My America-Chapter 11 - : The Prodigal Blueprint

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The arrivals were likely second or third-generation descendants of Confederate exiles, many born in Brazil after the war. Their journey to New Orleans spoke volumes about the mounting pressures they faced overseas.

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"Still negotiating?" Sheffield asked breezily, feigning indifference. The war's "camaraderie" felt abstract to him, he was here solely on Annabelle's orders.

"Yes... still negotiating." Gale's voice tightened weighed by looming losses.

Sheffield nodded, biting back inappropriate cheer. These returnees represented a strategic boon. While the Sheffields had weathered Reconstruction by absorbing abandoned Southern estates and leveraging Texas's unique status, their old peers had gambled on Brazil—and lost. Now, battered but wealthy they sought refuge.

Louisiana's flatlands carved by the Mississippi welcomed them with mild February air. The exiles marveled at oak-shaded manors their families once owned, oblivious to the irony: they were colonizers returning to colonized soil.

At Oakwood Plantation, Sheffield hosted a French-inspired feast—a nod to Louisiana's Creole roots. Over wine he cut to the chase: "Your ancestral lands remain tended. The Sheffields welcome you home." He raised his glass. "Brazil's a backwater compared to the *new* America. Why be millionaires there when you can dominate here?"

Gesturing northward he sharpened his tone: "The Yankees stole our world once. Must we let them keep it? Or do we fight, with their own weapons: wealth, industry, ambition?"

Gale clinked his glass. "Your family's loyalty hasn't wavered. We'll consider rebuilding here."

Sheffield thumped the table, channeling righteous fervor. "On my honor, we stand united!"

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