Chapter Six: Prince of Cotton
By July of 1853 the immigrant population in New York was in full retreat as tens of thousands of Irish and German immigrants fled the oppressive taxes levied on them by the dominant Know Nothings. For the majority of these immigrants, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania became the preferred destination. And after the state released dozens of imprisoned political leaders of the immigrant community, even the leaders of the communist movement entertained relocation to Boston. But in early June of 1853 the now impoverished Friedrich Engels received a letter from his father imploring him to return to the family business. Though nearly wiped out after his son’s public expulsion from Manchester, the elder Engels retained one cotton mill in the Prussian city of Bremen and proposed a curious offer: help him corner the American cotton market. After discussions with his contacts in the cotton industry, the elder Engels saw a potential empire in the making in desolate state of Florida. The sparsely populated state of Florida was awash in cheap land, and its major ports to the lucrative English markets were both located in the state’s western regions. The port in the tiny village of St. Augustine on the far eastern coast was neglected, with only 1,900 people living there and no cotton exportation. Rather, the port was foolishly used to import and export slaves. For the elder Engles, St. Augustine (and the equally desolate village of Jacksonville) could become the heart of the Floridian cotton industry. And he had every intention of turning those eastern ports into the foundation of his new empire. All he needed was someone he could trust to help him develop this empire. All he needed was Friedrich to go to be his prince of cotton.
July 4, 1853: South Street Docks, New York City, New York
Friedrich Engles folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. He knew there was no alternative. He could either live as a pauper or a beggar or he could go to Florida with the young Astor boy. Most of his compatriots rejected his offer to help him in St. Augustine. Willich. Harney. Even Karl. He would be alone…except for Astor and the Abolitionist of South Street. The poet Walt Whitman.
“I expected Karl to come,” Friedrich said softly as he approached the docks. “I expected all of them to be here.”
Whitman said nothing as they approached the mob of desperate Prussians and Irish men, looking for passage to get them out of New York. To get them somewhere where freedom was no longer a myth written in hypocrisy.
“It is not safe for them,” Astor said firmly, “but they will come. Soon enough, they too will come. Over 1,000 communists have asked me to help them relocate. One thousand! The proletariat may not be safe in New York, but I assure you sir, they shall find safety in numbers in Florida!”
Whitman again said nothing. The boy was, like so many young men, prone to exaggeration. He dreamed of excitement. But how could his communist homeland be any more successful than Levy’s Jewish homeland? How could the Germans and English factory workers adapt to so foreign a home?”
“Perhaps,” Engels finally whispered. “Or perhaps I shall be the one who comes back.”
Whitman leaned over to Engels and took his hands.
“It will be a long journey,” he said as he handed him a book. “Here. Take this. It is a most powerful tale that shall shorten this voyage. Of the world of which will shall be entering. I fear it shall not give you much comfort though. It will give you many sleepless night, but it will open your eyes to the cruelty of this wretched place which we are about to call home.”
Engels took the book in his hands and looked down at the cover. It featured what appeared to be a negro family standing in a doorway. A rather innocuous picture he thought. He then glanced down at the title and read it out loud.
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
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