Inside Drexel's office, a servant walked in silently and lit the gas lamps on the wall.
The dim, flickering halo cast deep shadows across the faces of the three men.
On the large mahogany desk lay a draft of a telegram covered in dense, ornate English script.
Drexel put down his quill and gently blew on the ink to dry it.
He handed the draft to Garrett and Carnegie, who were sitting opposite him.
"Take a look and see if the wording is enough to rattle the nerves of those European lords."
Garrett took the telegram draft, and Carnegie leaned in as well. In the dim light, Garrett read it aloud in a low voice:
"To Lord Junius Morgan, 22 Broad Street, London. And forward to Baron Rothschild, Paris.
The situation has deteriorated drastically. The Tiger of New York (referring to Felix) has manipulated the federal legislature to force through the Mandatory Gauge Standardization Act. This move is ostensibly to unify infrastructure, but in reality, it is a violent seizure of the logistical lifelines of those who are not his allies.
The B&O Railroad faces paralysis, and the Pittsburgh steel defense line is on the verge of total collapse.
If his conspiracy is allowed to succeed, America's railroad, steel, and emerging electrical lifelines will all fall into the hands of Argyle. By then, all European capital interests in North America will be completely marginalized or even face the risk of confiscation.
Conventional financial aid is no longer enough to turn the tide.
I implore your Excellency to immediately initiate an emergency joint intervention.
I suggest uniting several major British and French financial syndicates to exert the highest level of diplomatic and financial pressure on Washington.
Using the refusal to purchase national bonds and the dumping of American stocks as leverage, force the White House to veto the act.
Your partner, Anthony Drexel."
After reading the last line, Garrett's hand trembled slightly.
This was no longer an ordinary letter for help.
It was a draft of a blackmail letter holding the entire American economy hostage.
"Tony..."
Garrett looked up at the expressionless Drexel.
"If this telegram is sent and Morgan and the others actually take action... the Wall Street stock market will crash, and the savings of countless ordinary people will vanish. The government might go bankrupt."
"This is an act of treason."
Although Garrett was a cold-hearted businessman, as a native old-school American, he felt uneasy about introducing foreign powers to suppress his own government.
Drexel sneered and walked to the fireplace to poke the burning coals with tongs.
"Treason? John, your thinking is too outdated. Capital has no fatherland. When Felix Argyle used power and money to drive us into a corner, did he ever think of the word 'country'?"
"If this country is destined to be ruled by a dictatorial commercial tyrant, then I would rather break it and reshuffle the deck."
Drexel turned around, his eyes burning like torches.
"Besides, this is just a deterrent. Grant is a weak president; he fears war now, and he fears an economic crisis even more. As long as London makes a gesture, the White House staff will be scared out of their wits. They will force Argyle to compromise. So, in all probability, it won't trigger a crisis."
Carnegie, who had been silent, now showed an alarming level of fanaticism.
"I... agree to send the telegram."
A struggle flickered in Carnegie's eyes.
This Scotsman, who had climbed up from the bottom, understood the cruelty of survival better than anyone.
"To save the blast furnaces, and to not be looked down upon, I don't care if it causes a Wall Street crash or even triggers an economic crisis."
Carnegie walked to the desk and tapped the telegram draft forcefully.
"Send it. Tell Mr. Morgan that as long as he helps me through this crisis, London can take the most generous share of the profits from every steel rail produced by Carnegie Steel from now on!"
Garrett looked at Carnegie, then at the cold Drexel.
He suddenly felt out of place in this room.
But he had no choice.
He couldn't just stand by and watch the B&O Railroad end in his hands.
"All right then."
Garrett closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "Do as you say. Send the telegram."
Drexel nodded with satisfaction and rang the brass bell on the desk.
A moment later, his private secretary entered.
"Richard."
Drexel folded the telegram draft, put it in an envelope, dripped red sealing wax on it, and pressed his seal.
"Take this document to the Western Union telegraph office. Have it translated using our highest-level encryption codebook. Send it immediately to London via the transatlantic undersea cable."
"Be quick. I want Mr. Morgan to see this telegram on his breakfast table before the sun rises tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
The secretary took the envelope and quickly left the room.
As the door closed, the room fell back into silence.
None of the three spoke again.
They knew that when the telegraph operator tapped out the rhythmic clicks representing the code, this commercial war of attrition, originally confined to the East Coast of America, would likely escalate into an international capital showdown spanning the ocean.
Carnegie walked to the window and looked at the street outside, which had gone completely dark.
"Felix Argyle," Carnegie murmured the name in his heart.
"Do you think the web woven with rails and bills is seamless? Just wait. Soon, the counterattack from the Old World will defeat you."
Meanwhile, Drexel returned to his desk and opened a new ledger.
As the instigator of this storm, he had to plan ahead, calculating how to short those fragile industrial stocks in the potential stock market crash to seize the maximum profit for himself.
For a banker, whether it was construction or destruction, it would ultimately be converted into a string of cold numbers in a ledger.
...
At the same moment. Long Island, New York.
The Williams Estate was brightly lit.
Inside the castle, Felix stood before a massive map of America, a glass of bourbon in his hand.
Flynn stood behind him, reporting.
"Boss, our inside source at the Philadelphia telegraph office has sent word. Drexel used a highest-level encrypted frequency to send a long telegram to London. The specific content cannot be deciphered, but the recipient is confirmed to be the Morgan Family at 22 Broad Street."
Felix raised his glass for a small sip, a playful, cold smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Gone to fetch reinforcements, have they?"
"The old dog is cornered and has finally remembered his master across the ocean."
Felix turned around and looked at the estate outside, now illuminated by electric lights.
"Do they think bringing out those old relics from Europe will intimidate me?"
"Tomorrow, notify Hayes and Templeton to prepare sufficient cash flow."
A fierce light gleamed in Felix's eyes.
"If European capital wants to play, then we'll play with them."
February 20, 1870.
New York, Wall Street.
The morning chill had yet to dissipate, but the ground-floor trading hall of the Empire Bank Building was already filled with the ticking of telegraph machines and the shouts of traders.
Couriers in woolen overcoats weaved through the crowd, waving various documents in their hands.
Third floor, the President's Office of Patriot Investment Company.
Tom Hayes stood before the stock ticker. The paper tape emerged steadily from the brass outlet, printed with letters and numbers representing shifts in fortune.
Hayes was not wearing his suit jacket, only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
His gaze was locked on the codes for 'Erie Railroad' and 'Union Pacific Railroad'.
The numbers were jumping, showing an upward trend.
The solid wood door hinge gave a slight creak. George Templeton, President of Empire Bank, pushed the door open. He then locked it behind him and walked over to Hayes's desk.
"Tom, perhaps you could pause what you're doing for a moment."
Templeton tossed a file folder sealed with a wax stamp onto the desk.
Hayes tore off the paper tape and turned around.
He looked at the red wax seal bearing the Williams Family crest, his brow furrowed into a knot.
"Direct orders from the Boss?" Hayes asked.
"Personally delivered by Flynn's men an hour ago."
Templeton unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the leather guest chair. "It was encoded with the highest-level commercial cipher. I just finished decoding it."
Hayes picked up a paper knife, pried open the wax seal, pulled out the letter inside, and scanned the few lines of handwritten script.
The only sound left in the room was the ticking of the wall clock's second hand.
"Gather funds."
Hayes read out the core message of the letter.
"Liquidate all non-core secondary market stocks, short-term commercial paper, and local state government bonds. Halt all new lending operations. Convert all recovered cash into Federal Gold Reserve Certificates or physical gold bars, and deposit them in the underground vault of Empire Bank. Deadline: ten days."
Hayes put down the letter, frowning as he looked at Templeton.
"George, do you realize what this means?"
"Of course, Tom. It means we're pulling at least thirty million dollars in liquidity out of the market."
Templeton rubbed his hands together, appearing quite composed.
After all, pausing Empire Bank's branch expansion and loan business for a while was no big deal.
But he understood this task was a bit difficult for Hayes.
"Ten days. Selling off such a massive volume of assets will cause panic on Wall Street. The brokerage firms relying on our bridge loans will face defaults."
"I don't understand." Hayes paced the room.
"General Electric has just been established; the construction of power plants requires astronomical amounts of capital. The Railroad Standardization Act passed the House; the stocks of the railroad companies under our name are skyrocketing. At a time like this, we should press our advantage, use leverage to acquire more upstream and downstream enterprises. Why suddenly retreat to a defensive position? This is practically throwing away profits already in our grasp!"
Templeton stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed one to Hayes.
"Tom, don't just focus on the trading floor in New York. You must understand the Boss is watching across the ocean." Templeton lowered his voice.
"I inquired. Flynn's intelligence network has detected unusual movements in Philadelphia. Anthony Drexel sent a secret cable to London. The contact was Junius Morgan."
Hayes's hand, holding the glass, paused mid-air.
"That old fox Drexel is calling for reinforcements?"
Hayes snorted coldly, somewhat displeased.
"Does he think those people in London would go to war with us over a rundown Baltimore railroad and Carnegie's broken-down steel mill?"
"My friend, you must never underestimate Morgan's power, nor the greed of European capital for the North American market."
Templeton took a sip of water, explaining unhurriedly.
"The Boss wrote it very clearly in the letter. If the Europeans intervene, they won't just send a few people to negotiate. They are likely to deploy financial weapons. Smash the market, trigger bank runs, cut off credit."
Hayes rapidly constructed a model of the possible financial war in his mind.
"If London announces it will refuse to underwrite our railroad bonds..."
Thinking of this, Hayes murmured to himself.
"European investors would follow suit and dump American stocks, Wall Street would crash. If we don't have enough cash on hand to support the market, our affiliated companies would face liquidation due to evaporated market value."
"That's precisely why the Boss wants us to hoard gold."
Seeing Hayes had figured it out, Templeton continued.
"Cash is king. When everyone in the market is selling, and all assets are falling to scrap paper, those holding gold can buy up more assets."
Hayes threw his head back and drained the glass in one gulp.
The confusion in his eyes was gone, replaced by a bloodthirsty excitement.
"I understand. The Boss is digging a pit for those Europeans."
Hayes walked to the desk, picked up the bell on it, and shook it vigorously.
The assistant outside immediately pushed the door open and entered.
"Notify the head of the trading department."
Hayes issued the order, speaking rapidly.
"Divide our shares in 'New York Gas Lighting Company', 'Hudson Steamship Company', and all Southern textile mills into small lots. Sell them off in batches. Do not alert the market."
"Also, notify the legal department. Send demand letters to all debtors in arrears. If we don't see cash within three days, file directly with the court to seize their collateral assets."
The assistant recorded the instructions, sweat beading on his forehead.
This news was too big, almost unbelievable to him.
After all, until now, Patriot Investment Company had been consistently acquiring shares in these very companies.
To suddenly start selling them off now would likely trigger a series of unforeseen events.
"Mr. President, doing this will offend many people..."
"Are you telling me how to do my job? Just do as I say!"
Hayes glared at him, cutting him off.
Seeing the President's grim expression, the assistant wisely did not continue. After he withdrew, Hayes looked at Templeton.
"Looks like I'll be busy on my end. George, how do you plan to handle things at Empire Bank? I recall you were opening branches in other states?"
"No choice. We'll have to pause that for now. Anyway, opening branches in those states still requires approval from the state legislatures, which is troublesome. No rush. As for lending, I'll raise the discount rate."
Templeton straightened his tie.
"Then we'll start tightening credit, implementing credit quotas for all non-Argyle-affiliated enterprises. Fill the vaults. When the bomb from London drops, I want Empire Bank to be the impregnable fortress of the entire United States."
The two men looked at each other across the desk.
As old hands in the financial field, they both smelled the bloodshed to come.
After this storm passed, perhaps the map of Wall Street would be redrawn.