Chapter 9: Slave Exploiter (3)
TL: Hanguk
August, the month that heralds the start of the real harvest season, had come and gone, and we had just passed the middle of September.
The plantations under my management were in better shape than ever before.
My new methods had been applied to the plantations I'd taken over from my relatives as well, and the overseers had every one of their mouths firmly sealed with performance bonuses and contracts.
And once I made it clear to the people actually doing the work, framing it as "if this leaks, our plantation's edge weakens, and there's nothing in it for you either," they started keeping their mouths absolutely shut.
Who in the world would want to work the way they used to, from sunup to sundown under the lash?
Especially now, when finishing the work fast meant they could head in and rest as early as they'd finished.
"Heh heh heh, sir. The results from the early batches we've harvested so far are in."
"From the way you're grinning ear to ear, I take it the results are good?"
"Yes, sir. And isn't all of this thanks to your remarkable management approach?"
As had already been proven during the final preparations at the end of July, ahead of the harvest, the new Task System showed off its astonishing power through the August harvest as well.
A typical Mississippi cotton crop is sown starting in April, and by July it moves into preparations for the harvest.
The harvest mainly runs from August through November, with a final late picking in December, after which the structure is to regroup over the winter.
Since cotton doesn't all bloom at once, the harvest is split into intervals of two to three weeks and carried out in three or four passes, and during this period it's not at all uncommon to work even on Sundays.
"Take a look at this. Most of the first batch came in at Middling grade or above, and the Good Middling ratio is enormous."
"So it is. The yield converges to roughly the same figure anyway, but the grade improvement has gone up quite significantly."
The cotton harvested in this era was graded by how clean it was, finely divided into tiers from the very lowest, Ordinary, up through Good Ordinary, Low Middling, Middling, Good Middling, and several more levels above that.
The reason grades were subdivided this finely was, of course, that this cleanliness was the factor determining the cotton's quality.
"What was our plantation's ratio of Middling-and-above last year?"
"The first harvest we sold through September was exactly fifty-three percent."
"And that's climbed all the way to seventy-seven percent?"
"Yes, sir. At this level, word's bound to spread among the brokers no matter what. That the Sergent plantation's quality this year is insane."
Ordinarily, there's a difference of nearly two cents per pound between Ordinary grade and grades of Middling or above.
Given that Middling-grade cotton runs around eleven cents per pound, that means simply pushing the grade up raises revenue by close to twenty percent per pound.
"Once they get the knack of it, we might even clear the eighty-percent mark."
"Yes, sir. As it happens, every team already knows that keeping the work clean is the best way to hit the targets, and they're all focusing their efforts there."
From the start, most plantations had pushed their laborers to harvest clean, high-quality cotton by whatever means.
But unless you used a method like this, handing out direct rewards, the ceiling was naturally always going to be obvious.
"Before long the folks around here are going to hound me to death. They'll throw an absolute goddamn fit asking what the secret is to raising the quality."
"Actually, there were already people asking me. Though it was more out of amazement than trying to dig anything out, I'd say."
"Tell them you signed a contract that says the moment you breathe a word, I'll sue you and strip you of every last asset, so you can't talk. That'll satisfy everyone."
"Yes, sir. But doesn't that practically amount to confessing that you're hiding some incredible secret?"
Even if I buttoned it up tight, everyone would catch on just from the quality of the cotton shipping out of the plantation, so what did it matter?
"Minor rumors will spread through the brokers, but digging out the specific methods is impossible. The reasons are mine to make up however I like."
"Ah, that's true too."
If anything, it was the speed at which the efficiency had shot up that came as a surprise, if anything did.
At this rate, the food I hand out to the enslaved as rewards, and the Switchel I distribute to prevent dehydration, won't even leave a dent, will they?
Maybe I should throw a little get-together once the busiest season is over?
I'd sent John out and was mulling over ways to squeeze even a bit more out of this productivity when,
Knock, knock.
"Sir, a letter has arrived."
This time it was Leo who came in, respectfully holding out an elegant, high-quality envelope.
"Good, well done. Anything giving you trouble in your work?"
"No, sir. The folks out in the field are all grateful too, saying it's the first harvest season that's ever been bearable."
"Grateful, my foot. I'm doing this for my own benefit. If there are any fellows getting the wrong idea, set them straight. This is absolutely not me showing you all mercy."
"Yes, yes. Of course, sir. Then please take your time looking it over."
Leo bowed his head again and again, wearing a smile that would have been unimaginable just a few months ago.
The truth was, there wasn't even any need to look.
This time of year, an invitation to a party always came fluttering in like this to mark the harvest season.
[To the esteemed James Sergent,
In celebration of this bountiful season of harvest, we wish to hold a small soirée at our Melrose mansion. We hope it will be an occasion to welcome Governor John McRae and the gentlemen of the federal Congress, who have devoted themselves to our state of Mississippi this past year, and to share together in the joy of a harvest won through honest toil.
We eagerly await the gracious presence of the new head of the respected Sergent family, that he might grace the occasion with his attendance.
Respectfully, John T. McMurren & Mary Louisa McMurren]
Well, look at that. An invitation to a party, just as I figured.
"Soirée" is putting it kindly. Seeing as the governor of Mississippi and the congressmen are all turning out in force, this is closer to a kind of ritual for shoring up morale.
The South and the North were locked in sharp confrontation over slavery, but the point was no doubt to flaunt their strength, showing just how tight-knit we Southerners are.
This McMurren, the host of the affair, was not only a lawyer running the largest law office in the state of Mississippi but also a grand planter who held more than three hundred slaves.
The Melrose mansion had been designed and built with hosting parties in mind from the very beginning, so how lavish must it be?
In any case, with the political heavyweights all turning up in a row, my failing to attend a gathering like that would, in itself, be far too unnatural.
"No choice, then. Leo, I'll need to go out this weekend."
"Yes, sir! I'll have everything ready for certain."
I was in a position where I had to walk a flawless tightrope, getting on the wrong side of neither, but I wasn't particularly nervous.
After all, most of the planters attending this affair would be dying to hear my secret for improving quality.
I immediately sent back a reply saying I would attend.
***
The last Saturday evening of September, 1856.
Countless carriages arrived before the Melrose mansion, renowned as the most lavish in Natchez, Mississippi.
When I stepped down at the mansion's entrance, which called to mind a Greek temple, the McMurrens' slave bowed respectfully.
Since the slaves I'd brought along couldn't attend the party, I told Leo and Sam to eat the food we'd brought from the house and at least take the edge off their hunger, then went inside.
"Welcome! Thank you for accepting our invitation. It's an honor to meet the young master of the Sergents in person like this."
A man in his prime, who looked to be in his fifties, greeted me, courteously extending his hand for a handshake.
John McMurren, master of the mansion and reputed to be the finest pro-slavery lawyer in Mississippi.
His eyes, as he looked at me, were plainly glittering with the fondness one feels toward one's own kind.
"The honor is mine, for the invitation. My late father often spoke of your renown, Counselor."
"Ha ha, my goodness. You flatter me. Then, Master James, please go on inside and enjoy tonight's festivities to your heart's content. As it happens, there are a great many people eager to meet you in the flesh."
"Yes. Thank you for your consideration."
Well, of course. A lucky young upstart who came to command seven hundred slaves the moment he turned twenty had shown up. How could that not draw interest?
And on top of that, wasn't I unmarried?
For any household with a daughter, I was a son-in-law prospect they couldn't ask better of, and for the politicians, I was prime bait from whom they could wring fat donations.
And sure enough, the moment I walked into the banquet hall, countless requests for handshakes came pouring in.
As expected, most of them were grand planters who commanded more than a hundred slaves, and among them was even a heavyweight known as the king of planters.
"I've heard a great deal about you, and now we finally meet. A pleasure, young man. Stephen Duncan."
The grand planter who ranked among a mere handful in the entire South, and the foremost slave king of Mississippi.
The old man, who still looked hale despite being nearly seventy, was watching me intently, making no effort to hide his look of interest.
"The honor is entirely mine. James Sergent, at your service!"
No matter how many slaves I'd inherited, I couldn't possibly hold a candle to this old man, said to be the richest in all of Mississippi.
To give you a sense of it, the number of slaves he kept on his plantation alone in Issaquena County, Mississippi, was over eight hundred, and counting up all the slaves scattered across the country, the total was said to soar well past a thousand.
He was a man it would feel entirely natural to call one of the South's foremost slave kings.
"Are you aware that your name's been coming up an awful lot among the brokers lately?"
"Yes. I couldn't very well not be."
"They say the quality jumped to a strange degree. Of course, even if I ask the secret, you won't tell me, will you?"
"What secret could there be? I simply had them work under firmer management and more efficient labor, that's all."
In the South, as a matter of course, "firm management" is synonymous with harsh corporal punishment, and "efficient labor" carries the same meaning as wringing every drop out of them.
Duncan let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.
"A young fellow, and a ruthless one too. But mark well the words of this old man. Even if Blacks are something on the fringe of human, you do understand they're living creatures, don't you? Wring a living creature dry, and sooner or later it withers up."
"I'll bear that in mind."
"Good, good. You're still young, that's all I mean, so don't make the mistake of clinging to a moment's profit and inviting long-term loss. Of course, if that's not the case, then this old man's barked up the wrong tree entirely."
The longer my conversation with Duncan went on, the more I could feel the planters around us straining every nerve to eavesdrop on our exchange.
It was a conversation between none other than the foremost slave king of Mississippi and a freshly rising new slave king.
Especially with the results my plantation had brought in this year quietly spreading everywhere, they were no doubt pricking up their ears in hopes of maybe catching the secret.
So now was precisely the time to drive in the final nail.
"Not at all. There really is no slipping past the discerning eye of an experienced elder. But I do squeeze them with everything calculated in its own way."
"Oho. Is that so?"
I deliberately laid out a portion of the secret they wanted to know, at a volume just loud enough for everyone around to hear.
"People aren't like machines. Rest a little and they heal right back up. So if you get a good read on the line where they won't break, and run them right up to the edge of it, you can keep running them a good long while. And if you don't get the quality you want, you just use that splendid persuasion tool called the whip until you do."
"My word."
"Of course, if you fail to read that line well, the whole lot gets ruined, but I have a knack for finding that razor's edge, so it'll be fine. Isn't the result proof enough? Still, I won't forget the precious advice you gave me. I'll carve it into my heart."
I bowed my head with a duck and slipped out of the cluster of planters to go find some food.
"Whoa. Did you hear that just now?"
"Maybe it's because he's young, but he really is no joke."
"Ha, ruthless. Truly ruthless. To squeeze them that brutally... Didn't I say so? All of that has to be the fruit of insane lashing."
"But then the enslaved would be dropping dead."
"He said he found that razor's edge, didn't he? If it's true, it's impressive, I'll grant that. Though of course I can roughly guess how many enslaved he sent to their graves before he got there."
The buzzing murmurs reach even my ears as I move away.
Yes, yes. Everyone go on and spread the rumors just that diligently.
The more they did, the less anyone would ever suspect that this vicious slave exploiter, James Sergent, was in fact moving on the conviction that slavery would be abolished.
Criticism that I was a base slave exploiter might come up later, but with the very slaves I'd supposedly exploited all banding together to defend me, what was there to worry about?
Even if such an attack came, I could counter it easily.
Having accomplished my objective, I happily polished off the food and resolved to tuck myself into some suitable corner and kill time until the party ended.
Or, since I had no more business here, should I just head back and rest?
"James Sergent? So here you are!"
"I was wondering what I'd do if I missed you today. What a relief, this."
But it seemed I wasn't going to escape this den of devils so easily.
"Gentlemen, do you happen to know me?"
"Who wouldn't know you? There's still plenty of time left, so why are you already trying to leave? Ha ha ha!"
"Ah, the thing is, I have work tomorrow as well."
"Listen to this man. No matter that it's harvest season, do you intend to head out yourself and drive the enslaved starting on a Sunday? My, what tremendous zeal."
Two unfamiliar voices caught hold of me just as I was trying to slip stealthily back to my carriage.
One had a bizarre hairstyle, as though a bomb had gone off on his head, and the other was a middle-aged man whose hair was, by contrast, neatly groomed.
When I looked at the two of them with a puzzled gaze, they grinned and held out their hands.
"How rude of us, not even introducing ourselves. Jefferson Davis."
"John Quitman."
Jefferson Davis. John Quitman.
The moment I heard those names, two sets of memories inside me reacted at once.
The Jefferson Davis that the modern man Kim Hyunwoo called to mind was, without a doubt, the figure recorded in history as the president of the Confederate States of America during the Civil War.
And the John Quitman engraved in James Sergent's memory was one of the leaders of the radicals crying out for Southern independence, the Fire-Eaters.
So, to put it simply, you could call them the ringleader of a rebellion and the chief of a hopeless pack of lunatics.
No, wait.
The final boss and a mid-boss showing up at the same time, isn't that a bug?
*****
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