January 18th, Washington D.C.
On the second floor of the Willard Hotel, there was a private meeting room long reserved by the Democratic Party. Far from the bustle of Capitol Hill, it was a suitable place for discussing matters that preferred the shadows.
The room was filled with smoke, and several gentlemen in dark suits sat around a round table, their expressions gloomier than the winter day outside.
Seated at the head was August Belmont. As the chairman of the Democratic National Committee, this banker usually maintained a haughty demeanor, but at this moment, his brows were tightly knit.
To his left was Horatio Seymour, the former governor of New York and a powerful figure within the Democratic Party.
In the center of the table lay a pile of urgent letters and telegrams that had just arrived through various channels from the South.
"It's a massacre."
Seymour slapped a letter onto the table; it was a blood-written plea from a surviving county councilman in South Carolina.
"They struck Charleston, Atlanta, and Savannah simultaneously. The Militech's security teams are nothing but a pack of uniformed bandits. Armed with documents from the Department of the Interior, they burst into the homes of our local leaders, dragging them away or simply... disposing of them."
"Thorne was arrested, Reed is dead, and then there's Harrison in Georgia... he was our major donor for next year's midterm elections."
Seymour's voice trembled slightly.
"If this continues, by spring, our grassroots organizations in the South will be completely uprooted."
"This is illegal!" another congressman shouted.
"This is military dictatorship! What does that madman Stanton want? Does he want to start a second Civil War?"
"Calm down."
Belmont finally spoke. His voice was low, with a heavy German accent.
As the Rothschild family's political agent in America, he viewed issues from a deeper perspective.
"This wasn't Stanton's idea alone."
Belmont picked up a telegram.
"If the regular army were acting, there would be transfer orders; even if they were militias, there would be congressional authorization procedures. But these people... they are still employees of a private company."
"Vanguard United Services Company," Belmont read the name.
"Felix Argyle is behind this."
Upon hearing that name, the atmosphere in the room froze for a few seconds.
Over the past few years, that name had risen like a comet. From food to medicine, finance to railroads, munitions to steel—his shadow seemed to be everywhere.
"That young parvenu..." Seymour gritted his teeth.
"Does he think he can do whatever he wants just because he has money?"
"On the contrary, he understands the rules very well," Belmont said coldly.
"He didn't kill people outright; instead, he used the pretext of 'investigating economic crimes' to gain leverage. After all, those people did fund the KKK. Legally, that's aiding the enemy."
"If we publicly protest now, the Radicals in the Republican Party will accuse us in Congress of harboring terrorists. When that happens, forget about reclaiming seats—we won't even be able to hold onto the ones we have."
"Then what should we do?" Seymour asked. "Are we just supposed to watch as he wipes out our people in the South?"
Belmont stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the nearby White House.
He was a banker; he knew how to calculate costs and benefits.
"Argyle is no Republican loyalist," Belmont analyzed.
"I've looked into his rise; he's a pure pragmatist. He continues to cooperate with Stanton because we need the South in chaos, while he needs the South stable."
"What he wants are markets, cotton, and profits. As for who becomes president, that might just be a matter of price to him."
"Since he's a businessman, there's room for negotiation."
Belmont turned around and adjusted his bow tie.
"We can't go head-to-head with him in Congress. Stanton and Clark are currently in favor, and Lincoln trusts them. We need a different approach."
"Send someone to New York," Belmont ordered.
"Find that fat man named Tweed. He's our man in New York and something of an ally to Argyle. Have him pass along a message."
"What message?"
"Tell Argyle that we are willing to take a step back on the Southern issue."
Belmont walked to the table, picked up a pen, and wrote a few words on a piece of paper.
"We can have the Southern Democrats stop harassing his businesses. We can even restrain the KKK, making sure they don't touch his railroads or estates."
"We can even remain silent in Congress regarding certain 'monopolistic business practices' of his."
"The condition is..."
"That mad dog Silas must stop. He cannot keep arresting our political backbone."
"Those who have already been arrested must be released on bail, provided they are still alive. As for those who are already dead..."
Belmont paused, a hint of coldness flashing in his eyes.
"Then consider them sacrifices for the sake of party interests."
Hearing this, Seymour felt a chill in his heart.
But he understood this was the only way.
"What if Argyle doesn't agree?" Seymour asked.
"He will," Belmont said confidently.
"He's a smart man. He knows that if he pushes us too far, his life won't be easy either. Congressional hearings, antitrust investigations, tax audits... we can cause him endless trouble."
"Go," Belmont waved his hand.
"Send a telegram to Tweed immediately and have him arrange a meeting."
"The location will be in New York. I want to personally meet this young man who has turned America upside down."
...
After the meeting ended, Seymour walked alone through the streets of Washington.
The cold wind was biting.
Looking at the buildings draped in the Stars and Stripes, he suddenly felt that this country had become very unfamiliar.
Previously, politics was a debate among gentlemen, the art of compromise.
But now, with the emergence of people like Felix Argyle, politics had become naked commercial calculation.
Bullets, ledgers, votes, stocks.
These things were all mixed together and weighed on a scale.
"God bless America."
Seymour wrapped his coat tighter and muttered under his breath.
But he also knew that God might be busy counting money right now.
Nassau Street in Lower Manhattan, the office of the Argyle Charitable Relief Foundation.
Anna Clark sat behind the desk piled high with documents.
She had been here for two weeks.
The expensive gown she had brought from Washington was tucked away in the wardrobe, replaced by a more practical wool dress.
Her face showed less of the excitement she'd had upon first arrival and more of a composure unbefitting her age.
"Vice Chairperson."
An accountant walked over and handed her a new list.
"This is an asset receipt form just sent from Charleston. It includes three downtown properties and deeds for about twenty thousand acres of land. These have all been 'donated' to the foundation."
Anna took the list; her hand did not shake.
She also knew how these so-called donations had come about. They were the estates of the Democrats whom Silas had cleared out.
On the supplementary page of the list, there was a long string of names.
"What is this?" Anna asked, pointing at the names.
"These are the orphans left behind by those 'donors'," the accountant whispered.
"Per the Boss's instructions, these children will be sent to the Argyle Second Orphanage. The foundation will be responsible for their livelihood and education."
Anna looked at the names.
Some of the surnames were familiar to her; they were famous families from the South.
Two weeks ago, she would have been shocked and disgusted by this.
Thinking it was hypocrisy, a sin.
But now, when she saw another report—about the former street orphans who were eating hot meals and wearing new clothes because of these funds—her values began to waver, then reshape themselves.
"Accept them." Anna picked up her fountain pen and signed the document.
"Auction the properties as soon as possible to liquidate them. Allocate the money to the schools. As for the new orphans, try to treat them all equally."
"Tell the director not to let them know where this money came from. Just tell them... it is a gift from God."
The accountant left with the documents.
Anna leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples.
"Well done, Anna."
Catherine's voice drifted over. She had just stepped out of the inner office, holding a cup of hot tea.
"Your signature is becoming more and more decisive."
Catherine placed the tea on Anna's desk.
"Secretary Clark will be proud of you."
"I don't need his pride."
Anna watched the steam rising from the teacup.
"I just... understand how this machine works now."
"Some die, some live. Money is taken from the dead and fed to the living."
Anna looked up, a cold clarity in her eyes as if she had seen through the ways of the world.
"This is what you call order, isn't it?"
"Yes." Catherine did not shy away. "It's cruel, but effective."
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
Frost walked in, looking hurried.
"Madam, Miss Anna." Frost bowed slightly. "Pardon the intrusion, but Mr. Tweed is downstairs. He says an important guest from Washington wants to see the Boss. But the Boss is currently inspecting the factory on Long Island. So..."
"Who?" Catherine asked.
"August Belmont."
Hearing this name, Anna stood up abruptly.
She had heard this name countless times in Washington's social circles. He was a financier for the Democratic Party and one of the most powerful bankers in Washington.
"What is he here for?" Anna asked.
"Likely to sue for peace."
A faint, imperceptible smile touched the corner of Frost's mouth.
"The situation in the South is escalating; they can't hold out any longer."
"Since the Boss isn't here, Mr. Tweed hopes you could receive him first, Madam."
Catherine thought for a moment, then looked at Anna.
"Anna, would you like to meet this important figure?"
"Me?" Anna was taken aback. "That's a political negotiation. I'm just an accountant."
"You are the daughter of the Secretary of the Interior, after all."
Catherine helped straighten her collar, her tone gentle.
"Besides, you are now a member of the Argyle faction. Go and listen; listen to how those who hold the nation's fate in their hands put a price on conscience."
...
Half an hour later.
The drawing room of the Argyle Residence on Fifth Avenue.
August Belmont sat on a velvet sofa.
He surveyed the luxurious room, his gaze landing on the massive industrial map on the wall.
Tweed accompanied him, his fat face wearing a professional fake smile.
"Mr. Belmont."
Catherine walked in with Anna.
Belmont stood and bowed politely. His gaze lingered on Anna for a second, seemingly surprised that the daughter of Secretary Clark would be here.
"Ms. OBrien, Miss Clark."
"I'm sorry, Felix is still on his way back."
Catherine sat down, her posture elegant and composed.
"If you have something to say, Mr. Belmont, you can tell me first, if you don't mind."
Belmont sat back on the sofa, not beating around the bush.
"Fine, then I'll be blunt. The business in the South must stop."
"Mr. Argyle is playing a dangerous game, substituting lynch law for the legal system. This has already caused unease among many in Congress."
"Unease?" Catherine smiled faintly.
"Is it because the people dying happen to be your friends?"
"It's because of order," Belmont corrected.
"If it's for business, we can certainly cooperate. There's no need for things to be this bloody."
"We are willing to make concessions." Belmont threw out his chips.
"As long as Silas's men stop the arrests and release our key personnel, the Democratic Party guarantees that no one in the South will dare touch a single strand of Argyle's cotton in the future."
"We can even support the extension of that 'Land Trust Act'."
Catherine said nothing; she looked at Anna.
Anna took a deep breath.
She thought of the accounts, of the black laborers who had died at the hands of the KKK, and of those confiscated 'bloody assets'.
"Mr. Belmont," Anna spoke.
"By 'concessions,' do you mean letting those murderers go unpunished?"
Belmont frowned. "Miss Clark, this is political compromise."
"No, this is business." Anna looked at the banker.
"I currently manage the accounts at the charitable foundation; I know where every cent goes. Your people burned our warehouses and killed our workers, causing tens of thousands of dollars in damages."
"And now you say stop, and it stops?" Anna shook her head. "If you want to talk, you must show sincerity."
"What sincerity?"
"Reparations." Anna spat out the word.
"Triple the damages in compensation. And... hand over the list of KKK leaders who haven't been caught yet. Or clean them up yourselves."
Belmont was somewhat dazed; wasn't the Clark girl a recent graduate?
He never expected this seemingly frail girl to speak so ruthlessly.
"That's impossible," Belmont said coldly. "We cannot betray our own."
"Then there is nothing to talk about."
A man's voice came from the doorway.
Felix strode in, still carrying the outdoor chill, the hem of his trench coat splattered with mud.
He walked to Catherine's side, gently pressed her shoulder, and then looked at Belmont.
"Anna is right." Felix sat down, his gaze like a blade.
"Mr. Belmont, you seem to have misunderstood one thing."
"You are the ones who came to me."
"Furthermore, the South is my market, and I will not allow any unstable elements to exist. Since you can't control that dog, I'll beat the dog to death. As for the owner..."
Felix sneered.
"If the owner doesn't want to get bitten, they'd better bring a leash."
"The list." Felix held out his hand.
"Give me a list of the core radical KKK members. Those lunatics who are not only anti-bBlack but anti-business. Hand them over, and I'll have Silas stop."
"As for the other moderates... I can let them off the hook. I might even find them a position in my company."
"That is the bottom line."
Belmont looked at Felix, then at the resolute Catherine and Anna beside him.
He knew he wasn't facing one person, but a fully-formed interest group.
After a moment of silence, Belmont sighed and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, placing it on the table.
"This is the list." His voice sounded somewhat aged.
"There are twelve people inside, all... uncontrollable lunatics."
"That's more like it." Felix tucked away the envelope. "Edward, see our guest out."
After Belmont left, the room fell silent.
Anna looked at the envelope. She knew it contained twelve lives.
"Have I... become very wicked?" Anna asked softly.
"No."
Felix looked at her, his eyes showing a touch more appreciation.
"You've just learned how to protect your own in this jungle."
"Welcome officially, Anna."