In South Carolina in May 1866, the air was already thick with the humid heat of early summer.
The southern wind carried a scent of fermenting soil mixed with rotting vegetation.
To many Yankees, this was a suffocating miasma, but for the landowners here—or "agricultural managers," as they should now be called—it was the smell of money.
Thirty miles west of Charleston, inside the accounting office of Oak Manor, a ceiling fan spun feebly overhead, churning the stifling air.
Old Henry Parker took off his yellowed Panama straw hat and wiped the fine beads of sweat from his forehead with a dingy handkerchief.
As the former manor steward retained by Militech, he understood the current rules very well.
"This is last month's report, Mr. Silas."
Old Parker pushed a heavy ledger across the mahogany desk with both hands, his movements exceptionally cautious, as if it were a shell that could explode at any moment.
Silas sat opposite him.
For once, he wasn't wearing his security uniform, having changed into a breathable linen suit, but this did nothing to mask the unsettling scent of blood about him.
Even though he wasn't holding a gun, but rather an exquisite Parker fountain pen.
Oh, I forgot to mention, this was a sample sent by Standard Commercial Company.
Silas didn't even bother to flip through the ledger, instead picking up the iced mint tea beside him and taking a sip. The crisp sound of ice clinking against the glass was particularly jarring in the quiet room.
"Just tell me the results, Parker."
Silas' voice was soft, yet it carried a cold indifference.
"The Boss doesn't like looking at the process, only the numbers."
"Yes... yes, sir."
Old Parker swallowed hard, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the cover of the ledger.
"Last month, we harvested the first crop of early cotton for this year. Thanks to the new fertilizers and those northern iron plows you brought, production is up 15% compared to the best pre-war years."
"That's good," Silas nodded. "Go on."
"But..." Old Parker's voice dropped. "Costs have also increased significantly, mainly... mainly labor expenses."
"Labor?" Silas raised an eyebrow.
"I recall that according to the Emancipation Proclamation and the latest Constitutional Amendment, they are now free men. We are law-abiding citizens, Parker. We pay them wages, don't we?"
"Yes, sir, we pay wages."
Old Parker gave a bitter smile, his face showing a mix of the cunning and helplessness of an old-era slave owner.
"Fifty cents in scrip per day—that's already a high wage in the South. But..."
He flipped to a page in the ledger and pointed at the dense red ink.
"These are the accounts for the 'Company Store.' You see, these... free men, they all need to advance supplies before payday. Flour, salt pork, even seeds and farm tools. And according to company regulations, these items can only be purchased at the 'Vanguard Store' within the manor."
"Exactly." Silas toyed with the pen in his hand.
"It's for their convenience, after all. The town is too far away."
"But the prices in the store..."
Old Parker glanced at Silas' expression and said cautiously.
"The price of flour is three times the market price in Charleston, and salt pork is double. Then there's the rent for the company's mules and plows... some even fall ill and need medicine. When it's all calculated at the end of the month, some laborers not only receive no cash but actually owe the company about five to ten dollars."
A brief silence fell over the room.
Outside, the faint sound of overseers' whistles and the low chants of the laborers drifted in from the fields.
"Debt."
Silas chewed on the word, a slow curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
"What a wonderful word, isn't it? Besides, wasn't the lesson we gave them last time enough? It's not like we made them get sick on purpose."
"Sir?" Old Parker was somewhat confused.
Silas stood up, walked to the window, and peered through the slats of the blinds at the black figures laboring under the scorching sun.
"Parker, what did you use to use to keep them bound? Chains? Whips? Or hounds?"
"That's in the past..." Old Parker lowered his head awkwardly.
"Those things are too primitive, too barbaric." Silas turned around and pointed at the ledger on the desk.
"The Boss said that this is the new chain—the chain of civilization."
"As long as they owe the company money, according to the 'Vagrancy Act' and the 'Debt Repayment Agreement' we signed with the local Sheriff, they cannot leave this parish. They must continue working here to pay off their debt. Furthermore, debt is inheritable."
Silas walked back to the desk and picked up the ledger, admiring it like a piece of art, though there were parts he didn't quite understand.
"You see, in the past, you had to spend money to buy slaves and then take care of them from birth to death. If a slave died, it was a loss of property. But now? They are free men. If they get sick, it's their own problem. If they die, we don't lose any capital; we just find someone else to take on the debt."
"This is what the Boss calls the 'financialized management of human resources.'"
A chill ran down Old Parker's spine.
He had been a slave-driving steward his whole life and thought he had seen the cruelest exploitation in the world, but facing these "civilized methods" from Wall Street and Northern industrial capital, he felt as naive as an infant.
"But, Mr. Silas," Old Parker hesitated.
"Yesterday, a black troublemaker named Moses brought a few people to cause a stir. They said they were going north to complain to President Lincoln, claiming this is slavery in disguise. They also said they were going to Charleston to find the legal officer of the Federal Army."
"Moses?"
Silas narrowed his eyes, searching his memory.
"The big fellow working in the third cotton field?"
"Yes, that's him. He seems to be somewhat literate; he's read the Emancipation Proclamation."
"Being literate is a good habit, but failing to read reality is simply foolish."
Silas pulled a pocket watch from his pocket and checked the time; it was four in the afternoon.
"That federal legal officer is named Kajim, right? He's one of ours. As for going north..."
Silas smiled, a smile that carried a bone-chilling coldness.
"Parker, notify Borg. Have the laborers work overtime tonight and hold a 'Legal Education Meeting.'"
"As for that Moses, since he owes the company eighteen dollars and wants to run away, that's commercial fraud. In America, fraud is a serious crime."
"I recall that by the swamp yesterday, there were a few alligators that had been hungry for quite a while?"
Old Parker shuddered and nodded quickly. "I understand, sir. Moses will... disappear. As an example of a debt-dodger."
"No, no need for him to disappear," Silas waved his hand magnanimously.
"That's the KKK's way—too crude. Let him have an 'accident' and get injured, maybe break a leg or something. Then, because he can't work, his debt will double. Let him sit at the village entrance and tell everyone who wants to leave what happens to those who don't pay their debts."
"After all, what we want is cotton, not corpses. Dead men can't work."
Silas sat back down in his chair, picked up the pen, and signed his name on the profit report.
"Also, send out word. Starting next month, the price of flour at the company store will increase by another 10%. The reason... say it's to support the railway construction in the West, causing national grain prices to rise."
"But... they're already not getting enough to eat."
"Then let them work more," Silas said without looking up.
"I heard Umbrella has developed a new refreshing tonic called 'Coca'? Get a batch for the store. Tell the laborers if they're tired, they can have a bottle—the first one is free. Charge the rest to their accounts."
Old Parker looked at the young, cold northerner before him and bowed deeply.
"As you wish, sir."
Half a month later, the wasteland at the border of Nebraska and Wyoming.
The wind was like a knife, tirelessly cutting through this ancient and desolate land, carrying grit with it.
There were no trees here, only rolling grayish-brown hills and dried-up riverbeds.
The tracks of the Union Pacific Railroad stretched westward like a freshly healed scar, eventually vanishing at the edge of the horizon.
Miller rode a tall Kentucky black horse, wrapped in a heavy buffalo-hide coat, wearing goggles on his face.
Behind him followed a convoy consisting of twenty covered wagons and fifty armed cavalrymen.
On the convoy's flag was the logo of "Saineng Minerals," a pattern of a pickaxe crossed with a rifle.
"How much further?"
Miller roared, trying to drown out the sound of the whistling wind.
After arranging things at the coal mine, he had rushed here with his men without stopping; it was truly exhausting work.
Hearing Miller's voice, a geologist beside him with thick glasses and a flushed face tremblingly unfolded a map, which flapped loudly in the wind.
"According to... according to the previous survey team's markers, it's right at that mountain pass ahead!"
The geologist pointed to two peaks ahead that jutted out like front teeth.
"The geological structure there shows a massive fault zone; the coal seam should be right in the shallow surface layer!"
Miller nodded and cracked his whip.
"Pick up the pace! We must set up camp before dark!"
The team had been trekking across the wasteland for a week.
Ever since Allen forced Durant to sign that mineral transfer agreement, Miller had personally led the geological team and the most elite personnel from Vanguard Security on a frantic "treasure hunt" along the railway line.
That idiot Durant only saw the government subsidies per mile of track, but he had no idea what was buried beneath this wasteland.
Half an hour later, the convoy arrived at the mountain pass.
The sight before them lifted everyone's spirits.
On a cliff section washed out by rain, a two-meter-thick layer of black rock, like a black belt, was strikingly embedded in the loess.
"Coal! It's coal!"
The geologist practically rolled off his horse and stumbled over. He chipped off a piece of black rock with his hammer, examined it closely in his hand, and even stuck out his tongue to lick it.
"My God... it's high-quality bituminous coal! This quality can be used directly as fuel for steam locomotives!"
Miller rode closer, looking down at the black stone from his horse.
In his eyes, this wasn't just coal; it was the pacemaker for the Argyle industrial empire.
With coal from here, Union Pacific Railroad trains wouldn't need to transport coal from the distant East, cutting transportation costs by half.
And as the owner of the minerals, Saineng Company would hold the entire railroad by the throat.
"Rambo," Miller called out.
Rambo rode up from the rear of the line.
Months of life in the West had made him look more like an Indian.
His skin was tanned bronze, his hair hung messily over his shoulders, and two modified Colt revolvers hung at his waist.
"Boss, what are your orders?"
"Set up camp right here," Miller pointed to the coal seam.
"Starting tomorrow, have those laborers begin digging. I want to see the first wagon of coal delivered to the trackside within a week."
"We might not have enough manpower."
Rambo glanced at the exhausted workers behind him.
"And... it hasn't been peaceful around here lately. Although the sioux people were mostly finished off by smallpox after I repelled them, there are still some scattered tribes active in this area."
"Don't you have a brain? If you're short on manpower, go catch some."
Miller stared at Rambo as if he were an idiot; why had he recommended this guy to take over the western part of the Action Department in the first place?
"Didn't Bill say there are some indians who surrendered because of hunger but aren't willing to move? Then incorporate them into the labor gangs, give them food, and make them dig coal."
Rambo was a bit dumbfounded. Wait, Boss.
I just killed so many of them a while ago, and now you want me to catch them to be laborers? It would have been better to just capture them back then.
"Boss, it's not safe to bring them in. These people probably hate us to death; how could they possibly be willing laborers?"
"Tch, it's not 'us,' they hate you to death, okay? As for safety..."
Miller sneered, pulled a cigar from his saddlebag, and lit it while still on his horse.
"That's why I brought four cannons along."
"Build a fortress here. Listen carefully: not a camp, a fortress. It needs high walls, barbed wire, and watchtowers. Enclose this mining area for me."
Miller took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"From now on, this will be 'Black Gold Mine No. 1.' Tell the boys that anyone who dares to approach, whether they are red-skinned or white-skinned, if they don't have a Saineng Company ID badge, kill them on the spot."
Rambo nodded, a trace of ruthlessness flashing in his eyes: "Understood. This is our territory."
Just then, the long blast of a whistle sounded in the distance.
An engineering train loaded with sleepers and rails was puffing black smoke, slowly climbing the distant slope.
Miller watched the train, a mocking smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.
That was a Union Pacific Railroad Company train, but it would be burning Argyle's coal. What was even more ironic was that to protect this section of the railroad, their Vice President Durant also had to pay high security fees to Militech.
This is what you call cleaning them out completely.
Night fell, and bonfires were lit in the camp.
Miller sat in his tent, writing a report to New York by the light of an oil lamp.
"The Wyoming coalfield has incredible reserves, enough to support the railroad's consumption for the next fifty years. Preliminary mining has begun. Additionally, signs of small amounts of gold dust have been found, requiring further exploration. Regarding the Indian issue, the effects of smallpox are waning; I recommend approving Phase Two of Bill's 'Cleanup Plan' to completely turn the area west of the Powder River into a no-man's land..."
At this point, Miller stopped writing.
He heard a shrill cry coming from outside the tent.
Miller frowned involuntarily and pulled back the curtain to step outside.
He saw several security guards dragging two mud-covered Indian men toward the edge of the camp. The two indians were skin and bones, with scars from pustules on their bodies—clearly refugees who had just survived the plague and had tried to steal some food from the camp.
"What's going on?" Miller asked.
"Boss, we caught two rats stealing flour." One of the guards kicked one of them. "How do we handle it? Hang them?"
Miller walked over and looked into the fearful eyes of the two indians by the firelight.
"Hanging them is a waste of rope, and there's no audience anyway."
Miller pointed to the shallow pit that had just been excavated.
"Give them a shovel and a pair of shackles."
"If they want to eat flour, they have to work. Throw them into the pit and tell them: for every ton of coal they dig, they get one loaf of bread."
"If they don't dig enough..." Miller flicked his ash.
"Then bury them in the coal pile and let them become part of the coal."
After saying that, Miller remembered what Bill had told him earlier and spoke again.
"By the way, get things arranged in the next couple of days. The Boss wants me to head back for a bit. You wanted to go back for a while too, didn't you? Let's go together."
The Argyle Empire Bank Building in New York, the nerve center of Felix's empire.
On the top floor, in a massive conference room large enough to hold thirty people, the air was thick with the aroma of high-end cigars and freshly ground coffee.
Twelve people sat along the sides of a long black walnut conference table.
If these twelve people walked down the street, perhaps only a few would be recognized. But if their power were combined, it would be enough to suffocate any cabinet secretary in Washington.
This was a historic meeting. Later, Wall Street historians would call it "The First Supper."
Felix sat at the head of the long table.
He wore a dark gray three-piece suit, minimalist in cut and without any superfluous decoration; only the ruby ring on his left ring finger, symbolizing the family's power, shimmered with a faint light under the lamps.
Over six years, his business had grown larger and larger, causing the last trace of youthful greenness to fade away. His gaze had become deeper, like a bottomless ancient well that people dared not look into directly.
To his left was Catherine.
Today, she wore a deep purple silk gown, appearing elegant and noble.
As the President of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals and the mistress of the family, her status was unshakable.
To his right was Edward Frost.
A thick stack of documents lay before this chief assistant, his fountain pen ready to record at any moment.
Lined up in order were Tom Hayes (Finance), Miller (specially recalled from the West to represent Energy and Military Industry), Jones (Food), Charles Reeves (Railroads), Flynn (Intelligence), George Templeton (Banking)... "Gentlemen, ladies."
Felix's voice wasn't loud, but in the soundproofed conference room, every word was clearly audible.
"I have gathered you all here today not to celebrate. Even though our tariff bill has passed, and the harvest has begun in the southern cotton fields and western coal mines."
Felix's gaze swept across everyone.
"But rather for 'rules'."
He snapped his fingers.
Frost stood up and distributed beautifully bound documents to everyone present.
A line of text was written on the cover: "Charter of the Argyle Executive Committee."
"Although things were arranged this way before, from today onwards, we will no longer be a collection of loose companies. We will no longer be a guerrilla force directed by my phone calls or telegrams alone," Felix said calmly.
"We will be a single entity. A tight, efficient, and pervasive machine."
"This room is the brain of that machine."
Everyone opened the documents, and the contents made their hearts race. It was an extremely detailed organizational chart of power.
"All subsidiaries must remit 60% of their annual profits to the 'Argyle Family Trust Fund,' to be centrally allocated by the Committee. The remaining 40% will be used for your respective reinvestment and dividends."
"All major strategic decisions, such as launching a localized commercial war or acquiring a Railway Company, must pass a Committee vote. Of course..."
Felix paused, a slight smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"And all of you will be official directors and members of the Executive Committee. I will serve as the Chairman and hold veto power as well as final decision-making authority."
No one had any objections to Felix's words, because everything here was given to them by Felix.
Besides, they had been doing it this way before; it was just more formal now, with rules and regulations established.
"Next, down to business." Felix tapped the table.
"Hayes, what's the latest movement on Wall Street?"
Tom Hayes pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone serious.
"Boss, there's a bit of trouble at the Treasury Department. That newly appointed tax inspector seems very interested in the large flow of gold we've had over the past few months. Especially those funds flowing from the South to New York... without tax clearance certificates."
"The profits from Southern Reconstruction are too large; many eyes are watching," Hayes added.
"Furthermore, although Vanderbilt bought our steel, he is forming an alliance with several other railway companies, trying to create something called the 'Eastern Freight Union' to drive down Standard Oil's shipping rebates."
"As expected." Felix's expression was calm.
He turned to look at Anna Clark, who had been sitting in the corner without speaking.
Anna was wearing a sharp gray business suit today, holding a folding fan. As the new Committee member for public relations, the childishness had almost vanished from her face.
"Anna," Felix spoke, "you handle the tax bureau."
"No problem," Anna's voice was crisp and cool.
"The wife of the Undersecretary of the Treasury just received an 'art appreciation fee' sponsored by the Argyle Foundation. Moreover, it seems that inspector has an illegitimate son with a gambling problem? I believe Mr. Flynn should have a record of that."
Flynn nodded from the shadows: "The photos and IOUs are in the archives."
"Good." Anna snapped her folding fan shut.
"I will make him understand that auditing Argyle' books is more dangerous than auditing the President's. If he doesn't listen... the charitable foundation would be happy to fund a more perceptive inspector's rise to power."
The Gentlemen present, including Miller and Jones, couldn't help but steal extra glances at Anna.
This daughter of the Department of the Interior was now more proficient at being ruthless than they were.
"As for Vanderbilt..."
Felix stood up and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the busy New York Harbor below.
"He wants to form a freight union? Then let him."
"Rockefeller sent a telegram saying the refinery capacity in Ohio is nearing a surplus. We need more than just rebates; we need absolute control."
Felix turned around with his back to the sunlight, his entire figure shrouded in shadow.
"Reeves, get your railcars ready. Starting next month, we will provide lower quotes to Vanderbilt's rival, Gould of the Erie Railroad. Force Vanderbilt to come and talk to us again."
"Also, Miller."
"Present." Miller immediately sat up straight.
"Besides supplying ourselves, dump all surplus western coal into the East. Set the price 20% lower than the Reading Railroad's coal."
"I want those old fogies in Pennsylvania to know what it means to have a nationwide strategy."
Felix's orders were issued one by one, each representing the movement of millions of dollars, the bankruptcy of countless small businessmen, and the reshuffling of an entire industry.
The meeting lasted for a full four hours.
When the afterglow of the setting sun spilled into the conference room, dyeing the long table golden-red, Felix raised the wine glass before him.
"Gentlemen, ladies."
"In this country, some rely on votes, and some rely on the law."
"But we are different."
Felix looked at these loyal disciples, the flames of ambition flickering in his eyes.
"We rely on the ledger."
"To order."
"To order!"
Twelve crystal glasses clinked together, the crisp sound ringing out like a death knell for the old world in this Gilded Age.
****************
In June, the air at the Port of Savannah, Georgia, was thick with heat and humidity—a characteristic blend of the warm Atlantic Ocean currents and the southern swamplands.
On the docks, the clatter of steam crane gears, the rhythmic chants of porters, and the shrieks of seagulls intertwined to form a noisy industrial symphony.
This had once been the Confederacy's most important cotton export port; now, it had a new master.
Albert Beaumont stood in the shadows of the warehouse, clutching a sweat-soaked handkerchief tightly in his hand.
This planter, who once owned two thousand acres of cotton fields, now wore a linen suit with frayed cuffs, yet he stubbornly straightened his back, attempting to maintain the final shred of dignity of an old Southern gentleman.
Before him was moored the "Victoria," a merchant ship flying the British Union Jack.
The captain was a red-bearded Scotsman, pipe in mouth, looking impatiently at his pocket watch.
"Mr. Beaumont."
The captain spoke with a thick Glasgow accent.
"The tide is about to go out. If those thousand bales of cotton don't arrive soon, I'll have to sail back to Liverpool empty. You know the textile mills in Manchester are waiting for cotton, and the price is good."
"Just a little longer, Captain, just a little longer."
Beaumont's voice trembled slightly, his eyes anxiously scanning the dirt road leading out of the port.
"My convoy will be here any minute. Damn it, the mud on the road must have delayed them."
This was his final gamble.
Ever since the Vanguard United Company took control of most cotton purchasing channels in the South, the purchase price had been suppressed to 8 cents per pound.
This price barely covered the plantation's operating costs and certainly couldn't pay off the bank interest.
Beaumont had joined forces with several equally desperate old neighbors to secretly pool this season's cotton, attempting to bypass the Militech and sell directly to the British.
Because the British were offering 15 cents per pound.
As long as this shipment could be sent out, he could pay off his loans to the Argyle Bank and save his ancestral property.
"Chug, chug, chug..."
The sound of horses' hooves and wheels grinding over gravel finally came from the distance.
A look of joy appeared on Beaumont's face: "They're here! Captain, they're here!"
However, as the convoy emerged from the rising dust, Beaumont's smile froze on his face.
That was not his mule train.
It was a troop of cavalry in deep blue uniforms, riding tall horses. The leader wasn't wearing a military cap but a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, with a silver badge pinned to his chest engraved with "Special Investigator for the Department of the Interior."
It was Silas Flynn's deputy, Borg.
The cavalry charged straight into the docks, horseshoes striking sparks on the cobblestones, sending the surrounding porters fleeing in all directions.
They skillfully lined up in front of the Victoria's gangplank, their dark muzzles pointed not at people, but intentionally or unintentionally toward the sky.
"Good morning, Gentlemen."
Borg pulled the reins, looking down at the deathly pale Beaumont before turning to the British captain.
"This is a federal-controlled port."
Borg pulled a neatly folded document from his coat pocket and spread it out over his saddle.
"According to the Southern Assets Preservation Act of 1866 and the latest regulations from the Port Authority, all bulk agricultural products leaving the port must hold a certificate of origin and tax payment documents issued by the Vanguard United Inspection Office."
"This is free trade!"
The British captain took the pipe out of his mouth and waved his arms in anger.
"We are a merchant ship of the British Empire; you have no right to detain our cargo!"
"We are not detaining your ship, Captain."
A professional fake smile hung on Borg's face.
"We are simply enforcing the law. You are free to leave at any time, but not a single bale of cotton without documentation goes on board."
"Borg!"
Beaumont finally exploded, rushing forward a few steps, trembling with rage.
"That is my cotton, grown in my fields! I have the right to sell it to anyone."
"Your fields?"
Borg looked down, a hint of pity in his eyes, as if looking at a bird trying to break out of a cage.
"Mr. Beaumont, I think you may have forgotten. Last Tuesday, because you failed to pay the mortgage interest to the Argyle Bank for three consecutive months, your plantation has entered 'asset freezing procedures' according to the contract terms.
That is to say, the cotton in the fields and the inventory in the warehouse—even the horse under your seat—are legally under the temporary custody of the creditor, which is the Argyle Empire Bank."
"Selling frozen assets is called theft."
"It's a setup!" Beaumont roared.
"You intentionally suppressed the purchase price and raised the prices of fertilizer and seeds just to bankrupt us!"
"This is a market economy, sir."
Borg tucked away the document, ignored him, and waved his hand to his subordinates behind him.
"Go, seize those wagons of cotton at the intersection. Take them to Militech's Warehouse No. 3."
"How dare you!" Beaumont tried to grab Borg's reins.
"Bang!"
A gunshot rang out.
The bullet hit the cobblestone at Beaumont's feet, kicking up a spray of stone chips. Beaumont fell back onto the ground in shock, his face pale.
It wasn't Borg who fired, but a young team member at the end of the line. He blew the smoke from the muzzle, expressionless.
"Next time it'll be the knees, sir," Borg said flatly. "Take them away."
At the distant intersection, Beaumont's original convoy had already been intercepted by Vanguard Security personnel.
Most of those drivers were newly freed black men; seeing the fully armed 'militia,' they surrendered the reins without any resistance.
To them, it didn't matter who they hauled goods for, as long as they received their meager wages.
The British captain watched this scene, spat a curse, and turned to shout to his first mate, "Weigh anchor! Let's get out of this hellhole. I knew doing business with these Yanks wouldn't end well."
The Victoria sounded its whistle and slowly pulled away from the dock. To Beaumont's ears, that sound was like a death knell.
He sat slumped on the ground, watching the wagons of what had been his hope being labeled with "Vanguard Assets" seals and hauled toward someone else's warehouse.
Borg turned his horse to leave. But he seemed to remember something, stopping to look back at Beaumont.
"Oh, right, Mr. Beaumont. The Boss told me to give you a message."
"He says you're an excellent agronomist. Although that plantation no longer belongs to you, Vanguard United Company is short of an experienced cotton field manager. Monthly salary is fifty dollars, room and board included. If you're willing to set aside that pathetic pride of yours, you can report to the company tomorrow."
"Of course, you can also choose to refuse and take your family to beg on the streets of Charleston."
With that, Borg kicked his horse's flanks, and the cavalry troop galloped away in a cloud of dust.
Leaving Beaumont alone on the empty dock.
The sea breeze blew, kicking up dust that stung his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and let out a suppressed sob.
The sound of his crying was soon drowned out by the roar of machinery on the docks.
On a nearby hillside, Silas was sitting in a carriage, watching everything through a monocular.
"How many is that now?"
He put down the telescope and asked the secretary beside him.
"The twelfth major planter in the Savannah area," the secretary said, flipping through a ledger. "As of now, 80% of the high-quality cotton fields in this area have effectively been brought under the company's control."
"Very good."
Silas poured a glass of whiskey from the carriage's liquor cabinet.
"Send a telegram to the Boss: the noose around Savannah has tightened. If the British textile mills want cotton, they'll have to come talk to us. Of course, the price then won't be 15 cents."
He swirled the glass, watching the amber liquid reflect a captivating luster in the sunlight.
Having been here for nearly a year, he was becoming more and more like a gentleman.
"By the way, put that Beaumont on the 'watch list.' If he really comes to work as a manager, keep an eye on him. Capable people should be used, but we can't let them bite."
"Yes, sir."
The carriage curtains were drawn, and the black vehicle slowly drove toward the city center. The wheels rolled over the ancient cobblestone road, making a dull sound, as if it were a giant steamroller ruthlessly crushing the last bones of the Old South.
After more than a month of construction, Wyoming's Black Gold No. 1 Mine was up and running.
From here on there was no cycle of day and night, only the dim halos of pit lamps and endless darkness.
The huge steam shovel was like a tireless steel beast; every scoop tore up several tons of black coal.
Conveyor belts screeched in the cold wind, feeding the "black gold" nonstop into freight cars parked beside the roadbed.
Miller, in a coal-stained wool coat, stood atop the towering washery and looked down on this busy, brutal land.
By now the Black Gold Mine had taken shape; the barbed-wire fence ringing the site was enough to make anyone who tried to cross it regret it.
Every fifty meters stood a wooden watchtower mounting a Vanguard Gatling gun.
The place felt less like a mine than a prison.
Or rather, a semi-militarized industrial fortress.
"How's the output?"
Miller asked the pit Boss beside him, an Irishman named OMalley.
"Daily output broke eight hundred tons this week, Boss."
OMalley shouted back, trying to rise above the roar of machinery.
"The new batch of 'contract workers' are capable. A few died, but the rest are obedient."
The so-called "contract workers" were indians driven by hunger, fresh Irish immigrants recruited from across the ocean, and some blacks.
They signed five-year labor contracts in exchange for a west-bound train ticket and two dollars a day—'high pay.'
Of course, those two dollars came in the form of Saineng Company scrip, spendable only at the company store.
Except for the Irish… "How about Union Pacific? Enough cars?"
"That's where the trouble is."
OMalley frowned and spat a gob streaked with coal dust.
"That old fox Durant's been sending fewer and fewer cars—only five yesterday. Claims the roadbed's short on haulage, gives priority to ties and rails."
"Hah…" Miller snorted.
"He's testing us, figures we can't live without Union Pacific's rails—maybe wants a price hike."
"So what do we do? The coal yard's nearly full."
"Relax, don't panic."
Miller narrowed his eyes at the rails snaking westward.
"By my count, Bill should be making his move."
…A hundred miles west, Fort Laramie.
Union Pacific Railroad's forward headquarters occupied a converted luxury railcar.
Thomas Durant paced the car, agitated, the cigar in his hand burning down to his fingers without his noticing.
"No coal? How can there be no coal?!"
Durant roared at Chief Engineer General Dodge.
"I signed a check last week—thousands of tons!"
"It's not that there's no coal, Mr. Durant."
General Dodge spread his hands helplessly, pointing at the stalled locomotives outside.
"It's that the coal can't get here. Saineng wired that their washery had an 'accidental' breakdown—three days for repairs. Shipments suspended."
"Three days?!" Durant's eyes bulged.
"We've half a day's stock! If the engines stop, the track-layer stops, thousands of men sit thirsty and hungry in the wilderness, bleeding money every minute."
"I'm out of options," the general sighed.
"Only Saineng's mine nearby has the good bituminous. Haul it from the East and you're looking at a week, and the cost…"
"Damn Argyle! Damn Miller!"
Durant hurled his cigar to the carpet and ground it underfoot.
He knew exactly what this was.
A few days earlier he'd deliberately held back several cars to use as leverage, hoping to force Felix to cut coal prices.
But he'd forgotten: Union Pacific Railroad was now like a patient on an IV, and the drip bag—coal—was squeezed tight in Felix's fist.
It was a lopsided game.
Felix's coal could sit in the yard; black gold doesn't spoil.
But every day Durant's trains stayed idle, bank interest crushed him.
Besides, he still needed Lex Steel's cooperation to scam subsidies—he couldn't afford to fall out.
All he'd wanted was a small price bump, better numbers, a bit more subsidy money—why was it so hard?
"Wire Miller."
Durant slumped on the sofa, looking ten years older in an instant.
"Tell him the cars are on the way. I've got twenty empties, all for him."
He ground the words through clenched teeth.
"And… ask if that 'equipment failure' could be fixed a little faster?"
…
Black Gold No. 1 Mine.
The telegrapher handed Miller the decoded slip.
Miller glanced at it and passed it to OMalley, a knowing smile on his face.
"See? Equipment's fixed."
OMalley grinned, gold teeth flashing.
"Boss, you're a genius. Keep throttling the flow?"
"No, let him gorge this time."
Miller straightened his collar and turned toward the huge washery.
"Load every ton of stock. Durant's so 'generous' with twenty cars—let's not disappoint him."
"Also…"
He stopped and pointed at the newly built barracks on the edge of the pit.
"Bill shipped a new lot from Chicago—old winter coats and boots. Hand them out to the men."
"Huh? Free?" OMalley blinked.
"I think you've got a screw loose. Company property, even castoffs, costs money—why give it away?"
Miller shot him a look of pure disgust.
"Five dollars a coat, three for boots. Deduct it from next month's wages."
"Remember what the Boss says: we control not just the railroad's throat, but every copper penny these men own. Make them believe they can't live outside this pit."
OMalley, accused of loose thinking, dared not suggest wasting company assets.
"It's not that, Boss, I meant—"
"Meant what? If your thinking's not off, are you saying I'm wrong? Huh?" Miller cut him off, staring coldly.
He knew perfectly well what OMalley meant, but a little reminder never hurt.
He couldn't stay here forever; in the end OMalley would run the place. With stakes this high, he needed to be sure the man kept his hands clean.
OMalley shivered and nodded vigorously.
"Got it, Boss. I was wrong."
Compared to Savannah's humid heat and Wyoming's blizzards, the capital's summer carried a sticky political odor.
In a private room on the second floor of the Willard Hotel beside Pennsylvania Avenue, Anna Clark was gracefully slicing the veal on her plate.
Across from her sat a senior assistant U.S. attorney from the Department of Justice named Harvey Dent.
"Miss Clark."
Harvey set down his wineglass and glanced uneasily at the opulent décor.
"You didn't invite me today just to treat me to… what was it again, flown in from France?"
"Foie gras, Harvey. It's foie gras."
Anna smiled in gentle correction; the smile on her face was flawless, like a carefully painted mask.
"Right, right… surely not just for lunch?"
"Of course not. I'm here to congratulate you. I hear the Department of Justice is about to set up a new section devoted to interstate commercial fraud and anti-federal activities—and you seem to be the front-runner for its chief."
Harvey's pupils contracted slightly.
It was classified internal business; even many congressmen didn't know.
But considering who the young lady opposite him was, he relaxed. After all, the Department of the Interior coordinated most with Justice, so it wasn't strange she knew.
"Miss Anna, your sources are well informed," he gave a dry laugh.
"Still, it's only a proposal for now. Funding is the big problem; those grandees in Congress think it's just another excuse to expand federal power."
"Funding isn't a problem."
Anna dabbed her lips with a napkin, then took a document from her handbag and slid it across to Harvey.
"The Argyle Charitable Foundation has always been committed to social fairness and justice. We're willing to donate a 'Special Legal Aid Fund' to the Department of Justice—fifty thousand dollars a year for five consecutive years."
Harvey's hand trembled; he whistled inwardly.
Holy hell, Argyle really is loaded.
That was fifty grand—enough to triple every agent's salary in the new section and still buy the best equipment.
And it would keep coming for five years; they practically treated money as dirt.
"Well… Miss Anna, the new section is certainly strapped, but it is a government agency, so the conditions…"
He knew there's no free lunch—especially not a Argyle lunch.
"Rest assured, Argyle never makes friends uncomfortable. The condition is simple."
Anna tapped a folder on the table.
"We'd like the new section to give priority to certain… market-order-disrupting behaviors."
"Oh? Such as?"
Harvey felt a quiet relief; this sounded harmless.
"For instance, those radical union agitators in the South who stir up strikes and sabotage production. Or the anarchists out West trying to wreck railroad construction. And then…"
Anna's voice softened, yet carried an insinuation that made one instinctively read between the lines.
"Those 'commercial spies' who try to steal trade secrets or infringe patents."
Harvey opened the file; inside lay a blacklist.
It named several prominent union leaders, a few independent inventors, and a couple of small-time reporters who'd been dogging Standard Oil.
"This…" Harvey hesitated.
"Seems beyond Justice's remit."
"Harvey."
Anna leaned forward, her beautiful eyes locking on his.
"Understand: in this country, safeguarding Argyle's interests is safeguarding America's economic stability. If railroads stop, factories shut, banks collapse, that's a national-security issue."
"We're helping you—and the President. After all, Mr. Argyle and the President are good friends."
"Besides…" Anna added.
"Mr. Flynn—Argyle's intelligence chief, you've heard of him—has some material about a certain not-so-clean Boston land deal of yours from a few years back."
Harvey's face went deathly pale.
"Of course,"
Anna, seeing him stunned by the blow, instantly switched to an expression of concern.
"Mr. Argyle feels that may have been a misunderstanding. As long as you become our friend, that misunderstanding stays locked in the safe—or even reduced to ashes."
Silence. Harvey Dent stared at the donation agreement that could catapult his career, then thought of the sword of Damocles overhead.
His mouth parched, he lifted his glass and drained the red wine in one gulp.
"All right, Miss Clark. For justice."
"Yes—for justice." Anna raised her glass in answer.
Outside the hotel, Anna drew a deep breath of Washington's hot, dry air.
A black carriage waited at the curb; Flynn sat inside.
"Miss Clark, sorted?" Flynn asked.
"Sorted."
Anna climbed in, wearied, and rubbed her temples.
"He's a smart man. Starting next month, that new Justice section will be our off-the-books enforcer."
"Good, then." Flynn handed her a telegram.
"From the Boss in New York—about the 'Retail Plan.'"
Anna took it. It read tersely: "Department store site confirmed. Launch mail-order catalogue. Let every Kansas farmer spend like a New Yorker."
"Felix really is a monster."
Anna sighed as she looked at the wire.
"First he controlled how people earn money—factories and mines—now he wants to control how they spend it. Does she intend to run every person's whole life?"
"That's the Boss' closed ecosystem," Flynn added, unusually talkative.
"From production to consumption, body to soul. He's weaving a net no one can escape."
Anna gazed at the Capitol as they passed, her eyes conflicted.
"So are we the spiders in that web?"
"No, you're wrong, Miss Clark," Flynn corrected.
"We're just the engineers spinning the threads. The Boss is the only spider. And this city—even the whole country…"
He gestured at the majestic buildings outside.
"is merely the Boss' hunting ground."
Pennsylvania was restless in August.
Days of torrential rain had turned Titusville, the oil capital, into one vast swamp.
Not a dry patch remained in the streets; black crude mixed with mud came up past the horses' hooves.
At the center of the chaos stood a tavern called The Miner's Friend.
Though it was still morning, the place was packed—filthy roughnecks fresh off the rigs, land speculators on the make, and jittery independent refiners.
In a corner booth a secret meeting was under way.
'That damned Rockefeller and the Argyle behind him are nothing but leeches!'
Jack McDowell was the one speaking.
He chaired the Oil Producers' League, the last independent refinery in town, a hard man who owned six high-output wells.
Right now he was waving his beer mug in fury, foam spattering the scarred oak table.
'Look at last month's freight bill! Two dollars a barrel to Cleveland, and Standard Oil pays thirty-five cents. They're choking us to death!'
'No choice, Jack,' sighed the skinny refiner beside him, crushing an oil-soaked felt hat in his hands.
'Every railroad—Erie, Pennsylvania, New York Central—takes orders from that New Yorker. They've signed rebate deals. The more we ship, the more we lose.'
'Then don't use the rails!'
McDowell slammed his mug down; the bang froze the tavern chatter for a heartbeat.
He dropped his voice, eyes glittering with last-ditch recklessness.
'Brothers, I've lined up iron works in Philadelphia. We'll build our own line—a six-inch pipe from here to hell and back!'
'A pipeline?' The men exchanged blank looks.
In those days crude moved in barrels by wagon to the depot, then onto flatcars.
Short pipes might carry oil from a wellhead to a nearby tank, nothing more.
'A long-haul line!'
McDowell pulled a crumpled map from his coat and spread it across the beer-soaked table.
'We start here, head east straight through the Allegheny Mountains, and hit the Salem depot—an independent branch Argyle doesn't own. Sixty miles.'
'That'll cost a fortune,' someone objected. 'And if Standard hears—'
'Money's sorted,' McDowell snapped.
'I mortgaged my wells to a Boston bank. Once the pipe's in the ground we'll never have to look at Rockefeller again. We'll sell straight to New York, even Europe—triple the profit per barrel!'
Greed lit every face; fear took a step back.
'I'm in!' the skinny refiner declared first.
'I'll stake everything—better that than a slow noose.'
'Count me!'
'And me!'
McDowell grinned like a wolf at the desperate men.
'Tonight, then. All the pipe's hidden at the logging camp in the woods. We move fast—get it in the ground before that New Yorker smells a thing!'
…Meanwhile, two blocks away in a neat red-brick house sat the Standard Oil office.
Compared with the tavern's din and muck, the place was spotless—gleaming floors, regimented files, even a faint whiff of carbolic.
John D. Rockefeller, who should have been in Ohio crushing the last holdouts, sat by the window with a Bible on his knee and a simple lunch before him: two slices of whole-wheat bread, a glass of milk, an apple.
He chewed slowly, as if performing a rite.
Though only manager of Standard Oil of Ohio, the young man had the poise of someone twice his age; his eyes betrayed no feeling.
'Rockefeller.'
The door opened and a dark-coated man strode in.
Rockefeller took no offence at the lack of ceremony; after all, Miller was president of two Argyle companies, while he himself was merely manager of Standard Oil of Ohio—there was still a general manager above him.
He set down the milk, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and closed the Bible.
'Good afternoon, Mr. Miller.'
'May the Lord bless your lunch—though it's already two o'clock.'
Miller, just back from the Wyoming coal fields, was president of both Saineng Minerals and Vanguard Arms, and within the Argyle hierarchy the fixer for physical problems.
He bit into the apple with a crisp crunch.
'The hayseeds are moving,' he mumbled, mouth full.
'Intelligence just wired in. McDowell held a war party at The Miner's Friend. They plan to lay fifty miles of pipe to bypass our rails.'
Rockefeller's expression never flickered; he had expected it.
'Fifty miles,' he murmured.
'By haulage figures that's two thousand tons of pipe—well beyond McDowell's cash. A reckless gamble.'
'And if he wins?'
Miller kicked back in the chair, boots on the desk.
'If that line opens, every independent will swarm like sharks smelling blood. Our freight edge dies overnight.'
'The Boss hates loose variables,' Miller added.
Rockefeller nodded, drew a ledger from the drawer, opened it.
'McDowell's mortgage is with the Free Trade Bank of Boston. Thin reserves. I've wired Mr. Hayes—Patriot Investment will perform a little technical surgery on their notes this week.'
Miller waved it off. 'Finance is your game. I care about the mud pit outside.'
'That pipe will not be built.'
Rockefeller met Miller's gaze, cold and certain.
'God granted us oil to establish order, not to let speculators waste it in cut-throat schemes. Their pipeline would destabilize the market.'
'Speak plain, John.' Miller grinned.
'It is sin,' Rockefeller said, closing the ledger.
'Sin must be purged.'
'Got it.'
Miller rose and flicked the apple core into the waste-basket in the corner.
'I brought a crew—old hands from the Pennsylvania pits, boys of Jack Kehoe's Molly Maguires. They're restless and ready to stretch their legs.'
'Keep it clean and quick—Ohio's waiting for me.'
He was the troubleshooter; Standard's general manager Peter Jenkins was in Europe pushing kerosene, so Felix had sent Rockefeller.
'Leave no trail—we're a respectable business.'
'Relax, I'm good at this.'
Miller straightened his coat, revealing the grip of a Vanguard revolver at his waist.
'In Pennsylvania woods accidents happen—gas blasts, bear attacks…'
At the door he glanced back, smiling.
'Or some fool striking a match where he shouldn't.'
The door shut.
Rockefeller sat alone, reopened the Bible, and murmured:
'For to every one who has will more be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.'