November.
The thirtieth day of the siege of Paris.
The bitter cold of early winter had arrived, and the surface of the Seine River began to freeze.
Coal and firewood in Paris had long since been looted.
To keep warm, citizens even began cutting down the trees lining the Champs-Élysées.
In front of the back alley entrance of the Metropolitan Trading Company.
A small window had been cut into the bulletproof wooden boards here. Outside the window, a long line had formed.
There were no impoverished people from the bottom of society in the line, as they could not afford anything here.
The people in line were all Parisian aristocrats and wealthy merchants, dressed in shabby clothes but still trying to maintain their dignity.
Countess Margaret was wrapped tightly in a mink coat. Her complexion was sallow, and her eyes were filled with extreme exhaustion and despair. She stood before the window, her hands trembling as she passed a small black velvet box inside.
Inside the window, Bowen sat on a high stool, took the box, and opened it.
Inside was a diamond necklace set with pigeon-blood rubies.
Bowen took out a monocle and clamped it into his right eye socket. He carefully examined the cut and clarity of the gemstones, then placed the necklace on a brass scale nearby to weigh it.
"The quality is good, Madam. Before the war, this would have been worth at least fifty thousand francs at Cartier." Bowen lowered the magnifying glass.
"I don't want francs."
Countess Margaret's voice trembled.
"My youngest son is serving in the National Guard; his leg was shattered by a shell, and the wound is festering. We need carbolic acid. And we need food. My family hasn't eaten anything but black bread for three days."
"Understood, Madam." Bowen took out a ledger.
"For this necklace, I will trade you ten bottles of Umbrella carbolic acid solution and two boxes of quinine. Plus fifty cans of Chicago corned beef and five barrels of Standard Oil kerosene. If you agree, sign here."
The Countess's eyes widened.
"This… this is too little, sir! This necklace is an heirloom that has been passed down for three generations in my family!"
"I'm sorry, Madam, but jewelry cannot fill stomachs or disinfect wounds in Paris right now." Bowen pointed to the ledger.
"The price changes every day. Tomorrow, this necklace might only be worth thirty cans of beef. Because meat is becoming increasingly scarce."
The Countess bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes.
She knew she was being extorted, but dignity was worthless in the face of life and death.
With slightly trembling hands, she picked up the pen and signed her name in the ledger.
Bowen waved to the clerk behind him, and several heavy sacks were passed out through the window.
The Countess hugged the sacks, disappearing into the cold wind as if she were protecting her very life.
"Next." Bowen shouted without looking up.
On the second floor of the office, Dubois was taking stock of the wealth accumulated over the past few weeks.
The desk was piled with various deeds, equity transfer agreements, and stacks of gold bars and jewelry.
To survive, the wealthy of Paris had handed over every hard currency they could.
"That idiot Fournier brought in another batch of gold yesterday."
Dubois threw a gold bar into an iron box.
"We've almost emptied the City Hall's reserves. We provided them with hundreds of thousands of cans of food, barely maintaining the rations for the National Guard."
Bowen walked up to the second floor, taking off his coat, which was stained with the chill of the cold.
"How much stock is left in the warehouse?" Bowen asked.
"Less than twenty percent," Dubois replied.
"We must report these accounts to New York. The telegraph lines in the city are all cut; how can the message be sent out?"
"By hot air balloon."
Bowen walked to the desk and took out a special, extremely thin piece of telegraph paper.
"The Paris City Hall releases hot air balloons every night, carrying letters over the Prussian encirclement to Tours or London. I spent a gold bar to bribe the balloon pilot. We can tuck our encrypted telegram into the government's official bag to be sent out."
Bowen picked up a fountain pen and began to write in code.
"Eighty percent of stock cleared. Recovered physical gold and jewelry equivalent to three million dollars. Two hundred deeds and properties in prime locations in Paris, valuation currently incalculable. Requesting further instructions, Bowen."
After finishing, Bowen rolled the paper into an extremely thin scroll and stuffed it into a small metal tube.
"Send it tonight. As soon as it reaches London, 22 Broad Street won't be able to intercept it, and it can go straight down the undersea cable to the Empire State Building."
...
Half a month later.
Top floor of the Empire State Building in New York.
Tom Hayes held the newly deciphered telegraph paper in his hand, the muscles on his face twitching with extreme excitement.
He pushed open the door to Felix's office.
"Boss, Bowen's telegram! It broke through the siege of Paris!"
Hayes walked quickly to the desk and slapped the telegram onto the surface.
Felix was looking down at the investigation report on Westinghouse Electric. He picked up the telegraph paper, his eyes sweeping over the numbers on it.
"Three million dollars in physical gold and jewelry, two hundred properties in prime locations in Paris."
The corners of Felix's mouth curled up slightly.
"Paris has become a massive ATM. We used canned scraps and chemical byproducts that were unsellable in Chicago to buy half of the Champs-Élysées."
Hayes rubbed his hands in excitement.
"When can this money be shipped back to New York?" Felix put down the telegraph paper.
"Once the war ends and the gates of Paris open, Metropolitan's cargo ships will sail directly into the port of Le Havre, load up all the gold and deeds, and escort them back," Hayes replied.
Felix stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The winter sun of New York spilled onto his shoulders.
"Well, it seems our harvesting in Europe is coming to an end."
Felix turned around, his gaze becoming sharp.
He walked to the desk and picked up the report on Westinghouse Electric.
"Now bring your focus back, Tom. The backyard is on fire." Felix handed the report to Hayes.
"There's movement in Pittsburgh, intelligence sent back by Timmy. Edison and George Westinghouse used coal tar and pitch for insulation and managed to smash together a high-voltage transformer. Carnegie built a temporary Alternating Current power station on the banks of the Allegheny River."
Hayes frowned and took the report.
"They solved the iron core heating problem?"
"Edison cut the solid iron block into thin slices. Although the craftsmanship is rough, it barely works." Felix's eyes were a bit cold.
"Old Morgan's funding in London has arrived. They are planning an open Alternating Current lighting ceremony in the city square of Pittsburgh at the end of this month. They have strung up a five-mile-long power line."
Hayes gasped.
"Five miles? If they really light those lamps, the weakness of General Electric's short-distance Direct Current transmission will be magnified infinitely. Morgan will use this opportunity to snatch up municipal lighting contracts in major cities across the country."
"They won't light them..."
Felix sat back in his leather chair, crossing his hands on the desk.
"They think they can win just by making a transformer? Alternating Current is a system engineering project. Without qualified insulation, without stable frequency control, that five-mile-long asphalt-coated copper wire is just a fuse hanging over Pittsburgh."
The teacup slammed heavily onto the bone world tray, splashing a few drops of deep red tea and staining the velvet-covered tabletop.
London, in a private parlor at 22 Broad Street. The anthracite in the fireplace burned brightly, yet it still couldn't dispel the suffocatingly cold atmosphere in the room.
Marquis Léon de Coussel slumped into the sofa.
This French aristocrat, once insufferably arrogant at the Tuileries Palace, now had a crooked cravat and disheveled hair.
"An army of a hundred thousand, along with His Majesty the Emperor himself. All of them rounded up like sheep by the Prussians in the Sedan basin. And then, the white flag was raised."
Coussel's voice trembled, carrying a heavy nasal tone.
"Gentlemen. That was the backbone of France, and it has been snapped just like that."
Junius Morgan sat in a high-backed leather chair opposite him, holding a cup of unsweetened black tea. His expression remained ripples.
The British aristocrat Lord Richard Grosvenor stood by the window, looking out at the gray London streets.
"Marquis, we have seen the news in the newspapers," Morgan said, setting down his teacup.
"What is the situation in Paris now? I heard those mobs stormed City Hall and declared the establishment of a republic?"
"A pack of power-grabbing lunatics and anarchists!" Coussel cursed through gritted teeth.
"The Government of National Defense has no control over the situation at all. Bismarck's army of three hundred thousand has already surrounded Paris like an iron barrel. The railways are cut, the telegraph lines are cut. You can't even find a living cat in the City anymore!"
Coussel stood up abruptly and walked a few steps to Morgan's desk, bracing his hands against the surface.
"Mr. Morgan! Lord Grosvenor! The British Empire cannot sit idly by! If Paris falls, Prussia will become the most terrifying monster on the European continent. This is not in Britain's interest!"
Coussel looked almost pleadingly at these two Englishmen who controlled vast funds and political resources.
"Lend us money, or persuade Downing Street to send the Royal Navy to blockade Prussian ports. As long as the encirclement can be broken, the French provinces are still recruiting new armies; we can still drive the Prussians back!"
Lord Grosvenor turned around and took a pocket watch from his pocket to glance at it.
"Marquis de Coussel, please maintain your aristocratic dignity."
There was a desperate kind of politeness in the lord's tone.
"Downing Street's position is very clear: this is a war between you and the Prussians. As long as Bismarck does not violate Belgian neutrality, the British Empire's army will not cross the English Channel."
"As for lending money..."
Morgan crossed his fingers and looked coldly at the Frenchman.
"Baron, the Second French Empire no longer exists. Napoleon III has become a prisoner. As for that newly formed Government of National Defense of yours, who knows how many days it will last? If I lend pounds to a regime that could collapse at any moment, what will serve as collateral?"
Coussel turned deathly pale.
"We have colonies. We still have assets in North Africa and Indochina!"
"The mortgage rights to those things were signed away to the Imperial Bank in New York long ago by your envoy, Laurent."
Morgan ruthlessly punctured his fantasy.
"Felix Argyle," Morgan uttered the name, a hint of sinister gloom flashing in his eyes.
"He sold off your national debt before the war began, and then, before the Battle of Sedan, he used that ironclad and a batch of munitions to hollow out all the remaining gold in your treasury and the mortgage rights to your high-quality assets."
Morgan stood up and walked to the fireplace.
"Marquis de Coussel, France's credit is bankrupt. In the City of London, your national bonds are considered too stiff even to be used for polishing shoes."
Coussel seemed to have all his strength drained, stumbling back two steps in dejection.
He finally understood that in the eyes of capital, there are no allies, only prey.
France, once a mighty eagle, was now merely a carcass for others to feast upon.
"You will regret this. When Prussian bayonets are at the English Channel, you will remember today."
Coussel straightened his disheveled clothes and stood tall. This was the only dignity he had left.
He turned and limped out of the parlor.
After the door closed.
Lord Grosvenor walked over to the sofa and sat down.
"He is completely despairing, Mr. Morgan," the lord said, picking up his teacup. "Can Paris really not be held?"
"It cannot be held; it's only a matter of time."
Morgan picked up the cigar box on the table and pulled one out.
"The Prussians' weapons had too clear an advantage from the start. That Smokeless Powder and those repeating machine guns have completely changed the rules of infantry charges. The French were essentially throwing flesh against metal."
"That bastard Argyle, he used this batch of munitions to bleed both sides of Europe dry," the lord frowned.
"It's said that his vault in New York was expanded downward by another two floors just to hold the gold from Prussia and France."
Morgan struck a match and lit the cigar, blue smoke rising before him.
"Let him fill it. Regardless, he's reached the end of his profiteering from the European war."
Morgan exhaled a smoke ring, his gaze becoming extremely sharp.
"Once Paris surrenders, the war ends. Europe's factories will reopen. The exorbitant profits brought by war profiteering will vanish."
Morgan walked to his desk and picked up a telegram from Pittsburgh.
"Our battlefield is not in Europe, lord. It is in North America."
Morgan handed the telegram to Grosvenor.
"News from Cavendish. Edison and Westinghouse have used coal tar and asphalt in Pittsburgh to forcibly hammer out an Alternating Current Transformer. Although the craftsmanship is crude, it can withstand a high voltage of two thousand volts. They plan to hold a public lighting ceremony in downtown Pittsburgh at the end of this month, running a five-mile-long wire."
Lord Grosvenor took the telegram, his eyes lighting up.
"Five miles? If it succeeds, General Electric's Direct Current will become a joke."
"Exactly," Morgan said, biting his cigar.
"Argyle is giving away Electric Fans for free in New York, trying to use sunk costs to bind the middle class to him. But as long as our Alternating Current grid can reach places he can't, and provide cheaper industrial power... once Carnegie's steel mills use our electricity, costs can be driven down. By then, Argyle' installment plan will be completely shattered by low-priced steel rails."
Morgan braced both hands on the desk.
"Not another pound for the French. Transfer some of the funds we've recovered in Europe into the account of Westinghouse Electric."
There was a gambler-like madness in Morgan's eyes.
"I want to light a fire in Pittsburgh—in that quagmire of steelmaking—that will burn Argyle to ashes."
"As long as we defeat Argyle, then the electrical market in North America will be ours!"
The water of the Allegheny River took on a murky, rusty hue.
A cold wind, mixed with a fine drizzle, swept across the uneven, potholed banks of Pittsburgh.
Mud submerged the workers' ankles.
A dozen strong draft horses panted heavily, white mist spraying from their nostrils. They were pulling a heavy flatbed wagon.
On the wagon, a dozen stripped cedar logs, each thirty feet long, were piled in a haphazard mess.
Edison, wearing canvas work clothes stained with black-gray tar, stood beside a waist-deep mud pit. He clutched a tape measure in his hand, a half-smoked, rain-soaked cheap cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Stand that pole up, damn it! You bunch of half-starved pigs, pull that main rope tight!"
Edison spat out the tobacco crumbs and roared at the laborers operating the pulley system.
Three workers chanted in rhythm as they pulled hard on the thick hemp rope wrapped around the winch.
The heavy cedar utility pole slowly rose in the mud.
Its base slid into the pre-dug pit with a dull thud.
George Westinghouse carried a wooden crate filled with cast-iron insulator fittings as he walked down the muddy slope.
His high leather boots were covered in yellow mud, and his face, usually so composed, was now etched with deep exhaustion.
"Thomas, don't take your temper out on the workers. They have been working for fourteen hours straight."
Westinghouse set the wooden crate down heavily on a relatively dry rock.
"This is the last pole we're erecting on the outskirts of the city. Five miles of line, all connected."
Edison walked over and kicked the newly erected cedar pole. The pole swayed slightly, causing ripples in the surrounding mud.
"Fill it in, pack it down, and lay the gravel!"
After giving the order to the foreman, Edison turned to look at Westinghouse.
"George, I'm not angry at them. I'm angry at these damn materials. Look at the copper wires hanging up there."
Westinghouse looked up, following the line of cedar poles.
On the cast-iron crossarms hung purple-copper wires as thick as a finger. Unlike the wires from General Electric that were wrapped in smooth rubber insulation, the surface of these copper wires was coated in a thick, uneven layer of black substance.
It was an insulating layer they had boiled by hand using coal tar and asphalt.
Under the beating of the cold rain, the black asphalt shells appeared extremely rigid.
"The temperature is too low."
Edison wiped the rain from his face, leaving a black smudge on his finger.
"Asphalt melts in high heat, but in this cold wind, less than forty degrees Fahrenheit, it becomes as brittle as glass. When I had the linemen go up to hang the wires just now, I saw with my own eyes a few tiny cracks appearing in the insulation at the corner."
Westinghouse's brow furrowed into a deep knot.
"Cracks? This is no joke, Thomas. We are running two thousand volts of high-voltage Alternating Current. If the insulation cracks and rainwater seeps in, the entire line will short-circuit. Those wooden poles will be burned into torches."
"I know! Of course I know!"
Edison ruffled his messy hair in frustration.
"But what can I do? That bastard in New York has cut off all the natural rubber! We don't have any better materials! We have no choice but to have the men wrap a few more layers of varnish-soaked cotton cloth over the cracks! As long as we can make it through the demonstration tomorrow night, as long as we can get Old Morgan to see the lightbulbs turn on, and get the follow-up funding, we can go to Europe and buy rubber!"
Just then, a luxury carriage with a black cabin stopped at the end of the dirt road.
The carriage wheels were covered in mud, and the driver was struggling to control the restless horses.
The carriage door opened.
Clive Cavendish, holding a black straight-handled umbrella, walked over, carefully avoiding the puddles on the ground.
Following Cavendish was Andrew Carnegie. He did not carry an umbrella, letting the rain beat down on his high-collared overcoat.
"How is the progress? Gentlemen."
Cavendish walked to the rock, closed his umbrella, and looked at the mud on his leather shoes with disgust.
"London is sending telegrams every day to urge us on; Mr. Morgan's patience is very limited."
Westinghouse picked up a rag to wipe the mud from his hands.
"The hardware installation is complete, Mr. Cavendish. Five miles of high-voltage transmission lines. It starts at the generator room in the backyard of my factory and ends at Market Square in downtown Pittsburgh. The step-down transformer has already been installed under the wooden platform in the square, and one hundred carbon arc lamps have been hung."
Carnegie stepped forward, staring at Edison.
"Thomas. Will it really light up tomorrow night? I spent a full two thousand dollars to bribe those bureaucrats on the city council. The mayor of Pittsburgh and reporters from several newspapers will all be at Market Square tomorrow night. If the machines don't turn or the lights don't come on, these last few months of providing you with steel at the risk of bankruptcy will all become a joke. My blast furnaces might really have to be shut down."
Edison looked directly into Carnegie's eyes without the slightest flinching.
"As long as your workers follow my requirements to cut the transformer iron cores thin enough and coat them thoroughly with insulating varnish, I guarantee it will run. The Alternating Current generator has been tested three times, and there are no problems."
"The problem is," Edison pointed to the wires overhead, "we are using a makeshift method for insulation, and two thousand volts of electricity is a test. It must not rain heavily tomorrow night. If the air humidity is too high, I'm worried that electric arcs will form at the joints."
Cavendish let out a cold snort.
"Mr. Edison. Mr. Morgan spent millions of dollars not to hear you pray about the weather here. I want absolute success; throw the switch at exactly eight o'clock tomorrow night. Prove to all of America that General Electric's Direct Current is just a short-legged cripple confined to Manhattan. Only Westinghouse Electric's high-voltage Alternating Current can deliver power to every corner of this country."
"I will be sitting in the front row of the square," Carnegie said, gritting his teeth. "Tomorrow night is our chance to turn the tables. Cavendish, tell Mr. Morgan: as soon as the lights turn on, I need him to immediately fulfill his promise and inject one million pounds into my steel mill. I cannot be strangled by Argyle using financial means anymore."
Cavendish twirled the handle of his umbrella, the corners of his mouth curling into a professional, fake smile.
"As long as the feasibility of the technology is proven, pounds will flow into Pittsburgh like water. Gentlemen, pack up. Tomorrow night, we will make history."
Cavendish turned and walked toward the carriage, with Carnegie following close behind.
Watching the carriage drive away, Westinghouse patted Edison on the shoulder.
"Don't think about those cracks, Thomas. Go and check the coils of the step-down transformer; we must ensure everything is foolproof."
Edison picked up the extinguished cigar and shoved it back into his mouth.
"Let's go, back to the factory. Let's pour another layer of asphalt over that hunk of pig iron."