Inside a red-brick building in Manhattan, Cornelius Vanderbilt, the 71-year-old man known as the Commodore, sat behind his massive mahogany desk.
He held a cigar between his fingers, his eyes staring through the smoke at the young man sitting opposite him.
The room was silent, save for the dull ticking of the wall clock.
"Young man, I hear you've been causing quite a stir in Cleveland?"
Vanderbilt finally spoke, his voice loud and coarse, carrying a heavy port accent.
"Just normal business consolidation, Commodore," Felix said, sitting casually in his chair.
"Consolidation?"
Vanderbilt snorted and took a deep drag from his cigar.
"Mr. Argyle, don't play those damned word games with me. I've looked at the reports. Over the past month, the oil shipped out of Cleveland by the New York Central Railroad has dropped by a full thirty percent. Meanwhile, the volume carried by the Erie Railroad and the Pennsylvania Railroad is skyrocketing."
The old man stood up, pacing like an enraged lion in a cage.
"Someone told me you signed some secret agreement. Rebates? Or commissions? Whatever you call it, you're using my competitors to drive down my prices. Remember that if I hadn't helped pull the strings back then, you wouldn't have gotten the Pennsylvania Railroad Company."
Felix flatly denied it.
"Mr. Vanderbilt, that is simply how the market economy works. I had no intention of targeting you."
"I use whoever offers the lowest price and the best service. I approached your son once before, but unfortunately, he didn't agree, so this is not my fault. Moreover, Standard Oil Company produces at least several thousand barrels of oil daily and must be cost-effective."
"Nonsense!"
Vanderbilt slammed his hand onto the table, making the ashtray jump.
"Don't think I'm truly senile, Argyle; you're playing with fire. Do you think controlling the refineries lets you challenge me? I own the New York Central Railroad and the Hudson River Railroad, and I control the gateway to New York Harbor."
He walked up to Felix, looking down at him condescendingly.
Vanderbilt had been in business for decades and would never believe such an excuse.
In his mind, Felix was trying to challenge his status as the number one businessman in the States, so whether it was a misunderstanding or not, he would not allow it.
"Believe it or not, tomorrow I can announce that I refuse to transport any tank cars bearing the 'Standard Oil' name? I'll let your blue iron tanks pile up and rust in New Jersey and Cleveland."
Facing the roar of this commercial titan, Felix merely brushed nonexistent dust from his sleeve.
"You are certainly free to do that, Commodore," Felix said, raising his head, his eyes as calm as deep water. "That is your company; you decide."
"But if you refuse to transport it, I will give all my volume to the Erie Railroad and the Pennsylvania Railroad. I imagine they would be delighted to take this lucrative business."
"Furthermore, you won't just lose the oil freight revenue. The beef and grain from the Metropolitan Trading Company, the machinery from Militech, the steel rails from Lex Steel... all these goods might start taking alternative routes."
"Are you threatening me?" Vanderbilt narrowed his eyes.
"No, I am helping you calculate the costs." Felix stood up, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Commodore, times have changed. Before, the railways controlled the shippers because there was only one route. But now, there are three routes."
"You can blockade me, but I can also starve your railway. A railway without freight is just a pile of scrap iron."
Vanderbilt fell silent. He stared at Felix for a long time, the pressure enough to suffocate an ordinary businessman.
But Felix remained standing firm.
Suddenly, the old man burst into loud laughter.
"Hahahaha... You good lad!" Vanderbilt stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.
"You've got guts. Much better than those Wall Street parasites who only scheme behind people's backs."
He sat back down in his chair, his attitude softening slightly, though this did not mean he had abandoned his attack.
"Alright, Argyle. Since we both understand the situation, let's speak plainly."
Vanderbilt took a map from his drawer and pointed to a route in northern New York State.
"The Erie Railroad."
Vanderbilt spat out the name.
"Those bastards running the Erie Railroad have been waging a price war against me on the New York to Great Lakes line, causing New York Central Railroad Company's stock on Wall Street to drop."
"What do you want?" Felix asked, although he already had a premonition.
"I want to buy it and merge it with my New York Central Railroad." Vanderbilt made no attempt to hide his ambition.
Felix's pupils constricted slightly.
If Vanderbilt succeeded, it would mean that both northern main lines running from New York City to the west would fall into the hands of a single person.
"Commodore, your appetite is truly enormous," Felix said lightly. "If you take over the Erie, you will effectively monopolize all rail lines running from New York to the Great Lakes."
"Exactly." Vanderbilt turned around arrogantly.
"At that point, if you want to ship oil from Cleveland into New York, you either use my route and accept my prices, or... you'll have to haul the oil back to Philadelphia to sell it."
This was exactly what Felix worried about. Although Philadelphia was also a major port, but New York was the center of the States's finance and trade.
If railroad competition in New York was lost, Vanderbilt would dictate Standard Oil's logistics costs on the East Coast.
"Argyle, I didn't call you here today to argue. I called you here to give you a warning, and also an opportunity."
Vanderbilt stared at him.
"When I make my move on the Erie Railroad, your Patriot Investment Company must remain neutral. Do not provide blood transfusions to those people at the Erie. I know you and that kid Gould have some dealings due to the reconstruction of the South, but in the face of absolute capital, he is just an ant."
Vanderbilt understood that mere verbal warnings were useless; there had to be profit, so he threw out bait.
"If you stay out of it, once I unify the New York rail network, I will give all your affiliated companies a 'reasonable' freight rate. While it won't be as low as it is now, it will at least be cheaper than for everyone else."
This was a threat.
If Felix intervened, it would mean full-scale war, and now was not a safe time.
But if he didn't intervene, Felix would have to rely on Vanderbilt's goodwill whenever he wanted to ship goods to Europe for sale.
After a moment of silence, Felix picked up his hat and stood up.
"I will consider it, Commodore," Felix said with a smile. "After all, nobody wants to offend you."
Vanderbilt waved his hand, dismissing him. "Go on, and don't do anything foolish."
The moment he stepped out of the building, Felix's face darkened.
Frost was already waiting beside the carriage.
"Boss, what did the Old Lion say?"
"He wants to buy the Erie Railroad and monopolize New York's rail network."
Felix boarded the carriage and said coldly, "He intends to swallow the Erie Railroad. If he succeeds, our future freight rates in New York will be meat on his chopping block."
"What do we do? Let the Pennsylvania Railroad compete?"
Frost frowned; this was bad news.
"No. The Pennsylvania Railroad's lines are too far south to police the north." Felix shook his head.
"And we can't confront him head-on, but we can give him worms in his stomach."
A figure flashed through Felix's mind.
Jay Gould.
That cunning, greedy young man who was currently sitting on pins and needles inside the Erie Railroad's boardroom.
"To Broadway," Felix ordered. "I want to see Gould."
"Boss, Gould's reputation is in the gutter right now."
"Exactly because his name stinks, he dares do what others won't." Felix gazed out the window.
"I'll turn him into the thorn stuck in Vanderbilt's throat. Let the two of them tear each other apart—the fiercer the better."
A nondescript brokerage on Broadway.
There was none of Argyle Bank's marble majesty here, none of Vanderbilt's office swagger—only ticker tape littering the floor, noisy telegraph clicks, and an unsettling aura of speculation.
Jay Gould sat amid piles of documents.
Although already a director of the Erie Railroad, he looked precarious under Vanderbilt's hostile raid.
When Felix walked into the cramped office, Gould was startled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Argyle." Gould stood, clearing a chair. "It's a bit shabby."
"It'll do." Felix sat and cut straight to the chase.
"The Captain just summoned me. He plans to gobble up the Erie Railroad."
Gould's hand froze; then he gave a bitter smile.
"The whole company knows—he's sweeping the market. Outside shares are nearly gone. Once he tops fifty-one percent, I may have to pack up and leave."
"Do you want to leave?" Felix asked.
"Of course not." A fierce glint flashed in Gould's eyes.
"The Erie Railroad is my springboard. If it's swallowed, I'll be left with nothing but this shabby office."
"Then fight back."
"With what?" Gould spread his hands.
"Out-money him? Vanderbilt's wealth rivals a nation's. The floating stock is already locked up by him."
"If there are no shares…" Felix leaned forward, lowering his voice, "then print some."
"Print?" Gould was taken aback.
"You mean… a new issue? That needs shareholder approval—there's no time."
"Not just a new issue."
Felix's voice carried the tempting lilt of a devil.
"Exploit a legal loophole. Convert convertible bonds into stock. Your board has the authority to issue bonds without shareholder approval, correct?"
Gould's eyes lit up.
He was a financial genius; one hint and he saw the whole picture.
"You want me to issue bonds, then use board privilege to convert them into fresh shares and dump them on the market?"
Exactly," Felix nodded.
"Let Vanderbilt buy all he wants. You print, he buys. As long as your presses run faster than his checkbook, he'll never gain control. It's called 'Watering the Stock'."
"But who'll buy those bonds? In today's market, no one dares touch Erie debt."
Felix pulled a document from his briefcase and slapped it on the table.
Good thing he'd come prepared.
"The Pennsylvania Railroad Company is willing to purchase two million dollars of Erie Railroad convertible bonds."
Gould stared at the document; the seal of the Pennsylvania Railroad and Matthew Becker's signature were unmistakable.
"Two million…" Gould swallowed. "You're buying in?"
"Not me—an 'investment' by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company," Felix corrected, tone meaningful.
"Gould, you must understand: if Felix Argyle lends you money, Vanderbilt will take it as a declaration of war. But if the Pennsylvania Railroad buys your bonds…"
Felix spread his hands.
"Then I can claim it's merely a high-yield financial investment by the board. As controlling shareholder, I must respect the other shareholders' desire to make money, right? I can't stop them."
Gould grinned.
It wasn't a perfect excuse, but the logic held.
"Of course, I have conditions." Felix tapped the document.
"One: these bonds must carry the right to convert into stock at any time. If I wish, I can become a shareholder of the Erie Railroad overnight."
"Two: if you win and keep control, the Erie Railroad and the Pennsylvania Railroad will sign a 'strategic mutual-aid agreement'—coordinated pricing in New York from now on."
Gould looked at Felix.
Great—out of the wolf's den, into the tiger's lair.
Signing would turn the Erie Railroad into a vassal of the Pennsylvania Railroad in everything but name.
But he had no choice. Besides, he'd already joined Felix's Southern Reconstruction Plan; now was the perfect moment to swear fealty.
Better to be controlled by a big brother than devoured by Vanderbilt—and Felix wanted low freight rates, which would help him steal market share.
"Deal."
Gould picked up the pen and signed the bond-underwriting agreement.
Felix added, "Mr. Tweed will secure a judge for you. If Vanderbilt seeks an injunction, Tweed's judge will immediately countersign an anti-injunction."
"With money, a judge, and the printing press—"
Felix stood, patting Gould on the shoulder.
"Off you go, Jay. Go teach the old Captain a lesson."
…When they left the brokerage, dusk had fallen.
Frost sounded worried. "Boss, will this fool the Old Lion? He'll know the money came from you."
"Of course." Felix climbed into the carriage, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "So what if he does?"
"On paper it's just business between two railroad companies. If he declares total war over this, he'll be breaking Wall Street's rules. And… right now he's too busy swallowing shares to bother with me."
"And if we really do become Erie's major shareholder—"
"Even better."
Felix gazed at the night sky. "The Pennsylvania Railroad controls the southern lines, the Erie Railroad controls the north. Then the New York Central Railroad will be caught in the middle."
"Wire Rockefeller tomorrow," Felix instructed.
"Tell him the rail war in New York is about to begin. Have every barrel of inventory ready. Once Gould starts printing shares, he'll slash freight rates to raise cash."
"When that happens, it'll be Standard Oil's moment to flood the entire East Coast with oil."
On West Street in Lower Manhattan, sea breeze carrying the Hudson's distinctive brine slapped against the red-brick walls of Erie Railroad headquarters.
The place lacked the respectability of Wall Street's marble palaces; it reeked of age and chaos—much like the railroad's balance sheets.
Jay Gould sat behind a scarred oak desk, toying with a freshly signed check.
Two million dollars in convertible bonds, purchased by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company.
Across from him sat two men.
One was Daniel Drew, Erie's treasurer. The gaunt old man hunched in his chair, clutching a dog-eared Bible.
He'd once been a cattle drover, famous for force-feeding salt to cows so they'd drink water and weigh in heavier.
The other was Jim Fisk.
A fat man in a gaudy gold-trimmed velvet vest, fingers heavy with rings, feet propped on the table, puffing an expensive Havana Cigar.
"Two million."
Old Drew's voice trembled.
"Has Pennsylvania Railroad lost its mind? Chairman Becker approved this fortune for us? Everyone on the street's dumping Erie stock."
"Becker didn't pay."
Gould flicked the check; it snapped crisply.
"Argyle—this money wears the Argyle name."
"Whoa— that Argyle?"
Fisk exhaled smoke, gold teeth flashing in a grin.
"I like that guy; he gets it. Since the cash is here, Jay, why don't we grab it and run? Fighting Vanderbilt isn't smart. Let's take the two million to London—or Paris."
Gould shot the fat man a cold glare, face reddening.
"Fuck, run? Jim, you bastard, you trying to get me killed?"
"You know what I saw down South? Thousands of militia units—War Department sanctioned—all Argyle's men! Better armed than the Federal Army. And out West they've got even bigger security forces. You think Satan kicked your fat brain? You dare covet that man's money?"
"Think Europe keeps you safe? Look what happened to Junior Morgan."
Gould, crimson with rage, stormed to the window and gulped air.
Outside, deputies in dark uniforms posted notices—Vanderbilt's injunction barring Erie from issuing new shares.
"See? The old lion thinks a few judges can cage us."
"He believes if he buys every floating share he can boot us from the board."
"Isn't that exactly what'll happen?" Drew shivered, changing the subject.
"At the shareholders' meeting he'll hold fifty-one percent and we're out—maybe in jail."
"He won't get fifty-one."
Gould turned, voice low and cryptic.
"Drew, the bylaws let the board float convertible bonds for equipment upgrades, right?"
"Y-yes. But we'd need time to market them, and God knows nobody will buy—"
"No need to market." Gould tapped the check.
"Pennsylvania Railroad already bought the two-million issue. And under the terms they convert to common stock immediately."
"So here's what you'll do."
He yanked open the safe behind the desk; stacks of uncut blank stock certificates filled it.
"Convert the entire two million into shares."
"A-all of them?"
Drew nearly dropped his Bible.
"That's tens of thousands of fresh shares. Dump them and the price will collapse."
"Exactly what I want." A cruel smile curved Gould's lips.
"But the injunction—"
"Relax—Tweed's people are on it. Another judge will sign a counter-injunction in an hour. Until then—"
He looked at Fisk.
"Jim, go to the basement. Fire up the press."
"The press?" Fisk lowered his feet, eyes gleaming. "You mean—"
"Right here in this building's basement." Gould commanded. "Print numbers on every blank, stamp them. Vanderbilt's sweeping Wall Street? However much money he has, we'll print paper to match."
"Before the ink dries we'll send the shares to the Exchange."
"No—this is fraud!" Drew shrieked. "It's illegal!"
Gould gripped the old man's shoulder.
"Don't you get it? This is war, Daniel. In war, whoever survives writes the law."
"Move."
Ten minutes later the basement of Erie headquarters thudded with a steady, muffled rhythm.
Clank, clank, clank…
The steam press at work.
Jim Fisk, sleeves rolled, sweat-soaked, barked orders at trusted crewmen.
Ink and sour paper filled the cramped space as crisp share certificates snowballed from the rollers.
Each sheet represented Erie equity—and real gold soon to drain from Vanderbilt's vault.
Gould stood on the stairs, listening to the machine's roar.
It sounded to him like the snapping bones of the old Commodore.
"Mr. Argyle," Gould murmured into the gloom, "you loaded the gun. Now I'm pulling the trigger."
********
Meanwhile, uptown in Harlem.
An unmarked carriage halted behind a nondescript print shop.
Two men in black trench coats—Flynn's operatives—jumped out.
They didn't enter; they leaned against the wall, eyes scanning both ends of the street.
Behind them, porters heaved crates of heavy stock through the rear door into the carriage.
Paper—Security Paper bearing watermark anti-forge threads.
Early the next morning.
Before the New York Stock Exchange even opened, Broad Street was already packed with top-hatted brokers.
The air reeked of cheap coffee and anxious sweat.
Every eye was fixed on the giant blackboard ticker; yesterday's Erie Railroad closing price read: $68.
A black carriage halted at the corner opposite the exchange, its curtains drawn tight except for a single slit.
Inside sat Cornelius Vanderbilt, no cigar in hand but a gold-headed walking stick clenched instead.
His complexion was ruddy, his gaze sharp; he looked nothing like a seventy-year-old man and everything like a general ready to charge.
"Commodore."
The coach door cracked open and his chief broker, Sherrard, stuck in a sweat-soaked head.
"The funds are in place. We've pulled two million cash from our account at the Bank of New-York Central—that's every liquid dollar we've got."
"So what? If it's not enough, go borrow more."
Vanderbilt's voice boomed, even rattling the carriage walls.
"Pledge my New York Central Railroad shares. Today I want every last share of Erie Railroad common in my pocket."
"But Commodore…" Sherrard hesitated.
"There are people inside Erie resisting our takeover, especially that man Gould—he's rallied a bunch of shareholders, says they'll fight us.
Keeps spouting nonsense about fairness, freedom, anti-monopoly—can't make head or tail of it.
"Damned if I know where they get the nerve.
Worst of all, that bunch has been too quiet these past two days—too quiet. And I hear the Pennsylvania Railroad folks might be stirring…"
"Hmph—what can that puppet Becker do?" Vanderbilt snorted.
"Clearly it's his Boss, that Argyle fellow. Smart man; I reminded him of his place the other day, so he won't cross me openly—just playing these games."
The old man rapped the floorboards hard with his cane.
"Enough chatter. Buy at the open—however much is offered. Bid the price up to eighty, force the small fry to hand over their chips. I want Gould and his clowns off the board before lunch."
"Yes, sir!"
Nine o'clock sharp.
The opening bell rang.
Like a dam bursting, Vanderbilt's buy orders flooded the trading floor.
"One thousand shares Erie—buy!"
"Two thousand shares, I don't care the price—just get 'em!"
"Who's selling Erie Railroad? Step up!"
"Final call for three thousand—final call, then it's off the table…"
The share price ignited.
69…71…75… The crowd went wild.
Retail investors, seeing the price rocket, scrambled to dump their holdings and cash out. Brokers screamed, waving order slips; paper flew like snowflakes.
Vanderbilt sat in his carriage, listening to the roar, a smug smile curling his lips.
This was the power of money—this was the taste of power.
No one could resist it—no one!
Half an hour passed.
Then something odd happened.
No matter how many shares his brokers swallowed, fresh sell orders kept gushing forth—like a bottomless well that never fills.
The price stuck at $78 and would rise no more.
"What's going on?"
Vanderbilt frowned and summoned Sherrard again.
"Commodore… something feels wrong."
Sherrard was pale, his necktie askew.
"We've already bought fifty thousand shares. By the float, there shouldn't be any stock left—yet Fisk's men are still selling."
"Who the hell is Fisk?" Vanderbilt blinked. "Oh—that fat clown dressed like a circus monkey?"
"Exactly him. He's in the curb market now, standing on a wagon, flinging bundles of stock. And…"
Sherrard swallowed. "Those certificates look… brand-new."
"New—what do you mean?"
For a second Vanderbilt was puzzled; then a foreboding seized the old man's heart.
Just then a commotion broke out on the corner.
Jim Fisk, the fat man, stood atop a freight wagon.
He waved a thick wad of crisp stock certificates—ink still wet, staining his hands black.
"Ladies and gents—come see, come see what we've got!"
Fisk bawled louder than half the street. "Anyone want Erie stock? Fresh off the press—buy as much as you like! Thank Commodore for his generosity—he's paying real gold for our paper."
"Come on, help me—give it all to him!"
Fisk tossed the certificates into the air like wastepaper.
Vanderbilt's eyes bulged.
He flung the coach door open, shoved past his men, and stormed out.
He snatched a certificate from a panicked broker.
The paper was crisp; the ink reeked.
The serial number was new.
The date… this morning.
"Watered…" Vanderbilt's hands trembled. "Goddamn it—they're watering the stock!"
He jerked his gaze toward Fisk's laughing face.
If shares could be printed endlessly, every dollar he spent would be diluted to nothing.
His two million would buy nothing but wastepaper.
"Stop trading—" Vanderbilt roared.
"This is fraud! Call the police—call them now!"
But in Wall Street there were no police—only greed and fear.
With infinite supply, the price was worth zero.
"Dump it—dump it fast!"
Someone shouted, and panic spread like plague.
"Damn it—don't push, I'm trying to buy!"
"Aw, hell—who's groping me, you bastard?"
The same men who'd been buying frantically now shoved to sell at any price.
Erie Railroad's share price plummeted.
75…70…60… Vanderbilt stood amid the chaos like a wounded lion, dizzy at the sight of paper swirling overhead.
He'd been played.
Played by Gould, by Fisk—even by Argyle, who'd promised not to interfere.
Because he could see it clearly now: the wagon hauling the fresh certificates bore the logo "Pennsylvania Railroad Freight".