New York, Vanderbilt's office.
Heavy curtains were drawn; only a gas-lamp in the corner hissed.
The railroad tycoon looked older than ever. Instead of his beloved cigar he gripped a glass of ice-water, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.
In front of his desk stood his son, William Henry Vanderbilt, and several core senior managers.
"Still bleeding money."
Old Vanderbilt flung the ledger onto the desk, voice hoarse.
"New York Central's freight revenue last week fell forty percent, while operating costs keep rising thanks to those damned overtime hours. William, give me a reasonable explanation."
William Henry looked helpless.
"Father, the Erie Railroad has gone mad, cutting rates to absurd levels. From Buffalo to New York they're charging a dollar a car for livestock—it's practically giving money away."
"They're courting death!" Vanderbilt roared. "Gould must be burning cash; once that stolen money's gone he's finished."
"But… our customers have all been lured away," William Henry murmured.
"And I hear Standard Oil and Metropolitan are shipping their goods to New York entirely on Erie's line—tens of thousands of barrels."
At the mention of Standard Oil, Vanderbilt's eyes turned sinister.
"When Argyle invited you to join that association, why did you refuse? Had you agreed, would we be in this mess?"
William Henry felt utterly wronged.
"Father, accepting Argyle's plan would have slashed our profits and strengthened him—hardly worthwhile."
Vanderbilt knew the blame wasn't entirely his son's; it had been for the family's sake, yet he still vented his anger.
Now the prophecy had come true.
"That boy…" Vanderbilt ground his teeth, "he's using our fight."
A manager interjected, "Commodore, we can't cut prices further. If we keep chasing Erie down, our stock will sink. Wall Street investors are already worried about our dividends."
Vanderbilt closed his eyes.
He had fought all his life—ferries, steamships, railroads—accustomed to crushing rivals with money and brute force. This time he faced two opponents who refused to play by the rules.
One dared print fake stock; the other dared manipulate cargo.
Vanderbilt found himself mired: keep fighting and he might outlast Gould, but he'd be grievously wounded.
Meanwhile, Argyle on the shore would gobble up the market.
The losses had to stop.
Vanderbilt opened his eyes, calm again.
"Contact Albany. Get the legislators moving. I want a bill passed legalizing stock-watering."
"What?" William Henry was stunned.
"Father, that's illegal—and we're suing them…"
Vanderbilt waved him off. "Don't be naïve, William. We can't win, and even if we did the cost would be huge—pointless."
"Jersey law can't touch New York; New York police can't reach Jersey. Since we can't catch them, we talk."
"Talk?"
"Yes—settle."
Vanderbilt rose and walked to the window.
"I'll negotiate with Gould. I'll recognize those newly printed shares as legitimate and drop the suit—on conditions."
What conditions?"
"They must buy those shares back—from me."
A shrewd loss-cutting move.
Vanderbilt had spent millions on watered stock now worthless.
If legalized and forced onto Erie's books, he could recover most of his capital.
It meant admitting defeat, but would preserve his cash flow.
"But… will Gould agree?"
"He will," Vanderbilt sneered. "He doesn't want to hide in that dingy hotel eating oysters forever. To return to New York he needs my lawsuit withdrawn."
"And Argyle?" William Henry asked. "His companies still back Erie."
"That young man wants low rates and no monopoly. Since we can't take Erie, we won't. And we'll match the rates."
"Really match them?"
"Match them!" The old man's voice carried resignation.
"Send someone to Argyle. Tell him I no longer intend to acquire Erie, and Central is ready to sign long-term contracts at Erie's rate—eighty cents."
"Father, we'll lose money!"
Vanderbilt spun round, eyes blazing. "We'll lose money, but we'll recoup from others."
"We can let Erie go, yet only by clawing back cargo do we gain leverage over Gould. If we quit oil freight, Argyle and Gould will rule the line."
"Call it strategic loss. Prolonged deadlock hurts more, so we end it fast—understood?"
"Go, do as I say." After lecturing his son, Vanderbilt waved him off.
"Tell that young man he's won this round—but the next hasn't begun."
That afternoon a letter bearing the New York Central crest arrived at the Argyle Bank Building.
Felix read it and smiled. "Eighty cents," he told Frost. "The Old Lion has bowed."
"So… we switch to Vanderbilt?" Frost asked.
"No." Felix shook his head. "We bet on both. Split the cargo—half to Erie, half to Central."
"Why? Sending everything to Erie would better support Gould."
"Edward, we want balance."
Felix twirled a pen, tutoring patiently. "If Vanderbilt loses and quits, Erie monopolizes; then, even if I swap capital for shares, they'll hike prices."
"I want both alive, hungry, biting each other for my cargo."
"That's called—balance of power."
*********
The sky over Cleveland was completely shrouded in black smoke.
Ever since the freight war began, Ohio Standard Oil's refineries had turned into monsters injected with stimulants, devouring crude and kerosene day and night.
John D. Rockefeller stood in his new office, located in the luxurious building he had just bought from a bankrupt rival.
Before him stood several subordinates, their faces covered in dust.
"John, news from New York." Andrews waved a telegram excitedly.
"New York Central Railroad has cut prices too; now, whichever line we ship by costs only a third of what it used to."
"Ha… seems this old tycoon reacts fast. What's the daily shipment now?"
"Six thousand barrels." Andrews answered without hesitation.
"Every tank car is running. We've even rented dozens of ordinary freight cars, crammed with wooden barrels. Anything that can carry oil is on the road."
"Not enough." Rockefeller shook his head. "Still far from enough."
He gazed from the window at the busy railway branch below.
"I hear Starlight Refinery is still holding out?"
He was asking about one of the few large plants left in Cleveland that hadn't been acquired.
"Right, Old Johnson is stubborn. Says he'll keep going even at a loss—he's probably waiting for freight rates to rise again."
"That day won't come. Send him an ultimatum." Rockefeller turned around.
"If he doesn't sign and sell the plant today, tomorrow I'll drop Standard kerosene's retail price in Cleveland to ten cents a gallon."
"Ten cents?!" Andrews exclaimed. "That won't even cover the crude—suicide."
"No, no, no… murder." Rockefeller corrected.
"We have profits from New York and Philadelphia backing us, plus rock-bottom freight subsidies. We can afford the loss; he can't."
"Go tell him: take the money and leave, or watch his plant turn to rubble."
…That evening, Johnson, owner of Starlight Refinery, sat in his kerosene-scented office staring at the acquisition contract in his hand.
The price on the contract was pitiful—only a quarter of his assets' appraised value.
But he had no choice.
Moments earlier, his freight agent had told him both the Erie Railroad and New York Central had refused his shipping requests.
The reason given: tight capacity, priority for contracted customers.
And the so-called contracted customers meant only Standard Oil.
His refinery's oil couldn't be shipped out, while in the local market Standard's blue tin cans filled every grocery, priced so low it was hopeless.
"So… this is monopoly?" Johnson murmured, so crushed he even considered never entering the refining business again.
Because in America, this industry now had a near-monopolistic giant, wielding channel advantages to smother rival refineries and swinging the scythe of capital.
After a long silence, he finally picked up the pen, his right hand trembling as he signed.
With that stroke, the last piece of Cleveland's refining puzzle fell into Rockefeller's hands.
At this point, Ohio Standard Oil controlled 95% of Cleveland's refining capacity and all eastbound rail freight.
Rockefeller stood in his office, looking at the newly delivered signed agreement.
He walked to the corner where a private telegrapher sat.
The expensive Morse machine was linked by a dedicated line straight to New York.
"Send a telegram to New York."
Rockefeller's voice was calm, yet laced with unmistakable pride.
"To New York, to the respected Mr. Felix Argyle."
"Your loyal subordinate, Rockefeller, reports."
"I have cleared the field for you in Cleveland… and am ready to open a new chapter in Ohio. Hearing that Miss O'Brien is about to give birth, I pray to God from afar that the Argyle Family grows strong and safe."
The telegrapher's fingers danced over the brass key, sending crisp "clicks" down the copper wire.
The signal raced through the Allegheny Mountains toward the East Coast… New York, Fifth Avenue.
Frost handed the translated telegram slip to Felix.
The study was quiet, the fireplace crackling softly.
"Boss, it seems Cleveland is basically a monopoly now."
Frost poured Felix a glass of wine as he stood by.
"Rockefeller actually did it so quickly. You were right about him—he's capable. And he still chooses loyalty to you, praying for Miss Catherine's safe delivery and the Argyle Family's prosperity."
Felix lifted the glass, eyeing the amber liquid.
"Ha… Rockefeller, isn't he usually all business? Learned flattery fast. Still, he moved faster than I expected—truly a sharp blade."
"So about Ohio next…"
Felix pondered; with no real rivals left in oil, there was no rush.
"Reply to Rockefeller: let him digest Cleveland's refining industry properly."
"We need time to integrate capacity—tear down the backward small plants, expand the large ones, set unified standards. Expand into Ohio, but take it slow."
"Yes, Boss."
Felix glanced at the calendar, his expression softening—never seen when he talked business.
"The Erie War is settled. I didn't expect Vanderbilt to fold so quickly. Since he gave up buying the Erie Railroad Company, Gould keeps his seat and we keep low freight. Maybe this farce should end."
"The coming days, I'm staying home."
"Catherine's due date is any moment now."
Felix set down his glass and stood, walking to the window.
Outside, the world still bustled: Wall Street schemed, Cleveland smoked, Southern cotton fields sweated.
But his world now shrank to this house.
He had built an empire not just for power, but for legacy.
"Edward." Felix said softly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Pass the word: from tomorrow, unless something critical, each company's heads handle things themselves—don't send documents here."
"I'm going to be a full-time father."
Even if only for a few days."
In the autumn of 1865, amid clattering rails and refinery roars, the season deepened.
The Argyle Empire's first phase of expansion ended in near-perfect form.