November 1, 1864.
New York was enveloped in a rare freezing rain that day.
Cold rain streaks, like fine steel needles, pierced the gray flagstones of Manhattan, splashing mud mixed with coal dust.
The sky hung so low it felt within reach, pressing down on the restless city.
However, inside the Standard Commercial Company building at the intersection of Broadway Avenue and Wall Street, the atmosphere was as scorching as midsummer.
The originally spacious exhibition hall on the second floor had been converted into a temporary communication center.
The fifty prototype machines, originally intended for display to bankers and lawyers, were all requisitioned.
Fifty young girls, who had undergone crash training at Eastman College, sat uniformly dressed in white shirts before the machines.
The air was filled with the smell of lubricant, hot coffee, and a tense perfume.
"Click, click, click..."
The dense sound of keyboard typing became a continuous hum, even drowning out the rain outside the window.
Frost stood in the center of the hall, holding a pocket watch. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was in a state of extreme excitement.
"Girls, speed it up!" he shouted.
"The last batch of lists for Philadelphia must be sent out within an hour. Every name and address must be correct."
What these girls were doing was the first large-scale direct mail campaign in human history.
The content of each letter was simple, personally drafted by Felix:
"Dear Sir/Madam:
Your husband/son is bleeding on the front lines for the survival of the Union. If the war stops now, their sacrifice will be meaningless. For them to return home victorious, for factories to continue smoking, for bread to remain on the table,
Please vote for Lincoln."
In this era, receiving such a formal, neat, and personal letter was a huge psychological impact for ordinary families.
Christopher Latham Sholes, the technical director, was moving through the aisles with several repairmen.
They held screwdrivers and oil cans, ready to quickly repair any connecting rods that jammed due to overheating.
"This is machine abuse."
Sholes grumbled, oiling a jammed machine, his heart aching.
"Working continuously for forty-eight hours, the springs are almost losing their elasticity."
"This is making history, Mr. Sholes."
Frost walked over and handed him a strong coffee.
"Think about it, when the news of President Lincoln's re-election comes, these fifty machines will be the great contributors."
***************
Meanwhile, in Five Points.
This was originally a Democratic Party stronghold, the backyard of Tammany Hall.
According to previous years' customs, on Election Day, this place should have been filled with free whiskey, party thugs wielding clubs, and groups of Irish immigrants being dragged to vote multiple times.
But today, it was eerily quiet.
The door of the Shamrock Tavern was tightly shut.
Paddy O'Malley sat behind the bar, polishing his beloved beer mug.
Several street bosses, who usually lived off the streets, were bored, playing cards in the corner.
A young hooligan threw out a card, "Uncle Paddy, what time is it? In previous years, Flanagan's crew would have already brought the liquor and given us two dollars for 'travel expenses' to 'maintain order' at the polling stations. Why isn't there a soul today?"
"Oh... sh*t, drink your drink."
Paddy didn't lift his head.
"Flanagan is sick. I heard all the bosses of Tammany Hall are sick. What's it called... gout? Or flu?"
"Then are we going to vote?" the young man asked. "General McClellan..."
"Vote for what?" Paddy slammed the mug on the table.
"Didn't you read the newspaper? If McClellan wins, the food factories won't have orders. Your cousin, who works on the canning line, will be out of a job next month. And your uncle, who hauls bricks at the steel mill, will have to come back too."
"But..."
"No buts." Paddy pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall, a picture of Felix at a school's groundbreaking ceremony.
"The Boss hasn't spoken, so we keep quiet. Today, no one is allowed to cause trouble at the polling stations. That's the rule."
The young man shrunk his neck.
He knew 'the Boss' wasn't referring to Tweed, but Mr. Argyle, who paid their families' wages and built schools.
And a few blocks away, at the 14th District polling station.
The Republican Party observers, responsible for monitoring the votes, were surprised to find that not a single one of the fierce Irish gang members who usually obstructed Republican voters had appeared today.
Moreover, there was a long line in front of the ballot box.
But this time, the line had many more serious-faced workers in work clothes.
What they held in their hands was not the Democratic Party's blue ballot, but... that printed, earnest letter... Night fell.
Felix took a carriage to the Telegraph Bureau Headquarters on Broadway Avenue.
This was the convergence point of information, and the heart of all America that night.
Dozens of military telegraph operators, wearing headphones, their fingers flying across the keys, compiled the vote counts from various states and sent them to Washington immediately, also sending a copy here.
When Felix entered the hall, he didn't attract much attention. He found a quiet corner and sat down.
"Boss." Flynn appeared behind him like a ghost. "Tweed is being very obedient. He's 'recovering' at his villa on Long Island, and hasn't even let his subordinates buy newspapers."
"Smart man." Felix nodded. "He knows when to disappear."
"What about Philadelphia?"
"Chairman Becker is personally overseeing it."
Flynn handed him a slip of paper.
"The Pennsylvania Railroad Company's special train transported three thousand miners and steelworkers to the polling stations for free. That state's vote bank should be secure."
"Well done."
Time passed minute by minute.
"Beep-beep-beep..."
The sound of the telegraph machine was particularly harsh in the late-night hall.
Midnight.
A telegraph operator suddenly stood up, waving a long slip of paper in his hand, his voice cracking with excitement.
"New York State! New York State vote count finished!"
"President Lincoln wins by a margin of seven thousand votes!"
A thunderous cheer erupted in the hall.
Champagne corks popped, and foam sprayed into the air.
These seven thousand votes seemed insignificant in New York State, with its millions of residents.
But in Felix's eyes, this was the most crucial factor for victory.
It was the void left by Tammany Hall's absence, and the echo generated by those fifty thousand printed letters.
Immediately after, good news arrived one after another.
"Pennsylvania... wins!"
"Ohio... wins!"
"Illinois... wins!"
Although New Jersey and Kentucky still voted for McClellan, it no longer mattered.
The outcome was decided.
Abraham Lincoln became the first American president since Andrew Jackson to successfully be re-elected.
Felix did not join the cheering crowd.
He simply stood up quietly and adjusted his collar.
"Let's go, Flynn." He walked towards the door. "It's too noisy here."
"Boss, where are we going?"
"The train station." Felix looked at the dark night sky outside the window. "Secretary Stanton sent me a private message earlier; the President... wants to see me."
Washington, White House.
The air in Washington was fresh on a clear morning after the rain, carrying the chill of late autumn.
Accompanied by Colonel Dale, Felix walked across the heavily guarded lawn and entered the white building.
This was not his first time at the White House, but this time felt completely different.
Previously, he had been summoned as a shrewd businessman and arms contractor.
Today, however, he was there as an ally.
In the President's private study, Lincoln was sitting in an old rocking chair, a blanket covering his legs.
His face was still pale, his eyes deeply sunken, marks left by the long-term stress of war.
But his eyes now appeared exceptionally bright, revealing a tranquility that came from shedding a heavy burden.
On the table were two cups of hot coffee and a plate of sliced apples.
"Sit, Felix."
Lincoln gestured to the chair opposite him, his voice hoarse but kind.
"Try this apple; it was sent from my old home in Illinois, and it's sweeter than the ones here."
Felix sat down and put a slice of apple into his mouth.
It was indeed sweet, with the fragrance of earth.
"The rain last night was heavy," Lincoln said, looking out the window.
"Just like the night I first walked in here four years ago."
"But this time the rain has stopped, hasn't it?" Felix countered.
"Yes, the rain has stopped."
Lincoln turned his head to look at the man more than twenty years his junior.
"Felix, do you know what I was thinking about last night while waiting for the results?"
"Thinking about the war in the South?"
"No." Lincoln shook his head. "I was thinking about that typewriter."
He pointed to the black machine in the corner of the desk.
"I was thinking, if not for this thing, if not for the tens of thousands of letters that flew into thousands of households like snowflakes, would George McClellan be sitting here today?"
"The people chose justice, Mr. President," Felix replied officially.
"Haha... you are truly interesting, Felix."
Lincoln laughed, a hint of relief in his smile.
"I am very clear about what happened."
"That fat man Tweed has never been so 'timely' ill in his life. And those miners in Philadelphia... they used to hate the Republican Party the most."
"You've accomplished many things that even I couldn't."
Felix was silent for a moment.
"I was also doing it for business," Felix said frankly.
"My factories need orders, and my workers need jobs. And only you can guarantee all of this."
"Business." Lincoln chewed on the word. "It's a good word, cleaner than politics."
He stood up.
"But Felix, you helped me with more than just votes. There were also those weapons, medicines, and canned goods."
"Grant told me that without those steel cannons that don't explode, he might have lost another ten thousand men at Petersburg. Sherman said that without your machine guns, Atlanta might still be in rebel hands right now."
"You built something... I should perhaps call it an 'industrial arsenal,'" Lincoln's voice became solemn.
"It is more important than any corps in the Union."
"Now I've been re-elected. I have another four years to end this war and rebuild this nation."
Lincoln turned around, his gaze sharp.
"So, my friend, is there anything you need my help with??"
Felix also stood up; it seemed Lincoln was ready to reciprocate. After a moment of thought, he slowly said, "I need space."
"Space?"
"Yes, I mean... exactly."
Felix walked to the map, his finger tracing from the bustling East Coast to the vast, largely undeveloped West.
"Lex Steel is expanding in New Jersey and needs more efficient logistics. I want to build an elevated railway in New York City."
"An elevated railway? A train running in the sky?"
"Yes, the ground is too crowded; I want to build the railway in the air," Felix explained.
"This requires the support of the Federal Government, special concessions, and suppressing the opposition of conservatives."
"That sounds... crazy."
Lincoln stroked the beard on his chin.
"But I like crazy ideas, just like your steel cannons. I'll have the Department of the Interior coordinate it. As long as New York City doesn't object, the Federal Government will fully support it."
"And..."
Felix's finger continued to move west, stopping at Nebraska.
"I hope the Union can authorize Sainn Minerals to have more independent 'security' powers along the railway line."
"Are you saying... a private army?" Lincoln's eyes sharpened.
"No, it's a corporate security force," Felix quickly explained.
"Mainly to assist the Federal Army, maintain public order, and protect national assets."
"After all, you should know that the West is very chaotic right now, extremely chaotic! Even the Union only has a little power in the towns there. It's time to bring some law there."
Lincoln remained silent for a long time after hearing this, because he knew what it meant.
This was about decentralizing power, acknowledging the legitimacy of a private armed force in that ownerless land.
But he thought of the weapons and the absolute loyalty Felix had shown him in this election (or rather, loyalty to profit).
"I want you to promise God that you will never aim at the flag of the Union."
Lincoln ultimately decided to agree, as the Union indeed lacked effective governance in the West.
Moreover, he was now thinking about rebuilding the South after the war and couldn't attend to the West for a while, so letting Felix develop it would actually be a good thing.
As long as they didn't want to secede from the Union, anything was negotiable!
"Of course, I swear by God."
"Good." Lincoln extended his hand.
Their hands clasped tightly together.
This was not just a handshake; it was a covenant.
A covenant that completely bound America's highest political power with the nation's largest emerging industrial capital... As he walked out of the White House, the sun was just right.
Frost was waiting by the carriage.
"Boss, how did it go?"
"Very well." Felix took a deep breath of the dry, cold air. "Better than expected."
Felix boarded the carriage, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.
"Edward, send a telegram to New York."
"Tell Tweed his gout can get better. That backlog of elevated railway proposals can be brought out. Tell him the Federal Government has given the green light."
"Also, send another one to Coleman. Have him build another workshop in New Jersey specifically for producing structural steel."
"We're going to use steel to build a dragon above Manhattan."
"As for the West..." Felix thought of Bill and Rambo. "Tell them to go all out. From today onwards, west of the Platte River Valley, the Sainn Company's emblem is the law."
The carriage slowly started, driving down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Felix listened to the sound of hooves, as if hearing the roar of the imperial machine accelerating.
The election was over.
Soon, it would be his era.
***************
December 1864.
Petersburg Front, Virginia.
The winter of this year was harsher than usual.
The icy sleet turned the trenches of both the Federal Army and the Confederacy into frozen, hardened mud swamps.
According to the plan of General Lee, his Army of Northern Virginia, relying on the complex trench system and fifty armstrong guns bought from Britain, would be able to hold out in the mud and frozen ground for at least another six months, thereby wearing down the will of the Northern Union.
Moreover, according to previous military convention, this should have been the time for both sides to rest and recuperate, waiting until spring blossoms to resume the war.
But here, the gears of history were forcibly accelerated.
At the Federal Army headquarters on the banks of the Appomattox River, General Ulysses S. Grant had no intention of going into hibernation.
The fire in the stove burned brightly, and the air was thick with the smell of cigar smoke.
Grant sat by the cot, holding a telegram from Washington.
It contained the news of President Lincoln's recent re-election, along with a list of the latest supply arrivals signed by Secretary Stanton.
"Three hundred thousand boxes of individual rations, two hundred thousand sets of winter clothing, and..."
Grant's gaze fell on the last line of the list.
"Two hundred Pioneer 64-Type Infantry Cannons, and five million rounds of ammunition."
He looked up at General George Meade, who was standing in front of the map.
"George, are your men well-fed?"
"They are, sir," Meade replied, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
"This might be the most prosperous winter I've ever commanded; the soldiers are even complaining that the canned beef is too salty."
"Then let them get moving, and turn that salt into sweat."
Grant stood up and tossed his cigar into the stove.
"Now?" Meade asked, somewhat confused.
"Before Christmas? But General, this violates convention. The mud will bog down the wagons, and the heavy guns will be difficult to move."
"General Lee on the other side thinks the same way."
Grant's eyes were like the icicles outside the window.
"He also thinks we will wait until April. His soldiers are starving, freezing, and waiting for winter to pass. But we..."
Grant pointed to the military railway outside the window that ran directly to the forward artillery positions.
It had been laid with assistance from the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, using heavy rails produced entirely by the Lex Steel factory.
"Now we have railways, steel cannons that won't burst, and all these delivered weapons and logistical supplies. We are perfectly capable of launching the decisive battle immediately."
This was Grant's plan for a decisive battle, made in light of Lincoln's re-election.
Previously, due to the election, Grant was unsure if President Lincoln would be re-elected, so the offensive had slowed.
But since Lincoln was re-elected, the fighting would continue. Therefore, he needed to quickly congratulate Lincoln with a victory in the war.
And to plan for his own future... "Transmit my orders: prepare a full-scale offensive. I intend to drink coffee in Richmond before Christmas."
***************
Two days later, dawn.
In the Confederates' positions, ragged soldiers were huddled in the trenches, trying to ward off the cold wind with thin blankets.
The Enfield Rifles in their hands were rusted, and the hunger in their stomachs was more unbearable than the cold.
Suddenly, the earth began to tremble.
A sharp, dense sound tore through the sky.
"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Three hundred Pioneer 64-Type Infantry Cannons fired simultaneously across a five-mile-wide front.
This was no longer a probing strike.
This was Saturation Attack.
The shells seemed to have eyes, accurately smashing into the Confederates' trenches and bunkers.
The explosions hurled sturdy logs and sandbags high into the air.
"My God..."
In the Confederates' command post, General Robert Lee lowered his binoculars. His hand trembled slightly.
What he saw was not bombardment; it was slaughter.
The Federal Army's artillery fire was relentless. The rate of fire from those breech-loading cannons was so fast that it formed an insurmountable wall of fire.
The forward artillery tried to retaliate, but the moment they showed their heads, they were covered by terrifyingly accurate firepower.
"General!"
A staff officer, his face covered in blood, rushed in. "The northern defense line... has collapsed! We can't hold on."
"It's only been half an hour," Lee's voice was hoarse. "Where are our reserves?"
"They can't get up there!" the staff officer cried.
"The moment they leave cover, they are cut down by the enemy's machine guns. The Yankees pushed those machine guns right to the front line. That's not fighting; that's butchering good men!"
General Lee closed his eyes in agony.
He knew it was over.
Not just this battle, but the entire Confederacy was finished.
In the face of this absolute industrial power, courage was worthless...
***************
Richmond, the capital of the Confederate States of America.
Chaos, like a plague, instantly consumed the city with the news of the frontline collapse.
The streets were jammed with fleeing carriages and crowds.
Government officials were burning documents, and bankers were packing their last gold into boxes.
To prevent supplies from falling into Yankee hands, the retreating garrison set fire to the tobacco warehouses.
Black smoke obscured the sky, and the air was filled with the smell of burning and despair.
At the entrance of the chaotic Tredegar Iron Works, a luxurious carriage loaded with luggage was blocked by the surging crowd.
Inside sat a woman in a green velvet dress, her emerald eyes filled with terror and anxiety.
"Rhett, hurry up! Do you want those Yankees to catch us and hang us?"
Scarlett O'Hara screamed, clutching the arm of the man beside her.
Rhett Butler was still dressed in his refined white suit, maintaining a cynical calm even amid this apocalyptic scene.
He restrained the frightened horses and looked at the towering flames in the distance.
"Don't rush, darling."
Rhett pointed to a squad of retreating Confederates by the road.
"Look, that's the 'Southern Chivalry' you wanted."
"Stop being sarcastic!"
Scarlett looked at the dejected soldiers, a pang of distress in her heart.
"What should we do? Go back to Tara?"
"We can't go back," Rhett shook his head. "Sherman's men have already burned Georgia to the ground. Now, the entire South is burning."
Suddenly, a huge explosion came from the nearby armory. The crowd screamed in terror.
Rhett jumped off the carriage and picked up something from the roadside ruins. It was a smoking piece of artillery shrapnel.
He weighed it in his hand; the metal was cold and dense, and the fracture surface shone with a luster he had never seen before.
"Look at this, Scarlett." Rhett handed her the fragment.
"What's so special about it? It's junk metal!" Scarlett knocked it away.
"No, this isn't junk metal."
Rhett looked at the fragment, a complex smile curving his lips.
"This is Lex Steel. I've seen this material before. It was manufactured by that factory in New York belonging to Argyle."
He looked up, facing north.
"We lost, Scarlett. We didn't just lose to Grant and Lincoln."
"We also lost to this," he pointed to the shrapnel on the ground. "We lost to factories and railways, and to the... monster who created this steel."
"So where do we go now?" Scarlett asked desperately.
Rhett jumped back onto the carriage and shook the reins.
"To Charleston, or maybe England."
"The Old World has collapsed, darling."
Rhett's voice was unusually clear amid the noise.
"We need to find a place where we can... do business with the New World."
________________
A New York tram? MC should also build a metro when electricity gets better