When Carnegie's resolute figure disappeared through the office door, Frost, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"Boss, losing him will be a huge loss for the company."
"I know."
Felix turned around, his face devoid of any frustration, instead showing a strange excitement.
After all, clashing with such a historical figure was a unique experience.
Looking out the window at the city he had just pried open a crack in with capital, losing Carnegie was not insignificant to him.
That young lion was the sharpest claw in his original plan to conquer the vast lands of the West.
"A true genius will not serve anyone, Tom," Felix said slowly, his voice betraying no emotion, "He will only serve his own ambition; his departure was inevitable."
"Then what about your plan?" Edward Frost asked, "Carnegie's resignation will create a huge power vacuum in the Railroad's management. Especially the westward expansion plan he was always in charge of; all the engineers and supervisors there were promoted by him. I'm worried…"
"Worried they'll follow him or work passively?" Felix finished his sentence.
"Yes, Boss."
Felix withdrew his gaze from the window and focused on his new assistant.
"So, Edward, before returning to New York, I need you to find someone for me in this city first."
"Please instruct me."
A subtle, hard-to-read curve appeared at the corner of Felix's mouth.
"Go to the Railroad's archives, to the Human Resources Department. I want you to find the person who, in the past three years, scored second only to Carnegie in all performance evaluations."
"Find the talented person who has always lived in Carnegie's shadow—the second-place."
…The next morning, Frost arrived alone at the Pennsylvania Railroad Company's headquarters building.
He did not go to the offices of the senior executives but directly to the personnel archives room, located in the basement of the building, filled with the smell of old paper and ink.
The light here was dim, and rows of huge wooden filing cabinets, reaching the ceiling, stood like silent giants, guarding decades of the company's secrets.
An archive manager, nearly seventy, with white hair and wearing reading glasses, was slowly tidying a stack of yellowed employee cards.
He had worked here for fifty years and knew the name of every screw in this company.
"Good morning, sir."
Frost respectfully placed an authorization document personally signed by Chairman Becker on the old man's desk, "I am here on Mr. Argyle's orders, and I need to review the annual evaluation reports of Mr. Andrew Carnegie, the Western Supervisor, and all the engineers and project managers under him."
The old man squinted, carefully read the document, and confirmed the seal and signature on it.
He did not ask further, merely took a brass key from his keyring and opened a locked filing cabinet behind him.
"They're all here, young man," he said hoarsely, "Mr. Carnegie is a… very special person. His file is thicker than any of his colleagues'."
Frost thanked him and began to meticulously review the documents at a temporary table.
Carnegie's files were indeed as dazzling as the sun; every report was filled with effusive praise: efficient, decisive, visionary.
But between the lines of those reports, Frost also keenly caught another name, a name that always appeared as an "assistant" or "technical consultant."
Alexander Cassatt.
"Cassatt…" Frost softly murmured the name, then turned to the old man, "Sir, do you remember this person?"
"Oh, Alex?"
The old man looked up, a flicker of memory in his cloudy eyes, "Of course I remember him. A very quiet young man, always carrying a pile of blueprints. He's a true engineer, unlike Mr. Carnegie, who always preferred to stay in his office shouting at numbers."
"His talent is second to none," the old man added, with a hint of regret in his tone, "I remember three years ago, he was the first to propose using an air brake system to replace our old hand-cranked brakes. That would allow us to double the length of our freight trains and make them safer. But his proposal was rejected by Mr. Carnegie."
"Why?"
"Too expensive." The old man pursed his lips, "Mr. Carnegie believed that cheaper cast-iron brake shoes could achieve the same goal. He always pursued the lowest cost, even if it sacrificed some long-term benefits. Alex had an argument with him, and since then, he rarely submitted new proposals."
Frost already had the answer in his heart… Two hours later, in an office filled with blueprints and models at the Railroad's affiliated Engineering Design Institute, Felix met Alexander Cassatt.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, tall and thin, wearing an engineer's coat stained with charcoal dust.
He was bent over a large drafting table, fully absorbed in drawing the structural diagram of a railway bridge with a ruling pen.
His concentration was such that he didn't even notice someone else had entered the room behind him.
"A very stable design, Mr. Cassatt," Felix's voice broke the silence in the room, "However, the pier structure seems overly conservative. If hollow caisson technology were used, perhaps at least twenty percent of the stone could be saved, and it would be more resistant to flood impact."
Cassatt suddenly straightened up. He turned his head, his deep brown eyes filled with wariness towards the unfamiliar intruder and a hint of surprise at having his thoughts seen through.
"You are… Mr. Argyle?"
"It seems my assistant has already informed you," Felix smiled, not beating around the bush, "Tell me your true thoughts on this bridge, beyond the blueprints."
Cassatt was silent for a moment. He glanced at Felix, then at the "conservative" plan on the table, which he had revised countless times.
Finally, he pulled out another roll of blueprints from under the table.
"This is my original design," he spread the blueprints on another table, "It's lighter, stronger, and cheaper. But…"
"But Mr. Carnegie thought it was too bold. What he needed was a bridge that would allow him to prove to the board that he had saved another five percent in costs, not a bridge that could stand safely for a hundred years." Cassatt's tone was calm, but beneath the calmness, there was a hidden suppression of unfulfilled talent.
Felix looked at the innovative blueprint and then at the young man before him, whose eyes were full of a pure love for engineering.
Perhaps he had found the right person.
"Mr. Carnegie has resigned," Felix said.
Cassatt was stunned.
"So, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company now needs a new General Manager," Felix looked at him and delivered the appointment he had long prepared, "An engineer who knows how to build bridges that can stand for a hundred years, not an accountant who only knows how to save costs."
"I don't need another Carnegie," Felix's gaze met Cassatt's eyes, "I need an Alexander Cassatt. I can give you the funds and the authority to turn what's on the blueprints into reality. Are you willing?"
Cassatt looked at Felix, then at his design drawing, which had been at the bottom of a box for three years.
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he walked to the window and looked down at the steel forest below, composed of countless tracks, steam, and roaring sounds. That was the world he had loved since childhood.
Then, he turned around and extended his hand to Felix.
"Mr. Argyle," he said, "I only have one condition."
"Speak."
"All engineering decisions must be made by me. I need absolute technical authority."
Felix smiled.
"Deal." He shook Cassatt's hand firmly.
Just then, Frost knocked and entered. His face carried a hint of solemnity.
"Boss," he handed over a telegram, "An urgent telegram from New York. It's from Miss Catherine… about Tammany Hall."
Felix took the telegram, his gaze scanning the few short lines of text.
The relaxed, victorious atmosphere in the study vanished in an instant. His eyes sharpened, as if he had instantly transformed from a calculating chess player to a general about to face battle.
Cassatt, who had just accepted his appointment, also noticed the subtle change in atmosphere. He stopped his work and looked over, puzzled.
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"Nothing, just some local New York rules reminding me of their continued existence." Felix folded the telegram and put it in his pocket, his face already calm. "Mr. Cassatt, I'm afraid you'll have to work hard here in Philadelphia for a while. Mr. Baker is getting on in years, and you'll need to help him more with company affairs."
Then, as if remembering something, Felix looked at him again, "Also, while I'm away in New York, I need you to do one thing."
"Conduct a comprehensive assessment of the capabilities and loyalty of all existing department heads. I want a list clearly stating who is a useful person, who is a thorn left by Thomson, and who is a useless person who only sits in the office drinking tea."
"When I return," Felix looked at him, "I need to see a new management team list that can make this company operate efficiently again."
Cassatt nodded heavily. He knew this was the first, and most important, pledge of allegiance his new Boss had given him.
"Please rest assured, sir."
...That night, on the special train returning to New York.
Outside the carriage, the night in Pennsylvania was like an ink wash. Inside the carriage, there was only the soft light of the kerosene lamp and the rhythmic "clack" of the wheels hitting the rail joints.
Frost refilled Felix's hot tea. "Boss, Tammany Hall... has Mr. Tweed gone back on his word?"
"No, he's not that foolish." Felix leaned back in the soft seat, beginning to instruct his assistant while dissecting the complex New York chess game.
"Catherine said in the telegram that the City Council had already approved the construction contract for the 'Staten Island New Steam Ferry' and officially awarded it to Macgregor's shipyard. This shows Tweed has fulfilled his previous promise."
"So where's the problem?"
"The problem is in the execution of the contract, Edward." Felix shook his head. "You have to understand, Tammany Hall is not a one-man kingdom. Tweed is the king, but he also has many dukes and counts with real power under him. Now, one of these 'dukes' has stepped forward to cause us a little trouble."
"The Comptroller of New York City, Richard Connolly," Felix slowly spoke the name.
"He rejected our application for public dock berths for our new route, citing 'financial budget needs reassessment' and 'disputes over the planning of dock area usage.' At the same time, he also froze the payment voucher for the first municipal advance payment."
Frost's brows furrowed tightly. "Is he trying to test Tweed's reaction?"
"Absolutely correct." Felix nodded approvingly. "Connolly has always coveted Tweed's position. He saw me, he saw the over two hundred thousand Irish votes behind me, and he saw our close relationship with the church. He felt threatened."
"So he used these legal bureaucratic means to create obstacles. His purpose isn't for money, but to prove one thing to everyone within Tammany Hall: while Tweed can make promises, I, Connolly, am the one who can decide whether things get done or not. He wants to weaken Tweed's authority, and perhaps also test my strength."
"Furthermore," Felix added, "Catherine mentioned at the end of the telegram that our agreement with Tweed regarding increasing Irish employees in municipal departments was also indefinitely shelved in the audit and finance departments controlled by Connolly, on the grounds of 'staffing positions full.' He is challenging our alliance at its very foundation."
Frost finally understood.
This was a higher-level, more dangerous political game at the heart of New York's power... When Felix's carriage arrived at his Fifth Avenue mansion at midnight, the study lights were still on.
Catherine was standing in front of a large map, waiting for him. Her face showed a hint of fatigue, but her blue eyes were still clear and firm.
Seeing Felix enter, she didn't immediately report, but instead stepped forward and naturally helped him unbutton his overcoat, which had been chilled by the night wind.
"Welcome home." Her voice was very gentle.
Felix held her cool hand, "No need to keep waiting, sweetheart."
After a brief moment of tenderness, the two quickly got down to business.
"I need to know, what does Connolly care about most?" Felix asked directly.
"Votes and influence," Catherine replied. "Like Tweed, his power comes from his unshakable control within his own constituency. He controls several key German and local worker communities, and their associated unions."
"I see." Felix listened quietly, thoughtfully, his finger slowly tracing the large New York City map.
He didn't look at the areas Connolly controlled; instead, his gaze fell on Five Points, on the Gothic architecture of St. Patrick's Cathedral.
After a long time, a smile appeared on his face that surprised Catherine.
Felix looked at Frost, who had not yet left.
"Edward, first thing tomorrow morning, please deliver an invitation to Archbishop Hughes for me."
"I want to invite him to join me in Five Points to preside over a small blessing and groundbreaking ceremony for our school and orphanage, which are about to be topped off."
Then he looked at Catherine.
"My dear, send someone to deliver a message to Mr. Tweed for me. Tell him I greatly appreciate his contributions to the peace and construction of this city. And sincerely invite him, as New York City's most important leader, to attend this ceremony with the Archbishop, to jointly witness this historic moment that will bring hope to hundreds of thousands of Irish."
"As for the newspapers," Felix concluded, "notify all media outlets we cooperate with to send their best reporters. I want all New York citizens to know that the Church, the City Government, and the Argyle Charitable Foundation are working together to create a better future for this city."
Frost and Catherine immediately understood Felix's intention.
Connolly used the "hidden arrow" of bureaucracy to attack, while Felix chose to counter with an "open strategy" full of moral halo and political influence.
Felix wanted to elevate this dirty deal about docks and jobs directly into a public spectacle concerning the entire city's livelihood and future.
He wanted both Tweed and Connolly to make their choices on this stage, in front of all citizens and the media.
In the summer of New York, the sunlight dispelled the cold, but it could not dispel the bone-deep dampness and gloom of Five Points.
However, right in the heart of this land forgotten by God, a construction site spanning several acres stood out like a newly budding hope, seemingly out of place.
The ruins of demolished dangerous buildings had been cleared, replaced by leveled ground and building foundations clearly marked with white lime. Hundreds of Irish workers toiled under the sun, their faces no longer showing the numbness of the past, but rather a pride in building a future for their children.
In the center of the construction site, a temporary wooden platform covered with red cloth had been erected. Today, the groundbreaking blessing ceremony for the "Argyle School and Orphanage" would be held here.
Felix did not choose to announce his good deed in a luxurious hotel. He chose to set the stage directly on this land that most needed hope.
At 9:30 AM, Jones hurried to Felix, who was checking the procedures. He was also wearing a crisp suit today.
"Boss," he reported in a low voice, "the surrounding blocks are packed with residents who came to watch the excitement. They can hardly believe their eyes. Flynn's men have already mingled in the crowd to ensure there will be no trouble."
"Well done."
Felix nodded. He glanced at Cartwright, The Daily Truth reporter, who was pretending to wipe his camera lens nearby.
"Make sure Mr. Cartwright has the best position to ask questions. He knows when to ask what questions."
Frost, standing nearby, solemnly took this seemingly casual instruction to heart. He increasingly felt that every move of his Boss was like a precise game of chess, silently placing pieces, yet already setting up an inescapable net.
"Remember today, Edward," Felix said, looking at the curious and timid gazes peering from behind the dirty windows in the distance, "we are not laying bricks; we are setting a trap."
At exactly 10 o'clock, the ceremony officially began.
The first to arrive was Archbishop John Hughes of St. Patrick's Cathedral.
When his simple black carriage stopped at the entrance of the construction site, all the surrounding Irish residents who were watching spontaneously fell silent. The men took off their hats, and the women made the sign of the cross.
The arrival of the Archbishop bestowed a sacred aura upon the ceremony.
Immediately after, the carriage of New York City Mayor George Opdyke also arrived. His appearance represented the official endorsement of City Hall.
Finally, amidst a low murmur of discussion, the leader of Tammany Hall, William Tweed, accompanied by a group of city councilors and ward bosses, walked to the scene with a beaming face.
He showed no trace of a politician's airs, shaking hands warmly with Archbishop Hughes, patting the Mayor's shoulder affectionately, and even walking to the edge of the construction site to chat with a few mud-stained workers. He was like a natural actor, perfectly playing the role of "friend of the people."
But his eyes, always with a smile, subtly swept across the entire scene, taking in the almost fanatical public support Felix commanded here.
The ceremony was simple, yet grand.
Archbishop Hughes first delivered a blessing. His voice, though old, was remarkably clear.
"...Today, what we sow here are not bricks and timber." He looked at the devout believers below, "What we sow is knowledge, shelter, a future where every child in this community can see the light, a future bestowed by God!" He placed his hand on the cornerstone and publicly praised Felix Argyle' "Christian generosity and good deeds."
Next, the Mayor's speech was full of official rhetoric, praising it as "a perfect example of the combination of private philanthropy and municipal development."
Finally, Felix walked onto the platform. His speech was short, even somewhat plain.
"Thank you all." He bowed deeply to the audience, "I stand here not as a businessman and Boss, but as an Irish man who also grew up in this land. Everything I do is simply to ensure that every child here can have a better starting point than we did back then."
Felix did not talk about how much money he donated, nor did he describe a grand blueprint. He just looked into the eyes of the children below and sincerely said, "I hope that in twenty years, those who walk out of this school will be doctors, engineers, pillars who can build this city, and no longer merely laborers on the docks."
The applause was thunderous.
During the Q&A session after the ceremony, the long-awaited moment finally arrived.
Ben Cartwright, a reporter from The Daily Truth, raised his hand first after receiving a nod from Frost.
"Mr. Mayor! Mr. Tweed!"
"This is a truly inspiring moment! We see the Church, outstanding entrepreneurs, and our respected city government leaders all working together for the future of this community."
He first praised them, then changed his tone and threw out the crucial question, "But we noticed that Mr. Richard Connolly, the Comptroller responsible for all city financial approvals, is not present today. Considering that any municipal project, including the new ferry project that we all eagerly anticipate, cannot proceed without the support of the department he leads, does his absence mean that there are some... differing voices within the city government regarding these projects that benefit the public?"
This question instantly disrupted the harmonious atmosphere at the scene.
All the reporters, like sharks smelling blood, frantically pointed their pens at Tweed. All eyes focused on the leader of Tammany Hall.
The smile on Tweed's face froze for a moment.
He glanced at the young man nearby, who was calmly looking at him, and cursed "little fox" under his breath.
He knew he had been outmaneuvered.
But he could not defend Connolly, as that would be openly opposing the Church, public opinion, and "progress" in this morally charged event. Nor could he reprimand Connolly, as that would expose the internal divisions within Tammany Hall.
But he was William Tweed after all.
He let out a hearty laugh, and that laughter dispelled all the awkwardness.
"Ha, a very sharp question, young man!" He patted Cartwright's shoulder kindly, his demeanor as relaxed as if answering an irrelevant casual chat.
"Mr. Connolly is the most diligent among us in Tammany! I guess he must still be buried in the mountain of ledgers at City Hall, ensuring that every penny of taxpayers' money is spent wisely. Sometimes, I even think he's busier than our Mayor!"
These words drew a wave of good-natured laughter.
"But," Tweed's tone shifted, becoming solemn. He looked around, making sure his voice clearly reached every reporter's ear, "I need to make a solemn promise here, in front of the Archbishop and all citizens."
"Whether it's this project of hope in Five Points or the new ferry route that will provide convenience to hundreds of thousands of citizens, both have my full support, and the full support of the entire Tammany Hall!"
"Any so-called bureaucratic obstacles that hinder the progress of these projects," his gaze inadvertently swept in the direction of City Hall, "will be regarded as obstacles to the progress of New York City. I will personally ensure that these obstacles are thoroughly removed in the shortest possible time. New York cannot wait!"
The night in New York could conceal sins and brew conspiracies.
In a private room at Delmonico's Restaurant, a room not open to the public and perennially filled with the smell of cigars and roast beef, Tammany Hall's core power brokers were having a belated dinner.
There was no clamor in the room; the atmosphere was as oppressive as the sea before a storm.
Around the massive round table, the leader of Tammany Hall, William Tweed, was meticulously cutting the bloody, rare steak in front of him with a silver knife.
His movements were steady, and his face even wore his characteristic genial smile.
But New York City's Comptroller, Richard Connolly, sitting opposite him, felt no warmth whatsoever. The food in front of him remained untouched, and the wine glass in his hand trembled slightly.
Everything that had happened at the groundbreaking ceremony in Five Points today weighed heavily on his heart like a massive stone.
"Richard, my friend."
Tweed finally spoke; he wiped his mouth with a napkin, his voice still loud and amiable.
"Today was a good day, wasn't it? The Church, the Mayor, and us, Tammany, along with Mr. Argyle, did a great thing for this city. The newspapers will surely praise us to the skies tomorrow."
He looked around at the other district party whips and city council members present.
"Our Irish friends are very happy. I heard that all the beer at the Shamrock Tavern sold out this afternoon. What does that mean? Gentlemen, it means votes."
The atmosphere in the room eased slightly because of his words. A party whip responsible for the Dock District laughed and chimed in, "That's right, Boss. Mr. Argyle has brought us a great gift."
"Yes, a great gift."
Tweed nodded, and then his gaze slowly fell on Connolly. The eyes that always held a smile now seemed to be covered with a thin layer of ice.
"It's just a pity, Richard," his tone was still gentle, but every word was like a hammer, "that you seem to have missed this grand event because you were too busy with work. That's truly regrettable."
Connolly put down his wine glass, knowing the moment of judgment had arrived.
"Mr. Tweed," he tried to keep his voice steady, "as Comptroller, my duty is to be responsible for every penny of the taxpayers' money. There were some questionable points in the ferry contract budget, and I was merely fulfilling my duties."
"Duties?"
Tweed let out a low chuckle; he put down his knife and fork and leaned slightly forward. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Your duty is to serve Tammany! To serve the voters who elected us into City Hall! Richard, have you forgotten?"
His voice suddenly rose, and the smile had vanished without a trace from his fleshy face.
"When Archbishop Hughes and I promised two hundred thousand Irish voters that we would support their leader and bring jobs and hope to their community, your 'duty' was to find every possible way to fulfill that promise! Not to tell me that this couldn't be done with your damned, moldy regulations from your office!"
"You made me lose face in front of the Archbishop, and made me look like an incompetent fool in front of Argyle!"
Tweed slammed his hand on the table, making the silver cutlery jump. "You almost ruined the most important political alliance Tammany Hall has made in ten years! Is this what you call 'duty'?!"
Connolly's face was ashen.
"I... I just felt that Argyle's influence was expanding too quickly. We couldn't let him..."
"We?" Tweed interrupted him, his eyes full of disdain. "No, no, no, it's you, Richard, just you alone. You were afraid he would take away your pathetic influence, so you used the most foolish method to try and trip a charging bull."
He leaned back in his chair, his voice returning to that icy calm.
"You made the entire association pay the price for your personal stupidity."
The room was dead silent.
Everyone lowered their heads, not daring to look at Connolly's bloodless face.
"Alright," Tweed's tone softened again, as if the previous thunderous rage had never happened, "the matter is over. Mr. Argyle is a decent man; I imagine he won't pursue it too much."
He looked at Connolly as if he were looking at a misbehaving child.
"But we need to show our new friend our sincerity."
He issued an unmistakable command.
"The appropriation vouchers for that ferry contract, and the usage permits for the dock. I want to see them on my desk, signed by you, before nine tomorrow morning. Not a single letter can be wrong."
"And," he added, "those recruitment slots for city sanitation workers and park caretakers that your department 'shelved' previously. Within a week, I want to see at least fifty Irish names appear on the hiring list."
"As for that construction site in Five Points," he concluded, "I hear that due to issues with sewer connections, the engineering department needs to collect a special permit fee of five thousand dollars? Hmm?"
"...Yes... yes," Connolly replied with difficulty.
"Waive it," Tweed's answer was simple and direct. "This fee will be directly exempted by City Hall as a donation to the Argyle Charitable Foundation. You personally handle it."
Connolly slowly nodded. He knew he had lost completely... After Connolly left, like a puppet drained of its soul, the atmosphere in the room finally livened up again.
"Boss, you were too merciful to him," a party whip whispered.
"Merciful?"
Tweed shook his head; he picked up his knife and fork again, slowly cutting the now cold steak. "No, I merely tightened the collar around his neck another notch. A tamed opponent is far more useful than a corpse. To still want to contend with me, that's utterly foolish."
He put a piece of beef in his mouth, chewing it carefully.
"The real trouble is that Argyle," he said slowly, "He's not a friend, gentlemen. He's a young tiger we've just unleashed into the garden of New York."
Tweed looked at everyone, his eyes gleaming with a complex mix of apprehension and admiration.
"Today, he didn't come directly to complain to me, nor did he send his thugs to act. Instead, he invited the Archbishop, brought in the media, and built a glittering stage. Then, politely handed me a knife and forced me to personally deal with my own dog in front of everyone."
"He understands the rules here, even better than some of us understand how to use them."
"Such a man," he concluded, "we cannot be his enemy for now."
He raised his wine glass, looking out at the city nightscape illuminated by countless gas lamps.
"We'll feed him first."
Tweed's voice echoed through the smoke, "Let him swell with pride, and then he'll naturally go and bite at those old guys like Vanderbilt whom we can't afford to provoke. Let him grow stronger, and also more dependent on our jungle."
"All we have to do is watch."
A cold arc formed on his lips, "Because even the strongest tiger will eventually doze off."
New York's mornings always awoke to the whistle of steam trains and the crisp jingle of milk carts.
As the first ray of sunlight, streaming through the immense French windows of his Fifth Avenue mansion's study, fell upon the Persian rug, Felix had already finished his morning reading.
Frost placed a freshly brewed cup of Blue Mountain coffee and a steaming copy of The New York Times before him. Unlike before, the front page of the newspaper was no longer about the scandals of railroad magnates, but a piece of municipal news full of positive energy.
"'Cornerstone of Hope' — Archbishop Hughes and Mr. Tweed jointly attended the groundbreaking ceremony for the Five Points Charity School, highly praising Mr. Argyle's benevolent act."
Frost softly read the headline, a hint of a smile in his tone, "Boss, it seems Mr. Tweed acts very quickly. Not only did he deal with Connolly, but he also tightly bound himself to your charitable endeavors in the media."
"He is a clever politician."
Felix flipped through the newspaper, showing no surprise, "He knows how to turn a crisis into an opportunity to promote his political image. However, this is also good for us. With his public endorsement, Jones's project in Five Points will no longer encounter any trouble from City Hall."
Felix put down the newspaper; that meticulously planned political show was already old news to him.
"How are things at Macgregor's shipyard?" he asked.
"Everything is going smoothly." Frost immediately opened his work notebook, "After Tammany Hall resolved the 'coordination issues' with the dockworkers' union, the city government's allocation has been fully received. Mr. Macgregor assured me that the first new steam ferry will be launched within two months. He also submitted a budget application for expanding the dry dock and purchasing new steam riveting machines, hoping we can approve it."
"Approve it." Felix's answer was without hesitation, "Have Bank President Templeton approve a low-interest loan of two hundred thousand dollars for him from Argyle Bank's 'Industrial Development Fund'. Tell Macgregor that not only do I want him to build the best ferries for New York City, but I also want him to be prepared to design a larger capacity, faster cargo ship for our new fleet on the Great Lakes."
"Yes, Boss."
"Also, regarding Umbrella," Frost continued, "Miss Catherine submitted her report yesterday afternoon. The operating data for Hermes One is very stable, and our drug production costs have been effectively controlled. She is confident that the military's next order can be completed half a month ahead of schedule without increasing manpower."
"Let her do it." Felix said, "Additionally, notify Dr. Thorne and Mr. Baker at the Central Laboratory. Tell them that I have found a brand new application scenario for their Project Hermes."
Frost's pen quickly recorded on the paper, and he looked up curiously.
"A food factory."
"I need them to design a small automated 'continuous flow heating and sterilization' system. We need to try to free our canning production line from those bulky, manually controlled large pots. This is also a technological upgrade, an upgrade that can double our food production efficiency again."
Just as Felix was methodically tightening the new gears for every cog in his vast industrial empire, the butler knocked and entered.
"Sir," he respectfully reported, "Bank President Templeton has come to visit; he is waiting for you in the reception room."
"Perfect timing." Felix stood up and straightened his morning coat, "It seems the seeds we planted in Philadelphia should be sprouting now."
...In the reception room, Argyle Bank Bank President George Templeton was leisurely sipping red tea. The old banker, who had returned to Wall Street, had a composed look of someone in control.
"Good morning, Boss." Seeing Felix enter, he stood up.
"Sit down, George." Felix sat on the sofa opposite him, "It seems you've brought me good news."
"Yes, Boss." Templeton's face broke into a smile that only a banker would understand, "Over in Philadelphia, our new Chairman Baker has done an excellent job."
He took a document from his briefcase.
"Just yesterday afternoon," he reported, "under the joint push of Mr. Hayes and Chairman Baker, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company's board of directors passed three important resolutions with an overwhelming majority of votes."
"First, Patterson and his two other core allies were formally dismissed from all their director and management positions. Their positions will be officially filled by Mr. Reeves, Mr. Hayes, and the person I selected, who were nominated."
"Second," he continued, "the board of directors officially approved the five hundred thousand dollar debt-to-equity investment plan provided by Patriot Investment Company. This money will be immediately invested into the project to restart the western lines. Mr. Cassatt's engineering team can officially depart next week."
"Finally, the board of directors also formally authorized the legal department of our Argyle Bank to pursue the most comprehensive legal accountability for all actions suspected of 'related-party transactions' and 'damaging shareholder interests' during Patterson and others' tenure. I believe that in the next six months, they will be busy fighting our lawyers and will have no time to cause us any more trouble."
Felix listened quietly; he was very satisfied with this outcome. The Baker father and son, and Hayes, not only won him control of the board but also, in the most legal and thorough way, cut off all possibilities for the old guard to retaliate.
"Excellent work, George." Felix genuinely praised.
"This is just the first step, Boss." Templeton, however, shook his head, "Controlling the board only gives us the 'steering wheel' of this company. But to make this heavy carriage move according to your wishes, all its old parts need to be replaced."
"My people found something during the preliminary financial review of the company." Templeton's tone became serious.
"Thomson and his cronies, over the past few decades, have turned this company into a deeply entrenched network of interests. From the supply of sleepers to the maintenance of carriages, and even a cup of coffee in the station restaurant, every link has been controlled by their respective cronies and connections. This is a vast and corrupt system, silently devouring the company's profits."
Templeton looked at Felix and stated the true purpose of his visit today, "So I suggest that we must immediately dispatch our own, absolutely reliable management team to Philadelphia to replace the managers entrenched in various key departments. We need to rebuild the order of this company with our own hands."
Felix's gaze deepened; Templeton was right. Although the old guard had been defeated, the truly difficult part was the internal establishment of corporate culture and organizational structure.
He looked out at the vibrant landscape outside the window and slowly said, "Don't worry, George, I've already made arrangements."
At 7:30 AM, George Templeton's carriage arrived precisely in front of the five-story granite building on Wall Street, which had become a new landmark.
He disliked tardiness, a steadfast rule throughout his half-century banking career.
As the first Bank President of Argyle Empire Bank, he arrived an hour earlier than most employees every day.
This was not at the Boss's request, but his own habit.
Before the city fully awakened, he needed to quietly review the deposit and loan statements delivered overnight from various branches, all by himself.
In his office, the air was filled with his accustomed scent, a blend of Brazilian coffee beans and old paper.
There were no luxurious oil paintings here, only a few precisely drawn financial maps of New York State and railway distribution maps.
Everything was as rigorous and orderly as his own character.
"Good morning, sir."
Finch gently placed a summary report on his desk.
Templeton nodded, putting on his gold-rimmed glasses.
The first thing he always looked at was the bank's overnight cash reserves and gold holdings.
This was his sole criterion for judging a bank's health.
"The vault reserves have increased by another five percent compared to last week," Finch reported.
"Our two newly opened branches in Brooklyn and the Dock District have seen deposit growth exceed our expectations.
Local factory owners and shipping merchants seem quite willing to deposit their money in a bank associated with Mr. Argyle's name."
"As expected," Templeton's tone was flat, "They are not depositing money, but confidence.
They believe that as long as Mr. Argyle's factories are still operating, their deposits are safe."
He turned to the next page of the report, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Patriot Investment continued to have frequent fund movements last week.
What exactly is Mr. Hayes doing?"
"Mainly some... long-term value investments targeting the railway sector," Finch's wording was cautious.
"Additionally, as per the Boss's instructions, a new 'Media Investment Special Fund' has been established.
The first installment of two hundred thousand dollars was transferred yesterday."
Templeton said nothing, simply tapping his fingers lightly on the desk.
This was the Boss's plan, and he had no right to interfere.
But deep down, he remained deeply wary of Mr. Hayes's 'value investments,' which were full of speculative color.
In his view, a bank's duty was to safeguard wealth, not to create miracles.
He was like an experienced captain, while Hayes was like the crazy first mate on the ship, always wanting to chase storms.
Fortunately, the ultimate helmsman of this ship, the incredibly young Boss, seemed to know how to find a dangerous yet brilliant balance between the two.
At nine o'clock in the morning, the weekly meeting of the Loan Approval Committee began on time.
This was the most important power institution within the Argyle Bank, personally established by Templeton.
"Next document," Templeton's voice was devoid of emotion.
Chief Loan Officer Finch placed an application document on the desk.
"Applicant: Hudson River Lumber Company.
They require a loan of ten thousand dollars to purchase two new steam-powered cutting saws to fulfill a long-term contract to supply railway ties to the Pennsylvania Railroad Company."
A young credit analyst added, "We have verified that this railway tie supply contract is genuine, signed personally by Chairman Becker.
The expansion of the Pennsylvania Railroad means that the demand for railway ties will be enormous over the next three years."
"What about collateral?" Templeton asked, "And what kind of person is the owner of that company?"
"The collateral is their logging camp and existing equipment, valued at approximately eighteen thousand dollars, which is sufficient to cover the risk."
"As for the owner himself, our investigators spent two days interviewing people in their community.
Neighbors say he is a devout Christian and never delays workers' wages.
We also anonymously questioned his suppliers, and everyone said he is a man of his word.
The only issue is that three years ago, due to over-rapid expansion, he had a brief overdue record with another bank."
"An honest but somewhat aggressive person in business," Templeton assessed, pondering for a moment.
"I approve this loan," he decided, "However, supplementary clauses must be added to the loan agreement.
First, this money will be paid directly by our bank to the equipment manufacturer, ensuring it is used for its designated purpose.
Second, Hudson River Lumber Company must authorize our bank as the sole settlement bank for all its accounts with the Pennsylvania Railroad Company.
We must ensure that every payment they receive is prioritized for repaying our interest."
This was a typical Templeton-style decision: supporting industry, but locking risk firmly in a cage with the most stringent terms.
Just as the meeting was about to conclude, Mr. Frost walked in.
He handed a document to Templeton.
"President Templeton, the Boss's instructions.
He hopes the bank can immediately begin processing the full acquisition of The Boston Herald's printing plant business by the 'Media Investment Special Fund.'"
Templeton's brow furrowed again.
"Mr. Frost," he said to the young Chairman's Assistant, his tone serious, "At the quarterly meeting, I understood and agreed with the Boss's grand plan to establish a media network.
My confusion is not about the strategy itself, but about the method of execution."
He turned to the other committee members, as if conducting a live lesson.
"Gentlemen, you must understand.
We are a savings bank, and every penny of ours comes from the trust of our depositors.
For the bank itself to directly acquire a printing plant in another state, completely unrelated to banking business, poses legal risks and violates our commitment to prudent operation.
Mr. Hayes's fund is independent; this transaction should be completed by them."
Frost immediately explained, "Mr. Bank President, you've misunderstood.
The Boss's intention is not for the bank to directly acquire it.
Rather, he hopes you can utilize Argyle Bank's partners and legal resources in Boston to provide the most professional legal structure and the safest capital channel support for Mr. Hayes's acquisition.
Ensuring the entire transaction process appears to be a purely local commercial act, completely unrelated to our Argyle system."
Templeton's serious expression finally softened.
He understood; the Boss needed not his money, but his experience and channels.
"I understand."
He nodded, "I will personally communicate with our legal counsel in Boston.
Please inform the Boss that he will receive the 'cleanest' acquisition plan."
...That afternoon, Templeton's old friend, Henry, the Vice Bank President of New York Commercial Bank, came to visit.
Henry looked at the well-organized office, his tone filled with envy and a hint of curiosity, "George, I can hardly believe that you actually rebuilt this bank from the ruins of Knickerbocker.
And, everyone outside says that your bank is now the most stable on all of Wall Street."
"We are just doing what needs to be done, Henry," Templeton poured his old friend a glass of sherry.
"But your Boss is always doing things that are... not so traditional."
Henry lowered his voice, "I heard he ousted Thomson in Philadelphia, then shared the market with Armour in Chicago, and now he's befriended Secretary Stanton in Washington.
George, honestly, working for such a man, can you sleep at night?"
Templeton looked out the window at Wall Street, the place he had fought for half his life.
"I can't sleep."
He replied slowly, a complex smile on his face.
"But it's not because of fear, Henry."
"It's because of excitement." He raised his glass, looking at the golden liquid within, "I feel like I'm not running a bank.
Instead, I'm managing its treasury for an impending new era."
It was a summer night in New York, with heat rising from the cobblestones, mixed with the smell of horse manure and coal ash.
But in Five Points, on Horse Street, the Shamrock Tavern was a world apart.
The air was filled with the aroma of malt, the spicy scent of pipe tobacco, and a clamor named 'hope.'
The tavern owner, Paddy O'Malley, leaned behind his smoothly polished oak bar, slowly wiping a heavy beer mug with a clean linen cloth.
He had run this place for forty years, seen countless drunks, brawls, and despair.
But in the past two months, what he saw through his cloudy, world-weary eyes was a little different.
"Another one, Uncle Paddy!"
Sean, a young man who had just finished work at the construction site, slapped a brand new twenty-five-cent coin on the bar, his face covered in sweat, but even more so, a heartfelt smile.
"To Mr. Argyle! The wall I laid today is even higher than the one I built last week!"
"Drink sparingly, lad."
Paddy took the coin and filled him a glass of stout, grumbling but with a smile, "The wages Jones gives you are for you to take home and buy bread for your wife and children, not for you to turn it all into drink here."
"Ha, just this one!"
Sean laughed, raising his glass and clinking it with his fellow workers around him, "We have strength and hope now. My son will be able to attend the newly built school next month! God, he'll be able to read and write letters! He won't have to be illiterate his whole life like me."
A wave of good-natured laughter and agreement filled the tavern.
Paddy watched this scene, silently wiping glasses. This was not just a beer; it was dignity.
It was the dignity of being able to earn a future for the next generation with one's own hands.
And the one who gave them all of this was that young man, who also had Irish blood, but had already ascended to the clouds.
In the corner, a white-haired old man puffed on his pipe and whispered to his companion, "I still feel like I'm dreaming. Two months ago, Kane Pugh and his bastards dared to kick over my fruit stand in the street. Now?" He gestured towards the window.
"Look again, you can't even find a single 'Local Boys' who dares to speak loudly on the street."
"They all disappeared," his companion lowered his voice, with a hint of lingering fear and satisfaction in his eyes, "Did you hear? That very night. Some people said they heard screams from the warehouse all night long. The next day, Pugh and his core group of people seemed to have vanished from this world."
"Everyone knows it might be related to him."
The old man said with certainty, his tone devoid of fear, only a reverence bordering on worship, "He's not like those politicians who only make promises. He uses the most direct methods to remove all obstacles, whether in plain sight or in the shadows."
Paddy listened to these discussions. He knew that the name Felix Argyle, in this community, no longer just represented wealth and charity. It also represented something more primitive and reliable—order.
A new order established by the Irish themselves, to protect their own people.
Just then, the creaking wooden door of the tavern was pushed open.
A man in a respectable suit, with a professional smile on his face, walked in. Paddy recognized him at a glance: Flanagan, the Tammany Hall whip for this district. A "friend" who used to only appear here before elections.
"Oh, Paddy, my dear friend."
Flanagan enthusiastically opened his arms and gave Paddy a hug, "Your tavern looks more vibrant than ever, and that's wonderful!"
"Thanks to God and Mr. Argyle," Paddy replied indifferently. He pulled away and returned behind the bar, maintaining a safe distance.
"Of course, of course! Mr. Argyle is the pride of all us Irish!" Flanagan agreed, then lowered his voice, "In fact, I'm here today to talk about our remarkable countryman."
He looked around to make sure no outsiders could hear.
"Mr. Tweed greatly admires Mr. Argyle's vision and courage. He believes that City Hall must provide more support for a great revitalization project like Five Points. So..."
He finally revealed his true intentions, "In the next City Council election, Tammany Hall plans to nominate a candidate who can truly represent the voice of our community. One of our own who can work closely with Mr. Argyle and the church to secure more benefits for us."
Paddy listened in silence.
He knew that these politicians had a keener sense of smell than hunting dogs. Mr. Argyle had just sown the seeds here, and they were already eager to share the future fruits.
"The people will choose who they believe in with their votes, Mr. Flanagan," Paddy's answer was watertight, "just as they will choose which tavern to drink at with their own money."
"Exactly right!"
Flanagan seemed not to have noticed the aloofness in his words. He slapped the bar forcefully, "So I believe that when election day comes, our wise Irish countrymen will definitely make the most correct choice!"
After seeing off the smiling politician, the clamor in the tavern seemed to gradually subside.
It was late, and the guests gradually left.
Paddy was alone, tidying up the glasses and dishes behind the bar. He walked to the window and looked at the distant construction site, which was already taking shape under the moonlight. A few lights were still on there, where Jones and his engineers were checking blueprints all night.
His thoughts drifted back to a month ago. When Jones, the young man who used to do odd jobs for him, now a wealthy company president, sat before him and asked for his help in acquiring land, his heart was filled with doubt.
Now, the doubt had long vanished.
He saw the walls of a school rising day by day, and he saw smiles returning to the faces of the young people in the community.
He saw the bullies who once oppressed them disappear overnight, and even the arrogant politicians of Tammany Hall began to listen to their voices with an unprecedented level of respect.
All of this stemmed from that young man he had never met.
Paddy knew that Felix Argyle was not a simple philanthropist. Everything he did was weaving a vast and complex web of interests and power for himself. Five Points was just an inconspicuous, yet crucial, node in this web.
But he didn't care.
Because in this game, they, the Irish forgotten at the bottom of the city, for the first time, were no longer lambs to be slaughtered.
They received tangible benefits—jobs, security, and a future where their children would not repeat their tragic fate.
"May God bless him..."
Paddy O'Malley looked at the lights. The old man, who had watched over this place for forty years, picked up an unsold glass of stout and, through the window, raised it towards the construction site.
"And bless all of us he has chosen."
Whitneyville, Connecticut.
Compared to the rapid commercial expansion of the New York headquarters, the pace here seemed much slower and heavier.
In a private workshop at Militech, designated as top secret by Miller, there was no production clamor in the air, only the occasional clang of metal parts, the low murmur of engineers debating, and the smell of burnt oil.
This was the location of the "Militech machine gun" project.
"Another failure."
Rhys Griffiths, the metallurgical genius invited by Felix from Sheffield, used a pair of iron tongs to pick up a breechblock component that had just fractured during an extreme test, from a pile of twisted and deformed gears and connecting rods.
The arrogance that usually filled his hazel eyes was gone, replaced by the frustration of facing a stubborn opponent.
"This is the third prototype, Frank."
He tossed the scrapped, valuable alloy steel part onto the workbench with a harsh clatter.
"Your assembly line theory doesn't work here! This isn't assembling cans! When the rate of fire exceeds three hundred rounds per minute, the impact and heat absorbed by the entire breechblock are simply beyond what our existing mechanical structures can withstand!"
Production supervisor Frank Cole's face was also etched with fatigue, his eyes clearly bloodshot.
"I know, Rhys. But the problem is, we've followed the Boss's blueprints and broken down the actions of feeding, firing, and ejecting. Each subsystem tested independently without issues."
Chief artisan Silas Blackwood, a veteran who had worked here for forty years, added hoarsely, "But once they're put together, it's like a group of drunkards fighting each other. The feeding connecting rod always collides with the breechblock that just finished firing. We've tried three different camshaft designs, but none can perfectly coordinate the split-second time difference between them. Even referencing the Gatling machine gun doesn't work."
Silence fell in the workshop.
They had successfully established an assembly line for the "Militech 1863" rifle.
But in front of this era-defining monster of a machine gun, they seemed to have hit an invisible wall.
It was more precise and more violent than the Gatling machine gun, surpassing all their current engineering knowledge.
Felix also knew that research and development was not easy, so he did not rush them too much.
He simply had Frost send a gently worded telegram each week, asking if more funds or personnel were needed.
This trust, which demanded only results and not the process, put even greater pressure on Frank.
"Perhaps… I mean, is there a problem with the Boss's design itself?" The young engineer James quietly suggested a possibility that everyone had thought of but dared not voice.
"Impossible, absolutely impossible!"
Frank immediately denied it, "The Boss's design is theoretically perfect. The problem isn't with the blueprints, but with us. It's that we haven't found the correct method to transform this perfect theory into reliable steel."
He walked to the large drafting table, which was covered with a diagram of the machine gun's core structure that they had modified countless times with charcoal pencils of various colors.
"Feeding… firing… ejecting…"
Frank's finger traced over the critical nodes again and again, muttering to himself, "All the actions explode at one point. Everything is completed in one cycle. It's too fast, too violent…"
His finger unconsciously drew circles around the outlines of the six circularly arranged barrels.
Suddenly, his movements stopped.
An idea, like a bolt of lightning, unexpectedly cleaved through all the fog in his mind.
"Six barrels…" he whispered, "That's right… why do we try to cram all the actions into one cycle?"
Frank abruptly looked up, his usually steady eyes now blazing with an almost frantic light.
"Gentlemen," his voice trembled with excitement, "We were all wrong, wrong from the very beginning!"
He picked up a red charcoal pencil and quickly began drawing on the blueprint.
"We shouldn't make the breechblock do everything; we should make 'rotation' do everything!"
He pointed to the circular arrangement of the six barrels.
"Look! When the first barrel rotates to the twelve o'clock position at the very top, the feeding system pushes a bullet into the chamber."
"When it rotates to the two o'clock position, the locking cam locks the breechblock."
"When it rotates to the four o'clock position, the hammer falls, completing the firing!"
"The six o'clock and eight o'clock positions are for brief cooling and unlocking processes."
"And when it rotates to the ten o'clock position," he drew the final line, "the ejection system will eject the casing!"
"Six barrels, six independent workstations!" Frank looked at the dumbfounded Griffith and Silas, "We've broken down an impossible, complex task into six simple, calm, and absolutely reliable steps. Each action has enough time to complete, and they absolutely do not interfere with each other."
Rhys Griffiths stared blankly at the design drawing, which Frank had completely overturned with a few simple red lines.
His genius mind understood the revolutionary significance of this concept in an instant.
"My God…" he murmured, "This… this isn't designing a gun. This is designing an… assembly line operating at high speed within the barrel."
Silas, from an artisan's perspective, immediately saw the possibility of realizing it.
"It only needs a brand new cylindrical cam with six independent grooves…" he said excitedly, "I… I can make it!"
...Two weeks later, at Militech's secret firing range.
A ferocious-looking steel monster was firmly fixed on a heavy tripod. It was no longer the problematic "prototype" from previous tests, but a true weapon of war.
Felix and Miller, after receiving Frank's ecstatic telegram, rushed overnight from New York.
"Boss," Frank stood beside the machine, his face showing the unique pride and tension of a creator, "We call it Pioneer One, with a theoretical rate of fire of six hundred rounds per minute."
"Begin." Felix's reply was simple.
Frank said no more; he nodded to Griffith beside him.
Griffith, the metallurgist who had personally forged the heart of this monster, gripped the brass hand crank at the rear of the receiver.
He began to turn it slowly.
"Click… click… click…"
The six barrels began to rotate around the central axis with a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Brass bullets were smoothly fed into the chambers from the top magazine.
Griffith turned faster and faster.
Suddenly—
"Da da da da da da—!"
An unprecedented, continuous, and muffled roar, like tearing linen, erupted from the six barrels! It wasn't individual gunshots, but a continuous torrent of fire and steel!
Hot shell casings spewed out furiously from the side of the receiver like a golden waterfall.
One hundred yards away, the target, made of three layers of thick oak boards stacked together, was torn to shreds in a matter of seconds, wood chips flying, as if gnawed by a group of invisible behemoths.
The top-mounted magazine, capable of holding one hundred rounds, was completely emptied in less than ten seconds.
When the gunfire finally ceased, the entire firing range was eerily silent.
The air was filled with a thick, suffocating smell of gunpowder.
"It worked…"
Silas looked at the smoking barrels, his voice trembling as he spoke.
Griffith released the crank, his usually proud face now pale with the realization of having created something beyond imagination.
Miller, the president who had witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield, stared blankly at the mangled target.
A trace of fear appeared on his resolute face.
On the firing range of Militech, the smell of gunpowder had not yet dissipated.
The steel monster, named 'Vanguard One,' lay quietly on its tripod, its six barrels radiating a chilling residual heat under the afternoon sun of Connecticut.
"Remarkable," Felix broke the silence, which had been caused by the shock.
He walked up to the machine, extended his hand, but did not touch it, only feeling the heat emanating from it.
"The name Vanguard One is not suitable; it needs a formal name."
He turned around, looking at the geniuses and craftsmen behind him who had created it. "Let's call it the 'Vanguard Model 1863 Gatling Gun.' As for the nickname…" He glanced at Miller, "'Reaper's Organ,' I think it's very fitting."
A low, proud chuckle rippled through the workshop.
Rhys Griffiths's usually proud face also showed a heartfelt smile. This was the creators' moment, their well-deserved glory.
However, production manager Frank Cole's face did not show the same ease as the others. After the initial excitement, a reality problem, like a dark cloud, emerged in his meticulous mind.
"Boss," he walked up to Felix, a hint of hesitation in his voice, "we… might encounter a new problem."
Felix looked at him. "Speak."
"It's about patents."
Frank pulled out a newspaper clipping from his work manual. "A Hoosier inventor, Dr. Richard Gatling, applied for a patent for his 'Gatling Gun' two years ago. Although his design is completely different from ours, using independent, manually loaded steel chambers, and it has a high failure rate."
After a pause, his tone became solemn. "But in the core concept of 'multi-barrel rotating firing,' our design and his patent have… inescapable similarities."
Frank voiced his concern. "I worry that once we begin large-scale production, Dr. Gatling might sue us for 'patent infringement.' That would be a long and expensive legal battle, potentially even affecting our contract with the War Department."
Frank's words were like a bucket of cold water poured over everyone who had just been immersed in joy.
"Bullshit!"
The first to jump up and object was Rhys Griffiths. His genius's arrogance made it impossible for him to tolerate his work being suspected of "plagiarism."
"These are two completely different things!"
He excitedly walked to the prototype, pointing at its complex internal structure.
"Gatling's clumsy contraption merely bundles a few old rifles together. What we created is a completely new, precision system driven by gears and cams. Our locking mechanism, feeding method, and brass-cased cartridges—which of these are in his patent? This isn't infringement; this is revolution!"
"I agree with Mr. Griffith," Miller also spoke, his view more direct and pragmatic. "Boss, it's wartime. The military needs weapons that can win, not a pile of legal documents. As long as our gun is better than Gatling's, Secretary Stanton and the generals won't care about an outdated patent certificate. Let them argue with lawyers; we'll just build guns."
"No, President." Frank shook his head, his face etched with worry. "A patent lawsuit is enough to halt our production line for months. By then, even if we eventually win the case, we'll have lost the most precious time. We cannot take that risk."
In the workshop, the sudden issue plunged everyone into argument again.
Felix did not participate. He just listened quietly, watching his employees passionately clash from their different perspectives. He saw Griffith's pride, Miller's pragmatism, and Frank's caution.
This was good!
A healthy team needs precisely these different voices.
After a long while, when the arguments gradually subsided and everyone's gaze refocused on him, Felix slowly began to speak.
"Frank, your concerns are valid." He first affirmed the production manager's prudence. "We indeed cannot ignore the risks of patents. A good engineer must not only know how to create but also how to protect his creations."
Then, he turned to Griffith and Miller.
"But you are also right. Retreat and compromise have never been Militech's style."
He looked at everyone, a smile of complete control on his face.
"In fact," he said, "I knew about Dr. Gatling and his patent from the very beginning. I had already prepared a combination of moves for him."
He turned to his assistant, Edward, who had been quietly recording everything.
"Edward."
"Yes, Boss."
"First thing tomorrow morning, you will immediately depart for Washington." Felix issued the first directive. "Meet with our legal team from Argyle Bank. Formally submit an application to the War Department for Defense Production Priority for the 'Vanguard Model 1863 Gatling Gun.'"
"Tell Secretary Stanton," a glint flashed in Felix's eyes, "that since our weapon serves the Federal Government, during the fulfillment of military orders, I expect the Federal Government to provide comprehensive legal immunity and protection for any patent disputes we may encounter. This is a wartime custom and the best way for them to show their sincerity."
"Yes, Boss."
"Second," Felix's gaze turned to Griffith, "Rhys, I need you and Frank to immediately compile the most detailed technical comparison document. Take everything you just said about the 'fundamental innovations' in our design—regarding the core locking, feeding, and firing mechanisms—compared to Dr. Gatling's existing patent. List them out clearly, one by one, using precise engineering language and drawings, and apply for patents."
"This document will be our 'declaration of war' to the Patent Office and the courts."
With the concerns addressed and legal preparations made, Felix finally stated his true purpose.
"Finally, and most importantly, Miller, you are going to Indianapolis."
"To personally visit Dr. Gatling."
Miller quickly agreed; in his view, this matter was due to his dereliction of duty, as the president of Militech, for not having avoided patent issues in advance.
"Remember, you are not going to sue him. You are going to offer him a cooperation proposal he cannot refuse. An opportunity for him to transform from an inventor tinkering in his backyard into a legend who can truly engrave his name in the annals of war history."
"To buy all of his patents, Militech needs more than just the best machine gun. What I need is all of this country's present and future regarding 'rotating multi-barrel automatic weapons.'" Felix's voice echoed in the quiet workshop.