Chapter 16: The Hope of the South
TL: Hanguk
December 1856.
The warehouse fronting the Under-the-Hill landing in Natchez, Mississippi, was packed with overseers and slaves who had come in from plantations all over the region.
Grand planters held estates so vast that there was no chance of slaves from different plantations ever crossing paths while working or resting.
Even so, there was one occasion when the slaves of those great plantations had no choice but to lay eyes on slaves from other plantations, and that was when the cotton being delivered at the landing was graded for quality.
The cotton brokers and the factors who inspected the quality were not men to be trifled with.
Depending on the grade, the revenue per bale could swing by as little as ten percent or as much as twenty, so everyone watched with eyes blazing, and today was no different.
Ben, the head driver of the Sergent plantation, used to dread this hour with a passion.
Normally an overseer would come down to the landing together with the field workers' drivers.
Among them, it was the overseers who suffered most, since they usually signed contracts on a yearly basis, which meant that poor cotton quality could get them thrown out on the spot.
And when that happened, where were they to vent all that pent-up fury?
Crack! Cra-aack!
"You sons of bitches! How in the hell is the Middling ratio this pathetic! You lazy, good-for-nothing parasites!"
"P-please, have mercy!"
Sure enough, from the line across the way came the sound of an overseer raging like a madman and swinging his whip.
The truth was, up until last year, Ben had been in the same boat.
By the nature of the cotton harvest, the proportion of high-grade cotton inevitably dwindled as the season wore on, and December, the final picking, was the worst of all.
So it was practically tradition for the field drivers to come back from this place with the welts on their bodies multiplied each time they visited.
Yet strangely enough, this year that had not happened even once.
"Well, well, Mr. Sergent. You've come again today. There's really no need to make the trip yourself; I'd see to everything properly on your behalf."
"It isn't that I don't trust you all. It's just my nature, that I can't rest easy unless I see it with my own eyes. Pay me no mind and go about your work."
"Yes, yes. Then we'll begin the quality inspection on the Sergent plantation's cotton."
It was because none other than their own master, James, a grand planter whom the brokers had lately been itching to forge ties with, had come down in person.
Of course, coming all the way out here didn't mean he actually haggled or made conversation with the others.
The young master simply sat in the chair Leo had set out for him and watched in silence as the grading ran its course.
The factors, for their part, did not cut corners on the inspection just because the plantation owner had come himself.
They laid out the samples in a row and, fearful of making even the slightest error, checked them twice and three times, exercising the utmost caution.
"Number one, Good Middling. Number two, Middling. Number three, Good Middling. Number four, Good Middling. Number five, Middling. Number six, Good Middling, and, damn it, I'm at a loss for words. It's December, and you're telling me Middling grade is pouring out like this?"
Faced with a marvel none of them had seen in all their lives, the factors let out astonished chuckles and shook their heads.
The overseer, John, never once let the beaming grin slip from his face as he clapped the drivers Ben and Henry on the shoulders, telling them they'd done well.
Naturally, here in public they didn't let any friendly smile show.
After all, this result was the product of James-style squeezing, and they were supposed to be the downtrodden, suffering under his suffocating management.
"I have to say, Mr. Sergent, your revenue's gone up enormously this year, hasn't it? Twenty percent at the very least, I'd wager."
"The books aren't closed yet, but it's probably so."
Given the number of slaves Sergent worked and the scale of his cotton sales, that meant this year's net profit had climbed by well over twenty thousand dollars.
In that very moment, as envious glances rained in from every direction, leaves and husks came spilling out of a bale on the adjacent line, and another plantation's sample was demoted to Good Ordinary.
"Hey, you sons of bitches! I told you plain as day to be careful not to let the leaves get mixed in!"
Crack!
"Aagh."
"I'm sorry."
Under the sharp bellowing and the lashing whip, the slaves could only repeat their groans and their pleas for mercy, unable even to scream.
Yes. Up until last year, they had been in that very state too.
Ben looked down at the oak juice he'd smeared on his body to fake whip marks, and felt anew, all over again, just how great a stroke of fortune he had seized.
At November's company dinner he had drunk beer until his belly was full, and James himself had poured him a glass of whiskey, saying it was to honor his hard work as head driver.
How fierce the taste of that fine whiskey had been, the kind he'd heard was hard to come by not just for Black folk but even for poor whites.
It felt like his throat was burning right through, and it brought tears to his eyes.
Henry and Leo had teased him, asking why he was crying over good liquor, but the drink was just so strong that he'd wept, he absolutely had not cried out of sentiment, and it galled him to be misunderstood.
No... honestly, since there's nobody around, he'll admit it: the emotion welled up and he did cry.
At first he'd looked on cynically, figuring what could some young greenhorn really change by tinkering around, but now that greenhorn was practically the hope of every slave on the plantation.
The kitchen slaves were frantic to prepare even slightly healthier meals for the master, and the attendants stood guard like an iron wall, lest some vagrant out there ever take aim at him.
That was no different even now.
"Master, the inspection's finished. The overall grading isn't much different from last month, they say."
"For a December batch, that's a good showing. All right, let's go."
When James rose from his seat, Henry and Ben naturally took up their places at his sides, keeping guard so that no one else could approach.
"Master, allow us to escort you."
If anyone ever tried to trample this paradise underfoot, he would take up a blade if that was what it took to stop them.
His resolve firmly set, Ben bowed politely to James as he climbed into the carriage.
"Master, you've worked hard through today's schedule as well."
"Indeed. You've worked hard too. Lingering in a rotten place like this, I feel like even my head will get contaminated, so let's hurry back."
"Yes, sir! Then about this month's company dinner..."
"We passed the standard, so of course we'll hold it this month too. If it's always singing, the same fellow keeps winning first place, so how about we shake things up this time with a talent show?"
Neither Ben nor Henry, who had little gift for singing, could hold back the laughter rising in their throats, and they nodded along eagerly.
Each time their paths crossed with those of other plantations like this, there was always one thing he found himself wishing for.
'Please, if God exists, grant your blessing that Master James may live to be exactly one hundred years old, no more and no less.'
Astonishingly, that was the prayer every last slave on the Sergent plantation offered up at every worship service.
***
After the quality check at the landing wrapped up and I'd returned home.
This time I brought Leo and Sam along and made my way to the hospital construction site.
I'd told the MSMA that the hospital should be built entirely around the facilities I wanted, and fortunately, they took a fairly favorable view of the hospital I was trying to put up.
That was thanks to having racked my brain in advance to come up with a nineteenth-century rationale for it all.
"In my view, we absolutely must build an isolation ward. The contaminated air given off by severely ill patients could adversely affect the other patients nearby, after all."
"That's a reasonable point."
"On top of that, we'll put windows on both sides of each building so that ventilation, keeping air always flowing through, is the baseline. And rather than building the structures flush against one another, let's adopt a layout that separates each wing."
Dr. Gadberry, the inaugural president of the MSMA, nodded at my words.
It was because the argument fit perfectly with Miasma theory, the mainstream of the medical world at the time, the notion that bad air carried disease.
Though of course my real intent was to block airborne droplet infection.
"That's not all. The wards will be placed on the floor that gets the best light, and as a rule, every surgical instrument will, without exception, be put into boiling water in a copper boiler and 'purified' before use."
"You mean to... boil the surgical instruments?"
One of the doctors asked, aghast.
To the physicians of that era, a bloodstained surgical coat and instruments were practically a badge of honor proving the wealth of their experience.
To men like that, my proposal might well have sounded like the mad raving of a germaphobe, but my sense of hygiene simply could not abide the sight of it.
I can literally see the bacteria throwing a frenzied breeding party in real time, you people.
"Filth cannot be purified with filth. Every surgery must begin in the most spotless state possible. And washing your hands and donning a clean apron is the bare minimum, naturally."
On this point at least, my stance was so unshakable that the doctors couldn't argue any further.
I'm the one footing the bill anyway, so what are they going to do about it?
If they don't like it, they can be the investor themselves, or else wash their hands of the project and walk out.
Naturally there was no one capable of that, so Gadberry let out a laugh and suggested they let it go amicably.
"Heh heh... it'll be quite a clean hospital. I guarantee you, this hospital will be the most sanitary medical facility not just in the state of Mississippi but in all the United States. I daresay just looking at the interior will leave patients feeling as though their hearts have been washed clean."
"Indeed, indeed."
In any case, once it had been running a few months, the statistics would show right away just how much more effective it was than the filthy medical facilities nearby.
As I stood there watching the hospital take shape, fitting itself step by step to my design, I saw a group of outsiders coming into the construction site.
"Hold on, how is security being handled? I'm certain I gave orders to keep outsiders out."
I felt a flash of irritation, but the moment I caught sight of the handsome young man in his early thirties at the center of the group, I understood the situation at once.
With a whole row of attendants in his train, he was, by anyone's reckoning, giving off an aura that said, "I'm no ordinary man."
Sure enough, the young man spotted me and came straight over.
His face was lit with curiosity and admiration.
"So you're Mr. James Sergent. When Governor McRae told me about you, I honestly assumed there was some exaggeration mixed in. But to think you'd actually be undertaking something this magnificent. Truly astonishing."
"Er... I'm sorry, but who are you?"
At my question, the young man's expression turned sheepish, and he drew a business card from his coat and presented it politely.
"Oh, my apologies. I've been remiss in introducing myself."
[John C. Breckinridge. Former U.S. Representative from Kentucky.]
John C. Breckinridge.
The instant I confirmed the name printed on the card, my mind cleared as if doused with cold water.
The man running as the running mate of Buchanan, the Democratic candidate, in this presidential election.
In other words, the man as good as confirmed to be the next Vice President of the United States.
Elected Vice President at the mere age of thirty-five, the youngest in the history of the United States.
The politician the Democratic Party was backing hardest, and a figure who could be called the real power behind the White House going forward.
He looked at me, the one who had politely accepted his card, and smiled.
"It'll be another month or so before the election results are officially confirmed, but as you know, Candidate Buchanan's victory is certain. So we're already preparing for the period after the inauguration."
"I've heard as much. That it's all but a confirmed win."
The election results were usually announced as final in January, but Buchanan had essentially clinched victory this time by a stroke of luck at his rivals' expense.
In practice, everyone around them was already treating Buchanan as president and Breckinridge as vice president.
"Yes. And so one of our highest priorities is to prepare an example that proves the moral superiority of our Southern system against the hypocritical accusations of the Northern abolitionists. Governor McRae recommended you as the very finest such case."
"Ah... me?"
I'd heard the political world would take notice, but I hadn't expected a man with the vice presidency already in the bag to just show up out of nowhere.
Was it sheer drive on his part, or was it proof of how thirsty the South was for ammunition to attack the North with?
"In the North, the reality is that sick Black people are left to die abandoned in the streets. But what about you? To care not only for your own slaves but even for poor whites, you're putting up a splendid facility like this. We want to publicize this hospital's example on a grand scale, to skewer the hypocrisy of the North and spread word far and wide of our South's warm paternalism."
"It's really not something so deserving of respect... being praised this lavishly leaves me rather embarrassed."
Breckinridge shook his head as if to say nonsense, and once again politely extended his hand, offering a handshake.
"So please, I do hope you'll attend our inauguration and grace the occasion with your presence. You, of all people, are one of the 'hopes of the South' the new administration will hold up. As soon as the official results are announced, we'll send you a formal invitation in the name of the White House."
The hospital isn't even finished yet, and just look at the nerve of him, already scheming to put me to use as a promotional mannequin.
Ruthless, truly ruthless.
It wasn't the right time to dip my own foot into politics, but once the vice president himself had come all the way out to the hospital construction site to make the request, the option of refusing was as good as sealed off.
The reason he'd bothered to come here in person was probably that he'd gotten wind I'd turned down Buchanan's recruitment offer, telling them I had no interest in politics.
"For a man about to become vice president to think so highly of me, the honor is all mine. If you send the invitation, I'll receive it with gratitude."
I had no intention of stepping into politics, but if that side meant to use me as a promotional tool, then fine, so be it.
There were still about two months until the inauguration anyway, so I'd prepare thoroughly on my end and take the stage for them.
When it comes right down to it, this was a golden opportunity to make none other than a presidential inauguration my own advertising platform, wasn't it?
I won't hold back; I'll suck it dry, every last drop.
Because there's no such thing as a free lunch in this world.
*****
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