In the President's study at The White House at night, several of Grant's core cabinet members and close associates sat on the sofas; the President himself had a joyful look on his face.
However, the expression of Attorney General Amos Ackerman was somewhat grim.
Meanwhile, secretary of state Hamilton Fish held a teacup in silence. The presidential secretary, Horace Porter, stood to the side, holding several sets of meeting minutes.
Grant sat behind the desk, his fingers tapping on the surface.
He had just announced to these close associates Boutwell's resignation and the preliminary concept for establishing a Public Employee Retirement Fund, as well as, of course, the list that Thomas had just sent over via his butler.
"This absolutely will not do, Mr. President!"
Unable to bear the silent atmosphere, Ackerman was the first to jump out in opposition.
He was a stubborn Southern lawyer who simply could not accept this kind of deal that bowed to capital.
"You dismissed the antitrust investigation into the Argyle Family. Now you want the national treasury to cooperate with them in setting up some fund company? This is tantamount to a disguised recognition of the legitimacy of their monopoly! You are handing the economic lifeblood of the United States into the hands of a private businessman!"
Ackerman waved his hands, his emotions running high.
"This not only violates the legal spirit of the free market, but it is also political suicide!"
Hearing this, secretary of state Fish frowned and set down his teacup.
He was an old-school New York politician who leaned more toward the international situation when analyzing issues.
"Amos, the spirit of the law cannot solve real-world threats."
Fish's voice was very calm as he signaled for Ackerman to cool down.
After all, the big boss seemed very supportive of the matter, and there was nothing to be gained from opposing him.
"Mr. President, although I am also concerned about Argyle's expansion, I am more worried about the movements in London. The British Foreign Office sent me a note yesterday in a very arrogant tone. They are attempting to interfere in our domestic infrastructure bidding."
Fish looked at Grant and reminded him.
"If we were to move to break up General Electric and the Imperial Bank at this time, domestic industry would immediately fall into chaos. Those syndicates controlled by British capital would take advantage of the opening.
There is an old Eastern saying about choosing the lesser of two evils.
Argyle's money at least stays within the country. Moreover, this retirement fund can indeed greatly enhance the Federal Government's control at the grassroots level. Of course, the most important thing is your prestige and reputation."
Ackerman turned and glared at Fish.
"But today he bribes the government with a few million in low-interest loans; tomorrow he could use the same means to bribe the army!"
"Enough!" Grant slammed the table, clearly displeased.
The study fell silent instantly.
Grant stood up, the commanding majesty he had cultivated during the Civil War fully on display at this moment.
"Ackerman, do you only see the legal clauses? Did you not see the telegram from Berlin, much less the conditions offered by Bismarck?" Grant's voice was cold.
"If we do not compromise, Argyle will move all of General Electric's laboratories and factories to the German Empire. By then, over a hundred thousand American workers will be unemployed, and our cities will be unable to use the latest lighting and power technologies."
Grant stared at the Attorney General, his tone dissatisfied.
"I am protecting the industrial future of this country! And this Retirement Fund Act must be implemented. It will not only lock in Argyle's technology but also help us win next year's midterm elections. There is no room for negotiation on this matter! Start preparing the legal documents tomorrow."
Grant turned to Horace Porter.
"Go prepare the nomination papers to nominate Richard Morrison from Ohio as the new Secretary of the Treasury."
Ackerman knew the matter was settled; if he persisted, he would only meet the same fate as Boutwell. He slumped back onto the sofa and fell silent.
At the same time in New York, at 48 Wall Street, the United Trust Bank.
The night was deep and quiet; the exterior lights of the building had already been extinguished.
However, the underground vault and the manager's office on the second floor were still brightly lit.
Nathaniel Thorne sat behind a wide desk, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. The desk was piled high with commercial papers recovered after dealing with today's bank run.
Although he had previously used federal gold bars to drive back the crowd of people making a run on the bank.
Nathaniel's nerves remained taut.
Because his two months of experience living on Wall Street told him that Argyle would absolutely not let things rest there.
The office door was suddenly burst open.
A telegraph operator on duty rushed in, stumbling and crawling.
His face was as pale as paper, and he clutched a newly decoded telegram in his hand.
"Manager... something's happened... something big has happened..."
The telegraph operator's voice shook, his pitch changing.
Nathaniel stood up abruptly, a sense of extreme foreboding washing over him.
"What's the panic! Read it!" Nathaniel roared.
The telegraph operator swallowed hard and looked down at the slip of paper in his hand.
"Washington D.C., urgent official letter from the Department of the Treasury."
"The current Secretary of the Treasury, George Boutwell, officially submitted his resignation this afternoon, and The White House has approved it."
"By an emergency executive order signed by the Acting Secretary of the Treasury: Effective immediately, all discount charter authorizations for the United Trust Bank at the New York Federal Branch are fully revoked. All channels for using commercial paper as collateral for federal physical gold are to be frozen immediately."
The telegraph operator looked up at Nathaniel.
"Manager... our back door has been shut tight by Washington."
Nathaniel felt his head spinning.
Wait, they moved this fast?
It had only been two or three days since the bank run, and they already had Washington revoke the authorization.
Has the Argyle Family's power become this strong?
Is there no justice left? These local American families are too ruthless. This is simply trying to kill United Credit.
A strong wave of dizziness hit him. He gripped the edge of the desk tightly with both hands to keep himself from collapsing.
Boutwell resigned? The chartered channel was revoked?
The trump card Mr. Morgan had obtained through British Empire political intimidation had been uprooted in less than seventy-two hours.
Nathaniel knew all too well what this meant.
He turned his head and looked out at the pitch-black streets of Wall Street. It was as if he could see that when the sun rose, the retail investors who had retreated yesterday, along with those bloodthirsty traders from the Imperial Bank, would come surging back like a tide.
And this time...
In his basement, there really would only be a few million in cash left. He would no longer be able to borrow those gold bars stamped with the eagle emblem.
"Quickly..."
Nathaniel's voice was as hoarse as that of a man dying of thirst.
He roared frantically at the stunned telegraph operator.
"Quickly, go invite Cavendish!"
The oak door was struck by a series of knocks, the sound echoing through the empty corridor.
Clive Cavendish snapped his eyes open.
He sat up from his velvet bed, reached for the lamp button on the nightstand, and switched it on.
"Enter."
Cavendish pulled back the covers and stepped onto the wool carpet.
The butler, Arthur, pushed the door open and walked in.
He held a tray with a folded note resting on it.
"Sir, a carriage from United Trust Bank is waiting outside. It was sent by Manager Nathaniel's assistant. He says the situation is extremely urgent and requests that you head to 48 Wall Street immediately."
Arthur walked to the bedside and presented the tray.
Cavendish picked up the note.
There was only one line written on it: The Treasury gates are closed; come quickly.
Cavendish's sleepiness vanished instantly.
He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it into the nearby wastepaper basket.
"Arthur, get me that heavy wool coat."
Cavendish walked to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage raced through the empty streets of Manhattan. The wheels rolled over the waterlogged cobblestones, splashing up large amounts of mud.
The carriage stopped in the back alley of United Trust Bank.
Cavendish pushed the door open, jumped down, and strode toward the cast-iron back door usually used for transporting cash.
Two guards holding revolvers saw him and immediately pulled back the door bolts.
Cavendish hurried into the building.
He passed through the dim corridor and pushed open the door to the manager's office on the second floor.
Nathaniel Thorne was standing behind the desk.
His tie was undone, his shirt collar was open, and he held an empty whiskey glass. Several telegram copies were scattered across the desk.
"My God, Clive, you're finally here."
Nathaniel turned around, his eyes bloodshot.
"Damn it, we've been abandoned by Washington. George Boutwell has resigned. The Acting Secretary of the Treasury issued an executive order directly, cutting off all our discount channels at the Federal Sub-Treasury."
Cavendish walked to the desk, picked up the telegram copy, and quickly scanned its contents.
"How is this possible?"
Cavendish slapped the copy onto the desk.
"We used the British Empire's cessation of underwriting railway bonds as leverage. No matter how much Grant fears Argyle, he wouldn't dare to cross London at a time like this. How could Boutwell suddenly resign?"
"The fact is he did resign, and The White House approved it without hesitation!"
Nathaniel slammed his hands onto the desk, looking somewhat dejected.
"Clive, don't you understand yet? Argyle went to Washington a couple of days ago and reached some kind of deal with Grant. Looking at the results, he not only saved General Electric but also forced Grant to cut our lifeline!"
Cavendish pulled out a chair and sat down.
He closed his eyes, his mind rapidly replaying their operations on Capitol Hill over the past few days.
"It seems we all underestimated Argyle' influence over Washington."
Cavendish opened his eyes, his tone becoming heavy.
"Thomas Clark is the President of the Senate. They hold the Republican Party's campaign funds for next year. It seems Grant chose votes over British capital. He has abandoned us."
"What use is analyzing this now?"
Nathaniel paced back and forth in the office, his steps agitated.
"As soon as dawn breaks, I guarantee the traders from the Imperial Bank will be back at our doors with their notes. Once those retail investors out there find out we can't produce Federal gold bars, they'll tear the bank's support pillars down. What little cash is left in the vault won't last long."
"Don't panic, Nathaniel."
Cavendish raised his hand, stopping the other man's pacing.
"We will report to London immediately. Tell Mr. Morgan about the turn of events in Washington and Boutwell's resignation. He needs to know that the political winds in America have shifted."
Nathaniel sighed.
"I've already drafted the telegram."
Nathaniel picked up a sheet of paper from the edge of the desk and handed it to Cavendish.
"Using our highest-level codebook for 22 Broad Street, see if there's anything else to add."
Cavendish took the paper.
"Situation out of control, Washington has defected. Secretary of the Treasury resigned, privileged channels cut. Argyle has reached a compromise with The White House. Wall Street will face devastating bank runs tomorrow; vault cash is depleted. Requesting London take immediate intervention measures or provide instructions for next steps."
Cavendish finished reading and nodded.
"I have nothing to add; send it as is. The sooner the better."
Cavendish handed the note to the waiting telegrapher. "Go to the telegraph room downstairs and connect directly to the main undersea cable."
The telegrapher took the note and ran out of the office.
Nathaniel slumped into his chair.
"Clive, if London has no solution, we'll have to announce a temporary suspension of business tomorrow to stall for time. I just hope we don't enter bankruptcy liquidation."
"Wait for Mr. Morgan's reply. He has been through more financial crises than we have seen coins. He will surely have a way."
Cavendish looked at the night sky outside the window, but in his heart, he felt uncertain.
At the same time they were sending the telegram,
At the Western Union Telegraph Company headquarters on Broadway in New York,
The late-night telegraph hub was still in operation.
The massive relay matrix emitted a rhythmic clicking sound.
Hundreds of copper wires converged here, connecting various cities in America and the undersea cables leading to Europe.
In a private monitoring room on the third floor, two telegraph operators wore headsets, staring at the receivers that were constantly spitting out white paper tape.
This monitoring room did not handle ordinary commercial telegrams. It belonged directly to the Argyle Family Intelligence Department.
Its sole purpose was to intercept and record radio signals sent from specific addresses.
An operator suddenly sat up straight and pressed his headset, his eyes fixed on the rapidly jumping punch needles on the machine.
"A signal is cutting in; it's going through the transatlantic main line," he said to his companion.
"Source tracking. It's the private line node from 48 Wall Street; United Trust Bank is transmitting."
The companion immediately grabbed a special spool to synchronously copy the intercepted signal.
A few minutes later, the signal transmission ended.
The operator tore off the long strip of paper tape, which was covered in jumbled combinations of letters. It was ciphertext encrypted with complex codes.
"Without the Morgan Family codebook, we can't decode this," the companion said, shaking his head at the letters.
"There's no need to decode it."
The operator rolled up the paper tape, stuffed it into a manila envelope, and sealed it with wax.
"Mr. Timmy instructed that regardless of whether we can understand it, any telegram sent from United Trust Bank to Europe must be reported immediately."
He then pressed a buzzer on the desk, and a field agent pushed the door open.
"Use the private line to send this intercept report and the paper tape copy to the Willard Hotel in Washington D.C. Give it to Mr. Timmy."
Half an hour later,
At the Willard Hotel in Washington D.C.,
An ordinary guest room had been temporarily converted into an intelligence center, with several telegraph machines placed on the tables.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, sat on the sofa smoking.
His subordinate, Jenkins, walked over with a telegram copy that had just been received.
"Sir, news from the New York headquarters. Western Union intercepted a transoceanic telegram sent from United Trust Bank to London," Jenkins said, handing over the copy.
"It's all ciphertext; we can't decipher it for now."