April 1864, New Jersey, Newark Bay.
The breath of spring had finally melted the last layer of ice on this salt marsh.
The construction site of Lex Steel Company was no longer a labyrinth of mud and scaffolding, but an iron behemoth that had begun to take shape.
The towering red brick chimneys were tentatively beginning to spew faint white smoke.
Giant blowers emitted a low rumble, continuously feeding preheated air into the belly of the blast furnace, which was built following the latest British design.
This was Lex Steel's No. 1 blast furnace.
Today, it would be lit for the first time.
William Coleman stood on the control platform beneath the blast furnace, his signature work clothes soaked with sweat.
Beside him were the Chief Furnaceman Arthur Jennings, who hailed from Sheffield, and the equally oil-stained and nervous Prussian engineer Friedrich Haas.
"Are all the indicators normal?"
Coleman's voice seemed faint amidst the tremendous noise.
"Wind temperature six hundred degrees Celsius. Wind pressure stable."
Jennings stared at the dashboard and answered loudly.
"The charging bell is full, loaded with the best limonite and coke transported from Pennsylvania."
"What about the cooling water system?" Coleman turned to Haas.
"The pump station is running at full capacity." Haas wiped the coal dust from his face. "As long as those damned American steam engines don't strike, the water won't stop."
Coleman nodded. He turned and looked at Felix Argyle, who was standing nearby.
Today, Felix was wearing a simple black trench coat and no top hat. He was followed by Frost, Miller, and President Templeton, who had just arrived from Wall Street to witness this historic moment.
"Boss," Coleman signaled to Felix, "We are ready."
Felix took a deep breath.
He knew what this moment meant.
This was not just a firing; it was the crucial step for his entire industrial empire, moving from processing to manufacturing, from dependence to independence.
"Begin," he commanded.
Coleman pulled down the heavy operating lever.
"Boom..."
A deep roar instantly echoed throughout the entire factory area.
The tuyeres at the bottom of the blast furnace shot out dazzling orange-red flames.
The preheated air reacted violently with the coke, pushing the temperature inside the furnace to a scorching fifteen hundred degrees Celsius within minutes.
The workers cheered.
But at the control platform, everyone remained breathless and focused. The true test was yet to come.
Two hours... Three hours.
The blast furnace, like a greedy behemoth, continuously devoured the ore and coke poured in from the top.
The furnace walls began to radiate a searing heat; even standing dozens of meters away, one could feel the high temperature.
"Tap hole ready for tapping!" Jennings roared.
An experienced old furnaceman raised a long steel bar, aimed it at the tap hole at the bottom of the furnace, and plunged it in.
"Bang!"
The clay plug was breached.
A torrent of golden molten iron, accompanied by spraying sparks, violently gushed out!
It flowed windingly along the pre-laid channels, like a fire dragon across the earth.
That was scorching hot liquid pig iron.
"Success!"
The cheers erupted completely this time. Workers threw off their hats, and some even embraced each other excitedly.
Felix looked at the flowing fire dragon, a faint smile appearing on his face.
"This is our blood, Edward," he said to Frost beside him.
"From today onward, our name will be in the steel of this nation."
However, this was only the beginning.
The molten iron did not all flow into the casting molds.
A portion of it was directly channeled into a nearby furnace that looked smaller but was more complex in structure.
That was an experimental open-hearth furnace, improved by Jennings based on his "regenerative flame furnace" concept and combined with Siemens-Martin technology.
Here, the liquid pig iron would be mixed with scrap steel, and under higher temperatures and more precise atmospheric control, it would shed excess carbon and impurities, turning into true forgeable steel.
Coleman shouted, "Haas, it's your turn."
Haas did not reply; he rushed toward the massive forging workshop.
When the first five-ton steel ingot, freshly solidified yet still glowing red, was hoisted by crane and placed beneath the twenty-five-ton "Nasmyth Hammer."
Haas personally grasped the handle of the steam valve.
"Clang..."
The massive hammer fell, and the earth trembled.
The hard steel ingot, under the bombardment of the giant hammer, instantly changed shape like a piece of soft dough.
Sparks flew everywhere, illuminating the entire workshop.
This was the power of industry... That night, to celebrate the birth of the first heat of steel, Felix hosted a grand "Workers' Banquet" in the construction site canteen.
There was no champagne or caviar, only barrels of dark beer, roasted whole lamb, and mountains of bread.
Thousands of Irish and German workers sat together, singing the same song about labor and the future in different languages.
Felix sat among them, holding a rough earthenware mug, and clinked it against old Seamus's.
"To steel," old Seamus shouted loudly.
"To the future," Felix responded with a smile.
At a nearby table, Coleman, Jennings, and Haas—three engineers from different nations who had once disliked each other—were now huddled together, heads touching.
The tablecloth in front of them was covered with sketches soaked in beer.
"The design of that tap hole still needs changing," Jennings pointed to a spot. "The flow rate is too fast; it easily damages the runner."
"That's a refractory brick problem," Haas countered. "We need to switch to a new formula. Perhaps add some magnesia?"
"I will have Griffith test it," Coleman said. "But right now, we need to solve the problem with the rolling mill. The order for the first batch of rails is due next month."
Watching this scene, Felix felt a deep sense of peace.
He knew that these three men, along with Griffith and Becker, were the sharpest swords in his hand.
As long as they were present, Lex Steel would be more than just a factory.
It would be an ever-evolving industrial sanctuary... Just as the furnace fires of Newark Bay lit up the night sky.
Washington, War Department.
Secretary Stanton was sitting in his office, trying out the "Standard Typewriter" that had just been delivered.
"Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack..."
Although his movements were still a little clumsy, he had already fallen in love with this mechanical rhythm.
A document approving the "Militech's New Breech-Loading Steel Cannon R&D Project" was appearing line by line on the white paper as he typed.
"Mr. Secretary," his secretary walked in. "Word came from the White House. President Lincoln... wants to see you."
"Now?"
Stanton glanced at the clock on the wall; it was already ten o'clock at night.
"Yes, it's urgent." The secretary's expression was grave. "It seems to be about the Southern front. General Grant's spring offensive... has run into some trouble."
Stanton's fingers stopped.
He looked at the unfinished line of text, his brow furrowed tightly.
The late-night rain churned the mud on the road, making it even murkier.
A black carriage stopped in front of the War Department building. Edwin Stanton pushed open the door, not bothering with an umbrella, and pulling his rain-soaked overcoat tighter, he hurried into the White House portico.
Just half an hour earlier, he had been in his office, typing documents on his newfangled standard typewriter, enjoying the sense of order that machinery brought.
But an urgent summons from the White House shattered it all.
This was the eve of General Grant's "Spring Offensive." The Potomac Corps, with its 120,000 troops, had already gathered on the north bank of the Rapidan River, while on the south bank, in the dense jungle known as 'The Wilderness,' Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia lay like a lurking beast, quietly awaiting its prey.
The door to the President's office was ajar.
Stanton pushed the door open and entered.
The room was filled with smoke, and President Abraham Lincoln stood with his back to the door, looking out the window.
His gaunt and tall figure, stretched by the gaslight, appeared exceptionally long and exceptionally lonely.
"Mr. President," Stanton called softly.
Lincoln slowly turned around. His face was somewhat pale, and his deep-set eyes were bloodshot. He held no documents in his hand, only an extinguished pipe.
"Edwin, you're here," Lincoln's voice was hoarse, conveying a deep weariness. "Please sit."
Stanton did not sit immediately.
"What happened? Is there a change on the front?"
"No, the front is quiet. Too quiet."
Lincoln walked to the large battle map, his finger tracing the green-marked area on the south bank of the Rapidan River.
"Grant told me he plans to launch the river crossing operation the day after tomorrow. But he has a concern."
"What concern?"
"Artillery," Lincoln looked up at Stanton.
"General Henry Hunt (Commander of the Potomac Corps Artillery) sent a top-secret report this afternoon. He said that while our artillery has a numerical advantage, its quality is worrying."
Lincoln picked up the report from the table and handed it to Stanton.
"Look. Hunt says that in recent training, although the bursting incidents of the parrott gun have decreased, the gunners' psychological trauma has not disappeared. Facing the upcoming high-intensity combat, especially in complex terrain like 'The Wilderness,' if we need continuous fire suppression, can our existing cast-iron artillery be reliable?"
Stanton took the report and quickly scanned it. It was the most genuine anxiety of a front-line commander.
Soldiers not trusting their weapons is more terrifying than the enemy.
"So that's it. Then there's no problem, Mr. President."
Stanton put down the report, a confident expression on his face.
"I was just about to report the good news to you tomorrow."
"Good news?"
"Yes."
Stanton took out the final acceptance form for the "Five Hundred parrott gun Modification Plan" from his briefcase.
"Regarding General Hunt's concerns, I have already found a solution. And the solution is currently on its way."
"Are you referring to Argyle' modification plan?" Lincoln seemed to recall something.
"Exactly," Stanton nodded.
"Militech has been working three shifts for the past three months. Just yesterday afternoon, the last batch of modified twenty-pound parrott gun were loaded onto a special train of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company."
"Five hundred?" Lincoln's eyes lit up. "All completed?"
"Yes, that's right, all completed," Stanton replied with certainty.
"Every cannon has undergone violent testing with double charges at their firing range. Argyle assured me that those gun barrels, reinforced with 'prometheus alloy' linings, are even sturdier than the heavy artillery in our fortresses. They will not explode, absolutely not."
"Five hundred..."
Lincoln paced back and forth in the room, his steps noticeably lighter.
"If these five hundred cannons are all deployed to General Hunt's front-line artillery regiments... then our soldiers will have something to rely on."
"Where is the special train now?" Lincoln pressed.
"According to the schedule, it should pass through Baltimore tonight," Stanton glanced at his pocket watch. "By noon tomorrow, they will arrive at the Washington Armory's transfer station. I have already arranged for the Quartermaster Department's wagon train; as soon as they are unloaded, they will be immediately transported to the front. The day after tomorrow... they will just make it for General Grant's river crossing operation."
"Good, excellent."
Lincoln let out a long sigh, a smile finally appearing on his face. This was indeed good news for him.
It was an election year, after all, and if the front suffered a defeat, his re-election would be uncertain.
"Edwin, you and that young man have solved an urgent problem for me."
But he quickly reined in his smile, his gaze returning to the map.
"But, Edwin," Lincoln's voice deepened, "this is only temporary. Modifying old cannons is, after all, only a stopgap. General Lee's defensive lines are becoming increasingly strong, and we need a stronger hammer."
Lincoln looked at Stanton, "I hear the Prussians are equipping a new type of all-steel breech-loading cannon? Fast firing, powerful. Can we... buy them?"
"We can't buy them," Stanton shook his head, speaking frankly. "Besides, our budget can't sustain it, and there isn't enough time. Even at the fastest, it would take half a year for Krupp's cannons to be shipped over."
Lincoln's eyes dimmed slightly.
Stanton changed the subject, "However, just because we can't buy them doesn't mean we can't make them."
"What do you mean?"
"It's still Argyle' submitted plan."
Stanton took out another document from the interlayer of his briefcase—it was the research and development intention letter for an "all-steel breech-loading field gun" that Felix had proposed during their meeting two days prior.
"The steel mill he built in New Jersey has already started operations. He also recruited the best engineers from Europe. He mentioned this idea to me when he came to deliver the typewriters."
Stanton pointed to the sketch on the document.
"He promised that with a five hundred thousand dollar investment from the War Department, utilizing Militech's technical reserves and Lex Steel's future production capacity, he would develop a new type of steel cannon for the Union... one that would be completely on par with Krupp's."
"War Department funding?" Lincoln was somewhat surprised. "Then who would own the cannons designed?"
"We haven't discussed that with him yet, but I think Felix, as a shrewd businessman, should know that relying on the nation will lead to the best development," Stanton smiled.
"Of course," Stanton spread his hands, "this project is still just on paper. Not even a single gun barrel has been made yet. But I've seen his machines in Connecticut, and I've seen the look in the eyes of his engineers."
"Mr. President," Stanton said solemnly, "if anyone in America can build this thing the fastest, it's him."
Lincoln picked up the intention letter and, by the light of the gas lamp, examined it carefully.
"Lex Steel..." he murmured the name. "Sounds tough."
Lincoln put down the document, his gaze becoming resolute.
"Alright, then give him all the convenience he needs. If he can really build this thing..."
"I'll have Congress award him a medal."
...The next day at noon, Washington Armory transfer station.
A long whistle blew.
A heavy freight train with thirty carriages, spewing black smoke, slowly pulled into the platform.
The quartermasters and artillerymen who had been waiting there immediately gathered around.
The carriage doors were pulled open. Renovated parrott gun, brushed with rust-proof oil, were quietly secured to the car planks. The cold-gleaming alloy lining around the muzzle was particularly dazzling in the afternoon sun.
"Quick... unload!"
The quartermaster shouted loudly, "Bring the mules! The Potomac Corps is waiting for these treasures!"
**********
Argyle Bank Tower, top floor, Chairman's office.
"Boss, a telegram from Secretary Stanton. The five hundred modified cannons have been received, and the President is very satisfied. Also..."
He paused, a look of joy on his face.
"Regarding the research and development plan for the 'new type of breech-loading steel cannon,' the War Department has officially approved fifty thousand dollars in funding for Militech. And not only have they given us priority purchasing rights, but they have also specially approved a pass, allowing our engineers and materials unrestricted access to any federally controlled ports and railways during wartime."
Upon hearing this, Felix smiled silently. It seemed the President had agreed to Militech's association with the War Department.
The five hundred modified cannons were just the first step in establishing his credit with the War Department.
And that newly approved research and development plan was what he truly wanted.
The money had arrived, and so had the trust.
"Notify Coleman and Haas, since Lex Steel's No. 1 blast furnace has been ignited, don't let it sit idle."
"Although the blueprints for the new cannons haven't been finalized, the trial production of steel can begin."
"I want them to quickly smelt that alloy steel capable of withstanding the highest chamber pressure for me."
"When the design blueprints are drawn, I don't want a single minute to be wasted due to material issues."
Felix leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"The war continues, and my business... has just begun."
The spring of 1864 not only thawed the frozen soil of Virginia but also awakened the dormant prairies of Nebraska.
Platte River Valley, the main house of Cartwright Ranch.
This place, once a symbol of the local powers' entrenched fortress, had now changed hands.
Ben Cartwright's huge cowhide sofa had been moved out, replaced by a long table covered with the Metropolitan Trading Company's latest regional map.
Bill sat at the head of the long table.
He wore a well-tailored Western trench coat, held a cigar in his hand, and his eyes carried the composure and authority befitting a man in power.
Beside him sat Rambo, the legendary figure of the Action Department, who maintained the constant vigilance of a leopard.
"The Boss's telegram has arrived."
Bill pushed a newly translated document to the center of the table.
"Things in Washington are settled. Union Pacific Railroad Company fulfilled their promise. All the land under Cartwright's name, as well as the priority purchase rights for three other key ranches along the Platte River Valley, now belong to Argyle."
"What about that old guy?"
Rambo asked, his voice still hoarse and deep.
"Him?" Bill sneered.
"He's in a New York prison, awaiting his trial. I hear that to reduce his sentence, he spilled everything about Durant and the Union Pacific's dirty dealings. Right now, he is the most useful pawn we have."
"Enough about him."
Bill stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the vast land that now belonged to the Metropolitan Trading Company.
"Now, this is our territory. We need to manage it."
"Rambo. Your men can't stay here indefinitely under the guise of an exploration team. That's too conspicuous."
"I know." Rambo nodded.
"But my men cannot withdraw. Slade is dead, but many of his subordinates have become bandits and are still watching us from North Platte. If we leave, the ranchers and workers here could very likely be crushed like ants by them."
"You don't need to withdraw." Bill smiled. "The Boss gave you a new identity in the telegram."
He took a document out of his briefcase—a letter of appointment recently signed by the Nebraska Territory government.
"'Saineng Mining Company Corporate Security Force.'" Bill read the name aloud.
"You have the legal right to bear arms and are responsible for protecting all assets under the company's name, including the safety of mines, ranches, and railway spurs. You have the authority within the territory to arrest anyone attempting to damage company property and hand them over to federal marshals."
"Security Force?" A playful curve appeared on Rambo's lips. "That sounds much better than 'exploration team.'"
"Not only that," Bill continued, "the Boss has also authorized the establishment of a permanent base here. Build a fortress on the site of that abandoned sawmill, Rambo. A fortress capable of housing five hundred men, with independent water sources, a granary, and an armory."
"Five hundred men?" Rambo was slightly surprised. "We only have one hundred."
"The rest of the men are already on their way." A sharp glint flashed in Bill's eyes.
"The third batch of immigrants brought by the 'Cloverleaf Project'—besides those going to New Jersey for steelmaking—includes two hundred sturdy young men who voluntarily signed up to venture out West. They will arrive in Omaha next week."
"Your mission is to train these two hundred Irish farmers, who are accustomed to holding hoes, into 'security guards' who can ride, shoot, and protect our cattle from horseback."
"That won't be an easy job."
Although Rambo complained, a hint of excitement shone in his eyes. He liked the challenge.
"Also," Bill added, "the Boss specifically instructed us. We need not only guns but also the support of the people."
"The support of the people?"
"Yes."
Bill pointed to the small ranches scattered throughout the Platte River Valley on the map.
"Now that Cartwright has fallen, the small ranchers he oppressed are currently in a state of panic. They fear we might be the next, even greedier wolf."
"So we must tell them. We are not wolves, but partners."
"Starting next month, the Metropolitan Trading Company will establish a 'Live Cattle Purchasing Center' in Omaha. I will openly purchase all qualified beef cattle at a price five percent higher than the Chicago futures market. This includes not only our own ranches but also those of the small ranchers."
"Furthermore," he dropped a bombshell, "we will provide low-interest loans to all ranchers willing to sign long-term supply contracts with us, to be used for purchasing breeding cattle and improving pastures. The loans will be provided by Argyle Empire Bank."
Listening to this, Rambo couldn't help but exclaim, "The Boss intends to turn all of Nebraska into his private garden."
"Exactly."
Bill took a deep breath of the air, which carried the fragrance of soil.
"Paving the way with guns, and laying the road with money. This is the new order the Boss taught us."
**********
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Chicago.
Philip Armour, the former meat processing giant, was sitting in his cigar-smoke-filled office, looking at a report from Omaha.
His face was terribly grim.
"A five percent premium?"
He slammed the report onto the desk.
"Bill, that lunatic! What is he trying to do? Does he want to monopolize all the cattle?"
"Sir," his assistant said cautiously, "it's not just the premium. They are also offering loans. Many ranchers who originally supplied us are now wavering."
"Wavering?" Armour sneered. "They are planning betrayal!"
He stood up and paced back and forth in the office.
He had thought that after the last "settlement," Argyle would be content to stick to his canning business.
He never expected the opponent's reach to extend so far, directly into his raw material source in Nebraska.
This was pulling the rug out from under him.
If he lost a stable supply of live cattle, his slaughterhouses in Chicago would have to shut down.
His refrigerated cars would run empty. His slaughtering empire would collapse.
"We absolutely cannot let them succeed," Armour said through gritted teeth.
"But... Sir, what can we do?" The assistant spread his hands helplessly.
"Engage them in a price war? Argyle has a bank and military contracts. We can't compete with him financially. Use force? You saw what happened to that old man Cartwright."
Armour fell silent.
He knew his assistant was right. If they fought head-on, whether with money or violence, he had no chance of winning.
But he was unwilling to give up.
His gaze fell upon an old newspaper on the corner of his desk.
It was a report from a few months ago about the "Nebraska Massacre."
Although the commotion had been quelled, it gave Armour an idea.
"Perhaps I don't need to do it myself," Armour said slowly, a hint of cunning flashing in his eyes.
"Argyle is making such a big move in Nebraska, it surely isn't just about raising cattle. He must have other objectives."
"For example... the Railway."
"The Railway?" The assistant was confused.
"Exactly." Armour pointed to the map.
"Look. The Platte River Valley is the inevitable route for the Union Pacific Railroad mainline. Argyle buying that land is equivalent to seizing the Railway Company's throat."
"Although they are currently allied, it's only a temporary exchange of interests. Even though Durant has been arrested, the real bosses behind Union Pacific will never tolerate someone controlling their lifeline long-term."
Armour lowered his voice.
"If only we can... can sow discord between them. Or, offer Union Pacific a solution to the land problem that doesn't require Argyle."
"Are you suggesting..." The assistant seemed to understand.
"Go contact Crane's successor."
"The man named... Sidney Dillon. I hear he is Chairman Ames's confidant and a thoroughly mercenary fellow."
A cold, sinister smile appeared on Armour's face.
"Tell him that the Armour Company is willing to provide Union Pacific with comprehensive logistical support for future railway construction. Provided they are willing to reconsider the 'ownership' of the Platte River Valley land."
"An enemy's ally is not necessarily an ally forever."
Armour looked out at the bustling Chicago outside the window.
"If the profit is great enough, an ally... can also become prey."
**********
New York, Fifth Avenue.
Felix was unaware of the conspiracy brewing in Chicago.
At this moment, he was facing a more direct, yet sweeter, annoyance.
"This is... everything?"
He looked at the exquisite gift boxes and letters from all over Europe piled high on his desk and asked somewhat helplessly.
"Yes, Boss." Frost suppressed a laugh.
"Ever since the news of Mr. Morgan's 'unfortunate accident' and your 'strategic cooperation' with Chairman Ames reached Europe, these things have been pouring in."
"Black tea from London, silk from Paris, and even... opera tickets from Vienna."
Frost picked up a gilded invitation card.
"This was sent by Mr. Leroy of the Rothschild family. He invites you and Miss O'Brien to attend the 'New World Investment Salon' being held in Paris next month."
"New World Investment Salon?" Felix raised an eyebrow. "That name sounds... like it was prepared specifically for me."
"In fact, it was," Frost replied.
"Mr. Leroy hinted in his letter that the European financial world is very interested in your 'Cloverleaf Project' and the future of Lex Steel. They hope to have an opportunity to learn more about it."
Felix put down the invitation and walked to the window, falling into contemplation as he looked at the early spring scenery outside.
Perhaps this was more than just an invitation.
It should be an olive branch extended by the European old money, and also an entry ticket.
A ticket to the exclusive club of global top capital, composed of the Rothschild family, Barings, and others.
Perhaps this was a good opportunity... After thinking for a long time, Felix turned around, a confident smile on his face.
"Tell Mr. Leroy that I will go."
"However, not now."
"I have more important things to do right now."
He pointed to the R&D progress chart for the "New Breech-Loading Steel Cannon" on his desk.
"Wait until the day my first steel cannon is fired along the Potomac River."
"Then I will go to Paris and personally reap the glory that belongs to me."
Brooklyn, Argyle United Industrial Zone.
At six in the morning, the factory whistle blew loudly.
Thousands of workers streamed towards the factory gates.
Most were wearing gray coarse cloth work clothes, carrying tin lunch boxes.
In the crowd, the heavily accented Irish language was becoming increasingly common.
This was the change brought about by the Cloverleaf Project.
New immigrants filled the vacancies left by military conscription, becoming the city's new muscle.
Jones, the president of the Food Company, stood by the window of his second-floor office, holding a cup of strong coffee.
He watched the flow of people below, his brow slightly furrowed.
"Two more canning machines broke down yesterday?" he asked without turning around.
Sullivan, the production manager standing behind him, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"That's right, the orders are overwhelming.
Fifty thousand portions for the Prussians, the additional order from the War Department, and all that damned Nebraska beef."
"The cattle Bill sent?"
"Too many," Sullivan complained.
"Three carloads just arrived yesterday.
If we don't slaughter and process them immediately, the corrals will be overflowing.
Those cattle have been locked in the cars for a week and they're very agitated."
Jones turned around.
"Then start a night shift.
If machines break, fix them; if people get tired, replace them.
Go to the immigrant settlement and hire two hundred more.
Tell them that as long as they are willing to work, they will eat meat."
"Understood."
Sullivan nodded.
"One more thing, Dr. Thorne's side..."
"What about him?"
"He's very unhappy with our sanitation conditions."
Sullivan gave a wry smile.
"He took a tour of the slaughter workshop yesterday and said the cracks in our floorboards were full of 'bacteria.'
He demands that we must wash the floor with that pungent carbolic acid solution every time shifts change."
"Do as he says."
Jones did not hesitate.
"The Boss said that sanitation issues must be taken seriously.
We are selling military rations, not poison."
**********
Ten o'clock in the morning, Fifth Avenue.
Felix Argyle sat in his study, holding a copy of The New York Tribune.
The front-page headline was about General Grant massing his troops at the Rapidan River.
But in the corner of the business section, there was an inconspicuous piece of news:
"Union Pacific Railroad Company stock continues to rebound, new bonds are selling out fast in London."
Felix put down the newspaper and looked at Frost sitting opposite him.
"It seems our British friends are being very cooperative."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost was fiddling with the standard typewriter, skillfully tapping the keys.
"Mr. Ashworth sent a telegram.
The first five million dollars in bonds sold out within three days.
Investor enthusiasm is high.
They believe that with your 'security,' there will be no more incidents during the railway construction."
"What about Morgan?" Felix asked.
"He's quiet," Frost replied.
"Word from London is that Junius Morgan is handling his son's funeral arrangements.
Peabody Bank recently scaled back its operations in America, seemingly trying to mitigate risk."
"The old lion is licking his wounds."
Felix stood up and walked to the map.
"But he won't stay down forever.
Keep a close eye on him."
"Yes."
"What is on the schedule today?"
"This morning, you are scheduled to inspect the construction site of St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital."
Frost glanced at the schedule.
"In the afternoon, Mr. Coleman is returning from New Jersey and needs to report to you on the rolling mill installation progress."
"Prepare the carriage."
**********
Lower Manhattan, on the edge of Five Points.
What was once wasteland had been turned into a huge deep pit.
Hundreds of workers were busy at the bottom of the pit, laying the hospital's foundation.
Catherine O'Brien, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, stood on the wooden walkway at the edge of the construction site.
Her skirt hem was spotted with mud, but she paid it no mind.
Standing beside her was the architect, Richard Upjohn.
Catherine pointed to a spot on the blueprint.
"The connection point for the sewage pipes here—have the people from City Hall been by yet?"
"They have," Upjohn nodded.
"That supervisor named Hall was surprisingly cooperative and even offered to help us coordinate the street excavation permits."
Catherine smiled and looked down into the pit.
"We need to speed up.
Although winter is over, spring flu and typhoid fever are coming again.
This community needs beds."
Felix's carriage stopped by the roadside.
He stepped out of the carriage and did not interrupt Catherine's work, choosing instead to stand quietly and watch.
Catherine had changed greatly in the past two years.
She was no longer the accountant who only circled figures in ledgers, nor was she the girl who needed his protection.
She was becoming a true manager, a leader who could stand on her own.
After finishing her instructions, Catherine turned and saw Felix.
"You're here."
She walked over, her face showing a tired but fulfilled smile.
"How is the progress?"
Felix handed her a clean handkerchief.
Catherine took it and wiped the dust from her cheek.
"Faster than expected.
The foundation will be laid next week.
Upjohn just said that if we can guarantee the steel supply, the building can be topped off before winter."
"The steel won't be a problem," Felix promised.
"The first batch of H-beams from Lex Steel will be prioritized for delivery here."
"And the nursing school," Catherine added.
"Sister Margaret has already selected the first thirty students.
They are all literate young nuns.
Dr. Thorne is currently compiling their textbooks on discipline regarding sterilization, anatomy, and nursing."
"Discipline," Felix repeated the word.
"This is crucial.
We are not training nannies; we are training soldiers.
On this battlefield full of germs and death, they are the last line of defense."
**********
Three o'clock in the afternoon, Argyle Bank Building.
William Coleman walked into Felix's office, dusty from travel.
His work clothes carried the distinct smell of sea brine and rust from New Jersey.
"Boss."
Coleman spread a roll of blueprints on the table.
"This is the rolling mill design drawing after Mr. Haas's modifications."
Felix looked down.
On the blueprint, the massive machine resembled a crouching steel behemoth: enormous gears, thick drive shafts, and the core reversible rolling stand.
"The power system is a major problem," Coleman said, pointing to a corner of the blueprint.
"To drive this thing, we need a two-thousand-horsepower steam engine.
America can't build it.
No one in either Philadelphia or Boston has made one that large."
"Krupp won't sell to us either?"
"Haas wrote to ask," Coleman shook his head.
"Mr. Krupp is still angry.
He wrote back saying that unless Haas goes back and apologizes on his knees, we shouldn't dream of buying a single screw from Essen."
"Ha..."
Felix chuckled.
"That old Prussian, his pride is harder than his cannons."
"What should we do then?"
"Go to England."
Felix's finger tapped Manchester on the map.
"Go find the Nasmyth family, or the Boulton & Watt factory in Birmingham.
The English only care about money, not people.
As long as we pay the price, they will sell us the best steam engine."
"Should I go?"
"No."
Felix shook his head.
"The blast furnace has just been lit; you can't leave.
Let MacGregor go.
He's a shipbuilder, and he knows steam engines better than anyone.
Plus, he's Scottish, and he knows how to deal with the English."
"Alright."
Coleman rolled up the blueprints.
"One more thing.
About the workers."
"What is it?"
"The new Irish arrivals are diligent, but also very aggressive."
Coleman had a headache.
"Last week, the forging workshop workers and the coking plant workers got into a fight.
Over a dozen were injured fighting for seats in the cafeteria."
"Excess energy," Felix commented, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, and once they have money, they start drinking in the nearby towns.
The police chief has approached me more than once."
Felix pondered for a moment.
"Give them something to do.
Besides work, build them a club."
"A club?"
"Yes, build a large wooden house right next to the factory area.
Put tables inside and sell cheap beer.
But, set rules: they can only drink after work, and it must be rationed.
Anyone who gets drunk and causes trouble will have their wages docked, or even be fired."
"Also, build them a field on the open ground.
Buy some soccer balls or rugby balls and let them vent their energy.
Organize team competitions—forging workshop versus coking plant.
The winners get a bonus; the losers clean the toilets."
Coleman paused, then laughed.
"That is certainly a way to turn fighting into competition."
"That is management, Coleman."
Felix patted him on the shoulder.
"You must learn to harness this power.
They are iron ore, full of impurities and sharp edges.
Your job is to throw them into the furnace and refine them into steel."
**********
After seeing Coleman off, dusk had fallen.
The lights of Wall Street began to turn on.
Felix stood by the window, looking at the city.
He could even vaguely see the chimneys of Brooklyn and the firelight of New Jersey, as well as the construction site at Five Points, and the people rushing through the streets to make a living.
His empire was running.
Every gear, every screw, every worker, roared loudly under his will.
"Boss."
Frost pushed the door open and entered, holding a telegram.
"News from Washington?"
"Yes."
Frost's expression was somewhat serious.
"A private letter from Secretary Stanton.
He says Congress just passed a new conscription Bill.
The scale is massive—half a million men."
"Half a million..." Felix narrowed his eyes.
"This means," Frost whispered, "that General Grant's spring offensive will be an unprecedented bloodbath."
Felix fell silent.
A bloodbath.
This meant more orders, more profit.
But it also meant more death.
"Tell Miller to increase the ammunition factory's capacity by another twenty percent."
"Also, have the Umbrella Corporation prepare enough bandages and medicine."
"A new storm has arrived."
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
The morning on Chestnut Street was awakened by the shouts of newsboys.
In this city, simultaneously enveloped by Quaker traditions and industrial smoke, a new issue of The Philadelphia Public Chronicle had just hit the streets.
The front page featured a hand-drawn map of the Allegheny Mountains.
The headline, in bold black type, read: "The Sleeping Dragon—Who is Hindering Pennsylvania's Prosperity?"
Tom Hayes sat in the office of the newspaper's editor-in-chief, Franklin Goss, his feet casually propped by the polished coal stove.
He held a newspaper, redolent with the smell of ink, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Mr. Goss," Hayes tapped the newspaper, "this article is very powerful. 'The forgotten western mountains,' 'millions of tons of wealth waiting to be mined,' and that story about 'miner families starving due to poor transportation'... I was almost moved."
Goss sat behind his desk, his expression somewhat stiff.
Ever since accepting the debt restructuring from Argyle Bank, this once proud old newspaperman had been forced to learn compromise.
"It's the truth, Mr. Hayes."
Goss took off his glasses and rubbed his temples.
"Although the story of that miner family... was somewhat embellished. But the poverty in the mountains is real, and the inability to transport the mineral resources is also real."
"That's enough." Hayes put down the newspaper.
"Truth sometimes needs a little packaging to be seen. Now, what does the Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce say?"
"It's a powder keg."
Goss pointed to the thick stack of letters on his desk.
"Since yesterday, I've received dozens of letters from local steel mills, machinery factories, and trading houses. They are all questioning why such close, high-quality coal and iron resources cannot be delivered to their furnaces because of a mere fifteen-mile gap."
"It seems they are tempted."
Hayes stood up and straightened his suit.
"Anger is the best fuel. Now, we need to take this fire to Harrisburg (the state capital of Pennsylvania)."
**********
Two days later in Harrisburg, at the Pennsylvania State Capitol.
The corridors of the State House of Representatives were crowded with lobbyists, businessmen, and anxious legislative assistants.
Matthew Becker stood by the railing on the second floor, looking down at the noisy crowd below. Beside him stood Hayes, who had just arrived from New York.
"They are all in there."
Becker pointed to the closed doors of the assembly hall.
"The Transportation Committee is deliberating the 'Western Mountain Infrastructure Development Act,' and there's a lot of opposition."
"Who is opposing it?" Hayes asked.
"Those canal people." Becker sneered.
"And those few representatives of the interests of eastern anthracite mine owners. They are worried that cheap bituminous coal flooding in will drive down their prices. Of course, there are also those old landowners who have always disliked our Railway Company."
"How many votes do they have?"
"About a third." Becker estimated, "The remaining swing votes depend on the price we can offer."
Hayes took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Becker.
"There's no check in here," Hayes whispered, "It's a letter of commitment. The Boss promises that once the railway branch line is built, Sainn Minerals will prioritize supplying coal and iron to factories within Pennsylvania, at a price ten percent lower than the market price, for three years."
Becker was stunned for a moment.
"This... this is a very significant concession."
"Compared to the appetite of that steel mill, this small concession is nothing." Hayes patted the railing.
"Moreover, this letter of commitment can immediately sway those wavering manufacturing representatives to our side. Go, Mr. Becker. Tell them that voting yes is investing in the industrial future of this state."
An hour later, the doors of the assembly hall opened.
Not all the representatives were jubilant; those old men representing canal interests emerged with ashen faces, cursing and grumbling.
But more representatives had a look of satisfaction, as if they had completed a good deal.
Becker walked out and nodded slightly to Hayes.
"Passed?"
"An overwhelming majority."
Becker's voice was light.
"The State Assembly has officially approved the construction permit for the 'Allegheny Branch Line' and granted the Pennsylvania Railroad Company the right of eminent domain for that section."
Hayes smiled; the final fifteen miles were finally connected... Pittsburgh, on the banks of the Monongahela River.
This place was closer to the Allegheny Mountains and could feel the change in the wind earlier.
Andrew Carnegie stood in his rented, dilapidated factory building.
It had once been a textile mill, now converted by him into the forging workshop of "Keystone Bridge Company."
Several second-hand steam hammers were roaring, and workers were forging thick wrought iron bars into truss components required for bridges.
"Andy!"
His partner, and his old colleague from the Railway Company, Thomas Miller, rushed into the workshop, waving a newspaper in his hand.
"Look at this... Harrisburg passed it!" Thomas shouted excitedly.
"The Pennsylvania Railroad Company is going to build a branch line! Straight to the Sainn Minerals mining area."
Carnegie put down the blueprints in his hand, took the newspaper, and scanned it.
"This means..." Thomas calculated, "A large amount of cheap pig iron and coke will soon flood into Pittsburgh, and our raw material costs will decrease. This is good news!"
"It's good news."
Carnegie's face, however, showed little joy; instead, it carried a hint of solemnity.
"It's good news for us, but for Argyle... this is paving the way for his 'Lex Steel.'"
He walked to the workshop door and looked at the barges on the river, laden with goods.
"Thomas, don't you see?" Carnegie's voice was low, "He's building this road not to sell coal to Pittsburgh. He's building it to transport all the ore to New Jersey. To his super factory."
"Then what do we do?"
"We can't wait."
Carnegie turned around, ambition burning in his eyes.
"We must be faster than him. His steel mill is only partially built, but our bridge factory is already in operation."
"Go contact Reeves. Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company is expanding westward. They need bridges, many bridges. Tell Reeves that Keystone Bridge Company can provide him with the best iron bridges. The price... lower than anyone else's."
"But Andy, that's also Argyle's company, and our costs..."
"Don't worry about the costs!" Carnegie interrupted him.
"Even if we don't make a profit, we have to get the order. As long as we have orders, we can expand our scale and improve our technology. As for the possibility of him disagreeing, it's unlikely; he's a capitalist, and as long as our price is low enough, he will buy."
"Lex Steel Company's current production is definitely not high, and he also has to consider steel for military and shipbuilding. Temporarily, it will certainly not be enough to meet the consumption of Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company. This is our opportunity, we must take advantage of this time to grow stronger!"
**********
Newark Bay, New Jersey.
Lex Steel Company construction site.
The evening whistle blew, signaling the end of the day shift.
Thousands of workers put down their tools and rushed towards the newly built giant wooden cabins on the edge of the factory area, which were the "Workers' Club" proposed by Felix.
The lights were bright in each wooden cabin, and dozens of long tables were filled with people.
The air was filled with the smell of cheap beer, tobacco, and sweat.
There were no delicate dishes here, only large barrels of dark beer and mountains of rye bread.
"Hey... Connor!"
Old Sheamus stood on a table, holding a huge earthenware mug, shouting at a group of German workers at another table.
"I heard your coking plant guys lost to our forging workshop on the field yesterday? What, not convinced?"
Several young German workers stood up, their faces flushed.
"That was a foul! That guy named Patrick, was he kicking the ball or kicking people?"
"That's football, not women's weaving." The Irish workers roared with laughter.
Just as the atmosphere was about to become tense again, the club doors were pushed open.
William Coleman walked in, holding a notebook.
The noise instantly died down; the workers had a natural reverence for the chief engineer.
"It's alright, everyone sit down."
Coleman walked to the center, not angry.
"It's good to have the energy to argue; it means today's work wasn't tiring enough."
The workers let out a burst of good-natured laughter.
"I have two announcements to make." Coleman held up two fingers.
"First, the Boss's gift of new soccer shoes and jerseys has arrived. They will be distributed to the workshop teams tomorrow. The first 'Argyle Cup' football match will be held next Sunday. The championship prize... one hundred dollars per person."
"Wow!"
The cheers almost blew the roof off.
One hundred dollars, that was half a year's wages for these young men.
"As for the second..." Coleman's expression grew serious.
"The railway branch line in Pennsylvania has been approved. In three months at the latest, the first train laden with ore will pull in here."
"Mr. Haas's rolling mill foundation must be completed by the end of next month. Mr. Jennings's open-hearth furnace also needs to start bricklaying."
He looked at these young, strong, somewhat rough but vibrant faces.
"Folks, the Boss has opened up our veins in Harrisburg. Now it's our turn to build the heart."
"Any questions?"
"None!"
Hundreds of throats roared simultaneously, the sound making the beer foam on the tables tremble.
In the corner, Haas and Jennings sat together.
"These people..."
Haas shook his head and took a sip of beer.
"They're a bit noisy. But when they work, they're as strong as oxen."
"Just give them a goal, and some beer." Jennings smiled, "They could move this entire mountain."
"Three months."
Haas looked at the blueprints in his hand—his coveted high-speed rolling mill.
"In three months, my baby will be settled. Then, I'll show these unsophisticated Americans what Prussian precision means."
It was late.
At the Newark Bay construction site, the lights were still bright.
And hundreds of miles away in the Allegheny Mountains, as the first sleeper was driven into the frozen ground, a black artery connecting the mine to the sea, connecting resources to industry, was slowly extending forward.
This was a war without smoke.
And Felix's business empire was forging its hardest backbone in this war.