Chapter 5: Welcome to New York
TL: Hanguk
Let me briefly walk back through the absurd system of the 18th-century South.
In our South, any white man who owned twenty or more slaves was classified as a planter.
Among these, the ones who held a hundred, or even two hundred or more, were called grand planters, or sometimes Cotton Kings.
Of course, that was a title that only carried weight in the South. Up North, or over in Europe, they preferred to mock us as "cotton aristocrats" or "whip aristocrats."
I, too, was called the young Cotton King of Mississippi, but that reputation only counted for anything within the South.
In the North, I was nothing more than a country bumpkin who had piled up a vast fortune by wringing it out of slaves down South.
But that was only the general perception in the North. Here in New York, things were different again.
What kind of place was New York?
It was the heart of American finance, home to Wall Street, a world apart where, even in 1856, the gospel of "money makes everything possible" reigned supreme.
Even sifting through James Sergent's memories, I could see that here, the great plantation owners of the South were treated not as vile slaveholders but as gracious, money-spraying VVIPs.
Countless New York banks maintained close ties with Southern plantation owners, and the moment I arrived in New York, invitations came flying in from every direction, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Mr. James Sergent, Mrs. Kate Sergent-Miner! There's to be a grand banquet at the Astor House. Please, do attend and grace the occasion with your presence."
"William, from Brown Brothers. I would very much like to propose a most excellent opportunity to Mr. Sergent and Mrs. Sergent-Miner."
"Atlantic Telegraph here. There's a Grand Tour planned, open only to the very finest VIPs such as yourselves."
Leaving the dizzying flood of overtures behind me, I decided to first handle the actual reason I had come to New York.
The offices of "Duncan, Sherman & Co.," the investment bank my uncle Jacob Sergent had reportedly done business with for years, sat right in the heart of Wall Street.
Only after signing a thick stack of documents dozens of times alongside the family lawyer was I able to formally take over all of my uncle Jacob Sergent's assets.
The lawyer slid the final summary report across the table and said,
"With this, all of Mr. Jacob Sergent's estate, including his Louisiana plantation and the human property attached to it, has been formally transferred to Mr. James Sergent and Mrs. Kate Sergent-Miner."
Human property, huh.
What a convenient and genteel little phrase.
With this procedure complete, the number of slaves I owned, Mississippi and Louisiana combined, came to over seven hundred.
Combined with my sister Kate's holdings, the two of us alone topped eleven hundred.
And with that, at the age of twenty, I had joined the ranks of the wealthiest men in all of Mississippi, a fortune you could count on one hand.
On paper, my final tallied assets ran roughly like this.
Plantations in Mississippi and Louisiana.
And total assets, including more than seven hundred slaves, of about 1.3 million dollars.
Based on last year's cotton harvest, the estimated annual net income would exceed seventy thousand dollars.
At the current exchange rate, that came to a staggering sum of around fifteen thousand pounds.
It fell short of the income of England's highest dukes, the great aristocrats, but I think it's fair to say it far outstripped your average middling nobleman.
Of course, for all that, I was still just a country bumpkin with money. Go to Europe, and I'd be treated as nouveau riche, not allowed anywhere near aristocratic society.
At best, the bourgeois of the financial and industrial worlds would come running, begging me to invest.
And even they would likely refuse any personal connection, sneering that it was all wealth built off the backs of the enslaved.
But here in New York, the reigning maxim was that money carries no label.
How they found out I'll never know, but once again invitations and investment proposals piled up like a mountain at the hotel where Kate and I were staying.
Kate looked at the heap of paperwork stacked on the desk and shook her head.
"I'd heard about it, but this is really no joke. How is it that the people of New York seem to like us more than the people of Mississippi do?"
"It's not us they like. It's our money."
"Isn't that the same in Mississippi?"
"Ah... well, you've got a point there."
Wondering just what sort of places wanted our money this badly, I took a look, and the spread ranged from the famous firms of the era to ones I'd never heard of in my life.
"Illinois Central... this one's a railroad company, and Colt Firearms... this one looks like a weapons company... What do you want to do? Should we just ignore the whole lot?"
"No. Even if cotton is our main source of income, of course we have to invest in financial assets too. A good chunk of the assets we inherited from Father were railroad company shares, weren't they?"
"Hmm... but I don't really know much about that side of things."
"I've already racked my brain over it until my head nearly burst. If you want to copy me, then come along and do the same."
Normally they say you should be cautious about urging investments on people, even family. But how we spent the next five years would determine the remaining fifty years of our lives.
For someone like me, who hadn't had a single blood relative in my past life, I wanted Kate, who in my memories had always been a good sister, to be happy too.
Besides, if we combined our two fortunes, couldn't we buy up shares and land on a far grander scale?
And so.
1. Squeeze out my knowledge of the future by any means necessary and invest in the most promising-looking stocks.
2. When war breaks out, Northern railroad companies will obviously skyrocket, so buy those up no matter what. But going all in would make me look like a traitor betting on the South's defeat, so also take part in the transcontinental railroad scheme out West, which for now is nothing but rumor.
3. Steer clear of weapons companies. A Southerner whose defeat in the war is already a foregone conclusion making a vast fortune through the arms industry, that's just not a good look.
4. The Western mining business has already whipped itself into a near-frenzy of speculation, so rather than investing directly, lean toward investing in infrastructure instead.
5. The fact that the Oil Creek region of Pennsylvania hasn't been developed yet means that's where the real prize is. Scrape together every bit of available cash and start buying up real estate all over that area, no questions asked.
Perfect. This was the best investment plan I'd devised.
Someone truly well-versed in American history and finance might look at this and ask, "So why aren't you buying this?" but, sadly, I was no history scholar.
Honestly, if I'd known I'd end up like this, I would have memorized all of American history wholesale, or at least studied up on some alternate-history novel set in America.
Working late every single night and spending whatever spare time I had cramming for certifications, this is what it got me.
I should have at least read some web novels on my commute.
How could I have wasted all that time so pointlessly...
"By the way, James, your shortlist of railroad companies doesn't have a single Southern one on it."
"Ah, that... that's the problem. As you know, the railroads down South are a mess, aren't they?"
Let's be blunt: how could the railroads laid down in a region that loses the war possibly be in good shape?
The gauges aren't even a goddamn standard, so when you consider how hard they'd be to repurpose, even if I were a Northerner, I'd choose to tear them down and build new ones.
So wouldn't it be wiser to refrain from increasing my stake any further, on the grounds that the expected returns look low?
So why not just sell them off, then?
Eating a loss this size is the price of keeping my standing with the South later.
Think of it as buying a piece of protective gear, the kind that keeps a man from getting shot and dying a miserable death at the hands of the Dixie crowd hunting for someone to take their rage out on after losing the war. Cheap, all things considered.
"Anyway, I'm going to invest like that with every bit of spare cash I get, so if you're interested, just follow my lead. And put in a good word with my brother-in-law when you get back."
"All right, let me think it over a bit more for now. And while we're here, I'll meet with people from those companies and hear what they have to say. By the way, that one looks like it's addressed to you, are you sure you don't want to read it?"
Ah. I'd deliberately pretended not to see it and shoved it off into a corner, but I guess there was no dodging it after all.
An envelope plainly distinct from the investment proposals sent by the other companies.
An invitation stamped with the seal of the New York City Democratic executive committee, Tammany Hall, was radiating an intense presence from over there in the corner of the desk.
"This one, I've got to open it and read it, don't I?"
"Of course you do. Unless you want to make an enemy of the New York Democratic Party."
According to James Sergent's memories, Tammany Hall was the Democratic Party's hidden card, the one that swayed New York elections with money and immigrant votes.
An organization to be wary of, but since they held the customs house, the banks, and all of the city's bonds, you could say they were impossible for a Southern planter to avoid courting if he wanted to conduct business in the North.
With a sigh, I tore open the envelope and checked its contents.
[To the esteemed Mr. James Sergent,
Our association is hosting a banquet in honor of presidential candidate James Buchanan. It would be our greatest honor if you would attend and grace the occasion with your presence.]
The very name I least wanted to encounter came flying straight into my eyes.
Well, damn it all.
***
Ever since I'd opened my eyes in this body, there was one thing I'd mulled over without end.
If civil war in this country is a certainty, then maybe, instead of just preparing for the aftermath, I could actively throw myself into the war and become a hero?
But when I lifted the curtain and looked at the future, all I found was darkness.
Let's suppose I actively helped the South, somehow beat the North, and built a United States where slavery was common sense and justice.
The United States, New York, 150 years later.
White men are cackling away with their friends, throwing back beers in a broad-daylight drinking party.
At their feet, a Black enslaved man shining their shoes, sweat pouring off him, accidentally knocks over a beer bottle, and the man's boot drives mercilessly into his ribs.
"You goddamn nigger bastard! Can't do a single thing right! Hey, get that cleaned up and bring me a new one, now!"
"S-sorry, master!"
The man snorted and turned to his companions.
"Lazy, stupid creatures like that, they're cut out to be slaves, aren't they?"
"Of course! And we owe it all to him, don't we?"
Their gazes turned toward the very heart of New York, where a colossal statue stood.
The statue of a magnificent man astride a horse, whip in hand, commanding the world.
Beneath it was carved this inscription:
[The Great Slave King, James Sergent]
The man who'd pointed at the statue shouted toward the Black slaves.
"The only reason you get to live at all, even as slaves, is thanks to that man up there. Be grateful!"
"Thank you, thank you! Thank you for letting us live, even as slaves!"
Aaargh! No! This future is null and void! Void!
I shook my head in horror.
So then, the opposite?
What if I actively helped the North and led the war to victory?
The scene inside my head shifts.
After the war ends, I'm hailed as "the living conscience of the South" and brought into President Lincoln's inner circle.
As a symbolic figure who supported emancipation despite being a Southerner, I enter politics and rise from triumph to triumph.
Then one day, while I'm leisurely sipping tea in my mansion, a band of masked assailants comes charging into the garden.
"Die, traitor!"
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
Bullets flying in from every direction turn my body into a sieve.
"Aaaaaarghhh!"
Yeah, this route's a no-go too.
Damn it, fucking America, the goddamn land of the free where everyone's allowed to own a gun.
In a country where even the president gets assassinated, what future could there possibly be for a Southerner who sticks his neck out, other than getting branded a traitor and turned into a sieve?
I could just come up North, keep my head down, and live quietly without any trouble, but I have no desire to spend this second life, won by some miracle, that way.
In other words, no matter how I worked it over in my head, the conclusion that kept coming out was always the same.
Stick to the original plan: keep a foot carefully planted on both sides, and once the war ends, quietly pivot, slipping into the cosplay of a benevolent capitalist.
While I was deep in such musings, the carriage rolled to a stop.
New York's finest restaurant, "Delmonico's."
For tonight's banquet, the New York City Democratic Party seemed to have rented out the entire restaurant; there wasn't an ordinary customer in sight.
The maître d' recognized me from the entrance, came rushing over, and bowed deeply and properly.
"Welcome, Mr. Sergent! Everyone is waiting inside."
I stepped in, receiving a grand welcome.
Beneath the dazzling chandeliers, I could see the heavyweights of the Democratic Party and its allied factions seated in rows.
And at the center of them sat the man who was the Democrats' current presidential nominee, and, by my memory, the one who would become the next president.
The problem is that if Lincoln is the man who has always held a spot in the top three of America's most beloved presidents, then this man is the dark Lincoln, who has always held a spot in the top three from the bottom.
That's right. One of the few all-time-worst presidents, rated even lower than Hoover of the Great Depression and certainly lower than the inept Harding.
I took the hand he held out and bowed deeply.
"A pleasure to meet you, young Cotton King. My name is James Buchanan."
"James Sergent. It's an honor to be invited."
Yeah, pleasure to meet you and all.
Let's just not get too friendly.
*****
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