Georgia, south of Atlanta.
In May, the muggy air wrapped around one's body like a damp towel. This was the core plantation area of the Southern Development Company, controlled by the Argyle Family.
A train bearing the "Argyle Special" insignia puffed black smoke and came to a halt at a newly constructed branch line platform.
Silas stood on the platform wearing a white linen suit and a Panama hat.
At this moment, he looked like a genuine Southern gentleman, but the bulge at his waist betrayed his true nature. Tucked there was a large-caliber Vanguard revolver.
"Welcome to Hell's back garden, gentlemen."
Silas grinned at the two men who had just stepped off the train.
They were Charles Pratt and Henry Rogers. They were minority shareholders of the Standard Oil Company and the southward expansionists sent by Standard Oil's General Manager, Peter Jenkins.
"Oh my God, it's really hot here."
Rogers wiped away sweat, looking at the red earth around them and the rolling cotton fields in the distance.
"Please, this place is full of mosquitoes and black people," Pratt complained as well.
"If it weren't for Mr. Argyle' requirement to build a refinery branch here, I wouldn't want to stay for a single minute. Mr. Silas, how have you managed to stay here for several years? It's truly miserable."
"Hey... stop complaining, fellas. That won't change the facts."
Silas led them onto a carriage.
"Besides, although it's hot here, there's gold everywhere. Or rather, white gold."
The carriage passed through a massive cotton field.
It was currently the weeding season. Hundreds of black laborers were bent over working in the fields. They wore uniform grey work clothes with "Southern Development Company" printed on their backs.
The overseers were no longer white men with whips, but black captains on horseback with batons tucked into their belts.
"Are those the free laborers of Southern Development?"
Rogers looked at those people and found nothing different.
"To be honest, they look no different from before."
"Shit, there's a huge difference."
Silas pulled a bottle of whiskey from the carriage's ice bucket.
"Those people used to be slaves; you had to provide food and drink, pay for medical treatment if they got sick, and their death was a loss of property. Now?"
Silas pointed to a row of wooden shacks by the edge of the field.
"Look, those are company dormitories. Most of them live there and have to pay rent. They work to earn wages to pay for it. Of course, not in US dollars, but in Company Scrip. They can only buy things at the Company Store. Flour, canned goods, clothes, even coffins—we sell them all."
"They work for a month, and some still owe us five dollars. To pay off the debt next month, they have to work even harder."
"This is what the Boss calls the 'Debt Chains,'" Silas smiled triumphantly.
"I have to say, as expected of the Boss, this is much more effective than a whip. And it's legal."
Rogers and Pratt exchanged a glance.
They were oil men and were ruthless enough, but they hadn't expected the cotton business in the South to be even more ruthless.
The carriage stopped in front of a manor. This had once been the residence of a rebel general, but now it belonged to the company.
Dinner was served in a pavilion.
"Let's talk business."
Silas began to speak of business while cutting his steak.
"What does Jenkins want to do in the South?"
"Naturally, he wants the market." Pratt pulled out a map.
"Although the South is poor, the nights here are too dark. They are still burning lard or low-quality pine resin. We want to sell 'Blue Can' kerosene to every plantation and every black person's wooden shack."
"However," Rogers added.
"Transportation costs here are too high. Moreover, there are some local small refineries competing with us. They use Tennessee kerosene, and their prices are very low."
"So you, Standard Oil, want to build a factory?"
"Yes, to build a refining center in Atlanta. Crude oil will be transported from the North via the Pennsylvania Railroad or shipped by sea to Savannah. We will refine it locally and then distribute it through your sales network."
"We need privileges." Pratt stared at Silas.
"Rebates on railroad freight. Also, we want those small refineries to disappear. General Manager Jenkins said this requires the cooperation of the Southern Development Company. He said he discussed this with you at the committee meeting."
Silas took a sip of wine and set down his knife and fork.
"Of course, that's no problem. Becker will give you the lowest price. As for those small factories..."
Silas clapped his hands.
A black servant walked over and handed him a list.
"There are three small refineries around Atlanta. The owners are former Confederate officers. They are very stubborn."
"Then let them go bankrupt and see how they can compete with us," Rogers said coldly.
"When the time comes, we will drop the price to five cents per gallon and see how long they can hold out."
"Oh fellas, five cents. That's too much of a waste of time." Silas shook his head.
He picked up a toothpick to clean his teeth, a suave look on his face.
"In this land, you have to be more direct. Public security hasn't been great lately; I've heard some 'vagrants' like to play with fire at night."
"If their warehouses accidentally burn down, or if their oil barrels leak on the transport route..."
Silas looked at the two civilized New York businessmen and revealed a wolf-like smile.
"Well, that's force majeure."
Pratt was stunned for a moment, then smiled. The South was indeed direct enough; they could actually do things this way.
"It seems Mr. Argyle was right to send you here. You understand 'local customs' very well."
"Then it's settled." Rogers raised his wine glass.
"Standard Oil will handle production, and Southern Development Company will handle'security' and sales. We will make every lamp in the South burn Standard Oil's kerosene."
"Easy enough."
The three clinked glasses.
Just then, a burst of singing came from the distant cotton fields. It was the spirituals sung by the laborers as they finished work, deep and sorrowful.
But in the pavilion, this singing only served as an accompaniment to the clinking of money.
As night fell, the gas lamps in the manor were lit.
Silas looked at the two businessmen.
"Tomorrow I'll take you to see our 'Company Store.' You'll like it. A can of beef there sells for three times as much as in New York, but they have no choice but to buy it."
"Perhaps after the refinery is established, we can put kerosene in there as well?"
Pratt suggested. Although there was Standard Oil kerosene before, it was only on a small scale.
But now that they were going to establish a refinery in the South, there was no need to stock kerosene from other manufacturers in the store; wouldn't internal consumption be better?
"That's certainly no problem; it's all been agreed upon. Perhaps the first gallon can be free. Once they get used to that light, the second gallon will have to be traded for with blood and sweat."
Ever since the war ended, the air in Atlanta had always carried a persistent smell of dust—a scent unique to a city rebuilding itself from the ruins of the Civil War.
But inside a temporary office on Peachtree Street, the air was thick with the aroma of expensive Cuban tobacco and an even more suffocating sense of greed.
Charles Pratt sat with his feet propped up on the desk, holding a newly drafted contract and eyeing the man opposite him with a critical gaze.
That man was George Cook, the freight dispatch supervisor for the Western and Atlantic Railroad. At this moment, Cook was incessantly wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief; even the two basins of ice in the room weren't enough to cool things down.
"Mr. Pratt, this... this isn't according to the rules."
Cook's voice trembled slightly, his eyes darting around uncertainly.
"I understand giving discounts to major clients. Five cents cheaper per barrel of oil for you—that's already the bottom line. But..."
Cook pointed at the final clause of the contract, his fingers shaking.
"You're demanding that if other refineries use our railway to transport kerosene, we not only charge them the full price but also take five cents from that freight fee and return it to you? This is simply..."
"Simply robbery?"
Henry Rogers sat on a nearby sofa, toyed with an exquisite letter opener in his hand.
He was younger than Pratt, and his eyes were colder.
As a former factory owner, he was the Standard Oil vanguard dispatched to the South by Peter Jenkins, sent here specifically to clear the battlefield.
"Mr. Cook, let me correct you. This isn't called robbery; it's called a 'drawback.' This is the rule we follow in the East and the Midwest."
Rogers stood up, walked over to Cook, and looked down at him from a height.
"You need to understand the current situation. Mr. Argyle' Pennsylvania Railroad Company already controls the main lines leading here from the North. If you don't sign this agreement, all crude and kerosene from Standard Oil's Southern branch will be diverted to water routes or other branch lines."
"Have you done the math?" Rogers asked coldly.
"Know that if you lose our orders, your freight volume will drop by at least forty percent. When that happens, will your company's shareholders fire us, or will they fire you?"
Cook swallowed hard.
He certainly understood the stakes involved.
That New York tycoon named Felix Argyle didn't just have money; he had guns.
And that man in charge of security, Silas, had already 'cleared out' plenty of uncooperative troublemakers in the Atlanta suburbs.
"But, if the other refineries find out..." Cook was still struggling, somewhat unwilling.
"They won't find out."
Pratt lowered his legs and leaned forward.
"All accounts will be handled under the guise of 'consulting fees' for the Metropolitan Trading Company. On the books, it's a perfectly legal business transaction."
As he spoke, Pratt pulled a thick envelope from a drawer and slid it across the desk to Cook.
"Here, this is a little something for your personal trouble. Every quarter from now on, there will be another one of the same weight."
Cook stared at the envelope. It was thick, and it definitely didn't contain stationery.
In this chaotic era of Reconstruction, the US dollar was God.
Cook took a deep breath, placed a trembling hand on the envelope, and then quickly tucked it into his coat.
"Deal. You certainly have a keen eye for people."
There was a hint of excitement in Cook's voice.
"However, I'll need a new rate table. For public display."
"Of course."
Pratt flashed a satisfied smile and handed him a fountain pen.
"From today on, the tracks of Atlanta serve only Standard Oil."
After seeing Cook out, Rogers poured himself a glass of whiskey.
"General Manager Jenkins said in his telegram from New York that we are to wipe out all independent refineries in Georgia within three months," Rogers said, taking a pleasant sip of his drink.
"With this rebate agreement, every barrel of oil those small plants ship is essentially giving us money. They're finished."
"But we're not done yet."
Pratt shook his head and walked over to a map.
The map was marked with seven small refineries around Atlanta. Most of these plants were built by former Confederate quartermasters or local plantation owners who had pooled their funds; their equipment was crude, but they had the advantage of local connections.
"That refinery called 'Southern Star'—the owner is a tough nut to crack," Pratt said, pointing to one of the red circles.
"Old Johnson rejected our acquisition offer and even threatened to welcome us with a shotgun."
"A shotgun? Come on, buddy, don't make me laugh."
Rogers laughed, the reaction of someone hearing a joke.
"Mr. Silas's men will pay him a visit tonight. Not to talk about an acquisition, but to inspect for 'fire hazards.'"
Rogers set down his glass and adjusted his tie.
"In New York, Mr. Peter Jenkins taught us: business should be civilized. But here, in the South, the definition of civilization is written by the victors."
...Late that night, on the outskirts of Atlanta.
The 'Southern Star' refinery was still brightly lit. Old Johnson and his two sons sat patrolling the warehouse entrance, Remington Rifles in hand.
He knew that the gang of 'Standard Oil bandits' from the North wouldn't let things go easily.
"Pa, can we really fight them?" the eldest son asked with concern.
"I heard that Manager Smith from the next town 'accidentally' fell into a distillation vat and was scalded to death the day before yesterday. Standard Oil took over his factory the very next day."
"Shut up," Old Johnson spat out some tobacco leaf.
"This is our turf. If those Yankees want to take away our livelihood, they'll have to step over my dead body. I don't believe they'd dare to openly start a fire."
Just then, a freight train approached on the tracks in the distance.
It was a special train transporting crude oil.
According to the plan, this train was supposed to stop at the fork ahead and unload the fifty barrels of crude Old Johnson had ordered.
"The train's here!" the younger son shouted excitedly. "With this batch of oil, we can start production."
However, the train did not slow down.
The massive black locomotive hissed steam as it roared past the fork. The engineer even blew the whistle, as if mocking the people below.
"Stop! You bastards!" Old Johnson waved his arms.
"That's my oil!"
But the train showed no intention of stopping and vanished into the night in the blink of an eye.
"What happened?" the eldest son was stunned. "The dispatcher clearly said tonight..."
Before they could react, a group of riders emerged from the darkness.
The leader was Silas.
He rode a tall black horse, a riding crop in hand, followed by over twenty fully armed members of the 'Southern Public Security Corps.'
"Good evening, Mr. Johnson."
Silas remained in the shadows, but his voice was crystal clear in the night air.
"Who are you?" Old Johnson raised his gun. "This is private property!"
"I am Silas."
Silas ignored the muzzle of the gun, slowly nudging his horse out of the shadows and speaking unhurriedly.
"Oh, by the way, I just received word from the Railway Company. Due to limited transport capacity and issues with your credit rating, your crude oil has been 'temporarily' impounded."
"Bullshit! I paid in full!"
"That's your business," Silas shrugged.
"Additionally, someone reported that your factory has serious safety hazards, particularly in the barrel storage area."
"What are you trying to do?" Old Johnson sensed the danger.
"Help you rectify the situation."
Silas waved his hand.
His subordinates behind him suddenly raised the objects in their hands—several lit Molotov cocktails.
"No!"
Bang!
Old Johnson pulled the trigger.
Old Johnson's bullet hit the dirt in front of Silas's horse.
But it didn't scare Silas and the others at all.
The next second, dense gunfire rang out.
Those were sharpshooters lying in ambush in the woods around the factory.
The gun in Old Johnson's hand was shot away, and his two sons were hit in the legs, falling to the ground with screams of agony.
Several fire bottles arched through the air and landed in the oil drum storage area.
"Boom!"
Flames soared into the sky. The poor-quality wooden barrels burst instantly, and the flowing kerosene swallowed the factory building like lava.
Silas looked at the raging fire, pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, and lit it with a drifting spark.
"See, I told you there were safety hazards." Silas turned his horse's head. "Let's go. Have Mr. Pratt come tomorrow to discuss the land acquisition. I think the price will be much cheaper now."
Old Johnson knelt on the ground, watching his life's work turn to ashes, howling in despair.
Meanwhile, in an office in Atlanta, Pratt was replacing the red circle around "Southern Star" on the map with a black cross.
This was Standard Oil's method of expansion in the South.
Iron rails as locks, flames as blades... June, Cleveland, Ohio.
Unlike the heat and bloodshed of the South, this was the industrial heart of the Midwest, where the air was always filled with the smell of coal smoke and engine oil, and an almost rigid sense of order.
In a drab three-story building on the banks of the Cuyahoga River, John D. Rockefeller sat in his office.
He had just turned thirty this year, wearing a faded but perfectly pressed black suit. His pale, thin face showed no expression, only his eyes, like two bottomless pools of water, revealing calmness and calculation.
At this moment, he was sitting at the dining table, with two soda crackers and a glass of milk placed at the corner.
But he had no time to eat.
All his attention was on the thick ledger in front of him.
"John."
His partner, Henry Flagler, pushed open the door and entered with a report in hand.
"A telegram from Peter Jenkins in New York. The main office has approved our plan to merge with those three competitors in Ohio. The funds have been transferred through the Cleveland branch of the Argyle Bank."
Rockefeller did not look up immediately; his finger continued to slide across a line of figures in the ledger.
"Wait, Henry."
Rockefeller's voice was soft, yet carried an air of authority.
"I looked at last month's refining losses. Why did our sulfuric acid recovery rate drop by 0.5%?"
"John, that's just a matter of a few dollars..." Flagler said, somewhat helplessly.
"We are talking about a merger of hundreds of thousands of dollars right now."
"That's not how it works, Henry."
Rockefeller looked up, his gaze solemn.
"That's not just a few dollars; that is God's money. Wasting even a single penny is an act of irreverence toward God."
He picked up a fountain pen and drew a heavy circle around that line of figures.
"Go find out. Is it a worker's operational issue or an equipment sealing issue? If a worker is slacking off, fire him. If it's an equipment problem, fix it. Before we swallow others, we must ensure our own stomach is healthy."
Flagler sighed and nodded, taking note.
He knew Rockefeller's obsession, and it was precisely this obsession with controlling costs to the extreme that allowed Ohio Standard Oil's costs to be half those of any competitor.
After handling the trivialities, Rockefeller finally picked up the telegram from New York.
Looking at the figure on it, a very faint smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"Mr. Argyle is a generous Boss," Rockefeller said. "But he is also a shrewd man; he knows that investing money in our branch at this time offers the highest return."
He took out a sheet of stationery and began to write a reply to Felix. His handwriting was as neat as typeface.
"Dear Boss:"
"Thank you for your trust and financial support. In this chaotic market, I see too much disorder and waste. Those small refineries spill crude oil on the ground and maliciously cut prices to snatch market share, only to go bankrupt in the end, leading to the destruction of capital. This is a sin."
"What I am doing is not just making money, but establishing order. We must clear out those incompetent managers and concentrate resources in the hands of the most efficient people. This conforms to the logic of business and the will of God."
"Regarding the expansion in the Midwest, I have already spoken with the representative of the Erie Railroad. Combined with your control over the railroads in the East, we will have an absolute freight rate advantage in Ohio. I predict that by the end of this year, only one name will remain in Ohio, and that is Standard Oil."
"Additionally, when I pray in church, I often thank you for the platform you have provided. I am merely the steward of God's money, and you are the one who provides the vault."
"Yours faithfully, John."
After finishing the letter, Rockefeller folded the stationery and placed it in an envelope.
"Henry." He called out to his partner who was about to leave.
"Go tell the owners of those three refineries to come here at two this afternoon; I have something to discuss with them."
"What if they don't come?"
"They will come."
Rockefeller took a sip of the milk.
"Tell them to either accept stock and cash or watch their factories go bankrupt. Whatever we did in the East, we will do in the West. Only..."
Rockefeller paused.
"Be a bit more merciful and leave them some dignity. After all, I do not like violence; I prefer to defeat opponents with a ledger."
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
Three refinery owners with worried faces sat opposite Rockefeller.
Rockefeller wasted no words and opened his ledger directly.
"Gentlemen, these are your costs, and these are mine."
"My cost per gallon of oil is three cents lower than yours. I have railroad rebates, more advanced cracking technology, and even the glue on my oil drums is cheaper than yours."
"Right now, you are bleeding."
Rockefeller looked at them, his eyes even carrying a hint of pity.
"In another three months, your capital chain will break. By then, your factories will only be worth the price of scrap metal."
"Now, I am giving you an opportunity. Sell your factories to me at the current appraised asset value. You can take the cash and leave, or exchange it for shares in Ohio Standard Oil."
"Rockefeller, you are forcing us!"
One owner slammed the table in anger.
This Rockefeller has almost wiped out all the other refineries in Ohio.
"I am saving you."
Rockefeller closed the ledger, his voice as calm as if he were preaching.
"This is a process destined to happen. In this industry, only the first place can survive. And I am destined to be the first."
The three owners looked at the thin young man before them and felt a deep sense of fear.
It wasn't the fear of facing a thug, but the fear of facing some irresistible law of nature.
Moreover, it was clear that even if they banded together, they were no match for the behemoth that was Standard Oil.
Especially since the other party was backed by the Argyle Family.
Half an hour later, three acquisition contracts were signed.
Rockefeller stood by the window, watching the lonely figures of the three owners as they left.
"In this world, there is only one thing that can bring true peace and order. That is a monopoly."
He turned around, picked up the unfinished soda cracker, and began checking the next entry.
Behind him, the black smoke from the refinery chimneys in Ohio was gathering into a black dragon, preparing to swallow the entire Midwest.