Mid-May, New Jersey, on the shore of Newark Bay.
Two miles downstream from the steel mill, in an area newly fenced off with barbed wire.
This was the construction site for Standard Oil's No. 1 Refinery.
Peter Jenkins stood at the entrance of the construction site, wearing a dark gray long trench coat, high rubber boots, and holding a black umbrella.
Behind him were four assistants, equally neatly dressed and holding notebooks and measuring instruments. They were all production backbones recruited from the Umbrella Corporation.
Compared to the surrounding construction workers covered in mud spatters, it was like a group of surgeons entering a slaughterhouse.
"Stop!"
Jenkins pointed the tip of his umbrella at a carriage laden with red bricks and shouted in a somewhat stern tone.
The coachman, an Irishman with a rugged face, pulled the reins upon hearing the sound and glared at Jenkins with dissatisfaction.
"What's the matter? These are urgently needed firebricks. They're rushing the schedule over there."
"I don't care who is rushing."
Jenkins stepped forward and wiped the edge of the carriage box with his white-gloved finger. The glove instantly turned dark gray.
"These bricks are covered in coal ash and oil stains," Jenkins said coldly.
"According to Article Three of Standard Oil's 'Infrastructure Sanitation Regulations,' any building material entering the core reaction zone must maintain a clean surface. These bricks are used to build the base of the distillation tower, and any impurity could trigger an uncontrollable chemical reaction at high temperatures."
"This is a refinery, not a monastery!" the coachman roared. "It's muddy everywhere, how can anything be clean?"
"If they aren't clean, wash them before bringing them in," Jenkins said without yielding, "or take them back."
"You son of a..."
The coachman raised his whip, seemingly intending to teach the man a lesson.
"Stop!"
A rough voice came from not far away.
Old Sheamus, the Chief Foreman of Infrastructure, strode over. He was now one of the most influential people on this construction site.
"Mr. Jenkins, what's going on?"
Seamus glanced at Jenkins, then at the coachman.
"This load of bricks is substandard."
Listening to Jenkins, Seamus frowned.
Although he respected educated people, he still found it ridiculous to talk about sanitation in a mud pit.
"Mr. Jenkins, these are just bricks. Once they're laid in the wall, who will see them?"
"God sees them," Jenkins replied.
"More importantly, the highly flammable and explosive naphtha will see them. If impurities in a single brick cause a crack, leading to a leak and an explosion... Mr. Seamus, are you willing to bear that responsibility?"
At the mention of "explosion," Old Sheamus's expression changed.
He had seen accidents at the steel mill and knew how terrifying the industrial beast was when it raged.
"Take them back," Seamus roared, turning to the coachman. "Didn't you hear? Wash them clean and come back. If you dare bring in dirty stuff again, I'll dock your pay!"
The coachman indignantly turned the horse around and departed amidst a stream of curses.
Jenkins turned around and said to the assistants behind him, "Record this. This is the third violation. If this supplier offends again, they will be disqualified."
...This scene was fully witnessed by two people on a distant high ground.
Felix's lips curved into a satisfied smile.
"What do you think, Edward?" he said to Frost beside him. "I knew he could do it."
"He is certainly very... strict."
Frost sighed, "I thought Jenkins would be bullied to death by those rude workers. I didn't expect him to be tougher than the contractor."
"Exactly."
Felix walked down the high ground, stepping onto the wooden walkway toward the construction site.
"Refining is chemical engineering, and chemical engineering fears 'good enough' the most. What I need is this kind of nearly obsessive cleanliness."
When Felix walked into the temporary command tent, Jenkins was arguing with several pipeline engineers hired from Philadelphia over a massive construction blueprint.
"No."
Jenkins pointed to the pipe connection points on the blueprint.
"Ordinary cast iron flanges cannot be used here. Copper gaskets must be used for sealing. Furthermore, all oil pipelines must be laid above ground, not buried underground."
"Above ground?" the engineer complained. "Please, that will increase the cost by 30 percent, and require extra support frames."
"If they are buried underground, we won't be able to detect a leak," Jenkins retorted.
"Moreover, oil seeping into the soil will pollute the groundwater and might even flow into the Bay. The Boss said that we are not just running a business, we have a responsibility. Change it as I instructed."
Seeing Felix enter, everyone immediately stopped arguing and stood upright.
"Boss."
Jenkins came forward to greet him. The hem of his trench coat was splashed with mud, but his eyes were still clear.
"Well done, Peter," Felix patted his shoulder.
"Keep it up. Here, the company's standards are the law."
"Yes." Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief.
With the Boss's support, he had the confidence to even turn the entire site over and wash it clean.
"How is the progress?" Felix looked at the blueprint.
"The foundation work is 80% complete," Jenkins reported.
"The 'Continuous Fractionating Column' designed by Dr. Thorne is too tall, a full fifty feet. To ensure stability, we had to drive the piles deeper. We expect to start installing equipment next month."
"What about the equipment?"
"Mr. Coleman's side is very cooperative."
Jenkins pointed in the direction of the adjacent steel mill.
"Lex Steel specifically opened a production line for us to manufacture those huge reaction vessels and oil storage tanks. Mr. Haas even personally designed a riveting process to ensure absolutely no leakage."
"That's good." Felix nodded.
This internal synergy is precisely the core competitiveness of the Argyle System Companies.
He didn't need to beg people everywhere for sheet metal or pipes, unlike Rockefeller. He could make them himself.
"There's also the packaging issue, Boss." Jenkins pulled out a list.
"I believe the kerosene we sell to ordinary families must have safe packaging. So I designed several options."
He had three samples brought over.
The first was a traditional wooden barrel, clumsy and prone to leakage.
The second was a cylindrical iron drum, similar to those used for gunpowder.
The third... was a square tinplate can with a handle and a small pouring spout, with a capacity of about five gallons.
"This one," Jenkins said, pointing to the square tin can.
"I call it the 'Standard Blue Can.' It's stamped from thin steel plate and coated with rust-proof blue paint. It has good sealing, is drop-resistant, and the square design makes it easy to stack for transport. Most importantly, the pouring spout is designed with an air return hole, so the oil won't splash out when poured."
Felix picked up the blue iron can and weighed it in his hand. It was light, sturdy, and highly recognizable.
"An excellent design," Felix praised. "A hundred times better than a wooden barrel."
"But the cost..." Jenkins hesitated. "This kind of iron can is considered single-use. If it's included in the oil price..."
"Then make it cheap," Felix said, looking at the can.
"This requires large-scale stamping equipment. Go find Frank at Militech. Have him design an assembly line specifically for producing these iron cans. Manufacture them like bullet casings. If you make ten thousand a day, the cost will naturally drop."
"Furthermore," Felix added, "this blue can will become the symbol of Standard Oil. When people see this blue color, they will know it contains safe, pure, non-explosive, good oil."
"Understood." Jenkins quickly made a note.
If the construction sites in New Jersey were the growth of a skeleton, then the office at the Metropolitan Trading Company headquarters in Manhattan was the starting point of blood circulation.
Caleb White, the former chief procurement officer of the Chicago office, was now the Deputy General Manager of Standard Oil.
Unlike Jenkins, who was refined, he was a pragmatist who had worked his way up from slaughterhouses and train stations.
His office contained only maps and a telegraph machine.
"Boss, this is the latest report from Pennsylvania."
Caleb handed a grease-stained document to Felix, who had just entered.
Felix took it and glanced at it.
It was an acquisition report about Titusville, the birthplace of the American oil industry.
"The situation there... is crazy," Caleb shook his head.
"It's just like the California Gold Rush back then. Everyone is drilling wells, and there are wildcat drilling teams everywhere, some without even a company name. Oil prices are like a roller coaster; ten dollars a barrel today, and it might drop to one dollar tomorrow. Because someone drilled a gushing well, there's so much oil that there's nowhere to put it, and it's flowing directly into the river."
Felix said nonchalantly, "Order is only valuable in chaos."
"How much have we acquired?"
"As per your instructions, we didn't go after the popular, high-yield wells."
Caleb pointed to several spots around Titusville on the map.
"We bought these three small, nearly bankrupt refineries. And these five low-lying plots of land located downstream in the river valley."
"Why buy low-lying land?" Edward Frost, who was accompanying them, asked, puzzled.
"Because it's suitable for building oil storage tanks," Felix answered for Caleb. "And, it controls the essential route to the railway."
"Exactly." Caleb revealed a sly smile.
"Those crazy drillers only care about extracting oil, but they haven't thought about how to transport it out. Currently, all transportation relies on horse-drawn wagons carrying wooden barrels, traveling twenty miles on muddy roads to reach the train station. The shipping cost is even more expensive than the oil price."
Felix looked at the map, "So what's your plan?"
"Pipelines."
Caleb took a section of black iron pipe from a drawer.
"I've already spoken with Mr. Coleman. Lex Steel can produce two-inch seamless steel pipes. I want to lay an oil pipeline between those five low-lying plots and the nearest railway loading point."
"How long?"
"Five miles," Caleb answered honestly.
"Although not long, it's enough to bypass the most difficult muddy section. We can announce to all drillers: as long as they deliver their oil to our collection station, we will transport it for them via pipeline. The transportation fee will be half that of a horse-drawn wagon."
"Once their oil uses our pipeline," Felix interjected with a smile, "it enters our network."
"Precisely." Caleb nodded.
"Once the oil enters the pipeline, where it flows and when it's sold will be up to us. We can stockpile this crude oil and transport it by special railway trains to the refineries in New Jersey. At that point, we will control the pricing power of crude oil."
"That's a ruthless move," Felix praised. "More effective than directly buying wells."
"However, Boss," Caleb changed the subject, "we've encountered an opponent there."
"Who?"
"The Teamsters' Union." Caleb sneered.
"Those teamsters who make a living pulling oil barrels. They heard we were building a pipeline and threatened to blow up our pipes and burn down our collection station. There are hundreds of roughnecks with shotguns."
"Violence?" Felix raised an eyebrow.
"It seems we need some professional security."
"Mr. Miller has already made arrangements," Caleb said.
"Captain Rambo just returned from Nebraska. He brought fifty 'Corporate Security Team' brothers, and they took a train to Pennsylvania yesterday. They're carrying... those 'persuasive' gadgets."
He mimed turning a crank.
"Good." Felix nodded.
"Tell Rambo. If the teamsters are willing, we can hire them to maintain the pipeline or work on the construction site. If they insist on using violence..."
"Then let them see what industrial-era violence looks like."
After dealing with the Pennsylvania arrangements, Felix turned his attention to the more distant South.
"What about Texas?"
At the mention of this, Caleb's expression became a little strange.
"Higgins... he's still drilling," Caleb pulled out a new telegram, "but he's run into big trouble. Not people, but the ground."
"What happened?"
"Quicksand," Caleb explained.
"The geological structure of Spindletop is too complex. When they drilled to eight hundred feet, the drill bit encountered a quicksand layer. As soon as the borehole was drilled, it was blocked by the gushing sand. The drill pipes often get stuck, and sometimes even break inside. That one-armed madman has already broken three Lex custom alloy drill bits."
"Many local drilling experts say it's impossible to drill there. They advised us to give up."
"Give up?" Felix shook his head.
Beneath the quicksand layer was that astonishing oil dome.
"We can't give up," Felix said decisively. "That's a technological challenge, not a curse from God."
He recalled a technique from later generations.
"Drilling mud," Felix suddenly said.
"Drilling mud?" Caleb was stunned. "There's mud everywhere."
"No, I mean... perhaps we can inject drilling mud into the borehole."
Felix picked up a pen and drew a schematic diagram on paper.
"Tell Higgins not to dry drill. Mix water and clay into a thick drilling mud, and use a high-pressure pump to inject it down the hollow drill pipe."
"The drilling mud will spray out from the drill bit, returning with rock cuttings. More importantly," Felix tapped the drawing forcefully, "the pressure of the drilling mud will press against the wellbore, forming a protective film to prevent quicksand from collapsing."
This was the key to the "rotary drilling method" commonly used in the later oil industry: mud circulation for wellbore stabilization.
"This... will it work?"
Although Caleb didn't understand the technology, he found the idea very novel.
"We can have Higgins try it," Felix said.
"Tell him that if he can't figure out a solution either, he should do as I say. Also, have Coleman send him a more powerful steam pump."
"Understood."
Felix stood up and walked to the window.
Pipelines were being laid in the North, and deep wells were being drilled in the South.
Standard Oil's two legs were moving forward, difficult but resolute.
Although not a single drop of oil had flowed into the New Jersey refinery towers yet, and not a single cent had been earned.
But Felix knew that the vast net, covering the entire energy lifeline of America, had been cast.
"Caleb," Felix turned back, "your task is heavy. Jenkins is responsible for turning oil into money, and you are responsible for making this black blood flow."
"Don't worry, Boss." Caleb grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
"I knew when I was butchering pigs in Chicago that once the blood flows, the meat sells well."
May 1865 ended amidst mud and the smell of engine oil.
And in the coming summer, Standard Oil Company might experience its first gusher.