Along the North Shore of Long Island, the surf ceaselessly pounds the jagged black rocks of Sands Point, flinging up plumes of spray.
The land sits on the outermost spur of the Long Island Sound.
For centuries only a handful of fishermen and stubborn Dutch farmers have lived here.
They cling to a few acres of barren sand, cut off from the world, strangers to the New York being remade by technology and capital.
But today that peace is shattered.
Boom!
A dull, heavy blast startled gulls from the trees; they wheeled overhead, shrieking against the ashen sky.
It was high-energy engineering explosive from the Lafflin-Smith Powder Company.
On a cliff high enough to survey the whole Sound, Miller studied a topographical map, eyes narrowed at the ruins before him.
Behind him, dozens of burly Vanguard Security men directed a gang of hired Irish laborers clearing the freshly leveled ground.
The moment he'd secured the city permit and bought the private parcels two days earlier, Miller had set the operation in motion.
He had to have every soul off the site before the Boss arrived.
'Move it—rip out every last rotten root!'
Miller jabbed a finger at several huge stumps.
'The Boss wants the castle's foundation right here. No sprouting roots, no bugs crawling up rotten wood later. Dig to bedrock—deep!'
'But chief…'
Borg sloshed through the mud, oil still dripping from the felling-axe in his hand, worry written on his face.
'Trouble on the western knoll—an old man won't budge. Deeds transferred last week, so legally it's the Boss's land, but the geezer's parked on the porch with a musket, says the house came from his granddad and he'll die here.'
Miller scowled, spat cigar shreds, impatience flashing in his eyes.
There's always some fool who can't read the times.
He strode off, boots crunching gravel.
In front of a tumbledown cabin a white-haired farmer trembled, leveling an ancient, rust-pitted firelock.
The muzzle covered the demolition crew.
'Get away—this is my home!' the old man rasped.
'I don't recognize that paper—you tricked my boy. I watched every tree here grow.'
The laborers exchanged glances, sledgehammers and crowbars in hand, none daring a step closer.
The gun looked ready to burst, but no one cared to gamble his life.
Miller pushed through the ring and walked straight up.
He ignored the black muzzle, even pulled a silver flask from his coat, unscrewed it, and drank.
'Old-timer, look seaward.'
He gestured toward the turbulent strait where, far off, a few steam freighters flying the Argyle pennant headed for New York Harbor.
'Those are Mr. Argyle's ships. See the ruts? Vanguard wagons made them. In this country contract is law and money is truth. Your son took two thousand dollars—enough to buy a hundred acres of rich black soil in Ohio or Kentucky instead of clinging to this potato sand.'
'I won't go—never!'
The farmer's finger whitened on the trigger.
'My wife lies here, my father…'
'Then we'll pay to move them.'
Miller sighed, his gaze turning ice-cold.
'Listen, old man. I respect your feelings, but they're useless. The wheel of the times is rolling; stand in front and it crushes you.'
He drew a heavy leather purse from his coat; coins clinked musically.
'Your choice. Ten minutes and the blasting crew levels this ridge. Explosives don't listen to nostalgic stories.'
He tossed the purse into the mud at the farmer's feet.
'Five hundred extra for moving—Mr. Argyle's last kindness. Take it, join your boy, live a few easy days—or stay and become part of the rubble.'
Miller wheeled away, flicking a glance at his watch.
'Borg, watch the clock. Ten minutes. If the whistle blows and he's still here, bury him with the house—plenty of room in the foundation; no one will know.'
The naked threat, and the weight of that purse, broke the old man's last resolve.
In an age of rampaging capital, individual stubbornness is feeble against absolute power.
Minutes later, when Miller looked back, the stubborn figure was gone; only workers swinging sledges, splintering the cabin that had held generations of memories.
So the old fellow feared death after all.
This—this is enclosure.
Beneath civil legal documents runs a savage undercurrent; the first brick of the Argyle estate rests on such conquest.
By two in the afternoon the sky cleared; sunlight spilled across the glittering Sound.
A black four-wheeler, escorted by a dozen mounted police, jolted onto the site. Specially sprung, the carriage rode smooth even over the waste ground.
The door opened and Felix stepped out.
He wore a finely cut black greatcoat, collar turned up against the sea wind, black leather boots, and carried the silver-headed cane that was the emblem of his authority.
His gaze swept the tract that would soon be his domain.
Behind him descended a middle-aged man sporting an extravagant mustache and a red cashmere scarf—an artist's flourish.
Richard Morris Hunt.
The best-known architect in America, first American graduate of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
Brilliant—and insufferably arrogant.
To him most American tycoons were tasteless parvenus fit only for gaudy houses slathered in gold leaf.
Yet standing on this cliff, staring at the vast expanse of land, the horizon where sky married sea, he caught his breath.
'My God…'
*******
Hunt doffed his top-hat, sighing as the sea breeze whipped his carefully combed hair.
"Mr. Argyle, you're not joking? You actually bought all of Sandy Point? This… this is something only Louis XIV would dare!"
"I never joke, Mr. Hunt."
Felix walked to the cliff's edge and, with his cane, pointed at the ground beneath his feet and then at the horizon where sea and sky merged.
"This tract is 3,900 acres—forest, beach, cliff, and three natural lakes. I'm not building a house here; I'm raising a miniature city, a kingdom of my own."
"So tell me: can your talent fill this emptiness? Can it deserve this place?"
Hunt's fighting spirit flared at Felix's challenge.
Without a word he pulled a huge sketch from his carrying tube; two assistants had to hold it flat against the wind.
"Mr. Argyle, I've built villas for the Astors, but, forgive me, beside this they're country cottages."
Pointing at the grand outline, Hunt's eyes blazed.
"Let me design it and I'll give you pure French Renaissance. The main château will echo François I's Chambord—only larger. A double-helix staircase, soaring slate roofs, towers and chimneys beyond count."
"The walls will be Indiana limestone; that stone glows warm gold at sunset and will stand against the sea air. The roofs—Vermont bluestone."
"And here—" he indicated the foot of the cliff.
"We may need a two-mile seawall to guard the foundations—an engineering feat in itself."
"Scale is never the problem," Felix cut in.
"If I have to haul every quarry in Indiana, my railroad can do it—cars of the Pennsylvania and the Mississippi & Eastern wait ready."
Felix turned, eyes like torches on the architect.
"Mr. Hunt, I care nothing for style, only this: the castle must be beautiful, yes, but alive—future-facing."
"Future-facing?" Hunt faltered, unsure what the tycoon meant.
"Exactly—tomorrow!"
Felix took another drawing from Frost: an engineer's diagram of the utility network.
"I see you've put my power plant and boilers in the basement, as on this plan?"
"Yes, sir," Hunt answered quickly.
"It's standard: steam for heat and water, shortest runs, best efficiency."
"Then it's wrong," Felix said flatly.
"Absolutely wrong."
"Hunt, understand: my family will live above, not miners. Put boilers below and you get vibration, soot, noise—maybe an explosion. Unacceptable."
He pointed with his cane toward a low hollow some eight hundred metres off, hidden by woods.
"Throw every dirty thing there. Build me a separate Energy & Power Centre."
"Three large steam boilers, a high-purity gas plant fed by Saineng Minerals, pump-house, repair shops—everything."
"But Mr. Argyle…" Hunt looked pained.
"At that distance the pipe runs, the heat loss—"
"Thicker pipes, thicker insulation!" Felix said, unruffled by cost.
"Sink a utility tunnel—three metres wide, two high—from the power house straight to the château. Steam, gas, water—all go through it."
Hunt stared.
"An underground utility corridor? That's city-scale infrastructure."
"Precisely. I'm founding a micro-city, a private estate-city for the Argyle Family."
Felix's gaze turned distant, as if seeing through time.
"And, Mr. Hunt, leave room in that tunnel—especially embed smooth ceramic or copper sleeves in every wall of the château."
"Embedded sleeves?" Hunt was puzzled. "Gas-light pipes don't need such size or number."
"They're not for gas alone."
Felix smiled mysteriously.
"Hunt, science moves on. Today we burn gas; tomorrow may bring a cleaner, brighter light—energy that runs along wires, perhaps."
"Electricity?" Hunt frowned.
"That laboratory curiosity? I've heard of it, but practical use is years away."
Felix lifted a brow, neither denying nor confirming.
"For most, perhaps. For the Argyle Family, the future can arrive at any moment."
"I won't have your fine wallpaper and plaster ceilings torn apart later for a few wires. Build the path now—redundancy by design."
Hunt weighed the idea; the client was paying, so why refuse?
A complex awe stirred as he looked at the young, domineering man.
The rich men he knew asked only if the chandelier was big enough, the carpet Persian; none planned for decades ahead.
"I understand, Mr. Argyle."
He mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
"Underground power plant, utility tunnel, wall conduits—another two hundred thousand dollars at least, and longer schedule."
"Fine," Felix said without blinking.
"One more thing."
He walked to a boulder, tapped the hard granite with his cane.
"Since the basement loses its boilers, what shall we do with the space?"
"A wine cellar?" Hunt suggested.
"Only part of it."
Felix turned to Miller and Frost, a meaningful smile curving his lips.
"I'll build a vault there,"
"The most secure private treasury on earth—an army couldn't crack it."
New York's Fifth Avenue.
Inside Richard Morris Hunt's temporary studio.
A dozen huge drafting tables were pushed together, buried under sheets of drawings, blueprints, and plaster models.
Dozens of draftsmen were hunched over them, working.
Bloodshot eyes and ink-stained fingers were everywhere.
They had no choice—Felix was pushing them.
Every construction detail had to be finished before spring; the generous Mr. Argyle had already shipped thousands of tons of stone to the Long Island docks and was even running a rail spur right up to the edge of the estate.
'Here—the utility run is wrong.'
Hunt had a stick of charcoal in his hand; he slashed a heavy X across a complicated section, graphite dust flying.
'Mr. Argyle wants the future-service ducts to reach every single room—every one, including the servants'. You've left the bore too small. What if these things called "wires" turn out to be thick? Redraw it!'
'But sir…'
The assistant mopped sweat, hands shaking.
'If we enlarge the ducts, the walls have to thicken—it'll eat into the ceiling height…'
'Then thicken the walls!'
Hunt slammed the charcoal down, roaring in irritation.
'This is a castle, not a matchbox. Thicker walls will only make it more of a fortress—exactly what that mad—pardon, that esteemed Mr. Argyle—wants.'
Just then the studio door swung open.
Felix walked in, followed by Catherine holding their child and by Miller, who moved like a shadow.
Finn today wore a crisp dark-blue sailor suit. Nestled in his mother's arms, his round eyes curiously traced the world of lines and models while he babbled and blew bubbles.
'Seems our master architect has run into trouble?'
Felix said, sounding pleased.
He had just received Rockefeller's latest statement, and the numbers were beautiful.
'Oh, Mr. Argyle, Mrs. Argyle.'
Hunt hastily straightened his collar and bowed, his scowl switching to a professional smile in an instant.
'No, not trouble—just… to satisfy your "forward-looking" requirements we have to reinvent architecture itself.'
'I'm confident you can manage; after all, I paid double the design fee.'
Felix walked over to the huge estate model.
It was exquisitely detailed, even down to the garden fountains, the power-house chimneys in the distance, and the rail fences of the riding yard.
'Catherine, come see our future home.'
Catherine stepped closer with the baby. She had heard Felix describe it, but the sight of the miniature castle still stunned her.
The main house formed a grand U, its wings reaching toward the sea and embracing a vast formal French garden.
Four stories of carved stone, arched windows, and colonnades rose to a jagged roof of dark-green slate pinnacles that seemed to spear the sky.
'Here—'
Felix pointed to the third floor of the east wing.
'This entire level is our private quarters. The master bedroom faces the ocean; we'll watch the sunrise every morning. Mr. Hunt designed an independent plumbing system at my request.'
He gestured toward the west wing.
'And this area is for the children. Finn's suite is here, next to the nursery, playroom, and schoolroom. I told Mr. Hunt to widen the corridors; the boy could ride a pony down them if he wanted.'
Finn seemed to recognize his name; he stretched out a chubby hand toward the white model and murmured, 'Hor… hor…'
'He likes it.'
Catherine laughed, kissing his cheek.
'But it's enormous, Felix. Cleaning all those rooms will take dozens of servants.'
'So what,' Felix said casually.
'Elena is already recruiting. We'll need at least fifty indoor staff, fifty gardeners for the farm, twenty grooms and hands for the stock—and that's before the hundred-man security force.'
He turned to Hunt, his gaze hardening.
'Are the plans for the underground vault finished?'
'They are.'
Hunt nervously produced a separate roll of drawings—classified even within the studio.
'As you ordered, the vault sits beneath the main hall, two levels below grade. For security we abandoned ordinary masonry.'
He pointed to a sectional drawing.
'It's a sandwich: two meters of granite on the outside, one meter of reinforced concrete in the middle—the latest technique, we mixed iron filings into the cement—and the inner layer…'
Hunt looked at Miller.
Miller stepped forward and took over.
The innermost layer will be manufactured by Gold Shield Security, a subsidiary of Lex Steel. Six-inch-thick special-alloy steel plates will encase the vault on all six sides—floor, ceiling, and walls, everything steel.
"What about the door?" Felix asked.
"The door is the key."
Miller pulled a photograph from his coat: a prototype just completed in the Lex Steel lab.
"It's a ten-ton circular vault door. Triple mechanical combination locks plus a timing mechanism. Without the correct code and key, even artillery couldn't blast it open."
"And around the vault we'll leave pockets for quicksand traps and poison-gas nozzles. If anyone tries to tunnel in, they'll suffocate and be buried alive."
Catherine felt a chill run down her spine.
"Felix… is all this really necessary? What are you planning to keep in there?"
"The future."
Felix traced the blueprint gently and whispered in Catherine's ear.
"Jewels, gold, bonds, shares, classified documents, antiques—secrets that can never see daylight. When crisis hits, when banks collapse and governments fall apart, this vault will be the family's final trump card."
"Excellent work."
Felix expressed his satisfaction with Miller and Hunt's design.
At that moment Frost walked in carrying a long Bill.
"Boss, here's the revised materials list and first-phase budget."
Frost handed the invoice to Felix, hands trembling.
"Indiana limestone, Carrara marble, Vermont bluestone… plus the extra steel for the underground conduit and vault. And to keep the schedule, we've had to bring in another five hundred stonemasons from Ireland and Italy."
"We're already over budget. Mr. Hunt's original million-dollar estimate will top two million, maybe even three."
Three million dollars.
A staggering sum in any era, let alone the nineteenth century.
The Federal Government had just paid only 7.2 million for Alaska.
Felix was about to build one house for nearly half the price of Alaska.
The room went cold.
Hunt watched Felix nervously, afraid his patron would balk at the cost and strip the lavish ornament or scrap the insane underground works.
Felix merely glanced at the final figure, not even raising an eyebrow.
"Edward, after all these years you're still counting pennies?"
He tossed the Bill onto the table; the slip of paper worth millions fluttered to the floor.
"Last month Standard Oil's New York sales alone topped half a million. Argyle Bank cleared a million from railroad bonds. Cotton in the South, coal out West…"
"Money that isn't turned into something real is just wastepaper—inflation will eat it, war will burn it. But steel remains."
Felix's gaze was steady, the look of a true king.
"Mr. Hunt, don't worry about cost. If gold paving suits the aesthetic, lay it. I want this estate still standing a century from now, still making every onlooker gasp in awe."
"I want it to be the monument of our age, proof that the Argyle Family came, conquered, and was here."
"Yes, sir! As you wish!"
Hunt's face flushed, voice quivering with excitement.
For an architect, a client both rich and ambitious—if impossible to please—was a gift from God.
"Then let's break ground at once."
Felix lifted Finn onto his shoulders; the little boy squealed, tugging his father's hair.
"Come, son. Let's watch your castle rise."
…One week later, Sands Point, Long Island.
A grand yet discreet groundbreaking ceremony began.
No press, no grandstanding politicians—only the Argyle core leadership and a thousand workers about to break earth.
Sea wind snapped the family-bannered flags.
Felix, in black formal dress, held a gold-plated spade. Beside him Catherine cradled Finn, with Frost, Miller, Jones, Bill, Hayes, President Templeton, Reeves, and others standing in solemn file.
Before them yawned a ten-meter pit: the future vault, the heart of the castle.
"Today we bury more than a stone,"
Felix's voice, carried on the wind, reached every ear.
"It is the cornerstone of the Argyle Family. From this day I take root in this soil."
"No matter how the world may change, this place shall forever be our fortress."
On January 2, the sky over Manhattan was gloomy, low clouds hanging above the city's spires.
In the top-floor conference room of the Argyle Empire Bank Building.
Heavy velvet curtains were drawn, shutting out the cold and noise of the outside world.
Twelve brass gas lamps hissed, bathing the room in bright light.
The Argyle Executive Committee was about to hold its annual meeting.
Frost stood at the door, a list in hand.
Everyone who entered had to be checked off by him, even those he knew better than his own reflection.
'Morning… Morning, Frost.'
It was Bill who spoke.
The head of Metropolitan Trading Company had just returned from the West, still carrying its rugged air.
An expensive pin-striped suit stretched tight across his frame, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth.
'Good morning, Mr. Bill.' Frost gave a slight nod and stepped aside. 'Your seat is beside Mr. Miller.'
'Ha, the powder keg.' Bill grinned. 'Hope he didn't bring a gun today.'
Bill walked in and saw Miller already seated, toying with a silver lighter.
Miller had been shuttling between coasts and looked thinner, but his gaze was sharper than ever.
As the dual head of Vanguard Arms and Saineng Minerals, he always carried the scent of gunpowder.
'Heard you made big news in Pennsylvania?'
Bill pulled out a chair and tossed his cigar on the table.
'Somebody torched an oil depot and you spun it as lax safety? Heh… classy move.'
Miller didn't look up. 'Just helping the Boss smooth Rockefeller's buy-out. Compared with your charity work for the indians out West, my methods are civilized.'
Ahem.
A soft cough cut short their banter.
Tom Hayes walked in.
The president of Patriot Investment Company wore an immaculate three-piece suit; his gold-rimmed spectacles caught the light. Beside him strode George Templeton, head of Argyle Empire Bank.
The empire's two money-bags exuded Wall Street shrewdness with every step.
Other senior executives followed in quick succession.
Jones of Argyle & Co. Foods—one of the first to follow Felix alongside Miller—had grown portly.
William Coleman of Lex Steel carried a stack of blueprints.
Charles Reeves of Mississippi & Eastern Rail looked exhausted; the rail network's expansion was grinding him down.
Anna Clark entered arm-in-arm with Catherine OBrien.
The two women were the only females in the room.
Catherine wore a deep-purple gown, every inch the hostess; Anna was in a crisp gray suit, her curious eyes sweeping every man's face.
Next came Peter Jenkins of Standard Oil, fresh from Europe, followed by Sholes of Standard Commercial, MacGregor of Atlantic Steam, and the powder king Lafflin.
Last to slip in was Silas.
The former enforcer now ran the Southern territories; he moved without sound, a black cat sliding into a corner seat.
At nine sharp, the conference doors swung shut.
Felix stepped in from a side entrance.
Instant silence. Everyone rose.
Felix reached the head of the round table and swept his gaze across them, pausing a second on each face.
'Sit.'
He sat and tapped the tabletop.
'This is the Executive Committee's first annual meeting. Edward, hand out the files.'
Frost moved to Felix's side and passed a thick sheaf of papers to each person.
Felix resumed.
'Gentlemen, Argyle has grown faster than anyone imagined—pharmaceuticals, food, banking, rail, arms, shipping, steel, even a citizen militia. We have friends in Washington and allies in Europe.'
'But the old model—me barking orders or sending a few telegrams—no longer works. Too slow, too error-prone. So I formally created the Argyle Executive Committee.'
He opened his folder.
'It is the supreme body above every company. From this moment, you are the cabinet of this commercial empire.'
Silence below; only the rustle of pages could be heard.
'Now I'll complete the committee's structure,' Felix continued.
'Three tiers: Chairman, Directors, Members.'
'I am Chairman. I hold veto power and final say on strategy, personnel, and capital allocation.'
No objections; it was, after all, Felix's empire.
'Directors are the presidents of core companies; Members are general managers. We'll form a Board of Directors and a Management Committee—different roles.'
Felix pointed to page two.
'The Board comprises all Directors. It is the core decision layer, setting the group's direction—whom to wage commercial war on next, which Director companies should complement one another. Only heads of pillar industries may sit on it.'
'The Management Committee includes both Directors and Members. It is the execution arm, implementing Board decisions, coordinating resources, resolving cross-company spats.'
Hayes adjusted his spectacles and raised a hand. 'Boss, are Director and Member statuses fixed?'
'Good question, Tom.' Felix smiled.
'Not fixed. The Board is chaired by me and composed of heads I designate from core companies. If a firm drops out of the core, its head becomes a Member.
'Members are reviewed every two years. If a subsidiary excels, a Director may nominate its chief for promotion to Member, even spin the unit off—subject to Board vote and my approval.'
'Conversely, screw up your company…' Felix's gaze chilled, 'and you're demoted or ejected.'
'This keeps the blood flowing; I won't have this room filled with seat-warmers.'
'From now on, whether a Director firm, Member firm, or a new venture I fancy, its head starts as general manager.'
Felix lifted his glass and sipped.
'Now for the names.'
Everyone held their breath.
They knew the score: titles were power.
Who wanted merely to execute when they could decide?
'First, the following eight are appointed Directors of the Argyle Executive Committee and presidents of their respective companies.'
Felix began to read the list.
"President of Argyle & Co. Foods, Jones."
Jones let out a sigh of relief, a simple and honest smile appearing on his face.
Although the profit margin of the Food Company wasn't as high as pharmaceuticals or finance, it was the cornerstone of Argyle and its earliest industry.
This position was a mark of respect for seniority.
"President of Umbrella Corporation, Catherine."
This was no surprise.
After all, Catherine was not only the Boss's wife, but the pharmaceutical company's massive profits and influence were also undeniable.
"President of Patriot Investment Company, Tom Hayes. President of Argyle Empire Bank, George Templeton."
The selection of the financial twin stars was seen as only natural.
"President of Vanguard Military Industry and Sonne Mining Company, Miller."
Miller flicked his fingers, his expression indifferent. He held military industry and mineral resources in his hands; it would be a joke if he didn't enter the core circle.
"President of Metropolitan Trading Company, Bill."
Bill grinned and raised an eyebrow at Miller, who was sitting opposite him.
"President of Lex Steel Company, William Coleman. President of Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, Charles Reeves."
Steel and railroads—these were the skeleton of industrialization and had to have a seat on the Council.
"The eight people above will join the inaugural Council."
Felix paused and turned his gaze to the remaining people.
"Next are the Committee members, who will serve as General Managers of their respective companies or other equivalent titles."
"Vice Chairwoman of Argyle Charitable Foundation, Anna Clark."
Anna nodded slightly with an elegant posture. Although the foundation was non-profit, it was a political moat with a special status.
"General Manager of Standard Commercial Company, Christopher Sholes."
"General Manager of Standard Oil Company, Peter Jenkins."
Jenkins's expression stiffened slightly.
Standard Oil's current profits were very good, especially after just swallowing Pennsylvania. To only be a Committee member left him feeling somewhat disappointed.
Felix seemed to see through his thoughts and added a comment indifferently.
"Peter, although Standard Oil is growing rapidly, its current structure is still in an integration phase. Once you've completely taken over the Eastern Federal and European markets, or fully digested Rockefeller's branch, or once the planned Southern Standard Oil is well-established, there will be a seat for you on the Council."
Jenkins immediately straightened his back. "Understood, Boss."
"Continuing on, General Manager of Atlantic Steam Power Company, MacGregor. General Manager of Lafflin-Smith Powder Company, Sylvester Lafflin."
These two were responsible for technology and the upstream of the arms industry, belonging to specialized fields.
"And..." Felix looked at the former security captain in the corner.
"General Manager of Militech, Frank Cole."
Frank was Miller's deputy, but Miller was often away from Militech. Thus, Frank was currently in charge of its management and production.
Felix had to have someone he trusted in control of this company; as for Frank, he still needed to be observed for another two years.
So, Felix had him attend the meeting as well.
"Finally, regarding the Vanguard Joint Development Company."
Felix looked at Silas.
"That name is too long and carries a heavy connotation of Vanguard Military Industry. The President wants the people of the South to feel at ease, so he discussed with me changing the company name to something gentler. Therefore, from today onwards, it is renamed the Southern Development Company. It will be responsible for land development, cotton planting, and maintaining order in the Southern states."
"Silas, you will serve as the General Manager of the Southern Development Company and sit on the Committee."
Silas stood up excitedly. "Yes, Boss. I guarantee the South will be very obedient."
The announcement of the list was finished.
The atmosphere in the room underwent a subtle change.
If before everyone was a group of rough heroes following Felix to conquer the world...
...now, they had officially become the bureaucrats of this commercial empire. The hierarchy was established, power was divided, and a clear chain of command had formed.
But that wasn't enough.
Felix knew well that the carrot of power alone wasn't enough; he needed something more substantial to lock down these wild beasts.
"Frost," Felix signaled.
Frost distributed another document.
This document was very thin, only a single sheet of paper. But when Hayes saw the content, the pupils of this Wall Street tycoon, who was used to seeing money, contracted sharply.
"This is the 'Partner Equity Plan'."
Felix's voice echoed in the room.
"The people in this room will not only be my subordinates but also partners of the Argyle Family. Frankly speaking, you have all done very well over these years."
"Everyone knows I cherish talent, and it just so happens that everyone present is one. So, I'm going to put a set of chains on you, locking you firmly to the side of the Argyle Family."
"The good news, however, is that these chains are made of gold. You can look over the document for the details."
After saying this, Felix picked up the black tea on the table and tasted it unhurriedly.
After Felix finished speaking, the others lowered their heads to carefully examine the 'Partner Equity Plan'.
The rustling sound of paper turning filled the quiet room.
Everyone's expression began to change slowly.
In this era, the employment relationship was often simple and cruel: the Boss paid wages, and the employees worked.
Slightly better companies would give executives year-end bonuses.
But shares?
Sorry, that was a restricted zone that only true partners or family members could touch.
"I know what you're thinking, but the Argyle Family never mistreats those who have served well."
Felix leaned back in his chair with his hands crossed, his gaze calmly scanning the faces where joy, shock, and confusion were intertwined.
"The first clause: Years of Service and Equity Incentives."
Felix held up his right index finger.
"Any person or family in this room, as long as they serve the Argyle Family continuously for five years in whichever subsidiary they are responsible for, will receive a 1% stake in that company."
"Ten years, 2%."
"And so on. For a maximum service period of thirty years, you can obtain a 5% stake."
With a 'boom', the conference room erupted like a boiling pot.
Bill was the first who couldn't help himself; he slammed the table so hard that the coffee cup in front of him jumped.
"Boss, are you serious? A 5% stake in Metropolitan Trading Company? That's..."
He quickly calculated the figures in his head.
Metropolitan Trading Company monopolized the grain and meat trade in the West, with annual net profits exceeding a million dollars.
A 5% stake meant fifty thousand dollars a year in dividends alone. In this era, the annual salary of a skilled worker was only a few hundred dollars.
Although he already had a 5% stake in Metropolitan Trading Company himself, no one complained about having more shares; besides, he had no intention of leaving anyway.
"It's true, Bill," Felix nodded with a smile.
"And this isn't just dividend rights; it's actual ownership."
Jones's hand trembled as he held the document. He had been with Felix the longest, since the days of that dilapidated basement.
"Boss, I've been with you for nearly seven years now. Does that mean I..."
"That's right, Jones."
Felix looked at his old partner with a gentle gaze.
"You can sign the agreement now and immediately receive a 1% stake in Argyle & Co. Foods. You've earned it."
Jones's eyes turned red.
He was an honest man. After returning from the battlefield with Miller, his greatest dream in life was to have a small farm of his own.
And now, he had become a shareholder in the largest Food Company in the States.
"But..."
Felix's tone shifted, becoming serious.
"Rights always come with obligations."
"You have become shareholders and heads of the company. Therefore, you must do your best to make the company better and more profitable."
Then he pointed to the lower half of the document.
"And there are buyback clauses."
"First, these shares cannot be publicly traded on the market. You can only hold them or sell them back to the Argyle Family Fund."
"Second, if you resign, retire and no longer wish to hold the shares, or..." Felix paused.
"Or if you are fired for certain unseemly reasons, the Argyle Family holds absolute right of first refusal for buyback."
"The buyback price will be based on the net asset valuation at that time. In other words, your net worth is tied to the fate of the company. If the company does well, everyone is wealthy; if the company collapses, the stocks in your hands are just waste paper."
"This is the Golden Handcuffs."
Felix stood up, leaning forward with his hands on the table, looking at everyone.
"I do not want to see anyone taking my money to go outside and start a competing company. Even more, I do not want to see anyone sacrificing the company's long-term development for short-term interests. Because that would be cutting your own flesh."
"Everyone, to sign, or not to sign?"
This wasn't even a question.
Hayes was the first to pick up a pen and quickly signed his name on the agreement.
As a man of Wall Street, he knew the value of this agreement all too well. Patriot Investment Company held shares in many companies and factories; a 1% stake could be worth a fortune in the future.
"Only an idiot wouldn't sign."
Hayes adjusted his glasses and handed the document to Frost.
"Boss, from today on, I will manage every penny of Patriot Company as if it were my own."
"I'll sign too," Miller shrugged.
"I didn't plan on going anywhere else anyway. Besides here, no one would dare hire someone like me."
One after another, everyone signed their names.
As the last stroke fell, an invisible bond was established in the room.
If before they worked for the high salary and Felix's personal charisma, now they were fighting for their own assets.
"Very good."
Felix looked at the stack of signed documents and nodded with satisfaction.
"Since everyone has signed, let's talk about expansion."
He gestured for Frost to hang up a new board.
"The old domain is already stable. Food, medicine, trade, steel, railroads, military industry, and finance are all core sectors. Oil, technology, and shipbuilding companies are also developing. But in this society, there are still many corners we haven't touched."
Felix looked at Anna Clark.
"Anna, how is the situation with the foundation lately?"
"Operating well," Anna replied with an elegant posture.
"By sponsoring art exhibitions and orphanages, we have already controlled the 'moral interpretation rights' of most of high society in Washington and New York. However, Boss, our voice in public opinion is still not loud enough."
"Although we control several newspapers, our influence remains scattered across The Union, especially in the West and the South."
"That is the first point I want to address. Public opinion is a vital tool; whether it's speaking for our own companies or rallying votes for an election, it is the most effective method. Although I had Tom acquire over a dozen newspapers in other states previously, they are too scattered without a primary person in charge."
As a transmigrator, Felix knew the importance of public opinion all too well, especially in a capitalist country.
Even the President has to treat media moguls who control public opinion with courtesy; after all, they represent votes.
"Therefore, I have decided to establish the 'News Media Company'."
Felix looked at Bill.
"Bill, how did Fowler do when you were in Chicago?"
"Fowler?" Bill thought for a moment.
"That guy is a rogue with a pen. The Chicago Daily Truth is now the best-selling newspaper in Chicago. He is very good at inciting emotions and is very obedient."
"Hmm... have him come to New York to serve as the manager of the News Media Company. I want to integrate all dozen or so newspaper offices under our banner across the seven states."
"Whether it's newspapers, magazines, books, or printing, it will all be under his management."
"Tell Fowler his task is only one: to ensure that when the people of all America drink their coffee in the morning, they see the news we want them to see; and before they go to sleep at night, they read the magazines and books we have printed."
"Understood, I will notify him," Bill nodded while taking notes.
"Second point."
Felix's gaze turned to Jones.
"Jones, the Food Company's products are selling very well. However, our sales channels still rely too heavily on local grocery stores and wholesalers. Too much profit is being eaten up in between."
"Moreover, I remember when I first started doing business, a benefactor helped me out."
Jones was stunned for a moment, then quickly realized.
"You mean... Mr. Gable? The grocery store owner who was the first to want your canned goods and took the lead in paying when you requested an advance?"
"Yes, that's him."
A look of nostalgia flashed in Felix's eyes.
Six years ago, when he was being extorted by the Viper Gang, this gentleman had comforted him, and even Catherine was introduced by him.
One could say he was the matchmaker for Felix and Catherine.
"Is he still running that little shop?"
"He is, and I hear business is doing quite well. He seems as energetic as ever; my subordinates say that for every customer who goes to his shop, he insists on pulling them aside to talk about his past cooperation with you and to promote your inspirational story."
"Mr. Gable is a good man," Felix said with a smile.
"So I want to establish the 'Universal Department Store' and hire Mr. Gable to serve as the manager."
"Department store?"
The people present were somewhat unfamiliar with the term. In The Union at present, department stores in the modern sense were only just beginning to sprout.
"Yes. Not a grocery store, nor a high-end shop like Mr. Tilford's. But a department store building."
Felix began to paint a blueprint for everyone.
"I plan to sell food, clothes, hardware, and furniture all in one massive building. Sell everything. Clearly marked prices with no bargaining, but providing the best service. Let customers find everything they usually need inside without having to run from shop to shop."
"Jones, you will coordinate with Mr. Gable when the time comes. Put our products and other companies' products all inside."
"I want 'Universal Department Store' to open in every major city. Let it become a sanctuary for middle-class consumption."
"Yes, Boss," Jones said, somewhat excited.
He knew that if Gable heard this news, he would definitely be driven wild with joy.
This was not just repaying a kindness, but a significant appointment.
"Third point."
Felix's finger tapped on the tabletop, the sound making everyone focus their attention.
"That is housing."
"The manor is being built on Long Island. That project is massive, and it has shown me the potential of real estate."
"New York's population is exploding, and immigrants are pouring in continuously. They need places to live. Factories need workshops, and companies need office buildings."
"Therefore, I have decided to establish the 'Federal Real Estate Company'."
"I won't directly appoint the manager for this company. Each director should recommend a candidate. The requirement is that they understand construction, law, and how to deal with those vampires at City Hall."
"The primary task of Federal Real Estate is to complete the construction of the Argyle Manor. That is not just a residence, but our first masterpiece. After the manor is built, we will buy land in Manhattan to build low-rent housing, apartments, and commercial buildings."
"As the war subsides and The Union develops rapidly, land will become more and more valuable. As long as we hold the land deeds in our hands, it is equivalent to holding the future of the city."
As the tone for the three newly established companies was set, the atmosphere in the conference room gradually grew more intense.
Felix sat at the head of the table. On the wall behind him hung a massive map of America, marked with the commercial territory of the Argyle Family.
"Alright everyone, since the structure and equity have been finalized..."
Felix leaned forward slightly, interlacing his fingers on the table once more, his gaze sweeping across the people on both sides of the long table.
"...it's time for me to see last year's report card. 1866 was a turning point. The war ended, and many say business has become difficult. I want to hear your side of the story."
"Jones, let's start with you."
Felix called on the president of the Food Company; after all, it was his very first company.
Jones stood up, clutching a report filled with numbers.
"Very well, Boss... oh no, chairman."
Jones cleared his throat and began.
"In 1866, life for Argyle & Co. Foods wasn't as easy as it had been in previous years..."
"Get straight to the numbers," Felix reminded him.
"Annual net profit was one million and fifty thousand dollars."
Jones reported the figure, though his voice was a bit low.
A slight stir went through the conference room. Compared to the insane profits during the war, this number had indeed shrunk considerably.
"Explain the reasons."
The expression on Felix's face remained unchanged.
"There were two main problems. First was the large-scale demobilization of the Federal Army. Previously, the War Department ordered hundreds of thousands of cases of luncheon meat and canned fruit from us every month; now, the order volume has been slashed by seventy percent. Although sales in the civilian market are rising, those soldiers returning home don't have much money and can't afford expensive things."
Jones paused and continued.
"Second is the cost. It's almost unbelievable—the war is over, yet the price of tinplate has gone crazy. Whether it's imported from Britain or produced locally, prices have risen by 30% compared to last year. Making cans requires tinplate, and once this cost went up, a huge chunk of the profit was eaten away."
"And then there's sugar."
Bill, the president of Metropolitan Trading Company sitting nearby, interjected.
"The sugarcane fields in the South haven't fully recovered yet, so sugar prices remain high. Jones needs a lot of sugar to make canned fruit."
"Exactly," Jones nodded with a helpless look.
"So even though I cut expenses and built two new production lines in Chicago, this was all that was left in the pocket at the end."
Felix nodded and made a few notes in his notebook.
"One million and fifty thousand isn't bad," Felix evaluated.
"To stabilize a million in net profit in the first year after losing the war dividends shows that the civilian channels were laid out quite successfully. Jones, your focus next year is to help establish 'Universal Department Store' and research new products. Since tinplate is expensive, try using high-end gold-label glass jars or cheaper packaging. Also, find a way to sell canned goods to Asia."
"Understood, chairman."
Jones breathed a sigh of relief and sat down.
"Catherine." Felix looked to his left.
Catherine elegantly opened the folder in front of her.
"Umbrella Corporation, 1866 net profit: eight hundred thousand dollars."
This figure was even lower than the Food Company's, but no one dared to underestimate the pharmaceutical company. Everyone knew that while medicine was highly profitable, it was also a massive money sink.
"Our flagship products, iodoglycerol disinfectant and water purification tablets, remain hard currency in the market," Catherine explained.
"Especially the water purification tablets; with the start of the westward migration wave, sales are doubling every month. Also, the new... analgesic syrup (containing heroin) developed by Dr. Thorne has received an enthusiastic response in the European market, contributing about three hundred thousand dollars in profit."
"Then why is the total profit only eight hundred thousand?"
Hayes pushed up his glasses and asked the question everyone was thinking.
"Because we are building houses."
Catherine pointed to several spots on the map.
"Last year, we established three 'St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospitals' in Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago respectively. Each one was built to the highest standards, bringing in the best equipment and doctors. This consumed a massive amount of the company's cash flow."
"This is a necessary investment," Felix interjected.
"Hospitals are not just channels for selling medicine; they are the cornerstone of our social prestige. With hospitals, we can control doctors; by controlling doctors, we control the patients' pockets and their votes."
"Exactly."
Catherine nodded with a smile, happy that Felix supported her so much.
"Moreover, through these three hospitals, we have collected a large amount of clinical data. The research lab's pace of new drug development has accelerated significantly. It is expected that next year, two more new drugs will hit the market."
"Well done."
Felix turned to the man who exuded the scent of gunpowder.
"Miller, what about Militech? The war is over; are the company's guns and cannons still selling?"
Miller was playing with his lighter. Hearing his name, he quickly stood up.
"chairman, the war is over, but that was an internal war within the United States. On this planet, even if God takes a rest, war never does."
He took out a data report.
"Vanguard Military Industry's 1866 net profit: one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"That much?" Even President Templeton was somewhat surprised.
"Didn't the War Department stop purchasing vanguard rifles?"
"They stopped buying, but Bismarck is buying," Miller grinned.
"Last year, Prussia and Austria had a fight (the Austro-Prussian War). Our European branch sold all thirty thousand rifles and two hundred Gatling guns backlogged in the warehouse to the Prussians."
"Those Prussian fellas are very rich; they paid in gold." Miller made a gesture of counting money.
"Furthermore, it seems Atlantic Shipyard also took several orders for patrol boats from South American countries. Although the domestic market has shrunk, the international market has just opened up."
"Additionally, we have converted production at our factory in Connecticut."
Frank Cole, General Manager of Militech, added.
"Now, besides making guns, we've also started producing precision mechanical parts, such as gears for sewing machines and harvesters. This segment of the business is growing very rapidly."
"Military-to-civilian conversion, plus exports," Felix summarized.
"This path is the right one. Miller, keep an eye on Europe next year. The French and the Prussians are bound to have a major clash sooner or later; that will be our opportunity."
"Don't worry, Boss," Miller's eyes sparkled.
"I've already had the technical department work on improving the breech-loading steel cannons. When the time comes, we'll sell cannons directly to both sides and let them greet each other with Militech products."
A low chuckle rippled through the conference room. Cruel as it was, this was the logic of an arms dealer.
"And you? Hayes." Felix looked at the head of finance.
Tom Hayes stood up and straightened his tie.
"chairman, Patriot Investment Company's net book profit for 1866 was seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
"Only seven hundred and fifty thousand?" Bill was a bit surprised.
"Tom, aren't you a powerhouse in the stock market? I heard you made a fortune just by shorting those Southern railway companies."
"That's gross profit, buddy," Hayes sighed.
"We earned a lot, but spent even more. Over the past year, following the chairman's instructions, I've been aggressively accumulating shares in the stock market. Western Union Telegraph Company, Pennsylvania Railroad, and several large textile mills—we bought their stocks at high points or acquired them through extremely complex means."
"To control Western Union, I used over two million dollars in cash to buy up shares from retail investors," Hayes explained.
"These stocks are still being held; they are long-term assets and cannot be counted as net profit for the year. Furthermore, to suppress competitors, I also spent a lot of money on public relations and legal fees."
"But this seven hundred and fifty thousand is pure cash gain after deducting all acquisition costs," Hayes emphasized.
"If we include the appreciation of the stocks we hold, this figure would at least triple."
"It's fine if the book profit is a bit low," Felix waved his hand.
"What I want is control. As long as we replace the boards of those companies with our people, the money will come back sooner or later."
"Templeton, what about the bank?"
President George Templeton spoke at a slower pace.
"Argyle Empire Bank's net profit last year was four hundred and ten thousand."
"The bank did not participate in high-risk speculation. The main profits came from interest on loans for railroad construction and fees for underwriting state government bonds. Additionally, with the influx of European capital, our foreign exchange business grew by 40%."
"Steady is good; the bank is the blood vessel of the empire," Felix evaluated.
"I don't need the bank to make explosive profits, as long as it doesn't lose money. Five hundred and ten thousand meets expectations."
The first round of reporting ended, and everyone's mood relaxed slightly. Although it didn't have the thrill of picking up money like during the war, in an era of peace, these industrial and financial profits were still staggering.
Of course, with the start of Southern Reconstruction and the Gilded Age, profits would only climb higher.
"Next is you, Bill."
Bill sprang to his feet at the summons.
"Metropolitan Company's net profit last year was four hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
Bill announced the figure with no trace of shame; instead he looked downright righteous.
"Sure, I know it doesn't sound like much next to the money boys and the gun-runners. But you've got to look at what I did."
He pulled a cigar from his pocket, tapped it on the table, but didn't dare light it.
"In the past year I bought thirteen large ranches west of Chicago—together bigger than the state of Rhode Island—plus dozens of wheat farms in Nebraska. From the calves to the shoots in those fields, they're all ours now."
Coleman of Lex Steel asked, puzzled.
"Mr. Bill, why buy so much land? Isn't a trading house supposed to flip—buy low, sell high?"
"Hah… shallow. What would a kid like you know?" Bill shot Coleman a glare.
"I'm not like you; the raw-materials chairman has Miller lining everything up for you. Metropolitan has to do its own heavy lifting."
"We used to buy grain and cattle from the growers—price depended on the heavens and on the moods of those Cowboys. Now? The land's mine, the cattle are mine. I decide when to slaughter and what price to ask."
"I also bought Chicago's two biggest packinghouses and shoved Armour right back down. Ha—makes me laugh. The fool tried to team up with Union Pacific Railroad; idiots sold him out the next minute."
"So now, from the moment a steer leaves the range to when it becomes canned-goods stock or a steak on a New York plate, every cent of profit along the way stays in the Argyle pot—nothing leaks out."
"That four-seventy is what's left after paying for land, cattle, and new plants," Bill said smugly.
"Count out those fixed-asset buys and Metropolitan clears at least one-point-five million. Understand, Director Coleman?"
Coleman had no stomach for more questions; of the eight directors he was the most junior.
"Good work—that's vertical integration," Felix said approvingly.
"Bill's right. Land doesn't run off. As the rails push west those acres will be worth ten times as much. That four-seventy carries real weight."
Felix had let Bill talk without interruption.
Partly because Uncle Bill was a partner, partly out of old friendship.
Back when Felix had begged him for offal and spouted big dreams, Bill believed him and sold cheap.
Later, while Felix was buying plants, Bill shipped first and let him pay later, even leaning on his trading house to find meat—true loyalty.
So Felix was happy to let him strut a little in front of the rest.
Of course, another reason was that some of the land had been bought on Felix's hint—land under which there was oil.
"All right—Coleman, you're up."
Coleman was a hands-on man from a technical background.
He spread a thick sheaf of drawings on the table: blast furnaces, rolling mills, every detail.
"Lex Steel's annual net: three hundred and thirty thousand."
The number drew frowns around the table.
Steel was king of industry—how could the margin be so thin?
Coleman, resigned, pointed to the data on the sheets.
"The New Jersey mill just finished expansion last year. We installed two new Bessemer converters; while tuning them we lost hundreds of tons of iron."
"But!"
Coleman's voice rose, pride ringing through.
"Lex Steel now turns twenty thousand tons a year. Gentlemen—twenty thousand tons of quality steel, not brittle pig iron."
"Last year the whole Union produced only about eighty thousand tons. Lex alone accounts for a quarter of national output!"
"That three-hundred-thirty is after we deliberately cut rail prices to seize market share," Coleman said, looking toward Reeves.
"In that regard, Mr. Charles, you owe me thanks for the twenty-percent discount on rails—otherwise your line to St. Louis would have cost far more."
"Then I do thank you."
Charles Reeves, president of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, took the floor with a smile.
He stepped to the map and traced with his finger the red line running east from Chicago.
Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, net profit: three hundred thousand dollars.
"Sounds like less, I know," Reeves shrugged.
"But as Coleman said, we still squeezed out that three hundred grand while laying track like madmen. Last year we added three hundred miles of branch line, linking the coal fields of Pennsylvania to the Great Lakes ports."
"Every sleeper, every spike—money," Reeves sighed.
"Still, the network's basically finished. Shipping grain from Chicago to New York on our rails is three days faster than by water and fifteen percent cheaper than any other line. Freight volume climbs every month."
"By juggling rates I've already bought out the smaller rivals. Next month we'll pick up their track for scrap-iron prices."
Well, well—Reeves, once the underdog, was starting to look like the thing he used to fight.
"Railroads are long-term plays," Felix set the tone.
"With the network in our hands it's a goose that never stops laying. Three hundred thousand is just the beginning; once the monopoly locks in, it'll be three million, thirty million."
The other division heads then gave brief reports.
Standard Oil: three hundred twenty thousand.
Standard Commercial Company—typewriters—sold well, but with promotion costs still high, profit hovered around a hundred thousand.
Atlantic Steam Power, busy building and repairing ships, held steady at two hundred thousand.
Southern Development had only just stabilized, earning four hundred thousand.
Lafflin-Smith Powder, blasting its way across mining country all year, surprisingly cleared four hundred thousand as well.
When the last report ended, the conference room fell briefly silent.
Every eye turned to the secretary-general, Edward Frost.
In his hand he held the final summary—numbers that were also the fruit of a year's struggle.
Frost rose, adjusted his spectacles, and cleared his throat.
"Gentlemen, based on the audited statements submitted by all companies and after cross-checking—"
"—the combined net profit of every Argyle-holding company for fiscal 1866 is six million seven hundred eighty thousand dollars."
A collective exhale.
A long, low hiss of breath rippled across the room.
Six million seven hundred eighty thousand dollars.
In an age when the average man earned a few hundred a year and a single million made you a titan, the figure was dizzying.
Enough to buy half a state or outfit an army that could sweep South America.
"And that's only the corporate profit," Frost went on, voice trembling with excitement.
"With chairman Argyle's consent, we now release his personal reckoning."
"Argyle Foods, Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, Vanguard Military Industry, Argyle Bank—wholly or absolutely owned."
"After tax, chairman Argyle's share of that six million seven hundred eighty thousand is six million three hundred thousand."
Frost turned the page.
"External investments: fifty-five percent of Pennsylvania Railroad, dividend fifty thousand; thirteen percent of Union Pacific Railroad, forty-eight hundred; twenty percent of Erie Railroad, thirty-two hundred; plus scattered holdings."
"In conclusion—"
Frost lifted his eyes toward the young man at the head of the table.
"Mr. Felix Argyle's personal net income for 1866 is estimated at six million nine hundred thousand dollars."
Applause—starting somewhere, then thundering through the room.
Miller clapped until his palms burned, Bill whistled, and even reserved Anna and Catherine joined in.
It was a miracle.
In six short years the slum kid had become a six-million-a-year colossus—a triumph for Felix and for everyone seated there.
Felix wore a faint smile.
Inside, he felt no satisfaction; in the plan this was merely the starting line.
He raised a hand and the clapping subsided.
"Making money feels good, but not just for me alone."
"Now let's talk dividends."
At the mention of splitting the money, the mood in the conference room shifted in an instant—an intricate blend of anticipation, excitement, and a hint of tension.
Everyone had signed the partner-equity plan and knew they owned shares, yet until the checks were actually in hand, it was only a promise on paper.
Felix sat motionless, drumming his fingers against the table; the soft taps sounded like a countdown.
"By custom, I won't distribute all of this year's profit."
"Forty percent."
Felix raised four fingers.
"Each company will retain forty percent of its profit as capital for next year—whether for R&D, equipment upgrades, expanded capacity, or snapping up a rival you fancy."
"That means the Food Company keeps four hundred thousand to build a new plant and develop products, while Vanguard Military keeps half a million to build bigger guns. Frost will oversee the funds."
Everyone nodded.
They were industrialists; they understood the value of keeping grain in the granary.
"The remaining sixty percent will be paid out as dividends."
Felix smiled.
"Frost, hand out the checks."
Frost drew a stack of pre-signed Argyle Bank checkbooks from his briefcase and walked from man to man, placing the thin slip of paper before each.
The first check went to Bill.
Metropolitan Trading had cleared a net profit of 470,000 dollars; 282,000 was set aside for dividends. Bill held five percent original stock plus one percent bonus, six percent in total.
"Sixteen thousand nine hundred twenty dollars." Bill swallowed. "I couldn't earn this in years at the slaughterhouse."
"Don't spend it all at once, Bill," Felix quipped.
"I hear you've got your eye on a house on Fifth Avenue? This, plus what you've banked the last few years, should cover it."
"More than enough—plenty!" Bill grinned foolishly.
Next came Charles Reeves.
He owned seven percent of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company. The Railway Company had earned 300,000; 180,000 was distributed.
"Twelve thousand six hundred dollars." Reeves adjusted his spectacles as he studied the check.
"I'll set aside half for a workers' injury-and-death fund. The rest goes to my daughter in Boston."
He did much the same every year.
"It's your money, Charles. Spend it as you wish," Felix said with respect.
Then came MacGregor.
Atlantic Steam Power had netted 200,000; dividends totaled 120,000. He held three percent.
"Three thousand six hundred dollars." The Scot stared at the slip.
"Not bad. Enough for a few barrels of good whisky and a new draughting set."
The man everyone envied was Sylvester Lafflin.
The powder king's case was special. Though Lafflin-Smith Powder Company had joined the Argyle system, the Lafflin family kept large original holdings. With Felix's bonus, Sylvester held thirty-one percent in total.
The powder firm had cleared 400,000; 240,000 was paid out.
"Seventy-four thousand four hundred dollars."
When Lafflin took the check, even Miller whistled.
"Hey, Sylvester, you're buying tonight," Miller teased. "One of your bangs earns more than my thousand rifles."
"That's technology, Miller, technology," the old man crowed, pocketing the check.
"And I take the risks. You know how frightening nitro-glycerine can be."
Jones, Miller, Hayes, and the rest held only small percentages—mostly one percent—but their companies were giants, so the payouts were handsome.
Miller, for instance, with Vanguard Military and Saineng Minerals combined, netted nearly ten thousand from his single percent.
Jones took home more than six thousand; Hayes, forty-five hundred.
Even Frank and Silas received bonuses that set their hearts racing—more than a year's salary when they earned only two or three thousand annually.
The room glowed with holiday cheer; hard cash inspired far more than any slogan.
At last every eye returned to Felix.
Everyone had been paid, but the man at the head of the table always claimed the lion's share.
Frost held the final check; it was not for anyone else—it was Felix's.
"After setting aside retained capital and everyone's dividends," Frost's voice trembled, "your cash dividend this year, Mr. Chairman, comes to three million seven hundred eighty thousand dollars."
With his personal outside investments—those not subject to the forty-percent retention—Felix now commanded more than 4.3 million in ready cash.
In an era when the Federal Government's annual revenue was but a few hundred million, one man's cash flow rivaled the treasury of a small nation.
Felix took the check and, without a glance, slipped it into his notebook.
"All right, the money's divided."
He rose and walked to the map.
"Feels good to pocket it, doesn't it? But remember—this was 1866. That's the past."
"Now it's 1867."
He lifted a pointer and slammed it against several spots on the map.
"Jones, help Mr. Gable get Universal Department Store running. I want people shopping before Christmas."
"Yes, sir!" Jones barked.
"Miller, watch the European division. Since the Prussians like our guns, build an ammunition plant—sell them bullets as well. Consumables earn more than guns. Pitch them to other nations too; our artillery's battle-proven."
"Understood!"
"Bill, with all that livestock and grain in Metropolitan, build me a cold chain. Reeves will add refrigerated cars. I want New Yorkers eating beef slaughtered yesterday in Chicago."
"No problem!"
"Hayes, Templeton." Felix turned to the finance duo. "Your task is toughest."
"Take the money to Wall Street and sweep up Western Union Telegraph shares. Whatever the cost, I want control."
"And watch the poorly run railways—when the chance comes, swallow them whole."
"At your command, Boss."
Felix surveyed the pack of wolves, eyes blazing with hunger and ambition.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he said.
"In 1866 we proved we could earn. In 1867 we'll prove we can spend."
"Go forth and conquer. Plant the Argyle flag in every corner of America."
"Meeting adjourned!"
_______________
On January 5th, the Windy City of Chicago was swept by cold winds blowing off Lake Michigan.
Inside a three-story brick building on LaSalle Street, a massive steam-powered printing press was operating rhythmically in the basement.
This building was the headquarters of the Chicago Daily Truth.
Smoke swirled in the editor-in-chief's office on the second floor.
Vincent Fowler sat with his feet propped up on a desk cluttered with manuscripts, a mangled pipe clenched between his teeth.
He suffered from a common affliction of men in their forties: balding.
"Boss, this draft about the city councilman taking bribes..." A young typesetter stood cautiously at the door, holding a proof sheet.
"If we publish this, that councilman might send someone to smash our windows."
"Then let him smash them."
Fowler exhaled a puff of smoke from his nostrils and drew a sharp circle on the proof with a red pen.
"Remember, we want sales. Smashed windows are news too. When that happens, we'll write 'Councilman Hires Thugs to Attack Freedom of the Press,' and sales will double again. As long as the Metropolitan Trading Company is behind us, even the mayor has to be polite."
"Alright, Boss."
The typesetter nodded in awe and retreated.
Just then, the office door was kicked open by a foot wearing a heavy leather boot.
"Who the hell is so—"
Fowler was about to curse, but as soon as he looked up, he pulled his feet off the desk, his angry expression instantly morphing into a fawning smile.
"Oh, if it isn't Mr. Bill? I thought you went to New York for a meeting?"
Wrapped in a fur-collared overcoat, Bill squeezed into the cramped office like a bear. Without the slightest hesitation, he pulled over a chair and sat down, causing the furniture to groan under his weight.
"Cut the chatter, Fowler."
Bill pulled a silver flask from his coat, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig of strong Kentucky bourbon.
"I'm here to deliver the Boss's orders."
"The Boss?" Fowler's eyes lit up.
"What are Mr. Argyle' instructions? Does he want to take down a competitor? Or is that Armour Meat Packing Plant acting up again?"
"Ha... it's much bigger than that."
Bill tossed a document onto the desk, covering the unfinished proof sheet.
"Get ready to pack your things and leave this mess to your deputy. Buy a train ticket to New York for tomorrow."
"To New York?"
Fowler was stunned for a moment, rubbing his hands together uncertainly.
"Mr. Bill, I'm doing quite well in Chicago. Look, our newspaper's circulation is already number one in the state..."
"Chicago is just a pond, Fowler."
Bill interrupted him, his eyes filled with the disdain of someone who had seen the world.
"The Boss is starting a 'News and Media Company.' He's going to consolidate over a dozen newspapers in major cities like Boston, Philadelphia, and New York. We won't just do newspapers; we'll do magazines and publish books too."
Bill stared into Fowler's eyes.
"The Boss specifically named you to be the manager of this company. The office space will be ten times larger than this place. You won't be managing a few dozen typesetters anymore, but hundreds of reporters and editors."
Fowler's mouth hung open. His pipe slipped out, burning a hole in his trousers, but he didn't feel a thing.
"The... the media manager for all of America?"
"That's right. The Boss said you only have one task."
Bill held up a thick finger.
"Control the eyes and ears of the people. When they drink their coffee in the morning, they must see the news we want them to see; before they go to bed at night, they must read the truths we print."
With trembling hands, Fowler picked up the appointment letter.
It was a ticket to power.
In this country, wielding the pen was sometimes more effective than wielding the sword.
"Shit, God is such a lovely baby! I'll do it!"
Fowler stood up abruptly, his face flushed with excitement.
"I'll go pack right now. Oh, wait, I won't pack... I'll leave all this junk to my deputy. I'm going to buy my ticket now!"
"That's the spirit."
Bill stood up and slapped Fowler on the shoulder, nearly knocking the frail man of letters apart.
"When you get to New York, remember to get a haircut and some decent clothes first. Don't embarrass Chicago. And bring that rogue writing style of yours; those wolves in sheep's clothing in New York are lacking exactly that."
...Two days later, the Lower East Side, New York.
This was a settlement for immigrants, with narrow streets lined with shops sporting various signs. The air was thick with the scent of spices, pickled fish, and freshly baked bread.
On a busy street corner sat a small shop with a sign that read "Gable's Grocery."
Though the storefront was small, the interior was kept impeccably clean. Canned goods were lined up neatly on the shelves, there wasn't a speck of dust on the floor, and even the wooden barrels of pickles were polished to a shine.
Gable stood behind the counter, skillfully wrapping half a pound of brown sugar in kraft paper.
He was forty-five years old, with graying hair at his temples, but he was high-spirited, and his eyes held the sincerity of an old-fashioned merchant.
"That will be fifteen cents, Mrs. O'Leary."
Gable handed the wrapped sugar to an elderly Irish woman at the counter.
"This is a new shipment from Cuba; it's very sweet."
"Thank you, Mr. Gable," the old woman said, counting out a few coins.
"Your place is still the fairest. That new shop next door called Smith's always mixes sand into the sugar."
"Of course. I've been here for over a decade, serving regular customers. Business must have a conscience."
Gable smiled as he put the coins into the drawer.
"That's what one of my former suppliers used to say. You know? It was that Mr. Argyle; back in the day, he was right here..."
"I know, I know," the old woman interrupted with a laugh.
"You tell the story every time. That big shot sold his first homemade cans here and even praised you for being a good man."
"That's right, exactly right." Gable puffed out his chest, looking proud.
"That was six years ago. He was just a young lad then, but I could tell at a glance he was something special. And I was the first one to give him credit! Who else would have trusted him back then?"
Just then, the wind chime at the shop door rang.
A man in a decent suit walked in, followed by two attendants carrying briefcases.
The few customers in the shop instinctively moved out of the way, as the man's fine clothing and aura clearly marked him as someone who didn't frequent the Lower East Side.
Gable squinted, finding the man somewhat familiar.
"Welcome, sir. Can I help you with something? We have some nice ham that just arrived..."
The man took off his hat, revealing an honest-looking face.
"Sir, I'm not here to buy ham."
Gable froze. He stared at the face for several seconds until, suddenly, the gates of memory swung wide open.