Forgot to fix last chapter now fixed, you won't guess what it was ever
_____________________________
Philadelphia, Western Suburbs, Pennsylvania.
Rain washed the leaf-strewn dirt road.
A black carriage without any family crest stopped before the iron gates of a red-brick manor.
The coachman jumped down, his boots sinking into the mud, and pulled hard on the copper bell by the gate.
The ringing sounded muffled in the rain.
After a while, an old butler in a worn uniform opened the observation window on the door.
"Who is it?"
"Andrew Carnegie."
The person inside the carriage pushed open the door and jumped directly into the rain.
"Tell Mr. Scott that his student from Pittsburgh has come to see him."
The butler squinted for a moment and recognized the face.
"The master is drinking in the study; he might not want to see guests."
"Tell him I have wine. Better than what he's drinking."
Carnegie patted the bottle in his overcoat pocket.
"And I have a story—a story about Argyle."
Before long, the iron gate opened.
The manor was overgrown with weeds; the once neatly trimmed shrubs now looked like a pack of wild, overgrown beasts. The fountain pool was filled with dead leaves and green rainwater.
The place was filled with the stench of failure.
Tom Scott sat in an armchair in front of the fireplace.
He had once been the chairman of the board of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, the actual operator of that massive railroad empire.
Back then, his signature could determine which town a railroad passed through and could make a piece of land's value increase tenfold.
But now, he was just an old man.
His face was covered in broken capillaries, the marks left by alcohol.
"Andrew, sit."
Scott didn't stand up; he just swirled the glass in his hand.
"I heard you made big news in Pittsburgh, planning to build the largest steel mill in America?"
"It's under construction."
Carnegie hung his overcoat on the rack and walked to the fire to warm his hands.
"But unfortunately, it's about to stop work."
"Because there's no coal?"
Scott chuckled. "Or because it can't be shipped in?"
"As expected, I can't hide it from you. It's both."
Carnegie took two clean glasses and poured out the whisky he had brought.
"Argyle has blockaded me, and the Pennsylvania Railroad raised the freight rates. The locks on the Monongahela River are also broken."
Scott picked up the glass and took a sniff.
"Scottish. Good stuff."
He took a sip and closed his eyes.
"What have you come to me for, Andrew? You know I'm out of the game. Three years ago, that devil Argyle kicked me off the board. The Pennsylvania Railroad today is named Argyle."
"No." Carnegie stared at the flames. "There are still people not named Argyle."
"Who?"
"Garrett." Carnegie spat out a name.
"The president of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (B&O), John Garrett."
Scott opened his eyes.
"Garrett is a tough nut to crack. He's always wanted to build his railroad into Pittsburgh to break the Pennsylvania Railroad's monopoly. But he can't get in; Argyle bought all the land around Pittsburgh, blocking the B&O's entry route."
"What if he could get in?"
Carnegie pulled a map from his breast pocket and spread it out on the dusty coffee table.
"When I was buying land, I intentionally left a piece." Carnegie pointed to a thin line on the map.
"To the south of the Braddock factory, there is an abandoned canal bed. That land isn't in Argyle' hands. It's church property."
"I've already bought it."
Scott leaned in to look. His gaze slowly became sharp, the light belonging to a railroad tycoon seemingly returning to this drunkard.
"You want the B&O Railroad to connect through here?"
"Yes, this line can directly connect to my factory. Although Garrett's railroad network isn't as large as Argyle', it can lead to the Port of Baltimore and also to Chicago."
"As long as this route is opened, I won't need the Pennsylvania Railroad's coal. I can buy coal from West Virginia and ship it through the B&O. My steel rails can also be shipped out via the B&O to be sold to the South or the West."
Scott fell silent, calculating.
"Garrett doesn't have the money to build this branch line." Scott shook his head. "Neither do I; my money was all lost in previous stock speculations."
"I have money." Carnegie told a lie.
"And what Garrett needs isn't money, but right-of-way permission. To build a railroad in Pennsylvania, you need a charter from the state legislature. Argyle controls the legislature."
"Ha!"
Scott let out a laugh, a genuine one this time.
"The legislature? Andrew, you're still too young. Don't forget who used to feed those legislators."
Scott stood up and walked to the bookshelf.
After rummaging behind a mess of books for a while, he pulled out a black notebook.
"There are nearly a hundred names in here."
Scott patted the notebook, dust flying.
"Some are still officials in Harrisburg. Some have retired, but their descendants remain. These people owe me favors—many, many favors."
"Argyle gives them money. But I have dirt on them. About prostitutes, about gambling debts, about those dirty land deals from before."
Scott looked at Carnegie.
"Are you sure you need that charter?"
"Of course."
"Then give me five percent." Scott held out his palm.
"I want five percent of the equity in that steel mill of yours. I believe that's not asking too much."
"No problem at all. It's a deal." Carnegie did not hesitate.
Scott threw the notebook to Carnegie.
"And... just having the road isn't enough. You also need money—a lot of money. Argyle will likely fight a price war with you. If you sell your rails for fifty dollars, he'll sell for forty. If you sell for thirty, he'll sell for twenty. He has railroads and gold backing him; he can afford to lose money, but you might not."
"I have the support of London."
"London is too far away." Scott walked back to his chair and sat down.
"A telegram takes half a day, and a bill of exchange takes two weeks. By the time the money arrives, your factory will already be bankrupt. You need a local ally. An ally with a vault."
"Who?"
Scott pointed out the window, toward the center of Philadelphia.
"Drexel & Co. on Third Street, Anthony Drexel."
Carnegie frowned.
"That banker? I've heard of him, but he seems very conservative, never touching venture capital, only buying government and municipal bonds."
"That was years ago." Scott refilled his glass.
"The Philadelphia bankers are starving now; Argyle' Argyle Bank has sucked up all the deposits. New York has taken all the business. Drexel hates Argyle just as much as I do."
"And..." Scott lowered his voice.
"Drexel's relationship with London is even deeper than that of your Mr. Morgan. He was one of Barings Bank's former agents in North America."
"Take this map to see Drexel tomorrow morning. Tell him this is his only chance to shove a knife into Argyle' throat."
Carnegie Put away the map and notebook.
"Thank you, Mr. Scott."
"Don't thank me." Scott looked at the fire, his eyes cold.
"When your steel mill starts smoking, I want you to do one thing for me."
"What is it?"
"Use your first batch of molten steel to cast a knife for me. Carve the name Felix Argyle on it."
Carnegie put on his hat.
"I will."
The door closed.
Carnegie returned to the rain. The coachman was shivering.
"Where to, Boss?"
"Philadelphia. Chestnut Street Hotel." Carnegie climbed into the carriage. "We'll stay there for the night and go to Third Street tomorrow."
The rain fell even harder.
But in Carnegie's chest, the fire was burning bright.
He had the road and the guide.
Now, he was going to find his ammunition... At the same time, on Broadway in New York.
The Argyle Empire Bank building.
George Templeton was reporting to Felix.
"Boss, it's very quiet over in Pittsburgh. Carnegie hasn't applied for bankruptcy, nor has he gone to the bank to mortgage his land in Brooklyn."
Felix stood by the window, looking down at the crowd like ants.
"Quiet?" Felix turned around.
"Quiet is not good. When a dog is backed into a corner, it should bark. If it doesn't bark, it's preparing to bite."
"Have you monitored that old man? Tom Scott."
"We have." George nodded.
"But he lives in the countryside and rarely goes out. Our informants say a carriage went to his house today. It stayed for an hour."
"Check that carriage."
"Can't find it. No markings. But the driver bought a bottle of whisky at a tavern in town and paid with a new banknote. A banknote issued by the First National Bank of Pittsburgh."
Felix narrowed his eyes.
"Pittsburgh, Carnegie."
He walked to the map and looked at Philadelphia's location.
"Scott is an old fox with many connections. If he joins forces with Carnegie..."
Felix took a pen and drew a circle around Philadelphia.
"Who else is in Philadelphia?"
"Many banks," George replied.
"Drexel, Jay Cooke... they are old-school figures. They've always looked down on our methods in New York."
"Send a telegram to Jay Gould," Felix ordered. "Have him keep a close eye on the legislature in Harrisburg. If anyone submits any bill regarding railroad charters, I want to know immediately."
"Also, tell our brokers in Philadelphia to start selling off Pennsylvania state bonds. Drive the price down."
"Why?" George was somewhat puzzled.
"As a warning, of course." Felix threw the pen on the table.
"Tell those people in Philadelphia: if they want to touch my cheese, I'll make their assets shrink."
"Additionally, have Flynn take men to Philadelphia to watch the doors of those banks. I want to know who goes in and who comes out. Even if it's just a fly."
"Yes."
George backed out.
Felix looked at the map.
Philadelphia, once the capital of the United States.
Also the fortress of some old money.
"Since you want to play, I'll play for high stakes with you."
November 16, 1869, London.
A thick fog enveloped the Thames. The gas lamps remained lit at high noon, emitting a dim, yellowish halo.
22 Broad Street.
There was no sign here, only a heavy oak door. But the entire City of London knew that this was the domain of Junius Spencer Morgan.
The office was covered with thick Persian rugs. On the wall hung a portrait of Queen Victoria and a massive map of the world.
Junius Morgan sat behind his desk, wearing a strictly tailored black double-breasted suit.
A telegram lay on the desk.
The telegraph paper was slightly damp, its corners curled. It had been relayed through Boston.
"Pittsburgh blockaded, railway transport severed. Funds urgent, requesting assistance. — C."
That was Carnegie's distress signal.
Junius did not reply immediately. Instead, he picked up a silver letter opener and tapped it gently against the desktop.
A rhythmic "tap, tap, tap" echoed in the quiet room.
Sitting across from Old Morgan was a young man. It was one of his partners, Herman.
"Argyle has made his move, faster than I expected. And more ruthless," Junius spoke, his voice as cold as the London fog.
"That Irishman wants it all for himself."
Herman set down his teacup.
"He is establishing what he calls a 'Trust.' His actions in New York have already drawn the ire of Lord Baring. Barings Bank's return on investment in American railways is declining because Argyle is forcing all railway companies to lower their freight rates, except for his own."
"I don't see it that way; he doesn't just want it all," Junius corrected. "He wants to set the rules."
"He wants to be the King of America, a monarch without a crown."
Junius stood up, walked to the map, traced his finger across the Atlantic Ocean, and finally tapped the location of New York several times.
"I lost there once, and then I lost my son."
His hand trembled for a moment as he spoke, but it quickly regained its stability.
"If Argyle controls America's steel and railways, he will control its grain and cotton next. When that happens, the vaults of London might have to answer to him."
"What shall we do, sir?" Herman asked. "Remit funds to Carnegie? Help him buy his way through?"
"Of course not," Junius turned around.
"What use is a simple remittance? Once the money reaches New York, it still has to pass through Argyle's banks. He has countless ways to freeze the funds or manipulate the exchange rates against us."
"We need to establish a new foothold in America, a fortress where Argyle's reach cannot extend."
"Philadelphia?" Herman asked tentatively.
"Yes, Philadelphia."
Junius walked back to the desk and picked up a quill to write a name on the stationery.
Anthony Drexel.
"I remember the Drexel family has operated there for three generations. They are conservative and cautious, yet greedy. I hear they despise New York now. Crucially, they have connections within the Pennsylvania state government and hold the savings of German immigrants."
"Herman, go send the telegram."
Junius handed over the paper.
"Send it to Drexel in Philadelphia. Tell him London is willing to provide a credit line of several million pounds. The condition is that he establishes a joint-venture bank with us."
"I've already thought of the name."
Junius looked at the thick fog outside the window.
"Drexel, Morgan & Co."
Herman looked at the figure and gasped.
"Several million pounds? That's a massive gamble. If we lose..."
"If we lose, we will be kicked out of the Americas entirely," Junius said expressionlessly. "But if we don't gamble, we will be slowly strangled to death."
"And..." Junius called out to Herman, who was about to leave.
"Contact the Rothschild branch in Frankfurt. Tell them I agree to let them join this consortium. That Argyle is colluding with the Prussians. The French are very unhappy; the Rothschild family has significant interests in France."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
"Tell them we are going to launch a 'Currency War' in America. We are going to attack Argyle's cash flow."
Herman nodded and walked out quickly.
The door closed.
Junius pulled open a drawer, which contained an old photograph. The photo showed the profile of a young man. It was J.P. Morgan.
"Just watch, son."
Junius closed the drawer.
"I am going to tear down his empire, brick by brick, to build your tombstone."
...Three hours later, the transatlantic telegraph cable.
This was an umbilical cord connecting the Old World and the New World.
Copper wires encased in gutta-percha lay on the cold, dark seabed.
The rhythmic pulses of electric current were traversing three thousand miles of seawater.
A relay station in Newfoundland.
An operator wearing headphones was rapidly recording the code.
"D-R-E-X-E-L..."
"M-O-R-G-A-N..."
These codes were converted into paper tapes and then transmitted again. They passed through Canada, through New England, and finally arrived in Philadelphia.
Philadelphia, Third Street. The Drexel Bank Building.
Anthony Drexel was sitting in his private office. The decor here resembled a church, with a high dome, stained glass windows, and black walnut paneling.
There was no noise of typewriters here. Only the sound of flipping ledgers.
A secretary entered noiselessly and placed a freshly translated telegram on the desk.
Drexel picked up a monocle and clipped it to his eye socket.
He read very slowly, chewing over every word.
Ten minutes later.
He set down the telegram and removed his glasses.
"Have Joseph (the partner) come in."
Drexel glanced at the wall clock.
"By the way, if a gentleman named Carnegie comes to visit, do not make him wait. Bring him directly here."
The secretary was somewhat surprised.
Mr. Drexel never directly saw visitors without an appointment, especially industrialists.
"Even if he comes covered in mud?" the secretary asked.
"Even if he comes covered in blood," Drexel replied.
He stood up and walked to a massive safe.
It was a custom-made safe from Paris, weighing five tons.
He turned the combination dial.
Click.
The heavy steel door opened. Inside, it was piled with bonds, land deeds, and gold.
But in Drexel's eyes, these things had lost their luster today.
Because what was promised in that telegram carried far more weight than all of this.
It was a scepter from London.
With it, Philadelphia would no longer be New York's shadow.
With it, he could sit at the same table and play cards with the insufferable Felix Argyle.
Drexel closed the safe.
"Prepare some coffee," he said to the secretary.
"Make it strong; we might be talking for a long time today."