Pittsburgh.
Inside the Westinghouse Electric laboratory on the banks of the Allegheny River, several coal-fired stoves were emitting a pungent heat.
Thomas Edison was wearing a coarse cloth shirt stained with oil and metal filings.
He stood in front of a simple hand-cranked cutting machine, with piles of discarded solid iron blocks at his feet. The surfaces of those iron blocks all showed purplish-blue marks from being baked at high temperatures.
George Westinghouse walked in carrying a tin lunchbox.
"Thomas, have something to eat. You haven't slept for thirty hours."
Westinghouse placed the lunchbox on the lab table covered with blueprints.
Edison ignored Westinghouse.
He fixed a piece of cast iron to the cutting machine and cranked the handle vigorously.
With a screeching sound of metal scraping against metal, an extremely thin slice of cast iron was painstakingly cut off.
Edison picked up the thin sheet of iron with tweezers and walked to the stove next to him. On the stove was an iron pot boiling high-purity coal tar that Carnegie had sent.
He dipped the thin sheet of iron into the tar for a few seconds, then took it out and placed it on a rack to cool.
"A solid iron core will generate eddy currents and heat under an alternating magnetic field. This is a physical law that cannot be changed."
Edison operated the device while talking to himself.
"Since we can't change the eddy current, let's cut off the space that generates it."
Westinghouse walked over to him and looked at the rows of thin metal sheets covered in black tar on the cooling rack.
"Wow! Is this your solution? Slicing?"
"Yes, cut the iron core into slices less than a millimeter thick." Edison picked up two cooled iron slices and stacked them together.
"After the coal tar cools, an insulating varnish film forms on the surface of the iron sheet. When I stack hundreds of such insulating iron sheets together to form a complete transformer core, the eddy currents generated by the alternating magnetic field are blocked by these insulating varnish films inside each individual sheet."
Edison turned his head, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with fanaticism.
"Eddy currents cannot form a large circulation throughout the entire iron core. Heat generation will decrease exponentially. This is called a 'silicon steel laminated iron core.' Argyle cut off my rubber supply, but I can still make insulation using waste from Carnegie's coke ovens!"
Westinghouse gasped as he looked at the dark, metallic pieces of metal.
"Damn… Thomas, you're insane. Using such a crude method to fix a transformer's fatal flaw — it's practically an engineering miracle. But…"
Westinghouse pointed to the hand-cranked cutting machine.
"Making a transformer by hand requires thousands of thin sheets. We don't have large stamping presses. How can we compete with General Electric's assembly lines with this kind of production efficiency?"
"Build a prototype first! Once we prove that high-pressure alternating current works, Mr. Morgan will be slamming a checkbook full of pounds onto our table in London. Then we can buy whatever stamping presses we want!"
Edison kicked away the scrap metal on the ground.
The sound of a carriage and neighing horses came from outside the door.
Clive Cavendish pushed open the laboratory door. He was wearing his signature English trench coat, and his face looked grim.
"Gentlemen, our lobbying efforts in Washington have encountered tremendous resistance."
Cavendish walked to the lab table and got straight to the point.
"Mr. Morgan mobilized dozens of lobbyists to push an antitrust bill through Congress to limit General Electric's grid expansion. But Argyle's people were spending money in Washington much faster than we were. The bill was shelved in a Senate drawer and never even went to a vote."
Cavendish looked at Edison.
"What's worse is that Argyle launched a 'free appliance subsidy' program in New York and Boston. He gave away tens of thousands of electric fans to the middle class. Now ordinary people on the East Coast are lining up to sign General Electric's direct current grid connection agreements. If we can't come up with a product soon, he will completely lock down the power grid standard for all of North America. Alternating current will have no place to stand."
Edison's movements stopped.
"Give it away for free? That money-grubbing vampire is actually giving away equipment for free?" Edison gritted his teeth.
He was all too aware of the destructive power of this move — it was using absolute capital advantage to cultivate user dependence.
Andrew Carnegie also came up from downstairs.
He now spent almost every day at Westinghouse Electric's factory, keeping an eye on the group's progress.
"Mr. Carnegie, you've come at the perfect time." Cavendish turned around.
"Mr. Morgan has demanded that we immediately conduct a public demonstration of alternating current lighting. We need to generate public opinion to prove that alternating current transmits farther and cheaper than direct current. We need to shatter the myth of Argyle in the public's mind."
Carnegie gave an annoyed snort.
"An exhibition? Where? In New York? Argyle's security team will smash our equipment to scrap metal."
"Right here in Pittsburgh," Westinghouse suddenly said.
He pointed to a row of thin iron sheets on the table that had just been coated with tar.
"Thomas has solved the problems of transformer core heating and insulation. We might be able to build an AC power station on this side of the Allegheny River. We can use transformers to boost the voltage to two thousand volts, then run a five-mile-long power line across the river."
Westinghouse walked to the window and pointed to the opposite bank.
"Over there. We'll use another step-down transformer to reduce the voltage back to 110 volts, then connect 100 incandescent bulbs. As long as those bulbs five miles away are lit and their brightness doesn't diminish, we can prove to the world that alternating current can cross city boundaries, while General Electric's direct current becomes useless just a mile away from the power plant."
Edison clenched his fist.
"The patent for the light bulb filament is held by General Electric. If we use incandescent bulbs, Pierce's legal department will send us an injunction the very next day," Edison warned.
"We don't need Argyle's vacuum bulbs." Westinghouse was a mechanical genius — he had come prepared.
"We'll use old-fashioned carbon arc lamps. Although they are glaringly bright and have a short lifespan, they are more impressive than incandescent lamps when used in outdoor plazas. Moreover, the patent for carbon arc lamps has long been in the public domain."
A glint flashed in Carnegie's eyes.
"A five-mile power transmission test? If you can really do that, I have enough connections on the Pittsburgh City Council to get the mayor to attend the lighting ceremony in person. I'll have the Pennsylvania newspapers blow this out of proportion."
Carnegie looked at Edison.
"Thomas, get the machines set up. I'll handle the site and the poles. We're going to show that New Yorker sitting in the Empire State Building that lightning can fly out of the black smoke of Pittsburgh."
Early October.
The shells tore through the air with a sharp whistling sound.
Mud mixed with human remains was thrown high into the air and slammed into the broken stone walls of the Sedan fortress.
The smoke of gunpowder filled the air, obscuring the midday sun.
Emperor Napoleon III of the Second French Empire sat on a cot in his underground command post.
He clutched his abdomen tightly with both hands, his face ashen.
The excruciating pain from kidney stones contorted his face, and the front of his military uniform was completely soaked with cold sweat.
The heavy thud of military boots echoed down the corridor.
French Commander-in-Chief General Wimpffen pushed open the wooden door and strode into the command post. His face was covered in soot, and the sleeve of his left arm had been torn by shrapnel and was seeping blood.
"Your Majesty."
Wimpffen did not salute. His voice was hoarse.
Napoleon III raised his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the general who had been appointed to the post in a time of crisis.
"Did General Magritte's cavalry charge succeed?" the emperor asked.
Wimpffen shook his head, his lips trembling.
"It was shattered, Your Majesty. Utterly shattered."
Wimpffen walked to the table and placed his hands on the surface.
"General Magritte is dead. Three cavalry brigades — three thousand of the Empire's most elite young men. They didn't even reach Prussia's first trench."
Napoleon III's body trembled violently.
"How is that possible? They are French heavy cavalry! Prussian rifles couldn't possibly stop them at that distance!"
"It wasn't a needle-gun."
Wimpffen slammed his fist on the table, causing the kerosene lamp flame to flicker violently.
"It's a machine gun — the kind that produces no smoke. The Prussians have set up a crossfire network on the hillside. When they fire, there isn't even a wisp of black smoke on the ground. Our cavalry couldn't find the source of fire at all."
Wimpffen swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Bullets rained down, instantly turning the horses in the front ranks into mincemeat. The cavalry in the rear ranks were tripped up. The weapon didn't jam — it kept firing. In less than fifteen minutes, all three thousand cavalrymen had died on the charge."
The command post fell into dead silence, with only the continuous rumble of artillery fire coming from outside.
"Krupp cannons have blocked all our escape routes."
Wimpffen continued his report.
"The bridge over the Meuse River was blown up, and we are surrounded in the Sedan Basin. One hundred thousand troops are crammed into this small space. Prussian shells could hit our men even with their eyes closed."
Napoleon III released his hand from his abdomen. He braced himself against the edge of the bed and struggled to his feet.
"That idiot Le Bœuf," the emperor gritted his teeth.
"He told me that American arms dealers were liars and that the Mitrailleuse volley gun was invincible. He has ruined France."
"Your Majesty, there is no use saying all this now," Wimpffen said, looking at the emperor.
"We didn't have enough time to buy weapons, and the soldiers are mutinying. We're running out of ammunition. If we continue to resist, Prussian artillery will turn Sedan into a giant slaughterhouse before nightfall. Not a single one of the 100,000 men will survive."
The emperor walked to the map on the wall.
His fingers traced the colors on it, then fell limply to his side.
Another sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He bent over, gasping for breath.
"Write a letter, Wimpffen."
The emperor's voice was barely audible.
"What should I write, Your Majesty?"
"A letter to King Wilhelm I of Prussia."
Napoleon III turned around, his eyes vacant.
"Tell him that since I cannot die in the midst of my army, I can only hand over my sword to him."
Wimpffen was stunned.
"Your Majesty… are you going to surrender?"
"Should we continue to let 100,000 French families lose their sons and fathers?"
The emperor suddenly roared, then clutched his stomach in pain.
"Go get paper and pen, raise the white flag! Have the bugler sound the ceasefire. It is over."
Wimpffen stood at attention, removed his military cap, and bowed his head deeply.
"Yes… Your Majesty."
An hour later.
At the highest point of Sedan Fortress, a white tablecloth tied to a bayonet was slowly raised.
Prussian Army Frontline Command.
Helmut von Moltke put down his binoculars. A barely perceptible smile finally appeared on the lips of the gaunt Prussian Chief of the General Staff.
"Artillery, cease fire. Infantry, remain in place."
Moltke gave the order to the messenger beside him.
Otto von Bismarck, dressed in a dark blue military uniform, strode up the hill, a thick cigar between his fingers.
"Helmut, it seems they can't hold on much longer."
Bismarck walked over to Moltke and looked at the white flag in the distance.
"It is three days ahead of the General Staff's simulation." Moltke turned his head.
"Otto, that American named Argyle has delivered us a great gift. The combat effectiveness of the smokeless powder has exceeded everyone's expectations. Had black powder been used, at least 20,000 more Prussian soldiers would have died in this siege."
Bismarck took a puff of his cigar.
"He's not giving us a gift — he's taking a risk. This shipment of weapons emptied our special reserves. But it is a very profitable deal."
A Prussian officer galloped up the hill on horseback and dismounted.
"Your Excellency Prime Minister, Your Excellency Chief of the General Staff — a personal letter has arrived from the Emperor of France's envoy!"
The officer handed over an envelope with both hands.
Bismarck took the envelope, tore it open, and quickly read the French text inside.
He burst out laughing.
"Napoleon III has surrendered. He and his 100,000-strong army are now our prisoners of war."
Bismarck handed the letter to Moltke.
Moltke glanced at it, then immediately turned and issued his orders.
"Magnificent news! Notify the First and Second Armies to immediately send men to take over the gates of Sedan and disarm the French troops. Confiscate all horses, artillery, and surplus supplies."
Moltke looked at Bismarck.
"What is the next step, Otto?"
"We march on Paris, of course."
Bismarck threw his cigar on the ground and crushed it under his military boot.
"Napoleon III has been taken prisoner. The Paris Parliament will surely overthrow the Empire and form a new government. The new government will certainly not immediately accept our terms for ceding Alsace and Lorraine."
"Then we surround Paris." Moltke's eyes were cold.
"We aim our cannons at their streets and cut off all their supply lines until they sign an armistice."
Bismarck nodded in agreement.
"Notify the logistics department to continue placing orders with the Metropolitan Trading Company. We need more canned goods, kerosene, and medical supplies. The siege of Paris will require hundreds of thousands of troops to be stationed outside the city through the winter. Tell the Americans that as long as the goods reach Hamburg, we will pay them double the amount of French reparations."
The bugle call of Prussia sounded again.
Hundreds of thousands of troops began to change direction and marched in a mighty procession toward Paris, the heart of France.
History turned a new page at that moment.
Behind the smoke and bloodshed, unseen channels of wealth continuously drew gold from the Old World to Wall Street across the ocean.
Mid-October 1870.
France, Paris.
When news of the defeat at Sedan reached Paris, the royal flag at the Tuileries Palace was torn to shreds by angry citizens.
The Second French Empire collapsed, and the National Defense Government — the Third Republic — was hastily proclaimed from the balcony of City Hall.
However, the change of regime could not stop the Prussian army.
In less than two weeks, hundreds of thousands of Prussian troops had surrounded Paris.
The railways were cut off, the telegraph lines severed, and the Seine River blockaded by artillery positions.
Paris had become a giant iron barrel.
Downtown Saint-Honoré, a suburban street.
Metropolitan Trading Company's temporary European office.
It was an unassuming three-story gray brick building with its main entrance tightly shut. Thick bulletproof wooden planks had been nailed over all the windows.
In his office on the second floor, Samuel Bowen, manager of the European branch of Metropolitan Trading Company, sat behind a Louis XV-style mahogany desk.
He was holding a glass of Bordeaux red wine.
Victor Dubois, Director of European Affairs at Standard Oil Company, sat on the opposite sofa, trimming a cigar with a silver knife.
"The price of flour outside has doubled again this morning."
Dubois struck a match and lit his cigar.
"City Hall has begun implementing a rationing system. Each citizen can only receive 300 grams of inferior bread mixed with sawdust and bone meal per day."
"Let them line up for it." Bowen took a sip of red wine. "Is the warehouse door locked?"
"Locked up tight — four hidden warehouses in the underground wine cellars." Dubois exhaled a smoke ring.
"One hundred thousand boxes of Chicago canned meat, fifty thousand barrels of kerosene, and Umbrella first aid kits. Twenty armed veterans are stationed at the entrance, guarding it around the clock."
Bowen put down his wine glass.
"These things were transported to Paris by special train before the Prussians could encircle the city. The boss said in his telegram that not a single can of meat is to be released until the Parisians start eating rats."
Suddenly, loud banging came from downstairs, accompanied by chaotic footsteps and shouts.
Bowen frowned, walked to the boarded-up window, and peered down through a crack.
Dozens of French soldiers in National Guard uniforms surrounded the office door.
Leading them were government officials wearing red, white, and blue armbands.
"Open up! Requisitioning Committee of the Republic of France! Open the door!" an official shouted from below.
Bowen turned and headed toward the stairs.
Dubois picked up the revolver from the table and followed.
The two walked down to the lobby on the first floor.
Two Metropolitan Company guards, rifles in hand, stared intently at the gate.
Bowen gestured for a guard to open the gate a crack.
As soon as the door opened, the French official squeezed in with several armed soldiers.
"Are you in charge here?"
The official stared at Bowen, his eyes revealing hunger and anxiety. His name was Henri Fournier, the new government's appointed logistics coordinator.
"I am Samuel Bowen, manager of Metropolitan Trading Company and a citizen of the United States of America."
Bowen answered politely but firmly, emphasizing the word "citizen."
Fournier produced a notice stamped with the City Hall seal.
"Mr. Bowen, Paris is under a state of war. According to the emergency decree of the defense government, all stockpiled supplies held by any business in the city must be requisitioned by the government. We have received a report that you have a large amount of food and fuel hidden in your underground warehouse."
Fournier waved his hand.
"Tell your guards to lay down their guns and hand over the warehouse keys. The government will issue you a requisition note to be redeemed for francs after the war."
Dubois let out a cold laugh and raised his revolver. The two guards also cocked their weapons.
"An IOU?"
Dubois looked at Fournier with a mocking expression.
"We don't accept worthless paper, Mr. Fournier."
"How dare you defy the laws of the Republic of France?!"
Fournier was furious, and the soldiers behind him immediately raised their rifles and aimed.
"Put down your guns, gentlemen."
Bowen spoke calmly, without the slightest hint of panic.
He walked to the cabinet on the first floor, opened the drawer, took out a document, and handed it to Fournier.
"Look at this, Mr. Fournier. This is a property protection order personally signed by Mr. Elihu Washburne, the United States Ambassador to Paris."
Bowen pointed to the official seal on the document.
"All goods belonging to Metropolitan Trading Company are the legitimate private property of citizens of the United States of America and are protected under international neutrality law. If you forcibly seize them, this is not a matter of public order — it is a diplomatic provocation against a neutral country."
Fournier stared at the document and gritted his teeth.
He knew that France was now diplomatically isolated, and that angering the United States would have unimaginable consequences.
"Mr. Bowen," Fournier softened his tone.
"Parisians are starving, and the wounded on the front lines have no medicine. Locking supplies in the cellars — that is murder."
"This is business, Mr. Fournier." Bowen retrieved the document.
"We can sell the goods to the government, but we will not accept forced requisition, nor will we accept IOUs in francs. The franc is depreciating every day. This batch of goods would be worth half a million dollars in New York. Here in Paris, it must be repriced."
Fournier swallowed hard.
"How much do you want?"
Bowen held up five fingers.
"Five million US dollars, or the equivalent in physical gold — or equivalent silver ingots from the vaults of the Central Bank of France," Bowen said, making his exorbitant demand.
"Gold bars in hand, keys in hand. One exchange."
"Are you out of your mind? That is ten times the market price!" Fournier roared.
"The national treasury's gold is being transferred — we simply cannot produce that much cash to buy your canned goods."
"If you cannot produce gold, you may offer something else as collateral." Bowen took a step back.
"The property deeds left behind by fleeing nobles in Paris — the commercial land along the Seine. Your government has the right to seize their property, does it not? Bring me the deeds. We'll value them at 30% of the pre-war assessment. As long as you raise five million, you may take everything in the warehouse."
Bowen looked at Fournier's flushed face.
"Mr. Fournier, my patience is running out. Prussian shells could flatten this building at any moment. Every day you hesitate, another thousand National Guard soldiers starve to death. Go and report to your minister. I'll be here waiting for you to return with gold or land deeds."
Fournier stared at Bowen, knowing that this American businessman had them cornered.
Inside this besieged iron barrel, food was life. And life, now, had a price.
"I will be back, American."
Fournier turned and led his soldiers out of the office.
The door closed and locked behind them.
Dubois holstered his pistol and looked at Bowen.
"Do you think they'll bring gold?"
"Of course — they have no choice." Bowen smiled coldly.
"When all the horses and stray dogs in the city have been eaten, they will carry the gold bars of the Central Bank of France to our feet, one by one."