One More Step to Go
Henry Buckner, who had come up from New Orleans, was in a foul mood.
Having made a fortune as a cotton broker during the explosive growth of the cotton market over the last decade, he had decided to go all out and attend the presidential inauguration.
After all, if the cotton market continued to thrive, wouldn't brokers like him continue to enjoy wealth and glory?
That was why he had donated to various Democratic politicians and even bought a ticket to the inaugural ball to make some personal connections.
He had even booked a room at the very hotel where the President-elect and Vice President-elect were staying, hoping he might at least get a chance to greet the big-name politicians.
But.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Leo, hurry! We need to go up to the next floor! Do you have enough of the solution?"
"Yes! There's still plenty left!"
The big-name politicians seemed to be holed up in their rooms; he hadn't even caught a glimpse of them, yet two black men were constantly roaming the hallways, carrying something.
At first, he thought they were porters, but looking closer, he realized that wasn't the case—those wretches were actually using their own separate guest rooms.
If things went on like this, he would end up wasting both his time and his money, and having those black men constantly loitering in front of his eyes made his blood boil.
Perhaps the reason the politicians weren't coming out was that they didn't want to associate with the inferior niggers wandering about.
Having found a perfect excuse to vent his anger on those two, he immediately called them to a halt.
"Hey! You two there! Who gave you permission to wander around here like this!"
"...Excuse me?"
"We are following our master's orders, sir..."
"Your master? The man who lets niggers run loose like this? What's his name?"
"It is Mr. James Sett."
James Sett. He had heard the name plenty of times.
A silver-spoon brat born into a massive fortune in Mississippi. He was famous for working his slaves to the bone, and he even remembered rumors that he had received a personal invitation from Breckinridge.
'Damn it all, here I am burning time and money trying to make connections with politicians, while this spoiled brat born to the right parents gets an invitation and lives a charmed life.'
Regardless, he was making a legitimate complaint according to the rules, so there was no need to hold back.
Besides, who lets their slaves roam the hallways as they please?
"Neither the master nor the slaves know the first thing about manners. Do you have any idea how many distinguished guests are staying here! This is no place for the likes of you to be acting up! Don't you know that?"
The two men seemed terrified, standing there silently without a word.
Just as he gained momentum and was about to pour out even more verbal abuse,
"Leo, Ben, why are you standing there instead of coming over?"
A calm voice drifted from behind him.
I had sent Leo and Ben to fetch the oral rehydration solution, but when they didn't return after a long while, I went down to find them being accosted by some middle-aged white man.
Come to think of it, the hotel manager had warned me not to let the slaves roam the hallways too much.
I suppose he had warned me in advance because he knew nuisances like this would show up.
"I am James Sett. Have my slaves caused some sort of trouble?"
The middle-aged man turned to look at me, sneered, and clicked his tongue.
"Henry Buckner. These niggers were wandering the halls so much it annoyed me, so I came out to have a word. Tell me, are you unaware of what kind of hotel this is?"
"It is the National Hotel, is it not?"
"That's right, the National Hotel. I'm paying good money to stay here, so why should I have to look at the faces of niggers constantly? And I hear you've even given them their own rooms—I'll be lodging a formal complaint with the manager, so keep that in mind. Two rooms will be opening up soon, so someone who couldn't find a place to stay will benefit from my doing."
What is this idiot saying?
Just looking at his attitude and his clothes, he reeks of a nouveau riche upstart. Has he not even heard what I'm doing here?
If someone picks a fight, you naturally have to crush them thoroughly.
I didn't say a word, just stared at him steadily.
"Hah, not even an apology? This is why young people... tsk tsk, do you think money solves everything? I'm going to call the manager right now..."
"Oh, Sett! What are you doing here?"
The reason I had kept my mouth shut was that if I just waited, the right person to crush this obnoxious Dixie would eventually find me.
"Ah, Mr. Vice President. Are there more patients?"
"Not exactly. The President wishes to see you. He says your nephew's health has improved remarkably, and he wants to thank you, his savior."
"I merely did what had to be done, sir."
"No, no. Do you know how many people have benefited thanks to you? Because of you, I, who insisted that you be invited, can finally walk with my head held high. Hahaha!"
The more Breckinridge laughed heartily, the more Henry Buckner's face turned the color of dirt.
I decided to deliver the finishing blow, scratching my head as if I were in a difficult position and letting out a sigh.
"However, sir, it seems I might have to leave this hotel."
"What? Why? Do you have some urgent schedule?"
"No. This gentleman here says he's going to complain to the hotel management because I let my slaves walk through the hallways for unnecessary reasons. He said it's a clear violation of the rules and I'll have to check out..."
"A-ah, no... wait, I... that is... haha..."
As Buckner started to back away, the expression on Breckinridge's face, which had been all smiles just a moment ago, hardened instantly.
"So, you're telling me the reason I've been searching so desperately for you is because you were being held up here for some moronic reason like that? Why didn't you tell me why you were doing this?"
"A rule violation is a rule violation. Besides, I couldn't exactly go around mentioning the identities of the people I was treating."
I hadn't said a word to protect the privacy of the President and the Vice President.
Breckinridge, seemingly moved by my excuse, inhaled sharply before unleashing a roar of fury.
"You foolish man! Do you have any idea who you were obstructing?"
"H-h-hic, that... I didn't know..."
"What is your name? Your name."
"H-Henry, Henry Buckner. Mr. Vice President, I was ignorant and didn't know anything..."
"If you're ignorant, you deserve a beating. That way, that filthy nature of yours that picks fights with everyone might improve a little. The slaves you were accosting were transporting medicine essential to the new administration's cabinet. Does that answer your question?"
Buckner might be a well-known cotton broker in New Orleans, but a merchant is just a merchant.
If the President and Vice President of a nation decide to crush you, you're no better than a bug.
"I'm sorry! Mr. Sett! I, I must have lost my mind for a moment! Please, I beg your forgiveness!"
"You should apologize to my slaves as well."
"...To the... to the slaves... apologize?"
"Of course you should. If you kicked someone's dog or horse on the street, wouldn't you apologize? I always apologize whenever that happens. 'I'm sorry, Poppy, I didn't know you were there and almost kicked you.'"
My logic wasn't exactly wrong, and since Breckinridge was thoroughly enraged, he didn't stop me.
"Ugh... ughhh."
Why is he like that?
Anyone watching would think he was an independence activist being forced to shout 'Long live the Emperor.'
In the end, Buckner, his face swollen like a toad, trembled and bowed his head, biting his lip.
"S-sorry... I misunderstood."
There, there. Isn't it so much better to admit your mistake like that?
Since Breckinridge wouldn't fail to mention this news to others, this upstart was now marked by the President, the Vice President, the cabinet nominees, and the members of the House of Representatives.
His life wouldn't be boring from here on out, so what would be the point of me saying anything more?
I'll just offer my condolences in advance.
After handling that minor incident, I heard Buchanan's thanks for saving his nephew, and I suddenly found myself tagging along for his schedule.
"Master, about that man named Buckner earlier. Couldn't we have just stopped at him apologizing to you?"
"Why, do you think it was too much?"
Leo and Ben, following behind me, whispered with awkward smiles and scratched their heads.
"Tell me the truth. It felt good, didn't it?"
"Ah, yes... honestly, it wasn't bad."
"See? Just holding it in and letting it go is what causes stress. Real revenge clears the mind and fills your self-esteem."
"To be honest, it was hard to keep from bursting into laughter."
"Exactly. That bastard, picking a fight with someone when he's just a cotton broker. Does he know who's backing us?"
One might call it 'borrowing the tiger's prestige,' but in this day and age, messing with Leo or Ben is effectively the same as sniping at me.
That's why, outside of maybe Natchez, no one dared to touch the slaves from our plantation.
Though, that would only last until the Civil War broke out.
After that, the chances of experiencing much more unpleasant things were high.
So, for the sake of that time, I needed to practice crushing anyone who messed with us starting now.
"Leo, Ben, if anyone messes with you from now on, tell me immediately. I'll make sure to bury anyone who dares to touch me, no matter what it takes."
"Yes, sir!"
"We'll report it right away!"
Honestly, even though it was a satisfying scene, seeing Buckner, a wealthy man famous in New Orleans, grovel before the power of Breckinridge didn't feel like someone else's business.
Without any real ties to the political world, no matter how much money you have, you're destined to end up as nothing more than a common upstart.
However, I couldn't just go around kissing the asses of Democratic politicians to climb higher, as that would brand me as a pro-Democratic figure.
But thanks to this opportunity, I had become a famous figure known across the nation, transcending the status of a mere upstart, while also occupying a position different from the average radical Democratic supporter.
Why? Because I was moving with the aspiration to save countless lives in this country, not just the bigwigs of the Democratic Party.
March 3rd, the day before the inauguration, 11:00 AM.
The reception room on the first floor of the National Hotel was crowded with countless reporters.
Originally, there were no such procedures as press conferences in this era, but the National Hotel illness outbreak was already a famous event across the nation.
From the Washington Union, which acted as the mouthpiece for the Democratic Party, to the New York Daily Times, the New York Herald, and the Port News Association, which would later become the AP—every newspaper in America was camped out in Washington to cover the truth of the incident, and rumors were even spreading that Buchanan had been poisoned.
To put it bluntly, a mysterious diarrhea outbreak spreading in the very place where the President and cabinet nominees were staying just before the inauguration?
With over 200 patients and nearly 20 deaths?
How could the reporters not sink their teeth into that?
If there were anyone indifferent, they would effectively be disqualified as a reporter.
For this reason, Breckinridge suggested showing the President's recovered health to calm the rumors before the inauguration, and Buchanan, having no reason to refuse, agreed.
"The President is not in critical condition and has resumed normal meals as of this morning. We ask that baseless schemes and rumors cease."
As Breckinridge, who was presiding, opened his mouth to the representatives of the newspapers filling the large reception room, Buchanan entered.
His complexion had noticeably returned, and he didn't look like a sick man at all.
"Thanks to the support and concern of my supporters, there is nothing wrong with my health."
"Then, was the National Hotel illness incident all just a groundless rumor?"
"I will answer that on his behalf. Indeed, many members, including myself and the President, were ill. However, a proud young man of our South, a young planter representing Mississippi, James Sett, has perfectly clarified the cause of this disease and invented a perfect cure."
Reporters with fast sources already knew the fact that I had developed a magic potion to treat the patients.
However, everyone was on edge because I had flatly refused interviews, saying I would make the announcement at an official event.
As everyone looked at me standing next to Breckinridge, Breckinridge clapped his hands and raised his voice.
"Everyone, please give a round of applause to the hope of our South, who has made a mark on the medical history of the United States! James Sett!"
"I am James Sett. I will briefly tell you what you are curious about. First, the disease at this hotel was revealed to be a problem with aging water pipes, not poison or bad air."
"...What did you say!"
"So it wasn't the Northerners who poisoned us?"
"This can't be! We were already preparing a special feature! Please tell me there's a mistake!"
Why is it that when I reveal the cause of the disease, the reaction is one of blatant disappointment?
They were grinning, thinking they would print a dopamine-exploding article, and their disappointment that the scoop had vanished was palpable.
"It has already been proven in England that these diseases spread through contaminated water, not bad air. The James Clinic I founded gathered medical staff from the MSMA, which has the best expertise in the South, to thoroughly verify the latest theories, and we have proven this to be true."
"Then are you saying countless people fell ill from drinking the hotel's contaminated water?"
"Yes. As a result, we cut off all drinking water in the hotel and had them drink only the solution I brought, and all those who were ill showed improvement within a few hours at the shortest, and two days at the longest."
"Then what is the identity of that magic potion? You said you would reveal it at an official event!"
"Of course I must. Our James Clinic has absolutely no intention of taking private profit from this. There will be no patent registration, and the manufacturing method will be released entirely for free."
In the first place, oral rehydration solution isn't something you can patent, but what does it matter?
At my confident declaration, the reporters dropped their jaws and raised their hands one after another.
"Are you really going to release it for free?"
"Of course. Someone might ask if James Sett has no intention of making money, but I like money too. However, I have no intention of taking excessive private profit from medicine where human lives are at stake. It doesn't matter if they are Northerners, Southerners, poor, or rich. Life is precious in itself, and I will not spare money for work that protects this life."
Honestly, this is about half sincere.
No matter how much I like money, perhaps because of the memory of stepping on the threshold of the afterlife with terminal cancer in my previous life, I found it hard to pass by people suffering from serious illnesses.
That said, I have no intention of doing volunteer work for free, so shouldn't I at least take some profit through image-making like this?
"That's a truly amazing dedication. But while I know that medicine is a specific cure for dysentery, wouldn't some say you're making too much of a fuss?"
"Of course that could be the case. But this medicine is good for anyone suffering from diarrhea. Aren't there other fatal diseases that accompany diarrhea besides dysentery?"
"Could it be..."
"Are you saying it's also effective for cholera? That medicine?"
"Of course. It was originally a medicine I was developing for cholera treatment."
The special feature on the North's poisoning plot was blocked, but a completely different kind of scoop was born.
"If that's true, isn't that a massive discovery! What's the price, the price? Is production capacity enough for mass inoculation?"
"Production is possible to feed thousands, tens of thousands in a single day. That's because all you need is clean purified water, sugar, and salt."
"...Huh?"
"Huuuh...?"
In a normal situation, if I made something called oral rehydration solution and said it was a specific cure for cholera, it would be perfect for being called a lunatic.
I would have had to spend my own money on everything from large-scale experiments to proof and promotion, but now, thanks to our diarrhea-ridden politicians, I could skip all the intermediate steps and just present the results.
"Our James Clinic will continue to do our best to research for the safe lives of United States citizens. We plan to open branches not only in Mississippi but also in New York, so we ask for your interest and support."
"W-wait a minute! Are you saying cholera really heals just by eating that?"
"To be precise, you must keep to the effective mixing ratio. I plan to release all of this for free, so reporters, I ask for good articles."
In fact, I had already received promises from not only Buchanan but the entire cabinet that they would not spare support funds to expand James Clinic not just to the South, but across the North.
And naturally, the newspapers, having discovered a new scoop, competed to vomit out articles.
[The 'Stool Stopper' James Sett, from Cotton King to Medical King!]
[Cholera Conqueror born in the South! James Sett: 'I have no intention of making money!']
[Let's learn about James Sett, a benevolent patriarch different from the hypocrites of the North.]
['I just hope President Buchanan can hold it in while in a meeting', official Republican commentary.]
['Human experiments on slaves? Is there any fool who would intentionally damage their most valuable property?' James Sett dismisses human experiment rumors.]
[Is James Sett smart because he absorbs the intelligence of his slaves? Let's look into the intelligence absorption theory!]
There were some weird articles mixed in, but anyway, my reputation was now national, something no one could deny.
Thank you so much. Buchanan, Breckinridge.
For shitting yourselves endlessly for my sake.