Illinois, at a railway freight station on the outskirts of Springfield.
The October autumn rain had been falling continuously for three days.
What should have been the busiest season for grain shipping was now frighteningly quiet at the freight station.
There was no roar of steam locomotives, no shouts of porters.
Only an extremely pungent, sour and foul smell mixed with rainwater and fermenting, rotting grain permeated the entire air.
Dozens of farmers wearing coarse cloth coats stood on the muddy platform.
Rainwater streamed down their worn, wide-brimmed hats.
They stared fixedly at the bright red notice pasted on the door of the freight station dispatcher's office.
"Notice from the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company: Due to autumn line maintenance and bridge inspections, all freight trains in this region are suspended indefinitely. Resumption time will be notified separately."
The fifty-something old farmer's legs went soft, and he knelt directly in the muddy water, staring blankly at the hundreds of bags of wheat piled in the open air in the distance.
Because the warehouses had long been overflowing, those wheat packed in gunny sacks could only be piled outside, covered with a few layers of thin tarpaulins.
However, soaked by the continuous autumn rain, the tarpaulins were completely useless.
After absorbing water, the wheat began to heat up, mold, and even grow green sprouts on the edges of some sacks.
"It's over, it's all over."
The old farmer plunged his rough hands into the muddy water, his voice tinged with a cry.
"My loan is due next month. If these wheat cannot be shipped to the East Coast to be exchanged for cash, the bank will take away my farm. My family can only go begging on the street in winter."
The young farmer beside him rushed angrily to the closed window of the dispatcher's office, pounding fiercely on the glass.
"Open the door! You liars! There was still a passenger train passing through here yesterday, the tracks are not broken at all! You did this on purpose!"
No one responded inside the dispatcher's office.
Only a few armed railway guards stood inside indifferently, looking at the farmers outside as if looking at a pack of wild dogs about to starve to death.
The same despair was spreading wildly across the agricultural states of the Midwest.
The Metropolitan Trading Company stopped purchasing, and the Railway Company stopped transporting.
Felix's heavy punch directly cut off the lifeline of survival for millions of people.
And this panic rising from the soil quickly spread along the uncut telegraph lines to the East Coast.
Boston, the private study of Charles Francis Adams.
"Bang!"
Horace Greeley slammed the telegrams from Illinois and Indiana fiercely onto Adams's desk.
This press tycoon, who had always presented himself as a moderate intellectual, now had red eyes, like a beast driven into a corner.
"Look at these, Charles. Look at these!"
Greeley pointed at the telegrams, his voice trembling with anger.
"The grain in the entire Midwest is rotting. Those farmers who listened to us and joined the Grange are now facing bankruptcy! Argyle not only stopped the trains, but his trading company is not even willing to spend a single cent! This is holding the livelihoods of millions of people hostage for votes!"
"Is there still any law in his eyes!"
Adams sat in the high-backed chair, looking at the telegrams with a livid face, unable to say a single word.
The study door was pushed open.
William Henry Vanderbilt walked in, his steps appearing somewhat heavy.
"Our legal raid failed."
William did not sit down, directly throwing out even worse news.
He looked at Adams, his tone revealing a deep sense of powerlessness.
"The emergency injunction from Judge Harrison has been indefinitely shelved, and the legal team inside the Argyle's Building is simply a bunch of thugs! In dozens of local courts in New York, New Jersey, and even Pennsylvania, they simultaneously filed countersuits against the shell companies we used to file lawsuits!"
William walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of strong liquor.
"They are suing us for commercial defamation, falsifying evidence, and even shockingly suing us for monopoly. Right now, the controversial documents concerning jurisdiction alone have filled the basement of the Supreme Court."
"Right now, the judges in Washington dare not touch this hornet's nest at this time. Before jurisdiction is sorted out, no one can get an asset freeze order against the Metropolitan Trading Company."
Adams closed his eyes, his fingers rubbing his brows in agony.
"The law has become their shield, and we were drowned by their paper-sea tactics in court."
"This is not a legal issue at all!" Greeley interrupted them angrily.
"The problem now is the farmers' stomachs! Mr. William, you are also in the railroad business. Can the New York Central Railroad under your command dispatch cars over there? Ship out those farmers' grain!" Greeley stared fixedly at William.
William took a sip of wine, smiled bitterly, and shook his head.
"Horace, you think too simply of railroads." William put down his wine glass.
"The right-of-way over there is entirely in the hands of the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company. If my train wants to drive in, it must pass through their main line. They have now hung out the red sign of 'line overhaul'."
"If my train forcibly drives over, and any accident happens, the responsibility rests entirely with the New York Central Railroad. Moreover, even if I transport the grain out, the grain merchants on the East Coast have long been controlled by the Metropolitan Trading Company, who would dare to accept these goods?"
William looked at Greeley, his gaze beginning to turn realistic.
"This is an absolute commercial barrier. Argyle has not only controlled the wheels, but also the buyers. What can we use to save those farmers?"
Greeley slumped dejectedly onto the sofa.
That iconic white hat fell onto the carpet, and he couldn't even bother to pick it up.
"How could he dare to do this... Isn't he afraid that the millions of people in the Midwest will pick up guns and rebel?" Greeley muttered to himself.
"Rebel?"
Adams let out a cold snort and opened his eyes.
"What can they use to rebel? Horace. They don't even have money to buy bread now. A few days ago, the Archbishop of New York and the pastor of Chicago jointly issued a statement. Now, those believers who were not steadfast to begin with have begun to believe that you and I incited the assassination of the President. We are suspects morally and losers commercially."
Adams walked to the window, looking at the gloomy sky of Boston.
"Argyle has calculated us to death. He used religion to destroy our reputation, and then used the wheat rotting in the mud to break the spines of those farmers. When those farmers are so hungry they can't bear it, they won't come to us. They will kneel in front of the trains of the Argyle Family, begging them to haul the grain away."
"This round, we have lost."
Adams turned around and spat out these four words with difficulty.
"No! I can still write articles!"
Greeley stood up abruptly, paranoia flashing in his eyes.
"I want to expose all this in the New York Tribune! I want to tell all of America, this is the conspiracy of Felix Argyle!"
"Write, go write."
William Vanderbilt looked at him coldly.
"When you write those words, another ton of the farmers' wheat will rot. Your article cannot be exchanged for a bank's banker's acceptance. Horace, admit it, in front of the meat grinder of capital, your pen is not even as good as a wooden stick."
Unlike that despair-filled study in Boston, the air in the Oval Office of the White House was filled with the mellow aroma of high-end cigars, and one could even hear the crisp sound of ice cubes clinking in whiskey glasses.
Acting President Thomas Clark sat behind that spacious desk.
The wound on his right cheek had begun to scab over, and the heavy gauze that had originally been wrapped around it was replaced with a small medical dressing.
Far from damaging his image, the dressing actually gave him an iron-blooded aura, as if he had just stepped off a battlefield.
Secretary Stanton sat on the sofa, holding a freshly delivered summary of nationwide state poll data.
Sitting next to Secretary Stanton was the Senate majority whip, Senator Elijah Thorne, representing the core strength of the Republican Party establishment.
"Look at these numbers, Gentlemen."
The smile on Senator Thorne's face was almost overflowing as he distributed several reports in his hand to Thomas and Stanton.
"It's simply a miracle! After the news of His Excellency the President encountering 'mob assassination' in Indiana was published in the newspapers, coupled with the joint endorsement of those mainstream Catholic and Protestant bishops, our voter support rate in industrial cities across the entire East Coast directly soared by twelve percentage points!"
Senator Thorne raised his glass and waved it excitedly.
"Those Irish and Italian workers now regard the liberals as heretics who are smashing their rice bowls. During the street speeches that old madman Greeley gave in New York, the crowd below was entirely composed of citizens organized by our people to throw rotten eggs. The liberals' campaign team can't even hold a decent rally anymore."
Thomas Clark touched the dressing on his cheek, a smug smile curving the corners of his mouth.
"We have those stone-throwing fools to thank. They thought they could drive me out of the White House with such despicable means, but instead they handed the keys right into my hands."
Thomas leaned back in his chair, enjoying the pleasure brought by power.
"Secretary Stanton, how is the situation over in the Midwest? Have the military received any reports of riots?" Thomas turned his head and asked.
Stanton exhaled a thick puff of smoke, his expression remaining cold and rigid.
"There are no riots, Your Excellency the President. Or rather, they no longer have the strength to riot."
Stanton tossed a Military Intelligence briefing onto the coffee table.
"My garrison commanders in Illinois and Iowa sent confidential reports that the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company has completely suspended operations. The granary gates of the Metropolitan Trading Company are tightly shut, and tens of thousands of tons of autumn-harvested wheat are molding in the open air. The farmers' cash flows have completely snapped."
Stanton raised his head and looked at Thomas.
"Your Excellency the President, Felix's move this time is too ruthless. He is not conducting commercial competition; he is carrying out indiscriminate slaughter on the agricultural economies of several states. Several local small banks declared bankruptcy yesterday. If this continues, a famine will break out there in less than half a month. Once people starve to death, no matter how much religion brainwashes them, the common people will still pin the blame on the government."
"This time, it's going too far!"
"Hearing the words'starve to death', the smile on Senator Thorne's face froze."
"Secretary Stanton is right."
Senator Thorne immediately put away his previous fanaticism, replacing it with a politician's cautious expression.
"Your Excellency the President, we must pay attention to the balance of public opinion. Although newspapers are currently cursing the liberals, if Midwest agriculture completely collapses, our base will also suffer a heavy blow. The agricultural state congressmen in Congress have already begun pressing me these past few days. They demand that the government step forward and order the Argyle Family to resume railway transportation as soon as possible."
Thomas knitted his brows.
He naturally knew the seriousness of this matter.
But he knew even better that he simply didn't have much power to order that cheap son-in-law sitting in the ten-story building in New York.
"Senator Thorne."
Thomas sat up straight, his tone becoming somewhat heavy.
"How do you expect me to order him? Use an executive order to interfere with the internal line maintenance of a private enterprise? This violates the principles of the free market. Moreover, even if I issued the order, do you think Charles Reeves would listen to the White House or the tenth-floor conference room?"
Senator Thorne fell silent.
He knew very well that the current scale of the Argyle Family was no longer something Washington could manipulate at will.
"We cannot show that we are cooperating with this slaughter." Stanton stood up.
"Your Excellency the President, you must make a statement in public. Express 'deep sympathy' for the plight of Midwest farmers, and call upon the Railway Company to 'complete repairs as soon as possible and restore the smoothness of national logistics.' Put the government's attitude out there, and completely push the responsibility onto the commercial behavior of the Argyle Family."
"Not only must we win the votes, but in this process, we must also make the public realize that the monopoly power of the Argyle Family has reached a dangerous level. After you are re-elected, we need to reconsider the way we cooperate with that young man. He not only controls the hilt of the blade, but now he even controls our dining table."
Listening to Stanton's warning, Thomas also felt helpless inside.
He didn't want to have conflicts with Felix, whether publicly or privately.
But as president, he couldn't just pretend not to see certain things and let the Argyle Family run amok in the country at will.
And he had to admit that when he saw Felix casually using the method of suspending trains to directly pinch the economic lifelines of several states,
he truly felt the terror coming from capital.
Today Felix could use this trick to deal with the liberals' vote bank. If one day, a rift occurred between them,
then could Felix similarly use this trick to turn all of Washington into a dead city?
"I will issue a statement in tomorrow's newspapers."
Thomas picked up his glass and took a sip of whiskey, trying to suppress the irritability in his heart.
"But for now, we must remain silent. Let Felix completely squeeze dry the bones of those farmers. Only when those farmers reach the absolute depths of despair and we step forward to mediate will they treat us as saviors."
The three of them reached a tacit understanding in the office.
In this vortex where power and capital intertwine, no one is truly for the life or death of the common people. The wheat of the farmers rotting in the mud is merely a bargaining chip they use to exchange for votes and test each other's bottom lines.
And in another corner of the country, a group of politicians hiding in the shadows were coldly watching this internal cannibalism of the Republican Party, preparing to look for their own opportunity amidst the corpses covering the ground.
Lower Manhattan is only a few blocks away from the Argyle's Building.
Deep inside a narrow and hidden street, there is a private club with an extremely ordinary exterior.
There are no conspicuous signs, only two burly, vigilant Irish thugs standing at the door.
This is the core stronghold of the Democratic Party in New York, and also a secret gathering place for high-ranking officials of Tammany Hall.
In a private box on the second floor of the club decorated with dark oak wainscoting and heavy velvet curtains.
August Belmont is sitting on a large leather sofa, holding an exquisite silver cigar cutter in his hand, extremely slowly cutting off the head of a cigar.
As the top financier behind the Democratic Party, although his influence on Wall Street has been suppressed by Felix, it still cannot be underestimated.
Sitting opposite him is the former Governor of New York and a heavyweight figure within the Democratic Party, Horatio Seymour.
In the corner of the box, there are also several core leaders of Tammany Hall.
They quietly smoke and listen to the conversation between these two big shots.
"Charles Adams and Horace Greeley are probably finished."
Belmont struck a match to light the cigar and exhaled thick smoke.
"Once the railways in the Midwest stop, Greeley's image in the hearts of those farmers will change from a savior to the person who killed them. Now farmers throughout Illinois and Indiana are struggling on the verge of bankruptcy, and they probably hate the liberals to the core."
Seymour picked up the brandy in front of him and took a sip to himself.
"That old fellow Adams thinks he can topple the current government by giving a few speeches and printing millions of pamphlets. He understands Argyle far too little."
Seymour placed the wine glass on the table with deep eyes.
"Belmont, look at the events of these past few days. Religion, public opinion, law, and even the bottom-tier food transportation. Felix Argyle has treated the core lifeline of the country's operation as a knife to kill in his hands. He doesn't even need an official position in Washington; as long as he sits in that ten-story office building, he can decide the life and death of hundreds of thousands of people. This kind of power is simply more terrifying than the War Department."
Belmont nodded in deep agreement.
"Therefore, our current situation is very awkward. Your Excellency Seymour, the general election is about to begin. The Republican Party has split into Thomas's establishment faction and Greeley's liberal faction. Logically speaking, this is an excellent opportunity for our Democratic Party to retake the White House."
Belmont leaned over, looking at Seymour.
"Many people within the party are calling for us to either put forward our own strong candidate, or simply ally with Greeley's liberals, pool all our votes, and drive Thomas out of office. Just like what happened in history."
"An alliance? An alliance with a rotting corpse?" Seymour let out a low sneer.
"Belmont. You are a smart banker; can't you even figure out this political ledger?"
Seymour walked to the window of the private box, lifted a corner of the curtain, and looked at the Argyle's Building a few blocks away, which was still brightly lit in the night like a steel behemoth.
"Look at that building; that is the real reason why we dare not act rashly."
Seymour turned around and looked at everyone in the private box.
"If we put forward our own candidate now, or go to support Greeley, that would be equivalent to directly declaring war on the Argyle Family. How many chances of winning do you think we have?"
A Tammany Hall leader in the corner spoke up.
"Governor Seymour, we have a massive Irish voter base in New York. If we fight hard for votes, we might not necessarily lose to them."
"Foolish!" Belmont reprimanded unceremoniously.
"Go look at the Archbishop's statement from a few days ago; Felix Argyle has long since fed the church full! As long as the Archbishop says a word at mass, a large half of your Irish voters will defect and vote for Thomas. We can't even protect our own base!"
"Furthermore, have you forgotten that Argyle is also of Irish descent? His prestige among the Irish is much greater than ours."
Seymour walked back to the sofa and sat down, his tone turning calm and realistic.
"Besides, to take a step back, even if we tried our best and managed by luck to drive Thomas out of office, what then?"
Seymour looked at the crowd.
"Do you think that driving the president from office can weaken the Argyle Family? Wrong! Terribly wrong!"
"Argyle controls half of the United States' railway freight, controls the ammunition of Vanguard Arms, and controls the cotton of the South and the steel of the Northeast. Even if someone from our Democratic Party sits in the Oval Office, if he is unhappy, he can shut down factories nationwide and stop trains at any time. By then, our president in the White House will just be a figurehead issuing wastepaper!"
The private box fell into a daze.
This sense of powerlessness, absolutely suppressed by capital, made these big shots who once wielded the wind and rain in the political arena feel a deep sense of fear.
"Since we can't fight, what should we do? Are we just going to play dead in this general election?"
The leader asked unwillingly.
"No, not only can we not play dead, we must also make the smartest deal." Seymour's eyes flashed with a politician's cunning.
"Belmont. Regarding the party nomination, just find someone to fill in. We must completely withdraw our main energy and funds from the presidential election and abandon the White House."
Seymour issued a startling strategic contraction instruction.
"Abandon the White House? Then what are we fighting for?" Belmont frowned.
"Fight for local control! Fight for governors, state legislators, and mayors of major cities!" Seymour slammed his hand on the table.
"The Argyle Family's gaze is fixed on Washington and nationwide monopolies, so they can't care about so many local details. We are going to take advantage of when the Republican Party is fighting fiercely at the top, pouring all our funds into local elections and taking all those ignored seats!"
Seymour looked at Belmont, revealing a meaningful smile.
"And. We must also secretly send someone to contact Felix Argyle's secretary-general, Edward Frost."
"What for?"
"Of course, to tell them that the Democratic Party will not pose any substantive threat to Thomas Clark's re-election in this general election. We can remain silent. But in exchange, we need the Argyle Family to give us financial or media support in certain local elections."
"After all, didn't we have some connections with the Argyle Family back then? We can totally make use of them."
"I suppose Argyle won't pin all his hopes on the Republican Party either."
Seymour picked up his wine glass and drained it in one gulp.
"This is called political survival. Since we cannot defeat that monster, we must learn how to pick up the crumbs belonging to us under the monster's shadow. As long as we preserve our local foundation, when one day in the future the Republican Party self-destructs due to hubris, we will be the only force capable of taking over this country."
The politicians and leaders in the private box nodded one after another.
This pragmatic, even somewhat cowardly decision, when facing the absolute crushing pressure of the Republican Party, was the only correct survival rule.
In Illinois, in front of a regional branch building of the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company.
The sky remained gloomy, and the continuous autumn rain seemed as if it would never stop.
On the plaza outside the building, muddy water flowed everywhere.
Hundreds of farmers stood in the rain.
They carried no umbrellas; their worn, wide-brimmed hats were completely collapsed from the rain, obscuring their faces, which were filled with despair and exhaustion.
Gone was the fanaticism of a few days ago in the taverns, where they had waved pamphlets and shouted to overthrow the monopoly oligarchs.
At this moment, they were like a crowd of walking dead with their spines ripped out.
The sour, rotten stench of fermenting wheat hanging in the air was even stronger than it had been a few days ago. That wheat was the culmination of a year's hard work, their only hope of repaying their bank loans, and now it had all turned into garbage piled next to the train station.
The brass doors of the building were tightly shut.
Two rows of railway guards, holding vicious dogs and repeating rifles, stood expressionlessly on the steps, coldly watching the crowd of farmers.
"Open the door... please, I beg of you."
The old farmer who had previously cursed the Railway Company for robbery in the tavern was now kneeling in a muddy puddle at the bottom of the steps. His hands, once calloused and strong, were desperately clawing at the cold stone steps.
"My wheat is completely ruined, and the town bank is coming tomorrow to foreclose. I don't want the three-dollar shipping rate anymore, and I don't even want eighty cents. Just haul away the wheat that's still edible, pay me whatever you want, and let me buy some coal for my children to get through the winter."
The old farmer's voice sounded so weak and desolate in the autumn rain.
Behind him, the hundreds of once-passionate Grange League members also bowed their heads in defeat.
In the face of absolute starvation and bankruptcy, political ideals and liberal promises all turned into laughable bubbles.
Greeley's angry roars in the newspapers could not secure even a tiny bit of leniency from the banks.
"Creak..."
The heavy brass doors of the building finally creaked open slowly.
Charles Reeves walked out, flanked by several senior executives.
Standing high on the steps, he looked down at the crowd of farmers in the rain, who resembled beggars. There was not a shred of pity in his eyes, only the coldness of a capitalist manager.
"Quiet!"
The executive beside Reeves shouted loudly through a tin megaphone.
The plaza instantly fell dead silent, with only the sound of rain hitting the ground. All the farmers looked at Reeves with eyes full of longing, even begging.
Reeves walked to the edge of the steps and looked down at the old farmer kneeling in front of him.
"I heard that a few days ago, you distributed millions of pamphlets in the town. You said our Railway Company is an iron collar around the neck of the Republic? You called us vampires?"
Reeves's voice was not loud, but in this silent plaza, everyone heard him clearly.
"That pamphlet also said that as long as you cast your votes for the liberal Horace Greeley, he will pass laws in Congress to enforce a cap on our shipping rates and throw us railway bosses into prison. Correct?"
The farmers below trembled with fear; none dared to answer.
"Ha! Since Mr. Greeley is so great,"
Reeves sneered, pointing to the moldy granaries at the distant train station.
"then why didn't you go to New York to find him? Why didn't you turn his newspapers into boxcars to haul your grain to the East Coast to sell? What are you doing kneeling in front of my office building?"
Every word cut to the bone.
This incredibly blunt humiliation sliced through the farmers' remaining dignity like a knife.
"Mr. Reeves... we were wrong."
Several grassroots leaders of the Grange League stepped forward, their voices choked with tears.
"We shouldn't have listened to the instigations of those politicians; we are just simple farmers. Please, let the trains run. If they don't, the farms in these states will be completely finished."
Reeves looked at these completely broken men and knew the timing was perfect.
The task his boss had given him was not to actually destroy their economy, but to completely rewrite the political DNA of this land.
Reeves pulled a thick stack of documents from his trench coat pocket and tossed them to a nearby guard.
"Distribute these."
The guards walked down the steps, handing out the printed covenants to the farmers and leaders.
"This is not a shipping contract; this is a political declaration," Reeves announced loudly.
"The Argyle Family does not feed ungrateful wolves, nor do we provide services to those who attempt to destroy our business."
Reeves pointed at the farmers holding the covenants.
"Look closely at the terms. If you want the trains to run again, and if you want the Metropolitan Trading Company to continue purchasing your grain, fine! But you must do two things."
"First, as members of the Grange League, you must publicly publish a statement in all Midwestern newspapers. You must admit that those previous pamphlets about railway monopolies and shipping rate conspiracies were nothing but malicious lies fabricated by the liberals to steal votes. You must publicly apologize to the Argyle Family!"
The farmers looked at the covenants in their hands, their hands trembling.
This was forcing them to slap their own faces and completely renounce their previous resistance.
"Second, and most importantly."
"In the upcoming general election, I want every single farmer in these states to cast your votes—and those of your families—entirely and without exception for President Thomas Clark!"
Reeves looked at the pale-faced leaders.
"We will station people at every polling place to verify the district data. If President Clark does not win an overwhelming victory in your agricultural states..."
The corners of Reeves's mouth curled into a cruel arc.
"Then, next spring, not only will we conduct a'spring line overhaul,' but those local banks will also immediately initiate all foreclosure proceedings. When that time comes, I will make sure that even the very dirt you stand on no longer belongs to you."
A threat!
A blatant, naked threat!
In the face of this covenant, democracy and freedom became the cheapest scrap paper.
"Mr. Reeves... if we sign, can the trains run today? What about our losses?" the old farmer asked, trembling as he voiced the question everyone cared about most.
"As long as you sign and press your thumbprints on the statement," Reeves replied with absolute crispness.
"I guarantee that within twelve hours, hundreds of freight trains will enter all branch line stations. The Metropolitan Trading Company will purchase your grain that hasn't completely moldered at last year's normal market price. As for the losses you've incurred..."
Reeves threw out a poisoned carrot.
"The Patriot Investment Company will provide you with a low-interest bridge loan to help you get through the hardships of this winter."
Break your legs, then hand you a pair of crutches.
And then tell you that as long as you behave, those crutches won't be taken away.
The farmers had absolutely no choice.
In the autumn rain, hundreds of farmers lined up to sign their names or press their red thumbprints on the covenant that sold their political souls.
When the last covenant was collected,
Reeves turned and walked back into the building, issuing an order to the telegraph operator beside him.
"Notify the entire line that the autumn overhaul is over. All freight trains are to resume operations immediately. Send Metropolitan's buyers into the field to collect the wheat."
"Woo—"
In less than an hour,
the whistle of a steam train tore through the gloomy rain clouds over Illinois.
A train hauling dozens of empty boxcars, belching thick black smoke, slowly rolled into the freight station piled high with rotten wheat.
Hearing the deafening roar of the train, the farmers kneeling in the muddy water finally burst into tears.
Those were tears of salvation, and tears of submission.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in New York, inside the ten-story Argyle's Building,
Felix sat at his desk, listening to the ticking of the telegraph machine signaling the line's restoration, his dark eyes quietly gazing out the window.
Although it was already late October, the weather in Washington still carried a lingering dry heat.
The Senate floor was thick with the smell of cigar smoke, ink, and the sweat radiating from the politicians.
The seats in the Senate were divided along party lines.
On the side near the podium sat Republican Senators representing the establishment and various capitalist interests. On the other side, due to recent splits, the seats were looking somewhat empty.
Acting President Thomas Clark sat on the vice president's dedicated raised platform, an eye-catching medical dressing still stuck to his cheek.
Holding a wooden gavel in his hand, he looked down with tired eyes at the Senators conversing in low tones below.
"Next item on the agenda," Thomas struck the gavel.
"Senator Theodore Vance of Missouri has requested time to speak."
The chamber quieted down slightly. Many Senators looked at the man rising from the corner as if he were already a dead man.
Theodore Vance was one of the few remaining core figures of the Liberal Republican Party in the Senate. After the failure of the Cincinnati convention and Horace Greeley being utterly ruined by public opinion, the Liberal Republicans were having a hard time in Washington. Everyone viewed them as a pack of drowning rats.
Senator Vance clutched a few crumpled sheets of paper, his eyes sunken; he clearly hadn't slept well for several nights.
He walked to the podium in the center of the chamber and laid the papers on the wooden surface.
"Mr. Chairman, and fellow Senators."
Vance's voice was somewhat hoarse, but to make himself heard throughout the amplifier-less chamber, he was practically shouting at the top of his lungs.
"I stand here today not to debate any tariff bill, nor to discuss Southern reconstruction. I stand here to tell you about an atrocity occurring in the very heartland of this nation!"
Sitting in the front row, Senator Elijah Thorne curled his lip in disdain.
As the Republican majority whip and a man fed by the Argyle Family's money, he was prepared to interrupt at any moment.
"Senator Vance, mind your phrasing. This is the Senate of the United States, not your rural Missouri tavern," Thorne warned loudly.
"My phrasing is dead accurate, Senator Thorne!"
Vance snapped his head around, glaring at him like a provoked lone wolf.
"Just over the past week! In the Midwest, in Illinois, in Indiana, in Iowa! The Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company unilaterally announced the suspension of all freight trains! Millions of tons of freshly harvested wheat are rotting in the mud at railway stations! Those aren't mere numbers—that's the blood, sweat, and tears of millions of farmers over an entire year!"
Vance grabbed the papers off the podium and waved them fiercely in the air. The edges of the paper were stained with dried mud spots.
"Do you know what this is? This was thrust into my hands night before last by a farmer who rode hard on horseback for days and nights all the way from Illinois!"
The Senators in the chamber began whispering to one another.
Of course they had heard about the railway shutdown in the Midwest, but most chose to play deaf and mute.
"This is a contract!"
Vance's voice echoed under the dome.
"A contract forced upon starving farmers by the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company! It states that if they want the trains running again, the farmers must not only publicly apologize to the Argyle Family in the newspapers, but even guarantee that in next month's election, they will cast all their family's votes for President Thomas Clark sitting up there!"
The moment these words were spoken, the entire Senate chamber erupted into chaos.
"That is a complete and utter lie!"
Senator Thorne instantly jumped up, his face flushed bright red.
"Mr. Chairman, I protest! Senator Vance is using forged documents to slander a legitimate enterprise of the United States and maliciously attack the current acting president!"
Thomas Clark's face turned extremely ugly as well, and he banged his gavel forcefully.
"Order! Order! Senator Vance, if you cannot prove the authenticity of that document, I will revoke your right to speak!"
"This bears the handprints of over a hundred farmers! You can send any investigator with a conscience to the Midwest to take a look! Go ask those farmers!" Vance ignored the sound of the gavel entirely and continued yelling.
"Not just the railways... Metropolitan Trading Company stopped all grain purchases at the exact same time! This is a premeditated, coordinated strangulation! Alan Argyle controls not only the wheels, but the granaries as well! He is taking the livelihoods of millions hostage to trade for political votes in Washington! If this isn't monopoly, if this isn't tyranny, then why did we declare independence from the King of Britain back then?!"
Just as Thorne was preparing to use procedural rules to interrupt Vance again,
on the other side of the chamber, a tall man slowly stood up.
It was Senator Calvin Brooks from Iowa. He had always been a centrist, speaking rarely in Congress and never taking part in the fights between the Liberals and the Establishment.
But this time, he stood up.
"Mr. Chairman, I request permission to speak."
Brooks' voice was calm and steady, yet carried a suppressed rage.
Thomas looked at Brooks, inwardly groaning.
Iowa was a major agricultural state, and Brooks represented those honest, simple farmers.
"Senator Brooks, do you have something to add?" Thomas had no choice but to yield the floor to him.
Brooks stepped out of his seat, looking at Thomas on the dais, then over at Thorne.
"Whether the document in Senator Vance's hands is forged, I do not know. But what I do know is that yesterday morning, I received an urgent telegram from the Governor of Iowa. Three local banks in our state that provide loans to farmers have declared bankruptcy because the farmers cannot sell their grain to repay the loans. Two farmers have committed suicide on the railway tracks at the train station."
"I don't care whether this is some commercial line maintenance or some trading company purchasing adjustment. All I know is that my constituents are dying. If Washington turns a blind eye to this kind of mass starvation engineered through infrastructure, then I guarantee you, Iowa's votes will never go to a government that plays deaf and dumb to tragedy!"
Brooks' words were like a fuse, causing the others to start arguing as well.
Immediately following, several Senators from Indiana and Kansas also stood up.
Although they didn't directly support the liberals, they had to be responsible to their constituents.
"We demand a congressional inquiry into the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company!"
"The Metropolitan Trading Company must give a reasonable explanation! This violates basic business ethics!"
What was originally thought to be local voices that could be easily suppressed instantly erupted into a collective bombardment targeting the industries under the Argyle Family, because it involved the fundamental survival of several states.
Thomas Clark sat on the high platform, furiously pounding his gavel as he watched the situation below spiral out of control.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
"Today's session is adjourned! Adjournment! Adjourn immediately!"
Thomas announced loudly, then hurriedly left the hall for the lounge under the cover of his guards.
Leaving behind the angry congressmen to continue arguing in front of the podium.
The private lounge was luxuriously furnished, with portraits of past presidents hanging on the walls, and heavy red velvet curtains blocking out the sunlight.
Thomas loosened his bow tie and collapsed heavily onto the sofa. The wound on his cheek throbbed with pain from the excitement in the meeting hall just now.
The door to the lounge was pushed open.
Senator Elijah Thorne walked in quickly, his forehead covered in sweat.
Following closely behind Thorne was Anna Clark.
As the vice president of the Williams Charitable Foundation, Anna had remained in Washington during this period, responsible for coordinating relations between the government and the New York headquarters.
"Those lunatics! They really don't care about political rules anymore!"
Thorne complained loudly as soon as he entered, walking over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a glass of whiskey.
"That fence-sitter Brooks! He usually takes plenty of our sponsorships, yet today he actually dared to speak up for the liberals in front of everyone! Does he not want to stay in Iowa anymore?"
Thomas leaned back on the sofa, tiredly rubbing his temples.
"Thorne, calm down. Brooks isn't speaking for the liberals; he's saving his own political life. If Iowa's farmers go bankrupt, his seat as Senator won't be secure either."
Thomas looked at his daughter.
"Anna, you've seen the situation. Felix's actions in the West this time are too out of line. To actually halt the trains directly—this is no longer ordinary commercial competition; this is creating a humanitarian disaster! Right now, in the entire Senate, Senators from at least four states are dissatisfied with us. If they unite and demand the establishment of a special investigative committee, he might really be in trouble."
Anna sat on the single sofa opposite him, her legs elegantly crossed. There was not much panic on her face; after all, she knew there would be backlash when Felix made that kind of decision.
"Father, you and Senator Thorne seem to have forgotten one thing."
"Felix never cares about congressional inquiries, nor does he care about those Senators' complaints. He only cares about results. And the result is that the Grange Alliance in the Midwest has completely surrendered; those mud-stained contracts are the best proof. Our voter base in those states has been forcibly locked down."
"But those congressmen are making trouble in Congress," Thorne turned his head and looked at Anna.
"If we don't give them an explanation, they will endlessly delay the government's budget bill in Congress. They might even propose a bill to break up the railroads!"
"If they need an explanation, then give them one." Anna stood up, walked to the desk, and picked up a pen and paper.
"Do you think Felix would be afraid of a special investigative committee?"
"In the laws of the United States, there is no regulation stating that private railway companies cannot perform line maintenance. Nor is there any law stating that trading companies must purchase wheat rotting in the mud. They can accuse us morally, but legally, they won't even touch the threshold of the Argyle's Building."
Anna lowered her head and began to quickly write down the contents of the telegram on the paper.
"I will send everything that happened in the Senate today, exactly as it was, to New York. Father, what you need to do now is not to appease those troublemaking Senators, but to maintain your dignity as President. Tell them that the government will never interfere with legitimate business operations. If they have doubts, let them issue subpoenas to Wall Street themselves."
Looking at his daughter's calm way of handling things, Thomas couldn't help but feel a bit chilled.
For he realized that his daughter, after following Felix, had become increasingly focused on self-interest.
Half an hour later.
Inside Washington's telegraph office.
Anna's encrypted telegram sped toward New York over an absolutely secure, dedicated line.
New York, the tenth floor of the Argyle's Building.
Edward Frost pushed open the office door and handed the newly decrypted telegram to Felix, who was sitting behind the desk.
"Boss, this is from Miss Anna. The liberal Senator Vance has opened fire on Capitol Hill. He got hold of the contracts we forced the farmers to sign, and several neutral Senators from Iowa and Indiana have also stood up to protest. They are demanding the establishment of a special congressional investigative committee to conduct an inquiry into our railway and trading companies."
Felix took the telegram and read through it.
After reading it, he placed the telegram on the desk, picked up a cigar, and took a puff.
"A congressional inquiry? They want to summon me to Washington to stand trial in front of those broken wooden tables?" There was a contemptuous smile in Felix's voice.
"Boss, this could be a bit troublesome. If Congress really establishes an investigative committee, they have the power to issue subpoenas, demanding that we disclose our railway cargo ledgers and internal settlement records. If they discover the rebate data of the Metropolitan Trading Company..." Frost was somewhat worried.
"Edward, you've been with me for so long, why do you still think with an ordinary legal mindset?"
"You must realize that the United States has absolutely no interstate commercial regulatory laws specifically targeting railway monopolies (historically, the Interstate Commerce Commission, or ICC, wasn't established until 1887). Setting rebates and halting trains are completely legal autonomous business practices of private enterprises under the existing federal legal framework. On what grounds can they convict me?"
A sharp glint flashed in Felix's dark eyes.
"Go and call Gregory Finch from the legal department, as well as Fowler from the News Media Company. Since they want to set up a stage on Capitol Hill, I'll personally go and put on a good show for them."
In the tenth-floor conference room, Gregory Finch, the chief lawyer of the legal department with gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, sat in a chair.
He was the kind of corporate lawyer with little moral baseline; as long as the money was enough, he could prove black was white.
Sitting next to him was Fowler from the News Media Company.
Felix sat in the primary seat, pushing the telegram from Washington in front of Finch.
"Finch, those congressmen on Capitol Hill want to investigate our suspension of trains and refusal to accept grain. They think this is commercial extortion." Felix lit a cigar.
"I need you to put a perfect legal armor on this matter."
Finch picked up the telegram, read it once, adjusted his glasses, and a professional smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Boss, this matter is far too simple to handle legally."
Finch took a thick summary of the "Federal Commercial Act" out of his briefcase and casually turned to a page.
"First, the Constitution of the United States protects the inviolable sanctity of private property. The Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company is a completely private enterprise. There is no existing federal law that can force a private enterprise to continue running trains under circumstances they consider unsafe."
Finch tapped the tabletop with his finger.
"The company's public reason to the outside world is 'autumn line overhaul'. But if Congress really wants to question it, we need a more impactful reason—a safety excuse that all Senators cannot refute."
"Like what?"
Felix exhaled a puff of smoke.
Finch looked at Fowler sitting aside.
"Mr. Fowler, didn't your newspaper report extensively a few days ago about the incident in the Midwest where religious mobsters attacked the acting president's special train? I heard they not only smashed the glass but also burned the telegraph wooden poles beside the tracks."
Cunning flashed in Finch's eyes.
"This is the best legal excuse! We can submit a safety assessment report issued by the chief engineer of the Railway Company to Congress."
"The report states that it was because of severe and uncontrollable terrorist and violent attacks locally. The mobsters not only destroyed telegraph communications but also piled obstacles on the tracks. This caused the operating safety of the entire railway to fall into an extremely dangerous state."
The more Finch spoke, the more excited he became; this logic of turning black into white was precisely his specialty.
"As an enterprise responsible for the lives and property of passengers and cargo, the company has no choice other than an emergency suspension to conduct a safety inspection along the entire line! If unfortunately this leads to the rotting of the farmers' grain, the responsibility lies entirely with those rioters who created the turmoil, and the state governments that failed to protect local security!"
Hearing Finch's analysis, Fowler couldn't help clapping his hands.
"Well done, Mr. Finch! In this way, not only is the responsibility for the suspension completely shrugged off, but the liberals and those religious fanatics are also trampled on in court along the way. Since these guys smashed the train's glass, we will make them take the blame for millions of tons of rotting grain!"
Felix nodded slightly, evidently very satisfied with this legal logic.
"Then what about the matter of Metropolitan Trading Company stopping the acquisition of grain? You must know that Senator Vance holds the political contracts that Metropolitan forced farmers to sign, which is black-and-white evidence of extortion." Felix continued to ask.
Finch smiled, appearing full of confidence.
"Boss, commercial contracts are signed voluntarily by both parties. Those farmers were facing bankruptcy, and Metropolitan Trading Company, under circumstances of market turmoil and railway suspensions making external sales impossible, took huge commercial risks to acquire their moldy wheat. This in itself is a tremendous favor."
Finch picked up a pen and drew a scale on the paper.
"We bore the risk, so naturally we demand extra conditions from them—asking them to clarify the facts in the newspapers and asking them to politically support President Clark who can bring stability. This can only be called additional terms in commercial negotiations! They could completely refuse to sign. However, since they pressed their fingerprints, it means they recognized this equivalent exchange."
Looking at Felix, Finch made a summary.
"In short, in court, if Senator Vance pulls out those contracts, not only will I not deny them, but I will read them out loudly. I will also tell Congress that it was our Argyle Family that used US dollars to save Midwest agriculture when the government was powerless!"
"Those contracts are not extortion; they are the great proof of the combination of our philanthropy and commerce!"
Packaging extortion as commercial redemption—this was top-tier rogue logic.
"Very good, Finch."
Felix pressed his cigar into the ashtray and stood up.
"Prepare these arguments of yours into extremely rigorous legal documents. Bring your subordinates' most elite senior lawyers. Tomorrow morning, set off with me."
"You are going to Washington personally?" Frost was somewhat surprised.
In the past, even when encountering this kind of congressional trouble, Felix usually let his subordinate presidents or lawyers handle it.
He himself rarely set foot in Washington's power arena.
"Yes."
Felix walked over to the coat rack and picked up his trench coat.
"Isn't that Senator named Vance howling fiercely in Congress? Don't those agricultural state congressmen want answers?"
Felix turned his head, his deep black eyes revealing dominance.
"Then I will go give them an answer myself. By the way, I'll go see if the wooden boards inside that so-called highest organ of state power have rotted away."
The next morning.
New York Central Station.
A private special train, pitch black throughout with armor plates hanging on the outside of the carriages, spewed dense steam and stopped at a secret platform.
A large number of security team members wearing black trench coats pulled up a cordon on the platform.
Felix, leading his legal team and several secretaries carrying heavy document boxes, walked onto the train with steady steps.
"Woo..."
The whistle blew long and hard.
This steel behemoth carrying America's most massive capital slowly drove out of Manhattan, crushing forward along the railway line toward the direction of Capitol Hill in Washington.
...
At two in the afternoon, the sky was cloudless.
On the special platform of Washington Union Station, the atmosphere was solemn.
A large crowd of newspaper reporters who had caught wind of the news squeezed at the edge of the platform, holding bulky wooden cameras in their hands. The flash troughs were already filled with magnesium powder.
Dozens of Washington police officers maintained order at the scene, desperately pushing back those reporters trying to approach the tracks.
"It's here! It's here!"
It was unknown who shouted.
In the distance, the pitch-black armored special train, like a behemoth exuding coldness under the sunlight, slowly drove into the platform. The locomotive's huge cowcatcher made a muffled roar on the tracks.
The train stopped steadily, and the carriage door was pushed open.
Eight stalwart security team members were the first to get off the train; although they were not carrying long guns, the insides of their suits were bulging, evidently heavily armed.
They quickly stood firm on both sides of the carriage door, forming an insurmountable human wall.
Afterward, Felix walked down calmly, just like a tourist coming to Washington to spend the weekend.
"Mr. Argyle! How do you respond to Congress accusing the Metropolitan Trading Company of commercial extortion?"
"Mr. Argyle, was the bankruptcy of the Midwest farmers orchestrated entirely by you?"
Reporters crowded forward, shouting out one sharp question after another. Flashbulbs flashed with "bang, bang" noises, and white smoke drifted across the platform.
Felix stopped in his tracks, turned his head, and slightly lifted his chin toward his chief lawyer, Finch.
Finch immediately stepped forward and said loudly to the reporters,
"Friends of the press. Mr. Argyle is here in Washington today at the invitation of the Senate Special Investigation Committee to assist in clarifying the situation. We have brought extremely detailed data and legal documents, and all the truth will be made public in the hall of Capitol Hill. Please remain patient."
After speaking, security personnel forcefully cleared a path through the crowd ahead.
Surrounded by his lawyers and secretaries, Felix boarded the carriage that had been waiting outside the station.
The carriage drove along the wide streets of Washington and finally stopped in front of the magnificent building with a huge white dome—the United States Capitol Building.
The special committee hearing room of the Senate was arranged on the first floor of the Capitol Building.
When Felix pushed open the heavy oak doors of the hearing room, the previously noisy room instantly quieted down.
The layout of the hearing room was majestic.
Directly ahead was a row of semicircular high platforms, where twelve special investigation committee members composed of Senators from various states sat.
Senator Theodore Vance sat on the far left, staring at Felix with eyes sharp like knives. Meanwhile, Senator Brooks of Iowa looked gloomy.
Below the high platform was a lonely long table and chair, which was the spot reserved for the person being questioned.
The public gallery was packed with other lawmakers, senior bureaucrats from Washington, and permitted reporters.
Felix showed no stage fright at all and walked naturally to the long table. However, instead of sitting down, he placed his walking stick horizontally across the tabletop, braced his hands on the edge of the table, and looked up at the politicians on the stage with a level gaze.
"Mr. Argyle, please sit."
The chairman of the committee, an old Senator from an established Eastern family, tapped his wooden mallet, his tone somewhat displeased.
"I sat all the way here, and now I just want to stand. I suppose there's no law stating I must sit?" Felix replied indifferently.
"Fine, as you wish."
The chairman snorted and opened the documents in front of him.
"Mr. Felix Argyle. The committee summoned you today because we have received serious accusations. Someone accuses the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company under your name of maliciously halting grain transportation in the Midwest on the eve of the general election, and colluding with the Metropolitan Trading Company to carry out brutal commercial extortion against hundreds of thousands of farmers. What is your explanation for this?"
As soon as the chairman finished speaking, Senator Theodore Vance impatiently jumped out.
He slammed the mud-stained contract heavily onto the table.
"Mr. Chairman, this needs no explanation at all. This is ironclad proof! He stopped the trains and let the wheat rot in the mud. Then he forced the farmers to sign this indenture, demanding they apologize in the newspapers and cast their ballots for Thomas Clark. This is a blatant rape of the United States democratic system by capital oligarchs!"
A gasp of cold air arose from the public gallery because Vance's words were far too heavy.
It even implicated the acting president.
All eyes focused on Felix, waiting to see how he would defend himself.
Looking at the agitated Vance, the corners of Felix's mouth curled in contempt.
He turned his head and made a gesture behind him.
Finch immediately stepped forward, took a thick report stamped with an engineer's official seal from his briefcase, and handed it to the committee chairman on the stage.
"Mr. Chairman, esteemed Senators."
Felix's voice was not loud, but in the quiet hearing room, every word fell like a hammer.
"Senator Vance keeps claiming that the companies under my banner maliciously halted operations. But my side of the story is that I was saving the lives of those train crew members while also protecting the civilians along the route."
As he spoke, Felix pointed at the report.
"Please take a close look; this is the on-site inspection report issued by my chief railway engineer. In the week before operations were suspended, the railway lines in the Midwest suffered organized and brutal terrorist attacks. Our telegraph lines were cut more than a dozen times, and maintenance workers were shot dead. Even—"
At this point, Felix's voice suddenly rose.
"Even acting President Thomas Clark's special train was attacked and pelted with stones by thugs on the tracks! The tracks were piled high with railroad ties, and equipment along the route was wantonly burned!"
"I ask the esteemed Senators present here." Felix slammed both hands heavily onto the tabletop, his gaze sharp like a knife.
"In such a terrifying environment where mobs run rampant, railway facilities are severely damaged, and even the safety of the head of state cannot be guaranteed, how do you expect me to continue running heavy freight-loaded trains? Do you expect me to watch with open eyes as the train derails and send my employees to their deaths?!"
"Is private property no longer protected in this country? If that is the case, then I would rather smash all the trains to pieces than drive a single inch on burning tracks!"
This tough rhetorical question, coupled with the conclusive engineering report, instantly tore Senator Vance's accusations to shreds.
The public opinion trend in the hearing room began to reverse.
Senator Brooks of Iowa frowned.
"Mr. Argyle, even if the railway suspension was due to safety issues, how do you explain that contract requiring farmers to change their votes? That is naked political blackmail."
"Blackmail?"
Felix turned his head to look at Brooks and said unceremoniously,
"Senator Brooks. When those thugs smashed the tracks and caused the grain to be untransportable, was it your state government that went to purchase that rotting wheat?"
"No!"
"It was my Metropolitan Trading Company that took on the huge risk of commercial losses and braved the terrible road conditions to put down hard cash to clean up the mess for those farmers on the verge of bankruptcy!"
"To use an Eastern saying, I saved them from fire and water!"
"You must know that it was my company that lent them bridge loans and purchased their substandard grain. It can completely be said that we saved Midwest agriculture! And the return I asked for was merely hoping that politically, they would support a tough president who can bring stability and quell those religious mobs, rather than supporting weak politicians who only know how to hide behind the scenes and incite hatred."
"Business is a fair exchange, and I never force anyone to sign. Whether they sign or not is entirely their own choice, and it is also the rule of the free market."
"If you think this is called blackmail, then go amend the United States Constitution and nationalize all of my companies."
"If you can't do that, shut up!"
The sunlight from the hearing room's domed ceiling filtered through the thick glass, casting light onto the long table and making the tiny dust particles floating in the air clearly visible.
The entire room was silent.
There was only the rustling sound of the pens of several stenographers in the gallery scratching against paper.
Felix's speech just now about free markets and equal exchange was like a sharp razor, slicing through any possibility of these politicians trying to use the law to sanction him.
After all, there was no law stating that businessmen must make a loss, nor was there any law stating that capital could not seek returns amidst risks. At most, they could only condemn it as immoral.
Senator Brooks of Iowa sat on the high platform, his hands tightly clenched together.
He represented the farmers who grew wheat and corn in the Midwest, but he also knew that, by the letter of the law, the arrogant tycoon standing before him had won.
But he couldn't swallow this insult, so he broke the silence.
"Mr. Argyle."
"You are a clever businessman, and your lawyer has woven a perfect suit of armor for you. Yes, legally speaking, your company has done nothing wrong."
Brooks stood up, resting his hands on the barrier in front of him, his eyes locked onto Felix.
"But Mr. Argyle, you are also a citizen of the United States. Therefore, I feel it is necessary to talk to you about the responsibilities of a United States citizen who possesses such immense wealth."
Brooks took a silent breath and began using his most practiced grassroots narrative in an attempt to crush Felix morally.
"In my hometown, the nights have already begun to freeze. And those farmers who pressed their thumbprints onto your contract have probably returned home, staring at leaky roofs and children who can only drink watery gruel because they couldn't sell their crops at a good price."
"I believe they signed that contract not because they agreed with your equal exchange, but because they didn't want their children to starve to death in the winter!"
Some people in the gallery lowered their heads, clearly touched by Brooks's description.
"You possess the power to control the routes of several railway companies, and you have vaults stuffed with gold. If you had lowered the freight rates even slightly, or offered a somewhat fair acquisition price, those farmers would have been able to have a good holiday."
"But clearly, you did not."
As he spoke, Brooks's voice trembled more and more.
"You exploited their desperation to force them to sell their souls politically. Mr. Argyle, when you lie in your luxurious, thickly carpeted manor in New York at night, does your conscience really not ache? Do you believe that profits stained with the tears and blood of the poor are clean?"
Classic moral kidnapping.
Directly equating capital's pursuit of profit with the exploitation and murder of the poor.
Senator Theodore Vance sneered from the side, feeling that Brooks's words had hit Felix's weak spot.
In this country that championed Christian doctrine and charity, no capitalist dared to publicly admit that they had no morality.
Felix stood in front of the long table, quietly listening to Brooks's accusation.
But he showed no shame whatsoever.
He even pulled a solid silver cigar case from his pocket, took out a cigar, and brought it to his nose to sniff it.
Even though smoking was not permitted here.
"Senator Brooks, I must say your speech was very moving. If this were a church, I would certainly stuff a large check into the donation box."
Looking up, there was not a trace of warmth in Felix's eyes.
"But I recall that this is the Capitol Hill of the United States. It is not a place for shedding tears."
Putting the cigar back into the case, Felix also rested both hands on the table.
"What an ugly farce. You think you are worthy of talking to me about conscience? About morality and responsibility?"
"How laughable!"
"I have spent millions establishing a family charitable foundation, building dozens of orphanages and schools. We take in homeless children, feed them, and educate them."
"I have also established a comprehensive university, spent millions of dollars setting up a dedicated award fund to reward scholars annually, and appointed the top scholars among them as university professors to cultivate top-tier talent for the nation."
"Even Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, under my umbrella, has established hospitals in several major cities to provide low-cost treatment to people plagued by illnesses."
"I don't even know how many people we have cured..."
Felix's voice of refutation was not loud, but every word was deafening.
"And... I recall that ten years ago, there wasn't even a decent dirt road in the Midwest. When the farmers harvested their wheat, they could only haul it by carriage for a month, with half of it rotting on the way, before selling it to local unscrupulous merchants for a price ten times lower than what they get now."
"Ha... how ridiculous."
"Back then, where were you politicians in Washington who draw your salaries from the taxpayers?"
"Remember, it was me!"
"It was my Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company!"
"It was I who put up millions of dollars in cold hard cash to hire thousands of workers, blast through mountains with dynamite, and lay down iron tracks to bring train carriages right to those farmers' doorsteps!"
Felix tapped his finger heavily on the table.
"I bore the risk of deaths during the railway construction, and the risk of bankruptcy from fluctuating steel prices. I transported their grain to the East Coast, allowing them to make money they never would have dared to dream of before. Now that the railway has suffered damage and I have suspended operations for maintenance, making it temporarily impossible for them to sell their grain, you jump out to accuse me of having no conscience and no morality?"
Felix smiled mockingly, his eyes filled with contempt.
"Please remember, Senator Brooks."
"Charity is my choice, not an obligation you can impose on me through morality. If you believe the freight rates I charge are too high, or that my acquisition prices are immoral, then fine!"
Felix spread his hands.
"Then your Congress is entirely welcome to immediately appropriate funds to build a railway in the Midwest belonging to the Federal Government. You are welcome to use taxpayers' money to buy up all that moldy wheat at high prices! Why don't you do it?"
"Is it because you don't want to?"
There was dead silence on the high platform.
Building railways and buying grain at high prices? The Federal Government's treasury simply could not produce that kind of money.
"It's because you can't do it."
Felix answered for them.
"A politician like you only knows how to use the cheapest spit to play the savior of the poor. Meanwhile, I am keeping this country running with cold-blooded but highly efficient business rules. Without 'vampires' like me in your eyes, millions of farmers in the Midwest wouldn't even have the chance to transport their wheat out of their villages!"
He looked directly at Brooks.
"So, put away your moral rhetoric meant to fish for votes. On capital's ledger, there is no place for tears. I give them a livelihood, and they give me profits and votes. That is the rule of America, and I have absolutely nothing to apologize for."