Long Island, New York—Tweed's private estate.
Tweed lay in an oversized rattan chair, a chilled mint julep in one hand, his feet propped on a footstool.
"Wow—Mister Argyle."
Seeing Felix approach, Tweed waved a plump hand.
"What brings you here? Shouldn't you be in Washington making friends? After all, you saved the President's life—tch, that's no small thing."
"Just chance, Tweed."
Felix pulled over a chair and sat without ceremony.
"Stevens and his radicals want to flip the table."
"I heard." Tweed took a sip.
"Confiscate land and hand it to the darkies—those Republican madmen want to turn the South into Haiti."
Felix looked at Tweed. "If they succeed, your Democratic friends down South are finished—and forget your cotton-trade kickbacks."
Tweed's face darkened.
He was the kingpin of New York, but his tentacles reached deep into Southern cotton.
"So what can I do?" Tweed spread his hands.
"I carry no weight in Congress; Washington belongs to the Republican radicals."
"Tell your friends to shut up," Felix said. "Democrats still have votes. Have them stop opposing military rule and the disfranchisement of rebels."
Tweed blinked. "That… that's suicide."
"Not at all," Felix explained. "Stevens wants a political purge—let him. Drive ex-Confederate generals and congressmen from office—fine."
"But on 'land confiscation' we give him an… offer he can't refuse."
"What offer?"
"Compulsory redemption and franchising." Felix spoke the two phrases.
"We won't oppose seizing traitors' property, but land can't be parceled out—that's chaos. The Federal Government should create a 'Southern Land Asset Management Bureau' to take possession."
"Then the Bureau leases the land to capable corporations—or auctions it to anyone with capital."
Tweed's beady eyes lit; he understood.
This wasn't dividing fields; it was swapping landlords.
Felix went on: "As for the Negroes, they get freedom—can even work as hired hands on corporate farms. We'll set minimum wages, build schools. That beats giving them barren plots they can't farm."
"Will that satisfy Stevens?" Tweed asked.
"It will," Felix said confidently.
"Because I'll have Secretary Stanton and Chairman Clark tell him this way the Union won't spend a cent on Southern relief—instead, we'll collect huge land-rent revenues every year to pay war debts."
"And through this, Northern capital—mine, yours, the Republican donors'—can openly take over the Southern economy. We'll become the new masters of the South."
"Let the radicals rule politically; the economy is ours."
Tweed sat up, staring at Felix with keen interest.
"Mister Argyle, you ought to run for President. Such elegant carving of dead meat—magnificent."
"Then it's settled." Felix rose.
"You contact the Democrats and get them to sign. I'll handle Stanton and Clark."
…Three days later, Washington.
Willard Hotel.
Felix, Stanton, Clark, and Thaddeus Stevens gathered in one room.
Stevens studied the proposal—the "Southern Economic Reconstruction & Land Management Act."
"A Land Asset Management Bureau?" Stevens frowned. "Mister Argyle, you want to turn the South into your private estate?"
"No, Mister Stevens—I want it to become the Union's asset."
"Your 'forty acres' plan is noble, but it needs hundreds of millions in federal startup cash for tools and seed. The ex-planters will harass those small farms; the South will stay in chaos."
Felix tapped the document.
"Under this plan, Northern corporations—capital and security included—resume cotton production fast. Negroes get jobs and wages; the Union gets taxes and rent."
Stevens furrowed his brow, thinking.
He was an idealist, yet also a politician.
He knew direct land division faced fierce resistance; moderates feared it would shatter property rights.
Felix's scheme, cloaked in "market economy," achieved the same punitive goal.
Stevens made up his mind: "Mister Argyle, your proposal is good—but how do you guarantee delivery? All labor contracts must be federally supervised; slavery must not return in disguise."
Felix smiled—acceptance.
Even the radicals had to weigh the interests behind each faction—and, crucially, President Lincoln's approval.
Though furious over the assassination, Lincoln remained rational: emancipation was mandatory, yet the Union must stay intact.
"Of course—we're respectable businessmen."
…In July, Congress passed the "Southern Reconstruction Act."
Vast plantations were seized for taxes and debts.
Through a maze of auctions and leases, the land flowed into newly chartered Northern companies.
At plantation gates, new signs appeared; overseers were gone, replaced by uniformed guards with Pioneer Rifles.
Negroes were no longer slaves—they were workers, paid in greenbacks bearing Lincoln's face.
Though perhaps some of those bills were counterfeit… who knows? Ha.
Who can tell? Laugh.
Felix stood on a railway platform, watching a freight train loaded with company goods roll southward.
"It's finally passed."
Frost behind him sighed with feeling.
Felix gazed at the Southern sky. "This is only the beginning."
"We confiscated the land—but gave them order."
"Even if that order reeks of copper."
In an unmarked private club in Lower Manhattan, Felix sat at a large teak round table.
Three men sat opposite him.
One was William Tweed, the Boss of New York's Democratic Party, dabbing at the rolls of fat on his neck with a handkerchief.
The other two were heavyweights from Northern industry and finance.
Amory Lawrence, the Boston textile tycoon, and Jay Gould, who had shot to prominence in the railroad takeovers.
The atmosphere in the room was relaxed.
The passage of the Southern Reconstruction Act had every Northern tycoon in high spirits.
"Mr. Argyle, your 'Land Asset Management Bureau' is brilliant—and you even talked that radical old stick-in-the-mud around. No wonder your business keeps booming."
Amory Lawrence led the flattery.
As Massachusetts's biggest cotton-mill owner, his greatest fear was losing Southern cotton supply.
If Stevens really handed all the land to penniless blacks, Southern agriculture would collapse overnight and his mills would be ruined.
"Mr. Lawrence, this isn't my doing alone; the President opposes it too. Of course… the radicals want punishment and emancipation, and the plan gives them both—on paper."
Felix slid a document to the center of the table.
"The estates of former Confederacy bigwigs and generals will be legally confiscated. The Bureau will hold them in the name of the Federal Government. In Stevens's voters' eyes, that's victory."
"But the core is management rights."
Felix raised a finger to a clause.
"The Bureau can't farm. So it will 'franchise' the land to well-capitalized companies with equipment and organization—twenty-year leases, even outright sales. Those companies are us."
Jay Gould looked at Felix with open curiosity.
"So, Mr. Argyle, who decides which companies get the leases? From what I hear, the appetites of Washington's congressmen are huge. And after the Pierpont affair, though the Morgan family retreated to London, their eyes in New York are still open. Will they sit out a windfall like this?"
Felix calmly lifted his coffee cup and took a sip.
"Pierpont's mishap at sea was a heartbreaking accident."
"Old Morgan, busy settling family affairs in London, is hardly a concern. As for who hands out the leases…"
Felix looked at Tweed.
"That's why we need Mr. Tweed. The Democratic machine's local reach and its surviving Southern contacts are the only way to make those 'leases' stick. I've already locked down the Washington approvals."
"You can't expect me to do everything. Congress won't let me take too much, and the President wouldn't stand for it."
Tweed let out a deep laugh, the fat on his cheeks quivering.
"You're right, Felix. We still have 'old friends' down South. They've lost political clout, but they know every ditch, road, and population pocket. Give them a modest title like 'management consultant' and they'll cooperate splendidly."
"What about labor?" Lawrence frowned.
"Stevens insists blacks must be paid. If costs rise, Southern cotton can't compete internationally."
Felix set down his cup and pulled several samples from his briefcase—fresh from the printers overnight.
"These are 'Vouchers'."
The men took them and examined.
The crisp notes bore the Vanguard logo and Lincoln's portrait, looking like greenbacks yet not quite money.
Felix explained, "We don't pay in dollars. The Bureau will set a 'Minimum Wage'—paid in these Vouchers. They can be spent at the plantation's United General Store."
"We stock flour, salt fish, cheap rum, and… Umbrella's everyday medicines. We set the prices. No cash lost—just some surplus goods, and everyone's still sitting on post-war stockpiles that need moving, right?"
"Haha… Argyle, I'm starting to like you, Felix."
A gleam of delight flashed in Jay Gould's eyes.
"There's more," Felix added.
"We can sign 'Long-Term Employment Contracts.' If they leave early or cause losses, they pay a penalty. With no dollars, only Vouchers, they'll never save enough for the fare out."
"That's… genius," Lawrence said after searching for a word.
"No, it's 'Contractual Freedom Under Free Trade,'" Felix corrected.
The men exchanged smiles.
But Tweed soon frowned; politics on the edge had taught him to spot trouble.
"Will Congress allow it? The radicals didn't aim for this kind of emancipation."
Felix sipped his wine and told him to relax.
"They're freedmen; we're not forcing labor—we're offering jobs with pay. Greenbacks or Vouchers, they still buy things."
"And I'm no devil; once the South stabilizes, real money will follow. Congress will have nothing to attack."
Tweed saw the logic and raised his glass. "So, where's the first pilot?"
"South Carolina," Felix said, pointing to a map.
"Where the rebellion began—least resistance to confiscation. I've mustered five hundred hand-picked men, mostly battle-hardened Irish veterans, with Vanguard handling logistics."
"We'll export not just capital but 'civilization' to the South."
Felix stood, arms spread wide, looking down at them.
"Gentlemen, ready for the feast?"