Washington, D.C., Capitol Hill.
In the hearing room of the Senate Military Committee, the heating pipes emitted a dull roar, but this could not mask the tense, gunpowder-like atmosphere in the room.
Democratic Senator Hans stood at the inquiry desk, waving the casualty report on the "parrott gun Barrel Burst Accident," spittle flying.
"Three incidents! In the Potomac Corps alone, three incidents occurred within a month."
Hans' voice echoed under the dome, filled with an exaggerated show of indignant grief.
"Those young boys, they didn't die under the rebels' gunfire, but died at the hands of our own poorly manufactured weapons! This is murder! It's irrefutable evidence of the War Department's dereliction of duty!"
He suddenly turned to Edwin Stanton, who was sitting on the other side of the hearing table.
"Mr. Secretary, what are you still waiting for? Generals on the front lines are calling for the purchase of Prussian steel cannons. Yet you, citing 'insufficient budget,' have rejected their requests. In your eyes, is a few million dollars in gold more valuable than the lives of Union soldiers?"
On the hearing table, Republican Party congressmen exchanged glances, looking displeased.
Damn these Democrats, it's always you guys trying to cut funding, and now you're saying we Republicans don't want to provide money.
If it weren't for their usefulness, they would have kicked these people out of Congress long ago.
This is too much!
However, although Hans' accusations were full of partisan attacks, the facts were clear: bursting cannons had indeed become a poison to morale on the front lines.
Stanton sat there, not rushing to explain, but quietly waiting for Hans to vent his excess energy.
His hand rested on a briefcase, which contained a telegram previously sent from New York.
It wasn't until Hans finally paused to catch his breath and drink water that Stanton slowly stood up.
"Senator Hans, I understand your anger, and I am even more grieved. After all, every soldier's sacrifice is a loss to the Union."
"But regarding the proposal to purchase Prussian cannons, I would like to ask you, have you calculated the time and cost?"
"Krupp's steel cannons cost over three thousand dollars each. That doesn't include shipping and customs duties. More importantly, it would take at least six months from placing the order to delivery to the Virginia front. Can our soldiers wait that long?"
"So we do nothing? Watch them get blown up?" Hans retorted.
"Of course not."
Stanton opened his briefcase and took out the telegram.
"But my idea is different. We're not buying Prussian cannons because we can choose to upgrade our own cannons."
"Upgrade?" Hans was taken aback.
"Yes."
Stanton looked around, his gaze sweeping over every congressman.
"The War Department has reached an emergency technical cooperation agreement with Militech. Mr. Argyle has promised to use Militech's unique 'prometheus alloy' technology to add liners to existing parrott guns."
"According to the data, this liner can withstand more than three times the chamber pressure of existing cast iron gun barrels."
Stanton held up the paper in his hand, as if displaying a shield.
"It will not only completely solve the hidden danger of barrel bursts but also increase the range and accuracy of the cannons by twenty percent."
"Most importantly, the cost of this modification is only one-fifth of purchasing new cannons. Moreover, the modification work will be carried out domestically, without the need for lengthy sea transport. The first batch of modified cannons might return to the battlefield next month."
A buzz of discussion erupted in the hearing room.
"One-fifth of the cost?"
"Can be delivered next month?"
For Congress, which was plagued by budget deficits, this was simply a godsend.
"This... this is impossible."
Hans' face turned somewhat ugly.
"What does Argyle, who started out making canned goods, know about cannons? This is just another ploy to defraud the budget!"
"Whether he understands cannons, I don't know,"
Stanton said coldly, "But I do know that the rifles and machine guns he built are making the rebels unable to lift their heads on the battlefields of Tennessee and Georgia. If even he can't do it, other factories are even less capable right now."
Stanton gathered his documents, preparing to leave, "As for whether it's fake, the modified prototype cannon will undergo live-fire testing at the Washington Armory next week. Senator Hans, if you don't mind the smell of gunpowder, you are welcome to light the fuse yourself."
...Whitneyville, Connecticut.
Militech Headquarters.
The winter here was colder than in Washington, with snow covering the factory roofs.
But in the forging workshop, the temperature was stiflingly high.
Huge steam hammers roared tirelessly, forging red-hot steel ingots into various complex shapes.
Rhys Griffiths, the chief metallurgist, stood in front of a workbench covered with blueprints, his brow furrowed.
Across from him was Frank Cole, Militech's Chief Operating Officer.
"The boss always manages to find us these incredible troubles," Griffith complained.
He pointed to the slender, tubular structure on the blueprint.
"Adding a liner to a cast iron gun barrel? In theory, of course, it's feasible. Palliser in Britain is also doing this.
But the problem is, we don't have a boring machine that big!
To machine a six-foot-long, three-inch-internal-diameter alloy steel tube to an error of one-thousandth of an inch, and then to rifle it internally... My God, our current equipment is for making rifles, not cannons!"
"There are always more solutions than problems, oh, the boss said that."
Frank Cole shrugged; he was already used to his boss' "take the order first, then figure it out" style.
"And the boss also knows our difficulties; he's already had Colman recruiting people in Europe. But before those new equipment and new engineers arrive, we have to make the first batch of samples with what we have on hand."
"How?" Griffith threw his pencil on the table, "With a hand file?"
"Perhaps it doesn't need to be that complicated."
A voice came from the doorway. Miller walked in, having just returned from New York, still carrying the chill of the outside.
Miller brushed the snow from his clothes.
"I remember there's an old hydraulic boring machine in the old warehouse, used for drilling rifle barrels twenty years ago. Although it's old, the bed is long enough. If we modify it, replace it with steam power, and then equip it with your terrifyingly hard alloy cutter heads..."
Griffith's eyes lit up.
He was a tech fanatic, and the words "impossible" were what he could tolerate the least.
"Modification..."
He stroked the stubble on his chin, his brain starting to work at high speed.
"If the spindle speed is increased threefold... and a forced cooling system is added... maybe... maybe it will work."
"Then stop talking nonsense."
Miller took off his overcoat and rolled up his sleeves.
"Take your people to the warehouse; there's only one week. The boss has boasted, and we can't let him lose face."
"Also, those old parrott guns that need to be modified. Secretary Stanton has already ordered the most recent batch, the dozen or so that retired from the Potomac Corps, to be shipped directly to us. They should arrive tomorrow."
"Really? Sounds challenging." Griffith's eyes blazed with fighting spirit.
"Let me see what quality those cannons are."
...Across the Atlantic Ocean. Manchester, England.
William Coleman did not stop after his victory in Essen.
He was like a tireless hunter, moving through Europe's industrial jungle.
At this moment, he was sitting in a hired carriage, passing through the rainy streets of Manchester.
On his lap was an urgent telegram from New York.
"Heavy forging press. Cannon barrel boring machine designer."
Colman looked at the words on the telegram and murmured to himself.
"The boss' appetite... is truly growing."
His original plan was to go to Liverpool and then take a ship back home. But this telegram changed everything.
"Turn around," he shouted to the coachman, "Go to Whitworth's factory."
Joseph Whitworth, a famous British mechanical engineer, was known for establishing screw thread standards and manufacturing high-precision machine tools.
His factory represented the pinnacle of precision machining technology in the world at that time.
"Sir, that's a restricted area," the coachman said, turning back. "Without an appointment, the guard won't even let a fly in."
"But I have this."
Colman pulled out a letter of introduction from Barings Bank and a check for an astonishing amount from his In my arms.
After all, he wasn't just going to buy machines; he could also meet a person.
A name Arthur Jennings had mentioned to him once in a pub in Sheffield.
An old engineer named Thomas Nasmyth, who was responsible for designing large fluid presses at the Whitworth factory but had been marginalized due to his eccentric personality.
He hadn't intended to recruit him before, but now that he was going there, he could recruit him as well... A week later, Washington Armory firing range.
The cold wind was biting.
Secretary Stanton, Chairman Clark, and the always-dissenting Senator Hans, all bundled in thick overcoats, stood on the observation platform.
In the center of the firing range, a parrott gun, still rough in appearance and even somewhat rusty, lay silently.
But those who knew what to look for would notice a faint, cold blue metallic inner ring at its muzzle.
That was Militech's masterpiece.
"Ready!"
With the artillery officer's command, the gunner pulled the lanyard.
"Boom!"
A loud bang, more muffled and more powerful than an ordinary parrott gun.
A ten-pound solid shot whistled out, accurately hitting a dirt mound fifteen hundred yards away, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Continue! Rapid fire!"
Miller stood to the side, loudly giving instructions.
He did not choose a conservative test but instead opted for rapid firing, which was the most demanding test of barrel strength.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Ten consecutive shots, without any pause.
Under normal circumstances, an ordinary cast iron gun barrel would have overheated and even burst under such high-intensity firing.
But this cannon, apart from emitting bursts of heat from its body, remained as steady as a mountain.
When the tenth shell was fired, the officers on site let out an uncontrollable cheer.
Senator Hans' face was somewhat grim.
He looked at the still-smoking cannon, then at Stanton, who had a calm expression.
"How is it, Senator?"
Stanton turned his head, his tone carrying an undisguised hint of sarcasm.
"This smell of gunpowder... are you used to it?"
Hans said nothing, merely tightening the collar of his overcoat.
He had lost again.
And the name Felix Argyle would not only be etched on canned goods and rifles.
It would also be etched into the bones of the Union Army, along with these cannons.
Washington, D.C., War Department building.
Secretary Stanton sat behind his mountainous desk, the scratching sound of his steel pen rapidly moving across the paper.
"All right."
Stanton heavily signed the final stroke, then picked up the thick document.
He looked up and pushed the contract, stamped with the War Department's bright red seal, toward Felix.
"Five hundred units are the first batch. I need Militech to 'refit' all the Potomac Corps' active ten-pound and twenty-pound parrott guns within three months."
"Three months, five hundred units."
Felix took the contract and glanced at the amount: the modification fee for each cannon was three hundred dollars.
This was a one hundred and fifty thousand dollar order.
Although this was a drop in the bucket compared to the purchase price of new cannons, considering it was only replacing an inner tube, the profit margin was astonishingly high.
Militech could earn at least one hundred thousand dollars.
"Time is very tight, Mr. Secretary."
Felix did not show excessive excitement, maintaining the rigor of a businessman.
"The factory will need to run three shifts to complete this, and transportation is also a major issue."
"You don't need to worry about transportation." Stanton waved his hand dismissively.
"I will have General Meade dispatch special military trains to haul those damned old cannons directly to Connecticut. Once modified, they will be brought back. You only need to guarantee the quality."
He stood up and walked over to Felix, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with a solemnity that bordered on pleading.
"Felix, those artillerymen... they are practically my children. I do not want to see another casualty report related to burst barrels."
"All right, Edwin, since you put it that way, I give you my word."
"Every cannon barrel that leaves Militech will undergo pressure testing at twice the practical charge load. If it is going to burst, it will only burst in my testing ground, never in a soldier's face."
Stanton looked at him and let out a long sigh of relief.
He reached out and patted Felix's arm.
"That's good. Now go do what you need to do."
"If this spring offensive succeeds... those fellows in the Democratic Party will no longer have any reason to block our procurement budget from you."
... On the train leaving Washington, Felix was not resting.
He was reading an urgent telegram from William Coleman.
This "missionary" he had sent to Europe had not only successfully poached talent from Krupp in Essen, but he also seemed to have accomplished something major in Manchester.
Frost sat across from him, organizing the newly signed contract.
"Boss, Mr. Colman said in the telegram that although he failed to bring over the long-retired James Nasmyth himself, he successfully 'persuaded' a young engineer from the Nasmyth family to board a ship bound for New York, bringing with him the complete set of blueprints for the latest 'Double-Acting Steam Hammer' and a team of twelve Scottish technicians."
"Double-Acting Steam Hammer."
Felix's eyes lit up.
After some time immersed in the industry, he naturally knew what this meant.
Unlike old-fashioned drop hammers that relied solely on gravity, the double-acting hammer uses steam power to apply additional thrust during the downward stroke.
That kind of power is enough to forge the hardest steel ingots into any desired shape, like kneading dough, including large-caliber cannon barrels and heavy ship keels.
"It seems 'Lakes Steel' now has a heart."
Felix looked at the scenery rushing past the window.
"Notify MacGregor to prepare for the ship's arrival. Also, tell Miller to double the mining speed in the Appalachian Mountains. Once that furnace is lit, it will be like a gigantic, perpetually hungry beast; we must prepare enough sustenance."
... A week later, on the shore of Newark Bay, New Jersey.
The cold wind, carrying the moisture of the Atlantic Ocean, swept across this undeveloped wasteland.
But unlike the deathly silence of a month ago, the area had now become a massive, bustling construction site.
Thousands of Irish immigrants who arrived via the clover project were sweating profusely on the frozen ground.
Simple shanties stretched out in rows, and a railway spur connecting to the main line was being laid.
And in the center of the site, several massive steel skeletons had already sprung up.
Those were the future blast furnaces.
Felix, wearing a thick wool hat, trudged through the muddy construction site.
Beside him were William Coleman, recently returned from Europe, the chief furnace engineer Arthur Jennings, and the Prussian engineer, Friedrich Haas.
Colman pointed to a huge pit ahead.
"Boss, that is where we will install the 'Nasmyth Hammer.' Jennings chose the spot, saying the foundation must be deep enough, otherwise, once that monster starts roaring, the ground within a mile will tremble."
"It looks excellent. Thank you for your hard work, Jennings." Felix smiled and nodded at Jennings, then looked toward Haas.
"Mr. Haas, how does the environment here compare to Essen?"
Haas, wrapped in an ill-fitting American overcoat, was scrutinizing everything around him with a critical eye.
"Messy... completely disorganized," Haas muttered in German. "But full of vitality. Mr. Argyle, your men work very fast, faster than any construction crew I saw at Krupp. However..."
He pointed to the shimmering water surface in the distance.
"If we are to build a dock there, we need to account for spring tides. Furthermore, my rolling mill... the 'high-speed reversible' design has an extremely high demand for cooling water. We will require a more powerful pumping station system."
"Then build it." Felix's answer was without hesitation.
"Mr. Haas, there is no budget ceiling here, and no bureaucratic approval process. If the engineering requires it, you just need to tell Colman, or send me a telegram directly."
Haas looked at Felix, then at the construction site growing wildly beneath his feet.
The ambition that had been suppressed for half a lifetime finally found an outlet on this free wasteland.
He took a deep breath of the crisp air. "All right, give me a few months. I will make the hottest and most obedient steel flow out of this place."
... After inspecting the steel mill site, Felix did not return directly to Manhattan.
The carriage turned a corner and headed toward the Argyle Combined Industrial Zone in Brooklyn.
Another "furnace" was waiting for him there.
A furnace that, although lacking fire and smoke, could equally change the world.
Typewriter R&D laboratory.
The moment the door opened, a dense "da da da" sound instantly overwhelmed Felix's hearing.
Inside the room, Christopher Latham Sholes was sitting at a specialized workbench, his fingers flying.
His hair was messy, his eyes were dark, and he clearly hadn't slept well for several days.
But his face was beaming with a joy that bordered on frenzy.
In front of him was the completely transformed prototype machine.
It was no longer the clumsy wooden frame it had once been.
In its place was an industrial product composed of a black-painted cast iron base and shiny brass components.
The most striking feature was the row of keys.
They were no longer arranged in the order of A, B, C, but presented a layout that seemed illogical and chaotic to the average person.
Q-W-E-R-T-Y... This was the brand-new layout Felix had proposed that afternoon, designed to "prevent jamming."
Carl Becker stood nearby, holding a pocket watch and sternly watching the second hand move.
"Stop!" Becker shouted.
Sholes' fingers instantly froze, the last sharp strike echoing in the air.
"How was it?" he asked eagerly, his voice hoarse.
Becker did not answer immediately.
He stepped forward, tore off the strip of paper covered in letters from the roller, and quickly counted.
Then, the rigorous German displayed a rare expression of shock.
"Sixty-eight words."
He looked at Sholes, then at Felix, who had just entered.
"Not a single jam or key clash in one minute."
"Sixty-eight words?"
Frost, who had followed him in, exclaimed in surprise. "That... that's twice as fast as the most skilled copyist!"
"And it looks clearer and more standardized."
Felix walked over and picked up the paper strip.
Every letter on it was neatly arranged, as pleasing to the eye as printed text.
"Mr. Sholes," Felix said, looking at the excited inventor, "you have tamed those 'fighting soldiers'."
"Yes... your idea saved it, boss." Sholes was so excited he was slightly incoherent.
"The keyboard layout was awkward at first; my fingers felt like they were tying themselves in knots. But once I got used to it, my God, they dance across the keys! The left hand and the right hand, they cooperate perfectly and never interfere with each other anymore!"
"This is the power of a new rule."
Felix smiled, his fingers lightly brushing over the row of keys destined to dominate the next few centuries.
He turned around and looked at Becker. "Carl, the prototype is a success. Your next task is to industrialize it."
"Take it apart. Draw blueprints for every single component and establish tolerance standards. Design specialized molds and jigs."
"Make sure this machine can also be produced by the thousands on an assembly line."
"What about the name, boss?" Frost asked. "What should we call it?"
Felix pondered for a moment and said: "The Standard Typewriter."
"From today, it is the standard for writing."
When he left the laboratory, night had already fallen.
Felix sat in the carriage, listening to the sound of the wheels rolling over the cobblestone road.
That day, he had seen the rising steel forest, witnessed the steel about to flow, and heard the sharp clicking of keyboards in the offices of the future.
The war continued, and conspiracies still stirred in the shadows.
But behind the smoke and fog, a vast and precise commercial empire was keeping pace with the rhythm of the era, emitting its most powerful... steel cadence.