The office of Argyle & Co. Foods was seized by an unprecedented tension. Corporal Jones burst in like a harsh wind, his usual excitement replaced by a look of shock and profound unease. He slammed a copy of The New York Herald onto Felix's desk.
"Sir, look quickly! It's really... it's really started!"
The front page was dominated by heavy, shocking lead type: "TREASON! SOUTH CAROLINA REBELS BOMBARD FORT SUMTER!"
Catherine, Miller, and the clerks clustered around. The newspaper detailed how the Confederate army had fired the first shot at the Union garrison on the morning of April 12, 1861.
"They're mad... they actually dared to fire on the Union!" a young clerk whispered, trembling.
"Oh God, this means war, doesn't it?" Catherine's face was pale. As an immigrant who had known hardship, she understood the brutal cost of conflict to civilians.
Sergeant Miller, the veteran, silently picked up the paper and read the details, his brow deeply furrowed.
"Many people will die," he finally stated, his voice low and hoarse. "Those guys in the South are not easy to deal with. They have many excellent West Point commanders. This war, I'm afraid, will last a long time."
A wave of worry and fear swept through the room. Only one person remained untouched: Felix.
He sat quietly in his chair, taking a measured sip of coffee. There was no hint of surprise or panic.
"Sir?" Catherine noticed his unusual calm. "Aren't you worried?"
Felix put down his cup and slowly scanned their faces. "Of course, I'm worried," his voice was gentle. "I'm worried that this country will be divided, and that countless young lives will perish. But Catherine, and everyone else: Worry cannot stop cannonballs."
"We are not politicians or generals. I am a businessman. My responsibility is not to weep for this war, but to find what we can and must do in this impending national crisis."
He stood and walked to the huge map of the United States. "Starting today, the Union needs a large army. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, will put on uniforms. And as Napoleon said, an army marches on its stomach."
He turned back to his team. "What have we been doing for the past few months? We've built the most efficient production line in all of New York; our output can supply an entire division! We've established the most stable raw material alliance! We have tens of thousands of dollars in cash flow to support any commercial conflict!"
"Everyone," his voice swelled with power, "Did you think we were just building a small canning business? No. We were forging a sword, a unique, incomparably sharp sword in all of America. And now," he stated, word by word, "the bugle of war has sounded. It's time for our sword to be unsheathed."
Though his words sounded deeply patriotic, Miller and the veterans understood that Felix was simply seizing a colossal opportunity. Nevertheless, the excitement was infectious.
"Sir, please give the order!" Corporal Jones exclaimed. "We'll follow you!"
"Good. Our strategy will be divided into two fronts."
Front One: Front Door Infiltration
"Sergeant Miller," Felix said, addressing the veteran. "You understand the army's internal structure. The Quartermaster Department is the first fortress we must capture. We cannot charge head-on. We must find the key to the main gate."
"I need a name. Not the highest-ranking officer, whom we can't reach, and not low-level small fry who have no say. I need someone in the middle tier: an ambitious but frustrated young officer. Such a person is easiest to identify and easiest to 'persuade.'"
Felix handed Miller a thick envelope from the safe. "Here's a thousand dollars. Use all your connections. Go to the taverns, find the old veterans on Governors Island, listen to their complaints and gossip. Within a week, I need a name, and all the information about that person, on my desk."
"Yes, sir," Miller accepted the envelope with a serious nod. "An intelligence mission."
Front Two: High-Altitude Decapitation
Felix's gaze turned to Catherine. "Catherine, that box of our most perfect 'Premium Gold Label,' prepared for this moment, is hitting the road."
"You mean... send it out now?" she asked, surprised.
"Right now," Felix affirmed. "With war erupting, Washington is frantic for solutions. Anyone who offers even a little help will receive the highest level of attention. I want you to go to Washington personally."
"You will act as Argyle & Co.'s plenipotentiary representative. Rent the best hotel suite and host a small, extremely high-standard tasting event. The guests must be members of Congress or high-ranking Army officials."
"But I have no connections there, sir."
"You don't need them," Felix smiled. "You just need to have the hotel's concierge 'casually' let slip that Mr. Argyle of New York, the man who conquered Tilford Trading Company with his lead-free food, is offering a free demonstration of his miraculous, safe canned food. Those politicians, frantic over war and logistics, will come knocking like sharks smelling blood."
"Your mission is to demonstrate our product's perfection, and personally deliver that box of 'Premium Gold Label' as a 'gift from a patriotic New York businessman' to Senator Clark, the chairman of the Senate Military Committee."
"We ask for no return, no orders," Felix concluded. "We only sow seeds, planting the name 'Argyle' directly in the center of power. I believe it will soon take root and grow into a towering tree that none of us could have imagined."
The initial clamor of war gave way to a peculiar atmosphere of war preparation, a perfect breeding ground for Felix's plan.
In a small, pungent tavern near the Governors Island naval base, Sergeant Miller was in his element. Dressed in the most inconspicuous old clothes, he sat quietly in a corner, nursing rye beer and listening to the raw grievances of off-duty soldiers and low-ranking officers.
After three days, he had gained the reputation of a poor old veteran.
"You haven't seen the corned beef we're eating now, it glows green!" a young, flushed corporal complained after Miller bought him a drink. "And the hardtack, I swear, Billy used it to smash a rat to death!"
"It seems the gentlemen in the Quartermaster Department are still the same," Miller subtly guided the conversation. "Who's in charge? Still Colonel Smith?"
"Smith was transferred long ago! Now Colonel Hudson is in charge. A hundred times more greedy than Smith! He eats French steak and champagne while giving us moldy biscuits! We all suspect he's put all the military funds in his own pocket!" The corporal spat in disgust.
"Isn't anyone going to challenge him?" Miller asked.
"Who dares to? However, there is one fearless hothead who tries to go against the colonel every day: Lieutenant Carter. A genius West Point graduate, even better grades than General Grant, they say. He's an honest man but stubborn. He writes reports daily about problems with rations and substandard equipment, but the reports disappear. Hudson has long considered him a thorn, but his mentor, Brigadier General Reed, the overall commander of the New York defense zone, protects him."
Lieutenant Carter. Brigadier General Reed. The idealist stifled by corruption. Miller had found his target.
Meanwhile, in Washington D.C., Catherine rented a luxurious suite at the Willard Hotel. She was not in a hurry to visit anyone; she was intent on becoming a "topic."
She spent lavishly on the city's freshest roses, transforming her suite into an elegant salon. Then, through the hotel's concierge, she sent out exquisitely crafted invitations to key figures. The invitations were strictly non-commercial, offering only a "culinary art crystallization" and a "tribute from a patriotic New York businessman."
The key lay in the private whispers the concierge manager was instructed to share: "...It's the Mr. Argyle who conquered Tilford Trading Company... the lead-free, absolutely safe canned food... packaged like jewelry, labeled 'General's Special Supply'..."
Curiosity, combined with the frantic wartime anxiety, worked perfectly.
Two days later, the small tasting event achieved unexpected success. Seven members of Congress and two logistics colonels attended. Each, after tasting the "Premium Gold Label" served on silver, reacted identically to Mr. Tilford.
"My God! Is this really canned food?"
"Unbelievable! If our frontline soldiers could eat this, their morale would at least double!"
Catherine, with impeccable etiquette, only discussed quality, safety, and the strategic value of the food. She avoided talk of price or orders.
When the last guest departed, a hotel waiter brought a letter sealed with the wax impression of the Senate Military Committee.
"Miss O'Brien," the waiter said. "Senator Clark's chief aide just sent it. Senator Clark invites you and Mr. Argyle to his office tomorrow morning for a discussion."
Catherine took the thin, heavy letter, her heart pounding. The High-Altitude Decapitation plan had succeeded in its most crucial step.
That night, an urgent telegram was sent from Washington to New York:
"Fish has bitten, Senate, together tomorrow.
Catherine."
When Felix received the telegram, he was in his office, studying the map of New York. He finished reading, a calm smile on his face. He picked up a blank telegram form, wrote a line, and handed it to Miller.
"Sergeant," he said, "Now, it's time to go meet our 'upright' Lieutenant Carter."