August 1864, Richmond, the capital of the Confederate States of America (the government representing the 1% rich folk slave owners in the south).
This city, once brimming with Southern gentility and cotton wealth, was now being consumed by a plague called "scarcity."
The price of bread had soared to ten dollars a pound, and the rumble of the Federal army's cannons could be faintly heard even from inside President Jefferson Davis's mansion in the city center.
General Robert E. Lee's horse stopped in front of the presidential mansion.
His beard was whiter than it had been six months ago, and his deep brown eyes were filled with the dust and exhaustion of the Petersburg trenches.
Accompanied by his adjutant, he strode into the President's office.
President Jefferson Davis sat behind a desk piled high with documents, his face sallow, his brow furrowed from chronic neuralgia.
Secretary of War James Seddon sat on a nearby sofa, holding a cup of coffee substitute, his expression equally grave.
"Mr. President, Mr. Secretary," Lee saluted.
"Please sit, General." Davis put down his pen and rubbed his temples. "Has the situation in Petersburg improved?"
"No," Lee's answer was direct.
"Grant is digging trenches and building railways like a mad dog, continuously transporting supplies to the front. As for us… you know the situation."
General Lee walked to the map on the wall, his finger pointing at the Federal army's artillery positions.
"So, I've come this time to discuss the issue of artillery," Lee's voice was low.
"At the end of last month, Grant's artillery changed tactics. They are no longer using those cumbersome parrott guns, but have switched to something new."
"Something new?" Seddon asked.
"A new type of all-steel, breech-loading field gun." Lee pulled a shrapnel fragment from his pocket and placed it on the table.
"My engineers dug this out of a destroyed bunker. It's steel, very hard."
"And the rate of fire of that cannon is astonishing," Lee continued. "My observation posts report that an enemy artillery company with six guns can unleash fifty shells on us in one minute. That's equivalent to the firepower of three of our companies. And the accuracy is extremely high; our counter-fire simply cannot suppress them."
"Those were made by New Yorkers," Seddon said, gritting his teeth. "Our intelligence network confirmed it; it's that Argyle's factory. Stanton gave him a large sum of money."
"No matter who made them," Lee looked at Davis.
"Mr. President, if we cannot match their firepower before winter, Petersburg will not hold. Once Petersburg falls, Richmond will be an isolated island."
"What can we do?"
Davis spread his hands, a hint of despair in his voice.
"The Tredegar Iron Works (the largest arsenal in the South) has done its best. They lack copper, iron, and even coal. We cannot produce that kind of steel cannon."
"We cannot produce them, but the British can," General Lee's gaze sharpened.
"Armstrong gun," Lee spoke the name. "I saw it two years ago; it's a treasure of the British Royal Navy. It's also breech-loading and steel. Although it tends to leak a bit, its power and range are sufficient to counter the Yankees' new artillery."
"The British…" Davis gave a bitter smile.
"We have no money left, General. Cotton bonds have hit rock bottom in London. The blockade is tightening, and every blockade-runner risks being sunk."
"Then take out all the remaining gold,"
General Lee's voice became forceful.
"Put up the last bit of hard currency in the treasury, and all those cotton futures that haven't been shipped out yet."
"Send someone to London to find Sir Armstrong. No matter how expensive, no matter how difficult it is to transport them in."
General Lee stood tall, looking at these two civilian officials who held the fate of the South in their hands.
"Give me at least fifty Armstrong guns, and Grant will bleed for another half a year in Petersburg. Otherwise…"
He didn't finish. But everyone in the room heard the unspoken word: destruction.
Davis was silent for a long time, looking at General Lee's aged but resolute face.
"Seddon," Davis finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "send a telegram to Bullock (Confederate Naval Representative in Europe). Tell him to go to Manchester and inform the British that we want to buy cannons. To be paid in gold."
********
Just as Robert E. Lee was forced to seek aid from the Old Continent for survival, across the Atlantic Ocean, another war of "survival" and "unification" was reaching its climax.
Denmark, Als Island.
The army of the Kingdom of Prussia was fighting the final decisive battle of the Danish-Prussian War.
The early morning mist enveloped the strait.
Prussian Red Prince Friedrich Carl stood on the high ground of the front-line command post, raising his binoculars, observing the seemingly formidable fortifications of the Danish army on the opposite bank.
Behind him were not only the traditional Prussian officer corps but also several technical consultants in civilian clothes, including Hassen, the Militech's representative stationed in Berlin, and Major Alvensleben, who had returned from America.
The Red Prince lowered his binoculars, his face showing the arrogance and confidence characteristic of the Prussian royal family.
"Major, is this the weapon you so strongly recommended to the Chancellor?"
He pointed to the front line of the position, to the assault square formed by twenty special squads.
These soldiers were not carrying heavy Dreyse Needle Guns.
In their hands were the shorter, more compact Vanguard 1863 Rifles with a lever mechanism under the barrel.
And on their flanks, four "organ of death" covered by canvas were quietly set up in the newly dug bunkers.
"Yes, Your Royal Highness," Major Alvensleben replied, "as long as you give the order, they will clear the path to victory for you."
"Then let's begin," the Red Prince waved his hand.
The bugle call for attack sounded.
The Prussian infantry launched their cross-sea charge. The Danes, relying on their fortifications, began to return fire with their muzzle-loading rifled guns.
Based on past experience, this should have been a brutal tug-of-war.
But this time, the rhythm changed.
When the Prussian assault team rushed onto the beachhead and immediately lay down, the Danes thought the attack was stalled and were just about to launch a counter-charge.
"Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat...!"
From the bunkers on the flanks, four Gatling Guns opened fire simultaneously.
The dense hail of bullets, like a metallic storm, instantly covered the Danish sallying positions.
The Danish soldiers who had just jumped out of the trenches were cut down in swathes before they even had a chance to shout.
Immediately followed by a volley from the infantry.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!..."
It was no longer the sporadic rhythm of firing a shot and then stopping to reload.
The Prussian assault troops lay on the beach, rapidly working their levers.
A rate of fire of fifteen rounds per minute meant that a thousand rifles delivered the firepower density equivalent to five thousand men.
The Danish defense line collapsed within a mere ten minutes.
They had never seen this kind of fighting. They were suppressed so severely that they couldn't even lift their heads, only able to watch as the Prussians in dark blue uniforms surged forward like a tide, finishing the battle with bayonets.
"Incredible…"
The Red Prince murmured, looking at the fallen Danish flag.
He turned and looked at Hassen.
The Prince's voice was filled with respect, "Please tell Mr. Argyle that his weapons… are very formidable."
Standing behind, Chief of the General Staff Moltke quietly wrote a line in his notebook:
"The density of individual firepower will determine the outcome of future wars. We need more. Not just against Denmark, but against Vienna."
********
New York, Argyle Bank Building.
Felix Argyle was sitting in his office, listening to Frost's report.
"Boss, the Prussian final payment has arrived." Frost placed a remittance slip on the table.
"Two hundred thousand dollars. Major Alvensleben said that Berlin is extremely satisfied with the performance of the first batch of weapons. They hope to place a second order, including fifty thousand rifles and two hundred machine guns. And they hope to accelerate the construction of the ammunition factory."
"As expected."
Felix glanced at the remittance slip, not overly excited.
"Denmark is just a testing ground. What Bismarck truly wants is to kick Austria out of Germany. That's the big business."
"Also," Frost took out another piece of intelligence, "our informant in London, Mr. Ashworth of Barings Bank, revealed that… representatives of the Confederacy have been frequently visiting Sir Armstrong's factory recently. It's said they used their last bit of gold to order fifty heavy breech-loading cannons."
"Armstrong gun?" Felix's eyebrows raised slightly.
"Yes. And they are also trying to hire British blockade-runners to transport these cannons into Wilmington Port."
Felix stood up and walked to the large map. His gaze fell upon the Southern coastline, tightly blockaded by the Federal Navy.
"General Lee is desperate," Felix said calmly. "It seems he's feeling the pressure from the steel cannons and wants to fight back."
"Boss, should we inform Washington?"
"Of course." Felix turned around. "Telegram Stanton. Tell him the Southerners bought British hammers. Remind the Navy to tighten the fence."
"However," a mocking smile appeared on Felix's lips, "even if those fifty cannons get in, it won't change anything."
He pointed out the window, at the furiously operating city, and at the smoke-shrouded steel mills in New Jersey in the distance.
"Because our furnaces are already hot."
"General Lee bought fifty cannons, and we…"
Felix made a grasping motion in the air with his hand.
"Will create an era."
An early autumn wind swept through Broadway Avenue, rustling a few discarded newspapers.
The hustle and bustle of Wall Street continued, but amidst this torrent of money, a new sound was quietly joining in—a crisp, dense "clack-clack" like raindrops drumming on a tin roof.
Brooklyn, Standard Business Company Headquarters.
Felix stood by the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor, looking down at the assembly workshop below. There, hundreds of female workers sat at workbenches, assembling precise brass parts into black machines.
"How's the output?"
Standing behind Felix was Christopher Latham Sholes, the technical director, who had completely shed his image as a down-and-out inventor and was now dressed in a decent suit.
"Eighty units a day, Boss," Sholes said with pride.
"Since we introduced the 'tolerance fit' standard you mentioned, our assembly speed has doubled. Now, even an apprentice who just started a week ago can skillfully assemble the keyboard module."
"What about inventory?"
"There are already a thousand units piled up in the warehouse."
Sholes's tone became somewhat hesitant.
"Although the War Department and some large banks have bought quite a few, the acceptance among ordinary businesses is still not high. They think one hundred and twenty-five dollars is too expensive, and..."
"And they don't know how to use them," Felix finished his sentence.
"Yes," Sholes smiled helplessly.
"Those old-school scribes are very resistant. They say this machine has no soul, and the QWERTY keyboard is indeed like a book from heaven for beginners."
Felix turned around and walked to the office desk. On the desk was the latest model of the "standard typewriter."
"There's nothing wrong with the product," Felix said, lightly tapping the keycaps with his fingers, "The problem is with 'people'."
"People?"
"Yes," Felix said, "We are selling a sword, but if the customer doesn't understand swordsmanship, then this sword is scrap metal to them."
He picked up a document, which was a market research report Edward Frost had just compiled.
"What we need to do is not to sell machines," Felix's gaze deepened, "It's to sell a... 'profession'."
********
Three days later, Poughkeepsie, New York State.
Not far from New York City, it was home to America's most famous business education institution at the time, Eastman Business College.
Dean Harvey G. Eastman sat in his spacious office, looking at the young magnate who had suddenly visited, with a puzzled expression.
"Mr. Argyle," Eastman put down his teacup, "I understand your intention. You want to sell that typewriter to my students?"
"No, Dean," Felix shook his head, "I'm here to offer your students a future."
Felix motioned for Edward Frost to place a typewriter on Eastman's desk.
"Most of your students here are young people who want to work in banks, trading companies, or government departments."
"Why do they study bookkeeping, calligraphy, and arithmetic? To find a scribe job on Wall Street for ten dollars a week."
"But that's too slow," Felix pointed to the machine, "How many words can you write by hand in a minute? Twenty? Thirty? And you have to ensure the handwriting is neat."
"But this machine," Felix looked at Eastman, "a trained person can type sixty, even eighty words a minute. Clear, standard, and with copies."
"I know about this thing," Eastman was somewhat moved, "But I heard it's difficult to learn."
"That's why schools are needed," Felix threw out his bait, "Mr. Eastman, I propose that we jointly establish a 'Standard Typewriting Crash Course' at your college."
"I will provide the machines for free. My people will compile the textbooks. I can even send our best technicians to be teachers."
"You only need to provide classrooms and students."
Eastman was a shrewd educator; he was still weighing his options.
"What's in it for me?"
"Employment rate," Felix said with a smile.
"I promise that all companies under the Argyle Group, including banks, railways, steel, and trade, will prioritize hiring graduates who pass the 'Standard Typewriting Exam'. The starting salary..."
He held up two fingers.
"Twenty dollars a week."
Eastman's eyes suddenly widened.
Twenty dollars? That was double the salary of an ordinary scribe.
"And this is not just for men. Dean, I think you should enroll more female students."
"Women?" Eastman frowned, "That's not customary; women are usually at home..."
"Those are old customs," Felix interrupted him, "This machine doesn't require strength, only nimble fingers and patience. In this regard, women have an advantage over men."
"And this is also a huge gimmick," Felix's voice was full of temptation.
"Imagine 'new-age professional women', replacing quill pens with machines. How many women eager for independence will this attract to enroll in your school?"
Eastman looked at the black machine, then at Felix's confident face.
He saw a business opportunity, a huge business opportunity.
"Deal," Eastman extended his hand, "Mr. Argyle, you are a charming man. It seems we are going to rewrite the textbooks of business education."
********
A month later, New York, Cooper Union Great Hall.
A unique "competition" attracted the attention of all New New York media and business circles.
In the center of the stage, two tables were set up.
On the left sat a famous New York stenographer, a middle-aged man who had worked in court for twenty years, holding his proud steel pen, with a stack of thick white paper in front of him.
On the right sat a young woman. Her name was Mary, one of the first outstanding students from Eastman College's "Typewriting Crash Course," and an Irish orphan from Five Points.
She wore a neat white shirt, sitting in front of the standard typewriter, looking a bit nervous, but her hands rested steadily on the keyboard.
The audience below was filled with curious spectators.
There were bankers, lawyers, and business owners who were still hesitant about buying the machines.
"The rules are simple."
Martin Slavin, editor-in-chief of The New York World and the host, announced loudly.
"Five minutes, dictate the same news report. Let's see who records it faster and who records it more accurately."
"Start!"
With a bell ring, the reader began to recite a report about the front-line war situation at a very fast pace.
"Shasha shasha..."
"Clack-clack-clack-clack..."
Two sounds intertwined in the hall.
The stenographer's pen tip danced across the paper, like dragons and snakes.
Sweat beaded on his forehead; to keep up with the speed, his handwriting began to become sloppy.
As for Mary, her eyes were fixed forward, her fingers dancing on the keyboard like playing a piano.
Although her speed didn't seem to have the frantic dynamism of the stenographer, the rhythmic tapping never stopped, nor did it make any mistakes.
"Stop!"
Five minutes were up.
Slavin walked onto the stage and picked up the two documents.
"Let's see the results."
The stenographer's manuscript paper was covered with dense shorthand symbols.
Although most of the content was recorded, it would still take time to transcribe it into an official document that others could understand.
As for the paper Mary tore from the platen... Slavin held it up high.
Clear, neat, standard.
Every letter looked as if it had been printed.
"Word count..." Slavin announced loudly, "Stenographer: three hundred and twenty words. Miss Mary: three hundred and fifty words!"
"And," he pointed to the paper, "this is a directly usable finished product!"
A thunderous applause erupted from the audience.
The business owners who were still observing had their eyes light up. They might not understand technology, but they understood results.
"That machine really can do the work of two scribes."
"That girl... I want to hire a girl like that too."
Felix sat in a box on the second floor, looking at the excited crowd below, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Boss," Edward Frost stood behind him, "A partner from Harper Law Firm just contacted me, asking if they could reserve the next batch of graduates. They said their documents are piled up like mountains."
"Tell him to get in line," Felix said calmly.
"Militech and Lex Steel's administrative departments are still short-staffed."
He looked at the Irish girl on stage, her face flushed with excitement.
"This is a signal, Edward," Felix said softly.
"What signal?"
"Machines are replacing manual labor. And those who master machines..." Felix pointed to the girl, "will replace those who cling to old habits."
"Send this photo to all newspapers," Felix gave the instruction, "The title will be 'The Victory of the Machine'."
"Also, notify Sholes. Tell him to prepare to expand the factory. Starting tomorrow, this machine will become a standard in every office."
********
That night, Fifth Avenue.
Catherine held an evening paper, looking at the photo of Mary operating the typewriter, her eyes sparkling with an unusual light.
"You're not just selling machines, Felix," she put down the newspaper, looking at Felix who had just returned home, "You're giving those girls... a way out."
"A way out?" Felix took off his coat.
"Yes," Catherine walked up to him.
"Before, Irish girls like Mary had no other options than to become maids in rich households or factory workers in textile mills. But now, they can sit in warm offices, doing respectable work, earning the same salary as men."
"You've changed their destiny."
Felix was stunned for a moment.
He had indeed thought of using cheap female labor to promote the machines, but he hadn't expected that in Catherine's eyes, it would become a form of... liberation.
"Perhaps," Felix smiled, holding her hand.
"But that's just a byproduct. What I care more about is how much efficiency this machine can create for our empire."
"No matter the reason," Catherine said softly, "This is a good thing."
"Oh, right," she remembered something, "At the hospital, the first phase of the nursing school training has also ended. The nuns have also learned to use this typewriter to record medical records."
"That's very good," Felix nodded, "The hospital should also open soon."
"Also, Bill needs to be prepared. With the popularization of typewriters, we will need more paper and ink, more of everything."
"Once this wheel of commerce starts turning, it won't stop."
Argyle United Industrial Zone.
Outside the factory gates of Standard Commercial Company, an unusually long queue had formed.
In the past, the line was usually made up of Irish immigrants seeking work, but today, standing there were clerks and paralegals in decent suits and top hats, and even a few bank managers who had personally rushed over from Wall Street.
They waved their checkbooks, their eyes revealing an anxiety only seen on the eve of a stock market crash.
"How much longer do we have to wait?"
A partner from a law firm impatiently knocked on the closed iron gate.
"The five machines we ordered were supposed to be delivered last week!"
"Sir, please be patient."
The factory's security guard, a strong Militech veteran, blocked him with an expressionless face.
"Mr. Sholes is personally supervising the final debugging. The Boss does not allow machines that haven't passed quality inspection to leave the factory."
"I don't care about quality inspection."
Another plump trader pushed his way forward.
"Just give me a few parts, I'll find someone to assemble them myself! Damn it, yesterday my competitor sent a quote to a client using that thing, and the neatness... my client almost thought it was a page from the Bible. I can't fall behind."
The gate finally opened a crack.
Christopher Sholes, holding a list, looked at the crowd waving money outside and felt like a gambler deeply in debt.
"Only fifty units!" he shouted hoarsely.
"Today's output is only fifty units. According to order, Harper Firm gets two units. First National Bank gets three units..."
The crowd instantly erupted, complaints rising in a clamor... Meanwhile, in Manhattan, at the Fifth Avenue mansion.
Inside the study, the special Ivory White typewriter was emitting a pleasant clacking sound.
Frost sat at the desk, his fingers dancing skillfully across the keyboard, transforming a memo about Lax Steel Company's second phase expansion into lines of clear print.
Felix sat on the sofa, facing two special guests.
Henry Ashworth, representative of Barings Bank of London, and Emile Leroy of the Rothschild family in Paris.
These two had originally come to discuss with Felix the details of the second bond issuance in Europe.
But from the moment they entered, their eyes couldn't help but drift towards the machine under Frost's hands.
"Unbelievable."
Ashworth finally couldn't help it; he put down his teacup, his eyes now filled with curiosity.
"Mr. Argyle, although I've seen descriptions of this thing in previous reports, seeing its efficiency firsthand... is still astonishing. That five-hundred-word memo just now took... six minutes?"
"Roughly," Felix said with a faint smile on his face.
"Edward is one of the most skilled operators."
"Six minutes..." Ashworth sighed.
"My scribes would need at least half an hour, and they'd still have to pray the ink wouldn't bleed."
"Efficiency is money, Mr. Ashworth," Felix said.
"On Wall Street, this has become a consensus. Now, if you hand a client a handwritten contract, they'll think you're unprofessional."
Leroy, beside him, was focused on another aspect.
He stood up and walked to the typewriter, gently stroking its black lacquer finish and golden logo with his white-gloved fingers.
"Very exquisite craftsmanship," the Frenchman praised.
"In Paris, we would consider it a fashion statement. This isn't just a tool; it's a symbol of modernity. I can't imagine any lawyer or writer on the Champs-Élysées refusing to tap out their thoughts on such a machine."
He turned to Felix, his eyes growing eager.
"Felix, we are friends and allies. Since you're selling so well in New York, shouldn't you consider your friends across the ocean?"
Ashworth also chimed in, "I hear your 'Celtic Star' is setting sail for Liverpool next week. I'd like to know if there's any space reserved for Barings Bank in that ship's cargo hold?"
Felix looked at these two bankers, who controlled the flow of European capital, as if they were two big fish already on the hook.
"Originally, there wasn't any," Felix said frankly.
"As you can see, New York's orders are booked until next year. The War Department, the Railway Company, and even City Hall are all scrambling for goods. My factory is already running non-stop."
Disappointment showed on the faces of the two bankers.
"But," Felix's tone shifted, "since we are allies, there are naturally special arrangements."
"There is indeed a little space left in the bottom hold of the Celtic Star. It was originally intended to carry more ballast for the outbound journey."
"We can buy that space!" Leroy immediately said, "No matter the shipping cost."
"No, no shipping cost is needed," Felix shook his head.
"That's part of our 'cloverleaf project'. I am willing to squeeze out five hundred machines from New York's quota. Three hundred for London, two hundred for Paris."
"Five hundred units?" Although Ashworth felt it was a small number, he knew it was the limit. "What about the price?"
"The domestic price in the United States is one hundred and twenty-five dollars. For export to Europe, including customs duties and maintenance costs... two hundred dollars per unit (approximately 40 pounds). And it must be settled in gold."
This price almost doubled.
But both men present were shrewd; they knew what this item could sell for in Europe.
In the Old Continent, which revered precision machinery and novelties, this machine was a symbol of status.
"Deal," Ashworth said without hesitation, "Barings Bank will take them all."
"Hey, Henry!" Leroy protested, "You can't hog them all. Paris needs at least half! Empress Eugenie is most interested in such novelties. If I could get one into the palace..."
"Then it's up to each of you to compete," Felix said with a smile, interrupting their argument.
"Five hundred units will be loaded next week. As for how they are distributed in Europe, that's your business. I am only responsible for receiving a gold draft for one hundred thousand dollars."
This deal was finalized in a few minutes.
Leroy suddenly thought of something, his brows furrowing slightly.
"Felix, your typewriter has a problem..."
______________________
I thought Armstrong was a US senator who dealt in nanomachines son