September 1869, New York.
Abel Corbin sat in his mansion in Manhattan, feeling somewhat restless.
He used to be a mediocre lobbyist who hadn't made much of a name for himself after spending over a decade in Washington.
But he had good luck in the last two years.
Or rather, he had a stroke of romantic luck.
That's right, it was because he married Virginia Grant, the biological sister of President Ulysses S. Grant.
This relationship turned him into a celebrity in New York's social circles overnight after Grant became president.
Countless people looking for backdoors have worn down his doorstep.
Today, another person came to his home wanting to befriend him or offer him benefits.
"Mr. Corbin."
Jay Gould sat on the sofa, his tone respectful.
Indeed, the visitor was Gould.
He knew there was no way back, so to be safe, he sought out Abel, the President's brother-in-law.
"I heard you've been following the investment market lately?"
"Oh, yes." Corbin rubbed his hands, a hint of greed in his eyes.
"But you know, Mr. Gould, making money is not easy. Although I'm the President's brother-in-law, I can't use that to do illegal business."
"Of course, of course. I completely understand." Gould smiled.
"However, we only do legal business. For example... gold."
Gould took out a document.
"I have opened an account for you in my company with a 1.5 million dollar long position in gold. You don't need to put up a cent of principal. If the gold price rises, the profit is all yours. If it falls, I take the loss."
Corbin's eyes lit up, and his breathing quickened; such a direct and massive gift was far more than what he had received in previous months.
1.5 million!
Even if gold only rises by one point, that's fifteen thousand dollars!
"This... this is too valuable. How can I take such a precious thing from you for nothing?"
Although Corbin declined verbally, his hand pressed down on the document.
"Is there something you need me to do?"
"It's nothing troublesome." Gould lowered his voice.
"I just need to confirm the government's attitude. You know, if the Department of the Treasury suddenly sells gold, the price will drop. So I need you to... feel them out, or, let the President understand that rising gold prices are beneficial for farmers."
"That's simple!" Corbin patted his chest.
"Grant listens to his family most. I'll write to him, or even invite him to stay in New York for a few days."
"Then I'll leave it to you." Gould stood up.
"As long as the government doesn't sell gold, I believe this account of yours will soon turn into two million, three million."
...A week later.
President Grant actually came to New York and stayed at Corbin's house.
Gould was even invited to smoke cigars with the President.
He indirectly discussed the theory that "high gold prices are beneficial for agricultural exports."
Grant did not take a clear stance, but he seemed to have listened.
To show off his capability, Corbin secretly told Gould, "Don't worry, I've spoken to my brother-in-law. He promised me that this autumn, the Department of the Treasury will lock the vault."
Gould believed it.
He felt he had caught the tail of power.
But what he didn't know was that behind this relationship, there was another, tighter web... Washington, the Department of the Treasury building.
Secretary of the Treasury George Boutwell was reviewing documents in his office.
He was a serious New Englander who hated speculation most of all.
"Mr. Secretary," the secretary walked in, "a representative of Mr. Argyle requests an audience."
"Let him in."
The person who walked in was none other than Flynn, Felix's intelligence chief. But his current identity was "Special Advisor to the Argyle Executive Committee."
"Mr. Secretary." Flynn didn't waste words.
"The Boss asked me to bring you a message. The gold price in New York is already very abnormal. Someone is using the President's relatives to spread rumors that the government will not intervene."
"I know." Boutwell's face turned ashen.
"That Corbin... he wrote a letter to the President, which was intercepted by the First Lady. The President is very angry."
"So, what is the government's stance?" Flynn asked.
"Rest assured, the President has already authorized me."
Boutwell stood up and walked to the vault door.
"As long as the gold price threatens normal commercial trade, the Department of the Treasury will smash the market at all costs."
"The Boss wants to know where that 'bottom line' is?" Flynn asked calmly.
Boutwell silenced for a moment.
He and Felix were old friends. When Felix funded the Republican Party, he was also a beneficiary; even his position as Secretary of the Treasury was recommended to Grant by Felix.
Moreover, he needed the support of the business community to counter the speculators on Wall Street.
"Tell Mr. Argyle." Boutwell held up a finger.
"What's important is not the price, but the timing. When these lunatics think they've definitely won, when the whole market is about to suffocate, I will open the gates."
"Specifically, if the price breaks 150 or even approaches 160, that's a declaration of war."
"Understood." Flynn nodded. "We will coordinate with the government's actions."
...New York, the Argyle Empire State Building.
After hearing Flynn's report, Felix took a slip of paper out of a drawer.
It was a telegram sent from Washington by Anna's people.
It had only one sentence on it:
"Brother-in-law found the letter; he's sharpening his blade."
The "brother-in-law" here refers to Grant (Corbin's brother-in-law).
"It seems that idiot Corbin botched the act." Felix burned the note.
"He thought he could control the President, but in reality, he's just sending himself to the gallows. Grant hates it most when people use his family."
"Hayes."
Felix pressed the call bell on his desk.
Hayes walked in, looking excited.
"Boss, the current price is 141. Gould is still buying. He seems to have gone mad."
"He's not mad; he just thinks he has a commitment."
Felix stood up and looked at the gloomy sky outside the window.
"Prepare to act."
"Starting tomorrow, we will build short positions. But keep it hidden; don't use large orders, use hundreds of small accounts to slowly accumulate them."
"Since Boutwell said 160 is the red line, we'll wait for him at 160."
"Also, contact our friends at The New York Tribune. Prepare a few editorials; I've already thought of the titles: 'The Gold Surge is Strangling the Real Economy' and 'Who is Kidnapping Our Currency?'. As for the News Media Company, don't involve them for now."
"We need to create a narrative so everyone feels these gold speculators are enemies of the state."
"Boss, what about the Erie Railroad side..."
"When the gold market crashes, Gould will be so broke he'll have to sell his underwear." Felix gave a cruel smile.
"Then, we'll go and collect Erie's stock. The price will be cheaper than scrap paper."
Felix picked up a gold coin from the desk and flicked it.
The gold coin flipped through the air, making a pleasant sound.
"Greed is good. But foolish greed is fatal."
A financial massacre worthy of the history books is about to take place on Wall Street.
And the man holding the knife is standing atop a tall building, watching coldly.
September 22nd, New York.
145 Broadway.
This was the headquarters of the Western Union Telegraph Company.
Thousands of copper wires converged here like a giant spider web, connecting the nerves of the entire United States of America.
In a private office on the top floor, the curtains were drawn tight.
Felix sat in a leather chair, holding a cup of unsweetened black coffee. Opposite him sat two men: his intelligence chief, Flynn, and Western Union's operations manager, Orton.
A specially made telegraph receiver in the room emitted a monotonous "click-clack" sound.
"Mr. Orton."
Felix set down his coffee cup, his voice calm.
"How are the lines from Washington?"
"Perfectly clear, Mr. Argyle."
Orton, a balding middle-aged man, wiped his glasses.
"Following your instructions, a copy of every encrypted telegram sent from the Department of the Treasury and the White House is being retained in this room immediately. Our operators were told this is for 'national security'."
"It is indeed for security," Felix nodded. "Financial security is national security."
Flynn picked up a roll of freshly printed paper tape.
"Boss, this was intercepted five minutes ago. President Grant is vacationing in the town of Washington, Pennsylvania. He sent a private letter to Secretary of the Treasury Boutwell."
Felix took the tape; on it was a string of meaningless numbers and letters.
"Decode it."
Flynn took out a black leather manual and quickly cross-referenced the translation.
A few minutes later, Flynn looked up, a cold glint in his eyes.
"The President says Corbin is a fraud. Tell Boutwell that if gold prices continue this irrational rise, the government must intervene. Break the skulls of these speculators."
Felix looked at the line, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.
"Grant has finally woken up. It seems that fool Corbin not only failed to steady the President but, through his excessive greed, has made the President feel betrayed by his own family. An angry Grant is more terrifying than a rational one."
"Boss, do we start shorting now?" Flynn asked.
"No rush." Felix burned the paper tape over a candle flame.
"This letter is still on its way; Boutwell hasn't received it yet. Gould and Fisk know even less."
"We need to exploit this time gap."
Felix stood up and walked to the special telegraph machine.
"Orton, how long does it usually take for a telegram to travel from the Department of the Treasury in Washington to New York?"
"If it's an express delivery, about fifteen minutes," Orton replied.
"That's enough."
Felix pulled a gold pocket watch from his pocket—a trophy from his previous acquisition of Union Pacific Railroad shares.
"I want you to tamper with it. When Boutwell issues the formal order to'sell gold,' I want that telegram to appear on New York's standard receivers with a thirty-minute 'delay'."
Orton stiffened, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"Mr. Argyle, that's a felony. If it's discovered..."
"No one will discover it," Felix interrupted him.
"Because the lines will be very busy that day. Perhaps a coil in some relay station burns out, or an operator goes to the bathroom. Make up your own reasons."
"This half-hour is God's time." Felix stared into Orton's eyes. "Do you still want those Western Union options for next year?"
Orton swallowed hard and nodded.
"I understand. The lines will... experience a failure."
Felix patted his shoulder with satisfaction, then turned to Flynn.
"Now, it's time to check on our opponents."
...At the same time, the Grand Opera House.
Jay Gould was pacing back and forth in his office. He had already worn a mark into the carpet.
"Has Corbin written back?" Gould asked.
"He has!"
Jim Fisk burst into the room, waving a letter.
"He says everything is normal! The President is still on vacation and in a good mood; he didn't mention gold at all!"
Gould took the letter and read it carefully.
The letter was indeed written by Corbin, the handwriting scrawled and radiating blind optimism.
"Something's not right."
Gould frowned, his instinct as a top predator tingling.
"It's too quiet; it's too quiet over at the Department of the Treasury. That old stubborn Boutwell, seeing gold prices hit 140, hasn't said a word?"
"He's afraid!"
Fisk laughed loudly, grabbing a lobster claw.
"I think he's afraid of offending the President! Jay, stop being so paranoid. There are no sell orders on the market right now. Those shorters are all crying for their mothers."
"What about Argyle' side?" Gould asked.
"He's still holding," Fisk said with certainty.
"I've checked the large orders on the market; there's no record of Argyle selling. He's even buying in through several small accounts."
Hearing this, Gould breathed a small sigh of relief.
If Felix, the biggest bull, hadn't moved, it meant the storm hadn't arrived yet.
"Good."
Gould grit his teeth, the gambler's fire burning in his eyes once more.
"Then double down. Transfer all the remaining two million dollars in cash from the Erie Railroad's accounts. Also, mortgage our shares to the Tenth National Bank for margin."
"We're going to push gold to 160. After that, we'll slowly dump the stock on those suckers taking over."
What Gould didn't know was that the letter in his hand was a lie written by Corbin in fear.
And his "ally" Felix, whom he relied on, was holding scissors and standing right next to his oxygen tube... On the night of September 23rd, in the underground vault of the Argyle Empire Bank Building.
Hayes was sitting at a long table with several core traders.
The table was piled high with pre-filled transaction slips.
"Listen."
Felix walked into the room, his voice echoing in the hollow vault.
"Tomorrow is Friday. Some say it's a lucky day, but for many, tomorrow is doomsday."
"Are our offshore accounts ready?"
"Ready, Boss," Hayes replied.
"London, Amsterdam, and Havana. A total of one hundred and twenty accounts. The volume of funds is enough to drown all of New York."
"Good."
Felix picked up a transaction slip with the word "Sell" written on it.
"Remember my instructions. Tomorrow morning, gold prices will skyrocket. That will be Gould's final sprint."
"Don't stop him; let him buy. When the price breaks 160, when everyone has gone mad, throw these orders out."
"Throw them out bit by bit. Don't dump everything at once. I want Gould to think it's just normal profit-taking."
"Until..." Felix glanced at the wall clock.
"Until that'special moment' arrives. That is when the slaughter truly begins."
Hayes looked at his Boss. In the dim light, half of Felix's face was in light, the other half in shadow.
"Boss, Gould might die," Hayes whispered.
"He won't die," Felix replied coldly.
"He'll just become very poor. And for some people, being poor is worse than death."
"Take a break.
Tomorrow we're going to harvest America whole.."