As time passed, the bloody conflict at the port of San Francisco was rapidly and absurdly passed on by word of mouth in various taverns, mines, and railway construction sites across California.
In the lower-level dissemination chain, the truth was often the least important thing.
Everyone hoped for more entertainment.
Meanwhile, Sacramento, the capital of California, was also circulating news.
In a smoky, low-end tavern, a coachman who had just returned from delivering goods in San Francisco was standing on the bar, spitting and bragging to the surrounding drinkers about his so-called 'what I saw with my own eyes'.
"Shit, I swear to God. That was simply hell on earth!" The coachman gulped down a mouthful of cheap beer.
"The Argyle Family dispatched a private army of a full three thousand men. They pushed cannons forward and directly flattened the entire beach area! Those troublemaking Italians died by the thousands. The blood on the docks flowed so much that even the seawater of San Francisco Bay turned red!"
"Holy crab ~ Thousands? Did you guys drink too much cat urine?" A miner mocked.
"Bullshit, how many people are even in San Francisco total? If ten thousand workers died, not even a single porter would be left on the docks."
"What do you know!"
The coachman grew anxious and slammed the table hard.
"Who is Felix Argyle? He is a god who holds Washington politicians in the palm of his hand. His men are ruthless, if you don't believe me, go look at today's newspaper!"
The miners looked at each other in dismay.
They indeed could not buy newspapers to verify this, because the few newspapers with the largest local circulation in California not only lacked any reports about the so-called "ten-thousand-person massacre," but instead published page after page of news about the Union Pacific Railroad Company establishing new medical aid stations to improve workers' treatment.
In this era, as long as official news channels were cut off, rumors would grow wildly like winged weeds.
A little over a hundred dead people quickly turned into five hundred, one thousand, or even over ten thousand in the rumors.
Meanwhile, in the governor's mansion in Sacramento.
California Governor Patrick OConnor was comfortably sitting in his office decorated with mahogany wainscoting.
He was also of authentic Irish descent, with red hair and a rosy bulbous nose.
In this era full of xenophobia, it was by no means an easy thing for an Irish descendant to sit on the throne of the California governor.
Standing behind him was precisely Thomas Clark, the vice president in Washington, as well as the immensely wealthy Argyle Family.
At this moment, Governor OConnor was holding a pair of delicate silver scissors, trimming a high-grade Cuba cigar.
His secretary, a sharp-looking young white man, was holding several briefs of market rumors collected from various places and reporting in front of the desk.
"Mr. Governor, these rumors are becoming increasingly outrageous. Now the gangs over in Los Angeles are spreading that the Argyle Family carried out ethnic cleansing against Southern European immigrants in San Francisco. They say they dispatched ironclads to bombard the slums." The secretary read the contents of the brief and couldn't help laughing out loud himself.
OConnor jammed the trimmed cigar into his mouth and struck a long match.
"Hoo..."
The rich tobacco aroma diffused throughout the office.
OConnor leaned back in the spacious leather chair, pointing at the secretary with the fingers holding the cigar.
"Let them spread it, kid. Those thugs rolling in the muddy water love these sensational bedtime stories. If they feel that the Argyle Family truly has the ability to kill ten thousand people in California and go unpunished, that is actually a good thing for us. Fear is the best medicine for maintaining order."
The secretary closed the brief and asked with some concern: "But Mr. Governor, this is after all in our jurisdiction. Over a hundred human lives are just gone like this. If Congress sends someone to investigate, or if federal judges intervene, how should we respond?"
"Investigate? Who is going to investigate?" OConnor sneered.
Pulling open the desk drawer, he took out a coded telegram and threw it onto the desktop.
"This was sent to me personally two days ago by Mr. Argyle's secretary-general in New York, that fellow named Frost. Before Sullivan made a move, they had already given me a heads-up."
OConnor flicked his ash, his tone revealing a politician's characteristic slickness and ruthlessness.
"Those dead Italians were saboteurs bought off by external funds. They tried to paralyze the trade hub of the West Coast of America. The company guards of the Argyle Family were forced to engage in self-defense when they were attacked by armed thugs while protecting legal property. This is the official characterization."
The secretary instantly understood.
"Oh ~ I see. The police department didn't even count the corpses at the scene, directly letting the Metropolitan Trading Company throw the people into the sea themselves. Without corpses or complainants, not even a single photo of the scene exists."
"It's not just that."
OConnor stood up and walked to the window, looking at the sunny California capital outside.
"Look at our current public opinion environment. Over sixty percent of the newspapers in California are controlled by the News Media Company behind the scenes. The remaining independent newspapers either took loans from the Imperial Bank or are afraid of being banned. Who would dare to write on the front page that the Argyle Family massacred workers?"
OConnor turned around to look at the secretary.
"Most crucially, the one in charge sitting in the Oval Office of The White House in Washington right now is His Excellency Thomas Clark. That unlucky fellow Grant is still lying on a bed of illness. We are in the same boat as Mr. Argyle and His Excellency the vice president. As long as I do not order a judicial investigation, this is just a street brawl with no evidence to verify."
The secretary nodded, indicating that he had learned.
"Such methods are truly awe-inspiring. However, can Washington really not hear any whispers of this?"
"Hahaha... Of course they can hear it, those people's noses are sharper than hounds."
OConnor smiled and sat back down in his chair.
"But so what if they heard? In Washington today, who dares to cross Mr. Argyle?"
OConnor took a deep drag of his cigar.
"Don't forget what happened on Capitol Hill not long ago. Those Senators named Vance and Reed, just because they gossiped and slandered the Argyle Family over the presidential assassination, have now been stripped of their senatorial qualifications and are facing bribery charges. With such a thing happening not long ago, those smart guys in Congress, even if they heard that ten thousand people died in San Francisco, would probably pretend that their ears had malfunctioned."
The conversation in the governor's office depicted with extreme precision the true ecology of the combination of politics and capital in America today.
There was no surveillance or recording, newspapers were monopolized by capital, and local governments were bound by money and power.
In this era intertwined with savagery and industry, Felix's will was law.
And just as Governor OConnor expected, although the aftermath of this bloody storm that shook the entire West Coast was quickly transmitted to Washington, the center of power on the East Coast, the reaction it stirred up there was filled with the hypocrisy and calculation characteristic of politicians.
Near Washington D.C., close to the Capitol Building, there was a high-end cigar club.
The air here was filled with the rich aroma of Havana cigars and the scent of expensive brandy.
Those who could sit here were all the top power players of the United States of America.
In a relatively private corner booth, several senior Senators of the Republican Party were whispering to each other.
"Gentlemen, have you heard the rumors from California? Hmm, I mean the matters over in San Francisco."
A young congressman who had just returned from an investigation in the West lowered his voice, his expression still carrying a bit of intellectual pedantry.
"I heard that the Argyle Family used Gatling guns at the San Francisco port, turning hundreds of striking dockworkers into minced meat. If this were in the East, it would definitely trigger a nationwide union riot!"
Sitting opposite him was the hardline whip within the Republican Party, Senator Stevenson from Ohio.
Stevenson unhurriedly took a sip of brandy and looked at his young colleague with the gaze of looking at an idiot.
"Rumors? Kid, the last thing Washington lacks is rumors. Just yesterday, I heard someone say that a sow in the South gave birth to a monster with two heads."
"But Senator, the San Francisco Police Department hasn't even submitted a decent casualty report. This is a blatant trampling on federal law!"
Clearly, the young congressman was somewhat agitated.
"As members of Congress, shouldn't we launch a special investigation? The power of the Argyle Family has grown so large that it's out of control!"
Stevenson sneered and heavily set his wineglass down on the tabletop, producing a muffled thud.
The atmosphere in the booth instantly became extremely oppressive.
"Investigation? How do you want to investigate?" Stevenson leaned forward, his voice cold.
"Send federal agents to audit the accounts in San Francisco? Or call Felix Argyle to the congressional hearing to accept your questioning?"
He pointed at the young congressman with the finger holding his cigar.
"Listen here, rookie, have you forgotten how Vance and Reed were rolled out of the Capitol Building? They were the ones who jumped out to accuse the Argyle Family over the assassination of President Ulysses S. Grant, and what was the result? The evidence of them accepting dirty money from the British was slapped onto the investigation committee's desk the very next day. Now they can't even hire a good lawyer!"
The young congressman's expression changed, and his momentum instantly weakened.
"But... they took bribes first; these are two different matters."
"In Washington, there are no two separate matters. Everything is the same matter!"
Stevenson reprimanded him mercilessly.
"The one currently sitting in The White House acting as President is vice president Clark. He and Argyle are ironclad allies, and our President Ulysses S. Grant is still drooling on a hospital bed! Next year is an election year, and more than half of the Republican Party's campaign funds depend on drafts from Imperial Bank, while the pages of major newspapers also depend on Argyle's nod."
Stevenson leaned back against his chair.
"What does it matter if a few troublemakers bought off by foreign funds died in California? As long as the person inside the Empire Bank Building doesn't mount artillery onto Capitol Hill, the matter in California is a nonexistent rumor. If you still want to live long in this circle, learn to shut your mouth and eyes."
The young congressman opened his mouth and fell silent.
This also made him understand that in this meat grinder called power, justice seemed to need to make way for capital.
Meanwhile, in another booth of the club, the atmosphere was a completely different scene.
Several Democratic Senators from the South were gathered together, beaming with joy.
The leader was the senior Democratic tycoon from Georgia, Senator Beauregard.
He was once a high-ranking politician of the Confederacy, and after the Civil War, relying on his prestige among Southern landowners and merchants, he fought his way back to Washington.
"Listen to the commotion from those hypocritical Republicans next door."
Beauregard smoked his cigar and said mockingly to his colleagues.
"They must feel as uncomfortable right now as if they had eaten a dead fly. The matter in San Francisco has blown up quite a bit, yet they don't even dare to let out a fart."
"This is precisely our great opportunity, Beauregard."
Another Democratic congressman rubbed his hands excitedly.
"The Argyle Family causing over a hundred casualties on the West Coast shows that this Felix doesn't care at all about the so-called Republican political correctness. He is a dictator who purely values interests."
Beauregard nodded in agreement.
"That's right. Think about it, who is the largest factory owner in the South right now? Who is the largest farm owner? It's Southern Development Company, shit~ Who doesn't know that behind it is the Argyle Family! They build railways and plant cotton on our turf, bringing a handful of dollars to the local area."
Beauregard lowered his voice, his eyes flashing with calculation.
"Previously, that British agent of Old Morgan impersonated Argyle's people to contact us; although it was a scam, Argyle's people coming to contact us personally later also gave us a reminder. Argyle and the Republican Party are not as solid as iron. Grant previously even wanted to weaken his influence."
"What do you mean?" a Democratic congressman asked thoughtfully.
"It seems you've thought of it too, Harry. That's right, in Congress we should quietly fan the flames on the Republican side; the two factions inside them will probably start arguing. That way, an opportunity might just arise."
Beauregard showed a cunning smile.
"But don't attack the Argyle Family; we will attack the Republican Party's inaction and their internal corruption. It's best to also release goodwill gestures toward Mr. Felix Argyle through the newspapers controlled by news media."
Beauregard took a sip of bourbon whiskey, looking content.
"Tell him that if he is willing to support the Democratic Party, we can guarantee that all his industries in the South won't need to pay those damned heavy industry surtaxes. Make him understand that the Democratic Party is the true friend who knows how to protect the interests of big capitalists. As long as we can poach the golden mountain that is the Argyle Family away from the Republican Party, next year's general election will allow us to make those Yankees pack up and get lost!"
"Of course, even if next year doesn't work out, we can maintain the relationship first. After all, next year that guy Clark will probably truly take office..."
Amidst the swirling smoke of Washington, politicians were calculating their respective filthy and shrewd plots.
Everyone believed they could play their pieces swiftly on this chessboard called America.
But they did not know that the man regarded as the most important bargaining chip had already temporarily cast his gaze beyond this continent.
Felix's ambition was never limited to these few offices in Washington.
At this very moment, deep in the ocean tens of thousands of nautical miles away from Washington, a voyage that would completely change the global trade landscape was undergoing the most severe test.
The tropical monsoon near the equator carried a suffocating humidity, pressing heavily down upon the surface of the sea.
The waters of the Indian Ocean presented a deep indigo blue.
The massive three-thousand-ton black hull of the pioneer, like a silent steel whale, was cleaving through the waves at a speed of twelve knots, heading full speed toward the northeast.
On its sides, the Fearless and the Enterprise maintained a perfect formation distance.
These three ocean-going freighters, originally belonging to the Metropolitan Trading Company, had successfully rounded the Cape of Good Hope after a long voyage, completely leaving the storms of the Atlantic Ocean behind them.
The temperature inside the bridge was as hot as a steamer.
Captain Jackson, the navigation captain, was wearing only a coarse cloth shirt soaked in sweat, with all the buttons at the collar unbuttoned, revealing a chest covered in chest hair and tattoos.
He held up a polished brass telescope in his hands, staring intently at the horizon ahead.
"Captain, according to the sextant measurements and stellar comparisons, we are at most sixty nautical miles away from the breakwater of the port of Mumbai."
The first mate reported loudly, holding a sweat-soaked navigation logbook in his hand.
"Is the coal in the engine room still enough?"
Captain Jackson asked in a steady voice without lowering his telescope.
"It has been calculated; it is enough for us to sail to the port of Shanghai in the Qing Empire. We saved quite a bit of fuel earlier when we shook off those British tails in the Azores." The first mate answered nimbly.
Captain Jackson nodded with satisfaction, then lowered his telescope.
His gaze fell upon the chart table, where a stack of documents stamped with the red wax seal of the British Empire Shipping Guild was placed.
It clearly stated on them that these three ships belonged to the "Ashbourne-Vance Far East Shipping and Trading Company" of London, fully loaded with legitimate industrial goods of the British Empire.
But this was merely a deceptive layer of skin.
"First mate, tell everyone to perk up. The real test is coming." Captain Jackson walked over to the control console.
"This place is the patrol zone of the British Royal East India Fleet. Although our paperwork is complete, if the things at the bottom of the hold are discovered, everyone in the fleet will end up on the gallows."
In the lowest hold of these three ships, those oblong wooden boxes tightly wrapped in tarpaulins were packed with twenty thousand breech-loading rifles retired and replaced by Vanguard Military Industry, and even a few disassembled field artillery pieces.
On top of these wooden boxes were piled cans and Texas cotton used for camouflage.
The first mate spat a mouthful of saliva.
"Sir, our documents were personally sorted out by that baron in London. The people at the Mumbai customs shouldn't dare to easily detain a merchant ship flying the Union Jack and with an aristocratic background, right?"
"Who knows? Never entrust your life to the greed and fear of others."
Captain Jackson touched the Colt revolver at his waist.
"The boss gave instructions before we set off that the bureaucrats of the British Empire in the Far East are all sharks that walk around sniffing the scent of blood. If they really insist on opening the hatches for inspection..."
A fierce glint flashed through Captain Jackson's eyes.
"Then pass the word down. Have the musketeers below deck get ready. If push comes to shove, we will force our way through! Anyway, once we reach the waters of the Qing Empire, the hands of these Englishmen won't be able to reach that far!"
Just as the two were conversing, the sailor in the lookout tower suddenly issued an extremely shrill warning.
"A ship's shadow spotted at forty-five degrees off the port bow, and it's steam-powered!"
Captain Jackson abruptly grabbed his telescope and rushed to the port-side porthole.
Through the lens, at the end of the horizon, a dense cloud of black coal smoke was rapidly rising.
Immediately following, the silhouette of a vessel painted in gray with a long and slender build broke through the sea fog and appeared in view.
That was not an ordinary merchant ship, nor did it have the cumbersome paddles of a paddle steamer.
That was a fast armed customs patrol vessel of the Royal Navy!
In the field of view of the telescope, it could be clearly seen that on the bow deck of the patrol vessel, the canvas cover of a twelve-pound muzzle-loading cannon had been removed, and the pitch-black muzzle was coldly pointing at the heading of the pioneer.
On the mainmast of the patrol vessel, the White Ensign of the British Empire (the naval flag of the Royal Navy) was snapping in the sea breeze.
"Damn it! They really are waiting for us here."
The first mate's expression instantly turned anxious.
"Sir, they are signaling!"
On the distant patrol vessel, a signalman was waving two red and yellow signal flags.
"Translate!"
Captain Jackson roared, gritting his teeth.
The crew member responsible for signal identification nearby quickly opened the codebook, sweat dripping drop by drop from his forehead.
"Sir! The other party has identified themselves. It is the Seagull, a patrol vessel directly under the British Customs Inspectorate in Mumbai. They are ordering us to immediately lower our sails, shut down the steam engine, reduce speed, and stop the ship to undergo a routine boarding inspection!"
The atmosphere grew somewhat cold.
Although they were flying the British flag, being intercepted by an armed customs ship in waters so close to the colony's home port was almost the worst-case scenario.
If they stopped the ship, once those sharp-eyed customs anti-smuggling crew members went down to the bottom of the cargo hold and pried open just a single box, the twenty thousand rifles would be completely exposed.
What awaited them would be the confiscation of the vessel and the arrest of the personnel.
Yet if they did not stop, the twelve-pound cannon on the other side's forward deck could turn this unarmored freighter into a sieve within minutes.
"Sir! What should we do?"
The first mate's hands gripping the steering wheel were already covered in sweat.
"Should we try to force our way through? If our boilers operate at overload, perhaps we can use our speed advantage to shake them off!"
"We won't shake them off. This is in their patrol sector; if we try to force our way through, they will immediately summon the cruiser fleet."
Captain Jackson's brain was working at lightning speed.
He remembered a secret brown paper bag that Frost had handed to him before leaving New York.
Frost had said at the time: "When encountering the most dangerous inspections by British customs, do not resort to force; hand over the contents inside to the opposing commander."
"First mate!" Captain Jackson suddenly turned around.
"Reply to the signal flags! Tell them we are a legitimate merchant ship of the 'Ashbourne-Vance Far East Shipping and Trading Company'. We agree to slow down and let them send a commander to board the ship for inspection!"
"But sir..."
"Execute the order!"
Captain Jackson roared with wide eyes.
Then he strode quickly to the chart table, used a key to open the locked drawer underneath, and took out the brown paper bag sealed with red wax.
This giant ship, carrying the Far East ambitions of the Argyle Family, began to slowly reduce its speed amid the prolonged blasts of the steam whistle.
The waves beat against the ship's sides.
On the nearby British patrol vessel, a small boat carrying a dozen armed naval soldiers and a customs commander in a white uniform was being lowered into the sea, rapidly heading toward the pioneer.
A wooden boat slammed heavily against the black water line of the pioneer, producing a dull thud.
A rope ladder was quickly thrown down.
Several fully armed Royal Navy soldiers climbed onto the deck first, holding their Enfield rifles straight and moving the muzzles back and forth in the air.
Immediately after, an officer wearing a crisp naval uniform walked up, stepping on the accumulated water on the deck.
The rank on his epaulets showed that he was a Captain, with a gloomy expression, and his gaze swept over the surrounding crew like examining prey.
Pilot Captain Jackson adjusted the collar of his coat and stepped forward with a professional smile.
"Welcome aboard, Captain. I am Captain Jackson, the Captain of this ship." Captain Jackson extended his hand.
"I wonder why a patrol ship of the Customs Inspectorate is intercepting a legitimate British merchant ship on the high seas?"
The Captain named Colin Barnes did not shake Captain Jackson's hand, but just stared coldly at Captain Jackson and spoke directly.
"Bring out your logbook, cargo manifest, and crew list. In addition, have your sailors open the lower cargo hold; I want to take people in to check it myself."
The first mate stood behind Captain Jackson, his palms covered in cold sweat.
Cargo holds No. 2 and No. 3 were precisely the places used to store those decommissioned rifles and artillery of Vanguard Military Industry. Once opened, no disguise would be of any use.
"Captain Barnes."
Captain Jackson's smile did not diminish in the slightest.
"Our registry is registered with the London Shipping Guild, and our affiliated company is the 'Ashbourne-Vance Far East Shipping and Trading Company'. Our ship is loaded with legitimate cotton cloth and canned food. Without conclusive evidence, your demand to forcibly open the lower cargo hold seems to not comply with the rules of the maritime law of the Empire."
"The rules are set by me."
Barnes stepped forward and lowered his voice.
"Captain Jackson, don't use that London routine to pressure me. We received a confidential report in Bombay that an American smuggling ship flying the Union Jack attempted to transport contraband weapons to India and the Qing Empire. Your ship type and tonnage completely match the description in the confidential report. I now suspect that your cargo manifest is suspected of being forged."
Barnes waved his hand, and several soldiers behind him immediately pulled their bolts, producing a neat sound of metal friction.
"If you refuse to cooperate, I have the right to detain this ship on suspicion of smuggling weapons and send all of you to the military prison in Bombay. Now, open the bottom hold."
The atmosphere on the deck instantly dropped to freezing point.
Several sailors of the Metropolitan Trading Company unconsciously touched the hidden weapons at their waists.
As long as Captain Jackson gave an order, they would immediately fight to the death with these British soldiers on this narrow deck.
But Captain Jackson did not give the order.
He knew that the twelve-pounder guns on the opposite patrol ship were aiming at this place.
"Captain, your sense of duty is admirable."
Captain Jackson took a step back and made a gesture of invitation.
"Since you insist on inspecting, I will certainly cooperate. But before letting the sailors move those heavy goods, I must first present you with a special document. This is an order directly issued by the company's board of directors in London, requiring me to hand it exclusively to the highest-ranking customs officer."
Captain Jackson pointed to the Captain's cabin below the bridge.
"It's windy outside. Why don't we go to the cabin to have a glass of whiskey? After you finish reading that document, you can decide whether you want to waste the soldiers' physical strength to move those cotton boxes, how about it?"
Barnes narrowed his eyes and stared at Captain Jackson for a while.
He did not believe that a merchant ship Captain would dare to play any tricks under the muzzle of the Royal Navy.
"You guys stay on the deck to control the situation. Whoever dares to move around blindly, shoot directly."
Barnes gave orders to the soldiers, and then looked at Captain Jackson.
"Heh... Lead the way. I'd like to see what you can pull out."
The two walked one after another into the narrow but exquisitely furnished Captain's cabin.
Captain Jackson casually closed the cabin door, shutting out the sea breeze outside. He walked to the table, took out a kraft paper bag sealed with red sealing wax from the locked drawer, did not hand it over immediately, but first picked up the wine bottle on the table and poured two glasses of whiskey.
"I don't drink."
Barnes refused unceremoniously.
"Take out the document; my patience is very limited."
Captain Jackson shrugged, drank the wine in one gulp, and then pushed the kraft paper bag in front of Barnes.
Barnes picked up the paper bag, his gaze fell on the red sealing wax stamp, and his brows suddenly furrowed.
That was the highest-level seal of the Customs Inspectorate of the Governor-General's Office of India, and the patterns of the seal were clearly visible, which could definitely not be forged.
Barnes tore open the sealing wax and pulled out two pieces of paper from inside.
The first piece of paper was a transit official document.
It was written in an extremely stern diplomatic tone:
[This is to certify that the merchant ships 'pioneer', 'Fearless', and 'Enterprise' belonging to the Ashbourne-Vance Far East Shipping and Trading Company are loaded with 'Class A Overseas Defense Reserve Supplies' specially approved by the Colonial Office of the British Empire and the House of Lords in London. This batch of supplies concerns the core strategic layout of the Empire in the Far East and is top secret. Any local customs, patrol fleets, and garrisons have no right to conduct any form of boarding inspection, detention, or delay on the above-mentioned ships without direct authorization from the London headquarters. Violators will be handed over to a military tribunal for trial on charges of treason.]
At the end of the official document, it was signed by a name that made Barnes's scalp tingle: Viscount Edward Seymour, the highest commissioner of the Customs Inspectorate of the Governor-General's Office of India.
Barnes's hand holding this piece of paper began to tremble slightly.
Although he had received a confidential report from Barings Bank's agent in Bombay asking him to find an excuse to intercept this fleet.
But he was only a patrol ship Captain, and above him were colonels and fleet commanders.
And the signature on this document was the highest official of the customs system in the entire Indian Ocean region!
"This... This is impossible. How could you possibly get the highest exemption order from the Inspectorate?"
Barnes gritted his teeth and stared fixedly at Captain Jackson.
"This must be forged! You bunch of smugglers!"
"Captain, after working in customs for so many years, can't you tell whether the seal and signature are real or fake?"
Captain Jackson pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing his hands on the desktop.
"The Earl of Ashbourne is the chairman of this company, and Lord Viscount Seymour is the Earl's own brother-in-law. Do you think that when the nobles in London deal with their private property, they need to report to a Captain like you?"
Captain Jackson's words struck hard at Barnes's nerves.
The relationship network of the British officialdom was intricate.
If this ship really was the family property of the highest commissioner of the Inspectorate, even if it was loaded with a ship of stones, he definitely could not touch it.
Once they forcibly opened the cabin today and found that it really was some sort of unspeakable political secret, those people from Barings Bank might not be able to protect him, and he himself would become a scapegoat of political struggle and be sent to a military tribunal.
The more Barnes thought about it, the more cold sweat began to ooze from his forehead.
He found himself dragged into a whirlpool that he simply couldn't afford to provoke.
"Of course, we are all serving the Empire, and mutual understanding is very necessary."
Captain Jackson seized the opportunity, pulled out the second piece of paper from the paper bag, and gently pushed it to Barnes's fingertips.
That was a bearer promissory note issued by the Bank of England. The amount position clearly stated two thousand pounds.
"Lord Viscount Seymour gave special instructions when issuing this official document."
Captain Jackson's voice became extremely soft, even carrying a hint of bewitching lure.
"He knows that the brothers of the customs and patrol fleets suffer greatly from wind and sun at sea. If they encounter a conscientious officer boarding the ship for inspection, not only should they not be blamed, but they should also be given appropriate 'escort compensation'. After all, everyone is protecting the property of the British Empire, aren't they?"
Barnes stared at the promissory note.
Two thousand pounds!
This was equivalent to the salary of him, a Captain, drifting at sea for a full two years.
On one side was the abyss of forcible search, offending the highest officer and possibly facing a military tribunal; on the other side was going with the flow, acknowledging the validity of the document, and immediately getting the wealth of two thousand pounds.
Any lower-level officer with a normal brain knew how to choose.
Barings Bank's orders became worthless in front of real gold and silver and the immediate superior's signature.
Barnes took a deep breath.
Quickly folded the promissory note and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his uniform.
"Captain Jackson."
Barnes's expression changed instantly, the previous gloom and arrogance were swept away, replaced by the seriousness of official business.
"I have carefully inspected your company's navigation documents, and the order from the Inspectorate is clear and unmistakable. All cargoes of the 'pioneer' and accompanying ships comply with the laws of the Empire."
Then he pulled out a pen from his pocket, signed his name on the logbook and clearance certificate prepared early by Captain Jackson, and heavily stamped the patrol ship's transit seal on it.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Captain Barnes. Wish you a safe voyage."
Captain Jackson stood up, the smile on his face still impeccable.
"Hmm... I also wish you all the best in the Far East. I will report to the fleet that there are no suspicious ships in this sea area."
Barnes turned and walked out of the Captain's cabin, strode back to the deck, and gave orders to the soldiers who were still holding their guns.
"Fall back, all withdraw to the patrol ship!"
"The documents have been verified as correct, and this is a legitimate London merchant ship. Make way for them!"
Although the soldiers were somewhat puzzled, they quickly put away their weapons and climbed back down the rope ladder into the boat.
Captain Jackson stood on the deck, watching the gray patrol ship slowly turn, spitting black smoke as it sailed toward Bombay, letting out a long foul breath, feeling that the shirt on his back was a bit damp.
"Captain, they're gone."
The first mate walked to Captain Jackson's side, his voice carrying excitement.
"Sound the whistle immediately, and notify the Fearless and the Enterprise to proceed at full speed!"
Captain Jackson turned his head to look at that even broader sea area.
"The dangerous checkpoint has passed."
Lombard Street, London, the Barings Bank headquarters.
Charles Sterling sat behind his desk, holding a newly arrived urgent telegram from the Mumbai Customs Branch.
His face was ashen, and he didn't even notice that the gold coin he usually loved to play with had fallen onto the carpet.
lord Archibald Sinclair paced the office irritably.
"Released? They actually released them directly!"
Sinclair kicked a nearby chair.
"We planted so many informants in Mumbai and bribed the commander of the patrol fleet just to impound those three ships in the Indian Ocean. Yet that idiot Captain Barnes boarded the ship for less than twenty minutes and stamped the customs clearance for them to leave! Has he lost his mind?!"
"His mind is fine, Archibald."
Sterling slapped the telegram onto the desk.
"The telegram states it very clearly. Not only did Barnes look at the manifest, but he also saw an exemption pass personally signed by Viscount Seymour, the highest commissioner of the Customs Directorate. He might have even received a hush money bribe."
"Viscount Seymour? Isn't that the biological brother of the Earl of Ashburn's wife?!" Sinclair was stunned.
"That's right."
Sterling leaned back against his chair, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.
"Argyle has studied the British Empire's aristocratic network more thoroughly than we have ourselves. Not only did he buy the name of the Earl of Ashburn, but he also used real silver and gold to pry open the mouths of senior officials in the Colonial Office. He is using the rules of power we set ourselves to lock us out."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
"We couldn't stop him in New York, our operations on the West Coast were bloodily suppressed by him, and now even the defense line in the Indian Ocean has become a decoration."
Sterling opened his eyes, his tone tinged with helplessness.
"Charles, are we just going to watch him snatch our market in the Far East right before our eyes?" Sinclair was still unwilling to resign himself to this.
"What else can we do? Send warships to fire in the waters? That would trigger an international war." Sterling stood up.
"Notify our compradors in Mumbai, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. Have them prepare. This is no longer smuggling that can be blocked by power, but a real, gritty commercial dumping war. Since we cannot stop his ships, we will fight him to the end in the Far East market using prices and channels."
Sterling walked over to the window, looking at the gloomy London sky outside.
In the first round of confrontation, the financial conglomerates of the British Empire lost to the young oligarch far away in Manhattan.
...
At the same time, New York, Manhattan.
The calendar for 1871 had been completely turned over.
The New Year's bells echoed from the tower of Trinity Church, heralding the arrival of 1872.
The president's office on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building was as warm as spring.
Felix stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the silver-clad Wall Street below. Pedestrians on the street were scarce, with only a few snow-clearing carriages moving slowly.
The office door was pushed open.
Edward Frost walked in quickly holding a folder, with an undisguised joy on his face.
"Boss, Happy New Year."
Frost walked over to the desk.
"Is there a result?"
Felix didn't turn back and asked directly.
"Yes, Boss, Captain Jackson used a British telegraph station to send back an encrypted telegram."
"The First Fleet has safely passed the interception of Mumbai Customs. That document from the Directorate and the two-thousand-pound cashier's check played a perfect role. Those Englishmen didn't even touch the doorknob of the cargo hold. Currently, the fleet has unloaded a batch of goods in Mumbai and is heading toward Southeast Asia."
Felix turned around, walked to the desk, and sat down, a smile curving the corners of his mouth.
"The people at Barings Bank must be smashing cups in their offices right now. Using their bureaucrats to deal with their warships—that is the most wonderful part of this deal."
"Bill's side has already started preparing the second batch of supplies," Frost continued to report.
"Since this path has also been opened up, the subsequent ships can sail over continuously. However, Boss, we don't have any foundation in India and Southeast Asia. Those British compradors and opium merchants have massive local influence. After our ships dock, if we want to bypass them and deal directly with local officials, I'm afraid there will be great resistance."
"Your concerns are very valid. We can do whatever we want in America. But in the Far East, going head-to-head will only increase costs."
Felix tapped his fingers on the desk, his brain spinning rapidly.
"Then notify Captain Jackson and the commercial representatives on board. When the ships arrive, don't rush to show those rifles and cannons. First, dump the cotton cloth and canned goods to impact the market with low prices, attracting the attention of local merchants. We need to find a local merchant in Southeast Asia who is ambitious, capable, but suffocated by the suppression of the British to act as our agent."
"At the same time, we can use military deterrence and profit binding to push this agent to the forefront to bite at the British, while we hide behind the scenes to collect money."
"Understood, Boss. I will send your instructions to the fleet."
Frost closed the folder concerning Asia and pulled out a confidential document stamped with the Washington D.C. postmark from underneath. At the same time, his expression turned serious.
"Boss, things in the Far East have had a good start. But back home in our own backyard, the situation has changed."
"What's wrong? Weren't those congressmen in Washington who took Old Morgan's money already kicked out?"
Felix picked up his black tea and took a sip.
"It's not about the congressmen; it's about The White House."
Frost leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Late last night, news came from the Army General Hospital. After being in a coma for a full month and a half, President Ulysses S. Grant... has woken up."
Felix's hand holding the coffee cup paused slightly, and then he slowly placed the cup on the desk.
"Woken up?"
Felix's expression became unfathomable.
"What does the doctor's diagnosis report say?"
"Although the bullet did not injure his heart, the cerebral hypoxia caused by massive blood loss left serious sequelae." Frost repeated according to the informant's intelligence.
"The president's right side has shown severe paralysis symptoms. Currently, he cannot walk independently, and his language ability has also been greatly affected. His speech is slurred and vague, requiring others to guess to understand his meaning."
Hearing this result, Felix not only didn't feel worried, but instead let out a long breath, a look of relief appearing on his face.
To be honest, after the incident where Flynn and the others were suspended and family members were placed under surveillance, Felix had no way to continue allying with Grant.
Perhaps this was the best-case scenario now.
"Paralyzed and unable to walk independently, unable to even speak clearly. Edward, do you know what this means?"
"Uh~ It means that although he saved his life, he has completely lost the ability to handle heavy government affairs," Frost replied.
"No, it's not just losing the ability to handle government affairs."
"It also means that in the time to come, until the end of the 1872 presidential election, this general who once stirred up winds and clouds on the battlefield will become a living statue who can only sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around. As long as he is alive, he can steady the hearts of those radical veterans; once paralyzed, he can no longer stop our comprehensive takeover of this state machine."
Standing up and walking to the coat rack, Felix took down his cashmere overcoat.
"Prepare the carriage to the train station; you arrange a special train."
"Boss, are you going to Washington right now?"
"Of course."
Felix put on his overcoat and adjusted his tie.
"Since Grant has escaped from the hands of Death, as the United States's most loyal legitimate merchant and his former ally, I ought to go to his bedside and present a bouquet of flowers. By the way, I will go have a good talk with Thomas about how to play this upcoming election year."
Washington D.C., in the intensive care unit of the Army General Hospital.
The room was filled with the strong smell of disinfectant.
Half of the heavy velvet curtains were drawn open, and the pale winter sunlight shone through the window onto the snow-white hospital bed.
President Ulysses S. Grant lay in the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with lifeless eyes.
This federal commander, who had once commanded troops to force General Lee to surrender, now looked like a withered tree drained of all vitality.
The right side of his face twitched slightly and uncontrollably, and his right hand was rigidly bent against his chest, completely ignoring the commands of his brain.
The ward door was gently pushed open.
vice president Thomas Clark walked in with a steady pace, dressed in a well-fitting black formal suit and holding a file in his hand.
Following closely behind him were two senior staffers from The White House, though Grant did not recognize their faces at all.
"Mr. President, seeing you finally open your eyes has brought a sigh of relief to the entire United States."
Thomas walked to the bedside with a respectful tone, but his eyes revealed a sense of scrutiny.
Grant turned his head with difficulty and looked at Thomas.
A few muffled, guttural "he-he" sounds came from his throat, as if he wanted to ask something.
"Are you trying to ask where Chief of Staff Marshall has gone?"
As if seeing through Grant's thoughts, Thomas sighed slightly, a look of profound grief and indignation on his face.
"It is with great regret that I tell you. During your coma, the Secret Service verified that Marshall accepted half a million dollars in foreign bribes. It was he who leaked your itinerary, leading to that terrible assassination. He has now been locked up in a military prison, awaiting trial by a special tribunal."
Hearing these words, Grant's pupils suddenly contracted.
His chest heaved violently, his left hand tightly grasping the white bedsheet, and an angry roar burst from his throat, but because of his damaged vocal cords, the sound sounded more like the mournful cry of a beast.
He had been betrayed.
Betrayed by the person he trusted most.
"Mr. President, please keep your emotions stable. The doctor says your body cannot withstand any stimulation right now."
Thomas stepped forward, gently patted Grant's left hand, and forcibly pried his fingers away from the bedsheet.
"During the time you were in a coma, although the country experienced some turbulence, under Congress's authorization, I have taken over the routine affairs of the cabinet."
"The traitors have been purged, and the stock market has remained stable thanks to the capital injections from Argyle and other major business owners."
"Oh, that's right, General Electric's municipal power grid is also ready to begin laying cables in Washington."
Thomas stated the current situation logically and clearly, every word conveying a cruel fact to Grant.
That was, the country still operated normally without him, and perhaps even operated better.
"This year's general election is not far away."
Thomas lowered his head, looking into Grant's eyes filled with anger and helplessness.
"All you need to do now is recuperate in peace; you are the hero who saved the United States."
"As long as you lie here, the public's confidence will not collapse."
"As for those heavy administrative documents and political games, please rest assured and leave them to me to handle."
Thomas placed the documents he brought on the bedside table; they were several appointment letters regarding cabinet personnel changes.
"Get some good rest."
"In a few days, when your complexion improves a bit, we will arrange for reporters from several major newspapers to take a picture of you."
"The citizens need to see that their president is still strong."
Thomas bowed slightly, turned around, and left the ward with those newly appointed staffers.
The moment the door closed, Grant closed his eyes.
A line of turbid tears slipped from the corner of this iron-blooded soldier's eyes.
He knew he had been sidelined.
He was no longer the commander who issued orders, but had become a living totem placed in a shop window to pacify the public's hearts.
Meanwhile, in the secret room of a high-end private club not far from the hospital.
Felix was sitting on a single sofa by the fireplace, holding a glass of Bourbon whiskey in his hand.
The door was pushed open, and Thomas Clark, who had just come out of the hospital, walked in.
"The wind outside is really strong."
Thomas took off his coat, handed it to the waiter, and sat down opposite Felix.
"Have you been to see our great president?"
Felix swirled the wine glass in his hand, his tone relaxed.
Thomas took the hot tea handed by the waiter, his tone somewhat melancholic.
"I have."
"He is very weak, unable to even speak a complete sentence... The doctor says he will never be able to stand up and walk again in his life."
"His eyes looking at me were filled with anger and helplessness, but honestly, I didn't want it to be like this either."
"We used to be allies, sigh..."
"Anger is the only way the weak can express their emotions."
Felix took a sip of his drink.
"Since he can no longer shoulder the responsibility, the upcoming general election is an excellent opportunity for us to reshuffle the deck."
"Thomas, are you ready to officially move into the Oval Office?"
Thomas's movements paused slightly.
He put down his teacup, and his eyes turned profound.
"Felix, the situation is not as simple as you think."
"Although Grant is ruined, there are still a large number of veterans and radicals supporting him within the Republican Party."
"If I directly announce replacing him to run in the general election, these people will think I am usurping power, and they will fight me to the death."
Thomas analyzed with a frown.
"Moreover, the Democratic Party has been making frequent moves lately."
"Taking advantage of our internal chaos, they are frantically courting landowners in the South who are dissatisfied with Reconstruction policies."
"What's even more troublesome is that a split has also appeared within the Republican Party; some fellows calling themselves 'Liberal Republicans' are colluding everywhere, trying to push out a new candidate to challenge the current cabinet."
Hearing Thomas's concerns, Felix did not show any anxiety.
He placed his wine glass on the side coffee table and took a cigar out of his pocket.
"Thomas, your thinking is still stuck in traditional party campaigns."
"What do you think winning an election relies on? Is it voters' ballots?"
Lighting the cigar, Felix exhaled a puff of blue smoke.
"No."
"Voters are just a blind flock of sheep; whatever is printed in the newspapers, they believe."
"In this country, what truly determines who the president belongs to is campaign funds, newspaper layouts, and special campaign trains along the railway lines."
Leaning forward, Felix looked intently at his father-in-law.
"The Liberal Republicans want to cause trouble? No problem."
"The Democratic Party wants to make a comeback? No problem either."
"What do you mean?"
Thomas was somewhat puzzled.
"I mean, I don't intend to place all my chips on the current Republican cabinet."
"I am going to buy this election."
"Not buying a certain candidate, but buying all the tracks."
As he spoke, Felix drew a few circles on the tabletop with his finger.
"Thomas, you will continue in your capacity as vice president, participating in the Republican Party's primary under the banner of inheriting Grant's legacy."
"Argyle Empire Bank will provide you with financial support, and News Media Company will send every article praising you to every corner of America."
"But at the same time, I will secretly set up several foundations and scatter money to those Liberal Republicans and the Democratic Party's popular candidates."
"I will fund them to attack each other and dig up each other's scandals."
"Make them feel that they are the ones dominating this game."
Thomas was shocked by Felix's plan.
"Are you crazy, Felix?"
"Giving money to political opponents—what if they actually win?"
"Although it's impossible."
"But... what if they win?"
FFelix spread his hands, showing absolute confidence.
"As long as they take my money, use the campaign trains, and ride the momentum of my newspapers to reach that position, they must play by my rules."
"Otherwise, I can push them up, and I can pull them down using evidence of them taking dirty money."
Felix looked at Thomas, his tone calm.
"Who becomes president is not important."
"What's important is that no matter who sits in The White House, every bill he signs must conform to the interests of the Argyle Family."
"This general election is no longer a game between the two parties, but my personal racetrack."
"There's no other way, Thomas. You know I actually support the Republican Party very much."
"But regarding Grant's matter, and now that the Argyle Family is growing larger and larger, I don't completely trust those people in the Republican Party."
"So I must find opponents for the Republican Party, so that they won't breed any thoughts that shouldn't be had."