The news that President Tyler had flown into a rage in the White House and begun plotting retaliatory measures hardly disturbed Arthur Lionheart in the least.
From London, the entire American reaction looked to him like an almost pitiable reflex—old-world politicians flailing helplessly when confronted with an adversary wielding the cold, clean logic of a new age.
Relying solely on military intimidation and crude geopolitical containment would never subdue that young, restless bull-calf known as the United States.
It was far too large.
Its potential far too immense.
Extinguishing it from the outside was impossible—and the cost would be ruinous, contrary to Britain's imperial interests.
No, the only effective method had always been the same:
Let America fracture from within.
For that, Lionheart required one—or better, several—"local agents": influential, ambitious Americans who could be steered, bribed, or unleashed whenever needed.
He turned his attention to the thick dossier compiled by his intelligence bureau:
"Emerging American Industrial and Commercial Figures."
Several names he had added himself, aided by the quiet advantage of historical foresight.
His finger drifted down the list, brushing over the names of future titans—Rockefeller, Carnegie—still children at this point.
Finally, his fingertip halted at a distinctly Dutch-sounding name:
Cornelius Vanderbilt.
"Yes," Arthur murmured, lips curling with the satisfaction of a hunter spotting just the right prey.
At this point in history, Vanderbilt was still far from the Railroad King or Shipping Emperor he would one day become. He was merely a rough, sharp-edged ferryman in his forties—an ambitious, cunning, and ruthlessly competitive man who had clawed his way from poverty to modest notoriety running a steam-ferry on Staten Island.
And he was choking.
His small ferry company was being strangled by the old Hudson River shipping monopolists with government charters. Bankruptcy hovered at his door.
To Arthur Lionheart, Vanderbilt was perfect:
A starving wolf—ravenous, desperate, and capable of tearing out throats if only someone tossed him a sufficiently large piece of meat.
A few days later, in a cramped brokerage office in New York…
Cornelius Vanderbilt paced like an agitated bull. His weathered face was twisted with fury and resentment.
"Those damned vampires up in Albany!" he roared, slamming his fist against the desk. "They wave some ancient charter like it came from Moses' own hand and think they own the Hudson River! To hell with that!"
"I'll cut my ticket prices in half! Let every honest working man ride my boats—I'll bleed those monopolists dry!"
Just then, a calm knock sounded at his door.
An impeccably dressed English gentleman stepped inside.
"Pardon me. Captain Vanderbilt?"
"That's me. And which blasted bank sent you to collect?" Vanderbilt barked.
"No bank, Captain," the Englishman replied with a measured smile. From his fine leather case he withdrew an envelope and offered it. "On the contrary—I am here to deliver… funds."
"My employer extends his deepest respect for your defiance of the Hudson monopoly. He believes you embody the truest spirit of pioneering enterprise."
Baffled, Vanderbilt took the envelope.
It bore no signature—only a golden emblem he did not recognise: a heraldic combination of an Lion coiled around a mechanical gear.
He opened the letter.
The contents were concise, elegant, unnervingly direct.
This mysterious "employer" praised Vanderbilt's rebellious entrepreneurial spirit.
And then came the proposal—so staggering that Vanderbilt nearly forgot to breathe.
The employer was prepared, on behalf of an "enigmatic consortium," to grant him—this half-ruined ferryman—an investment of:
One. Million. Dollars.
Unsecured.
Unconditional.
An angel's purse in a godless world.
One million dollars—
In America—
In 1842.
Even the wealthiest man in the nation would have trembled at such a sum.
To Vanderbilt, it felt as if he were reading a lost chapter of Arabian Nights.
"Who… who is your employer?" Vanderbilt stammered, hand trembling. "Why would he help me?"
"His identity is of no concern," the gentleman replied smoothly. "Only know that he admires you deeply. He believes you will one day reshape American transportation."
"And as for why he wishes to assist you…"
The Englishman paused, then delivered the line Vanderbilt would remember to his dying day:
"Because nothing pleases him more than—
investing in the future."
Before Vanderbilt could recover, the gentleman laid another document upon the desk.
"And this is the true gift."
Vanderbilt opened it—and the world seemed to tilt beneath him.
It was a transportation master-plan of North America unlike anything he had imagined. No rivers. No canals. Only a dense, prophetic latticework of railways—red and black lines stretching across the continent.
New York to Chicago.
Chicago to Detroit.
Great Lakes to the Mississippi.
Every junction, every freight corridor, every future boomtown marked with chilling precision.
Along the margins were printed several lines—prophecies masquerading as analysis:
Within ten years, steam railways will replace river ferries as the primary arteries of the New World.
He who commands the railways commands the nation.
The New York Central Railroad shall become the dominant titan of the Eastern Seaboard.
To control it is to command the lifeblood of American commerce.
The document radiated such cold, crystalline foresight that Vanderbilt felt as though it had been handed down by Providence itself.
He stared at the British gentleman—
then at the strange golden emblem—
then back at the map that might as well have been a treasure chart drawn by God.
With a thud, the future Railroad King dropped to his knees before the gentleman.
"Please—Captain—" the Englishman hurried to lift him.
"Tell your Mr" Vanderbilt gasped, gripping the man's hands with fanatical fervour, "from today onward, I—Cornelius Vanderbilt—offer him my service, my loyalty, anything that could be useful to him in my hands.!"
A connoisseur of men is rarer than a thousand talented horses.
And in that moment, Arthur Lionheart gained the fiercest local agent he could ever wish for:
America's future railway sovereign.
With Vanderbilt as his piece on the board…
Manipulating American stock markets,
steering presidential elections,
and—when the time was right—
kindling a civil war from within—
would be no more difficult than turning a hand.