Winter 1863, Pittsburgh.
The city was sandwiched between the Allegheny River and the Monongahela River.
Andrew Carnegie stood in the smoky backroom of a bank on the Monongahela bank, feeling somewhat suffocated.
He hated the smell, but he craved control over the power behind that smell even more.
"Andy, sit down and let's talk."
The major shareholder of the bank was an old man named Mellon, who spoke with a thick Scottish-Irish accent.
He didn't look at Carnegie, but instead focused on trimming his cigar with a small silver knife.
"You're always so... energetic."
"Because opportunity waits for no one, Mr. Mellon."
Carnegie's voice, with his own purer Scottish accent, was crisp and full of passion.
"You've seen my proposal, a brand new iron bridge factory, using cast iron pillars instead of old wood. It's stronger, more fire-resistant, and more durable.
After the war, the country will definitely need to rebuild, and the Railway will need to extend west. They'll need hundreds of thousands of these bridges; it's a goldmine."
Old Mellon finally lit his cigar and slowly exhaled a thick puff of smoke.
His shrewd eyes, deep-set in their sockets, scrutinized through the smoke the short young man before him, who seemed to possess boundless energy.
"Andy, I've known you for almost ten years, haven't I?" Mellon said slowly.
"Since you were a telegram boy running errands for the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. I know you're smart and daring. You learned a lot from J. Edgar Thomson."
He mentioned J. Edgar Thomson, the Railway magnate who had been ousted by Felix Argyle.
Carnegie's expression darkened.
"J. Edgar Thomson was my mentor; that Argyle from New York... he's a bandit. A financial pirate who used money and schemes to steal J. Edgar Thomson's life's work."
"He's not an industrialist," Carnegie's voice carried an undisguised contempt.
"He doesn't understand steel and railways, only ledgers and stocks. His kind of 'empire,' built on thin air, won't last."
"Is that so?" Mellon's tone betrayed no emotion.
"I don't think so. I heard that Mr. Argyle just resolved a huge crisis in New York in a very 'decent' way, a crisis that could have destroyed him and the Union Pacific Railroad Company."
Mellon continued, "He is now not only a strategic partner of Union Pacific but has also secured tens of millions of dollars in funds from the oldest banks in Europe. He doesn't look like he's about to fall at all."
Carnegie's brows furrowed tightly.
He had also heard these rumors from his friends in the East.
Argyle' methods were far more clever and ruthless than he had imagined.
"So what?" Carnegie retorted stubbornly.
"He's playing a financial game. What I want to do is real industry. Mr. Mellon, I need a loan of five hundred thousand dollars to buy land, build factories, and introduce the latest equipment."
"Five hundred thousand dollars."
Mellon repeated the figure and shook his head.
"Andy, that's too much. Especially now. The war is still ongoing, and it's hard to say if the Northern currency will hold up. Every bank in Pittsburgh is tightening credit."
"And," he glanced at another brief on the table, "your competitors... aren't those local workshops still using old methods of ironworking."
"What do you mean?"
"Just last week," Mellon said, "Argyle announced the formation of two new companies. One is called 'Sainn Minerals,' and the other... is called 'Lex Steel.'"
This news struck Carnegie like a heavy hammer.
"He's going into steel too?"
"Yes," Mellon nodded.
"And, his approach is different from yours, Andy. He directly took one million dollars from his own treasury as the... startup capital for that Steel Company."
"He also appointed William Coleman, the Pennsylvania Railroad's best bridge engineer, as the president of 'Lex Steel.'"
"And now, that Coleman, I hear, is taking Argyle' money and preparing to go to Europe, to aggressively poach people in Sheffield and Essen. With double, even triple the salary."
Carnegie's face turned somewhat pale.
His face, flushed with passion, rapidly cooled.
One million dollars.
William Coleman.
And European engineers.
He had thought that leaving the Railway was escaping a quagmire to open up a new battlefield for himself.
But he hadn't expected that the financial pirate he despised most would also set his sights on this battlefield.
Moreover, his opponent had directly deployed a regular army, composed of gold and top talent, right from the start.
And he was still like a pitiful wretch, begging for a five hundred thousand dollar loan here.
"Andy."
Old Mellon looked at his changing expression and said slowly.
"You are a genius, a genius of sales and management. But you are not Argyle. You don't have his luck and methods. Nor do you have his bottomless treasury."
"So, five hundred thousand dollars, I cannot give you," Mellon rendered his verdict.
Carnegie's body swayed, but he immediately steadied himself.
"I understand."
He took a deep breath. The fire in his blue eyes, far from extinguishing, burned even more intensely.
"You are right, Mr. Mellon."
"I cannot, like him, smash out a future with money. So I must 'carve' out a future with efficiency, cost, sweat, and blood."
He put away the grand proposal.
"I don't need five hundred thousand dollars," he said.
"I only need a loan of one hundred thousand dollars. I won't buy land; I'll rent. I'll acquire a forging plant on the verge of bankruptcy."
He looked at Mellon, his eyes gleaming with obsession.
"With this one hundred thousand dollars, I plan to build Pittsburgh's first factory within six months that can produce the strongest iron bridge components at the lowest cost."
"Argyle' 'Lex Steel' is still on the drawing board in Europe. And my company will soon rise from the Pittsburgh soot."
Old Mellon looked at the young man before him, who, instead of being crushed in despair, had become even more dangerous and focused.
He would not refuse such an ambitious and capable man.
He slowly nodded, "One hundred thousand dollars, with all your personal assets and all the equity of the new company as collateral. Interest at ten percent. These are the best terms I can give you."
"Deal." Carnegie didn't hesitate at all... As Andrew Carnegie walked out of the heavy bank door and stood once again in the Pittsburgh air, mixed with soot and cold rain, he felt as if he had been reborn.
He had no retreat.
He looked up towards New York in the East.
Felix Argyle, that man, was perhaps sitting in his warm, luxurious study, signing checks for millions of dollars, instructing his subordinates to pick out prey on the map of Europe.
"Argyle... I will never surrender."
Carnegie murmured to himself, pulling his somewhat thin overcoat tighter, and merged into the busy and dirty crowd of Pittsburgh.
Sheffield, England.
This is the holy land of the world's steel industry; fine particles of metallic odor float in the air, settling on pedestrians' coats and leaving an unremovable layer of grey-black.
William Coleman stood on the platform of Victoria Station, carrying a simple leather briefcase containing three books on bridge structural mechanics and blast furnace design.
"Mr. Coleman."
A well-dressed young man hurried forward to greet him.
He was a junior clerk from the Argyle Bank's London office, sent by President Templeton to assist this important person from New York.
"The carriage is ready, sir. I have booked a suite for you at the Royal Hotel."
"Change it," Coleman said.
"Just find me a hotel where I can hear the factory whistles, the closer the better."
"Uh... Yes, sir."
The young clerk paused, immediately understanding that the man before him was not the type of executive who enjoyed afternoon tea in London's West End. That evening, in a small hotel on the edge of the factory district, Coleman spread out his map.
It was an industrial map marked with the locations of dozens of large and small steel mills and forging plants across the city.
His finger finally landed on the largest factory complex in the east of the city.
"Fisley & Brown United Factory."
Coleman said to the equally puzzled bank clerk beside him.
"Mr. Griffith said that if anyone in Sheffield truly understood the value of prometheus alloy, that person must be at the Fisley Factory. His name is Arthur Jennings."
"Jennings?"
The clerk tried hard to recall the information he had gathered.
"Sir, that name doesn't seem to be among the management of the Fisley Factory."
"He's not management."
Coleman pulled a sheet of paper from a stack of documents.
"He is the chief furnace master of Blast Furnace No. 1, perhaps an unrecognized genius."
This paper was personally handed to Coleman by Rhys Griffiths before Coleman departed.
It listed over a dozen names, spread across Britain and Prussia.
And Arthur Jennings was the first on the list.
"Griffith said that three years ago, Jennings submitted a proposal to the factory's board of directors for the renovation of a 'regenerative reverberatory furnace.' He claimed that such a design could raise the smelting temperature to an unprecedented height and save thirty percent of fuel."
"And the result?"
"The result," Coleman's lips curled in disdain.
"The directors of the Fisley Factory thought he was a madman. They rejected the proposal and canceled the promotion he should have received."
"So you're going to visit him tonight?"
"No." Coleman shook his head.
"Geniuses have their pride. If I visit his home directly, Bill will think I'm another swindler trying to steal his blueprints. We need to go to his most frequented place."
...Nine o'clock in the evening, the Artisan's Arm pub.
This was the only place where the senior artisans and furnace masters of the Fisley Factory would frequent after work.
The pub was filled with smoke, and the floor was covered with sawdust and beer foam. The air was a mix of sweat, cheap beer, and a weary masculine clamor.
Arthur Jennings sat alone in the shadows of a corner. He looked to be in his forties, tall, but his back was somewhat hunched from years of working in high temperatures.
He was rapidly drawing complex structural diagrams on a crumpled napkin in front of him with his rough hands, which were stained by flames and molten iron, muttering to himself.
Coleman, carrying two glasses of the best Scotch whisky, walked straight over and sat opposite him.
Jennings' thoughts were interrupted. He looked up unhappily, his eyes, reddened from long periods of staring into the furnace, filled with wariness.
"I don't know you, friend."
"William Coleman."
Coleman pushed a glass of wine towards him, "From New York, President of Lex Steel Company."
"New York?" Jennings' wariness deepened.
"Another American. Are you here to buy our railway tracks, or are you trying to steal our technology again?"
"Unfortunately, neither. I'm here to read your thesis."
Jennings froze.
"'Feasibility Analysis of Dual Preheating of Air and Gas Using Waste Gas.'" Coleman accurately stated the title of the thesis, which had only been published in a small engineering journal three years prior. "I read it three times. A... very remarkable concept."
Jennings looked at the American before him, "You read it?"
"Not only did I read it."
Coleman took out his engineering notebook from his briefcase and turned to one page.
On it was also a sketch of a regenerator and reversing valve; although cruder, the core concept was strikingly consistent.
"I once thought of a similar design," Coleman said.
"But your calculations are more perfect, especially the part about how checker bricks maximize heat exchange efficiency. You solved a problem that had bothered me for a long time."
Jennings' breathing became somewhat rapid.
He felt as if he had met a long-lost confidant.
"Those... those fools."
He grabbed his glass and took a big gulp.
"They simply don't understand; they only see the immediate costs. But they don't know that higher temperatures mean a brand new type of steel. A purer, stronger steel."
"No, perhaps they know, but abandoning existing technology for new technology is not cost-effective for them."
Coleman looked at him, saying earnestly.
"So I invite you to come and build it."
"What?"
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle."
"He gave me a million dollars and a vast piece of land in New Jersey, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean."
Coleman looked into Jennings' disbelieving eyes. "He wants me to build a furnace of the future, and for that, I need talent like you."
"I need someone who truly understands fire and the future. I need you, Arthur Jennings."
"But I'm just a furnace master."
Jennings was somewhat stunned by this sudden offer.
Coleman corrected him, "Here you are. But at Lex Steel Company, you will be the chief engineer for the entire 'Open Hearth Furnace' project."
Coleman threw out his final bargaining chip.
"The company will give you three times your current salary. And it will arrange for you and your family to be safely transported to New York on first-class ship tickets. The company has prepared a house with a garden for you there. You will have your own laboratory and a team personally selected by you."
"And I only have one request."
Coleman leaned forward, exuding a sense of pressure.
"Make your creation a reality on the land of America for me."
Jennings stared blankly at Coleman, then at the napkin in his hand, soaked with whisky and covered in dreams.
"Why... why me?" he asked.
Coleman stood up, placing an Argyle Bank business card and a small bag of gold coins on the table.
"Because my Boss and I both believe that only those who dare to dream of changing the world truly deserve to possess it."
He put on his hat and walked towards the door.
"I'm going to Essen, Prussia, the day after tomorrow morning." Coleman didn't look back. "I will stop in Liverpool for one day. Mr. Jennings, I hope to see you and your family on the next ship bound for New York."
The clamor in the pub continued.
But Arthur Jennings just sat there, looking at the bag of gold coins on the table, then at the business card, lost in thought.
Argyle's study.
Felix and Catherine stood side-by-side, a preliminary design sketch of the "St. Vincent-Argyle Joint Hospital" drawn by Upjohn Architects spread out before them.
"Six stories."
Catherine's finger tapped on the main building in the blueprint, which adopted the latest steel frame structure.
"As you instructed, I insisted on a separate sterilization preparation area. All doctors and nurses entering the operating room must change clothes and wash hands here. Dr. Thorne's iodoglycerol and carbolic acid solution will be standard here."
"The hospital's construction blueprint is ready."
Catherine looked up at Felix.
"Funding is also in place. But now we've hit a snag."
"Perhaps you can tell me about it?"
"City Hall."
Catherine's tone carried a hint of helplessness.
"Our hospital design is a bit ahead of its time. It requires independent sewage pipes leading to the East River, and a dedicated gas pipeline to ensure constant lighting and heating for the operating rooms.
The New York City Building Permit Committee, those Gentlemen appointed by Tammany Hall, think our design is impractical and too expensive. They've held up our permit documents."
"They don't think it's expensive, after all, the city government isn't paying."
"They just think we haven't paid enough 'tolls' yet."
Catherine was somewhat helpless, "I thought the understanding reached with Tweed at the groundbreaking ceremony would be enough..."
"An understanding is an understanding, business is business, Catherine," Felix interrupted her.
"That old fox Tweed kept his word and made Connolly shut up. But his subordinates, big and small officials, seeing such a large piece of fat, couldn't possibly not pounce on it and take a bite."
"So what do we do? Stage another drama like last time?"
"No need." Felix shook his head, "Dealing with these minor characters doesn't require such complexity."
He walked to the desk and picked up a pre-drafted private dinner invitation.
"This Sunday, I will host Archbishop Hughes and Mr. Tweed at Delmonico's Restaurant to discuss the topic of 'Irish Community Medical Welfare.'
I believe that in front of the Archbishop, Mr. Tweed will be very happy to personally help us 'clear' the inefficient bureaucratic channels at City Hall."
Catherine looked at Felix's calm demeanor and couldn't help but smile.
Felix always managed to grasp the politicians' weak points in the simplest and most direct way.
"I'll leave the hospital matters to you." Felix changed the subject, "I need to go to Brooklyn today to check on the typewriter's progress."
...
Argyle Central Laboratory.
Felix walked directly to the deepest part of the laboratory, the newly designated Typewriter Research Room.
He pushed open the door.
Christopher Latham Sholes, along with the two German mechanical craftsmen Carl Becker had assigned him, were gathered around the initially modified "Writing Clavichord" prototype, their faces filled with worry.
Sholes wore a clean engineer's coat, his hair meticulously combed, his eyes bloodshot, but more than that, filled with the peculiar fervor of a creator.
At his feet, various discarded springs, connecting rods, and gear parts were piled up.
"Boss."
Seeing Felix enter, Sholes quickly straightened up, a hint of shame on his face.
"Having trouble, Sholes?" Felix asked with a smile.
"Yes, Boss. A... a tricky problem."
Sholes pointed at the machine in frustration.
"The spring steel provided by Mr. Griffith is a miracle. It solved the key rebound problem. Mr. Becker's ratchet mechanism also enabled automatic ribbon translation. It... it's theoretically usable."
"But in practice?" Felix asked.
"In practice," Sholes sighed, "it still jams."
He sat down and demonstrated to Felix.
"You see, when I strike a letter, like 'T,' its hammer springs up from this position. But if I immediately strike a letter very close to it, like 'H'..."
He sped up his typing.
"T... H... E..."
"Click."
Just as he said, the two metal hammers for T and H violently "collided" in mid-air.
They got stuck together, unable to fall or strike the paper roll.
"They're stuck."
Sholes used a small pick to separate the two intertwined hammers.
"I've tried redesigning the angle of the connecting rods, and even tried slowing down the ratchet's speed. But as long as the typing speed is slightly faster, any two adjacent letters will always collide."
"This is an unsolvable mechanical flaw."
His voice was filled with despair.
"My invention... it's useless."
Felix looked at the machine, at the keys arranged in the logical order of A, B, C, D, E..., and fell silent.
Felix understood that Sholes was facing the most famous problem in history.
Carl Becker also came over upon hearing the news.
He glanced at the jammed machine and said in his heavy German accent:
"It's a structural problem; mechanical movement requires space and time. You can't have two soldiers go through a narrow door at the same time."
"So what do we do?" Sholes asked.
"Switch to a more complex transmission mechanism."
Becker proposed a solution.
"For example, a circular, time-division firing system. But this would require redesigning the entire base, and might... take longer."
"No." Felix suddenly spoke.
Everyone looked at him.
"Mr. Becker, your thinking is correct," Felix said, "You can't have two soldiers go through a narrow door at the same time. But what if we change the 'soldiers' instead of the 'door'?"
"Boss?" Becker was puzzled.
Felix didn't answer him. He just looked at Sholes.
"Mr. Sholes, why did you arrange these letters in the order of A, B, C?"
"Why?" Sholes was stunned.
"This... this is the alphabet; they are naturally in this order. That's how people recognize them."
"That's how people recite them, Mr. Sholes," Felix corrected.
"But that's not how they use them. In English, T and H are always stuck together. Arranging these closest friends as neighbors, of course, they'll collide on the road every day."
Felix's words dispelled the fog in Sholes's and Becker's minds.
"You mean..."
Sholes's voice began to tremble.
"I mean."
Felix walked to the machine and pointed his finger at the keys.
"Forget that damn alphabetical order."
"Separate all those friends that appear together most often."
"Put Q and P, one on the left, one on the right. Stagger E and F too. Shove the least used letters, like Z and X, into the most inconspicuous corners."
"We're not designing a 'logical' keyboard. We're designing a keyboard that won't jam."
"But... but then."
Sholes stammered, "People who buy the machine will have to relearn how to type, this... this is too illogical."
"Illogical?" Felix smiled.
"Mr. Sholes, tell me. How many people in the world today know the skill of typing?"
Sholes was stunned.
The answer was... not a single one!
Felix looked at them with a serious expression.
"Gentlemen, we are not changing the rules, we are making the rules!"
"Establishing a rule that all office clerks, writers, and even all bankers will have to follow for the next hundred years."
He looked at the crude machine.
"Now forget the alphabet and go create your own keyboard letter format."