May 1864, Chicago.
The headquarters building of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company stood on the shore of Lake Michigan, overlooking this transportation hub that was growing like weeds.
President Charles Reeves's office door was tightly shut, but the sounds of argument from within faintly penetrated the heavy oak door.
"Is that your reason, Mr. Carnegie?"
Reeves sat behind his desk, his fingers lightly tapping the surface, his gaze scrutinizing the short but imposing Scotsman opposite him.
"You just left Philadelphia, abandoned the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, and now you've come to us to sell your iron bridges?"
Andrew Carnegie did not sit down.
He stood there, holding a blueprint in his hand—his proud design for a keystone-style wrought iron truss bridge.
"A correction, Mr. Reeves."
"I haven't abandoned anyone; I've simply chosen to start my own business. As for why I've come to you..."
He spread the blueprint on the table.
"Because you need it. The Mississippi and Eastern Railroad is expanding into Iowa and Nebraska. There are many rivers there, and while timber is cheap, it rots easily and is highly flammable. Your locomotives are getting heavier, and those damned wooden bridges won't last a few years."
"There are many companies that build iron bridges on the market," Reeves said indifferently.
"For example, several factories in Cleveland. Why should we buy from a company that was just established two months ago and is also hostile to Mr. Argyle?"
Carnegie raised his eyebrows.
"Mr. Reeves, business is business. I don't like Mr. Argyle's methods, but that doesn't prevent me from doing business with his company."
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table.
"As for why choose me? The reason is simple. Because my bridges are stronger than anyone else's. And..." He held up a finger, "My price is fifteen percent lower than those people in Cleveland."
"Fifteen percent?" Reeves was surprised.
This discount was almost suicidal in the low-margin manufacturing industry.
"How did you do it?"
"That's my secret."
Of course, Carnegie wouldn't tell him how he squeezed efficiency from his workers like a slave owner, or how he saved every pound of scrap by improving processes.
"You just need to know that signing this contract will save a large sum in railway construction costs. This money is enough for you to lay an additional ten miles of track."
Reeves fell silent. He was an engineer and a manager.
He knew Carnegie was telling the truth.
Keystone Company's offer was irresistibly tempting.
But he still hesitated.
"I need to consult Mr. Argyle about this," Reeves said. "After all, you are a special person."
"Go ahead."
Carnegie adjusted his collar, a confident smile on his face.
"I believe Mr. Argyle is a smart man and won't turn down money."
...Half an hour later, New York.
Felix couldn't help but laugh when he read the newly translated telegram.
"That little Scotsman," he said to Frost beside him. "He's trying to show me up, wanting to use my money to grow his own company."
"Boss, should we refuse him then?" Frost asked. "Show him some color? If we don't buy, his cash flow might run into trouble."
"No," Felix shook his head.
"Refusing him would be emotional; buying his bridges is business."
Felix walked to the window, looking out at the bustling street.
"Edward, you need to understand. Carnegie wants to seize the market with low prices, so let him. A fifteen percent discount means he's helping us bear the cost of railway construction. Since someone is willing to lose money to gain a reputation and pave the way for my expansion, why refuse?"
"But... once he gets big..."
"Once he gets big," a glint flashed in Felix's eyes, "Lax Steel will also be in mass production by then. At that time, every ton of steel he uses to build bridges will have to be bought from me. Every penny he earns from me now will eventually, principal and interest, turn into payment for steel, returning to my pocket."
"It's a perfect closed loop."
Felix turned around and picked up a pen to write a reply on the telegram paper.
"Approve the purchase. If the quality is satisfactory, a long-term supply agreement can be signed."
He paused, then added a sentence.
"Also, tell Reeves to convey to Mr. Carnegie that I greatly admire his pragmatic spirit. I look forward to deeper cooperation in steel supply in the future."
********
Chicago.
When Reeves read Felix's reply and that meaningful message, Carnegie's face did not show the joy of victory.
On the contrary, his expression became more solemn.
He understood Felix's hint.
It was the gaze of a hunter at his prey.
Argyle was telling him: go ahead and jump now; you'll still end up in my bowl eventually.
"Steel..."
Carnegie gritted his teeth, repeating the word in a low voice. He knew this was his weak spot.
No matter how good his bridges were, without cheap steel, he would always be just a processor, not a master.
"Tell Mr. Argyle."
Carnegie looked up, his eyes sharp again.
"I will look forward to that day. But by then, it's hard to say who will be whose customer."
He grabbed the signed contract and walked out of the office without looking back.
In the corridor, Carnegie tightly clutched the fifty-thousand-dollar order.
His knuckles were white from gripping it so hard.
"Just you wait," he said to himself. "One day, I will make my own steel. I will turn this money into the cornerstone that buries your empire."
...Meanwhile, in the distant South.
Texas, a desolate salt flat near Beaumont.
Bill, the president of Metropolitan Trading Company, sat in a dusty carriage, holding a piece of black mud that emitted a pungent odor.
Beside him was a one-armed geology enthusiast named Pattillo Higgins, a peculiar guide Bill had found locally.
Higgins pointed to the bubbling marshland beneath their feet, "Boss, are you really sure you want to buy this land? Not even grass grows here. There's nothing but mosquitoes and this foul-smelling black water."
"Buy it."
Bill threw the mud back into the swamp and wiped his hands.
"Not just this one. That small hillock called 'Spindletop' and all ten thousand acres surrounding it—buy them all."
"Ten thousand acres?" Higgins's eyes widened.
"That's throwing money into the water! Not even a single cow can be raised here!"
"This is Mr. Argyle's order."
Bill took out a thick stack of dollar Bills, which he had exchanged through underground channels in New Orleans.
"He wants what's beneath this land."
"Beneath?" Higgins looked at the ground in confusion. "What else could be underground besides salt?"
Bill didn't explain.
Because even he didn't fully understand what that black fuel Felix spoke of was. But he remembered Felix's serious gaze.
"Mr. Higgins," Bill looked at the passionate young man, "I heard you've always believed there's something underground here. Now someone is willing to pay you to dig. Are you willing to do it?"
"You mean... I have funding?" Higgins's breathing quickened.
"Yes, enough funding to dig through the Earth," Bill patted his shoulder.
"Starting today, you are the chief prospector of the 'Metropolitan Southern Land Development Company'. Keep a close eye on this land, and when the war ends..."
Bill looked north, in the direction of New York.
"The Boss said something more valuable than gold will gush out from here."
********
May 1864, New York.
At the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street, a shop that had been open for less than a week became the talk of the entire financial district.
On the huge floor-to-ceiling glass window, a striking line was painted in gold lacquer: "Standard Typewriter Company – The War Department's Only Choice."
The shop did not display expensive jewelry or silk, only two long rows of oak tables.
On the tables were twenty shiny black machines with brass keys.
In front of each machine sat a specially trained young female demonstrator, another idea from Felix Argyle.
He believed that women's finger dexterity and patience were naturally suited for such precise operations.
At ten in the morning, the shop's door was pushed open.
Two middle-aged gentlemen in decent overcoats and carrying canes walked in.
The one on the left was slightly older, with graying temples; he was Charles Harper, a senior partner at "Harper & Brothers," a renowned Wall Street law firm. The one on the right was younger, with shrewd eyes, and was a junior partner at the firm.
"Is this the thing?"
Harper stopped in front of a machine, frowning as he scrutinized the iron contraption with its strange keyboard layout.
"It sounds like popping beans, too noisy."
The demonstrator did not stop her work because of the customer's pickiness.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, producing a series of crisp clicks.
"Mr. Harper," the younger partner urged, "the sound is a bit loud, but look at this."
He took a freshly printed sheet of paper from the demonstrator and handed it to Harper.
"This is a draft of a standard property transfer contract," the young man pointed to the paper.
"She only took five minutes for three hundred words. And look at the clarity. No ink blobs, no illegible flourishes. Every letter is as precise as the law itself."
Harper took the paper, pulled a monocle from his pocket, and examined it carefully.
"Five minutes?" he asked, somewhat doubtfully, "My scribes would at least drink two cups of coffee and sharpen their pens three times to write something like this."
"And they would misspell names," the young man added. "Last week, we almost lost that Jersey City lawsuit because Tom wrote a 'W' like an 'M'."
"That's because Tom is an idiot."
Harper snorted, but his gaze did not leave the paper.
"How much for one of these?"
"One hundred and twenty-five dollars, sir."
The shop's manager, a shrewd Irish young man, came forward.
"Includes one year of ribbon supply and on-site repair service."
"One hundred and twenty-five?" Harper took off his glasses. "That's enough to buy a good horse."
"It's also half a year's salary for your scribe, Tom," the manager replied with a smile.
"But this machine doesn't drink coffee, doesn't get sick, and doesn't write 'W' as 'M'. Secretary Stanton of the War Department bought five hundred of them in one go. He said it was the best deal the Federal Government had ever made."
At the mention of the War Department and Stanton, Harper's attitude visibly softened.
On Wall Street, following the government's choices was usually not wrong.
"Alright." Harper folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "Give me five. Send them to the firm. If those scribes can't learn to use these, I'll send them packing."
...Across the street, on the top floor of the Argyle Bank building.
Felix stood by the window, watching the two satisfied lawyers walk out of the shop with their order.
"It seems Wall Street is ready to accept new things," he said to Frost behind him.
"Yes, Boss."
Frost was organizing the week's sales report.
"Besides law firms, several large banks and shipping companies have also placed orders. Even Mr. Raymond, the editor-in-chief of The New York Times, bought one; he said he wanted to try writing editorials directly with it."
"That's good," Felix turned around. "Once they get used to this efficiency, they'll never go back to the age of quill pens."
"By the way, Boss."
Frost pulled a new report from his folder.
"Regarding the follow-up placement of the cloverleaf project. News from Mr. Jones is that most of the immigrants have adapted to their work. But..."
"But what?"
"But our 'appetite' has grown," Frost said with a wry smile.
"The New Jersey steel mill is a bottomless pit. Mr. Haas's rolling mill isn't even installed yet, and he's already crying about being short-handed. And the Pennsylvania mines, Mr. Miller says that with the extension of the narrow-gauge railway, he needs more miners to extract those deeply buried coal seams."
"Then keep shipping them."
Felix walked to the table and picked up his teacup.
"Have Finley increase publicity in Dublin. Tell Father Barry that whether they are farmers from County Cork or unemployed workers from Dublin, as long as they are strong and healthy, we will take them all."
Felix remembered something, "Also, have MacGregor speed up the construction of the 'Cloverleaf-class' ships. Relying on leased old cargo ships has limited capacity after all. We need bigger ships, ones that can transport a thousand people at a time."
"Understood."
...In the afternoon, Lower Manhattan.
The construction site of St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital.
After a winter of construction, the main structure of the hospital had been topped out.
The red brick exterior walls looked particularly solemn under the spring sun.
Although the interior decoration was still underway, the prototype of a modern hospital was already clearly visible.
Catherine O'Brien wore a dark work dress, her hair pinned back, looking capable and elegant.
She was standing in a newly tiled room, which would be the future first operating room.
Facing her were a dozen young women in black nun's habits. They were the first batch of students for the "Argyle Nursing School," personally selected by Archbishop Hughes.
"Sisters," Catherine's voice was soft, but with an undeniable firmness, "I know that in your habits, caring for the sick means praying, feeding water, and wiping sweat."
She walked to the wall and opened a brass faucet.
Clear tap water gushed out, flowing into the white ceramic sink below.
"But here, caring for the sick first means cleanliness."
"You've all heard Dr. Thorne's lectures."
She pointed to a row of brown glass bottles on a shelf nearby.
"Those invisible little bugs are the biggest killers of patients. Prayer can save the soul, but only carbolic acid and iodoglycerol can save the body."
An older nun hesitantly raised her hand.
"But, Miss O'Brien. That medicine smells too pungent. And to cut open a wound on a patient... isn't that the doctor's job?"
"Doctors are responsible for making the cut, but you are responsible for ensuring his knife is not poisoned," Catherine looked at her.
"On future operating tables, you are the doctor's other hands. Handing forceps, stopping bleeding, suturing. Every action must be as precise as a machine, as pure as holy water."
"We are not nannies," Catherine surveyed the young faces. "We are warriors, warriors fighting with death for life."
The nuns exchanged glances.
This new concept challenged their traditional understanding.
But in Catherine's confident gaze, they saw something more powerful than mere compassion.
"We will try our best, miss," the older nun finally bowed her head, "For God."
"For life," Catherine corrected.
Walking out of the operating room, Catherine saw Felix, who had been waiting at the end of the corridor.
"Well said."
Felix stepped forward, smiling as he handed her a clean handkerchief.
"I almost want to sign up to be your student."
"Don't tease me," Catherine wiped the fine sweat from her forehead.
"It's harder to put science into these pious minds than to get Congress to pass a budget."
"But you did it."
Felix looked at the busy workers and the diligently learning nuns around them.
"This hospital will soon become a legend. Not just because of how many people it saved, but because it changed people's perception of saving lives."
"By the way," Catherine asked, "Is there any news from Washington? General Grant's offensive..."
Felix's smile faded slightly.
"It has begun," he looked south.
"A telegram received yesterday. The Potomac Corps has crossed the Rapidan River. They clashed with General Lee in the 'Wilderness'."
"How are things?"
"Very brutal," Felix's voice was low.
"It's jungle warfare. Artillery is hard to deploy; both sides are practically bayoneting each other in the woods. Forest fires killed many wounded soldiers."
Catherine's face paled slightly.
Felix held her hand, "Secretary Stanton said our modified cannons played a role. In several key open areas, those five hundred parrott guns held off the Confederates' charge. No barrel bursts, no malfunctions. They held the defensive line like nails."
"That's good," Catherine said softly.
"This is just the beginning."
Felix led her out of the building and into the sunlight.
"Grant is a bulldog who won't let go once he bites. He'll keep pushing until Richmond. And our mission is to continuously supply him with the best teeth."
********
That night, New York Harbor.
A fast ship from the South, under the cover of night, quietly docked at the Metropolitan Trading Company's private pier.
Bill did not return to Chicago but personally brought a few trusted men to receive the goods at the dock.
The ship's hold opened, and what was unloaded was not cotton or tobacco. Instead, there were barrels of black liquid emitting a strange smell, and several tightly sealed boxes of documents.
These were the first batch of oil samples brought back from Beaumont, Texas, along with Pattillo Higgins' detailed exploration maps of the Spindletop geological structure.
"Be careful!" Bill whispered, "Don't spill it; this stuff is more expensive than whiskey right now."
He picked up a sample bottle and shook it under the faint light. The viscous black liquid clung to the glass wall, like some dormant life.
Bill mumbled, "This looks like mud; is it really that powerful?"