The Victor's Rights
In the private box, Cornelius Vanderbilt had been watching the proceedings with keen attention. Now he gazed down at the stage with pure admiration.
He had come in person after hearing so much about the young man whose fame had spread throughout the South, but this far exceeded his expectations.
He never imagined the boy would turn the entire event into a promotional platform for his own northward expansion rather than simply engaging in a debate.
Vanderbilt turned to the men seated beside and behind him.
Jay Cooke, the federal government’s personal banker, and Junius Spencer Morgan, the titan of the financial world.
“What do you gentlemen think?”
“Lawrence picked the wrong opponent,” Jay Cooke said, clicking his tongue without bothering to hide his contempt.
“He should have realized the man wasn’t prey beneath him, but at the very least an equal—or perhaps an even greater predator. Instead of devouring his target, he ended up getting skinned alive.”
“I agree. It was a pathetic spectacle,” Morgan added in a cold voice.
The conclusion was the same for everyone who had watched the show.
The fall of an old generation that had failed to read the room.
Vanderbilt was the man who controlled every railroad in the Northeast and Midwest. If he wished, he could bring the logistics of a major city like New York to a complete standstill. To him, both the Boston Associates and Serget Cotton were merely valued customers.
It didn’t matter who won.
Whether Serget caused chaos with cotton or delivered a hectopascal kick with cotton fabric, increased shipping volume would only swell Vanderbilt’s own fortune.
Still, it was always better to shake hands with the winner.
“It looks like the old men of Boston have no future left,” Vanderbilt concluded with cold calculation.
After all, the market held no mercy for the defeated.
And just as expected, public opinion delivered an overwhelming verdict in favor of James Serget.
“Boooooo!”
“Get off the stage, you hypocrites!”
“You treat workers worse than slaves and dare speak of morality? What a joke!”
A thunderous barrage of jeers rained down on the Boston Associates, as if the crowd were demanding the execution of a defeated gladiator. Even when the moderator rang the bell to restore order, it was useless.
The wily Vanderbilt discreetly scanned his surroundings.
Secretary Seward and the other administration officials wore solemn expressions, but their eyes clearly said, I knew it.
So the White House had been quietly backing Serget Cotton after all.
Having roughly grasped the administration’s true intentions, Vanderbilt rose from his seat.
“Let’s go. We should congratulate the victor.”
At his lead, the titans who moved the Northern economy filed toward the waiting room.
Naturally, no one approached the presidents of the Boston Associates.
Whether North or South, the market was merciless.
When the waiting room door opened, they found Serget—not drunk on victory as they had expected—but calmly conversing with his secretary.
“Oh, I was actually planning to visit you first, but you came to me. What an honor.”
Serget recognized them immediately and offered a courteous greeting.
“It is truly an honor that you came in person.”
“Young man, that was magnificent. Of all the spectacles I’ve witnessed, today’s debate was undoubtedly the finest.”
Having decided to back the winner, Vanderbilt lavished him with praise, speaking from the heart.
“What I liked most was that you didn’t just engage in a war of words—you proved everything with numbers. A businessman should always speak with figures.”
“You flatter me. The truth is, the reason people like us can sell our goods with such peace of mind is entirely thanks to pioneers like yourself who laid down the railroads.”
Serget deftly returned the compliment.
Vanderbilt’s lips twitched with pleasure. The young man had precisely stroked his pride as the Railroad King.
“Haha, what a silver tongue you have for one so young. In that case, please make generous use of our railroads in the future, not just your ships.”
“Of course. No matter how many whaling vessels I acquire, ships cannot run on land. The majority of Serget Cotton’s inland logistics will travel along your rails, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
Jay Cooke and the other magnates followed, exchanging greetings with Serget.
He treated each of them with appropriate respect, leading the conversation with humility that never crossed into servility.
“Well then, I must take my leave. I need to prepare for the reopening of the New Bedford factories. I will pay you a proper visit soon.”
With a clean finish, Serget left the waiting room.
As they watched his retreating figure, the old capitalists quickly began their appraisal.
“A very humble young man. Not stiff like Lawrence at all.”
“I rather like him. Easy to talk to as well.”
Among older gentlemen, many had a soft spot for capable yet modest youths.
Most appeared completely taken with Serget, but Vanderbilt’s eyes held a slightly different light.
He stroked his chin, lost in deep thought.
He himself would turn seventy this year. He was too old to compete directly with Serget, but suddenly his sons came to mind.
Could his children protect—or better yet, grow—the family fortune against a monster like that young man?
Objectively speaking, there was no immediate cause for concern.
Cotton and cotton fabric.
For now, Serget was merely trying to dominate those two markets, and in petroleum he was little more than an investor who had poured in a considerable sum.
Yet Vanderbilt’s intuition—the same instinct that had built him the greatest fortune in the United States—issued a strong warning: it would be wise to take out insurance, just in case.
Vanderbilt humbly chose to trust his gut.
There was nothing to lose by preparing in advance.
It is often said that after a fight ends, one should be generous enough to extend a hand even to the loser.
Fighting is ugly; reconciliation is beautiful.
In principle, that is correct.
However, such words only apply when there will be future encounters. When one fights with the intent to end things permanently, a slightly different attitude is required.
Being generous is fine, but excessive generosity can make one appear as an easy mark.
The same principle applied now.
Even after I had so carefully covered his rear during the Asian export incident, Lawrence had not hesitated to stab me in the back.
Because I kept showing goodwill, he had deluded himself into believing it was his natural right to enjoy those benefits. The delusion had penetrated all the way to his brain stem, driving him to self-destruction.
In that case, as the operator of Serget Clinic—the finest hospital in the United States—wasn’t it only proper that I provide treatment?
Yet the moment I, the world-renowned physician and director of Serget Clinic, opened the waiting room door, a scream-like clamor from the defeated slammed into my ears.
“You stupid old fool! What did I tell you? I said we should compete quietly with technology! Instead you went and pulled the lion’s whiskers!”
“You’re blaming me? Weren’t you the ones who voted in favor? Now you want to back out?”
“That worthless Pinkerton bastard is the problem! He took our money and all he brought back was this garbage!”
They stopped just short of grabbing each other by the collars, but it was essentially a dogfight.
Amos Lawrence, in particular, who had brought Tom and John Brown as his trump card only to press the self-destruct button, was receiving what amounted to a collective beating.
“You got all excited after clumsily winning over one Black man, and look at the mess you’ve made! You’re the one who dragged Boston’s honor through the gutter!”
“How was I supposed to know that man would betray us? How could I have known Serget—that devil—had brainwashed those Black people so thoroughly?”
“Either way, this is all because of you! Take responsibility! Take responsibility, damn it!”
Lawrence’s face flushed red with injustice as he shouted at the top of his lungs, but the glares of his turned-coat partners remained icy.
What a touching display of friendship.
Just a short while ago they had banded together like brothers to bury me, and now they were already playing politics to pin the blame on the culprit.
Their unity was even weaker than a house of cards. Quite the entertaining sight.
“My, what excellent camaraderie you all share. I’m truly impressed.”
The moment I opened the door and stepped inside, the chaotic waiting room fell into sudden silence.
Seeing me enter leisurely with bodyguards in tow, Lawrence glared as if he wanted to fire missiles from his eyes.
“James… Serget…!”
“Please calm yourself, Chairman Lawrence. Your blood pressure will rise. I merely came as the victor to offer my sincere condolences to the defeated.”
“Condolences? You think we don’t know you came to mock us!”
Oh, he’s quick on the uptake. How did he figure it out?
Still, I hid my true feelings and put on a deliberately hurt expression.
“Mock you? I was moved. Deeply moved by your lofty moral standards and near-pathological sense of ethics.”
“……What?”
“Just think about it. Everything you said while attacking me—wasn’t every single word correct? It is an undeniable fact that I used slaves and produced cotton with their blood and sweat.”
The directors of the Boston Associates exchanged uneasy glances.
They were clearly wondering why I was acting this way all of a sudden.
But I was completely sincere.
Since they had displayed such noble morality, wasn’t it only right that I, the victor, generously look after them?
“That is why I have made a decision. I will protect your lofty convictions.”
“What the hell are you talking about…”
“From now on, Serget Cotton will not supply a single bale of cotton to any factory affiliated with the Boston Associates.”
In an instant, all color drained from Lawrence’s face.
“W-what? You’re cutting off supply?!”
“Exactly as I said. Your factories are far too clean to use my filthy cotton, aren’t they? How could you possibly use it without your conscience pricking you?”
“This is outrageous! This is clearly retaliation! It’s the tyranny of monopoly disrupting market order!”
“Retaliation? How hurtful. This is consideration.”
Besides, monopoly? Serget Cotton has not yet achieved a monopoly over the Southern cotton industry.
To monopolize, one must control at least one-third of the market.
There is still some time left until then.
I flicked my fingers.
“Don’t worry. There are many white tenant farmers in the South besides me who grow cotton. Not a single former slave among them—perfectly ethical cultivators. You may use their goods. If you wish, I can connect you with them.”
Of course, their production costs would be at least thirty percent higher than mine.
Quality control would be nonexistent, and the thread would snap constantly, but virtuous consumption always comes with a price, doesn’t it?
Even in modern times, it’s common sense that organic or fair-trade labels come with higher price tags. They should be willing to bear that much.
“Ah, and you need not worry about my remaining inventory. My factories in New Bedford and shipments to Liverpool are already stretched thin. In truth, I never had any surplus to give you in the first place.”
Once again, this is not retaliation. I am simply forced to reorganize my supply structure.
My own nose is three feet long, so naturally I must supply my own affiliates first. There simply wasn’t enough to give Boston from the beginning, you see?
Well… raw material prices will skyrocket, quality will plummet, and their competitor Serget Cotton will churn out high-quality products at rock-bottom prices. But what can they do?
Let us pray that Northern consumers with a conscience will buy cotton fabric made from the virtuous cotton grown by white men.
Lawrence’s legs gave out. He collapsed into a chair.
His lips, which had trembled with rage, now quivered with pure terror.
If I had failed to establish myself properly in the North, this might not have mattered. But since their surprise attack had failed, they would have to pay the price.
Of course, I—who always uphold the motto of coexistence, co-prosperity, and mutual benefit—have no intention of driving the poor Boston workers into the abyss of ruin.
If their factories look like they will collapse, I can simply acquire them and run them myself.
Wouldn’t the workers of Boston actually prefer that?
“S-Serget.”
“Just a moment longer… please…”
Seeing the old men’s faces turn deathly pale, I felt as if today’s rather heavy lunch—eaten to prepare for the debate—was being cleanly digested.
The idea that revenge or retaliation is wrong only applies to people like Lincoln. There is no act that brings greater happiness than thorough punishment.
“I have a busy schedule ahead, so I must take my leave. Please continue your warm and friendly discussion.”
I offered one final polite bow and left the waiting room. From behind me came Leo’s voice, filled with boundless pity.
“Are you really planning to acquire even the factories of those old men who tried to socially murder you, sir? As expected, your heart is far too tender.”
“Indeed. No matter how I look at it, my greatest weakness is that I am simply too kind.”
I wasn’t sure how much the factories’ prices would drop after a year of halted operations, but since I couldn’t acquire them for free, I would still have to pay something.
Having to pay money to take goods from enemies who had targeted me—Leo’s worry was perfectly understandable.
“To survive in this capitalist jungle, you must become a little more ruthless, sir. You need to harden your heart.”
As always, worrying about the chairman is the job of our chief of staff.
Though becoming more ruthless than this isn’t exactly easy.
It seems this is all because I have been too generous.