1911
Jasper Morrison swept through the great city's streets in his carriage, eager to reach his destination. The spokes of his vehicle crashed over cobblestones and spattered through the muck, his driver giving no heed to those in its path. But the people who milled in the streets knew to get out of the way. They scurried into the alley ways, and stood gaping as Morrison passed, the driver bellowing at his horses to ever greater haste. In his wake, the paupers filtered back onto the street, back to hawking their wares.
Turning a corner, the carriage slowed, and Morrison looked out of the window. Before them was a vast warehouse, around which hundreds of men were milling in and out. Morrison stepped out as his driver came to a halt. He struck an impressive figure. A full six feet tall, he wore a finely tailored suit, with a pale cream top hat. He carried a silver topped cane, and his boots were heeled with metal that clinked as he strode toward the warehouse.
The men (and they were invariably men) who stood in and around the the building were a mixed crowd, of old and new money, many were poorly dressed and many were simply poor. But here, they were all the same, all seeking the same objective.
Inside, there were several different halls, above which there were signs indicating what was for sale within. House. Field. Factory. Bed. And more. He passed into the hall marked Factory. The room was large and dingy at the same time, and full of people. There was a large high stage so that all the men seating in the pews in front of it could see. Sawdust covered the floor, soaking up the mud of the outside, and the tobacco juice spat out by many of the men sitting watching the stage.
The stage was well-lit, and bestriding it was a corpulent man in a straining tweed suit. Luminous red hair sprouted from his chin and cheeks, and his face was empurpled from drink and his bellowing to the crowd below him. Every so often, he pulled out a hankerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow. Next to him stood a thin black man, shackles round his ankles, dressed in little more than a breech clout. The auctioneer was desperately attempting to get the crowd excited, but Morrison could tell that the slave was too thin for proper factory work, and indeed was probably too old. Eventually, some halfwit bought the man and he was hustled off into a pen to await transport. Next up was a young Chinaman. Now the crowd got excited, and Morrison started bidding.
Morrison had recently inherited a valuable mine, and wanted to buy some slaves to get to work on it. While he could rent some indentured labour locally, he thought it likely that they would just try to escape, and he would lose money. Instead, he would buy up his own slaves at a greater expense, but with greater security. Over the following hours, he bought up about forty slaves, from various backgrounds, from black slave to Asian coolie to white penal servitor. The majority were Chinamen, as he had good stories about their abilities from his friends in the railway companies.
Eventually, he decided he had enough for his mine, and passed to the back of the hall, where he pressed a coin into an overseer’s fist, telling him to take his slaves to one of the pens outside the auction halls. From there, he entered the Field Hall. He hoped that if he bought up some old experienced field hands on the cheap and the promise of freedom they could help him ascertain whether or not there was any agricultural value in his land.
The Field Hall was much larger and the slaves were primarily black. There was a smattering of Indians, and the few usual white debtors or criminals, but the general consensus was that Africans were the last word in agricultural utility. He bought up the most wizened greybeards, at a higher price than the auctioneer clearly expected. When he collected his deeds of purchase, for the six slaves he had bought, the man goggled at him and wondered aloud at his mental health. Morrison just smiled and guided his slaves outside.
With them, he walked over to the pen the overseers had put his Factory slaves in. With a few cool words, the overseers began moving them into carts for transport to the temporary tenaments that they would be housed in before transportation to his mine. He had his aged fieldhands put on a separate cart for transport to his country house. The overseers were rough bearded men, dressed in rough cotton and thick leather, coiled whips at their belts. The white slaves were the most recalcitrant and the only ones that the overseers had to do anything other than rest their hands on their whips as motivation.
As the convoy of carts set off for the tenaments, Morrison strode over to the cart that housed his fieldhands.
‘You may be wondering why I have paid such an unnecessary amount of money for such aged specimens as yourselves. The answer is simple. I don’t want you to work my fields for I have none. But I do have land, and I want to know whether it will make good farming land one day. All of you are experienced and know the quality of farming soil and you are from a wide range of farming backgrounds.
‘If you work well, and I can ascertain confidently that your advice is good advice, then I will free you and make you tenants of my land, and I will demand nothing more than monthly rent.’ One of the slaves spoke up.
‘Even if we are free, we ain’t gunna be happy. Allus had families, and allus been forced away from ‘em. Iffn you can find us our families, then we’ll gladly help you, free or not.’ The other slaves nodded emphatically. Morrison was mildly annoyed by the man’s impertinence, but realised that if planted the land not only with crops but with families feudally tied to his by honour then he had the beginnings of a healthy aristocratic pedigree of his own.
‘Fair enough. If you perform your jobs well, I will track down your families to the best of my ability. But from now on, I am your Master, and it would be wise not to forget that.’ The slaves tugged their forelocks and mumbled ‘Massa’ under their breaths. Morrison smiled wickedly, enjoying the sensation of power. He hopped off the cart, and mounted his carriage.
Jasper Morrison was confident in the success of his venture. No longer would he be just the third son of Lord Morrison. Thanks to the death of a distant relative in Australia, and his fulfilment of the will’s conditions where his brothers had failed, he now had the opportunity to become a noble in his own right. If he could successfully exploit such a sparsely populated region, he was assured to become one of the Empire’s greatest aristocrats. And that would really be one in the eye for his father and brothers. And if that meant making non-whites the base of his new gentry, so be it...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
So yeah. If you thought that America* in DoD was nasty and perpetuated slaveocracy in an unpleasant fashion, imagine a British Empire that throttled abolitionism in its cradle, and rose to its position of Imperial supremacy built upon slavery as an article of faith. All the world has to look forward to is centuries of shadow. The POD is way back in the 1750s when a court case over slave ownership in the UK goes to the Lords, and they rule that slave ownership is legal. From there, the British American colonies never gain independence, and the Natives are squashed with no consideration after the Seven Years War. Slavery spreads from the Caribbean to Britain and thence to Australia, and all across the Empire. The reform acts never took place as the Enlightenment whithered away. Cotton and tobacco planters in the South bought their seats in the Commons. By 1911, the Commons exists as a forum for Imperial trading companies, sufficiently wealthy landowners from all across the Empire, and the greatest boroughs of the Imperial sprawl, while the Lords is the supreme House in Parliament. Peers from all across the Empire sit here, and is the more partisan house, while the Commons is mostly united in their thirst for profit and white supremacy.
Jasper Morrison swept through the great city's streets in his carriage, eager to reach his destination. The spokes of his vehicle crashed over cobblestones and spattered through the muck, his driver giving no heed to those in its path. But the people who milled in the streets knew to get out of the way. They scurried into the alley ways, and stood gaping as Morrison passed, the driver bellowing at his horses to ever greater haste. In his wake, the paupers filtered back onto the street, back to hawking their wares.
Turning a corner, the carriage slowed, and Morrison looked out of the window. Before them was a vast warehouse, around which hundreds of men were milling in and out. Morrison stepped out as his driver came to a halt. He struck an impressive figure. A full six feet tall, he wore a finely tailored suit, with a pale cream top hat. He carried a silver topped cane, and his boots were heeled with metal that clinked as he strode toward the warehouse.
The men (and they were invariably men) who stood in and around the the building were a mixed crowd, of old and new money, many were poorly dressed and many were simply poor. But here, they were all the same, all seeking the same objective.
Inside, there were several different halls, above which there were signs indicating what was for sale within. House. Field. Factory. Bed. And more. He passed into the hall marked Factory. The room was large and dingy at the same time, and full of people. There was a large high stage so that all the men seating in the pews in front of it could see. Sawdust covered the floor, soaking up the mud of the outside, and the tobacco juice spat out by many of the men sitting watching the stage.
The stage was well-lit, and bestriding it was a corpulent man in a straining tweed suit. Luminous red hair sprouted from his chin and cheeks, and his face was empurpled from drink and his bellowing to the crowd below him. Every so often, he pulled out a hankerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow. Next to him stood a thin black man, shackles round his ankles, dressed in little more than a breech clout. The auctioneer was desperately attempting to get the crowd excited, but Morrison could tell that the slave was too thin for proper factory work, and indeed was probably too old. Eventually, some halfwit bought the man and he was hustled off into a pen to await transport. Next up was a young Chinaman. Now the crowd got excited, and Morrison started bidding.
Morrison had recently inherited a valuable mine, and wanted to buy some slaves to get to work on it. While he could rent some indentured labour locally, he thought it likely that they would just try to escape, and he would lose money. Instead, he would buy up his own slaves at a greater expense, but with greater security. Over the following hours, he bought up about forty slaves, from various backgrounds, from black slave to Asian coolie to white penal servitor. The majority were Chinamen, as he had good stories about their abilities from his friends in the railway companies.
Eventually, he decided he had enough for his mine, and passed to the back of the hall, where he pressed a coin into an overseer’s fist, telling him to take his slaves to one of the pens outside the auction halls. From there, he entered the Field Hall. He hoped that if he bought up some old experienced field hands on the cheap and the promise of freedom they could help him ascertain whether or not there was any agricultural value in his land.
The Field Hall was much larger and the slaves were primarily black. There was a smattering of Indians, and the few usual white debtors or criminals, but the general consensus was that Africans were the last word in agricultural utility. He bought up the most wizened greybeards, at a higher price than the auctioneer clearly expected. When he collected his deeds of purchase, for the six slaves he had bought, the man goggled at him and wondered aloud at his mental health. Morrison just smiled and guided his slaves outside.
With them, he walked over to the pen the overseers had put his Factory slaves in. With a few cool words, the overseers began moving them into carts for transport to the temporary tenaments that they would be housed in before transportation to his mine. He had his aged fieldhands put on a separate cart for transport to his country house. The overseers were rough bearded men, dressed in rough cotton and thick leather, coiled whips at their belts. The white slaves were the most recalcitrant and the only ones that the overseers had to do anything other than rest their hands on their whips as motivation.
As the convoy of carts set off for the tenaments, Morrison strode over to the cart that housed his fieldhands.
‘You may be wondering why I have paid such an unnecessary amount of money for such aged specimens as yourselves. The answer is simple. I don’t want you to work my fields for I have none. But I do have land, and I want to know whether it will make good farming land one day. All of you are experienced and know the quality of farming soil and you are from a wide range of farming backgrounds.
‘If you work well, and I can ascertain confidently that your advice is good advice, then I will free you and make you tenants of my land, and I will demand nothing more than monthly rent.’ One of the slaves spoke up.
‘Even if we are free, we ain’t gunna be happy. Allus had families, and allus been forced away from ‘em. Iffn you can find us our families, then we’ll gladly help you, free or not.’ The other slaves nodded emphatically. Morrison was mildly annoyed by the man’s impertinence, but realised that if planted the land not only with crops but with families feudally tied to his by honour then he had the beginnings of a healthy aristocratic pedigree of his own.
‘Fair enough. If you perform your jobs well, I will track down your families to the best of my ability. But from now on, I am your Master, and it would be wise not to forget that.’ The slaves tugged their forelocks and mumbled ‘Massa’ under their breaths. Morrison smiled wickedly, enjoying the sensation of power. He hopped off the cart, and mounted his carriage.
Jasper Morrison was confident in the success of his venture. No longer would he be just the third son of Lord Morrison. Thanks to the death of a distant relative in Australia, and his fulfilment of the will’s conditions where his brothers had failed, he now had the opportunity to become a noble in his own right. If he could successfully exploit such a sparsely populated region, he was assured to become one of the Empire’s greatest aristocrats. And that would really be one in the eye for his father and brothers. And if that meant making non-whites the base of his new gentry, so be it...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
So yeah. If you thought that America* in DoD was nasty and perpetuated slaveocracy in an unpleasant fashion, imagine a British Empire that throttled abolitionism in its cradle, and rose to its position of Imperial supremacy built upon slavery as an article of faith. All the world has to look forward to is centuries of shadow. The POD is way back in the 1750s when a court case over slave ownership in the UK goes to the Lords, and they rule that slave ownership is legal. From there, the British American colonies never gain independence, and the Natives are squashed with no consideration after the Seven Years War. Slavery spreads from the Caribbean to Britain and thence to Australia, and all across the Empire. The reform acts never took place as the Enlightenment whithered away. Cotton and tobacco planters in the South bought their seats in the Commons. By 1911, the Commons exists as a forum for Imperial trading companies, sufficiently wealthy landowners from all across the Empire, and the greatest boroughs of the Imperial sprawl, while the Lords is the supreme House in Parliament. Peers from all across the Empire sit here, and is the more partisan house, while the Commons is mostly united in their thirst for profit and white supremacy.
