The Body is Made of Cotton (2)
The more I think about it, the more I realize our American friends are obsessed with the word "aristocrat."
I’ve already droned on enough about how Southern planters call themselves "Cotton Kings" or "Cotton Aristocrats," so let’s move past that. But surprisingly, after the Civil War ended and these self-proclaimed cotton aristocrats were reduced to commoners, a new class of emerging aristocrats rose to power.
They are the ones known as the Robber Barons, who dominated America during the Gilded Age. Their common trait is that they all amassed massive wealth based on trusts.
In simple terms, a trust is a form of market monopoly where companies in the same industry combine their capital into a single mass. In modern times, this is usually referred to as a cartel, but the trusts of the Gilded Age were, naturally, far more concentrated in their integration than modern cartels.
Those who built immense wealth through such monopolies increased their fortunes by any means necessary. Oligopoly was the baseline, and they mobilized hired thugs to suppress labor unions and mercilessly crushed any shareholders who dared to rebel. The "minor" damages caused during this process simply vanished once they greased the palms of a few politicians, so no one could keep them in check.
The figurehead of these Robber Barons is none other than Andrew Carnegie. Originally, John D. Rockefeller was also a member of this fine Robber Baron club, but since his late teens, he had been observing my methods, which only served to reinforce his already model-student-like image.
Perhaps that’s why he and Carnegie—the budding sprout of a great Robber Baron—didn't physiologically click, which was an unexpected development.
Thanks to that, I, who had to witness this unsightly spectacle alongside my fiancée, was forced to keep watching these two historical entrepreneurs fiercely denouncing each other with a very complicated heart.
"This man’s methods are no different from the Southern planters. Mr. Sett, you must call off the recruitment right now."
"That’s my line. Mr. Sett, you may control your employees with soft charisma, but to reach higher places, you need an agent willing to get their hands dirty. This nerd Rockefeller can’t do that."
"You’re the one with the problem, crossing the line from getting your hands dirty to cracking people’s skulls open!"
"What? You should be grateful that the balls between your legs haven't been smashed yet!"
From what I gathered, the two had been bickering over their differences in business direction the entire time they were on the boat from the North to Natchez. Then, a heated Rockefeller snapped that Carnegie couldn't be his right-hand man with that attitude, and Carnegie countered by asking if he was scared of losing his position—honestly, isn't this just a playground fight?
In the end, the two young men, overcome by emotion, staged a brawl on the deck of the luxury liner, and the result was a pair of blackened, bruised eyes on both sides.
It was an absurd, jaw-dropping situation where the future representatives of two Robber Barons were throwing punches to become the right-hand man of a "Cotton Aristocrat" in front of a real aristocrat.
Fortunately, Cecilia, who had only ever tasted stable, refined meals in her noble household, seemed to have a hidden taste for the capsaicin-packed, American-style "makjang" brawl, as the intrigued smile never left her face.
"*Sigh*, alright. Both of you have a point, so stop fighting and explain yourselves further. Specifically, what differences in direction are you arguing about?"
"I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but bandits have been increasing significantly in the South lately. Carnegie suggested we use this as a pretext to more aggressively pursue M&A operations in the North. He said that even if innocent people get hurt, we can just conclude it was the work of the bandits running rampant."
Wow, he really is a budding Robber Baron; his way of thinking has been on a different level since he was young. Of course, considering the current state of American society, where barbarism is read as romance, it’s unrealistic to completely reject Carnegie’s methods.
The best outcome would be for me to mediate between them so that the strengths of Rockefeller, who has been reborn as a "good-living" youth, and Carnegie can be combined...
"Look! Mr. Sett looks like he’s wondering what kind of drugs you took to come up with such an idea!"
"In my eyes, he seems to think it’s worth considering? Why don’t we just compete later to see who yields better profits? Are you scared?"
"This is truly preposterous. Fine, let’s do it."
Doesn't look like it’ll be easy, does it?
I turned my gaze away from the two elementary schoolers growling at each other like cats and dogs and whispered to Cecilia.
"Even if they look like that... they’re incredibly good at their jobs."
It’s true, believe me.
They say a man becomes an adult only after he gets married, and there isn't a single word of the ancients that is wrong. The pride of the South, who, despite being a Southern planter, achieved the hand of a noblewoman through innate ability, passion, and love for his hometown.
There were no blind spots left for James Sett, the hero of Natchez, born and raised in Mississippi.
"I heard you’re having management difficulties due to a lack of cash. Let me acquire your farm and slaves."
"W-well... if I just had a little more cash, I could keep farming..."
"It is unfortunate, but the Southern cotton economy must not suffer even the slightest tremor right now. It is the will of all those above that every farm operates normally and that cotton production must absolutely not decrease from last year."
You know what I mean, right?
Unlike the Northern losers swept up in the panic, the Southern economy must be like a comfortable bed that doesn't shake in the slightest. Therefore, I, James Sett, will acquire the farms and slaves of incompetent planters who are having trouble managing their operations.
"No, even so..."
"Think carefully. If your cash flow is completely blocked here and you go bankrupt, you’ll have no choice but to put your farm and slaves up for sale at an even lower price. Wouldn't my acquisition be the way to minimize your losses, brother?"
This wasn't a threat or a warning; it was the cold, hard truth. Since the government had already hammered in that there would be no bailouts and bank loans were frozen, how could an individual possibly respond to such an economic crisis?
The planter, who had suddenly been forced to sell his land, picked up his quill with slumped shoulders. The moment his name was etched onto the paper with a scratching sound, the history his family had built over two generations passed into my possession.
"A wise decision. If you need help getting back on your feet elsewhere, feel free to ask me for assistance."
"...Thank you."
I stood up and reached out for a handshake, but I felt no strength in his hand. Living high and mighty as a slave owner was now a glory of the past, but what could he do? Who told him to manage his cash so recklessly that he couldn't even overcome a temporary hurdle?
And above all, this massive acquisition project wasn't to satisfy my personal greed. Everything was part of a noble sacrifice to protect our great Southern economy.
"The Governor has issued an order! All administrative procedures related to Mr. James Sett are to be processed as top priority!"
The next day, the registry office at the Mississippi State Capitol moved as if it existed solely for me. The dozens of land and slave ownership transfer documents I presented were processed without a single hour of delay. The government official at the counter flashed an almost sycophantic smile at me, wagging his tongue incessantly.
"Mr. Sett, you are a true patriot of this era. To think you would spend your own fortune to support the foundation of the Southern economy during such difficult times for everyone..."
"Hahaha, isn't it because our South is standing firm that I can eat well and live well? So, I must contribute in this way."
Of course, I didn't bother correcting him on the fact that I wasn't spending my fortune, but rather filling it. Since it wouldn't be good to stand out too much on my own, I was conducting this work alongside the gentlemen of the horse racing club.
— A sacred project to show off the South's resilience against the Northern panic.
Under this grand banner, my kingdom expanded at a terrifying speed. Day by day, the boundaries of my farms widened, and the number of slaves under my ownership continued to grow. At this rate, wouldn't I be able to surpass 1,000 personal slaves under my command within a few months?
The weight carried by a three-digit number versus a four-digit number is on a different level. There were quite a few "big planters" in the South who owned hundreds of slaves, but those who owned thousands were few enough to count on one's fingers.
If I continue to increase the scale at this pace, I will certainly be able to own a farm vast enough for 2,000 slaves to work on before the war.
One afternoon, while I was busily buying up land and slaves with the focus of a master of the unconscious...
It was when I visited the registry office again to register a newly acquired farm. After finishing the paperwork, an elderly official handed me the stamped document and spoke in a low voice.
"By the way, Mr. Sett, the world is quite dangerous these days, so please take care of yourself."
"Dangerous, you say?"
"Didn't you know? There have been a lot of bandits lately. Mr. Sett, you always travel with an escort, but it would be best to return to your mansion before the sun sets."
For a moment, the faces of the two young men, growling at each other with bruised eyes, flashed through my mind. Now that I thought about it, Carnegie and Rockefeller had also had a scuffle over this very topic.
"Thank you for the advice. Well, with the economy in such a bad state, all sorts of ruffians are running wild."
It’s a constant that when public security becomes unstable, those kinds of people increase, so it’s unavoidable. Until this point, my only thought was that even the Governor or the assemblymen must be quite troubled by it.
However, as I returned to the mansion and was sipping my coffee in leisure, a loud clattering sound erupted, and Leo burst into the study holding a newspaper.
"Master! Please, look at this!"
"Why, did another bank go bankrupt in the North?"
"It’s much more serious than that. Look here..."
On the front page of the newspaper Leo handed me, the name of a familiar person I knew all too well was plastered in huge letters.
What is this nonsense?
It’s true that John Brown is a runaway racing car without brakes, but he’s a man who shouldn't have anything to do with the word "looting," right?
I took the newspaper from Leo and carefully read the article that followed.
— It has been revealed that the recent surge in looting targeting cotton farms is the work of the "Arrow of Freedom," notorious for the Cedar Grove plantation murder case. In this farm raid, which resulted in five deaths, thousands of dollars in cash and supplies disappeared, and symbols representing the Arrow of Freedom and Bible verses were left at the scene.
The Arrow of Freedom is an extremist anti-slavery group presumed to be created by John Brown, and they have already raided farms and murdered overseers in the past. Authorities have stated they will conduct a thorough investigation to identify the suspects. Furthermore, the size of the raiding party is estimated to be in the dozens and is continuing to grow, leaving many planters in fear.
This is strange. Even if I try not to be suspicious, there’s a fishy smell all over this.
When I first saw the headline, I thought maybe John Brown had committed some other crazy act, but isn't this obviously something different to anyone who looks at it?
John Brown is a man capable of sending five evil slave owners to the Lord’s side, but he took thousands of dollars in cash and supplies?
Since when did John Brown rename himself Robin Hood?
And the last sentence—that the number of the group is already in the dozens and still growing.
Our John Brown isn't that kind of guy.
"Leo, no matter how I look at this, it looks like an impersonation, right?"
"Yes. To begin with, isn't the Arrow of Freedom a fake organization created to be used once and discarded? It makes no sense for them to suddenly start acting up. But because it’s fake, it’s even more dangerous. If these guys want to keep pretending to be the real thing, they will eventually have to... in some way."
"Right. They’ll try to poke around here at least once."
The organization called the Arrow of Freedom had stated they would keep a close eye on Cedar Grove, and I was the owner of that farm.
Still, to think that vermin would emerge to borrow the name of a fake organization I created just to use it for banditry.
"From today, double the ammunition for the patrols."
The true romance of America always far exceeds my imagination.