Leroy pointed at the typewriter.
"The letter arrangement above was designed for English. But in French, we have many accent marks, and the frequency of letter usage is completely different from English. For instance, regarding the positions of Q and A, if we use this layout directly, our typists' fingers will get tangled."
Ashworth also realized this.
"That's right. If we sell them to the Prussians, the letter Z is used far more often than Y in German. If all the keyboards are English layouts, it will probably be difficult to promote them there."
Felix looked at them, a well-prepared smile appearing on his face.
"I thought about this a long time ago."
He took out two other blueprints that had already been drawn, pulling them from his desk drawer and pushing them toward the two men.
"Did you think I was just trying to sell America's surplus products to Europe?"
Leroy picked up one of the blueprints, his eyes suddenly lighting up.
It was a keyboard layout designed specifically for French linguistic habits.
The order of the letters had changed. A and Q had swapped positions, Z and W were also adjusted, and most importantly, the essential accent marks in French now had dedicated keys.
"Is this the 'AZERTY' layout?"
Leroy read the sequence of the first row of letters in surprise.
"Yes."
Felix pointed to the other blueprint intended for Ashworth.
"That one is the 'QWERTZ' layout prepared for the German-speaking regions. Mr. Carl Becker and Mr. Sholes spent two entire months compiling French and German word frequencies before designing these two schemes."
"I am not selling machines, Gentlemen," Felix's voice was filled with confidence, "I am setting the standard."
"I had the factory reserve the molds a long time ago. These five hundred machines exported to Europe will be manufactured strictly according to these two blueprints. Three hundred English versions for London, two hundred French versions for Paris. As for the Prussians..." He smiled, "Chancellor Bismarck has already placed a separate order for one hundred German versions."
"My God..."
Ashworth looked at the blueprint in his hand; this time, he was truly convinced.
"Mr. Argyle, you... you even thought of this?"
"Since we intend to occupy the market, we must respect the customer's language," Felix said calmly.
"After all, I don't want to see any messy keyboard variants appearing in Europe. Starting today, this is the standard. English uses QWERTY, French uses AZERTY, and German uses QWERTZ."
"All training materials, ribbon specifications, and repair parts must be standardized."
Felix looked at them, his eyes profound.
"Only this way can we establish a barrier... that no one can break."
The two bankers exchanged glances, both seeing the shock in the other's eyes.
They had originally thought they were just buying a batch of scarce goods, but they hadn't expected that the other party had silently set the rules for every office desk in Europe.
"It's a deal, Mr. Argyle."
Leroy put away the blueprint, his tone becoming extremely solemn.
"The Rothschild family is willing to fully assist you in promoting this standard in France."
...After seeing off his two satisfied European allies, Felix did not rest.
"Frost." He called out to his assistant, who was preparing to organize the meeting minutes.
"Yes, Boss."
"At the factory, just hiring people won't be enough." Felix looked out the window.
"Sholes is a good inventor, but he is not a good factory manager. Facing this explosive demand, especially needing to produce three language versions, his workshop-style management can no longer keep up."
"What do you mean?"
"Decomposition." Felix made his decision.
"Separate the production process. Just like how we manufacture guns and cannons."
He took out a piece of paper and drew several circles on it.
"Lex Steel Company will be responsible for producing the cast iron bases and casings. They have the best foundry workshop."
"Militech will be responsible for producing the precision springs, connecting rods, and hammers. Griffiths' tungsten alloy cutter head slices these small parts like butter."
"Standard Commercial Company will only be responsible for the final assembly and debugging."
"We must connect these three stages using railways and carriages. This way, we can increase output from eighty units per day to two hundred, or even three hundred units."
"But Boss," Frost worried slightly, "this will increase logistics costs. Also... Militech is busy producing military supplies. Mr. Miller has complained several times about staff shortages."
"Then give him more people." Felix's answer was simple and direct. "Don't cram all the immigrants brought back by the cloverleaf project into New Jersey. Divert a portion to Connecticut. Furthermore..."
He remembered something.
"Go find Catherine."
"Miss Catherine?"
"Yes." Felix nodded.
"Assembling typewriters requires dexterity and patience, not strength. Widows who lost their husbands to the war, and young girls who cannot find work, are the best resources."
"Have Catherine, using the name of the Charitable Foundation, build a 'Women's Vocational School' next to the Brooklyn factory. It will specialize in training female workers to assemble typewriters. Provide room and board, and the salary will be the same as male workers."
"This..." Frost was stunned.
"Boss, this will cause a sensation. Massively employing female workers in this precision manufacturing field..."
"Then let it cause a sensation." Felix smiled.
"We are creating a new class, Edward. Typists and female technicians. These people will become the staunchest defenders of our product in the future."
"Moreover, this will help Tweed solve a lot of trouble. If those Irish widows have jobs, they won't cause trouble outside City Hall. That fat man will thank us."
...That night, Brooklyn.
The lights of Standard Commercial Company burned all night.
Sholes held the 'Decomposition Plan' that Felix had just sent over, his hands trembling with excitement.
He finally understood the gap between himself and his young Boss.
The next day.
Several poorly dressed young girls looked at the job advertisement that had just been posted on the wall.
"Eight dollars weekly... room and board provided... recruiting female apprentices..."
One girl read the words aloud, her eyes shining with disbelief.
"Mary, is this real?"
"It is."
Another girl tightly clenched her fist, remembering the report about a girl also named Mary at the Eastman Institute.
"I heard people say that as long as we learn to use that machine, we won't have to wash clothes anymore. Assembly workers should be similar."
The clear 'clack' sound echoed from the factory windows.
That was not just the sound of metal colliding.
It was the prelude to the changing destiny of countless women.
The autumn wind swirled the fallen leaves along Fifth Avenue.
Only one month and three weeks remained until the general election.
On the streets were Democratic Party supporters, disabled veterans in blue military uniforms, holding up signs that read "Peace and McClellan."
George McClellan, the former General-in-Chief dismissed by Lincoln, had now become the savior of the Democratic Party.
He promised the Northerners, who were tired of the war and the draft, that if elected, he would immediately stop the war, even if it meant recognizing the Confederacy's independence...
Argyle Mansion, study.
Felix stood in front of the fireplace, absentmindedly poking the embers with an iron hook.
Sitting on the sofa was the founder of The New York Times, Henry Raymond, who was also the chairman of Lincoln's Campaign Committee.
Cold sweat beaded on the forehead of the usually gentle newspaperman.
"Things are bad, Felix."
Deep anxiety permeated Raymond's voice.
"The casualties at Cold Harbor were too great. The nickname 'Butcher Grant' is destroying the President's reputation. We are falling behind in the polls in New York State."
"Losing New York could mean losing the election."
Raymond raised his head, his eyes bloodshot.
"If McClellan takes office, he will immediately stop the war. All military orders will be canceled, and the blockade will be lifted..."
"In that case, your factories and railways will all be impacted."
Felix turned around, the firelight reflecting on his face.
Unlike Raymond's anxiety, his expression was overly calm, and a faint smile even played on his lips.
As a Transmigrator, he knew the outcome of this election better than anyone.
General Sherman was about to capture Atlanta, and the good news from the front lines would soon shatter McClellan's lies.
Lincoln's re-election was historically inevitable, and the artillery and machine guns he manufactured might even speed up the timeline.
But Raymond didn't know, and the Republican Party didn't know.
This was Felix's opportunity.
Since the result was predetermined, why not use this process to package this inevitable victory as his own credit for "turning the tide"?
Felix walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of Bourbon Whiskey, and handed one to Raymond.
"Henry, you are too nervous."
"Am I nervous?"
Raymond took the glass, forcing himself to appear calm.
"Felix, we need more campaign funds to print flyers, to organize rallies..."
"Money?" Felix chuckled softly.
"Money isn't the problem now. Behind McClellan stand the Old Money families who want to restore the cotton trade, and common people who don't want to die. No amount of flyers will win back those votes."
"Then what should we do?"
Felix took a sip of his drink, "It's not what 'we' should do, it's what I can do."
He walked to the window, looking down at the bustling street below.
"New York is the Democratic Party's base. Because here you have Tammany Hall, 200,000 Irish votes, and minority votes," Felix said slowly.
"Four years ago, these people were Lincoln's mortal enemies. They hated the draft laws and feared black people taking their jobs."
"But the situation has changed now."
"What do you mean?"
"Because I am their Boss now."
Felix put down his glass, walked to his desk, and pressed a bell.
A moment later, Frost walked in.
"Edward, has Mr. Tweed arrived?"
"He's in the reception room downstairs, Boss," Frost replied. "He looks... displeased. He said today is the Democratic Party's fundraising day."
"Please send him up." Felix straightened his collar.
"Tell him that if he doesn't come, he'll regret missing the biggest deal of his life."
...A few minutes later, William "Boss" Tweed, the underground emperor of New York, entered the study.
A forced smile was plastered across his fat face, and a fine layer of sweat glistened on his forehead.
"Oh, dear Mr. Argyle, is there a big business deal you need to discuss so urgently?"
He glanced at Raymond in the room, and his smile stiffened.
As a major donor to the Democratic Party, meeting the Republican Party's campaign chairman at a time like this was a huge taboo.
"It is indeed a big deal, Tweed."
Felix motioned for him to sit down, then handed him a document.
"What is this?" Tweed asked, opening it suspiciously.
It was a list. It detailed the total number of Irish workers currently employed under Felix, including those in food processing plants, shipyards, docks, and construction sites.
Twelve thousand people.
If their family members were included, this meant nearly fifty thousand mouths to feed.
Felix leaned against the desk, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"Tweed, do you know what will happen if McClellan is elected and a truce is signed?"
"Peace?" Tweed replied tentatively.
"No! It's a depression," Felix said coldly. "When the war ends, the army won't need canned goods or weapons anymore. My factories will lose their orders. At that point, the first thing I'll do is lay off workers."
Felix pointed to the list, "These twelve thousand people will immediately be unemployed and return to the mud of Five Points to fight over moldy bread."
Tweed's expression changed.
He could control the votes because he could provide these people with security for survival.
If so many people lost their jobs at once... "Mr. Argyle, you... you can't do this." Tweed's fat face trembled. "This is... this is a threat."
"This is business." Felix stared at him.
"Do you think that when these people are starving, they will still listen to you and vote for McClellan, the man who will destroy their livelihoods?"
Tweed fell silent.
He was a clever politician; he could calculate the cost.
"What do you want me to do?" Tweed asked through gritted teeth. "It's impossible for me to publicly support Lincoln; the Democratic Committee would kill me."
"No need for public support." Felix waved his hand, knowing not to overdo it. "I just need you to 'get sick'."
"Get sick?"
"Yes," Felix said.
"For the next week, Tammany Hall's campaign needs to have a few 'accidents.' Rallies canceled, flyers misprinted, and the canvassing thugs 'too drunk' to remember to go to the polling stations."
"Keep New York's voting base quiet."
Tweed's eyes flickered.
This was not just betraying his party; this was risking his political career.
"In exchange, Lex Steel Company is planning Phase Two construction. We need to hire three thousand more workers. Two thousand of those spots will be entirely allocated to Tammany Hall for distribution."
"Also, I know you want to build a proper elevated railway in Manhattan. I can have Argyle Bank provide a low-interest loan, and have Lex Steel supply you with the cheapest steel rails."
Tweed suddenly looked up. An elevated railway.
That was the only cure for New York's current traffic congestion, and a lucrative project that would allow him and his contractors to earn massive profits.
On one side was a likely lost election and starving mobs; on the other, two thousand jobs and an elevated railway.
There was no choice to make!
"My gout has been acting up lately."
Tweed rubbed his plump leg, a cunning, wry smile appearing on his face.
"Perhaps... I really won't have the energy to manage those little canvassers."
Felix smiled, "Then take care of yourself, Mr. Tweed."
...After seeing Tweed off, Raymond looked at Felix, his eyes filled with shock.
"You... you just secured Tammany Hall?" Raymond asked incredulously. "You got them to abandon the Democratic Party?"
"Self-interest, Henry." Felix poured himself a glass of water. "What is a political party compared to profit?"
He turned and looked at Raymond.
"What I can do is not just silence the opposition, but also make our voices louder."
"What?"
"My people intercepted something interesting at the border."
Felix took a document from the drawer and handed it to Raymond.
"Correspondence between some Confederacy officials and high-ranking members of the Northern Peace Democrats."
"Although the content is vague, with a little embellishment, it can be turned into a shocking conspiracy about 'Southern spies attempting to overthrow the Union through riots on election day'."
"You want me to fabricate evidence?" Raymond looked at the letters, his palms sweating.
"It's an interpretation," Felix corrected. "Publish these letters on the front page of The New York Times. The headlines must be big and sensational: 'Traitors Within the North,' 'Bloody Plot for Election Day,' things like that."
"Tell the voters that if they vote for the Democratic Party, they won't elect a president, but a puppet of Richmond."
"This will be coordinated with my Typewriter Offensive."
Felix pointed toward the outer office, where dozens of typewriters were tirelessly printing condolence letters for the families of soldiers on the front line.
"Tell every mother that if the war stops now, their sons' blood will have been shed in vain."
"We must drive them using fear, Henry."
"Make them afraid of losing their jobs, afraid of secession, afraid of traitors taking power."
Felix looked at the gloomy sky outside, yet felt utterly certain.
He knew how the wheels of history would turn.
What he was doing now was simply carving his name deeply onto those wheels.
"We don't want a fair election."
"We want a victory defined by us."
...One week later, on the streets of New York.
The tide had turned.
The previously massive Democratic Party rallies became sparse due to the absence of organizers.
Workers in the taverns were no longer discussing peace, but rather the rumors circulating in the factories: "If Lincoln loses, the factories will close."
The front-page editorial of The New York Times exploded like a bomb, triggering panic about "traitors within."
And at the Lex Steel Company construction site, William Coleman pointed to a newly rolled steel rail and told the visiting reporter:
"This is the backbone of the Union. Only President Lincoln can ensure it continues to extend."
Felix stood in the study, watching the Irish workers downstairs—who had originally supported McClellan—silently tear up the signs in their hands.
It seemed he had won.
He had not only won the votes but had also earned the future President's reliance on him.
______________
Ah Lincoln may you be president till Teddy takes over xdd