New Jersey, Lex Steel Company headquarters.
A fine, freezing rain drifted down, landing on the towering chimneys and black factory roofs of the steel plant with a rustling sound.
The air around was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur dioxide.
It made one feel a wave of discomfort.
In the office of the Lex Steel president, William Coleman stood before a sand table model.
It was the blueprint for the next phase of the Lex Steel plant's expansion.
Beside him stood a local banker, Mr. Horace, who owned several hundred acres of barren land next to the steel plant.
"My God, President Coleman, I must say, your grand vision is admirable."
Horace pointed at the wooden blocks representing new blast furnaces on the sand table, a fawning smile plastered on his face.
"That plot of land, right next to the railway, can be broken ground tomorrow if you just sign. For only five hundred thousand dollars, you can secure Lex Steel's expansion and a continuous stream of steel orders in the future. I think this is definitely a worthwhile deal."
Coleman held a gold-plated steel pen in his hand, his gaze sweeping over the land purchase contract.
He was indeed very anxious.
General Electric's power plant construction was progressing at an astonishing speed, and the demand for steel had already caused the existing blast furnaces to operate at overcapacity.
Therefore, he needed to expand Lex Steel's output as quickly as possible.
Just as the pen tip was about to touch the paper, the office door was roughly pushed open.
Coleman's chief secretary, a young man who always maintained his composure, was now running breathlessly, clutching a yellow telegram paper in his hand.
"Mr. President!"
The secretary didn't even knock, bursting straight in.
"Urgent telegram from New York! Highest priority!"
Coleman frowned.
Knowing the gravity of the situation, he put down his pen and took the telegram.
His gaze lingered on the message for a full minute, and the smile on Horace's face gradually froze.
Because he saw the steel magnate's expression change from anticipation to solemnity, finally settling into deep sternness.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Horace."
Coleman folded the telegram, tucked it into his jacket pocket, his tone becoming stiff.
"It seems this deal has to be canceled."
"Huh? Canceled?"
Horace's eyes widened, as if he had heard an absurd joke.
"Wait, Mr. Coleman, are you kidding? Didn't we settle all the details yesterday? And your engineers have even measured the boundary. Why the sudden cancellation?"
"I apologize, due to a company strategic adjustment."
Coleman offered no further explanation; he didn't even look at Horace's somewhat angry face.
"Not only is the land purchase deal canceled, but the expansion plan for Workshop No. 3 is also immediately frozen. Show him out."
Ignoring Horace's protests, the secretary escorted the banker out of the office.
After the door closed, Coleman walked to the window.
He looked at the blast furnaces in the distance, spewing out scorching flames.
Those flames were incredibly dazzling under the gloomy sky.
He knew the weight of that telegram.
The order to halt capital expenditures meant that the 'King' who commanded everything in New York was clenching his fist.
"It seems something has happened; we need to prepare for defense."
Coleman murmured to his reflection in the glass window.
He knew that if something very important hadn't happened, the Boss would never have allowed them to abandon development and contract funds.
Then he immediately turned and walked to his desk, picking up the internal phone receiver.
"Connect me to the Finance Department. Freeze all liquid funds on the books. Stop paying prepayments to raw material suppliers; delay as much as possible. Sell all steel rail inventory for cash; no bills of exchange of any kind will be accepted. I want to hear the sound of gold coins clinking in the vault!"
...
Meanwhile.
Pennsylvania, Titusville oil field.
Black oil, like the blood of some subterranean monster, gushed from the towering wooden derricks, staining the surrounding land and the workers' clothes black.
Standard Oil Company General Manager Peter Jenkins stood in ankle-deep mud.
He wore high rubber boots and held a production report. Around him was the deafening roar of steam pumpjacks.
OMalley, the drilling captain, his face smeared with oil, was reporting to Jenkins.
"Mr. General Manager, exploration well number three has struck oil! The flow is astonishing! As long as we invest another hundred thousand dollars to purchase seamless steel pipes to lay to the storage tanks, this well can bring us at least twenty thousand barrels of output every month!"
OMalley excitedly waved his oil-stained hat.
However, Jenkins did not show the expected excitement.
Because in his overcoat pocket, he also carried a coded telegram from New York.
"Seal the wellhead first."
Jenkins calmly gave the order.
OMalley was stunned, thinking he had misheard over the roar of the steam engine.
"Seal it? Sir, that's flowing gold in there! If we don't connect the pipes quickly, the pressure will make oil spray everywhere!"
"Then pour cement down to hold the pressure."
Jenkins' voice was as cold as a Pennsylvania winter night.
"I don't care how much oil that damned well can produce right now, OMalley. What matters now is the money in hand."
Jenkins turned around, looking at the dense array of derricks.
"Stop all new oil well exploration and drilling work, and disband the redundant exploration teams. Keep the core pumping equipment running."
Jenkins instructed his assistant behind him.
"Also, notify our distributors."
A ruthless glint flashed in Jenkins' eyes.
"From tomorrow, 'Blue Can' kerosene wholesale will only accept payment in gold or federal cash. Refuse to accept any credit notes issued by local banks. If they cannot produce real gold and silver, they won't get a single drop of oil."
The assistant quickly took notes, somewhat hesitant.
"Sir, this will cause us to lose many customers. Some competitors might take the opportunity to seize market share."
"Let them seize it."
Jenkins stepped over a mud pit and walked towards his carriage.
"When those competitors' hands are filled with a pile of bank notes that could turn into waste paper at any moment, they will understand what true despair is."
Jenkins boarded the carriage, watching the black derricks stand silently under the gloomy sky.
From the cotton fields in the south, to the steel mills of New Jersey, and then to the oil fields of Pennsylvania.
The entire Argyle Empire, like a prehistoric beast sensing an impending earthquake, was slowly and firmly contracting its massive body.
It stopped feeding, held its breath, and drew all its blood back to its heart.
Beneath this seemingly calm surface, everyone in the upper echelons clearly felt the suffocating tension.
Felix was waiting.
Waiting for that signal from across the ocean, waiting for the storm that was about to tear apart the entire American financial world.
Washington D.C., the White House.
Mist from the Potomac River condensed into a gloomy rain and fog, enveloping the neoclassical building.
In the fireplace of the Oval Office, oak logs crackled as they burned.
Ulysses S. Grant sat behind a large desk.
The general, who once remained unfazed during the Siege of Vicksburg, now tightly gripped a letter bearing the dual diplomatic seals of the French Republic and the British Empire.
The contents of the letter caused his knuckles to turn pale from the force of his grip.
Secretary of State Hamilton Fish stood before the desk.
His back was ramrod straight, and his hands were folded in front of him.
"Mr. Secretary."
Grant set the letter down, his gaze fixed on the inkwell on his desk.
"Are you certain this document represents the official stance of London and Paris? It looks more like a ransom note."
Fish bowed his head slightly.
"Mr. President, this letter was jointly delivered to the State Department at eight o'clock this morning by the British and French ministers. Although the drafter of the letter remains anonymous, the attached memorandum bears the seals of the Rothschild Family, Barings Bank, and the Morgan Syndicate. In Europe, the weight of these seals is equivalent to the keys to the national treasury."
Grant stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the gray lawn.
His expression was unreadable, shifting between light and shadow.
"They are demanding that I veto the railway safety and standardization act. The reasoning is that the act 'undermines the spirit of contract in a free market' and poses an 'unpredictable risk of confiscation' for European capital invested in North America. If I refuse to sign the veto..."
Grant turned around, his voice laced with suppressed fury.
"They will indefinitely cease underwriting the Federal Government's national debt. Furthermore, they will cut off credit lines for all infrastructure projects in North America. Fish, tell me, if they truly do this, how long can the Treasury Department's books hold out?"
Fish walked to the map and pointed at the railway lines extending toward the West.
"Perhaps no more than thirty days, Mr. President. The debts left by the Civil War require the constant issuance of new bonds to pay off the old. If the European syndicates refuse to underwrite and the bond auctions fail, the national treasury's gold reserves will face a run. At that point, the Federal Government will be unable to pay military wages or maintain the operation of state courts. Wall Street's credit system will collapse in an instant."
The office door was pushed open.
vice president and President of the Senate Thomas Clark walked in.
He had just finished the Senate's morning session, and rain still clung to the shoulders of his overcoat.
"I heard about the stir at the State Department."
Clark took off his coat, handed it to the secretary outside, and then shut the door tightly.
"The Europeans have made their move?"
Grant pushed the letter toward Clark.
"They haven't just made a move; they've put a gun directly to the Federal Government's head. Clark, this is the mess our 'good ally' Felix has created. To swallow up the Baltimore Railroad and force that damned Standard Gauge on everyone, he's drawn in all the European tigers!"
Clark picked up the letter and quickly scanned the text.
His expression remained calm, as if he had long anticipated this scene.
"Mr. President, please calm yourself. In my view, the essence of this letter has nothing to do with protecting the Baltimore Railroad. It's merely an excuse."
Clark set the letter down and walked to the fireplace to warm his cold hands.
"An excuse?" Grant stared at him.
"They're going to stop buying national debt; that's a threat to national security!"
"It is precisely because they feel threatened that they have issued such an ultimatum."
Clark turned around and looked Grant straight in the eye.
"The Argyle Family's 'General Electric' is laying power grids in major cities. His closed-loop system in steel, railways, and energy is already taking shape. The European capitalists are afraid. They fear that America will no longer be a colony for them to dump industrial goods and lend usury. They fear the rise of an independent industrial empire controlled by local magnates."
"And should we bear the cost of national bankruptcy for the sake of Argyle' private kingdom?"
Grant countered, striding up to Clark.
"I am the President of this nation; my primary duty is to ensure that the machinery of this country functions properly. If vetoing that act will make the Europeans bring their money back, I will use my presidential veto without hesitation."
Clark shook his head.
"If you back down now, Mr. President, you will lose far more than just a single act."
Clark walked to the desk and leaned on it with both hands.
"If you bow to this letter, you are announcing to the world that the domestic legislation of the United States of America requires the approval of bankers in London and Paris. You will become the first American president in history to be intimidated by foreign capitalists."
Grant's lips twitched, and he fell silent.
He was a soldier who valued honor above all else; Clark's words had clearly struck a nerve.
"Furthermore..." Clark continued to press his point.
"Do you think the Europeans will stop if you veto the act? No... they won't. They will only take an inch and ask for a mile. Today they demand a veto on the railway act; tomorrow they will demand lower tariffs; the day after, they will demand control over our customs. This is war, Mr. President. A war without smoke."
Fish interjected from the side.
"But Your Excellency, the vice president, honor cannot buy bread. If the treasury goes bankrupt, even the Washington police will go on strike. When that happens, the people's fury will burn down the White House. We must consider reality. Can Mr. Argyle fill the funding gap left by the European withdrawal?"
Clark did not answer immediately.
Although he knew Felix was consolidating funds, he didn't know exactly how massive that sum was.
"Mr. Argyle has his own plan of action."
Clark gave an ambiguous answer.
"A plan of action?" Grant sneered.
"I know the Argyle Family is wealthy, but can he stand against the capital of three nations? Clark, please tell Felix that I'm giving him twenty-four hours. If he cannot present a solution that convinces me, I will sign the veto order at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Then, I will send someone to the British Embassy to negotiate."
Grant sat back in his chair and dismissed them.
Even if he and Felix were allies, he could not allow the entire nation to be ruined because of him.
Clark did not argue further.
With a slight bow, he exited the Oval Office.
In the hallway, Anna Clark was waiting on a bench. Seeing her father emerge, she immediately went to meet him.
"What's the situation?" Anna asked in a low voice.
"Grant is wavering."
Clark led his daughter to a quiet spot at the end of the hallway.
"The Europeans' hand is too strong. Stopping the underwriting of national debt is equivalent to cutting the States's arteries. Grant has issued a twenty-four-hour ultimatum."
Anna's face was hidden behind a veil, but a cold light flashed in her eyes.
"Those old fogies in London have made a vicious move. To think they would use Washington's political power to suppress New York's commercial expansion."
"Have you contacted Felix?" Clark asked.
"I sent a coded telegram an hour ago, but there's been no reply from New York," Anna said, looking out at the curtain of rain.
"But I know him. No reply means he has already opened his pocket. He doesn't need Washington to negotiate; he just needs Washington to shut up."
"Shut up?"
Clark frowned.
"If the stock market crashes, no one will be able to shut up."
"Father, you should head back to the Senate first to keep the senators in line."
Anna straightened the collar of her coat.
"I'm going to the Treasury Department to see just how high a wave this cold wind from Europe can kick up on Wall Street."