While the politicians in Washington were still scheming and plotting for the upcoming election, more than ten thousand nautical miles away in the Far East, a commercial confrontation had already quietly unfolded.
On the banks of the Huangpu River in Shanghai, Qing Empire, in February 1872.
This was the most prosperous yet most chaotic treaty port in the entire Far East.
The river surface was crowded with steam paddle steamers flying the flags of various countries and dilapidated wooden flat-bottomed trading junks.
On the Bund along the bank, foreign firm buildings belonging to British and French merchant houses stood in rows.
The air was filled with the fishy stench of river water, the black smoke of inferior coal, and the sweet, cloying aroma drifting from the opium dens.
"Toot..."
The deep, resonant sound of the steam whistle tore through the noise of the river surface.
A massive, pitch-black three-thousand-ton steam cargo ship, guided by several small tugboats, slowly sailed into a commercial dock located on the edge of the International Settlement.
On the mainmast, a British Union Jack, somewhat faded by the sea breeze, was fluttering.
This was precisely the pioneer that had finally arrived in the Far East after more than a month of sailing.
On the bridge, the pilot captain Jackson took a deep breath of the air of this unfamiliar continent.
"First mate, have the sailors prepare to drop anchor. Notify the musketeers below not to let go of their guns. This place looks even more chaotic than Five Points in New York," Jackson gave the order.
Standing beside Jackson was Leon Hughes, the chief commercial representative sent by the Metropolitan Trading Company.
He was a young man in his early thirties who had once worked as a stockbroker on Wall Street, his eyes exuding a sense of shrewdness and cunning.
"Captain, there's no need to be so nervous. Although it's chaotic here, as long as you have silver, even ghosts can be made to grind the mill for you."
Leon straightened his well-tailored suit, holding a heavy leather briefcase in his hand.
The ship docked, and the heavy gangplank was lowered.
On the dock, there was no welcoming party.
Instead, several Qing Empire coolies wearing long gowns and jackets and sporting long queues, driven by a few British firm inspectors holding walking sticks, watched this suddenly appearing large ship vigilantly.
Leon ignored those British inspectors, and with several armed bodyguards, he strode down the gangplank.
"Mr. Hughes, according to the boss's plan, are we not showing our hand first? You know, we've obtained permission from the Qing Empire..." Jackson asked in a low voice, following behind.
"Of course. If we bring out those rifles now, the British consulate in Shanghai and those opium firms will immediately use their police station in the concession to seal us up," Leon lowered his voice.
"The boss said that the nobles cooperating with us won't offend those people for our sake. Therefore, we must first find a knife locally to hack people for us in the front."
Leon led his men away from the dock straight away, hailed a few rickshaws on the crowded streets, and rushed toward a secluded teahouse in Nanshi of the Shanghai county seat.
Half an hour later, in a secluded private booth on the second floor of the Deyuan Teahouse.
Leon pushed open the door, and a middle-aged Qing Empire merchant was already sitting inside.
He wore a dark purple silk jacket and a top-grade jade thumb ring on his finger.
Although dressed lavishly, an air of unresolvable melancholy permeated between his brows.
His name was Lu Zhaoting.
He could also be considered a prominent figure on the Shanghai Bund.
Originally, he made his fortune relying on the export business of raw silk and tea.
But in recent years, Britain's Jardine Matheson and Sassoon & Co. had joined forces to monopolize the pricing power of import and export, not only frantically lowering his purchase price, but also forcibly demanding that he help them distribute those harmful opium drugs in the mainland.
Lu Zhaoting was unwilling to touch opium, and as a result, he was jointly blacklisted by several major foreign firms, his business plummeted, and even his original dock was forcibly occupied by others.
"Hello, Boss Lu. I am Leon Hughes, a representative of the Metropolitan Trading Company."
Leon greeted him in broken Chinese, and then began communicating through the accompanying interpreter.
Looking at this blonde-haired, blue-eyed foreigner, Lu Zhaoting did not show much enthusiasm.
"Mr. Hughes, I've had a taste of your foreign firms. If you invited me all the way here just to exchange a few bolts of lousy foreign cloth for my top-grade raw silk, then there's no need to talk. Although I, Lu, am down on my luck right now, I still won't make such conscience-searing money."
Lu Zhaoting picked up his teacup and blew away the floating froth.
Leon smiled, sat down in a chair, and placed the briefcase in his hand on the table.
"Boss Lu has misunderstood. We at the Metropolitan Trading Company are not of the same ilk as those Englishmen selling opium by the Huangpu River. We come from America, which I suppose you've heard of before."
Leon opened his briefcase, took out a quotation sheet for Texas cotton cloth and a few samples of canned beef from it, and pushed them in front of Lu Zhaoting.
"I know Boss Lu has been suppressed miserably by those British firms recently. They monopolize the source of goods. But what I brought today is machine-made cotton cloth produced by America's latest machinery; the quality is better than British goods, while the price..."
Leon extended two fingers.
"is only half of theirs. These canned meats are also things available in the Qing Empire market exclusively to those few selected by Mr. O'Neill."
Lu Zhaoting glanced at the quotation sheet, his eyes changing slightly, but he still maintained vigilance.
"Mr. Hughes, the price is indeed tempting. But you are newcomers and simply don't understand the rules of Shanghai. It's different from other places; Jardine Matheson and the police station wear a pair of pants. No matter how cheap your goods are, as long as they don't nod, your goods can't even enter the city gate. If I take your goods, tomorrow they can find an excuse to seal up my shop."
"Yet rules are made by dead people. What we need to do is break the rules. You should know that someone in your inland market is already helping to clear the checkpoints."
The smile on Leon's face gradually faded, replaced by an arrogance unique to capital.
"Boss Lu, since I dared to come find you, I naturally understand your plight. You are an ambitious person, you just lack a knife capable of cutting through the shackles of the Englishmen."
Leon waved his hand at the bodyguard behind him.
The bodyguard stepped forward and placed a long strip-shaped wooden box on the table.
With a "click," the wooden box was opened.
Lu Zhaoting's pupils instantly contracted to the extreme, and he even instinctively shrank back a little.
Inside the wooden box quietly lay a polished repeating rifle from Vanguard Military Industry, beside which fifty glistening brass bullets were neatly stacked.
"This... is this a firelock?"
Lu Zhaoting's voice trembled.
He had seen quite a few foreign guns on the Shanghai Bund, but most of those were old-fashioned smoothbore guns where gunpowder had to be stuffed from the muzzle after every shot.
This weapon before his eyes, crafted with extreme precision, was something he had never seen before.
"This is not an ordinary firelock. This is called the Vanguard Model 67 repeating rifle. It doesn't need to be loaded from the muzzle; it can hold fifteen rounds of ammunition at a time, and pulling the trigger allows continuous firing."
"Don't be so surprised; previously Mr. O'Neill already brought a batch of goods and sold them to your national government."
Leon took out a bullet and toyed with it in his hand.
"This gun can easily pierce a one-inch-thick wooden board from hundreds of paces away."
Leon threw the bullet back into the wooden box, leaning forward to stare fixedly at Lu Zhaoting.
"The British have monopolized livelihood supplies, and they've also monopolized the firearms sold to your imperial court. Those regional viceroys and governors are driven to distraction every day by the remnants of the Taiping Army and wandering refugees everywhere; they dream of getting good guns. But what the British sell them is nothing but scrap iron."
Leon's voice was lowered very low, yet it was filled with a seductive magic.
"Boss Lu, the hold of our ship contains twenty thousand such rifles, as well as rotary machine guns and field artillery with even more terrifying rates of fire. As long as you are willing to step forward and be our agent in Shanghai, Qing Empire, using your channels to sell these weapons directly to those coastal local high officials who hold heavy military power."
Leon paused for a moment, observing Lu Zhaoting's drastically changing expression.
"With those frontier high officials as your backing, do you think those British compradors on the Shanghai Bund would still dare to seal your shop? By then, whether it's cotton cloth, canned goods, or raw silk trade, the market of the entire Far East will be split evenly between our two families."
Lu Zhaoting looked at the rifle exuding an aura of death on the table, his heart beating wildly and incessantly.
He knew this was a head-losing gamble.
If wind of this leaked, the British consulate would definitely arrest him as a rebel party.
But he was even clearer that this was likewise his only opportunity to shake off the control of the British and leap into becoming the most powerful merchant in the entire Great Qing Empire!
With foreign guns, he could befriend those troop-leading viceroys; with the protection of the viceroys, he could walk sideways on the Shanghai Bund!
"Mr. Hughes..."
Lu Zhaoting swallowed a mouthful of saliva, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, yet the hand he extended to touch the rifle was very steady.
"This business... I'll take it. But you need to provide armed protection; before I deliver the guns into the viceroy's yamen, the British police could come looking for trouble at any time."
"Rest assured, Boss Lu. My ship has one hundred battle-tested guards. Whoever dares to move you is messing with the money bag of the Argyle Family. We will tear them to pieces."
Leon smiled with satisfaction.
The two slapped hands in the tearoom to seal the deal.
However, right in the second-floor inn opposite the teahouse,
a lean man wearing a long gown and holding a teacup was staring fixedly through the half-open window at the private booth where Lu Zhaoting was.
Beneath his long gown, the wooden handle of a billy club was faintly visible, and on his chest hung a silver nameplate belonging to a senior inspector of Sassoon & Co.
The wooden stairs of Deyuan Teahouse creaked.
Leon Hughes walked in front, followed closely by Pilot Captain Jackson.
The two walked through the first-floor lobby, which was filled with the scent of pipe tobacco and pan-fried buns, and walked straight out the door of the teahouse.
The streets were full of coolies running while pulling rickshaws, and peddlers carrying shoulder poles and selling goods along the streets.
The air was mixed with the fishy smell of the Huangpu River and the smell of fermented garbage.
"Mr. Hughes, I've already had the guards keep an eye on that person on the second floor of the opposite inn just now."
Jackson lowered his voice and spoke in a volume that only the two of them could hear.
As an old sea wolf who had sailed the seas for years, his sensitivity to the surrounding gazes was extremely high.
"Don't worry about him, Jackson."
Leon switched the leather briefcase in his hand to his other hand and sneered.
"He's probably a dog for Sassoon & Co. I deliberately opened the wooden box on the table just to let him see clearly what was inside. If we don't give those British a little excitement, how will they voluntarily stick their necks into our noose?"
The two called two rickshaws and headed towards the direction of the International Settlement.
The Shanghai branch of the Metropolitan Trading Company was established in a newly built four-story red-brick western-style building on the edge of the Bund.
Although the location was not as close to the riverside core area as old foreign firms like Jardines and Sassoon, the building's sturdiness and internal security level far exceeded those of its peers.
Leon and Jackson walked into the building and went straight to the general manager's office on the fourth floor.
As the door was pushed open, a rich aroma of roast meat mixed with the smell of fine cigars hit them head-on.
"Good God, O'Neill. Did you move an entire cow into your office?"
Leon couldn't help covering his nose, looking at the huge figure behind the desk.
O'Neill, the general manager of the Asia region for the Metropolitan Trading Company, was squeezing out of that specially made oversized high-backed leather chair.
Having not seen each other for more than a year, this already stout fat man was now so fat he looked like a moving meat mountain.
His originally well-fitting suit was now stretched tightly, and the buttons of his vest seemed like they would fly off at any moment.
"Leon, and Captain Jackson! Seeing you arrive safely, my hanging heart can finally be put at ease."
O'Neill walked over with heavy steps and gave the two an extremely forceful hug.
He was still holding a half-eaten T-bone steak in his hand, and his mouth was greasy.
"Sit down, sit down quickly. Taste this; these are ribs personally roasted by a retired imperial chef from the Prince Gong mansion."
"Those Qing Empire nobles are a hundred times more particular about eating than our restaurants in New York."
O'Neill greeted them warmly, casually tossed the steak into the silver dinner plate next to him, and picked up a napkin to wipe his hands.
Leon sat down on the sofa, looking at O'Neill's enjoying expression and helplessly shook his head.
"The boss didn't send me here to see how you get fat, O'Neill. With your current weight, I'm afraid even a carriage couldn't pull you."
"Don't mention it, buddy; this is all the price of socializing."
O'Neill sighed and sat down on the single sofa opposite, which made a painful groaning sound.
"You think I'm willing to eat this fat? Those Manchu princes, beiles, and local governors."
"When you talk business with them, you have to talk at the dining table."
"They send chefs and actors; if you don't accept or eat them, they think you aren't one of their own, and business can't be pushed forward."
O'Neill picked up the hot tea on the table and took a sip, putting away the smile on his face, and his expression became solemn.
"I received the boss's telegram. I heard you went to meet that Qing Empire merchant named Lu Zhaoting?"
"We've met him, and he took the bait."
Leon nodded.
"He agreed to be our agent, responsible for sending that batch of repeating rifles and Gatling guns into the local governor's yamen."
"That's a good idea. Lu Zhaoting was driven to a dead end by the British, and he has the guts to go hack people for us."
O'Neill rubbed the fat on his chin and sighed.
"Leon, you don't know how aggrieved I've spent the past half year or so in Asia."
"You guys call the shots and wield power in New York, while in Shanghai I'm simply like a grandson trying to survive in the cracks."
Captain Jackson frowned, somewhat puzzled.
"Manager O'Neill, this shouldn't be the case."
"The boss said in the telegram that the branch of the Argyle Empire Bank in Shanghai has already obtained the trusteeship of the Qing Empire customs tax revenue."
"With this imperial sword, plus the goods we brought, by what right do those Europeans suppress and beat us?"
"Things aren't as simple as you think, Captain."
O'Neill explained with a wry smile.
"The customs tax revenue trusteeship is indeed a good thing, but the Inspector General of Customs of the Qing Empire is an Englishman named Robert Hart."
"Most of his subordinates are Englishmen! We collect taxes, and they inspect goods."
"They have ten thousand legal reasons to detain our cotton cloth and machinery at the dock for endless 'inspections'."
O'Neill stood up, walked to the window, and pointed to the foreign firm buildings hanging the Union Jack outside on the Bund.
"On this land, the British and French have operated for decades. Their tentacles reach into every corner."
"We did find agents. Those Qing Empire dignitaries, such as Prince Gong, Prince Chun, and Miss Liu Wanqing's father, Liu Shian, a once-fallen salt merchant from Huainan."
"We provide funds and goods, letting them act as white gloves to grab business from the British."
O'Neill turned around, his tone carrying helplessness.
"Liu Shian is indeed a ruthless character. Relying on our principal, he fought several beautiful comeback battles in the salt and silk industries."
"Prince Gong's side also gave the green light to our transportation in the interior. But..."
O'Neill raised his stubby fingers.
"At critical moments, whenever large-scale conflicts directly occur with Jardines or Sassoon & Co., those princes who usually take our kickbacks all turn into tortoises hiding their heads."
Leon slightly narrowed his eyes.
"Are they afraid of the British?"
"They are scared to death!"
O'Neill slammed the windowsill fiercely.
"The war ten years ago scared them half to death. British warships are parked right on the Huangpu River."
"Those European capitalists often join forces to drive up purchase prices or block our shipping channels, forcefully suppressing us and beating us down."
"Although Prince Gong and the others curse inwardly because they earn less money due to their shares being snatched, they never dare to directly step forward and tilt the scales to help us."
O'Neill walked back to the sofa and sat down, picked up the teacup and took a good sip, hearing those traditional Chinese medicine doctors say drinking more tea can help lose weight.
"That bunch of Manchu aristocrats only want to make a steady profit from the price difference."
"Expecting them to fall out with the British Empire is simply impossible. This is also why our profits are stuck in a bottleneck, and commercial projects have been unable to fully unfold."
After listening to this detailed report, Leon had a clearer understanding of the situation in the Far East.
On this land, the Manchu Qing court was weak and incompetent, while the European powers ran amok.
Although the Argyle Family entered the field with capital and advanced goods, without domestic military support, they were like a tiger without claws and teeth—having all the strength in the world, yet only able to be torn apart by a pack of wolves.
"So, this is why the boss asked you to find someone." O'Neill looked at Leon.
"Right."
Leon nodded.
"The old rules. The princes dare not offend the British, so find someone who dares to offend them. Lu Zhaoting has no way out. As long as he sells the arms to local powerful figures holding heavy troops like Li Hongzhang or Zuo Zongtang, those local warlords will become his protective umbrella to ensure the subsequent supply of ammunition and weapons."
Leon took out a draft contract from his briefcase and threw it on the coffee table.
"The actual power of local governors-general is much greater than those timid princes in the capital. As long as we are protected by the bayonets of the Xiang Army or Huai Army, I want to see if the constables of Sassoon & Co. dare to seal our warehouse."
Looking at the contract, O'Neill wore an excited smile, and the fat on his face trembled along with it.
"This move is not bad. Even if it fails, the only loss is Lu Zhaoting himself, and our Metropolitan Company can completely shift the responsibility clean away. No matter how you calculate this business, we won't lose."
O'Neill put down the contract, shifted the topic, and looked at Captain Jackson.
"Right. You guys came all the way from the Atlantic Ocean through the Indian Ocean this time. I have never taken this route before. I usually start from San Francisco, cross the Pacific Ocean to Yokohama, and then transfer to Shanghai. Tell me, how well did you sell your goods in Mumbai and those British and French colonies in Southeast Asia?"
Mentioning this, Captain Jackson and Leon exchanged a glance, both wearing smiles on their faces.
"How well did we sell?"
Leon leaned back against the sofa with his legs crossed, undisguised mockery in his tone.
"O'Neill, perhaps you should ask how miserably we played those British governors and customs officials."
Captain Jackson also chuckled along.
The old Captain, who had seen all kinds of storms at sea, currently had eyes reflecting the excitement after plundering.
"Manager O'Neill, you didn't see the scene at that time. On the Indian Ocean, a frigate of the Royal Navy stopped us. The cannons' muzzles were all aimed at my wheelhouse. If it were before, our ship full of arms would definitely have been detained along with people and goods, and all the crew members would have ended up on the gallows of a military court."
O'Neill stopped playing with the teacup in his hand, leaned forward slightly, and tension revealed itself in those eyes that were somewhat small squeezed by fat.
Although he was far away in Asia, he also knew the absolute hegemony of the British Empire in the Indian Ocean.
"Then what? How did you get through? Could it be that you fought a battle with the Royal Navy using Gatling guns?"
"Hmph~ Why is your head full of solving things with force? You should know that this is only the lowest-grade means of solution."
Leon took over the conversation, pulling a document copy out of the interlayer of his briefcase—it was an exemption transit order issued by the Inspectorate General.
"The boss's layout in London is simply a work of genius art. President Templeton used an irresistible sum of money to buy the titles of Earl of Ashburn and Baron Vance. Our fleet flies the legal Union Jack and is registered under the shell companies of these two pure British nobles. On this transit order, what is signed is the name of the highest commissioner of the Inspectorate General of Customs of the Viceroyalty of India."
Leon threw the document copy onto the coffee table and lifted his chin to signal O'Neill to look for himself.
"When Captain Jackson slammed this document, along with a bearer promissory note of two thousand pounds, in front of that Captain, that arrogant naval officer didn't even dare to fart. Not only did he respectfully stamp our customs clearance seal, but he even wished us a safe voyage."
O'Neill stared dumbfounded at the copy of the document, and then burst into deafening laughter, the fat on his face trembling violently.
"Using the imperial decree of the British Empire's nobles to slap the British Empire's navy in the face. The boss's trick of 'borrowing skin' is played so brilliantly! That's two thousand pounds, which could buy a decent townhouse in London, yet it was sent out just like that. However, compared to the risk of a ship full of arms being confiscated, paying this 'tribute money' is totally worth it."
"Hmph... Mere two thousand pounds, we earned it back with interest in Mumbai in just three days."
Leon's displeased cold snort obviously still showed a bit of minding.
"We docked at the Port of Mumbai for supplies. Because of the Highest Commissioner's exemption order, the port's customs didn't dare to check our cargo hold at all. We swaggeringly unloaded the surface layer of Texas cotton cloth and canned meat, and dumped them directly in the local market. The price was only half of that of British local merchants."
Leon stretched out two fingers, his gaze sharp.
"India's market is too big, and local princely states' rulers and grassroots merchants frantically snapped up our cotton cloth. The cloth shipped to Mumbai by British textile factories piled up in warehouses to mold, while our goods sold out in less than two days. We even sold a batch of retired field guns at a high price through the black market to a native prince preparing to make trouble for independence from the British. What we brought back were all hard currency, all pure gold and silver."
O'Neill listened with shining eyes.
"Whoa~ Didn't those British merchants cause you trouble?"
"How could they?"
Captain Jackson grinned with a hint of recollection.
"You must know that legally we are a shipping company in London, England, and even the chairman is a hereditary earl of the House of Lords. Even if those people hate us so much that their teeth itch, they can only go to London to sue. But by the time the lawsuit starts, we will have long left the Indian Ocean fully loaded with silver."
O'Neill slapped his thighs, full of praise.
"I have always taken the Pacific Ocean route. Although the line from San Francisco to Yokohama is safe, the Japanese market over in Yokohama has just started, and its purchasing power simply cannot compare to an old-school colony like India. It seems that in the future, the routes of the Metropolitan Trading Company will completely change. We must connect the Atlantic Ocean, the Indian Ocean, and the Pacific Ocean into a circle. Let the British eat our exhaust."
"I think this is probably the ultimate goal the boss wants to achieve, establishing a global logistics closed loop."
As they spoke, Leon glanced again at the plate of roast meat with bones left on the desk, teasing.
"But God is witness. O'Neill, we eat salted meat and hard biscuits at sea, your days here are a bit too comfortable. That so-called Prince Gong was even willing to give you a retired imperial chef. It seems you haven't made a small amount of money for him over the past half year or so."
Hearing this, Witt O'Neill rubbed his hands awkwardly, shifting his massive body on the sofa.
"My dear Leon, you don't run the household, so you don't know how expensive firewood and rice are."
Witt O'Neill sighed and put away his smile.
"Those Manchu nobles of the Great Qing have no concept of modern business in their heads, only knowing how to demand silver. That Huai'an salt merchant, Liu Shian, is quite a talent. Back then, his family assets were confiscated because he offended people at court. If his daughter and sister-in-law hadn't been sent to New York, and we hadn't provided him with a one-million-tael silver interest-free loan to get him back on his feet—"
Witt O'Neill picked up his teacup, seemingly recalling that difficult period of expansion.
"Liu Shian truly lived up to expectations. With our money, he greased the wheels of the salt administration and grain transport in the Jiangsu and Zhejiang regions, spreading the procurement network for raw silk and tea deep into the countryside. He even knew to distribute honorary shares to the local governors and prefects. Now, he is the largest white glove of our Metropolitan in the Qing Empire."
"Since this white glove is so capable, why are our profits still suppressed by the British?"
Captain Jackson asked with puzzlement.
"Because Liu Shian is a Han Chinese merchant, while Prince Gong and the others are in the capital. The mountains are high and the emperor is far away."
Witt O'Neill shrugged and explained.
"In this Great Qing Empire, the ones truly running things are the foreigners holding foreign guns and cannons. Behind Sassoon Foreign Firm is the British Consulate. As long as the raw silk collected by Liu Shian is shipped to Shanghai, British customs officials will delay shipment under all sorts of pretexts. British gunboats from the fleet will even intercept his inland flat-bottomed boats on the river and forcibly buy them at low prices."
Witt O'Neill pointed at his own nose.
"I've been to the capital a few times to see those princes, hoping they could pressure the Shanghai Daotai. And the result? They only knew how to treat me to a Manchu-Han Imperial Feast cooked by imperial chefs, and then told me, 'Foreign affairs are of grave importance; hostilities must not be lightly provoked.' Put bluntly, they won't do anything because they're afraid of offending the British."
Hearing this, a flash of ferocity crossed Leon's eyes.
"So, this is a vicious cycle. Officials of the Qing Empire fear Britain's formidable ships and guns, and British merchants exploit this fear to monopolize the market. Local merchants like Liu Shian can only get squeezed in the middle and take abuse."
"That's right." Witt O'Neill nodded heavily.
Leon stood up, walked over to Witt O'Neill's desk, and looked at the fat man.
"But now the rules are going to change. Perhaps the twenty thousand Winchester repeating rifles we brought are the iron hammer to break this vicious cycle."
Leon's voice was lowered, yet it was filled with a chilling murderous intent.
"You just said that people from Sassoon Foreign Firm are monitoring Lu Zhaoting?"
"Right, Sassoon Foreign Firm has a massive inspection team in Shanghai. They're basically just a gang of thugs wearing a legal cloak. They specialize in monitoring Qing Empire merchants who try to bypass them for independent trade," Witt O'Neill replied.
"Very good."
The corners of Leon's mouth curved upward.
"Since Sassoon Foreign Firm likes playing at surveillance, we'll put on a good show for them. I want to use this batch of guns not only to push Lu Zhaoting up, but also to use Sassoon Foreign Firm's own hands to teach the entire British influence in Shanghai an unforgettable lesson."
Witt O'Neill and Jackson looked at Leon, knowing that this shrewd broker from Wall Street was starting to scheme against people.
...
Nanshi in the Shanghai county town, the street outside Deyuan Teahouse.
Night fell, and the drizzle was like silk.
The gas street lamps on the street emitted a dim yellow halo, and the sound of the night watchman's wooden clapper echoed in the empty alley.
Inside a second-floor room of the inn opposite the teahouse.
That lean man wearing a long gown, with a senior inspector badge of Sassoon Foreign Firm hanging on his chest, was standing in the shadow of the window lattice.
His name was A Bing, and he was Sassoon Foreign Firm's number one informant in Nanshi.
A Bing's gaze was locked tightly onto the side door of Deyuan Teahouse.
Just an hour ago, he had witnessed with his own eyes those blond-haired, blue-eyed Americans leave through the front door of the teahouse.
And just moments ago, Lu Zhaoting, the tea and silk merchant jointly blacklisted by the foreign firms, hurried out of the side door wrapped in a thick black cloak and slipped into an unmarked carriage.
"Follow them."
A Bing lowered his voice and instructed the two thugs behind him who were also wearing long gowns.
The two thugs immediately went downstairs, untied two fast horses tethered in the inn's backyard, and silently trailed far behind that carriage.
As for A Bing, he closed the window, put on a straw raincoat, quickly left the inn, and headed straight for the Sassoon Foreign Firm building on the Bund of the International Settlement.
Half an hour later, in the second-floor compradore office of Sassoon Foreign Firm.
The British manager Reginald Thorne was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, holding a Cuban cigar between his fingers.
He was a man in his forties with the typical arrogance of British nobility.
As the highest agent of the Sassoon family in Shanghai, he controlled nearly one-third of the city's opium and raw silk trade.
A Bing stood respectfully in front of the desk with his head lowered, reporting everything he saw at Deyuan Teahouse that evening word for word.
"Are you sure that what the American took out was a new-style repeating rifle?" Reginald frowned and asked in fluent Chinese, though his tone carried obvious skepticism.
"Absolute truth, manager. I saw it clearly with the Western telescope you bestowed upon me. The barrel is short and thick, without a cleaning rod, and the position of the bolt is unlike any firelock we've seen on the market. When that old bastard Lu Zhaoting saw that gun, his hands were shaking," A Bing guaranteed with absolute certainty.
Reginald stood up and walked over to the huge map of the Huangpu River.
"Metropolitan Trading Company, the property of that American upstart named Felix Argyle. They've been stirring up trouble in America and Europe, and now they're starting to reach their hands into Shanghai," a flash of ruthlessness crossed Reginald's eyes.
Over the past half year or so, although Witt O'Neill, the fat manager of Metropolitan Trading Company, had stirred up some commotion, he had always behaved relatively restrained, not daring to collide head-on with veteran foreign firms like Sassoon and Jardine Matheson.
But today's suddenly arriving giant ship and the repeating rifle used for display released a dangerous signal.
"Manager, that old fellow Lu Zhaoting must be tired of living. He actually dares to go behind our backs to take on the Americans' arms order!" A Bing fanned the flames on the side.
"Once he manages to sell those new-style rifles to Li Zhongtang's or General Zuo's men, with the Huai Army or Xiang Army as his backing, that Lu Zhaoting will be able to turn things around in Shanghai!"
"Turn things around? Hmph—he can forget about turning things around for the rest of his life."
Reginald turned around abruptly, stubbing out the cigar in his hand into the ashtray.
"The British Empire's interests in the Far East will absolutely not allow any American capital to meddle. Whether it's arms or cotton cloth, the rules here are set by us, Sassoon Foreign Firm. That American named Leon thinks that by finding a nearly bankrupt Qing Empire merchant as a white glove, he can pry open our defense line? Absolute delusion!"
Reginald walked up to the desk and rang the copper bell on it.
Soon, a tall Sikh constable wrapped in a red turban pushed the door open and walked in.
These were Indian constables from the Shanghai Municipal Council of the International Settlement, usually responsible for maintaining public order. But in reality, they were legal private armed forces kept by these major British foreign firms.
"Go assemble fifty men, and bring rifles."
Reginald gave the order in English, and then looked at A Bing.
"Right, do you have any news from the men you sent to track Lu Zhaoting?"
"Manager, Lu Zhaoting's carriage went to an abandoned warehouse near Shiliupu Wharf. He is gathering his old fellows under his command overnight, probably preparing to receive that batch of American arms early tomorrow morning," Ah Bing replied.
"Shiliupu Wharf? That is Chinese-controlled territory, not a concession." Reginald frowned, but then quickly sneered.
"Even if it is Chinese-controlled territory, so what? Does the magistrate of this Great Qing Empire dare to meddle in the affairs of the British Empire? Pass the word down, we act at 2:00 AM tonight. I am going to catch him like a turtle in a jar in the warehouse where Lu Zhaoting receives the goods. Arrest all the Qing Empire people present and throw them into the death row of the police station under the charges of 'illegally concealing contraband arms and plotting rebellion.' As for the goods brought by the Americans, seal and confiscate all of them in the name of the customs."
Reginald's eyes were filled with the arrogance and overbearingness unique to the British Empire.
"I am going to use Lu Zhaoting's head to teach that newly disembarked America representative the first lesson of Shanghai."
Late at night in Shanghai, the wind and rain were raging.
In an abandoned brick-and-wood warehouse near Shiliupu Wharf, lights were blazing.
Lu Zhaoting was wearing a coarse cloth jacket, directing dozens of his subordinates to clean up the accumulated water and debris in the warehouse. He appeared exceptionally excited, even personally holding a broom to sweep the floor.
"Be quick with your actions. Early tomorrow morning, the foreigners' cargo ship will unload the goods here. If this batch of goods can be smoothly transported out of Shanghai city and delivered to the Governor's camp in Jiangning Prefecture, our Lu family will completely turn our fortunes around! When the time comes, everyone will be rewarded with ten taels of fine silver!"
Hearing about the reward, the workers became even more motivated.
However, what Lu Zhaoting did not know was that from a hidden bell tower three hundred paces away on the perimeter, two pairs of eyes were coldly watching everything around the warehouse through military night-vision binoculars.
They were Leon and O'Neill.
O'Neill struggled to shrink behind the narrow wooden beam of the bell tower, his bulky body making it somewhat difficult for him to breathe.
"Leon, are you sure the British will make a move tonight?"
O'Neill wiped the rainwater from his face and asked in a low voice.
"You have to know that Shiliupu Wharf is not a concession after all. Would the people of Sassoon & Co. dare to cross the boundary to make arrests?"
"Of course they dare. In this place, the arrogance of the British is deeply ingrained. They are accustomed to using violence and privilege to maintain their monopoly." Leon leaned against the wall, toying with the Colt revolver he carried with him.
"I deliberately let Jackson dock the ship at the commercial wharf, and deliberately let the spy named Ah Bing see the rifles. As long as the manager of Sassoon & Co. isn't brain-damaged, he will absolutely not allow Lu Zhaoting to live until tomorrow morning. If he doesn't make a move tonight, once the rifles are transported into the interior tomorrow, they will no longer be able to control the situation."
Leon raised his wrist and looked at the gold-plated pocket watch.
"1:50 AM. Calculating the time, the hounds of Sassoon & Co. should be arriving soon."
As soon as the words fell,
on several muddy streets leading to the abandoned warehouse, a large crowd of dark shadows suddenly appeared.
Fifty Indian constables wrapped in red turbans, holding Lee-Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets, led by the thugs of Sassoon & Co., like a group of silent ghosts, quickly surrounded the brightly lit warehouse under the cover of the night rain.
Reginald wore a black raincoat, riding a tall horse, and stopped at the outer periphery of the encirclement.
He looked at the tightly closed door of the warehouse, a cruel smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Bash the door open for me! Anyone inside who dares to resist, kill them on the spot!" Reginald coldly issued the order.
Several Indian constables hugged a thick battering ram and fiercely smashed it against the warehouse door.
"Boom!"
The dilapidated wooden door was instantly smashed into pieces.
The constables rushed in like wolves and tigers, their dark gun barrels aiming at the dozens of Qing Empire workers working inside.
"Don't move! The International Settlement police station is handling a case, everyone put your heads in your hands and squat down!"
Ah Bing rushed in behind them, shouting loudly in Chinese with borrowed authority.
Lu Zhaoting was so frightened that the broom in his hand dropped to the ground.
Looking at these fierce-looking constables, his face instantly turned pale.
"You... What are you doing! This is Chinese-controlled territory, by what right are you arresting people!" Lu Zhaoting forced himself to question.
Reginald rode his horse and leisurely walked into the warehouse.
He looked down at Lu Zhaoting from above, just like looking at a rat that had fallen into a trap.
"By what right? Just because you are suspected of smuggling arms and plotting against the trade order of the British Empire."
Reginald pointed his riding crop at Lu Zhaoting.
"Lu Zhaoting, do you think you can turn the world upside down by finding Americans as your backing? In Shanghai, if I want you to die, you won't live to see tomorrow."
Reginald scanned the warehouse, his brow suddenly furrowing.
"Search! Search out the Americans' arms for me! Don't let even a single piece of wood go!"
The constables immediately rummaged through boxes and cabinets in the warehouse, smashing all the wooden chests and baskets.
However, five minutes later.
The constable officer leading the team ran in front of Reginald's horse, his expression somewhat flustered.
"Sir... there is nothing in the warehouse except dust and rat droppings. There are no guns or cannons, not even a shadow of the Americans."
Reginald was stunned.
He suddenly turned his head to look at Ah Bing, his eyes filled with murderous intent.
"Didn't you say they were receiving goods here?! Where are the goods!"
Ah Bing was so scared that he fell to his knees with a thump.
"Manager, I don't know! I've been watching him come in! Maybe... maybe the goods haven't arrived yet!"
Right at this moment,
in the night rain outside the warehouse, the sound of neat and uniform leather boots stepping on the ground suddenly came.
In the silent rainy night, that sound was like a war drum urging for one's life.
Reginald turned his head sharply to look outside the gate.
By the dim street light, he saw a scene that made his heart stop instantly.
Over a hundred armed guards wearing black rainproof trench coats had unknowingly counter-surrounded these fifty Indian constables.
And right at the front of the formation,
Leon and O'Neill were holding black umbrellas, walking over leisurely.
Behind them, four heavy carriages covered with waterproof tarps were lined up in a row.
With a swish, the tarpaulin was pulled down.
Four brand-new Vanguard Military Industry Gatling rotary machine guns flashed with cold and lethal light in the rain.
The pitch-black gun barrels were locked dead onto Reginald and all the constables inside the warehouse.
"Manager Reginald, bringing concession constables late at night, breaking into Chinese-controlled territory with guns, and forcibly attacking legitimate Qing Empire merchants."
Leon stopped at a place ten steps away from the gate, his voice extremely clear in the rainy night, carrying mockery.
"Manager O'Neill, according to the Great Qing code and international public law, their current behavior constitutes armed robbery, right?"
Leon smiled slightly, without a trace of warmth in his eyes.
"Since it is a robbery, our company, as Boss Lu's partner, naturally has the right to carry out legitimate self-defense. Don't you agree?"
Cold night rain dripped down the dilapidated eaves of the warehouse, smashing into the muddy ground and making a monotonous and muffled sound.
Yet in front of the door of this abandoned Shiliupu dock warehouse, the air seemed to be completely frozen by some invisible force.
Reginald sat on the back of a tall horse, rainwater streaming down his black raincoat.
His gaze swept past those trembling Indian constables, staring fixedly at the four lined-up Gatling Guns ahead, as well as the one hundred armed guards standing behind the guns with icy gazes and murderous auras.
"Ha... Armed robbery?"
Reginald laughed out of extreme anger, tightening the reins in his hand in an attempt to calm the somewhat restless horse beneath him.
"Mister, what absurd joke are you playing? You must know that I am the taipan of Sassoon & Co., representing the commercial order of the British Empire in the Far East!"
"These constables are the legal law enforcers of the Shanghai Public Concession Municipal Council."
"You American upstarts, privately selling lethal weapons to the Qing Empire here in the middle of the night, actually dare to turn things around and accuse me of robbery?"
Reginald straightened his back, the confidence given to him by the British Empire allowing him to maintain his condescending arrogance even when facing the pitch-black gun barrels.
"You even point guns at me, how bold of you all."
"Then go ahead and shoot, as long as your men dare to pull that damn crank and kill any legal employee of the British Empire, tomorrow morning, the Royal Navy gunboats anchored on the Huangpu River will blast your broken ship into scrap iron."
"The consulate will issue the harshest protest to Washington, and your Metropolitan Trading Company will be completely wiped off the map of the Far East."
"Do you... dare to gamble?"
Hearing these words, Lu Zhaoting standing inside the warehouse felt his legs go soft, almost collapsing to the ground.
The thing he feared most still happened.
In a fight between immortals among foreigners, the ones who would ultimately suffer disaster were definitely the compradors of the Qing Empire caught in the middle.
However, Leon Hughes standing in the rain did not show the slightest bit of panic.
He didn't even change the posture holding his revolver, his face still wearing that mocking smile that made Reginald feel extremely disgusted.
"Taipan Reginald, you seem to have made a mistake about a very important matter."
Leon tucked the revolver back into the holster at his waist, leisurely pulling out a document wrapped in waterproof oiled paper from his briefcase.
He took two steps forward and threw the document directly toward Reginald, who was riding on the horse.
"Before accusing us of being American upstarts, you better first take a good look at the documents we registered with the Inspectorate General of Customs."
"Recognize the seals and signatures on them properly."
Reginald frowned and snatched the flying document.
When he used the candlelight leaking from the warehouse to see the familiar string of English and emblem at the head of the document, his pupils shrank violently.
"Ashburn-Vance Far East Shipping and Trading Company?"
Reginald read out this name in disbelief, his voice carrying obvious astonishment.
"Yes, sir, you didn't read it wrong."
Leon put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his tone as relaxed as if he were attending a cocktail party.
"The owner of this batch of goods is Earl of Ashburn of the House of Lords of the British Empire, and Baron Philippe Vance of the Admiralty."
"Our ship flies the legal Union Jack, and our customs clearance permit bears the seal of the Customs Commissioner's Office of the Government of India."
Looking at Reginald's face, which was rapidly changing expressions, the smile on Leon's face became brilliant.
"So Lord Taipan, this is not some international dispute between an American company and a British firm."
"This is just a small misunderstanding between two internal companies of the British Empire."
"You just said you wanted Royal Navy gunboats to sink our ship? Oh ~ That's really an interesting idea."
"You can go try and see if the commander of the Far East Fleet dares to order firing upon the legal merchant ships of the hereditary nobility of the British Empire."
The hand holding the document began to tremble slightly.
Well, it was out of anger.
A dignified British noble actually became the umbrella for those country folk in America, and was then used to strike against a company of the British Empire.
He certainly knew the names of Earl of Ashburn and Baron Vance.
That represented the most intricate network of interests in London's social circle and shipping guilds.
Then he suddenly realized he had been plotted against, and thoroughly so.
These cunning Americans actually draped themselves in the coat of British Empire nobility, swaggeringly transporting military arms to the Shanghai bund!
No wonder they dared to unhesitatingly place Gatling Guns out in the street.
If a firefight really broke out tonight, once the scandal of Sassoon & Co. attacking a British noble's property was passed back to London, even the head of the Sassoon family couldn't protect him.
Things had completely slipped out of his control and had begun to change.
Reginald was a realistic merchant, knowing when to show arrogance and when to cut losses in time.
Now, he had no intention of using his political future and life to gamble that these people wouldn't dare to shoot.
After all, all things considered, the other party now also belonged to Britain's domestic capital.
"Good means, truly good means."
Reginald crumpled the document into a ball and fiercely smashed it into the muddy water.
He stared fixedly at Leon, as if wanting to carve this face into his brain.
"Sir, give my regards to that boss behind you."
"Sassoon & Co. has noted down this score, let's wait and see."
Having said that, Reginald yanked hard on the reins.
"Retreat! Everyone, back to the concession!"
Following his angry roar, those fifty Indian constables, whose wits had long been scared out of them by the Gatling Gun, felt as if granted a general amnesty.
They quickly put away their rifles and vanished into the dark rainy night in utter disarray following Reginald's horse.
Seeing that the situation was looking bad, A Bing also fled scrambling and crawling along with them.
Regarding this, Leon didn't let the security team members stop them.
Order was restored in front of the warehouse door, with only the sound of rainwater continuously washing the ground.
Lu Zhaoting poked his head out from the warehouse, watching those ferocious constables retreat, and let out a long breath, feeling as though he had taken a trip through the gates of hell.
O'Neill climbed down the clock tower with difficulty and walked to Leon's side, wiping the rainwater off his face as he looked in the direction Reginald had left.
"Leon, you really scared me into a cold sweat just now. I thought you were actually going to order the guns to fire and wipe them all out." O'Neill said while panting heavily.
"Sir, why didn't you shoot?"
The leader of the security team walked over and asked Leon with some puzzlement.
"Mr. Hughes, our security department does it this way in San Francisco."
"These Englishmen ride on our heads to shit, take out that taipan directly, and the whole Shanghai bund will become peaceful."
Leon turned his head to look at the captain of the guard and O'Neill, shaking his head slightly.
"Guys, killing is the simplest solution, but in business, killing is often the most foolish choice."
While directing the security team to cover the machine gun with tarpaulin again, Leon calmly explained to everyone.
"Reginald is not one of those street thugs who take money to do jobs. The Sassoon family behind Sassoon & Co. is an extremely formidable branch of the Jewish financial consortia. They have intricate ties with the British royal family and the Rothschild Family. If he dies here tonight, it won't be something that one or two noble documents can suppress. For the sake of its face, the British Empire will definitely investigate to the end, and by then, our hard-earned 'British skin' will be completely punctured."
Leon walked up to Lu Zhaoting, patted the Qing Empire compradors' shoulder, comforted him with a few words, and then turned to look at O'Neill.
"Our purpose tonight is not to kill, but to establish our prestige. We must let Sassoon & Co. know that we are determined to take this piece of cake, and they can do nothing about us. After Reginald withdraws, the first thing he will do is definitely send a telegram to London to inquire about the inside story. By the time London is quibbling over this muddy account, Boss Lu will have already delivered this batch of guns to the Viceroy's Yamen in exchange for silver."
O'Neill slapped his thigh in sudden realization.
"I understand. As long as the guns are sold and we have the endorsement of those Manchu viceroys, Sassoon & Co. won't be able to stop us even if they know we are up to tricks. The tricks Boss taught you in New York really have those Englishmen firmly in our grasp."
"All right. Hurry up and unload the cargo, O'Neill."
Leon glanced at the pitch-black sky.
"We've only just stepped one foot into this murky water of the Far East. The good show is still yet to come."
...
While a lingering winter rain was falling on the Bund in Shanghai across the Atlantic Ocean, the East Coast of the United States of America had already welcomed the thawing of early spring.
Washington D.C., Army General Hospital.
Outside the intensive care ward here, although the soldiers stood guard as sternly as ever, the air had lost a bit of its initial panic.
Ever since vice president Thomas Clark officially assumed presidential duties, the political center of this country had completed a smooth and covert transfer of power.
An extremely low-profile black carriage stopped at the side entrance of the hospital.
Felix wore a well-tailored dark cashmere coat, holding a silver-inlaid cane as he stepped down from the carriage alone.
He did not bring a large group of security personnel behind him; only Mark followed.
After presenting the special visitation order personally signed by the vice president, Felix passed through the corridor unimpeded and pushed open the door of the ward representing the highest power in America.
The light in the ward was very soft.
President Ulysses S. Grant sat in a wheelchair, facing the window.
This former iron-blooded commander now had the right half of his body slumped limply in the wheelchair.
The muscles on his right face still twitched slightly and uncontrollably, and those eyes that were once as sharp as a falcon appeared somewhat turbid at the moment.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, Grant's personal nurse turned his head, and upon seeing Felix, immediately bowed respectfully, then sensibly withdrew from the ward and gently closed the door.
Only two men remained in the room who once called the wind and rain in this country, and had even almost come to blows with each other.
Felix walked to the side of the wheelchair, pulled over a chair himself and sat down, placing his cane aside.
He did not say those hypocritical pleasantries, but quietly looked at this nearly paralyzed president.
Grant turned his head with great difficulty, and when he saw clearly that the visitor was Felix, a muffled "he-he" sound came from his throat.
He tried to raise his left hand, but in the end it only rested limply on the armrest.
"Good afternoon, Mr. President."
Felix's tone was very flat, neither mockery nor pity could be heard in it.
"I heard that your recovery is going well. Although you may not be able to ride a warhorse again in this lifetime, at least you can still sit here and look at the spring scenery of Washington."
Grant stared fixedly at Felix.
If looks could kill, he would currently wish to tear the young man in front of him into pieces.
Because after waking up, he knew clearly in his heart.
The reason why he was assassinated and ended up in this state today was actually because, in that assassination case, he had been dragged into the frantic strangulation between the Argyle Family and Old Morgan.
"What... did you... come here for..."
Grant used a tremendous amount of effort to squeeze out these few vague syllables from his throat.
"I came to see a former ally. By the way, to confirm some things."
Felix leaned against the back of the chair, his hands crossed on his knees.
"Mr. Grant, I know what you are thinking. You think I am the one who harmed you. I suppose that even at the moment before you fell unconscious, you were still suspecting whether the assassination in the plaza was a self-directed bitter-flesh trick of mine."
Grant's chest heaved slightly, and he did not deny it.
"But you should already be clear about the truth now."
Felix's voice became cold and hard.
"It was Marshall, your most trusted chief of staff. He took five hundred thousand dollars from the British and sold your itinerary to the assassin. I have no reason to kill a president who can provide me with policy conveniences, and furthermore, I also suffered an assassination attempt two days ago."
Grant closed his eyes in pain.
Marshall's betrayal was the most fatal blow he had suffered in his life.
Felix looked at him, his tone softening slightly.
"We used to be very good allies. I provided the money, and you provided the policies. But later, you felt that the tentacles of the Argyle Family reached too far, so you tried to use personnel appointments to discipline me, and even wanted to put a collar on my business empire."
Leaning forward, Felix looked straight into Grant's eyes.
"You are a great soldier, but not a qualified politician. This country is currently recovering and even growing, and currently lacks capital, so capital is water, and power is the boat. If you want to sail against the current of the water, you will ultimately only be smashed to pieces by hidden reefs."
Grant's lips trembled, wanting to retort but unable to make a sound.
"However, all of these are already in the past."
Felix straightened his body again and flicked the non-existent dust on his sleeves.
"I came today not to humiliate you. I just wanted to tell you that no matter how power in this country is handed over, my respect for you has not changed."
Felix took out a document from the inner pocket of his coat and placed it on the coffee table in front of Grant.
"I suppose your confidants have already told you about this matter. On the second day after you were assassinated into a coma with your life hanging by a thread, I established a trust fund at the Imperial Bank in New York. A special fund of two hundred thousand dollars, with the beneficiaries being your wife and children."
Looking at the document, complex emotions flashed through Grant's turbid eyes.
There was anger, and there was unwillingness.
But more than that were a sense of powerlessness and sorrow.
He had, of course, heard of this fund.
At that moment when everyone thought they were dead for sure, Argyle, the oligarch he regarded as his greatest threat, turned out to be the only one who stood up to arrange a way out for his family.
"Even if you are awake now, this money is still valid."
Felix looked at Grant, his tone carrying goodwill.
"The interest generated by this fund is enough for your family to maintain top-tier, decent living for the next few decades. Your children can study at the best universities in Europe, and your wife won't have to worry about any bills."
Felix stood up and picked up his cane.
"You have shed blood for this country and deserve to get these. But in exchange, I hope you can understand the current situation. That chair in The White House can no longer be sat back in. Thomas will handle everything well, and you only need to quietly stay here and be the hero in the minds of the people."
Grant raised his head, looking at Felix's young and ruthless face.
He understood.
This was not just a severance package, but a contract to buy out his political life and influence.
Felix was using these two hundred thousand dollars to completely seal off the possibility of him speaking out behind the scenes.
But did Grant still have a choice?
His body was already ruined, and his chief of staff was still a traitor.
If he refused now, his family might be left with nothing.
After a long silence, Grant finally closed his eyes with difficulty and nodded slightly.
At that moment, this commander of the United States seemed to have aged ten years in an instant.
He completely accepted his fate, and lowered his noble head to this new era dominated by money.
"I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. President."
Turning around and pushing open the ward door, Felix strode out.
The sunlight in the corridor sprinkled on Felix's shoulders.
The last unstable factor in Washington had been completely pacified by him.
Starting from today, the political course of America would be completely steered by him.
...
As dusk gathered, the night shrouded the tranquil coast of Long Island in New York.
This place was far from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, with only the sound of waves crashing against the reefs.
The European-style ancient castle built by the Argyle Family at great expense on the cliffs of Long Island was like a sleeping beast in the night at this moment.
The interior of the castle was brightly lit, illuminating the antique oil paintings and sculptures purchased at great cost from Europe in crystal-clear detail.
A carriage drove along the winding driveway into the inner courtyard of the castle. The day after ending his trip to Washington and visiting Anna and Caesar, Felix returned directly to this absolute fortress belonging to his private self.
After handing his coat to the butler, Felix walked straight up to the study on the second floor.
This study was extremely spacious, with floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves lining three walls.
The fire in the fireplace was burning fiercely.
Catherine was sitting on a large velvet sofa, with a cashmere blanket covering her legs and holding a thick stack of documents, carefully reviewing them.
Hearing footsteps, Catherine raised her head, a soft smile appearing in those clever and deep eyes.
"How is the air in Washington?"
She closed the document and placed it on the mahogany coffee table next to her.
"Still the same, full of the smell of compromise and deals everywhere, disgusting as always."
Felix walked over to the sofa and sat down, casually tucking a strand of Catherine's hair behind her ear.
"Fortunately, the most troublesome matter has been resolved. Grant is a smart man, and he knows what kind of choice is best for his family."
"Buying out a president's remaining life with two hundred thousand dollars is probably unprecedented in all of human history." Catherine chuckled softly.
"That's because he no longer has any bargaining chips in his hands, right."
Leaning against the back of the chair, Felix looked very relaxed.
"Alright, let's not talk about those politicians. What do you have in your hand? It looks like you've been waiting for me for a long time."
Catherine's expression turned serious.
She picked up the document and pushed it in front of Felix.
"It's the thing you conceived before. Regarding the split and independent operation of the Argyle Family Charity Foundation."
There was thinly veiled excitement in Catherine's tone.
"According to our previous discussions, I have separated five million dollars in cash flow from the family Charity Foundation, and officially registered and established the 'Argyle Science and Peace Fund' in New York. All legal procedures were fully completed this afternoon."
Hearing this name, Felix's eyes lit up instantly. He took the document and quickly flipped through the structural description inside.
In any era, five million dollars was a huge sum of money.
Even for the current Argyle Family, this was not a small cash expenditure.
After all, the net profit of the Argyle Family last year was only ten million dollars.
But Felix knew very well that this money would buy him the most priceless thing in the world.
That was reputation and the power to define the future.
"The structure is done in great detail."
Looking at the terms, Felix nodded with satisfaction.
"According to what you said, I divided it into five independent awards." Catherine straightened her body and explained in detail, "Physics, Chemistry, Physiology or Medicine, Literature, and the last one, the Award for the Promotion of Human Peace and Development."
Then she pointed to the amount appendix on the document.
"With these five million dollars as the principal, the Imperial Bank is responsible for special-purpose value investment, using only the generous interest generated each year as prize money. The established standard is according to what you said, the winner of each award will exclusively enjoy a huge bonus of fifty thousand dollars!"
"Well executed."
In this era where an ordinary worker worked hard to death for a year and could only earn a few hundred dollars, fifty thousand dollars was definitely a fortune enough to drive any top scholar crazy.
It could instantly turn a penniless inventor into a rich man and completely free a laboratory from financial constraints.
"Catherine, the foundation side has executed very well." Felix put down the document.
"With this fifty thousand dollars as bait, the entire European scientific community will be shaken by it."
"Not just like this." Catherine continued.
"To ensure the absolute authority of the awards, you said that we certainly cannot judge them ourselves. I contacted Timmy and asked the Intelligence Department to provide a list covering all well-known scientists, scholars, and literary giants in Europe and America. The foundation is prepared to select the top figures from this list to form a selection committee."
Catherine looked at Felix and continued.
"According to our last discussion, for every scholar invited to become a judge, the foundation will provide an annual special allowance of ten thousand dollars. This money is enough to ensure that they will not be bought off by bribes from any external forces, thereby ensuring the absolute fairness of the selection."
Hearing this, Felix spread his hands.
"Very cost-effective, isn't it? Buying the endorsement of the academic giants with ten thousand dollars, and buying the smartest brains in the world with fifty thousand dollars. Once this fund starts running, Argyle will no longer be just a capital oligarch who only sells food and medicine, builds railways, manufactures cannons, and resells arms."