A faint chemical odor drifted faintly in the air on the sixth floor of the Argyle's Building.
Amory Lawrence, one of Boston's largest textile tycoons, was currently sitting on the sofa in the sixth-floor reception room.
Although wearing an extremely exquisite British tweed suit, his expression was even uglier than the gloomy weather outside.
The financial bank run storm in Boston had lasted for three days.
Due to a broken capital chain, the Calumet Mining Company's core high-purity copper mine equity mortgaged in the bank was facing the desperate situation of being liquidated at a low price by the Patriot Investment Company.
As a member of Boston's traditional old money family, Lawrence should have stood with those mining tycoons to resist foreign enemies.
But today, he came alone to this giant steel tower that was gradually making him feel terrified.
The door of the reception room was pushed open.
Catherine walked in, accompanied by Anna.
Although pregnant, her pace remained steady, radiating the composure and oppressiveness of the Argyle Family's mistress.
Following behind them was a German chemist in a white lab coat with somewhat disheveled hair, Dr. Friedrich Vogel.
"Mr. Lawrence, you have been kept waiting."
Catherine sat down on the sofa opposite Lawrence, while Anna opened her notebook beside them.
"Ms. O'Brien."
Lawrence quickly stood up and bowed slightly.
Facing the woman who controlled the lifeline of American medicine, he did not dare to put on any airs.
"The situation over in Boston is very bad. Mr. Hayes's actions in the financial market have nearly destroyed the credit system in the New England region. I came today hoping that the Argyle Family might not drag too many people down." Lawrence's tone carried a hint of entreaty.
Catherine smiled and shook her head.
"Mr. Lawrence, the financial market has its own rules. We are merely recovering legitimate debts. However, I invited you here today not to talk about Boston's banks, but to talk about your textile mills."
Catherine turned her head and nodded at Dr. Vogel.
Dr. Vogel stepped forward and placed the black leather suitcase on the coffee table. Opening it, he revealed several sealed glass jars inside.
Inside were some purplish-red and dark blue powders. Next to them were several rolls of dyed cotton fabric samples.
"Mr. Lawrence. I know that apart from cotton, the biggest cost for your textile mills at present is dye." Catherine pointed to the contents of the suitcase.
"The indigo and natural madder you currently use are not only expensive, but also subject to the climate of the origin, making production extremely unstable. What's worse, those natural dyes fade severely after a few washes."
Lawrence looked at those powders, his brow furrowed.
As an insider, he certainly knew the industry's pain points.
"This is the artificially synthesized aniline dye newly developed this month by Dr. Vogel's team in the chemical laboratory at Argyle University. We call them 'Argyle Purple' and 'Imperial Blue'."
Catherine picked up a roll of purplish-red cotton cloth and handed it to Lawrence.
"This is a sample dyed with our dye. You can take a look at its luster."
Lawrence took the cotton cloth.
The moment it touched his hands, his eyes widened.
That extremely full, vibrant purplish-red with a high-end sheen could not be mixed with any natural dyes by him.
You must know that purple has always been regarded as a symbol of royalty and luxury, because the cost of extracting natural purple is ridiculously high.
"How... how is the color fastness of this color?" Lawrence's breathing became rapid.
Dr. Vogel explained from the side with a heavy German accent: "Boiled continuously in boiling water for two hours, with the mordant we developed, the fading rate is less than five percent."
Lawrence couldn't help but gasp.
Catherine looked at his shocked expression, knowing that the fish had taken the bait.
"Mr. Lawrence. The patent for this artificial synthetic dye currently belongs entirely to the Argyle Family. The affiliated chemical plant of Standard Oil has already established the first high-pressure reactor assembly line. Perhaps next month, this dye can be mass-produced on a large scale."
"I can authorize the exclusive right to use this dye in the New England region to your textile mills."
Lawrence's heart beat wildly.
If his own factories could exclusively use this cheap and never-fading high-end dye, he could drive all other textile mills in Boston into bankruptcy within half a year and monopolize the mid-to-high-end fabric market of the entire North America!
"Ms. O'Brien... What price do you need me to pay?" Lawrence was not stupid; he knew that pies do not fall from the sky.
"The price is very simple, two points."
Catherine smiled and raised two fingers.
"First, we will provide you with the dye at an extremely low cost price. But as a patent licensing fee, thirty percent of the net sales profit of all fabrics from your textile mills using this dye must be handed over to the Argyle Family."
Lawrence gritted his teeth.
A thirty-percent profit cut was equivalent to making himself work for the Argyle Family. But compared to the huge base brought by monopolizing the market, he could still make a fortune.
"I agree, what about the second point?"
"The second point is a political demand."
Anna, sitting beside them, closed her notebook and looked at Lawrence with a calm gaze.
"The general election is approaching, and the liberal Greeley is preparing to incite laborers everywhere in the North. I need you, as Boston's largest factory owner, to issue a strict order in all your textile mills."
Anna's voice left no room for negotiation.
"Tell all the workers under you. If Greeley is elected, the Argyle Family will stop supplying dyes, and your factories will immediately go bankrupt. If they don't want their whole families to starve to death in the winter, they must cast their votes for Thomas Clark. You must establish a vote-monitoring system within the factories to ensure that every single vote is cast in the right place."
Lawrence trembled all over.
This was naked ballot hijacking.
If he did this, once the general election failed, he would face complete political liquidation.
Seeing him hesitate, Catherine delivered the final blow.
"And to prove your sincerity, you must immediately announce in public that you are cutting off all financial ties with those mining families in Boston. If you dare to secretly use the money earned from dyes to relieve the Calumet Mining Company, not only will your factories not get an ounce of dye, but the Southern Development Company will also immediately cut off your cotton supply."
Commercial monopoly, ballot hijacking, internal division.
Catherine and Anna, two seemingly delicate women, used top-tier chemical technology as bait to weave a flawless, fatal net.
Lawrence sat on the sofa, pinching that purplish-red piece of cotton cloth in his hand.
In front of the dignity of Boston's old money, huge profits, and survival, the capitalist's spinelessness flared up.
Besides, he seemed to be an ally to begin with.
"Alright, I'll sign. Boston's votes, I'll help you handle them."
Watching Lawrence sign his name on the exclusive authorization and political guarantee, Catherine and Anna looked at each other and smiled.
And in the South and Midwest, a tour of speeches targeting Thomas Clark was also unfolding vigorously driven by the vast funds of the Argyle Family.
The September sunlight still carried a hint of scorching heat.
On the platform of a small industrial town's train station near a railway hub in Ohio, more than a thousand workers who had just gotten off work from the steel mills and lumber mills, along with nearby farmers, were already crowded there.
Around the platform, it was plastered with Stars and Stripes and huge banners printed with "Progress, Work, and the United States".
Twelve members of a brass band wearing gorgeous red uniforms were playing spirited marches with all their might.
In the corner of the station, dozens of huge oak beer barrels were lined up in a row, with taps wide open, and cheap yet frothy dark beer continuously poured into the poor-quality glasses in the workers' hands.
Not far away, the sizzling sausages on the grill exuded an enticing aroma.
"Boss Argyle is truly generous. I've never drank free beer at a train station in my entire life!"
A steelworker with a face covered in coal ash gulped down a large mouthful of beer and shouted loudly to his companion nearby.
"As long as our rice bowls can be saved, I'd vote even if a pig were to run for president!" His companion chimed in while biting into a grilled sausage.
"Woo..."
A long and highly penetrating whistle sound interrupted the hustle and bustle.
On the distant rails, a luxury special train spewing white steam slowly drove into the platform.
On both sides of the locomotive hung huge campaign portraits of Thomas Clark.
The carriages slowly came to a halt.
The door of the specially modified open-air observation carriage at the very back was pushed open.
Acting President Thomas Clark, wearing a well-tailored black formal suit with a pocket watch chain pinned to his chest, walked up to the podium at the back of the train surrounded by several guards.
His appearance instantly ignited the atmosphere on the platform.
According to the script, led by several constituency leaders who took secret funds from the Argyle Family, the workers began to cheer wildly.
Thomas pressed his hand down, motioning for everyone to quiet down.
He did not use esoteric political vocabulary, but directly cut into the survival logic of the grassroots.
"Citizens of the United States! Look at the railways around you, and look at the chimneys of the steel mills in the distance!" Thomas's voice was loud and full of passion.
"Liberal politicians sit in luxury living rooms in Cincinnati accusing monopolies and accusing us of destroying tradition! But they haven't told you, who pays your salaries? Who puts bread and meat on your tables!"
Thomas waved his arms, pointing at the train.
"It's me!"
"It is this government dedicated to promoting industrial development and scientific progress! As long as I continue to sit in the White House, the factories of the United States will never shut down!"
"Those top scientists in Argyle University will develop more technology and create more jobs! Your future lies in the roaring machines, not in the hypocritical slogans of those politicians!"
"Clark! Clark! Clark!"
Under the dual stimulation of free beer and the promise of a rice bowl, the emotions of the workers were completely incited, and a tsunami-like sound wave swept through the entire train station.
Thomas stepped down from the podium amidst the deafening cheers, sat down in the carriage, and took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat on his forehead.
"Well done, Mr. President. The votes in Ohio are basically secured," the accompanying campaign manager said, handing over iced water.
However.
Just as the train station fell into a carnival.
In a rural wooden church less than two miles from the town's train station, a completely different atmosphere was brewing.
The church was packed with hundreds of conservatively dressed and fanatically expressive believers, most of whom were small farmers and traditionally-minded artisans.
And on the pulpit at the front of the church.
An extremely thin pastor with a gaze like a knife was waving a tattered Bible, preaching hoarsely.
On his pulpit lay several inflammatory flyers printed with funds secretly channeled by the Vanderbilt Family.
"They are blaspheming! Believers!"
The pastor's voice was sharp enough to pierce the silence of the church.
"Have you heard the noise from the train station? That is the devil's train! That Thomas Clark sitting in the White House, he has sold his soul to the Argyle Family of New York!"
The pastor picked up a flyer, which depicted an extremely ugly cartoon.
In the drawing, Felix was depicted as a horned demon, using gold coins to bribe those "scientists" with monkey tails.
"That university they established in New York is not for education at all! They treat Darwin, who wrote *On the Origin of Species* and claimed that humans are beasts, as an honored guest. In their laboratories, they use black magic to extract chemical dyes that violate the laws of nature. They hang electric lights flickering with the fires of hell on the main streets, attempting to obscure God's starlight!"
The pastor's eyes looked extremely crazy, and he pointed his finger at the believers off the stage.
"This is the precursor to the end times!"
"If Clark is allowed to be president, that group of lunatics who blaspheme God will spread this black magic to the entire America. Our children will be taught to worship machines instead of God!"
The believers were ignited by this extreme religious fear.
They stood up angrily, waving their fists, shouting slogans to punish heretics.
"Do not let them move forward! Destroy their wires! Burn the devil's train!"
The pastor issued an inflammatory instruction on the stage.
Hundreds of fanatical believers rushed out of the church, holding pitchforks, torches, and shotguns, surging toward the direction of the railway line.
Half an hour later.
The special train carrying Thomas had just driven less than five miles out of the town when a harsh metallic friction sound suddenly came from ahead.
The train driver urgently pulled the brake lever, and the train bumped violently on the rails a few times, spewing white steam as it stopped.
"What is going on?!"
Thomas was shaken so hard in the carriage that he almost fell, and asked the guard with dissatisfaction.
The captain of the guards pulled out his revolver, pushed open the carriage door and took a look, his expression instantly turning extremely ugly.
"Mr. President! The tracks are piled full of railroad ties and stones! And..."
The captain of the guards pointed to both sides of the tracks.
Dozens of newly repaired wooden telegraph poles were poured with kerosene and were blazing fiercely.
Hundreds of rioters holding torches and with crazy eyes were gushing out from the woods on both sides, holding stones in their hands, fiercely smashing them toward the glass windows of the train.
"Down with Satan's puppets! Burn the heretical machines!"
The roars of the rioters seemed terrifying in the night.
"Bang!"
A fist-sized stone smashed through the glass of Thomas's carriage, and glass shards splattered across Thomas's face, scratching his cheek. Fresh blood flowed down.
"Shoot! Shoot immediately and drive them away!"
After touching his cheek, Thomas said loudly.
The guards immediately drew their guns and fired warning shots into the air, trying to disperse the crowd. But these fanatics who had been completely brainwashed by religion were not afraid of death at all, and still frantically threw stones at the train.
A few hours later.
New York, tenth floor of the Argyle's Building.
Felix sat behind the desk, looking at the urgent confidential report just sent back by an agent of the Intelligence Department via another undamaged telegraph line.
"Thomas's special train was attacked by religious rioters. The train windows were destroyed, and Thomas suffered minor injuries. Telegraph poles along the route were burned down on a large scale."
Putting down the telegram paper, Felix stood up and walked to the grandfather clock beside the desk, looking at the swinging pendulum with a sneer.
"Heh... Religious fanaticism, really thinking they are on a Crusade."
"Charles Adams, you really are an old fox without a bottom line. Knowing that you will definitely not beat me in business and votes, do you want to use this medieval ignorance to burn the rationality of science to death?"
However, this move is quite vicious.
If this religious panic is allowed to spread, those European scientists will feel their lives threatened, the reputation of Argyle University will completely stink, and even the factories under his banner will be burned down by rioters.
Felix tapped his fingers gently on the desk, producing a monotonous "tap, tap, tap" sound.
Secretary-General Edward Frost stood two steps away, his spine held ramrod straight. Having followed Felix for so long, he knew that the calmer the boss was, the more fatal the brewing storm would be.
"Religious forces."
Felix finally stopped tapping.
"That old fellow Charles Adams certainly has some tricks up his sleeve. Knowing he can't match me in capital and force, he goes to stir up the Protestant Unitarians or extreme Puritans in those Midwestern rural areas. Using the name of God to oppose the roar of machines. This move is very clever, and the cost is very low."
Hearing this, Frost frowned.
"Boss, those religious fanatics are completely unreasonable. They believe our electric lights and chemical laboratories are products of the devil. If we send people to suppress them, they will regard themselves as martyrs. This will arouse the anger of more lower-class believers, which is very unfavorable to us at the polls."
"Who said I was going to send people to suppress them? Using bullets to fight faith is something only a fool would do."
Felix got up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the carriages coming and going on Wall Street.
"Since they want to use God to solve the problem of the general election, we will play with them to the end. Edward, in this country, it is not only the rural pastors supported by liberals who know how to preach. We also have our own God."
Frost was stunned for a moment, then reacted immediately.
"You mean... Catholicism?"
"That's right."
Felix turned around, cunning flashing in his black eyes.
"There are millions of Irish immigrants and Italian immigrants in New York and Boston, and they are extremely devout Catholics. Ever since I made my fortune, I have maintained close contact with the Cardinal of New York. The orphanages and St. Vincent Hospital under my name donate a huge amount of money to the church every year."
"Catholicism and those Protestant extremists already don't see eye to eye. You immediately go prepare a draft of five hundred thousand dollars from Argyle Imperial Bank. Deliver it personally to the Archbishop's residence. Tell the Bishop that those heretics who attacked the presidential special train are attempting to disrupt the order of the United States. I need him to convey a message to all Catholics at this Sunday's mass."
Felix's voice turned cold.
"Tell those Irish workers and dock coolies. Thomas Clark is the protector of order, the person who provides them with bread. And those liberals and the mob they incite are a group of devils attempting to smash their rice bowls. Whoever smashes the factory's machines is smashing the Catholics' rice bowls."
"I understand, boss." Frost recorded quickly.
"Using our side's religious base to counter their religious incitement is obviously a very good method."
"This is only the force on my side," Felix continued.
"Thomas has spent so many years in Washington, and he is also supported by orthodox mainstream Protestant factions behind him. Those respectable city pastors look down on those extreme fellows in the countryside holding pitchforks. As long as Thomas speaks out, with the religious forces from both sides caught in a pincer attack, the wind whipped up by Adams won't last a few days."
Felix picked up the telephone receiver on the desk and cranked the handle.
"Connect me to the sixth floor news media, and have Victor Fowler come up to the tenth floor to see me immediately."
Less than three minutes after hanging up the phone,
Victor Fowler pushed open the office door, panting.
"Boss, you were looking for me." Fowler wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Felix threw the telegram about the president's attack in front of Fowler.
"Take a look at this. Then within ten minutes, give me a plan to occupy the front pages of newspapers across America."
Fowler picked up the telegram and glanced at it quickly.
When he saw "stones smashed the car windows, Thomas suffered minor injuries", the newsman's eyes instantly lit up like two searchlights.
"Good God, this is a ready-made headline!" Fowler stammered with excitement.
"Boss, this doesn't require me to make up a story at all. This is an attempted assassination of the Acting President of the United States! This is high treason!"
Fowler immediately entered work mode, his brain spinning at high speed.
"We will start all the printing presses immediately. I have already thought of the headlines. 'The Murder of Civilization by Barbarism! Acting President Clark Attacked by Rioters in Ohio!' or 'Who Handed Behind the Bloody Stone? The Political Conspiracy of the Liberals!'"
Fowler waved the telegram paper in his hand.
"We must sensationalize the dangerous situation at the time in the article. Say that hundreds of rioters holding torches and weapons attempted to burn down the train representing progress. We must portray those rioters as a group of primitives opposing industry and employment. And President Thomas Clark is an iron-willed tough guy who bled to promote progressive ideas!"
Felix listened to Fowler's report and nodded with satisfaction.
"Remember, the focus must be placed on the four words 'political assassination'. Do not mention any religious conflicts; the public's reactions to religious conflicts vary. But the matter of 'assassinating the president' is a scar that must never be touched in the hearts of the American people who have experienced the assassinations of Lincoln and Grant."
Felix walked up to Fowler.
"Tell editors everywhere. Implicitly tie the names of Charles Adams and Horace Greeley to this attack. Imply that their agitation speeches in Cincinnati directly led to this atrocity. I want to make them tumble completely from their so-called moral high ground into the cesspool."
"Understood! I'll go back to the typesetting workshop immediately. Before noon, the extra edition of The Daily Truth will appear on the streets of New York. Early tomorrow morning, major cities across America will see this news." Holding the telegram, Fowler turned and ran out of the office.
Watching Fowler leave, Felix turned to look at Frost.
"Prepare the carriage, let's go to the Central Station."
"Boss, you are leaving New York?" Frost was somewhat surprised.
"Thomas was injured. As his ally and largest political financier, if I sit in Manhattan drinking coffee at a time like this, it will make people think something has gone wrong internally with us."
Felix picked up the trench coat from the coat rack and put it on.
"Go notify the Pennsylvania Railroad to arrange the fastest special train for me. I am going directly to find Thomas at his next speech location. At a time like this, I must align the script with him face-to-face."
Indiana, a medium-sized city named Richmond.
In the VIP lounge of the railway station, the air was filled with a pungent smell of iodine and blood.
Acting President Thomas Clark sat on the sofa.
His originally exquisite black dress coat had been taken off, and a few drops of dried dark red blood stained the collar of his white shirt.
An accompanying private doctor was holding tweezers, extremely carefully picking out tiny shards of glass piece by piece from the wound on Thomas's right cheek.
"Hiss... Be gentle!"
Thomas gasped in pain and couldn't help shouting.
"I am very sorry, Mr. President. The glass shards are embedded very deep. If they are not cleaned out, the wound will fester and become infected. Such facial infections can be fatal."
The doctor was sweating profusely, holding a cotton ball dipped in the special carbolic acid disinfectant of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, pressing it against the wound.
Thomas's campaign manager paced back and forth anxiously in the room.
"Mr. President, we must immediately terminate this campaign tour!" The campaign manager stopped, his tone filled with panic.
"This is too dangerous, those rioters are completely unreasonable. If the guard hadn't fired warning shots last night, if that stone had hit your temple instead of your cheek, you would be a corpse right now! We must immediately arrange for the train to turn around and return to Washington. The White House is protected by the army, and that is where it is safe."
"Shit, shut up!"
Thomas pushed the doctor's hand away and stood up.
Because of the sudden movement, fresh blood oozed from the wound again, dripping down his chin onto the carpet.
He walked over to the mirror, looking at the newly stitched scar on his face, his gaze turning fierce.
"Return to Washington? Is your head filled with paste?"
Thomas turned his head and stared fixedly at the campaign manager.
"Have you forgotten how Grant became paralyzed? He was assassinated at a railway station and ended up bedridden. If I were frightened into running back to Washington like a dog with its tail between its legs today just because a few country mobs threw stones at me, what would voters across the country think of me?"
Thomas pointed at his own chest with his finger.
"They would think I am weak! They would think that if I cannot even deal with a few madmen holding pitchforks, how can I deal with the European powers? How can I manage this country?"
In the America of this era, the wild spirit of the western frontier still deeply influenced the values of the public.
Voters liked tough leaders.
"But your safety..." The campaign manager was still uneasy.
"My safety is handled by the Secret Service!" Thomas interrupted him.
"Go tell the people outside that my campaign tour will proceed as normal. Not only will it not be cancelled, but I will also add more speeches in the open-air square. Go find me a clean bandage."
Thomas sat back down on the sofa and let the doctor wrap half of his face with white gauze.
"Remember. Do not wrap the gauze too thick; let the blood seep through the wound. I want those who come to see my speech to clearly see the blood I shed for this country."
Thomas's politician instinct was completely aroused at this moment.
He keenly sensed that this scar might be even more useful than the million dollars in campaign funds Felix gave him.
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
The central square of Richmond.
More than five thousand citizens had gathered here. News of the presidential special train being attacked last night had spread here through the morning papers. People were filled with curiosity and anger, wanting to see if the national leader was truly injured as rumors suggested.
Escorted by fully armed mounted police, Thomas walked up to the temporary wooden podium in the center of the square.
When he appeared in everyone's sight, the square instantly fell silent.
Thomas did not wear a hat.
The white bandage on his right cheek oozing with dark red blood appeared extremely glaring under the sunlight. Showing no weakness whatsoever, he stood straight instead, his gaze sweeping across the entire audience like a falcon.
"Citizens of Indiana!"
Thomas grabbed the edge of the podium with both hands, using no manuscript. His voice sounded exceptionally high-pitched.
"Last night, near the railway line not far from here, a group of rioters hiding in the dark smashed my car windows with stones."
Thomas pointed at the bandage on his face.
"They thought a few broken stones and a little blood could make me back down. Could make this train heading toward the future stop!"
"No—they are wrong!"
Thomas roared.
"What they smashed was not me, Thomas Clark. What they smashed was your rice bowls! Those politicians running their mouths in Cincinnati, they hired rioters, wanting to burn down our railways and shut down our factories. Because they are afraid of progress! They want to drag this country back to that old era of only aristocratic lords and paupers!"
The crowd in the square began to stir, and those dressed as workers clenched their fists tightly.
"I stand here, telling you with the scar on my face. As long as I am still breathing, America's factories will never stop working. I will not compromise with tyranny, nor will I bow to ignorance. They can throw stones at me, but they cannot stop us from forging steel in the workshops, nor can they stop us from finding medicines in laboratories that save lives!"
"Support Clark! Down with the rioters!"
Not knowing who shouted in the crowd.
Instantly, this slogan spread like wildfire among the five thousand people.
"Clark! Tough guy!"
"Catch those bastards who threw stones and hang them!"
The crowd was filled with righteous indignation.
Thomas's tough performance on stage perfectly catered to the psychology of the grassroots voters.
In this era of the law of the jungle, a president who dared to stand on stage and roar while bleeding was more persuasive than a hundred scholars who only knew how to write pretty essays.
Several accompanying journalists held heavy wooden cameras, and flashbulbs flashed continuously.
They wanted to forever freeze Thomas's image of an iron-blooded tough guy, along with the bloodstains on his face, in the newspapers.
After the speech, Thomas walked down the podium amidst cheers and returned to the special train parked at the railway station.
As soon as he walked into the carriage, he felt his legs feel a bit weak. After all, he was not young anymore, and his forced perseverance just now had consumed a tremendous amount of physical energy.
"Well done, Mr. President. This is more useful than any manuscript we prepared."
A familiar voice sounded in the carriage.
Thomas raised his head and saw Felix sitting on the velvet seat, holding whiskey in his hand.
"Felix? When did you arrive?"
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the opposite chair.
"While you were talking big about steel and medicine in the square." Felix handed the wine glass in his hand to Thomas.
"Have a drink, your cheek needs some alcohol to numb the nerves."
Thomas took the glass and drank it in one gulp.
"Those madmen almost took my life." Thomas put down the wine glass and said through gritted teeth.
"But they gave you the ticket to reelection." Felix leaned against the back of the chair, his gaze becoming extremely profound.
"Now, the mob has made their move. Next, it is our turn to have a good fight with them."
In the luxurious carriage of the Pullman special train, the heavy velvet curtains were drawn tightly, completely shutting out the noise from outside.
The wheels made a monotonous and rhythmic "clack-clack" sound on the tracks, and the temperature inside the carriage was a bit on the warm side.
Felix pulled a sterling silver cigarette case from his pocket, drew out a cigar, and handed it to Thomas Clark, who sat opposite him.
"No, I won't smoke. The doctor said the tar in tobacco would affect the healing of my wound."
Thomas waved his hand, pointing to the gauze on his face that was seeping with blood. Although he had acted like an iron-blooded tough guy on the plaza just now, in private, he was still a politician who valued his life.
Felix didn't press him. He lit the cigar himself and blew out a puff of pale blue smoke.
"I have already had the newspapers in New York open fire with all their might." Leaning back in his comfortable leather chair, he looked at Thomas.
"Tomorrow morning, every respectable person in America will read the news of your assassination attempt at their breakfast table. Fowler will subtly paint Charles Adams and Horace Greeley as the masterminds behind the scenes. Regardless of whether those stone-throwers were sent by them or not, they must take the fall for this dirty water."
Thomas nodded.
"That is good. But newspapers alone are not enough, Felix." Thomas's eyes turned dark.
"The leaders of those who attacked me were shouting 'Burn the heretics!' and 'God's punishment!' as they threw stones. These are absolutely not ordinary thugs; they are clearly organized religious fanatics."
"That old fox Adams is utilizing those ultra-conservative Protestant ministers in the Midwestern countryside. If this kind of preaching continues, our voter base in the Midwest will be torn apart."
In present-day America, especially in the vast agricultural states of the Midwest, churches are not just places of worship, but also the political and information centers of local communities.
It could be said that a minister's words from the pulpit are often more influential than government decrees from Washington.
"That is why I came to see you in person."
Felix flicked the ash from his cigar, his tone turning pragmatic.
"I have already sent Frost with a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check to visit the Catholic Archbishop of New York. Millions of Irish immigrants and Catholics in New York and Boston will hear their archbishop's decree this Sunday. Anyone who dares oppose the Clark administration is taking bread out of the mouths of Catholics."
Thomas's eyes lit up slightly upon hearing this, but he quickly frowned again.
"Catholic power is mainly concentrated in the industrial cities of the East Coast. But in places like Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, the mainstream is Protestant." Thomas pointed out the crux of the matter.
Felix leaned forward slightly, looking directly at Thomas.
"That is precisely why I came to see you. Thomas, you have been in Washington for over twenty years, rising from the Department of the Interior to the position of vice president. Those respectable, traditional Protestants who provide political donations behind the scenes, and the bishops of the mainstream churches, should also put in some effort at this time."
"Those extremist ministers running wild in the countryside are nothing more than a bunch of uneducated hillbillies in the eyes of the orthodox denominations. I need you to use your political resources to contact those mainstream Protestant leaders."
Felix began to outline in detail this religious war of using their opponents' own strength against them, which he had conceived.
"We need them to issue a joint statement in the newspapers of major cities, condemning those fanatics who attacked the special train as 'anarchists'. It would be best to elevate this matter from a 'religious dispute' to the level of 'undermining national law and order'."
"Tell those bishops that if they are willing to speak out, the Argyle Charitable Foundation's donations to the theological seminaries under their names can be doubled next year."
Felix threw down the financial bargaining chip, as getting the church to help was indeed no easy task.
Thomas stroked his chin, his mind racing.
This matter clearly had no downside for him.
"That is a good idea."
"Those mainstream ministers in the big cities need to maintain their respectable and moderate image. In fact, they are also afraid that those extremists will disrupt social order and affect donations from the wealthy. As long as they are given enough money, they will be more than happy to define those stone-throwing country churchgoers as heretics in the newspapers."
Saying this, Thomas stood up, walked to the writing desk in the corner of the carriage, and picked up a pen and paper.
"Alright, I will write a few personal letters right now. Send the fastest messengers to the cathedrals in Chicago and St. Louis. Tell them that the liberals are instigating riots. For the laws of America and the glory of God, they must stand up and support the current administration."
Watching Thomas's back as he wrote furiously.
Felix knew that in this seemingly faith-filled era, religion was often merely an extension of politics and capital.
When the weight of money was heavy enough, the will of the divine would also shift directions along with the zeros on a check.
"In addition to the religious level, we also need to give them some trouble legally," Felix continued, leaning back in his chair.
"I have already telegraphed the Secret Service in Washington about the attack on you. The Secret Service agents dispatched by Deputy Director Flynn are already on their way here."
Felix's voice was laced with murderous intent.
"My point is, don't bother catching those idiots who threw stones. Have the Secret Service directly investigate the ministers distributing leaflets in the churches. Check their sources of funding. Those beautifully printed leaflets are definitely not something a few poor ministers could afford to print. Once we trace it to the bank accounts of Vanderbilt or Adams, we will directly take them to court on charges of 'funding rebellion'."
Thomas turned around after finishing the letters, a smile of agreement on his face.
"Felix, Adams and his people have really messed up this time. Attacking the acting president gives us the perfect excuse to deploy the state apparatus of violence. I want to hype up this train attack as a rehearsal for a second Lincoln assassination. The people of all America will fall into a panic of anarchy."
"And you will be that iron-fisted leader who can maintain order amidst the panic." Felix raised his glass, offering a toast to Thomas from afar.
Outside the carriage, the tracks continued to rumble.
Two days later...
The counterattack planned by Felix and Thomas in the carriage, like a long-accumulating tsunami, swept wildly through the major cities of the United States.
On the streets of New York, the newsboys of The Daily Truth yelled until their voices grew hoarse.
"Extra! Extra! Acting President bleeds at the train station! Liberals incite riots! America faces a crisis of division!"
On the front page of the newspaper, a photograph of Thomas Clark standing at the podium and roaring, with blood-stained gauze wrapped around his cheek, took up a full half-page.
And right next to the news section...
...was printed, in bold relief, a joint statement from the Catholic Archbishop of New York and the Protestant Archbishop of Chicago.
In the statement, written in extremely harsh terms, those who attacked the special train were defined as "anarchist thugs disguised as believers." It also called on all rational believers to support the Clark administration, which represented law and industrial progress, and to resist any form of violence and incitement.
The storm of public opinion, mingled with religious decrees...
...instantly shattered the moral high ground that the liberals had worked so hard to build up in Cincinnati.
Those swing voters who had originally been attracted by the liberals' slogans immediately felt panicked upon seeing the photos of the bleeding president and hearing the condemnation from church leaders.
They didn't want any political reckoning; they only wanted a stable life and to protect their livelihood.
And at this moment...
...inside that high-end private estate in Cincinnati...
...Charles Adams and William Henry Vanderbilt were staring at the newspapers in their hands, feeling the distinct sensation of having shot themselves in the foot.
Outside Cincinnati, the private estate of William Henry Vanderbilt.
Gone from the study was the relaxed, victory-assured atmosphere of the past few days.
Charles Francis Adams tightly clutched a copy of The Daily Truth that had just been sent from New York yesterday. His face, which had always maintained an aristocratic composure, was now stained with an ugly livid hue.
"Bang!"
Adams heavily slammed the newspaper onto the coffee table in front of him.
On the front page of the newspaper, the photograph of Thomas Clark covered in blood and bandages acted like a silent mockery, stinging his nerves.
"Those foolish country holy men! What on earth have they done?!" Adams roared, pointing at the newspaper.
"I gave them money to give speeches in churches, and to write articles in newspapers condemning the monopoly of the Argyle Family! When did I ever tell them to attack the President's special train?!"
Sitting opposite him, William Henry Vanderbilt also looked somewhat pale. He held half a glass of whiskey, but his hand trembled violently, spilling several drops of liquor onto the precious carpet.
"Mr. Adams."
William stood up and paced anxiously around the study, his voice betraying unconcealable worry.
"President Ulysses S. Grant was paralyzed after being assassinated at the train station. That incident happened less than a year ago! Now these madmen are using stones to smash the acting president's head. In the eyes of ordinary people and Washington bureaucrats, this is barefaced rebellion and murder!"
"The Secret Service and the War Department will definitely intervene! If they trace the secret accounts through which I allocated funds by following those pamphlets and pastors, then I will become the mastermind funding the assassination of the head of state! By then, not only will this election be over, but the entire Vanderbilt Family will face liquidation by the Federal Government. We will be sent to the gallows!"
The more William spoke, the more frightened he became.
He dared to wage war against Felix in the business world, but when it came to violent incidents directly attacking the head of state, this second-generation plutocrat felt fear from the marrow of his bones.
He also finally understood why his father repeatedly emphasized not clashing head-on with the Argyle Family, because the other party could leverage politics.
Adams took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He knew that panic was useless now; he had to stop the losses immediately.
"Alright, Mr. William, don't scare yourself. As long as we cut off all connections, the Secret Service won't be able to trace it back to us."
He turned his head and looked at the trusted aide standing at the door.
"Go to the office immediately and cut off all undercurrents of funds paid to those extremist pastors and churches. Do not issue any written instructions either; send our most reliable man on a fast horse to deliver a verbal message."
"Tell those pastors leading the trouble in Indiana and Ohio to dissolve their gatherings immediately and make them shut their mouths!"
"What if they are unwilling to shut up?" the aide asked with some hesitation.
"Then use other methods to make them shut up forever!" Adams's voice was cold to the extreme.
"This is politics, not playing house. If necessary, find a few hired killers to deal with those pastors who know the inside story. Fake it as a robbery or an accident. We must not leave the slightest clue implicating us."
The aide acknowledged the order and hurriedly ran out of the study to make arrangements.
Adams turned around and looked at William, who was still trembling.
"Mr. William, shrinking back at this moment is equivalent to admitting defeat. Argyle not only utilized this attack, but he has also flipped the game of religion upside down."
Adams pointed at the joint statement of the Catholic and mainstream Protestant archbishops on the newspaper.
"It seems he used his money bag to directly break through the Vatican relations at the highest level. Now, those cardinals and mainstream pastors are cursing us as rioters. Our high ground in morality has completely collapsed, and Mr. Greeley's approval rating in northern industrial cities has plummeted by fifteen percent in the past two days!"
"What else can we do?" William slumped back onto the sofa in despair.
"Make Greeley deliver a public speech immediately!" Adams gritted his teeth.
"He must condemn this attack extremely harshly in the newspapers and must completely draw a line with those religious fanatics. We must define this incident as 'the personal extremist behavior of unidentified individuals,' and we must never let Argyle and Clark dump this basin of dirty water on the heads of us Liberals."
"It's too late, Mr. Adams. It's already too late."
The door of the study was pushed open once again.
Walking in was Horace Greeley's campaign manager.
He held several newspapers from different cities just received, and the expression on his face was even uglier than Adams's.
"The media machine of the Argyle Family is already running at full capacity." The campaign manager spread the newspapers on the coffee table.
"Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston. All the mainstream newspapers are running endless reports on Thomas Clark's 'tough guy image'. Not only that."
The campaign manager opened to the inner page of one of the newspapers.
"The people inside the Argyle's Building have made their move. Amory Lawrence, the largest textile tycoon in Boston, and dozens of slaughterhouse owners in Chicago. This morning, they posted joint announcements in their respective factories."
The campaign manager read the content of the announcement with a trembling voice.
"The announcement says: 'If the Liberals, representing anarchy and riots, come to power, in order to protect property safety, all factories will be shut down indefinitely immediately.' What's even more outrageous is that when distributing salaries, they actually stuffed voting cards supporting Thomas inside the envelopes."
"Good God." William closed his eyes in agony.
He had originally planned to contact these businessmen to boycott the Argyle Family together.
But he didn't expect that Argyle had not only bribed these businessmen in advance, but had also turned them into a weapon against the Liberals.
Adams stared fixedly at that newspaper.
"Shameless! Using workers' rice bowls to blackmail votes, this is a shameless oligarchic tactic."
"But it is very effective, isn't it?" the campaign manager said helplessly.
"After all, the workers at the bottom probably don't care about monopolies at all, and they are even more afraid of unemployment. Right now, in the northern factory districts, if anyone dares to shout a word of support for Greeley on the street, they might be beaten half to death on the spot by the surrounding workers who are afraid of losing their rice bowls. We may have lost the basic labor vote."
In the study on the second floor of the manor, the whiskey bottle on the table was already more than half empty.
Several crystal glasses were scattered casually on the coffee table, with unfinished liquor still inside.
Charles Francis Adams sat on the sofa, rubbing his cheeks hard with both hands. Opposite him, William Henry Vanderbilt was staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace, wondering what he was thinking.
As time passed, the study door was pushed open.
Several people walked in.
Walking at the very front was Horace Greeley, who looked several years older than when he gave a speech on the convention podium a few days ago. He took off the white hat on his head and threw it on the chair by the door.
Following behind Greeley were several core Senators of the Liberal Republican Party, including Carl Hoffman from Missouri, and Richard Hayes representing the Midwestern agricultural states.
"We've been played, played like a bunch of monkeys performing in a circus!"
Greeley sat down, his voice somewhat hoarse from anger and continuous speeches. He casually slapped a stack of newly compiled telegrams from various places onto the table.
"Look at these! The Bishop of New York has spoken, and even the pastors in Chicago have spoken. They actually classified me as a murderer inciting riots! And our Acting President, Thomas Clark, has now become a hero protecting law and order! Bullshit!"
Greeley stared at Adams with dissatisfaction and said:
"Mr. Adams, I've said it long ago. We should defeat them with logic and facts. Why did you privately send money to those extreme rural sects? And even let them smash trains! Now look at this, the stones smashed Clark's face, but they smashed our votes right down the sewer!"
Adams raised his head, his eyes carrying a bit of annoyance. He truly hadn't asked the sect members to smash the trains!
Bastards, what a truly dumb teammate...
But he couldn't admit his mistake in front of these people.
"Hey, listen, Horace. That was an accident; I didn't let them throw stones," Adams explained dryly.
"Accident?" Greeley was displeased.
"There are no accidents in politics, only stupidity exploited by opponents. Look... Argyle not only utilized this matter, but also hijacked the entire American working class."
Greeley turned his head to look at William Henry Vanderbilt.
"And you, Mr. Vanderbilt, you promised to retaliate commercially. But the current situation is that Lawrence of Boston and the slaughterhouse owners of Chicago have all leaned toward the Argyle Family."
"They posted notices on the factory gates telling the workers that if I am elected, the factories will close down. Those workers now wish they could tear me to pieces! Between starving and voting, what do you think they'll choose?"
William's eyelids twitched, but unable to find words to retort, he could only sigh, pick up his drink, and take a sip to calm his thoughts.
"My dear Horace, this is not my fault. After all, capital is like this. When profits reach a certain degree, businessmen will betray their own principles without hesitation. My New York Central Railroad can't even get a few orders for transporting meat from Chicago now; it's all monopolized by them."
Senator Carl Hoffman let out a heavy sigh.
"Gentlemen, complaining cannot change the status quo."
"There are less than five months left until the general election, but judging from the current situation, our industrial city stronghold in the North has already begun to collapse. If we cannot find an entry point for counterattack in the coming weeks, this campaign can be declared over early. All of us will become the laughingstock of Washington."
The study fell into silence once again.
Everyone was racking their brains.
However, when facing a monster possessing near-infinite funds, controlling the media, and able to command religious leaders, traditional political means appeared so weak and powerless.
Oh, and he also had an ally who was temporarily managing the government as Acting President.
"We can't fight them in the industrial cities."
Senator Richard Hayes suddenly spoke up; he represented the interests of the vast agricultural states.
"The Argyle Family controls many factories and workers, but he cannot control all the land."
Hayes walked to the map, pointing with his finger at the vast region stretching all the way from Ohio to Nebraska.
"Here is the Midwest, and here there are millions of farmers. They don't take a salary from the Argyle Family. They make a living growing wheat and corn, and don't care about any factories."
Adams looked at Hayes with a puzzled expression.
"Senator Hayes, the farmers' votes are indeed numerous. But they are scattered across various rural areas, and they only care about crop prices. So how do we organize them?"
Hayes turned around, a bright light flashing in his eyes.
"Perhaps we don't need to organize them, just tell them a fact. Tell them who is stealing the coins in their pockets."
Hayes looked at William Henry Vanderbilt.
"Mr. Vanderbilt. You are in the railway business; you should know much better than all of us what the current grain transportation situation is like. Why is the grain price in Chicago so low, while the bread price on the East Coast remains stubbornly high?"
William was stunned for a moment, then reacted.
As a railway tycoon, he knew the tricks behind this all too well.
"Because of freight and storage fees," William straightened his body, his voice becoming clear.
"Although railways have expanded rapidly in recent years, the main lines are basically controlled by a few large companies. Especially the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company and the Pennsylvania Railroad. Both of these railways are now under the control of the Argyle Family."
"Every autumn, farmers transport grain to the railway station. Lacking their own granaries, they can only store the grain in the grain elevators controlled by the railway companies. Then the railway companies will band together to raise storage and freight fees by two or even three times! If the farmers don't pay this freight, the grain will rot in the station."
"What's even worse is..."
"The Argyle Family has its own Metropolitan Trading Company. When ordinary farmers are driven to a dead end by high freight rates, people from the Metropolitan Trading Company will step forward, buy the grain at low prices, and then use their internal railways to transport it to the East Coast for free to sell at high prices. This is called internal settlement, devouring all the farmers' profits."
Hearing this, Greeley suddenly stood up.
His breathing became rapid, and a terrifying anger erupted in those eyes belonging to an old newspaperman.
"This is the real monopoly, this is the man-eating monster!" Greeley shouted loudly.
"They are not promoters of civilization; they are iron collars stuck around America's neck. They stole the sweat of the farmers!"
Greeley rushed to the desk and grabbed the quill pen.
"I am going to calculate this account clearly for the millions of farmers in the Midwest!"
The atmosphere in the study changed instantly due to Greeley's excitement, and the previous despair was replaced by the joy of finding a new breakthrough.
Adams stepped forward, pressing both hands on the edge of the desk.
"Horace, are you sure this will work? The farmers might not understand complex business operations."
"They do not need to understand complex business operations; they just need to see where their money went! Right?" Greeley held a pen and drew forcefully on the paper.
"Senator Hayes, you have many contacts in the Midwest. There is an organization called 'Grange' (National Farmers' Union) there, right?" Greeley looked at Hayes.
"Yes." Hayes nodded.
"Originally, it was just a mutual aid society for farmers to gather, exchange agricultural techniques, and socialize. But over the past two years, because railway freight rates are too high, they often complain at gatherings. Currently in Illinois and Iowa, the membership of the Grange is growing very rapidly, already reaching hundreds of thousands of people."
"Hundreds of thousands of people, this is our army!"
Greeley slammed the table and turned to look at Adams and William.
"Argyle controls the newspapers in the city, but cannot control the rural gatherings! Mr. Adams, we need money."
"I need you to fund and contract all the small printing plants in the Midwest that do not belong to the control of the Argyle Family. I want to print millions of brochures. Remember, not newspapers, but booklets!"
"Every farmer who joins the Grange must be able to see this booklet in their taverns and barns!"
Seeing him insist, William Vanderbilt immediately stated his position.
"Money is not a problem; is five hundred thousand dollars enough? As long as you can fan this fire, I will buy you as many printing presses as you want."
"Enough." Greeley pinched his chin and said.
"But I need evidence. Mr. Vanderbilt, the tricks you just mentioned about storage fees and freight rates are all spoken by word of mouth. Felix Argyle can easily have his railway manager come out to refute the rumors, saying this is market price fluctuation. We need ironclad evidence that can nail him down."
William fell silent.
He knew what Greeley wanted.
In the railway industry, there is an extremely covert method called rebates.
In order to monopolize goods, large companies would sign secret agreements with Railway Companies. On the surface, the Railway Companies charged high freight rates, but privately refunded a large portion of the freight in cash to the large companies.
This was the core secret of how large companies could crush small merchants with low costs.
Old Vanderbilt had also done this kind of thing, and William knew that the Argyle Family played this trick even more ruthlessly—they passed things from their left hand to their right hand, and both the railways and trading companies belonged entirely to themselves.
"This... I cannot give you direct paper documents." William looked at Greeley, feeling somewhat troubled.
Although he did not want to be suppressed by the Argyle Family for a lifetime, he also did not want to be spurned by the industry.
"If that kind of thing leaks from my hands, once it fails, the Vanderbilt Family will become the public enemy of the entire American railway industry."
Adams frowned, somewhat dissatisfied.
We are already in the same boat; could I possibly let you off the boat now?
"Mr. William, at this time we can no longer keep a backup plan."
"Of course, but I can give you a number." William interrupted Adams, walked over to the desk, and wrote down a string of data on another piece of blank paper.
"I have a few informants inside the Pennsylvania Railroad Company. This is their monthly grain freight schedule shipped from Chicago to New York. Look here."
William pointed to one of the rows.
"When ordinary farmers transport a ton of wheat, they charge three dollars. But when the Metropolitan Trading Company transports a ton of wheat, the book fee is three dollars, but on the internal liquidation sheet at the end of the month, there is an extremely covert 'line maintenance loss compensation' refunded to Metropolitan. Converted down, the actual freight cost of the Metropolitan Trading Company is less than eighty cents."
William raised his head and looked at Greeley.
"As long as we tell those farmers that the money they worked so hard to farm and earn is taken away by the Railway Company, and then turns into the capital for the Metropolitan Trading Company to lower the purchase price—that is enough. Numbers can sting the eyes of the poor more than any document."
Greeley looked at the numbers on the paper with great excitement, his hands trembling slightly.
"Eighty cents... They actually managed to suppress the price to this extent. This is why small farmers have bumper harvests year after year yet go bankrupt year after year."
"I know how to write it. The name of this editorial will be called "The Iron Collar Around the Neck of the Republic"."
As he spoke, Greeley looked at Senator Hayes.
"Mr. Hayes, you will immediately take the train back to Illinois. Go contact the chairman of the Grange. Tell them that if the Liberal Party wins this year's general election, we will push the state legislatures to pass special laws to carry out mandatory price caps on railway freight and storage fees!"
This was a very bold step.
In an era that advocated absolute free markets and where the government never interfered with corporate pricing, proposing to use government legislation to restrict railway charges was simply heretical.
This was also the prototype of the historically famous "Grange Laws".
"This will cause a sensation in Washington." Hayes took a deep breath, "The capitalists supporting Thomas will go crazy."
"That is exactly what we want, to drive them crazy!" Adams added from the side.
"Mr. Hayes, you must not only tell the farmers that we will cap prices, but also tell them that the Argyle Family is buying judges. If Acting President Clark is elected, in the future when farmers want to go to court to sue the Railway Company for overcharging, I am afraid they will not even be able to enter the courthouse doors."
"This is the most direct benefit."
"I do not understand business matters, but I know how to turn the anger of ordinary people into votes. Oh right... Mr. William, please arrange the fund allocation immediately. Before the Argyle Family reacts, we must scatter these millions of brochures all over the Midwest."
"The funds will be in place tonight." William nodded.
The four people re-established the route of counterattack in this smoke-filled study.
They abandoned illusory religion and morality, and instead tightly grasped the sharpest weapon—the conflict of class interests.
Using the survival crisis of farmers to counter the monopolistic expansion of industrial capital.
Late at night.
Sitting in front of the desk by the light of a gas lamp, Greeley's pen tip rubbed rapidly across the paper.
There were no fancy rhetorics; he simply wrote out the data provided by William using the most straightforward and inciting words.
He compared Felix to a "king who levies taxes wantonly without a government badge", and compared those railways to "iron blood vessels that suck dry the blood of the countryside".
Early the next morning, several fast-riding couriers carrying this manuscript galloped toward the rural printing plants in the Midwest that were not yet controlled by big capital.
In Illinois, there was an agricultural distribution hub called Springfield.
The sunlight was no longer so dazzling, and the wind carried the scent of harvested hay.
The only tavern in town was currently packed with farmers who had just transported their grain to the train station.
The air was thick with a mixture of sour cheap beer, cow manure, and sweaty body odor.
Dozens of men in coarse linen shirts and overalls sat around wooden tables, in no mood for drinking.
Resting on the tables were the freight receipts just issued by the train station.
"Two dollars and fifty cents! To ship a barrel of flour to the East, they actually want to charge me two dollars and fifty cents!"
A sun-bronzed farmer with calloused hands slammed his fist onto the table, causing the foam in his beer mug to splash.
"In New York, the purchase price for a barrel of flour is barely under four dollars! Subtract the cost of seeds, the wages for hired harvesters, and then add this damn freight charge. I've worked hard all year, and in the end, I still owe the bank over a dozen dollars in interest!"
The old farmer next to him sighed, burying his head in his rough hands.
"Yesterday, I went to beg the station manager. I asked him if he could hold onto my wheat for a few more days, so I could ship it when prices in the East went up. Do you know what he said? He said the storage fees for the grain elevator would double starting tomorrow. If I didn't pay their price, they would throw my wheat right into the mud next to the tracks."
"This is robbery!"
someone cursed loudly from a corner.
Just as the tavern was filled with despair and anger,
the tavern's double swinging louvered doors were pushed open.
A few young men walked in carrying large bundles of pamphlets that reeked of fresh ink.
These were pamphlets rushed out from a small printing workshop just outside of town. The paper quality was terrible, and the edges weren't even trimmed.
"Brothers of the Grange! Look at this!"
The leading young man threw the bundle of pamphlets heavily onto an empty table in the center of the tavern.
"Sent by men working for Mr. Charles Adams and Mr. Horace Greeley! It's all written clearly inside! Why we are getting poorer, and why the grain we grow is worthless!"
The farmers crowded around.
They picked up the pamphlets and began reading them by the dim light of the tavern.
On the cover of the pamphlet, a line of large, bold black letters was printed: *The Iron Collar Around the Republic's Neck*.
The tavern gradually fell quiet, with only the rustling of turning pages and the increasingly heavy breathing of the men.
"Eighty cents..."
The dark-skinned farmer stared at a line in the pamphlet, his voice trembling with sheer shock and anger.
"It says here that the actual cost for the Metropolitan Trading Company's trains to ship a ton of wheat is only eighty cents! Yet they charge us three dollars!"
Another young man, who was more literate, read aloud.
"It also says that the Metropolitan Trading Company and the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company have the same boss behind the scenes—Alan Argyle! They are deliberately raising our freight rates to force us into bankruptcy, and then they'll use their Metropolitan Trading Company to buy up our farms and grain for the price of scrap paper!"
"These New York vampires!"
The old farmer suddenly stood up, kicking over the wooden stool in front of him.
"Last year, because I couldn't afford the freight charges, I mortgaged my two hundred acres of cornfield to the town bank. The funding for that bank seemed to come from New York too! They're in this together! They treat us like livestock to be harvested at will from the fields!"
Anger, like gunpowder set alight, instantly exploded in the tavern.
These honest, simple farmers didn't understand complex financial operations, but Greeley used the simplest, most direct numbers to bind their desperate plight tightly to the name of the Argyle Family.
"Greeley promised at the end of the pamphlet!"
The young man held up the pamphlet in his hand and shouted.
"As long as the Liberals win the election, they will push for laws in Congress to mandate a ceiling on train freight rates! Anyone who dares to overcharge on storage fees will have the railroad company bosses thrown in prison!"
This promise was like a beam of light in the darkness, shining directly into the hearts of all the farmers.
"Vote! Let's cast our votes for Greeley!"
"Go tell our brothers in other towns and distribute these pamphlets. Thomas Clark is that vampire's watchdog; we absolutely cannot let him stay in the White House!"
Such scenes played out repeatedly over the next few days in countless small taverns and town meeting halls across major agricultural states like Illinois, Indiana, and Iowa.
The five hundred thousand dollars provided by William Vanderbilt achieved its intended efficiency.
Millions of cheap pamphlets bypassed the major city newspapers controlled by Argyle, directly penetrating every corner of the Midwest through the Grange's internal network.
The farmers' rage was completely ignited.
They had no weapons and no typesetting rights in newspapers.
But they had the largest demographic base in the country, and the votes in their hands.
This storm triggered by freight rates began to spread toward the East Coast in a dangerous manner.
A few days later, on the tenth floor of the Argyle's Building in New York.
Edward Frost placed a rough pamphlet on Felix's desk. The booklet was stained with dirt and some unknown liquid.
"Boss, this was obtained by our Intelligence Department people at a town meeting in the Midwest." Frost's expression was very grim.
"They are targeting our freight rates."
Felix picked up the pamphlet and casually flipped through a couple of pages.
He didn't read the inflammatory text at all; his eyes fell directly on the figures regarding rebates and actual freight costs.
"Eighty cents."
Felix's eyelid twitched slightly.
Throwing the pamphlet back onto the desk, he looked up at Frost.
"This number is very precise; it doesn't look like a random guess. This should be core data from our internal clearing bills at the Pennsylvania Railroad Company."
Felix stood up and walked to the side of the desk.
"Greeley is a nerd who writes articles for newspapers, and Charles Adams is a politician playing diplomacy in Europe. It's impossible for them to obtain such low-level and precise trade secrets."
"You mean there's a mole?" Frost became alert.
"Not a mole, but someone who knows the industry." Felix shook his head.
"To be able to get this kind of data from our railroad network, and to have the financial resources to print and distribute millions of pamphlets across the entire Midwest in such a short time..."
Felix walked to the French window, looking out at Fifth Avenue in the distance.
"It seems some people are not as submissive as they appear on the surface."
Felix turned around, a cold, murderous intent flashing in his dark eyes.
"They think they can win the election just by stirring up the farmers' emotions? Edward, go call Tom Hayes. Since they want to play the numbers game with freight rates, we'll play it to the end. I want those farmers to know that if they anger the grain merchants, they won't even get eighty cents."
Just as Felix was preparing to strike back on grain purchase prices,
a security guard from outside suddenly pushed the door open and walked in, holding a legal document delivered via an expedited route.
"Boss, a summons from the Washington Federal Court. It was just delivered to the first floor of the building this morning."
Felix walked to the desk and took the thick document stamped with the seal of the Washington Federal Court from the security guard.
This was a rare occurrence.
Since Thomas Clark took control of the situation in Washington and William Tweed controlled the local courts in New York, few court subpoenas had ever dared to be delivered directly to him.
Felix expressionlessly opened the document, quickly scanning the lengthy pages filled with legal jargon.
"What does it say, Boss?" Frost stood aside, a hint of tension in his voice.
"Charles Adams has made his move in Washington." Felix tossed the document onto the desk with a cold sneer.
"They found an old federal judge named Harrison. This judge is one of those stubborn constitutional fundamentalists who usually doesn't give us or Thomas any face at all."
Felix pointed to the grounds for prosecution in the document.
"They are suing Umbrella Pharmaceuticals and Vanguard Arms, accusing us of using loopholes in interstate trade to evade state commercial taxes. At the same time, they applied for an emergency injunction in the document, requesting to freeze the granary assets of Metropolitan Trading Company in several key agricultural states during the court investigation, on the grounds of suspected malicious monopoly and price manipulation."
Frost's mind raced.
"This is a multi-front stranglehold. They are using pamphlets below to incite the farmers' emotions, and using federal court subpoenas above to restrict our funds and logistics operations. If the court really issues a freeze injunction, our acquisition system in the Midwest will be paralyzed in an instant. Those farmers will be even more convinced that we have a guilty conscience."
"A perfect political combo." Felix sat back in his leather chair, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest.
"If I have Thomas use administrative power to forcibly intervene with Judge Harrison, Adams and his people will immediately make a big fuss in the newspapers, claiming that the Clark administration is interfering with judicial independence and shielding monopoly oligarchs. This would be an extremely fatal scandal before the election. If I don't intervene and let the court investigate, our business operations will be severely slowed down."
Looking at the subpoena on the desk, there was no fear in Felix's eyes; instead, they flickered with the excitement of meeting a worthy opponent.
The last time he felt this way was when he fought against Old Morgan.
"Now this is a real opponent, much smarter than those priests who only know how to hide in churches and chant scriptures."
"Then how should we respond?" Frost asked.
"Do we need to notify Gold Shield Security to deal with that judge?"
"No. Moving against a judge at this time is equivalent to handing them leverage on a silver platter." Felix shook his head.
He picked up the telephone receiver and cranked the handle.
"Connect me to the legal department and have the chief counsel come up."
A few minutes later, a senior lawyer in a gray suit walked in quickly, carrying a briefcase.
"Take a look at this."
Felix pointed to the subpoena on the desk.
The lawyer read through it, his brow furrowed deeply.
"Boss, this Judge Harrison has a very high reputation in the judicial community. This indictment is drafted very tightly; they have clearly hired a legal team. Although we will certainly win this lawsuit in the end because the interpretation of the interstate commerce law is very vague, if we follow normal legal procedures, they can drag the case out for at least several months. That emergency injunction to freeze assets could be issued at any time."
"I don't need you to win the lawsuit; I just need you to prevent this case from ever going to trial."
The lawyer was somewhat stunned upon hearing this.
"How is that possible? After all, the court subpoena has already been served."
"Then use legal means to counter the law."
"Draft countersuits immediately. Remember, do not file them in Washington. Go to the New York State Supreme Court or the New Jersey District Court. In all the states where we control the judges, file countersuits against those shell companies or representatives suing us! Make up whatever grounds you want—commercial slander, theft of trade secrets, breach of contract, anything goes."
Felix stood up, his eyes blazing like torches.
"Utilize jurisdictional disputes to petition the Supreme Court for a jurisdictional ruling. Until the Supreme Court makes a ruling, any injunction by Judge Harrison will not be legally enforceable. Turn the legal process into a tangled mess and drown their legal team in hundreds or thousands of pages of waste paper. I want this case to rot in the corridors of the court until the election is over!"
Hearing this, the lawyer's eyes lit up.
This kind of rogue tactic of using procedural loopholes for endless delay was precisely what top-tier lawyers like them excelled at.
"Understood, Boss. I will mobilize everyone in the legal department immediately. Before this afternoon, at least ten countersuits will be delivered to the desks of various local courts. We will turn the jurisdictional issue into a legal disaster." The lawyer took the subpoena and left quickly.
Having resolved the legal troubles, Felix turned to look at Frost.
"Now, it's time to solve the core problem: the votes and the anger of those farmers."
"Didn't Senator Hayes promise them that they would limit freight rates? Go notify Charles Reeves."
"Have the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company announce, starting tomorrow, a half-month 'autumn line maintenance' in Illinois, Indiana, and Iowa—the three states making the biggest fuss."
Frost paled in shock.
"Boss, suspending operations at this time? The grain on those farms has just been harvested. If the trains don't transport it, their grain will rot in the fields! The farmers will go crazy!"
"Hmph! I want them to go crazy."
Felix turned around, not much pity in his eyes.
Although he didn't want to be so ruthless, there was no other way. He couldn't actually let these farmers help Adams and his people succeed.
At most, he would have Hayes and Bill go a bit easier on them later.
"Since Adams told them that the Railway Company is a vampire, I will let them see that without this vampire, they won't even have the right to be bled dry!"
"Also, notify Bill of the Metropolitan Trading Company to stop all grain purchases in these three states. Don't buy a single grain of wheat! Let their grain pile up at the train stations, rotting and sprouting in the open air!"
"I want those farmers incited by the pamphlets to understand one truth. In America, the person who decides whether they eat steak or starve to death is not the politician shouting slogans on the podium, but the person sitting on the tenth floor of the Argyle's Building."
"When they watch their year's hard work turn into mud, and when the banks come to seize their farms, they won't care whether the freight rate is three dollars or eighty cents. They will be on the platforms of the train stations, begging for our trains to return."
Listening to these words, Frost's back was completely drenched in cold sweat.
This was no longer just a commercial war or an election battle.
This was using brutal capital starvation tactics to forcibly crush the will to resist of millions of farmers.
Was the boss not afraid that these farmers would rebel?
"Understood, I will issue your orders immediately."
Frost couldn't argue either; he could only bow in agreement, turn around, and walk out the door.