Welcome to New York

Let’s briefly look back at the absurd system ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the 18th-century South.

In our South, white men who owned 20 or more slaves were defined as Planters. Among them, those who owned 100 or 200 or more were called Grand Planters, or the Cotton King.

Of course, that was a title that only held weight in the South; in the North or Europe, they tended to satirize it as "Cotton Aristocrats" or "Whip Aristocrats."

I, too, was called the young Cotton King of Mississippi, but that was a reputation that only mattered in the South. In the North, I was nothing more than a hick who had built up massive wealth by squeezing slaves in the South.

But that was only the general perception in the North; New York was different.

What kind of place ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was New York? It was the heart of American finance, where Wall Street stood, a separate world dominated by the golden omnipotence that said if you had money, anything was possible.

Even just looking back at James Seth’s memories, Southern plantation owners here were treated not as vicious slaveholders, but as grateful VVIPs who showered money everywhere.

Countless New York banks maintained close relationships with Southern plantation owners, and as soon as I arrived in New York, invitations flew in from all directions as if it were only natural.

"Mr. James Seth, Mrs. Kate Minor! We are holding a large-scale banquet at the Astor House. Please, do attend and grace us with your presence."

"I am William from Brown Brothers Investment Bank. I would like to propose a very good product to Mr. Seth and Mrs. Minor."

"This is Atlantic Telegraph. A grand tour is scheduled in which only the best VIPs like you two can participate..."

Leaving behind the endless stream of love calls, I decided to first take care of the original purpose of my visit to New York.

The office of Duncan, Sherman & Co., an investment bank that my uncle Jacob Seth had been dealing with for years, was located in the heart of Wall Street.

Only after signing dozens of times on a thick stack of documents with the family lawyer could I officially acquire all of my uncle Jacob Seth’s assets.

The lawyer handed me a final summary report and said:

"With this, all of Mr. Jacob Seth’s Louisiana plantations and all of his assets—including the... Human Assets belonging to them—have been officially transferred to Mr. James Seth and Mrs. Kate Minor."

Human Assets, huh.

What a convenient and elegant term.

With this procedure finished, the number of slaves I owned, combining Mississippi and Louisiana, exceeded 700. If I included my sister Kate’s, the two of us together had over 1,100.

With this, at the age of twenty, I had ascended to the ranks of the great wealthy, enough to be counted on one hand in all of Mississippi.

My assets, finally tallied on paper, were roughly as follows:

Plantations in Mississippi and Louisiana. And total assets, including over 700 slaves, were about 1.3 million dollars. The annual net income, estimated based on last year’s cotton harvest, would exceed 70,000 dollars.

At the current exchange rate, that was a massive fortune amounting to about 15,000 pounds. It didn't reach the income of the top-tier British dukes, but wouldn't it be far beyond that of a decent mid-sized aristocrat?

Of course, even so, I was just a rich hick; if I went to Europe, I’d be treated as a nouveau riche who couldn't even peek into aristocratic society. At best, bourgeois from the financial or industrial sectors would come running, asking me to invest.

It was highly likely they wouldn't even want to form personal relationships, claiming these were assets built using slaves.

But New York was a city dominated by the maxim that money has no label.

I don't know how they found out, but investment proposals and invitations piled up like mountains at the hotel where Kate and I were staying.

Kate shook her head as she looked at the mountain of documents piled up in front of the desk.

"I heard rumors, but this is truly no joke. How is it that the people in New York seem to like us more than the people in Mississippi?"

"They don't like us, they like our money."

"Isn't that the same in Mississippi?"

"Ah... I suppose that’s true."

I wondered what kind of places wanted our money so badly, and when I looked, they were distributed diversely, from famous companies of the era to places I was hearing of for the first time.

"Illinois Central... this is a railroad company, and Colt Firearms, this looks like a weapons company... what should we do? Should we just ignore them all?"

"No. Even if our main source of income is cotton, we naturally have to invest in financial assets. We had quite a lot of railroad company shares among the assets inherited from Father, didn't we?"

"Hmm... but I don't know much about that side."

"I’ve already thought about it until my head was about to burst. If you want to follow along, you can do it with me, Sister."

They say you should be cautious about investment advice even if you're family, but depending on how we spend the next five years, the remaining 50 years of our lives will be determined. From my perspective, having had no siblings in my previous life, I wanted Kate, who was always a good sister in my memories, to be happy as well.

Besides, if we combined our assets, wouldn't we be able to purchase shares or land on a much larger scale?

Therefore.

1. I will squeeze out my future knowledge somehow and invest in the most promising stocks.

2. If a war breaks out in the future, it’s obvious that Northern railroad companies will skyrocket, so I will unconditionally buy them up. However, if I go all-in, I’ll look like a traitor betting on the South's defeat, so I will also participate in the Western Transcontinental Railroad plan, which is currently only full of rumors.

3. I will exclude weapons companies. It’s not a good look for a Southerner, who is destined to lose the war, to have massively increased their wealth through the military industry.

4. The Western mining business is already close to a speculative frenzy, so rather than investing directly, I will go toward investing in infrastructure industries.

5. Seeing that the Pennsylvania Oil Creek area hasn't been developed yet, this is the real deal. I will scrape together all available cash and buy up real estate in this area as much as I can.

Perfect. This is the best investment plan I’ve established.

If someone truly well-versed in American history and finance saw this, they might say, "So why aren't you buying this?", but unfortunately, I am not a historian.

Honestly, if I had known I would end up like this, I would have memorized American history in its entirety or at least studied up on alternate history novels set in America.

This is the price of only working overtime late into the night and studying for certifications in my spare time in my previous life.

I should have read web novels even during my commute.

Why did I waste so much time...

"But James, there aren't any Southern companies on the list of railroad companies you’ve selected?"

"Ah, that... that’s the problem, but as you know, the railroads in the South are a mess, aren't they?"

Frankly speaking, there’s no way the railroads laid in a region that loses a war would be in good shape, right? Even considering that the gauges are a mess, making them difficult to recycle, if I were the North, I would choose to tear them down and rebuild them.

So, wouldn't it be right to avoid increasing my stake further because the expected return looks low?

Then wouldn't it be better to just sell them off?

I have to endure this much loss so I have something to say in the South later. If I say I bought protective equipment to avoid being shot and killed by the Dixies who are looking for someone to vent their anger on after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠losing the war, it’s a cheap price to pay.

"Anyway, I’m going to invest like that as soon as I have spare funds, so if you have any thoughts, Sister, follow along. When we go back, tell your husband well, too."

"Yeah, for now, I’ll think about it a bit more. Since we’ve come this far, I’ll meet the people from those companies and listen to what they have to say. But that one looks like it’s addressed to you, shouldn't you read it?"

Ah, I intentionally pretended not to see it and pushed it to one corner, but in the end, is it something I can't avoid?

An envelope clearly distinguishable from the investment proposals that came from other companies.

An invitation with the seal of the New York City Democratic Executive Committee, Tammany Hall, was emitting an intense presence in the corner of the desk.

"...I have to open this and read it, right?"

"Of course. Unless you want to be at odds with the Democratic Party of New York City."

According to James Seth’s memories, Tammany Hall was the Democratic Party’s hidden card that swayed New York elections with money and immigrant votes. It was an organization to be wary of, but because they held all the customs, banks, and city bonds, it was a presence that a Southern planter could not help but support if he wanted to conduct business in the North.

I sighed and opened the envelope to check the contents.

The name I least wanted to encounter flew into my eyes and stuck there.

Damn it.

* * *

There is something I have been worrying about ever since I opened my eyes in this body.

If it is certain that a civil war will break out in this country, couldn't I actively intervene in the war and become a hero, rather than preparing for the aftermath?

However, the future I saw after lifting the veil was only darkness.

Let’s assume I actively helped the South, somehow defeated the North, and created a United States where slavery is common sense and justice.

150 years later, America, New York.

White men are laughing heartily with their friends, having a beer party in the middle of the day. When a black slave, sweating profusely while shining shoes at their feet, accidentally spills a beer bottle, the man’s kick mercilessly dug into his side.

"You damn nigger! You can't do a single thing right! Hey, clean that up right now and bring me a new one!"

"S-sorry, Master!"

The man sneered and said to his colleagues.

"Slaves are perfect for lazy, stupid bastards like that, aren't they?"

"Of course! Isn't all of this thanks to him?"

Where their gazes were directed, in the middle of the heart of New York, stood a giant statue. The statue of a dignified man commanding the world while riding a horse and holding a whip. Underneath it, these words were engraved:

[The Great Slave King, James Seth]

The man pointing at the statue shouted at the black slaves.

"The reason you can even live as slaves like this is all thanks to him. Be grateful!"

"Thank you, thank you! Thank you for letting us live even as slaves!"

Aaaagh! No! This future is invalid! Invalid!

I shook my head in astonishment.

Then what about the opposite?

What if I actively helped the North and led the war to victory?

The scene in my brain changes.

After the war ended, I was praised as the "Living Conscience of the South" and was heavily used by President Lincoln. Despite being from the South, I entered politics as a symbolic figure who supported the abolition of slavery and was successful.

But one day, while I was leisurely drinking tea in my mansion, suddenly, masked assailants jumped into the garden.

"Die, traitor!"

Bang! Bang-bang-bang!

Bullets flying from all sides turned my body into a honeycomb.

"Gaaaaaaagh!"

As expected, this route doesn't work either.

Damn it, the damn free country of Fucking America where gun ownership is allowed. In this country where even the president is assassinated, what kind of future is there other than being branded a traitor and turned into a honeycomb if a Southerner acts up?

It wouldn't be a problem if I just came to the North and lived quietly without acting up, but I have no desire to live the second life I miraculously obtained like that.

In other words, no matter how much I rack my brain, the conclusion is only one.

As originally planned, I will keep one foot in both sides, and when the war ends, I will quietly switch stances while cosplaying as a good-natured capitalist.

While I was deep in thought, the carriage stopped. New York’s finest restaurant, Delmonico's. It seemed the New York City Democratic Party had rented out the entire restaurant for today’s banquet, as there were no regular customers in sight.

The manager, who recognized me from the entrance, ran over and bowed deeply.

"Welcome, Mr. Seth! Everyone is waiting inside."

I entered, receiving a grand welcome. Under the splendid chandelier, I could see major figures of the Democratic Party and pro-Democratic factions sitting in rows. And in the center, the current Democratic presidential candidate and, according to my memory, the person who would be the next president, was sitting.

The problem is that if Lincoln is a figure who always keeps the top 3 in the popularity rankings of all-time US presidents, that human being is the "Dark Lincoln" who always keeps the top 3 from the bottom. That’s right. He is one of the few all-time great presidents who is evaluated even lower than Hoover of the Great Depression, let alone Harding of incompetence.

I took the hand he offered and bowed my head deeply.

"Nice to meet you, young Cotton King. My name is James Buchanan."

"I am James Seth. It is an honor to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠invited."

Yeah, it was nice to meet you.

Let’s not get too close.