot
The Northern economy was booming once again. New export channels had opened, textile mills were running at full capacity, and both finance and railroads were surging with activity.
Nor was that all.
A revolutionary new energy source called kerosene had appeared, creating an immense new market. The web of interests surrounding this oil spread in every direction, and the capitalists of the North lived each day as if it were a festival.
In the South, cotton exports were growing at a mad pace—ten percent, twenty percent year after year. Though the bitterness of defeat still lingered, people could once more look to the future and return to their livelihoods.
It seemed, for all the world, like the dawn of a happy America where everyone prospered.
…Or so it appeared. But no society exists in which everyone can be happy. As eras shift, declining industries inevitably emerge. And with kerosene suddenly in the spotlight, the whaling trade—which had seemed destined for eternal prosperity—took a blow straight to the heart.
“What? Kerosene is far cheaper than whale oil and burns brighter?”
“Then why the hell would we sail out into the ocean to hunt whales?”
The discovery of kerosene—more efficient, more economical, and requiring no dangerous voyages across the open ocean—was nothing short of revolutionary.
Whaling had only ever been about one thing: the oil. People hunted those massive creatures solely for the oil their bodies yielded. Once that oil became unnecessary, how could the industry possibly survive?
Yet whaling was no small enterprise that could simply be dismissed with a shrug and a sigh.
“Gentlemen! If we can no longer hunt whales, we will suffer catastrophic economic damage!”
“Do you want to see New Bedford destroyed? If New Bedford falls, the whole of Massachusetts will tremble!”
“If you’re a Northerner, for God’s sake, use whale oil!”
“That devil’s piss from underground is as dangerous as it smells. If you burn your house down trying to save a few pennies on lamp fuel, who exactly is going to compensate you?”
At the time, America was the most fanatical whaling nation on Earth. Of the roughly nine hundred whaling vessels sailing the world’s oceans, more than seven hundred flew the American flag. Over three hundred ships crowded the harbor at New Bedford, and nearly ten thousand able-bodied men made their living in the trade.
It wasn’t just a matter of employment; the profits were enormous. New Bedford was the wealthiest city in all of North America. No matter how much people praised the Industrial Revolution, nothing yet could match the profitability of cotton and whale oil.
But no amount of desperate shouting from whaling men could stop the turning of the age.
“Come on, you idiots. When the price difference is more than tenfold, who in their right mind would choose whale oil over kerosene?”
“Exactly. Stop jacking up the price so outrageously. Who told you to gouge us like that? How are we supposed to use something that costs two dollars and fifty cents per gallon?”
The public outcry was perfectly understandable. Because whales were growing scarce and ships had to push all the way into the Arctic, the price of whale oil kept climbing. Meanwhile, Pennsylvania’s black gold traded between thirty and forty cents a gallon.
An eightfold difference. The contest was already decided. Yet kerosene’s destructive power went far beyond mere price.
“Behold this beautiful light,” a shopkeeper would say, turning up the wick. Inside the clear glass chimney, a pure white flame would bloom, free of any impurities.
There was none of the fishy stench peculiar to whale oil, nor did the wick harden over time, causing the flame to gutter and die. People were enthralled by this new wonder of civilization, and the harbors of New Bedford grew cold at the same furious pace.
The docks, once noisy with the sweat of sailors and the shouts of auctioneers, fell into eerie silence. Whaling ships that could no longer sail lay at anchor like ghost vessels, their hulls thick with barnacles.
“The government must step in with regulations! At this rate, all of the North’s traditional industries will perish!”
“That black oil is the blood of the devil! We must subsidize whaling even if it means digging into the treasury…!”
The desperate pleas of shipowners echoed through the corridors of power in Washington, but the response from the White House and the Republican Party was ice-cold.
Of course, they were not without their own concerns. A great pillar that had supported the Northern economy for decades was collapsing. Unemployment would surge, and that anger would translate directly into votes.
Yet the Lincoln administration and Republican leadership were, after all, politicians. They had no choice but to favor cold reason over sentiment.
“In any case, the new petroleum industry is also centering itself in the North,” Treasury Secretary Salmon Chase reported dryly, cutting through the tension in the meeting room. “The tax revenue from Pennsylvania’s oil fields will soon surpass that of the whaling industry. When you factor in the ripple effects on railroads, refining, and transportation… there is simply no reason to cling to a dying sector.”
It was a cruel but crystal-clear conclusion.
Had petroleum been developing in the South, the situation might have been different. But since the new star of the age was also driven by Northern capital, from the Republican perspective it was merely money moving from the left pocket to the right. The nation’s overall wealth would not be harmed.
In the end, the government chose silence. It was painful, but those left behind by the tide of history had no choice but to crumble. That was the iron law of the free-market economy America so revered.
Yet behind that hands-off stance remained the thorny problem of how to pacify the coming waves of unemployed sailors and ruined capitalists.
While the White House wrestled with this seemingly insoluble dilemma, an unexpected hand of salvation reached out from an unlikely direction.
Any government facing the birth of a new industry faces a dilemma. It is obvious that existing industries will be destroyed, yet more efficient and cheaper technology cannot be rejected.
However, the anger of those who lose their jobs inevitably turns toward the political establishment.
There was only one way to resolve this impossible situation: offer those employed in the doomed industry an escape route. But whaling did not lend itself easily to transition. Unless whales were abundant and their meat exceptionally delicious—which they were not—the industry had always been about oil and oil alone.
There were also growing voices questioning whether it was right to slaughter such intelligent creatures so indiscriminately.
In short, the industry had received a terminal diagnosis.
I knocked on the door of the presidential office in the White House to solve this very headache.
“Ah, Counselor Serget. Come in, come in.”
“Mr. President, I must first express my gratitude. You personally sent a congratulatory message and gift for my chief of staff’s birthday. It was an honor I will not soon forget.”
“Nonsense. Given the contributions you have made, it was the least I could do. And young Leo has indeed been your hands and feet, running tirelessly on your behalf.”
Lincoln greeted me with a kindly smile. Beside him, Secretary of State William Seward and Treasury Secretary Salmon Chase also wore pleasant expressions. They were enjoying the fruits of our Asian market development, after all.
“So, what brings you here this time? Any further progress in Asia?”
“No, sir. Today I wish to speak not of lands across the sea, but of our own backyard.”
“Our backyard?”
“The whaling industry of New England.”
One of the North’s major industries, now living on borrowed time. The moment the words left my mouth, the atmosphere in the room grew heavy. Salmon Chase’s face darkened noticeably.
“I am aware the situation there is dire. With Pennsylvania flooding the market with petroleum, whale-oil prices have plummeted through the floor and into the basement.”
“Precisely. To be brutally honest, within a year or two the shipowners of New Bedford and Nantucket will be attending one funeral after another. The unemployed sailors pouring out from that collapse will naturally seek someone to blame.”
They knew better than I where those arrows of resentment would point.
Seward frowned slightly. Even in an age of money-driven elections, thousands of voters taking to the streets would hardly be pleasant for a man with his eyes on the presidency after Lincoln.
“The government has discussed subsidies, but opinion is coalescing around the idea that it is better to simply look the other way. We have no sharp solutions. Do you have any thoughts?”
“Yes. We cannot stop it entirely, but we can soften the blow.”
I placed the prepared documents on the table.
“I will acquire the near-bankrupt whaling fleets and port facilities of New England. I intend to absorb as many sailors and processing-plant workers as possible to prevent a full-scale unemployment crisis.”
After all, who else had the capital to take on such an acquisition?
James Serget—the man who cared more for the future of the United States than anyone else—would willingly shoulder this heavy burden.
“Serget, you are a merchant. Why would you voluntarily take on a losing business? Whaling’s collapse is inevitable. What possible use could you have for dying whaling ships?”
“I do not intend to continue hunting whales. I simply need more vessels to diversify my operations.”
This was no lie. I genuinely needed ships.
“Asian trade volume will only increase, and we lack sufficient transport for goods produced in the South. Though the whaling vessels are old, they are sturdy and have excellent cargo capacity. With some refitting they would be quite useful.”
Buying existing ships at rock-bottom prices and completing perfect vertical integration would guarantee far greater long-term profits than temporarily chartering merchant vessels.
Nor would they only carry cotton. Sending those ships to South America to scrape up massive quantities of seabird droppings—guano—would more than balance the books. In an age without chemical fertilizers, nitrogen- and phosphorus-rich guano was quite literally white gold. It was the finest nutrient supplement available to dramatically increase my plantations’ yields.
With the vast quantities I would soon be selling in Asia, I needed to scrape the seabeds clean.
Moreover, whaling crews spent years at sea and were practically immune to foul odors after years of cutting up whale carcasses. Where could I find better personnel for transporting guano, which ordinary sailors fled from because of the stench?
“However, there is one problem.”
“A problem?”
“Everyone knows who I am. James Serget, the planter of the South and the pride of the South. If people believe such a man is devouring the whaling industry—the very pride of the North—like a hyena, won’t Northern citizens feel considerable resentment?”
This was the real reason I had come to the White House today.
Business could be bought with money. Emotion could not.
When Northern capitalists had seized Southern land, why had the South reacted with such fury? Because it simply felt wrong.
“Therefore, I require the government’s assistance. Please make it clear in an official announcement that I am not scavenging these assets at bargain prices, but acquiring the whaling industry at the government’s request.”
“Hmm…”
“I have already spoken with the Southern Democrats. They have agreed to support the measure unconditionally. All that remains is for the Northern Republicans to frame this properly—as ‘not revenge, but harmony and mutual prosperity.’”
Solving the troublesome unemployment problem, ensuring a soft landing for a dying industry, and simultaneously securing the political capital of North-South reconciliation.
From the White House’s coldly rational perspective, there was not a single reason to refuse.
“It seems acceptable,” Lincoln said, nodding with satisfaction. “There are probably hidden benefits you haven’t mentioned, but since the advantages for our side are clear, we will cooperate. I hope you can indeed provide stable employment for the Northern sailors who stand to lose their livelihoods.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The negotiation concluded in moments.
With this, the pitiful whaling workers would gain new employment even if their income decreased somewhat, while the South could smile broadly at its exploding cotton production and replenish its self-esteem. The seeds of the mega-corporation that would one day dominate the United States—no, the seeds of the enormous enterprise that would be responsible for the quality of life of all American citizens—had been successfully planted.
“If this can even slightly ease the longstanding friction between North and South, and soothe the anger of the defeated South, I could ask for nothing more.”
A beautiful scene in which a major Southern corporation acquired Northern industry with the consent of politicians from both sides. Was this not true North-South reconciliation?
It seemed I was the only one who lay awake at night worrying about the future of the Union.
So please, gentlemen of the White House, look favorably upon me. Where else will you find a patriot like myself and such a patriotic enterprise?