On Christmas Eve, a telegram, transmitted via standard typewriters and the federal telegraph network, quickly spread throughout the North.
"Richmond has fallen. General Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House. The war... is over."
People across the Union cheered in the streets and taverns.
They had waited too long for this moment; countless individuals cried while laughing.
Too many people had died in recent years, many of them their relatives and friends, and their deaths had finally brought peace.
And the entire city of New York was also in a frenzy.
Church bells rang in unison, and factory whistles shrieked.
People poured into the streets to embrace, cry, or cheer.
Fireworks bloomed in the night sky, illuminating the thin ice on the Hudson River.
However, in the study of Argyle Mansion, it was exceptionally quiet.
Felix did not participate in any celebratory parades.
He was sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, a glass of red wine in his hand, watching the fireworks outside the window.
Catherine sat beside him, snuggling close.
"It's over, my dear."
Catherine said softly, her head resting on Felix's shoulder.
"Four years... it's finally over."
"Indeed," Felix took a sip of wine. "It's... a full four months earlier than in history."
"Hmm? What history, dear?" Catherine hadn't quite heard him.
"Ah... nothing," Felix smiled and kissed her beautiful face. "I mean, the war ended earlier than I expected."
He looked at Catherine. The firelight illuminated her face, a face that was once youthful and slightly apprehensive, but had now become mature, elegant, and imbued with the authority of someone managing a vast pharmaceutical company.
But at this moment, beneath that authority, there was a softness she had never possessed before.
"Felix."
Catherine suddenly spoke, her voice trembling slightly.
"Hmm? What is it, sweetheart?"
Felix put down his wine glass, sensing her unusual behavior.
Catherine took Felix's hand and gently placed it on her flat stomach.
"Your empire..."
She looked up, her blue eyes filled with tears, yet sparkling with a brilliance brighter than the fireworks outside the window.
"...will have an heir."
Felix's hand instantly froze.
In that instant, the cheers and whistles from outside the window, and even the grand blueprints of steel, oil, and railways in his mind, all vanished.
Felix felt somewhat lost and helpless now.
In this unfamiliar time and space, he had built a fortress of money, woven a vast web of power, and even altered the historical course of a nation.
In truth, he had always been lonely, like a detached observer and manipulator.
But at this moment, in the warm touch from that hand, he felt... roots for the first time.
"Really?"
Felix's voice was a little dry, and his hand trembled slightly.
Catherine hadn't gotten pregnant in the past few years, and he sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with his or Catherine's body.
Catherine nodded, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling.
"Dr. Dalton confirmed it yesterday; it's already two months."
Felix took a deep breath.
He suddenly pulled Catherine into a tight embrace, as if to meld her into his very bones and blood.
"For me... this is the greatest victory," he whispered in her ear.
"More important than anything."
...The tender moment didn't last long before a gentle knock came at the door.
Frost stood at the doorway, holding a thick stack of documents.
He looked at the two embracing, a hint of awkwardness on his face.
"Boss..." he whispered, "I really don't want to disturb you. But... a telegram from Washington."
Felix released Catherine, wiped away her tears, then stood up, resuming his composed demeanor.
But Frost could see that his Boss's eyes held an unprecedented sparkle.
"What is it?"
"It's a personal letter from President Lincoln," Frost cleared his throat.
"To Mr. Felix Argyle:
The Union thanks you.
The bells of peace have rung, but the bugle call for reconstruction has only just begun.
I hope to see you at the White House on the first day of the new year.
I need to discuss with you the railways and ruined cities of the South, and... the future of this nation."
After reading, Frost put down the telegram and took out another.
"This one is from Mr. Bill in Chicago. He says that with the end of the war, many people may flock to the West. Metropolitan Company needs more land and livestock, as well as more barbed wire. He asks if Sainn Minerals' security team can be expanded to a thousand men?"
"And Mr. Coleman," Frost continued to report.
"He says the end of the war means military orders will decrease, and Lex Steel may need to partially transition. He suggests immediately starting the 'civilian construction steel' production line. He says architects in New York and Chicago are discussing a crazy concept called 'skyscrapers.'"
Felix listened to these reports.
Yes, the war was over, but that didn't mean rest.
On the contrary, it meant a new, much grander and crazier era, the historical "Gilded Age," was officially about to begin.
And this time, he was no longer the small merchant hiding behind the scenes a few years ago.
He was the commercial king holding food and medicine, railways and military industries, trade and steel, energy and oil, and banking capital.
And... a future father.
Felix couldn't help but walk to the window, looking at the reveling new world, his heart swelling with infinite ambition.
He wanted to build a vast commercial empire for his child!
"Reply to the President that I will arrive on time."
"As for Bill, have Miller expand the Action Department. Tell him to tighten the fences. The West will be ours in the future."
"As for Coleman, let him build boldly. I want New York's future skyline to be drawn with Lex Steel."
Felix turned around, looked at Catherine, then at her abdomen, as if he could see the tiny life growing within.
"Add one more thing," he said with a smile.
"Establish a new foundation, specifically for... maternal and child health and children's education."
"I want to give this child the best world."
January 1865, Washington D.C.
A second-floor suite at the Willard Hotel.
It was only two blocks from the White House, and during the war, it often felt more like the heart of power than the white official residence itself.
The heavy velvet curtains were tightly drawn, blocking out the noise and firecrackers celebrating victory on Pennsylvania Avenue outside the window.
Inside the room, the light of the gas lamps was filtered by the bluish smoke from burning tobacco, appearing dim and heavy.
A group of the Federal Government's top dignitaries were preparing for an autopsy.
The subject was the recently deceased 'Confederate States of America'.
Around the long conference table sat over a dozen men who held the lifeline of the Northern Union.
President Abraham Lincoln sat at the head, looking slightly more energetic than he had a few months ago.
To his right was Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, and to his left was Senator Clark, Chairman of the Senate Military Committee.
Besides them, there were Secretary of State Seward, Secretary of the Treasury Fessenden, and Congressional leaders from various factions of the Republican Party.
Felix Argyle sat at the end of the table.
Although he held no official position, everyone present knew what this young man represented.
He was a supporter of this war, the embodiment of the Northern industrial machine, and the source of future reconstruction funds.
"Gentlemen."
Senator Clark was the first to break the silence, tapping forcefully with an unlit cigar on the map marking the Southern states.
"Lee has surrendered, and Davis has been captured. But this doesn't mean the end; it's only the beginning."
"The South is now a ruin."
Clark's voice carried the arrogance and ruthlessness of a victor.
"It is also a vacuum. If we don't fill it now, those planters and Democratic Party traitors will soon stage a comeback. They will rebuild their kingdom on the ruins of defeat and continue to oppose us."
"So, what is your suggestion?" Lincoln asked slowly, his voice hoarse.
"Military rule."
Thaddeus Stevens, a radical congressman seated nearby, interjected.
"Divide the South into five military districts. Strip all former Confederacy officials, military officers, and planters who participated in the rebellion of their political rights. Confiscate their land. Grind them completely underfoot so they can never rise again."
"Confiscate land?" Secretary of the Treasury Fessenden frowned. "That is private property. The Constitution..."
"They betrayed the Constitution!" Stevens shouted.
"The moment they fired upon the Union, they forfeited constitutional protection! That land should be distributed to loyal citizens or used to repay war debts."
The room fell into argument.
The moderates worried that excessive punishment would spark guerrilla warfare, while the radicals insisted on completely eradicating the foundation of the Southern old aristocracy.
Lincoln did not express an opinion. He turned his head, his gaze cutting through the smoke and landing on Felix.
"Felix," Lincoln asked, "as a businessman, or rather, as our greatest supporter. What is your view?"
Everyone's attention focused on him.
Felix set down the teacup he was holding.
"If the goal is vengeance, Mr. Stevens' suggestion is perfect. Hanging a few generals and confiscating a few plantations would satisfy Northern voters."
"But," Felix changed tack, "it won't make money."
"Money?" Stevens snorted in dissatisfaction. "We are talking about justice."
"Justice requires money to uphold, sir." Felix looked at him.
"You must remember that the Federal Government issued hundreds of millions of dollars in bonds for this war. If the South remains in chaos, poverty, and under military rule, how will they pay taxes? How will they buy the plows, harvesters, and cloth manufactured by Northern factories? How will they repay the loans we provided for building railroads?"
"We don't want a dead South." Felix's finger traced a line on the map. "We want a 'colony'."
"A colony?"
The word stunned the politicians present, as it was not usually equated with the South; it was a term reserved for backward regions.
"Yes." Felix continued.
"A market that provides cheap raw materials for Northern industry while consuming Northern industrial goods."
"As for the planters, they must certainly be punished."
A sharp glint flashed in Felix's eyes. "But outright confiscation of land is too crude; it would scare away European investors. Perhaps we can use a different method."
"What method?" Stanton asked.
"Taxes and debt."
Felix smiled, a cold-blooded banker's smile.
"Announce that all currency and bonds issued by the Confederacy are void. This means all wealthy Southerners go bankrupt overnight. Then, we impose a high 'Reconstruction Tax' on the land. Since the planters have no cash and cannot afford the tax, they will be forced to mortgage their land."
"Mortgage it to whom?"
Felix stated frankly, "Northern banks, of course, such as the Argyle Empire Bank. Or those 'Northern Industrialists' willing to invest in the South."
"In this way, we can legally seize the land, control their cotton, and take over the railroads."
"This is called... economic takeover."
A low murmur of discussion arose in the room.
The politicians exchanged glances. They had to admit that this plan was more tempting than simple violence, and also more... "civilized."
"Then, what about the freed Black people?" Lincoln spoke again, throwing out the most sensitive question of the evening.
"Four million Black people are now free." He glanced at Stevens. "Our friends in the Radical faction propose giving them full citizenship rights. Including... the right to vote."
This time, the air in the room seemed to freeze.
Suffrage.
This was the forbidden zone that touched everyone's nerves.
"I support it!" Stevens said loudly.
"They deserve it. Furthermore, that's four million votes. If we give them the right to vote, they will forever vote Republican. We will completely control every state legislature in the South!"
"But that will infuriate the entire white South," countered a moderate congressman. "It might even infuriate white people in the North. Our soldiers bled on the front lines, not to return and see... to see that kind of situation."
The two sides began arguing again.
"Felix?" Lincoln looked at Felix again.
Felix remained silent for a moment.
This was a historical crossroads.
In the original timeline, though Radical Reconstruction temporarily granted rights to Black people, it was followed by a century of backlash and segregation.
As a Transmigrator, perhaps he should speak of equality.
But as a capitalist and a beneficiary of this era, his position dictated his perspective.
After clearly analyzing the benefits, Felix looked at Lincoln.
"Mr. President. Liberty is a natural human right. There is no doubt about that. We must abolish slavery and grant them personal freedom."
"But... the right to vote is another matter."
"Why?" Stevens questioned with a frown.
Felix looked at him, tapping the table with his hand. "Because of order."
"Mr. Stevens, have you ever considered this? Most of these four million people are illiterate, uneducated, and know nothing about politics, some even own no property. If they are suddenly given the right to vote, who will they vote for?"
"Of course, they'll vote for the Republican Party!" Stevens replied as if it were obvious.
"No, no, no..." Felix shook his head, patiently explaining.
"They will vote for whoever promises them the most. Perhaps it's you, or maybe some demagogue who promises to distribute land to them. This will introduce unpredictable variables."
"And what we need is a stable labor force," Felix revealed his true intention.
"The cotton fields in the South need people to plant, my railway construction sites need people to lay tracks, and future factories need people. If they are all busy with politics, voting, and competing with white people for parliamentary seats... who will do the work?"
Then Felix looked at Lincoln again.
"Moreover, if universal suffrage for Black people is forcefully implemented now, northern labor unions will also riot. Minority workers will feel threatened. The Democratic Party will exploit this, striking back in the next midterm election."
"So what is your proposal?" Lincoln's gaze was profound.
"They can be granted freedom and legal protection, and also be allowed to own property," Felix proposed his plan.
"However, the right to vote requires 'thresholds'."
"Literacy tests, proof of property. Or... years of residency," Felix listed several conditions casually.
"We can claim this is to ensure the quality of elections. This gives face to the radicals, appeases the conservatives, and also ensures their existence as a labor force."
"As for the future," Felix shrugged, "once they are educated and have sufficient property, then we can discuss elections again."
This was an extremely hypocritical, yet perfectly aligned, 'compromise' with the political reality and capitalist interests of the time.
The politicians in the room fell into contemplation.
Even the most radical Stevens had to admit that Felix's concerns about the backlash from northern workers were real.
"Thresholds..." Lincoln murmured.
He was an idealist, but even more so, a pragmatic politician.
The primary task now was to mend the nation's divisions, not create new antagonisms.
Lincoln sighed, "Perhaps you are right. Taking too big a step can lead to a fall."
"Then it's settled."
Chairman Clark, seeing this, immediately summarized, not wanting to give Lincoln a chance to change his mind.
"The abolition of slavery written into the Constitution is the bottom line. As for civil rights and voting rights... leave it to the states to 'set their own standards'. The Federal Government will not enforce intervention for now."
This decision destined the fate of Black people in the South for decades to come—free, but not equal.
But for those present, this was already the optimal solution.
"One last thing."
Felix didn't want to get bogged down in moral issues; he quickly steered the conversation back to interests.
"Regarding the 'Reconstruction Committee'."
"I suggest establishing a 'Southern Reconstruction Committee' composed of government, military, and private enterprises. It will be responsible for approving all railway repair, urban reconstruction, and material procurement projects."
As he spoke, Felix glanced at Secretary Stanton.
"Of course." Stanton understood.
"The War Department will lead this committee, and as for the representatives of private enterprises..."
He looked at Felix, a smile appearing on his face.
"I think no one is more suitable than Mr. Argyle."
"The Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company's engineering teams are already on standby," Felix said.
"Lex Steel's rails have also filled the warehouses. As soon as the committee's seal is stamped, we can turn the ruins into... a new America."
The meeting concluded in an atmosphere of universal joy and spoils distribution.
Politicians gained political capital, radicals celebrated the abolition of slavery, and moderates secured guarantees of order.
And Felix, he secured a share of the profits from reconstructing the South... As he walked out of the Willard Hotel, snowflakes began to fall in the Washington night sky.
On the streets, crowds celebrating the victory still hadn't dispersed.
Fireworks bloomed in the night sky, illuminating their excited faces.
Felix declined Secretary Stanton's carriage.
He stood alone on the hotel steps, adjusting his collar.
Frost emerged from the shadows, draping a heavy wool coat over him.
"Boss, is it settled?"
"It's settled."
Felix looked at the lights of the White House in the distance, his tone calm.
"The South... our interests are secured."
"What about the rights of Black people?" Frost asked softly.
He knew his Boss had built a school in Five Points and thought he would be more... benevolent.
Felix seemed to hear his unspoken thoughts, turning his head to look at his young assistant.
"Edward, mercy is the privilege of the strong. But the Federal Government still needs order. Premature equality will only bring chaos. And chaos... is bad for business."
He didn't explain further.
In this era, some things couldn't be stated too explicitly.
"Let's go." Felix glanced at his pocket watch. "It's getting late."
"Where to? Back to New York?"
Felix shook his head.
"There's a victory celebration dinner tonight, I need to make an appearance."
"Miss Catherine didn't come," Frost reminded him.
"I know." Felix's gaze softened slightly.
"She's pregnant and can't handle the long journey, and the hospital can't do without her either."
Felix remembered Catherine standing at the door, straightening his tie before he left.
"Go, Felix," she had said with a smile. "Go accept this honor. The child and I will be waiting for you at home."
"Let's go." Felix stepped down the stairs.
A black four-wheeled carriage was parked by the roadside, the simple crest of the Argyle family emblazoned on its door.
Felix got into the carriage.
The carriage started, its wheels crunching over the accumulated snow.
He rode alone towards the banquet for the victors.
On this night, he was the most powerful businessman in the country, the mastermind behind the war, the master of reconstruction.
But behind all that splendor, he maintained a clear mind.
Because all of this was for the child about to be born, for the empire taking shape, and to... live like a true king in this cruel era.
The main venue for the celebratory banquet was the massive Greek Revival hall in the Patent Office Building.
This place had once been a temporary hospital for the wounded, its floors soaked with blood.
But tonight, everything was covered by thick Persian carpets, pristine linen tablecloths, and thousands of fresh flowers.
Countless gas lamps burned within enormous crystal chandeliers, releasing dazzling light and heat.
The air was filled with the scent of expensive French perfume, hair pomade, the spice of aged cigars, and the intoxicating tang of uncorked champagne.
This was a feast belonging to the victors.
When Felix walked into the hall, the noisy chatter paused for a moment, then resumed as a denser wave of whispers.
Although he was alone, he did not appear lonely.
Felix was wearing a black tuxedo, his white bow tie meticulously tied. A corner of a pristine silk pocket square peeked out of his left breast pocket.
However, as he walked through the crowd, the generals in their gold-braided uniforms, the lavishly dressed senators, and even the representatives of the haughty Old Money families from Boston and Philadelphia, all stopped what they were doing, actively nodding in greeting, and even slightly turning aside to let him pass.
On this night, no one saw Felix Argyle merely as a wealthy businessman.
He was the master of Vanguard, the founder of Rex, the man who had forged the sword and shield for the Federal Army.
In the eyes of many, he was the personification of Northern industrial power.
"Felix, over here!"
A familiar, husky voice called out.
President Abraham Lincoln was standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by a group of attention-seeking politicians.
He looked much more energetic than he had that afternoon.
Felix walked through the crowd and approached him.
"Mr. President." Felix bowed slightly. "Congratulations, this is your night."
"No, Felix."
Lincoln extended his large hands and firmly shook Felix's, the strength of the grip showing the onlookers the extraordinary nature of their relationship.
"This is the Union's night, and it is the night of men like you."
Lincoln turned to the cabinet members and generals beside him and said:
"Gentlemen, I don't think I need to introduce him further. If General Grant is the Union's fist, then Felix is the bone that makes that fist hard."
A chorus of laughter and praise followed.
Secretary of the Treasury Fessenden raised his glass. "Mr. Argyle, thank you for your bank's efforts in issuing bonds. Without that gold from Europe, we might only be drinking plain water tonight."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Secretary." Felix replied with a smile, his demeanor poised and modest.
After lingering by the President for a moment, Felix politely excused himself, leaving the stage to those who needed political exposure more.
Excessive ostentation was not wise on this occasion.
Holding a glass of champagne, Felix slowly walked toward the side wing of the hall. There was a row of tall floor-to-ceiling windows, offering an escape from the noise of the main ballroom.
"Looking for someone, Mr. Argyle?"
A teasing female voice sounded behind him.
Felix turned around.
Anna Clark was standing there.
She was breathtakingly beautiful tonight. As the only daughter of Senator Clark, Chairman of the Senate Military Committee, she was the undisputed pearl of Washington society.
She wore a dark blue silk gown, the hem embroidered with delicate silver patterns, like stars in the night sky. A string of pearls adorned her long neck, and her intelligent eyes watched Felix with amusement.
"Miss Anna." Felix offered a genuine smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again. You are... radiant tonight."
"Just radiant?"
Anna raised her eyebrows and took a step closer.
"I thought you might say I'm much smarter than those Philadelphia socialites trying to latch onto you."
"That goes without saying." Felix laughed.
"Those socialites want my checkbook, but you... you know how those checks are printed."
Anna chuckled softly. Then, her expression softened, and her voice dropped.
"I received a telegram from Catherine."
Felix's eyes instantly softened. "Oh? How is she? I mean... she hasn't sent me a telegram these past couple of days."
"She's doing well."
Anna looked at the concern in Felix's eyes. A complex emotion flashed in her heart, but it was quickly replaced by admiration.
"She said the little one is kicking a lot, and the doctor says he's very healthy. She also complained in the letter that you sent back too many supplements via Frost, and she's about to be fed into a penguin."
Felix couldn't help but burst out laughing.
"She needs the nutrition. And... you know, I'm not there with her."
"You are doing great things, Felix." Anna gently swayed the folding fan in her hand.
"Catherine said in her letter that she is proud of you. She knows that everything you do in Washington is aimed at creating a safer, stronger environment for the child who is about to be born."
"She is a remarkable woman." Felix whispered.
"I completely agree with that." Anna nodded, looking directly into Felix's eyes.
"And you are a man who knows how to appreciate that kind of remarkable woman. That... is rare."
The two stood side by side by the window, watching the night sky illuminated by fireworks.
Although they had only met a few times, there was a deep rapport between them based on intellect and understanding.
This unspoken understanding caused those around them who tried to approach and chat to sensibly back away.
However, not everyone was tactful, or rather, not everyone held respect for this 'nouveau riche' individual.
"Well, look who it is?"
A voice full of arrogance and provocation cut in.
Felix and Anna turned their heads.
It was a young man, about twenty-five or twenty-six, wearing a slightly ostentatious pale gold waistcoat, his hair slicked back with pomade. He held a glass of brandy, his eyes glazed over, clearly having drunk quite a bit.
"Augustus Lowell," Anna whispered, reminding Felix.
"The heir to the Boston textile magnate. Their family made a fortune on Southern cotton before the war, and now... they resent all 'new money' because they've lost their cheap raw materials."
"Mr. Argyle."
Lowell staggered over, followed by several equally well-dressed companions.
"If you don't mind me asking... has your canning factory recently introduced any new flavors? Perhaps... gunpowder-flavored luncheon meat?"
His companions burst into vulgar laughter.
Felix merely looked on indifferently, as if watching a grasshopper hopping around on his boot.
"Mr. Lowell, if you are interested in the food industry, you can have the factory's sales manager send you a catalog. But tonight, this is an occasion to celebrate victory."
"Victory?"
Lowell sneered. Fueled by alcohol, he raised his voice, drawing the attention of many nearby guests.
"Yes, victory. A victory bought by selling those cold machines and killing weapons. Do you people, reeking of money and coal smoke, understand the glory of victory?"
After mocking him, he pointed to the expensive Steinway grand piano in the corner of the hall.
"Look, Mr. Argyle. Here we have music, art, and civilization. And you... you only know how to make those crude lumps of iron. In Boston, we judge a gentleman not by his bank account, but by his... training."
"I dare say, besides counting money and pulling triggers, your hands probably can't play a single note, can they?" Lowell looked at Felix mockingly.
The crowd who overheard the conversation instantly fell silent.
This was a blatant humiliation rooted in class prejudice, and the target was currently one of the States's top magnates.
Those from Old Money families, while not as crude as Lowell, still held expressions of anticipation, watching the show unfold.
Deep down, they always believed Felix was merely a lucky upstart.
Anna's face darkened. Just as she was about to retort, Felix stopped her with a gesture.
Felix looked at Lowell, his expression completely unchanged; not even his polite, customary smile had faded.
He slowly handed the champagne flute in his hand to a nearby waiter.
"training." Felix repeated the word, his tone flat.
"Mr. Lowell, you are right. War is indeed full of soot and the stench of copper. Sometimes, we are so busy trying to win that we forget... what exactly we have lost."
He then adjusted his cuff slightly and walked toward the piano.
The crowd automatically parted, creating a path.
Everyone's gaze—surprised, mocking, curious, and expectant—focused on the young man's back.
Felix sat down at the piano.
It was a top-tier Steinway; its black body reflected the light like a deep lake.
Reaching out, his slender fingers lightly traced the ivory keys. He did not immediately play. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
In that instant, the clamor of Washington vanished.
In its place were the memories of the peaceful era before his transmigration.
It was the piece he had used to soothe his soul during countless lonely nights.
"Longing Across Time and Space."
This composition did not yet exist in this era.
It had no name and no sheet music.
It belonged only to Felix.
"Ding..."
The first note sounded.
Crisp and solitary, like the first teardrop falling on ice in winter.
Lowell was about to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat.
Felix's fingers began to glide across the keys.
Initially, it was slow, like a solitary traveler wandering over ruins.
The melody was simple, yet possessed a penetrating power that struck the soul.
It was not a magnificent, technically showy classical piece.
It was a narration.
As the melody progressed, the music grew heavier.
The chords played by the left hand were like deep war drums, or thunder rolling in the distance; the melody played by the right hand was like reeds swaying in the wind—it was the call of mothers, the weeping of wives, the whispers of young souls forever left in the wilderness, in Cold Harbor, and in the muddy trenches of Petersburg.
The hall became completely silent.
Even the slightest cough vanished.
People seemed to see not a magnificent ballroom, but a battlefield after the smoke had cleared.
The setting sun was like blood, flags were broken, and letters from home were scattered.
Felix was immersed in the music.
He thought of Tommy O'Donnell, the young man who died on the prairie.
He thought of the wounded soldiers screaming in the hospitals.
And everything this war had taken away.
The music entered its climax.
The sorrow was no longer suppressed; instead, it transformed into a grand, transcendent compassion and calling.
It was reverence for life, a yearning for peace, and a requiem for all those who had passed away.
Notes surged like a tide, battering the emotional defenses of every person present.
A noblewoman sitting in the front row, whose son had died in the Battle of Antietam, suddenly covered her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes.
Then came a second person, a third... Even the battle-hardened, iron-willed generals lowered their heads, their expressions solemn.
President Lincoln stood on the periphery of the crowd, tears glistening in his deep-set eyes.
He understood.
This was being played for the children who had died for the States.
Anna Clark stood not far away, gazing blankly at the figure seated at the piano.
At this moment, Felix was no longer the shrewd businessman, nor the ruthless military industrial magnate.
He was like a lonely poet, using his fingers to touch the nation's most painful wound.
This contrast, this deep emotion hidden beneath a cold exterior, heavy as the deep sea, gave Anna an unprecedented shock.
The final segment of the melody slowly faded.
As if the wind had stopped and the snow had ceased. Everything returned to peace.
Felix's fingers rested on the keys. The lingering sound echoed in the vast hall, refusing to dissipate.
There was no applause.
A full minute passed, and still, no one spoke.
Everyone was immersed in that immense, sorrowful yet healing emotion, as if clapping would shatter the sacredness of the moment.
Felix slowly stood up. He did not bow, nor did he look at Lowell, who was utterly mortified.
He simply adjusted his cuff calmly.
"This piece," Felix's voice rang out in the silence, not loud, but exceptionally clear, "is dedicated to those... who couldn't make it to tonight's ball."
Having said that, he turned and walked toward the main door.
Only when his figure was about to disappear through the doorway did a thunderous applause erupt behind him like a tsunami.
Anna looked at his retreating back, her heart pounding quickly.
She turned her head and softly said to her father, Chairman Clark, who was beside her, "Father."
"Yes, Anna?"
"I think," a strange light flickered in Anna's eyes, "you chose the right man."
"He is more than just an ally."
"He is a king worth following."
Outside the door, the cold wind was biting.
Felix stepped into the carriage, and Frost closed the door.
"Boss," Frost's voice was slightly choked, "that piece just now..."
"Get in."
Felix closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat, his expression reverting to the cold indifference of a capitalist.
"That was just... a bit of superfluous emotion."
"In the future, there will be more important things to do."
London, England.
Behind the dark oak door of 10 Downing Street, an emergency cabinet meeting was dispelling the winter chill.
Lord Palmerston, the Prime Minister who had single-handedly orchestrated Britain's diplomatic hegemony, now sat before the fireplace, a wool blanket draped over his knees.
In his hand was a brief report that had just arrived via the Atlantic Ocean cable.
It contained only a single line of text, yet it weighed a thousand pounds:
"Richmond has fallen. Confederate Army ceases resistance. War concluded."
Seated in the room were Foreign Secretary Earl Russell and Chancellor of the Exchequer Gladstone. Gloom hung on the faces of the three gentlemen.
"It's over."
Earl Russell broke the silence, setting down his teacup with a slight clink as the porcelain met the saucer.
"A whole year earlier than we anticipated. Robert E. Lee once assured us he could hold out in Petersburg until 1866."
"Assured?"
Palmerston sneered.
"A gentleman's assurance is worthless in the face of steel cannons that can fire eight rounds a minute. Russell, have you read the report from our Washington military attaché about the vanguard artillery?"
"I have." Russell's expression was grim.
"A range of five thousand yards, all-steel breech-loading, no bursting. Our armstrong gun looks like an old relic from the Napoleonic era next to it. What's more terrifying is that they have five hundred of them, while General Lee only has fifty that our smuggler desperately transported in."
"It's not just a matter of cannons."
Gladstone interjected; he was the one more concerned with ledgers.
"This is the crushing power of an industrial system. We gambled heavily on Southern cotton, bought their bonds, sold weapons. What was the result? The Yankees overwhelmed the South with a production efficiency we can't comprehend."
He pulled another document from his briefcase.
"Look at this. This is Barings Bank's financial assessment of Argyle. Several companies have supplied hundreds of millions of bullets, millions of tons of canned goods, and medicines to the Federal Army over the past year."
"Argyle." Palmerston chewed on the name.
"That young man. I recall that Henry Ashworth seemed quite close to him?"
"Yes, Prime Minister." Gladstone nodded.
"In fact, if Mr. Ashworth hadn't turned in time and participated in the underwriting of Union Pacific Railroad bonds, the City of London might have been buried alongside Southern cotton this time. Now, Argyle Empire Bank effectively controls the flow of the U.S. dollar in Europe."
Palmerston closed his eyes.
He felt a certain threat.
An emerging power, possessing considerable industry, advanced armaments, and recently forged in fire and blood, was rising.
"We need to change our strategy."
Palmerston opened his eyes, his gaze sharp.
"Since the South is finished, we can no longer offend the North. Especially the man who holds the 'weapons of the future'."
"Send someone to New York." Palmerston issued the command, "Have Ashworth go. Or, in the name of the Royal Family, invite Mr. Argyle to London. We need to see with our own eyes how many cards he still holds that we don't know about."
...Meanwhile, across the Channel.
Second French Empire, Paris, Tuileries Palace.
Emperor Napoleon III was pacing anxiously back and forth in his study.
Before him knelt a messenger who had just returned from Mexico.
"What did you say?" The Emperor's voice was sharp, "Washington has issued a warning to our garrison in Mexico?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." The messenger trembled as he replied.
"General Grant's troops have not disbanded after the end of the Civil War. They are gathering on the Texas border. General Sherman has threatened that if French troops do not withdraw from Mexico, he wouldn't mind stopping by Mexico City for a tequila."
Napoleon III sat down in his chair.
He had originally hoped the American Civil War would tie up the North, allowing him to prop up the unfortunate Emperor Maximilian in Mexico.
But now the North had won, and won so thoroughly, so quickly.
"Can our army resist?" he asked his Minister of War.
The Minister of War shook his head bitterly.
"Your Majesty, we only have thirty thousand men in Mexico. And the Federal Army has a million veterans who have endured four years of brutal fighting. Furthermore, intelligence indicates that the Federal Army is equipped with a machine gun that can tear apart a cavalry company in seconds. Our cuirassiers are live targets in the face of such firepower."
"It's Argyle again!"
Napoleon III angrily slammed his fist on the table.
"Prussia is also cooperating with him! How can he create such devilish weapons?"
"Not just weapons, Your Majesty." The Minister of War said in a low voice.
"There's also the standard typewriter. Our Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Ministry of Interior are using it now. If we break off diplomatic relations with America, even the supply of office consumables will be cut off. Oh, and iodoglycerol; Parisian hospitals cannot do without it."
Napoleon III felt a sense of powerlessness.
He realized that the young American businessman had, unknowingly, entangled France's hands and feet with countless invisible threads.
"Go." The Emperor waved his hand weakly.
"Contact Leroy of the Rothschild family and have him talk to Argyle. See if we can buy some 'friendship' with money. Or at least buy the patents for those machine guns."
...Meanwhile, Kingdom of Prussia, Berlin, General Staff Building.
Unlike the gloom in London and the panic in Paris, the air here was filled with irrepressible excitement.
General Helmuth von Moltke stood before a massive sand table, holding the final war report from America.
Opposite him was Major Alvensleben, who had just inspected the army's re-equipment.
"Four months."
Moltke's voice held a trace of admiration.
"Simply by re-equipping with new artillery and enhancing machine gun firepower, Grant ended the war four months ahead of schedule. This is the triumph of industrial technology, Major."
"Yes, General."
"We also verified this on the Danish battlefield. The Austrian observers were terrified by that firepower."
"Mr. Argyle is a man of his word."
Moltke pointed to a nearby list of supplies.
"The second batch of fifty thousand Militech 1863 rifles and two hundred machine guns have all been stored, and Mr. Hassen's technical team is assisting Krupp in Essen to establish an ammunition production line."
"What did Chancellor Bismarck say?"
"The Chancellor is very pleased." Alvensleben replied.
"He said the money was well spent. With these things, our chances in the war against Austria... have increased by at least thirty percent."
Moltke nodded.
"Tell Mr. Hassen that the Prussian army appreciates Mr. Argyle' friendship and hopes this friendship can continue."
"And that artillery." A glint flashed in Moltke's eyes, "We need that; the walls of Vienna are very thick. We need a good hammer."
"I will relay that, General."
On this day, the rulers of the entire Old Continent had to acknowledge a fact:
Across the Atlantic Ocean, that young nation, once regarded by them as upstarts and a source of raw materials, had, through a crucible of blood and fire, forged a formidable skeleton of steel.
And the young man standing by the furnace, Felix Argyle, his name had become the most prominent inscription on this skeleton.
London, Threadneedle Street.
This was the domain of the Bank of England, and the cornerstone of the global financial order.
However, within this ancient and solemn building, a new sound was replacing the rustle of quill pens on parchment.
"Click, click, click…"
It was a rhythmic tapping sound, full of mechanical texture.
It came from the bank's ground floor hall, from the manager's office, and even from the accounting room in the underground vault.
Henry Ashworth, a senior partner at Barings Bank, was giving a special guest a tour of their clearing center.
The guest was a well-dressed Frenchman with a neatly trimmed mustache—the famous writer and critic, Alexandre Dumas fils.
"Unbelievable."
Dumas fils stopped in front of a desk, watching a young clerk in arm sleeves typing on a black machine with dazzling speed.
"Is this the standard typewriter?" Dumas fils asked.
"Yes, sir," Ashworth replied with a smile. "You see, this is a remittance confirmation letter sent to Mumbai. In the past, it would take a skilled scribe twenty minutes to write, and they'd have to be careful about ink stains. Now? Three minutes. And it's as clear as print in a newspaper."
"Efficiency," Dumas fils exclaimed. "Is this the American philosophy?"
"Not just efficiency, it's etiquette," Ashworth corrected.
"Now in the City of London, if you send a handwritten letter to a client, it's considered unprofessional, outdated, or even disrespectful. The word 'Standard' is no longer just a trademark; it has become a norm."
He pointed to the hundreds of machines in the hall.
"These three hundred machines were delivered to us just two months ago. Now, law firms, shipping companies, and government departments across London are scrambling to buy them. The price on the black market has soared to three hundred pounds per unit."
"Three hundred pounds?" Dumas fils gasped. "That's enough to buy a decent carriage in Paris."
"But a carriage can't help you make money, this can," Ashworth said. "Mr. Argyle has changed the way we do business."
...Meanwhile, Vienna, General Hospital.
Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis, the pioneer once ridiculed by the medical community for advocating "handwashing," now stood in a brand-new operating room, tears welling in his eyes.
Before him lay a neatly arranged box of brown glass bottles.
The bottles were affixed with red and white labels, bearing the familiar Umbrella emblem, and a line of German text:
"Umbrella High-Purity iodoglycerol Disinfectant."
"Do you see?"
Semmelweis said to the group of young intern doctors beside him, his voice trembling with emotion.
"This is the truth. The truth from across the ocean."
"In recent months, we have followed the 'Surgical Disinfection Manual' provided by Umbrella Corporation. Handwashing before surgery, instrument soaking, wound disinfection."
He pointed in the direction of the ward. "The mortality rate of puerperal fever has dropped from thirty percent to one percent."
"This is a miracle," a young doctor whispered.
"No, it's not a miracle."
Semmelweis picked up a bottle of iodoglycerol, as if holding holy water.
"This is science. Dr. Thorne, and Miss O'Brien, they understand the conscience of medicine better than we do."
"We must write to them," Semmelweis said firmly. "Invite them to Vienna. We need more of this medicine, we need more... of this philosophy."
...Paris, a salon in the Saint-Germain district.
Cultural celebrities, politicians, and socialites of the French Empire gathered here.
The topic of conversation tonight still revolved around that distant country.
"Have you heard?"
A Countess fanned herself with a feather fan, speaking mysteriously.
"Empress Eugénie received a gift yesterday. A special white typewriter inlaid with mother-of-pearl."
"Who sent it?" The people around immediately crowded closer.
"Who else? That 'Industrial Prince' from New York, Felix Argyle," the Countess said. "It's said that the Empress loved it so much that she personally used it to write a letter to the Emperor."
"I want one too," another socialite complained.
"But Mr. Leroy said that orders are already backed up until next year. Even those damned Prussians got their goods before us."
"It's not just typewriters."
An industrialist with a monocle interjected.
"My friends in Le Creusot tell me they are researching that American steel. Its hardness is terrifying. If that steel were used to build the iron tower Mr. Eiffel is envisioning…"
"Americans…" an old-fashioned writer sighed.
"We used to think they were a bunch of uncultured Cowboys. But now it seems they are teaching us what 'modern life' is with machines, steel, and medicine."
In the corner, James Finley, who had just arrived from London, was holding a glass of champagne, smiling as he listened to these discussions.
Beside him stood the taciturn Donovan.
"It seems the Boss's reputation is even more prominent than we expected," Finley whispered.
"Reputation is a cover."
Donovan's gaze swept across the crowd, confirming there was no danger.
"And a weapon."
"Yes," Finley nodded.
He pulled out a recently received telegram from his pocket, the latest instructions from Felix.
"The Boss said, since the Europeans like our things so much, give them more."
"Mr. Leroy is already preparing a private preview for a 'New World Industrial Exposition.' It's next month. We're going to put Lex's steel rails, Vanguard's rifle models, and Umbrella's complete first-aid kits right in front of the Parisians."
"We want them to know," Finley said, looking at the nobles still discussing typewriters, a confident smile playing on his lips, "that what they're seeing now is just the tip of the iceberg."
"The true behemoth," he looked to the west, "is still on the other side of the ocean, just opening its eyes."
That night, from the City of London's financial district to Vienna's hospitals, and then to Paris's salons.
Argyle' influence was no longer just cold commodities; it had transformed into a culture, a standard, an etiquette.
Writing letters with a standard typewriter, cleaning wounds with Umbrella disinfectant, discussing the hardness of Lex steel.
This became a new fashion among the elite of the Old Continent.
And behind this fashion, countless gold flowed continuously along that invisible route, into the young man's pockets.
March 1865, Brooklyn, New York.
The warm early summer wind, carrying the distinctive salty smell of the East River, blew past the red brick walls of the Argyle United Industrial Zone.
Felix Argyle, wearing a dark trench coat, pushed open the heavy wooden door bearing the iron sign that read "No Smoking or Open Flames."
The light in the laboratory was dim.
The copper still was emitting a low gurgling sound, and the glass pipes connected to it snaked like veins, carrying liquids of different colors.
Dr. Thorne was standing at a long laboratory table, holding a dropper.
His white coat was covered in black oil stains, and his hair was a mess, like a bird's nest.
"Boss, you came at the perfect time. I've mostly finished refining the crude oil."
"Then let me see the results, Doctor." Felix walked up to the table.
Four labeled glass bottles were placed on the table; the liquid inside ranged from light to dark, seemingly displaying the evolutionary history of a substance.
Dr. Thorne picked up the first bottle.
The liquid inside was clear and transparent, like water, with only a slight pale yellow tint.
"This is the uppermost fraction."
Dr. Thorne unscrewed the cap. There was no disgusting stench, only a faint smell similar to kerosene.
"We washed it with sulfuric acid, neutralized it with sodium hydroxide, and finally filtered it through white clay. The original pungent sulfur smell has almost vanished."
He struck a match and lit a specially made oil lamp on the table.
"Look."
The flame flared up, steady and bright, with no black smoke and none of the crackling sounds produced during combustion.
The soft yellow light instantly illuminated the dark corner.
"This is the light I want."
Felix stared at the flame, a satisfied smile curving his lips.
"Brighter than whale oil, safer than gaslight. Most importantly... it's cheap enough."
"Yes, surprisingly cheap," Dr. Thorne remarked.
"A barrel of that black crude oil can yield nearly fifty percent of this oil. We named it 'Refined Kerosene.'"
Felix nodded, his gaze shifting to the second bottle.
It contained a viscous, honey-like golden-yellow liquid.
"This is the middle fraction," Dr. Thorne introduced.
"We removed the paraffin wax and asphaltenes. Its viscosity is very high, and its heat resistance is excellent. We tested it on the bearings of that steam engine; it lasts ten times longer than lard. It won't carbonize or run off at high temperatures."
"Lubricating oil."
Felix picked up the bottle, shook it, and watched the oil clinging to the bottle wall.
"Lex Steel and the rolling mills will love it. Those heavy rolling machines desperately need this kind of blood."
The third bottle contained a black, semi-solid substance.
"The residue," Dr. Thorne shrugged.
"That's a mixture of asphalt and heavy oil. It has an extremely high calorific value when burned, but produces a lot of smoke. Perhaps it can be used for paving roads, or... as boiler fuel."
"Keep it for now," Felix said.
Finally, Felix's gaze fell upon the bottle in the far corner.
It contained a colorless, transparent, highly volatile liquid. Even with the lid on, you could seemingly sense its restless agitation.
"This is... trouble," Dr. Thorne frowned.
"The lightest fraction. We call it 'Naphtha.' It's too dangerous, Boss. It's extremely flammable, even explosive. Just a tiny spark could send the whole lab sky-high. Other than for cleaning oil stains, I really can't think of any use for it. We usually just pour it into a pit and burn it."
"No. Don't burn it."
Felix reached out and pressed down on the bottle, his eyes becoming unusually profound.
"Store it away for now. Seal it in the best iron drums and keep it in a cool place away from fire."
"Store it?" Dr. Thorne was confused. "But this stuff..."
"Doctor," Felix looked at him, "if I told you that this 'trouble' would be more valuable than kerosene in the future, would you believe me?"
Dr. Thorne paused, then gave a reluctant smile:
"If anyone else said that, I'd send them to the asylum. But since it's you... fine, I'll find a safe cage for it."
Felix did not explain the future of the internal combustion engine.
That was a story for the next century. The focus now was on the kerosene that could light up the world.
"Doctor, your experiment was successful." Felix surveyed the lab. "But this is just magic in a bottle; I need to turn it into a factory assembly line."
"You mean..."
"I'm going to build a factory."
Felix walked to the window, looking at the bustling East River in the distance.
"A truly large-scale refinery. No longer using these glass bottles and jars, but giant towers cast from steel."
"What about the blueprints?" Dr. Thorne asked.
"Scaling this process up a thousand times requires solving many engineering problems. Heating, condensing, separation... this requires a whole new set of equipment."
"Coleman and Haas will help you," Felix said.
"Lex Steel can manufacture all the reactors and pipes you need. Militech can provide the high-pressure pumps and valves. All you need to do is give them the specifications."
"As for the location..." Felix tapped his finger lightly on the window frame.
"New Jersey, downstream from the steel plant. It has deep-water docks and a railway spur line. We will pump the crude oil shipped from Beaumont directly from the ship's hold into the refining towers."
"Boss," Dr. Thorne suddenly remembered something, "there are many types of kerosene on the market now. Some unscrupulous merchants adulterate it, even mixing in that dangerous Naphtha, which frequently causes accidents where oil lamps explode and injure people. The public is actually quite afraid of the word 'petroleum.'"
"That is exactly why we need to build this factory." Felix turned around, his eyes blazing.
"We are selling more than just oil; we are selling safety. We are selling trust."
"Our oil must pass the most stringent tests. It absolutely must not explode, and it absolutely must not produce black smoke."
Felix picked up the bottle containing the clear kerosene and looked at it against the light.
"We are going to set a standard for this chaotic market."
"A... standard of quality."
...Walking out of the laboratory, the sunlight was a bit dazzling.
Edward Frost was already waiting by the carriage.
"Boss," Edward Frost handed him a handkerchief, "The smell... is a bit strong."
Felix wiped his hands and smiled: "That's the smell of money, Edward. You'll learn to love it."
"Any news from Bill?"
"Yes, sir." Edward Frost reported. "His acquisitions in Texas are going smoothly. Although the land there is barren, the price still went up because we are buying. However... he mentioned in his letter that the guide named Higgins has been acting strangely near 'Spindletop.' He claims he heard a 'roar' from underground."
"Let him keep roaring," Felix said as he boarded the carriage. "As long as he doesn't tear down the drilling rig."
"Back to the company." Felix gave the instruction. "Notify President Templeton and the lawyer Hoffman. I want to register a new company."
"A new company?" Edward Frost took out his notebook. "What will it be called?"
Felix leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, and the image of the steadily burning oil lamp, along with Dr. Thorne's worry about "injuries from explosions," flashed through his mind.
In this era of chaos, whoever could provide safety would win the market.
"It will be called..." Felix began slowly...
"Standard Oil Company."
New York, Wall Street.
In the top-floor conference room of the Argyle Empire Bank Building, Felix Argyle' core business generals sat around a massive oak table.
George Templeton, President of Argyle Bank, and Tom Hayes, head of Patriot Investment Company.
William Coleman of Lex Steel Company.
And Bill Carter, the President of Metropolitan Trading Company, who had just returned from a tour of the West and South.
"Gentlemen."
Felix sat at the head of the table, behind him a map marked with the Texas and Pennsylvania mining areas.
"Today, our topic is not steel and railways, but a flowing liquid."
Frost distributed a newly registered company charter to everyone. The cover was emblazoned with a line of striking bold text:
American Standard Oil Company
"Oil?" Templeton put on his glasses and opened the document.
"Boss, I know this stuff is hot recently. Even the rocks in Titusville, Pennsylvania, have been turned over three times. But I hear... that industry is very chaotic. Oil prices fluctuate wildly, drilling is like gambling, and refineries often catch fire."
"It is precisely because of the chaos that there is opportunity," Felix said noncommittally.
"Current oil merchants only think about how to dig oil out of the ground and then sell it in leaky wooden barrels. They are producing dangerous goods, fire hazards."
He pointed to the name.
"Standard Oil, this is our core strategy. We must set standards for this commodity. Safety standards, quality standards, and... price standards."
"This requires a huge system," Hayes keenly pointed out the key.
"From crude oil extraction to transportation, refining, and then to sales. Every link must be controlled."
"We already have it," Felix looked at Bill.
"Metropolitan Trading Company has already purchased ten thousand acres of oil-bearing land in Texas. And it continues to buy," Bill reported, his voice clear.
"Although the current oil output is not large, that is our reserve. Moreover, in Pennsylvania, we have also acquired several small oil wells on the verge of bankruptcy under the name of 'Saineng Minerals'."
"Regarding transportation," Felix looked at Coleman.
"Lex Steel is producing special oil tank cars. Not those leaky wooden barrels, but fully enclosed steel tanks. Mr. Reeves' railway network will transport them to the East Coast."
"As for refining, Dr. Thorne has overcome the technical difficulties. The refinery in New Jersey is laying its foundation. It will adopt the latest continuous distillation technology, with a production capacity a hundred times that of the small workshops currently on the market."
"As for sales..." Felix smiled.
"We have a sales network spread across major cities, and... the army."
As everyone listened to Felix's description, a silhouette gradually emerged in their minds.
"But this requires money," Templeton habitually poured cold water on the idea.
"A lot of money. Building factories, buying land, etc... The initial investment will be at least two million US dollars."
"Money is not a problem," Felix said without hesitation.
"One million US dollars will be allocated from my private account and Militech's profits as start-up capital."
"Boss," Coleman asked, "Who will manage this company? Refining oil is different from refining steel; it requires more delicate methods and people who understand the chemical industry."
Hayes interjected, "I heard there's a young man named Rockefeller in Cleveland who's doing well. Should I go..."
"No," Felix interrupted him directly, his tone firm.
"Why look for outsiders? Don't we have enough talent cultivated ourselves?"
He stood up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.
"In recent years, the reason why various companies have been able to operate so precisely is because there is a group of managers who understand the rules, are capable, and are absolutely loyal."
Felix looked at Frost.
"Edward, announce the appointment."
"Yes, Boss." Frost took out a document. "Approved by the Chairman of the Argyle Executive Committee, Mr. Peter Jenkins is appointed as the first General Manager of Standard Oil Company."
"Jenkins?" Coleman was stunned.
"Isn't that Umbrella Corporation's production supervisor? The one in charge of potions?"
"Exactly," Felix nodded.
"It's him. He has worked with Dr. Thorne for three years, managing the iodoglycerol production line meticulously. He understands what processes are, and what cleanliness and safety are."
"Oil refining is essentially chemical engineering," Felix explained.
"What I want is not a Cowboy who only knows how to drill, but a manager who can run a refinery as rigorously as a pharmaceutical factory. Jenkins has also proven his ability in the European logistics of the 'Clover Project'. If he can safely deliver tens of thousands of fragile vials to London, he can safely deliver our kerosene to thousands of households."
"As for sales and crude oil supply," Felix looked at Bill.
"Caleb is doing well in Chicago. Transfer him back to serve as the Deputy General Manager of Standard Oil, specifically responsible for raw material procurement and the establishment of the logistics network. He and Jenkins, one civil and one military, complement each other perfectly."
"Understood."
Although Bill was a bit reluctant to part with his capable subordinate, he knew it was for the greater good.
"That kid Caleb is clever; it's perfect for him to manage those stubborn drillers."
"And Higgins," Bill added, "He's been clamoring to buy more drill bits in Texas recently. He says the current depth isn't enough and he wants to drill a hole through the Earth."
"Buy them for him," Felix said without hesitation.
"Buy the best drill bits, Lex Steel's specially made alloy drill bits."
"Tell Jenkins," Felix gave his final instruction, "He has only one task."
"Before the New Jersey refinery goes into operation, establish all the rules for me. From the sealing standards of the oil barrels to the safety regulations for transport vehicles, and the flash point tests for kerosene."
"I want the 'Standard Oil' brand to become the only choice in people's minds."
After the meeting, everyone dispersed.
Felix stood alone by the window, looking at the dazzling lights of New York.
Most of those lights still came from whale oil and gas.
But he knew that soon, a brighter, cheaper, and purer light would flow from the factory managed by Peter Jenkins, illuminating every corner of the city.
And that black blood would also drive this nascent industrial empire into the future at an unprecedented speed.
Rockefeller?
Let him catch up first.