Philadelphia.
Conference room in the Drexel Bank building.
Since there was no fire in the fireplace, it was somewhat cold here.
Because Anthony Drexel disliked excessive heat, believing it would cloud his mind.
At both ends of the long oak table sat two groups of people.
On the left were Anthony Drexel and his two partners. They wore dark gray robe-like suits, resembling judges of the Inquisition.
On the right were Andrew Carnegie and Tom Scott.
Carnegie had changed into new clothes, but he still appeared somewhat uneasy in front of these bankers.
Like now, his fingers nervously rubbed the document tube containing the map.
Scott, however, was relaxed, even propping his feet on the chair leg.
"I think we all understand the situation."
Drexel spoke, his voice low and devoid of any fluctuation.
"I have received the telegram from London. Mr. Morgan is very sincere."
"But."
Drexel's gray eyes fixed on Carnegie.
"Mr. Morgan is in London, and I am in Philadelphia. If a fight breaks out, it will be my people who die and my money that burns."
"I need to know exactly how much chance of success we have."
Carnegie took a deep breath.
He stood up and spread the map on the table.
"I think this isn't about chances of success, Mr. Drexel. It's about mutual survival."
Carnegie pointed to Pittsburgh.
"Argyle now controls oil, railroads, and most of the steel. If he builds that trust, all banks will become his ATMs. Including yours."
"And my factory isn't just for steelmaking; it's the hammer to break the monopoly."
"Moreover, I have the technology." Carnegie produced a set of blueprints.
"Besides the Open-hearth Furnace, there's this improved version of the Bessemer Converter. My costs can be 20% lower than Argyle' factory. As long as I have coal and a route."
"Perhaps, but where is that route?" Drexel asked.
Scott tossed the black notebook onto the table.
"The route is here." Scott pointed to the notebook.
"This contains the votes in the state legislature, plus Mr. Garrett's commitment from the B&O Railroad. We can complete the railroad connecting the Braddock Factory to the B&O mainline within three months."
"Once this route is open, Argyle' blockade will weaken significantly."
Drexel didn't look at the notebook; instead, he looked at Scott.
"Tom, I know you hate him. But hatred can be motivation, and sometimes it's poison."
"That's none of your business, Tony."
Scott used Drexel's nickname.
"You just handle the accounting; this is a good deal. The B&O Railroad will see greatly increased profits from transporting Carnegie's steel. If your bank invests in this railroad, the stock will double."
Drexel fell silent for a moment, calculating in his mind.
The millions of pounds in credit from London, plus the potential of this steel mill, plus the cooperation with the B&O Railroad.
This was a huge net, one that might trap Felix Argyle.
"I can provide the funds, but I want controlling shares." Drexel finally relented.
Carnegie's expression changed.
"Controlling shares? That won't do. This is my factory!"
"That was before the blockade." Drexel said coldly.
"Now it's a mess. Without my money, you can't even pay the workers' wages."
"I want to establish a new company."
Drexel produced a draft that had already been prepared.
"Named 'Carnegie-McCandless Steel Company'. McCandless will be my representative."
"Registered capital of seven hundred thousand dollars. I'll contribute four hundred thousand. Mr. Scott will contribute twenty thousand (as his fee for lobbying in the legislature). You'll contribute the technology and existing land, valued at two hundred eighty thousand. Of course, the new company will also assume the factory's debt to Mr. Morgan."
"We get 60%, you get 40%."
Carnegie clenched his fist.
40% would mean losing controlling shares, turning him from owner to shareholder.
"This isn't fair. If that's the case, why wouldn't I just submit to Argyle?" Carnegie said through gritted teeth.
"This is fair." Drexel looked at him.
"Argyle won't take you in a second time; you should have known that when you decided to build your own steel company."
"Of course, it's not necessarily about controlling shares." Drexel added.
"We can also add an additional agreement. After five years, if you can repay all the loans and meet the profit targets, you can buy back the shares and regain control."
Carnegie looked at Scott.
Scott gave a slight nod. The meaning was clear: sign it; survival is what matters.
Carnegie closed his eyes.
He remembered the glaring lights of Argyle Estate on that rainy night.
"Fine, but I demand the buyback agreement be included." Carnegie opened his eyes.
Soon, the contract was drafted.
Carnegie picked up the pen and signed his name heavily on the agreement.
Drexel showed a rare smile.
"Simple, isn't it?"
He pushed another document forward.
"This is the second matter. Regarding that 'Drexel-Morgan Company'."
"We will open offices in both Philadelphia and New York, but we need agents to handle the legwork. To contact the small factory owners oppressed by Argyle and those dissatisfied politicians."
"Mr. Carnegie, I think you're well-suited for this role. This way, you're not just the steel mill manager but also the 'anti-monopoly hero' we want to establish."
"We'll shape you into a freedom fighter against a tyrant. The newspapers will love this story."
Carnegie was stunned.
"Hero?"
"Yes, exactly."
"Because Argyle is too powerful; a direct attack is hard to win. So, we need to fight a public opinion war first. We'll make everyone in the United States think Argyle is a vampire, and you're the David with the slingshot."
"When the public is angry, the winds in Congress will change. Even President Grant won't dare to favor him too much."
"Understand?"
Carnegie looked at this banker.
He suddenly realized that these money players were far more ruthless than him, a steelmaker.
"I think I understand." Carnegie nodded.
"OK, then get ready to act." Drexel waved his hand. "I think the money will be transferred to your account tomorrow."
...Half an hour later.
Carnegie and Scott walked out of the bank building.
The sunlight was somewhat glaring.
"How does it feel? Hero?"
Scott patted Carnegie's shoulder mockingly.
"Feels like selling myself twice." Carnegie smiled bitterly.
"Who you sell to doesn't matter; what matters is selling at a good price." Scott put on his glasses.
"Now, I'm going to Harrisburg to see those old friends. You go keep an eye on the construction site."
"Remember, Andrew. This time, we have no way back."
Carnegie looked at the flow of people on the street.
"Of course, I know."
He touched the check in his pocket—a check for four hundred thousand dollars.
This wasn't just money; it was a declaration of war.
"Just wait, Felix." Carnegie thought to himself. "Your nightmare has begun."
...At the same moment, Philadelphia Telegraph Office.
A man wearing a flat cap was sending a telegram at the counter.
He was Flynn's subordinate.
The telegram was sent to New York, Argyle Empire State Building.
The content was simple, just a few words:
"The wolf pack has gathered; funds are in place. Target: railroads and public opinion."
The telegraph operator tapped the keys.
At this moment, on the East Coast of this country, a war without gunpowder officially began.
On one side was the Argyle Empire, holding hegemony.
On the other side was the Philadelphia Alliance, uniting European capital, old nobility, and avengers.
And in the distant southern cotton fields, those black laborers were still singing sorrowful songs.
Unaware that the big shots deciding their fate were drawing swords over uneven spoils.
The United States... the wind is rising."
___________________
New York.
Manhattan Island resembled a giant ship anchored on the gray sea, enveloped in the thick morning fog.
The gas lamps on the top floor of the Argyle Empire Bank Building had burned through the night.
Felix stood behind the massive mahogany desk, holding the telegram from Philadelphia. The paper made a faint crackling sound between his fingers.
Edward Frost stood quietly to the side.
"Philadelphia."
Felix murmured the name softly.
"So it's Anthony Drexel, that banker who always wears black robes and dresses like a priest. He actually dares to think he can slay the dragon?"
"Boss, it's not just Drexel."
Frost took half a step forward.
"According to intelligence, Tom Scott is there too. That old man holds half the secrets of the Pennsylvania State Legislature. If they join forces, our legislative control in Harrisburg (the state capital) could be shaken."
Felix tossed the telegram into the ashtray, watching it be consumed by sparks.
"Scott is an old dog who's lost his fangs, but he still remembers where to bite."
Felix walked around the desk to the large map of America. His finger traced a line between Pittsburgh and Baltimore.
"They want to build a railroad. They want to connect Carnegie's steel mill to the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad (B&O), bypassing my blockade."
"Perhaps it's more than just building a railroad," Frost added.
"Drexel also wants to wage a propaganda war. He's had some Philadelphia newspapers write articles trying to portray Carnegie as a 'freedom fighter' against monopoly tyranny. This might stir public resentment against you and put pressure on Congress."
Felix sneered.
"A freedom fighter? A Scotsman holding checks from London bankers, worthy of being called an American hero?"
He rang the brass bell on the desk.
A moment later, the two heavy oak doors were pushed open.
Entering was the manager of the News Media Company, Fowler. Following closely was Jay Gould, who looked thinner than before, but his eyes still held a sickly shrewdness.
"Gentlemen, sit," Felix gestured toward the sofa.
Fowler sat down nervously, clutching his notebook tightly. Gould leaned back casually in his chair, pulling a silver cigarette case from his pocket.
"Fowler," Felix began, staring at the media manager.
"I hear several Philadelphia newspapers are planning to turn Carnegie into a saint? Saying he's fighting for the workers' livelihoods?"
"Yes, Boss," Fowler wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"I've already learned through contacts that The Philadelphia Inquirer is already typesetting. Their headline is 'Tears of the Steel Giant: An American Dream Strangled by Trusts.' I must say, the article is quite inflammatory."
"Then destroy him."
Felix's voice was calm and steady.
"Don't use rebuttal articles; that's too low-level. I want you to redefine the story."
Fowler paused, his pen hovering in mid-air.
"How... redefine?"
"Define it as Carnegie not fighting for American workers," Felix walked up to Fowler, looking down at him.
"He's working for British capitalists. The technology comes from Britain, the funds from the Morgan Family in London, and even his partner is Drexel, who represents British interests. He's a 'foreign agent.'"
Felix turned to look out the window at the city.
"Tell the public that Carnegie's new converter technology aims to reduce the number of workers. Once his factory in Pittsburgh starts operating, it will put thousands of skilled blacksmiths out of work. So he's not a hero, but a butcher of jobs. He's the one trying to turn America's steel industry into a colony of London."
Fowler's eyes lit up; this was a genius angle.
In this post-war era of rising nationalism, nothing stirred nerves more than a "British conspiracy."
"Of course, besides that, we can do a few other things," Felix added.
"For example, dig up Carnegie's past. How did he evade military service during the Civil War? How did he make his fortune by reselling military telegraph lines? Unearth all of that. Try to bankrupt him morally."
"Understood, Boss."
Fowler closed his notebook, his face flushed with excitement.
"Tomorrow, the front page of The Daily Truth everywhere will carry it. I'll make Carnegie a public enemy."
"Then go."
Fowler rushed out of the office as if he had received a royal decree.
Only Gould remained in the room.
"Jay."
Felix poured himself a glass of brandy, not offering any to Gould.
"Your turn."
"I suppose you want me to deal with the Baltimore railroad?"
Gould toyed with the empty cigarette case, a playful smile on his lips.
"Is it that old stubborn John Garrett?"
"Mhm, after all, the B&O Railroad is currently Carnegie's only lifeline," Felix swirled his glass.
"If Garrett dares to transport even a ton of coal for Carnegie, I'll make him regret being born."
"But the key is B&O's financial health is solid," Gould frowned.
"Garrett runs it very conservatively; it's hard to short."
"Too absolute, Jay. No railroad company is truly healthy."
Felix took a file from the drawer; it was blackmail material gathered by Flynn's intelligence network.
"B&O's wooden bridges in Maryland haven't been repaired in twenty years. And their boiler maintenance records are all forged."
Gould took the file, glanced at it, and whistled.
"Is that enough?"
"Of course not," Felix's eyes turned cold.
"I want you to join forces with Hayes to use the capital pool on Wall Street. Start selling off B&O bonds. Create panic. Then, I want you, as the 'General Manager of the Erie Railroad,' to publicly question B&O's debt-servicing ability."
"When their stock price falls, Garrett's board will go crazy. Shareholders will question why he's offending Argyle for some short guy from Pittsburgh."
Gould laughed.
"I like this job; this is called financial strangulation, right?" He stood up, tucking the file into his coat.
"But this requires a lot of money; selling bonds will incur losses."
"And I have plenty of money," Felix finished his drink.
"Alright, after all, you're the Boss now."
Gould walked to the door but suddenly stopped.
"Boss, aren't you really worried about that Drexel? I hear his influence in Philadelphia runs deep. If he really mobilizes state government power..."
"Jay," Felix interrupted him.
"Power isn't legal Articles hanging on the wall. Power is who can stop the trains, who can close the banks, who can make winter colder."
"Don't worry too much. Go do your job well, make Garrett feel the chill of winter."
Gould shrugged and left.
Felix sat back in his chair and looked at Frost.
"Prepare the car, we're going to Umbrella Hospital."
"Are you unwell?" Frost asked with concern.
"No," Felix adjusted his cuff.
"Catherine is about to give birth. Before this damned war starts, I want to see my family. That's the only time I still feel human."
...At the same time, Philadelphia. Chestnut Street.
In a small newspaper office named "Voice of Freedom," the printing press was roaring.
Andrew Carnegie stood in the typesetting room filled with the smell of ink, watching workers arrange lead type into the frame.
The headline read: "Pittsburgh's Prometheus: Andrew Carnegie and the Oath of Fire."
The article portrayed him as a self-made Scottish immigrant youth, carrying the dream of making America stronger, yet ruthlessly suppressed by monopoly giants.
"This... isn't it written too exaggeratedly?"
Carnegie pointed at one paragraph, looking somewhat speechless.
"It says I sold my mother's gold ring to pay the workers. But my mother didn't leave me a gold ring."
The editor standing beside him was a young man with thick glasses, a writer hired by Drexel.
"Mr. Carnegie."
The editor pushed his glasses up, looking indifferent.
"The public doesn't need truth; they need emotion and tears. This ring is a symbol; it represents sacrifice."
"But..." Carnegie hesitated.
He was a man of efficiency and numbers; such Emotional writing made him uncomfortable.
"Enough already, OK, Andrew."
Tom Scott walked in.
He held a bottle of cheap whiskey, his face bearing the weariness of a seasoned man.
"Newspapers are just appetizers; the real feast is in Harrisburg." Scott patted Carnegie's shoulder.
"I've already bought train tickets to the state capital for tonight; you're coming with me."
"What are we going to the capital for?"
"Perhaps, to see ghosts?"
Scott took a sip of whiskey, revealing yellowed teeth.
"To see those legislators who sold their souls to the devil and now want to sell them again."
"We need to get that connection line charter, even if we have to hold a gun to their heads."
Carnegie looked at his former mentor and suddenly felt that so-called "business world politics" was dirtier than the flames in a steel furnace.
"Alright," Carnegie nodded.
"As long as we can defeat Argyle, I can make a deal with the devil."
The roar of the printing press grew louder, as if drumming for the coming war.
And on that still-damp newspaper, Carnegie's name was printed in large bold type, like a target.
Perhaps also like a flag.