A French restaurant near New York City Hall.
The setting was elegant and quiet, a stark contrast to yesterday's frenzy on Wall Street.
Felix sat at a window table, slicing into a medium-rare sirloin. Across from him was William Tweed, fresh out of court.
The Boss of Tammany Hall looked in good spirits; a huge ruby ring gleamed on one plump finger as he swirled his wineglass.
"Hah-hah—honestly, it was a spectacular show, truly spectacular." Tweed sipped his claret and sighed.
"Felix, that performance on Wall Street yesterday—no one will ever top it in my lifetime. Wow, I don't know if you saw it, but that arrogant old codger Vanderbilt nearly had a stroke. Word is he smashed every antique in his house when he got home."
"He was just too greedy."
Felix set down his knife and fork and dabbed his mouth.
"Remember, greed makes people lose their minds."
Tweed set his glass down, his expression turning a shade more serious.
"Still, Felix, the Old Lion doesn't die easy. He'll surely guess you're behind it, even if you're using the Pennsylvania Railroad Company as cover. Of course, that's no big deal—after all, you're not openly helping.
"But know this: the old man pulled strings with Judge Bernard at the Supreme Court this morning. You know—Vanderbilt's pet dog. He's already issued a brutal injunction."
Tweed pulled a folded legal document from his pocket.
"It bars the Erie Railroad from issuing any more new shares, freezes all of Gould's and Fisk's assets in New York, and… even signs arrest warrants for 'Securities Fraud.'"
"This is serious, Felix—really serious. You know the Police Chief is mustering men to raid Erie Headquarters. If Gould lands in jail, the curtain falls on our little opera."
Felix showed no alarm, merely studied Tweed with calm eyes.
"Which is why I came to you, William."
Felix turned to look at the corpulent man who controlled New York's underworld.
He knew the cotton interests of this fat man's faction down South were squeezed in his own fist; he was confident he could make him fight all-out.
"Vanderbilt has judges—don't you?"
Tweed blinked, then laughed, his jowls quivering.
"Oh—my friend, of course I do. I've several judges who'd be delighted to help shareholders defending corporate interests for the sake of freedom and fairness."
He caught Felix's implication and didn't mind; Felix could protect their Southern interests.
"Then get them busy."
Felix took a draft document from his briefcase—prepared in advance.
"And find other judges—preferably ones who hate Bernard's guts—to issue a counter-injunction."
"A counter-injunction?"
"Exactly," Felix explained.
"My lawyers say we can declare the Erie share issue an 'emergency measure essential for corporate survival'—perfectly legal—and forbid anyone from obstructing stock circulation."
Tweed clicked his tongue. "That… that's tricky."
"Two judges, two opposite orders—whom do the police obey?"
"They'll obey neither; they'll be paralyzed. And do you remember what most of New York's beat cops are these days?" Felix lifted his wine and gave a cold chuckle.
Tweed raised an eyebrow; he'd almost forgotten.
In the past two years, with Felix's meteoric rise and support—and his own deliberate recruitment—nearly eighty percent of New York's police were Irish.
Close to two thousand men, and over forty percent of state troopers as well.
"So… as long as the law stays murky, Gould stays safe."
"As for the arrest warrant, delaying a few days is no problem."
"We need to buy Gould time."
Tweed was puzzled—Felix could shelter Gould himself.
"Time? You want him to run?"
"Not run—call it a strategic redeployment to throw the Old Commodore off. And if New York becomes untenable, there's always New Jersey. Across the Hudson, New York has no reach."
"I've already had Lex Steel's security team set up at the Taylor Hotel in Jersey City."
"As long as Gould stays alive and holds the Printing Press, Vanderbilt will have to negotiate."
Tweed looked at the young man and felt a chill.
Felix wasn't doing business anymore—he was toying with law, toying with rules.
To this youth, courts, cops, even state borders were mere squares on a chessboard.
"All right." Tweed stood up.
"I'll arrange it; my judge friends should be happy to help."
Remember—move fast. Vanderbilt's men are probably on their way already."
After Tweed left, Felix remained, finishing his steak.
He wasn't just helping Gould.
He was helping himself.
Through these maneuvers, the two-million-bond stake held by Pennsylvania Railroad had sunk in price but converted into more shares.
More importantly, Erie Railroad was now a frightened bird that could survive only under his wing.
"Edward." Felix beckoned Frost at the next table.
"Boss."
"Wire Rockefeller." Felix's tone was casual, as if discussing the weather.
"The rail titans of New York are tied up in court, stabbing each other in the back. To raise cash for the lawsuits, Erie will slash freight rates."
"The plan we discussed—go talk with Gould. Sign a dirt-cheap long-haul contract."
"While the fire's still burning, we pump out the oil."
"Understood, Boss. I'll handle it personally—right away."
September 1865: New York's courtrooms turned into a farce.
Judge A declared Gould guilty in the morning; Judge B crowned him a business hero in the afternoon.
With warrants to arrest and warrants to release, the cops ambled through the streets, unsure what to look for.
Amid the chaos, a barge loaded with Erie's ledgers, cash, and Printing Press slipped from Manhattan under cover of night and steamed for New Jersey across the river.
It was the refuge Felix had secretly prepared—and the fortress from which they would strike back.
September 8 – Jersey City, New Jersey.
The Hudson River's fog cut off the clamor of Manhattan across the water and turned the Tyler Hotel into an isolated island.
At the entrance, twelve guards in dark-blue uniforms patrolled with Vanguard 1864 Rifles on their backs. Silver wing badges on their cuffs marked them as Militech security.
This was the Erie Railroad's "Headquarters-in-Exile."
In the largest suite on the second floor, Jim Fisk sat by the window with a plate of oysters in hand. Sauce stained his velvet vest, but he didn't care. While gulping the slippery mollusks he studied the opposite shore through a telescope.
"Hey, Jay," Fisk mumbled, mouth full.
"Look—Vanderbilt's men are prowling the docks again. They want to cross."
Jay Gould sat behind a makeshift desk in the center of the room, face haggard and eyes ringed with fatigue.
He signed cheque after cheque—for legal fees, security costs, and judges' bribes.
"Let them look," Gould said without lifting his head.
"This is New Jersey; an arrest warrant from New York is scrap paper here. The moment they set foot on Jersey docks, Vanguard's men will educate them."
"I love it," Fisk said.
He tossed an empty shell to the floor with a clack.
"More fun than Broadway. Holed up in a fortress with millions, fighting the richest old man in America. The papers call us 'robber barons.' Oh man—hear that? Sounds mighty."
Gould stopped writing and gave his partner a cold stare.
"Don't celebrate yet, Jim. We've got cash, but it's from selling stock. Vanderbilt froze every asset we have in New York. Erie trains still run, but if they unload in New York the revenue gets seized."
"Only these are left." Gould tapped the ledger. "A few million won't last. We need working capital—and allies."
A knock sounded at the door.
A guard stepped in: "Gentlemen, the Boss is here."
Gould sprang up, smoothing his crumpled shirt.
Fisk set the oyster plate aside and wiped his mouth.
Felix entered slowly in a wool coat, Frost behind him and two secretaries carrying briefcases.
"Looks like you're doing all right."
Felix surveyed the pungent room.
Gould pulled over a clean chair.
"By the grace of God and your kindness, Mr. Argyle. Without Vanguard's protection we'd probably be in sacks at the bottom of the Hudson by now."
Felix sat. "No need for thanks—those security fees are on the books."
"Of course," Gould nodded. "But I doubt you crossed the river just to collect small change."
Smart.
Felix signaled Frost to open a briefcase and produce a contract.
"I know your predicament," Felix cut to the chase.
"You have cash, but it's dead money. The railroad runs, yet New York courts choke the revenue. You need legal cash flow outside their reach."
"You have a way?" Fisk leaned in.
Of course—told you before."
"My Ohio refineries turn out kerosene daily, and Metropolitan Trading has hundreds of tons of beef and wheat. They must reach East Coast cities—Boston, Philadelphia, the South and West—not just New York."
Felix drummed the table.
"I'll give that huge volume to Erie Railroad. Freight paid in Jersey City or Philadelphia, clear of New York's courts. It brings you cash and shows shareholders the line's alive."
Gould's eyes lit up.
"Terms?"
"Freight. New York Central now asks one-fifty per barrel. Your price…"
Felix raised a finger and crooked it.
"Eighty cents."
"What?!" Fisk burst out. "That won't even cover coal!"
"Fine, don't ship." Felix rose as if to leave.
"Vanderbilt will undercut you gladly. If I give him the cargo, he'll have more cash to sue you into the ground."
Gould clamped a hand on Fisk.
He stared at Felix, mind racing.
Eighty cents was a loss, yet without it Erie's tonnage would hit zero. Empty trains bleed money and still need upkeep.
Worse, lose Felix's backing and the island fortress falls.
It was more than business—it was a political stand.
Felix could find another board ally; Gould couldn't gamble on that.
Decision made, he gritted his teeth. "Eighty cents—done. I'll sell it to the board, but we sign a year contract."
"Six months." Felix slashed. "Then we revisit."
Gould hesitated two seconds, then nodded.
"Six months it is."
Felix smiled, sat again, and produced a pen.
"Wise, Jay. With this cargo you can afford to outlast the Old Lion."
When the ink dried, Felix continued.
"Free tip: Vanderbilt's getting impatient. Law and stock buys failed, so he'll open another front."
Which front?"
"Rate war." Felix faced them. "He'll cut New York Central's freight fifty percent—oil, livestock, grain. He'll starve you of customers."
"Crazy old—" Fisk swore.
"So my deal's no robbery, but brace yourselves. It'll be brutal. Hold out till Standard Oil swallows the small refiners—then we write the rules."
With that, Felix and his men left.
Gould stared at the cut-rate contract, then out the window.
"Jay, did that bastard just rob us?" Fisk muttered.
"Yes," Gould admitted. "But without him we'd be ash. At least we're still pieces on the board."
"Wire the board—slash rates system-wide. Match Vanderbilt minus one cent. Fill the cars even if we bleed."