Chapter 17: Birds of a Feather  

In the Capitol building, congressmen from the two starkly divided parties filed out in rigid formation. Their tense expressions revealed the disastrous outcome of most proposals that day. For President Cleveland, the situation was equally grim – caught between the invisible pressure of the British Empire abroad and the domestic economic collapse at home, his second term in the White House proved increasingly untenable. 

Yet the ordeal continued. A substantial delegation of Democratic congressmen already awaited him at the White House, poised to pressure the exhausted president further. This wasn't a consultation – they demanded compliance, not conversation. 

"The facts are clear," Congressman Anderson stepped forward from the group, addressing the newly returned Cleveland. "The Republicans fan the flames, seeking to roast Your Presidency over this fire. With domestic economic ruin and British maneuvers in the Caribbean, your isolationist stance no longer commands public support. Our citizens hunger for even a glimpse of the promised 'American Century'." 

"This Republican agitation means nothing!" Cleveland retorted, his face drawn. "How can our 30,000 troops oppose Britain? Our southern states report agricultural collapse from unusual weather – grain and meat prices already skyrocket." 

"Precisely our opportunity!" Anderson pressed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "This dual crisis allows us to redirect public anger toward British oppression. Let the grain shortages fuel anti-British sentiment while we stabilize markets. Madam Annabelle could resolve Southern food panics overnight – her influence over Dixie farmers is absolute." 

Cleveland's brow furrowed. If Britain's Caribbean expansion went unchallenged, every European power would trample Monroe's doctrine. America's hard-won prestige would crumble before its hemispheric neighbors. 

"Very well," the president finally conceded. "We require a bold statesman to formally protest Britain's Venezuelan encroachment. Someone who..." 

—— 

"All grain shipments leaving today increase by 10%!" A cowboy-hatted figure barked at New Orleans docks, thrusting revised price lists at merchants. "Defy the Agricultural Association and get blacklisted!" 

A Yankee merchant protested: "Another hike? What justification now?" 

The Texan's lip curled behind his cold facade. *Starve, damn Yankees.* Aloud, he drawled: "Arctic currents ruined harvests. Even Texas and Mississippi farmers hold crops hostage for higher prices. Take it or leave it." 

The lie contained partial truth – small farmers, easily manipulated by the Association's manufactured scarcity, hoarded grain hoping to profit. Weather excuses served as convenient scapegoats throughout history, East and West alike. 

—— 

"The Brazilian planters seemed satisfied," young Sheffield reported to his grandmother at Arlington Manor, carefully omitting nothing. "Many expressed immigration interest, but I deferred to your judgment." 

"Do as you will," Annabelle waved dismissively. "You're the sole heir – no need for your grandfather's caution. Failures teach better than my lectures." 

She reminisced: "Your grandfather slept rifle-in-arm chasing Underground Railroad thieves." 

"Quite... arduous," Sheffield replied stiffly, changing subjects. "The railyard bustles with cargo." 

Annabelle's smile turned predatory. "Northern speculators will inflate our prices further. When profiteering, Yankees and Dixie blend alike." 

(Chapter End)