Becker Manor, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, had a sleepless night.
The fireplace in the study had long since died out, leaving only ash-white embers. Matthew Becker, an old man who had stood firm in Philadelphia's industrial scene for forty years, still wore yesterday's clothes, sitting rigidly behind his massive oak desk.
The humiliating scene at the board meeting was like a poisonous thorn, deeply embedded in his heart.
He hated Thomson and Patterson's betrayal; the feeling of being stabbed in the back by his 'business partners' of several decades was more humiliating than any commercial loss.
But at the same time, he also despised Felix Argyle, the young man from New York. In his eyes, this person represented a new order he could neither understand nor agree with. He was cold, precise, like an emotionless machine, using money and intelligence as weapons, mercilessly tearing apart the pretense and rules, however hypocritical, that had maintained the Philadelphia business community for decades.
To associate with such a person was akin to dancing with the devil. This went against all his pride and principles as an old-school Philadelphia industrialist.
"Father."
The study door was gently pushed open. His son, Young Matthew Becker, walked in, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. He looked to be in his thirties, with eyes sharper and more realistic than his father's. He was the one truly managing the century-old foundry now.
"You haven't slept all night."
Young Matthew placed the coffee on the desk, his gaze falling on the crumpled minutes of the board meeting.
"What do you think I should do?" the old man asked hoarsely.
"Accept him." Young Matthew's reply was without hesitation.
"What did you say?" Matthew Becker suddenly looked up, unable to believe his son would say such a thing. "Do you know what that means? It means betrayal! Betrayal of our class, betrayal of everything we've built here!"
"No, Father." Young Matthew's tone was calm. "That's not betrayal, that's survival."
He picked up the factory's financial statement, full of deficits, and placed it before the old man.
"Our factory won't be able to pay its workers next month. The bank loan is also due soon. If we don't accept Mr. Argyle's goodwill," he looked at his father, "Becker Foundry, the place you built with a lifetime of effort, will go bankrupt within three months."
"As for class?" Young Matthew's lips curled in a sneer. "When Thomson and Patterson tore up our twenty-year contract for their relatives' factories, did they consider our class?"
"They just treated us as a stepping stone that could be sacrificed at any time."
These words were like a knife plunged deeply into the old man's heart.
"But that Argyle…"
"I know you don't like him." Young Matthew interrupted, "Neither do I. He's a bloodthirsty shark from New York. But Father, you must admit one thing."
"This shark, he respects our craftsmanship. He is willing to pay a fair price for our products. Thomson and Patterson only want to squeeze us dry at the lowest possible price."
"Business is business."
"We should choose a partner who can allow our family to survive and thrive, instead of clinging to a ridiculous and long-gone loyalty and sinking with our factory."
Matthew Becker looked at his son, his cloudy eyes filled with complex emotions.
He knew his son was right.
Times had changed.
The old-world rules he believed in were already vulnerable in this new era of war and transformation.
After a long while, he let out a deep sigh.
"All right," he said, as if all his strength had been exhausted, "you make the decision. After all, you are the owner of this factory now."
Young Matthew Becker did not leave immediately. He walked to the desk, picked up a blank sheet of paper and a pen.
"Father," he said, "this letter still needs to be written by you. Some respect must be given."
...The next afternoon, in the office of Becker Foundry, filled with the smell of machine oil and molten iron.
A secret meeting, determining the future of Philadelphia, was underway.
"Mr. Hayes," Young Matthew Becker said straightforwardly, "we accept your proposal in principle. My lawyer will coordinate the contract details with your people."
"A wise choice, Mr. Becker," Hayes smiled.
"But," Young Matthew looked at him, "I need to know what your Boss, Mr. Argyle, ultimately wants from us? He's paying such a high price not just for a few wheel hub orders, right?"
Hayes's answer was frank, "That's right, my Boss needs an ally. An ally who can stand with him on the board of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company and voice the same opinion."
"He believes," Hayes added, "that a railroad company managed by a group of parasites who only care about their private interests serves neither the shareholders' interests nor the interests of industrialists like you, who truly depend on this railroad for survival."
"He plans to launch a proxy war at the next annual shareholders' meeting." Hayes finally laid out their cards. "He intends to completely reorganize the board, and this requires your family's support."
Young Matthew Becker fell silent. It seemed his thoughts were correct; this was the true core of the deal.
"But supporting you means making an enemy of the entire old establishment of Philadelphia," he said slowly. "This requires immense courage."
"But it means immense rewards, doesn't it?" Hayes looked at him. "Imagine, Mr. Becker. When a new, more efficient, and fairer board is established. How many new opportunities will reliable suppliers like you gain, once parasites like Patterson are removed?"
A glint appeared in Young Matthew's eyes.
"I understand, but our strength alone is not enough. We need time to unite other excluded directors who have suffered similar fates," he said. "This matter cannot be rushed."
"Of course." Hayes nodded. "The one thing my Boss is most patient with is waiting."
He stood up, preparing to leave.
"Oh, by the way," he stopped at the door, turned back, and said, "Regarding the contents of that envelope. My Boss says how you use it is entirely up to you. You can consider it a surprise we deliver to Mr. Patterson at the next board meeting."
"Or," Hayes's face showed a knowing smile, "you can choose to share its contents with Mr. Patterson in advance, in a more private setting."
Philadelphia, next to the Frankford Arsenal.
A brand new, massive complex of red-brick buildings had sprung up in just a few months, like a silent giant, overlooking the old arsenal that had been operating for nearly half a century.
This was the home of the Federal United Ammunition Company, an industrial marvel jointly brought into existence by Felix Argyle's private capital and the national power of the Federal War Department.
Today was the day the factory officially began operations.
There was no grand ribbon-cutting ceremony, nor were there lengthy speeches. Only a few black carriages bearing military insignia quietly drove into the factory grounds.
Secretary Stanton, accompanied by his most important partner, Senator Clark, came in person for the final inspection.
Behind them followed the Army General Commander Halleck, Colonel Dale, head of the Ordnance Department, and Colonel Bishop, the director of the Springfield Armory, who had remained silent since his defeat in the rifle bidding.
Felix and Mr. Miller, President of Militech, who had just attended the Pennsylvania Railroad Company board meeting, were already waiting at the factory entrance.
"Mr. Argyle," Secretary Stanton's always sharp eyes surveyed the new factory before him, "The States made many compromises for this ammunition factory. Now, I hope to see that it was all worth it."
"I believe you won't be disappointed, Mr. Secretary," Felix smiled, "Please."
He personally led this group of important figures, who held the military lifeline of the entire States, into the factory's main workshop.
When the massive iron doors were pushed open, everyone's eyes lit up at the sight before them.
A huge steam engine, located at the heart of the workshop, was emitting a low "hissing" sound like a giant beast sleeping, maintaining minimal operation. The crisscrossing drive shafts and belt systems on the ceiling were all motionless.
Hundreds of brand new machines were neatly arranged in various areas of the workshop. One to two workers, dressed in uniform blue overalls, stood by each workstation.
They were not working, but simply standing quietly by their machines, like soldiers awaiting inspection.
"Mr. Argyle," Secretary Stanton asked, somewhat puzzled, "Is this the factory?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," Felix smiled, "It is awaiting the order to begin work. Before that, please allow me to explain how it will operate."
He led the group slowly forward along the dormant production line.
"This is the casing blanking area," Felix pointed to a row of steam-powered presses. "Our workers will feed these large brass coils into the machines. Each impact will stamp out dozens of circular brass blanks."
Next, they arrived at the next area.
"Here is the casing drawing area," Felix pointed to rows of more complex machines. "Each machine is operated by a female worker from a struggling family. Their job is simple: place the brass blank into the mold, then pull down the control lever. The machine will automatically complete five continuous drawing processes, transforming a flat copper blank into a qualified casing."
Of course, what Felix didn't mention was that these struggling female workers were all Irish.
Colonel Bishop walked to a machine and observed it carefully. He found that while the machine's design was ingenious, it wasn't overly complex. Its core innovation was integrating five processes, which originally required artisans to repeatedly hammer with different molds, into a single machine. This was a revolution in concept.
"Next, primer installation and powder filling..." Felix introduced, from the precision metering devices to the long tables where final packaging and inspection were done manually.
"This factory seems enormous," Secretary Stanton asked, "How many workers does it employ?"
"Mr. Secretary," Mr. Miller replied from the side, "Currently, for this production line, we have employed a total of three hundred and twenty workers, divided into two shifts. Over half of them are female workers, and it has been proven that they are better than men at operating these machines that require patience."
At the end of the tour, they arrived at the factory's central control room.
"An impressive factory, Mr. Argyle," Secretary Stanton gave his assessment, "The contract stipulates that your side is responsible for operations. Who do you plan to put in charge?"
"Mr. Secretary, the technical core of this factory comes from Militech. Its operation will also be closely coordinated with Militech's production of core rifle components."
"Therefore," he looked at Mr. Miller beside him, "I have decided that the day-to-day management of Federal United Ammunition Company will be fully entrusted to Militech. The company's first president will be concurrently held by Mr. Miller, President of Militech."
This appointment brought a hint of satisfaction to all the military personnel present. Mr. Miller was a veteran, arguably one of "their own," and having him manage this crucial factory was far more reassuring than entrusting it to a pure businessman.
"A wise decision," Stanton nodded.
"Then," he looked at Felix, "Now, can you show us how fast this sleeping beast of yours can run?"
"Of course," Felix smiled, nodding at Mr. Miller.
Mr. Miller walked to the center of the control room, to the huge main valve of the steam engine. He took a deep breath, then abruptly pushed the heavy brass control lever all the way down.
"Boom—!"
A dull roar emanated from the heart of the factory. The massive flywheel began to accelerate, driving thousands of belts, emitting a storm-like roar.
The entire workshop awoke completely from its silence in an instant!
The workers began to move, and the presses started to churn out brass blanks at a dazzling speed.
On the conveyor belts, tens of thousands of golden casings flowed forward like glowing rivers.
The powder filling workers were orderly, and the bullet seating machines resembled tireless woodpeckers.
Everyone was mesmerized by this spectacular scene, filled with the violent aesthetics of the industrial age.
A few minutes later, at the end of the production line.
The first batch of gleaming brass, brand-new .44 caliber bullets poured out of the exit like a golden waterfall, falling into the huge collection bin below, producing a captivating, crisp clinking sound like heavy rain.
A major from the Ordnance Department unconsciously glanced at his pocket watch, then at the rapidly filling collection bin.
"My God..." His voice was distorted by extreme shock, "At... at this speed... we... the factory can produce over one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition in one day!"
This figure was the sum of the old Frankford Arsenal's monthly output.
Secretary Stanton slowly turned around upon hearing this. He looked at Felix, and a smile of approval spread across his stern face.
"Mr. Argyle," he said, "You have built a machine for the States that can win the war."
But he immediately sobered, his tone becoming grave.
"However, reports indicate that mass production of the Militech 1863 rifle will still take some time. The front line doesn't currently need this brand new ammunition."
"Of course, Mr. Secretary, I am well aware of all this. But you should know that this factory is prepared for the future."
Stanton nodded, "Exactly, so I need to be clear with you."
"The Ordnance Department has approved the first procurement order for a total of ten thousand Militech 1863 rifles, for a period of one month. They will be prioritized for the two most elite infantry regiments under General Sherman in the Western Theater, for combat testing."
He looked at the production line, still continuously spewing out brass bullets.
"So the factory's first ammunition order has also arrived, Mr. Argyle."
"I need this factory," Stanton's eyes gleamed with an unquestionable light, "to prepare a strategic reserve of at least three million rounds of ammunition for these rifles before they are delivered."
"Can you do it?"