Cleveland, Ohio.
This was the second heart of America's refining industry. Dozens of refineries lined the riverbanks, their black smoke obscuring the sunlight along Lake Erie.
The office of the "Andrews-Clark Company" was located in an unassuming brick building by the river.
John D. Rockefeller, the twenty-six-year-old partner, sat behind a slightly oversized desk.
A thick ledger lay open before him.
Rockefeller held a fountain pen, its tip hovering above the paper, not descending for a long time.
"John."
His partner, Maurice Clark, pushed the door open and walked in, a barely concealed panic on his face.
"Did you hear? Oil prices in Pennsylvania have gone crazy. Crude oil prices have hit rock bottom, but shipping costs have doubled!"
"I know."
Rockefeller's voice was soft and steady. He put down his pen and closed the ledger.
"This is aimed at us."
"Aimed at us?" Clark wiped his sweat. "We use the Atlantic and Great Western Railway, not the Pennsylvania Railroad."
"Do you think they'll be any different?"
"That New Yorker... Argyle. If he can control the Pennsylvania Railroad, he can control the others. All railway companies are the same; as long as there's enough profit, they'll team up to strangle us without hesitation."
"What should we do then?" Clark became anxious.
"Our profits are already thin. If shipping costs rise again, we'll lose money on every barrel of oil sold. Our warehouses are already full of inventory; if we don't ship it out..."
"Don't worry, losing money isn't scary. What's scary is not knowing why you're losing money."
Rockefeller took out a newspaper clipping from his drawer.
It was news about the establishment of Standard Oil Company, along with a photo of its blue iron can.
"He's establishing a standard," Rockefeller pointed at the photo. "He's telling consumers that only his oil is safe. As for ours..."
He glanced out the window at his factory's crude packaging workshop. Wooden barrels leaked oil, had many impurities, and produced black smoke when burned.
"We're selling raw materials; he's selling a product," Rockefeller said incisively. "This is an unequal war, Maurice. He's using an industrial system to fight our handicraft workshop."
"Then should we..." Clark hesitated. "Should we sell the company? While it's still worth something?"
"Sell? Giving up without a fight?" A hint of anger flashed in Rockefeller's eyes. "Never."
"God gave us this wealth, not for us to flee in the face of hardship."
Just then, a knock sounded on the office door.
A secretary entered, looking somewhat nervous.
"Sir, there's a guest outside. He says he's from New York. Representing Mr. Argyle."
Clark's face instantly went pale.
Rockefeller, however, adjusted his collar and sat back down at his desk.
"Please show him in."
In walked Tom Hayes.
He wore his impeccable New York suit, carried a silver-tipped cane, and had that condescending smile on his face.
Hayes took off his hat. "Good day, gentlemen. I am Tom Hayes, President of Patriot Investment Company, and Mr. Argyle' representative."
"Please sit," Rockefeller gestured to the chair opposite. "Mr. Hayes, are you here to acquire us?"
"Not entirely," Hayes sat down, his posture relaxed.
"My Boss greatly admires you, Mr. Rockefeller. He believes you are a rare talent and wishes to recruit you."
"I prefer to be my own master," Rockefeller said calmly.
"Of course, everyone has the right to choose," Hayes smiled, "but choices come with a price. Are you ready to pay it?"
He took a document from his briefcase and pushed it across to Rockefeller.
"This is a copy of the exclusive transportation agreement just signed between the Atlantic and Great Western Railway Company and Standard Transportation Company."
Rockefeller picked up the document and quickly scanned it.
The agreement was simple: Standard Transportation Company would contract all oil tank cars on that railway.
In exchange, the Railway Company would grant Standard Transportation Company extremely low bulk customer freight rates.
All other customers wishing to transport oil by rail would have to do so through Standard Transportation Company as an agent, and pay the standard freight rate.
This meant that if Rockefeller wanted to transport oil in the future, he would not only have to curry favor with Felix, but also pay Felix exorbitant freight fees.
"Is this your method?" Clark couldn't help but exclaim. "This is a monopoly!"
"This is mere business, Mr. Clark."
Hayes didn't even look at him, his gaze fixed on Rockefeller.
"In this country, those who possess capital make the rules."
"Now, Mr. Rockefeller, you have two paths before you."
"The first is to continue as you are now. Competing with us using leaky wooden barrels and paying expensive freight. I can guarantee that within three months, every barrel of your oil will become a liability."
"Or..." Hayes pointed to the document, "join us and become a regional partner."
"Partner?" Rockefeller raised an eyebrow.
"Indeed. Incorporate your refinery into the Standard Oil system. We will provide you with funding, upgrade your equipment, and use our patented technology and blue iron cans. Your factory will be responsible for production in the Cleveland area."
"You will hold a portion of the shares in the newly formed 'Ohio Standard Oil Company.' Although you'll be a minority shareholder, those are shares in the future."
"Think carefully, Mr. Rockefeller," Hayes stood up, preparing to leave.
"Will you cling to a small boat destined to sink, or board a giant ship that is conquering the ocean?"
"I'll give you three days to consider. I wish you well..."
Hayes left.
Only Rockefeller and Clark remained in the office.
Clark slumped in his chair, his face full of despair.
"It's over, John. We can't fight them. They've blocked all our paths."
Rockefeller said nothing. He reopened the ledger.
He wrote a line of numbers on the paper.
Those were the shipping costs he could save if he accepted the partnership, and the control he would lose.
He closed his eyes and silently prayed for a minute.
When he opened his eyes again, there was no hesitation in his blue-gray gaze, only resolve.
"Maurice," he began, his voice unsettlingly calm. "The shares you hold... I want to buy them."
"What?" Clark was stunned.
"If you're scared, then get out."
Rockefeller looked at his partner.
"Give the entire company to me. I'll play a game of chess with that New Yorker."
Inside the law office, the blinds cut the glaring midday sunlight into neat, parallel beams.
A heavy walnut table split the room in two.
On the left sat Morris Clark, and on the right was John D. Rockefeller.
Standing in the middle was the lawyer, who was reading an asset valuation report.
"Gentlemen. Given the recent surge in railway freight costs and the backlog of crude oil inventory... the market assessment of the refining industry is extremely pessimistic. According to the audit, your company's current net assets, including equipment depreciation and inventory, are valued at approximately fifteen thousand dollars."
"Fifteen thousand?" Clark jumped up.
"That's impossible! Equipment investment last year alone exceeded twenty thousand."
"That was the past, Morris," Rockefeller said calmly.
"No one wants to buy a refinery now. Under Argyle's noose, this equipment is nothing but scrap iron."
"If it's scrap iron, then why won't you sell it to Hayes?" Clark countered.
"He's willing to pay at least thirty thousand. Wouldn't it be better if we each took fifteen thousand and walked away?"
"I said, no sale." Rockefeller looked at him. "I want this company, a company that belongs only to me."
Clark sneered.
"Fine, since you want my shares, then give me fifteen thousand dollars."
"Your shares are only worth seventy-five hundred," Rockefeller pointed out.
Although Clark wanted to flee, he didn't want to lose money.
"I don't care about that, John. Either we sell it to the New Yorkers together, or you have to offer me a satisfactory price."
"Let's auction it," Rockefeller said flatly.
"What?"
"Right here, just the two of us." Rockefeller pointed to the table.
"Highest bidder wins. Whoever wins owns the company; the loser takes the money and leaves."
Clark narrowed his eyes.
He calculated that Rockefeller hadn't been flush with cash recently; he heard he had even mortgaged his house.
If he could get the entire company, selling it to Mr. Hayes for thirty thousand later wouldn't be bad.
"Alright." Clark nodded. "Starting bid, five hundred dollars."
"One thousand." Rockefeller immediately followed up.
"Two thousand."
"Five thousand."
The price climbed quickly. When Clark called out ten thousand dollars, he hesitated. This already exceeded the book value of his shares.
"Eleven thousand." Rockefeller's voice was flat.
"Twelve thousand." Clark gritted his teeth, wanting to test Rockefeller's bottom line.
"Fifteen thousand." Rockefeller immediately added three thousand.
Silence fell in the room.
This price meant Rockefeller was buying Clark's half of the shares using the current valuation of the entire company.
Which was a hundred percent premium.
Clark looked at the man opposite him, who was ten years younger.
He saw something in Rockefeller's eyes—a terrifying obsession.
That look told him that Rockefeller would take this company, even if he had to mortgage his soul to the devil.
"Sixteen thousand." Clark's voice began to waver.
"Twenty thousand." Rockefeller named a figure that made the lawyer's hands tremble.
"John, you're crazy!" Clark roared.
"This pile of junk isn't worth that price right now. Argyle can bankrupt us tomorrow."
Rockefeller ignored his shouting.
"Morris, this is my offer. With this money, you can live very comfortably. Or you can keep bidding and stay here to face that New Yorker."
Clark slumped back into his chair.
Twenty thousand dollars.
This was already three times the value of his shares.
This money was enough for him to pay off his debts, open a grocery store, and live out the rest of his life peacefully.
Facing the immense shadow of Standard Oil, all he wanted to do was run.
But Rockefeller, this madman, wanted to use this huge sum to buy a ticket to hell.
"Deal." Clark said, feeling drained. "It's yours, John. You win."
"Thank you." Rockefeller stood up and adjusted his collar. "The money will be transferred to your account before noon tomorrow."
...That afternoon, the sign for Andrews-Clark Company was taken down.
A new wooden sign was hung up, bearing concise and powerful lettering in black paint:
Rockefeller & Andrews
Rockefeller stood in his riverside office, looking out at the Cuyahoga River flowing with sludge.
His partner, technical expert Samuel Andrews, stood behind him, looking worried.
"John, twenty thousand dollars... plus the existing debt, we are burdened with massive interest payments," Andrews said.
"Argyle's people control the railways now, and our freight costs have doubled. If we can't reduce costs..."
"Then reduce the costs."
Rockefeller turned around, his eyes blazing.
"Samuel, you are a genius refiner. Before, we only refined kerosene, dumping the leftover gasoline and tar into the river. That was wasteful."
"But nobody wants those things."
"Someone will."
Rockefeller took out a notebook.
"That New Yorker drains every last drop of oil in his New Jersey factory; we must do the same."
"Tar can be sold to paving companies. Although gasoline is only used as a solvent now, it can still be utilized. And sulfuric acid—don't dump the spent sulfuric acid; find a way to recycle and reuse it."
Rockefeller tapped his finger heavily on the tabletop.
"We can't control the freight costs. But we can control the yield of every drop of oil. We must be stingier, more meticulous, and greedier than Standard Oil."
"Also," Rockefeller looked toward another refinery not far outside the window, "tell those small factory owners who are still waiting. The Rockefeller Company is willing to acquire them."
"Acquire? Where do we get the money?"
"With shares." A shrewd glint flashed in Rockefeller's eyes.
"We have no cash left, but we can give them hope for the future. Tell them that if they don't unite, they will all die. Joining us will turn us into a single fist to negotiate terms with the New Yorker."
He knew that submission was inevitable.
But before submitting, he had to make himself more valuable.
He had to use this remaining time to integrate the other refineries in Cleveland.
Only by becoming a sufficiently hard bone could he earn a seat at that giant's dining table... Meanwhile, inside a luxury hotel suite in Cleveland.
Tom Hayes held a glass of Bordeaux Wine, listening to the report from his subordinate spy.
"Twenty thousand dollars?" Hayes smiled.
"This Rockefeller certainly has nerve. He dares to buy at a premium when everyone else is panicking."
"Boss, should we make a move now? He has a bank loan due next month," the spy asked.
"No." Hayes shook his head.
"The Boss said that Rockefeller is a smart man. Smart men bite when cornered, but if you leave them a lifeline, they can be used."
He walked to the table, picked up a pen, and wrote a telegram to New York.
"The Cleveland fish has taken the bait, but he doesn't want to get on the boat—he bought the boat instead. He is integrating the local small factories. Suggest loosening the noose temporarily."
Hayes handed the telegram to his assistant.
"Send this to New York. Then notify the Railway Company. Next month's freight costs for the Cleveland area are to temporarily remain unchanged. Don't actually force him to his death."
He looked out at the city billowing black smoke.
"Let him consolidate. We'll swallow Cleveland whole once he turns it into one solid piece of meat."
_______________
Rockefeller.... I can see why he got rich now