On that New York morning, milkmen's carriages clattered on the cobblestone streets, and newsboys waved freshly printed, ink-smelling newspapers, shouting their headlines.
When citizens bought that day's The Sun and The Tribune from the newsboys, the quiet that had settled over the city for weeks was utterly shattered.
"My God! Look at this!"
In a breakfast restaurant packed with bankers and businessmen, a young broker pointed at the newspaper, his voice distorted by shock, "The Sun says Mr. Sloan, the president of New York Central Railroad, is suspected of using company funds to support Southern rebels through Canada!"
"The Tribune also published it!" A cotton merchant at the next table put down his coffee cup, "They found the specific company names and financial flows! And there's a photo of that Southerner with several plantation owners! This... this is treason!"
Panic, like an invisible plague, spread rapidly through the city's veins, with newspapers as its medium.
From the trading floors of Wall Street to the private clubs of Fifth Avenue, and even to the dinner tables of ordinary citizens, everyone's conversation focused on this sensational scandal.
And this panic first triggered a shockwave at the New York Stock Exchange.
The moment the opening bell rang, the exchange's hall, filled with noise and greed, erupted in a wave of panic selling.
"Sell! Sell New York Central Railroad stock!"
"Pennsylvania Railroad too! They're in on it together! Dump them quickly!"
On the ticker board, the stock prices representing the two pillars of the Eastern Railroad Alliance began to fall again from their recently stabilized levels... At the center of the storm, New York Central Railroad headquarters.
The atmosphere was as still as before a volcanic eruption.
"Useless! A bunch of useless people!" Sloan slammed the newspaper onto his desk. He wasn't yelling at anyone in particular, but cursing his own lack of vigilance in the past.
"Sir," his deputy, Charles Thorne, reported with a pale face, "The situation at the exchange... it's very bad. Less than an hour after opening, our stock price has already fallen by five percent. A large number of retail investors are selling off."
"Retail investors?" A cold determination flashed in Sloan's eyes, "They are just frightened sheep. The real deciders of the battle are the wolves hiding in the shadows."
He quickly calmed his panic and issued a series of instructions.
"Charles, immediately contact all the banks and trust companies we partner with in the alliance! I authorize them to use all of the company's emergency reserves to buy shares in the market at any cost! Stabilize the stock price! I absolutely cannot let that old bastard Vanderbilt steal my company with a few pieces of scrap paper!"
"Additionally," he continued, "immediately contact the editor-in-chief of The Herald! Have him publish our official statement on the largest possible page! Tell everyone that this is a vile and shameless libel jointly orchestrated by our business rivals, Argyle and Vanderbilt! It is malicious slander against us, patriotic merchants who have transported millions of tons of supplies for the Union!"
"Finally," he looked at Thorne, "immediately telegram the senators we know! I need them to speak up for us on Capitol Hill! Immediately launch an investigation into those damned newspapers for 'obstructing wartime economic stability'!"
...Wall Street, Patriot Investment Company's office.
Tom Hayes watched the ticking stock ticker machine, a subtle smile playing on his lips.
"Sir," his assistant Johnny's voice carried a hint of tension, "A large number of buy orders have appeared in the market, and the stock price has temporarily stabilized."
"Of course it will stabilize." Hayes seemed to have anticipated this, "A wounded bull will always try its best to resist. This is good, Johnny. This means that Mr. Vanderbilt's first round of attack has successfully stung him."
"Any discoveries?"
"He... he seems to have disappeared." Johnny was a little confused, "Ever since Sloan started repurchasing, Mr. Vanderbilt's spokesperson stopped all large-volume buying, only conducting small-scale accumulation, just like we did before. It seems... he's waiting for something."
Hayes looked out at the bustling exchange, "I probably know. He's waiting for the bullet that will completely break Sloan's spine."
...This bullet whistled in from Washington two days later.
Just as The Herald had published Sloan's righteous 'Patriotic Statement,' and just as some senators were preparing to launch an investigation into 'unscrupulous media' in Congress.
An official document, jointly signed by Clark, Chairman of the Senate Military Committee, and New York Senator Conkling, was delivered to the War Department and the Federal Prosecutor's Office.
The content of the document was simple: In view of the serious allegations recently disclosed by the media regarding New York Central Railroad's suspected transfer of funds to the South, which poses a potential threat to federal logistical security, the Military Committee formally requests that the Federal Prosecutor's Office lead the establishment of a special investigation team, with military personnel assisting, to immediately conduct a highest-level national security investigation into Mr. Sloan and the relevant accounts of New York Central Railroad.
This news was not transmitted through newspapers, but directly through official telegraph lines to every bank and financial institution in New York.
This was the real last straw.
Inside the New York Stock Exchange, the market, which had just calmed down slightly due to Sloan's repurchases, completely collapsed the moment this news was received.
"Oh my God! It's a military investigation!"
"This isn't a business dispute anymore! This really is treason!"
This time, it wasn't just retail investors who panicked. It was the bankers and institutional investors who had once supported Sloan. They knew that once the charge of "treason" was confirmed, New York Central Railroad's stock would become worthless paper overnight.
"Sell! At any price! Sell everything!"
This time, Sloan's reserves seemed so insignificant in the face of the tsunami-like wave of massive sell orders from institutions.
"Sir! It's over!" In Sloan's office, the Chief Financial Officer's voice was filled with helplessness, "Chicago Commercial Bank just informed us that they will freeze all our credit lines! They... they are calling in their loans!"
Sloan sat wearily in his chair.
And just then, his office door was pushed open.
His secretary reported: "Mr. Chairman... downstairs... downstairs, Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt's carriage has arrived."
At the New York Central Railroad headquarters, Sloan looked at his old rival, Cornelius Vanderbilt, whom he had fought for over a decade, standing right in front of him.
"The view here is quite nice, Sloan." Vanderbilt strolled to the giant floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city's railway tracks and intricate network below. "I've always thought this office was the best in all of New York. It's just a pity its owner has occupied it for too long."
"Cornelius," Sloan's voice was hoarse, "Name your price. Stop pretending."
"Oh… my friend, you are too impatient. The terms are actually very simple." Vanderbilt took out a pre-drafted share transfer agreement from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Transfer all the shares you and your relatives and friends, who are entrenched in the board, hold to me."
"The price," he added, "will be at today's closing price. Two dollars a share. Quite fair, wouldn't you say?"
This was a humiliating price. Sloan knew that, if not for this stock market crash, the value of these shares would be at least double that amount.
"Why should I agree to you?" A final spark of defiance ignited in Sloan's eyes. "I can still struggle. I can apply to the court for liquidation, plunging the company into years of legal disputes. I will absolutely not let you get my company so easily!"
"Of course, of course, I know you can." Vanderbilt looked at him calmly. "You can struggle. But for the next six months, you will watch as federal military investigators comb through all your ledgers like a fine-tooth comb. Every letter between you and those 'friends' in the South will be made public."
"By then," Vanderbilt's tone was like a final verdict, "you will lose more than just this company, Sloan."
"You will also lose your freedom and your self-righteous dignity."
Sloan slumped into his chair. He knew he had no leverage left. In the face of a federal prosecutor's treason investigation, any commercial struggle seemed so ridiculous.
Finally, he picked up the pen and signed his name on the agreement.
An era thus came to an end… Petersburg Front, Virginia.
The spring mud was an eternal theme here. Cold rain mixed with red earth had turned the entire trench into a nauseating, viscous river.
Corporal Michael O'Malley, a young Irish man from Five Points, New York, leaned against the damp, cold trench wall, shivering. He had been facing off against the Southern lines for three full days here.
"Hey, newbie." A veteran named Shanahan next to him nudged him with his elbow. "Don't touch the water in that damned puddle. That stuff will give you diarrhea until you die."
Michael glanced at the murky, scum-filled water at the bottom of the trench, and his stomach churned. His canteen had been empty since yesterday. His throat felt like it was on fire.
"Then… what do we drink, Sergeant?"
"Pray." The veteran Shanahan gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Pray the rain from the sky is cleaner."
Michael fell silent. He looked at his comrades around him, whose lips were cracked and eyes were numb, just like his. He knew that on this battlefield, it was often not the enemy's bullets that killed them, but hunger and disease.
Just then, he remembered something. He clumsily untied his recently issued, new-style ration pack, wrapped in waxed paper. Next to three hard biscuits and a small packet of jerky, he found a paper sachet containing two small white tablets.
"What is this?" Shanahan leaned over curiously.
"Water purification tablets," Michael replied. "The officer who issued the rations said one tablet could make a canteen of water clean."
"Nonsense." Shanahan snorted dismissively. "I've been a soldier for two years, and I've never heard of such a good thing. This must be some new trick some damned contractor is using to fool the gentlemen in Congress."
Michael didn't argue. He unscrewed his canteen and carefully scooped half a canteen of murky rainwater from a relatively clean small puddle nearby. Then, he dropped one small white tablet into it.
The tablet quickly dissolved, emitting a string of tiny bubbles. After about a minute, the visible impurities in the canteen began to settle at an incredible speed. The cloudy liquid he poured out became clear.
The entire squad of soldiers gathered around curiously, watching the seemingly magical water in Michael's canteen.
Under everyone's skeptical gaze, Michael mustered his courage and took a big gulp.
A faint, refreshing taste, similar to lemonade, spread in his mouth. Although the water quality was not as good as the well water back home, it was completely free of that nauseating earthy and rotten taste.
"Oh God…" A heartfelt, happy expression appeared on Michael's face. "The water… it's clean!"
...In the evening, the rain stopped. But the standoff at the front line remained tense.
A small squad of Southern scouts attempted to infiltrate the Federal army's front lines under the cover of night, and a brief but intense firefight erupted between the two sides.
When the gunshots subsided, a young soldier in Michael's squad named Patrick was clutching his arm, groaning in pain. He hadn't been hit by a bullet, but his left arm had a deep, bone-exposing wound caused by a sharp, bark-covered piece of wood, propelled by a bullet.
In the humid and hot environment of Virginia, such a wound was almost a one-way ticket to the amputation table, or even death.
"Quick! Medic!" Sergeant Shanahan shouted anxiously.
Soon, a medic carrying a medical kit scurried over, crouching. He examined Patrick's wound, and his expression became very serious.
"The wound is too deep and too dirty." He shook his head. "I can only give him a simple dressing for now. When it gets light, he must be sent to the field hospital in the rear immediately. Whether he can keep this arm depends on God's will."
Just as he was about to take out a traditional bandage, Michael suddenly remembered something.
"Wait!" he shouted. "Use that! Use that new medicine from Umbrella Corporation!"
The medic paused, immediately remembering what it was, and then pulled out a small bottle of brown liquid from a cotton-padded compartment in his medical kit. On the bottle, a red and white umbrella logo was printed.
"Iodoglycerol?" The medic hesitated. "This stuff is too precious. The officer said it could only be used for the most critical gunshot wounds…"
"Now is the most critical time!" Sergeant Shanahan roared. "Are we supposed to wait until his arm rots off before it's considered critical? Use it!"
"Yes, sir!"
The medic no longer hesitated. He opened the stopper and carefully poured the viscous brown liquid onto Patrick's bloody, mangled wound.
"Ah—!"
A sharp, stinging pain, far more intense than when he was cut, made Patrick let out a piercing scream.
"Hold him down!"
Several soldiers clumsily held down Patrick's struggling body. They watched the bottle of brown medicine moisten the wound, their hearts filled with doubt and unease. They didn't know whether this substance, which looked like poison, was saving him or accelerating his suffering… Night deepened.
A hungry Michael leaned in the trench and took out his last piece of hardtack.
Since there was no hot coffee, he couldn't soak it, so he chewed it forcefully, little by little, like gnawing on a stone. A rich aroma, a mixture of grains, fat, and savory meat, began to spread in his mouth. Although the texture was poor, as the food went down, a warm, energy-filled sensation slowly flowed from his stomach to his limbs.
He looked at his injured comrade, Patrick, beside him, who had fallen into a deep sleep due to blood loss and exhaustion. His breathing was steady.
Michael picked up the waxed paper that had wrapped the biscuit. In the faint moonlight, he could make out a line of small print on it.
"Argyle & Co. Foods, New York."
"Do you know, Sergeant Shanahan?" he whispered to the veteran beside him. "My uncle works for this company. He says the owner of the company is also an Irish man."
"I really want to see," he murmured, looking at the words, "what kind of person this Mr. Argyle is."
Sloan's downfall and Vanderbilt's takeover caused a huge stir in New York.
In the following weeks, the entire financial world was immersed in the aftermath of this upheaval. The once formidable Eastern Railroad Alliance now existed in name only.
At the center of the storm, in the study of his Fifth Avenue mansion, Felix held a teacup, appearing unusually relaxed.
"Boss, this is the summary report for the week."
Edward Frost reported to him on the latest progress of various companies.
"Financially, Mr. Hayes has achieved results far exceeding expectations. According to the latest statistics, our holdings in Pennsylvania Railroad shares, under Patriot Investment Company, have reached a total of thirty-two percent. At the same time, amidst Mr. Vanderbilt's acquisition frenzy, we also successfully absorbed eight percent of New York Central Railroad's circulating shares."
Felix nodded; this result was within his expectations.
Over thirty percent of the shares already made him the undisputed largest external shareholder of Pennsylvania Railroad. While not yet enough to directly control the board, it was a significant bargaining chip that no one dared to ignore.
"As for the industrial side," Frost flipped to another page of notes.
"Militech's production line for core components has been established, and under Mr. Griffith's supervision, the yield rate is gradually improving.
Umbrella's 'Hermes One' reactor is operating stably, and the first batch of mass-produced medicine has been delivered to the military and sent to the battlefield, along with individual combat ration packs.
During this time, Mr. Jones's demolition work in Five Points has been completed, and architect Mr. Upjohn's final blueprint has been finalized; construction can officially begin next week."
Felix closed his eyes, sipping his black tea, contemplating the current progress of all companies in his mind.
Just then, the butler knocked and entered, holding a special letter.
"Sir, this is a private letter expedited through the military postal system by the War Department. The recipient is you."
Felix opened his eyes and somewhat unexpectedly took the letter. The envelope was ordinary, without any official seals, only a name he was familiar with, Edward Carter.
He opened the envelope, but inside was not a letter from Carter.
Instead, there was a somewhat worn, folded ordinary piece of stationery. Attached to the beginning of the stationery was a handwritten note from Carter:
"Felix, my friend. This letter is from a corporal named Michael O'Malley. I believe you are more qualified than us office-bound people to read it first."
Felix's gaze fell on the letter from the front lines. The handwriting was childish, and some parts were stained with mud.
"Dear Mr. Argyle:
Please forgive my presumption. My name is Michael O'Malley, and I am a corporal in the Federal Army's Army of the Potomac. My home is in Five Points, New York.
I am writing this letter to thank you on behalf of my friend, Patrick.
Last week, Patrick's arm was cut by a piece of flying wood during a skirmish. In a dreadful place like Virginia, we all know that such an injury is more terrifying than taking a bullet. But our medic used a brown medicine called 'Iodoglycerol,' produced by your company, on him.
Sir, I don't know what it is.
I only know that Patrick survived. His wound didn't rot and stink like others', but healed day by day. The doctor said it was the first miracle he had seen in his military career where someone could keep their arm from such an injury.
And your ration packs. We no longer have to drink the dirty water from the swamps. Your water purification tablets have given us clean water in our canteens for the first time. The compressed biscuits, though hard enough to kill a rabbit, are the only thing that can fill our stomachs when we can't make a fire.
My uncle also works in your food factory. He wrote to say that you are also an Irish immigrant.
Sir, I don't know who you are. But all the brothers in our squad say that you must be a truly good person who cares about the lives of us ordinary soldiers.
May God bless you.
Your loyal Corporal, Michael O'Malley"
Felix slowly put down the letter. The study was silent.
Frost stood by, seeing a complex expression on his Boss's face.
"Boss," he said softly, "This... this is incredible."
Felix, his thoughts interrupted, shook his head, "Yes, incredible. But its value is far more than simply saving a soldier's arm, Edward."
After a brief wave of homesickness, he immediately began to analyze the immense value contained within this letter.
"This letter," Felix looked at it as if it were a rare treasure just unearthed, "is a weapon that can elevate my and the company's prestige in the States, and also improve the company's business."
"Edward, go to the food company and find Jones."
"Tell him," Felix's thoughts were crystal clear, "the soldier who wrote this letter, Michael O'Malley, said his uncle works in our factory. Have Jones find this 'uncle' immediately."
"I understand, Boss."
"Then you send a telegram to Fowler, the editor-in-chief of the Chicago Daily Truth."
"Have Fowler send his best reporter to New York. Ostensibly, they are coming to interview our 'Five Points Revitalization Plan.' But when interviewing our Irish workers, I hope he can 'accidentally' interview this uncle, who is immensely proud of his nephew."
A slight curve appeared at the corner of Felix's mouth, "In the interview, this uncle proudly showed the reporter the letter his nephew sent from the front line. He will know how to write this story to be tear-jerking."
Frost quickly recorded as his Boss, in just a few minutes, transformed a letter full of simple emotions into a public opinion bomb that perfectly combined charity, industry, and patriotism.
"When this article is published," Felix continued to plan, "prepare two hundred copies of the newspaper for me. Send one hundred copies via the fastest channels to Washington, to Chairman Clark. Tell him that I hope every member of the Military Committee can 'inadvertently' see this voice from the front lines on their desks."
"Send the other hundred copies to New York, to Archbishop Hughes of St. Patrick's Cathedral. This letter from a devout Irish soldier can provide an excellent sermon topic for his next mass."
After Frost left with his orders, Felix, alone in the study, carefully reread the letter.
This time, he no longer thought about its strategic value.
He just looked at the name of the young soldier, also from Five Points, on the stationery.
He slowly pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. There were no documents, no money, only a few seemingly insignificant items: an old Irish Gaelic Athletic Association badge, a yellowed old photo.
Felix folded Michael O'Malley's letter and placed it inside.
He couldn't tell if he was still the Felix he was before the transmigration. Why was he empathizing with a letter from someone he used to consider a foreigner?
Perhaps, it was because he himself had now become a foreigner?
With a self-deprecating bitter smile, Felix could no longer tell if he was too deeply immersed in his role.
The next morning, in the production workshop of Argyle & Co. Foods.
President Jones personally came to the production line for individual ration packs.
He inspected various workstations.
Finally, in the section responsible for drying beef jerky, he found a middle-aged man working attentively.
"Sean O'Malley?" Jones asked.
The worker named Sean, hearing the President call his name personally, seemed a bit nervous and uneasy.
"Yes… yes, Mr. President."
"Your nephew, his name is Michael, right?" Jones continued to ask, "He is serving in the Army of the Potomac in Virginia."
"Yes, sir!" Sean's face immediately showed a proud expression when his nephew was mentioned, "He is a good lad, brave and filial.
He writes home every month."
"He is also a hero, Sean." Jones looked at him, his tone softening, "The Boss received a letter from your nephew yesterday.
It was a thank-you letter he specifically wrote to the Boss through military channels."
"What?" Sean's eyes widened instantly.
Jones didn't explain much, just patted the ordinary worker's shoulder.
"Keep up the good work, Sean.
Your nephew is fighting for the country on the front lines, and you, in the rear, are producing the best supplies for them.
You are equally worthy of respect."
After speaking, he turned and left, leaving Sean alone, flushed with excitement.
He couldn't wait to tell all his co-workers this "great news"...
Three days later, at the office of the Chicago Daily Truth.
Editor-in-chief Fowler had already dispatched his best reporter, Ben Cartwright, to New York.
Cartwright's official mission was to write a series of reports for the newspaper about wartime social life and industrial development in New York.
And his first interview subject was the "Five Points Revitalization Plan," initiated by the emerging tycoon Felix Argyle and full of humanitarian color.
This was a perfect excuse.
Accompanied personally by Jones, the President of the food company, Cartwright interviewed several Irish workers participating in the construction at the Five Points construction site.
Most of them were not eloquent, but when it came to this well-paying job provided by "one of their own," Mr. Argyle, their weathered faces were filled with heartfelt gratitude.
"Sir, you can also go to our factory and talk to Sean," Jones recommended to Cartwright during a break in the interview, "He is also an old employee of our factory.
His nephew is serving in the army on the front lines.
Perhaps he can offer you a different perspective."
So, in a simple lounge in the factory, reporter Cartwright met with the ordinary worker named Sean O'Malley.
At first, Sean was a bit reserved.
But when Cartwright asked about his nephew fighting on the front lines, he opened up.
"...Yes, sir.
Michael is a good boy.
He is not only brave but also very lucky.
On the front lines, they now have a magical potion and food produced by our Boss's company."
"Oh?" Cartwright subtly guided the conversation.
"Look!" Sean seemed to remember something.
He carefully took out a worn letter from the inner pocket of his old coat, a letter he had read repeatedly.
It was a family letter his nephew Michael had just sent home, detailing how Iodoglycerol and water purification tablets had saved him and his comrades.
"Sir," Sean handed over the letter, his voice trembling slightly with excitement, "Michael said in the letter that our Boss is an angel sent by God to save them.
He said he must come back alive and thank the Boss in person!"
Reporter Cartwright looked at the letter full of genuine emotion, and then at the ordinary worker in front of him, who was immensely proud of his nephew's bravery and his Boss's good deeds.
His keen journalistic instinct immediately understood.
This was also a golden story, far more moving than any political scandal or business insider information...
That night, in a hotel room in New York.
Ben Cartwright's thoughts flowed freely.
He did not write this report as a promotional piece for a new product, nor did he write it as a personal eulogy for Felix Argyle.
He focused the entire story on that ordinary Irish family.
The article's title was simple yet powerful— "A Uncle's Pride."
"...On Capitol Hill in Washington, senators are engaged in endless quarrels over railway company profits and war expenditures.
On Wall Street in New York, speculators are frantically shouting bids for rising and falling stocks."
"But at the same time," Cartwright wrote in the article, "in a factory in Brooklyn, an ordinary worker named Sean O'Malley, with a dirt-stained letter sent by his nephew from the front lines, told us a simpler and deeper truth."
"That is, in this war that determines the fate of the nation, what truly matters is not profits and stock prices, and not even grand strategies.
Rather, it is those things that allow an ordinary soldier like Corporal Michael to drink clean water, eat a full meal in the most brutal conditions, and live to see tomorrow's sun after being wounded.
This is the key to victory."
"This letter shows us the pride of an ordinary family.
It also shows us how an emerging industrial enterprise is injecting the hope of victory into this war in a whole new way..."
This article was like a powerful emotional bomb.
When it appeared before millions of ordinary people the next day, through the Chicago Daily Truth and the pages of several cooperating newspapers on the East Coast, it evoked a widespread, heartfelt resonance...
Washington, office of the Chairman of the Senate Military Committee.
Senator Clark looked at the Chicago Daily Truth that his assistant had just delivered, and a meaningful smile appeared on his face.
He picked up the newspaper and walked directly to the committee's public lounge next door.
His colleagues should be there now, drinking coffee and discussing the previous "comprehensive audit" proposal concerning Senator Hans.
He was going to bring them a "story from the front lines."
Meanwhile, in New York, at St. Patrick's Cathedral.
Archbishop John Hughes also read this article in his study.
He looked at the story of the brave Irish soldier named "Michael O'Malley" in the newspaper.
He also recalled Felix Argyle, who, though equally young, had promised to build a future for all his Irish compatriots just a few days ago.
He slowly made the sign of the cross.
Then he said to his secretary, "Prepare my sermon for Sunday Mass."
"I think the parishioners will be very willing to hear a story about a hero from our own community and a truly devout philanthropist."
A carefully orchestrated public opinion storm, meticulously planned by Felix, was quietly sown into the country's two most important centers of power: Capitol Hill and the Church.
Its fermentation and maturation were only a matter of time.