On the first Monday of September, the sky over Five Points was clear, as if washed by autumn rain.
Seamus, the man who had worked at the docks for twenty years, woke up before dawn.
He didn't, as usual, haphazardly splash his face with cold water, gnaw on a piece of dry bread, and then rush to the docks. Today, he spent a full ten minutes trying to smooth out the wrinkles on his only decent, patched tweed coat.
His son, seven-year-old Liam, stood nervously by the door in a brand-new blue cotton uniform.
That was the uniform for Argyle School.
Yesterday, when a Sister delivered it to their home, Liam's mother held the uniform and cried all night.
"Let's go, Liam."
Seamus's voice was a little dry as he took his son's hand, which was also cold from nervousness.
"Mm," the boy responded softly, his other hand tightly clutching a canvas schoolbag distributed by the Foundation.
Inside were a literacy textbook, an arithmetic workbook, a slate, and a slate pencil. These were the most precious things he had ever owned.
Father and son walked down the muddy streets in the early morning.
Everything around them was as usual: the snores of drunkards drifted from the cracks in the tavern doors, and dirty puddles gurgled underfoot.
But when they turned the last corner and saw the red-brick school, which looked particularly solemn in the morning light, Liam instinctively stopped.
At the school entrance, Mr. Jones stood personally, dressed in a sharp suit. Beside him were Sister Margaret and several young teachers. They weren't shouting; they were simply smiling and nodding in greeting to every child and parent who arrived.
"Go on, child."
Seamus let go of his hand and gently pushed his son's back. "Don't be afraid. Go and learn those things... I could never learn in my life."
Liam looked at his father; in those eyes, usually filled with fatigue, a light called "expectation" now flickered.
He nodded heavily, then turned around and, with small, determined steps, walked through the door that led to another world.
Seamus didn't leave immediately.
Instead, he stood with dozens of other silent fathers across the street, gazing at the building for a long time, separated by an invisible line.
They watched their children, forming crooked lines, enter the clean, bright classrooms. They heard the crisp school bell ring from inside.
"Hey, Seamus."
A fellow dockworker next to him nudged him with his elbow. "You think... they can really learn?"
"They will."
Seamus looked at the closed door, his voice filled with certainty.
"They will."
...In the classroom, sunlight streamed through the large glass windows, falling on twenty-odd young and nervous faces.
Liam sat at his own oak desk, carefully caressing the smooth surface with his small hand.
Everything here was impeccably clean.
A young female teacher, Miss Annabella, stood at the podium, writing the first letter on the large blackboard with a white chalk.
"A," her voice was soft, like a spring breeze. "This is A for Apple."
The children followed her, pronouncing, in a clumsy voice mixed with various accents, the first symbol in their lives that was imbued with meaning.
Meanwhile, in the neighboring orphanage, another silent lesson was underway.
Finn, the former street tough, sat in the corner of the dining hall. He wasn't attending classes because he was past the enrollment age. Sister Margaret had given him a new job—orphanage librarian.
He was poring over a thick dictionary, using his finger to identify, letter by letter, words he had never seen before. His sister, Bridget, sat quietly beside him, drawing a red house and a golden sun on a clean sheet of paper with colored crayons.
At twelve noon, the lunch bell rang promptly.
The children from the school and the orphanage, for the first time, sat together in the same spacious and bright dining hall.
What awaited them was no longer cold bread and thin soup.
Instead, it was a large bowl of steaming hot chicken and vegetable thick soup, uniformly distributed by Argyle & Co. Foods's central kitchen, two slices of buttered white bread, and a golden apple.
When Liam bit into that crisp, sweet apple, he felt it was a hundred times more delicious than the candy his father secretly brought home from the docks at Christmas... Hope is contagious.
When the first batch of enrolled children, wearing clean uniforms and carrying slates with writing on them, joyfully ran home in the evening.
The entire Five Points experienced a small earthquake because of them.
"Mary, come look! Patrick, he can write his name!"
A mother, holding a slate with crooked letters, showed it off to all her neighbors in the apartment building corridor.
"They really serve food, there's meat soup, and an apple!" Another child excitedly described the most lavish lunch he had ever eaten to his companions.
The ice of doubt quickly melted in the face of these tangible realities.
The next day, the number of school registrations doubled from the first day.
On the third day, Jones had to urgently apply to the Head Office to add two new classes.
And at the orphanage, Sister Margaret's work entered its second phase.
She and Jones organized several "search teams" composed of church volunteers and Militech security personnel, actively venturing once again into the darkest corners of the community.
In an abandoned dock warehouse along the East River, they found two brothers who had lost their parents to typhoid. The older brother, barely ten, was running a high fever but still used his frail body to tightly shield his six-year-old younger brother, not letting anyone near.
"Don't be afraid, children."
Sister Margaret did not force her way forward. She placed a warm wool blanket and a pot of steaming sweet milk not far from them.
"We are not here to harm you," her voice echoed in the empty warehouse. "We are here... to bring you home."
...That night, in Felix's study.
Frost was reporting to him with a report that was completely different from usual. It contained no cold financial figures, only ever-increasing, vibrant names.
"Boss," Frost's tone carried a heartfelt emotion. "As of this afternoon, the enrollment at Argyle School has reached one hundred and eighty-two people. The orphanage has also successfully taken in fifty-seven orphans."
"Mr. Jones said at the end of the report that it might be necessary to start the community hospital construction plan ahead of schedule. Because our search teams have found that there are far more people in this community, like Mrs. Kayla O'Connor, who are slowly being consumed by illness due to a lack of basic medical care, than we imagined."
Felix listened quietly; he didn't answer immediately.
He walked to the window, looking at the distant Five Points, which still seemed somewhat gloomy in the night, but already had a little different light.
He knew that the seed he had planted had taken root and sprouted tenaciously in this barren land.
"Tell Jones," he began slowly, his voice echoing in the quiet study. "Let him do it."
"Also tell Bank President Templeton," he continued, "that the next agenda item for the Argyle Charitable Foundation is to establish the city's first hospital that truly serves the poor."
New York, the Archbishop's residence at St. Patrick's Cathedral.
This was the spiritual heart of the city, separated by an invisible world from the greedy and panicked clamor of Wall Street.
In the study, the air was filled with the scent of old parchment, beeswax, and a faint hint of incense.
A massive globe silently spun in the corner, and on the wall, a huge map of New York City was divided like a military sand table with various colored lines and markers.
Archbishop John Hughes sat behind a large oak desk.
He wasn't reading the Bible, but rather, wearing his reading glasses, he was meticulously examining an in-depth report published in The New York Times about the "Five Points Hope Project." On the newspaper page, the brand-new school building stood out prominently against its dilapidated surroundings.
"A beautiful start," he said slowly, his voice hoarse, with the steady tone of one who had seen much of the world.
Standing opposite him was his most trusted subordinate, an Irish middle-aged priest named Donolan. He was not only a clergyman but also the Archbishop's eyes and ears for all secular matters in the city.
"Yes, Your Grace," Father Donolan's tone was filled with reverence. "Mr. Argyle's methods are more direct and effective than we imagined. With just one groundbreaking ceremony, he had Mr. Tweed of Tammany Hall personally clear the obstacles for all his projects in front of all New York media. Comptroller Connolly approved all related municipal documents the very next day."
"He isn't clearing obstacles, Donolan," Archbishop Hughes took off his glasses and unhurriedly wiped them with a velvet cloth.
"He is drawing boundaries. He is using our name, using the halo of charity, to carve out a sacred and inviolable territory for himself on the political map of this city."
He stood up and walked to the large municipal map. His finger slowly traced over the areas marked in deep red, representing Five Points, Hell's Kitchen, and the Dock District.
He said softly, "Our people have lived here for twenty years. We have votes, we have numbers. But apart from exchanging a few insignificant janitor and police positions for Tammany's politicians on election day, we have nothing."
"We have no voice of our own, Donolan. In the City Council, in Albany, no one truly speaks for us. We are merely Mr. Tweed's bargaining chips to trade power with those Anglo-Saxon elites."
"But now, things are different." His gaze fell on the map, on the marker representing Argyle's factory along the East River.
"We have a King," his voice grew strong, "a King with his own factories, railroads, banks, and even private armed forces. A King who can have the Secretary of War endorse him, and even the Church pray for him."
He turned and looked at his subordinate.
"And a King, merely having a castle is not enough. He also needs his own parliament and loyal subjects."
Father Donolan understood instantly.
"Your Grace, do you mean…"
"Mr. Argyle built schools for our children. This is grace."
Wisdom gleamed in Archbishop Hughes's eyes. "Now, it is our turn to pave a path to true power for him, and for ourselves."
"On my personal behalf, send an invitation to Mr. Argyle. Tell him that I hope to enjoy some new tea from Irish with him tomorrow afternoon and discuss some ideas about 'community future development.'"
... The next afternoon, when Felix's carriage once again stopped before the solemn steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral, he already had a premonition.
It was still the same study, filled with the scent of old books.
"Mr. Argyle, please be seated."
Archbishop Hughes's demeanor was even more cordial than last time, and he personally poured Felix a steaming cup of black tea.
"I must say, your school is the finest gift God has bestowed upon New York this autumn. I receive letters of gratitude from the community every day."
"This is just the beginning, Your Grace," Felix replied humbly. "A stable building requires a deep foundation."
"Well said."
The Archbishop nodded. He put down his teacup and finally got to the point, "The foundation has been laid, but to protect this building, it also needs strong walls and vigilant guards."
He looked at Felix, his blue eyes seemingly able to pierce through people's hearts.
"I hear you successfully changed the board of a railway company in Philadelphia. You put those who truly know how to operate in their rightful positions."
"Your Grace, that was merely to protect my investment."
"Of course." The Archbishop smiled. "So, Mr. Argyle, have you ever considered 'investing' in our New York City 'board of directors' in the same way?"
Felix said nothing, just listened quietly.
"Tammany Hall is our friend," the Archbishop's tone was calm. "Mr. Tweed has provided jobs and shelter for our people, and we should thank him. However, even among friends, there needs to be more equal dialogue."
"In the next City Council election, there are three seats in districts where our Irish voters exceed sixty percent. But currently, those positions are still held by 'friends' appointed by Mr. Tweed, who are completely unaware of the true needs of our community."
He looked at Felix and said very seriously, "I hope that next time, our true 'own people' will sit there."
"Three city councilors, chosen jointly by us, who can truly represent the voice of two hundred thousand Irish."
A ripple of emotion stirred in Felix's heart. It seemed the Archbishop was not merely inviting him to participate in an election, but inviting him to jointly establish a political faction belonging to their own Irish community.
"Your Grace," he said in a deep voice, "This is a… very bold idea. You know, this is tantamount to setting a fire in Mr. Tweed's backyard. He will not stand idly by."
"Of course, he will," Archbishop Hughes's reply was full of confidence.
"Because you have already proven to him that you have the ability to light this fire. And you have also proven to him that cooperating with you is far wiser than being your enemy."
"Tweed needs our votes to maintain his dominance throughout New York City. He can lose one or two insignificant allies, but he would never dare to lose the support of the entire Irish community."
"And you, Mr. Argyle," the Archbishop looked at him and spoke the most crucial sentence, "you need these 'own people.' You need them in the City Council to cast the most critical affirmative votes for all your future business plans. You need a firewall that can protect your vast business empire from political storms."
The study fell into a long silence.
Felix looked at the old man before him, dressed in black robes, yet understanding the games of profit and power better than any Wall Street banker.
However, this was not a difficult choice for him.
From the moment he decided to use the Church's power to endorse his charitable endeavors, he had already stepped onto this enormous chessboard, interwoven with votes, faith, and interests.
"Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. Rest assured, I will make arrangements."
"A wise decision, Mr. Argyle."
Archbishop Hughes settled back into his massive oak desk, a paternal scrutiny in his sharp blue eyes.
"You have found a shield from the Church for your empire. And I have found a strong shepherd for God's flock."
"I am merely fulfilling the duty of a fellow countryman, Your Grace," Felix replied humbly and appropriately.
The Archbishop did not immediately respond. He slowly rotated the large globe on his desk, the ancient brass stand emitting a faint creak.
His finger glided across the vast land of America, over the turbulent Atlantic, and finally rested on that small, somewhat isolated green island on the map.
Irish.
"Duty..." he repeated the word softly, his voice carrying a distant echo, "Mr. Argyle, do you know where the source of this duty lies?"
Felix said nothing, just watched him quietly.
"It is there."
The Archbishop's finger pressed heavily on the map of Irish.
"In our homeland, repeatedly ravaged by famine and tyranny. In our compatriots who, to this day, still struggle to survive for a few sprouting potatoes under British oppression."
He turned his head, and in his wise eyes, there was now only the deep compassion of a priest.
"Decades ago, I led the first group of people, escaping that hell on those dilapidated ships called 'coffin ships.' We thought that in this new continent, we would find the milk and honey promised by God. But all we found was deeper discrimination and another wilderness that needed to be cultivated with blood and sweat."
"You are remarkable, my child," he said to Felix, his tone full of sincerity.
"In less than three years, you have risen to the top of this city. You have brought work, safety, and even hope to our people. You have allowed them, for the first time, to stand tall like true Americans."
"But," his voice grew hoarse, "we must not forget. We must not forget those who did not make it onto the 'coffin ships.' Our brothers and sisters who are still on the island, enduring hunger and despair."
A ripple stirred in Felix's heart.
It seemed that this Archbishop was not merely recounting a tragic history to him. He was making a demand far more significant than winning three city council seats.
"Your Grace," Felix said in a deep voice, "What do you wish for me to do?"
"War has filled the States's granaries," Archbishop Hughes said slowly. "Yet across the sea, our compatriots are starving. I hope that you can use your ships to transport some grain back. Not much, just enough to help them survive this winter. In the name of the Church, in the name of all of us Irish in America."
This was not merely charity. Felix immediately understood the deeper meaning. This was a political statement, a declaration to his compatriots and oppressors in the Old World, showcasing the strength of the Irish in the New World.
"That is not difficult, Your Grace," Felix replied. "My fleet can accomplish that."
"Very good." The Archbishop nodded, but his next words made Felix realize that grain was just an appetizer.
"I remember an old saying from the East, Mr. Argyle: 'Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.'" His gaze deepened. "Grain can only save them for one winter, but it cannot save their future. Their true hope should not be in that hopeless land."
"Their true hope," he said to Felix, word by word, "is with you."
"I hope that you can open a new shipping route. A route that is no longer 'coffin ships,' but 'ships of hope.' To safely and honorably bring our strong, young people who yearn for a new life, batch after batch, from that island of despair to here."
A long silence fell in the study.
Felix's mind, in that instant, began to race at an astonishing speed.
Transporting immigrants.
This was not just a charitable endeavor; hidden behind it was an incredibly vast and complex commercial and political chess game.
It required a massive fleet, difficult diplomatic negotiations with the British government, and the establishment of a complete system for receiving and settling immigrants, from the villages of Irish to the docks of New York.
But the returns it brought were equally immeasurable.
A continuous stream of cheap and loyal labor would provide the most solid guarantee for his rapidly expanding factories and railways.
The constantly growing Irish population would completely change the political landscape of New York and even the entire country, becoming his most unshakeable voting bloc.
This... this was a gamble grand enough to lay the foundation of a century-old family.
"Your Grace," Felix said slowly after a long pause, without a trace of hesitation on his face, "It seems you don't need a few ships, but a bridge across the Atlantic."
A flicker of approval passed through Archbishop Hughes's eyes.
Felix did not immediately agree to how it would be done, but instead presented his own vision.
"Simply transporting immigrants is too costly and unsustainable," his thoughts were crystal clear. "This route must be self-sustaining. Perhaps my fleet, when sailing to Europe, will be fully loaded with canned goods from our Argyle Company, medicines from Umbrella, and even coal and steel from Pennsylvania. I will use the industrial products of the New World to open up the markets of the Old World."
"And on the return journey," a faint smile played on his lips, "they will carry our compatriots, and the precision equipment and technical talent needed by our factories, procured from Europe, back here."
"This is not just an immigration route, Your Grace," Felix looked at him. "This will be a golden artery connecting the industry, capital, and human resources of the old and new worlds."
Archbishop Hughes stared blankly at the young man before him.
He had thought he was presenting a weighty moral request to a wealthy believer.
He had not expected that, in a matter of minutes, the other party would transform this request into a blueprint for a commercial empire a hundred times grander than he had imagined.
"You..." He looked at Felix, and for the first time, a look almost akin to awe appeared in his always sharp eyes. "What kind of nation... do you intend to build?"
"I do not intend to build a nation, Your Grace." Felix stood up, walked to the large globe, and slowly rotated it.
"I merely wish for the name Argyle, and all that it represents," his voice echoed in the quiet study, "to leave a small trace of itself on this tiny planet."
He turned and extended his hand to the highest leader of the Church.
"So, Your Grace Archbishop," he smiled, "have we reached a consensus on the construction of this bridge?"
Archbishop Hughes looked at that young and powerful hand, on which he had already staked the entire future of the Irish.
He slowly rose, and with his hand, adorned with a signet ring, he clasped it firmly.
"In God's name."
On the way back to his Fifth Avenue mansion from St. Patrick's Cathedral, Frost sat opposite Felix, his ever-present notebook now closed on his lap.
He quietly watched his Boss, his eyes filled with an unquenchable surge of emotion.
He had originally thought he had a sufficient understanding of his Boss's grand business vision.
But today, in Archbishop Hughes's study, he witnessed firsthand an epic strategic layout that perfectly wove together charity, politics, business, and national sentiment.
"What are you thinking, Edward?"
Felix's voice broke the silence in the carriage. He was leaning back in the soft seat, eyes closed, as if the conversation that could change the fate of hundreds of thousands, even millions, of people was just an ordinary afternoon tea.
"Boss, I... I'm just trying to understand. What you just promised Archbishop Hughes, it's not just a shipping company. It's a... a whole new front that requires us to contend with the British government, with markets across the ocean, and with countless unpredictable risks. Is this... is this too fast?"
"Fast?"
Felix slowly opened his eyes and looked at his intelligent assistant.
"Edward, you must remember. In this era, fast isn't the risk, slow is. When your enemy is still hesitating whether to cross the river, you must have already built your fortress on his landing beach."
He sat up straight and began to dissect the chess game he had rehearsed countless times in his mind for his assistant.
"You only see the risks, but you don't see the immeasurable value this 'bridge' can bring us."
"Firstly, manpower."
Felix extended his first finger, "Our factories, railways, and mines are expanding at an almost frenzied pace. What we will need in the future is not hundreds, but thousands, or even tens of thousands of reliable workers. Where do we find them? From Irish. They are hardworking, more loyal due to their kinship, and their arrival can completely change the landscape of the New York labor market, freeing us from reliance on local unions controlled by Tammany Hall."
"Secondly, the market. Wars always end. After reconstruction, when the domestic market becomes saturated, where should our factories, which produce the world's best canned goods and medicines, find new profits? In Europe. And this shipping route is our first stepping stone to opening the door to the European market. We will deliver our industrial products to the shelves of London, Berlin, and Paris in the cheapest and most efficient way."
"Lastly, security."
"Edward, never forget that we live in a country dominated by Anglo-Saxon elites. No matter how wealthy we become, in their eyes, we will always be outsiders. The attacks from Sloan and Thomson are just the beginning."
"Therefore, we must have our own foundation. A power that does not rely on the handouts of any politician, and is loyal only to ourselves. Two hundred thousand Irish votes are our foundation. And a continuous stream of new immigrants is the nourishment we provide to this foundation. It will also make our roots more numerous and deeply embedded in this land."
Frost listened quietly, his back soaked with cold sweat.
For the first time, he clearly glimpsed the vast and cold survival logic hidden beneath his Boss's gentle business facade, like an iceberg.
"I... I understand, Boss."
Felix nodded, "Since you understand, get ready to work."
...That night, the study in the Fifth Avenue mansion was brightly lit.
The first executive meeting for the "Transatlantic Bridge" plan was held there. The attendees were Felix's core department heads.
Catherine, Jones, Miller, Bank President Templeton, Hayes, Bill, and MacGregor, who had been urgently summoned from Brooklyn.
"Gentlemen, lady." Felix got straight to the point, "I have gathered you all today for a new, top-priority strategic mission. I am naming it the 'Clover Project.'"
He explained the verbal agreement reached with Archbishop Hughes, and his own grand vision for a "two-way trade route," to everyone present.
The meeting room fell into a brief silence, born of shock.
"Boss..."
Jones was the first to speak, his voice filled with an irrepressible excitement.
"You... you mean, we're going to bring over our compatriots from home who are still living in hardship?"
"Yes, Jones." Felix looked at him, "Not just bring them over. But also give them jobs, give them a home where they can settle down."
"My God..." Bill, the butcher who also came from humble beginnings, stood up excitedly, "If... if I could have also taken such a ship back then..."
"All right, Bill, now is not the time for sentimentality."
Bank President Templeton, the ever-rational banker, interrupted him, "Boss, this is a very ambitious plan. But it is also full of huge challenges. Especially concerning the ships."
Everyone's gaze focused on the Scottish shipwright.
MacGregor's face did not show the same excitement as the others, because he was not Irish, but they both belonged to the Celtic people, and crucially, the Scots also disliked the English.
"Boss," he began, his voice hoarse, "What you need is not an ordinary immigrant ship; it's a completely new type of vessel. It needs to have a huge space in the lower hold capable of carrying hundreds of tons of cargo. And on the upper deck, it needs to provide a safe and sanitary living environment for at least five hundred passengers. Most importantly, its speed must be fast enough to shorten the travel time and reduce the risk of disease spreading on board."
"It will require more powerful steam engines, a more rational space layout, and even entirely new ventilation and sanitation systems."
"This will be a ship never before seen on the Atlantic. Building it will require several times the time and money of that Staten Island ferry."
"I'll give you the money, and I'll give you the time." Felix's answer was simple, "MacGregor, I authorize you to immediately establish an 'Ocean Transport Ship Design Department' within the Atlantic Power Plant. You can go to Scotland, to Liverpool, to anywhere you need to go, to poach the best naval architects and engineers for me."
"I want to see the design blueprint for the first 'Clover-class' ocean liner within six months."
He then turned to Bank President Templeton.
"George, before our new ships are launched, I need a fleet that can set sail immediately. Use all of Argyle Bank's connections and resources in the shipping industry. Lease or acquire some existing ocean freighters for me. I don't care how old they are, as long as they are sturdy enough to withstand a round trip."
"As for the other end of the route," Felix's gaze deepened, "we need to establish our own bridgehead in Liverpool or Cork."
He looked at Hayes.
"Tom, I've already chosen the target for the next investment from the 'Media Investment Special Fund' for you."
"Go to Irish, to Dublin. Buy me a newspaper that has the highest credibility among the local Irish people."
"I want that newspaper, in the coming months, to tell only one story." Felix's lips curved into a slight smile.
"A story about how their compatriot, Felix Argyle, built his own business empire in this New World. A story that, if they are willing, they can board a ship at any time and come to join this empire."
"Alright, Mr. MacGregor, President Templeton, Mr. Bill."
Felix's gaze retracted from the blueprint spanning the Atlantic; he knew that planting seeds of hope required time to sprout. "The Clover Project is a long-term strategy. Each of you, go prepare. I need to see the most detailed plans and budgets."
After the Scottish shipbuilder and the old Bank President left with their weighty new tasks, Felix turned his attention to the two remaining people in the room, his right and left hands on the financial front.
"A bridge needs two sturdy bridgeheads," Felix said slowly, bringing the conversation back from across the ocean to the land of America.
"We've just planned the Irish side. Now, Tom, it's time to talk about what we're building here."
Tom Hayes, the president of Patriot Investment Company, straightened up from his usually somewhat languid posture. Each time his Boss changed the subject, it meant a new battlefield was about to open.
"Boss, are you referring to the 'Media Investment Special Fund'?"
"Yes," Felix nodded. "How is the propaganda front progressing in Boston?"
"Very smoothly."
A smile, understandable only to a hunter, appeared on Hayes's face.
"The board of The Boston Herald was even more foolish than I imagined. They really thought we were just a paper company interested in their German printing press."
"I've completed the full acquisition of their printing division through a shell company registered in Boston," Hayes reported, his tone as if stating a perfectly ordinary transaction.
"The price was fair; they even felt lucky that we took a loss-making burden off their hands. Now, the fastest rotary printing press in the entire New England region belongs to us."
"Very good." Felix's face showed no ripples. "They can temporarily keep their voice. What we need to control first is the mouthpiece that produces the sound."
"What about Philadelphia?"
At the mention of this, Hayes's expression became even more interesting.
"Philadelphia is a bit trickier, Boss. The Philadelphia Public Ledger… that newspaper, like Chairman Becker himself, is a part of Philadelphia, old and tough. A direct acquisition would provoke the animosity of all the old-school forces in the entire city."
"So, I changed my approach," he explained. "I didn't talk to their board; instead, I found their largest creditor—a local trust company on the verge of bankruptcy due to the war. I bought all of The Ledger's debt at a price they couldn't refuse."
"Now," Hayes's eyes gleamed with cunning, "we are their biggest creditor. My people are 'amicably' discussing with their editor-in-chief, under the guise of 'financial restructuring consultants,' about how to optimize newspaper content to improve profitability. I believe he will soon understand what kind of voice is more likely to gain the 'friendship' of banks."
"Well done, Tom," Felix praised sincerely. "You always find the most effortless and most lethal entry point."
He didn't continue to inquire about the details of the media layout but turned his attention to another, more fundamental and weighty topic. He looked at Miller, who had just returned from Washington and had been sitting silently in the corner.
"Miller."
"Present, Boss."
The president of Militech stood up.
"Steel," Felix said only two words.
"Mr. Griffith and his exploration team have returned from the mountains of Pennsylvania."
Miller's answer was equally concise. He opened his briefcase, took out a thick exploration report still smelling of earth, and several heavy samples wrapped in oilcloth.
"Boss, please see." He placed a black, metallic-lustered ore on the desk.
"Mr. Reese said this is the treasure he found in the middle section of the Allegheny Mountains. The entire valley is filled with this high-grade limonite."
He picked up another piece, a harder black stone.
"And this," his voice carried a hint of barely suppressed excitement, "is coking coal. Right next to that iron ore, we discovered an astonishingly rich, almost perfect coking coal seam. Mr. Reese said its sulfur content is extremely low. The coke refined from it is the best food God has bestowed upon blast furnaces."
Felix picked up the weighty iron ore, feeling its cold texture. This was the true cornerstone of his future empire.
"What about the mining rights?"
"They've been secured," Miller replied. "As you instructed, we didn't alarm anyone. Through Argyle Bank's local partners, under the name of a newly registered 'Appalachian Mining Company,' we acquired the ownership of a total of three thousand acres of land in that mountain area in batches. The locals thought they were just some land speculators from New York."
"Very good," Felix nodded, but he immediately pointed out the most critical problem. "However, Miller, you and I both know. A gold mine buried deep in the mountains, if it can't be transported out, it's just a pile of rocks. The Pennsylvania Railroad's branch line is still fifteen miles from our mining area."
"Yes, Boss." A serious expression also appeared on Miller's face. "Those fifteen miles are rugged mountain roads. If we were to build a new railway branch line, it would be a huge project, requiring enormous investment and approval from the state legislature. And those people in Philadelphia… I'm afraid they won't easily let us have our way."
Silence fell for a moment in the study.
Everyone present looked at Felix. How the Boss would open up these "last fifteen miles" would determine whether their grand "vertical steel integration" plan would soar or run aground in the mountains of Pennsylvania.
Felix slowly stood up. He didn't look at the map but walked over to Hayes.
"Tom," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "get Philadelphia sorted out as soon as possible, and then let it utter its first cry."
He then turned to Frost.
"Edward, you also immediately send a telegram to Chairman Becker and Mr. Harrison on the Pennsylvania Railroad board."
Felix looked at everyone.
"You see, all these things are actually the same thing."
In Philadelphia, the suite at the Continental Hotel had been transformed into a temporary command center by Tom Hayes.
On the wall was a large municipal map of Philadelphia, and on the table were analysis documents regarding the equity structure and debt status of the Philadelphia Public Chronicle.
"Johnny," Hayes handed a freshly brewed cup of coffee to his assistant, "How are the printing factories in Boston being handed over?"
"Everything is going smoothly, sir," Johnny replied, a hint of youthful excitement on his face. "Our lawyers have officially taken over the factory. As you instructed, we retained all the printing workers and paid them three months' salary in advance. Now, all of Boston thinks that the factory has simply changed to a generous new owner."
"Excellent." Hayes nodded, his eyes, usually somewhat languid, now gleamed with a hunter's light. "Boston's mouthpiece is secured. Now, it's Philadelphia's turn, this more stubborn head."
He walked to the map and picked up a red pencil.
"The editor-in-chief of the Chronicle is an old-fashioned gentleman named Franklin Goss."
Hayes spoke slowly, as if dissecting a chess game, "He despises Wall Street, despises all capital that he considers 'unearned.' Trying to buy him off directly with money will only provoke his disgust. We must use a language he can understand."
He pushed the debt documents concerning the Chronicle to the center of the table.
"This is our only weapon, Johnny," his voice was very low, "but we cannot, like a rude debt collector, simply slap it on the table. That would be undignified, and it would expose our intentions too early."
He pondered for a moment and made a decision.
"Go, contact our legal counsel at Argyle Bank, Mr. Hoffman," he gave the order, "I need him to send a formal letter to the Chronicle's board of directors, in the name of the bank's 'Debt Restructuring and Risk Assessment' department."
"The content of the letter is very simple." A cunning smile appeared on Hayes's face.
"Just say that Argyle Bank, as an emerging financial institution concerned about Philadelphia's commercial health, expresses deep concern for the financial difficulties currently faced by the Chronicle.
We are willing to provide them with a package of financial solutions, including debt swaps and low-interest loans.
The prerequisite is that they must allow our accounting team to enter the newspaper office to conduct a comprehensive assessment of its future 'editorial direction and operational efficiency.'"
"He will refuse," Johnny immediately said.
"Of course he will." Hayes smiled, "But this 'well-intentioned' letter is like a stone thrown into a pond. It will create ripples within the Chronicle's already conflict-ridden board of directors. What will the small shareholders, who are also troubled by the newspaper's losses, think? They will begin to question Goss as to why he doesn't accept this olive branch from New York."
"We are not forcing him, Johnny," Hayes concluded, "We are simply creating an insoluble internal conflict for him and his board. Then, we will appear as a savior when they need us most."
...Meanwhile, in Chicago, at the Metropolitan Trading Company's president's office.
Bill, the butcher from the New York slaughterhouses, was anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair while looking at a large map of Atlantic shipping routes.
Standing before him was his most capable chief procurement officer, Caleb.
"President, since the company rarely participates in grain trade, we may need to acquire grain from the trading floor."
"No, Caleb, we cannot go to the exchange!" Bill immediately made a judgment and rejected the proposal.
"The prices there are all inflated! Caleb, you immediately take your people and go by train to the countryside of Iowa and Illinois! Go directly to those farmers!"
In Bill's shrewd eyes, a practiced cunning gleamed, "Just like when we went to find ranches and orchards, Metropolitan Trading Company will use cash to buy all their surplus grain this year. Felix's plan is tight, so we can't delay. Remember, I don't want futures, I don't want contracts, I only want spot goods that can be loaded onto a train!"
"Also, ships, go to New York! Tell that old Reeves to bring me all the movable freight cars from his railway company! And tell that old banker Templeton to use his connections, as the Boss said, to rent a few cargo ships capable of sailing to Europe at the docks as soon as possible! Tell them, this is for our compatriots in Irish!"
...New York, headquarters of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Another equally tense meeting was also being held in President Jones's office.
"Gentlemen," Jones pointed to a row of newly designed samples on the table, "These are the first batch of goods we've prepared for the 'Clover Project.'"
They were no longer the plain iron cans used by the military.
Instead, there were glass bottles and flat tin boxes printed with exquisite colorful labels. On the labels, next to the Argyle Company's shield emblem, was an elegant line of French text.
"Canned goods, compressed biscuits, milk chocolate, and this..." Jones picked up a square tin box with 'Luncheon Meat' printed on it, "These are all our latest attempts on the civilian product line. They will, along with the grains, be the first products to open up the European market."
Peter Jenkins, the representative of Umbrella Corporation, also added: "President Jones, Miss Catherine has also approved it. We will provide ten thousand bottles of 'Iodoglycerol' and two hundred thousand newly improved, fruit-flavored water purification tablets, to be shipped to Europe together. These medicines will be provided as 'samples' free of charge to several church hospitals in London and Dublin for 'clinical trials.'"
"Very good." Jones nodded, "Packaging, labels, and customs declaration documents must all be completed within next week. By then, our ship will not wait for anyone."
He looked at his subordinates, who were busily preparing for a transatlantic expedition.
He knew that the grand blueprint drawn by the Boss in the meeting room was, in the hands of these people, gradually transforming into solid steel and giant ships about to set sail.
And he himself was no longer the poor boy who only knew how to throw punches in Five Points.