Philadelphia, Chestnut Street.
The old brick and stone building of The Philadelphia Public Chronicle, like a stubborn old gentleman, seemed somewhat out of place amidst the new commercial buildings surrounding it.
Its printing press had conveyed the voice of independence to the city's citizens since the founding of America.
But now, this old machine could barely print the bills to pay the printing workers' wages.
In the editor-in-chief's office, the air was filled with a scent of old newspapers, cold coffee, and despair.
Franklin Goss, an old journalist who had worked there for thirty years, was looking at the financial report, full of red deficits, that the accountant had just delivered. His hands trembled slightly with anger.
"They're hounding us for payment again."
The accountant's voice was small and weak, like the squeaking of a mouse in a church, "The printing ink supplier said if we don't settle our debts by this Friday, they'll stop supplying us. And the paper… Sir, we only have enough paper in the warehouse for three more days of printing."
Goss walked to the window, looking out at the street he had known his entire life. He despised the speculators on Wall Street who could amass huge fortunes with mere pieces of paper and lies, firmly believing that a newspaper's value lay in its integrity and truth.
But now, it was these very things he despised most—bills and deficits—that were slowly strangling him and the integrity he prided himself on.
"What did the board say?" he asked hoarsely.
"They... they seem more concerned about the stock price of the Pennsylvania Railroad," the accountant whispered, "I heard that Mr. Patterson hasn't been in the office for several days due to his previous setback at the board meeting."
Goss let out a weary, sarcastic laugh. A bunch of parasites only concerned with their own money bags.
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
"Sir," his secretary, a young man who also looked worried, walked in, "Outside... there's a lawyer from Argyle Empire Bank in New York, Mr. Hoffman, who says he has urgent financial matters and needs to meet with you and all members of the board."
"Argyle Bank?" Goss frowned, "We have no business dealings with them."
"He said... he's here on behalf of our newspaper's largest creditor."
This sentence struck Goss like a bolt of lightning. He remembered the local trust company that was on the verge of bankruptcy three years ago due to the outbreak of war. The newspaper's largest long-term loan was mortgaged there...
Half an hour later, in The Chronicle's conference room, which was only used for important occasions, a strangely atmospheric meeting was underway.
Lawyer Hoffman, Felix's most capable legal sword, gently placed a document in the center of the conference table. His posture was impeccable, and a polite yet distant smile played on his face.
"Mr. Goss, directors," he began, his voice steady, "I am here today on behalf of my client, Patriot Investment Company of New York, to officially inform you of something. Last week, my client fully acquired all the non-performing assets of 'Philadelphia United Trust,' which includes your newspaper's mortgage loan totaling fifty thousand dollars."
He pushed another assignment of debt agreement to the center of the table.
"Legally speaking," he said, looking at everyone whose faces were starting to turn grim, "my client is now your biggest creditor."
The conference room fell silent. Everyone was stunned by this sudden news. They knew the trust company had been looking for a buyer, but they never imagined it would be that most greedy shark from New York.
"So," Goss's voice, as if squeezed from an ice crevice, "you're here to collect the debt?"
"No, no, Sir, you've completely misunderstood."
Hoffman shook his head, a benevolent smile appearing on his face, "Quite the opposite. My client holds the highest respect for The Chronicle's long history and esteemed reputation. He believes that such a valuable cultural heritage should not be destroyed due to some temporary financial difficulties."
"So I was sent not to collect the loan, but to offer a solution."
He distributed a pre-prepared official letter to everyone present.
"My client proposes," Hoffman explained, "that Argyle Empire Bank provide your newspaper with a low-interest loan totaling fifty thousand dollars. This money would be enough for you to clear all old debts, replace that old printing press, and have at least a year of healthy operating capital."
This proposal, like a pie falling from the sky, made the eyes of the few small shareholders present instantly gleam with greed.
"However," Hoffman's tone shifted, "as a condition for providing this loan, our bank will need to conduct a comprehensive assessment of your newspaper's financial situation and future operations to ensure our funds are used most efficiently."
"We will need to dispatch our accountants and operational consultants to the newspaper. They will work with you and your editorial team to discuss how to 'optimize newspaper content to improve profitability.'"
Goss's heart sank completely.
This was not benevolent help at all. It was the sweetest poison wrapped in money.
They would use accountants and consultants to decide what the newspaper should and should not say in the future.
"I refuse!"
He stood up abruptly, his wrinkled face filled with humiliated anger, "The integrity of The Chronicle cannot be bought with money! We don't need your New York charity!"
"Mr. Goss, please calm down," a small shareholder immediately stood up, trying to appease him, "This... this is a great opportunity to get us out of trouble!"
"Out of trouble?" Goss looked at him, his eyes full of disappointment, "And then become a mouthpiece that only praises money and power? I'd rather see this newspaper close down!"
The conference room instantly split into two camps...
That night, Goss went alone to J. Edgar Thomson's mansion.
He hoped that this railroad magnate, who had also been forced to step down by the New Yorkers, could offer him some advice or support.
However, he was met only with Thomson's weary and self-deprecating bitter smile.
"Integrity? Franklin, my old friend," Thomson poured him a drink, "That thing is worthless in the face of Argyle' bank drafts."
"I've already lost."
He looked out at the Philadelphia night, "Not to his money, but to his new rules, which allow him to manipulate money, law, and human hearts in the palm of his hand."
"He's like a ghost," Thomson's voice trembled slightly, "You don't even know which direction his knife will strike from."
He looked at his old friend, his eyes full of sympathy.
"Accept him, buddy," he said hoarsely, "At least you'll still be able to keep your newspaper and the livelihoods of those workers."
"As for integrity," he drained his glass, "that's just a little bit of... self-deception for us old-timers from the old era."
Goss silently walked out of Thomson's mansion. The Philadelphia night wind blew cold and biting on his aged face.
He knew he had no allies left...
The next morning, Hayes' hotel suite.
"Sir," Johnny placed a letter from The Chronicle's board on the table, "Mr. Goss has agreed to the first official meeting with our 'consultant' team."
Hayes picked up the letter, a knowing smile appearing on his face.
New York Harbor, South Street Seaport.
Unlike the invisible battlefield of Wall Street, constructed by telegraph machines and stock tickers, the battles here were filled with a more primal and real sense of power.
The roar of steam cranes, the rough shouts of dock foremen, the groaning of ropes on winches, and the air mixed with the salty tang of seawater, the bitter taste of coal smoke, and the scents of goods from all over the world, together composed the city's ceaseless commercial symphony.
The ocean-going steam freighter "The Pioneer," flying the Stars and Stripes, with a black hull and thick black smoke billowing from its funnel, was quietly docked at Pier 3. It wasn't the largest or newest ship in New York Harbor; the paint on its hull was even somewhat mottled from the erosion of seawater.
But today, it was undoubtedly the focal point of the entire dock.
President Templeton of Argyle Empire Bank stood at the second-floor window of the dock office.
He wore an impeccable English suit, held a steaming cup of black tea, and his expression was as steady as ever. But his sharp eyes were now fixed on the bustling loading area below.
His assistant, Finch, handed him a document, "Sir, the lease agreement for The Pioneer has been signed. As per your instructions, we paid three months' rent and purchased the highest-limit shipping insurance underwritten by Lloyd's of London."
Templeton nodded, his gaze still fixed out the window. He watched as a long line of heavy horse-drawn carriages, driven by Argyle Company's own transport team, steadily and orderly entered the dock.
"Mr. Bill's actions in Chicago were very swift," Finch continued to report.
"The first batch, totaling five thousand tons of high-quality wheat and corn, has already arrived in New York two days ahead of schedule via Mr. Reeves' railway. Mr. Jones' Food Company also worked through the night to package them into moisture-proof burlap sacks."
Templeton could see hundreds of mostly Irish dockworkers on the pier, with unprecedented enthusiasm and efficiency, sending those grain sacks marked with the Argyle logo, one by one, into the Pioneer's massive cargo hold via steam cranes.
"What about the goods prepared by Mr. Jones?" Templeton asked.
"They are all in place as well," Finch replied, "Fifty thousand specially packaged 'Argyle Family Pack' fruit and meat cans, as well as biscuits and newly developed milk chocolate and luncheon meat. In addition, Miss Catherine's Umbrella Corporation also provided ten thousand bottles of Iodoglycerol and two hundred thousand water purification tablets. These goods were stored separately in the driest and safest locations in the ship's hold."
Templeton's gaze fell on another group of people.
On the other side of the cargo hold, Peter Jenkins, Umbrella Corporation's production supervisor, led a small team of two young chemists, personally overseeing the loading of wooden crates marked with the red and white Umbrella logo. Each box was carefully secured to ensure no damage during the bumpy voyage.
"Jenkins."
Jones, the president of the Food Company, strode over, a hearty smile on his face. Frequent interaction with children had made him increasingly cheerful.
"Umbrella's precious bottles are quite delicate. My guys are handling them more carefully than eggs."
"There's no other way, Mr. Jones."
Jenkins adjusted his glasses and smiled, "Miss Catherine instructed that some of these medicines will be provided as samples, free of charge, to several church hospitals in Dublin and London. Their performance will determine Umbrella Corporation's first impression in Europe."
"I understand." Jones patted his shoulder, "Don't worry. I've assigned the best foreman to personally oversee your shipment. I guarantee they'll be safer than the ship's captain."
As Templeton watched all this, his old-school banker's heart couldn't help but stir.
He couldn't help but recall the meeting in Felix's study a few days prior.
When he first heard the grand vision of a "two-way trade route" and a "ship of hope," his initial reaction was absurdity and opposition.
Because it completely exceeded any stable business model he understood.
But now, as he personally witnessed the grain from Chicago, the industrial goods from New York factories, the medicines from the top laboratories, and the people on the dock efficiently collaborating for a common goal... he began to understand the formidable power contained within his Boss's seemingly crazy plan.
This was not a simple voyage.
This was a systematic expedition, driven by a unified will, spanning agriculture, industry, medicine, and finance.
Oh, and media newspapers should be added too. He wondered if Hayes had started his actions yet.
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
Edward Frost walked in.
"President Templeton." He handed over a list, "The Boss's instructions. The first batch of advance personnel for 'Operation Clover' to Europe has all arrived. Arrange for them to board the ship as soon as possible."
Templeton took the list, which contained a dozen names.
The leader was James Finley, a shrewd and capable deputy personally selected by Tom Hayes from Patriot Investment Company. His mission was to go to Dublin to execute the acquisition of Irish newspapers.
Following him were several market specialists from Metropolitan Trading Company and the Food Company. They would be responsible for establishing the first commercial liaison offices in Liverpool and Cork, as well as Paris and Berlin, paving the way for future goods sales.
And at the end of the list were three taciturn members from Flynn's Intelligence Office. Their public identity was security consultants responsible for ensuring the safety of this voyage.
"I understand." Templeton nodded and turned to his assistant, "Has everything been arranged with the captain?"
"Yes, sir. captain McAllister personally selected the ship's crew. They are all veterans who have sailed the North Atlantic route for over twenty years. In addition, Miss Catherine specifically hired an experienced ship doctor from the Presbyterian Hospital."
At four in the afternoon, as the last cargo box was steadily lowered into the hold, The Pioneer slowly sailed out of the harbor.
On the dock, the Irish workers who had come to see them off spontaneously gathered. They didn't cheer; they simply and silently removed their hats.
Felixand Catherine stood side by side on the top-floor balcony of the Argyle Bank building, watching everything from afar through a high-powered telescope.
"It has departed, Felix."
Catherine's voice was soft, and her hand tightly clasped Felix's.
"Yes."
Felix put down the telescope, watching the black freighter slowly leave the dock, gradually merging into the busy shipping lane of the East River in the afterglow of the setting sun.
He said softly, "The first pier has sunk to the bottom of the sea."
The ship's chimney, like a black finger pointing to the gloomy sky, stubbornly spewed thick smoke.
The bow cut through the icy waters of the North Atlantic, emitting a monotonous and continuous 'swish' sound, which, intertwined with the rhythmic 'clatter' of the old steam engine deep within the hull, formed a drowsy lullaby.
James Finley, the advance team commander personally selected by Tom Hayes to lead the European landing of the Clover Project, stood on the pitching foredeck.
The sea breeze blew salty spray onto his face, but he showed no discomfort.
In his mind, that of a financial trader, this turbulent ocean was not a force of nature, but a huge balance sheet filled with costs and time.
"Mr. Finley."
A young marketing specialist from the Food Company, his face pale from seasickness, walked up to him, holding onto the railing.
"The captain says we have entered the most dangerous route in the North Atlantic.
A storm could come at any time in the next three days."
"Let the captain do his job, Nelson."
Finley said without turning his head, his gaze fixed on the gray line where the sea met the sky in the distance.
"And you, you should go check your cargo.
See if there's any leakage or damage to the packaging of the luncheon meat and milk chocolate after five days of sea travel.
Remember, my friend, our first impression in Dublin is packed in those bottles and cans."
Nelson nodded and turned to walk back into the cabin.
Only Finley remained on the deck, and not far behind him, the silent man like a shadow—Donovan.
The intelligence team leader, dressed in a common sailor's rough woolen clothes, leaned in the shadow of the mast, toying with a short wooden stick used for tying knots.
His gaze, unlike Finley's, was not cast towards the distant horizon, but vigilantly scanned every working crew member on the deck, and the occasional unidentified vessel in the distance.
"Mr. Donovan," Finley broke the silence, "do you think our business will succeed?"
"Oh, what a good question, but unfortunately my mission is not to judge whether the business will succeed, Mr. Finley."
"My mission is to ensure that you and those goods arrive safely at your destination."
Finley smiled and turned to lean on the railing.
"The Boss sent you not just to be a bodyguard.
Mr. Hayes must have told you that you are my other pair of eyes in Europe."
"Ha... come on, my friend, you must know that my direct superior is not Mr. Hayes.
Of course, as employees both under Mr. Argyle, I will still choose to cooperate with you." Donovan looked at him.
Finley didn't care about the other party's words or gaze, as long as he was willing to cooperate, "OK, then can you tell me, from a... professional's perspective.
Where do you think the biggest risk of our operation lies this time?"
"The British."
Donovan's answer was without hesitation, "This sea is theirs.
Our ship, laden with food and medicine, is sailing towards an island they are oppressing.
In their eyes, this doesn't look like simple business."
Just then, a long shout came from the crow's nest.
"Unidentified vessel spotted on the starboard side!"
Finley and Donovan simultaneously raised their binoculars.
On the gray sea in the distance, a black dot was rapidly growing larger.
It was a steam frigate flying the British Royal Navy flag, approaching the Pioneer with an oppressive posture.
"It seems the trouble is coming faster than we expected," Donovan said softly, his hand instinctively reaching inside his coat.
A cold sweat also broke out on Finley's forehead... Meanwhile, three thousand miles away in Washington.
In the office of U.S. Secretary of State William Henry Seward, the atmosphere was subtly tense.
He had just seen off the French ambassador, that gentleman who always carried a hint of Gallic arrogance, who had subtly inquired for half an hour about "logistical innovations in the Federal Army during the Western Campaign."
And now, on his desk were two other memorandums, equally cautiously worded, but with intentions that were clear.
One was from Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador, who hoped to have an "informal exchange" with the War Department "on the balance between wartime industrial production and civilian needs."
The other was even more direct.
"Sir."
Seward's chief assistant, a young man named Frederick, handed him a business card.
"Major Albrecht von Alvensleben, the military attaché of the Kingdom of Prussia to the United States, is waiting in the reception room.
He says he has been ordered by the General Staff in Berlin to discuss 'the application of new breech-loading weapons in skirmish line tactics.'"
"He also brought an 'engineering consultant,'" Frederick added.
Seward picked up the business card and looked at the other two memorandums on the desk.
His brain, which had been immersed in politics for decades, immediately smelled something unusual.
"The Prussians are always so direct," he said slowly, a hint of imperceptible sarcasm on his lips.
"The French want our technology, but they can't bring themselves to ask directly.
The Brits are more concerned about whether our technology will change the balance at sea.
Only these Teutonic knights will wear their desire for weapons directly on their faces."
Frederick asked, "Sir, how should we respond?
Over at the War Department, Secretary Stanton holds the strongest opposition to sharing any information about Vanguard weapons."
"Of course, we can't give it to them," Seward shook his head, "but we can't directly refuse either.
Now is not the time to offend the Europeans, especially Prussia.
We need them in Europe to tie up some of France's and Britain's energy."
He pondered for a moment and made a decision.
"You arrange a meeting, Frederick," he instructed, "not here, and not at the War Department.
Go to Argyle Empire Bank, or Militech's office in New York."
"Sir?" Frederick was stunned, "You mean..."
Seward's eyes revealed the cunning of an old politician, "This matter, from the beginning, was not an intergovernmental military issue.
It is a commercial issue for a private company."
He stood up and walked to the huge world map.
"Major Alvensleben wants to meet our 'weapon expert,' doesn't he?" He looked at the map, as if he could already see the slowly unfolding chess game, "Then let him meet the person who actually created these weapons."
"Send a telegram to Mr. Felix Argyle." Seward's lips curved into a smile, "Tell him that Washington has sent him a very generous European client.
As for how this business should be negotiated, and what kind of deal can be made..."
He turned to his assistant.
"That is his own business as a 'patriotic businessman.'"
...That afternoon, in Felix's study.
Frost placed the encrypted telegram from the Secretary of State's office in front of Felix.
Felix finished reading it, a knowing smile on his face.
"It seems our organ not only roared on the battlefield of Chattanooga," he handed the telegram to Catherine, "its sound has grown so loud that even the King in Berlin has heard it."
Catherine looked at the telegram, a flicker of worry in her eyes, "The Prussians... they want to buy our technology."
"They want far more than just technology, my dear." Felix walked to the window, looking at the distant, vibrant landscape of New York, "What they want is the key that will allow them to win the next war."
Felix remembered that Prussia was about to embark on its path to unification.
He looked at the telegram and then thought of the Pioneer, which was currently struggling across the Atlantic, braving storms and the gaze of the British.
"Edward," he said, his voice calm but with an undeniable force, "send a telegram to Miller."
"Tell him to get ready for Militech's first... international arms exhibition."