The Victor's Right
The rising star of the Southern nouveau riche had tried to drag one man through the mud, only to be thoroughly shaken down in return—an epic display of self-destruction.
The Boston Associates' disgrace was, of course, splashed across every newspaper in New York the very next day, then throughout the North, and even in their own backyard of Boston.
Truthfully, it was hardly unusual for established powers to kick the ladder away when a new competitor tried to climb. Fights and fires were always the most entertaining spectacles, but the scale of this one was something else entirely.
New York's newsstands did record business from dawn onward.
[The Wolf of the South Slaughters Boston's Flock.]
[A Sandcastle of Hypocrisy? The Fifty-Cent Kings Collapse.]
[Serget's Retort! "As you wished, I will not sell my filthy cotton to your mills."]
The political cartoons printed alongside the sensational headlines were even more outrageous. One showed Amos Lawrence with his neck on the guillotine while James Serget gripped the massive lever of a cotton loom in place of an axe. Citizens who viewed the clash as a gladiatorial contest chuckled at the image.
"See? I told you. They only pretended to be refined. They're trash, just like the rest of us said."
"Serget really put his boot on their necks. I hear the New Bedford mill even offers discounted medical care. Maybe we should send our boy there."
Northern opinion had completely turned. With their final bulwark of moral authority shattered, the Boston Associates were now fair game for everyone.
The satisfying news raced down the telegraph lines into the South as well.
"Kuhahaha! That's our President Serget!"
"Those Boston bastards got humiliated over the fifty-cent affair last time, and they still haven't learned their lesson!"
From saloons in Mississippi to parlors in New Orleans, Southerners raised their glasses without exception. For men still nursing the bitterness of defeat, the spectacle of the North's proudest city—Boston—being crushed by a Southern hero was a pleasure no amount of alcohol could match.
Already famous for making Boston look foolish during Will's trial, Serget had now cemented his image as the man who handled Boston. Some even suggested declaring the day a Southern holiday.
Yet while the public enjoyed the story as a simple David-and-Goliath tale or a triumph of justice, those who understood the real stakes could not laugh. Far from it—many were gripped by outright terror.
"The London market is in convulsions! Boston textile bonds are turning into waste paper!"
"A telegram from Liverpool just arrived. They're asking if Serget Cotton cuts off Boston supply, will it all go to England instead? If so, they want forward contracts signed immediately!"
Offices on Wall Street descended into chaos amid a storm of telegrams and shouting. This was no mere war of words. It was a preview of how the entire American cotton textile supply chain might be overturned from the roots up.
The world's largest cotton supplier had declared a sales ban on a specific region—and had done so by turning the North's own moral claims against them. Financiers whose fingers hovered over their ledgers felt them tremble as they calculated the economic tsunami that would follow.
The White House was no calmer. Secretary of State Seward had returned to Washington the moment the debate ended and called an emergency cabinet meeting. The ripple effects of Serget's move on the industrial map of the North, and how the administration should surf the coming wave, required precise calculation.
Yet at the very center of the storm, James Serget took an unexpected course of action.
[James Serget Presents: The All-American Charity Baseball Tournament]
"All proceeds will go to poor relief and Black education. I cordially invite all interested parties to the reception."
In the heart of New York, having rented out the city's most luxurious hotel in its entirety, he announced he would host the tournament in the name of North-South reconciliation.
On the surface it was a charitable event with noble intentions, but no one was foolish enough to miss the message buried beneath. It was a de facto victory declaration—and a warning that anyone hoping to avoid the coming backlash had better swallow their pride and jump aboard.
Invitations went out not only in New York but also to the leading families of Boston. The Boston Brahmins, who would normally have dismissed any overture from "those Southern Dixie trash," now found themselves receiving personal invitations from the South's wealthiest man.
The Lowell, Lawrence, Cabot, and Appleton families—America's de facto aristocracy who had monopolized wealth and power since the founding—were forced to lift their heavy backsides for once. If the cotton stopped, the mills would stop. If the mills stopped, family revenues would plummet.
"I must go myself."
"Sir? Even so, for you to attend in person—"
"No. We need to see with our own eyes whether this is a declaration of war or an opening for negotiation."
After all, it was Amos Lawrence, the most prominent Boston Brahmin, who had first drawn his sword against James Serget. They needed to determine whether Serget now regarded the entire Brahmin class as enemies, or only Lawrence.
John Amory Lowell, head of the Lowell family, who would normally never have spared a glance for Southerners, along with Thomas Gold Appleton of the Appletons and Samuel Cabot III of the Cabots, accepted Serget's summons.
Train tickets to New York for a simple charity baseball tournament sold out, and carriages lined up nose-to-tail outside the hotel banquet hall. The situation had grown far too large to be dismissed as mere generational friction.
"Kuh… Look at this list of participants. Leo, can you see it? Our Americans really do love baseball."
"Remarkable. The donations for this tournament will exceed all expectations. We may need to adjust the schedule beyond our original plan."
"You're right. We'll need more teams and stretch the dates."
The seeds of modern baseball he had planted years earlier had taken deep root, and New York's baseball fever was reaching its peak. He had worried that a crushing defeat at Southern hands might dampen enthusiasm, but the new style of play had evidently shocked New Yorkers in the best possible way.
After all, neither basketball nor American football had been born yet. With two of America's three major sports still absent, what else were they supposed to play?
New York's teams in particular trained with the burning desire to one day avenge themselves against the South and had begun requesting rematch opportunities, confident in their growing skill.
In other words, Serget had not forced the tournament simply to rub salt in the wound. The timing had simply been ideal.
"Then the format will be four teams from Serget Cotton and four from the North for a quarterfinal bracket. Even though it's a charity event, we'll make it as grand and spectacular as possible, so let's set the prize money high."
"How shall we handle the bracket? Strictly North versus South?"
"No, no. That won't do. If all four Serget Cotton teams reach the semifinals, it would be a disaster."
The Northern teams were starting to believe in themselves. Another crushing demonstration of the skill gap might finally kill the sport's popularity here.
Even if New York's professional teams had adopted modern training methods, the gap remained enormous. Serget Cotton's internal league was already several levels above Northern professional play; in a fair matchup, Serget's side would win ninety-five times out of a hundred.
"So you understand? The bracket needs to allow for some upsets so the North at least reaches the semifinals. With luck, they might even have a one-percent chance of reaching the final."
"That makes sense. Reaching the semifinals alone would satisfy them."
Leo nodded and jotted the notes in his book.
"Then I shall contact the New York teams immediately. They have been clamoring to participate, so the slots will fill quickly."
Once the outline of the charity tournament was set, the reception hall grew lively. New York was a city with deep ties to Serget. Planters had long been the financial district's most valued clients, the first hospital he built in the North stood in New York, and the famous Black fast-pitch team that had astonished the nation had first appeared here.
"President Serget! That was magnificent. I wish I could have seen their faces!"
"I came running the moment I heard about the New Bedford mill. Our bank will open a low-interest credit line—let us know if you need anything."
So it was only natural that New Yorkers, who in truth liked Serget far more than Amos Lawrence, flocked to him. Praise for the victor rose like champagne bubbles without end.
Politicians were quick to join the chorus.
"When New York's capital and Serget Cotton's technology combine, even the British won't be able to compete. The Republican Party will give you our full support."
"Indeed. It is time for America to seize global market hegemony, and you, President Serget, stand at the forefront."
They openly called him "one of us." Their earlier posture of studied neutrality had vanished.
History truly did favor the victor.
Just as the atmosphere reached its height, the air near the entrance suddenly chilled. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and several elderly gentlemen wrapped in heavy silence walked through.
John Amory Lowell.
Samuel Cabot.
Thomas Gold Appleton.
The heads of the Boston Brahmin families had arrived.
The boisterous noise died instantly. New York parvenus who had been singing Serget's praises moments earlier began edging backward. Even if Boston's glory days were behind it, the aura of men who had ruled America for decades could not be ignored.
Nevertheless, Serget raised his champagne glass and greeted them with perfect courtesy.
"Thank you for making the long journey. I am grateful you accepted my invitation."
"You invited us. It would be rude not to come."
Lowell answered stiffly, leaning on his cane. His gaze was cold, yet at least he did not descend into Lawrence's vulgarity.
"The air in New York remains as noisy as ever. Still, tonight I find the clamor rather agreeable."
Appleton attempted to lighten the mood with his usual banter, but the surrounding glances remained icy. Standing here would only grow more uncomfortable.
"I was just thinking the indoor air felt rather stuffy. If you have no objection, shall we step out onto the terrace for some fresh air?"
"Very well."
Serget led them, with Leo at his side, out to the terrace overlooking the glittering night streets of New York. A cool evening breeze drifted in.
"Baseball… Even in Boston these days, quite a few ambitious young men have taken it up."
Cabot remarked, lighting a cigar.
"So I've heard. Even Harvard students have formed teams."
"Yes. But for any sport to thrive, the games themselves must be lively. Given the current state of the Boston market, I'm concerned the growth of baseball may stall as well."
His skill at steering the conversation was impressive.
"Your concern is understandable. If the textile mills stop, port traffic will decline, and railroad revenues will fall. That is only the beginning. Loans tied up in banks will become problematic, and the value of real estate your families have invested in will drop as well."
This was no exaggeration. The number of spindles in the single city of Lowell already exceeded the combined total of all eleven Southern states. Boston produced roughly twenty percent of America's cotton textiles and employed around ten thousand workers. If they collapsed at once, the city's finances would falter, merchants would follow into bankruptcy, and banks would be dragged down with them. The shock would reach the port as well, meaning the Brahmins' own revenues—spread across the entire city—could easily lose thirty percent or more.
The fact that the family heads themselves had rushed to New York in such a state of alarm proved the crisis was real.
"The entire Boston economy could be shaken to its foundations. A most regrettable situation."
The Brahmins' faces hardened at the word "regrettable."
Lowell cleared his throat.
"President Serget. We understand you harbor grievances toward us, but—"
"Grievances? I believe there may be a misunderstanding."
Anyone listening might think he had deliberately set out to ruin Boston's economy.
"I have never started a fight with anyone. I was simply pursuing new business in peace when I was struck from behind. All I am doing now is making those who struck me pay the appropriate price."
He smiled brightly and added, "Surely you do not expect me to say, 'Oh, feel free to strike me from behind whenever you like'?"
"…That is not what we meant."
"Then you understand. I have no intention of making enemies of all of you. My blade is aimed at only one man—Amos Lawrence."
Their eyes wavered. Even they could grasp the implication: produce one sacrificial lamb to bear responsibility.
"In any case, the New Bedford mill alone cannot meet nationwide demand for cotton textiles, let alone supply England. That is why I need Boston's facilities."
"You mean—"
"Rather than letting the mills rot into scrap, would it not be better for me to acquire them and operate them under the Serget Cotton name? Ownership and management will change, of course, but the value of the shares you hold will be preserved."
"…!"
"Dividends may be somewhat reduced for a year or two at most. Share prices may fluctuate temporarily. But I advise you not to sell. Once I complete the great textile cluster linking Boston and New Bedford, those shares will be worth several times their current value."
He was not asking them to sell dying mills at fire-sale prices; he was offering them a seat on the back of the Serget Cotton tiger. It was both a demand for surrender and a partnership proposal.
"And you need not worry about the workers. Once the mills resume operation, every man will be rehired at Serget Cotton wage levels. Boston's economy will regain its vitality."
Thus they would not have to fear being murdered by unemployed workers turned rioters.
The Brahmins' expressions visibly brightened. It was the look of men who had found a rope at the bottom of hell.
"There is, however, one condition."
"We expected as much. Speak."
"While I acquire the mill shares currently held by the Boston Associates, I will require your full and public support."
In other words: abandon Lawrence.
The silence did not last long.
"Amos Lawrence…"
Cabot exhaled cigar smoke and muttered.
"Now that you mention it, who was that fellow again? My memory fails me."
"Ah… there was such a traitor. The man who sullied our honor."
When Appleton chimed in, Lowell nodded as well.
"He was someone we should have cut loose long ago. You are correct. Cancer must be excised."
Their camaraderie was truly beautiful. It had taken less than a minute to consign a decades-long friend to oblivion.
Or perhaps, at their age, the memory really had grown faint.
Old age was terrifying in that way.
Serget raised his glass with a satisfied smile.
"A wise decision. Since you have come all this way, let us enjoy the baseball tournament together. We are currently accepting sponsorships for the event's operation—"
"Use it toward the operating costs, hahahaha!"
"Baseball is an excellent sport. It is perfectly suited to become America's national pastime."
"Why not establish a professional league open to the entire nation while we are at it? We shall help as well."
As if by magic, sponsorship funds reached twelve times the target amount in under two hours.
Once again, not a single word about extortion or forced donations had been uttered. Yet the response was this enthusiastic.
Americans truly did love baseball.
He felt his patriotic blood stir. The American DNA within him resonated, sending a deep thrill coursing through his body.