Mid-June.
Argyle University welcomed its first batch of a thousand locally recruited students.
Outside the campus gates, all kinds of carriages were parked, and there were even quite a few students who carried shabby rattan suitcases and walked over from the train station on foot.
Compared to those European professors who sat in offices, wore exquisite swallow-tailed coats, and held bone world coffee cups in their hands,
This batch of young American students seemed a bit too "rough".
In the plaza in front of the administration building.
Thomas, a young boy from a farm in Ohio, was curiously looking around at the magnificent red-brick buildings. He was wearing coarse cloth overalls, and his hands were covered with calluses and engine oil stains left from years of repairing agricultural steam tractors.
"Good lord, this place is even more magnificent than the church in our town." Thomas said to the boy next to him.
That boy was named David, coming from a steelworker family in Pittsburgh. He nodded with deep empathy: "If it weren't for the Argyle Foundation providing a full scholarship and covering food and lodging, my old man would definitely kick me into the blast furnace workshop to shovel coal, making it impossible for me to continue going to college."
Among this batch of students, only a minority were rich kids from Boston or New York. The vast majority were young people like Thomas and David who came from lower-class worker and peasant families, but showed a certain talent in machinery, mathematics, or natural science.
Well, most of them were outstanding graduates from Argyle Middle School.
This was the admissions strategy deliberately designed by Felix.
He didn't need those aristocratic young masters who could only recite Latin sonnets. What he wanted were practical talents who could endure hardship, skillfully operate lathes, and had an extreme desire to change their destiny.
For these things, layouts were made several years ago.
At this moment, on the balcony of the second floor of the administration building.
Felix and Principal Armand were standing side by side, overlooking the bustling new students in the plaza below.
"Mr. Argyle, the foundation of this batch of students is a bit poor."
Principal Armand looked at the summary report of the entrance test in his hands, his brows tightly locked.
"I just looked at their report cards. Over sixty percent of them can't even calculate the most basic calculus. Their scores in Latin, theology, and classical philosophy are almost zero. If judged by the standards of European universities or Harvard or Yale, these people couldn't even step into the threshold of a university."
"Mr. Principal."
Felix put his hands on the stone railing of the balcony, his tone exuding overbearing dominance.
"That's a decadent rule. In my university, Latin and theology don't even have the qualification to become elective courses."
Felix turned his head and looked at Armand.
"Temporarily weed out all classical courses from the curriculum! We don't need to train pastors, nor do we need to train politicians who can only talk big. I want you to focus all the courses on metallurgy, mechanical engineering, applied chemistry, and electrical engineering!"
"But some people don't even know calculus, how can we teach them advanced physics?" Armand asked back.
"Then open preparatory classes, find the best teachers to teach by rote! If they can't be taught in one month, teach them for two months!"
Felix pointed at those young people wearing coarse cloth clothes below.
"Did you see those farm boys with calloused hands? They might not understand calculus, but they can take apart a malfunctioning steam engine and put it back together with their eyes closed! European professors possess the world's top theoretical brains, and these American boys possess the world's strongest hands-on ability."
Felix's eyes flickered with visions for the future.
To be honest, Felix didn't hold too much hope for the first few batches of trainees; after all, their previous foundational study and atmosphere were indeed not as good as Europe's.
"Your task is to combine these two. Make those proud old European men stand on the podium, and forcefully cram the theories in their heads into the heads of these boys. Then let these boys enter the laboratory, turning theories into blueprints, and into roaring machines in factories!"
Felix's words completely set the tone for Argyle University.
This was not a traditional ivory tower, but an "arsenal" that continuously supplied senior engineers and technical backbones for the commercial empire of the Argyle Family.
Although Principal Armand was a pure scholar, he also knew what terrifying power this extremely pragmatic educational model would erupt with in this industrial era.
"Alright, I understand. I will personally adjust the curriculum to ensure that they can understand complex engineering blueprints within a year."
"That's good."
Felix nodded with satisfaction.
"Leave the school matters to you. If there is any need, contact the Imperial Bank directly."
Having said that, Felix turned around and left the balcony, preparing to return to Manhattan.
Just as he had just walked to the lobby and was about to walk out of the front door,
A carriage hanging the emblem of the Argyle Family slammed on the brakes in front of the front gate.
Frost jumped down from the carriage, not even taking care to tidy up his somewhat messy suit, and trotted all the way to rush in front of Felix.
"Boss!"
Frost's expression was a bit ugly, holding a top-secret telegram sealed with three red sealing waxes in his hand.
"Something happened."
Felix stopped his steps, and the gentleness belonging to the academic sponsor on his face instantly vanished without a trace.
"South America?" Felix asked in a deep voice.
"Yes, South America."
Frost pursed his lips and lowered his voice.
"Our security team at the Argentine port was armed-attacked yesterday. It doesn't look like ordinary warlords, Barings Bank has gone completely crazy! They not only hired the Gauchos on the Pampas grassland, but even managed to get a fully armed regular army deserter squad from somewhere! The opponent has several muzzle-loading field guns!"
Frost handed the telegram to Felix.
"Although our Gatling Gun suppressed the enemy's infantry charge, the temporary warehouse at the port was directly hit by a shell. The first batch of railroad ties and several road-repairing machines shipped there were completely blown up. President Bill sent an urgent telegram over there, requesting approval to use naval guns to counterattack, and requesting immediate reinforcement of heavy land firepower support."
Felix took the telegram.
Turning his head, he glanced at the quiet and hopeful university campus under the sunlight. Young students were chatting happily on the lawn, and professors were walking into classrooms with books clipped under their arms.
This was a gorgeous picture scroll belonging to civilization.
But Felix knew that the foundation of civilization was always cast from gold and blood.
"Go back first."
Felix gave orders while walking.
"Send someone to telegraph Frank of Vanguard Military Industry, and directly load that batch of new breech-loading steel cannons ready for delivery in the warehouse onto the ship for me. Since Barings Bank wants to play..."
Sitting into the carriage, the killing intent in Felix's eyes burst out like substance.
"Then in South America, build them a graveyard big enough. Let those rats know that the Argyle Family can also settle accounts with cannonballs!"
Whitneyville, Connecticut.
The largest manufacturing base of Vanguard Military Industry was situated at the bend of this river.
Vast rows of red-brick workshops stretched endlessly, and towering chimneys spewed black soot into the sky day and night.
The air was forever suffused with the pungent stench of sulfur and engine oil, along with the scorching smell of metal melting under high temperatures.
This was the core source of violent output for the Argyle Family.
Frank Cole walked down the aisle of the artillery general assembly workshop.
As the new president of Vanguard Military Industry, he had been managing its daily operations in the capacity of president for half a year.
After becoming president, he did not stay in a comfortable office, but instead habitually patrolled the workshops.
"Clang! Clang!"
A huge steam forging hammer was rhythmically pounding red-hot steel ingots, its every rise and fall causing the floor of the entire workshop to tremble.
Frank stopped in front of a row of newly assembled artillery pieces.
These were twelve of the latest breech-loading steel cannons, their barrels exuding a cold blue-black sheen, and their complex screw breech mechanisms wiped impeccably clean.
Workshop foreman Benson hurried over with a checklist, leaned close to Frank's ear, and shouted loudly, trying to drown out the roar of the machines.
"Mr. President. These twelve 12-pound breech-loading cannons have completed their bore pressure tests and are ready to be crated at any time. The receiving commissioners from the War Department in Washington will bring people to pick up the goods next week, and our batch of orders is considered completed three days ahead of schedule."
Frank nodded with satisfaction and reached out to pat the cold cannon barrel.
Under his management, the factory was operating efficiently as ever.
Just as he was about to open his mouth to praise Benson a few words, the telegraph operator ran in from outside the workshop gates.
After glancing around, clutching a red telegram paper in his hand, he hurriedly pushed through the handcarts loaded with brass shell casings and rushed straight in front of Frank.
"Mr. President, a top-level urgent telegram from the New York headquarters. Sent personally by Secretary-General Frost!"
Frank's expression instantly sank.
It seemed that something bad or urgent had happened.
One must know that unless an extremely major upheaval had occurred, the headquarters would never mobilize this red highest-privilege channel.
He snatched the telegram paper and unfolded it directly on the tool workbench beside the artillery.
The text on the telegram was very brief, but it exuded a suffocating smell of blood and an unquestionable will.
?South America attacked, immediately intercept all active heavy firearms in the warehouse. Immediately crate and prepare for transport all remaining breech-loading steel cannons and Gatling Guns in the factory, with five times the base ammunition. Wait for subsequent personnel to rendezvous. —— A. W.?
Frank's gaze stared at the two letters "A. W.", which were the initials of the boss, Felix Argyle.
So something had happened in South America.
Frank's brain began to spin at high speed.
He folded the telegram paper and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his coat. He turned around and roared loudly.
"Benson!"
"Stop the sealing procedures for these twelve artillery pieces immediately. Push them back into the No. 2 secret warehouse."
Foreman Benson froze for a moment, glanced again at those already wiped-clean artillery pieces, and rubbed his hands somewhat troubledly.
"But President, the people from the War Department are coming to pick up the goods next week. The delivery order was personally signed by the Secretary of War. If we fail to deliver the goods, those Washington bureaucrats will definitely make trouble."
"Bullshit! Then let them come looking."
Frank rudely interrupted him, displaying the confidence of Vanguard Military Industry as the arms overlord of the United States.
"At that time, you will go and tell those bureaucrats that we discovered minor trachoma defects in the casting of this batch of steel during the final flaw detection test. For the life safety of the United States artillerymen, this batch of artillery must all be remelted and rebuilt. The delivery date is postponed. If they dare to complain, tell them to go elsewhere to buy muzzle-loading scrap metal!"
Benson swallowed a mouthful of saliva and immediately nodded.
The president is so domineering!
"Understood, President. I'll have someone push the artillery away right away."
"Fack! Wait, it's not over yet." Frank called him to a stop.
"Go to the ammunition workshop. Take stock of all the inventory of 12-pound explosive shells, shrapnel, and.45 caliber machine gun bullets. I don't care what the previous production plan was; starting from now, the ammunition workshop will operate on three shifts. Within three days, I want to see ammunition bases sufficient to fight a campaign fully packed into waterproof wooden boxes. Do you hear clearly?"
"Heard clearly! Guaranteed completion!"
Perhaps sensing the oppressive atmosphere of war, Benson immediately turned and ran off to make arrangements.
Frank left the noisy workshop alone and returned to the president's office on the second floor via the iron stairs.
Closing the door, he shut out the noise from outside. He walked over to the desk and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee.
Taking a sip of the bitter coffee, Frank walked over to a huge map of the Americas hanging on the wall. His gaze crossed the equator and landed on the territories of Argentina and Brazil in South America.
The boss was going to start a war in South America.
Frank was a pragmatic person.
He knew that shipping the artillery and machine guns over was only the first step; those cold lumps of steel would not fire on their own.
In that barren land of South America, having weapons alone was useless when facing local bullies and desperados; there had to be cold-blooded and professional enough people to pull the triggers.
Then, where would the boss transfer people from?
Silas had just made a mistake in the South, and his subordinates were all guarding slaves—oh no, guarding the plantation—with not much combat effectiveness.
Those shipboard guards of Metropolitan Trading Company?
It didn't seem right either; they should be the ones who got beaten in South America this time, right?
The security over in New York was even less possible.
Those were all protecting the boss and the old nest, and could not be mobilized at all.
Frank's gaze moved all the way up from the south on the map, finally stopping on the Nevada desert in the American Midwest.
Then, there was only one answer!
Currently, in the hands of the entire Argyle Family, all the elite troops that were still continuously seeing blood, fighting hard battles, and possessing structured combat capability were in the hands of Miller, the president of Saineng Mining Company.
Those were killing machines forged through real swords and guns in the wilderness of the western states fighting against indians, fierce bandits, and mercenaries from other mining companies.
"The boss will definitely draw personnel from Miller."
Frank firmly came to this conclusion in his heart.
After figuring it out, he walked over to the desk, pulled open the drawer, and took out a sheet of telegram paper.
As an old subordinate who used to work under Miller, Frank deeply understood his old superior's current situation.
Miller was currently leading the main security force of Cygnus Mining, frantically encircling and occupying mines around Nevada and Colorado, suppressing local tyrants, and his defensive pressure was somewhat heavy.
Even earlier when it seemed something happened to the railway over there, the old superior complained that he had hired local bounty hunters to help.
If headquarters suddenly issued an emergency transfer order now and forcibly pulled away a batch of elites, the old superior's defensive pressure would instantly become tight, and unnecessary casualties and turmoil might even occur.
"I must give him a heads-up first to give him some leeway to prepare."
Frank picked up the dip pen and quickly wrote a line of encrypted telegram on the paper.
To Miller, President of Cygnus Mining,
South America is on fire, headquarters has ordered me to withhold heavy firepower for war preparation. The wind direction is definitely pointing south. Old superior, retract your defense line in advance and prepare personnel. —— Frank.
After writing, Frank personally took the telegram and walked out of the office.
"Send this directly to the Cygnus Mining command headquarters in Nevada via our independent encrypted line. Be sure to deliver it into the hands of President Miller himself."