The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains.
Felix opened his and got up.
He pulled back the covers, got out of bed, put on his trousers and shirt, and buttoned them up.
He pushed open the bedroom door and walked toward the nursery at the end of the hallway.
The nursery door wasn't fully closed, and a nanny stood in the corner.
Two-year-old Caesar was sitting on the carpet.
Both of his hands were tightly clutching the iridium pocket watch he had just received yesterday.
Seeing this, Felix walked in, and the nanny bowed her head and stepped out.
Hearing footsteps, Caesar looked up and held the pocket watch high.
"Felix~ it stopped again," Caesar said.
His brow was furrowed, seemingly dissatisfied with the machine that had ceased to function.
Felix walked over, knelt on one knee at the edge of the carpet, and took the pocket watch.
"Look, the mainspring is loose."
Felix gripped the knob on the side and turned it three times. The crisp sound of gears meshing reached their ears.
He pressed the button, and the miniature silver train on the watch face began to run once more.
Felix placed the pocket watch back into Caesar's hands.
"Remember, child. A machine won't keep running on its own; you have to wind it up," Felix said, looking at his godson.
"Just like the boilers in a factory must be fed coal. If you ignore it, it's just a piece of scrap iron."
Caesar stared at the running train and poked it with his finger.
"I turn it myself," Caesar said, pointing at the knob.
Felix did not stop him.
Caesar gripped the knob with his short, pudgy fingers and gave it a strained twist.
"Use your wrist," Felix guided from the side. "Don't just use your fingers."
He spent over ten minutes on the carpet until Caesar successfully wound the watch one full turn.
Felix stood up.
"Go eat breakfast."
Leaving those words behind, Felix turned and walked out of the nursery.
In the first-floor dining room, Thomas Clark was already seated at the head of the table, cutting into a fried sausage on his plate.
Felix walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
A servant brought a plate of fried eggs and several slices of toast, then poured him black coffee.
The two ate in silence, the sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain echoing through the room.
The dining room door was pushed open.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, walked in quickly. He held a kraft paper envelope sealed with wax.
"Boss, Mr. vice president," Timmy said, approaching the table.
"A transoceanic telegram from Bowen at the Paris office, sent through the secret relay station in London. It arrived overnight."
Felix swallowed the bread in his mouth.
He took the envelope and used a table knife to pry open the wax seal.
He pulled out the telegram and scanned it.
Thomas picked up his coffee cup.
"Is there a result from the French side?" Thomas asked.
"Yes, there is."
Felix placed the telegram on the table.
"The Thiers government has bowed. They've recognized the colonial concessions pledged by Napoleon III. Furthermore, they intend to sell us the fifty-year operating rights for the three main southern railway trunk lines, as well as one-hundred-year power supply concessions for Paris, Lyon, and Marseille."
Thomas set down his coffee cup.
"They certainly are bold. How much?"
"Forty million dollars," Felix said, taking a sip of coffee.
"However, only ten million is required in cash. The remaining thirty million will be offset with grain and kerosene from the Metropolitan Trading Company and infrastructure materials from Lex Steel."
Thomas took a sharp breath, looking at his friend and ally with some surprise.
"Forty million to buy up nearly half of France's infrastructure. Such a deal would have been unthinkable five years ago. But Felix, with ten million in cash, and you currently in a bank run war with Old Morgan... can the Imperial Bank's cash flow handle it?"
"No problem," Felix said, cutting into a fried egg.
"After all, these aren't lump-sum payments; it's a long-term infrastructure reconstruction contract. Supplies are shipped in batches, and the gold is settled in installments. The Imperial Bank's leverage can easily support it."
Felix chewed his food, his brow furrowing slightly.
"However... I'm not worried about the money right now. I'm worried about the local French capital."
Timmy stood to the side, listening intently.
"After all, although France was defeated, behind the Bank of France there still stands a group of deeply rooted local 'old money' families. For instance, the Schneider Family, or those oligarchs in Lyon involved in textiles and metallurgy. Even including the Rothschild branch in Paris," Felix analyzed calmly.
"Right now, they are suffocating under the Prussian reparations and the domestic mobs, so they have no time for us. But once they catch their breath, they'll realize that the railways of southern France and the power grids of the three major cities are in the hands of an American businessman."
Felix gave a cold laugh.
"They might go mad then and cause trouble in the Paris parliament. Inciting worker strikes is an old tradition of theirs. I wouldn't be surprised if they cut our telegraph lines or even pass tax laws specifically targeting foreign capital."
Thomas nodded in agreement.
Having spent years in politics, he understood the exclusionary nature of such local protectionism all too well.
The crucial point was that some countries were very unscrupulous; they wouldn't let you take a single cent of profit, and might even try to swallow your local company whole.
"Since you can anticipate these possibilities, Felix, what do you intend to do? Or are you planning to give up some of the concessions?" Thomas asked curiously.
"Huh? What are you saying, Thomas? That's obviously impossible. After all... how can one spit out meat that's already in their mouth?"
Felix picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.
"But I can't open a second front in Europe either. Old Morgan in London is already giving me enough of a headache. If I start a war with local capital in Paris, my overseas expansion will be completely bogged down."
After a moment of thought, Felix turned to Timmy.
"Timmy. Send a telegram to Boutwell... no, to Bowen."
"Tell Bowen that after the contract is officially signed, he should immediately reach out to several local industrial families in Paris and Lyon. Pick the ones with official backgrounds but who lack the cash for reconstruction."
"Form a joint-venture shell company to operate these concessions and give them a fifteen percent stake. They don't need to put up any money, but they need to provide their connections in the French government and their votes in the local parliament as their equity."
Felix tossed the napkin onto the table and stood up.
"Once we pull the local'snakes' of France onto our ship and let them make money with us, they'll be on our side. As long as they take my dividends, if anyone dares to propose taking back the railways in parliament, these local capitalists will be the first to jump out and bite them to death."
"Understood, Boss. I'll head back to the hotel immediately and have the New York office wire France."
Timmy nodded after receiving his instructions and turned to leave the dining room.
Felix adjusted his shirt cuffs and looked at Thomas.
"Let's go see Ulysses. This morning, we need to completely nail down Washington's backyard."
Felix and Thomas walked side by side through The White House corridor; the President's secretary, Horace Porter, was waiting outside the Oval Office door.
"Mr. vice president, Mr. Argyle." Porter pushed open the door. "The President and the secretaries are already waiting."
Thomas and Felix walked into the office one after the other.
President Ulysses S. Grant sat behind a large desk.
On the sofa in front of him sat Attorney General Amos Ackerman.
Beside Akerman sat a man in his forties, with extremely neat hair and a somewhat stiff expression.
Thomas walked over and pointed at the man.
"Felix. This is the new Secretary of the Treasury I mentioned to you yesterday, who was just sworn in today. Richard Morrison."
Morrison stood up, lacking the slickness of an old-school politician. He looked at Felix and extended his hand.
"Hello, Mr. Argyle. Thank you and the vice president for the recommendation; this responsibility is very heavy."
Morrison spoke quickly and articulately.
Felix took his hand, gave it a brief shake, and let go.
"It's nothing, Secretary Morrison. I recommended you because Thomas said you understand the ledgers and don't have sticky fingers. I hope you won't let the President or me down."
Felix's words were devoid of pleasantries, directly pointing out the relationship of interests.
The corner of Morrison's eye twitched slightly, but he didn't retort; he simply nodded and sat back down.
Felix walked to another armchair and sat down, with Thomas sitting beside him.
Seeing this, Grant cleared his throat.
"Alright, everyone is here. We'll devote our time today to this most important matter."
Grant picked up a piece of blank draft paper from the desk.
"Regarding the establishment of the Federal Public Employees Retirement Fund, Felix proposed the general framework yesterday. Today, we need to finalize the legal terms and the specific details of fund operations; it's definitely not as simple as drawing a few circles on paper."
Grant looked at Morrison.
"Richard, you went over the Department of the Treasury's accounts overnight. Tell us your thoughts. Deducting three percent from employees' salaries and a three percent match from the Department of the Treasury—can the national treasury afford this money?"
Morrison opened his briefcase and took out dense reports.
"Mr. President, Mr. vice president." Morrison habitually pushed up his glasses.
"Currently, the Federal Government has about 150,000 regular employees. If we calculate based on an average annual salary of eight hundred dollars, three percent from each person is twenty-four dollars. For 150,000 people, the total annual deduction is 3.6 million dollars."
Morrison looked at the reports in his hand.
"The Department of the Treasury needs to provide an equal matching amount, which is 3.6 million dollars annually. Honestly, we can't afford it. Although taxes from the South have increased slightly, it's still not enough. Most of the tariffs are used to pay the interest on national debt issued during the Civil War. If we force an increase of 3.6 million in next year's budget, government agencies might even have to stop daily office operations."
Ackerman snorted coldly from the side.
"See... I said this was a whimsical, crazy plan. The government doesn't even have money for road repairs in Washington, let alone for some pension fund."
"Didn't I say that funding won't be an issue for the first three years?"
Felix frowned and interrupted Ackerman's complaints, looking at Morrison.
"Imperial Bank will provide a special loan to the Department of the Treasury at an annual interest rate of one percent, disbursed over three years. This money is specifically to cover the Department of the Treasury's matching fund gap for the first three years. By the fourth year, as dividends from General Electric and the Telephone Company start flowing back in on a large scale, the fund's cash pool will become self-sustaining. You can then use the dividends to repay the loan."
Morrison looked at him with an unreadable expression.
"One percent annual interest?"
It must be said that on the Wall Street of 1871, this was practically a giveaway.
"Mr. Argyle, if that's the case, the issue of capital flow no longer exists."
Morrison immediately made a mark on the report.
"As soon as the funds from Imperial Bank arrive, I can create a separate item within the Department of the Treasury and transfer the money directly into the fund management company's special account."
"Wait a moment..."
Ackerman suddenly spoke up, staring intently at Felix.
"Even if the money issue is resolved, what about the legal issue?"
Ackerman was, after all, the Attorney General, responsible for guarding the baseline of federal law.
"Mr. Argyle, Mr. President, have you considered that forcibly deducting three percent from a legal federal employee's salary constitutes an illegal seizure of private property under the Constitution? Salary is the fruit of their labor; on what grounds can the government forcibly withhold it?"
Ackerman looked at everyone present.
"If this is carried out, as long as a single postman or clerk sues the Federal Government in the Supreme Court, those justices will immediately rule the act unconstitutional. Then the entire fund will be forced to dissolve, and the government will face massive compensation lawsuits!"
The office fell silent, and even Grant frowned.
He could indeed issue orders, but he couldn't bypass the Supreme Court.
Thomas turned to look at Felix; this was a fundamental legal flaw.
Felix didn't panic; he adjusted his posture and looked at the Attorney General, his tone somewhat mocking.
"Secretary Ackerman, you're a good lawyer, but a terrible personnel manager. Who said this was a forced seizure?"
Ackerman frowned.
"How is it not? You're the one who proposed deducting three percent from their salary every month."
"But that's called a contractual agreement, not a forced seizure."
Felix corrected him and then held up a finger.
"From the day the act is passed, the Department of the Treasury and the Department of the Interior will redraft all federal employment contracts. A 'Voluntary Trust Escrow Clause' must be added to every contract."
"The clause will state that the employee voluntarily entrusts three percent of their monthly salary to the Federal Retirement Fund Management Company for investment and appreciation. In return, the government provides an equal matching amount. This money will eventually be returned in the form of a pension upon their retirement."
Ackerman sneered, being somewhat argumentative.
"But what if an employee is unwilling to sign this contract? They just want all the cash."
"If they're unwilling to sign this addendum, it means they don't accept the Federal Government's overall terms of employment," Felix said nonchalantly.
"Then let them get lost; there's a long line of people waiting to take that 'iron rice bowl' job. Or does the Secretary think it's easy in America to find a job that doesn't involve exposure to the elements and pays a monthly salary?"
"Once a contract is signed, it's a civil covenant; the Supreme Court has no jurisdiction over a financial trust agreement voluntarily signed between two parties. New recruits will all follow the new contract. As for the old employees, tell them that if they don't sign the supplemental agreement, they will no longer enjoy any government medical subsidies or promotions starting next year."
Felix looked at Ackerman.
"Using contracts to circumvent the Constitution is basic common sense, Mr. Attorney General."
Ackerman was speechless.
He found that his proud legal knowledge couldn't find any point of rebuttal against the rogue logic of these capitalists.
Because from a literal legal standpoint, if formed into legal provisions, it indeed becomes a 'voluntary covenant.'
After hearing this, Grant's furrowed brow relaxed.
It seems Felix is the quick-witted one after all! He slapped the desk hard.
"Good idea, we'll handle it through employment contracts. Turn ownership disputes into contractual disputes." Grant looked at Ackerman.
"Amos, you will personally oversee the drafting of the contracts. Every word must be carefully considered; we absolutely cannot leave any openings for the Supreme Court."
Ackerman gritted his teeth and could only nod.
"I understand, Mr. President."
As the financial and legal obstacles were cleared away one by one, the grand blueprint for the retirement fund became increasingly clear.
Attorney General Ackerman looked at this distribution of interests, orchestrated by the President, the vice president, the Secretary of the Treasury, and business titans, and felt a strange sensation in his heart.
"Mr. President, Mr. Argyle."
Ackerman spoke again.
However, his tone had softened compared to before, though he posed a sharp question.
"Since this retirement fund system is so perfect. It can guarantee the lives of public servants in their twilight years, keeping them from hunger. Then..."
Ackerman looked directly at Felix.
"Why don't we expand the scope of this act? Why limit it only to Federal Government and local government employees?"
"Um... I mean."
There was a look of naivety and persistence in Ackerman's eyes.
"Could we draft a broader labor protection act? Mandating that all enterprises, factories, and railroad companies in America—including your General Electric and Carnegie's steel mills—mandate that all capitalists also set up similar retirement accounts for their employees? Forcing them to also contribute a three percent matching fund?"
Ackerman became more and more excited as he spoke, the light in his eyes growing brighter.
"In this way, the millions of industrial workers across America would have security in their old age. There wouldn't be so many disabled workers begging on the streets and old people starving to death. God is my witness... this would be the greatest human rights advancement for America in world history."
Hearing these words, Grant was somewhat stunned.
Thomas Clark's hand, holding his coffee cup, stopped in mid-air as he looked at Ackerman as if he were a monster.
Richard Morrison lowered his head directly, pretending to look at a report, not daring to touch upon this topic at all.
Good heavens, he's planning to make these rich people bleed directly; what is he thinking...
Felix leaned back in his leather chair.
He did not get angry, nor did he mock him.
He just looked at Amos Ackerman with indifferent eyes.
The silence lasted for a full minute.
"Ackerman. Are you joking, or has your brain been baked soft by the southern sun?"
Felix finally spoke. Although his voice was not loud, it carried a biting chill.
"Are you asking me, asking Carnegie, asking all the factory owners to dig into their own pockets for profits to pay pensions to those working on the assembly lines?"
Felix stood up and walked in front of Ackerman.
"Listen, Amos. You sound like a naive student in law school right now, not the Attorney General of the United States."
Felix stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down at him.
"The Federal Government is setting up a retirement fund because the government does not produce any goods; the government produces order and power. I am lending money to the government to set up this fund so that Mr. President can buy the absolute loyalty of these 150,000 public servants. It is so that the guns in their hands and the badges on their chests will obey the commands of Washington and New York at critical moments. This is called political stability maintenance."
Felix turned around and pointed to the invisible factories outside the window.
"But what are private enterprises? What are factories?"
"Factories are battlefields, and business is war."
Felix walked back to the desk and turned to face everyone.
"Do you know why I was able to lay the Metropolitan's tracks all the way to San Francisco? Do you know why Carnegie can sell steel rails cheaper than Sheffield?"
"Because in America, we have the cheapest, most unaccountable labor force in the world! Those bankrupt farmers and black people. Even most factory owners make them work fourteen hours a day, and as long as you give them one dollar a day, they will risk their lives on the machines!"
"Not to mention those families in difficult living situations where even children have to come out to work. In this situation, what we should be doing is creating more jobs, not some worker pension!"
Felix's eyes became complex; he wasn't just spouting nonsense.
Even though he tried his best to hire adults, Irish, and so on, he couldn't stop other factory owners from hiring children and black people because the cost was extremely low.
This was the most blood-soaked truth of capitalism in 1871.
"If I agreed to your bullshit proposal today, and the law mandated that all factory owners contribute matching retirement funds for workers, do you know what would happen?"
"At that point, the costs for the nation's steel companies would rise by ten percent tomorrow. Even Lex Steel's profits would be completely wiped out, and Metropolitan's freight rates would have to be increased!"
"At that point, what would we use to fight a price war against the British's cheap goods? What would we use to resist the dumping of European capital? Within half a year, all of America's heavy industries would go bankrupt. Millions of people would immediately lose their jobs because no one could afford to employ them!"
Felix tapped the desk heavily with his finger.
"Before the nation has completed its absolute capital accumulation. Before American industry has completely crushed Europe, do not talk to me about human rights and old-age security."
"Every dollar of capital accumulation is stained with blood. If you want this country to be strong, someone must make sacrifices. And those workers are the price. Do you understand? Mr. Attorney General."
Ackerman's face turned pale, and he was trembling all over.
He was stripped bare by Felix's bloody jungle law. He wanted to retort, but the reality of economic logic left him unable to speak.
Grant was also silent.
As President, he certainly hoped that workers would live well.
But he knew even more clearly that if he were to shackle capitalists with heavy labor welfare at this moment, the economy of America would collapse in an instant.
"This proposal is void, Amos. Do not bring it up again in the future." Grant finally spoke, smoothing things over.
"We are only discussing the Federal Government public servant fund now."
Thomas Clark coughed and brought the topic back on track.
"Since the law and the funding have been worked out. Then, the last question."
Thomas looked at the new Secretary of the Treasury, Morrison.
"The Federal retirement fund management company that will control at least tens of millions of dollars by then. Who will manage it?"
Morrison pushed up his glasses.
"Mr. vice president. According to standard procedure, this company should be affiliated under the Department of the Treasury. The Department of the Treasury should appoint a senior commissioner to serve as executive director."
"No." Felix rejected it directly.
He walked back to his seat and sat down.
"I said just now that this money is to be invested in General Electric and the Telephone Company. This is capital operation, not government appropriation. You bureaucrats in the Department of the Treasury who only know how to calculate dead accounts do not understand how to hedge risks in the market."
Felix looked at Grant and Morrison.
"The fund management company must establish an independent board of directors."
"The board will have five seats in total. The Department of the Treasury will send two people, and the Department of the Interior will send one person to represent the interests of the employees." Felix threw out his proposal.
"The remaining two seats must be held by independent financial auditors and investment consultants recognized by the Imperial Bank. The daily operation of the fund and dividend accounting will be led by these two people. The government's three seats have oversight power, but they cannot interfere with specific investment decisions."
Morrison looked at Grant in a difficult position.
"Mr. President. This is equivalent to handing the money of the national treasury to agents of Wall Street to manage. The government only has oversight power."
"If you have the ability to make money grow, I will hand it over to you." Felix said to Morrison without any politeness.
"Can you guarantee that the dividends General Electric distributes to you every year... can you find a safer rate of return in the market than this?"
Grant pondered for a moment.
He knew that for the time being, Felix would absolutely not let government bureaucrats interfere with the dividends of his companies.
This proposal was already the greatest concession Felix could make.
The government obtained nominal control and actual votes, while Felix retained his substantive control over the operation of the fund.
"I agree." Grant made the final decision.
"Do as Felix says, a five-seat independent board of directors. Morrison, start the process immediately after you go down."
Grant stood up and walked to the desk.
"Gentlemen. The decision we made here today will completely change the future of the United States."
Grant extended his hand to Felix.
"Pleasure working with you, Felix. I hope those preferred shares of yours will allow our postmen to afford a decent beer when they are sixty."
Felix also stood up and shook Grant's hand.
The two men's hands were clasped tightly together.
"You will be re-elected, Ulysses. And I, too, will get the peace and quiet I want."
The handshake in the Oval Office decided the life and death of Wall Street, hundreds of miles away.
In the early morning in New York, the sea mist had not yet completely dissipated from the Hudson River.
However, a dense crowd had already gathered at the intersection of Nassau Street and Broad Street.
Beneath the Roman columns in front of United Trust Bank, yesterday's order had vanished. There were no lines, only pushing, shoving, and cursing.
Merchants, craftsmen, and ordinary retired widows—misled once again by the newspapers and clutching their bankbooks and promissory notes—packed the marble steps so tightly that not even a drop of water could trickle through.
"Open the doors! Give us our money!"
"The papers say the Department of the Treasury closed their backdoor! The British are going to take the money and run!"
The crowd's anger continued to ferment as time passed.
Several bank security guards held long poles, desperately bracing against the heavy oak double doors, their faces pale.
In the manager's office on the second floor.
Nathaniel Thorne stood behind the curtains, peering through a gap at the chaotic street below.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably.
The high-spirited British banker from before was gone, replaced by a condemned prisoner awaiting the gallows.
Clive Cavendish sat on the sofa, his hand gripping his silver-handled cane so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"How much cash is left?" Cavendish asked, his voice dry, without looking out the window.
Nathaniel turned around and swallowed hard.
"In the underground vault, there are 1.2 million dollars in gold bars. Including the greenbacks at the front desk, it's less than two million in total," Nathaniel said, his voice laced with despair.
"The revocation order from Washington completely cut off our path to the Federal Sub-Treasury to mortgage our notes. Mr. Morgan told us to hold on, but the cruise ship from London won't dock until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."
Cavendish stood up abruptly, his cane thumping heavily against the floor.
"Two million? That won't even cover the pocket change for those retail depositors outside! Let alone those bastards from the Imperial Bank," Cavendish gritted his teeth.
"Business hours have started. If we don't open, the people outside will go to City Hall for a bankruptcy liquidation order. The police will take over the vault directly."
"It's death if we open, and death if we don't."
Nathaniel slumped into his leather chair, looking defeated.
"Once we open, all the credit we've built in America will be trampled into the mud within half an hour."
The brass wall clock let out a dull chime; it was nine o'clock in the morning.
From the business hall downstairs came the heavy sound of the door bolts being drawn back.
As soon as the doors opened, the crowd outside rushed in like a burst dam. The marble floor was instantly covered in muddy footprints.
"Cash out! I demand to withdraw the eight thousand dollars in my account immediately!"
A fat merchant in the flour business lunged at the counter, slamming his hand against the glass.
The teller took the bankbook with trembling hands.
But before the teller could even open the ledger...
From the main entrance of the hall came the sound of rhythmic, oppressive boot steps.
Arthur Stanton, wearing a black trench coat, entered with fifty burly traders. Each of them carried a heavy canvas suitcase.
The aura of this group was so cold that they forcefully carved a path through the frantic crowd.
Stanton walked to the second counter, unzipped a suitcase, and dumped stacks of short-term commercial paper directly onto the brass countertop.
"United Trust Bank three-month acceptance bills. Total face value: two million dollars."
Stanton stared at the teller behind the glass.
"Payable on sight. I want physical gold."
The other dozen or so traders also opened their suitcases at various counters, piling the notes into small mountains.
"Here is 1.5 million."
"Here is one million."
The entire hall fell silent instantly.
The retail depositors looked at the mountains of notes, and the panic in their eyes turned into total despair.
Everyone understood that this bank was about to be drained dry.
The teller looked at the two million in notes before him, not daring to reach out and take them, and turned to look toward the stairs.
Nathaniel and Cavendish steeled themselves and walked down the stairs.
Stanton turned his head, a bloodthirsty sneer curling on his lips as he looked at Nathaniel.
"Good morning, Manager Nathaniel."
Stanton pointed at the notes on the counter.
"We've verified the accounts from the last two days; these are the ones maturing today. Please open your underground vault. Or perhaps you'd like to send someone to the Federal Sub-Treasury again? See if Washington will still lend you their carts today?"
Nathaniel's cheek twitched. He knew the other man was humiliating him, conducting a public execution.
"Mr. Stanton. Regarding the discounting of these notes, we need to conduct an internal risk audit," Nathaniel attempted to stall for time.
"According to banking practice, for immediate withdrawals exceeding one million dollars, we require a forty-eight-hour preparation period."
"Bullshit!"
The fat merchant nearby couldn't take it anymore and shouted while pointing at Nathaniel's nose.
"The notes you issued clearly state: payable on sight! What forty-eight hours? Have you taken our money to England?"
Stanton took a step forward, staring down Nathaniel.
"No need for forty-eight hours, Mr. Manager. I'll give you forty-eight minutes."
Stanton pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
"As God is my witness—if I don't see gold bars on this counter in forty-eight minutes, Imperial Bank's legal team will take these defaulted notes to the New York Supreme Court to apply for a writ of execution. I will have every desk and chair in this building seized."
Cavendish gripped his cane and stepped forward.
"Stanton, you're just Argyle's dog. Go back and tell your master that the Morgan Family's ship is on the Atlantic. The gold arrives tomorrow. If he smashes this bank today, Mr. Morgan will make all of Wall Street join it in the grave tomorrow!"
"Wow—what an arrogant tone. Making all of Wall Street join it in the grave. You're just an old turtle hiding in London to survive, yet you dare speak like that. Forget it, I only care about today's accounts. As for tomorrow, let your Mr. Morgan go talk to the Sea God himself."
Stanton shot back without yielding, his eyes filled with disdain.
Time ticked away, minute by minute.
The cash drawers behind the counter were pulled open.
The remaining greenbacks and a small amount of gold coins were tossed out to appease the most agitated retail depositors.
But those millions of dollars in commercial paper weighed on everyone's hearts like a mountain.
Forty-eight minutes later, Stanton snapped his pocket watch shut and tucked it into his vest pocket.
He looked at the empty aisle behind the counter; there were no carts and no gold bars.
"It seems the verification is over."
Stanton turned around to face the crowd in the hall.
"Folks, United Trust Bank has refused to honor legal notes. Their cash flow has collapsed."
His voice echoed under the dome.
The crowd had completely lost control.
"Motherfucker, give us our money back!"
Angry depositors grabbed the brass stanchions used for queuing and smashed them hard against the glass.
The glass let out a dull thud, and spider-web-like cracks appeared.
Nathaniel backed away in terror. Seeing that the situation was out of control, Cavendish quickly grabbed his arm.
"Let's go! Back to the second floor!"
Cavendish dragged Nathaniel as they ran upstairs.
"Have security lock the iron gates on the first floor! Fast!"
The two fled back to the second-floor office in a panic and locked the door.
Immediately after, the crisp sound of shattering glass came from downstairs, followed by the noise of the crowd rushing into the counters and ransacking everything.
Nathaniel slumped to the floor.
He knew it was over.
This super-bank, carrying the ambitions of the British Syndicate and claiming to have eight million pounds in reserves, had its backbone snapped by over ten million in bill leverage less than two months after opening.
"Write a sign."
Cavendish stood by the window, watching the riotous scene below, his voice as cold as ice.
"What?"
Nathaniel looked up, somewhat confused.
"I said, go write a sign and hang it outside the window," Cavendish said through gritted teeth.
"Say that United Trust Bank is suspending operations and entering internal liquidation."
Nathaniel fell silent, because the moment that sign was hung...
...it meant that the financial bridgehead established in North America by the families led by Old Morgan had fallen.
...
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Braddock Steel Mill.
The roar of the blast furnaces was deafening, and thick black smoke obscured the sky.
Andrew Carnegie sat in his office, holding a newly signed railway supply contract.
He was in a very good mood.
Over the past few days, through suicidal dumping at twenty-five percent below cost, he had successfully snatched back three Western railway customers from Lex Steel.
But before his joy could last long, the wooden door of the office was slammed open.
Charlie, the production supervisor, ran in drenched in sweat, clutching several payment demands.
"Boss, something's happened!"
Charlie panted heavily as he slapped the payment demands onto Carnegie's desk.
"What's the panic? Did a blast furnace explode?"
Carnegie frowned in displeasure.
"Worse than a blast furnace exploding!"
Charlie pointed to the top sheet.
"This was sent by Lord Grosvenor's agent at the Appalachia coal mines. They've cut off our direct supply of anthracite!"
Carnegie was stunned.
"Cut off? Why? Wasn't it agreed to settle internally at cost? United Trust Bank provided the guarantee!"
"It's the bank that has the problem!"
Charlie stamped his feet in anxiety, his face pale with panic.
"You've been busy securing business these days, so you might not know. According to tonight's papers, it seems United Trust Bank in New York has been forced into bankruptcy by a bank run from retail investors and the Imperial Bank! The doors are sealed, and the manager has hung out a sign suspending operations."
The supply contract in Carnegie's hand fell to the floor.
"What? Bankrupt? You're saying the bank Old Morgan and the others set up has closed and gone bankrupt?"
Carnegie stood up abruptly, staring at Charlie in disbelief.
"Yes, it's absolutely true. As soon as the news reached Pittsburgh, that coal mine agent immediately turned on us. They say United Trust Bank's guarantee certificates are now worthless paper. If we want to continue hauling coal, we must pay in full in cash, and the freight will be settled at market rates. Not just the coal mines—the rubber that Vanderbilt's shipping company transported to Philadelphia is also being held at the port."
Carnegie felt his head spin.
He slumped back into his chair, his mind racing as he calculated his current predicament.
To snatch customers, he had slashed the price of steel rails below the cost line. All his confidence came from the interest-free loan subsidies promised by United Trust Bank.
Now the bank had collapsed, and the subsidies were gone.
But he had already signed supply contracts with those railway companies, and breaching them would mean paying astronomical fines.
So he had no choice but to bite the bullet and use expensive coal to produce those loss-making steel rails.
"Argyle..."
Carnegie gritted his teeth, squeezing the name out from between them.
He finally understood Felix's poisonous scheme.
Felix had no intention of fighting a price war with him in the steel market at all.
He had deliberately watched him lower prices and sign a pile of loss-making contracts.
Then he simply pulled the rug out from under him.
This was making him bleed himself dry.
"Boss, what do we do now? The cash on our books isn't even enough to pay next week's wages," Charlie asked anxiously.
"Send a telegram!"
Carnegie roared like a gambler who had lost everything.
"Send a telegram to London! Ask Old Morgan what on earth he's doing! Where is the money he promised me?"
Just as Carnegie was roaring in despair, in London, the British Empire...
22 Broad Street.
Junius Morgan sat in his study, with the confirmed news from New York on his desk.
United Trust Bank has suspended operations.
Nathaniel and Cavendish were trapped on the second floor.
The Wall Street police station had dispatched three hundred officers just to barely prevent the building from being burned down by the mob.
The old butler, Oliver Sterling, stood to the side in silence.
Old Morgan picked up his teacup with unusual calm, took a sip of Darjeeling tea, and then let out a sigh.
Still too late. Argyle handled it too quickly!
"Sir, Carnegie and Westinghouse Electric must be in total chaos. Do we need to use funds to fill their holes?" Sterling asked softly.
Morgan put down his teacup.
"Fill them? With what?"
Morgan looked at the River Thames outside the window.
"Four million pounds in gold and two million in bonds are on a ship in the Atlantic. Although I still have money on the books in London, that is assets reserved for the family and cannot be used entirely."
Old Morgan stood up and walked to the map.
"Argyle timed it too perfectly; he must have received word. He exploited the time difference in information transmission and the physical delay of shipping. He completely destroyed my financial credibility before my gold could reach the shore."
Morgan's finger tapped heavily on the location of New York Harbor on the map.
"Even if the ocean liner docks tomorrow afternoon and those six million pounds of hard currency are unloaded onto the pier, United Trust Bank cannot be saved."
"After all, once credibility is bankrupt, it's just a corpse on Wall Street. Even if those retail investors who made the run get their money, they'll never deposit so much as a single cent at our counters for the rest of their lives. If I force an injection of capital to save the market, those six million pounds will sooner or later be sucked dry by the panicked market."
Sterling understood somewhat and asked cautiously, "Then you mean... we abandon the New York branch?"
Old Morgan nodded and then quickly shook his head.
"Of course, but not just abandoning the New York branch."