In the spring of 1864, the red soil of Virginia was soaked by continuous freezing rain, becoming as sticky as glue. The hundreds of thousands of troops of the Potomac Corps, like a giant beast trapped in a quagmire, were accumulating strength for the decisive battle that was about to come.
General Ulysses S. Grant had already taken over the overall command of the Federal Army.
This taciturn "Butcher" General, who liked to chew on a cigar, brought not only new strategies but also an extreme pursuit of firepower and logistics.
By the Rappahannock River lay the position of the Federal Seventh Artillery Regiment.
Colonel Mortimer Black, head of the Quartermaster Department, once again arrived here, trudging through the mud.
Unlike the anger and despair of a few months ago, his face now carried an expression of scrutiny and anticipation.
In front of him, a whole row of twenty-pound parrott guns, recently shipped back from Connecticut and modified by Militech, stood proudly erect in their positions.
From the outside, they hadn't changed much, still possessing that rough cast-iron body.
But if one looked closer, they would notice the alloy steel inner lining at the muzzle, which shimmered with a cold blue light and was tightly embedded in the cast-iron barrel, like a steel seal locking the throat of Death.
"Colonel."
The artillery regiment commander was a grizzled veteran. He patted the cold cannon beside him, his eyes filled with a hint of doubt.
"Can this thing really withstand double the charge? I just don't believe it."
Colonel Black gave him a cold look and said, "Secretary Stanton personally guaranteed this. Furthermore, you have seen the test report. Now, I want you to fire a full salvo of rapid fire at the rebel positions across the river. Use the maximum charge."
"Maximum charge? Rapid fire?" The commander's eyes widened. "Colonel, if it explodes, my gunners and I will be turned into pulp."
"If it explodes, I will personally write a letter to your widow." Black's voice was unequivocal. "Execute the order."
The commander gritted his teeth, turned, and roared at the gunners: "All hands ready! Target, the Confederates' forward fortress! Double charge, rapid fire! Fire!"
"Boom!"
The first roar shook the surrounding tree branches, causing the accumulated snow to rustle down.
The barrel recoiled violently, kicking up a large patch of mud.
Next came the second, the third... The entire artillery position was instantly enveloped in white gunpowder smoke. The gunners mechanically loaded and fired.
The modified parrott gun, like an enraged bull, wildly spat flames.
The temperature of the barrel rose sharply, and rainwater falling on it made a "sizzle" sound as it vaporized.
Based on past experience, the cast-iron barrel should have already cracked, or even burst outright, by this point.
But it did not.
The alloy inner lining, provided by Militech, acted like an indestructible spine, firmly supporting the cast-iron barrel.
It withstood the terrifying chamber pressure generated by the gunpowder explosion, converting all the energy into kinetic energy to propel the shell.
"Boom!"
The twelfth shell whistled out, accurately striking a Confederates observation post two thousand yards away, blowing it into a pile of rubble.
"Cease fire!"
The commander yelled.
He rushed to the steaming cannon, ignoring the heat, and grabbed the breech.
It was completely intact.
He then peered into the muzzle.
The rifling was still clear, and the alloy lining glowed with a faint blue light under the high temperature, without a single crack.
"God witness..."
The commander turned around and looked at Colonel Black, his grizzled face breaking into a look of ecstatic joy that was uglier than a cry.
"It's real! This thing... it actually held up!"
Colonel Black let out a long breath. It seemed the Federal artillery's nightmare was over.
"Tell your gunners," he adjusted his uniform, "that they no longer need to guard their cannons as if they were thieves. From today on, let the rebels taste fear."
...Meanwhile, at the East River docks in New York Harbor.
If the cannons on the front line were the hammer of war, then the massive ship currently docked at Pier 3 was the artery supplying blood to that hammer.
This was the "Star of the Celts," an ocean freighter that had just arrived from Liverpool.
It was the largest of the first batch of ships leased under Felix's clover project.
The wide deck was densely packed with people.
Five hundred young men from County Cork, Dublin, and Limerick in Ireland were leaning on the railings, gazing greedily at the massive city before them.
Most of them wore old clothes, carried worn-out suitcases, and showed the fatigue of the long voyage on their faces, but their eyes shone with a light distinctly different from that of the old immigrants in Five Points.
That was the light of hope.
James Finley stood on the gangway, watching these compatriots about to step onto the New World.
Beside him were Jones of the Food Company, and William Coleman, who had just rushed over from a New Jersey construction site.
"Four hundred and eighty-two people in total," Finley reported.
"They were all screened according to the list provided by Father Barry. They are strong and healthy, with no criminal records or contagious diseases. Dr. Dalton has already given them physical examinations aboard the ship."
"Same as usual," Jones nodded. "The Food Company needs a hundred people. The rest..."
"The rest belong to me."
Coleman interjected. He looked at the young, strong men as if they were a pile of high-quality coke.
"The Lax Steel construction site is a bottomless pit. Haas was complaining about the labor shortage yesterday. I'm taking all three hundred-plus people to New Jersey. I'll give them work clothes and shovels, and they'll start working tomorrow."
"Will they be willing?" Finley asked. "Going straight to a desolate construction site right after getting off the boat?"
"They will," Coleman said confidently.
"Because the salary I'm offering them is something they couldn't earn in a lifetime in Ireland. Furthermore, I will tell them that they are not just building a factory, but their future home."
As the gangplank was lowered, the first batch of immigrants stepped onto the soil of New York.
There was no harassment from customs officials, nor exploitation by snakeheads.
What greeted them was hot soup, bread uniformly distributed by Argyle Company, and "Letters of Intent for Employment" written in both English and Irish.
"Welcome to America, brothers!"
An Irish foreman from Militech stood on a height and shouted loudly.
"Forget that damned past for now! Here, as long as you are willing to sweat, Mr. Argyle can guarantee you'll have meat to eat and a place to live! Now, those who want to earn big money at the steel mill stand to the left! Those who want to learn a trade at the food factory stand to the right!"
There was no chaos, no confusion.
These young people, who had suffered greatly in the Old World, were incorporated into a massive, strict, yet warm industrial system on their very first day in the New World...
Fifth Avenue, Felix's study.
Felix stood by the window, watching the faint smoke rising in the direction of the distant harbor.
Frost had just reported the news of the cannon's success on the front line and the smooth landing of the first batch of immigrants.
"Boss, good news." Frost closed his folder.
"Secretary Stanton is very satisfied with the effect of the modified cannons. The War Department may add a second, or even a third, modification contract. Moreover, he is persuading the Republican Party internally to designate Militech as the specified partner for federal heavy artillery research and development."
"That is within my expectations."
Felix turned around, a faint smile on his face.
"Once our barrels prove themselves on the battlefield, those gentlemen in Congress will no longer have any reason to refuse our quotations."
"As for the immigrants..." Felix's gaze deepened.
"Tell Coleman and Jones to treat them well. They are our most valuable asset for the future."
"These newcomers have not been tainted by the vices of Five Points, nor corrupted by Tammany Hall. They are like a blank sheet of paper."
"I will use discipline, efficiency, and fair wages at the Lax Steel construction site and on the Food Company assembly lines to mold them into the first generation of truly meaningful 'Argyle People.'"
"They are not just workers."
"They are also the hardest cornerstone of this empire."
Outside the window, the breath of spring had quietly arrived.
And beneath Felix's feet, a vast commercial empire—spanning the ocean, connecting battlefields and factories, merging steel and blood—was growing wildly in this spring breeze, at a terrifying speed.
February 1864, the shores of Newark Bay, New Jersey.
The biting sea wind, carrying the moisture of the Atlantic Ocean, swept unchecked across the massive construction site.
The soil underfoot, repeatedly freezing and thawing, had turned into a deep brown sludge—the nightmare of every construction worker.
William Coleman stood on the edge of the newly excavated, twenty-foot-deep pit, wearing his mud-caked high leather boots.
Behind him stood a row of newly erected makeshift wooden shacks, white steam rising from the chimneys—the mess hall preparing hot coffee and stew for the workers.
"This is our new home, lads."
Old Seamus was standing next to a wagon transporting new workers.
He waved his thick arm at the young countrymen who had just disembarked from the "Celtic Star," their eyes still filled with confusion and apprehension.
"Don't look at this place like it's just a muddy mess right now."
Seamus said loudly, his voice slightly broken by the sea wind.
"Mr. Argyle said that in a few months, smokestacks taller than any church will stand here. And every drop of molten steel flowing here will turn into dollars in your pockets."
The young immigrants hunched their shoulders, gripping their luggage tightly.
They looked at the massive steam pile drivers in the distance, listening to the roar of metal striking metal. Although they hadn't fully recovered from the weakness of seasickness, the raw, savage energy of the New World was already transmitting into their bodies through the mud beneath their feet.
"Don't just stand there."
Coleman walked over, his voice quiet but carrying the authority of a president.
"Go get your tools and work clothes. We need to finish pouring the foundation for the rolling mill quickly."
"Yes, sir."
Seamus immediately straightened up and turned to shout at the young men.
"Did you hear that? Get moving! Go get shovels from that German fellow in the gray clothes over there."
That German fellow in the gray clothes was none other than Friedrich Haas.
The former chief engineer of Krupp was currently standing in front of a makeshift drafting table, his face agitated, raging at several American workers responsible for surveying.
"No! That's wrong!"
Haas shouted in heavily accented English, the pencil in his hand nearly tearing through the blueprint.
"I said the horizontal error cannot exceed two millimeters! Two millimeters! Are you rude Cowboys building a cattle pen? This is where the high-speed rolling mill will be installed! Any slight tilt will send the spinning steel ingot flying out like a cannonball and smash your heads!"
The American surveyors looked helpless but dared not argue.
They knew that although the Prussian man had a terrible temper, his skills were undeniable.
"Mr. Haas."
Coleman walked over and handed him a hot cup of coffee.
"Calm down. This new batch of fellows is strong and obedient. You can teach them yourself how to do things."
Haas took the coffee and snorted.
"What good is strength? I need discipline. Discipline like the Prussian army."
He glanced at the young men lining up for tools, a hint of fastidiousness in his eyes.
"I hope they can tell the difference between a shovel and a measuring stick," Haas mumbled. "Tell them that if anyone dares to mix even one extra lump of mud into my concrete, I will throw him into Newark Bay to feed the fish."
"I will relay that."
Coleman smiled. This was the process of integration.
Prussian rigor, Irish labor, American capital and management.
These three distinctly different forces were violently colliding and rubbing against each other on this muddy land, eventually fusing together to forge the behemoth named Lax Steel...
At the same time, deep within the Allegheny Mountains, Pennsylvania.
Winter here was colder and harsher than in New Jersey.
Snow covered the rolling mountains, with only the exposed rocks and black coal seams standing out like wounds on the earth.
Miller, the President of Militech, was currently sitting in a crude carriage pulled by an old steam locomotive.
The train was struggling to climb the steep slope along the narrow-gauge railway, which had just been repaired and was only three feet wide.
The wheels shrieked against the rails, and the black smoke looked especially jarring in the white world.
"How much longer can this old fellow last?"
Miller asked Rhys Griffiths, who was sitting across from him.
Griffiths was wrapped in a heavy sheepskin coat, still holding the black notebook that was never far from his side.
"As long as the boiler doesn't explode, it can keep running. Although these narrow-gauge locomotives aren't fast, their climbing ability is much stronger than those large trains."
"We have to thank that bankrupt lumber merchant."
Miller looked at the snow-covered pine forest outside the window. "If he hadn't left these roadbeds behind, we would have to wait at least another year to transport the coal and iron out."
The train slowly stopped at a temporary platform located halfway up the mountain.
This was Mine Area Number One of Saineng Mineral Company.
Although development had only started less than two months ago, the noise level here was already no less intense than the construction site in New Jersey.
Hundreds of miners were swinging picks, carving out mine pits in the frozen ground.
"Look at this."
Griffiths jumped off the train and walked over to a pile of black rocks that had just been brought out.
He picked up a piece, wiped the snow off with his glove, revealing a cross-section that shone like a black diamond underneath.
"This is the most beautiful coking coal I have ever seen."
A look of greed flashed in Griffiths' eyes.
"The sulfur content is extremely low, and the ash content is minimal. The coke refined from it can easily push the blast furnace temperature past its previous limits. With this, perhaps my formula for 'chrome-nickel alloy steel' will no longer be a pipe dream on paper."
"What about the output?" Miller was more concerned with this question.
"Currently, we can only produce a hundred tons per day," Griffiths replied. "We are limited by this damned narrow-gauge railway. Each trip can only carry twenty tons. We have to move it out bit by bit, like ants relocating their nest."
"A hundred tons…" Miller frowned.
"It's not enough, far from enough. Coleman is building a monster with a huge appetite over there. When that blast furnace ignites, a hundred tons won't even be enough to wet its whistle."
"Then it depends on Chairman Becker's activities in Harrisburg," Griffiths shrugged.
"As long as the state legislature approves the construction permit for that standard-gauge branch line, Mr. Reeves' engineering team can build a proper railway right to our doorstep. At that time, forget one hundred tons, we could transport a thousand tons out."
Miller nodded. He was also well aware that this was a race against time.
"Let's use this ant-moving method to stockpile for now," Miller decided.
"We will first establish a huge coal yard and ore yard at the transfer station at the foot of the mountain. Everything we dig up will be stored there. Once the railway is operational, we must ensure the blast furnace has an inexhaustible supply of fuel."
He looked at the miners working in the cold wind.
"Tell the foreman that for working in this weather, everyone gets an extra two glasses of whiskey per day. I don't want anyone stopping work due to frostbite."
... New York, Wall Street.
Unlike the biting cold of the outdoors, winter here was spent in warm offices and cigar smoke.
Tom Hayes sat in the President's office of Patriot Investment Company, listening to a report from his subordinate regarding the latest issues of The Philadelphia Public Chronicle.
"Sir, the response is very good," reported his assistant Johnny. "Mr. Goss is a clever man. He didn't directly advocate for us to build a railway, but instead serialized a series of articles about 'The Forgotten Wealth of the Pennsylvania Mountains.' He interviewed many poor mountain residents, describing how the abundant mineral resources there cannot be transported out due to lack of roads, leading to the current economic stagnation."
"Public opinion has begun to ferment." Johnny pulled out a briefing.
"The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce, along with several local manufacturing plants, have begun petitioning the state legislature, demanding the improvement of transportation in the western regions to secure cheaper raw materials. They don't even know that behind this is our desire to build the railway."
"This is the effect we want."
Hayes smiled contentedly, turning the fountain pen in his hand.
"Let the public feel that this is their own demand, not the greed of capitalists. This way, when our proposal is presented to the state assemblymen, they will feel that voting yes is in line with public sentiment."
He glanced at the calendar on his desk.
"Inform Chairman Becker that the time is right. Next Monday, formally submit the 'Western Mountain Railway Branch Line Construction Proposal' to Harrisburg. At the same time, have our lobbyists take checks and pay a visit to those key assemblymen on the Transportation Committee."
"Tell them that the Pennsylvania Railroad Company is willing to cover the entire construction cost for this branch line. The state government doesn't need to spend a penny, it just needs to... stamp the document."
"Understood, sir."
... That evening, Felix Argyle returned to his mansion on Fifth Avenue.
In the study, Frost had already compiled the reports from New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Philadelphia for the week into a single briefing.
"Boss," Frost reported. "If all goes smoothly, our first pour of molten steel will happen this autumn."
"Half a year…" Felix looked at the snowflakes falling outside. "The timing is perfect."
1864 would be the most brutal and crucial year of the Civil War.
General Grant's spring offensive would consume a massive amount of supplies.
And by autumn, just before the election, the nation's hunger for victory would reach its peak.
At that time, Lax Steel's first batch of steel would become rails, cannons, and warship armor, serving as the final straw to crush the Confederacy.
"There is one more thing, Boss."
Frost interrupted Felix's thoughts.
"From Mr. Sholes' side... the final design work for the typewriter has been completed. Mr. Becker said they have manufactured the first batch of ten prototypes. He asked if you would like to find a place to test the machine first?"
"Test run?"
Felix turned around, his gaze falling on the mountain of documents piled on his desk.
He smiled.
"Of course we'll test it."
"Move all ten machines to the Argyle Bank clearing center and the Umbrella Corporation administrative offices."
"Tell the copyists and secretaries," Felix said, "to take one week to familiarize themselves with that strange keyboard. After one week, I want to see all financial statements and commercial correspondence 'typed' out."
"I want this machine," he picked up a fountain pen and tapped the air, "to sound its first war drum."