On the gray surface of the North Atlantic, the pioneer's smokestack stubbornly belched black smoke.
The steam frigate 'Warrior', flying the Union Jack, had adjusted its course and was slowly approaching with an oppressive presence.
It gave no signal, but its row of dark muzzles was the clearest language.
On the deck of the pioneer, the atmosphere was as tense as a cable about to snap.
The sailors stopped their work, instinctively moving closer to James Finley and Donovan.
They were the only two 'passengers' on the ship wearing suits, and the unspoken backbone in everyone's hearts.
"They want to board and inspect," captain McAllister, an old man who had sailed the Great Lakes for half his life, said, his face etched with gravity.
He walked to Finley's side, his voice very low, "Mr. Finley, according to maritime law, they have no such right on the high seas.
But this is the North Atlantic, and their 'rules' are the law."
"Do we have anything in our cargo hold that shouldn't be seen, captain?" Finley asked back, his voice unusually calm.
"Of course not!" McAllister replied, "Only grain, canned goods, and some medicine.
All customs documents are as complete as can be."
"Then let them look."
Finley's reply made the captain pause.
Donovan, the silent man like a shadow, also walked to his side.
He didn't look at the approaching warship, but at Finley, a flicker of inquiry in his eyes.
"The Boss instructed before we set off," Finley's voice was only audible to the two of them, "the first step of the Clover Project isn't to sell the goods, but to let all of Europe know that our ship has arrived."
He watched an officer on the frigate observing them through a telescope.
"It seems the British are ready to beat the opening drum for us for free."
"Mr. Donovan," he gave the order, "have your men put away their weapons.
However, move the Umbrella Corporation boxes with the red and white Umbrella logo to the most conspicuous position on the deck.
And hoist the largest Stars and Stripes flag for me."
...Half an hour later, the 'Warrior' frigate lowered a small boat.
A young officer in the Royal Navy's blue uniform, wearing the rank of Major, boarded the pioneer's deck, escorted by two fully armed sailors.
"I am Major Charles Wentworth, Executive Officer of His Majesty's Ship 'Warrior'."
His demeanor was impeccable, but his blue eyes held a cold scrutiny, "I am under orders to conduct routine, non-harmful inspections of all suspicious vessels bound for Irish."
"Welcome aboard, Major."
Finley went up to him, his face showing just the right amount of warmth and humility, "I am James Finley, in charge of this cargo.
We are an ordinary merchant ship from New York, carrying only food and... humanitarian supplies for commercial sale in Dublin."
He pointed to the Umbrella wooden crates deliberately displayed on the deck.
"Humanitarian supplies?" Major Wentworth raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Yes, sir."
The ship's doctor, Dr. Dalton, personally hired by Catherine, stepped forward at the opportune moment.
He handed over a document.
"This is a joint certification from New York Presbyterian Hospital and Columbia University Medical College.
A portion of these medicines will be donated free of charge as samples to St. Vincent's Hospital in Dublin for an academic exchange study on 'battlefield surgical disinfection techniques'."
Major Wentworth took the document and read it carefully.
The seals and letterheads on the document were all authentic.
"I need to inspect your cargo hold," he finally said.
"Of course, please do."
Finley made a welcoming gesture.
Accompanied by captain McAllister and Donovan, Major Wentworth entered the pioneer's massive cargo hold.
When he saw the mountains of grain sacks, stacked as neatly as in a military warehouse, and thousands of canned goods boxes bearing the Argyle Company emblem, a hint of surprise appeared on his face.
"Mr. Finley," he pointed to the goods, "you're shipping so much grain and food to Irish... can the market there absorb it?"
"We have great confidence in the purchasing power of the Irish people, Major," Finley replied flawlessly.
"And we will also sell in Paris and Berlin.
My Boss, Mr. Argyle, believes that during wartime, there is no business more important than a stable food supply."
Wentworth asked no further questions.
He simply, silently, noted the emblems and quantities on the cargo boxes... Just as the British Royal Navy was playing the role of uninvited 'inspectors' in the Atlantic.
New York, Fifth Avenue mansion.
Another, higher-level 'inspection' was about to begin.
"Boss," Frost placed a newly finalized schedule in front of Felix, "the Prussian delegation's itinerary has been confirmed.
Major Arnim-Boitzenburg and their engineering consultant, Mr. Hermann Gruson from the Krupp factory, will arrive in New York next Wednesday."
"Secretary of State Seward's office also sent a 'suggestion'," Frost added, his tone somewhat subtle, "He suggested that all our talks with the Prussians should have a 'military observer' from the War Department present."
"He's sending people to monitor us," Felix chuckled, completely unconcerned.
"It's a normal practice.
Tell Mr. Seward that we very much welcome any guidance from the War Department."
"So, Boss, what about the location and agenda for the talks?"
"The location will be Militech in Connecticut," Felix decided.
"I want them to see with their own eyes what kind of furnace our 'Anvil' is forged in."
"As for the agenda," Felix's eyes flashed with calculation, "on the first day, take them on a factory tour, showcasing all our products, from rifles to machine guns.
Use absolute technological superiority to thoroughly whet their appetite."
"On the second day," he continued, "take them to visit our school in Five Points, to see Umbrella's laboratories, and to walk through the Argyle Bank's vault.
I want them to see that we are not just a military factory; we are a complete ecosystem with strong industrial, financial, and social foundations."
"Then... when do we talk business?"
"Business will be saved for the last day."
A slight curve appeared at the corner of Felix's mouth, "After they have seen everything we want them to see, I will personally have a private meeting with the Major sent by Mr. Bismarck."
He looked at Frost and stated the true purpose of this arms exhibition.
"Edward, you must remember.
We are not selling a few guns to the Prussians this time."
"We are selling them a promise of 'technological generational advantage'.
I want them to believe that cooperating with us means possessing a future that can crush all their European opponents."
"And the price of this 'future'," he looked out at the city skyline, about to be swept by winds and clouds, "will be determined by their ambition, not by our price list."
____
New York's autumn welcomed guests from the Kingdom of Prussia with a crisp, cool rain.
Major Arnim-Boitzenburg stood by the window of his suite at the Astor House hotel, looking down at Fifth Avenue, which gleamed under the rain.
Carriages splashed mud on the slippery cobblestone streets, hurried pedestrians held black umbrellas, and the entire city was like a huge, chaotic anthill, brimming with a wild, burgeoning vitality completely different from Berlin.
"There's no scent of discipline in the air here, Hermann," he said to the other person in the room without turning around, "only money and haste."
Hermann Gruson, the chief engineer from the Krupp factory in Essen, was wearing white gloves and meticulously inspecting the brass pipe joint laid by the New York City Gas Company next to the fireplace. He didn't respond, merely tracing his finger lightly over the smooth seam.
"Excellent craftsmanship," he said with admiration in his voice. "The artisans here don't seem as crude as their city."
"Because the person who laid this pipe and the person who invited us here are very likely the same."
Major Arnim-Boitzenburg turned around, his always sharp blue eyes glinting with a soldier's prudence.
"Mr. Argyle," he continued, "Mr. Frost, the assistant sent to receive us, just delivered tomorrow's schedule. We will depart early tomorrow morning on his private train to Connecticut to visit his arsenal."
"A private train?"
Gruson's brow raised slightly. "He owns a railway company?"
"Yes."
Arnim-Boitzenburg walked to the table and picked up the public profile of Felix Argyle's business empire.
"And more than one. He even owns a bank, a Food Company, and a pharmaceutical company. It's said that in Chicago, he owns media that can make all newspapers say the same thing, and he has invested in many businesses, including the gas pipeline company you're looking at. Not to mention the main company we're here for this time."
He handed the document to his companion.
"Hermann," his voice grew solemn, "before coming, I thought I was just meeting a lucky businessman who happened to invent a new weapon. But now it seems we might be meeting a monster far larger than we imagined."
...The next morning, the rain had cleared, and the sky was bright.
When Arnim-Boitzenburg and Gruson, accompanied by Frost, arrived at the private platform of New York Central Station, a luxurious compartment, painted dark blue and inlaid with brass lines, was quietly waiting.
On the side of the carriage, there was only a simple family crest, a stylized letter "W."
Beside the platform, in addition to employees of Felix's company, stood a steady-tempered colonel in a Federal Army blue uniform.
"Major, Mr. Gruson," Frost politely opened the carriage door for them and introduced, "This is Colonel Dale from the Federal War Department. He will accompany us as a military observer."
Colonel Dale stepped forward, gave a crisp military salute, and his gaze lingered on the two Prussians for a moment.
"Welcome to America, gentlemen."
Arnim-Boitzenburg immediately returned an equally standard Prussian military salute, but his heart tightened. It seemed Mr. Argyle's relationship with Washington was even closer than intelligence had described.
"Gentlemen," Frost politely opened the carriage door for them, "Please. It will take about three hours from here to Whitneyville. The Boss is already waiting on the train."
The interior of the carriage was less a train car and more a mobile gentleman's club.
Soft Persian carpets, comfortable velvet sofas, and a small bar stocked with various drinks and cigars.
Felix was sitting at a small table, discussing something on a map with Mr. Miller, the president of Militech. Seeing the guests enter, he immediately stood up.
"Major Arnim-Boitzenburg, Mr. Gruson," he extended his hand, a warm, host-like smile on his face, "Welcome to New York. I hope you rested well last night."
"Thank you very much for your hospitality, Mr. Argyle."
Arnim-Boitzenburg shook his hand, his gaze subtly sweeping over the map behind Felix, which marked several locations in West Virginia.
"This is Mr. Miller," Felix introduced them, "the president of Militech. He will personally accompany you on a tour of our factory in Whitneyville."
Gruson's gaze was immediately drawn to the unique aura on Miller, a quality possessed only by veterans who had experienced the crucible of war.
Clearly, this man was no ordinary businessman.
The train slowly started moving.
For the next three hours, Felix did not discuss weapons or business.
Like a learned host, he chatted with Arnim-Boitzenburg about Prussian classical philosophy and discussed with Gruson the application of blast furnace hot blast technology in steelmaking.
The breadth of knowledge he displayed genuinely surprised both elites from the Old Continent...
When the train arrived in Whitneyville, Frank Cole, Militech's production manager, was already waiting at the station.
"Boss, Mr. Miller," he reported, stepping forward, "Welcome back. Mr. Griffith and Mr. Blackwood are already prepared in the workshop."
Felix nodded. He turned to his two German guests. "Gentlemen, welcome to my arsenal."
When the massive factory, constructed of red brick and steel, appeared before Arnim-Boitzenburg and Gruson, Gruson, the genius engineer from Krupp, for the first time, expressed genuine admiration.
"Remarkable layout."
He looked at the several independent workshops connected by elevated conveyor belts, and the huge chimney spewing thick black smoke.
"Power, materials, and production flow are perfectly separated. This was designed by... by someone who truly understands industrial logic."
"That designer is waiting for you inside, Mr. Gruson," Felix smiled.
In the machining workshop, Rhys Griffiths, an equally proud genius, stood with his arms crossed beside a brand new Pratt & Whitney milling machine. Beside him was the chief artisan, Silas Blackwood.
"Mr. Gruson," when Frank introduced the two, Griffith merely nodded, his English carrying a pure Sheffield accent and an undisguised challenge, "I hear Krupp's gun steel is the best in Europe."
"We just understand how to be better friends with fire and carbon, Mr. Griffith," Gruson's reply was equally concise and confident.
The two geniuses, from different countries but speaking the same "language of steel," met each other's gaze at this moment. Invisible sparks seemed to fly in the air.
Felix did not interrupt them. Because the real exchange was about to begin.
The tour began with the rifle assembly line. When Major Arnim-Boitzenburg personally experienced the unparalleled rate of fire and reliability of the "Militech 1863" rifle, his always serious face revealed an undisguised shock.
"Mr. Argyle," he said, putting down the still-smoking rifle, "I must admit, this rifle alone is enough to make my trip worthwhile."
"Oh, Major," Felix smiled, "This is just the appetizer."
He gestured to Miller to lead everyone to another, more heavily guarded, independent testing workshop.
When the "organ of death" with its six barrels was unveiled from its canvas, exposed before everyone, even the well-traveled Colonel Dale instinctively took half a step back. Hermann Gruson, on the other hand, rushed forward as if seeing a holy relic, obsessively caressing its complex structure, full of mechanical beauty.
"Miller," Felix gave the command.
Miller personally walked behind the machine, skillfully loaded the magazine, and grasped the crank.
"Da da da da da da — !"
When that torrent of flame and steel first erupted before these European elites, the entire world seemed to fall silent.
One hundred yards away, the simulated fortification, constructed of three layers of oak planks and sandbags, was utterly torn to shreds in a matter of seconds.
Major Arnim-Boitzenburg stood rooted to the spot, his brain, which had been instilled with countless tactics of line infantry and cavalry charges at the Prussian Military Academy, was completely emptied at this moment.
He seemed to see the future, a bloody future belonging to Prussia and to all of Europe.
Gruson, meanwhile, rushed to the still-scorching machine, disregarding the danger, and crouched down to study the brass casings spewing out like a waterfall.
"Perfect ejection... not a single deformation..." he muttered, as if dreaming, "My God... its tolerance... its material..."
Colonel Dale's expression became very complex. He looked at Felix, his eyes full of admiration, but also deep vigilance. What he had seen today was something that should never be easily possessed by any foreign power, and he understood why the War Department had sent him.
After a long while, Arnim-Boitzenburg finally found his voice.
He slowly turned around, looking at the young man who had stood quietly by the side, watching everything, from beginning to end.
"Mr. Argyle," his voice, hoarse from extreme shock, "His Majesty the King and Chancellor Bismarck sent me to discuss a deal with you."
"But now it seems," he looked at the gun and at the roaring factory, "what we need to discuss, I'm afraid... is far more than just a deal."
A smile appeared on Felix's face.
"Of course, Major," he gestured, "I believe that in the factory's conference room, we can find a warmer and more suitable place to delve into the future."
...Half an hour later, in the Militech's conference room, the atmosphere was completely different from the shock at the shooting range, filled with the silent tension of business and politics.
The aroma of coffee replaced the smell of gunpowder.
Felix sat at the head of the long table, with President Miller on his left and Production Manager Frank Cole on his right.
The three guests sat opposite him. Alvensleben was in the middle, his expression having returned to the calm and solemn demeanor of a Prussian officer. Engineer Grussen was like an antsy student, his mind clearly still replaying the feast of violent aesthetics he had just witnessed. And Colonel Dale, like a silent guardian, said nothing, but his very presence represented the Federal Government's position.
"Mr. Argyle," Alvensleben got straight to the point, his English clear and forceful, "I need to report to Berlin immediately. But before that, I need a preliminary plan. The Kingdom of Prussia hopes to obtain the production license for the 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun' and all related technical patents."
"We are willing to pay a transfer fee that will satisfy you for this," he added, "Two hundred thousand dollars in cash, this is a very sincere price."
It should be noted that for military industrial products, most countries at present mostly imitate and have no patents to speak of. Their Actively mention patents is already quite good, although most of it is due to the patent on the raw materials.
That steel was extraordinary.
Miller and Frank both showed a hint of imperceptible surprise. Two hundred thousand dollars, this sum was enough to build another sizable factory in Connecticut.
However, Felix merely smiled. He picked up the coffee cup in front of him and gently blew on the steam.
"Major," he slowly began, "I have received Prussia's sincerity. But, if I may be Frank, this proposal is like admiring a beautiful princess and only wishing to buy out all her future portrait rights with a bag of gold coins. This... is not very realistic."
"What do you mean?"
Felix put down his coffee cup, his gaze sharpening. "What I mean is, what you saw on the shooting range just now was not just a machine. It is the crystallization of a complete industrial system."
He turned to the Krupp engineer who had been silent all along.
"Mr. Grussen," he asked, "you just saw the 'Prometheus Alloy' used in our rifle production line. I'm very curious, with Krupp's current technical level, if you obtained its chemical formula, do you have the confidence to stably produce steel of the same performance within a year?"
This question stunned the proud Grussen. He remembered the color of the metal shavings, the unprecedented toughness of the material. After a long time, he honestly shook his head.
"We... might need time. A lot of experiments."
"Precisely." Felix nodded, "Patents and blueprints are merely the skeleton of this weapon. Its flesh and blood, its soul, come from our unique metallurgical technology, from our specialized machine tools with precision reaching one-thousandth of an inch, from the experience accumulated by hundreds of our craftsmen through thousands of failures. These things cannot be transferred on a piece of paper."
"If I sold you the patent today," Felix looked at Alvensleben, "I can guarantee that a year from now, what you produce in your factory in Essen will perhaps only be an expensive piece of scrap metal that frequently jams and might explode at any moment. At that time, what is damaged will not only be my reputation but also the lives of Prussian soldiers."
These words made Alvensleben's expression turn serious.
Colonel Dale's lips curled into an almost imperceptible arc.
Of course, the main reason was that Felix had no intention of providing the alloy patent.
"Then, Mr. Argyle," Alvensleben asked in a low voice, "What is your proposal?"
"My proposal is not a one-time sale. It is a long-term strategic partnership." Felix finally laid out his long-prepared true price.
"Phase one," he held up a finger, "Militech can provide the Prussian Army with one hundred 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun' units, produced by our original factory, along with five hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, for your army's evaluation, testing, and tactical research. Each system, including the weapon, accessories, and five thousand rounds of ammunition, is priced at... five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars?!" Alvensleben's adjutant couldn't help but exclaim in surprise. This price was almost a hundred times that of the repeating rifle.
"Yes, five thousand dollars." Felix's tone was unequivocal, "This is the price of 'knowledge,' Major. It is the price for your generals and engineers to understand the future form of warfare at the fastest speed."
"Phase two," Felix didn't give them much time to be shocked, "If your army is satisfied with our product, we can initiate technical cooperation. Militech will dispatch a technical advisory group composed of top engineers like Mr. Frank to Prussia. They will help you establish a modern light weapon production line, from factory layout to machine tool selection and worker training."
"Of course," he added, "all the most core and irreplaceable precision components required for this production line, such as bolt assemblies and special steel, will be exclusively supplied by our Militech for the next ten years."
"Finally, I personally also very much hope to have the opportunity to establish deeper friendships with Chancellor Bismarck and... members of His Majesty the King's royal family. Perhaps we can find more common interests in finance and transatlantic trade."
The entire conference room fell into a long silence.
Alvensleben and Grussen were completely shaken by Felix's ambitious and visionary "three-step" plan.
He wasn't selling weapons.
Instead, he wanted to sell a system, a standard, a promise that could enable the Prussian military-industrial system to achieve leapfrog development within ten years, and a ticket to bind interests with his emerging industrial empire.
"Mr. Argyle," after a long while, Alvensleben finally found his voice, "Your 'cooperation plan'... has far exceeded the scope of what I can decide. I will report it in its entirety to Berlin."
"Of course." Felix nodded, "I believe Chancellor Bismarck is a wise man who can see the value of this blueprint."
Just then, Colonel Dale, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"Mr. Argyle," his voice was calm, but carried an official stance, "I need to remind you. Any foreign cooperation concerning core military technology must undergo strict review and approval by the War Department."
"I completely understand, Colonel." Felix responded with a smile, "In fact, I am preparing to submit a formal report to Secretary Stanton on this matter."
"I believe," his gaze inadvertently met Colonel Dale's, "a plan that can bring millions of dollars in foreign exchange revenue to the States and foster a powerful 'potential ally' for us in Europe, Mr. Secretary should have no reason to refuse."