In the office of Williams Food Company, the atmosphere became somewhat somber for the first time.
Corporal Jones burst in like a gust of wind, his face devoid of its usual excitement, replaced by a look of shock and unease.
He slammed a copy of The New York Herald, still smelling of fresh ink, onto Allen's desk.
"Sir, look quickly! It's really... it's really started!"
The front page of the newspaper, with unprecedentedly large lead type that almost spilled off the page, bore a shocking headline—"TREASON! SOUTH CAROLINA REBELS BOMBARD FORT SUMTER!"
Catherine, Miller, and all the clerks in the office gathered around.
The newspaper detailed how the Confederate army had brazenly fired the first shot at the Union troops stationed at Fort Sumter on the morning of April 12, 1861.
"They're mad... these Southern slave owners, they actually dared to fire on the Union!" a young clerk said, his voice trembling.
"Oh God, this... this means war, doesn't it?"
Catherine's face was somewhat pale.
As an immigrant who had struggled at the bottom, she knew better than anyone what war meant for civilians.
Sergeant Miller, the veteran who had actually been to war, said nothing.
He just picked up the newspaper, read it carefully, his brows tightly furrowed.
"Many people will die," he finally said, his voice hoarse and low.
"Those guys in the South are not easy to deal with. They have many excellent commanders who graduated from West Point. This war, I'm afraid... will last a long time."
In the office, everyone was plunged into worry about the nation's future and fear of future uncertainty.
Except for one person.
Allen.
He had been sitting quietly in his chair the whole time.
There was no hint of surprise or panic on his face; after all, this was something that had happened in history.
He picked up the coffee on the table and took a small sip.
"Sir?" Catherine noticed his unusual calm. "You... aren't you worried?"
Allen put down his coffee cup, looked up, and slowly scanned the face of each employee.
"Of course, I'm worried."
His voice was gentle, without any impatience.
"I'm worried that this country will be divided, worried that countless young lives will perish on the battlefield. But Catherine, and everyone else..."
"Worry cannot stop cannonballs. We are not politicians, nor are we generals. I am a businessman, an entrepreneur. My responsibility is not to weep for this war, but to find what we can and must do in this impending national crisis."
He stood up and walked to the huge map of the United States.
"Starting today, the Union needs a large army. Hundreds of thousands, even millions of young people, will bid farewell to their families and put on military uniforms. And an army, as Napoleon said, marches on its stomach."
He turned around and looked at his team.
"And what have we, Williams Food Company, been doing for the past few months?"
He pointed at Jones: "We have built the most efficient production line in all of New York; our daily output is already enough to supply the needs of an entire division!"
He pointed towards Bill outside the window.
"We have established the most stable raw material alliance; the meat sources we can mobilize are enough to make all the wholesalers in New York tremble!"
He then looked at Catherine: "We have tens of thousands of dollars in cash flow in our accounts, enough to support us in any commercial war we want to fight!"
"Everyone," his voice was full of power and confidence, "did you think we were just doing a small canning business these past few months?"
"No, everyone, we were forging a sword, a unique and incomparably sharp sword in all of America. And now," he said, word by word, "the bugle of war has sounded, and it's time for our sword to be unsheathed."
Allen's righteous words made him seem very patriotic, but in reality, he didn't care about the lives of soldiers; he just wanted to sell more cans.
However, he certainly couldn't say that in front of his subordinates, especially with retired soldiers present.
Miller and the others, of course, knew that Allen couldn't be that patriotic, given that he was Irish.
But they also realized that this nationwide disaster was truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for their unique company!
"Sir, please give the order!" Corporal Jones said excitedly. "We'll all follow you!"
"Good."
Allen nodded; his brain had already rehearsed all the plans countless times.
"Our strategy will be divided into two fronts."
"The first front, I call 'Front Door Infiltration,'" he looked at Miller.
"Sergeant, you served in the army and understand its internal structure better than any of us. The Quartermaster Department is the first fortress we must capture. But we cannot charge head-on like a siege; that would only result in heavy losses."
"Then what do you mean, sir?" Miller asked.
"I need a name." Allen's eyes gleamed with the light of a strategist.
"I don't need the name of the highest-ranking officer in the Quartermaster Department; we can't reach such people yet. Nor do I need low-level small fry; they have no say. What I need is someone in the middle tier, with a certain level of authority but not high-ranking. An ambitious but frustrated young officer. Such a person is easiest to identify and easiest to 'persuade.'"
He looked at Miller and gave him the first and most crucial task.
"Use all your connections. Go to the taverns where officers frequent, go find those old veterans who retired and are now working as orderlies on Governors Island. Listen to their complaints, listen to their gossip. From those clues, find me such a person. Find the first nail we can drive into the Quartermaster Department's iron plate."
"This is an intelligence mission, sir," Miller's expression became serious. "It might require some... funds."
"Of course." Allen took a thick envelope from the safe.
"Here's a thousand dollars. I don't care how you use it, whether to buy drinks or to bribe. Within a week, I need a name, and all the information about that person, on my desk."
"Yes, sir!" Miller solemnly accepted the envelope.
"The second front," Allen's gaze turned to Catherine, "I call 'High-Altitude Decapitation.'"
"Catherine, that box of our most perfect 'Premium Gold Label,' which we've prepared for a long time, it's time for it to hit the road."
"You mean... send it out now?" Catherine was somewhat surprised.
"Right now." Allen's tone was unequivocal.
"With war breaking out, people are panicking. What Washington needs most right now are 'solutions.' Anyone or anything that can offer even a little help to this war will receive the highest level of attention."
"I want you to go to Washington personally."
"Me?" Catherine was stunned.
"Yes, you." Allen looked at her, his eyes full of trust.
"You will act as the plenipotentiary representative of Williams Food Company. I want you to rent the best hotel suite in Washington and host a small, but extremely high-standard tasting event. There is only one criterion for invited guests—they must be members of Congress or high-ranking officials from the Department of the Army."
"This... this might be difficult, sir. I don't have any connections in Washington..."
"You don't need connections." Allen smiled. "You just need to have the hotel's waiters 'casually' let slip in Washington's most exclusive clubs that Mr. Williams of New York, who conquered Tilford Trading Company with his tasting event, is now in Washington, offering a free demonstration of his 'lead-free,' 'safe,' miraculous canned food. Believe me, those politicians, frantic over war and logistics, will come knocking like sharks smelling blood."
"And your mission is to demonstrate the perfection of our product to them. And, to personally deliver this box of 'Premium Gold Label' as a 'gift from a patriotic New York businessman' into the hands of Senator Clark, the chairman of the Senate Military Committee."
"We ask for no return, no orders," Allen gave his final instructions.
"We only sow seeds, planting a seed named 'Williams' directly in the center of power. I believe it will soon take root, sprout, and grow into a towering tree that none of us could have imagined."