British Empire, London. 22 Broad Street.
A continuous autumn rain shrouded the capital of this vast financial empire.
The fog on the River Thames spread along the streets, blurring the halos of the gas lamps outside the window.
Junius Morgan sat behind that massive oak desk. His body was sunk deep into the wide leather chair. No lights were lit in the room; only the anthracite burning in the fireplace emitted a dull red glow.
On the desk lay two transoceanic telegrams that had just been decoded.
One was from New York.
It reported on the frantic sensationalism of the major newspapers regarding the Pittsburgh fire, as well as the "High Voltage Current Limitation Act" being drafted by the New York State Legislature.
The other was from Clive Cavendish in Pittsburgh.
It detailed the process of the transformer explosion and George Westinghouse's accusation that Argyle had completely blockaded insulating materials.
Morgan closed his eyes, his breathing somewhat heavy.
This financial titan, who had commanded the winds and clouds in European and American financial circles in recent years, felt an unprecedented and deep sense of frustration at this moment.
It wasn't because of the loss of a million dollars.
To the Morgan family, a million dollars was just a number on a ledger.
He was frustrated because he realized that his proud strategic vision and capital power were hitting walls everywhere in front of that young man far away in New York.
He supported Carnegie in a price war, and Argyle used bank installment loans to pull the rug out from under them; he spent heavily to poach Edison for Alternating Current, and Argyle bought out the insulating materials in advance and laid a dragnet in City Hall.
That man named Argyle was like a precise set of gears with no emotions and no flaws.
For every step he took, he calculated ten steps ahead.
Even the moats he built in various fields made Morgan's capital feel like a punch landing on a steel plate covered in spikes.
"He not only controls the money, he also controls the rules. He even controls the materials for those machines."
Morgan murmured to himself in the darkness, his voice carrying a hint of aged fatigue.
The oak door of the office made a very slight friction sound.
The butler, Oliver Sterling, walked in silently carrying a Sterling silver tray. A set of bone world tea service was on the tray, with faint steam rising from the spout.
Sterling placed the tray on one side of the desk and skillfully poured a cup of Darjeeling tea.
"Sir, you have been sitting in the dark for three hours. Have some hot tea. London's dampness is not good for your knees."
Sterling's voice was steady and gentle, carrying the unspoken understanding of decades spent by Morgan's side.
Morgan did not open his eyes, but only let out a long sigh.
"Oliver, am I really getting old?"
Morgan's voice sounded somewhat raspy in the empty office.
"My reactions have slowed down, and my methods are seen through. Every game of chess I play in North America has been forced into a corner by that young man."
Morgan opened his eyes and looked at the telegrams on the desk.
"The French have lost, and Argyle has swept away Europe's gold. Carnegie is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Westinghouse Electric's machines exploded into a ball of fire in the square. His Direct Current grid is now crawling all over America like a spider web. I seem... to see no possibility of getting past him."
Sterling did not answer immediately; he pushed the cup of hot tea to Morgan's hand.
The silver-haired old butler straightened up, his gaze calmly looking at the master he had served for half his life.
"Sir, I remember in 1857. It was also a rainy day like this."
Sterling's tone drifted into memory.
"That was the year of the Panic in the United States, when several major banks in London went bankrupt because of investments in American railroads. At that time, you were also sitting in your office just like this. Your partner, Mr. George Peabody, was almost about to announce liquidation."
Morgan's hand, which had picked up the teacup, paused for a moment.
He remembered that crisis; it was the darkest moment of his financial career.
"I remember at that time, you said something to Mr. Peabody." Sterling looked into Morgan's eyes.
"You said as long as the factories in England are still smoking, and as long as the ships on the Atlantic Ocean are still running, the losses on the ledger are only temporary numbers. Panic will eliminate the weak, but those who survive will take over their legacy."
Sterling reached out with his white-gloved hand and lightly tapped the telegram on the desk.
"Mr. Argyle is indeed an extremely rare genius. His methods are ruthless and meticulous. But in the end, he is only human. He has built a massive business empire, but he has stretched the borders of that empire too thin. From food to medicine and military industry, from banking to steel, from the power grid to the telegraph."
"Sir, there is no chain in the world that will not break, as long as the tension is great enough. He can blockade Westinghouse Electric's materials now because Westinghouse Electric is fighting alone. He can crush Carnegie because Carnegie only has one steel mill."
Sterling took half a step back, folding his hands in front of him.
"You didn't lose to his strategy; you only lost to his system. He is using a complete system to fight scattered chess pieces. But do not forget, what you hold in your hands is part of Europe's capital."
Morgan's eyes narrowed slightly.
He picked up the teacup and took a sip of the hot tea.
The bitterness and aroma of the Darjeeling spread across his tongue, dispelling the chill in his body.
The old butler's words were like a precise scalpel, cutting through the thoughts Morgan had clouded with frustration.
"System..."
Morgan repeated the word in a low voice.
His brain began to operate at high speed again.
Argyle' strength lay in the fact that he had built a closed loop from source to terminal.
Metropolitan Trading Company provided logistics, Imperial Bank provided ammunition, and General Electric and Lex Steel provided weapons.
Previously, he had just been simply throwing money at it.
Throwing money at Carnegie, throwing money at Westinghouse.
When this money reached North America, it was like a pile of loose sand, easily crushed by Argyle' powerful ships and cannons.
"You're right, Oliver."
Morgan Put down the teacup. The dejection in his eyes vanished, replaced by the coldness and madness of a top-tier predator.
"He built a network, so I must build a network even larger than his. I can no longer let Carnegie and Edison fight their own battles. All their forces in North America must be stitched together."
Morgan stood up abruptly.
His body was no longer hunched; his back was straight as a ramrod.
"Turn on the lights, Oliver. Light all the gas lamps."
Morgan walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and pulled open the heavy velvet curtains.
London's cold rain beat against the glass.
"Go send invitations to Lord Grosvenor and Mr. Vanderbilt. I want to invite them to dinner at my private club."
Morgan turned around and looked at the brightly lit office.
"I want to establish a cross-industry super trust. I want to merge the British coal mines in Appalachia, the Dutch shipping lines on the East Coast, all with Carnegie's steel and Westinghouse's electricity."
"He bought out the rubber, so I'll have the Dutch fleet bring rubber trees directly from Indonesia to the factories in Pittsburgh! He uses banks to suppress Carnegie, so I'll open a clearing center in New York larger than the Imperial Bank in the name of a European United Consortium!"
Morgan's fist slammed heavily against the window frame.
"This war has only just begun."
_______________
St. James's Street, London.
Brooks's Gentlemen's Club.
In a private box deep on the third floor, the air was thick with the mellow smoke of Cuban cigars and the fatty aroma of roasted veal. Heavy velvet curtains completely shut out the rainy London night.
Old Morgan sat at the head of the long dining table.
To his left was Lord Richard Grosvenor, a British aristocrat who controlled a vast amount of overseas mineral and railway shares.
To his right was Jan Van der Burgh, a Dutch banker from Amsterdam. The Van der Burgh family controlled several major ocean-going routes in Europe and some plantations in South America.
After pouring the last glass of Lafite red wine, the waiter silently withdrew from the box, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
Van der Burgh picked up a napkin to wipe the sauce from the corner of his mouth. He was a lean Dutchman with a merchant's calculating look in his eyes.
"Mr. Morgan. Dinner was excellent. But your telegram has left me somewhat uneasy," Van der Burgh said, getting straight to the point.
"We've already suffered a silent loss on the Paris national debt. Now, that Pittsburgh electric company you're backing has made a complete fool of itself in newspapers across America. The board in Amsterdam is putting a lot of pressure on me. They believe our investment in North America is becoming a bottomless pit."
Lord Grosvenor also put down his wine glass and chimed in.
"Van der Burgh is right, Junius. Carnegie's steel mill is still losing money. Westinghouse Electric can't even build a functional transformer and nearly burned the mayor to death. Argyle's 'five-year installment loan' and 'free Electric Fan' strategies are practically hooliganism, but they're extremely effective. We are losing ground on every front."
Morgan didn't touch the red wine in front of him. He crossed his hands on the table, his gaze calmly sweeping over his two allies.
"Gentlemen, what you say is true. We have indeed encountered setbacks."
Morgan's voice was steady, carrying the confidence of someone in full control of the situation.
"But I didn't invite you here tonight to hear complaints. I'm here to tell you why we're losing."
Morgan stood up and walked to a huge map of North America hanging on the wall of the box.
"We're losing, not because Carnegie doesn't know how to make steel, and not because Edison is an idiot. We're losing because we are too arrogant. We thought that by relying on the British Empire's pounds and the Dutch guilders, simply throwing them at a few factories would allow us to crush everything on this new continent."
Morgan picked up a wooden pointer and aimed it at New York on the map.
"Look at how our nemesis does it. His Metropolitan Trading Company controls logistics. His Lex Steel provides infrastructure materials. His General Electric outputs power. His Imperial Bank acts as the heart, continuously pumping out cash. It's a perfect ecosystem. A closed loop."
"When Westinghouse Electric needs insulation materials, Argyle only needs to lift a finger, and Metropolitan Trading Company will buy up all the rubber on the market. Even if Edison had god-like abilities, without materials, he can only make do with asphalt."
Morgan turned around and struck the floor heavily with the wooden pointer.
"We are using individual soldiers to fight a well-equipped regular army. That is why we are being utterly defeated!"
Van der Burgh frowned.
"Then what do you mean? Are you asking us to withdraw our capital to cut our losses?"
"Quite the opposite."
Morgan tossed aside the pointer, walked back to the table, and leaned his hands on the surface.
"I want you to increase your investment, and I mean double it."
The box fell into a dead silence, and Lord Grosvenor's eyes widened.
"Junius, have you gone mad? Throwing more money into that meat grinder?"
"I haven't gone mad, Richard."
A raging ambition ignited in Morgan's eyes.
"If Argyle has a net, then we must weave a net that is larger and tougher than his. I propose the formation of a 'Transatlantic Industrial Syndicate'."
Morgan looked at Van der Burgh.
"Jan. You have rubber plantations in South America, and you have over a dozen large ocean-going freighters. From today on, those freighters should stop hauling spices and sugar. Fill them all with the highest purity natural rubber and chemical raw materials, and ship them directly to the port of Philadelphia. Exclusively for Westinghouse Electric and Carnegie."
Van der Burgh was stunned for a moment.
"Direct supply? How will the freight be calculated? Rubber can fetch a good price in Europe as well."
"Disregard freight costs; internal settlement will be at extraction cost!" Morgan said decisively.
"And it's not just rubber, Richard. Those coal mines you hold in the Appalachian Mountains—stop supplying the free market. Send all the high-quality anthracite directly into Carnegie's blast furnaces via dedicated trains."
Morgan stood up straight.
"We are going to merge the raw materials and shipping lines you control in North and South America with Carnegie's steel mills and Westinghouse's electrical labs into a single community of interests. We are going to break Argyle's supply chain blockade."
"Argyle uses installments to steal Carnegie's customers. Fine. Then we will register a brand-new joint trust bank on Wall Street in New York in the name of this syndicate. I will contribute eight million pounds as the initial reserve."
Morgan's tone carried a sense of desperate determination, like burning one's bridges.
"Any railway company that buys Carnegie's steel, any City Hall that installs Westinghouse Electric equipment—our joint bank will not only provide them with interest-free loans but can also directly issue bond guarantees for them in the name of our European financial consortium! We will use European credit to smash Argyle's usury!"
Lord Grosvenor gasped.
"Eight million pounds as a reserve? Establishing a joint bank? Junius, this is a massive gamble. If we lose, our foundations in North America will completely collapse."
"But if we don't gamble, in five years, Argyle will have his wires connected all the way to London," Morgan said, looking coldly at the lord.
"Do you really think that young man who has seized the industrial lifeblood of North America will be satisfied with just staying in New York? Once his strength is great enough, your shipping lines and mines will be swallowed by him sooner or later."
Morgan picked up the glass of Lafite on the table.
"This is a war for survival, Gentlemen. Put away those ledgers where you calculate petty profits. Stitch all your resources together and let this true machine of capital start running."
Van der Burgh and Grosvenor looked at each other for a long time.
They were both veterans who had fought for half their lives in the sea of commerce.
So they could understand the terrifying picture Morgan had painted.
If Argyle truly monopolized North America, they, as European capital, would forever lose this most fertile soil for investment.
Van der Burgh took a deep breath and raised his glass.
"The rubber trees of South America will be loaded onto ships tomorrow, Mr. Morgan."
Lord Grosvenor also slowly raised his glass.
"The coal mines of Appalachia will prioritize ensuring that Carnegie's blast furnaces never go out."
"Very good."
A bloodthirsty smile finally appeared on Morgan's face.
Three crystal goblets clinked above the dining table with a sharp, clear sound.
"Tell those two boys in Pittsburgh they don't have to boil asphalt anymore. Tell them that the fleets of the British Empire and the Netherlands are transporting bullets for them."
Crystal goblets clinked softly above the oak dining table, emitting a crisp chime.
The Lafite red wine in the glasses swirled along the sides.
Lord Richard Grosvenor set down his glass, picked up the velvet napkin from the table, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes did not soften despite the top-tier red wine; instead, they betrayed the hesitation and caution characteristic of old-money aristocracy.
"Mr. Junius."
Lord Grosvenor looked toward Morgan, who sat at the head of the table.
"Your plan is nothing short of perfect.
Integrating our rubber in South America, shipping in Europe, and coal mines in Appalachia.
This will effectively sever Argyle' blockade on raw materials."
Lord Grosvenor paused, his fingers tapping against the edge of the dining table.
"You mentioned earlier that you would provide eight million pounds as the initial reserve for that newly established United Trust Bank.
Converted to dollars, this is nearly forty million.
On Wall Street, this is truly a massive sum capable of crushing any bank."
"However," Lord Grosvenor emphasized.
"Our opponent is no ordinary Wall Street broker.
Felix just plundered the national treasury of France during the Franco-Prussian War.
As far as I know, before Napoleon III fell from power, he handed over the mortgage documents for the Louvre and a vast amount of physical gold to him.
His current cash flow is bottomless."
Jan Vanderbilt, sitting opposite, also set down his silver fork.
"The lord's concerns are valid, Mr. Morgan."
The Dutchman, a man well-versed in calculation, also spoke up.
"Eight million pounds in reserves, combined with our shipping and mineral assets.
On paper, we have the foundation to contend with General Electric.
But this is merely the beginning of a war of attrition.
If Argyle uses his Imperial Bank to wage a financial meat-grinder war against us in the market for five or ten years.
Our capital chain could snap at any moment."
Vanderbilt leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"There are only three of us.
Are the chips on this table perhaps a bit too thin?"
Morgan sat at the head of the table, watching the flickering flames in the fireplace without speaking.
Seeing Morgan's silence, Lord Grosvenor threw out the proposal he had been calculating in his mind.
"Junius, since we are building a trans-Atlantic super-syndicate.
Why not cast our net wider?
The British Empire is full of ducal families holding idle capital.
Take the Duke of Westminster, for example; the rental income from his properties is just gathering dust in banks across England every day.
He has always wanted to get his hands into the railways and heavy industry of North America."
Lord Grosvenor stared into Morgan's eyes.
"Or perhaps... we could take a trip to St. Swithin's Lane.
Go and knock on the door of the Nathan Rothschild family.
Baron Lionel Rothschild holds the largest cash reserves and government bond underwriting network in all of Europe.
If the Rothschild family is willing to join this alliance, never mind eight million pounds, they could raise tens of millions in a week.
By then, the war windfall Argyle made on Wall Street wouldn't even cause a ripple before the money bags of the Rothschild family."
The private room fell into silence, with only the faint cracking sound of coal in the fireplace.
Rothschild.
This surname represented an insurmountable, absolute hegemony in the 19th-century European financial world.
Morgan turned his head to look at Lord Grosvenor.
Although his expression remained calm, a flash of extremely complex gloom flickered deep in his eyes.
He certainly knew the strength of the Rothschild family.
If Baron Lionel nodded, taking down Argyle would be even easier.
But Morgan had his own calculations.
The primary motivation for him initiating this trans-oceanic strangulation was revenge.
Argyle had eliminated his eldest son, in whom he had placed the highest hopes—John Pierpont Morgan.
And had also broken the most important link in the Morgan family's expansion in North America.
He wanted Argyle to pay in blood, and he wanted to personally tear that arrogant young man's business empire into pieces.
But what about after the revenge?
Morgan was old.
Pierpont was dead, but he still had other heirs.
He still had grandchildren.
The great ship that was the Morgan family needed to continue sailing in the ocean of capital.
If he defeated Argyle, the power grids of General Electric, the shipping routes of the Metropolitan Trading Company, the blast furnaces of Lex Steel.
These massive industrial legacies left on the North American continent would be the richest spoils of war.
He wanted to carve the Morgan family emblem onto these spoils, complete and whole, and leave them to his descendants.
If he brought the Rothschild family in now.
Morgan knew those Jewish bankers from Frankfurt too well.
They were true devourers.
These people were never content with being supporting actors.
If the Rothschild capital entered this syndicate, within a few years, relying on their massive capital volume and all-pervasive political connections, they would push Morgan, Grosvenor, and Vanderbilt all out to become marginal shareholders.
Defeat Argyle, only to welcome the Rothschilds.
Then the Morgan family in North America would still be a high-class hired hand, living at the mercy of others.
This was something he absolutely could not tolerate.
What he wanted was revenge, and also to keep it all for himself.
"Richard, Jan."
Morgan finally spoke, his voice low and steady, revealing no fluctuation of emotion.
"I can understand your concerns regarding Argyle.
That young man certainly made a fortune on the European battlefield, but the money he holds is dead money."
Morgan picked up the cigar cutter from the table and steadily clipped a Havana cigar.
"Eight million pounds in cash reserves is enough.
The United Trust Bank does not need to use its own money to clash head-on with the Imperial Bank.
We are a bank; we use leverage."
Morgan struck a match.
"This eight million pounds is merely a credit endorsement.
With this money, in the name of the European United Consortium, we will issue twenty or even thirty million pounds in trust bonds on the bond markets of London and Amsterdam.
Those European retail investors and investment funds, shaken by the Franco-Prussian War, are now in need of a safe haven, far from the fires of war.
Investing in the infrastructure of America is the best safe haven."
Morgan exhaled a plume of blue smoke.
"As for the Rothschild family."
Morgan glanced at Lord Grosvenor, his tone becoming meaningful.
"I hear Baron Lionel is currently busy dealing with the issue of France's war reparations.
He has just taken over the massive bond issuance business for the new government of France.
His energy and capital are locked on the European continent.
If we go knocking on his door now, not only will he demand absolute controlling interest, but he will also treat us as pawns to test the waters for him in North America."
"That kind of thing, I, Junius Morgan, never do."
Morgan bluntly shut down the proposal.
"The three of us are enough.
If we throw in eight million pounds and Argyle still hasn't fallen.
We can then consider absorbing scattered funds from the secondary markets in London.
But the controlling power must remain in our hands."
Vanderbilt and Lord Grosvenor exchanged glances.
They heard the determination in Morgan's words and vaguely guessed his selfish desire to monopolize the spoils of North America.
But under the current circumstances, since Morgan was putting up the bulk of the cash, they had no choice but to comply.
"Since you have decided, Mr. Morgan.
We will say no more of the Rothschilds."
Vanderbilt raised his red wine glass, breaking the slightly stiff atmosphere.
"This eight million pounds is indeed a sufficiently sharp blade."
Morgan nodded and rested his cigar on the crystal ashtray.
"The obstacles have been cleared, Gentlemen."
Morgan's gaze became as sharp as a blade.
"Now, let us cut this cake placed on the table.
Let us see what each of us will get once this beast named Argyle falls."
The atmosphere in the private room instantly shifted from worry about the enemy to an extreme craving for profit.