Timmy took the copy and glanced at the garbled mess. He didn't look disappointed; instead, he let out a sneer.
He casually tossed the copy onto the coffee table and picked up an ashtray to flick his cigarette ash.
"We don't need a codebook for this, Jenkins." Timmy leaned back on the sofa, looking very relaxed.
"Look at the time it was sent: two in the morning. Look at the address: 48 Wall Street. Then combine that with what the Boss did at The White House this afternoon."
Timmy pointed at the piece of paper.
"This isn't some business secret at all. It's just a distress signal—or maybe a final testament before the death knell tolls."
Jenkins was stunned for a moment.
"Are you saying they've realized the Department of the Treasury's channel has been cut off?"
"What's there to be surprised about? Boutwell handed in his resignation this afternoon. The Department of the Treasury's revocation order reached the New York branch vault before dark. Nathaniel must be like an ant on a hot griddle right now."
Timmy took a sip from the water glass on the coffee table and gestured downward with his hand.
"They have no gold left. Tomorrow, Hayes and Mr. Stanton's men will smash their doors to smithereens. So, aside from crying to Old Morgan, what else can they do?"
Jenkins glanced at the wall clock.
"Then do we need to send someone to Clark Manor to report this news to the Boss?"
Timmy shook his head, rejecting the suggestion.
"No need. The Boss is resting at the manor. There's no need to disturb him for something so expected."
Timmy stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the quiet streets of Washington.
"Let the Boss get a good night's sleep. As for Old Morgan, I'm afraid he'll be tossing and turning all night. Without the backing of a national treasury, I'd like to see what he uses from across the ocean to fill the hole on Wall Street."
...
22 Broad Street, London.
The fire in the study's fireplace was dimming, and a thick fog drifted over the River Thames outside the window.
After all, London mornings always carried a bone-chilling dampness.
Junius Morgan sat behind an oak desk.
In front of him lay the distress telegram from New York, just delivered by Samuel Croft.
The old butler, Oliver Sterling, stood to the side, watching Morgan's wrinkled face.
He had expected that upon learning the political defense line in Washington had completely collapsed and the Treasury channel had been severed, the old man controlling the massive syndicate would erupt in thunderous rage.
But unfortunately, he didn't.
Old Morgan did not tear the telegram to pieces after reading it, nor did he curse President Grant for his lack of integrity.
He simply folded the paper calmly and placed it in the drawer at his side.
"Sir..."
Sterling spoke tentatively, his voice very soft.
"Manager Nathaniel says in the telegram that the vault's cash has run dry. If the Washington channel is closed, United Trust Bank won't be able to handle a bank run tomorrow. Our plans for North America, are they..."
Sterling didn't say the word "failed."
Morgan looked up at his old servant and reached out to pick up the silver-handled cigar cutter on the desk.
"Oliver, do you think I've gone senile?"
Morgan clipped a cigar, his voice deep and raspy.
"No, of course not, sir. I meant..." Sterling bowed slightly.
"Then do you think I would stake tens of millions of dollars in bank credit, and the Morgan Family's bridgehead for expansion in North America, entirely on a foreign politician who could turn his back at any moment?"
Morgan struck a match, the flame illuminating his eyes, which remained as sharp as an eagle's.
Sterling was confused, not quite understanding his meaning.
"Boutwell's special memorandum was President Grant's compromise. It was also a smokescreen I threw out, Oliver."
Old Morgan exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, which drifted through the study.
"I understand the political landscape of America now; they have a deep-seated isolationism. Ulysses S. Grant is a nationalist; he couldn't tolerate British capital using the national treasury's money to profit on Wall Street for long. It's too easy to associate with betraying the country. So, as long as Felix Argyle seized upon that and applied a little pressure, the Washington politicians would toss us aside like a hot potato."
Morgan stood up.
Leaning on his cane, he walked slowly to the large nautical chart of the Atlantic Ocean hanging on the study wall.
"So I knew from the start that the back door to the Department of the Treasury would be closed sooner or later. Its only value was to buy us time—to help me block Felix Argyle' first wave of attacks."
Sterling walked up behind Morgan.
"Buying time? Sir, but what were we waiting for?"
Morgan raised his cane and pointed at the chart.
The silver tip of the cane landed on a patch of blue sea in the North Atlantic, very close to America's East Coast.
"To wait for this, of course."
Morgan's voice carried the confidence of a financial titan.
"Oliver, when United Trust Bank was established, we publicly declared that our families had injected eight million pounds in reserves. Felix Argyle is a smart man; he guessed that all eight million couldn't possibly be sitting in a basement in New York. He also guessed we were playing with credit leverage."
Morgan turned around to face the old butler.
"But he only guessed half right. We did use leverage. But I didn't just use leverage; I also used physical transport."
Morgan walked back to the desk, opened the bottom locked drawer, pulled out a thick copy of a shipping manifesto, and tossed it onto the desk.
"On the very night we signed the syndicate agreement at Brooks's Club, the Vanderbilt family didn't just mobilize rubber ships from South America. They also secretly diverted three of their fastest steam postal ships to dock at the Port of London."
Morgan stared at Sterling with a playful expression.
"From the Bank of England, from the Rothschild Family's lending market, and from Lord Grosvenor's private vault, I forcibly withdrew four million pounds in physical gold, plus two million pounds in highly liquid bearer bonds."
"This hard currency, worth nearly thirty million dollars, was packed into a hundred iron crates. Under the guise of transporting industrial machine tools, it was loaded onto Vanderbilt's ships. Ten days ago, they already sailed out of the English Channel."
Sterling took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly.
Even he hadn't known about this.
Transporting four million pounds of physical gold across the Atlantic.
With the maritime technology of 1871, this not only faced the risk of terrifying shipwrecks but was also a massive drain on the Morgan Family's resources.
The head of the family had staked half his fortune on the waves of the ocean.
"Sir... this is too risky. If they encounter a storm..."
"There are no 'ifs'," Morgan interrupted him.
"War is risk. Felix Argyle thinks that by cutting off the path to Washington, he can drive Nathaniel to his death. But he forgot to account for the ocean."
Morgan picked up his pocket watch and glanced at it.
"By my calculation, those three postal ships should have passed the Azores by now. They might even have the Long Island coastline in sight. By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, this gold, which truly belongs to United Trust Bank, will be transported into New York Harbor."
Morgan walked to the sofa and sat down.
"It doesn't matter that the Washington politicians abandoned us; that special memorandum has already fulfilled its historical mission. It helped Nathaniel endure the first bank run and the worst of the panic, buying time for this gold to cross the Atlantic."
"Tomorrow, when Felix's traders block the doors of 48 Wall Street again, Nathaniel won't need to beg any Secretary of the Treasury. He can simply throw open the vault doors and use his own gold bars to turn those commercial notes into scrap paper."
Sterling finally understood.
This was the master's true trump card.
Using political maneuvering as a cover, he had secretly completed a massive cross-continental capital transfer.
"But sir..."
Sterling still had doubts.
"Losing the Department of the Treasury's endorsement will definitely deal a blow to United Trust Bank's credibility in America. Those retail investors will think we've lost the support of the Federal Government. We won't be able to compete with local powers like Imperial Bank in terms of attracting deposits and lending."
"Losing government credit is indeed a regret, but there's no other way. Moreover..."
Morgan picked up the glass of lemonade that had long since gone cold. He didn't drink it, just toyed with it in his hand, his expression somewhat vacant.
"In the long run, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, Oliver."
Old Morgan's eyes became extremely deep.
He began to explain the deeper political logic of the matter to this old servant.
"Although losing Washington's support will indeed cause us trouble in the short term."
"But have you ever considered one question: what price did that fellow Felix Argyle pay in Washington to cut off our channels?"
Sterling stood to the side, listening intently, and couldn't help but begin to think. But he didn't answer, knowing that now was the time for listening.
"To force President Ulysses S. Grant to make concessions and the Secretary of the Treasury to resign, that fellow likely even used votes and political donations as bargaining chips to forcefully interfere with The White House's decisions."
Morgan analyzed the power struggle across the ocean, a sharp glint occasionally appearing in his eyes.
"But Oliver, the essence of power is exclusive. Even if Grant compromised, it doesn't mean he's resigned to it. The supreme leader of a country will never tolerate a merchant riding on his neck and barking orders."
Morgan stood up, his hands clasped behind his back.
"So what if Argyle wins this time? He has indeed secured his monopoly, but he has also driven an unbridgeable wedge between his family and the Federal Government."
"You see, if a piece of fat meat lies quietly on a plate, everyone can share it. But if that meat grows teeth and bites the person holding the fork and knife, then it becomes a monster."
Morgan turned around and looked at Sterling.
"Grant's current term has two years left. No matter who the next president is, when they sit in the Oval Office, the first national security briefing they receive will certainly include the monopoly threats posed by General Electric and the Telephone Company."
"The commercial empire Argyle built is too massive, too perfect. So perfect that it will strike fear into all politicians. If he can coerce Grant today, he can coerce the new president tomorrow. This state of affairs is unsustainable in any sovereign nation."
Morgan walked to his desk, his finger tracing the telegram paper on the surface.
"So, we don't need to fight him to the bitter end in Washington right now. We just need to ship the gold over to stabilize our position and keep Carnegie's Steel Company and Westinghouse Electric as a foothold."
"We stay in North America, like a thorn in his side, watching him swell more and more, watching him slowly become an eyesore to the politicians in Washington."
The corners of Morgan's mouth curled into a bloodthirsty smile.
"When the day comes that the American government finally runs out of patience and decides to use the state machinery to dismantle the Argyle Empire, that will be the time to take over his legacy."
Listening to Morgan's long discourse, Sterling's heart was filled with awe for the old man.
Morgan wasn't looking at ledgers from a few months ahead; he was looking at the political landscape years, even a decade, into the future.
"But what if..."
Sterling proposed an extreme hypothesis.
"What if Argyle doesn't just control the current president, but can even manipulate every future election? What if he truly becomes the uncrowned king of America, and the government never moves against him?"
Morgan's movements paused for a moment.
His eyes became extremely deep at this moment, as if containing a storm.
"If it really comes to that point."
Morgan's voice was kept very low.
"If he really turns the American regime into a puppet of the Argyle Family, and his commercial power becomes strong enough to crush our bottom line while ignoring any economic laws."
Morgan walked to the window, looking at the faintly visible masts of ships on the River Thames outside.
That was the symbol of the British Empire's maritime hegemony.
"Then Oliver, we should abandon the rules of commerce."
Morgan turned his head.
"At that time, I will unite with other families to find the Prime Minister, go to Buckingham Palace to see the Queen, and then convince those gentlemen in the House of Commons."
"If we can't beat him with money, and Carnegie's steel rails can't compete with him, then we'll turn this matter between two families into a confrontation of national wills."
"Then, I will push for the Empire's Royal Navy fleet to blockade the Atlantic Ocean shipping routes and have the City of London completely freeze any exchange business related to America. I will pull the full national strength of the British Empire into this game."
Morgan clenched his fist, his mind filled with the image of his proudest son before he died.
"Argyle is a genius. But I don't believe that he alone, or even an America that has just finished its Civil War, can withstand the comprehensive sanctions of the Empire on which the sun never sets."
This was Morgan's last, and most reluctant, trump card.
Unless absolutely necessary, he didn't want to escalate commercial competition into a national confrontation.
Because that meant the Morgan Family would definitely pay a very high price and get very little in return.
It also meant uncontrollable political risks.
But if Felix really left him with no hope of revenge, he wouldn't mind overturning the entire world's chessboard.
"Never mind that, go now, Oliver."
Morgan unclenched his fist and sat back in the high-backed chair, rubbing his temples.
"Send a reply to Nathaniel."
Morgan began to issue orders.
"Tell him that Washington's betrayal was expected. Tell him not to panic."
"Have him stall for time, using any excuse. Whether it's auditing accounts or counting small change. Have him hold out for forty-eight hours at the counters of 48 Wall Street."
"And... tell Cavendish to take all the security personnel to Pier 5 of New York Harbor and wait for the Vanderbilt Family's ocean liner to dock."
Morgan closed his eyes, hiding the exhaustion and madness deep within them.
"In forty-eight hours, London's gold will reach the battlefield. Tell them to grit their teeth and survive."
Sterling bowed deeply.
"Understood, sir. I'll see to it immediately."
The old butler turned and left the study.
In the misty rain of London, the telegraph signal crossed the ocean once again.