Felix was awakened by a cacophony of sounds drifting through the basement walls.
He sat up from his makeshift bed and stretched his stiff body, wincing at the protest of muscles unused to such crude accommodations. Church bells rang somewhere above, mingling with the steady thud of footsteps from Mrs. Hudson's apartment, reminders that a new day had begun, whether he was ready for it or not.
His first act was practical, almost ritualistic. He scalded a towel with water boiled over the fireplace, then meticulously washed his face and hands. In 1860, with its questionable standards of hygiene, even such a small habit of cleanliness could mean the difference between life and death.
"Mr. Argyle, your breakfast." Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed down the stairwell.
Felix crossed to the stairs and accepted the basket she handed down, a piece of dark bread and a cup of milk. It was included in his rent, something he'd specifically negotiated. He needed to ensure his food and water sources were absolutely clean.
"Thank you, madam."
"Mind you bring that basket back up," Mrs. Hudson said, already turning away.
After a quick breakfast, Felix emerged from the basement. He needed information now, something to confirm his understanding of this era's pulse, to verify that his memories of history remained accurate.
The Bowery District in the early morning proved far more "awake" than it had been the previous evening. People flowed along the streets in steady streams. Cargo wagons rumbled past. Workers hurried toward their destinations. Together, they formed a vivid urban tableau that spoke of a city on the cusp of something momentous.
Felix's goal was clear: newspapers.
He hadn't walked far when a child's voice cut through the morning air.
"Newspaper! Newspaper! The New York Herald! Lincoln's latest moves! The Southerners are going to rebel!"
A freckle-faced newsboy, no more than ten years old, clutched a stack of papers nearly as large as himself. He wove through the crowd with practiced agility.
Felix called out to him. "Hey, how many kinds of newspapers do you have?"
The newsboy stopped and looked up, his response automatic and well-rehearsed. "Sir, I have The Herald, The Tribune, and The Times. Two cents each. Which one do you want? The Tribune curses the Southerners the hardest!"
"Give me one of each."
Felix fished six cents from his pocket and handed them over.
"Yes, sir!" The newsboy's eyes lit up, such a generous customer was a rare find. He deftly pulled out three different newspapers and passed them to Felix, adding his sales pitch: "Sir, you are truly a discerning gentleman! Reading multiple newspapers is the only way to stay informed about important national affairs!"
Felix took the papers, then asked casually, "Tell me something, son. Do you really think there will be a war?"
"Of course, sir!" The newsboy waved his small fist, youthful fervor blazing on his face. "My dad says those slave-owning traitors must all be hanged on Capitol Hill! Then I'll join the army and be a drummer boy."
Looking at the child's excited expression, Felix felt a chill settle in his chest. War, in the mouths of politicians, was glory. In the imagination of common people, it was adventure. Only those who truly experienced it understood the reality: a bloody meat grinder that consumed young men and spat out corpses.
But he revealed none of this. Instead, he simply smiled. "Sounds like a fine plan. Good luck, little fellow."
With that, he turned back toward his basement. He didn't linger on the street, he knew these thin newspapers contained something more precious than gold. They contained the future.
---
Back in the basement, Felix closed the door and spread the three newspapers across the floor. He lit his oil lamp and began reading them word by word, his heart pounding with each confirmation of what he already knew.
The New York Tribune's front page bore an inflammatory headline: "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 Lover Republican" Lincoln was elected president, the Union would cease to exist.
The New York Herald took a more measured approach, analyzing the economic conflicts between North and South: "Northern industrialists advocate protective tariffs to resist the impact of cheap British manufactured goods. Southern plantation owners, however, rely on cotton exports to Europe and require free trade. This fundamental economic divergence is pushing our nation to the brink of a cliff..."
Felix grabbed a piece of charcoal from the fireplace and heavily underlined the words "tariffs" and "free trade."
"That's right," he murmured. "That's how it was. All wars, in the final analysis, are economic wars."
The Times, which catered more to the lower classes, focused on sensational stories: "Appalling! Escaped Slave in Virginia Caught and Publicly Flogged to Death in Broad Daylight! Is This What Our 'Compatriots' Are Doing? For Shame!"
Every word validated Felix's memories, confirming that the wheel of history was rolling forward along the exact trajectory he remembered. War was no longer a question of whether, but when and how.
"According to history, Lincoln will be elected in November," Felix said softly, tracing Lincoln's name with his finger. "Then South Carolina will declare secession in December. Next April, the cannons of Fort Sumter will sound."
He closed his eyes, seeing the cascade of events yet to come. "The army will rapidly expand from the current ten thousand men to hundreds of thousands, perhaps more than a million. So many mouths to feed. Logistics will be the Federal Government's biggest headache."
He opened his eyes, and they gleamed in the lamplight. "For me, this is an opportunity."
He picked up another piece of charcoal and wrote "canned food" on a blank sheet of paper, underlining it twice.
"Perhaps I can provide them with an answer, an answer for which they will pay a high price."
Felix stood and began pacing the cramped basement, his mind racing as a plan took shape. He spoke aloud, as if explaining his thoughts to an invisible companion, or perhaps convincing himself.
"First, I need the technology. Current canning processes are too primitive. Lead-sealed seams, inefficient and prone to causing heavy metal poisoning. But I can improve it. Double-seaming technology. It's not complicated, just requires some custom tools."
He continued pacing. "Second, raw materials. Beef, pork, beans... once the war starts, prices will skyrocket. I must secure a batch of cheap, stable supplies before the war fully erupts."
"Finally, sales. I'll need an opportunity to get my product directly into the sight of military procurement officers."
He paused, then threw the paper with his notes into the fireplace. The flames devoured it instantly. In this era, secrets had to be kept locked in one's mind.
Watching the paper burn, Felix felt a surge of determination. All the knowledge in his head, all the memories of a future yet to come, they were transforming into clear, feasible steps.
He stood at the starting point of this great river of history, holding a map to the future.
"Since there's a plan," he said, extinguishing the oil lamp, "let's begin."
---
He pushed open the door and stepped once more into the bustling streets of New York. His first destination: the pawn shops, blacksmith shops, and junkyards scattered throughout the city. He would use his remaining dollars to build his first money-printing machine.
"Sir, how much for this pot?"
In a blacksmith's shop near the docks, Felix pointed to a cast-iron pot half a man's height, covered in rust and clearly long abandoned.
The blacksmith, a burly German immigrant with arms as thick as Felix's thighs, glanced at Felix, then at the pot. "That's for boiling ropes on ships. Big and heavy. If you're sure you need it, five dollars."
"Too expensive." Felix shook his head and turned to leave without hesitation.
"Hey, buddy, wait!" The blacksmith hadn't expected such a decisive exit. "So how much can you offer?"
Felix met his eyes and slowly raised three fingers. "Three dollars. That's all I can give. It's just scrap metal, sir. Besides me, I doubt anyone would buy it to cook with."
The blacksmith's face twitched as he weighed his options: let the metal rust in the corner, or take three dollars cash.
Cash won. "Alright, buddy, you've convinced me. Three dollars, but you haul it away yourself."
"Of course." Felix paid readily.
But he didn't leave immediately. Instead, he continued searching through the shop, eventually spending two more dollars on discarded sheet metal, iron rods, and miscellaneous tools. What the blacksmith considered junk, Felix saw as treasure.
Over the next several hours, Felix visited pawn shops and flea markets throughout the district. Like an experienced treasure hunter, he acquired every item he needed for the least amount of money: an old bench vise for one dollar, large tin snips for fifty cents, cheap charcoal for two dollars.
By the time he returned to Mrs. Hudson's basement, dusk had fallen. He'd spent $8.50, leaving him with $81.50.
"Mr. Argyle, what are you doing bringing all this dirty junk into my basement?" Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the stairs, frowning at his haul with obvious disgust.
"Don't worry, ma'am," Felix replied, breathless from dragging the sheet metal down the stairs. "These will soon become something useful. And I promise to keep the place clean."
"It better be as you say, Mr. Argyle." She grumbled but said nothing more, perhaps mollified by the breakfast arrangement.
---
Over the following days, Felix barely left the basement. He began by thoroughly cleaning the large pot, polishing it repeatedly with sand and stones, boiling it multiple times until the inner surface gleamed. This pot would be his key equipment for high-temperature sterilization.
Then came his secret weapon: a rudimentary manual seaming machine for canning. In the twenty-first century, this would be simple technology. In 1860, it was revolutionary.
Currently, all cans were sealed by soldering, workers smeared molten lead to attach lids to bodies. The result was poor sealing, frequent burns from lead drips, and long-term risk of poisoning.
Felix's design was elegantly simple: use a bench vise to secure the can body, then employ two specially polished rollers. The first would curl the edges, the second would press them tight, making the lid and body interlock securely.
Creating the rollers proved the most difficult step. Without a lathe, he could only use files and sandpaper, grinding two iron lumps salvaged from the junkyard, millimeter by millimeter. The basement filled with the grating sound of metal on metal, hour after hour, day after day.
"Mr. Argyle, what on earth are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson finally snapped, her voice carrying down from above. "That noise keeps me awake every night!"
Felix immediately stopped and rushed to apologize. "I am terribly sorry, ma'am! Please give me two more days. After that, I promise, no more noise."
"Two days, my foot! If you make noise after two days, I'll throw you and your junk out together!"
Felix knew he had to accelerate his work.
---
Late at night, two days later, Felix finished the final polish with sandpaper and let out a long breath. He held up the two oddly-shaped but perfectly smooth rollers, admiring them in the lamplight.
The most crucial components were complete.
He mounted the rollers onto a simple frame of iron rods and wood, adding a hand-cranked handle. Before him sat a seaming machine, a fusion of modern industrial wisdom and rudimentary nineteenth-century craftsmanship.
To test it, he carefully cut circular pieces of sheet metal with tin snips to form can bodies, plus circular lids with raised edges. After hammering these parts into a rough cylinder, he secured one in the bench vise.
He took a deep breath and began cranking the handle.
The first roller pressed down with a satisfying creak. The edge of the lid curled inward, hooking onto the flange of the can body.
Success!
Felix switched to the second roller and cranked again. This one pressed tight, completely sealing the hooked edges into an airtight double seam.
Click!
Felix stopped and lifted the finished can. The seam was smooth and tight, more perfect than any can currently on the market. He filled it with water, inverted it, and shook it vigorously.
Not a single drop leaked.
"It worked," he whispered, his voice trembling despite his efforts at control.
This ugly machine would be the engine of his fortune. With it, he could produce cans safer, more reliable, and cheaper than any competitor's.
But there was no time for celebration. The successful first step meant the busier second step had already begun. He needed to buy ingredients and produce his first batch of products, goods impressive enough to open doors.
Every cent of his remaining fifty-some dollars had to be spent wisely.
He cleaned the basement, sweeping metal scraps into a corner, then changed into his only presentable set of clothes and walked out into the fading light.
The real work was about to begin.