April 15, 1868, London.
The mist along the banks of the Thames never dissipates, shrouding London, the financial heart of the British Empire, in a hazy gray.
Capel Court, the home of the London Stock Exchange.
This was the center of global capital, as well as the most arrogant and conservative place on earth.
The traders here were still accustomed to using hand signals and messengers to convey information, looking down on the crude New York across the Atlantic.
But today, a carriage emblazoned with the "SBM" logo shattered the tranquility.
Tom Hayes, dressed in a well-tailored English tweed suit and holding a black umbrella, stepped elegantly out of the carriage.
Christopher Sholes followed behind him, directing several workers as they unloaded heavy wooden crates from the carriage.
"Who is that?"
The guards at the entrance of the exchange stopped them.
"We are here to see Mr. Brown." Hayes handed over a gold-trimmed business card. "We have brought a gift from New York."
A few minutes later, in an ancient meeting room within the exchange.
The Chairman of the London Stock Exchange, a knight with a handlebar mustache and a monocle, was scrutinizing the machine on the table with a critical eye.
"Standard Stock Ticker?" the knight said in that distinctive British nasality.
"I've heard of this thing; I heard it caused quite a stir in New York. But Mr. Hayes, you must understand that London is not New York. Here, we value a gentleman's credit, not the noise of machines."
"Of course, but Sir, even a gentleman needs efficiency," Hayes replied neither submissively nor arrogantly.
"This machine doesn't just display prices; it can also connect to the transatlantic undersea cable."
Hayes pointed to a thick cable at the back of the machine.
"We have reached an agreement with the Atlantic Telegraph Company to open a dedicated financial data line. When the price of gold in New York changes, it only takes three minutes—yes, three minutes—for that price to appear on this machine."
"Three minutes?" The knight's monocle nearly fell out.
You see, it used to take at least half an hour through ordinary telegrams plus manual translation and delivery.
By clipper ship, it would take a week.
"That's impossible," a director beside him said, shaking his head.
"Signal attenuation in undersea cables is severe; it's impossible to transmit such dense data."
"That is where Mr. Sholes's work comes in." Hayes yielded the floor to Sholes.
Sholes stepped forward and opened the back cover of the machine.
"Gentlemen, we have installed a signal amplifier and an error correction device inside the machine."
Sholes said, pointing to a set of precision coils.
"This is the latest achievement from the Argyle Central Laboratory. It can filter out the noise from the undersea cable and restore fuzzy electrical signals into clear digits."
"Furthermore, we have designed a specialized compression code." Sholes produced a coding table.
"We use one byte to represent 'up' and two bytes for 'down.' This greatly reduces the volume of data transmission."
"Our staff at the Southampton testing station have been running this for a week." Sholes pulled out a stack of paper tapes.
"These are the test records. The error rate is less than one in a thousand."
The knight took the paper tape and looked at the dense data; his expression became solemn.
He was a clever man and knew exactly what this meant.
If London had this, they could perform real-time arbitrage using the price difference between New York and London.
For example, when the price of gold in New York fell, London could sell immediately without waiting for the news to spread through the streets.
This wasn't just a machine; it was a privilege.
"How much is the rent?" the knight finally asked, knowing this thing was not for sale.
"Five hundred pounds a year," Hayes smiled as he quoted an exorbitant price. "Including the transoceanic data service fee."
"Oh my god! Good heavens!" one of the directors cried out.
"This is more expensive than hiring ten senior clerks!"
"But it can make more money than a hundred clerks. You should know that almost all of Wall Street has started using this now." Hayes took a contract out of his briefcase.
"Furthermore, Mr. Argyle said that only one hundred units will be provided in the first batch. If you don't want them, Lord Rothschild seems very interested."
At the mention of the Rothschild name, the knight's eyes changed.
In Europe, Rothschild was the financial bellwether.
If they used it and the Stock Exchange didn't, the Exchange would be relegated to a second-rate market.
"We'll take fifty," the knight said through gritted teeth. "As a trial."
"A wise choice." Hayes handed over the pen... A month later, at the Empire Bank Building in New York.
Felix was reading a telegram sent back from London by Hayes.
"The London market has opened; the first hundred machines have all been rented out. The Rothschild family ordered twenty specialized units. The SBM London branch has been established."
"Well done."
Felix put down the telegram, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He walked over to the ticker standing in the corner of the office.
"Clack, clack, clack, clack..."
The machine was spitting out paper tape. The data on it included not just New York gold prices, but also cotton futures prices from London.
That was the signal Hayes had just connected in London.
Felix picked up the paper tape and looked at the rows of jumping numbers.
"Flynn," he said to the shadow behind him.
"I'm here."
"Now we have built a bridge between New York and London. Any money that crosses this bridge will leave a toll."
"Boss, what's next?" Flynn asked.
Felix walked to the window and looked at the Hudson River in the distance.
"How is Carnegie doing in Pittsburgh lately? I heard he's looking for money everywhere?"
"Yes, Boss," Flynn replied after a moment's thought.
"He wants to build a steel mill and introduce that new Open-hearth technology. But he doesn't want to use our money; he wants to be independent. He even approached several New York banks, but because of your 'hints,' no one dared to lend to him."
"Such ambition," Felix sneered; it seemed he still hadn't given up.
"Geniuses always have a bit of a rebellious streak."
"Keep an eye on him. Don't let him starve, but don't let him get full either."
Flynn nodded silently.
"Don't worry, Boss. With this machine, we have a God's-eye view of Wall Street. No large-scale movement of funds can escape our eyes. If anyone tries to invest in Carnegie, we'll know immediately."
"Whether it's London money or New York money."
Felix turned around, his fingers lightly tapping the still-running ticker.
"Tick... tick..."
The sound echoed in the empty office.
"Do you hear that, Flynn? That is the sound of a cage."
"I have woven the cage. Now, I'm just waiting for those disobedient birds to fly right into it."
May 1868, New York.
Inside the top-floor office of the Argyle Empire Bank Building, the recently installed stock ticker was making a monotonous clicking sound.
Felix stood by the window, holding a half-finished glass of Bourbon.
Outside the window, Manhattan was undergoing a dramatic transformation.
The piers of the elevated railway were growing on the streets like a forest of steel, connecting the city's lifelines.
In the distant harbor, the ships of the Atlantic Steam Power Company were puffing out cargo—the source of his wealth.
"Boss, a telegram from Washington."
Frost pushed open the door and entered, holding a piece of letter paper.
"It's from the President's office."
Felix turned around and took the telegram. There were only a few words on the paper:
"Old friend, the flowers here have withered, but some fruits are not yet ripe. If your business can stop for even a second, I would like to invite you for a cup of tea by the Potomac River. —Abraham Lincoln."
After reading it, Felix placed the note over a candle and burned it.
"Prepare the carriage," Felix said. "To the train station. I need to make a trip to Washington."
"Do you need to bring Hayes or Hamilton?" Frost asked. "If it's about antitrust or tax issues..."
"No need." Felix watched the ashes fall onto the carpet.
"This is likely a private matter; just bring the security team. Also, have Bill prepare two cases of the best Kentucky aged bourbon. I think the President might have trouble sleeping lately."
...The next morning, Washington D.C.
Compared to New York, which was in the midst of a construction boom, the federal capital appeared somewhat shabby, even dilapidated.
Felix stepped out of the train station with his security team.
The platforms here were still under construction, and the temporary wooden walkways creaked underfoot.
The air was thick with a peculiar damp smell emanating from the Potomac River marshes, mixed with the scents of horse manure and wet cement.
"Mr. Argyle!"
A young major in a Federal Army uniform approached and gave Felix a salute.
"I am Robert of the Presidential Guard. The President sent me to pick you up."
"Thank you for your hard work, Major."
Felix gave a friendly nod and climbed into a black carriage.
The carriage drove onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
This main artery connecting Capitol Hill and the White House was called an "Avenue" in name, but in reality, half of it was still a dirt road.
It had rained a few days ago, and the road was incredibly muddy. The wheels rolled through puddles, splashing yellow mud.
By the roadside, some recently freed Black people were selling fruit and newspapers. There were also speculators in ill-fitting suits hurrying along with briefcases, their leather shoes covered in mud spots.
"This place needs some repairs."
Felix frowned slightly as he looked at the scene outside the window and spoke softly.
It had been years and it was still like this; it hardly looked like a national capital at all.
"Congress has been arguing over the budget."
The major sitting opposite him smiled awkwardly; he also knew that the environment in Washington was indeed not great.
"Southern Reconstruction has cost a lot of money. Those congressmen can argue for an entire afternoon over even a thousand dollars in road repair costs."
"That's because they haven't found the right people." Felix pulled down the curtain.
If the Federal Real Estate Company took over, they could have new asphalt laid down here within three months.
Of course, the price would likely be half of Washington's land changing its surname to Argyle.
The carriage stopped at the entrance of the White House.
This white building appeared solemn against the backdrop of the surrounding low-rise houses, but also somewhat lonely.
The guards at the door performed a routine check of his identification and let him through.
Naturally, the security team stayed outside.
Felix walked into the foyer.
There were no luxurious decorations like those in New York's mansions; the carpet was somewhat worn, and the paint on the walls was peeling slightly.
"My friend Felix, you've arrived."
A familiar voice came from the staircase.
Abraham Lincoln was standing there. He looked thinner than he had a few years ago, his angular face etched with deep wrinkles and his eyes sunken.
Although that brutal Civil War had ended three years ago, it seemed to have drained all of his energy.
Yet his posture remained upright, like a weather-beaten old oak tree.
"Mr. President."
Felix walked up and shook the hand that was somewhat disproportionately large.
"Call me Abraham, or Abe."
Lincoln gave that signature, slightly melancholy smile.
"There are no reporters or those annoying congressmen here; we are friends, aren't we?"
"Alright, Abe." Felix looked him over.
"You look like you need rest, or perhaps a glass of good wine."
"Mary won't let me drink."
Lincoln lowered his voice, like a child afraid of being caught by a parent.
"She says it's bad for my health. However, if you insist..."
"I brought two cases."
Felix pointed to the wooden boxes being carried in by the White House attendants behind him.
"These are 'medical supplies.' I don't think the First Lady would refuse a doctor's prescription."
Lincoln burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the empty hallway.
"That's the spirit. Come, let's go to my study. It's quieter there."
In the study, sunlight streamed through the window onto a desk piled high with documents. Lincoln did not sit behind that desk which symbolized power; instead, he pulled up two chairs and placed them in front of the fireplace.
"Sit, Felix."
Lincoln sat down and stretched out his long legs, looking somewhat comfortable.
"Over these past few years, your name has appeared in the newspapers more frequently than mine."
Lincoln looked at Felix with admiration in his eyes, but also a hint of scrutiny.
"The castle on Long Island, and that department store that has driven New York women crazy. Felix, you are building a commercial empire."
"It's just a small business. It can't be helped; you know, Abe, I brought too many people from my old home in Ireland, and I have to make sure they have jobs."
Felix spread his hands in feigned helplessness, then took out a cigar case and handed one to Lincoln.
"Small business?"
Lincoln took the cigar with a look of amusement and sniffed it under his nose.
"You already control gunpowder and medicine, and now you want to control information. I heard about the Western Union Telegraph Company; my goodness, you actually connected that line to London."
"That was to make the nation more closely knit." Felix helped Lincoln light the cigar.
"After all, when information flows faster, misunderstandings decrease. This is good for the Union."
"Perhaps."
Lincoln took a puff of the cigar and exhaled blue smoke.
"As long as that line doesn't turn into a noose."
The two were silent for a moment, with only the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
Felix knew that Lincoln hadn't called him here just to chat about business news.
"I must say, though, alright Abe," Felix broke the silence.
"The muddy roads in Washington are hard to travel; they really should be fixed. By calling me here, you must have something more important than just chatting."
Lincoln looked at the burning cigar in his hand and remained silent for a long time.
"There are six months left," Lincoln said slowly.
"What?"
"Six months until it's an election year."
Lincoln looked up, his eyes full of deep meaning as he watched Felix.
"The Republican National Convention will be held in Chicago, where the next presidential candidate will be nominated."
Felix immediately realized that this was the main topic.
In this country, nothing was more important than this.
After all, a change in the presidency meant a shift in policy and, more importantly, a redistribution of interests.
Of course, there was no lack of presidents who personally entered the fray to make money, drawing K-lines that rivaled stock gods, much like a certain individual who made the United States great again.
Therefore, the presidential election was the greatest risk—or opportunity—for Felix.
"Are there voices within the party?" Felix asked tentatively.
"The voices are very loud. And very messy," Lincoln said with a bitter smile.
"Some say the country still needs me. The South is not yet completely stable, and the Radicals are causing trouble in Congress. They feel that only I can keep the situation under control."
"So..."
Felix stared into Lincoln's eyes and asked the question that all of America was guessing.
"What do you plan to do? Continue?"
The air in the study seemed to freeze.
Felix's question was like a pebble thrown into this deep pool of water.
Re-election, or a third term.
To be honest, it was a tempting fruit.
Especially for a president like Lincoln, whose domestic prestige was at its peak. He had won the Civil War, preserved the Union, and liberated the slaves.
Felix believed that as long as he nodded, no one in the Republican Party would dare to compete with him.
Lincoln didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood up and walked to the window, looking at the Washington Monument in the distance.
The monument was not yet finished, pointing to the sky like a broken finger.
"Felix, do you know that man?" Lincoln pointed in that direction.
"Of course, I don't think anyone doesn't know him. That's George Washington," Felix replied.
"Yes. Washington, the Father of the Country."
Lincoln's voice was somewhat ethereal; no one knew what he was thinking.
"Back then, after his two terms ended, everyone begged him to stay. Some even wanted to crown him and make him king. But he refused. He even went back to Mount Vernon to plant his tobacco."
Lincoln turned around and stood against the light, his face hidden in the shadows.
"That was the rule he set. Although it's not written in the Constitution, it's a rule carved into the foundation of this country. If I break it, if I covet this position..."
Lincoln paused, his tone becoming serious.
"Then I'll be no different from those old fellows in Europe who cling to their thrones until they die. We fought this war, and hundreds of thousands died, to establish a United States, not to elect a dictator for life."
Felix listened, his heart trembling slightly.
As a businessman, he was used to pursuing maximum profit. If a CEO performed well, the board of directors would wish for him to work until he died.
But politics... clearly had another set of logic.
"So, you've decided?" Felix asked.
Exactly; he could tell Lincoln had no intention of continuing as president.
"Yes, as a friend, I don't want to deceive you. I've decided."
Lincoln walked back to his seat and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, as if extinguishing a thought.
"I don't want to do it anymore; I'm tired. You also know Mary's health isn't good, so I want to go back to Illinois and check on my old law firm. Ha... though it might be covered in spiderwebs by now."
Felix nodded; he respected and admired this decision.
"Then... since you're stepping down."
Felix leaned forward, switching to the mode of a political investor.
"Then do you have a candidate in mind, Abe? Or rather, who do you favor?"
This was the key.
If Lincoln stepped down, who would take over?
"There are many people in the party eyeing this position."
Lincoln began to count on his fingers with a smile on his face, looking to be in a wonderful mood.
"You should know Speaker of the House Schuyler Colfax; he's been very active lately, and the Radicals support him. Then there's Chief Justice Salmon Chase, that old fox; he's wanted to be president since I first formed the cabinet."
"And then there's..." Lincoln glanced at Felix, "General Ulysses S. Grant."
Hearing Grant's name, Felix's eyes flickered.
That war hero.
"What do you think of Grant?" Lincoln asked. "He has high prestige in the army, and the people of the North adore him."
"He's a good blade," Felix commented.
"He's a good hand at fighting. But governing a country... he's too blunt. And he's surrounded by a swarm of flies looking to get rich."
Felix didn't say it explicitly.
Because in history, the Grant administration was notorious for corruption.
"And what about you?" Lincoln asked in return.
"Felix, you're the Republican Party's biggest donor. Your newspapers can decide millions of votes, not to mention the tens of thousands of workers under you, all of whom have families. Who do you want to support?"
Felix was silent for a moment, picking up his glass and swirling it.
"To be honest, I haven't made up my mind yet," Felix said calmly.
"Because what I want is stability—a government that doesn't cause trouble. Or rather, a government that supports railroad construction, tariff protection, and industrial development."
"Abe, frankly, Colfax is too radical; his ideology would likely provoke the South into rebellion again. And Chase is too cunning and not easy to control."
Felix looked up, looking Lincoln straight in the eye.
"As it stands, Grant might be an option. Although he doesn't understand politics, that's precisely his advantage. Because he doesn't understand, he needs advisors. He needs friends."
"And I, as it happens, am his friend."
Lincoln understood.
Felix didn't value the candidate's ability; he valued the candidate's controllability.
"You're a pragmatist, Felix," Lincoln sighed. "Sometimes I really worry that this country will eventually be bought up by businessmen like you."
"If that were the case, at least we would run it profitably; after all, no Boss wants their enterprise to go bankrupt," Felix smiled.
"It's better than letting those politicians who only talk about ideals drive it into bankruptcy."
"Alright, alright, maybe you're right," Lincoln waved his hand.
"Anyway, I certainly won't designate a successor. But I will state my position at the convention, which is retirement. As for who breaks through, that will depend on their own abilities. And, of course, on who you write your checks to."
The political topic ended there.
Since Lincoln had made it clear he wouldn't seek re-election, Felix's strategy was clear. He needed to evaluate the "quotes" of the various candidates over the next few months and then place his bets.
But today, he had an even more important task, especially given that Lincoln was unwilling to continue as president.
"Abe, there's something I need to seek your opinion on."
Felix shifted his sitting position, his tone becoming a bit more relaxed.
"Since you're retiring, we need to talk about life after retirement."
"Life?" Lincoln gave a bitter laugh upon hearing this.
"What else can I do? Perhaps I'll go back to my hometown and continue being a lawyer, taking on a few cases to earn some retirement money. Presidents don't have pensions, you know."
This was a harsh reality.
In this era, U.S. presidents were not supported by the state after leaving office. As a result, many former presidents were even destitute in their later years.
And Lincoln came from a poor background; he hadn't saved much money during his years as president, and instead, he had accumulated quite a bit of debt due to his wife's extravagance.
"My friend, that won't do," Felix shook his head.
"You are the symbol of the United States. If you have to argue with people in court for a few dollars after leaving office, it would be a disgrace to the entire country. It would also be a failure on my part as a friend."
"What are you trying to do?" Lincoln looked at him warily.
"Felix, I won't accept direct donations. That's against the rules."
"I say, Abe, can we still be friends? Of course it's not a donation. I'm talking about a job. A decent, legal, high-paying job."
Felix pulled a pre-prepared letter of appointment from his breast pocket and placed it on the table.
"The Argyle Family Executive Committee sincerely invites Mr. Abraham Lincoln to serve as Chief Legal and Strategic Advisor."