The next morning, Allen was awakened by a cacophony of sounds.
He sat up from his makeshift bed and stretched his somewhat stiff body.
The church bells and footsteps from upstairs reminded him that a new day had begun.
The first thing he did was scald his towel with hot water boiled in the fireplace, then meticulously washed his face and hands.
In 1860, with its questionable hygiene, even a small habit of cleanliness could save his life at a critical moment.
"Mr. Williams, your breakfast." Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the stairwell.
Allen walked over and took the basket she handed down, which contained a piece of dark bread and a cup of milk.
This was included in the rent and something Allen had specifically requested; he needed to ensure his food and water sources were absolutely clean.
"Thank you, Madam."
"Remember to bring the basket back up." Mrs. Hudson said, then turned and left.
After breakfast, Allen emerged from the basement. He now needed information to confirm the pulse of this era.
The Bowery District in the early morning was much more "awake" than in the evening. People came and went on the streets, cargo carriages, and hurried workers formed a vivid urban tableau.
Allen's goal was clear—newspapers.
He hadn't gone far when he heard a clear child's voice hawking.
"Newspaper! Newspaper! The New York Herald! Lincoln's latest moves! The Southerners are going to rebel!"
A freckle-faced newsboy, about ten years old, clutching a large stack of newspapers, nimbly wove through the crowd.
Allen called out to him, "Hey…how many kinds of newspapers do you have?"
The newsboy stopped, looked up, and skillfully replied.
"Sir, I have The Herald, The Tribune, and The Sun, two cents each. Which one do you want? The Tribune curses the Southerners the hardest!"
"Give me one of each."
Allen said, taking six cents from his pocket and handing it to him.
"Alright, sir!"
The newsboy's eyes lit up, not expecting to encounter such a generous customer.
He nimbly pulled out three different newspapers, handed them to Allen, and didn't forget to make a sales pitch.
"Sir, you are truly a discerning person! Reading more newspapers is the only way to know about important national affairs!"
Allen took the newspapers and casually asked, "Son, do you really think there will be a war?"
"Of course, sir!"
The newsboy waved his small fist, a youthful fervor on his face.
"My dad said those slave-owning traitors must all be hanged on Capitol Hill! Then I'll join the army and be a drummer."
Looking at the newsboy's excited face, Allen's heart was cold.
War, in the mouths of politicians, was glory; in the imagination of the populace, it was adventure. Only those who truly experienced it knew that it was merely a bloody meat grinder.
But he didn't reveal this, merely smiled: "Sounds good. Good luck, little fellow."
With that, he turned and walked towards his basement.
He didn't linger on the street because he knew that these few thin newspapers contained something more precious than gold—the future.
Back in the basement, Allen closed the door and spread the three newspapers on the floor. He lit the oil lamp and began to read them word by word.
The front-page headline of The New York Tribune read with an inflammatory title: "Clouds of Disunion Loom Over the Union! South Carolina's 'Fire-Eaters' Clamor for Secession!"
The article detailed the radical rhetoric of Southern state legislators, who declared that if "the Black Republican" Lincoln was elected president, the Union would cease to exist.
The New York Herald was relatively "objective," analyzing the economic conflicts between the North and South.
"…Northern industrialists advocated protective tariffs to resist the impact of cheap British manufactured goods. Southern plantation owners, however, relied on cotton exports to Europe and needed free trade. This fundamental economic divergence is pushing our nation to the brink of a cliff…"
Allen used charcoal he picked from the fireplace to heavily underline the words "tariffs" and "free trade."
"That's right, that's how it was in history. All wars are, in the final analysis, economic wars."
And The Sun, a newspaper that catered more to the lower classes, focused on more sensational stories.
"Appalling! Escaped slave in Virginia caught and publicly flogged to death in broad daylight! Is this what our 'compatriots' are doing?"
Every word in the newspapers validated Allen's memory, telling him that the wheel of history was rolling forward along the trajectory he knew so well.
War was no longer a question of whether it would happen, but when and how it would erupt.
"According to history, Lincoln will be elected in November." Allen's finger traced Lincoln's name on the newspaper.
"Then, South Carolina will declare secession in December. Next April, the cannons of Fort Sumter will sound."
Recalling the events that transpired in American history in his mind, Allen murmured softly.
"The army will rapidly expand, from the current mere ten thousand-plus men to hundreds of thousands, even over a million. So many mouths to feed, logistics will be the Federal Government's biggest headache."
"For me, this is an opportunity."
He picked up a piece of charcoal and wrote 'canned food' on a blank piece of paper.
"Perhaps I can provide them with an answer, an answer for which they will pay a high price."
He stood up and paced back and forth in the small basement, his brain working at high speed, a clear plan forming.
"First, canning requires technology. The current canning process is too primitive, with lead-sealed seams, which are not only inefficient but also prone to heavy metal poisoning. Let me think…perhaps I can improve it, using double-seaming technology. This isn't complicated, it just requires some custom tools."
"Second, raw materials. Beef, pork, beans…once the war starts, these things will skyrocket in price. I must buy a batch of cheap and stable supplies before the war fully erupts."
"Finally, sales. I need an opportunity to get my product directly into the sight of the military high command."
He threw the paper with the plan into the fireplace, and the flames instantly devoured it.
In this era, secrets had to be kept deep in one's heart.
Looking at the flickering flames, Allen's eyes were brighter than ever before.
All the knowledge, all the memories in his mind, transformed into clear and feasible steps.
He stood at the starting point of this ceaselessly flowing river of history, holding a map to the future in his hand.
"Since there's a plan, let's begin executing it."
He blew out the oil lamp, pushed open the door, and once again stepped into the bustling streets of New York.
The first stop was the pawn shops, blacksmith shops, and junk yards, big and small, in the city.
He would use his remaining 67 dollars to build his first money-printing machine.