Kicking Away the Ladder

The city that had once been the most prosperous in America, and until recently had resembled a terminal patient awaiting its inevitable death, was now seizing a new opportunity for a leap forward.

New Bedford harbor, 1864.

The place that had been shrouded in the shadow of death was once again teeming with vitality.

The whaling ships that had been rusting at anchor only a few months earlier now rang their bells in unison as they set sail for the Atlantic.

Their destination was not the traditional whale migration routes.

Their compasses were fixed due south—toward the equator and beyond.

“The navy’s going to escort us while we go scoop up bird shit?”

“That’s what the law says, and I’m not complaining. If an American citizen finds the shit, that island becomes American territory, right?”

The Guano Islands Act, enacted in 1856.

A bizarre and almost mystical law that, by 21st-century standards, defied common sense: if an American citizen discovered an unclaimed island containing guano deposits, the United States would claim it as territory, and the president would dispatch troops to protect it.

One might reasonably ask why the United States had any right to pass such a law when guano clearly came from South American soil. But in the age of imperialism, any protest would simply be met with the response, If you don’t like it, try to stop us. What else was there to do?

The South American nations had already witnessed what happened to Mexico at America’s hands. None of them had any desire to confront the United States directly.

With the law serving as an ironclad shield, what did ship owners and sailors have to fear?

“Who cares if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it stinks? It’s better than starving to death!”

“Is the smell really that bad? It’s more bearable than I expected.”

Originally, guano harvesting had been the most despised occupation among sailors because of the eye-watering ammonia stench. Southern merchant ships that attempted it often saw their crews desert after just a few voyages.

But these men were different.

They were whalers who had spent decades slicing open whale carcasses and eating meals amid the stench of rotting blubber and blood. To them, the smell of dried bird droppings was practically the sweet scent of fresh grass.

“Those weak-kneed Dixie bastards. They couldn’t even handle something like this and started whining?”

“They’ve been making money too easily, that’s why. We’re grateful for the extra work.”

The fleet flying the Serget Cotton flag swept ruthlessly through the uninhabited islands of the Caribbean and the Pacific.

When the white powder they collected returned to New Bedford, the factories that had ground to a halt began turning once more.

The massive tryworks once used to render whale blubber were slightly modified and transformed into fertilizer processing facilities that cooked guano together with Texas cattle bones.

The process was simple, so the costs were negligible.

The resulting Serget Special Fertilizer was loaded onto trains and poured into the South.

The effects were immediate.

The cotton plants in Mississippi, which had been withering from exhausted soil, began recovering with terrifying vigor—like dehydrated patients finally receiving water.

But Serget’s ambitions did not stop at merely collecting droppings from uninhabited islands.

“At this rate, we can only produce enough fertilizer for our own plantations by scavenging ownerless land?”

While it wasn’t difficult to find guano by scouring South America, the region where the greatest quantities of this golden excrement could be found was already known.

Peru.

The country possessed the Chincha Islands—the world’s largest and highest-quality guano deposits. Somehow, they had to break into that market.

Peru was well aware of guano’s effectiveness and had been using it as a vital export. But by a stroke of good fortune, Peru was currently facing its worst crisis in history.

A Spanish fleet, desperate to reclaim past glory, had launched a surprise attack, occupied the Chincha Islands, and blockaded the sea. This was the so-called Chincha Islands War.

The Peruvian government, which relied on guano exports for sixty percent of its national revenue, was on the verge of collapse as its money supply was cut off.

At this exquisite moment, Serget once again struck a deal in Washington.

“Your Excellency, Mr. Secretary. Spain is blocking Peru’s export routes. But aren’t we a neutral nation?”

“That’s correct. We aren’t taking either side. After all, we already agreed to overlook Spain’s actions for the time being in exchange for access to the Asian ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠market.”

“Then, as a neutral country, wouldn’t it be a legitimate act of trade for us to purchase Peru’s guano? Besides, our farmers need that fertilizer to survive.”

It wasn’t just any nation—the United States had signed an agreement to remain neutral toward Spain, one of the warring parties. The justification was perfect.

Lincoln and Seward were once again happy to give Serget a helpful push.

“Very well. I’ll make sure to remind Spain once more that they must not dare interfere with American merchant vessels.”

Importing guano in bulk wasn’t merely for Serget Cotton’s benefit.

This was all being done to save the farms of the Union.

And so, Serget’s transport fleet, flying the Stars and Stripes, appeared off the coast of Peru.

The Spanish navy, who had unwittingly shot themselves in the foot, ground their teeth in fury. But no amount of anger would produce a viable solution.

They had already poured fifty thousand troops into the Dominican Republic and were floundering there. Did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they really want to pick a fight with the regular army of the United States, which had just emerged victorious from its own civil war?

Even if Spain had fallen from the front ranks of the great powers, it was not so foolish as to be incapable of making that calculation.

“Let the American ships… pass. Damn it!”

Once Spain cleared the way, Serget Cotton engaged in perfectly reasonable negotiations with the Peruvian government, which had been driven to the edge of a cliff.

“At this rate, if you can’t export anything, your country will collapse, won’t it? I’ll buy it all. Ten dollars per ton. Take it or leave it.”

“Ten dollars?! This is robbery! That’s less than a third of the normal price!”

“Is that so? Then I suppose we have no choice. We’ll simply mine it elsewhere. You can sit there sucking your thumbs until the war ends.”

“W-wait, I didn’t say we wouldn’t sell…”

There was no other option.

They already had to fight a war against Spain. Wasn’t it better to scrape together whatever money they could now and end the conflict sooner rather than later?

In the end, Peru stamped the contract selling its guano at a steep discount.

Serget Cotton began sweeping up the world’s highest-grade fertilizer at one-third the usual price—and nearly monopolizing it in the process.

Guano was white gold. Its nitrogen and phosphorus content was more than thirty times higher than ordinary compost.

After using as much as Serget Cotton needed, the surplus fertilizer was sold and exported at over sixty dollars per ton.

Cotton yields immediately jumped to an average of 2.63 times their previous levels. The cotton produced was sold almost entirely into the European and Asian markets.

The remaining supply was turned into cotton textiles in New Bedford and fed into the domestic market. Serget Cotton’s sales ledger began climbing at an unreal pace.

These were profits so staggering they could not be compared to those of any British noble. The money was now being poured into steel and refining—not to “kill” competitors, but to follow the principles of peaceful free-market competition.

In just a single year, Serget Cotton had grown at a terrifying rate. Its fame once again spread across the entire United States.

“Serget Cotton… isn’t this getting dangerous?”

The capitalists who dominated the North began to sense the warning signs.

The name James Serget—and by extension Serget Cotton—had become fairly well known among Northern capitalists after the end of the Civil War.

Of course, they merely knew the name. None of them harbored any particular ill will or viewed him as a competitor.

After all, Serget Cotton was just a cotton merchant who produced and sold cotton down in the South. Their spheres of business didn’t overlap, and there was no reason for conflict. It would have been strange to pay him any mind.

In fact, many even evaluated him positively for actively pioneering the Asian market and breathing new life into the Northern economy.

But that was only until this year.

“The growth rate of Serget Cotton is absurd. When they said they were acquiring the whaling industry, I thought they’d lost their minds. I never imagined they would enter textile manufacturing directly and even start selling fertilizer.”

“To think they would turn all of New Bedford into a textile city… In hindsight it seems obvious, but why did we miss this?”

“Most of us probably thought of it. The problem was that we lacked the capital to execute it immediately, and there were almost no existing industries in the North that could create synergy with it. That was the blind spot.”

As these words suggested, Serget Cotton’s acquisition of the whaling industry had not been a wasteful purchase of a dying sector.

Textiles, fertilizer, and shipping—all of it was perfectly linked to Serget Cotton’s core business of cotton, creating a virtuous cycle in which each sector complemented and strengthened the others.

As a result, every field Serget Cotton touched had risen to a level of unrivaled competitiveness. At least within the United States, there appeared to be no force capable of checking them.

To overcome this situation, which was rapidly becoming a serious threat to the North, the textile magnates gathered in one place.

Boston, 1865. The Somerset Club.

The so-called Boston Associates—the textile tycoons who held New England’s economy in their grasp—had assembled.

Normally this would have been a relaxed gathering filled with cigar smoke and pleasant conversation, but today only heavy silence hung in the air.

“We cannot sit idly by any longer. Once the factories in New Bedford begin operating at full capacity, our mills in Lowell and Lawrence will inevitably suffer.”

The elderly gentleman seated at the head of the table set his teacup down with a sharp clack.

Amos Lawrence.

Head of the New England Textile Association and the very man who had negotiated the market division with Serget in Washington.

He had believed the agreement guaranteed his survival in the low-price market, but now that the lid had been lifted, the situation was turning out strangely.

“Serget has not violated our gentleman’s agreement. He is only producing low-end cotton fabric as promised.”

“The problem is that both the volume and cost competitiveness of that low-end product far exceed our imagination. Damn it, he grows the cotton on his own land, ships it on his own ships, and weaves it in his own factories. How are we supposed to compete on price?”

Another mill owner spat out his frustration.

“On top of that, his fertilizer business has practically monopolized cotton production in the South. If we want raw cotton, we’ll eventually have no choice but to go begging to Serget!”

Without even realizing it, they had been caught by the throat.

Once the Northern capitalists recognized this fact, they could easily imagine the bleak future that lay ahead.

If things continued this way, the Northern textile industry would clearly be reduced to a subcontractor for Serget Cotton.

“We must impose sanctions! We should pressure the congressmen to pass an antitrust law…”

“That won’t work. President Lincoln and Secretary Seward are shielding him. On top of that, he has British capital behind him. Any political move against him will only create a backlash.”

They could not stop him with force, money, or politics.

Then there was only one way left.

“There is one method. We attack his morality.”

A senior member who had been quietly smoking a cigar in the corner spoke in a low voice.

“His morality? Serget is currently revered as a pioneer of slave emancipation and an icon of Black welfare. Attacking him on that front won’t gain any traction.”

“That is only true of the present.”

No matter how convincing the present appeared, it could not change the terrible crimes he had committed in the past.

“Does a man change overnight? The way he pretends to treat Black people well is only because it makes him money. Above all, the past that is clearly recorded stands as proof.”

“The past?”

“Wasn’t he a planter to the very marrow of his bones? Are there no people who remember how he treated his slaves before the war?”

Indeed. Hadn’t his nickname in the South been the Slave Master?

“If we look, we will surely find them. Witnesses who were whipped, unjustly sold, or abused. No matter how well Serget packages himself, the original sin of having been a slave owner cannot be erased.”

Slap!

Lawrence struck his knee.

“That’s it! Northern citizens recoil at the very mention of slavery. If we expose the fact that Serget was actually a vicious abuser and that his current image is nothing but hypocrisy…”

“Public opinion will turn against him. We’ll repay him in exactly the same way he used sentimental appeals about loving whales to destroy the whaling industry.”

Give back exactly what was received.

On the surface, it would look like righteous Northern civil society judging a hypocritical Southern capitalist.

In reality, it was a mudslinging fight to protect their own rice bowls. But then again, most conflicts in this world were fundamentally about rice bowls, weren’t they?

As long as the packaging was done well, it didn’t matter.

“Let’s raise the funds. Mobilize the Pinkerton Detective Agency or anyone else necessary to scour Mississippi. Black people who hold a grudge against Serget, evicted tenant farmers—anyone will do. We need to find witnesses who can stand in front of reporters and cry their eyes out.”

“Excellent. This is very convincing.”

The faces of the textile tycoons brightened.

This was by no means a petty background check or slander.

It was a righteous struggle to protect the noble industrial ecosystem of the North.

The North was no place for some upstart from the South who had only known how to squeeze slaves.

Patriot, businessman—call him what you like. In the end, he was still a man who had abused Black people, wasn’t he?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Yes. The justification was more than sufficient.

The Northern capitalists standing at the forefront of industrialization gladly united their hearts to kick away the ladder of opportunity so that no Dixie could ever climb up.