(Ireland is no longer reffered to as Irish yay!)
Berlin, Wilhelmstrasse.
The autumn sun cast pale streaks of light across the floor through the tall windows of the Chancellor's residence. The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke, old documents, and an unspoken tension.
Otto von Bismarck stood alone before a large map of the German Confederation, his back to the room.
A nearly spent cigar was clutched between his fingers, its tip faintly red, though he seemed oblivious. Spread on the table was the second, more detailed, encrypted telegram Major Arnim-Boitzenburg had sent from New York.
The young American businessman had not only rejected his seemingly generous offer of technology in exchange for market access but had instead proposed a more controlling counter-offer.
"Five years of exclusive supply… gradual transfer of non-critical technology… ownership of core patents contingent on the depth and breadth of cooperation…"
Bismarck murmured the words from the telegram, a curve playing on his lips, "Hmph, quite an appetite."
A soft knock sounded at the office door.
Chief of the General Staff, Helmuth von Moltke, entered. He placed a document folder, also marked top secret, on Bismarck's desk.
"Major Arnim-Boitzenburg's detailed technical assessment report has arrived," Moltke's voice was as concise as ever, "along with Engineer Hermann Gruson's independent opinion."
Bismarck turned around. He did not immediately look at the documents Moltke brought, but instead pointed to the telegram on his own desk.
"Moltke, first take a look at the new price this American has set for us."
Moltke picked up the telegram, and a ripple appeared on his usually calm face.
"Very confident terms," he commented, placing the telegram back on the table, "He has almost complete control of the initiative."
"Confident? I'd say arrogant."
Bismarck picked up the thick technical assessment report from the table and immediately turned to Engineer Gruson's independent opinion section. He needed to hear the judgment of his most trusted technical expert first.
Gruson's writing was filled with the meticulousness characteristic of an engineer and a passion for technology, but the conclusion was unsettlingly clear:
"…The material composition and heat treatment process of 'prometheus alloy' far exceed Krupp's existing technological level. Reverse-engineering it and achieving stable mass production is estimated to require at least three to five years of continuous investment and repeated experimentation."
"…The core locking and feeding mechanism of the 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun' is extremely intricate, requiring extremely high processing precision. Even with complete blueprints, it would be difficult for the Essen factory's existing precision machinery capabilities to meet its claimed rate of fire and reliability standards in the short term."
"…Conclusion: Mr. Argyle' judgment that 'technology cannot be simply transferred' is not an idle threat, but an objective statement based on engineering reality. Forcibly achieving complete domestic production within four years carries extremely high risks, with a success rate… below twenty percent."
Bismarck silently finished reading Gruson's opinion.
This brilliant engineer from Krupp had, with the coldest numbers and facts, shattered his illusion of complete technological control.
"It seems we truly need some patience," Bismarck said slowly, motioning for Moltke to look.
Moltke took the report and read quickly. When he saw Gruson's assessment of the "alloy" and "processing precision," his already furrowed brow deepened.
"If Gruson's judgment is accurate," Moltke put down the report, his tone grave, "then Mr. Argyle' proposed five-year exclusive supply period and the plan for 'gradual' technology transfer might… be our only realistic option at present."
"We need time, Mr. Chancellor. Time to digest, to learn. Forcibly demanding a technology we cannot master in the short term will only cost us more."
"Cost?" Bismarck looked at him, "Moltke, do you know what five years means? In five years, perhaps the entire map of Germany will have been redrawn. I cannot entrust Prussia's fate to the 'gradual' handouts of an American businessman."
"What about ammunition then?"
Moltke raised another, more critical question, "The report mentions that the brass cased ammunition is equally crucial. If Argyle only supplies finished ammunition, then a noose from New York will forever be around our necks."
"I know."
Bismarck walked to his desk, re-examining the telegram sent by Major Arnim-Boitzenburg. His gaze fell upon the additional condition of "financial and trade convenience" that Felix had finally proposed.
After a long while, his mind, full of political calculations, finally found a breakthrough.
"Moltke, Argyle wants financial and trade convenience; he wants Prussian banks to support his investments in Europe. Very well, we can give him that."
"But not for free. These conveniences must be exchanged for something more important than money."
He began to pace back and forth in the office, a brand new negotiation strategy taking shape.
"First, regarding the weapons themselves."
"The sample procurement of rifles and machine guns can be at his stated price, forty-five hundred dollars per set. This money must be paid. This is our expression of 'sincerity' and the necessary cost to acquire the first physical items."
"Second, regarding technological cooperation."
"We can accept a five-year supply period for core components. However, within these five years, they must progressively transfer to us all production technologies and equipment blueprints for non-core components.
At the same time, Militech must dispatch a resident technical team, led by Griffiths himself, or an expert of equivalent standing, to work in Essen or Berlin.
We must ensure that after five years, we can seamlessly take over all production stages except for the core alloy and the gun mechanism."
"As for the most crucial core technology transfer," Bismarck's tone became firm, "After the five-year period expires, a full transfer must be unconditionally initiated! The price can be negotiated, but the timeline cannot be delayed any further!"
"Finally, ammunition. We can agree to initially purchase finished ammunition from his 'Federal United Ammunition Company' for three years. However, after three years, they must transfer the complete production line technology and equipment blueprints to us, at a mutually acceptable price. Prussia must have its own ammunition factories!"
He stopped pacing and looked at his Chief of Staff.
"This is our bottom line, Moltke. It is also the final price we are willing to pay for this 'friendship.' As for the American War Department, send someone to negotiate."
"Then what do we offer in exchange? Europe is not the only continent we have to consider," Moltke asked.
Bismarck smiled, a smile brimming with confidence.
"We offer what he wants," he replied, "The Prussian State Bank can provide the most preferential settlement channels and credit support for Argyle Empire Bank's operations in Berlin. We can push for the 'German Customs Union' to reduce import tariffs on his company's food and medicine by ten percent."
"And even," his voice dropped lower, "if he encounters conflicts with certain British or French business interests in the future, Prussia can offer him some… necessary 'conveniences' diplomatically."
"We must make him understand," Bismarck concluded, "that being a friend of Prussia is far more profitable than being an enemy."
He walked to his desk, picked up a blank telegram paper, and said to his secretary, "Draft an encrypted telegram for me, to Major Arnim-Boitzenburg."
"Tell him that Berlin, in principle, accepts Mr. Argyle' new proposal."
The chimney of the pioneer, like a weary finger, pointed towards the lead-grey sky above the coastline of County Cork, Éire.
The two-week-long oceanic turbulence finally ceased, replaced by the complex scent of land, a mix of burning peat, wet grass, and the pungency of seaweed.
The ship slowly sailed into Cobh Harbor, the vast natural deep-water port the British called Queenstown.
This was the most important gateway on Éire's southern coast, and in the past few decades, it had been the starting point for countless desperate compatriots who fled famine and oppression aboard 'coffin ships' to the New World.
James Finley stood at the bow, the collar of his thick wool overcoat turned up against the chilly sea wind.
Looking at the colorful houses on the shore, built into the hillside and appearing somewhat crowded and dilapidated, and then at the ragged, sallow-faced porters on the dock,
his brain, accustomed to measuring everything with cold figures on Wall Street, so directly felt the heavy 'responsibility' his Boss spoke of.
"Worse than I imagined..." the young market specialist Nelson, standing beside him, whispered, his face pale. Even the darkest corners of Five Points seemed unable to compare to the pervasive poverty in this land before them.
"That's why we're here, isn't it?" Finley's voice was calm, devoid of any superfluous emotion. He turned to Donovan, who followed him like a shadow, "How are things at the dock?"
"Looks relatively calm," Donovan replied, his eyes meticulously scanning every corner of the dock.
"The British customs and police are present. The local porters... they seem docile, but it might just be because they're starving."
"What about that British warship we encountered last week?"
"It didn't follow us," Donovan shook his head. "It was just a routine inspection. Our documents were flawless, and Dr. Dalton's 'academic exchange certificate' played a crucial role. Although the major was full of doubts, he couldn't find any reason to detain us."
Finley nodded, feeling a little more at ease.
His Boss's every move was meticulously calculated.
As the pioneer's massive hull, guided by the pilot, slowly docked at its designated berth, a crowd of locals, drawn by the news, had already gathered on the pier.
Most stood silently, their eyes complex as they watched the huge ship flying the Stars and Stripes.
They were greeted not by official British representatives, but by a gaunt old man in a black priest's robe.
Behind him were several assistants, also in church attire, and a dozen or so sturdy-looking local men with peaceful eyes—volunteers organized by the church.
"Mr. Finley?" The old priest stepped forward, his English heavily accented with Gaelic, but full of warmth.
"I am Father Barry of the Diocese of Cork. Archbishop Hughes has informed us by telegram of the purpose of your visit. Welcome to Éire."
"Father Barry." Finley removed his hat and bowed respectfully. "Thank you very much for your welcome. My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, asked me to extend his sincerest greetings to you and all our compatriots in need of help."
There was no excessive small talk.
Under Father Barry's coordination, the customs clearance procedures at the dock proceeded exceptionally smoothly.
Although the British customs officials looked stern, upon seeing the 'humanitarian relief supplies' manifest jointly issued by the church and New York City government, and Father Barry's unquestionable gaze, they merely stamped the documents as a matter of routine.
"Start unloading," Finley told captain McAllister, who was already waiting on deck.
Accompanied by the unique roar of the steam crane and the clatter of chains, the first massive cargo net was slowly lifted. It contained not industrial goods, nor weapons, but heavy burlap sacks of grain, stamped with the Argyle mark.
When the first sack of wheat from the New World of America was steadily placed on the ground of Cobh Harbor, a suppressed, whimpering murmur rose from the silent crowd on the dock.
"Look! It's grain!"
"My God... it's real grain!"
Several bolder children couldn't resist rushing forward, extending their small hands to carefully touch the rough burlap sacks, as if they were sacred objects.
Their mothers stood behind them, covering their mouths, tears silently streaming down their faces.
Donovan and his security personnel did not intervene. They merely formed a discreet human wall around the perimeter, ensuring order would not be lost.
Father Barry walked to the cargo net, bent down, and scooped a handful of golden wheat grains that had spilled from a torn sack, holding them in his palm.
"These are seeds of hope, Mr. Finley."
He turned and looked at the young man from New York, his eyes filled with gratitude.
"Please thank Mr. Argyle for me. He has sent not just food."
Over the next few hours, the entire dock transformed into a huge, orderly conveyor belt.
Sacks of grain, boxes of Argyle canned goods with colorful labels, and carefully protected Umbrella medicine crates were continuously transported from the pioneer's hold and swiftly moved by the church's horse-drawn carriages to a prepared temporary warehouse in Cork City—an abandoned monastery.
Finley did not overly involve himself in directing the unloading, leaving the site to Donovan and Father Barry.
He himself, along with Nelson, two other market specialists, and the ship's doctor, Dr. Dalton, entered the small port town of Cobh, guided by a church volunteer.
Their purpose was not sightseeing.
"Nelson," Finley said in a low voice as he walked, assigning tasks, "you and Smith are responsible for surveying the local market. I want to know what the grocery stores here are selling? What are the prices like? What is people's purchasing power? Especially their acceptance of canned foods."
"Understood, sir."
"Carter," he then turned to another specialist, "you go to the local chamber of commerce and shipping agents to inquire. I need to know the inland transportation costs and channels from Cobh Harbor to Liverpool and Dublin. Our goods cannot just remain on the dock."
"Yes, sir."
"Dr. Dalton," he finally looked at the doctor, "your task today is the most important. Father Barry has already arranged for you to meet the director of St. Vincent's Hospital. I need you, in the name of Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons, to 'donate' our Iodoglycerol and water purification tablets to them. And to establish initial academic contacts with them as much as possible."
"I will do my best, Mr. Finley." Dr. Dalton nodded, his eyes showing the sense of mission characteristic of a medical researcher.
After assigning tasks, Finley went alone to a small hill at the highest point of the town. From here, he could overlook the entire harbor and the distant Atlantic, faintly visible in the mist.
His gaze did not linger on the suffering land beneath his feet. Instead, it turned further north—towards Dublin.
That was his true battlefield for this trip.
He took out a list from his pocket. It contained the names of several Dublin local newspapers, along with their circulation, political leanings, and... financial status.
At the very top of the list, one name was heavily circled with a red pencil.
The Irishman Newspaper.
An old newspaper with a small circulation but high prestige among Dublin's intellectuals and nationalists.
Its editor-in-chief was a radical named Patrick Egan.
According to the latest intelligence provided by Mr. Hayes, this newspaper, due to its overly distinct political stance, was under strict surveillance by the British authorities and... was also facing a severe financial crisis.
"A perfect prey," Finley murmured to himself, a smile appearing on his face that would only be seen on the trading floor of Wall Street.
The carriage, having departed from Cobh Harbour, rattled and bumped along the uneven roads of the Irish countryside.
Outside the window, fields—barren yet stubbornly green, divided by stone walls—flashed by, occasionally revealing a few low-lying thatched-roof farmhouses with thin plumes of peat smoke rising from their chimneys.
This scenery was starkly different from the vibrant farms James Finley was familiar with in the New York suburbs; everything here carried a heavy sense of history and hardship.
"Sir," Nelson, the young market specialist accompanying him, still looked unwell, trying not to notice the occasional gaunt vagrants outside the carriage, "the roads here… they're even worse than Five Points."
"But the air here doesn't reek of despair, Nelson," Finley said, gazing out the window with a calm expression. "Only a… stubbornness that hasn't been extinguished."
He drew his gaze back, letting it fall upon the dossier regarding The Irishman Newspaper resting on his lap.
Patrick Egan.
Finley knew that the upcoming negotiation would be far more complex than dealing with greedy bankers on Wall Street.
Money might be useful here, but it was certainly not the only language.
Donovan and his two team members, meanwhile, rode in another inconspicuous carriage, following at a discreet distance. Their task was no longer overt protection, but to become eyes blended into the environment, ensuring Finley's absolute safety in the unfamiliar city of Dublin and gathering any "street wisdom" that might be useful for the negotiations… Two days later, Dublin, by the River Liffey.
The city air was a mix of river dampness, coal smoke, the malty aroma of Guinness stout, and a subtle, unsettling hint of political unrest.
British red post boxes and patrolling police officers were visible everywhere, yet in alleyways and shadows, one could always glimpse shamrock graffiti, symbolizing Irish nationalism.
Finley did not immediately go to The Irishman Newspaper's small office near Fleet Street, which was reportedly always under surveillance by detectives.
He adopted Donovan's suggestion, gleaned from local contacts, choosing a more Irish way to first visit the gathering place of the newspaper's "spiritual shareholders."
It was an old pub called "Poet's Corner," hidden in an unassuming alley in the Temple Bar district.
It was said that the editors and writers of The Irishman Newspaper would gather there every afternoon, passionately debating politics, poetry, and how to drive the British out of Irish, all over a glass of whiskey.
Finley pushed open the pub's heavy wooden door. Inside, the light was dim, smoke hung in the air, and the scent of pipe tobacco, alcohol, and wet wool permeated everything.
Behind the bar, a bartender with a thick beard was wiping glasses with a cloth whose original color was indiscernible. In a corner, several men in tweed suits, looking like scholars or literati, were huddled around a small table, conversing in low tones.
Finley walked to the bar and, in as natural a tone as possible, ordered an Irish whiskey.
"First time here?"
The bartender looked him up and down, his shrewd eyes seeming to see through Finley's expensive, yet deliberately worn-out, travel coat.
"Yes," Finley nodded. "From America. I heard this place has the best whiskey in Dublin, and… the sharpest pens."
This remark was like a silent signal. The conversation at the corner table paused, and several scrutinizing glances were cast his way.
Finley paid them no mind, simply picked up his drink, and found an empty seat from which he could observe their table. He was in no hurry to speak, content to listen quietly.
"…Damn The Times! They're slandering the Fenian Brotherhood as terrorists again!" A young man with glasses, looking refined, excitedly slammed the table. "Mr. Egan's articles are too mild! We should directly call for…"
"Silence, Seán!"
The leader was an old man with white hair and sharp eyes, who interrupted the young man.
"Words must have power, but even more, they must have wisdom. Until the bullets are loaded, ink is our only weapon. Mr. Egan's approach is correct."
Finley knew he had found the people he was looking for. The old man was likely one of the core figures of The Irishman Newspaper.
He picked up his glass and slowly walked over.
"Gentlemen," he paused by the table, his posture humble, "please forgive my interruption. I inadvertently overheard your conversation. As a sojourner from overseas, with Irish blood flowing in my veins, I hold the deepest respect for the cause you are fighting for."
Their gazes once again focused on him, this time with a hint of curiosity added to the scrutiny.
"From America?"
The old man asked, his voice hoarse, with a scholar's precision.
"Yes, sir," Finley replied. "My name is James Finley. I am from New York, working for a… compatriot who also cares about the fate of our homeland."
He did not directly mention Felix's name, nor did he mention money. To deal with these proud intellectuals, he first needed to find common ground.
"New York…"
The old man repeated the word, a flicker of complexity in his eyes.
"I heard that place is now run by our people? A young man named Argyle, he can even make politicians there bow their heads?"
Finley's heart stirred; it seemed Felix's name had already traveled back to this island with the ocean liners.
"Mr. Argyle is indeed a remarkable leader," Finley continued, following his lead. "He has not only provided work and dignity for hundreds of thousands of our compatriots, but more importantly, he is using his wealth and wisdom to build schools and hospitals for our next generation, enabling them to escape their predestined fate."
He paused, then changed his tack.
"In fact," he looked at the old man and the several literati at the table, who were clearly key figures of The Irishman Newspaper, "I came to Dublin at the behest of Mr. Argyle. He believes that besides bread and medicine, our compatriots need something that can awaken their souls and unite their strength."
"That is a voice," Finley stated, word by word. "A powerful voice belonging to us, the Irish people."
He let his gaze fall upon the crumpled copy of The Times.
"A voice that can combat lies, spread truth, and make the whole world hear our cry."
"And as far as I know," he concluded, "throughout Irish, The Irishman Newspaper is the bravest and loudest horn for this voice."
The room fell silent.
The old man looked at Finley, his sharp eyes seemingly trying to pierce through him.
After a long moment, he slowly stood up and extended his hand to Finley.
"I am Michael McCarthy."
"The assistant editor of The Irishman Newspaper. Our editor, Mr. Patrick Egan, would be delighted to share a drink with any friend willing to speak up for Éire."
He paused, a flicker in his eyes that only they understood.
"Of course, if this friend could also help us out with the printing press's repair bill for next month, that would be even better."
Deep within a narrow, damp alley near Fleet Street in Dublin, The Irishman Newspaper's office was hidden on the second floor of an unassuming old building, reeking of strong ink and the musty smell of paper.
There were no marble floors or brass plaques here, only worn wooden floorboards, mountains of books and newspapers, and a few faded portraits of Irish national heroes on the walls.
James Finley, personally led by Deputy Editor Michael McCarthy, entered Editor Patrick Egan's office.
The room was small, almost entirely filled by a huge oak editing desk and two ceiling-high bookshelves.
Egan himself looked to be in his forties, slender, wearing a slightly worn but still sharp tweed suit, with thick, round-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His gaze was keen, scrutinizing the uninvited guest from across the ocean through his lenses.
"Mr. Finley, please have a seat."
Egan gestured to the somewhat wobbly wooden chair in front of the desk.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Egan." Finley sat down, composed. He knew the upcoming conversation would not be easy.
McCarthy poured tea for both of them—a strong, peaty Irish black tea—then quietly retreated to the doorway, like a loyal guard.
"Mr. McCarthy tells me," Egan began directly, without any pleasantries, "that you are from New York, working for a… compatriot concerned about the fate of his homeland. And you have some… commercial interest in our small newspaper?" He deliberately emphasized the word "commercial," his tone filled with undisguised wariness.
"Mr. Egan, you misunderstand."
Finley's reply was direct; he knew that with such a person, any false rhetoric would be futile.
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, sent me here not for 'commercial' purposes, but to seek a… partnership."
"Partnership?" Egan's brows furrowed. "With all due respect, Mr. Finley, aside from ink and some inconvenient truths, I doubt our newspaper has anything that would catch the eye of a prominent figure like Mr. Argyle."
"Quite the opposite, Mr. Egan." Finley looked at him, his tone becoming sincere. "My Boss believes that the 'ink and truths' your newspaper possesses are precisely the weapons all of us Irish need in this era."
"You may have heard," Finley said slowly, "that Mr. Argyle is currently undertaking a large-scale philanthropic project in New York's Five Points. He is building schools and orphanages there for tens of thousands of our compatriots, just like us, who fled the famine. He hopes to use knowledge and respectable work to break the chains of poverty that have bound our people for generations."
Egan nodded; he had indeed heard about this from letters from New York.
"But my Boss believes that merely changing New York is not enough. True change must begin at the source. It must begin with changing the minds of our compatriots and uniting their strength."
"And to achieve that," his gaze sharpened, "we need a platform. A platform that can clearly, accurately, and without any interference, transmit the success stories of the Irish in New York, the opportunities and hopes of the New World, back to this island."
"A platform that can counter the lies of London's propaganda machine and voice our own opinions."
He looked at Egan, finally revealing his hand.
"Mr. Egan, The Irishman Newspaper is that platform. But it currently… seems to be facing some minor troubles."
Egan's expression darkened. He knew the other party had already investigated his background. Due to its radical stance, the newspaper not only faced endless harassment and fines from the British authorities but was also on the verge of bankruptcy due to a lack of advertising revenue.
The printers' salaries for next month were still unknown.
"So, you're here to offer charity?" Egan's tone was filled with stung pride.
"No, sir." Finley's reply was decisive. "We never offer charity. We only make investments, or rather, establish partnerships."
He gently placed a prepared document in front of Egan.
"My Boss proposes that Patriot Investment Company, on behalf of the Argyle Family Charitable Foundation, inject twenty thousand pounds into The Irishman Newspaper."
Twenty thousand pounds!
The number made Egan's heart leap. This money would be enough for the newspaper to pay off all its debts, acquire a brand-new printing press, and support at least two years of healthy operations.
Finley continued, not giving him much time to think, "This funding will be provided as an 'interest-free, indefinite cultural development loan.' We do not demand any equity, nor do we interfere with your newspaper's editorial stance on local Irish political issues."
A flicker of surprise and suspicion crossed Egan's eyes. The terms… were too generous.
"We have only one request."
"That is, your newspaper needs to dedicate a fixed page to us each week. It will be used exclusively for publishing news from America—about the development of the Irish community in New York, or Mr. Argyle's philanthropic projects, and in the future, information regarding the Clover Project's immigration recruitment."
He then threw out another lure: "At the same time, we will utilize Argyle Company's shipping network across the Atlantic to transport each issue of The Irishman Newspaper free of charge to Irish communities in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. This will allow your voice to be heard by millions of compatriots eager to hear news from their homeland."
Egan fell completely silent.
This was a devil's bargain.
The other party had almost fulfilled all his fantasies: ample funds, a brand-new printing press, and a huge stage that could extend his influence across the Atlantic. All he had to give in return was a page, and… the risk of potentially being influenced by an "American voice."
He glanced at the harp emblem on the wall, symbolizing the indomitable spirit of Éire, then at the investment proposal on the desk that could determine the newspaper's fate.
"I need to discuss this with my colleagues." After a long while, he spoke hoarsely.
"Of course."
Finley nodded; he knew he had already won half the battle.
"I will be staying at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin for three days. I await your final response at any time."
He stood up, preparing to leave.
"Oh, and Mr. Egan," he paused at the doorway, turning back to say, "my Boss also asked me to relay a message to you."
Finley's face broke into a meaningful smile. "Ink is indeed a weapon. But even the sharpest weapon needs ample gunpowder to truly roar."
In Dublin, in the old building near Fleet Street that reeked of ink and mold, the atmosphere in The Irishman Newspaper's editorial office was as oppressive and heavy as the thick fog that permeated the Temple Bar area.
Editor-in-chief Patrick Egan sat alone behind his oak desk, piled high with manuscripts and clippings, an extinguished pipe held between his fingers.
The office door opened, and associate editor Michael McCarthy walked in. He closed the door behind him, cutting off the sporadic clatter of lead type from the typesetting workshop outside.
"How is it, Patrick?" McCarthy's voice carried a hint of weariness. "Did you talk to those young men?"
Egan didn't answer immediately, only gently tapping the ledger on the desk with the stem of his pipe.
"They were very agitated, Sean, that young poet almost flipped the table. He said we couldn't take 'the dirty money of the Yankees,' saying it would tarnish the newspaper's soul and make our pens the mouthpiece of Argyle."
"A soul can't feed you, Patrick."
McCarthy walked to the window, watching a one-legged old veteran in a tattered military uniform begging on the street below. "Our soul can barely afford a place to house this body anymore."
He turned around, looking at his old friend, his eyes full of helplessness.
"Mr. Finley's conditions, you've seen them clearly. Twenty thousand pounds, no demand for equity, no interference with our editorial stance here. All he wants is one page. Is this... really dirty money?"
"But that's Felix Argyle's money!"
Egan's voice suddenly rose. He stood up and paced back and forth in the small office.
"Haven't you seen the news from New York? He strangles his opponents with capital on Wall Street, and even... even colludes with those politicians in Tammany Hall. He is a thorough capitalist! An empire builder in the guise of a 'compatriot.' What's the difference between us cooperating with him and selling our souls to the devil?"
"There is a difference. The difference is that the devil usually doesn't bring bread and gold when you're about to starve to death. And this 'devil' is feeding tens of thousands of his compatriots in New York with his bread. He is building schools with his gold for children in Five Points who can't even read a letter."
He walked up to Egan, looking him directly in the eyes.
"Patrick, you and I have been fighting with ink here our whole lives. How many passionate articles have we written? How many sleeping souls have we awakened? But what's the result?"
He pointed out the window. "Hunger persists, oppression persists. Our voice can't even get off this island, which is firmly controlled by the English."
"And now," his voice deepened, "there's an opportunity. An opportunity to let our voice cross the ocean and reach the ears of millions of our wealthy compatriots rising in the New World. An opportunity for The Irishman Newspaper to transform from a struggling local paper in Dublin into a trumpet connecting the old and new worlds, uniting the strength of our entire nation."
"This opportunity is in the money bag sent by that American."
Egan fell silent again.
McCarthy's words, like a key, unlocked the deepest contradictions within him.
He despised the stench of capital but craved its power.
He upheld the pride of an Irish nationalist but had to face the harsh reality.
"We cannot completely lose control." After a long time, he spoke hoarsely, as if to himself and to McCarthy.
"That page... the content must be reviewed. We can publish news from New York, we can report on Mr. Argyle's good deeds. But it must never become his personal propaganda tool."
"This is the bottom line."
McCarthy breathed a sigh of relief. He knew Egan had made his choice. "Of course. Mr. Finley said in the pub that they respect our editorial independence. I think they will make concessions on this issue."
...The next morning, in a suite at Dublin's most luxurious Shelbourne Hotel.
James Finley was leisurely enjoying an English breakfast. Before him lay a handwritten reply from Patrick Egan.
The letter's wording still maintained the reserve of a scholar, but the core message was clear: The Irishman Newspaper, in principle, accepted Patriot Investment Company's investment proposal. However, specific cooperation details, especially regarding the editorial rights of the "American page," required further discussion.
Finley smiled and handed the letter to Donovan, who was sitting nearby.
"It seems our editor-in-chief, after all, finally put down his worthless pride."
"As expected." Donovan's reply was concise. "No one can refuse an opportunity that allows him to survive and live better."
"Well then," Finley wiped his mouth with a napkin, "it's time to go and discuss the details with them."
He stood up and adjusted his tie in the mirror.
"Inform our lawyers to prepare the final contract text," he told his assistant Nelson. "Also, take out a thousand pounds in cash from the funds we brought."
"Take it," Finley's face showed a smile that only appeared on Wall Street, full of control, "to pay The Irishman Newspaper's printing press repair bill for next month."
"I want Mr. Egan to understand that the gunpowder has been delivered. Now, who gets to light it will be decided by us."
In the old building on Fleet Street, Dublin, in The Irishman Newspaper's editor-in-chief's office.
Patrick Egan sat behind his oak desk, buried under documents. Spread out on the desk was no longer a draft editorial, but a meticulously worded draft cooperation agreement, full of legal jargon, brought by James Finley.
Deputy Editor Michael McCarthy stood by the window, watching a Royal Police officer on the street below use a truncheon to disperse several little girls selling matches, his brow deeply furrowed.
"A 'cultural development loan' of twenty thousand pounds..." Egan's finger traced the numbers repeatedly, his voice hoarse. "The condition is a fixed weekly 'Voice of America' section, with content provided by them, and we... retain the final right of review."
"Sounds fair, doesn't it, Patrick?"
McCarthy turned around, his tone carrying a weary attempt at persuasion.
"We've held our editorial bottom line. He hasn't asked to interfere with our stance on local politics."
"But how much weight can that right of review truly carry?" Egan looked up, his eyes, which usually burned with fire, were now filled with struggle.
"When the gears of the printing press need New York's gold coins to turn, can our pens truly be free?"
"Freedom is never free, my friend." McCarthy walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We don't even have the money to pay for the ink of freedom now. What Mr. Argyle has sent us is not just money, but an opportunity to have our voice heard by the entire world. An opportunity to reunite with the millions of our compatriots who have already established themselves in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia."
"You saw it yesterday," he continued, "the thousand pounds in cash Mr. Finley brought immediately restarted Moriarty's printing press. The workers looked at us differently. They saw hope, Patrick. We cannot... we cannot close this door because of our pitiful pride."
Egan fell silent. He knew McCarthy was right. He could die a martyr, upholding the newspaper in poverty. But what about his editors and reporters, who also harbored ideals but could barely afford to eat? What about his overseas compatriots, who longed to hear a true voice from their homeland in the darkness?
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
"Gentlemen," Finley's voice came from outside the door, still perfectly polite, "our lawyer, Mr. O'Malley, has arrived. I think we can proceed with the final confirmation of the contract details."
...Half an hour later, at the only relatively spacious long table in the editorial office, negotiations officially began.
Finley did not bring Argyle Bank's New York lawyers, who were experts in commercial law. He brought a young Dublin lawyer named Sean O'Malley. O'Malley came from a staunch nationalist family; his father had even been exiled for participating in the Young Irish movement. He was the person Finley had carefully selected through Donovan's intelligence network, the one most likely to win Egan's trust.
"Mr. Egan, Mr. McCarthy." Lawyer O'Malley explained the contract text to the two men, clause by clause. His wording was precise, but his stance clearly favored protecting The Irishman Newspaper's interests.
"Regarding the nature of the funds," he emphasized, "the contract explicitly states that this sum is an 'interest-free, indefinite cultural development loan.' This means that, legally, Patriot Investment Company is merely a creditor, not a shareholder. They have no right to interfere with any internal decisions of the newspaper."
"Regarding the 'Voice of America' section, the contract also clearly states that the final right to publish all manuscripts belongs to The Irishman Newspaper's editorial department. You have the right to revise, delete, or refuse to publish any content you deem 'not in line with the newspaper's stance or Irish's interests.'"
Egan listened carefully. Lawyer O'Malley's professionalism and the "compatriot sentiment" hidden behind the legal clauses further softened his inner guard.
He then looked at Finley, "Mr. Finley, I have a few additional clauses I hope can be added to the agreement."
"Please speak," Finley smiled.
"First, regarding the content of the manuscripts, in addition to reporting on the development of the Irish community in New York and Mr. Argyle's philanthropic endeavors, this section should also provide a window for our compatriots in America to learn about the real political, cultural, and social conditions in Éire. We need two-way communication, not one-sided propaganda."
"This is a perfectly reasonable request." Finley agreed without hesitation, "My Boss also hopes that our compatriots in the New World can gain a more comprehensive understanding of the situation in our homeland."
"Second, regarding the distribution of the newspaper. We appreciate your company providing free transatlantic transport. However, we hope that the distribution work in New York, Boston, and other places can be jointly managed by representatives dispatched by our newspaper and local Irish communities. We need to ensure that this newspaper truly reaches every compatriot who needs it, and is not intercepted by certain... unfriendly forces."
Approval flashed in Finley's eyes.
Egan and McCarthy not only maintained editorial control but were also trying to control distribution. They were not passive recipients but were actively striving to turn this cooperation into a truly equal partnership.
"No problem there either." Finley nodded again. "In fact, my Boss is preparing to establish several 'Irish Cultural Exchange Centers' in New York and Boston. These centers would be very happy to serve as distribution points for The Irishman Newspaper in the New World."
"One last question," Egan looked at Finley, this question being the most sensitive, "Mr. Finley, we all know that your Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, is an... extremely influential businessman. He has close ties with the Federal Government and the military. We hope to receive an assurance. An assurance that The Irishman Newspaper's political stance will not be subject to any official American pressure because it has accepted this funding."
The room fell silent.
Finley looked at Egan and McCarthy. It seemed this was their deepest concern. They feared they would become a tool for the American government to interfere in Irish affairs.
"Gentlemen," Finley stood up, his tone becoming more solemn than ever, "On this point, I cannot offer you any legal guarantee. Because political promises are never written on paper."
"But I can tell you one thing."
"My Boss, Felix Argyle, also has Irish blood flowing in his veins. Everything he does, whether it's building factories or funding schools, has only one ultimate goal."
"That is to enable our people, whether in the New World or on this ancient land, to live with more dignity and more strength."
"What he needs is a strong, united Irish nation as the most solid backing for his future endeavors. Not a puppet that can be easily manipulated by external forces."
"Therefore," he made his final promise, "I guarantee you on my personal honor that The Irishman Newspaper's independence will be fully respected. As long as you do not betray Irish's interests, Mr. Argyle will always be your most reliable friend."
These words were full of power and sincerity.
Egan and McCarthy exchanged glances. They both saw a sense of relief in each other's eyes, and a trust that belonged between compatriots.
"Alright, then Lawyer O'Malley," Egan finally spoke, his voice hoarse but full of strength, "prepare the final text."
...That afternoon, in the office filled with the smell of ink, two agreements were formally signed.
One was about the twenty thousand pound loan.
The other was a more important long-term memorandum of cooperation regarding "information sharing and transatlantic distribution."
When Finley placed the bank draft for the first installment of five thousand pounds, issued by Argyle Bank, in front of Egan, the old newspaper man, who had held on for half his life, looked at the thin piece of paper, his eyes slightly moist.
"Mr. Finley," he looked up at the young man from New York, "Please tell Mr. Argyle for me."
"What he ignited today is not just the fire in a printing press."
"It is also a long-dormant volcano."
________________
This is a disclaimer I'll put here from now and from then on in author's notes:
Rating sir Ainz translations:
Historical:
18th century American Tycoon - 5/5 actually glazing America
1860s American Tycoon - 4/5 capitalism
A.E.I.O.U - 4/5 - A good EU4 system fic about Austria
Red Dead Redemption 2: Bringing down Wall Street - 4/5 Ah yes, I enjoyed this one despite being a little socialist lol
Mediterranean Hegemon - 4/5 ancient times Magna Graecia
Fanfic:
Warhammer 40k : A Magos' Bizzare Adventure - Diodora approved/5
DOOM : WARHAMMER 40K - 5/5 KAR EN TUK
Warcraft: Rebirth in Stromgarde - first translation you don't know what the f you're doing/5
Stormwind Wizard God -Unfinished/Ongoing, 3.5/5 it was a good story that turned into a harem festival lol
LOTR: WIZARDING IN MIDDLE EARTH 4.5/5
League of Legends: Runeterra meets Azeroth - Good premise 4/5
Warcraft : New dawn of Lordaeron - A fic about Arthas enough said 5/5
Warcraft : Make Quel'thalas Great Again! - 4/5
Multiverse : Starting in Warhammer -3.5/5 - Nice action, not dumb mc
Warhammer : When Will Corvus Corax land? -4/5 Wish I could find more raw for this
Warhammer : Macragge's Glory - 3/5 Never ending action
Warhammer 40k : Gear Boyo - 2/5 the author doesn't take the fic seriously
Go forth Son Goku! - 4/5 not DBz but young Goku
Warhammer Fantasy: Dwarven Might - DND/5
Dropped:
Pope Augustus - Wouldn't read it again/5
LOTR : Elden Ring Simpsons did it/5
Infinite Reincarnation : Train to Busan Zombies/5