After seeing August Belmont and Tweed off, the gates of the Argyle Mansion swung shut once more.
When night fell and Felix dismissed the servants, only the faint flame of a gas lamp lingered in the corridor.
In the master bedroom on the second floor, the firelight stretched the shadows long across the walls.
Felix peeled off the coat still chilled by the night air and changed into a cotton robe. Settling into the armchair beside the bed, he cradled a half-finished whisky, eyes fixed on the leaping red embers in the hearth.
His mind turned inevitably to the road ahead—how, after striking a bargain with the Democratic Party, he would placate the Republicans.
Meanwhile Catherine sat at the dressing-table, unpinning the pearl ornaments from her hair.
In the mirror her brows were faintly knit; something weighed on her mind.
After a long while she set down the comb and turned around.
"Felix, I don't quite understand."
"Hmm? What don't you understand?"
Felix swirled the glass; ice clinked with a brittle chime, puzzled by her question.
"That envelope."
Catherine pointed to the night-stand where Felix had tossed Belmont's list.
"And the ledger taken from the house of that Charleston merchant—Thorne."
"I read the telegram."
Catherine's voice was soft.
"Silas found evidence in Thorne's safe of bribes paid by Democrats to top men in Washington—receipts and letters implicating a dozen senators, even people on the Supreme Court."
"If those were handed to The New York Times, or directly to Secretary Stanton, the Democratic Party would be finished."
Catherine looked into Felix's eyes, bewildered.
"You could have destroyed them outright. The Republicans would control the Union, and as their ally your business would be safer than ever."
"But you asked for only twelve names and let Belmont and Seymour walk away."
"Why?"
Felix took a sip; the whisky burned down his throat.
He rose, stepped behind her, and rested his hands on her shoulders.
"Catherine, have you ever seen a circus lion-tamer?"
"Of course."
"Then you know he carries a whip, yet he never beats both lions to death."
Felix met her gaze in the mirror, his expression gentle.
"Leave only one lion in the cage and it thinks itself king. Then it starts to eat people—and even the tamer."
He lifted his hands, moved to the window, and drew back the curtain a fraction.
New York lay in darkness, distant street-lamps flickering like fireflies.
"The Republican Party is that strong lion now. Stevens, Stanton—they need me because they're fighting Southern rebels and Democratic reprisals. I'm their purse and their bludgeon."
"Even if President Lincoln and I share a deep friendship, it's personal. When state and private feelings clash, I'm sure he would not side with me."
"Now consider: if the Democrats die, what will they do next?"
Felix turned, leaning against the window-frame.
"With no opposition in Congress, the radicals will rule unchallenged. What do you think Stevens's crowd will do then?"
Catherine hesitated, thinking.
"Pass more bills, perhaps?"
"No, my dear," Felix said, shaking his head.
"Without an outside enemy they'll look within—and find a man named Felix Argyle who controls munitions, iron, part of the railroads, even a private army."
"Then I'm no longer an ally; I'm a threat—a monopolist, a tumor on the Republic."
"They'll use against me the same weapons they used on Southern slaveholders: break my companies, seize my property… even send me to the gallows."
"Perhaps they already see it, but because I stand with them now—because I saved the President's life and enjoy his favor—they bide their time. Yet what of tomorrow?"
The room sank into deathly stillness.
Only the logs in the hearth crackled.
A chill ran through Catherine; she had never looked so far ahead.
She had thought victory the finish line, yet on Felix's board it was merely the opening of the next game.
"Therefore the Democratic Party must not die."
Felix walked back, lifted the envelope containing the list.
"I'll keep them alive—weak and afraid. They'll trouble the Republicans in Congress so Stevens and Stanton will feel that without Argyle's money and muscle they cannot keep their seats."
"As for this evidence—" he tapped the envelope, "—if I release it, it's a single bomb: loud, but gone in a flash, and the Democrats might still survive."
"Yet locked in my safe it becomes a noose—one cinched around the necks of Seymour, Belmont, and every Democratic grandee."
"As long as I hold that rope, they'll obey."
He tossed the envelope into the drawer; the lock clicked shut, sealing half of Washington's fate.
"And I didn't let them off for nothing."
Felix sank back into the chair, a playful smile curling his lips.
"Belmont promised that whenever an 'anti-monopoly bill' targets me in Congress, the Democrats will vote against it."
"You see—" he spread his hands, "—balance. The Republicans grant me privilege, the Democrats grant me protection. I stand in the middle, collecting rent from both."
Catherine studied the man before her.
At that moment he seemed stranger to her than ever—and stronger.
She rose, crossed to him, knelt, and rested her head on his knee.
"Sometimes you frighten me, Felix," she murmured. "To think you've calculated the whole nation into your plan."
"For this family," Felix said, stroking her hair.
"For Finn, so no one can overturn that gilded cradle—I must count every step."
"Come, let's sleep." He extinguished the bedside lamp.
"Tomorrow is busy. The list of twelve is already with Silas. The South… is about to be swept clean."
In the darkness, Felix's eyes remained open.
Balancing the two parties was a high-wire act, yet he relished it.
Only from the highest point can one see which way the wind will blow.
Southern Georgia, edge of the Okefenokee Swamp.
Winter here is a wet cold that seeps into your bones.
Yellowed reeds shiver in the wind, rustling softly. Every now and then a mischievous bubble pops in the black water, and the whole place reeks of rotting plants.
A squad of horsemen was struggling down the muddy path.
They flew no flag and wore no bright uniforms.
Each man was wrapped in a black cloak caked with mud, a Vanguard Rifle in his hand. Cloth bound the horses' hooves, so they made almost no sound in the muck.
Silas rode at the front, scanning the way ahead with single-minded focus.
Dew clung to his beard, and his eyes were as murky and dangerous as the swamp itself.
"Boss."
Borg spurred his horse up behind him and kept his voice low.
"The guide says it's just ahead. The one they call Gray Wolf is holed up with a dozen men in an abandoned smugglers' camp."
Gray Wolf's real name was Jackson Colt—first on the list Belmont had provided.
He was first for a reason.
He was the most radical Klan chieftain in Georgia and the planner of the attack on the Militech survey team a month ago.
Two surveyors had been killed and three expensive theodolites smashed.
In short, he had cost Felix men and money.
So he had to be eliminated first; otherwise Felix would never rest easy. After all, regular employees had died, and their families deserved an accounting.
"You're sure this is the place?"
Silas reined in his horse and stared at the mist-shrouded trees ahead.
"Should be." Borg pulled out a map.
"It's a military survey map from the Department of the Interior—sorry, Army survey. Add the coordinates that Democratic courier gave us under duress, and the guide leading us in."
"Good. Finally found the bastards."
Silas took a bottle of hard liquor from his saddlebag, swallowed a mouthful to drive off the cold.
"These vermin think we can't touch them if they hide in the swamp. Hah—what a joke."
He passed the bottle to Borg.
"Pass the word. Dismount, leave the horses outside the trees. Check weapons—no torches."
"The Boss calls this 'exterminating pests.' Pests get crushed, and their nests get burned."
Twenty elite Vanguard men swung down. They moved in perfect unison, the mark of veterans forged in war.
Rifles ready, they glided into the reeds like ghosts.
The target camp lay two hundred meters ahead: a few rickety cabins on stilts round a fire.
A dozen men in tattered gray uniforms roasted a wild pig; white robes and peaked hoods hung nearby.
"Damn Yankees."
Gray Wolf Colt, beard thick with grease, tore at half-cooked meat and cursed.
"Come spring, when the water drops, I'll blow their rail bridge. If Belmont the coward won't pay us, we'll take it ourselves."
"Boss, I hear our boys in Charleston got nabbed," a flunky muttered. "That Flynn's a hard case."
"Scared shitless?" Colt spat a bone.
"This is Georgia—our turf! That northern dog shows his face, I'll skin him, stuff him, hang him for a scarecrow."
"Will you now?"
A cold voice spoke from the dark.
Colt flung the meat aside and lunged for the double-barreled shotgun at his feet.
Bang!
A single shot rang out.
His hand had barely touched the stock when a bullet shattered his wrist.
"Agh—!"
Before the scream could spread, a dozen tongues of flame spat from the reeds.
Rat-tat-tat…
The Vanguard Rifle's rate of fire was a generation ahead; the Klansmen round the fire were cut down before they could stand.
Mist's of blood burst in the firelight.
Ten seconds.
The firing stopped.
Only groans and the crackle of burning wood remained.
Silas stepped from the shadows, boots squelching in the mud, a smoking revolver in his hand.
Borg charged in with the others, expertly finishing the wounded.
Silas stood over Colt.
The man who had vowed to flay him now rolled on the ground, clutching his ruined hand, face bloodless.
"You… you're Silas?"
Looking up at the mud-smeared boots, terror filled Colt's eyes.
"I am." Silas knelt.
"Still planning to make a scarecrow out of me?"
"No—no! I was taking orders!" Colt sobbed. "Men in Washington paid me—don't kill me! I'll testify!"
"Not necessary." Silas rose.
"Your own Boss sold you out. That's how I found you."
He drew the list from his pocket and waved it under Colt's nose.
"See? Red circle round your name—courtesy of Mr. Belmont himself."
Colt froze; despair washed over him like a tide.
Death by an enemy is one thing; betrayal by your own is another.
"Send him on his way."
Silas turned his back.
Bang!
Borg pulled the trigger.
"Search the place," Silas ordered.
"Take anything worth taking—gold teeth included. The foundation's orphans still need milk."
Minutes later the men hauled out two chests stamped Confederate Reserve and several crates of tobacco doubtless looted from passing wagons.
"Torch it."
Torches arced into the cabins.
Dry timber caught; flames lit the gloomy swamp.
Silas stood before the blaze, took out a notebook, and drew a line through Jackson Colt.
"Next." He glanced at the map.
"Atlanta. The one they call the Professor. Runs an apothecary, poisons Black folks' wells."
"Move."
Hoofbeats sounded again.
The northern cleanup crew moved like a scalpel, excising the South's rotting tissue with surgical precision.
No trials, no pleas—just names and bullets.
And in Washington and New York the great men clinked glasses, unaware—or pretending not to notice—the scent of blood in the swamp.
Because that, after all, is the price of order.