The letter of appointment lay quietly on the dark walnut tabletop.
The paper was thick, the highest grade of cotton pulp paper, printed with the Argyle Family crest in beautiful copperplate script: a circular dark green emblem with intricate white Celtic knot border. A central shield displays an Irish harp, a sword-wielding griffin, and shamrocks.
Lincoln did not reach for it immediately. He simply stared at the paper as if staring at a complex armistice agreement.
"Chief Consultant?" Lincoln chewed on the words.
"What kind of position is this? Helping your company fight lawsuits?"
"Of course not, Abel. Hamilton and his people handle those trifles."
Felix leaned back, hands crossed over his knees, displaying the composure of a business leader.
"Your work then would be very simple. Attend the family's annual meeting twice a year, talk to us about the spirit of the Constitution, or give some advice when we are lost in our strategic direction. Other than that, you are still free."
"Of course, if you are willing, you can also act as a representative of the Argyle Charitable Foundation on certain occasions and give speeches at universities."
Felix extended a finger and lightly tapped the appointment letter.
"An annual salary of twenty thousand dollars. Paid quarterly. If you need to reside in New York or Chicago, the company will provide housing and a carriage."
Twenty thousand dollars.
Lincoln's pupils contracted slightly.
One had to know that his current presidential salary was twenty-five thousand dollars (recently raised to deal with inflation). But that money had to maintain the expenses of those around him in the White House, handle various social obligations, and fill the bottomless pit of Mary's shopping; there was hardly anything left.
And what Felix was offering was an income equivalent to a presidential salary for almost no work.
"This is too much."
Lincoln shook his head and looked away.
"Felix, this behavior of yours looks like you're buying the reputation of a former president."
"Does that matter? You should know that reputation is also a very important asset, Abraham," Felix said bluntly.
"I won't deny that having your name on the committee's list of consultants can save the family business a lot of trouble and shut up those politicians looking for a fight. It's called brand premium."
"But, it's also what you deserve."
"Isn't it, Abel?"
Felix's voice became sincere.
"You gave everything for this country. You even saved a Union on the brink of division. Should this country just watch you worry about your livelihood in your later years? Since those misers in Congress refuse to give you a pension, then let me, a capitalist friend, provide it."
"This isn't a handout; it's legal earned income. After all, consulting is also a form of mental labor."
Lincoln remained silent, feeling very gratified in his heart.
No matter how Felix put it, the fact that he could easily obtain a twenty thousand dollar salary every year would not change.
This couldn't help but remind him of that dilapidated old house in Springfield, and also of Mary's complaints just a few days ago about wanting to travel to Europe but having no money.
He was a man of principle, but he was also a qualified husband and father.
"And..."
Felix saw his hesitation and immediately threw out the second bargaining chip.
"This is only the first contract; there is a second one."
Felix pulled out another document.
"Perhaps you've heard the news; Harper Publishing now belongs to the News Media Company. They wanted to invite you to write a book even before this."
"A book?"
Lincoln's thoughts were interrupted, and he was somewhat surprised.
"I'm no writer. What could I write? A legal thesis?"
"No, no, no. Write your memoirs."
A businessman's calculation appeared in Felix's eyes.
"Just write a book titled 'Memoirs of Abraham Lincoln: How the Union Was Saved.' In it, you can write about your eight years in the White House. Write about the decisions of the Civil War, the story behind the Emancipation Proclamation, and your thoughts during those sleepless nights. All of these are possible."
"Abraham, you should know that history is written by the victors. But if you don't write it, others will write nonsense on your behalf. There will even be countless petty people who, for the sake of money, will fabricate lies about you."
"So you need to seize the right to speak and leave your true thoughts to posterity."
"Therefore, Harper Publishing is willing to pay an advance royalty of fifty thousand dollars. And they promise it will be a hardcover edition that will be placed in the library of every school."
Fifty thousand dollars.
Combined with the consulting fee, that was seventy thousand dollars.
In this era, that was a fortune. Enough for the Lincoln family to live an affluent life.
Lincoln picked up the publishing contract. His hands were somewhat rough, marks left from splitting wood in his early years.
"Memoirs..." Lincoln murmured.
This moved him more than the money.
Just as Felix said, he didn't want future generations to learn about him through the mouths of others. Didn't he see that even after the death of the founding father, Washington, many people were spreading rumors about him?
So Lincoln wanted to speak for himself.
"You are a devil, Felix."
Lincoln looked up, a complex smile appearing on his face.
"You always know how to hit a person's weak spot."
Felix laughed along.
"I'm just doing business. After all, a good book and a good consultant are worth this price."
"Fine, but I have one condition." Lincoln suddenly pulled back his smile.
"Go ahead."
"As a consultant, I only provide advice and do not participate in specific business decisions. Furthermore, if your company does anything illegal or unethical, I have the right to resign without having to return the salary."
"Of course, no problem. That can be written into the contract."
Felix agreed readily.
All he wanted was to have Lincoln, this great figure, enshrined there. As for the specific dirty work, Flynn and Miller would naturally handle it; Lincoln didn't need to know.
"As for the memoirs..." Lincoln looked at the sky outside the window.
"I will certainly write them, but it will take time. Perhaps a long time."
"That doesn't matter. Harper Publishing can afford to wait."
Lincoln took a deep breath and picked up the fountain pen on the table.
It was an ordinary dip pen, but at this moment, it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
He signed his name on the two contracts.
The nib scratched across the paper with a rustling sound.
With the final stroke, Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest presidents in American history, completed his transition from politician to 'Argyle Family Consultant' on the eve of his departure from office.
"Welcome aboard, future Consultant Lincoln."
Felix stood up and extended his hand.
This time, the handshake felt different.
It was no longer the relationship between a financier and a politician, but a friendly relationship between a Boss and a senior partner.
"I hope those canned beef products of yours are really as good as you say," Lincoln joked, putting away the contracts. "Otherwise, I, as a consultant, will have to offer some opinions."
"Rest assured, that is beef fit for God."
Felix was in high spirits.
Securing Lincoln was equivalent to giving the Argyle empire the most dazzling golden aura. In the future, no matter who became president, they would have to show this former president some respect, and naturally, show the Argyle Family some respect as well.
"Oh... by the way, Abraham."
Before leaving, Felix remembered something.
"Since you've decided not to seek re-election, I suggest you drop a hint early at next week's party meeting. Let General Grant be prepared."
"I will," Lincoln nodded.
"Grant is a good man, though he sometimes drinks too much."
"As long as he doesn't get the country drunk."
Felix tipped his hat to his old friend and then turned to walk out of the White House.
The sunlight outside was still brilliant, shining on the muddy Pennsylvania Avenue.
Felix sat in the carriage, looking at the White House through the window.
Although he had no intention of being president, he had just bought the president's future.
"Let's go," Felix said to the security.
"There's still much to be done..."
Night shrouded Washington, a city full of conspiracies and deals.
Although it was late at night, the lights in the study of a red-brick townhouse in Lafayette Square were still brightly lit.
This was the private residence of Minister of the Interior Thomas Clark.
Felix, who had just left the White House, sat on a dark green leather sofa, holding a glass of whiskey without ice.
Opposite him sat two men who held immense power in the Union: Minister of the Interior Thomas Clark and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton.
The room was filled with smoke.
Stanton had severe asthma, but he still smoked cigars one after another, as if the pungent smoke were the fuel that sustained his life.
"So, this is the end."
Stanton exhaled a smoke ring, his raspy voice carrying a metallic, grinding texture.
"Felix, has Abraham really decided to return to Illinois to farm? At a time like this? The South hasn't been fully tamed yet, and that group of former slave owners is plotting to reclaim power."
"This is his decision, Edwin."
Felix looked at the glass in his hand with interest, his tone very flat.
"And he brought up George Washington. You know, that reason is irrefutable. No one in this country can break the tradition of serving only two terms, not even Lincoln."
Minister Clark swirled the glass in his hand, his eyes appearing somewhat murky under the light. As Anna's father, his political instincts were sharper than those of the other two.
"If Lincoln doesn't run, it means the table has been overturned," Clark analyzed.
"Previously, everyone thought the President would seek re-election, so they all kept their heads down. Once this news gets out tomorrow, the Republican Party will explode. Those who want to be president will rush out like sharks smelling blood."
"That's also why I came to see you tonight."
Felix put down his glass and leaned forward, his gaze sweeping across their faces.
"A change in presidency is inevitable, but I don't want the business to be affected. Or rather, I don't want the Argyle Family's friends in the government to change."
"Edwin, what are your plans?" Felix looked at the Secretary of War.
Stanton coughed twice, a hint of exhaustion appearing on his habitually tense face.
"You all know my health isn't great. The doctor suggested more rest."
But he quickly straightened his back, a familiar bulldog-like ferocity flashing in his eyes.
"But I know I can't leave at this time; the Reconstruction Acts are in a critical phase of implementation. If a weak person takes over, they might withdraw the army from the South. Then the blood the Union shed would be in vain."
"So I want to serve another term," Stanton said.
"As long as the new president isn't someone like that madman Johnson, I can control the situation in the War Department."
"Good idea," Felix nodded.
"I will do my best to ensure the new president needs you. You need to stay in the War Department, and I need military orders, as well as the army to provide protection in the West and South."
"However, Edwin, you need a helper," Felix added. "After all, your health is a concern, so I suggest you promote Carter."
"Carter?" Stanton raised an eyebrow. "That former logistics lieutenant colonel who represented the Union in business with you? Oh, I forgot he's already a major general now, stationed in Tennessee."
"Not just a major general; to be honest, he's the person I trust most in the army."
Felix spoke bluntly, not caring if Secretary Stanton took offense.
"Transfer him back to Washington to the War Department as your deputy. If one day you really can't hold on, or want to retire, I don't want that position to fall into someone else's hands."
Stanton was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Carter is a good soldier. Although he's a bit too close to you, he's obedient and ruthless. I agree. I'll issue the transfer order next month."
Having settled the military power, Felix turned to Clark.
"Thomas, what about you? Although the Department of the Interior is a good place, I know your ambitions go beyond this."
Clark smiled, the characteristic smile of a seasoned politician.
"Of course, I've completely figured out the situation in the Department of the Interior. But land, Indian affairs, the Patent Office... these trifles consume too much energy. I've already arranged for a successor—my chief assistant. That young man knows the rules and knows who should be granted which land."
Clark stood up, walked to the map, and tapped his finger on the location of the Capitol Building.
"I want to change positions—to the one where I can wield the gavel."
"You mean Vice President?" Felix asked.
"Yes, Vice President and President of the Senate," Clark turned around.
"This isn't just a ceremonial role. In the Senate, the President holds the power to set the agenda. I can decide which bills come up for discussion and which ones are thrown into the wastebasket."
"And if the new president is an 'outsider' who doesn't understand politics, then the Vice President is effectively the steward."
Felix understood the hint; Clark was preparing for a certain possibility.
"It seems we're on the same page," Felix picked up his glass again.
"If General Grant runs as President Lincoln suggested, he will indeed need a deputy who understands the law, politics, and has deep roots in Congress."
"Wait... are you serious, Felix? Grant?" Stanton frowned.
"That guy who only knows how to drink and charge—what does he know about governing a country?"
"It's precisely because he doesn't understand that he's perfect."
The smile remained on Felix's face.
"After all, the Union needs a banner, a hero. As for how to run this country, that's something for those of us sitting behind the scenes to worry about."
"If Grant becomes president and you become Vice President," Felix pointed at Clark, "then you will be the Shadow President, while Edwin controls the army. Along with my funding and media on the outside."
"This might just be the next government to be formed."
Clark and Stanton glanced at each other, both seeing the thoughts in the other's eyes.
It was a perfect iron triangle.
"Then what should we do?" Clark asked. "As far as I know, Grant doesn't want to run yet; that stubborn temper of his..."
"Perhaps someone should go and persuade him to run," Felix said.
"By the way, Thomas, aren't you an old friend of his, and a big shot in the party? You can go persuade him—tell him it's the call of the nation, a responsibility. Soldiers fall for that the most."
"Then, I will provide him with campaign funds and public opinion."
Felix looked at the pitch-black night sky of Washington.
"I think tomorrow, the news that Lincoln doesn't want to seek re-election will spread throughout the city. The chaos is about to begin."
"And in the chaos, we must first establish order."
The next morning, as Felix expected, the news from the White House was like a heavy bomb, blowing up all of Washington.
The front-page headline of the Washington Evening Star had only one giant word: Farewell.
The Republican Party headquarters was in a state of chaos.
Delegates from various states, Senators, and governors began to network frantically. Every room in the Willard Hotel was booked, and the corridors were filled with the whispers of conspiracy.
Speaker of the House Schuyler Colfax immediately gave a speech, claiming he would "carry on Lincoln's legacy."
Radical leader Benjamin Wade shouted "Total Reconstruction" in the Senate.
Chief Justice Salmon Chase hosted a lavish dinner at his home, inviting New York bankers.
Everyone felt they had a chance. Everyone felt they were the chosen one.
Meanwhile, in the office of the Army Headquarters, General Ulysses S. Grant was pacing irritably in front of a giant map.
He bit his cigar, his brow furrowed.
"These politicians are like flies," Grant complained to his adjutant.
"I've already turned down three groups of people coming to urge me to run this morning. I just want to lead troops, or go back to Galena to run my leather shop."
"But General, if a strong person isn't chosen, that man Seymour from the Democratic Party might come to power," the adjutant reminded him.
"You should know that if the Democrats take power, they might overturn all our military rule in the South."
Grant stopped in his tracks; this was his Achilles' heel.
He would never allow the blood of the soldiers under his command to be shed in vain.
Just then, the guard reported:
"General, Secretary of the Interior Mr. Clark is here."
Grant sighed and threw his cigar into the ashtray.
"Show him in. At least he's not one of those talkative congressmen."
A few minutes later, Clark walked in and closed the door behind him.
"Ulysses, I'm not here to persuade you. I'm here to tell you a fact."
Clark looked at his former comrade-in-arms.
"If you don't stand up, Colfax will be elected. Or worse, Chase. You know those people. They will turn the country into their private property. And you will be commanded by a new Secretary of War who knows nothing about military affairs."
"Do you want to salute a politician who has never been on a battlefield?"
Grant was silent; the thought made him feel sick.
Clark lowered his voice again.
"And I've already talked to the other side. If you run, funding, newspapers, and even votes in the South won't be a problem."
"Who?" Grant asked.
Felix Argyle.
Hearing this name, Grant's eyes, which were always half-squinted, opened a bit wider.
He knew the name.
The young man who provided the best canned food, the best rifles and medicine, and built railroads.
Seeing him hesitate, Clark quickly spoke up.
"He wants to see you, tonight."
...Washington nights always carried a damp fog, and the moisture from the Potomac River unscrupulously invaded every corner of the city during this season.
In a quiet park near the Army Headquarters, a black carriage without any insignia sat quietly under the shade of the trees.
General Grant was dressed in plain clothes, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with the brim pulled low to cover most of his face. He didn't like this cloak-and-dagger feeling; it made him feel like a deserter or a thief.
But he had to come; Clark's words were like a thorn in his heart.
He pulled open the carriage door and climbed inside.
The carriage was spacious and unlit, with only the dim yellow glow from the street corner's gas lamps filtering through the curtains.
Felix was sitting opposite him.
He was dressed in a sophisticated evening suit, holding an unlit cigar, his demeanor as relaxed as if he had just finished attending a ball.
"Good evening, General."
Felix's steady, low voice sounded.
"There's liquor here, and freshly arrived Havana cigars. I know you're fond of them."
Grant glanced at the whiskey and cigar box on the small table beside him; they were top-shelf items.
"Mr. Argyle."
Grant didn't touch the items; he sat up straight, maintaining a soldierly posture.
"To be honest, I don't like beating around the bush. Clark said you could make me President. But I haven't decided if I want to take on this chore yet."
"That's your modesty, General," Felix smiled.
"Or perhaps your hesitation. It's because you're an upright man that you despise this cesspool of Washington. I admire that."
"So if I despise it, why should I jump in?" Grant countered.
"Because if the lion doesn't jump in, the cesspool will be taken over by rats."
Felix leaned forward, his eyes, which seemed exceptionally bright in the darkness, staring at Grant.
"General, look at the current situation. Colfax is a smiling tiger who only knows how to please voters. Chase is a megalomaniac who wants to rewrite the Constitution into his family tree. If these people take power, what do you think the future of the Union will be?"
"I may not understand politics, but I understand interests," Felix continued.
"Industry needs stability, railroads need protection, and the South needs order. And only you can provide those things."
"Because in this country, only your name can make Northern workers and Southern farmers shut up and listen at the same time."
Grant was silent, taking a bite of his own cheap cigar from his pocket without lighting it.
"You know what I'm lacking," Grant finally spoke.
"I don't lack fame, but I lack money. Campaigns require a lot of money. And I don't know how to speak to the newspapers, or even how to flatter those damn party delegates."
"That's my job."
Felix snapped his fingers.
"Money is not an issue. Argyle Family Foundation can provide campaign funds. It's enough to plaster posters on every utility pole in every state."
"Newspapers aren't an issue either. Fowler's News Media Company controls over a dozen of the largest newspapers on the East Coast and in the Midwest. Starting tomorrow, you can be the 'Guardian of the Union' and the 'Peacemaker.' We will write every one of your battles into an epic."
"As for the party delegates..." Felix gave a confident smile.
"I believe Minister Clark will handle them. Those people need to eat and build railroads too. As long as I give them promises, they will follow you like sheep."
Grant listened to these words.
It was a naked transaction, but he wasn't repulsed by it.
Because in the army, this was also the norm. Logistics officers provided ammunition, and generals were responsible for fighting.
"So in exchange, what do you need, Mr. Argyle?"
Grant asked the most crucial question.
"It's simple," Felix held up two fingers.
"First, I want Clark to be your running mate, that is, the Vice President. He understands those political rules and can help you handle those annoying paperwork tasks."
"Second, regarding the choice for Secretary of War. I want Stanton to remain in office. If his health fails, I want General Carter to succeed him."
Grant was stunned for a moment.
"That's it? You don't want a cabinet position or an ambassadorship?"
Seeing Grant's surprise and confusion, Felix began to explain.
"Your Excellency, General. I am just a businessman and have no need for those empty titles; I simply desire a friendly business environment."
"Of course, if the government could listen a bit more to the voice of industry regarding railway land grants or tariff policies in the future, I would be even more grateful."
Grant looked at the young man before him.
He suddenly felt that this person was much more likable than those politicians whose mouths were full of "democracy and freedom."
At least he was honest.
"Clark is a capable man. Stanton... although he has a foul temper, he is a good steward." Grant nodded.
"Since you have confidence in me, fine. If the party nominates me, I accept."
Grant extended his hand.
It was a hand that had gripped a cavalry saber countless times.
Felix shook it with a smile.
"Then it's a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Future President."
Just then, Grant picked up the box of expensive cigars on the table and stuffed them into his pocket.
"As a partner, I'll be taking these with me."
A trace of craftiness appeared on Grant's face.
"You were going to give them to me anyway, right?"
"Ha... of course." Felix laughed out loud.
The carriage door opened, and Grant jumped out, disappearing into the night.
Felix watched the retreating figure.
That was the sword of America.
And now, the hilt of that sword was in his hand... Three days later, the news broke.
In a public letter to a friend, General Grant implicitly stated: "If the people require it, I shall obey the order."
This short sentence swept through the Republican Party like a storm.
Those centrists who were still on the fence quickly leaned toward Grant.
Because everyone knew that no politician's prestige could compare to that of a war hero.
But that wasn't enough.
To secure victory before the official National Convention, the Republican National Committee decided to hold an "internal primary debate" in Washington.
This was a special kind of "talent show."
There were no ordinary voters, only party bigwigs, governors, congressmen, and those Republican donors.
Washington National Theatre.
This grand theater was not staging an opera tonight, but the drama unfolding was more brilliant than any opera.
The theater entrance was crowded with luxury carriages.
Wealthy men from New York, Boston, and Chicago, dressed in tailcoats and accompanying their jewelry-clad wives, stepped onto the red carpet and into the hall.
This wasn't for art; it was for placing bets.
The symbol of the Republican Party is the elephant.
And tonight, this was the elephant's circus.
Felix sat in the second-floor box with the best view. Beside him sat the representative of the Vanderbilt family and a child of the Astor Family.
"That's Colfax."
William Vanderbilt pointed to the man on the left side of the stage, who was shaking hands with people and grinning broadly.
"That smiling tiger. I heard he promised tax cuts for Western farmers. Hmph, if taxes are cut, who will build the railroads?"
"Don't worry," Felix said indifferently, "he won't be smiling for much longer."
In the center of the stage, the lights came on.
The chairman of the Republican National Committee stepped onto the stage and tapped his gavel.
"Gentlemen! Tonight, we shall hear from several distinguished Republicans regarding their visions for the future of this great nation!"
Thunderous applause erupted.
The first to take the stage was Schuyler Colfax.
He was a natural orator, with a booming voice and expressive gestures.
"We must continue the revolution!"
Colfax waved his fist passionately.
"We must thoroughly eradicate the roots of rebellion in the South! We must give land to every person who has gained their freedom! More importantly, we must let the flag of the Union fly over every inch of land!"
His speech was full of passion, and the representatives of the Radicals applauded wildly below the stage.
But in the second-floor boxes, the wealthy men frowned.
"Too noisy," a banker complained.
"If we keep having revolutions, Southern cotton won't be grown. What we need is to restore production, not to burn the South to ashes."
Next to the stage was Salmon Chase.
He was the typical intellectual, wearing glasses and holding a thick manuscript.
"According to the legal spirit of the Fourteenth Amendment..." Chase began a long-winded analysis of legal provisions, moving from Roman law to the Federalist Papers.
The audience below began to yawn, and some even took out their pocket watches.
"Ha... is he giving a lecture?" Felix mocked. "A president is for making decisions, not for teaching school."
Finally, it was Grant's turn.
When that short man in civilian clothes, looking slightly constrained, walked onto the stage, the entire hall suddenly fell silent.
Grant had no manuscript in his hand. He stood there as if inspecting a front line.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady.
"I think we have fought enough."
Only this one sentence, yet it hit everyone's heart like a heavy hammer.
"The war is over. The soldiers have gone home. We need to build houses, plant crops, and build railroads."
Grant looked at the expectant eyes below the stage.
"Let us have peace."
This was his most famous campaign slogan in history.
No flowery rhetoric or complex legal jargon, just these few words.
Thunderous applause erupted from the audience.
Not just the Radicals, but even the conservatives and the wealthy were all applauding.
Because peace meant business.
It meant no more destruction, only construction.
"I've decided on him."
Felix, who was already prepared, stood up in the box and took the lead in applauding.
Seeing Felix, the military industry tycoon, take such an attitude, the surrounding wealthy men felt that what Grant said was perfectly fine and nodded one after another.
"Peace is good," William Vanderbilt said with a smile.
"With peace, we can all make a fortune."
After the speeches, there was a lavish reception.
Grant was surrounded by people. But he didn't seem to enjoy it, merely shaking hands mechanically with a stiff smile on his face.
Felix held his glass and didn't approach, instead standing on the periphery watching Grant at the center of the crowd, along with Thomas Clark, who stood by Grant's side skillfully fending off unwanted attention and introducing donors.
"Look," Felix said to Frost beside him.
"The stage is set, the actors are in place. I think it's time for the audience to buy their tickets."
"For the next six months, we just need to watch this play unfold. We'll drown out those discordant voices, like that Democrat Seymour, with newspapers and money."
"Boss, do we need to give Colfax some 'compensation'? After all, he is the Speaker; we can't make it too embarrassing for him," Frost asked.
"No need," Felix sneered.
"That Credit Mobilier scandal... isn't it still suppressed in our hands? If he doesn't listen and tries to cause trouble, then detonate that mine. Let him know who the real master is."
The reception lasted late into the night.
When Felix walked out of the theater, the air in Washington seemed a bit fresher.
He looked up at the starry sky.
The election of 1868 had, on this night, effectively ended.
The remaining procedures were merely to print that pre-selected name on millions of ballots.
And the Argyle Family would ascend to the pinnacle of power in the United States along with those ballots.