"Er... Most likely Vanderbilt." The reply of Timmy carried uncertainty.
"Had he not been trying to retake control of the telegraph network all along? Furthermore, cutting off our communication with Chicago also indirectly benefits the railway freight scheduling under his name."
Felix leaned back in his chair, pulled a cigar from the cigar box, and smelled it by his nose.
"Timmy, you only see the direct commercial conflict of interests. You are thinking about the problem too simply."
Felix picked up the sterling silver matchbox on the table, struck a match, and slowly lit the cigar.
"If Vanderbilt really wanted to snatch back the telegraph network, he should not use such a despicable and inefficient method. Cutting wires across thousands of miles of wilderness—such sabotage cannot last long. Once our decoy tactics take effect, the people he hired will be completely wiped out."
Felix exhaled a puff of blue smoke, his eyes turning profound.
"This approach looks more like hysterical harassment. Cutting the wires is not to defeat us commercially. It might be to blind our eyes and delay our reaction speed. They are buying time for another battlefield."
Timmy was thoughtful.
"Another battlefield? Boss, you mean..."
Felix recalled the reminder that Anna brought back from Washington concerning Thomas.
"Politics."
"Go look at the newspapers these past few days. Not just the news about the completion of our building." Felix tapped the few newspapers on the tabletop with the fingers holding his cigar.
"The general election is coming soon, and the situation in Washington is even more complicated than the futures market of Chicago. Those old interest groups forced into a corner by us commercially and academically will definitely unite and launch a political counterattack against us."
"Cutting our telegraph lines may be one of the methods they want to use to sever our real-time intervention in the elections of Washington and various states."
"Of course, this is just my guess. It is also a direction provided for you."
Felix stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Do not put all your energy into the wilderness of the Midwest. Timmy, you can shift some focus of the Intelligence Department toward Ohio."
...
Ohio, Cincinnati.
This industrial city, known as the "Queen of the West," witnessed the most violent earthquake on the political map of America in June.
Outside the massive exposition hall located in the city center, colorful flags fluttered in the wind.
Over a hundred magnificent carriages jammed the surrounding streets impenetrably.
Thousands of politicians, newspaper reporters, and agents of various capitalists were wiping the sweat from their foreheads as they squeezed into this sweltering giant building.
What was being held here was the national convention of the liberal faction within the Republican Party.
Of course.
Just listening to the name, one would know this is not the official nomination convention of the Republican Party.
After President Ulysses S. Grant was assassinated and paralyzed, and Thomas Clark acted on behalf of the presidential powers in the capacity of vice president, the half-breed faction led by Thomas and the traditional spoilsmen faction closely combined, firmly controlling the resources of White House and Congress.
Those liberal Republicans who fancied themselves as the clean stream, represented the interests of New England old-money families, and opposed political corruption and monopoly oligarchs lost their right to speak within the party, and angrily split away.
They came to Cincinnati, attempting to put forward their own presidential candidate to counter the incumbent government that had already begun to be infiltrated by the Argyle Family.
Inside the exposition hall.
The air was permeated with the smoke of cheap cigars, the smell of whiskey, and the sweat exhaled by hundreds and thousands of people.
Wooden spittoons and randomly discarded newspapers were everywhere on the wooden floor.
On the temporary wooden podium at the front of the hall hung a huge Star-Spangled Banner.
And inside the curtained lounge behind the podium, Charles Francis Adams was sitting in a chair, with a servant tidying up his exquisitely tailored black swallowtail coat.
As a descendant of the most famous political family in America—the Adams family (both his grandfather and father had served as Presidents of the United States)—Charles Adams represented the most orthodox and classical political elite of America.
He had served as minister to England and enjoyed extremely high prestige in diplomatic circles.
Several core members of the liberals were surrounding him, their expressions somewhat grave.
"Mr. Adams, the delegates below are extremely emotional. Several governors from the Midwest just stated their position that they firmly refuse to support the reelection of Thomas Clark," a senior Senator wearing gold-rimmed glasses said in a lowered voice.
"This is precisely what we need."
Adams wiped his hands with a pure white silk handkerchief, his tone carrying the reserve and arrogance unique to Boston high society.
"That fool Thomas Clark thinks that by selling government contracts in exchange for the funds of that nouveau riche in New York, he can run amok in this country. He has simply turned White House into the private territory of the Argyle Family!" Disgust flashed in the eyes of Adams.
Another politician interrupted with some worry.
"However, Mr. Adams. The influence of the Argyle Family is too great now. They just built that damn three-hundred-foot ten-story building in New York, and previously bought off all the top scholars in Europe with five million dollars."
"Many of the common people now regard Argyle as a deity promoting the progress of civilization. If we directly attack Argyle, we might lose the votes of the lower classes. After all, many people work in their factories and on their railway lines."
"Humph! These foolish commoners are always easily blinded by small favors." Adams let out a displeased cold hum.
"Therefore, we need a mouthpiece that can incite public sentiment and pierce this false prosperity with a pen nib. We need Horace Greeley."
Mentioning Greeley, several politicians around him revealed complex expressions.
Horace Greeley was the legendary editor of The New York Tribune, an eccentric old man with a cranky temper, radical thoughts, and always wearing a white soft-brimmed hat.
Yet he enjoyed extremely high prestige among the common people, being a pioneer of the abolitionist movement and a staunch supporter of labor rights.
Although the news media controlled most outlets, the newspaper of Greeley still maintained stubborn independence and huge circulation in the North.
"Mr. Greeley is already seated in the front row, and he has agreed to accept our nomination," the Senator reported.
"Very well."
Adams stood up and looked at these allies.
"Gentlemen, please keep in mind that this is not an ordinary intra-party election."
"In my view, this is more like an important war to defend the republic. If we cannot raise the banner of rebellion in Cincinnati today, then I think within less than four years, this country will no longer be called the United States of America, but rather Argyle's Empire!"
After finishing his words, Adams strode toward the aisle leading to the podium.
"Cutting the telegraph lines in the Midwest is only the first step. That's to make those eavesdroppers deaf and prevent them from interfering with our vote today," he whispered to a trusted aide before stepping onto the podium.
"Now, we will use our voices to completely strip away their ugly underpants."
Accompanied by deafening cheers and a marching tune played by the military band,
Charles Francis Adams walked up to the podium.
Standing before the rostrum, he spoke in a resonant voice forged through diplomatic negotiations.
"Citizens of the United States, delegates who have come from afar!"
The hall quickly quieted down, with thousands of eyes fixated on this political giant.
"We have gathered in Cincinnati today, not to divide the spoils, nor to seek positions within a corrupt system. We stand here because our country is facing the most severe and fatal internal parasitism since its founding!"
Adams slammed his hand heavily onto the podium, getting straight to the point without any beating around the bush.
"What have we seen over the past few years? We have seen an official named Thomas Clark start as the Secretary of the Interior, rise to vice president and President of the Senate, and then seize the supreme power of White House by taking advantage of President Ulysses S. Grant's misfortune!"
"We have seen how unscrupulously he trampled on institutions, and how he granted the nation's precious land and railway concessions at absurdly ridiculous prices to his equally absurd ally and son-in-law!"
When the word "son-in-law" was uttered by Adams in an extremely sarcastic tone, whistling erupted from the audience.
Apparently, some people already knew that Anna and Felix had a child.
"Now, the name Felix Argyle is revered as a deity in New York. He has built a three-hundred-foot-tall iron monster in Manhattan, and he looks down upon us from above!"
Adams pointed toward the east, as if that building were standing right before his eyes.
"Some say he promoted industry, and some say he funded science. But go look at those laborers in the southern plantations holding vouchers to buy overpriced, shoddy food! Go look at those innocents shattered across the western wilderness by the gatling gun and artillery of Vanguard Arms!"
"This is no promoter of civilization at all! This is a capitalist leviathan unbound by any laws! And our acting president, Thomas Clark, is this leviathan's watchdog raised in Washington!"
Adams's words were like a sharp knife, slicing open the layer of mutually exploitative political skin between Thomas and Felix.
The emotions in the hall were completely ignited.
Small businessmen who went bankrupt under the monopoly of the Argyle Family and those who deeply detested political corruption stood up one after another, frantically waving the hats in their hands.
"Today, we declare war on this oligarchic rule!"
Adams opened his arms, his voice trembling slightly with excitement.
"We need a candidate who truly belongs to the people, a fighter who dares to say no to the stench of copper on Wall Street!"
"I, Charles Francis Adams, propose nominating Mr. Horace Greeley as the presidential candidate of our Liberal Republican Party!"
Horace Greeley, the sixty-one-year-old newspaper tycoon, wearing his signature light-colored woolen coat and a somewhat yellowed white soft felt hat, walked slowly up to the podium.
He was completely different in style from Charles Adams, whose bones radiated an aura of classical aristocracy.
Greeley looked like a bad-tempered old pedant, with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose and his hair like a mess of straw. But in those eyes burned the fanaticism of an idealist.
When he reached the rostrum, the cheers in the audience gradually subsided, and everyone was waiting for this fighter, who was about to challenge the incumbent power, to speak.
Greeley had not prepared a speech.
He rested both hands on the edge of the podium, his gaze sweeping across the delegates off stage.
"Gentlemen."
Greeley's voice was somewhat sharp, but this did not affect the penetrating power of his words.
"Mr. Adams just said that our republic is being parasitized, a term used very accurately. But what I want to add is that this parasitism is not just in the corridors of power in Washington; it has deeply embedded itself into the lives of every single one of us."
Greeley took off his white hat and clutched it in his hand.
"You came to Cincinnati for the meeting, riding the train of the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company. The luncheon meat you ate in the dining car bore the trademark of the Argyle Food Company. If you happen to catch a cold, the patent for the medicine you buy at the pharmacy might belong to the Umbrella Pharmaceuticals."
With every sentence Greeley spoke, the atmosphere off stage grew a fraction heavier.
"When you read books in your hotel at night, the lighting uses blue-can kerosene produced by Standard Oil or electric lamps from the General Company. If you want to send word home that you are safe, you go to the telegraph office to send a telegram, and behind the counter where they collect the money hangs the sign of the Western Union Telegraph Company. And all of this, the ultimate profits flow into the vault beneath that ten-story building on Wall Street!"
"This is not commercial success, Gentlemen, no, it is not. This is a naked monopoly noose!"
Greeley waved the hat in his hand, shouting hoarsely.
"When a single family controls what we eat, what we use, how we travel, and even controls our communications, then free trade in the United States becomes a complete and utter empty phrase."
"Those independent small vendors, those hardworking farmers, they either choose to join the vassal system of the Argyle Family or wait to starve on the verge of bankruptcy!"
Greeley's speech lacked profound political theory; he directly struck the pain points of all the middle class and petty bourgeoisie present with the cruel reality closest to daily life.
Although it must be said that such a statement was far too arbitrary.
But, who could blame people for needing an outlet to vent?
"And the root cause of all this is that corrupt cabinet full of nepotism in Washington!"
Greeley turned around and pointed his finger in the direction of Washington.
"Thomas Clark, a politician originally fit for nothing more than stamping papers in the Department of the Interior. How did he secure the seat of acting president? It was paved with Felix Argyle's money! He used the nation's railway concessions and unowned lands in the South and West to repay Argyle's political contributions!"
"Not only that. They even used dirty money of unknown origin in New York to buy off European scientists, attempting to use the cloak of science to whitewash their capital stained with the blood of workers—this is a blasphemy against scholars!"
These words from Greeley completely negated the newly established image of the Argyle Family as promoters of civilization.
In the eyes of these liberals, the fifty-thousand-dollar prize was not great at all; instead, it was irrefutable proof of capital's arrogance and corruption.
"If we let Thomas Clark be re-elected in this year's general election, if we let him drop the word acting and officially become the president of the United States, then we won't need Congress, nor will we need the Supreme Court!"
Resolution flickered in Greeley's eyes as he let out his final political roar.
"By then, White House will be nothing more than a subordinate office of the Argyle Family. The United States of America will be reduced to a slave plantation providing exorbitant profits for a few financial magnates! For freedom, so that this country will not be devoured by a few ghosts hiding in vaults!"
"I, Horace Greeley, accept the nomination of the Liberal Republican Party!"
"I swear, if I am elected president, on the very first day in office, I will completely shatter this monopolistic trust of collusion between politics and business!"
"I will snatch the resources that belong to the people back from the jaws of those vampires!"
"Boom!"
The roof of the exposition hall was almost blown off by the earth-shattering applause and cheers.
All the delegates stood up, throwing their hats into mid-air and frantically shouting the names of Greeley and Adams.
This rally, filled with idealism and a spirit of rebellion, reached its climax in Cincinnati.
However, amidst the fervent crowd, not everyone was cheering for freedom.
In an inconspicuous corner of the hall,
several men in ordinary suits, looking like out-of-town reporters, were coldly watching everything happening on the podium.
One of them took a pocket watch out of his pocket and glanced at it.
"They are already planning to tear off their masks. Not only have they nominated a presidential candidate, but they have also openly classified the Boss's industry as a monopoly trust." The man lowered his voice and said to his companion beside him. He was an agent sent by Timmy.
"Has the telegraph line been repaired?" another agent asked.
"Not yet, so we cannot pin our hopes on sending telegrams from here." The leading agent's gaze was resolute.
"Those rats who cut the wires probably did it for today. They want to delay our intelligence transmission speed so that Washington and New York cannot receive the information."
"Immediately send someone on a fast horse to the nearest train station and charter a special train directly. Check along the way for telegraph stations and send the convention's speech records to the New York headquarters at top speed."
Without hesitation, the agents quietly withdrew from the hall amid the chaos of the crowd.
Half an hour later, this classified report, carrying the lingering warmth of the Cincinnati venue, sped wildly toward the East Coast accompanied by the roar of a steam train.
...
The heat of summer made the air in the White House Oval Office somewhat oppressive.
Although the windows were open, the wind blowing in still carried a dry heat.
Acting President Thomas Clark was sitting behind his desk, holding a document just delivered through special channels.
His expression was not looking too good, though.
Because it detailed the contents of the Cincinnati convention from an hour ago.
"Damn it! How dare they... How dare they so openly incite subversion!"
Thomas slammed the document heavily onto the desktop, his voice filled with fury.
The still-serving Secretary of War Stanton sat on the opposite sofa, his face as gloomy as water.
"Mr. President, it seems this is not an ordinary political attack, but a premeditated and organized declaration of war."
"Charles Adams represents the traditional elites of the New England region, while Horace Greeley holds The Tribune and possesses great demagogic power among the grassroots laborers and intellectuals. Now they have pointed their spearhead directly at the relationship between you and the Argyle Family, which hits our soft underbelly."
Thomas paced back and forth irritably behind the desk.
"Cronyism, political spoils-sharing! They actually painted me as Felix's watchdog!" Thomas's self-esteem suffered a great insult, and what made him even more irritable was the upcoming general election.
"If the Republican Party splits completely because of this, and the liberals siphon away our votes, then the Democratic Party will benefit. We will completely lose our position in the White House! Stanton, can the military under your control impose martial law at this time? Just say that signs of rebellion have appeared in the South!" Thomas asked flusteredly.
"Are you crazy, Thomas?"
Stanton frowned and interrupted him.
"Impose martial law during peacetime just because of an intra-party meeting? That would immediately trigger a nationwide armed riot! The army will not obey such an absurd order. This is a political crisis and must be resolved through political and capital means."
Stanton stood up, having an idea.
"I will go immediately to ensure the stability of the military system, and you contact New York right away. Tell Felix the exact situation in Cincinnati. Since they are aiming at the Argyle Family, let him also bear this pressure."
Having said that, Stanton strode out of the office.
Thomas felt like a walnut caught between two boulders, ready to be crushed to pieces at any moment.
He picked up the encrypted telegram paper on the desk and began writing the telegram to New York.
...
Argyle's Building, Tenth Floor.
Felix sat behind his desk, holding the summary of the speech record sent via telegram.
This was sent urgently by Intelligence Department agents who chartered a train and connected via a local telegraph station along the way.
Inside the office, Frost, Intelligence Department head Timmy, and News Media Company General Manager Victor Fowler stood upright in front of the desk.
Felix casually placed the read document on the desktop.
There was not much anger on his face; instead, he wore a mocking smile.
After all, he had received a reminder from Thomas earlier.
"The speech is well-written." Felix picked up a cigar.
"Gorgeous rhetoric and full of demagogy. If those two old fellows Adams and Greeley went to write novels, they would definitely have more prospects than being politicians."
"Boss."
Timmy stepped forward, his tone carrying a murderous intent.
"Greeley is too dangerous. His influence in the North is very large. According to the Intelligence Department's analysis, if he is not eliminated, President Clark's votes will be diverted. Do you need someone arranged to shut him up forever?"
"Look at you, so impatient!"
Felix frowned and reprimanded him, then lit the cigar, took a puff, and slowly exhaled blue smoke.
"Kill him at this time? Not only will that fail to solve the problem, but it will also turn him into a martyr. By then, those centrists who are still sitting on the fence will immediately cast their votes for the liberals. We cannot use guns to fight public opinion; that would only prove what they said is right."
"Since they want to play the public opinion war and wallow in the political mire, then give them an unforgettable mudslide."
Felix looked at the general manager of the News Media Company.
"Fowler, are the newspaper machines ready?"
Fowler immediately straightened his body, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"Boss, the major city newspapers under our control are on standby at all times. As long as you give the order, millions of newspapers can be printed every day."
"Very well, then listen to my orders."
Felix leaned back in his chair and began to issue counterattack orders methodically, each hitting the crucial point.
"First, comprehensively smear Horace Greeley. Doesn't he like to act like a saint? Then dig up his dirt. Find the most vicious political cartoonists and draw Greeley on the front page of all newspapers as an old madman wearing bizarre clothes and out of his mind. Draw him together with those former slave owners of the South, saying that he betrayed the northern interests and attempted to compromise with the old forces of the South."
You know, in original history, Greeley's public image was completely destroyed by merciless political cartoons (such as Thomas Nast's works) in the 1872 election.
Felix had some understanding of this tactic.
"Step two." Felix looked at Frost.
"Didn't Greeley say we are monopoly oligarchs? Go tell the human resources departments of Lex Steel, Cygnus Mining, and Mississippi Railway. Post notices in all factories and along the railway lines. If Greeley is elected, all factories of the Argyle Family will immediately shut down. All workers will lose their rice bowls."
"Use the working class's rice bowls to hijack their votes. Let them know that choosing Greeley means choosing their whole family to starve to death."
"As for the third step..."
Felix's gaze grew profound.
"Heh, didn't they accuse us of using fifty thousand dollars to buy science? Then let science slap them in the face."
"Notify Chancellor Armand and have him contact award winners like Helmholtz and Pasteur. Have them publish statements in major newspapers, emphasizing the Clark government's unprecedented support for science and education. Package Thomas as a presidential candidate who 'represents the future and progress of mankind'. And those liberals who oppose him are a group of ignorant villagers trying to drag America back to the agricultural era."
"Smash their halos with the dirtiest mud, blackmail the grassroots votes with the most realistic rice bowls, and finally, crown them in the most noble name of science."
He turned his head and looked at his three subordinates.
"Go start this mincing machine."
"Before the November election, make the name Horace Greeley completely turn into a joke on America's political map."
Leaving aside the reactions of Thomas and Felix, our sight returns once again to the Cincinnati Exhibition Hall.
It was filled with enthusiastic cheers, as if they were going to blow off the wooden roof of this massive building.
Clearly, the roar of Horace Greeley on the podium successfully ignited the anger of all Liberal Republicans and those petty bourgeoisie dissatisfied with the Argyle Family.
Standing behind the curtain and listening to the tsunami-like sound waves outside, Charles Francis Adams curved the corners of his mouth into a satisfied sneer.
"Let's go, Gentlemen."
Adams turned around and said to several of his core staffers beside him.
"The task of the first phase has been completed. Greeley has already started this fire, and for the subsequent matters, we don't need to stay here sweating with those excited rural delegates."
Under the cover of several strong guards, Adams and his party avoided the crowded main entrance and quietly left from the side door of the Exhibition Hall.
Outside the door, two black carriages without any badge markings had been waiting for a long time.
Adams got into the first carriage, the coachman flicked the reins, and the wheels made a monotonous rumble on the slate road, quickly driving away from the bustling downtown center and heading towards a high-end private estate in the suburbs of Cincinnati.
Half an hour later, the carriage stopped in front of the iron-art gate of the estate.
This estate was surrounded by a dense oak forest, and security was extremely strict. Armed guards holding hounds could be vaguely seen in the surrounding bushes.
Adams got off the carriage, and under the guidance of the butler, walked through the foyer paved with heavy marble to the secret study on the second floor.
The door of the study was pushed open, and the rich fragrance of Cuba cigars hit him in the face.
On the genuine leather sofa in the center of the study sat a man around fifty years old.
He had a neat full beard, and on the finger holding the cigar wore a thick gold ring. Seeing Adams walk in, he sized up this political giant with a scrutinizing gaze.
He was William Henry Vanderbilt.
The biological son of Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was known as the Commodore.
Currently, after the old Vanderbilt gradually retreated behind the scenes, William had substantially taken over the massive New York Central Railroad system and most of the core business affairs of the Vanderbilt Family.
"Mr. Adams."
William got up, stepped forward, and extended his right hand, his voice carrying the calmness cultivated from years at the negotiating table.
"Listening to the commotion outside, your performance in the Exhibition Hall was very successful. I could feel that madness even here in the estate."
"Oh no ~ Of course not. Obviously, this is not a performance, Mr. William."
Adams shook his hand, his tone revealing the reticence unique to New England political families.
"This is merely a true reflection of the public opinion of the United States. Of course, without your generous financial support behind the scenes, we wouldn't have been able to drag all those swaying state delegates from the Midwest to Cincinnati. Those chartered special trains, hotel rooms, and the momentum-building articles published in state newspapers this morning all required a massive amount of US dollars."
Adams walked over to the sofa and sat down, taking the bourbon whiskey handed over by the butler.
That's right.
This grand and vigorous Cincinnati Convention, aimed at overthrowing the foundations of the Argyle Family, had as its true financial backer none other than the current person in power of the Vanderbilt Family, William Henry.
"Politics is inherently an expensive business, isn't it."
William sat back in his seat, exhaling blue smoke indifferently.
"I paid for the travel expenses of those delegates, and rented half of the taverns in Cincinnati to let those reporters drink for free. I even used the freight profits of the New York Central Railroad to fill the financial hole of your campaign committee. Mr. Adams, I spent so much money not to buy a few curses from Greeley on stage. What I want is substantive results."
Adams took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the alcohol burning in his throat.
"The result is already out, isn't it. Once Greeley's nomination is confirmed, a substantive split will occur within the Republican Party. Thomas Clark will lose absolute control within the party, and his base in the general election will be shaken."
"As long as Thomas falls, Argyle's political umbrella in Washington will be completely shattered. Without the protection of the Federal Government, those monopolistic industries of the Argyle Family can only be carved up by us using antitrust laws."
Listening to Adams's description, William gently tapped his fingers on the armrest of the sofa.
His gaze appeared somewhat complex.
To the outside world, the Vanderbilt Family had already bowed to Argyle in the railway hegemony battle of New York, and even the old Vanderbilt had joined the so-called spoils-sharing "rebate plan" formulated by Felix.
Moreover, the old Vanderbilt had previously gone to see Felix in person, revealing to him the plan of Old Morgan uniting European families to form a syndicate, indicating the Vanderbilt Family's attitude of staying out of the matter.
The old man was getting on in years and didn't want to risk his life fighting that zenith-reaching Wall Street monster anymore; he chose to yield.
But the old Vanderbilt had no idea at all that his son, who had always been considered "weak-natured" and "more than capable of preserving achievements but lacking in ambition", would secretly take out the family's huge funds to support the liberals in launching this political high-stakes gamble.
"My father is old."
William suddenly said inexplicably.
Adams's hand holding the wine glass paused slightly. He was a shrewd politician and immediately caught the hidden meaning in William's words.
"The old General has fought in the business world for a lifetime, and wanting to enjoy peace in his later years is normal," Adams said, following William's words.
"But I feel... This does not mean that the Vanderbilt Family should live miserably in the shadow of the Argyle's Building."
"Grovel..."
William chewed on this word, the muscles on his face twitching slightly.
"You know, Mr. Adams. Ever since that fellow Argyle occupied those four railway companies, those major freight clients who originally belonged to our New York Central Railroad, those factory owners from Boston and Philadelphia, have been coming to my office less and less."
"They would rather go to the sixth floor of the Argyle's Building and beg that Charles Reeves. Because they are afraid that if they don't take the Argyle Family's railway, they won't be able to get the steel from the Lex Steel Mill or buy the explosives from Vanguard Arms."
"This is no longer normal business competition; this is barbaric tied-selling extortion. If I continue to walk down the compromising path of my father, within five years, the New York Central Railroad will become an abandoned line that can only transport passengers and inferior timber."
William stared fixedly at Adams.
"I must never let the family business of the Vanderbilt Family be ruined in my hands. This money was transferred by me from several overseas accounts behind my father's back. I don't need my father to know; I just need to get Argyle out of the game. As long as Greeley can sit in the White House and sign an executive order breaking up Argyle's monopoly, the return on this political investment will be immeasurable."
Adams put down his wine glass, a cunning look of an old fox flashing in his eyes.
He had always thought that it was the old Vanderbilt who instigated William to fund it, not expecting that this turned out to be William's personal ambition.
But this did not affect his plan; as long as the signature on the check could redeem gold from the bank, the source of funds made no difference to him.
On the contrary, a chaebol second-generation who was eager to get rid of his father's shadow and urgently wanted to prove himself was easier to be kidnapped by politics than that scheming old Vanderbilt.
"Mr. William, your foresight and courage are admirable," Adams said, not sparing his words of praise.
"Rest assured, Greeley has unparalleled prestige among the working class in the North. As long as the funds can be continuously supplied until the November general election, we have enough confidence to drive Thomas Clark back to his hometown."
William sat back down on the sofa, looking at the expensive bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, while memories from more than a year ago uncontrollably surfaced in his mind.
The grandfather clock in the study emitted a dull ticking sound.
William Henry Vanderbilt's fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of his cigar, and his thoughts inevitably drifted back to that stormy night.
That was after Old Vanderbilt went to see Argyle, after Old Morgan was defeated.
That night, in the study of his luxurious mansion on Fifth Avenue, William once again received a guest he didn't much like, yet couldn't turn away.
That distant Dutch cousin, Jan.
The Vanderbilt Family itself was of Dutch immigrant descent, and has always had intricate distant relative connections in Europe.
But William knew very well in his heart that this man named Jan, who on the surface was a distant relative visiting as a guest, actually represented Old Morgan lurking in London and that massive syndicate alliance composed of Europe's ancient financial families, coming to find his father to form an alliance to deal with Argyle.
That night, Jan sat by the fireplace warming himself by the fire, while conversing with William in fluent English.
"William, your father is a stubborn old man."
Jan, holding a wine glass at the time, unceremoniously evaluated this American railway overlord.
"I represent the European syndicate alliance, bringing endless funds and sincerity to seek an alliance with him. He only needs to use the freight network of the New York Central Railroad to cooperate with us in encircling and suppressing the Argyle Family in the steel and financial markets. But he refused, and even went to tip off that kid named Felix."
"This cost me quite a lot of losses..."
William sat behind the desk at the time and replied in a cold tone.
"Father has his considerations; Felix Argyle is a madman. He has cannons and a private army in his hands, as well as Tweed, that underground mayor of New York, acting as an accomplice. Father doesn't want to go head-to-head with New York's most ferocious beast at this time, as it would harm the interests of the shareholders."
"Afraid of harming the shareholders' interests?"
Jan let out a harsh sneer, and he stood up and walked to William's desk.
"So it's fine to harm the interests of me and Old Morgan and the others? You betrayed us! And it even led to the death of that fellow Old Morgan."
"William, it seems that you, just like your father, have contracted a severe case of myopia. You only see tomorrow's freight report, but cannot see the map of America ten years from now!"
"Open your eyes and take a good look!"
"What is Argyle doing? He is acquiring railroads, mining coal, and monopolizing arms and medicine! Now I hear he's even going to build the tallest building in Manhattan."
Jan's gaze revealed a sense of foresight.
"Why did the syndicate organized by Old Morgan unite to deal with him? Because we saw his ambition! He is not doing business, but rather building a capitalist dictatorial empire that overrides the country!"
"If the Argyle Family continues to grow unchecked like this." Jan stared fixedly at William.
"In less than twenty years, the commercial rules of the entire United States will be written by him!"
"By then, America will no longer have any Boston financial groups, Philadelphia old money, let alone a place for your Vanderbilt Family to stand!"
"Your railroads will be forcibly acquired or squeezed out by him, and your wealth will be looted by his inflation and market manipulation. Your father thinks that making concessions can exchange for peace, which is simply foolish. In front of that man-eating monster, making concessions is equivalent to voluntarily sticking your neck into the hangman's noose!"
That night, after leaving these highly seductive and inflammatory words, Jan disappeared into the rainy night of New York.
But these words pierced deeply into William's heart like a poisonous thorn.
William was not stupid; every day he could see the freight volume of the New York Central Railroad struggling to maintain itself under the squeeze of the Pennsylvania Railroad.
Every day he could feel the suffocating sense of oppression exuding from the Argyle Family.
Father was old and had lost his grit.
But he still did not want to admit defeat.
He did not want to become a second-rate merchant who could only live by others' breath when he took over the family business.
The family did not choose to directly join Old Morgan's syndicate to go head-to-head in business, because the cost was too high.
Therefore, he chose another path.
A covert path, yet one sufficient to destroy Felix from the roots.
Politics.
As long as Thomas Clark was driven from office, Felix's empire would lose its legal protective layer. This was why he kept it from his father, secretly contacted Charles Adams, and poured funds into supporting the Liberal Party.
"Mr. William? Mr. William?"
Adams's call pulled William back from his memories.
"Apologies, Mr. Adams, I was thinking of some unpleasant things just now." William refocused his gaze, picked up the cigar on the desk, and took a puff.
"You just said that the first-stage mission is complete. But Argyle will definitely not just wait around; he has such a massive intelligence network and security force. Once he reacts, the counterattack we face will be ferocious."
Adams leaned back on the sofa and smiled confidently.
"This is precisely the second matter I want to discuss with you. We have already anticipated his counterattack and severed his windpipe."
Adams picked up his wine glass, his tone carrying a profound meaning.
"The Argyle Family's biggest advantage in business is their monopoly on information. They control the Western Union Telegraph Company, can print Chicago futures prices on the floor, and can transmit Washington intelligence back to New York in the first instance."
Adams lowered his voice, his eyes flashing with a politician's cunning.
"Over the past half month, I used the money you provided to mobilize some special connections and hired several very professional teams. In the wildernesses of places like Illinois, Missouri, and elsewhere, they precisely severed more than a dozen main lines of the Western Union Telegraph Company."
Hearing this news, William's eyes suddenly lit up.
"No wonder New York's financial markets have reacted much slower these past few days; it turns out you cut their telegraph lines!" William couldn't help praising.
"This is truly a brilliant move. Without the telegraph, Argyle is like a boxer with his eyes blindfolded and ears plugged. No matter how tall his building on Wall Street is, he cannot promptly command those industries of his in the Midwest."
"That's right."
Adams proudly raised his wine glass.
"The reason I chose to hold the convention in Cincinnati was precisely to utilize the vast wilderness of the Midwest. His telegraph lines are broken, and repair teams will be ambushed as soon as they go out. He won't know about anything from today's convention until at least a day later than usual. This gives us ample time to arrange newspaper publications and consolidate our local voter base."
Obviously, they still did not know that Thomas and Felix had already obtained the relevant intelligence.
However, after William's brief excitement, his years of business acumen allowed him to quickly realize the risks involved.
"Mr. Adams, physical sabotage like cutting wires cannot last long." William frowned.
"The Argyle Family has its own private armed forces; the matter of that subordinate of his named Rambo killing people in South America is now known to bankers all across Europe. Once he dispatches elite security teams to set up ambushes in the wilderness, the people you hired will be completely wiped out very soon."
"Of course... I certainly know this won't last long." Adams nodded.
"As long as we can hold out through this week, allowing the news of Greeley obtaining the nomination to thoroughly ferment nationwide and form an irreversible wave of public opinion, our goal will be achieved."
"By the time he fixes the telegraph lines, the working class throughout the entire North will have already stood on Greeley's side."
William Henry Vanderbilt stood up, walked over to the study's liquor cabinet, and poured himself another glass of whiskey.
Outside the window, the night in Cincinnati had completely fallen.
In the distant streets, the noisy celebrations of the Liberal supporters could still be heard.
"Mr. Adams, do not be blinded by temporary victory. You are a politician and may not fully understand Felix Argyle's efficiency in business."
William walked back with his glass and sat down.
"When his telegraph lines are restored and he receives the detailed speech records of today's Cincinnati convention, what do you think he will do? You must know, he is not the kind of gentleman who only knows how to write articles and debate with you in the newspapers."
Adams smiled slightly, clearly full of confidence.
"Mr. William, I have studied Mr. Argyle's style of conduct in New York. He is a realistic creature of interest, and for now, he will not send assassins to murder me or Greeley."
"Because he knows that assassinating a presidential candidate would touch the absolute bottom line of federal law, which would provide an excuse for the National Guard stationed in various states to intervene directly. He dares not run the risk of going to war with the entire state apparatus."
"Therefore, his counterattack can only remain at the commercial and public opinion level," Adams analyzed.
"Public opinion?" William let out a cold snort.
"Have you forgotten how massive his News Media Company is? Fowler controls more than twenty core city newspapers, including The Daily Truth. At Argyle's command, perhaps tomorrow morning, newsstands all across America will be flooded with overwhelming attack articles. They will portray Greeley as a lunatic intent on subverting the country!"
"Of course I haven't forgotten."
Adams tapped the coffee table confidently.
"But this is precisely Greeley's advantage; Greeley himself is the founder of The New York Tribune! He has decades of roots in the northern press, and countless local tabloids are his loyal followers."
"Although the Argyle Family's newspapers have a large circulation, in the eyes of those underlying laborers and abolitionists, they are nothing more than mouthpieces controlled by capitalists. Greeley's credibility among the grassroots populace, I believe, is something Felix cannot buy with money."
Looking at William, a vicious flash crossed Adams's eyes.
"As soon as the Argyle Family's newspapers begin to smear Greeley, we will immediately mobilize our media to define this smear as 'the desperation of monopolistic oligarchs.' The fiercer they curse, the more the common people will feel that Greeley has touched the capitalists' sore spot, and Greeley's approval rating will actually rise even higher."
After listening, William nodded slightly, clearly approving of this argument.
After all, politicians truly possess a keen intuition when it comes to manipulating public opinion.
"Then what about the commercial level?" William continued to press.
"Greeley directly named Argyle's major companies in his speech. What if Felix uses his industrial privileges to coerce voters?"
"This... actually, this is also my biggest concern." Adams's brow furrowed, looking as though he had indeed been hit where it hurts and was somewhat worried.
"If Argyle issues mandatory orders in his factories, threatening the workers that if Greeley is elected, the factories will close down and everyone will lose their livelihoods. Between a starving stomach and a ballot, many workers might yield."
After speaking, Adams suddenly looked at William.
"However, I think this shouldn't be too big of a deal, because you can completely step forward to handle this matter, Mr. William. After all, in the industrial and freight fields, perhaps the Vanderbilt Family is the only force capable of contending with the Argyle Family."
Hearing this, William widened his eyes.
What the hell are you talking about?
Do you even hear yourself?
Having taken so much of his money, now he still wanted him to bring out actual commercial chips to hedge against the threats of the Argyle Family.
The key point is, isn't this putting himself out in the open?
But...
It doesn't seem completely out of the question either.
After all, being able to make Argyle act like this must mean it's a life-or-death moment, and exposing oneself at that time could also boost one's own reputation.
"Ahem... If Felix really uses shutdowns and dismissals to threaten the workers, I can release word within the New York Central Railroad system. Tell those workers that as long as they persist in voting for the Liberals, once dismissed by Argyle, the New York Central Railroad and our affiliated factories will hire them on a priority basis. Moreover, the salary will not be reduced."
"Not only that..."
William gritted his teeth and decided to go ruthless.
"I can also secretly contact those meat processors in Chicago who are on the verge of bankruptcy due to being squeezed by the Metropolitan Trading Company, as well as those textile tycoons in Boston who are dissatisfied with Argyle's cotton monopoly. Let them make the same commitment in their own factories, forming an anti-Argyle Family employer alliance."
"We can let those workers know that America is not just Argyle's. Leaving him, everyone can still survive just fine."
A satisfied smile appeared on Adams's face.
"Truly a perfect response strategy, Mr. William. With your commercial endorsement, I think Greeley can charge ahead without any worries behind."
Adams raised his glass to celebrate.
But William did not raise his glass.
His fingers tightly pinched the edge of the glass, and a tricky factor suddenly flashed through his mind.
"Wait... Mr. Adams, it seems we missed an important question."
William's voice became somewhat low, revealing a deep dread.
"Perhaps I can contend in business and engage in a war of words in public opinion. However, there is a group of people we have no way to refute. And this group of people are mostly in the laboratories of Argyle University now."
Adams was stunned for a moment, then his expression changed slightly.
"You mean... those European scientists and scholars?"
"Exactly!"
William heavily slammed his glass onto the coffee table and looked at Adams.
"Joule, Helmholtz, Pasteur. And that damned British Prime Minister Gladstone! Argyle used fifty thousand dollars to place them on a pedestal."
"Now, in the eyes of the common people, the Argyle Family is not only merchants, but also the protectors of truth and civilization!"
"If, when the election campaign enters its most deadlocked moment, he makes these deities who possess absolute authority in the scientific world step forward, publishing a statement in the newspapers saying that Thomas Clark's government is one that respects science and promotes human progress, while we Liberals are a group of old forces attempting to hinder the development of the era."
"Mr. Adams. You can refute politicians, you can curse capitalists. But can you publicly refute a scientist in the newspapers who has just determined the law of cosmic energy or invented a medicine to cure plagues?"
"Will those intellectuals believe your political slogans, or will they believe those scholars?"
Silence filled the study.
Cold sweat seeped out from Adams's forehead.
Indeed.
Science has no political attributes.
You must know that although scientists do not have much status at present, because of the awards hosted by Felix, most commoners in Europe and America have already learned of the greatness of these scientists.
They might not care too much about the achievements, but they will certainly still give them the respect they deserve.
Therefore, in Felix's hands, these leading figures symbolizing the highest human intellect have turned into an unsolvable nuclear weapon on the political battlefield.
"We... must find a way to counter them." Adams's voice was somewhat dry.
"How to counter? Go to Europe and buy a few runner-ups who didn't win the award to write articles attacking them?" William smiled bitterly and shook his head.
"That would only make people think we are jealous."
As the night wind passed through the half-open lattice window, the light and shadow of the gas lamp in the study swayed.
William Henry Vanderbilt and Charles Francis Adams sat facing each other, their complexions appearing somewhat gloomy under the lamplight.
"Are we just going to watch Argyle use the reputations of those Europeans to package Thomas Clark as the savior of civilization?" William clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white.
"If the authority of science truly intervenes in the general election, all our public opinion advantages will likely collapse."
Adams stood up and paced back and forth anxiously in the study for a few laps.
As an old fox who had immersed himself in politics for decades, he absolutely would not allow his painstaking efforts to be ruined at the hands of a few European old men messing with flasks and formulas.
"Science is indeed progressing, and the common people truly revere those doctors who can cure diseases."
After thinking for a moment, Adams stopped in his tracks, his gaze gradually turning cold and grim.
"But Mr. William, do not forget, this is America. In many remote states, it is still a conservative country that believes the Earth is flat and that disease is God's punishment. The light of science has not illuminated every corner of this continent."
Adams walked up to William and lowered his voice.
"Among those scholars placed on the altar by Argyle, wasn't there a person named Charles Darwin nominated as a core candidate for the medical award?"
William thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes, although the final winner was that Frenchman named Pasteur, Darwin did enter the final list of the top five. I remember this caused quite a bit of controversy at the time."
"Perhaps this is our breakthrough!"
Adams's eyes flashed.
"I remember that Darwin's book "On the Origin of Species" was considered absolute heresy in the eyes of the Church. He actually claimed that human beings evolved from monkeys, which directly denied the sanctity of God creating man! In Europe, he was scolded so badly by the Church that he couldn't hold his head up."
The more Adams spoke, the more excited he became.
"Argyle put such a blasphemous person into the list representing the highest honor; this is blatantly provoking the bottom line of the entire Christian world!"
William immediately understood Adams's intention, but still had some doubts.
"But... Darwin didn't win in the end. And in the northern industrial cities, the lower classes' religious fervor is no longer that deep. Based on this point alone, can it overthrow the scientific credibility of the Argyle Family?"
"Darwin alone is certainly not enough, so what we need is a collective panic that forcibly binds "science" and "heresy" together!"
Adams walked quickly to the desk and picked up paper and pen.
"We need to immediately mobilize our church resources in the South and the Midwest hinterland. Find those most conservative and fanatical bishops and pastors. Provide them with funds so they can preach to those pious and ignorant lower-class believers during weekly worship!"
Adams's pen tip scratched forcefully across the paper.
"Tell those believers: Argyle University is not some beacon of civilization; it is the devil's lair."
"Those European scientists they hired are trying to usurp God's power using extremely evil sorcery. Those electric lights are the ghost fires of hell, and those chemical dyes are extracted from human blood!"
"We must portray Argyle as a spokesperson for Satan who funds heresy and attempts to destroy America's traditional faith. And Thomas Clark is this Satan's puppet in the White House!"
William felt a chill run down his back as he listened.
This method of using religious fanaticism to combat scientific rationality was extremely filthy and could even trigger severe social turmoil and bloodshed.
"Mr. Adams, this is too dangerous."
William swallowed a mouthful of saliva, feeling somewhat fearful in retrospect.
Religion was not something so easy to toy with and control; if mishandled, it would end up hurting oneself.
"Inciting religious fanaticism—once out of control, those rioters will not only attack Argyle University, but even attack any factory using new technology. This is devastating to the industry of the entire country."
"Facing the abyss of losing power, we have no qualification to consider the future of the country!" Adams mercilessly interrupted William's concerns.
"Mr. William, didn't you just say that if Felix continues to grow, the Vanderbilt Family will have no place to stand? This is a life-or-death war!"
"If science cannot be used to refute science, then burn science with faith!"
Adams pushed the note filled with the plan in front of William.
"We need Greeley to cooperate in the "New York Tribune". Although Greeley himself does not believe these things, he needs votes. As long as it is implicitly pointed out in the newspaper that the expansion of the Argyle Family has destroyed America's traditional family and religious values, the rest will be handled by those pastors for us."
William looked at the note on the coffee table.
It was filled with words of incitement, slander, and religious persecution.
This was like a dose of poison.
But just as that cousin Jan from the Netherlands said.
If he didn't drink this bottle of poison, he could only watch helplessly as the shadow of Argyle bit by bit completely devoured the Vanderbilt Family.
"Very well, I understand."
William closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he opened his eyes again, the last bit of rationality and bottom line in his eyes had vanished completely, replaced by pure cold-bloodedness and madness.
"I will allocate another five hundred thousand dollars. This money will be used exclusively to bribe those southern churches and conservative media. As long as Argyle's reputation can be ruined, as long as those old European guys can be forced back across the Atlantic Ocean, I will pay no matter how much it costs."
"That's right, Mr. William. On the chessboard of politics, there are never any clean chips."
Adams smiled with satisfaction, picked up the somewhat lukewarm whiskey on the table, and drained it in one gulp.
Sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows onto the conference table, and the air was thick with cigar smoke.
Felix sat behind his desk, holding a long voter registration data analysis sheet in his hands.
The office door was pushed open, and Tom Hayes, president of the Patriot Investment Company, strode in.
His sleeves were rolled up slightly and his tie was somewhat loose; he had clearly just pulled himself away from the noisy stock ticker room on the third floor.
"Boss, you wanted to see me?" Hayes walked to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
Tossing the data sheet onto the desk, Felix leaned back in his chair.
"Tom, how is the settlement of the profits from shorting Argentine railway bonds in London going?"
Hayes immediately recalled the figures in his mind.
"All short positions have been fully closed. After deducting the stock borrowing interest and transaction fees paid to those European intermediary banks, we made a net profit of 3.2 million dollars in this one-sided slaughter. This capital is currently sitting safely in the vault on the second basement floor in the form of gold and bearer bonds."
Felix nodded, his fingers lightly tapping twice on the desk.
"Set this money aside in a separate, special internal account. Code-name it 'Moat'."
Hayes paused for a moment. As a financial predator, he had a keen sense for the movement of capital.
"Boss, aren't we putting this money into General Electric's R&D or Cygnus Mining's expansion?"
"Not for now. Those industries have their own budgets. All 3.2 million dollars will be poured into this year's general election."
Hayes was somewhat surprised.
"You should know that three million dollars in campaign funds is an absolute fortune. Even the official campaign funds of both national party committees usually only amount to a few hundred thousand dollars."
"Don't be surprised. Adams and Greeley have made quite a stir in Cincinnati. They are trying to use public opinion to drive Thomas out of the White House."
"Fowler's News Media Company is already prepared to smear Greeley in the newspapers, but that is far from enough. Newspapers can only make voters dislike Greeley; they cannot make them actively vote for Thomas. So we need Thomas to go out there, to those swing states, and use the most direct benefits to sweep votes into our ballot boxes."
Felix stood up, walked over to Hayes, and patted him on the shoulder. He began to map out this political whistle-stop marketing campaign in detail.
"I want you to oversee this campaign fund and immediately coordinate with Charles of the Mississippi Railroad. Charter three Pullman special trains for me."
"Have the entire exterior of the trains painted with the Stars and Stripes of the United States and Thomas's campaign slogans, and install an open-air speaking platform at the rear of the carriages. Thomas will take this special train, starting from Washington, and travel along our rail lines through Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, all the way to Illinois."
"Hmm... let's call it a whistle-stop tour."
Felix threw out this political term, which was still very novel in this era, and then walked back behind his desk, picking up a pen to write down a few numbers on a blank sheet of paper.
"As for the specific allocation of funds..."
"First, allocate five hundred thousand dollars to campaign managers in various regions. When Thomas's train stops at any small town's station, I demand that the best brass band must be playing on the platform. The area around the station must be filled with free beer kegs and grilled hot dogs."
Felix's tone carried the pragmatic logic of winning votes.
"Those workers who have just finished their shifts at the factories, or farmers coming out of the fields, don't care at all about the noble slogans of the Liberals. As long as you give them free meat and alcohol, they will eat and drink their fill, and then join the band in chanting Thomas's name."
Hayes scribbled rapidly in his notebook.
"Understood, boss. First, win over the stomachs of the working-class voters."
"Mhm—that's just the bottom tier," Felix continued.
"Allocate another million dollars, converted into small-denomination bearer drafts and gold coins. Deliver them directly into the hands of the ward bosses in those swing states through our Intelligence Department informants."
"In America today, there is no strict secret ballot system."
"Ballots are often printed in advance by the grassroots bosses of each party and distributed to voters. As long as we win over these bosses who hold sway in the neighborhoods, it is equivalent to controlling thousands of votes."
"Tell those bosses that as long as Thomas's vote share in their respective neighborhoods exceeds seventy percent, the factories and railroads under the Argyle Family's name will provide them with some jobs after the election, to distribute to their subordinates however they see fit."
As he spoke, Felix drew a heavy circle on the paper with his fountain pen.
"The remaining funds will serve as a flexible reserve, ready at any moment to counter any vote-buying counterattacks from the Liberals or the Democratic Party. Tom, this election is the political shield of our business empire. Once that shield shatters, our factories everywhere will face endless tax audits and antitrust investigations. Can you do the math on this?"
Closing his notebook, Hayes's expression grew serious.
"I've calculated it very clearly, boss. This 3.2 million dollars isn't just spent; it's buying us four years of leverage. I will spend every single cent where it matters most. I will personally send people to oversee the accounts of the campaign team in Washington, and I won't let those people play any tricks."
"Very good. I'm at ease leaving the political ledger to you. Now, let's talk about the trouble in our industries."
Felix shifted the topic, tearing up the paper with the campaign funds written on it and tossing it into the wastepaper basket.
"Regarding General Electric, the copper supply issue. Have you made any progress with your layout in Boston?"
Hearing this, Hayes smiled immediately.
"Boss, I was just about to report to you. I have already mobilized the five million dollars in bridge funding from the Argyle Imperial Bank. To expand their deep mines, the Calumet Mining Company in Boston has issued a large volume of short-term commercial paper to dozens of small banks and trust companies in the New England area over the past six months."
"This paper was originally circulating based on their commercial reputation in Boston. Over the past three days, using scattered dummy accounts, I have quietly acquired all the Calumet commercial paper available on the market at a slight discount under the name of the Patriot Investment Company."
"Have you set the time to draw the net?"
"It's set for this Friday at 2:30 PM." Hayes checked his watch.
"Half an hour before the banks close for settlement. I will send people with leather suitcases stuffed with this paper to block the doors of Boston's core clearing banks, demanding immediate and full redemption in gold or federal coins."
Felix nodded. He knew that this kind of legal financial run was fatal in an era lacking a central bank to regulate it.
"Give them no room to breathe. Once their capital chain snaps, those premium copper mine shares pledged to the banks will enter liquidation. I want you to swallow every last piece of those shares."
"Understood!"
Watching Hayes's retreating figure as he walked out of the office, Felix turned to look at the sky outside the window.
The financial noose had already been tightened around the necks of Boston's old money, while thousands of miles away in the western wilderness, another physical plunder for copper mines had also begun.
Montana Territory, Butte Town.
The streets here were unpaved, and after a torrential rainstorm yesterday, carriage wheels had ground through the muddy dirt roads, leaving behind deep ruts.
Crude wooden shacks lined both sides of the streets, with untreated bark still visible on their roofs. Drunken gold prospectors and explorers leading pack horses could be seen everywhere.
This small town, which had enjoyed a brief boom over the past decade or so due to placer gold and silver veins, was now facing a panic over resource depletion. The surface gold and silver had been completely mined out, and many mining companies were starting to pull out, leaving behind a crowd of desperate miners.
And on the muddiest main street in the center of town...
...in front of a newly purchased two-story wooden building, several strong men were hanging up a heavy brass sign.
Carved on the sign in large letters was: "Argyle Empire Bank — Butte Mining Evaluation Office".
Jack, wearing a thick, windproof woolen overcoat, stood in the mud and watched the sign go up. Behind him stood over a dozen fully armed security guards from Cygnus Mining, each holding a repeating rifle, their eyes warily scanning the hostile prospectors around them.
"Hurry up, set up the counter. Carry the safe inside—it's full of cash, so have the boys keep watch on it in day and night shifts," Jack commanded.
Soon, the evaluation office opened for business.
Jack had his men post notices at the entrances of all the town's saloons: The Argyle Family was buying up the ownership of all abandoned silver mines and private exploration deeds around the town with cash.
As soon as the notices went up, the entire town of Butte was in an uproar.
An old, unshaven miner smelling of alcohol squeezed through the doors of the evaluation office, clutching a stack of documents.
"Do you really pay in cash? America's federal greenbacks?" the old miner asked, looking suspiciously at Jack sitting behind the counter.
"As long as your deed is legal," Jack said, taking out a stack of brand-new bills and slapping them onto the counter.
The old miner swallowed hard and handed over a yellowed parchment deed.
"This is for a mine pit halfway up the mountain on the east side of town. It used to produce silver, but now, digging down, it's nothing but worthless yellow-green rocks. Nothing can be refined from them. But the land is mine."
Jack took the deed and turned to hand it to a middle-aged man with glasses sitting next to him.
This was the chief geologist urgently reassigned from the Central Laboratory in New Jersey.
The geologist pulled out a magnifying glass and examined a few ore samples brought by the old miner. Then, he took a small vial of nitric acid from his leather case and dripped it onto the ore.
The surface of the ore immediately bubbled with a pungent fizz, and the liquid turned a deep blue-green.
The geologist's hand trembled slightly, and he leaned in close to Jack, lowering his voice to a shocked whisper.
"Extremely high-grade chalcocite and chalcopyrite. The yellow-green 'worthless rock' this old man mentioned probably has a copper content exceeding ten percent! The boss's intuition is terrifyingly accurate. What is buried underground here is not silver—it's a mountain of copper."
Jack nodded, showing no emotion.
He turned back to look at the old miner.
"We'll take this land. Five hundred dollars in cash."
Hearing this figure, the old miner nearly fainted with excitement. This was enough for him to buy a decent house on the East Coast.
Without hesitation, he pressed his thumbprint onto the deed of transfer, snatched up the bills, and ran out the door.
"Keep buying. No matter the asking price, buy up every single deed on this mountain with cash," Jack ordered the security captain.
Under the dual onslaught of relentless cash offers and the intimidating force of repeating rifles, the Argyle Family began a frantic land-grabbing campaign in this remote Montana town.
Quietly, they were pocketing the very lifeblood of the upcoming electrical age for decades to come.
Meanwhile, on the East Coast, in Boston.
Friday, 2:00 PM.
Federal Street, Boston's most bustling financial district.
The sky was gloomy with a light drizzle, and pedestrians on the street hurried past.
In front of the Boston Commercial Bank, several black bulletproof carriages abruptly pulled to a halt.
Over a dozen men in black suits, carrying heavy leather cases, stepped out of the carriages and walked straight into the bank's main lobby, escorted by Golden Shield Security personnel.
Leading them was a manager from the Patriot Investment Company.
He walked up to the settlement counter in the bank lobby and slammed the leather case in his hand onto the marble countertop.
"I want to see your president."
The manager said to the teller behind the counter.
Seeing that these people meant business, the teller quickly ran to the back to fetch the president.
The president, a plump man in his fifties, came out wiping his hands. Looking at the imposing lineup before him, an ominous premonition welled up in his heart.
"Gentlemen, how may I help you?"
Without wasting words, the manager opened the leather case.
It was packed to the brim with stacks of stamped commercial paper.
"These are short-term commercial papers issued by Calumet Mining Company and accepted by your bank, totaling 1.2 million dollars," the manager said, handing a liquidation statement to the president.
"As the legal holder of these papers, Patriot Investment Company now demands full redemption. According to the terms, we require payment in gold or federal coins."
The president's face instantly turned deathly pale.
"1.2 million... in gold? Sir, are you joking? There's only half an hour left before the bank closes. The vault simply doesn't have that much cash and gold reserves. Although these papers are short-term, they are usually extended through book entry transfers!"
The banking reserve ratio at this time was extremely low.
Banks loaned out depositors' money, typically keeping only a tiny fraction of cash in the vault to handle daily withdrawals.
"That is your practice, not the law," the manager said mercilessly.
"All I know is that if the papers in this leather case aren't converted into gold by three o'clock this afternoon, we will immediately petition the court for involuntary bankruptcy liquidation. If your bank fails, the shares of Calumet Mining Company pledged as collateral here will be legally taken over by us as non-performing assets."
Hearing this, the president slumped back into his chair.
This wasn't a withdrawal; this was an execution.
The same scene unfolded simultaneously at 2:30 PM on Friday in the lobbies of five major clearing banks in Boston.
Five million dollars in commercial paper, like a sharp dagger, pierced precisely into the main artery of Boston's mining capital funding chain at the exact same moment.
How incredibly similar the scene was to before.
And this news swept through the Boston financial sector like a hurricane.
Unable to produce enough gold for redemption, these five banks were forced to announce a suspension of business at 3:00 PM that same afternoon.
What was more, newspapers under the news media banner immediately followed up with massive publicity about the matter.
Consequently, panic spread in an instant.
By Monday morning, citizens and small merchants with bank deposits rushed to the bank doors like madmen, demanding to withdraw cash.
A classic financial bank run, orchestrated behind the scenes by Felix, broke out in Boston without the slightest surprise.
And Calumet Mining Company's proud funding chain also snapped with a crash on this Monday afternoon, along with the closure of the banks.