Illegal Aliens?

"Gain immigrant votes?" Mr. Norton's perfectly sculpted eyebrow shot up, almost disappearing into his hairline. He let out a scoff, a sound designed to convey utmost disdain, followed by a theatrical wave of his hand. "Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, that's… that's simply impossible!"

He'd grasped Dutch's audacious scheme almost immediately, and the absurdity of it, from his lofty perspective, was laughable. The right to vote in these United States, he mused, was reserved for American citizens, eighteen years of age or older.

And yet, most of the populace, the huddled masses, paid as much attention to voting as they did to the migratory patterns of obscure beetles. Life, for them, was a grinding struggle for survival; who had the luxury to fret over who sat in the mayor's gilded chair, or who graced the committee?

Furthermore, transportation was a beast! If one desired to cast a ballot, one had to travel to the polling station. For the lower classes, that often meant expenses they simply couldn't afford. Ergo, most voters were, and always would be, the sensible, well-heeled middle class. The "women's suffrage" movement, for all its progressive bluster, was merely a cleverly orchestrated effort to expand that reliable middle-class voting bloc by including their wives and daughters. The lower echelons of society? Utterly irrelevant.

As for immigrants? Preposterous! They didn't even possess the basic right to vote! And even if they were miraculously granted such a privilege, these bewildered souls, barely clinging to existence, would only concern themselves with the next meager meal, not the weighty decisions of local governance. Dutch's suggestion left Mr. Norton feeling an uncomfortable mixture of amusement and exasperation. He almost wanted to laugh and weep at the same time.

Dutch, however, merely leaned forward, a confident, almost predatory gleam in his eyes, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive rumble that seemed to cut through the ship's ambient hum. He paused for dramatic effect, allowing Norton's skepticism to fester, before delivering his counter-punch.

"Ah, but Mr. Norton," Dutch began, a sly smile spreading across his face, "what if I were to inform you that I could not only provide them with jobs – real, honest-to-goodness employment – but also mandate their vote? Yes, mandate it! Not just the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, but every single worker in my burgeoning factories! All of them, voting for you? Or, more precisely, for the esteemed Lemieux Family?"

He straightened up, a subtle gesture of power. "You, Mr. Lemieux, would merely need to perform the exquisite public service of… polishing these immigrants, as it were, and transforming them into American citizens. You incur no loss, save for perhaps a few sheets of official parchment. And in return, I gain a veritable army of cheap, eager labor. More, my dear sir!" Dutch leaned in again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "People of various… hues… naturally gravitate towards their own kind, forming tight-knit systems.

What if I were to orchestrate them to rally their American citizen compatriots to vote for your family? What if I were to relentlessly promote the divine notion among them that the Lemieux Family is a paragon of friendship and benevolence?"

Mr. Norton, who had been on the very cusp of a dismissive wave, froze. A sharp, almost painful "Hiss!" escaped his lips as he involuntarily drew a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes, fixed on Dutch, began to widen, slowly at first, then with an almost comical speed. He looked at Dutch as if he were seeing him for the very first time, not as a crude upstart, but as a… a diabolical genius.

"How many… how many workers do you currently employ in your factory?" Mr. Norton stammered, his voice hushed with a dawning avarice. "How many… how many votes can you realistically deliver to us?"

Dutch chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. He held up his hand, pinching his thumb and forefinger together to indicate a rather modest amount. "My factory, as it stands, can only provide you with a paltry… oh, perhaps five hundred votes." He shrugged, a picture of false humility. "But this, my dear Mr. Norton, is merely our current, rather constrained capacity. Should we embrace this magnificent venture, we shall, naturally, expand! I can confidently guarantee a robust five thousand votes within a mere five years!" Dutch mentally scoffed at his own "modest" projection. For his true, grand ambitions, five thousand in five years was pathetic. But to speak of truly colossal numbers, however, would only raise Mr. Norton's suspicions. Better to undersell and over-deliver.

Listening to this, Mr. Norton's eyes, previously wide with shock, now began to gleam with a manic, almost terrifying, intensity. Good heavens! Five thousand votes! And in only five years! Based on America's predictable four-year election cycle, by the next rotation, Dutch could deliver a solid three thousand votes, at minimum. And for them? No cost, no effort, save for the minor inconvenience of shuffling a few immigration papers. This, undoubtedly, was a temptation too monumental to resist!

And do not, for a moment, underestimate the seismic impact of three thousand, or even five thousand, meticulously controlled votes. Consider the 1898 New York State Governor election, a paltry 17,794 votes constituting three-quarters of the total ballot! Three thousand sudden, loyal votes would be a veritable trojan horse, an electoral earthquake that would catapult the Lemieux Family into unforeseen heights of power and influence, securing them unprecedented resources and status.

Not only that, but if they could consistently win every election thereafter, they could leverage their political power to ceaselessly expand their dynastic reach, eventually becoming the unchallenged, uncrowned kings of Lemoyne. As for coveting the presidency itself? That was, for now, beyond the realm of even their most feverish dreams.

The brilliance of the method, when one truly considered it, was its chilling simplicity! Not only the raw numerical power of newly minted immigrant citizens, but as Dutch had so astutely pointed out, different races, different groups, possessed an inherent tendency to coalesce into tightly knit, self-supporting systems. Their relationships were intimate, their influence profound. It was terrifyingly likely they would sway their newly enfranchised compatriots to vote for their benefactors. This final stroke of insight sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated excitement through Mr. Henry.

Good Lord, how could he not be moved?! Who, with even an ounce of political ambition, could possibly resist such a temptation? And the votes guaranteed by Dutch's factory alone promised an instantaneous, decisive victory!

The most challenging aspect of this entire scheme, the true bottleneck, was the sheer logistical nightmare of managing the labor force, of providing the very jobs that would bind these immigrants to them. To command the obedience of immigrants and the general populace, one had to offer them tangible benefits, livelihoods.

And families like the Lemieuxs, accustomed to profiting from the control of urban public facilities, were fundamentally averse to widely recruiting workers. Indeed, their daily mantra was how to slash costs and shed staff, all while maintaining their comfortable monopolies.

But now, it was different. Dutch had arrived. Dutch, the magnanimous benefactor, would perform all the dirty, backbreaking work. They, the Lemieuxs, simply had to wait, quietly, elegantly, to reap the magnificent rewards. Who, in their right mind, could possibly find fault with that arrangement?!

The expressions on Mr. Norton's face shifted and swirled like a rapidly churning kaleidoscope: from initial, stunned disbelief, to a dawning, giddy realization as his imagination began to paint glorious canvases of power, finally culminating in a visage brimming with unadulterated joy. His entire demeanor had utterly transformed.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde!" Mr. Norton exclaimed, his voice practically trembling with emotion. He seized Dutch's hands in both of his own, his face splitting into a wide, almost manic grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He looked like a child on Christmas morning, discovering a mountain of gifts. "My very best friend! Your… your method is simply brilliant! Oh, my stars! I can scarcely imagine the sheer, unadulterated glory of acquiring so many votes!"

He beamed at Dutch, then finally, after a moment of profound contemplation, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "Alright, Mr. Van der Linde, my truly insightful friend, I presume you must have certain… needs of your own, yes? Why don't you do me the immense favor of stating your requirements? Perhaps… perhaps I can be of some… assistance in resolving them?"

Dutch's smile widened. He had waited patiently for this very moment.

Dutch squeezed Mr. Henry's hand in return, his gaze unwavering, a picture of earnest sincerity. "I did not expect Mr. Lemieux to see through my humble machinations so swiftly! My deepest apologies, sir, but indeed, I do have a rather… small request, Mr. Lemieux!" He paused, just long enough to build the suspense.

"I merely… I merely desire the legal right to use some land on Guarma Island, Mr. Lemieux! Just a few simple, legal documents will suffice!"

He spoke of "legal documents" with a knowing wink. The year was 1898. The Spanish-American War had concluded just last year, and Guarma Island, rather inconveniently for the Spanish, had become an American colony – not a mere territory, mind you, but a full-blown colony.

Yet, despite its nominal American status, the island remained stubbornly occupied and utilized by the Spanish forces who seemed blissfully unaware of their new landlords. So, Dutch required those pristine legal documents, not because he intended to file for zoning permits, but to legitimately enter Guarma Island, legitimately remove all those lingering, bothersome Spanish, and legitimately begin his magnificent, unhindered exploitation.

Listening to Dutch's rather casual request, Mr. Norton's joyful expression flickered. He pondered slightly, his gaze fixed on Dutch, his brow furrowing in thought. After a brief, almost agonizing contemplation, he slowly, carefully, spoke. "Mr. Van der Linde. The situation within Guarma Island is, shall we say, rather… complex. You understand, the Spanish-American War only concluded last year, and as such, we currently possess no definitive policy regarding the… lingering presence of Spanish troops on Guarma Island. Furthermore, it touches upon the entrenched interests of numerous families, and Mr. Alberto Fussar himself is, after all, a prominent upper-class figure in Saint Denis."

He sighed, a delicate gesture of helplessness. "So, while Guarma Island is now nominally under Saint Denis's jurisdiction, we simply possess no legal means to grant you a truly usable piece of land. However," a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his tone, "a legal right of use? Yes, that is quite feasible. But, Mr. Van der Linde, I must be unequivocally clear: once you are truly on Guarma Island, that document… it will, unfortunately, have precisely zero practical effect!"

Dutch burst into a hearty, triumphant laugh, a sound that echoed across the deck, utterly unconcerned by Norton's ominous caveat. "Ah hahaha! Splendid, Mr. Lemieux, truly splendid! A legal document is perfectly, magnificently, excellent! As for those… lands… I believe we can find a most… efficient way to acquire them ourselves!" He beamed, his eyes sparkling with delight.

Dutch was satisfied. The situation had unfolded precisely as he had meticulously orchestrated. This had been the single largest impediment to his grand expansion, and now, thanks to a few well-chosen words and a perfectly timed dose of greed, it was settled. The game, as always, was afoot. And Dutch, as always, was winning.