Rockefeller leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes.
"The boss needs wolves who can hunt for their own food, not dogs who run back whining for milk whenever they face trouble."
"We must figure out a way ourselves during this three-year window to find new profit drivers and sell that damn petroleum elsewhere."
Hearing this, Peter let out a dejected sigh.
"Sell it where?"
"Aside from fueling lamps, what else can that black muck do?"
"Have people drink it?"
The train sounded a long whistle as it crossed an iron bridge.
In the distance, the Manhattan skyline was faintly visible. Night fell, and the streets of New York were ruled by the biting wind.
Peter and Junior did not return to the office at the tower.
They needed to get away from the cold financial statements and telephone sets to sort through their jumbled thoughts.
The carriage pulled up before an exclusive private club near Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
Most of its members were East Coast industrialists and bankers.
The club boasted an elegant ambiance.
Heavy oak doors shut out the wind and snow outside.
The lobby was laid with exquisite Persian rugs, and oil paintings of hunting scenes adorned the walls.
Guided by a waiter, the two arrived at a private booth on the second floor.
The room was warm, with a brisk fire roaring in the hearth.
"Two Scotch whiskies, neat," Peter instructed the waiter.
The waiter soon brought the drinks, bowed respectfully, and shut the door behind him.
Peter lifted his glass and tossed back half of the pungent liquor.
Unbuttoning his overcoat, he slumped back into the leather sofa, his brow furrowed as he looked across at Rockefeller.
"Junior, I was thinking on the train just now."
"Regarding what the company refines: kerosene for lighting lamps, paraffin for candles, lubricating oil for machinery, and heavy oil for ocean freighters..."
"...all that's left are those volatile light fractions of waste liquid."
"Dr. Vance said that stuff is too volatile, that even machines can't harness it. What on earth can we do with that kind of trash?"
Rockefeller did not drink. His fingers gently traced the rim of his glass.
"The boss told us to look into more uses for petroleum."
"Since it's extremely flammable and easily vaporizes and ignites in air, its core purpose is creating fire."
Rockefeller's voice was calm and even.
"The question is how to trap such a dangerous flame inside a safe container and sell it to ordinary people."
Peter ruffled his hair in frustration.
Pulling a Cuban cigar from his breast pocket, he bit off the cap.
He then reached into another pocket and pulled out a small cardboard box.
They were not the common white phosphorus matches, but safety matches incorporating Swiss technology.
While matches were widespread, their quality remained inconsistent.
White phosphorus matches were not only toxic, but also nearly impossible to strike once damp, releasing a foul, acrid stench when burning.
Peter pulled out a match and struck it firmly against the sandpaper on the side of the box.
"Sss..."
The match head sparked faintly, but failed to catch fire.
The snowy weather outside had made even these safety matches damp.
Frowning, Peter took out another and struck it with greater force.
With a snap, the wooden splint broke clean in two.
The burning match head landed on his trousers. While it did not ignite the fabric, a singed stench immediately wafted up.
"Damn it!"
"Some safety match! It's damp all the same!"
Furious, Peter patted down his trouser leg and slammed the matchbox onto the coffee table.
"These match manufacturers are highway robbers."
"Half the matches in a box don't even light."
"And in a bit of wind, you can't even light a cigar."
"If there were any other choice, I'd burn all these damn sticks to ashes!"
Watching Peter vent his temper, Rockefeller's eyes involuntarily fell upon the matchbox tossed onto the coffee table.
A faint spark of an idea seemed to flash through his mind.
"Peter... did you just say they won't light in a bit of wind?" Rockefeller murmured, his gaze fixed on the matchbox.
"Of course. At the slightest breeze, the damn flame goes right out," Peter grumbled irritably.
Rockefeller stood up and walked to the fireplace, gazing at the orange flames dancing inside.
"I remember..."
"...in Europe, there was an old-fashioned ignition device."
Rockefeller turned around to face Peter.
"Invented a few decades ago, called Döbereiner's lamp. Have you heard of it?"
Peter, having traveled to Europe several times, had heard of it before.
"I know it. A tabletop lighter that reacts zinc with sulfuric acid to produce hydrogen, ignited over a platinum sponge catalyst. A lot of European nobles used to light their pipes with it."
With that, Peter waved his hand dismissively.
"But that thing was abandoned long ago."
"It's too bulky, like a heavy glass jar—completely impractical to carry around."
"Besides, sulfuric acid is far too dangerous; a leak would ruin furniture and clothes. That's why people switched to matches they can keep in their pockets."
Rockefeller's eyes lit up.
In his grey-blue eyes burned the excitement of discovering a New World.
He strode back to the coffee table.
"Peter, Döbereiner's lamp failed because it was too large and used dangerous sulfuric acid. Matches are frustrating because they're ruined by dampness and snap easily."
Rockefeller's voice trembled slightly.
"What if... what if we combined the advantages of both?"
Peter looked at Rockefeller's animated face, baffled.
"Combine them? How?"
"Didn't the boss tell us to find more uses for petroleum?" Rockefeller pointed at the cigar on the table.
"That waste liquid can be ignited with the faintest spark."
"If we make a sealed metal casing out of copper or iron, no bigger than a pocket watch, and fill it with that liquid..."
As Rockefeller spoke, he gestured in the air to outline the shape.
"We install a striking wheel at the top, place a flint beside it that sparks upon friction, and insert a cotton wick soaked in the waste liquid."
"Just like a kerosene lamp."
"Whenever we need fire..."
"...we simply flick the wheel with our thumb, striking the flint to throw sparks. The spark ignites the vapor from the wick, creating a steady flame!"
"And because it's sealed inside a metal casing, it won't be ruined by moisture, nor will it be easily blown out by the wind!"
Peter's mouth fell slightly agape.
His mind was stunned by the small metal box Rockefeller described.
"Oh my God..."
In an era where cigars and pipes were in their heyday,
nearly every respectable gentleman and every factory laborer carried matches in their pockets.
The demand for a portable flame was a massive—practically bottomless—market.
"Manufacturing the flint and metal casing won't be an issue for Lex Steelworks."
Rockefeller pressed on with his proposal, fixing his gaze on Peter.
"And the fuel!"
"That light waste liquid that can currently only be sold off in bottles—I believe it would be the perfect fuel for this kind of portable lighter!"
"It wouldn't rely on striking like matches do."
"As long as we produce this lighter, every man who smokes will crave one—a metal gadget that can light up in the wind and be held and played with in the palm of your hand!"
Listening to Rockefeller's description, Peter's breathing grew rapid.
The gloom brought on by Alternating Current was swept away completely, and his businessman's instincts began to resurface.
"It's not just about selling lighters..."
"The fuel inside the casing gets consumed."
"As long as customers buy the company's lighter, they'll have to keep coming back to buy our refill fluid in little tin cans!"
"It's the exact same logic as selling kerosene to people who buy kerosene lamps."
Peter slapped his thigh in excitement and sprang to his feet.
"Junior, you're right!"
"There's a market for this—an enormous market! You know that, Junior?"
The stifling depression in the private booth had vanished without a trace.
Peter paced back and forth across the room, electrified.
He picked up the crude matchbox from the table and tossed it straight into the fireplace.
Watching the matches quickly turn to ash amid the flames, a confident smile spread across his face.
"Junior, if we can pull this off..."
"Not only will the company solve the problem of disposing of that waste fluid, but we'll also create an entirely new consumer goods market."
"I even suspect this market might rival that of kerosene lamps!"
Peter walked over to Rockefeller.
"And this doesn't require laying electrical cables, nor does it require waiting for complex mechanical hurdles to be cleared like internal combustion engines."
"The principle seems quite simple: just ensure the casing is sealed and work out the friction mechanism with the flint. In a few months at most, we should have a prototype ready for mass production!"
Rockefeller remained seated on the sofa.
He did not show his delight openly like Peter, but the glint in his grayish-blue eyes grew brighter and brighter.
"The principle is indeed simple, Peter."
"But we can't be overly optimistic."
Rockefeller picked up his whiskey and took a small sip.
"We refine petroleum. We know how to turn crude oil into kerosene, but we don't know the first thing about manufacturing such precise metal cases."
"Besides, whether what I said earlier will actually work is still uncertain—it requires testing."
"And if we hand this over to the Central Laboratory, they might look down on it as a petty toy and just fob us off with a few interns."
Rockefeller set down his glass, frowning.
"So, we can't pin our hopes on the headquarters' laboratory. The Boss said each company must maintain its own independent competitiveness."
"We are currently facing the threat of declining kerosene sales, so we must keep core research and development in our own hands."
Peter sat down on the sofa.
"What do you mean?"
"Standard Oil must establish its own R&D department." Rockefeller looked directly at Peter.
"Not the kind of testing room that only knows how to test crude oil density, but a true product research and development center."
"We must recruit our own metallurgy experts to engineer the lighter's casing and gears, and hire chemists to determine the optimal vaporization ratio and deodorization process for the fuel."
Rockefeller pointed toward the table.
"Peter, you have to understand that my entire net worth and every ambition for the rest of my life are tied to Standard Oil's branch."
"I won't let it become merely an appendage within the Argyle's Empire that only provides cheap fuel. I want oil's profits to permeate every detail of ordinary people's lives."
These words laid bare the commercial ambition of the man who, in original history, became the oil baron.
He was not content with merely selling kerosene; he wanted to squeeze every last drop of value out of crude oil.
"Establishing an R&D department..."
Peter stroked his chin, pondering the proposal carefully.
"That will require substantial funds. If we apply for this budget, the Boss is bound to ask what the money is for."
"There's no need to make it so complicated."
Rockefeller answered decisively.
"We will divert a portion of the Cleveland refinery's expansion budget for next month and operate using Standard Oil's internal capital pool."
"That falls within the authority of branch managers, doesn't it?"
"As long as the company's financial statements still show satisfactory profits at year's end, the Boss won't interfere with us setting up an internal R&D lab."
"After all, the Boss told us earlier that we could recruit talent to explore more uses for petroleum."
Rockefeller stood up, walked over to the desk, and took out pen and paper.
"Let's draft a plan for now."
"Tomorrow, we'll find a place to set up a project team. Then you go scout a few engineers who understand precision casting, while I contact the chemistry professors at the university."
Peter walked over, watching Rockefeller quickly jot down a list of personnel and budget figures on the paper.
"Junior. As for that light fuel, we can't keep calling it waste liquid. Since we're marketing it as fuel for a high-end consumer product, we have to give it an appealing name."
Peter had a very keen instinct.
He understood the importance of packaging.
Rockefeller paused his pen and thought for a moment.
"Once lit, its flame is remarkably bright and clean." Rockefeller gazed at the ink on the paper.
"Perhaps we could call it 'Fire Spirit.' Pack it in fine little tin cans stamped with the Standard Oil logo, and bundle it with the lighters."
"'Fire Spirit'? Good name."
Peter nodded with satisfaction.
"As for the lighter casings, we can start with two types."
"One made of ordinary brass or nickel-plated sheet metal, marketed to common workers and farmers."
"And another with engraved sterling silver or even gold plating, sold to the gentlemen who frequent high-end clubs. They'll want a knickknack that signals their status."
Two men who held sway over the oil refining empire of the United States.
On this snow-swept night, inside a booth heavy with the scent of alcohol.
Sketched out the blueprint for a brand-new consumer product destined to change the history of smoking and bring mountains of profit to Standard Oil.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in the Central Laboratory in New Jersey.
Dr. Carl Vance was still fretting over that internal combustion engine prototype that kept stalling out.
Rockefeller gathered the completed draft and slipped it into his briefcase.
Peter, holding his glass, gazed out the window.
The snow outside had stopped.
The glaring Direct Current arc lamps along the streets of Manhattan still cast their warm glow into the cold night air.
Electric lights might illuminate the streets and replace kerosene in homes.
But Peter was confident.
In the near future.
In the pocket of every person walking beneath those electric lights, there would be a little metal box belonging to Standard Oil.
"Let's go, Junior."
"We've got preparations to make tonight."
Early the next morning.
Having made their preparations, Peter Jenkins and John D. Rockefeller rented a carriage, crossed the bridge, and arrived at an industrial area in Brooklyn.
The carriage stopped in front of a two-story abandoned textile warehouse.
Stepping down from the carriage, Rockefeller looked at the dilapidated building, which even had a few broken windowpanes, with a rather peculiar expression on his face.
"Is this the place you, the general manager, chose?"
"That is correct, right here."
Peter said to Junior behind him.
"I sent someone to rent it through an agency yesterday afternoon for a five-year term, under the name of a shell timber company."
"Starting today, this place will temporarily serve as the independent product research and development lab for Standard Oil."
Peter stepped forward and pushed open the wooden door.
The interior of the warehouse was very spacious, and the air was filled with the smell of moldy cotton and rat droppings.
A thick layer of dust had accumulated on the ground.
"Look, isn't the space big enough?"
Peter looked around.
"By then, we can place lathes and metalworking equipment here, and the second floor can be converted into a chemical analysis room. I will send people over later to clean this place up as soon as possible and install the heating coal stove."
Rockefeller nodded in agreement and took a list out of his coat pocket.
"The equipment issue is easy to resolve."
"As long as we have cash, we can buy the latest German lathes in New York within two days. The biggest problem right now is people; the project team needs people who truly know their stuff."
Rockefeller looked at Peter.
"Peter, let's follow last night's division of labor. You go to the New York office of Lex Steelworks and have them help find a few precision machinists with the best skills."
"But you must make it clear to them not to find those roughnecks who only know how to hammer rails and armor plates, but those who can make clock gears."
"Just say that Standard Oil's pipelines need to develop a complex miniature pressure valve and they need to be seconded. Offer them twice the salary they get at the steelworks."
Peter tightened the collar of his coat and grinned.
"Hey, buddy, I'm the general manager."
"I will make these things clear to them."
"Poaching people from President Coleman, I love this job. I will go talk to them. Twice the salary is enough to tempt those mechanics who face high-temperature blast furnaces every day."
"What about you?" Peter asked in return.
"I want to go to Philadelphia first."
Rockefeller put the list away.
"Ordinary university professors won't do; they are too dogmatic. The company needs people who have genuinely spent time in chemical plants, understand petroleum fractionation, and have flexible enough minds."
After dividing the work, the two acted immediately.
Two days later.
In a tavern near the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, Rockefeller sat beside a wooden table.
Sitting opposite him was a disheveled man in his thirties.
He was wearing a gray coat stained with unknown spots, and the gaps between his fingers were filled with yellow grime.
He was Dr. Harrison Cole.
An industrial chemist who had earned a chemistry degree in Europe, but was fired by several large chemical plants due to his eccentric temper and always conducting dangerous experiments.
"Mr. Rockefeller. What on earth do you want by inviting me here to drink beer?"
Dr. Cole took a sip of beer and asked unceremoniously.
Rockefeller did not mind the other party's rudeness.
He took out a small glass vial and placed it on the table; inside it was half a bottle of transparent liquid.
"Dr. Cole, I know you are very talented in researching hydrocarbons."
Rockefeller pointed at the small vial.
"This is the light waste liquid from our refinery, which is extremely volatile and flammable. We dump it into the river every day, but the company now needs someone to study it. Find out its volatilization curves at different temperatures, as well as its combustion characteristics in a confined space."
Dr. Cole picked up the small vial with some surprise, pulled out the cork, and sniffed it.
He immediately frowned and quickly shoved the cork back in.
"Are you crazy?"
"Taking this kind of thing on a train?"
"As long as there is a single spark, not even your bones will be left. The flash point of this thing is too low, it's extremely dangerous."
"That's the reason I'm looking for you."
Rockefeller took out a kraft paper envelope filled with cash and pushed it in front of Dr. Cole.
"I want you to control this danger."
"Here is one thousand dollars, join Standard Oil."
"You will have an independent laboratory in Brooklyn, and you can write down whatever chemical materials you want. Furthermore, according to family regulations, for every commercially valuable formula you develop, the company will give you one percent of the profits as a bonus."
Dr. Cole had been unemployed for three months, and his landlord was preparing to drive him out onto the street.
He looked at the envelope with eager eyes.
"Look~ Work came so fast!"
He grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of his dirty coat.
"When are we going to New York?"
"Of course, right now."
A week later.
The old warehouse in Brooklyn had taken on a completely new look.
The first floor had been cleaned up, and three expensive precision lathes and several stamping machines were installed. Several bright gas lamps hung from the ceiling.
The machinist whom Peter had poached from Lex Steelworks, David Sterling, was standing in front of a lathe.
David was a Scotsman in his thirties.
His fingers appeared rough due to years of contact with metal, but his acuity for mechanical gears was among the top tier of this era.
In order to poach him, Peter had owed Coleman several meals of drinks.
The second floor had been converted into a chemical laboratory.
Dr. Cole, wearing a white lab coat, was tinkering with rows of glass beakers and distillation tubes. The air began to fill with that dangerous smell of petroleum volatilization.
Peter and Rockefeller stood in the center of the first-floor workshop.
They looked somewhat speechless as David took out a rough sketch.
"David, I've made it very clear to you over the past few days. I need a metal box. It should be about half the size of a palm, and it must be completely sealed."
As he spoke, Peter gestured with his hand.
"On top of the box, there needs to be a small gear that can rotate. Beneath the gear, a hard piece of flint must be wedged in. The inside of the box is filled with cotton, and the cotton absorbs that light waste liquid. There is a cotton wick sticking out. When I flick the gear with my thumb, the gear rubs against the flint to generate a spark, and the spark must accurately ignite the cotton wick."
David knitted his brows tightly and picked up a piece of scrap steel.
"Mr. Jenkins, the metal box and the sealing are not difficult."
"The stamping technology of Lex Steelworks can easily make this, and the cotton wick absorbing the liquid is also simple common sense in physics."
"The hardest part is this lighter mechanism. Under current industrial technology, we don't have that special alloy that can produce a large number of sparks with just a gentle rub."
David explained very professionally.
"We can only use high-carbon steel to make the gears and then rub against natural flint. This traditional flint friction generates sparks that are not high enough in temperature, and the number of sparks is very small and scattered. If the concentration of volatile gas on the cotton wick is not enough, this spark cannot ignite it at all."
"That is something for the second floor to consider!" Peter did not budge an inch.
"He will adjust the concentration of the fuel to the point where it can explode with just a single spark; you just worry about getting that gear and spring made!"
"I want to see the real thing, ok?"
David let out a sigh.
"Alright then, I'll go adjust the precision of the lathe."
"Manufacturing this kind of miniature gear and high-strength compression spring will take a long time of grinding and polishing."
Life in the warehouse was dull.
New York was experiencing its coldest period.
Several coal stoves in the warehouse burned glowing red, yet frost still coated the areas near the doors and windows.
David Sterling wore a leather apron, his face covered in metal powder and machine oil.
Standing before a workbench with a precision file in hand, he was putting the final hand-polished touches on a high-carbon steel gear no larger than a fingernail.
Scattered across the workbench were dozens of failed parts.
Some failed due to insufficient spring tension, while others had improper tooth angles on the gears, failing to scrape enough sparks from the flint.
"Dammit! The hardness of this natural flint is way too uneven," David grumbled.
He installed the polished gear into a miniature brass holder. Beneath the holder was a tiny spring pressing against a piece of cut flint.
Pressing down firmly with his thumb, he flicked the gear.
Click.
The high-carbon steel teeth scraped across the flint's surface.
A few faint, dull red sparks sputtered out, only to die in the cold air in less than half a second.
Peter Jenkins and Rockefeller stood right behind David. They had been watching here for two hours already.
"The sparks are too small."
Peter frowned as he watched.
"This is the maximum pressure I can adjust it to, Mr. Jenkins," David said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"The casing is too small. To generate bigger sparks, we'd need a larger gear and a stronger spring, which a person's thumb wouldn't be able to flick. Unless we enlarge the casing, but then it wouldn't fit in a suit pocket."
"It's best if the size doesn't change," Rockefeller said in a firm tone.
He looked toward Dr. Harrison Cole, who was coming down from the second floor.
The doctor held a glass bottle sealed with a cork stopper. Inside was a pale yellow, transparent liquid.
"Dr. Cole, David has pushed the mechanical part to its limit. The sparks can only be this big. How are your preparations with the fuel?" Rockefeller asked.
Dr. Cole walked over to the workbench, his eyes filled with rigor and concern.
"Mr. Rockefeller, I must remind you once again. Putting this untreated light waste liquid into a sealed metal casing and carrying it around violates basic chemical safety common sense."
Placing the glass bottle on the table, the doctor pointed to the liquid inside.
"Its vapor pressure is terrifying."
"At room temperature, it continuously produces gas."
"If the metal casing is too airtight and the gas cannot vent, the internal pressure will keep building up."
Peter cut off the doctor's warning directly.
"Stoooop~ I don't care how high the pressure is. I'm only asking you: can the sparks David just made ignite it?"
Dr. Cole opened his mouth to say something, but ultimately gave up and answered honestly.
"Theoretically, yes, because its flash point is extremely low. As long as a single spark touches the evaporated gas, it will ignite instantly."
"Then test it, don't talk about theory."
Peter waved his hand impatiently.
David pulled out a palm-sized brass casing prototype that had already taken shape.
It still looked quite rough in craftsmanship.
He unscrewed the bottom screw and stuffed wads of pure cotton inside.
Dr. Cole put on thick leather gloves, used a dropper to draw out some of the light waste liquid from the glass bottle, and carefully dripped it into the cotton at the bottom of the brass casing.
A pungent odor instantly filled the air.
David tightened the bottom screw.
Then he pulled a cotton wick through the top hole, placing it right next to the gear and flint.
The four of them gathered around the workbench, holding their breath.
"Let me do it." Peter stepped forward.
He wanted to verify the idea himself.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed his right thumb onto the rough gear.
He pressed down hard.
Click.
A few faint sparks sputtered from the flint, falling right around the wick.
Boom!
A loud sound of deflagration erupted.
However, the steady flame Peter had envisioned failed to appear.
The concentration of vaporized gas accumulated around the wick was far too high.
The instant the sparks ignited the gas,
the pressure inside the brass casing expanded instantly due to the high temperature.
The brass windguard cap at the top, meant to control the flame, was blasted off like a bullet, slamming heavily into the ceiling's wooden beam.
A violent burst of orange-red flame erupted from the casing, burning Peter's right hand directly.
"Ah! Dammit!"
Peter screamed in pain and instinctively threw down the brass casing in his hand.
The casing hit the floor, and the light fuel inside leaked out through the cracked seam.
The wood shavings and dust on the floor ignited instantly.
A blaze burst into life on the warehouse's wooden floor.
"Put out the fire! Put it out quick!"
Rockefeller shouted.
David and Dr. Cole immediately grabbed the heavy fire blankets and sand prepared nearby, desperately smothering the flames.
After several minutes of fighting it, the fire on the floor was finally extinguished.
The warehouse was filled with a pungent smell of burning and black smoke.
Peter slumped back into a chair in the distance.
His right hand was scalded red, the fine hairs on several fingers completely singed away, and a few blisters were rising on the back of his hand.
The pain made him grit his teeth.
David walked over and picked up the dropped brass casing with iron tongs. The casing was severely deformed, and the cotton inside had turned entirely to black ash.
"Mr. Jenkins, look."
"I told you the sparks weren't the issue. The fuel is," Dr. Cole said, looking at Peter's injured hand, his tone laced with helplessness toward ignorant businessmen.
"When the casing is in your pocket, your body heat will accelerate the waste liquid's evaporation. The interior will fill with high-pressure gas. The moment you flick the gear to ignite it, this won't be a lighter anymore."
Dr. Cole looked at them solemnly.
"This is literally a miniature incendiary bomb."
"If the company mass-produces and sells this, gentlemen putting it in their suit pockets will have half their jaw blown off every day. Standard Oil will face millions of dollars in injury lawsuits. This thing cannot be commercialized at all."
Rockefeller stood before the messy workbench, his expression grim as he looked at the deformed brass casing.
Peter's injury and the fire just now proved that Dr. Cole's judgment was correct.
The danger of the light waste liquid far exceeded their imagination. It was too volatile and violent to serve as portable lighter fuel.
"Is there really no other way then?"
Peter asked unwillingly, enduring the pain.
"I spent so much money building this place—was it just to watch a firework display?"
Rockefeller stepped up to Dr. Cole.
"Doctor, since the light waste liquid can't be used, could we use ordinary kerosene as lighter fuel? Kerosene is very stable and won't explode."
Dr. Cole shook his head.
"That won't work, Mr. Rockefeller."
"Kerosene is indeed safe, but unfortunately, its flash point is too high."
"The flint sparks David produces lack the temperature and duration to ignite room-temperature kerosene vapor."
"Unless we can create a flame like a match that burns continuously for a few seconds to ignite the wick, but that brings us right back to square one."
The development of the lighter hit a dead end.
If the fuel was too volatile, it exploded; if it was too stable, it wouldn't ignite.
Given the current state of chemistry and materials science, this seemed like an insurmountable impasse.
The chemistry laboratory on the second floor of the warehouse.
The temperature was slightly warmer than on the ground floor, and the iron kettle on the coal stove let out a soft simmering sound.
Two days had passed since the accident.
Peter Jenkins's right hand was wrapped in white gauze, yet he still insisted on coming here every day.
His temper, however, had grown increasingly foul, and his demands on David and Dr. Cole had become even harsher.
Rockefeller sat on a tall wooden stool, his gaze deep and thoughtful as he looked at the glass bottles filled with various colored liquids on the workbench.
The pressure they faced was not just financial; the executive committee's year-end meeting was also fast approaching.
The funds for this project had been diverted from the Cleveland refinery. If they couldn't produce results soon, the year-end financial statements wouldn't pass muster, and the bosses would surely be displeased.
Dr. Harrison Cole approached Rockefeller and Peter holding a piece of coarse cloth covered in black grease.
"Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Rockefeller. I think we need to talk."
With that, he tossed the rag into an enamel basin.
"Talk about what? About why you still haven't found a suitable fuel?" Peter snapped back irritably.
Dr. Cole ignored Peter's anger.
He picked up a glass beaker from the table containing about two hundred milliliters of the light waste liquid—the substance they had dubbed "Fire Spirit."
"Given our current mechanical ignition technology, relying purely on this light waste liquid for the lighter project is utterly impossible. It's a ticking time bomb."
"Does that mean this waste liquid is completely worthless, though? I don't think so."
Dr. Cole poured the light waste liquid from the beaker straight into the enamel basin, right onto the rag coated in stubborn machine grease.
Something miraculous happened.
Almost the instant the waste liquid made contact with the cloth,
the stubborn black motor oil and grease stains began dissolving rapidly, like snow met with boiling water.
The originally clear liquid quickly turned a murky black.
Donning a pair of gloves, Dr. Cole lifted the rag with tweezers.
Although the fabric was still dripping wet, the oil stains were entirely gone, revealing the rough original color of the fibers beneath.
Both Peter and Rockefeller stared in astonishment.
"Do you see?"
Dr. Cole pointed at the dark liquid in the basin.
"Due to its very short carbon chain structure, this light waste liquid is a remarkably potent and efficient nonpolar organic solvent. It dissolves grease and industrial grime ten times faster than the best soaps and lye solutions on the market."
Dr. Cole looked at the two oil barons.
"Yesterday I read the latest global science reports, and word is that a handful of chemists in Europe have begun using similar substances for dry-cleaning garments. It hasn't caught on yet because the costs are too high. Meanwhile, you at Standard Oil are dumping tens of thousands of gallons of this superb cleaning solvent into rivers every day like garbage!"
Dr. Cole set the tweezers down.
"Mr. Jenkins, you want profits—isn't this pure profit right in front of you? You don't even need to pack it into dangerous metal cases to ignite it; all you need to do is put it into safe glass bottles or iron drums."
"The company could easily label it 'Standard Oil Miracle Stain Remover' and sell it to machine shops and textile mills that struggle every day to clean work clothes, or even to upscale laundries in the cities."
"Add just a little cheap fragrance to mask the sulfur smell, and this stuff can be turned into cash immediately. It could recoup all the research funds the company spent this month."
Dr. Cole's proposal struck a chord with both of them.
Rockefeller's grayish-blue eyes widened instantly.
As a businessman who took cost control to the extreme, he immediately ran the numbers in his head.
Bottling garbage that was previously dumped into the river and selling it directly to factories as a cleaning agent required no complicated mechanical development and bypassed all explosion risks.
Packaging costs would be negligible.
And the profit margin would be nearly one hundred percent.
It was an absolute godsend of a fallback plan.
"A brilliant idea, Doctor."
Rockefeller stood up, walked over to the enamel basin, and closely inspected the dissolution effect.
"Industry in major cities is booming, and machine grease is a headache for every factory owner. If we can supply this solvent in bulk, we'll immediately open up a new distribution channel for our industrial byproducts."
Rockefeller turned to Peter.
"Peter, the company should launch this plan immediately."
"Have Cleveland barrel up the waste liquid and ship it over, and set up a bottling assembly line in Brooklyn. We can start by pitching free trials to several large industrial laundries in New York."
Peter looked at the clean cloth.
Of course he knew this could make money.
The business logic was sound.
But...
Peter's right hand still throbbed with a dull ache.
He looked down at the brass parts David was still polishing in the workshop on the first floor.
A fierce unwillingness welled up inside him.
Selling cleaning solvent could certainly make money, but that was merely disposing of waste; it would never create a great consumer product that transformed everyday life like matches did.
To settle for this felt like defeat to Peter.
"We can proceed with the solvent plan," Peter said, gritting his teeth and nodding.
"It will help us get through the finance department's audit and provide the company with steady cash flow to keep this warehouse running."
Then Peter turned around to face Dr. Cole.
His gaze was stubborn, bordering on obsessive.
"However, the lighter project does not stop."
Peter slammed his unbandaged hand onto the workbench, rattling several flasks.
"Dr. Cole, I didn't hire you to teach me how to wash clothes! I want that metal box to spit fire!"
"I don't care how you do it."
"You're a chemist—can't you alter the properties of that liquid? If you can't, I'll go to Pittsburgh and bring back ten more chemists!"
"Until someone gets it done!"
Dr. Cole was infuriated by Peter's obstinacy.
"Mr. Jenkins!"
"You are defying the objective laws of chemistry!"
"I cannot make an explosive liquid safe while simultaneously demanding that it ignite effortlessly from a spark!"
"Those material properties are fundamentally contradictory!"
"If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth the fortune I'm pouring into it!" Peter bellowed, refusing to back down an inch.
Rockefeller stood beside them, making no move to intervene.
Deep down, he wanted the portable lighter to succeed just as badly.
That was the true trump card capable of dominating the consumer market.
The laboratory fell into an impasse.
Panting for breath, Dr. Cole glared at the oil baron before him, a man completely blind to scientific reality and driven solely by commercial results.
A profound sense of powerlessness washed over him.
He turned his head, his gaze wandering unconsciously to a large iron drum in the corner of the lab.
The drum held ordinary illuminating kerosene, used to fuel the laboratory's lamps.
Staring at the kerosene drum, the words he had just uttered suddenly echoed in his mind: 'I cannot make an explosive liquid safe while simultaneously demanding that it ignite effortlessly from a spark.'
A single liquid couldn't do it.
But...
What if it wasn't a single liquid?
A sudden flash of realization lit up the doctor's eyes.
Forgetting the argument entirely, he strode quickly over to the kerosene drum and drew one hundred milliliters of ordinary kerosene into a measuring cup.
Peter, who had been shouting just a moment ago, looked at Dr. Frank Cole's suddenly excited behavior and felt utterly baffled.
The other person had suddenly changed like a completely different person.
However, Dr. Frank Cole had no time to mind Peter; he placed the cup of lighting kerosene on the experimental workbench.
Then, he picked up a graduated glass dropper, carefully drawing some liquid from the beaker of light waste liquid (spirit fuel).
"Rockefeller previously said that kerosene is very safe, but sparks cannot ignite it. I said the waste liquid can ignite, but it will explode." Dr. Frank Cole's voice lowered, as if he were talking to himself.
"Then why must we make an either-or choice between the two?"
He injected the light waste liquid from the dropper, drop by drop, into the measuring cup filled with kerosene.
"In chemistry, we can completely change the comprehensive flash point and volatilization pressure of the liquid through physical mixing."
Seeing that the two men beside him were somewhat puzzled, Dr. Frank Cole explained while slowly stirring the mixed liquid with a glass rod.
"If we use kerosene as the primary fuel base, kerosene has extremely low volatility, and it will never generate explosion-level gas pressure inside the metal box. It is very safe."
"Then, we add a certain proportion of light waste liquid into the kerosene. These small amounts of waste liquid will dissolve evenly in the kerosene, and they will slightly increase the volatility of the entire mixed liquid."
The more he spoke, the brighter the doctor's eyes became.
"When the cotton wick absorbs this mixed fuel, on the surface of the cotton wick, those highly volatile light waste liquid molecules will dissociate out first, forming a low-concentration layer of flammable gas."
"When the gear rubs against the flint, sparks fall on this layer of gas. The sparks will easily ignite these small amounts of light molecules, and the temperature of this short, tiny flame is high enough to instantly ignite the stable, slowly burning main body of kerosene beneath the cotton wick!"
Dr. Frank Cole turned his head to look at Peter and Rockefeller, a look of relief appearing on his face.
"The waste liquid is responsible for providing the 'primer' to catch the sparks, and the kerosene is responsible for providing the long-lasting, safe 'fuel' to sustain the flame. This solves that deadlock!"
After hearing this explanation, Peter's heartbeat quickened.
This sounded completely feasible!
"Then what are we waiting for, Doctor? Test it immediately!" Peter urged loudly.
Dr. Frank Cole took a deep breath.
"Don't rush, this requires finding a very precise mixing ratio. If you add too little waste liquid, the sparks won't ignite it, and if you add too much, it will still explode."
Next, the warehouse turned into a testing ground.
David remade several more precise brass boxes on the first floor, thickened the outer walls of the boxes, and improved the design of the wind shield to give the flame more breathing room.
Dr. Frank Cole began frantic blending on the second floor.
"Ninety percent kerosene, ten percent waste liquid. Test."
David pulled the gear on the first floor.
"Click."
No spark ignition, failure!
"Increase the waste liquid. Eighty percent kerosene, twenty percent waste liquid. Test."
"Click."
A flash of blue fire danced across the cotton wick, but it instantly went out; the kerosene was not successfully ignited.
Still a failure!
Failures repeated constantly.
Yet no one in the warehouse felt discouraged.
Because they knew that they were only a thin layer of window paper away from that correct number.
In the early hours of the third day.
The sky outside was not yet bright.
With bloodshot eyes, Dr. Frank Cole held the newly mixed measuring cup and walked to the workbench on the first floor.
"Sixty-five percent premium lighting kerosene, thirty-five percent deeply purified light waste liquid." Dr. Frank Cole's voice was extremely hoarse.
"This is the forty-seventh formula."
David carefully poured the mixed fuel into the brass lighter prototype.
Tightened the screw at the bottom.
Waited for the cotton and cotton wick to fully absorb the liquid.
David placed the lighter on the workbench.
Rockefeller and Peter walked over, and the four men formed a circle once again.
"Ahem, David, you do the honors."
Peter glanced at his right hand, which was still wrapped in gauze, and did not rush to do it this time.
Anyway, the other person had been the one doing it for the past dozens of times.
Calmly, David picked up the lighter.
He extended his rough thumb and pressed it down on the high-carbon steel fire wheel with its fine serrations.
He exerted force and flicked downward.
"Clack!"
A crisp sound of metal friction rang out.
The high-carbon steel collided violently with the natural flint, and a few bright orange-red sparks splashed out, landing precisely around the pure cotton wick.
The moment the sparks made contact with the wick.
The thirty-five percent light waste liquid in the mixed fuel was instantly ignited, and a faint blue flame flickered on the surface of the wick.
Immediately following that.
This faint flame generated sufficient heat.
The main body of kerosene below was thoroughly activated.
"Whoosh..."
A bright, stable flame with a beautiful orange-yellow color danced within the wind shield.
The firelight illuminated the tense faces of the four men.
There was no black smoke or pungent sulfur smell.
This flame, locked inside a metal box by human hands, was burning quietly.
David gently shook the brass box.
The flame flickered slightly under the protection of the wind shield, but showed no sign of going out.
"My God..."
Peter Jenkins looked at the dancing flame, his eye sockets actually growing somewhat warm.
They had finally succeeded!
He extended his left hand and tremblingly pulled out a Cuba cigar from his overcoat pocket.
He leaned forward and placed one end of the cigar against that flame.
The flame steadily ignited the expensive tobacco leaves.
After feeling it in his oral cavity, Peter exhaled a puff of smoke.
In this cold warehouse, this experience was simply perfect to the extreme.
It was simply fantastic!
Rockefeller watched Peter's action of lighting the cigar, a brilliant smile appearing on his face.
It seemed they had won.
"David. Draw precise mass-production blueprints for this gear and flint mechanical structure."
Ignoring the still-enjoying General Manager Peter, Rockefeller began giving instructions.
"Right, Dr. Frank Cole. Seal this sixty-five to thirty-five formula as a commercial secret of Standard Oil. Establish a bottling assembly line immediately, and make a plan. Also, name this fuel'Standard Spirit Fuel Special Blend'."
Rockefeller walked to the workbench, picked up the still slightly warm brass lighter, and closed the lid; the flame instantly went out.
"Hey ~ Peter, stop enjoying yourself."
"Go quickly and place an order for brass shells with Lex Steel, otherwise production capacity might not be enough by then."
Hearing this, Peter snapped back to reality.
It really was time to place an order as soon as possible, but...
"Junior, the executive committee meeting is coming up soon. Do you think we could bring out some lighters at the meeting to give to the heads of various companies?"
Those who could attend the meeting were all wealthy individuals, and the occasions they frequented were usually high-end social banquets.
If all of them carried a Standard Oil lighter on them, it would quickly become famous, and wouldn't customers just appear?
Furthermore, if the subordinates of the wealthy saw it, wouldn't they also blindly follow suit and buy one?
Rockefeller strongly agreed with this idea.
"Peter, you're right. We can indeed do that."
Seeing that Junior also strongly agreed, Peter felt it still wasn't quite enough.
"No, it's not enough yet, David ~"
"I'll have someone send over some gold, silver, and gemstones later. Use these things in the next couple of days to make the best, most honorable, and most exquisite lighter possible first."
"After that, make nine inferior ones."
Seeing that David was somewhat dazed, Peter couldn't help but pat his arm.
"Hey buddy. What are you staring blankly for, did you hear clearly?"
Knocked back to his senses by the pat, David nodded hurriedly.
How truly wealthy!
Even a lighter had to be made with gold and gemstones.
How intensely envious!
Junior also understood what Peter meant.
He had to admit, Peter, this general manager, really racked his brains for the development of Standard Oil.
Thinking so quickly of giving more special lighters to the boss and the nine council members of the family—he really knew how to play the game...
In an old warehouse in Brooklyn, David Sterling wore a slightly scuffed magnifying loupe, having turned the gas lamp on the workbench up to its brightest setting as he leaned almost completely flat against the scratch-covered wooden table.
Between his rough, large fingers, he held a thin sheet of high-purity gold.
With a tiny half-round file in hand, David filed along the edge of the gold bit by bit. Fine golden dust fell like powder onto the black velvet cloth laid out beneath it.
Peter Jenkins stood two paces away, holding a cup of cold coffee in his hand.
He didn't urge him to hurry.
Because in the machining trade, rushing only ruined expensive materials.
Rockefeller sat in the corner, flipping through the procurement ledger.
Purchasing gold, silver, and several cut rubies had consumed a considerable sum from the project team's accounts.
"Mr. Jenkins, pure gold is too soft."
David paused with his file and held the curved gold piece under the light to inspect it.
"If the entire casing is made of pure gold, even slight pressure in someone's pocket will warp it. I have to add an ultra-thin high-carbon steel liner inside and wrap the gold around the steel like leather."
Peter walked over and looked at the parts scattered across the workbench.
"All right, then do it the way you think best."
"David, what I want is something with weight in the hand that ignites with a single press—and looks more valuable than any pocket watch made for European royalty."
Setting down his coffee cup, Peter pointed to a groove reserved on the blueprint.
"Those rubies I brought must be set on both sides of the flint wheel's axis. And on the lighter's lid, use your finest graver to engrave the initials for Argyle."
"Next week, I need to leave with these ten lighters."
Left with no choice, David rubbed his sore eyes, picked up a pair of steel tweezers beside him, and gripped a tiny spring.
"Time is tight. Chamfering the gold casing has to be done by hand bit by bit. In that case, I won't go home tonight; I'll sleep here in the workshop. Has Dr. Cole finished filling the fuel over there?"
"It's all stored in the explosion-proof cabinet on the second floor."
Rockefeller closed the ledger, stood up, and patted the dust off his coat.
"Peter, keep an eye on things here."
"I need to head down to the docks to inspect the new shipment of empty tin cans. The market for that cleaning agent has opened up; three laundries in New York placed large orders yesterday, and we have to make sure our packaging keeps pace."
In this warehouse thick with the smell of metal shavings and machine oil, the two continued paving the way for the future of Standard Oil.
On the other side of New York.
At Argyle Manor on the North Shore of Long Island.
Outside, the snow was falling heavily.
Goose-feather snowflakes, whipped by the sea wind, slammed hard against the mansion's thick double-paned glass windows with a rustling hiss.
The oak grove was completely blanketed in white snow, and the accumulation on the driveway was a solid half-foot deep.
Inside the manor's sitting room, the temperature was comfortably warm.
Thick logs of fruitwood burned in the fireplace, occasionally crackling softly.
Felix sat in an armchair near the fireplace.
The top two buttons of his wool cardigan were undone.
Though he held a report on Metropolitan Trading Company's coffee purchase prices in South America, his attention was not entirely focused on the figures before him.
From time to time, he would glance up toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
A vast Persian rug was spread across the center of the sitting room.
Seven-year-old Callen was kneeling on the rug.
Clutching a small brass screwdriver, he was tapping and tinkering with a tinplate steam train toy with utmost solemnity.
This was a mechanical toy Felix had someone bring back the previous month.
As long as water was poured into the small boiler at the rear and the alcohol burner beneath was lit, the train could make several circuits around the brass tracks.
Merely having the train run was not enough for Callen.
He had dismantled the carriages and was currently trying to take off the drive rods connecting the wheels.
Three-year-old Elizabeth sat beside her brother.
Wearing a pink cotton dress, she swung her chubby little legs back and forth over the rug, a pile of colorful wooden building blocks stacked in front of her.
"Brother, give me that wheel."
Elizabeth reached out her small hand to grab a brass gear Callen had just taken off.
"No, Lisa."
"This is a part for the transmission box. If you take it, I won't be able to put the train back together." Callen blocked his sister's hand and shoved the gear into his pocket.
"I want to put it on top of my castle!"
Refusing to back down, Isabella pouted, pointing to the crooked tower she had built out of blocks.
"You can't put gears on a castle."
Callen explained earnestly, picking up his screwdriver to tackle a stubborn screw.
Seeing that her brother wouldn't yield, Elizabeth turned toward Felix sitting on the sofa.
"Daddy, brother won't give me the wheel I want."
The little girl's voice was sweetly childish, clearly full of grievance and tattling.
Felix set the report down on the small round table beside him, looked at the two children on the rug, and spoke.
"Callen, you broke the gasket on the boiler. That toy train will just be a lump of iron to sit on a shelf from now on."
Callen stopped his screwdriver and looked up at his father.
"Daddy, I just wanted to see how the piston inside pushes the wheels. The outer casing was blocking it."
The seven-year-old boy's eyes were filled with keen curiosity toward mechanical structures.
"Taking things apart is easy; putting them back together is the real skill. If you break it, I won't buy you a new one," Felix said, leaning back against the sofa.
"I'll fix it, I promise."
Callen bit his lip, lowered his head again, and gingerly arranged the disassembled parts in order on the rug beside him.
Felix got up, walked over to the edge of the rug, and squatted beside Elizabeth.
He picked a triangular red wooden block from the pile and set it atop Elizabeth's crooked castle.
"Isa, sweetheart. Castle roofs are pointed, not round. Gears belong to machines, not castles." Felix stroked his daughter's soft hair.
Looking at the red spire, Elizabeth clapped her hands happily.
"Daddy, when is Mommy coming down?" the little girl asked, tilting her face up.
"It's so noisy upstairs. There are lots of people walking around."
Felix glanced toward the staircase.
Several women in white nurse uniforms, carrying basins of hot water and clean towels, were hurrying up and down the stairs.
A faint scent of carbolic acid disinfectant drifted through the air, mixing with the aroma of the fireplace's firewood to create a rather pungent smell.
"Mommy is giving you a little brother or sister, and the doctor is up there taking care of her. It'll be over soon. Be good," Felix coaxed the child in a gentle voice.
This was Felix and Catherine's third child.
Dr. Fanny, the finest obstetrician from the family hospital, had been staying at the manor since yesterday evening.
All the medical instruments had undergone strict high-temperature sterilization in a large bedroom on the second floor.
"Will they play blocks with me?" Elizabeth asked.
"No way. Newborn babies only cry and drink milk. You'll have to wait years before they can even hold your wooden blocks," Callen chimed in, setting the screwdriver aside and wiping sweat from his brow with a smudged little hand.
Felix said nothing and walked back to sit on the sofa.
Outside, the blizzard grew even fiercer, the howling wind lashing against the walls.
From the second floor, Catherine's cries of pain drifted down from time to time.
Each time a sound carried down, the servants in the sitting room moved with even greater caution, terrified of making the slightest noise that might disturb their master.
Felix stared at the firelight in the fireplace.
His mind held no thoughts of the reports from headquarters or the situation in Europe.
On this blizzardous afternoon, he was merely a father quietly awaiting the arrival of new life.
Time ticked away minute by minute.
The wall clock emitted a muffled ticking sound, and it was exactly four in the afternoon.
The commotion from the second floor gradually subsided.
The temperature in the living room was still very high, and Callen had already given up on that dismantled train, falling asleep against the edge of the sofa.
Elizabeth was also lying flat on the thick carpet, closing her eyes with a building block clutched tightly in her hand.
The sound of coming downstairs came from the top of the stairs.
Dr. Fanny walked down.
She took off the white anti-bacterial smock and draped it over her arm.
Her forehead was covered in sweat, and her complexion looked a bit exhausted, but a clear smile hung on the corners of her mouth.
Fanny walked up to Felix and bowed slightly.
"Boss, it went very smoothly. Madam Catherine was very strong, it's a boy." Fanny's voice was kept very low, afraid of waking the children on the carpet.
"The weight is seven and a half pounds, and both mother and son are safe and sound. Madam just drank some sugar water, and her mental state is not bad right now, she just needs a lot of sleep to restore her physical strength."
Felix nodded.
Taking the opportunity to stand up from the sofa, he straightened the hem of his wool cardigan.
"Has upstairs been cleaned up?"
"The nurses have changed the new bedsheets, and the temperature in the room is maintained at seventy degrees Fahrenheit. The child has already taken a bath and is wrapped in a warm blanket," Dr. Fanny replied.
"Good, thank you for your hard work today, I'll send someone to take you home."
"Elena, send someone to take Fanny back."
Felix turned his head and called out to the middle-aged female housekeeper standing at the edge of the living room.
"Alright, sir."
Elena immediately stepped forward.
"By the way, carry Callen and the others to their rooms to sleep, don't let them catch a cold on the carpet."
So Elena called over two strong maids, carefully picked up the two sleeping children, and walked towards the children's bedroom on the first floor.
Felix stepped on the red-carpeted stairs and walked toward the second floor.
The smell in the second-floor corridor was even stronger.
Walking to the door of the master bedroom.
Two nurses respectfully retreated to both sides and pushed open the door for him.
The light in the bedroom was a bit dim, and the heavy curtains were only pulled open by a crack.
The fire in the fireplace was burning very brightly.
Catherine lay on the wide wooden bed.
Her complexion was a bit pale, and her hair was soaked with sweat and pasted on her forehead. Hearing the sound of the door opening, she turned her head, her deep eyes looking at the approaching Felix.
"You're here."
Catherine's voice was a bit weak, but still carried lucidity.
Felix walked to the bedside and sat down.
He reached out and brushed the messy hair on her forehead aside.
"How do you feel?" Felix asked.
"Oh~ It feels like I dug coal in the Pennsylvania coal mine for a whole day, and then someone broke my bones."
Catherine tried to make a joke, but her chapped lips made her smile somewhat strained.
"The doctor said you did very well."
Felix's gaze turned to the delicate oak cradle beside the bed.
Inside the cradle, it was lined with a thick pure cotton blanket.
A tiny baby was sleeping quietly with his eyes closed.
His skin was still a bit red, his hair was very sparse, and his little hands were placed by his mouth.
"He looks like a boiled red-skinned little potato."
Felix looked at that tiny life and gave an objective evaluation.
It seemed every baby was about the same.
Catherine protested weakly on the bed.
"Hey, Felix~ He was just born. In a few days after the redness fades, he will be a handsome boy." Catherine turned her head sideways, looking at the cradle.
"Have you thought of a name?"
Felix looked at the baby.
"Kevin, Kevin Argyle."
"Kevin."
Catherine repeated the name in her mouth.
"It rolls off the tongue nicely."
"I hope he can be like Callen in the future and be interested in those machines. Umbrella's ledgers are too boring, I certainly don't want him staring blankly at those pills every day."
The two chatted a few words in the quiet bedroom.
"Next week's Executive Committee year-end meeting."
Catherine tried to sit up a bit, but it affected her wound, causing her to frown.
"I've already had someone organize Umbrella's profit statement for this year, and several microbial patent registrations over in Europe have encountered some resistance. I must attend the meeting and go over next year's pharmaceutical expansion plan in person."
Felix pressed down on her shoulder and pushed her back onto the pillow.
"You are not allowed to go anywhere."
The tone was filled with overbearing gentleness.
"The meeting is on Wall Street. A blizzard is raging outside, and the temperature is below zero. If you get into a carriage looking like this now, I will be worried something might go wrong."
"But I am Umbrella's president."
"If I don't go, how can I reasonably fight for next year's funds for Umbrella?"
"Over the past two years, various council members of the family have been fighting for budgets for the companies they manage, wanting to rapidly expand the company's strength. Even those subordinate committee members are striving their utmost to fight for it."
"Even though my status is special, the procedures that must be followed still have to be followed." Catherine was still somewhat uneasy.
After all, the Argyle Family was growing larger and larger, and the status of the heads of various companies was also rising in society.
Most of those committee members in the executive committee now were trying everything they could to develop and grow their companies, wanting to become an indispensable part of the family.
That is, becoming a council member in the executive committee and entering the family's core council.
By the way, going from a company general manager to a president.
Therefore, Catherine was very clear that rules were important, and she couldn't rely on her status to arbitrarily bypass the council and let Felix make the final decision directly.
That did not match Felix's initial vision for the family council.
Even though he could do so.
"I said, stay home and rest."
Felix pulled the heavy quilt over and covered her with it.
"Just have the financial manager send Umbrella's statement to my desk. As long as I don't sign to cut your budget, no one dares to touch a single cent of Umbrella's. Your only task right now is to nurse your body back to health."
Raising his eyebrows, Felix looked at her.
"Don't risk your body for those few financial statements. If anything happens to you, I don't have time to take care of three children by my side every day."
Catherine looked at Felix's domineering appearance and gave up her persistence. In front of this man, excessive bravado had no benefits.
"Alright then, I'll listen to you."
Slight footsteps came from outside the door.
Callen, who had just woken up, was holding Elizabeth's hand and appeared at the bedroom doorway.
The two children peeked inside cautiously.
"Mom and Dad, is little brother born yet?" Callen asked in a low voice.
Felix beckoned to them.
The two children walked on tiptoe to the side of the cradle, leaned on the edge, and looked inside.
Elizabeth stared at the wrinkled baby for a long time, then turned to look at Callen.
"Big brother, he looks so ugly."
The little girl expressed her opinion very honestly.
"It's okay, you were the same before. When he grows up, I can teach him to play with trains."
Callen reached out a finger and cautiously touched the baby's little feet wrapped in the blanket.
The baby's eyes were closed, but his little feet instinctively shrank back.
"Hmph~ Big brother is bad, Isa is not that ugly!" Little Elizabeth puckered her lips and said to her older brother.
Watching this scene, Felix smiled silently.
The howling wind and snow outside were blocked by the thick walls.
This man, who controlled half of the United States' economic lifeline, possessed the warmth of an ordinary family today.
The blizzard in Long Island finally stopped on the third day, and the driveway outside the estate was cleared.
Sunlight shone on the snow, reflecting a slightly dazzling light.
Wearing a wool coat, Felix stood on the steps of the villa's front yard, listening to the captain of the estate's guard force report on the patrol situation of the surrounding defense lines.
Before long,
a black carriage drove in from outside the main gate, its hooves making crisp tapping sounds on the cleared slate road.
It soon stopped in front of the steps.
The carriage door was pushed open, and Timmy, head of the Intelligence Department, stepped down.
Wearing a heavy black woolen trench coat, his tall leather boots were stained with some unmelted snowmelt.
Timmy hurried up the steps, too busy to brush off the cold air on his clothes, and walked straight up to Felix.
"Boss, a telegram sent from Europe."
As he spoke, he took out a sealed kraft paper envelope from the inner pocket of his trench coat and handed it over with both hands.
Felix took the envelope and tore open the seal.
Inside was a slip of paper with only a few lines of cryptographic numbers.
Timmy translated in a low voice beside him.
"Sent by Sullivan. The five ocean-going cargo ships under the name of Earl of Ashburn have safely crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Late last night, taking advantage of the night, the fleet successfully docked at the Port of Cádiz in southern Spain."
"Over at customs, Duke Antoine's inside man, General Francisco's men, have taken over the dock."
"All inspectors have been transferred away."
"All that ordnance and the two thousand personnel disguised as sailors have already gone ashore."
After hearing this, Felix crumpled the code paper into a ball, tossed it casually into the snowbank nearby, and asked,
"It didn't attract the attention of local civilians or the Madrid government army, did it?"
"Not yet. The Port of Cádiz is naturally a busy trading port. Every day, a large number of British and French cargo ships enter and leave. We have put up tall canvas enclosures in the unloading area. General Francisco sent a battalion of regular troops to enforce martial law on the outer perimeter, publicly claiming that the military is receiving a batch of overseas-purchased supplies."
At this point, Timmy began to lower his voice.
"Those brothers who came down from the ships have all been arranged into several large abandoned warehouses near the port. Without Sullivan's orders, no one is allowed to step half a step outside the warehouse gates."
"Tell Sullivan to keep a close eye on those Spaniards." Felix turned around and walked towards the interior of the villa.
"In Europe, do not trust the promises of any nobles and generals. The guns must be held in the hands of our own people."
"If that General Francisco wants to entertain any crooked ideas about that batch of ordnance, let Sullivan use firearms to teach him directly how to follow the rules."
Timmy followed two steps behind Felix into the foyer.
"Understood, boss."
"The men Sullivan took with him are all veterans who have seen blood in the West and South America, and they know how to protect their own weapons."
The scene shifted along with the discussion between the two.
Southern Spain, the Port of Cádiz.
This place was different from New York.
Although it was also winter, the warm currents from the intersection of the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea made the wind here carry only a trace of chill.
However, there were also similar things.
That was the air still filled with the strong smell of sea salt and dried fish, as well as the musty smell emanating from the ancient slate roads.
Anyway, it didn't smell good.
The Port of Cádiz was one of Spain's most important naval bases and commercial ports.
In a huge stone-built warehouse near the dock area,
the atmosphere carried a heavy scent of gunpowder.
The warehouse doors were tightly closed.
The gas lamps inside cast a dim light.
Victor Sullivan had an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, standing in front of mountain-like huge wooden crates.
Behind him stood two hundred fully armed fellows.
These men had fought fiercely with Native Americans in the western wilderness, and harvested warlords with Gatling in the jungles of South America. Although they did not wear uniform military uniforms, everyone exuded the unique fierceness of outlaws.
Opposite Sullivan stood a group of Spanish officers.
The leader was a man in his fifties with a thick beard. He was General Francisco, who controlled the defense of the Port of Cádiz.
Beside him stood Duke Antoine de Orléans, who had rushed back from Paris.
General Francisco looked at those mountain-like wooden crates, greed flashing in his eyes.
"Lord Duke."
Francisco said quickly to Antoine in Spanish,
"Since the weapons have been delivered, let my soldiers take over these wooden crates."
"I will distribute these rifles to the two regiments loyal to us. As long as the troops finish re-equipping, we can declare an uprising in Cádiz tomorrow, hoist Queen Isabella's banner, and march towards Madrid!"
Antoine nodded, feeling that this proposal was very reasonable.
Fighting wars in Europe naturally required regular troops.
Antoine turned his head and said to Sullivan in English,
"Mr. Sullivan, have your men bring crowbars to open the boxes and hand over the weapons to General Francisco's logistics officer."
Sullivan stood in place without moving.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and spat a mouthful of saliva onto the dusty slate ground.
"Duke, you might have gotten one thing wrong."
Sullivan stuck out his thumb to point at himself, and then pointed at the people behind him.
"The boss shipped us to this ghost place full of fishy smell, not to make us porters for others."
Looking at General Francisco, Sullivan's eyes were full of contempt.
"What's packed in these wooden crates are America's most advanced killing machines. The rifling of those cannons is something your soldiers holding muzzle-loaders can't even begin to understand."
"As for those gatling gun, if handed to your untrained musketeers, not only will they fail to kill the enemy, but they'll blow their own arms off."
Sullivan patted the wooden crate next to him.
"So."
"Except for one thousand Vanguard Model 70 rifles that can be distributed to you to boost morale from this batch of ordnance, the remaining artillery and machine guns will all be operated by my men. In the entire combat plan, the command of heavy firepower must belong to me."
Antoine's expression changed.
Although General Francisco couldn't understand English, he saw the refusal in Sullivan's attitude.
He turned his head to look at the translator beside him.
When the translator translated Sullivan's words into Spanish,
General Francisco angrily pulled out the sword at his waist and pointed it at Sullivan.
"This is Spanish soil!"
"I am the highest commander here, understand!"
"You lowly American mercenaries, how dare you refuse to hand over weapons? Believe it or not, I can have a battalion of men outside rush in right now and arrest all of you!"
With the general's roar, dozens of Spanish officers behind him also successively placed their hands on their holsters.
The atmosphere instantly became tense as daggers were drawn.
A bloody clash seemed ready to break out at any moment.
Inside the warehouse, the atmosphere was tense and swords were drawn.
Dozens of Spain officers in ornate military uniforms had their hands on their holsters, angrily glaring at the leather-jacketed Americans opposite them.
In the eyes of these European soldiers who prized pedigree and honor, the group before them were merely lower-class men who killed for gold coins.
Sullivan looked at General Francisco, who had drawn his saber.
There was not a trace of fear on his face; instead, he wore a cruel smile akin to looking at a dead man.
"What, want to make a move?"
Sullivan casually tossed his cigar onto the ground, stamping it out with his heavy riding boots.
He tilted his head slightly and crooked his index finger at the men behind him.
"Click! Click! Click!"
A series of crisp, uniform metallic clashes echoed through the spacious warehouse.
Two hundred American mercenaries raised their repeating rifles at almost the exact same second.
Their thumbs pressed down the hammers, and their right hands pulled the trigger guards as glistening brass bullets were instantly chambered.
The pitch-black muzzles mercilessly locked onto the Spain officers opposite them.
Not only that.
Behind several huge wooden crates in the corner of the warehouse, two canvases used to cover the cargo were violently ripped off.
Two water-cooled gatling guns, fully assembled and with their barrels packed with bullets, suddenly appeared.
Four strong gunners were already gripping the heavy brass cranks, their thick barrels locked firmly onto the positions of General Francisco and Antoine.
As long as Sullivan's finger swept downward.
In less than ten seconds.
These lords in their fancy military uniforms before him would be blasted into piles of minced meat by four hundred rounds of bullets per minute.
General Francisco's hand froze mid-air.
Before the muzzle of the gatling gun, his exquisite saber looked like a ridiculous toy.
Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead.
He could sense that these Yankees actually dared to open fire.
Duke Antoine turned pale with fright.
When he was in New York, he had witnessed Felix's ruthlessness, but he never expected these mercenaries to be so savage.
"Stop, Mr. Sullivan."
"Quickly tell them to put down their guns!"
Antoine shouted in English, spreading his arms to block in front of General Francisco.
"We are allies!"
"If bloodshed happens here, the entire plan will be completely ruined!"
Looking at Antoine's panicked appearance, Sullivan let out a cold snort, still deciding to save face.
After all, counting it up, this old man was still the boss's father-in-law.
He raised his hand and pressed it downward.
The two hundred rifles behind him remained raised, but the machine gunners released the cranks.
"Mr. Duke. It's not that we want to ruin the plan, it's that this general doesn't know the rules."
Sullivan stepped forward, pointing his finger at the pile of unopened wooden crates.
"The boss's orders to me are very clear.
We are here to help you fight wars, not to be arms suppliers.
These weapons must be held in the hands of people who know how to use them."
Sullivan turned his head to look at the translator, his tone turning stiff.
"Tell that sword-wielding general to put away his warlord style."
"If he wants to rely on seizing our weapons to pad his own troops, then he won't have to wait for the army from Madrid to strike.
I can lead my men and slaughter our way out of the port right now, flattening this lousy garrison headquarters."
The translator swallowed a mouthful of saliva, trembling as he translated Sullivan's words to General Francisco.
After hearing this, General Francisco's face alternated between green and white.
Thinking it over carefully, he finally gritted his teeth and sheathed his saber back into its scabbard.
Before an absolute generational gap in firepower.
His proud regular army military power simply lacked the confidence to go head-to-head.
"Fine, since you want to retain command," Francisco said through the translator.
"How do you plan to fight?"
"Amadeo I in Madrid has at least two full-strength corps in his hands, and the Carlists in the north have also pinned down a huge amount of forces.
With just you two thousand people, no matter how good your weapons are, you won't be able to reach Madrid."
Hearing this question, Sullivan smiled.
"That won't require the General's trouble."
"Fighting a war is not just about counting heads."
Sullivan turned around and walked over to a huge wooden crate.
He drew a sharp Bowie knife from his waist and forcefully pried along the gap of the wooden crate.
The wooden boards let out a creaking cracking sound.
Sullivan lifted the wooden lid.
Inside was lined with a thick layer of oiled paper.
He tore open the oiled paper.
A strong scent mixed with industrial machine oil and anti-rust grease emanated out.
Inside were neatly stacked twenty brand-new Vanguard Rifles, their barrels smeared thickly with yellow grease.
Sullivan casually picked up one and threw it to a Spain officer standing in front.
That officer subconsciously caught it.
The heavy weight and precise mechanical structure made him involuntarily freeze for a moment.
"I will distribute one thousand of these rifles to your men, and have them use hot water to wash the grease out of the barrels.
Then leave one hundred boxes of bullets."
Sullivan looked at General Francisco.
"Remember, General.
Your mission is not to lead your troops to charge at Madrid.
That is suicide."
Sullivan walked over to the wooden table spread with a map of Spain.
"You only need to do two things."
"First.
Raise Queen Isabella's flag at Port of Cádiz and declare an uprising.
Make the commotion as big as possible.
Let that Italy king in Madrid know that the south has rebelled."
"Second.
Send all the soldiers under your command who didn't receive repeating rifles to the mountainous areas and vital transportation routes north of Cádiz to dig trenches.
Issue them a few months' pay in advance.
Tell them, no attack is needed.
Just stay in the trenches and defend."
General Francisco was utterly confused after hearing this.
"Defend?
Then who attacks?"
"The matter of attacking, leave it to us."
Sullivan's finger tapped heavily on the map.
"I will take these two thousand men along with all the cannons and machine guns, and advance northward directly along the railway or main roads.
Fight when we encounter cities, kill when we encounter armies."
Sullivan's tactics were simple and brutal—a dimensionality reduction strike based on firepower suppression.
"When Madrid sends its main forces to suppress the southern uprising, they will crash head-on into our machine gun positions on the plains."
Sullivan looked at everyone in the warehouse.
"I am not here to fight a war of attrition."
"I want to use the fastest speed to completely annihilate Amadeo's army that is still lining up with muzzle-loaders."
"As long as we win two such hard-fought battles, the other generals in Spain will know how to take a side.
Facing dead men and US dollars, I believe they will make the correct choice."
Hearing Sullivan's blood-soaked tactical layout, Duke Antoine broke out in cold sweat on his forehead.
"Is this guy reliable?"
"Judging by the look of it, why doesn't he treat the Spain regular army as opponents at all?"
"Does Felix even care about this throne!"