May 23, 1868, New York.
Tammany Hall, the red brick building located on 14th Street, was currently in a state of revelry.
This was the stronghold of the Democratic Party and the actual control center of New York City's municipal politics.
The air was thick with the smell of strong whiskey and cigar smoke. Under the crystal chandeliers, dozens of tuxedoed, pot-bellied politicians held up wine glasses, the fat on their faces trembling with excitement.
William Tweed, known as "Boss Tweed," sat in the main seat. Wearing his famous diamond ring, he tapped on the newly delivered Washington Evening Star.
"He's leaving."
Tweed's voice was coarse, like iron scraping against sandpaper.
"That tall fellow from Illinois is finally willing to scurry back home. Two terms—he's actually only doing two terms."
"This is our chance from God, Boss!"
A pockmarked district leader nearby shouted excitedly.
"If Lincoln were running, we wouldn't stand a chance. That man's prestige is too high; even I'd want to vote for him. But once he's gone, the Republican Party will be a pile of loose sand!"
"Exactly, exactly, this is a golden opportunity."
Another municipal councilman in a striped waistcoat chimed in.
"Colfax is a radical madman, Chase is a nerd who only knows how to recite legal codes. As for that Grant... hmph, he's just a brute who only knows how to drink."
Tweed swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
"Don't underestimate Grant; he's a killing blade. However, a blade needs someone to hold it."
Tweed stood up, looking at the power-hungry faces in the hall.
"Gentlemen, get ready to work. We need to elect our own man. Governor Horatio Seymour is still hesitating; we need to give him a push. Tell him we can win this time. We're going to take back the White House, scrap those damn Reconstruction Acts, and get back the votes from those Southern states."
"For the White House!"
Everyone raised their glasses and cheered.
On the other side of the city, the atmosphere on the top floor of the Empire Building was completely different.
There was no noise or smell of alcohol, only the coldness and quiet of precision machinery in operation.
Felix had just returned from Washington.
He took off his coat stained with Southern dust and changed into a sharp dark gray suit.
"Boss, Mr. Fowler has arrived."
Frost pushed open the door and reported softly.
"Let him in."
A moment later, Vincent Fowler walked in. The head of the News Media Company looked even more grand now, but in this office, he still maintained the same humility he had back in Chicago.
"Boss, I heard there's big news from Washington?"
Fowler sat across from Felix and took out a notebook.
"President Lincoln plans to step down," Felix said directly.
"Tomorrow morning, or perhaps even tonight, this news will spread across the country."
"I know," Fowler nodded.
"Our telegraph operators received the news half an hour ago. I've already had the layout room leave the front page blank."
"No, it's not just about reporting Lincoln's departure."
Felix stood up and walked to the rows of massive filing cabinets.
"I want you to start creating a god."
"Creating a god?" Fowler was stunned for a moment.
"Grant."
Felix uttered the name. "Ulysses S. Grant. Starting tomorrow, I want all the newspapers under the Argyle Family—whether in New York, Chicago, Boston, or Philadelphia—to speak with one voice."
Felix held up a finger.
"First, downplay his military killings. Don't keep mentioning how many people died. Mention how he ended the war and how he let the soldiers go home. Shape him as the 'Bringer of Peace'."
"Second, emphasize his 'non-political' nature. People today are tired of those squabbling politicians in Washington. You need to tell the readers that Grant is a man of action, an honest man, someone who disdains playing power politics."
"Third..." Felix's eyes turned sharp.
"Attack the Democratic Party. Link them to chaos, riots, and the Southern rebels. Especially Tweed and his Tammany Hall in New York. It's a synonym for corruption."
Although Felix and Tweed were currently in a cooperative relationship, there was no need for politeness when it came to the presidential election.
Fowler recorded quickly, his pen scratching against the paper.
"Boss, about Grant... some say he's an alcoholic," Fowler reminded him. "The Democratic tabloids will definitely seize on that."
"Then make up stories," Felix said coldly.
"Say he drinks to ease the pain of old injuries, or just say it's a rumor. Find a few chaplains who served with him to swear that the general doesn't touch a drop."
Felix smiled.
"You can even write that he's not drinking alcohol, but some kind of... herbal tonic for health. Anyway, no one's going to check."
"Understood." Fowler closed his notebook. "This is called 'image rebranding'."
"Go. I want Grant's name on every American's breakfast table before the Republican Convention begins."
Fowler left, and Felix looked at Frost, who had been standing by.
"Frost, send a note to Hayes."
"The content?"
"Tell him to prepare cash. Plenty of cash." Felix looked out at Manhattan.
"The Republican Convention is being held in Chicago, which must be crawling with hungry wolves right now. We need to go feed them before that."
...Meanwhile, in a small tavern in Lower Manhattan.
It was the time when workers got off work, and the tavern was crowded with sweaty dockworkers and construction workers.
"Hey, did you hear? President Lincoln is stepping down!"
A young man with a newspaper jumped onto a table and read aloud.
"That's a good thing!"
An old man with an Irish accent slammed his beer mug onto the table.
"His Emancipation Proclamation caused our wages to drop! Those Black people are flooding into the city and stealing our jobs!"
"Shut up, Old Joe!"
A veteran with a missing leg nearby cursed.
"If it weren't for Lincoln, our country would have split in half. The pension I'm getting now was also approved by him. Besides, we Irish have it much better now under Mr. Argyle' leadership."
"Come off it, that's our tax money."
The two began to argue and even started pushing each other.
"Stop arguing!"
The tavern owner tapped the bar with a wooden club.
"I don't care who's president, as long as we have work to do and beer to drink."
"I heard that General Grant is going to run?" someone asked.
"Grant? That butcher?" Old Joe spat. "How many men did he send to their deaths at the Battle of Cold Harbor?"
"But he won, didn't he?" the veteran retorted.
"And the newspapers say he advocates for peace. He also wants to build railroads and houses. As long as he's there, those Southerners won't dare cause trouble again."
"Which newspaper said that?"
"The Daily Truth, Mr. Argyle' paper."
Hearing the name "Argyle," the tavern fell silent for a moment.
To these bottom-tier workers, this name was more substantial than the president.
Because the houses they lived in, the canned food they ate, and even the gas lamps lighting the room at this moment were all related to this name.
Even many of the workers were employed in the Argyle Family's factories.
"If it's someone Mr. Argyle supports..." Old Joe muttered, "then it's probably not bad. At least that guy never misses a payday."
The seeds of public opinion thus quietly sprouted amidst alcohol and sweat.
As the hub connecting the East and the West, Chicago became unusually restless during this season.
The Republican National Convention was held at the Crosby Opera House.
Outside the theater, crowds were packed together, holding up signs.
Inside the theater, three thousand delegates and spectators were crammed into every corner like sardines.
Since air conditioning did not yet exist in this era, the muggy heat of early summer combined with the body heat of thousands made the air inside thick and turbid.
In a VIP box on the second floor, Thomas Clark sat in the shadows, holding a folding fan, but it did nothing to alleviate the sweltering heat.
"How is the situation?"
Felix pushed open the door and entered.
He wore a light linen suit and looked a bit more refreshed than the others. Frost followed behind him, carrying a heavy leather suitcase.
"Oh, I must say, the scene is quite chaotic." Clark pointed toward the floor below.
"Colfax's people are handing out flyers everywhere, promising more land subsidies to Western delegates. Chase's people are wooing conservatives from the New England region, saying Grant doesn't understand the Constitution."
"It seems they are still struggling."
Felix sat down and looked at the rostrum through binoculars.
"Is the New York delegation settled?"
"Of course... I mean, it's settled." Clark nodded.
"Senator Conkling has already spoken; all of New York's votes are going to Grant. But Ohio and Indiana are still wavering. Those are Colfax's home turfs."
"Frost."
Felix snapped his fingers.
Frost opened the suitcase. It wasn't filled with gold bars, but rather stacks of brand-new railroad bonds and land option certificates.
"Go tell the head of the Indiana delegation," Felix said flatly.
"The Argyle Family plans to build a new logistics distribution center in Indianapolis. It's expected to employ two thousand people. However..."
Felix paused.
"Whether this plan can be implemented depends on whether the future president supports railroad construction. I'm not sure if Mr. Colfax understands how business works."
"Alright Boss, I understand."
Frost closed the suitcase and turned to leave.
This was a blatant hint, or perhaps even a threat. But in the Gilded Age, this was the universal language of politics... in a corner of the hall.
Schuyler Colfax, the current Speaker of the House, was sweating profusely as he grabbed the hand of an Ohio delegate.
"Listen to me, Jack. Grant is just a soldier; what does he know about the economy? He'll only listen to those big capitalists! If you choose me, I guarantee you preferential treatment on agricultural tariffs!"
The delegate named Jack seemed somewhat distracted.
"Mr. Speaker, your proposal is very tempting. However..." Jack glanced at Minister Clark, who was chatting and laughing with several bankers not far away.
"But we need railroads. We need to ship our wheat out. Someone just told me that if Grant is elected, the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company will prioritize completing the branch line to our state this quarter."
"That's a bribe!" Colfax said, somewhat exasperated. "That's a rubber check from Argyle!"
"But Mr. Speaker, even a rubber check is worth more than your slogans." Jack pulled his hand back.
"Sorry, Speaker. I'm going over there to have a drink. I heard Mr. Argyle rented out the bar over there and is serving free champagne."
Colfax watched Jack's departing back and felt a surge of despair.
He turned his head and happened to meet Felix's gaze from the second-floor box.
Felix raised his glass and gave him a distant toast.
Colfax gritted his teeth. Given the current situation, he knew very well that he would likely lose.
But he would never admit to losing to Grant; rather, he was losing to the purse strings in that young man's hands... At three in the afternoon, voting began.
The gavel on the rostrum struck, and the hall instantly fell silent.
"Alabama?"
"All votes for Ulysses S. Grant!"
"California?"
"Grant!"
As the names of the states were called one by one, Grant's vote count snowballed rapidly. Chase and Colfax, who had originally wanted to compete, had pitifully low numbers.
When New York announced it was casting all its votes for Grant, the victory was sealed.
"Unanimous!"
The convention chairman shouted excitedly.
"After a fair and just vote by the convention, the Republican presidential candidate is—General Ulysses S. Grant!"
Immediately following was a deafening roar of cheers.
The band struck up 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic.' Huge banners hung from the ceiling, bearing the famous slogan:
"Let Us Have Peace."
In the second-floor box, Felix put down his binoculars.
"It's over," he said to Clark. "No, I should say it has begun."
"Next is the vice-presidential nomination."
Clark adjusted his tie, an expectant look appearing on his face.
"Go ahead, Thomas." Felix patted him on the shoulder.
"That is your stage; don't forget our agreement."
Clark nodded and walked out of the box, stepping firmly toward the rostrum.
Meanwhile, in another room not far away, General Grant was sitting on pins and needles. He hadn't gone to the floor, but was hiding in a lounge smoking.
The door was pushed open, and Felix walked in.
"General, congratulations."
"They chose me?"
Grant didn't show much joy; instead, he let out a sigh.
"It seems my good days are over."
"Don't be like that; it's a responsibility, General." Felix handed him a glass of water.
"Besides, this is only the nomination. The real battle is in November. The Democratic Party won't give up easily."
"Who will they put forward?" Grant asked.
"According to my intelligence, they are preparing to put forward Horatio Seymour, that Governor of New York. He's a tough nut to crack—opposes Reconstruction and supports the South," Felix analyzed. "But he has a weakness. His attitude during the Civil War was ambiguous, and he even sympathized with the draft riots."
"Holy shit, then he's a traitor." A spark of anger flashed in Grant's eyes.
"Exactly. We will seize upon that," Felix said. "Since you are the symbol of peace, he is the symbol of division. This election will be a second referendum on the Civil War."
Grant stood up, threw his cigarette butt on the floor, and crushed it.
"Fine. Since I'm on this pirate ship... no, since I've accepted the mission, then let's fight this battle well. Felix, perhaps you can tell me what I need to do."
"You don't need to do anything." Felix smiled at the words.
"Go back to your old home in Galena, sit on the porch and smoke, and hug your kids. Maintain mystery and silence. For now, you don't need to give speeches or debate."
"Leave the rest to me, to the newspapers, and to Clark."
This was the prelude to the famous 'Front Porch Campaign' strategy. Keep the hero on the pedestal; don't let him descend and be stained by the soil of the mortal world.
Grant looked at Felix and nodded.
"You are a terrifying man, Argyle. But I'm glad you're on my side.".
July 1868, New York.
Just one month after the Republican Convention concluded, the Democratic Party also held its National Convention in New York.
Compared to the orderliness of the Republican Party (or rather, the orderliness imposed by capital control), the Democratic Convention appeared chaotic.
Tammany Hall was a scene of rowdy arguments.
Southern delegates demanded the abolition of the Reconstruction Acts and the restoration of white rule.
However, Northern delegates feared this would provoke the voters.
Meanwhile, Western delegates were calling for the issuance of more paper money to alleviate debt.
In short, the three factions argued incessantly, failing to reach even a basic consensus.
Fortunately, as the Republican power was too immense, they knew they had to band together to survive.
Thus, after a month of repeated discussions, they finally decided to put forward Horatio Seymour; after all, he was suitable—though corruption flourished under his leadership in New York State, it had indeed developed well.
So, after twenty-two rounds of voting, they finally compromised on a candidate: Horatio Seymour.
Actually, Seymour himself didn't really want to run.
Because he knew that the chances of winning against Grant were slim.
But he had no choice; under the forceful nomination of Tweed and other party bosses, he was forced to accept the nomination.
"Oh my god, this is a suicide charge."
After accepting the nomination, Seymour spoke somewhat distressedly to a friend in private.
"I really don't know what they're thinking. Knowing we can't compete with the Republicans, they still push me forward. Perhaps they just need a scapegoat?"
Although Seymour was very reluctant, once the campaign machine started, it couldn't be stopped.
In August, the campaign reached a fever pitch.
In a small town square in Indiana.
At night, torches illuminated the square. A parade of veterans was marching. They wore old military uniforms, held portraits of Grant, and sang military songs loudly.
This was the Republican 'Veterans Club.'
At the front of the procession, a local Republican congressman sat on a carriage decorated with ribbons.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tell me, who gave us peace?"
The congressman shouted through a megaphone.
"Grant!" the crowd responded.
"Who wants to divide our country again?"
"The Democrats!"
"Who wants to let those rebels back into Congress?"
"Seymour!"
This simple call-and-response was highly inflammatory.
On the edge of the crowd, several young people holding special editions of The Daily Truth were distributing newspapers for free.
The front page featured a cartoon: General Grant stood like a mountain guarding the Union flag, while Seymour was depicted as a villain hiding in a gutter with a dagger, flanked by several slave owners waving whips.
"Mom, is that a bad man?"
A little girl pointed at the cartoon and asked curiously.
"Yes, dear," the mother said, holding her child's hand.
"If your father doesn't vote for Grant, the bad men will burn our house down."
Fear.
Felix knew well that besides hope, fear was the best catalyst for votes.
Thus, in the propaganda war, he also had people instill fear regarding Democratic policies.
After all, everyone was living quite well under Republican policies, so why choose the uncertain Democratic Party?
Not to mention everyone knew it was the Democrats who wanted to split the country back then, leading to hundreds of thousands of deaths.
This was the original sin of the Democratic Party, even if the current Democrats had long since broken away from those who split the nation.
But who cared? It's your fault for also being called the Democratic Party!
...Meanwhile, in Felix's study on Fifth Avenue in New York, a massive map of America hung on the wall.
The map was covered with small red and blue flags.
Red represented the Republican Party, and blue represented the Democratic Party.
Hayes was standing on a ladder, adjusting the positions of the flags based on the latest telegrams.
"Boss, Pennsylvania is secure," Hayes said.
"We've mobilized all the coal miners and railroad workers there. The foremen told them that if the Democrats come to power, tariffs will drop, cheap British coal and steel will flood in, and everyone will lose their jobs."
"Well done," Felix said, looking at the map. "What about Indiana?"
"This... the situation might be a bit difficult," Frost reported from the side.
"As you know, it's a swing state. The Democrats there are promising to issue more paper money, and the farmers there find that very appealing."
"It's still a matter of money." Felix took a checkbook out of his drawer.
"Allocate another fifty thousand dollars to the Indiana Campaign Committee. Tell them to hire more carriages to bring farmers from remote farms to the polling stations. Also, set up free beer stands at the entrance of every polling station."
Felix thought for a moment and added: "Oh right, remember to have the Laughlin factory put on a big fireworks display there. On the night before the vote. Put 'Grant's' name up in the sky."
"Understood."
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
Fowler walked in, looking tired, but his eyes were filled with excitement.
"Boss, the Democrats have made a blunder. Seymour's running mate, Blair, actually said in a speech yesterday that he would use the military to overthrow the Reconstruction governments in the South."
"Ha!" Felix laughed out loud. "What a brainless statement."
"Print that quote on the front page as soon as possible. Use the largest bold font," Felix ordered.
"This kind of speech is completely mindless; it's equivalent to telling everyone that the Democratic Party wants to start a second civil war."
"But Northerners don't want to fight anymore; this sentence might just be the final shovelful of dirt to bury them."
Fowler took the order and left.
Felix walked to the map, pulled out several blue flags from swing states, and replaced them with red ones.
Looking at that sea of red on the map, Felix felt a thrill of total control.
This wasn't just about electing a president; it was about choosing the future business environment.
Grant taking office meant high tariffs, railroad subsidies, and the gold standard, though controversial, it was beneficial in the long run, meaning the expansion of the Argyle Family empire would face no political obstacles.
"Get the champagne ready, Edward."
Felix turned to look at the night outside the window.
"By November, the entire country will be our hunting ground."
Meanwhile, in far-off Galena, Illinois, General Grant was exactly as Felix described, sitting on his porch, smoking a cigar, and reading the praise for him in the newspapers without saying a word.
He didn't even need to travel around giving speeches like the Democratic candidate.
Because money and public opinion were speaking of his achievements and greatness for him.
This made Grant feel quite good; doing nothing, the presidential throne would automatically be placed beneath him.