The study on the second floor of the manor.
The oak blocks in the fireplace crackled softly.
Felix sat behind the large walnut desk, pen in hand, reviewing the production report from Lex Steel Company for the previous month.
There was a knock on the study door—two light, one heavy.
"Come in," Felix said without looking up.
The secretary, Frost, pushed the door open and entered, carrying a bulging leather mailbag.
"Boss, the mail from the morning train has arrived."
Frost walked to the desk, opened the mailbag, and sorted the letters and telegrams onto the desktop.
"This is the report from President George Templeton of Imperial Bank; the reserves in Chicago have been allocated. This is the shipping manifest for Metropolitan Trading Company. And here are several receipts for 'political donations' from those Senators on Capitol Hill."
Frost reported each item one by one.
Felix signed them quickly.
"Tell George not to keep the reserves in someone else's vault. Have them escorted directly back to the underground vault in New York by train. In this godforsaken era, I don't trust any bank's safe except for my own steel doors."
"Understood."
Frost picked up the signed telegrams.
From the very bottom of the mailbag, he pulled out a thick envelope with no stamp, only a wax seal. The paper was of high quality, carrying a faint scent of lavender.
"Boss, there's a private letter here."
Frost handed the envelope over.
"It came through the internal priority channel, sent from Washington D.C."
The tip of Felix's pen paused.
He took the envelope and glanced at the handwriting. It was familiar to him—elegant yet with a hint of sharp, cursive strokes.
"You may leave now, Edward. Tell the kitchen I'll be eating lunch in the study. Bring me some roast beef and a glass of bourbon."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Felix put down his pen. He picked up the silver-inlaid letter opener from the desk and pried open the wax seal.
A piece of cardstock and a tintype photograph slid out of the envelope.
Felix picked up the photograph first.
The edges of the photo were slightly yellowed, showing an infant. About six months old.
He was wearing exquisite lace baby clothes, lying in a velvet-lined cradle. The baby's eyes were large, staring straight at the camera without a smile; his features faintly reflected Felix's own profile.
This was Caesar, his godson in Washington.
Felix stared at the photo for a moment.
No warmth showed on his face; he then put the photo down and unfolded the letter.
"Felix:
Autumn in Washington is a bit warmer than in New York.
President Grant's cabinet has recently been discussing additional clauses for the Western Railroad Act. Through a few dinner parties, I successfully caused two key Senators to have 'doubts' about the federal subsidies Westinghouse Electric is trying to apply for. Old Morgan's lobbying team in Washington has encountered resistance.
Caesar is growing fast; he started teething last week.
However, he has a bit of a temper; if anything doesn't go his way, he throws his silver spoon. I really don't know where this temper comes from.
I don't need your money to support him for now; my current social circle is enough to maintain our respectable lifestyle. But I need him to have a future worthy of his lineage.
Anna."
The letter was very short.
No extra pleasantries, no complaints.
Felix placed the letter on the desk.
He knew Anna too well; this woman had the same ambition as he did. She didn't want living expenses because she knew that loose change couldn't buy power.
What she wanted was a ticket to a higher class.
Felix thought for a moment, then opened a drawer and took out a blank checkbook from Imperial Bank.
He picked up his pen and dipped it in ink.
Without hesitation, he wrote one million dollars in the amount column.
He tore off the check and set it aside.
Then he pulled out a sheet of stationery bearing the Argyle Family crest and began writing a reply.
"Anna:
Well done. Keep a close eye on Old Morgan's lobbying group. Keep the mouths of those congressmen who took our money shut tight.
I saw the photo. Caesar certainly has character. That's a good thing. In this country, weak people can only go build railroads; only the strong can sit in an office and collect money.
There is a check for one million dollars in the envelope.
This is not for your living expenses.
Take this check and go to the manager of the Washington branch of Imperial Bank. Set up an irrevocable trust fund in Caesar's name.
No one has the right to touch the principal of this money until he turns twenty-one.
However, the trust fund will generate about forty thousand dollars in interest annually. You have full discretion over this interest.
You can use it to hire the best tutors and buy him the best thoroughbreds.
Use the remaining money to continue your dinner parties.
When he grows up, you can my godson how to see through politicians' lies and how to exploit the rules.
Felix."
After writing the last letter, Felix put down his pen.
He didn't write any words of longing or love in the letter.
In the dictionary of the Argyle Family, money, power, and the cruel laws of survival were the deepest form of paternal love.
He folded the letter and tucked it into a new kraft envelope along with the check.
He lit the candle on the desk and dripped red wax onto the seal. Then he picked up the brass seal engraved with the family crest and pressed it down firmly.
"Thump."
The dull sound echoed in the study.
Felix picked up the tintype photo. He opened the bottom-most locked drawer of the desk. Inside were some old documents and several pistols.
He placed Caesar's photo at the very bottom of the drawer and locked it.
He hung the key back onto the chain of his pocket watch.
Half an hour later.
Frost entered the study carrying a silver tray with medium-rare roast beef and a glass of poured whiskey.
"Boss, your lunch."
Frost placed the tray on the corner of the desk.
Felix picked up the newly sealed envelope and handed it to Frost.
"Send this back to Washington through the highest security channel and give it to Anna."
"Yes."
Frost took the envelope without asking a single question.
"Additionally..."
Felix picked up his knife and fork and cut into the bloody beef.
"Notify the coachman. After lunch, I'm going to the Empire State Building in Manhattan. The bills for Metropolitan Trading Company in San Francisco should have arrived. I want to see how deep our nails have been driven."
Frost bowed slightly.
"Understood. I'll go arrange the carriage."
Only the sound of cutlery cutting through meat remained in the study.
The top-floor office of the Empire Bank Building.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair.
Sitting across from him was Silas, the general manager of the Southern Development Company.
Tom Hayes of the Patriot Investment Company sat on a nearby single sofa, holding a thick ledger in his hands.
"Silas, you've been in Atlanta for nearly three years now," Felix said, breaking the silence.
"What have you brought back for me?"
Silas grinned, revealing a row of white teeth.
"Control, Boss. Absolute control."
Silas's voice carried the slow drawl characteristic of the South.
"The Civil War tore the South to pieces; those plantation owners are so poor they don't even have money to buy seeds. They desperately need hard currency to restart their farms."
Silas leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees.
"I set up an office in Atlanta, but we don't buy land. Buying land means paying taxes and managing tenant farmers. We lend money."
Hayes flipped through the ledger beside him, coordinating with Silas's report.
"We implemented a 'Crop Lien' system," Silas continued.
"We provide cash loans to those plantation owners. The condition is that all the cotton produced from their fields this year must be sold entirely to the Southern Development Company at twenty percent below market price."
"What if they encounter a pest infestation and can't pay back the money?"
"That would be perfect," Silas said with a cold sneer.
"The contract is very clear. If they default, our legal team will take the title deeds to the local sheriff and seize their plantations and Cotton Gins directly."
Silas held up three fingers.
"In the past year and a half, we have seized a total of three hundred and seventy large plantations across Georgia, South Carolina, and Alabama. Those former Southern old money types can now only go to the city to be beggars. And that land? We lease it back to bankrupt white farmers and freed Black people, turning them into our Sharecroppers."
"The cotton they grow belongs to us. The seeds, tools, and even the salt and flour they buy must be purchased from the 'Company Stores' opened by the Southern Development Company. The prices are double what they are outside. After working all year, some people not only fail to make money but end up heavily in debt to the company."
Felix listened to Silas's report, his face expressionless.
The stage of capital accumulation was, by its nature, a history of devouring lives.
"What about the output?" Felix asked, getting straight to the point.
Hayes took over the conversation.
"Boss, according to last month's statistics, the cotton production controlled by the Southern Development Company already accounts for sixty percent of the total output in Georgia. In South Carolina, it's forty percent. These millions of bales of cotton are currently all piled up in our warehouses at the Port of Savannah."
"The textile mills in New England are going crazy."
Hayes patted the ledger excitedly.
"The textile industry in Europe has come to a standstill because of the Franco-Prussian War. British and American textile mills are frantically expanding their capacity. The price of cotton has risen by thirty percent in the last three months. If we just release this batch onto the market, we could immediately cash out nearly ten million dollars in net profit."
Felix tapped the table.
"Since we control the source of supply, we cannot simply throw it into the free market."
Felix stood up and walked to the huge map of the United States in the office. His finger traced a path from the Port of Savannah in the South all the way up to Boston in the North.
"Tom, you forgot someone," Felix said, turning around.
"Amory Lawrence of Boston."
Hayes was stunned for a moment, then realized.
"The Lawrence family? We own a thirty percent stake in his textile company."
"Exactly," Felix said, walking back to his desk.
"Lawrence is our staunch ally in the New England region; he has deep connections in the Boston City Hall and the Massachusetts State Legislature. The reason AT&T's telephone poles could be installed so smoothly in Boston was that Lawyer Hubbard utilized the political green light provided by the Lawrence family."
Felix looked at Hayes.
"Not a single ounce of these millions of bales of raw cotton is to flow into the open market. It will all be transported via Metropolitan Trading Company cargo ships directly from the Port of Savannah to the Lawrence textile mills' warehouses in Boston."
Hayes sucked in a breath of cold air.
"Boss, give it all to him? That's enough raw material to feed half the textile looms in all of New England. If we give it to him at an internal settlement price below market value, we'll lose out on millions of dollars in profit from the price difference."
"You've miscalculated, Tom."
Felix picked up the coffee on the table, which had already gone cold, but didn't drink it.
"With this cotton, Lawrence's operating costs will drop to the lowest in the country. Meanwhile, because we've cut off the supply in the South, other textile mills in Boston and Rhode Island will be forced to scramble for the remaining forty percent of loose cotton on the market at high prices. Their costs will skyrocket."
Wisdom from being in total control flashed in Felix's eyes.
"Lawrence can use the cheap cloth produced from low-cost cotton to flood the market. Within six months, he'll be able to drive all those small and medium-sized textile mills in New England into bankruptcy. By then, he will be the true Textile King of North America."
"And we won't just get a thirty percent dividend from the surging profits of the Lawrence Textile Company. More importantly..."
Felix slammed the coffee cup down on the coaster.
"Lawrence's machines, his workers, his entire family business—from now on, they can only survive on cotton from my Southern Development Company. If I give him cotton, he's a king. If I cut it off, he's just a skeleton. This is called raw material hostage-taking."
Hayes understood completely.
The boss was using the soil of the South to forge a golden shackle for his ally in Boston.
"I'll telegram the Port of Savannah immediately to arrange for the Metropolitan ships to set sail," Hayes said, closing the ledger.
Felix turned to Silas.
"Silas, remember to do two things when you return to the South."
"First, stop using those dilapidated Southern railroads. Tell the local railroad companies that if they don't lower the freight rates for cotton by fifty percent, we won't ship. Our cargo ships are sufficient to transport the cotton. Let the Southern railroad companies watch their tracks rust."
Silas nodded, indicating it was no problem.
"Those railroad bosses have had their throats in our grip for a long time; they won't dare not to lower the prices."
"Good. Second, don't just control the cotton. Go and buy up all the cotton ginning and packing plants in the South. If anyone refuses to sell, build a new one right next to them. Lower the processing fees to the point of losing money. Use a price war to squeeze all those independent processing plants to death."
"I want every ounce of cotton grown in the South to pass through our machines first, so we can take our cut before it's loaded onto ships for Boston."
Silas stood up and put on his wide-brimmed planter's hat.
"As you wish, Boss. I'll ensure that in the cotton fields of the South, only the Argyle rules remain."
"Go to the finance department to collect five hundred thousand dollars in emergency expansion funds. I want to see South Carolina's share break sixty percent as well before this winter arrives."
Felix issued his final orders.
Silas pushed open the door and left.
The Somerset Club, Boston.
This was the gathering place for New England's old-money families, where the air was thick with the scent of fine cigars and aged port wine.
Amory Lawrence sat on a deep red leather sofa, clutching an encrypted telegram that had just been delivered.
Opposite him sat two other Boston textile mill owners. Both were fretting over the recently skyrocketing prices of raw cotton.
"Amory," one of the owners sighed.
"Southern cotton is being nearly monopolized by the Southern Development Company. They're hoarding all the stock at the port of Savannah. The New York Cotton Exchange went up another three points yesterday. If I don't get some reasonably priced cotton soon, my three factories will have to shut down next week."
Lawrence glanced at him but didn't respond.
He silently folded the telegram paper and tucked it into his vest pocket.
The telegram was sent by Tom Hayes.
It contained only a few short lines of text.
"The Metropolitan Trading Company's first batch of one hundred thousand bales of premium raw cotton has been loaded; expected to arrive at Boston Harbor in four days. Exclusively for Lawrence Textiles at below-market rates."
Lawrence picked up the port wine on the table and took a sip.
In those eyes that always glinted with shrewdness, ecstasy and deep apprehension were now intertwined.
He certainly knew who the real boss behind the Southern Development Company was.
After all, back when it was still the United Company, he had invested a small stake, though he was bought out when it reorganized into Southern Development.
"Argyle, that madman."
Lawrence cursed inwardly, but the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up.
Raw materials below market price.
This didn't just mean he could survive this cotton famine; it was a butcher's knife handed directly to him.
With this batch of cotton, he could drive the factory price of cloth down to a point where his two old friends across from him couldn't even recover their costs.
Lawrence stood up.
"Gentlemen, my apologies. There are some urgent matters at the factory that need my attention; I must take my leave."
"Amory! What about our joint purchasing agreement? We need to band together and go to New York to negotiate with those Southerners!"
The other owner hurriedly tried to make him stay.
"Negotiate?"
Lawrence put on his top hat, his tone faintly impatient.
"The current market doesn't believe in negotiations, Gentlemen. Good luck to you."
Lawrence walked out of the club and stepped into his carriage.
"To the docks. Notify the first, second, and fourth textile mills. Grease the machines. Tell the personnel department to go to the Irish district and recruit two thousand temporary female workers."
Lawrence gave the order to the coachman.
Sitting in the jolting carriage, Lawrence felt the telegram paper in his pocket.
He knew why Argyle was feeding this massive piece of choice meat to him alone.
One must remember that back then, in order to get a bite of the action in the South, he had proactively allowed Argyle to take a thirty percent stake in Lawrence Textiles.
Now Argyle was using his hand to destroy the entire textile landscape of New England.
From this day forward, the Lawrence family would become the textile kings of North America.
But the price was that his lifeblood was being strangled tight by a cotton thread stretching from Atlanta to New York.
He would become a high-level vassal of the Argyle Family's commercial empire—or to put it more nicely, an ally.
"Truly a poison one cannot refuse."
Lawrence closed his eyes.
He chose to swallow this cup of poison because if he didn't, he would be the one destroyed.
At the same time.
Argyle Estate, Long Island.
In the drawing room on the first floor of the main building.
Catherine sat on a velvet armchair, holding an account book regarding the management of the charity hospital.
Little Elizabeth was sitting on the rug, fiddling with several wooden building blocks.
The housekeeper, Elena, walked in, followed by two installation workers from AT&T in uniform.
The workers were carrying a heavy walnut box.
"Madam," Elena curtsied slightly.
"The communication machine the Master ordered to be installed has arrived. The line was connected to the estate from the main road yesterday."
Catherine closed the account book.
"Is that the thing called a telephone?"
"Yes, Madam. The Master said this will allow you to contact Umbrella Hospital in Manhattan or the department stores in New York at any time."
Elena directed the workers to place the wooden box on a round table in the corner of the drawing room.
The workers skillfully connected copper wires with insulating tape to the terminals on the back of the wooden box.
There was a crank on the front of the wooden box, a receiver hanging on the side, and a metal Carbon Transmitter in front.
Ten minutes later, the workers completed the test.
"Madam, the installation is complete. This is a private line directly connected to the New York Central Exchange." The workers withdrew respectfully.
Catherine stood up and walked over to the strange wooden box.
She touched the cold metal transmitter.
"Can this thing really transmit a voice to Manhattan, thirty miles away?" Catherine asked with a hint of skepticism.
Suddenly.
"Ring-a-ling! Ring-a-ling!"
The brass bell inside the wooden box emitted an extremely piercing sound.
Little Elizabeth on the rug was startled; she dropped her blocks and wobbled over to clutch her mother's skirt.
Catherine was also startled by the sudden ringing, and she looked at Elena.
"Pick it up, Madam. Put that receiver on the side to your ear."
Elena remained calm and reminded her.
Catherine reached out and took down the receiver, pressing it to her right ear with some unfamiliarity.
"Hello?"
Catherine spoke tentatively into the metal mouthpiece in front of her.
"Catherine."
A voice with a slight sense of distortion came through clearly; it was Felix's voice.
Catherine's eyes widened, and her hand trembled slightly.
"Felix? Is... is that you speaking?"
"Yes, dear. I'm in my top-floor office."
Felix's voice sounded a bit mechanical through the receiver, but every syllable was crystal clear.
"The line test is normal; the sound quality seems okay. In the future, if Finn gets into trouble at the stables, you can complain to me directly through this wooden box."
Catherine heard a hint of lightheartedness in her husband's tone.
She couldn't help but laugh.
This was truly a wonderful feeling that exceeded her cognitive experience.
A few seconds ago, Manhattan and Long Island were still separated by half a day's carriage ride.
Now, the distance had been completely erased by this thin copper wire.
"This is simply incredible, Felix."
Catherine calmed her emotions.
"I was just looking at the hospital accounts; does this mean I can now call the medicinal herb suppliers in Boston directly?"
"As long as they can afford the two-hundred-dollar installation fee, you can call them," Felix replied.
"This line is ours, and the rules are ours too. I won't be back at the estate for dinner tonight; Metropolitan's grain futures in Chicago need to be closed and settled. Hayes needs my signature."
"Then take care of yourself; don't stay up all night in the office."
Catherine urged him.
"Mm-hmm, alright. Hanging up now."
A dull click came from the receiver, followed by the hiss of background noise.
Catherine hung the receiver back on the hook on the side of the cabinet and looked at the now-silent machine.
She knew Felix had built a vast commercial empire.
But it wasn't until this moment, when this machine that could instantly traverse dozens of miles sat in her drawing room, that she truly felt it.
Her man's power had already reached into the very foundation of how this country operated.