New York, 17 Wall Street.
Nathaniel Finch sat in his broker's office, which smelled of aged cigars and walnut oil wax.
The office was small, with windows facing the narrow street; sunlight struggled to penetrate the dust on the glass, casting a few dim spots of light on the floor.
In this neighborhood enveloped by the scent of money, Nathaniel was not a powerful figure who could summon wind and rain, but he possessed a trait more precious than gold in the securities market: a hound-like sense of smell.
He had been immersed in this trade for twenty years.
At this moment, the brass machine placed in the corner of the room was making a monotonous "click, click" sound.
The white paper tape was like an endless snake's tongue, sliding steadily from the outlet and piling up into a small hill beside the wastepaper basket.
Nathaniel held a cup of cold black coffee, his eyes fixed on a line of ink characters just printed on the paper tape.
"H.S.B.C (Hudson Steamship Company)... 50 shares... Sell. Unit Price: $14.25."
He put down the coffee cup and took a worn parchment ledger from the drawer.
It was densely packed with the transaction records of dozens of marginal stocks over the past week.
Evidently, he had been monitoring the stock price fluctuations of these companies for a long time.
The door was pushed open.
Walking in was Arthur Pendleton, a wealthy investor who had made his fortune in the railroad tie timber business and was also Nathaniel's largest client.
Arthur wore an elegant double-breasted camel hair coat and held a walking stick topped with a silver eagle's head.
"Hi, Nathaniel, my old friend."
Arthur hung his walking stick on the coat rack and rubbed his leather-gloved hands together.
"Damn, the wind outside could freeze a man's ears off. I really don't know what interesting things can be done in this cold weather. Tell me, what's the good news today? Can we pick up some more Erie Railroad bonds?"
Nathaniel didn't answer immediately, but instead tapped the pile of paper tapes on the desk with his knuckles.
"Arthur, my friend, forget the Erie Railroad for a moment. I've found something interesting. Take a look at this."
Hearing this, Arthur walked over curiously, took out his tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses from his pocket, perched them on his nose, and peered at the cold numbers.
"Hudson Steamship? New York Gas Light? And those cotton textile mills in Massachusetts? Why are you showing me these?"
Arthur frowned, somewhat confused.
"I recall these are all stagnant stocks that no one pays attention to. Is there something wrong with them?"
"Of course. The problem lies with their sellers."
Nathaniel opened a drawer and took out an internal transcript from the New York Stock Clearing House.
"Based on my observations and investigation, a fixed number of these stocks have been dumped into the market every day for the past five days. Fifty shares at a time, or a hundred shares. The movements are extremely subtle, like cutting flesh with nail clippers. If you didn't aggregate these fragmented transactions, you wouldn't see any sign of it at all."
Nathaniel stood up, walked to Arthur's side, and lowered his voice.
"I followed these transaction accounts. They belong to three different trusts: 'Blue Anchor Trust', 'Oak Capital', and the 'Free Merchants Association'."
Arthur took off his glasses, a hint of confusion flashing in his eyes.
"So? Those three names sound completely unrelated."
"Ha~ On the surface, they certainly appear unrelated."
Nathaniel gave a cold laugh.
"But my friend, the registered addresses of these three trusts are all on Broadway. Moreover, their attorneys all come from the same law firm—yes, the one that serves the Patriot Investment Company."
Arthur's expression changed.
In this neighborhood, the name Patriot Investment Company was synonymous with the man sitting atop the Empire State Building—Felix Argyle.
"What? You mean Tom Hayes is selling off these assets?"
Arthur pulled over a chair and sat down, feeling a strange chill.
"Wait, that doesn't make sense, Nathaniel. I remember last month, Hayes was on a buying spree, trying to soak up every outstanding share of these companies. Everyone thought Argyle was going to build a trust spanning water transport and textiles. Why would he sell now? and in such a secretive manner?"
"That's exactly what's been keeping me up all night."
Nathaniel returned to his seat, resting his chin on his crossed hands.
"If Hayes were short on cash, he could easily package these stocks as collateral for any bank. But he didn't; he chose to cash out. And he's cashing out regardless of the cost. To avoid causing a price collapse, he patiently split large orders into hundreds or thousands of small ones. This is squeezing every drop of cash out of these stocks."
Arthur pondered for a moment.
"Could Argyle' capital chain be broken? The power plant construction at General Electric needs a lot of funding; I heard they're buying land everywhere to bury cables."
"No." Nathaniel shook his head.
"Everyone knows the Argyle Bank's vaults are filled with silver and cotton proceeds from the South; they aren't short on money. This maneuver is more like... building a shelter."
"A shelter?"
"Exchanging all those illiquid, high-risk assets for federal banknotes, or even gold."
Nathaniel's gaze swept through the window toward the Empire Bank Building.
"Like a sailor at sea, before a storm, throwing every loose barrel on deck into the ocean and then firmly lowering the sails."
Arthur shuddered.
"You mean Wall Street is in for big trouble?"
"I don't know where the storm will come from."
Nathaniel picked up a pen and drew a heavy 'X' on the ledger.
"But when even a hungry wolf like Argyle is spitting out the fat in his mouth, if small fry like us don't swim away quickly, we'll only be crushed on the beach."
"Then go investigate."
Arthur stood up, his gaze becoming exceptionally sharp.
"Nathaniel, use all your connections. Go to the 'Bull Tavern' and find those low-level clerks from Patriot Investment Company. Bribe them. We need to know what Hayes and Templeton are really guarding against!"
"I've already sent Toby."
Nathaniel pointed to the empty clerk's desk outside the door.
"That young man is a pro at extracting information over drinks; hopefully, he can bring back some valuable scraps."
The two fell silent.
Only the stock ticker continued to work tirelessly, its rhythmic mechanical sound now akin to the dull rumble of thunder before a storm.
Augusta, Georgia.
February in the South lacked the biting cold of the North; the air was thick with a humid, stuffy feeling, a mix of red clay and decaying pine needles.
The local headquarters of the Southern Development Company was located in a former plantation mansion that once belonged to old aristocracy.
Bullet holes from the Civil War still scarred the white Roman columns, but the interior had been transformed into the cold, efficient hub of a commercial machine.
Silas wore a collarless linen shirt, open at the chest, revealing his sturdy muscles and several old scars.
He sat behind a large oak desk, toying with an ivory-handled Vanguard revolver.
Across from him sat Jones, the president of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Jones was constantly wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
For the past two months, he had been inspecting several Southern states on behalf of Felix, but he found the hot and humid climate extremely uncomfortable.
"Silas, I think you owe me a reasonable explanation."
Jones slapped a construction plan onto the table.
"The foundation for that large fruit cannery outside Atlanta is already laid! The equipment is still on the railroad in Ohio. And now you're telling me the project is to be suspended indefinitely?"
Silas didn't look at the plan; instead, he pushed a decoded telegram in front of Jones.
"I didn't request the suspension, Mr. Jones. It's an order from New York."
Silas's voice was low, tinged with a hint of helplessness.
After all, Jones was a director on the Executive Committee, one rank above him.
Jones frowned as he picked up the telegram; its content was extremely brief.
"Halt all infrastructure investments, liquidate all local debts. Cease issuing new season's agricultural supply credit. Recall cash, escort it under armed guard to the New York Argyle Bank headquarters. This order supersedes all others. — Executive Committee."
Jones put down the telegram, his displeasure shifting.
"Stop agricultural supply credit? This is the preparation period for spring plowing! If the company stores don't extend credit to those Black laborers and bankrupt white farmers for seeds and fertilizer, what will they plant this year? What will they use to repay their debts in the autumn? We'll not only lose cotton, but we'll also incite civil unrest!"
"Mr. Jones, that's their problem, not ours. Isn't it?"
Silas holstered his revolver and stood up, walking to the window.
Outside the window, vast cotton fields stretched to the horizon.
The land was still nominally owned by the plantation owners, but in reality, the deeds had long been locked away in the Argyle Empire Bank's vault.
"The Boss's instructions are very clear, Mr. Jones. New York doesn't want cotton or future profits right now. They want cash. Tangible, hard currency."
Jones no longer argued, as the Boss's orders superseded everything.
Just then, a knock came at the office door.
The deputy captain of the Southern Security Team, a scar-faced man named Ezra, walked in.
"Boss," Ezra bowed slightly.
"Mr. Beauregard is downstairs. He's with a few tenant farmer representatives and says he must see you, no matter what."
Beauregard was one of the few remaining old plantation owners in the area who still retained some semblance of dignity.
Silas's lips curled into an amused smile.
"Let him in then. It saves me the trouble of sending someone to his estate to collect the debt."
A few minutes later, Beauregard entered the office.
He wore a faded gray tweed suit and clutched a worn straw hat in his hand.
This gentleman, who once owned hundreds of slaves, now had a somewhat stooped back.
"Good day, Mr. Silas."
Beauregard ignored Jones and spoke directly to Silas, his voice tinged with suppressed anger and pleading.
"I just went to your 'company store.' The manager told me that credit for farm tools and seeds is suspended this year. Not only that, but you're also demanding I immediately repay last year's three thousand dollar loan. This isn't according to custom! According to the contract, we've always used the autumn harvest to offset it!"
Silas walked back to his desk, picked up a thick ledger, and flipped to a certain page.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Beauregard, that was the old custom. The rules have changed now."
Silas pointed to the numbers in the ledger.
"It's written in black and white. The additional clauses of the loan agreement clearly state that the creditor has the right to demand early repayment from the debtor whenever they believe the capital risk has increased."
"What the f—? This is simply banditry!"
Beauregard angrily waved the straw hat in his hand.
"Where am I supposed to get three thousand dollars in cash now? My money is in the ground! It's dirt, not a gold mine!"
"If you don't have cash, Mr. Beauregard,"
Silas's tone remained flat and unperturbed.
"Then we can only exercise our mortgage rights. Your five hundred acres of fertile land near the river valley will, as of this afternoon, become the property of the Southern Development Company."
"You can't do this!"
Beauregard roared, his eyes bloodshot.
"That's the land my grandfather left me; you're driving us to ruin!"
Ezra stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his gun.
The killing intent he carried from the battlefield instantly choked Beauregard's voice in his throat.
"Out of consideration for our past acquaintance, I'll give you two days to move."
Silas sat back in his chair and began to attend to other documents, no longer looking at the bankrupt farmer.
"If you don't want to move, the security team will help you. But they aren't as polite as I am."
Beauregard stood frozen for a long time, like a withered tree drained of its sap.
Finally, he trembled as he turned around and shuffled out of the office.
Jones watched Beauregard's retreating figure, feeling a pang of apprehension.
"Silas, I feel that squeezing the South dry like this is inappropriate. If this land becomes barren, our future source of profit will be cut off."
"Profit?"
Silas looked up, his eyes gleaming with a beast-like bloodlust.
"Mr. Jones, haven't you understood yet? When the Boss orders us to hoard cash, it means war is coming. Not commercial competition fought in court, but something that could be a matter of survival. Have these years of comfort made you lose your former vigilance?"
Silas tossed a stack of signed requisition orders to Ezra.
"Go, notify all offices. Whether it's smashing piggy banks or pulling out those debtors' false teeth to sell for gold. Within ten days, I want to see two armored carriages full of coins and banknotes, escorted by the Shadow Force, heading to New York."
"In this war, the South cannot hold back the Boss."