March 4th.
Washington D.C.
In the ground-floor cafe of the Willard Hotel, the cigar smoke was thicker than at the New York Stock Exchange.
Senators from various states, congressional lobbyists, agents of railway magnates, and reporters seeking headlines gathered here.
On the marble tabletops, almost everyone had a copy of that day's The Washington Post or The Daily Truth spread open before them.
The front page did not feature any reports on the growth of spring crops, nor did it discuss the impending Franco-Prussian War in Europe.
Taking up the entire page was Felix Argyle' unencrypted plaintext telegram.
"America's lifeline must never be priced by London's sterling."
This sentence was printed in bold lead type below the masthead, like a resounding slap across the face of every reader.
Senator Lucius Cobb sat in a corner by the window.
He came from the New England region, and his family's business was deeply tied to European shipping trade.
At this moment, Senator Cobb was stirring his black tea with a silver spoon, his brows tightly furrowed.
Sitting opposite him was the iron-fisted Representative Thaddeus Stone from Pennsylvania.
Stone was a fervent nationalist who had participated in battles to build defenses against the British army in his early years and had always harbored animosity towards European capital.
"This is a kidnapping!"
Senator Cobb threw the silver spoon onto the saucer, creating a harsh clatter.
"Argyle is using national sentiment to kidnap the White House. He deliberately packaged a commercial draft as a matter of national sovereignty, perhaps to conceal his ambition to annex the Baltimore Railroad."
Representative Stone put down his newspaper and tapped Felix's name on the paper with a rough finger.
"Kidnapping? Cobb, haven't you seen the ultimatum from those London vampires? They're threatening to stop underwriting our national debt! What is this? It's a financial Monroe Doctrine! We told the Europeans not to establish colonies in America back then, and now they want to establish financial concessions here with sterling and francs!"
"Without European funds, how will we build railways? How will we pay the military?"
Cobb lowered his voice, leaning forward.
"Argyle claims he will use dollars to take over. That's only temporary liquidity! Once the national treasury runs dry due to failed bond auctions, the entire national economy will halt. We cannot offend the world's moneybags for one businessman's monopoly dream."
"Bullshit!"
Stone cursed unceremoniously, drawing glances from those at neighboring tables.
"Argyle' money is still money. As long as the meat stays in the pot, it's better than being taken by those aristocrats drinking afternoon tea in London clubs."
Just as the two were arguing, the cafe's revolving door opened.
Anna entered the hall escorted by two bodyguards.
Today she was wearing a dark blue velvet suit, without a veil, revealing a face that was slightly plump from recently giving birth, yet still exuded a cold elegance.
As the vice president's daughter and Argyle' representative in Washington, her appearance instantly drew all eyes.
Anna ignored the probing gazes.
She walked directly to the lounge area in the center of the hall, where several veteran Senators who held key votes were seated.
"Good morning, gentlemen."
Anna curtsied slightly, her posture impeccably elegant.
A white-haired Southern Senator stood up and removed his hat in greeting.
"Miss Clark. You look well today. However, your New York friend has really stirred things up in Washington."
Anna sat on the sofa and accepted the lemonade offered by the waiter.
"Senator, nothing is broken. Mr. Argyle is merely helping you all block an impending acid rain."
Anna's gaze swept over every face present.
She knew that these politicians cared not about truth, but about votes and interests.
"I trust you are all aware of the protest letter from London capital. They demand that the President veto the railway safety and standardization act, citing the protection of their investments."
Anna put down her water glass, speaking slowly and clearly.
"But have you considered, if today they can interfere with the width of a railway track, tomorrow they can interfere with state tax rates. The day after tomorrow, they will demand tax-free zones in our ports."
"The dollars and gold Mr. Argyle poured into Wall Street yesterday were not entirely to save his own industry."
Anna timely presented her pre-prepared argument.
"Those funds took over federal bonds maliciously dumped by Europeans. He is using real money to prop up the national treasury."
"I ask you all. When your constituents read in the newspapers that a New York industrialist is using his entire fortune to defend America's financial frontier, while Washington politicians are considering how to compromise with extortionist European aristocrats... who will receive the votes in next year's midterm elections?"
This remark was like a poisonous barb, accurately striking the politicians' weak spot.
In this era, due to the popularization of the telegraph and the prosperity of the newspaper industry, public opinion had become a force that could not be ignored.
Felix's inflammatory telegram successfully shifted domestic conflicts into class and national conflicts.
Ordinary people did not understand what track gauge standards were, nor did they understand what monopolies were; they only knew that Europeans wanted to bully America, and Felix Argyle stood up to resist.
Anyone who dared to speak for London at this critical juncture might be labeled a "traitor."
Senator Cobb sat not far away, and a cold sweat broke out on his back after hearing Anna's speech.
He knew that, under the sway of public opinion, the wavering votes in the Senate had likely now completely shifted to Argyle' side.
"This woman is even more formidable than her vice president father," Cobb cursed inwardly.
Anna stood up, smoothing the wrinkles on her skirt.
Her purpose for coming here today had been achieved.
Stirring the waters, escalating the issue; the rest was up to the General in the White House to decide.
She walked out of the Willard Hotel and got into the carriage waiting at the street corner.
"Take a drive near the White House," Anna instructed the coachman.
The carriage began to sway.
Anna looked at the gray sky reflected in the Potomac River outside the window, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"Felix, you've lit quite a fire. Now, let's see how Grant handles it."
The White House, the President's Oval Office.
The wall clock pointed to two in the afternoon, and the ashtray on the desk was piled high with cigar remnants.
President Ulysses S. Grant rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Two starkly different documents lay spread out before him. One was a diplomatic note of protest from the European syndicates, while the other was the final draft of the railway safety and standardization act, which had just been sent over by Congress after passing both houses.
Secretary of State Hamilton Fish and Secretary of the Treasury George Boutwell sat in armchairs on either side of the desk, both looking equally exhausted.
"The Treasury Department's latest report."
Boutwell broke the silence, his voice sounding like a sickly, old-fashioned bellows.
"Argyle' maneuvers in New York have indeed stabilized the bond market. He bought up all the government bonds dumped by the European agents. Wall Street didn't suffer a systemic collapse. The panic is gradually subsiding."
Grant grabbed the text of the act sent by Congress and slammed it onto the desk.
"So, I should thank him? Thank him for taking it upon himself to hitch the Federal Government to his chariot and wage war against all of Europe?"
Grant's voice was suppressed with anger; even if Felix was his ally, he had truly overstepped this time.
"Sending that telegram was practically pushing me off a cliff! If I sign this act, London will absolutely cut off any further debt rollovers. Boutwell, tell me, can Argyle' money help us fill the two billion in national debt left over from the Civil War?"
"Obviously not, Mr. President."
Boutwell wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking somewhat helpless.
"Mr. Argyle' funds can only provide temporary relief, not long-term solvency. America's long-term development still relies on the European capital markets."
Secretary of State Fish interjected at the right moment.
"Mr. President, the French Minister visited again this morning. His stance remains firm. They believe Argyle' public telegram is an insult to the reputation of the European financial community. If the White House does not make substantial concessions, they will withdraw their commercial attaché from Washington."
Grant stood up abruptly and paced irritably behind his desk.
"Concessions? How? Veto the act?"
Grant stopped and pointed out the window.
"Right now, the people outside see Argyle as a hero defending the country! If I use my veto power, I'll be seen as a coward bowing to foreign capital. In this position, prestige is legitimacy."
"But."
Grant sat back heavily in his chair, interlacing his fingers under his chin.
"If we completely infuriate London, the vacancy in the treasury will paralyze this country. Felix, that bastard, has given me a choice with no right answer."
A long silence fell over the office.
This general, who was accustomed to frontal assaults on the battlefield, now had to learn how to find balance in the quagmire of politics.
He closed his eyes, and images of the crisscrossing railway lines across the North American continent flashed through his mind, along with the coal mines, steel mills, and light bulbs hidden behind those lines.
Ten minutes later, Grant opened his eyes.
His gaze regained the composure and cunning of a man commanding thousands of troops.
"Fine, I will not veto the act."
Grant spoke with a firm tone.
"The act must be signed into law. America's internal affairs cannot be decided by a few bankers sitting in London clubs. The gauges must be unified; this is a national strategy."
Boutwell and Fish exchanged looks, both seeing the shock in the other's eyes.
"But Mr. President, if you do that..."
Fish was about to offer a word of caution.
Grant raised his hand, stopping him.
"I haven't finished. The act will be signed as is. However, a presidential executive order will be attached to it."
Grant picked up a pen and began to outline his idea on a blank sheet of stationery.
"The specifics of the executive order are as follows: Considering the outstanding historical contributions made to the Union by certain broad-gauge railway companies, such as the B&O Railroad, and the immense complexity and scale of the gauge conversion project, the Federal Government will Grant these existing lines a grace period."
"How long of a grace period?" Boutwell asked.
"Ten years," Grant uttered the number.
"And not just a ten-year grace period."
Grant continued.
"The Treasury Department will establish a special 'Infrastructure Transformation Fund.' It will provide fifteen-year low-interest federal loans to those companies needing to convert their gauges. The funding source can be guaranteed by the proceeds from federal public lands in the West, used to issue special bonds to Europe."
Boutwell's eyes lit up instantly.
"Mr. President, that is a brilliant balancing act!"
The Secretary of the Treasury sat up straight in excitement.
"Keeping the act preserves the nation's face and the public's sentiment; Argyle won't be able to find fault. But granting a ten-year grace period and low-interest loans effectively removes the noose from Garrett's neck."
Secretary of State Fish also showed a look of relief.
"This way, the capital from London and Paris has a way out. Their assets won't face immediate liquidation, and we've provided them with a new investment channel for bonds backed by land. This should be enough to quell the bankers' fury."
Grant tossed the draft-covered stationery to Fish.
"Go draft the formal document. Be careful with the wording. Internally, we must emphasize our unwavering determination to unify national standards. Externally, relay a message through informal channels to Morgan and Rothschild's people, telling them that the White House has protected their core interests."
Having arranged everything, Grant leaned back in his chair and exhaled a long breath of stale air.
"Felix wants to swallow everything up; it's simply unbelievable. Railways concern the lifeblood of the nation; they cannot be allowed to be monopolized by one person. Therefore, there must be a balance."
Grant gave a cold snort.
It was true he and Felix were allies, but that didn't mean Grant was willing to let Felix unify and grow too powerful in the railway sector.
"In this country, no one is above the federal machine. Not European lords, nor New York plutocrats."
"Fish."
Grant called out to the Secretary of State as he was about to leave.
"Yes?"
"Send General Horace Porter—my confidant—to New York. Have him take a copy of this executive order and deliver it personally to Felix Argyle."
Grant stroked the beard on his chin, a hint of sternness flashing in his eyes.
"Tell that lawless bastard that this play ends here. He's kept his face, and I've kept the treasury. If he wants to keep fighting European capital head-on, he's on his own. The country will not go up against Britain and France."
"Yes, Mr. President."
The office door closed.
New York, Manhattan.
The freezing rain that had lasted for days finally ceased, and a layer of grayish-white dawn appeared over the Hudson River.
The air was as cold as a freshly polished blade, smelling of raw iron when inhaled into the lungs.
In the spacious office on the top floor of the Empire State Building, oak logs burned quietly in the fireplace.
Felix sat behind the desk carved from a single piece of Brazilian rosewood, toying with the Jade Seal in his hand.
Opposite him sat a man in a deep blue Federal Army officer's uniform, with general stars glittering on his epaulets.
General Horace Porter, special envoy of President Ulysses S. Grant.
General Porter sat upright, hands on his knees—a habit carved into his bones by years of military life.
A cup of steaming black coffee sat before him, but he hadn't touched a drop.
"Mr. Argyle, I have fully conveyed the President's message."
General Porter's voice was low and powerful, with the characteristic bluntness of a soldier.
"The railway safety and standardization act has been signed into law. However, an accompanying executive order has also been issued. The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad will receive a ten-year grace period, along with low-interest loans guaranteed by the Treasury Department for gauge conversion."
General Porter paused and looked at Felix.
"Mr. Argyle, the President asked me to tell you: this farce affecting both sides of the Atlantic Ocean must end here. The White House appreciates the funds you invested in Wall Street, but that does not mean the credit of the Federal Government can be used as a bargaining chip for your business mergers. If international capital runs are provoked again, the country will find itself in a very difficult position."
Faced with what was almost a warning, Felix's face showed no ripples of emotion.
Putting down the lighter in his hand, a gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
"General Porter, please convey my most sincere respects to President Grant."
Felix stood up, walked to a cigar humidor on the side, and selected a fine Havana cigar.
"The White House's decision is full of political wisdom. Granting a ten-year grace period both upholds the dignity of national standards and appeases those short-tempered European gentlemen. This is exactly the compromise that America needs most right now."
Felix struck a match to light the cigar and exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke.
"As for the President's concerns, I don't think they are that serious. I am a legitimate businessman; everything I do is to protect the industrial lifeblood of the United States from being stolen by foreign capital. Since the crisis has been averted, I naturally won't go around provoking European capital—there's no benefit in that for me."
General Porter looked at this impenetrable tycoon, stood up, and put on his white officer's gloves.
"I hope your words match your actions. There are still many military matters in Washington awaiting my attention, so I won't disturb you further."
"Frost, please see General Porter out," Felix instructed.
Edward Frost, who had been standing in the corner, stepped forward and led the military envoy toward the oak door clad in brass.
As the door closed with a dull thud, Felix was left alone in the office.
The gentleness on his face vanished instantly, replaced by coldness and sarcasm.
A moment later, a side door was pushed open.
Tom Hayes, president of the Patriot Investment Company, strode in.
His eyes were bloodshot, clearly from several consecutive sleepless nights, but he was in a state of high excitement.
"Boss, is he gone?"
Hayes walked to the desk and heavily placed a thick leather-bound ledger on it.
"Just a watchdog barking for Washington," Felix said, sitting back in his high-backed leather chair and exhaling smoke.
"Grant thinks he's pressured me with a ten-year grace period and a few loans, saving Garrett's Baltimore Railroad. He even thinks he won this game; it seems he's very confident about his reelection... Heh."
Hayes pulled out a chair and sat down, letting out a raspy laugh.
"If the President saw this ledger, he'd probably be so angry he'd tear that executive order to pieces."
Hayes flipped to the first page of the ledger, his finger stabbing heavily at the dense rows of numbers.
"Boss, the Clearinghouse completed the final settlement last night. In the past few days—the window when those European vampires were frantically dumping stocks and creating panic—we used our dollar and gold reserves to buy up many of the high-quality assets on Wall Street!"
Hayes's speech grew faster, as if he were reciting a magnificent hymn.
"Union Pacific Railroad: during the crash, we swept up 17% of the outstanding shares at 40% below net asset value. Combined with our original holdings, our absolute controlling interest in Union Pacific has reached 60%! Those fragmented shareholders who tried to balance us on the board have been completely washed out by this market crash!"
"Pennsylvania Railroad, 12% absorbed. Erie Railroad, 9% absorbed. And those small to medium-sized coal mines and independent blast furnace stakes scattered across New Jersey and Ohio—we gained control at bargain prices when they were on the brink of bankruptcy."
Felix listened quietly to these blood-pumping numbers, his eyes as deep as an endless night.
"Those European fools..."
Hayes closed the ledger, his face full of mockery.
"They thought selling off and shorting would force you to compromise with Washington. They had no idea that what they were dumping wasn't panic, but bloody gold! This is practically a massacre in the financial world, and we are the only undertakers."
Felix rested his cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray and interlaced his fingers under his chin.
"Tom, do you understand now why I instructed Representative Buckley to submit that railway safety and standardization act?"
Hayes was stunned for a moment, then gasped.
"From the very beginning... you never intended to actually force Garrett to change the gauge?"
"An old broad-gauge railway, plus hundreds of broad-gauge locomotives that could break down at any time."
Felix gave a cold snort, his tone dismissive.
"Why would I want to annex the Baltimore Railroad? To pay for the reconstruction costs for Garrett? It's a bottomless pit. Today, when General Electric needs massive amounts of capital to lay down urban power grids, throwing money into iron rails is extremely foolish."
Felix stood up and walked to a giant map of America, his finger tracing the outlines of Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh.
"That bill was, from start to finish, a stick used to stir up muddy water. I knew Garrett would never accept death quietly, so he would definitely go to Anthony Drexel. And that old fox Drexel, faced with this level of political crushing, his only choice would be to seek help from Junius Morgan across the ocean."
Felix turned around, his gaze piercing as he stared at Hayes.
"That Old Lion hiding in London has been looking for a chance to avenge his son who died at sea. Given a seemingly reasonable excuse, he would certainly spare no effort to incite European capital to launch a fatal blow against my financial defense line."
"I threw out the bill just to force Old Morgan to dump stocks. Only when they frantically dump the railway stocks and infrastructure bonds they held—which were originally difficult to acquire—onto the market to create panic, can I complete the final harvest of the North American railway network at the lowest cost."
Hayes broke into a cold sweat as he listened.
This wasn't just thinking three steps ahead; this was a staggering gamble that used the economic fate of the entire country as a chessboard, calculating against the White House, Congress, Philadelphia bankers, and European tycoons all at once.
"As for Grant..."
A hint of disdain flashed in Felix's eyes.
"He thought he was clever to propose a compromise. A ten-year grace period? Low-interest loans? Doesn't he know that the conversion loans the Federal Government Grants to Garrett will eventually become payments for rails from 'Lex Steel Company'? After all, Carnegie's steel mill can't meet the demand for the renovation."
Felix laughed loudly, his laughter echoing in the empty office.
"The Europeans lost their chips, Garrett took on the debt, and Grant thought he had upheld justice. Meanwhile, I've taken all the money off the table."
Felix picked up the cold coffee on the desk and took a small sip.
"This is the winner's calculation."
The British Empire, London.
Inside a luxury suite on the top floor of the Savoy Hotel, the atmosphere was a far cry from the bloodthirsty dinner party of a few days ago.
Warm orange flames danced in the fireplace.
The rich aroma of premium Havana cigars drifted through the air, mingled with the fragrance of French Cognac swirling in crystal glasses.
Lord Richard Grosvenor leaned back on the velvet sofa, his face—slightly plump from years of privilege—now radiating undisguised pleasure.
In his hand, he clutched a transcript just delivered from the telegraph office.
"Gentlemen."
The Lord flicked the paper with the fingers holding his cigar.
"The fox in Washington has finally revealed his weakness. Although Ulysses S. Grant ostensibly kept the bill regarding track gauges, his attached executive order effectively shelves the bill indefinitely."
The Lord turned to Baron Lyons de Valois, seated to his left, and raised his glass in a toast.
"A ten-year grace period, plus low-interest conversion loans backed by their Treasury Department. The Baltimore Railroad hasn't just survived; it's gained official financial support. Our note of protest undoubtedly struck a nerve with those politicians."
Baron Valois picked up his Cognac, took a small sip, and his neatly trimmed mustache curled slightly with his smile.
"It's not just a political victory, my Lord."
A distinctively Gallic shrewdness and greed flickered in the Baron's eyes.
"In the financial markets, our gains are equally satisfying. Due to the panic we triggered in the early stages of the sell-off, Wall Street's retail investors and small-to-medium funds were trampled out of the market. Although that Felix Argyle acted like a madman, pouring in massive amounts of gold to buy up shares—preventing us from absorbing enough chips at the bottom—still..."
The Baron pulled a small ledger from his waistcoat pocket.
"After Grant's statement of compromise was released, the American railroad sector began a retaliatory rebound. Using short-covering mechanisms, we executed large-scale closing operations during the early stages of the rally. After deducting interest and transaction costs, the joint accounts of the Paris Bourse and The City of London netted nearly four million pounds in just three days."
Four million pounds.
In this era, such a vast sum was enough to equip an invincible fleet or purchase several spice-rich overseas islands.
"This was an elegant pillaging."
Lord Grosvenor laughed with satisfaction.
"Without pulling too many strings, just having a friendly ambassador send a letter and tossing around some scraps of paper, we made those self-righteous New World bumpkins hand over their profits to our table."
Amidst this jovial atmosphere, Junius Morgan, sitting in the head seat of the suite, appeared unusually silent.
Still dressed in that funeral-black suit, the glass before him remained untouched.
His gaze bypassed the two old foxes before him, staring intently at the flickering flames in the fireplace as if searching for the shadow of an enemy within.
"Mr. Morgan."
Baron Valois noticed something was off, restrained his smile, and asked tentatively.
"You don't seem satisfied with this outcome? If you feel the profit distribution ratio needs adjustment, I am willing to make appropriate concessions. After all, it was you who spearheaded this brilliant campaign."
Hearing this, Junius withdrew his gaze.
On that wrinkled old face, a muscle twitched slightly, but it was quickly suppressed by his formidable willpower.
Satisfied? How could he possibly be satisfied?
These short-sighted aristocrats and bankers only had eyes for that mere four-million-pound profit margin.
They didn't understand the underlying logic of this game at all.
Junius had deployed a vast network of informants on Wall Street this time.
The intelligence he received was far more detailed than that of his two partners. Thus, he knew clearly that Argyle had not only avoided being crushed by the sell-off but had instead used US dollar and gold cash flows to complete a final sweep of equity in several North American trunk railroads.
That four-million-pound profit was nothing more than the scraps Felix had intentionally let slip through.
Felix used this money to buy out a portion of European capital's influence in North American infrastructure.
What pained Junius even more was that his fundamental goal was to use a market crash to utterly destroy the Argyle Family and avenge his late son, John.
But with Washington's tactful compromise and the greed of his allies, that plan had completely fallen through.
But he couldn't voice these thoughts.
He looked around at these two powerful figures representing the elite capital of Britain and France.
They were capitalists, not avengers.
If these men knew they were being used as tools for revenge, or if continuing the confrontation meant facing a no-holds-barred strangulation by Argyle, they would withdraw their funds without hesitation—or even turn against him.
Capital giants can test the boundaries of sovereign governments, but they must never trample over them.
Grant had already provided a way out. If European capital continued to be relentless, forcing the American government to take extreme measures like freezing assets, it would be a lose-lose disaster.
Junius took a deep breath.
He had to don a mask of hypocrisy and swallow this bitter pill.
"No, Baron. The profit distribution is very fair; there's no need for changes."
Junius slowly raised his glass, a stiff smile forced onto his face.
"I was just reflecting that while the politicians in Washington have temporarily backed down, the industrial potential of North America remains a significant latent threat. However, for now, our joint action has indeed achieved a perfect tactical victory."
He extended his glass toward the center of the table.
"To the free market. To the prosperity of the British Empire and France. And to our graceful exit."
Lord Grosvenor and Baron Valois raised their glasses readily, the crisp clinking of glass echoing in the suite.
"Knowing when to stop is the key to longevity."
The Lord said with a smile.
"Since Argyle now understands he cannot ignore European rules, let him continue digging coal and smelting steel in his domain. We shall simply collect our debt interest."
The dinner ended in an atmosphere of unspoken joviality.
The two partners departed with their satisfying gains, ready to boast to their colleagues at the club tomorrow about the brilliance of this transoceanic financial war.
Once Junius was alone in the suite, the mask on his face instantly crumbled.
"Bang!"
He slammed the expensive crystal goblet against the marble edge of the fireplace, shattered glass flying everywhere in the orange firelight.
"A graceful exit?"
Junius's chest heaved violently with rage.
"Felix Argyle... you climbed onto your throne over my son's bones, and now you've used my money to consolidate your empire."
He gripped the sofa's armrests tightly, his nails sinking deep into the velvet.
"This is by no means a rest... by no means."
In the thick fog on the banks of the River Thames, an old but still cruel lion was licking its wounds in the darkness, plotting an even more lethal bite.
Night fell deeper.
22 Broad Street, London.
In Junius Morgan's private study, Oliver Sterling stood in the shadows, watching his employer pace back and forth behind the desk like a trapped beast.
"Sir."
Sterling spoke cautiously, trying to break the suffocating silence.
"Funds from France and England have begun withdrawing from Wall Street, and settlements are underway. They are very satisfied with the returns this time."
"Satisfied!"
Junius stopped abruptly, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Sterling.
"A bunch of short-sighted fools! They took a few million pounds of scraps but handed over the heart of North America to that Irish bastard on a silver platter!"
Junius walked to the world map hanging on the wall, his aged fingers jabbing forcefully at the location representing New York, as if trying to poke a hole through the parchment.
"Sterling, don't you see it yet? Felix Argyle used the momentum of our market crash to complete his sweep. He now holds absolute controlling interest in Union Pacific and the Erie Railroad. He is no longer a shareholder who needs to share profits with others; he is a dictator!"
Junius turned around and slumped dejectedly into his high-backed leather chair.
The intense emotional fluctuations caused the elderly banker to feel a tightness in his chest.
He clutched his chest, gasping for breath.
"The financial bomb has been dropped."
Junius's voice was low, as if he were muttering to himself.
"Grant's political compromise, combined with Argyle's cash reserves, neutralized the power of that bomb. Those people might not be willing to play this game of gambling their lives and fortunes with me anymore."
"It is no longer possible to destroy him with capital in the short term."
Sterling stepped forward and handed him a glass of warm water.
"Sir. Since a direct financial strike hasn't worked, perhaps we should recuperate for the time being. Argyle has spread himself too thin; his 'General Electric' requires astronomical investment, and internal ulcers will eventually erupt."
"I'm afraid I won't live to see that day."
Junius pushed the glass away, a cold, viper-like glint flashing in his eyes.
"Since lightning couldn't strike down this great tree, I will use poison to slowly corrode its roots."
He took a blank wire transfer form from the drawer and picked up a fountain pen.
"What Argyle wants to monopolize most right now, besides railroads, are the heavy industries that can support the electrical grid. Steel is the most important link in the framework of his empire."
Junius filled in a long string of numbers on the transfer form.
"He left a survivor in Pittsburgh, that little Scotsman."
Sterling saw the amount and the recipient on the transfer form, and his pupils constricted sharply.
"Anthony Drexel? Sir, you still want to continue injecting capital into Carnegie's steel mill? Although the Baltimore Railroad was saved, Carnegie simply cannot compete with Argyle's 'Lex Steel' in terms of technology and scale. This will be an endless war of attrition."
"A war of attrition is exactly what I want."
Junius signed his name heavily on the form, the pen tip nearly tearing through the paper.
"Send this money through channels into Drexel's bank. Tell him this money is a subsidy for fighting a price war!"
Junius leaned back in his chair, a chilling smile curling his lips.
"Argyle wants excessive profits? Then let Carnegie smash the price of steel rails to the floor! As long as Carnegie's steel mill is still smoking, as long as every ton of steel he sells is at a loss, Argyle can forget about monopolizing pricing power."
"If Argyle wants to follow suit in the price war, his profits will be heavily drained. His massive power grid construction will stall due to blood loss."
"I'm going to turn that Scotsman into a rusty nail driven into the sole of Argyle's foot. Every time he tries to take a big step forward, it will be excruciatingly painful."
Junius handed the transfer form to Sterling.
"Go and do it. Tell Carnegie that as long as he has the guts to bite down on Argyle's carotid artery and not let go, there will be as many London pounds as he needs."
...
Half a month later.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
The air in the town of Braddock was still enveloped in thick coal smoke. But within this pungent smell, there was an exhilarating heat wave mixed in.
Inside the plant of the Carnegie-McCandless Steel Company, the sixty-foot-tall giant blast furnace was like a waking beast, letting out a deafening roar.
Andrew Carnegie stood less than thirty yards from the blast furnace's iron taphole.
The cold wind of early spring lost its power here; the oncoming heat wave curled his hair and flushed his cheeks red.
He narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the furnace mouth blocked by firebricks.
His brother, Tom Carnegie, stood beside him, holding a newly arrived telegram, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Andrew, the coal cars from Baltimore have arrived! Mr. Garrett secured the first batch of government renovation loans, and he sent the most elite dispatchers to ensure our coal supply lines remain unobstructed!"
Andrew did not turn his head.
All his attention was now focused on that blast furnace.
"It's not just coal, Tom."
Andrew's voice sounded exceptionally firm amidst the roar.
"Mr. Drexel sent someone with a draft from London yesterday. Mr. Morgan has given us an amount of capital that even scares me."
Tom swallowed hard.
"But Andrew, Mr. Morgan is demanding that we dump steel rails at fifteen percent below market price. This will cause us to lose several dollars for every ton we sell. This isn't doing business at all!"
"I know that, of course, but what else can we do now?"
Andrew turned his head sharply, his eyes showing a conflict of pain and joy.
"Argyle has finally started to take me seriously. He even tried to strangle us with the Railroad Act, leaving us struggling in despair for two whole months. Now that we finally have an opening, I won't give up!"
Andrew strode toward the workers holding long-handled iron bars.
"Break it open!"
Andrew pointed at the furnace mouth and roared at the top of his lungs.
"Let the fire flow out."
The workers shouted in rhythm, swinging the iron bars with their thick arms, striking hard against the refractory clay blocking the furnace mouth.
One... two... three.
"Boom!"
With a dull explosion, the refractory clay shattered.
A blinding white light surged out.
Immediately after, molten iron at 1,600 degrees Celsius, like released lava, rushed down the prepared sand-molded channels. Dazzling sparks flew in the air, lighting up the entire plant as if it were day.
Heat waves rolled, and the molten iron churned in the channels, making a teeth-gritting hissing sound.
The sense of power belonging to heavy industry was displayed to its fullest at this moment.
Andrew stood in the firelight, his face illuminated like an Asura's.
He looked up, watching the steel ingots that were about to be cast in the direction the molten iron flowed.
"Felix Argyle."
Andrew whispered amidst the roar, though no one could hear his voice.
"You have your glass bulbs used to decorate halls and light up the night. Those hypocritical and fragile lights."
Andrew clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his flesh.
"But I absolutely, positively will not admit defeat."
"A price war? Losses? I'm not afraid! As long as Old Morgan's blood bags keep coming, I can pull your Lex Steel down from its throne."
"Prepare yourself; our duel has only just begun."
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Black cinder dust hung in the air of Braddock.
The waters of the Monongahela River carried chunks of ice, striking the floorboards of the barges along the shore with the dull sound of cracking wood.
In the center of the Carnegie-McCandless Steel Company plant, the mouth of a converter tilted. Five tons of molten iron were poured inside. A worker pulled a control lever, and compressed air was pumped in through the tuyeres at the bottom of the furnace.
Oxygen reacted with the carbon in the molten iron, and flames shot out of the converter's mouth, reaching toward the thirty-foot-high factory roof. The firelight cast a vermilion glow on the faces of the surrounding workers.
Andrew Carnegie stood on the observation platform, holding a piece of soot-edged filter glass before his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the color of the flames turned from orange-red to bright white.
"Pour!" Andrew commanded.
Two workers cranked the gear handles, and the converter slowly tilted.
Liquid steel flowed into the ladle below, sparks flying everywhere and landing on the dirt floor, scorching blackened pits.
The molten steel was then poured into cast-iron molds.
After cooling for three hours, the steel ingots took shape.
A crane lifted the radiating ingots and sent them into the blooming mill. A steam engine drove the massive rollers. The ingots shuttled between the rollers, being squeezed and elongated until they finally became a thirty-foot-long I-beam.
Tom Carnegie walked to the cooling bed, holding a heavy sledgehammer.
"Give it a strike," Andrew said to his brother.
Tom swung the hammer and slammed it into the middle of the I-beam.
"Clang!"
The sound waves from the metal collision made the eardrums of those nearby itch. The hammer bounced off and hit the ground, leaving only a shallow pit on the surface of the I-beam.
The good news was that there were no cracks or fractures.
Andrew stepped forward, stroking the indentation with a finger clad in a heavy canvas glove.
"The carbon content is controlled at zero point two percent."
Andrew turned to look at the chemical engineer standing nearby.
"The flexibility meets the standard, and the tensile strength is more than double that of ordinary wrought iron."
The engineer flipped open his logbook.
"Mr. Carnegie. According to the test data, the strength of this batch of steel is twice as high as the wrought iron on the market. However, compared to Lex Steel's 'prometheus' alloy steel in New York, we are fifteen percent behind in ultimate tensile strength. I heard they added a trace amount of manganese to their formula."
Andrew took off his gloves and threw them onto the wooden table.
"It doesn't matter. We don't need to surpass Lex Steel for now. At least, not yet."
Andrew stared at the I-beam.
"Lex's steel is good, but it costs over forty dollars a ton. Our cost, excluding equipment depreciation, is only twenty-eight dollars a ton. That is our survival space."
He turned and walked toward a wooden office outside the plant, with Tom following behind.
Pushing open the door, he found a cast-iron stove burning in the office. Bundles of architectural blueprints were stacked in the corner.
A man with a full beard was leaning over a drafting table, measuring distances with a compass.
He was the chief engineer of Keystone Bridge Company, Linus.
Keystone Bridge Company was a construction firm Andrew had registered years ago by bringing together several Pennsylvania Railroad executives.
At the time, they had even taken on Felix's business; Felix still held a 20% stake in the company now.
"Linus."
Andrew walked to the table and tapped his finger on the surface.
"The steel is out. The first batch is five hundred tons. We have materials for both I-beams and rivets."
Linus straightened up and put down his compass.
"How's the quality?"
"Well, I think it can be used directly for that bridge over the Mississippi River," Andrew replied.
"I'll give you the load-bearing test data tomorrow."
Tom closed the office door and walked over to the stove to warm his hands.
"Andrew, at what price are we going to sell this batch of steel to Keystone Bridge Company?"
Tom pulled out his ledger, feeling somewhat curious.
"Mr. Morgan in London wants us to lower the price of steel rails to seize the market from Argyle. The steel mill's book profits will be squeezed to the limit. We need profits to pay the workers' wages and bank interest."
Andrew pulled over a wooden chair and sat down.
"Thirty dollars a ton."
Andrew stated a figure.
Tom whipped his head around.
"Thirty dollars? Our cost is twenty-eight dollars. Only two dollars profit per ton? That's not even enough for the coal shipping costs! When Mr. Drexel sees a profit statement like that, he'll stop the remittances!"
"The steel mill's books don't need to look good."
Andrew reached out and took the Mississippi River bridge blueprints from Linus's desk.
"The steel mill is just a production tool. The real profit isn't here."
Andrew looked at Linus.
"Linus, what is the total cost of the municipal contract for the Mississippi River bridge?"
"One point two million dollars," Linus answered.
"Paid in municipal bonds issued by the St. Louis city government."
"If we built the bridge with wrought iron and wood, what would the cost be?"
"About eight hundred thousand dollars. It would require a large amount of stone for the piers, and the span would be limited."
"Now, in the name of Keystone Bridge Company, we buy the I-beams produced by our own steel mill."
Andrew's finger slid across the blueprints.
"The steel is high strength, so the number of piers can be cut in half. Construction time will be shortened by three months. How much can the overall cost of the bridge company's construction be squeezed down to?"
Linus took a pen and paper and calculated for a few minutes.
"If the purchase price of steel is only thirty dollars a ton... the overall bridge construction cost can be controlled within six hundred thousand dollars."
"A one-point-two-million-dollar contract, with a six-hundred-thousand-dollar cost."
Andrew stared at Tom and said meaningfully.
"The bridge company nets six hundred thousand dollars. And I own sixty percent of the shares in Keystone Bridge Company. This money will not only pay the steel mill's wages but also fill our pockets with gold."
It was clear that the steel company was about to stop being profitable. Although Carnegie had a deep obsession with steel, he knew it was impossible to make money from the steel company in the short term.
So he simply came up with another idea.
Tom looked at his brother, his eyes slowly widening.
"From the left hand to the right," Tom swallowed hard.
"The steel mill bears the low prices and losses on its books, while the bridge company intercepts all the exorbitant profits. Drexel and Morgan only look at the steel mill's statements; they have no idea how much money the bridge company is making."
"Exactly, that's business." Andrew stood up.
"Since I promised Morgan to fight a price war with Argyle, I will fulfill that promise. But I won't use my own blood to fill that bottomless pit. I will use the money earned from the bridges to buy more land in Pittsburgh and build a second blast furnace."
Andrew picked up his overcoat and put it on.
"Cut a section from that test I-beam and put it in a wooden box. Cut another section of rail and polish it."
"Where are you going?" Tom asked.
"To Maryland," Andrew put on his bowler hat.
"To see John Garrett. Bridges are just our own side business. If we want to seize the real market from Lex Steel, we must secure orders from the railroad companies. The Baltimore Railroad is our first stepping stone."