Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania.
This city was less a state political center and more a giant hybrid of a smokehouse and a brothel.
The dome of the State Capitol Building looked somewhat shriveled in the cold winter wind, while in the "Eagle's Nest Hotel" right across from it, the fireplace was burning brightly.
The third floor of this hotel was a private box area, the true birthplace of Pennsylvania law.
Tom Scott sat at a card table in the box.
However, there were no chips in front of him, only a black notebook and a Colt revolver.
Andrew Carnegie sat in the corner, holding a cup of untouched hot tea.
He was a bit uncomfortable in this setting.
The air was thick with the smell of strong cigars and cheap powder, making him feel suffocated.
Then, the door was pushed open.
A pot-bellied man walked in.
He was the chairman of the State Senate Railroad Committee, Senator Higgins.
Higgins paused when he saw the gun on the table, the fat on his face trembling.
"Tom." Higgins squeezed out a forced smile.
"Oh my God, we're all old friends. Is this necessary? I think perhaps you could put the gun away; if it goes off..."
"Sit, Higgins."
Scott did not put the gun away; he just tapped his finger on the notebook.
"You should know what I want."
Higgins sat down and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Is it about that Braddock Connection charter..." Higgins stammered.
"I mean, this matter is very difficult to handle. You know, Argyle' people—that Matthew Becker guy—just saw me yesterday. He offered a high price, a very high price."
"How much did he give you?" Scott asked coldly.
"Fifty thousand dollars, in cash." Higgins held up one hand.
"And he promised to let my nephew become a branch manager at the Argyle Bank."
Scott laughed, a dry and sharp sound.
"Fifty thousand? It seems your price has gone up, Higgins. I remember five years ago, I gave you two thousand dollars and you dared to sell me a public canal."
"Holy shit, Tom. You said it yourself, that was in the past!" Higgins said, somewhat ashamed and angry.
"It's Argyle' era now! If I sign your charter, I'll offend the most powerful and wealthy man in the United States! What happens to my political future then?"
Scott was noncommittal toward the fat man's complaints.
"Then have you considered that you might not have a future?"
Scott flipped open the notebook to a certain page.
"1864, the reconstruction project after the Battle of Gettysburg. You were in charge of procuring timber and gave the contract to a shell company run by your brother-in-law. And as far as I know, that timber was all rotten wood. It eventually caused two bridges to collapse, killing seven workers."
Higgins' face instantly became unsightly.
"How... how do you know?"
"I was still the chairman of the Pennsylvania Railroad back then." Scott stared into his eyes.
"All shipping documents passed through my hands; it's normal to have copies. And there's your brother-in-law's confession. He sold all of this to me two years ago because of gambling debts."
Scott tore out that page and slowly rubbed it against the barrel of the gun.
"If this material appears in the Philadelphia newspapers tomorrow, or is sent to the federal prosecutor's desk... Higgins, where do you think you'll go? Not home to retire, but to state prison. Or you'll be hanged from a lamppost by angry families of the workers."
Higgins slumped into his chair, feeling powerless.
What a pig of a teammate!
"Tom... you can't do this, we're friends."
"Then prove you're my friend."
Scott pulled out a draft of a bill that had already been prepared.
"This is the 'Pittsburgh Area Industrial Railroad Expansion Act'. Tomorrow morning, I want to see it passed in the committee. Unanimously."
"Unanimously? That's impossible!" Higgins shrieked, "There are still Argyle' people on the committee!"
"Come on, that's your problem."
Scott held the torn paper over a candle; the flame licked the edges of the paper but didn't burn it, just flickered.
"Use the money in your hand to buy their votes, or share the power with them. Regardless, I want it unanimous."
"If it doesn't pass unanimously, this will be your obituary."
Higgins stared at the paper as if staring into the entrance of hell.
After a long time, he reached out tremblingly and took the bill text.
"I... I'll do my best."
"Not your best, it's a must."
Finally, Higgins stumbled out of the box.
Carnegie came out from the back, his face a bit pale.
"Is this... politics?" Carnegie asked.
"That's right, boy."
Scott closed the notebook and tucked the gun back into his coat.
"This is how this country works. No glory or ideals, only deals and blackmail."
"But..." Carnegie felt a bit nauseous, "Is a victory obtained like this clean?"
"Victory never needs to be clean."
Scott poured himself a drink, his expression somewhat subtle.
"Only losers care about being clean; Argyle' hands aren't much better than mine. He just covers the filth with gold."
"Get ready, Andrew. As soon as the bill passes tomorrow, send a telegram to the Pittsburgh construction site. Have that B&O engineer drive the surveying rods in."
"Once the law takes effect, if Argyle wants to stop us again, he'll have to confront the state government head-on. Even President Grant won't be able to protect him for flagrantly breaking the law."
...The next morning, at the State Capitol Building.
The hallways were crowded with lobbyists and reporters.
Matthew Becker stood by the second-floor railing, his face grim. He had just received news.
The Railroad Committee was holding a closed-door vote.
"Son of a bitch, damn it." Becker cursed.
"Higgins took my money and actually dares to go back on his word?"
The assistant standing beside him whispered, "I heard Tom Scott met with him last night; Scott might have something on him."
Just then, the heavy mahogany doors opened.
Higgins walked out.
He looked as if he had just recovered from a major illness, his clothes soaked with sweat.
Then he walked straight to the clerk and handed over a document.
"It passed."
A commotion broke out in the crowd.
"Unanimous!"
"Permission for Pittsburgh steel companies to build their own industrial rail spurs to connect to main lines!"
Becker slammed his hand against the railing.
"Fuck! That old fox."
He stared at Scott, who was walking out from the other side.
Scott looked up and saw Becker on the floor above. He took off his hat and gave a mocking salute to his former colleague.
Becker turned to his assistant and said, "Send a telegram to New York. Tell Mr. Argyle that we've lost a round legally."
"Also, notify our security team in Pittsburgh. Since the law can't stop them, use physical means."
"What physical means?" the assistant asked.
"Land disputes." Becker showed a calculating smile.
"That spur line they want to connect has to pass through a piece of wasteland. Find a few people to claim it's their ancestral graveyard or an Indian sacred site. In short, even for a single tree, fight them to the end."
"Until the court ruling comes down, if anyone dares to break ground, break their legs."
...That afternoon.
Carnegie received the charter stamped with the state seal.
Looking at that piece of paper, it felt heavier than the deed to his old home in Scotland.
Because this was a pass obtained through blackmail.
"Let's go," he said to his brother Tom.
"Back to Pittsburgh. The war has only just begun."
The train slowly pulled out of Harrisburg.
Carnegie looked at the receding scenery outside the window—the withered yellow trees and the gray farmhouses.
He suddenly realized he was no longer that simple boy who just wanted to get rich by defeating Argyle.
Instead, he was becoming a gear in this giant, cold meat grinder called "industrial capitalism."
A gear with sharp spikes.
"Felix Argyle."
Carnegie silently repeated the name in his heart.
"Since you were the one who taught me cruelty in the first place, now, I'm going to use your textbook for the exam."
........
The 25th.
Braddock, eastern suburbs of Pittsburgh.
Sleet was falling from the sky.
The Monongahela River had turned a murky leaden gray.
On the abandoned canal bed, two groups of people were currently gathered in a standoff.
On one side were the laborers hired by Carnegie, holding shovels, pickaxes, and the newly delivered sleepers.
Several survey engineers from the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (B&O) were setting up theodolites, trying to Mark the centerline of the roadbed in the mud.
Leading them was an engineering supervisor from the B&O Railroad named "Captain Bill." He was a veteran officer who had served in the Civil War and had only one ear; the other had been sliced off by a shell during the Battle of Shiloh.
On the other side was a group of men dressed in mismatched clothing.
Some held shotguns, some held clubs, and others held barking hounds on leashes.
These men claimed to be local landowners, but anyone could see they carried the unmistakable air of thugs and hoodlums.
Their leader was a fellow named Mark, who had previously been a foreman for the Sonne Mining Company.
Between the two groups lay only a muddy ditch less than five yards wide.
"You sons of bitches, back off!"
Mark spat, his double-barreled shotgun pointing at the ground, though the muzzle could be raised at any moment.
"This land belongs to my uncle, and my grandfather is buried beneath it! Anyone who dares dig here is digging up my ancestral grave!"
"Bullshit!"
Captain Bill held a copy of the charter; though dampened by the rain, the embossed seal was still clear.
"This is railroad land approved by the State Legislature! Under the Industrial Railway Expansion Act, this is a public land acquisition. We have the right to construct!"
"Shit, I don't care about any legislature," Mark roared.
"In Braddock, I am the law. Anyone who dares cross this ditch, I'll turn them into fertilizer!"
The thugs behind him joined in the jeering, and several hounds barked madly, their iron chains clanking loudly.
Carnegie stood by a carriage in the rear wearing a raincoat, his face ashen.
"He's lying," Carnegie said to Tom beside him.
"That land is clearly unclaimed wasteland; it hasn't belonged to anyone for fifty years."
"This is Argyle's trick." Tom was also a bit frightened. "Andrew, should we withdraw for now? Wait for the police?"
"Dammit! The police won't come." Carnegie gritted his teeth.
"The local police chief was drinking at Argyle's mine last night. If we retreat today, there will be a row of fences here tomorrow, and by the day after, it will become legal private property."
"Then what do we do? Do we really fight?"
Carnegie looked at the laborers who were desperate for work.
They had been starving for two weeks because of the work stoppage; their eyes held not only fear but also rage.
"Captain Bill!"
Carnegie suddenly shouted and stepped forward.
Everyone's gaze fixed on him.
Carnegie didn't look at the muzzles of the guns. He walked to the edge of the muddy ditch, took off his expensive top hat, and threw it on the ground.
"Fellow workers!" he shouted, turning to the laborers.
"The people opposite say this is their land. But what I want to say is, this is your bread!"
"If this road isn't built, the factory won't open. If the factory doesn't open, no one gets paid, and your children will starve!"
"Someone wants to starve us to death, wants to crush us like rats! Do you accept that?"
"No!" someone in the crowd shouted.
"Then get to work!"
Carnegie picked up a shovel and slammed it into the earth on the other side of the ditch.
"I'm standing right here, let's see who dares to fire!"
This was undoubtedly a mad move.
Mark was also stunned.
He hadn't expected this frail-looking short man to have such guts.
"You're asking for death!"
Recovering his wits, Mark raised his gun.
Bang!
A gunshot rang out.
But it wasn't from Mark's gun.
The shot came from the nearby woods.
Mark's hat was blown off. He shrank his neck in terror, nearly dropping his gun.
A dozen or so men walked out of the woods.
They wore identical deep blue uniforms with silver badges pinned to their chests. But those weren't police badges; they were the badges of the 'Pinkerton Detective Agency'.
The leader was a middle-aged man wearing a bowler hat, holding a still-smoking Vanguard Model 65 Rifle.
"Who's in charge here?" the man asked coldly.
Mark stammered, "I... I represent the landowner..."
"I am Allan Pinkerton," the man interrupted him.
"Commissioned by the Drexel company of Philadelphia to carry out security duties here."
Pinkerton pulled out a document.
"This is a temporary injunction just issued by the Federal Circuit Court, prohibiting anyone from obstructing the state-authorized railroad construction for any reason. Violators will be deemed as attacking federal assets."
He waved his hand, and the detectives behind him cocked their rifles in unison.
"I have twelve repeating rifles. If you want to see if your shotguns are faster than rifles, be my guest."
Mark's face twitched several times.
He was a thug, but he wasn't stupid.
The Pinkerton Detective Agency's name was legendary on the streets, and the opposition had clearly come prepared.
"Fuck, this isn't over."
Mark glared fiercely at Carnegie.
"You just wait and see. You might build the road, but the trains might not run."
"Withdraw!"
Mark led his group of thugs as they slunk back into the rain.
The laborers erupted in cheers.
Carnegie breathed a sigh of relief, his legs going weak, nearly kneeling in the mud.
Pinkerton walked over, put away his gun, and politely helped him up.
"Mr. Carnegie. Mr. Drexel asked me to tell you: legal documents are just scrap paper; only the barrel of a gun can ensure the dignity of the law."
"Thank you."
Carnegie wiped the rain and cold sweat from his face.
"Is... is this also part of the fee?"
"Of course," Pinkerton smiled.
"The Bill will be sent directly to Philadelphia. Now, let your men get to work. Building a road in sleet is slow, and your time is running out."
Carnegie nodded and picked up the shovel again.
"Start work!" he roared.
Hundreds of pickaxes fell simultaneously, mud splattering.
Sleepers were thrown into the sludge one by one, then covered with ballast. Steel rails were carried over—rails imported from Britain—making heavy clanging sounds.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound of spike hammers striking the steel rails echoed along the banks of the Monongahela River like a stirring battle song.
On this day, the first sleeper was laid.
It also meant that a small breach had finally been torn in Felix's blockade.
On a nearby hillside, a black carriage was parked quietly.
Matthew Becker sat in the carriage and lowered his binoculars.
"The Pinkerton Detective Agency..." Becker narrowed his eyes.
"Drexel really went all out, actually hiring these mercenaries."
"Boss, should we have our men charge in?" the security Captain beside him asked. "We have more men than they do."
"No need." Becker shook his head.
"The Pinkertons are not to be trifled with, and there's a court injunction. If a large-scale gunfight breaks out, public opinion will turn against Mr. Argyle."
"Then let them build it."
Becker gave a cold laugh.
"Building a road is easy; maintaining it is hard. And..."
He looked toward the winding river.
"This is only the first round. Tell the Sonne Mining Company to check all their nearby dynamite inventory. Perhaps one day, this newly built railroad will encounter a 'landslide'."
"The war has escalated."
Becker closed the carriage window.
"Let's go back to New York. The Boss needs to know everything that happened here."
The carriage disappeared into the rainy mist.
Behind it, on the construction site, Carnegie was still swinging the shovel.
Blood blisters had even rubbed onto his hands, but he felt no pain.
Because Carnegie knew clearly that every shovelful of dirt was digging Argyle's grave.
Or his own.