New Jersey, the factory grounds of Lex Steel Company.
The light from the blast furnaces burned ceaselessly day and night, dyeing the night sky above Newark Bay a dark red.
Thousands of workers moved through the steam and coal smoke, creating the miracles that defined this era.
But on the edge of the factory grounds, on a railway spur line near the refinery, a special test was underway.
Peter Jenkins stood beside the tracks, holding a stopwatch. Beside him were William Coleman and several railroad engineers who had traveled from Philadelphia.
Their gaze was focused on the strange carriage sitting on the rails.
Unlike a standard square wooden box freight car, this was a massive, horizontal black cylinder. It was riveted together from heavy steel plates, with hemispherical caps at both ends, a circular oil inlet at the top, and a massive brass valve at the bottom.
This was the world's first all-steel railway tank car.
"This is Mr. Coleman's design," Jenkins introduced to the railroad engineers beside him.
"It carries twenty tons. It has internal baffles to prevent the liquid from sloshing violently during transport. The exterior is coated with anti-rust paint."
"Twenty tons?" The railroad engineer gasped slightly.
"That's equivalent to one hundred and fifty barrels of crude oil. But... is this thing safe? What if the train derails or brakes suddenly..."
"We've tested it," Coleman interjected appropriately.
"This tank is made from the same steel plates used for boilers. Even if you threw it off a cliff, it would just dent, never crack."
"Start the oil injection," Jenkins ordered.
A thick oil pipeline was connected to the inlet on top of the tank car. The pump station started, and crude oil began roaring into the tank.
There was no leakage, and no pungent volatile odor.
Ten minutes later, the injection was complete.
"Seal check."
A technician climbed onto the tank top with a pressure gauge and checked around.
"Airtightness is good, no seepage."
"This is exactly what we need."
Jenkins patted the cold steel tank, a satisfied smile appearing on his face.
"Say goodbye to those damned wooden barrels. From today onward, oil will flow like water."
...New York, Metropolitan Trading Company.
Bill was frowning while looking at a map.
Although he had given up on deep drilling in Texas, he hadn't been idle. Following Felix Argyle' instructions, he was frantically acquiring land in the Midwest.
"The Boss told us to buy land in Ohio."
Caleb pointed to an area on the map, "Here, Lima. It's a swamp. Locals say the water there has a strange smell, and no one wants to live there."
"Buy it," Bill said without hesitation.
"The Boss said if it smells, it has oil. What was that term? Sulfur content?"
"But what are we buying this land for?" Caleb asked, confused. "That oil is hard to refine. Dr. Thorne said the sulfur smell is worse than a skunk."
"We secure it first," Bill said. "We'll dig later when the technology exists. For now, we'll raise ducks on it."
Just then, the office door was pushed open.
Felix Argyle walked in, followed by Frost.
"Boss." Bill and Caleb immediately stood up.
"Sit." Felix Argyle was in a good mood. "I hear the tank car trials in New Jersey were successful?"
"Yes," Frost replied. "Mr. Jenkins said that the first special train, consisting of twenty tank cars, will depart from Oil Creek, Pennsylvania, tomorrow and head straight for the New Jersey refinery."
"This will completely change the rules of the game." Felix Argyle walked over to the map. "With the tank cars, our transportation costs will be forty percent lower than our competitors who use wooden barrels. Combined with our 'special agreements' with the railroads..."
"We will be invincible."
"Bill," Felix Argyle turned to the Butcher, "How is the West?"
"Following the divisions you provided, I had people buy some land in California," Bill reported. "And planted some orange trees near that place called Los Angeles. As for the Indian Territory... we also leased the usage rights for a few reservations through some 'middlemen'."
"Good." Felix Argyle nodded; these were all setups for the future.
"However," Felix Argyle changed the subject, "the current focus is still on the East. On those independent refineries that are still breathing."
"Any movement from Rockefeller?" Felix Argyle asked.
"Yes," Caleb replied.
"That little guy in Cleveland is tenacious. After buying out his partners' shares, he didn't go bankrupt. Instead, he merged and integrated several small refineries in Cleveland. He improved the refining process and even started recycling waste materials."
"He is a genius," Felix Argyle praised, but his eyes held no mercy. "Unfortunately, he was born in the wrong era."
"Two weeks have passed and he hasn't made a move. Since he wants to accumulate capital before negotiating, let him feel the coldness of the sea."
"Notify Reeves, and have him contact the Erie Railroad and the New York Central Railroad."
"Tell them that Standard Oil is willing to commit to a daily transport volume of five thousand barrels. The condition is... a further twenty percent reduction on our freight rates in the Cleveland area."
Felix Argyle looked at Caleb, "At the same time, have Standard Transportation Company stop acquiring crude oil in the Cleveland area. Not a single barrel."
"We are going to trap Rockefeller's oil in his warehouses."
"Force him to convert all his liquid capital into inventory. When winter comes, his oil can't be shipped out, and his capital chain breaks..."
A cold smile curled on Felix Argyle' lips. "At that point, what capital will he have left to negotiate with me?"
...Cleveland, on the banks of the Cuyahoga River.
Rockefeller stood in his refinery, looking at the mountains of oil barrels piled up.
The rising railroad freight costs were suffocating him, and now, he heard that New Yorker had come up with some kind of "tank car" whose efficiency was ten times his own.
"John." Andrews walked over, his hands covered in oil. "We don't have enough barrels. And... some barrels are starting to leak."
Rockefeller silently watched the barges still navigating the river with difficulty.
He knew he was wrestling with a giant.
But he was not despairing.
"Go buy lumber," Rockefeller said calmly. "We will make our own barrels. Even if we have to hoop them by hand, we must contain the oil."
"Also..." He looked toward the East.
"Book me a train ticket to New York."
"Where are you going?"
"To meet that Argyle." Rockefeller straightened his slightly worn black suit.
"Since I can't beat him, I have to go see... if I can find a place for myself on his chessboard."
Washington D.C.
The white dome of the Capitol Building reflected dazzling light under the scorching sun.
Inside the House of Representatives chamber, hundreds of congressmen were packed together. The air was thick with anger and a desire for revenge.
Bang!
Thaddeus Stevens, Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee and leader of the Radical Republican Party, slammed his cane heavily on the floor.
He dragged his deformed, limping leg, moving step by step to the podium. His eyes were fixed on the moderates below.
"Still forgiveness?"
Stevens' voice was hoarse, like two rough stones grinding together.
"Still talking about some damn 'brotherhood'?"
He pulled a newspaper from his pocket, which reported on the attempted assassination of President Lincoln.
"Two weeks ago, right on Pennsylvania Avenue. A bullet from the South nearly pierced the President's heart. If not for that steel plate, we would be standing here today not debating a bill, but holding a state funeral!"
The hall fell silent.
"The South has not surrendered!" Stevens roared.
"They merely laid down their guns and picked up daggers. Robert E. Lee signed at Appomattox, but the poison of rebellion still flows in the veins of every planter."
He turned and pointed at the congressmen who advocated for moderate Reconstruction.
"What is your plan? Acknowledge their state governments? Allow those former Confederacy officers back into Congress? Let them continue to sit on their porches drinking iced tea, while on our land, the bodies of three hundred thousand Federal Army soldiers have only just been buried."
"No!" Stevens waved his fist, "This is not just foolish, it's betrayal."
Senator Clark, Chairman of the Senate Military Committee, sat in the front row, his face pale with anger.
As Felix's political ally, he had always advocated for controlling the South through "economic takeover" rather than a complete political purge.
Clark stood up.
"Mr. Stevens."
"Everyone is angry about the assassination, but we must be rational. Mr. Argyle's 'Southern Economic Reconstruction Plan' has already begun implementation. Through taxes and debt, we are peacefully taking over Southern land. If we now overturn everything and implement military rule, confiscate land... that would cause the Southern economy to completely collapse. We would get ruins, not a market."
"Market?" Stevens sneered.
"Mr. Clark, your mind is only on that young man's business dealings in New York."
"We don't want profit." Stevens stared at Clark, "We want justice, a complete reshaping."
"My proposal is simple." Stevens held up a document.
"The Military Reconstruction Act revokes all existing state governments in the South. The former Confederacy will be divided into five military districts, governed by military dictatorships under Federal generals."
"Deprive all participants in the rebellion of their citizenship. Confiscate the planters' land and distribute it to the freed Black people. Forty acres and a mule for each."
"Only by completely digging up and burning the old foundations can new freedom grow."
The chamber erupted.
"This violates the Constitution!" a Democratic Party congressman stood up and protested, "Private property is sacred and inviolable!"
"Slaves were also property!" Stevens retorted, "You have already lost them. Now, you will lose everything else."
The arguments grew louder. Some slammed tables, others waved their fists.
Colonel Dale, standing in the spectator gallery, silently watched the scene. He wore a neat military uniform, his cap brim pulled low.
As an observer from the War Department, he saw clearly. The wind had shifted.
Although Lincoln's assassination failed, the assassin had enraged the entire North.
The public sentiment that had originally leaned towards "forgiveness and reconciliation" vanished overnight.
People wanted revenge.
Stevens seized upon this emotion.
If the radical bill passed, Felix's carefully planned strategy of "gently" acquiring the South through banks and railway companies would be replaced by brutal military confiscation.
If the land was distributed to Black people, the mortgaged deeds held by Argyle Empire Bank would become worthless.
Dale quietly exited the chamber.
He went to the telegraph office, picked up a pen, and wrote a line of encrypted text on a piece of paper:
"Washington is on fire. Stevens wants to burn the South, along with our ledgers. Act quickly."
...New York, Manhattan.
Felix sat in his study, which was cooled by an ice-based system, holding a glass of iced lemonade.
Frost pushed open the door, his face gloomier than the weather outside.
"Urgent telegram from Washington." Frost placed Dale's telegram on the table, "Boss, we have big trouble."
Felix glanced at the telegram, not showing much surprise.
"As expected."
Felix put down his glass, the ice cubes clinking crisply against the glass.
"Booth's shot crippled the moderates."
"Stevens wants to confiscate land and distribute it to Black people?"
"Yes," Frost replied.
"Forty acres and a mule. If this bill passes, the plantations we control in Texas and Georgia through mortgages... will be confiscated by the Federal Army."
"This is robbery." Frost said indignantly, "This is a trampling of private property."
"This is politics, Edward. In the face of angry public opinion, property rights are a fragile thing."
"So what do we do?" Frost asked, "Should we have Senator Clark obstruct it? Or Secretary Stanton..."
"We can't stop it." Felix shook his head.
"Anyone who dares to speak up for the South now will be seen as sympathizing with traitors. Stanton won't commit political suicide for my business. President Lincoln... even though he's the victim, must now follow public opinion, or he will lose Congressional support."
Felix looked out the window.
He had built a vast business empire, but in this era, politics was always the Sword of Damocles hanging over businessmen's heads.
If this problem wasn't solved, his plans in the South would collapse.
"We cannot fight this anger; we must guide it." Felix turned, his gaze calm.
"Guide?"
"What does Stevens want?" Felix asked.
"To punish the South and guarantee Black rights."
"No." Felix corrected, "What he wants is to completely destroy the political power of the old Southern aristocracy. He wants permanent Republican Party rule in the South. As for the land for Black people... that's just a means."
Felix walked to the map, his finger tracing over the Southern states.
"Confiscating land and distributing it to Black people sounds just. But it's actually impractical." Felix calmly analyzed.
"Black people have no farm tools, no seeds, no funds, and no management experience. Give them land, and they still won't be able to grow cotton. The Southern economy will completely paralyze. The Federal government won't collect taxes and will have to spend money supporting them. This is not in the North's interest."
"We need to give Stevens a better plan."
Felix sat back in his chair and picked up a fountain pen.
"A plan that can both punish traitors and preserve our interests."
"Edward, prepare the carriage. I'm going to see someone."
"Who?"
Felix's lips curved into a slight smile, "William Tweed."
"Tweed?" Frost was puzzled, "Can he handle Congressional matters?"
Felix looked at him with a hint of amusement, "Tweed can't control Congress, but he understands deals."
"So I need to contact the Democratic Party's 'silent partners' in the North through him."
"This battle cannot be fought in Washington; it must be fought at the negotiating table over the distribution of interests."
__________________________
In my humnble opinion the Republicans were too forgiving towars the south.
It should have been treated harsher, you know, like a loosing side.