My Body Is Made of Cotton
I did some further research into the family of Baron Eldery, my future in-laws.
The Baron’s family was a venerable aristocratic house that had held vast territories in Cheshire since ancient times.
Baron Stanley, the current head of the house, had begun his political career as a member of the House of Commons back when he hadn't yet inherited the noble title.
After inheriting his father's title, he had served as a member of the House of Lords for nearly a decade, acting as a key figure in the Whig Party.
According to Cecilia, the family generated over 5,000 pounds in annual revenue from six manors and 21 estates.
Add to that the fact that his uncle was the Bishop of Norwich and his cousin was a canon at Westminster, and one could say his kinship network was quite formidable.
“If you include the salary he receives as the First Lord of the Treasury, I imagine it easily exceeds 10,000 pounds a year, doesn't it?”
“That is substantial. Wouldn't that place him in the top tier among Baronial families?”
“Indeed. But Mr. Sett, your income is far more absurd. Isn't your profit for this year nearly 20,000 pounds?”
“I’ve increased the number of slaves and improved efficiency, after all.”
If I were to combine all the income from my plantation, which is on a continuous upward curve, I could stand shoulder to shoulder with the Marquesses and Earls who walk around with their heads held high in England.
Of course, it still falls far short of the Dukes who rake in at least 40,000 to 50,000 pounds or more annually.
But in other words, it means I am generating this level of profit while managing only 900 workers.
What if I were to double the scale of the plantation and the number of workers here, and have Rockefeller further expand SS and SM?
What if I were to collaborate with the newly recruited Carnegie and extend my reach into the steel industry?
Of course, those two things are bound to be in the distant future no matter how fast I move, but expanding the scale of the plantation is something I can put into action right now.
Baron Eldery, who stayed at my plantation for a few more days and had in-depth conversations with me, now shares my big picture and is sending clear signals of goodwill.
“Then I shall return. Since my daughter says she wishes to remain here, I will handle it under the pretext of finalizing the contract between you and me.”
“Thank you.”
“However, you are not married yet, so if by any chance...”
“Of course. I will do nothing that would harm the honor of a noble house.”
Of course, it’s doubtful whether our Miss Cecilia would follow her father’s wishes once the Baron himself crosses the Atlantic, but there’s no need to blurt out something tactless here.
In any case, Baron Eldery had no leeway to stay in America any longer, as the attempted assassination of the Emperor that recently broke out in France was escalating into a serious diplomatic issue.
Moreover, whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, a super-sized accident that threatened to wipe out the entire cabinet had occurred, so no one was paying attention to the trivial issue of Baron Eldery’s daughter intending to get engaged to a Southern planter in the United States.
Actually, I hadn't expected this far, but it seems the heavens are on my side.
After all, a man who died of pancreatic cancer after working until he died without even holding a woman's hand in his previous life is just trying to get married in this life; if there is a God, surely He can grant this much convenience.
Thus, Baron Eldery officially recognized the engagement between Cecilia and me and returned to London.
It goes without saying that while this engagement was kept hush-hush in London, it was reported throughout Mississippi as the union of the century.
“Long live the cotton economy!”
“Hope for the South! Death to the North!”
“England is with us!”
It seems to have become something more like a rally than an engagement, but what does it matter?
Cecilia actually found this atmosphere amusing, and the other planters naturally treated her as the mistress of our plantation.
“Ho ho ho, Miss Stanley. You are far more beautiful than I had heard. I am John Quitman, a member of the Mississippi House of Representatives, and I have a very close relationship with Sett here, having once owed him my life.”
“Oh my, is that so? I look forward to your acquaintance.”
“Miss Stanley, we exchanged greetings before, didn't we? I am Senator Parr. We are holding a party at our estate next week, and I was wondering if you might be able to attend...”
“Of course. I’ll ask James if we can go together.”
I had expected it, but as soon as she settled in, Cecilia became the greatest celebrity in Mississippi, surpassing even Natchez.
The daughter of a truly venerable, authentic noble house that had continued for nearly hundreds of years in England.
On top of that, she was beautiful and intelligent, making her the very image of the aristocratic woman that the American South yearned for.
Publicly, they criticize the UK for maintaining an aristocratic system, claiming all men are created equal, but privately, begging her to come to the parties they host is the typical template of the American upper class.
“Miss Cecilia, you’ve come to Natchez from a metropolis like London; don't you find it boring?”
“How could I? On the contrary, I feel peace of mind since coming here. Thanks to the beautiful natural scenery, the affluent yet kind-hearted neighbors, and all of you who are as gentlemanly as any aristocrat, every day is happy.”
“Ohhhhh!”
Cecilia, having received advice from me, realized what part of themselves Americans felt inferior about and scratched that itch perfectly.
The "Southern-loving TV" of Miss Cecilia, whom everyone admired, saw a surge in subscriptions and likes every day.
“But the people here really seem like they can't live without cotton, don't they?”
“Is that so?”
“Whenever I go to a party, the question of what I think about the Southern cotton economy always comes up without fail. I’ve been giving slightly different answers each time, but now I can't think of any other expressions.”
Cecilia, who now speaks more comfortably, clicked her tongue at the South’s love for cotton.
Because what you hear in words and what you actually experience are on a different level.
“At first, even after hearing your explanation, I couldn't shake off the doubt about whether the South would really go that far. But really, how should I put it... to these people, this is diplomacy, economy, and security all in one.”
“That’s an accurate expression. It is, quite literally, everything to the South.”
“But there is still one thing I don't understand. You said you would increase the number of slaves and expand the plantation in the future, right? But according to your prediction, this war cannot be stopped, and the war is bound to end in the South’s defeat.”
“That’s right.”
The South is not stupid.
It’s not as if they decided to go to war against the North without any calculations.
The South’s plan was simple.
First, upon the start of the war, they would raid all the Union’s weapon depots to secure as many weapons as possible.
Afterward, they would hold out persistently against the North and wait for the European powers, who cannot survive the winter without our cotton, to intervene.
They had drawn up a truly logical plan that even if they didn't force the North to its knees, they could create their own independent confederacy if Europe mediated.
For some reason, a certain Empire that thought, "If we strike first and show strong will, America will ask for negotiations," comes to mind, but anyway, it means the South also had a plan.
However, no matter what, it is nearly impossible for England to directly take the side of the South, which pursues slavery, and as they bring in cotton from India and Egypt, the South’s grand plan will end as nothing more than a delusion.
“Look, this is what’s strange from the start. If cotton can be produced in Egypt and India too, doesn't that mean the South’s cotton industry will collapse after the war ends? There's no need to expand the plantation and increase the number of workers...”
“No. Surprisingly, that’s not the case.”
Southern cotton is not an essential good.
It was a clear fact that if it were missing, one could make do with Indian or Egyptian cotton.
However, as far as I know, the South’s cotton industry does not decline even after the Civil War ends.
Far from declining, the production and export volumes actually increase compared to before the war.
I don't know exactly why such a result came about, but I suspect Egyptian cotton was simply too expensive in terms of unit cost.
In the end, everything in the world runs on the logic of capitalism.
However, no matter how much cotton production and export volumes increased, the profits of former planters who could no longer work their slaves like before would plummet.
If I transform the plantations I currently lead into modern corporate plantations, wouldn't it be possible to monopolize the cotton industry?
Because those who cannot adapt to the new era and stick to inefficient management methods are bound to be weeded out.
The cotton industry truly takes a fatal hit only after automated machinery is introduced, so until then, I can extract thousands, tens of thousands of times the invested amount.
“That’s amazing. I hadn't even thought that far. Then from now on, I should just continue to exclaim that the cotton economy is the best, I love Mississippi, and cotton is the greatest substance on earth created by God, right?”
“And add a word that my head is filled 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, with thoughts on how to produce more cotton.”
That the reason the solid Southern youth James Sett is acquiring plantations and increasing the number of slaves is because I have no doubt that the glory of the South will continue.
“Oh, and Cissy. I told you before, right? That I have capable collaborators working for me in the North.”
“Yeah, I heard. It was one person at first, but you recently recruited one more.”
“Yes, yes. As it happens, they said they would stop by the mansion today to give a direct interim report. You should meet them and talk to them too. Since we’ll be together for a long time.”
“Wow, I’m looking forward to it. When I was in London, I never imagined I’d be able to talk about management and investment to my heart’s content like this.”
To correct any misunderstandings, it goes without saying that this is not a normal occurrence in America either.
There might be people in the world who gossip that I’m a pathetic guy who pretends to be henpecked because I want to look good to a British noble family.
But I, James Sett.
Doing well by my wife like this was also an expression of patriotism, trying to create ties with the British House of Lords somehow to support the South’s cotton diplomacy.
My body is made of cotton.
From now on, like our Southern Dixies whose brakes have failed, I too will only look forward and run.
* * *
Cecilia seemed very excited about her first meeting with Rockefeller and Carnegie, whom I said I would introduce.
Both of them were around our age, and since they were already managing businesses at the forefront of the industry at that age, how well would their conversations flow?
I was also excited, more than when I met Rockefeller, since it was my first time seeing Carnegie in person.
Of course, having learned the dark side of the world as I aged, I knew Carnegie wasn't the wonderful figure from the biographies I read when I was young.
But the fact that he is a tycoon who left his name in history remains unchanged, and meeting such people always brings anticipation and excitement.
“Master, Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Carnegie have arrived.”
“Oh, I see.”
As soon as I heard they had arrived, I personally opened the door and offered them a welcome.
“It’s been a while, Rockefeller. And nice to... hmm?”
“...It’s been a while.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The two people who entered the room looked like they were in a very bad mood.
No, to be precise, their eyes were bruised blue, so it was impossible for them to be in a good mood.
Did they fall somewhere while riding horses?
The strange thing was that both Rockefeller and Carnegie had bruises on their faces and eyes.
They wouldn't have been riding the same horse at the same time.
“What happened to your faces? Did you get into a fight with some crazy drunks? If someone did that, I would use the power of the law to...”
“Ah, no. It’s not like that. You see...”
Rockefeller stammered in embarrassment, and Carnegie avoided my gaze, staring intently at the innocent floor.
Ah... these guys, by any chance.
“I heard about the grain warehouse acquisition the other day. Rockefeller, can you work well in harmony with Carnegie?”
As soon as those words fell, Rockefeller twisted his face as much as he could and shook his head violently.
“It’s impossible. Mr. Sett, this guy is trash.”
“Ha, trash? Is our bookworm still trying to deny the difference in efficiency?”
“Anyone could raise profits if they smashed everything and squeezed them like that.”
“No, stop the bullshit! Aren't you a businessman? If you want to pretend to be a good person, go to church!”
“It’s not pretending to be good, it’s called advanced management, you ignorant bastard!”
No.
They get along too well.
Are these the two wings that are supposed to lead the business with me in the future?
My fiancée’s gaze, watching this scene with interest, flew in painfully and pierced me.
Stop it right now, you guys. The embarrassment is all mine!