The Titans' Showdown
The grand debate between two titans that brilliantly capped the New Year of 1865 with the promise of one’s ruin.
Though it bore the name of a debate, this confrontation—which could very well end one side’s social reputation forever—naturally drew explosive interest from every stratum of American society.
This was no mere clash between two businessmen.
It was North against South.
A exquisitely balanced showdown between old-money aristocracy and a rising conglomerate.
And at its heart lay the treatment of black slaves, the very issue that had once torn the entire United States in two.
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even a one-on-one duel.
Amos Lawrence was merely the representative.
The ones who had taken aim at James Serget were the Boston Associates themselves—the largest concentration of textile mills in North America.
In other words, this was not a personal battle between Amos Lawrence and James Serget, but a head-on collision between Serget Cotton, which was growing with the momentum to devour the entire textile industry, and the Boston Associates.
Ordinary citizens, powerful capitalists, the financial titans who moved the banks, and even the politicians—all of them watched the confrontation of the century with rapt attention.
Naturally, Lincoln’s White House was no exception.
The White House, grown complacent after what may have been the most predictable and unexciting presidential reelection in American history, now showed intense interest in this wholly unexpected development.
“Is this country cursed to split apart and fight, or die? How can we have battles like this every single year?”
“It appears Serget Cotton has aggressively lit the counter-fire. I must admit, it surprised me.”
“Indeed… He’s never been one to step into the spotlight like this.”
Even Lincoln had struggled to understand how the situation had escalated so dramatically when he first heard the news.
Secretary Seward’s reaction was no different.
The Serget they knew was a thorough pragmatist—the sort who preferred to quietly pocket his gains rather than stir up unnecessary trouble.
But this time was different.
“The venue is the New York Academy of Music?”
“Yes. A grand theater with four thousand seats.”
“And look at the guest list. It’s practically every heavyweight who moves the American economy.”
Railroad kings, financial emperors, and key political players.
To set the stage on this scale was more than a war of words.
It was a game of chicken in which the loser risked not only social annihilation but the very survival of their enterprise.
“Secretary, why do you believe Serget has escalated things to this degree?”
“Isn’t it proof that the Boston Associates feel genuinely threatened?”
Seward’s analysis was ice-cold.
“Serget Cotton is transforming New Bedford into a modern cotton textile complex. The factories will begin full operation next year. Can Boston’s outdated mills possibly compete?”
Of course they couldn’t.
Serget was pulling unmatched volumes of cotton from the vast deltas and Texas plantations of the South.
On top of that, he was importing Peruvian guano to double yields, shipping it on his own fleet, and processing it in his own mills.
There was simply no competing on cost.
“The supply won’t completely dominate the market for the next few years, but looking five or ten years ahead… Serget Cotton could swallow the entire domestic market whole.”
“And Boston wants to stop that from happening.”
“Precisely. They’ve concluded that if they don’t cut the sprout now, the chance will be lost forever. That’s why they’ve played their final card—morality.”
Lincoln had also read Serget’s intentions clearly.
“Conversely, Serget has seen exactly how desperate those old Boston men have become. He intends to crush them completely with this opportunity and turn the entire affair into a spectacular promotional event announcing Serget Cotton’s advance into the North.”
The desperation of Boston and the confidence of Mississippi lay naked before them.
As Lincoln and Seward calmly dissected the situation, the president finally understood why Serget had chosen such an uncompromising stance.
“They may not be holding guns, but this is still another kind of war.”
Lincoln stroked his chin, sinking into thought.
As president, he could not simply stand by and watch this massive vortex unfold.
Yet attending personally would look ridiculous.
At the same time, sending no one at all was impossible—Serget was, after all, the White House’s trade advisor on East Asia.
“Someone needs to go observe the situation.”
“I’ll go.”
Seward raised his hand lightly, as if he had been waiting for the words.
“You, Mr. Secretary? Isn’t that too conspicuous for a man eyeing the next presidency?”
“On the contrary, isn’t that exactly why I should go? Advisor Serget is also my partner, and if I’m to coordinate with the heavyweights on that list, my presence would be the most appropriate.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Depending on how this event concluded, the industrial map of the North could be shaken to its core.
Sending the Treasury Secretary would be too blatant, so Seward was likely the safest and most natural choice.
“Then I’ll leave it in your hands, Mr. Secretary. Under no circumstances are you to intervene in the outcome…”
“Of course. I will not take any side.”
The White House simply needed to sit quietly and subtly extend a hand to the victor afterward.
Still… if he were honest, he wished he could go himself.
Lincoln could only regret that he would miss what promised to be an absolute explosion of dopamine.
For the past ten days, the only topic on everyone’s lips had been the “debate.”
Lincoln’s reelection had been such an inevitable outcome that it carried neither excitement nor emotion.
Thus, to American citizens perpetually starving for fresh thrills, this debate was the ultimate event that could not be missed.
“Traditional Boston Associates or the rising Serget Cotton? They’re saying Serget Cotton currently holds a six-to-four advantage.”
“What? The host is New York, yet the Southerner is favored?”
“Don’t you know the New York financial crowd is basically the Serget fan club? Besides, Serget Cotton is still growing steadily.”
The opera house hosting the debate was already packed to its four-thousand-seat capacity.
Those unable to attend in person were betting heavily on the outcome, and the total stakes had reportedly reached sums that made people gasp.
If the city’s atmosphere was this electric, one could only imagine the scene at the actual venue—the New York Academy of Music.
The line for entry snaked around the block and wrapped the building, while scalpers shouted offers at more than ten times face value.
Pushing through that chaotic crowd, two sharply dressed men slipped into the venue through the VIP entrance.
“Hah, just look at this. I can’t tell if this is a debate hall or a gladiatorial arena.”
Andrew Carnegie clicked his tongue, yet his eyes sparkled with unmistakable enjoyment as he looked around.
People clutched papers covered in odds, and the sight of cash bundles changing hands everywhere evoked nothing so much as a horse-racing track.
“John, why don’t you buy a ticket yourself? I’ve placed a modest five thousand dollars.”
“……”
“Ah, that’s right. Betting is forbidden in Sunday school, isn’t it? The church teaches that gambling is Satan’s playground.”
Carnegie chuckled and slapped his shoulder, but John D. Rockefeller’s expression never changed as he brushed dust from his coat.
“You’d do better to keep your mouth shut. All that noise is giving me a headache.”
“How boring. So you really didn’t bet? Not even a single dollar?”
“I did bet.”
“What?”
He had? Truly?
Carnegie’s eyes widened like saucers.
That rigid Rockefeller—gambling?
“I placed ten thousand dollars early on. On Serget Cotton’s victory.”
“Hah! Ten thousand dollars? Have you gone mad? No—before that, weren’t you the one foaming at the mouth about how gambling isn’t biblical…”
Had he bent even his principles just to curry favor with the boss?
Yet Rockefeller regarded Carnegie with dry, emotionless eyes and asked in a tone of genuine puzzlement.
“Why is this gambling?”
“……Huh?”
“Putting money where the outcome is already obvious isn’t gambling—it’s investment. Do you call investment gambling? Frankly, it’s far safer than stocks.”
…When you put it that way, it really does make sense.
Carnegie stood stunned for a moment, then exploded with laughter.
“Kwahahaha! Ah, you’re right. My thinking was shallow this time. Yes, it’s a guaranteed investment.”
The two men, having found rare common ground, followed an usher past the main floor and up toward the prestigious box seats.
The higher they climbed, the more the atmosphere transformed.
If the first-floor seats were a sweaty, sweltering jungle, the second-floor boxes were a predator’s salon where cigar smoke mingled with the scent of the finest perfumes.
“Wow. It really is a constellation of stars today.”
Carnegie leaned against the railing, looking down, then whistled at the opposite box.
“Look over there. Isn’t that old Vanderbilt, the railroad king? The man famous for never moving his backside has actually shown up. And beside him is Jay Cooke—our federal wallet—and…”
Cornelius Vanderbilt. America’s living legend, whose fortune approached one hundred million dollars.
Next to him sat Jay Cooke, the financial emperor who had sold war bonds to secure Northern victory, along with August Belmont, Rothschild’s agent and the Democrats’ financier.
The giants who controlled the economy of the United States were packed tightly into the narrow boxes, staring at the stage like hawks.
And they were not alone.
“The politicians have come as well. Secretary of State William Seward and our own Chairman Farrar.”
The sight of the administration’s second-in-command sitting shoulder to shoulder with a major Southern political figure, whispering in each other’s ears, was a spectacle in itself.
Of course, they had not come merely to watch.
Rockefeller swept them with cold eyes and murmured.
“They’re not here because they’re curious about the result. They’ve come to calculate what happens after the debate ends.”
“Naturally. Who will fill the void when the old Boston men are crushed? How will the landscape shift if Serget wins? I can almost hear the calculators clicking from here.”
To those aging capitalists, Serget’s rise was anything but welcome.
To kings who wished their empires to last forever, a hungry young wolf climbing from the bottom was the ultimate threat.
Carnegie lifted a champagne flute and smiled with dark amusement.
“Heh heh. Sitting there with folded arms as if it has nothing to do with them. Their turn is coming soon enough.”
“Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.”
Rockefeller took a sip of black coffee instead of champagne and replied indifferently.
At that moment, a familiar deep voice sounded from the adjacent box.
“I thought I might find you two here.”
The curtain parted, revealing Junius Spencer Morgan—the heavyweight who had built a vast financial network between London and New York.
“Ah, Chairman Morgan. You’ve arrived.”
Carnegie and Rockefeller rose and offered respectful greetings.
They were still growing. Proper deference to a Wall Street titan was only natural.
“Sit, sit. I’m merely a spectator today as well. Ah, allow me to introduce my son.”
From behind Junius stepped a young man of about thirty.
Though youth still lingered in his features, the intensity behind his protruding eyes and tightly compressed lips was anything but ordinary.
Of course, “not ordinary” in this context meant he appeared exceptionally gifted at making money.
“John Pierpont Morgan. It is an honor to meet you both.”
J.P. Morgan.
Carnegie offered a handshake with his trademark affable grin.
“A pleasure, Mr. Morgan. Andrew Carnegie. This is John Rockefeller.”
“My father has spoken of you often. He says you are the giants who will shape the future of steel and oil.”
After the light pleasantries, Carnegie subtly tested the waters.
“That aside, Mr. Morgan—who do you believe will prevail today? The veteran Boston Associates, tempered by decades in the North?”
J.P. Morgan gazed quietly at the two empty podiums on stage.
“If judging purely by logic, it would be difficult to dismiss Boston’s experience. They are the ones who have written the rules of this industry for decades.”
“Exactly.”
“However, personally… I have placed my bet on the chairman of Serget Cotton.”
At the unexpected answer, Rockefeller’s eyebrow twitched.
“May I ask your reasoning? Do you have supporting data or figures?”
“No. This time, it is simply… instinct.”
Morgan’s reply was brief, yet that single sentence carried more weight than a thousand reports.
Oh ho. Look at this one.
Carnegie chuckled deeply and leaned back in his chair.
“I see. For a businessman, instinct is a skill in itself.”
Rockefeller regarded Morgan with a strange glint in his eye before turning his gaze back to the stage.
Beneath the brilliant chandeliers lay the circular arena where old, ailing lions would face young, ravenous wolves.
The giants in the box seats looking down upon it.
And among them, Carnegie and Rockefeller—true claws hidden—lazily swirled their drinks.
Eat or be eaten.
Amid the scorching friction heat that signaled the collision of an era’s hegemony.
The opera house blazed with the sheer presence of the stars who guided the United States of America.