As summer began in 1863, the clouds of war still hung over the United States, yet New York City was bustling with a peculiar, constructive enthusiasm.
In Five Points, a place once synonymous with poverty and despair, a massive construction site was rising.
Under Jones's militarized, efficient management, hundreds of Irish workers were personally building a brand-new school and orphanage for their children.
Friends from Tammany Hall ensured that all municipal permits were stamped with unprecedented speed.
Meanwhile, in MacGregor's shipyard in Brooklyn, the keel for the first new steam ferry commissioned by Tammany Hall was being laid. Umbrella Corporation, managed by Catherine, continuously sent boxes of Iodoglycerol to the front lines, powered by the ceaseless operation of the "Hermes-1" reactor.
Felix's business empire entered a period of rapid and stable development.
However, Felix did not indulge in this illusion of peace. He knew well that all the calm was merely to gather strength for the next storm.
This morning, an encrypted telegram from Connecticut was delivered to his study.
The telegram was personally sent by Mr. Miller.
"Boss:
The first batch of ten thousand rifles, and their core components, have all been produced and inspected. The United Ammunition Company's first batch of three million .44 caliber bullets has also been packaged and is ready for shipment.
— Mr. Miller"
Felix looked at the telegram, a wild smile on his face. His war machine, into which he had poured countless efforts and money, finally let out its deafening roar after a difficult breaking-in period.
"Edward." He turned to his assistant.
"Yes, Boss," Frost immediately replied.
"Notify Mr. Miller and Jones to arrange a special train immediately. I need this batch of weapons and ammunition, as well as the newly produced two hundred thousand individual ration packs, to be delivered to Washington within three days."
"Additionally," Felix added, "send a telegram to our friends in Washington, Chairman Clark and Major Carter."
"Tell them," Felix's eyes gleamed with the light of a harvest season, "my promise has been fulfilled. Please have the War Department ready to accept their goods, and… pay their bill."
… Three days later, on the outskirts of Washington, a heavily guarded railway freight station belonging to the Ordnance Department.
A special train, twenty cars long, bearing the Argyle Company emblem, slowly pulled into the platform under the watchful eyes of countless soldiers.
Mr. Miller personally led the team, jumping down from the first car. Behind him were fifty fully armed, sharp-eyed security personnel.
On the platform, Major Carter of the Quartermaster Department and Colonel Dale, the director of the Ordnance Department, were already waiting. Unlike the scrutiny and pickiness of their last meeting at the shooting range, this time, Colonel Dale's face showed admiration and a hint of reluctance.
"Mr. Miller," Colonel Dale stepped forward, extending his hand, "welcome back to Washington. I must admit, your speed is much faster than we anticipated."
"Colonel," Mr. Miller shook his hand firmly, replying, "my Boss once said that efficiency is the only language we understand."
There were no superfluous pleasantries. Under Colonel Dale's order, the freight station workers began to open the heavy iron doors of the cars.
When the door of the first car was pulled open, all the officers present instinctively gasped.
Inside the car, hundreds of sealed crates, bearing the Militech emblem, were neatly stacked with sturdy supports, all the way to the ceiling.
"Open one at random," Colonel Dale ordered.
Two soldiers used crowbars to pry open a box. Inside, twenty brand-new "Militech 1863" rifles, wrapped in thick oiled paper, lay silently in specially designed slots, their deep blue bodies gleaming with a cold metallic luster in the sunlight.
Colonel Dale personally stepped forward. He put on a pair of white gloves and randomly pulled out a rifle. He skillfully operated the lever, checking the smoothness of the action, and then, holding it to the light, examined the rifling inside the barrel.
"Perfect craftsmanship," he murmured after a long time, "exactly like the prototype rifle we saw last time."
He turned to Mr. Miller, "Are all of them to this standard?"
"Oh, of course, Colonel," Mr. Miller replied, "Every single rifle here has been personally inspected by Mr. Griffith and Silas before leaving the factory. I swear to God, their quality will only be better than the one in your hand."
The next few hours felt like a shocking parade for everyone present.
Carriages filled with rifles, carriages filled with brass bullets, and carriages filled with compressed biscuits and water purification tablet ration packs… one after another, seemingly endless.
When the goods from the last carriage were all counted and transferred to the military warehouse, a logistics officer responsible for statistics, holding a manifest, reported to Colonel Dale and Major Carter in an excited voice:
"Sirs… all goods have been counted. A total of ten thousand Vanguard 1863 Rifles, all intact… three million .44 caliber brass-cased bullets, not a single one missing. Two hundred thousand individual ration packs, packaging intact."
The entire platform fell into a dead silence.
Everyone was completely stunned by these three cold numbers. They knew this was not just a batch of goods. This was an iron torrent, capable of playing a decisive role in any battle.
Colonel Dale looked at the small mountain formed by boxes of weapons and supplies. He knew that an old era belonging to Springfield had completely passed.
And Major Carter quickly walked up to Mr. Miller.
"Mr. Miller," his voice was hoarse with excitement, "tell Felix for me. He… he has created a miracle."
"Tell him," Major Carter looked at the supplies about to be sent to the front, his eyes full of anticipation, "General Sherman's Western Army has waited too long. This resupply will be the best gift they can give to the Southerners."
Mr. Miller nodded heavily.
Just then, a messenger from the War Department galloped to the platform on horseback.
"Major Carter!" The messenger saluted, "Secretary Stanton has an urgent order!"
"Speak."
"The Secretary orders you to immediately accompany the representatives of Argyle Company to the War Department after completing the goods handover. He wants to see them immediately."
Mr. Miller and Major Carter exchanged glances, both seeing something unusual in the other's eyes… Half an hour later, in Secretary Stanton's office at the War Department.
Secretary Stanton was not sitting behind his large desk as usual. He simply stood by the window, silently looking towards Capitol Hill in the distance.
"Mr. Miller," he finally spoke, his voice tinged with weariness, "Your efficiency has impressed me. But it has also made some people on Capitol Hill… uneasy."
He turned and handed a document to Mr. Miller.
It was an internal memo, just passed by the Senate Finance Committee.
"Just this morning," Stanton slowly said, "Senator Hans, in conjunction with over a dozen congressmen from Pennsylvania and Massachusetts, once again submitted a joint inquiry to my War Department."
"They no longer questioned your Boss's profits." A cold light flashed in Stanton's eyes, "They chose a more malicious angle."
"They questioned whether concentrating the core weapons and ammunition supply of the Federal Army in the hands of a single private company, controlled by one person, would pose a potential monopolistic threat to national security."
The air in Secretary Stanton's War Department office grew heavy with his final words.
Miller could feel the gaze of all the officers present, like searchlights, focused on him.
They were scrutinizing not just him as an individual, but the formidable business entity behind him, which was rising at an alarming rate.
Miller showed no sign of panic.
Before departing, Felix had already conducted several hours of sand table exercises with him via telegram, discussing all possible political challenges.
His Boss anticipated that after Sloan and Thomson's failure, other traditional established powers would make a comeback.
"Mr. Secretary," Miller's posture was neither servile nor arrogant, and he first paid his respects to Stanton, the man he genuinely admired as the leader of the war effort, with a military salute, "I fully understand the concerns of Senator Hans and his colleagues.
Entrusting such a critical national defense lifeline to a private company indeed requires the most rigorous scrutiny."
"However," he changed his tone, his voice becoming clear and forceful, "I believe their 'concern' is based on a completely false premise.
The 'monopoly' they accuse us of has never existed from the start."
"Oh? Please continue," Stanton's eyes showed a hint of interest, signaling Miller to proceed.
"First, regarding the Pioneer 1863 Rifle," Miller's line of reasoning completely mirrored the logic Felix had prepared for him, "what we signed with the War Department has never been a simple procurement contract.
It is a 'cooperative production' agreement."
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, made it clear from the beginning that Militech's production capacity is limited, and it has no intention of becoming the Federal Government's sole rifle supplier.
Therefore, we are only responsible for producing the 'core components' with the highest technological barriers.
The vast majority of the rifle's parts and the final assembly work will be completed by Springfield Armory."
His gaze turned to Colonel Bishop, who sat in the gallery with a gloomy expression.
"Colonel Bishop and his armory are not only our most important partners," Miller continued, "they also have the right to purchase these 'core components' from us and conduct their own research and improvements based on them.
Our cooperation is open, not closed.
How can this be called a 'monopoly'?"
These words made several Ordnance Department officers present nod subconsciously.
"Secondly, regarding 'Federal United Ammunition Company,'" Miller brought out his second weapon, and the most indestructible one, "Senator Hans seems to have forgotten that in this company, the Federal Government is the controlling party, owning fifty-one percent of the shares."
"My Boss is merely a shareholder who provides technology and management," Miller's tone carried a touch of appropriate innocence, "all of the company's finances and production will be subjected to the strictest supervision by the Inspector General appointed by the War Department.
I truly cannot understand how an enterprise controlled by the government itself could pose a 'monopolistic' threat to national security."
Finally, Miller brought all his arguments back to a fundamental point that no one could refute.
"Mr. Secretary, Generals," his voice grew loud and filled with emotion, "it is 1863, and our nation is engaged in a war of life and death.
Our soldiers are bleeding and dying on the front lines."
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, is indeed a businessman.
But he is also a citizen who hopes to use his factories and technology to help this nation win the victory.
He offers the most advanced weapons of this era, the most efficient rations and medicines, and the most sincere cooperation plan."
"What we should be discussing here today are not those baseless accusations filled with partisan prejudice and commercial jealousy," Miller looked at Stanton, his eyes filled with a soldier's yearning for victory, "what we should be discussing is how to get these weapons into General Sherman's hands as quickly as possible!
It's about how to give our soldiers an overwhelming advantage in the next battle!"
"As for those so-called 'monopoly' issues," Miller concluded, "I personally believe that in the face of a soldier's life and the outcome of a battle, these... are not worth mentioning.
Once we win the war, perhaps we can take a few years to slowly discuss these peacetime topics on Capitol Hill."
The entire office fell into a long silence.
Miller's words were both firm and gentle, well-reasoned and factual.
He not only legally and factually refuted the accusations of Hans and others, but more importantly, he firmly placed the label of "disregarding the overall war situation for political self-interest" on all opponents.
After a long while, Secretary Stanton slowly rose to his feet.
He walked up to Miller, said nothing, but simply clapped him heavily on the shoulder.
Then, he turned to his adjutant.
"Go," his voice carried an undeniable decisiveness, "tell Senator Hans and his friends."
"Tell them that the War Department appreciates their 'concern' for national security."
A cold glint flashed in Stanton's eyes, "But if they are very idle, and have plenty of time to argue endlessly about already resolved issues in Washington's conference rooms, I suggest they put on military uniforms and go to the front lines in Virginia themselves.
Go ask the soldiers lying in field hospitals whether they need an endless political debate or a bottle of life-saving antiseptic."
...Half an hour later, when Miller walked out of the solemn War Department building, the Washington sun was just right.
Major Carter accompanied him.
"Well done, Miller," Carter praised sincerely, "Your words were as if Felix himself was standing there."
"No, Major," Miller shook his head, with no joy of victory on his face, only the heavy burden of an executor, "My Boss gave me the best shield, but the real war has only just begun."
He looked at the train in the distance, waiting for loading orders.
From this moment on, he and Militech, as well as the newly roaring ammunition factory, would bear the Federal Government's heaviest expectations for victory.
"Goodbye, Major," he said to Carter.
"I still need to go back and continue to supervise the expansion of production," he said softly, "The funds for this batch of firearms and ammunition need to go through the process as quickly as possible."
The political turmoil in Washington temporarily subsided with Secretary Stanton's strongly worded reply.
On the outskirts of Washington, a railway freight station belonging to the Ordnance Department was a hub of activity.
Under Major Carter's personal supervision, logistics and transfer operations were proceeding in a tense yet orderly manner. A special train, consisting of twenty boxcars, stood quietly on the main track.
The exterior of the boxcars was painted with prominent white stenciled letters: "Federal Army Ordnance Department Highest Priority."
Miller did not immediately return to Connecticut. He insisted on personally seeing the first batch of "children" produced by his factory safely sent on their journey.
"Mr. Miller."
A Captain from the Ordnance Department, responsible for this transport, looked at the huge crates being carefully hoisted into the cars and couldn't help but exclaim, "I've been in the army for ten years and have never seen such a focused initial distribution for a single new weapon model. The War Department has truly gone all out this time."
"Captain," Miller replied calmly, "because the War Department believes that this train carries something that can end this war ahead of schedule."
He watched as the workers loaded the last crate of rifles bearing the Militech emblem into the car, then neatly stacked another batch of heavy ammunition boxes marked with the "Federal United Ammunition Company" logo.
Only when the door of the last car was heavily locked did Miller finally walk up to Major Carter.
"Edward." He extended his hand to bid farewell to his old friend, "Take good care of them. My lads are all counting on reading good news about them in the newspapers."
"Don't worry, Miller." Carter shook his hand firmly, "I will personally deliver them into General Sherman's hands."
Accompanied by a long whistle, this steel behemoth, carrying countless hopes, slowly departed from Washington, heading west, beginning its long journey.
The train passed through the fields of Maryland, traversed the industrial towns of Ohio, and entered the endless plains of Indiana.
At every station along the way, military police had already cleared the tracks to ensure its smooth passage.
It passed ordinary trains filled with new recruits, their young faces, soon to go to war, curiously watching this unusual train heavily guarded by soldiers. It also passed medical trains returning from the front, flying Red Cross flags, with eyes full of pain or numbness behind their windows.
This train, like a silent messenger, drew a clear line between the peaceful lands of the rear and the bloody battlefield ahead... Five days later, Tennessee, a large frontline supply base on the outskirts of Memphis.
Here, the orderly calm of Washington was starkly absent.
The air was a mixture of horse manure, campfires, sweat, and disinfectant.
The muddy roads were crowded with mules, artillery carts, and hurried dispatch riders. In the distance, one could even faintly hear the dull roar of cannons from the direction of Vicksburg.
When Felix's special train came to a stop at its dedicated military platform, two Colonels under General Sherman were already waiting there.
"Major Carter." The leader was an infantry regiment Colonel named McPherson, his face etched with the unique marks of the Western Front, weathered by sun and wind.
"Welcome to hell. I hope what you've brought this time isn't another batch of Washington's new toys that we have to treat like treasures."
His tone carried a hint of the frontline officer's suspicion and disdain for rear-echelon bureaucracy.
"Colonel," Major Carter replied confidently, "I assure you, this time it's different."
He didn't elaborate but instead directly ordered the first car to be opened.
When the hundred crates filled with brand-new rifles were neatly stacked on the platform, all the officers and non-commissioned officers who had come to receive them gathered around.
"Open one," Colonel McPherson ordered.
The crate was pried open, revealing twenty "Militech 1863" rifles, all gleaming with a deep blue luster, lying quietly in their slots.
Colonel McPherson personally stepped forward, put on a pair of leather gloves, and pulled one out.
The first thing he felt was its weight. It was slightly heavier than the active Springfield rifle, but its balance was excellent. He skillfully pulled the lever beneath the rifle's body.
"Click, clack."
A crisp, smooth mechanical sound, like a Swiss watch, rang out. This sound alone changed the expressions of all the old soldiers present who understood weapons.
"Sir," a seasoned Master Sergeant behind him couldn't help but whisper, "This thing... it feels alive. It's easier to handle than my wife."
"My God, look here!" Another company commander discovered the loading port on the side of the receiver, his face showing an expression of disbelief, "We... we don't have to stand up and load from the muzzle with a ramrod anymore! We can lie on the ground and do all the loading!"
This discovery caused a huge stir among the officers. They had all crawled out of blood and fire, and they knew better than anyone how many more chances of survival lying down to load on the battlefield offered compared to standing.
Colonel McPherson said nothing.
He simply repeatedly pulled the lever, feeling its unparalleled smoothness and reliability. Then he handed the rifle to Carter.
"And the ammunition?"
Carter signaled to the soldiers to open another car. When the boxes of brass cartridges, stacked like gold bricks, appeared before everyone, they were once again stunned.
Colonel McPherson looked at the cartridges, then at the rifle in his hand, his tone, for the first time, became truly solemn, "Major Carter, the weapon certainly looks very good. But here, only one thing can prove its worth."
He pointed south, in the direction from which the cannon fire came.
"That is the enemy's blood."
He turned to his adjutant.
"Notify immediately." He gave the order, "First and Third Infantry Regiments, all officers of company level and above, gather at the firing range at 2 PM for familiarization and test firing training with the new weapon."
"Tell them," Colonel McPherson's eyes gleamed with a bloodthirsty light, "Tomorrow morning, we will act as the vanguard of the corps, conducting a reconnaissance in force against the Confederate defenses along the Black River."
"At that time," he looked at Carter and at the brand-new rifle, "we will know whether this monster Mr. Argyle sent is an angel or a devil."