New York Harbor.
The winter storm in the North Atlantic Ocean finally ceased in the early morning, leaving behind a pale and calm sea.
A transatlantic freighter, the "Zephyr," laden with coal ash and ice, slowly sailed into its dedicated dock on the East River, pulled by two steam tugboats.
This was no luxury cruise ship; its black hull was covered in barnacles near the waterline, and the smoke from its chimney carried the sulfurous smell of cheap coal.
Yet, this ship was the heaviest piece in the puzzle of Argyle's empire.
On the dock, all irrelevant clutter had been cleared.
Two state-of-the-art steam cranes stood ready, their massive booms like the arms of steel giants reaching towards the gray sky.
William Coleman, wearing his characteristic work clothes, stood at the edge of the dock, letting the cold wind ruffle his meticulously combed hair.
Beside him stood Friedrich Haas, the Prussian engineer, scrutinizing the British ship about to dock with a critical eye.
"Is that Nasmyth's 'hammer'?"
Haas mumbled in German, a hint of doubt in his voice.
"The British always exaggerate; they say this thing weighs twenty tons."
"Whether it's an exaggeration, we'll know soon enough."
Coleman's reply was brief. He glanced behind him, where a special low-bed heavy carriage, pulled by sixteen draft horses, was parked.
It had been custom-ordered from a Philadelphia locomotive factory specifically to receive that behemoth.
The ship docked.
As the gangplank was lowered, no eager passengers emerged. The first to disembark were a group of men in tweed coats, carrying toolboxes.
The leader, with a thick red beard, was short and stout, like a beer barrel.
He was Hamish Campbell, the chief installation engineer from Nasmyth's factory in Manchester.
"This is America?"
Campbell stepped onto the icy dock, complaining in a thick Scottish accent.
"Compared to Manchester, the air here is uncomfortably clean. How can it be an industrial area without the smell of coal smoke?"
"Mr. Campbell," Coleman walked up to him.
"I am Coleman, and this is Mr. Haas. Welcome to New York."
"Hey mate, skip the pleasantries."
Campbell waved his hand, pointing to the ship's huge cargo hold opening behind him.
"My baby is still down there; are your cranes strong enough? If you drop it, I won't be responsible."
"No problem, let's start."
Coleman ignored the Scot's arrogance and waved to the crane operator.
With the roar of the winch, a grating metallic screech echoed from deep within the cargo hold.
Minutes later, a massive black object, tightly wrapped in tarpaulin, was slowly hoisted out of the hatch.
It was the base of a double-acting steam hammer—the anvil block.
This single component alone made the crane, touted as the largest in New York Harbor, groan under the strain.
The cables were pulled taut, making "thrumming" sounds.
When this behemoth finally settled steadily onto the heavy carriage, the entire dock seemed to tremble.
The sixteen draft horses neighed restlessly, their hooves striking sparks from the frozen ground.
Haas stepped forward and lifted a corner of the tarpaulin.
The cold cast iron surface exuded a suffocating sense of oppression.
He reached out and gently patted the cold metal, the doubt in his eyes replaced by an engineer's awe for ultimate power.
"Twenty tons..." he murmured, "No, at least twenty-five tons. These British madmen... they actually built it."
"This is just the base."
Campbell stood behind him at some point, a pipe clenched in his mouth, a triumphant look on his face.
"The cylinder, piston, and hammerhead are still to come. Once assembled, it'll be three stories high. One strike could flatten a locomotive into a pancake."
"This is excellent, isn't it?"
Coleman looked at the huge object, a satisfied expression on his face.
"Now, let's transport this heart into its body."
...
Newark Bay, New Jersey.
Lex Steel Company construction site.
A month ago, this place was a barren salt flat.
Now, it had transformed into a vast labyrinth of wooden scaffolding and deep pits.
Thousands of workers scurried through this maze like worker ants. These new Irish immigrants no longer had to scramble for work on the docks; here, they had unified dormitories and hot canteens, as well as a demanding but family-sustaining wage.
"Watch your step! That's the foundation for the blast furnace!"
A gruff voice echoed across the construction site.
That was Old Seamus, an Irishman who used to scavenge on the docks.
Now, he was a foreman on this site, managing a transport team of fifty new immigrants. He wore a thick work padded jacket, held a ledger, and his face was alight with an unprecedented vitality.
"Hurry, transport those firebricks to Pit Number Two!"
He shouted at a few newly arrived young compatriots.
"Mr. Haas specifically requested those. If you delay the blast furnace construction, I'll report it, and then we'll see if you still have the face to stay here."
A heavy carriage slowly entered the construction site.
When the massive steam hammer base appeared in everyone's sight, the entire site erupted.
"God, what is that?"
"It looks like... a giant's anvil."
The workers stopped their tasks, watching with awe as the black behemoth was slowly transported to the deepest foundation pit in the center of the site.
That would be the heart of the entire factory—the forging workshop.
Felix Argyle stood on a temporary platform, overlooking everything.
He wore a black wool coat, its collar turned up to ward off the cold wind.
"This is the power of industry, Edward," he said to Frost beside him, "Look, it's growing."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost looked at the bustling scene, a surge of ambition rising within him.
But the ledger in his hand forced him to remain calm.
"But its appetite is too big. This month alone, the company's expenditure on infrastructure and equipment procurement has exceeded three hundred thousand dollars. Cash flow..."
"Don't worry about the cash flow," Felix interrupted him.
"Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars coming in gradually each month. Secretary Stanton's one hundred fifty thousand dollar modification fee has already arrived. And there's the Prussians' second advance payment. As long as Miller's mine can produce ore on time, this behemoth will be able to feed itself."
He pointed to Haas, who was directing the hoisting, and to Campbell, the Scot, who was loudly directing workers to adjust positions.
Felix smiled, "You see, Prussian rigor, Scottish technology, and Irish labor. They may have been enemies before, or looked down on each other. But now, on this land, under the banner of Lex Steel, they are jointly building the same thing."
"This is what makes America great."
...
In one corner of the construction site, Haas and Campbell were having their first fierce technical clash.
"No! Absolutely not!"
Haas pointed to the concrete layer at the bottom of the foundation pit, shouting loudly.
"This thickness isn't enough; the impact force of this hammer is vertically downward! If the foundation isn't deep enough, the vibration will transmit to the adjacent blast furnace and crack the firebricks."
"Do you know what elastic buffering is, you Prussian brute?"
Campbell was not to be outdone; he waved the blueprints.
"We laid three layers of oak pads under the base; those are the best buffering material. If we dig another five feet deeper as you say, we'll be digging below sea level. What then, when the water floods in?"
"Then pump it dry!" Haas stood his ground, "For stability, it's worth it even if we have to pump Newark Bay dry!"
The two argued fiercely in the cold wind, their English heavily accented, their faces flushed.
Coleman walked over.
He took Campbell's blueprints and looked at them, then jumped into the foundation pit and stomped on the oak pads.
"Mr. Haas is right," Coleman looked up, "The vibration must be completely isolated; we cannot risk damage to the blast furnace."
"But the water..." Campbell still tried to argue.
"I'll have Mr. MacGregor send two high-power steam pumps from the shipyard," Coleman made his decision, "Dig... dig another five feet. Lay double-layer reinforced concrete, with a lead plate seismic isolation layer in the middle."
"Lead plates?" Campbell's eyes widened, "How much will that cost?"
Hearing this, Coleman looked at him, his serious face devoid of any expression.
"The Boss said we are building the future. And the future does not consider cost. It only considers perfection."
Campbell opened his mouth, but ultimately couldn't voice a rebuttal. He looked at the Prussian, who maintained a straight posture even in the mud pit, and then at the president, who was harder than steel.
"Alright, alright, who asked you to be rich people anyway."
He muttered, putting his pipe back in his mouth.
"As long as you can pay, I can dig through hell."
...Not far away, Felix watched this scene, then turned and left, satisfied.
He didn't need to interfere with the specific engineering.
He only needed to throw these individuals, diverse in personality yet equally talented, into the same melting pot.
Their clashes, friction, and competition would naturally spark the most brilliant flames.
"Let's go, Edward." He boarded the carriage.
"Leave things here to Coleman; I have another tough battle to fight."
"Tough battle?" Frost was puzzled, "What could be tougher than this?"
"Of course there is." Felix pulled out an invitation card with an exquisite emblem from his pocket.
It wasn't an ordinary social gathering, but an invitation from the "Federal Alliance Club."
This was an elite core club formed by New York's top powerful figures and patriots to support the Federal army.
The invitation card, in gilded lettering, read: "For the Victory of the States—New Year Charity Ball."
"Now that the steel mill's framework is in place."
Felix looked at the card, a glint in his eyes.
"Now, I must go to that battlefield of silk, jewels, and arrogant old money... to vindicate Catherine."
The New Year's bells for 1864 had yet to ring, but inside the Union League Club on Fifth Avenue in New York, a gilded clamor already reigned.
This charity fundraising ball, hosted tonight by the club established by the North's most steadfast patriots and wealthiest magnates, was the most dazzling jewel in the crown of the entire social season.
The light from crystal chandeliers refracted off champagne glasses and diamond necklaces, and the air was filled with a mix of expensive French perfume, beeswaxed floors, and aged cigars.
Here, every smile could hide a deal worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and every handshake could determine the direction of a bill in Washington.
But tonight, all eyes were intentionally or unintentionally focused on the grand mahogany doors of the ballroom.
"Announcement—Mr. Felix Argyle, and Miss Catherine O'Brien have arrived!"
As the white-gloved hand of the waiter slowly pushed open the doors, the once boisterous ballroom fell silent for a moment.
Felix Argyle wore an impeccably tailored black tuxedo, his white bow tie meticulously tied, and his young, composed face held an air of effortless control.
On his arm was tonight's true focal point—Catherine O'Brien.
Tonight, she did not choose the gaudy dresses adorned with lace and jewels.
Instead, she wore a deep purple velvet gown, simple and elegant in design, with only the dazzling sapphire necklace around her neck sparkling with a cool light under the lamps.
Her hair was styled high, revealing the graceful lines of her neck, and her makeup was subtle, yet it could not hide the inherent confidence and resilience that emanated from her very being.
"My God, she's beautiful."
A young wealthy man couldn't help but whisper in admiration, only to be sharply pinched on the arm by his wife beside him.
"What good is beauty?"
The noblewoman covered her mouth with a feather fan, her eyes full of jealousy and disdain.
"I heard she used to be an orphan living in Five Points with no family left. Who knows what means she used to climb into Mr. Argyle's bed?"
"Shush! Keep your voice down! Do you want Argyle Bank to recall our loan?"
Whispers spread through the crowd like a tide.
The noblewomen, who prided themselves on being "Knickerbocker" old money families, scrutinized this "intruder" with their critical monocles, their eyes filled with rejection.
In their eyes, even if Catherine managed a large pharmaceutical company, she was still just an Irish woman with a questionable past.
Felix felt the hostility permeating the air around them.
He gently patted Catherine's hand, feeling that her hand was slightly cool.
"Don't be nervous," he whispered, looking straight ahead.
"Hold your head high. Tonight, you are the queen here. And they are merely your backdrop."
Catherine took a deep breath and straightened her back.
She thought of the children in Five Points waiting for her to build a hospital, and the machines in the laboratory roaring day and night.
Yes, she was no longer the orphan who needed to cower in a corner, trembling.
The two walked with elegant strides through the crowd, heading directly to the main table in the center of the ballroom.
There sat tonight's convener, and one of the top figures in New York society, Mrs. Van Rensselaer.
This old woman, from an ancient Dutch family, wore a black silk gown and held an ivory-inlaid cane; though over sixty, her gray eyes were still sharp.
She was chatting and laughing with several noblewomen beside her, seemingly oblivious to the arrival of Felix and Catherine.
This was a show of dominance.
Felix did not stop, nor did he show any embarrassment. He led Catherine directly to Mrs. Van Rensselaer, bowing slightly in a standard gentleman's Rei.
"Good evening, madam."
Felix's steady voice cut through the surrounding whispers.
"Thank you for your invitation. Miss O'Brien and I are deeply honored to attend this grand event held for the Union soldiers."
Mrs. Van Rensselaer then slowly turned her head. Her eyes first lingered on Felix for a moment, then, without politeness, she scrutinized Catherine from head to toe, as if inspecting a commodity.
"Mr. Argyle," her voice was hoarse and arrogant.
"You are indeed a remarkable young man. But I believe my invitation stated 'and guest'. This Miss O'Brien, to my knowledge, is not your lawful wife, is she?"
These words were like a resounding slap.
Causing the surrounding noblewomen to let out a few schadenfreude-filled snickers.
Catherine's face paled slightly, but she did not flinch. She was about to speak, but Felix gently stopped her.
"Firstly, your impolite gaze displeases me greatly."
"And when I am displeased, it means someone is going to suffer!"
Felix stared at the old woman in front of him, his tone unfriendly.
If she didn't appreciate his politeness, then he wouldn't hesitate to embarrass her.
"Let me reiterate: Miss O'Brien is not only my partner but also the president of Umbrella Corporation and the executive chairman of the Argyle Charitable Foundation."
"She stands here tonight, not as anyone's subordinate." Felix raised his voice a few octaves so that everyone around could hear.
"But as the largest pharmaceutical contributor to the Union army, and the founder of New York's first modern charity hospital, which is about to break ground."
"Oh?"
Mrs. Van Rensselaer raised an eyebrow. Although displeased by Felix's tone, she dared not show it.
After all, the entire American upper class knew what kind of person this young man was.
It was said that the main reason for the death of young Morgan was his behind-the-scenes plotting to insult Miss O'Brien.
It seemed this young man had no fear of the old guard.
Seeing that her show of dominance was ineffective, Mrs. Van Rensselaer decided not to continue clashing with Felix, so she spoke with feigned nonchalance.
"Those are quite a few titles, but charity isn't just talk."
"Of course."
Felix raised an eyebrow. Seeing that the old woman was no longer causing trouble, he turned and snapped his fingers at Frost, who had entered from a side door.
Frost immediately stepped forward and presented a delicate red velvet box to Felix with both hands.
Felix opened the box. Inside was not jewelry, but a check.
Felix gently placed the check on the table in front of Mrs. Van Rensselaer.
"In response to the federal charitable cause, the Argyle Charitable Foundation has decided to donate one hundred thousand dollars to the 'Union Wounded Soldiers Relief Association'."
One hundred thousand dollars!
This figure made everyone present gasp.
This was not only a huge sum but almost equivalent to the total donations of everyone else tonight.
One must remember, this was one hundred thousand dollars in 1863.
In this era, a millionaire was already a wealthy person in the entire Union, but being a millionaire did not mean one could produce one hundred thousand in liquid assets.
Not to mention donations, most were a few hundred or a few thousand, at most ten or twenty thousand dollars.
That's why everyone was shocked by Felix's donation of one hundred thousand dollars—he truly was a nouveau riche!
Everyone was both envious and jealous.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer's hand also trembled slightly. She looked at the check, then at Felix.
Felix continued, "And this donation will be made in Miss Catherine O'Brien's personal name."
He looked at the old woman, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Madam, you just said charity isn't just talk. So now, do you think Miss O'Brien's 'voice' is loud enough?"
Mrs. Van Rensselaer fell silent.
In the face of one hundred thousand dollars in cash, all arrogance and prejudice seemed so pale and powerless.
She was a snob, but she was even more of a realist.
One must know that as the initiator, she had only donated ten thousand dollars, which already pained her, but she never expected this Argyle to be so incredibly generous.
At the same time, she realized that she truly could not afford to offend this pair.
After understanding this, the queen of New York society slowly stood up.
A stiff smile was forced onto her wrinkled face.
"A very… generous act of kindness, Miss O'Brien." She extended her hand to Catherine. Although her gesture was still somewhat reserved, this already represented a form of acceptance.
"The soldiers of the Union will thank you for your benevolence."
Catherine looked at the outstretched hand. She showed neither flattery nor arrogance.
She simply extended her hand calmly and lightly shook the other's.
"It is a due responsibility, madam."
"Just like building a hospital in Five Points. Whether it's soldiers on the front line or children in the slums, life… is equal."
These words made a flicker of genuine surprise and… a touch of respect flash in Mrs. Van Rensselaer's eyes.
The atmosphere of the dinner party completely changed in that instant.
The noblewomen who had initially given Catherine the cold shoulder now crowded around her, trying to strike up a conversation with this "young and benevolent female philanthropist" with their most enthusiastic smiles and most effusive compliments.
Bankers and politicians also raised their glasses to Felix, congratulating him on his generosity and success.
This was New York.
Money could wash away all crimes, and power could win all respect.
The music for the ball began.
Felix courteously extended his hand to Catherine.
"May I have this dance, Miss O'Brien?"
Catherine smiled and placed her hand in his palm.
The two glided onto the dance floor.
In the swirling waltz, Catherine leaned into Felix's ear and whispered, "You spent that hundred thousand dollars just to shut that old woman up?"
"Not entirely." Felix looked into her sparkling eyes, "I did it so all of New York would know."
"From today on, I will not allow anyone to dare look at you with that kind of gaze."
"You are Catherine O'Brien." Felix's hand held her waist tightly.
"Apart from me, you don't need anyone else's approval. You yourself are… the elite."
After the dance, when the two emerged from the dance floor, they were met not by whispers, but by thunderous applause.
Felix looked at the faces around him, filled with awe and flattery, his heart calm.
These were merely the vanities of the arena of fame and fortune.
The real war was still in the factories, in the mines, in the ceaseless pounding in the laboratory day and night.
But at least tonight, he had won this war without smoke for his woman.
"Let's go." He draped her coat over Catherine. "It's too noisy here, let's go home."
"Home."
Catherine linked her arm through his, a radiant smile, the brightest of the night, gracing her face.
The carriage drove away from the brightly lit Fifth Avenue, disappearing into the cold New York winter night.
And within that opulent club, the legend of "Miss O'Brien" had only just begun to spread.