In the abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, the gas lamp valve was turned all the way up, casting harsh yellow light onto the scratch-covered oak workbench.
David Sterling leaned back in his chair and dropped his fine sandpaper.
He wiped his hands vigorously on his coarse cloth apron.
In the center of the workbench lay a black velvet cushion.
Arranged neatly on the cushion were ten small metal boxes.
Nine of them had silver casings that emitted a cold, hard metallic luster, their surfaces finely brushed.
The one placed dead center was wrapped in a casing pressed from high-purity gold, its lid hinge seamless. On either side of the flint wheel shaft, two perfectly cut deep-red rubies were inlaid.
Right in the middle of the lid, two overlapping letters—"A.W"—were engraved with the finest chisel.
Peter Jenkins stood by the table, his breathing growing heavy.
He reached out his left hand, his thumb gently caressing the surface of the gold box. There was not a single burr; the texture of the gold felt exceptionally smooth and warm under his rough thumb.
"Is the fuel inside?" Peter asked.
"It's filled to the brim."
David picked up a rag nearby to wipe his face.
"It's the latest batch sent over by Dr. Cole this morning—sixty-five percent kerosene mixed with thirty-five percent purified waste liquid. The cotton wick is completely soaked."
Rockefeller stepped out from the shadows.
He picked up an ordinary silver box and weighed it in his hand.
The heavy feel of the metal gave off a sense of reliability, unlike those flimsy, cheap matchboxes.
He pressed his thumb against the high-carbon steel flint wheel with its fine teeth.
He flicked down hard.
*Click.*
A crisp sound of mechanical friction echoed in the warehouse.
High-carbon steel scraped against natural flint, sending a shower of bright sparks flying out.
The pure cotton wick inside the windshield ignited instantly, and an orange flame leaped to life, flickering quietly and illuminating Rockefeller's grey-blue eyes.
He watched the flame burn for ten full seconds.
The flame was extremely stable, with no black smoke or any sign of explosion.
*Snap.*
Rockefeller snapped the metal lid shut.
Deprived of oxygen, the flame went out in an instant, leaving only the faintest scent of naphtha drifting in the air.
"Very impressive."
Rockefeller placed the box back onto the velvet cushion and turned to look at Peter.
"David's craftsmanship is worth twice what he's paid. Go get that prepared velvet suitcase and pack them up. The annual executive committee meeting is at two in the afternoon, and we need to head to Wall Street early."
Peter carefully picked up the gold lighter inlaid with rubies and placed it into a custom-made black walnut box.
The lining of the wooden box was red silk.
He packed the remaining nine silver lighters into the suitcase as well.
"Junior, I'm willing to bet."
Carrying the suitcase, Peter grinned.
"When these ten little things light cigars on the conference table on the tenth floor, the faces of those guys at General Electric will turn utterly ghastly. Standard Oil will never beg for food under electric light."
The two put on their heavy coats, pushed open the warehouse's wooden door, and stepped into the biting cold wind.
On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Southern Spain, Port of Cádiz.
Heavy rain had fallen last night, turning the dirt road outside the port into a muddy swamp.
Victor Sullivan stood beside a puddle padded with a few broken wooden planks. Wearing his shearling leather jacket, he chomped on an unlit half-cigar.
Ahead was a railway line leading toward Madrid.
They had taken full control of the railway dispatch station at the Port of Cádiz.
"Get that gangplank secure!"
"Damn it, don't let the wheels sink into the mud!"
Sullivan's deputy stood on a flatbed railcar, shouting at the top of his lungs.
A dozen strong, mud-covered, bare-chested men were using thick hemp ropes and wooden pulley blocks, laboriously dragging a seventy-five-millimeter breech-loading rifled cannon onto the flatbed.
The heavy gun carriage pressed deep indentations into the iron-plated wooden gangplank.
On the distant hillside, thousands of Spanish regulars under General Francisco were digging trenches.
Wearing mud-splattered uniforms and holding shovels, they looked on at the activity at the port with complex expressions.
They had never seen war fought like this before.
In traditional European armies, artillery was pulled by tall horses, with infantry following behind in neat line formations.
But these Americans chained cannons and those multi-barrel machine guns on wheels directly onto the flatbed railcars.
Along the edges of the railcars, they had even piled sandbags half a person high to create bulletproof walls.
The steam train pulling twelve flatbed railcars had turned into a mobile steel fortress on rails.
Duke Antoine, wearing a windbreaker and supported by a few confidants, trudged through the deep mud to Sullivan's side.
"Mr. Sullivan. You've tied the cannons to the train—how are you supposed to leave the tracks to pursue the enemy?"
Antoine looked at the gun carriages bound tight with hemp rope, full of confusion.
Sullivan pulled out a match, struck it against the sole of his boot, and lit his cigar. He puffed out thick smoke and looked at this old-fashioned European noble.
"Pursue?"
A strange expression appeared on Sullivan's rough face.
"Duke, is war in your mind still stuck in the Napoleonic era? Sending cavalry with sabers to chase down fleeing infantry?"
Sullivan pointed with the finger holding his cigar toward the railway extending all the way north.
"We don't need to leave the tracks."
"If the army from Madrid wants to come down and suppress Cádiz, they only have two options: either take the main road or follow the railway line. As we advance along the tracks, as long as we encounter their main force, this train will be the strongest fortification."
Sullivan walked over to the railcar and patted the gun shield of the seventy-five-millimeter breechloader.
"This thing has a range of three miles. When we fire on the tracks, their muzzle-loading cannons won't even catch a glimpse of our shadow. As for the infantry who want to rely on numbers to charge us..."
Sullivan glanced at the four water-cooled gatling guns mounted on the adjacent car, where a gunner was brushing lubricant into the brass feed hopper.
"Once they get within five hundred yards, the machine guns will turn them into fertilizer. As for those who flee, we wouldn't even bother chasing them. It's a waste of bullets."
Antoine rubbed his forehead.
He realized he was completely unable to comprehend this logic of industrialized warfare that relied purely on pouring out firepower to kill.
These Americans didn't care about formations or flanking maneuvers at all; they just wanted to find a spot to stop the train and then rip every living thing in sight to shreds.
"Is there any news from the telegraph office?"
Sullivan turned and asked his deputy.
The deputy jumped down from the railcar and trudged over through the mud.
"There's movement from Madrid."
"Amadeo I sent the Royal First Corps—eight thousand men. They're pushing south along the railway with thirty old smoothbore cannons and two cavalry regiments. They're expected to enter the Seville Plain tomorrow afternoon."
"Eight thousand men—sounds like quite a lot."
Sullivan grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth.
He turned around and bellowed at the mercenaries who were still loading ammunition.
"Boys, speed it up!"
"Load all those hundreds of crates of brass ammunition onto the train! Tomorrow afternoon, we're going hunting on the Seville Plain! If anyone lets the machine guns run out of ammo, I'll shove him into the boiler to boil water!"
A deafening cheer erupted from the mud of the Port of Cádiz.
Two thousand desperate men leaped onto the flatbeds, checking the Vanguard Rifles in their hands.
This death train, carrying the most terrifying firepower of the industrial age, was about to bared its fangs at those European armies still immersed in classical line-infantry tactics.
After the snowstorm, the streets of Manhattan were piled high with dirty snowdrifts on both sides.
In the ground floor lobby of the Argyle's Building, several large steam boilers continuously pumped heat up to the upper floors.
The tenth-floor conference room.
The long black walnut conference table, large enough to seat thirty people, was already packed.
These were all titans who controlled the various economic lifelines of the United States.
General Electric General Manager Heinrich White and Nikola Tesla sat together, with several rolls of blueprints for Alternating Current substation designs placed in front of them.
Miller, the president of Cygnus Mining, was flipping through the output projections for the Montana copper mines.
Bill Carter from the Metropolitan Trading Company and Tom Hayes from the Patriot Investment Company were whispering about the final earnings from the Boston bank liquidations.
The double oak doors of the conference room were pushed open.
Felix walked in.
After spending a few days with his family on Long Island, the mildness about him had completely faded, replaced now by the absolute coercion belonging to a plutocratic ruler.
The noisy conference room instantly fell silent.
Everyone stopped talking, their gazes fixed on Felix as he walked to the head of the conference table and sat down in the primary seat.
Frost stood slightly behind and to the side of Felix, opening the meeting agenda notebook in his hand.
"Let's begin."
Felix leaned back against his chair, his voice even.
For the first half-hour of the meeting, the agenda items moved forward extremely quickly. General Electric reported on the laying progress of Manhattan's direct current lines, and Cygnus Mining confirmed that the first batch of crude copper ingots was already on a train heading to the East Coast.
Meanwhile, Tom Hayes confirmed that the equity acquisitions of major urban gas lighting companies had completed their initial covert staging.
"Boss, I've looked at the financial reports from Umbrella." Bill Carter glanced at Felix.
"Regarding the patent registration for those synthetic chemical drugs in Europe, the French government is deliberately stalling. They seem to want to keep the patents at the Higher Medical School of Paris."
"Have Finch from the Legal Department send a lawyer's letter. If the French government continues to stall, the Metropolitan Trading Company will directly cut off cotton supplies to several major French ports." Felix's response was extremely brutal.
"Alright, understood."
The meeting proceeded to the middle stage.
Felix's gaze turned to Peter Jenkins and Rockefeller, who were sitting in the middle-back section of the conference table.
"Regarding Standard Oil, Peter. About the disposal plan for light waste liquids, and that independent research and development project you guys pulled off by withholding Cleveland's expansion funds—shouldn't you present something today that I can actually understand?"
All gazes converged on Peter and Rockefeller.
Heinrich White pushed up his glasses and glanced at Peter.
Amidst the internal resource competition of the family, General Electric and Standard Oil were currently in a delicate state of rivalry.
Peter stood up.
His right hand was still wrapped in gauze.
He placed the black walnut box and a briefcase filled with silver-cased lighters onto the conference table.
Rockefeller stepped forward to open the briefcase.
He took out nine smoothly polished silver metal boxes, presenting them one by one to the front eight directors at the table, leaving the last one for Peter.
The meaning was quite obvious.
Standard Oil also wanted to enter the Board of Directors.
Meanwhile, Peter picked up the black walnut box.
Solemnly walking up to Felix, he held it with both hands and placed it on the tabletop.
"Boss. This is something the Standard Oil R&D department spent two months and a thirty-thousand-dollar budget to create."
After saying this, Peter stepped back.
Felix looked at the walnut box on the table.
He reached out to unlatch the metal clasp and lifted the lid.
On the red silk lining.
That lighter, pressed from pure gold and inlaid with two rubies, reflected a luxurious yet cold sheen under the extremely bright lights of the conference room.
The initials "A.W." carved on the lid were exceptionally exquisite.
"Whoa ~ Isn't this a lighter!"
With keen interest, he picked up the gold lighter. The weight of the metal felt very solid in his palm.
It seemed Peter and his companion had truly put some thought into this!
To actually think of and produce this gadget so quickly.
"A metal box?"
Sitting further down, Tom Hayes picked up the silver version, inspecting the screws on the bottom and the gear on top.
"Peter, you withheld funds just to build a pocket watch case?"
Peter ignored Hayes's teasing.
"Boss, this is a lighter. Press down on that gear with your thumb and flick it downwards to ignite a fire."
Felix was speechless inwardly. He didn't know how many times he had used one in his past life; did he need Peter to teach him?
Still, looking at the high-carbon steel fire wheel on top,
it was somewhat different—much larger, and it looked more luxurious and exquisite.
Without hesitation, he pressed his thumb onto it, exerting a little force.
"Click."
A crisp sound echoed in the conference room.
Sparks flashed.
A pure flame flickered inside the windproof shield.
There was none of the pungent, foul odor of white phosphorus matches—only the scent of purified naphtha.
The others in the conference room watched with curiosity.
A palm-sized thing could really start a fire...
Heinrich White's hand holding the blueprints paused mid-air, while Tom Hayes stared with wide eyes at the steadily burning flame in Felix's hand.
Then he glanced at the one in his own hand.
Everyone understood what this thing was.
Felix looked at the flickering flame in his hand, his black eyes reflecting that little bit of orange-yellow light.
He took a cigar out of his pocket.
And lit it with the lighter in his hand.
The movement was smooth, without any of the clumsiness of breaking matches or the wind blowing out the flame.
Taking a puff, he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Snap."
Felix deftly closed the lid, and the flame extinguished.
"Presidents."
Peter turned around and looked at the others on the conference table.
"What you hold in your hands are the custom silver editions; they serve the same function."
A succession of "click" sounds rang out around the hall.
Several flames lit up at various spots around the conference table.
Those tycoons, who were used to cupping matches with their hands in the wind to light their cigars, looked at the metal box in their hands—something they could play with freely and produce a flame from at any moment—with completely changed expressions.
"What is the fuel for this thing?"
Felix placed the gold lighter on the tabletop and looked at Peter.
After all, he really didn't know about this part.
"Reporting to the boss, it's a special formula centered on kerosene, mixed with purified light waste liquid. Internally, the company calls it'Standard Spirit Flame'."
Rockefeller, standing at the end, took over the conversation before Peter could directly blurt out the formula proportions.
Such things were fine in private, but right now there were competitors present on the Executive Committee.
"Currently, this mixed fuel is stable, non-explosive, and its flash point is just right to be ignited by a flint spark."
As he spoke, Rockefeller took out his own brass lighter.
"Boss, as long as we have this thing, all that garbage that Standard Oil used to dump into the rivers will turn into a liquid more precious than gold."
Felix leaned back against his chair, looking at Rockefeller with amused eyes.
"The lighters are just the shells, right?"
"The real money-maker is the fuel burned inside. You want to turn every single smoker across all of America into long-term subscribers of Standard Oil."
"Right?"
Listening to Felix's analysis, Tom Hayes turned the silver lighter over and over in his hands.
As an expert in finance and investment, he was instinctively sensitive to consumer goods capable of generating consistent cash flow.
"Peter, how much does this little thing cost to manufacture?" Hayes asked directly.
Peter walked back to his seat and sat down.
"Currently, the hand-polished brass prototype costs around two dollars."
"However, if we place a stamping order for over a hundred thousand units with Lex Steel, factoring in the internal springs and gears, mass-production costs can be driven down to under eighty cents."
"Eighty cents."
Hayes calculated silently in his head.
"Then the retail price should be set at a dollar fifty. It'll sell like wildfire in the cities."
"No."
Rockefeller bypassed his superior and interrupted Hayes.
The other presidents and general managers glanced at this Standard Oil branch head with a touch of annoyance.
Seriously, what gives a branch manager who isn't even a committee member the right to speak so much?
By rights, anyone who wasn't even a committee member wouldn't even be permitted to attend the meeting.
He was only here today because Peter had brought him along personally, and they hadn't raised an issue out of respect for Peter's position as general manager of Standard Oil.
Yet Rockefeller had already overstepped by cutting in over his superior, and now he dared to flatly contradict President Hayes, who sat on the board of trustees.
Just what did he think he was doing?
Still, everyone present was shrewd.
Seeing that the boss looked intrigued to hear what he had to say, no one spoke up.
However, they all made a mental note of it.
Rockefeller pulled out a report regarding the commercial promotion of the lighter project and spread it across the table.
"If we sell the lighter for a dollar fifty, then Standard Oil is nothing more than an ordinary metal fabricator."
A monopolist's mindset gleamed in his gray-blue eyes.
"The boss was absolutely right just now."
"The lighter is merely a shell. What Standard Oil wants to profit from is the fuel. Therefore, I propose..."
Rockefeller glanced at Peter, and seeing the supportive look returned, he plucked up his courage.
"I propose setting the retail price of the mass-produced brass lighter at fifty cents. In fact, for those large railway companies and mining firms, we can even wholesale to them at a loss of thirty cents each."
Whispers broke out across the conference room.
Heinrich White pushed up his glasses.
"Excuse me, Junior."
"Fifty cents? That doesn't even cover production costs."
"Losing thirty cents on each one means a net loss of thirty thousand dollars on a hundred thousand units. Are you turning company profits into charity?"
"It's called market penetration through low pricing," Rockefeller countered through gritted teeth.
He held up the brass lighter in his hand.
"At the price of fifty cents,"
"even a newsboy selling papers on the street could afford one after saving for a few days."
"We will use dirt-cheap prices to forcefully stuff this matchless fire-starting metal box into the pocket of every man in America!"
Rockefeller set down the lighter and drew a tin canister embossed with the Standard Oil emblem from his briefcase.
The top of the canister tapered into a slender spout.
"Once they grow accustomed to lighting their cigars and cigarettes anytime in the biting wind and snow, once they grow accustomed to the crisp click of striking metal, they'll find themselves unable to live without this little box when their lighter runs out of fuel."
He placed the small tin on the table.
"Inside this tin is our specially blended 'Standard Spirit Fuel,' with a capacity of fifty milliliters—just enough to refill a lighter five times. And refining and bottling these fifty milliliters of blended fuel costs us less than two cents."
"And for this fuel that costs two cents to make, the projected retail price is twenty-five cents!"
Twenty-five cents.
Over a tenfold windfall.
The conference room fell dead silent.
Every corporate head present was stunned by Rockefeller's commercial strategy.
This playbook looked awfully familiar...
Capture the market rapidly with cheap, even loss-leading hardware,
and then continuously drain consumers' pockets through consumables over the coming decades.
Seated at the head of the table, Felix watched Rockefeller.
The smile playing on his lips broadened.
This was precisely the kind of man he needed.
No hand-holding required; these hungry wolves could catch the deepest scent of blood in money all on their own.
"A shrewd plan, Junior."
Felix toyed with the gold lighter in his hand.
"Turn the hardware into bait and the fuel into chains."
"I approve this strategy. The executive committee will allocate an additional special fund of five hundred thousand dollars to Standard Oil."
"Use this money to build our largest bottling plant for the spirit fuel blend in Cleveland. Oh, and Coleman, notify the steel mill at Lex to pause part of its civilian steel production and focus fully on stamping these lighter casings first."
"Two months from now, I want to see at least one million lighters sitting on grocery store counters across America."
"Understood, Boss."
Peter, Rockefeller, and Coleman, president of Lex Steel, answered in unison.
"By the way, selling ordinary lighters at low prices is fine."
"However, I believe Standard Oil can establish a brand and subsidiary dedicated to lighter research and manufacturing, steering toward high-end and bespoke markets."
"After all, lighters are an essential item, and the wealthy and nobility always prefer things that are finer and more exquisite."
Peter and Rockefeller's eyes lit up even brighter.
The boss's guidance was magnificent.
Though they had planned to sell models made of different materials before, they hadn't considered it in such detail as establishing a dedicated subsidiary to operate the brand.
Yet that was indeed the way forward: profit off fuel from ordinary folk,
and rake in margins from bespoke, luxury designs with the rich—leaving no stone unturned.
The year-end executive committee meeting drew to a close.
With this small metal box, Standard Oil had successfully defended its standing within the Argyle Family.
It was at least not inferior to General Electric now. Both were striving to climb higher, and only time would tell who would prevail.
Toward evening,
a biting wind whipped across New York Harbor.
Though the heavy snow had ceased, a thin glaze of ice coated the dock's wooden planks.
The Atlantic, a large passenger liner belonging to the Metropolitan Trading Company, billowed dense black smoke as it eased into the deepwater berth.
Sailors skillfully tossed out thick mooring ropes.
Along the perimeter of the pier,
dozens of security personnel established a tight cordon, turning away any bystanders who attempted to approach.
Edward Frost, clad in a black woolen overcoat, stood by the gangway.
The passenger liner's gangplank was lowered.
Accompanied by an elderly attendant, a fifteen-year-old youth wearing a velvet coat and a fur hat walked down the gangplank at a leisurely pace.
It was Alfonso,
Spain's future Grand Duke of Cuba.
The moment Alfonso stepped off the gangplank,
a blast of sea breeze swept over, chilling him to the bone and making him shiver.
Looking at the mountain-like warehouses around him and the towering masonry buildings of Manhattan in the distance, his eyes showed a deep blend of awe and fear.
In Paris, what he had seen were luxurious palaces and elegant streets.
Yet here, everything appeared rugged, colossal, and overwhelmingly oppressive.
Frost stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Your Highness Alfonso, welcome to New York."
Looking at the expressionless American before him, Alfonso forced a stiff smile and shook his hand.
"Did Mr. Argyle send you to receive me?"
Alfonso asked in English with a heavy French accent.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"The boss has arranged a comfortable townhouse on Fifth Avenue for you, fully staffed with a chef and servants. Until your mother and the duke conclude their affairs in Europe, you may study there in peace."
Frost made a welcoming gesture.
Two burly security guards immediately stepped forward, flanking Alfonso on either side.
It looked far from an escort.
Alfonso looked back at the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
He knew all too well that from the moment he set foot on this soil,
he could never hope to leave this city of steel until that tycoon named Alan Argyle gave his assent.
"Let us go."
Alfonso gritted his teeth and, surrounded by security, boarded the carriage.
Southern Spain, the Seville Plain.
A few unwithering shrubs could still be seen here, but today, a heavy stench of death permeated the land.
A straight railway line cut across the plain, stretching northward.
Roughly sixty miles from the Port of Cádiz.
Victor Sullivan's "Death Train" sat halted on the tracks, the locomotive venting plumes of white steam to keep up boiler pressure.
On the gentle slopes on either side of the railway.
Two thousand American mercenaries had skillfully dug several waist-deep trenches, shoveling the excavated earth into burlap sacks stacked along the parapets.
Sullivan sat on the edge of a flatcar loaded with ammunition.
A rifle rested across his lap, his trademark cigar clamped firmly between his teeth.
Aboard the flatcars.
The waterproof tarpaulins camouflaging the ten 75mm breech-loading rifled guns had already been removed.
The thick gun barrels glinted with a cold metallic sheen in the sunlight.
Artillerymen were using professional rangefinders to take readings across the plain ahead, adjusting their firing parameters.
Four water-cooled gatling guns were mounted on the four corners of the train. Brass ammunition belts trailed like long golden serpents straight down into the ammo boxes beneath them.
A few miles behind them.
A thousand Spanish rebels sent by General Francisco huddled trembling in their dug-out shelters, clutching the repeating rifles that had just been handed out to them.
They didn't dare venture anywhere near the front line.
"Captain."
A mercenary holding binoculars hopped onto the flatcar.
"The Madrid army is coming. About three miles out, marching along the main road."
Sullivan stood up, took the binoculars, and walked to the edge of the car to peer north.
A long black battle line had appeared at the edge of the plain.
It was the Royal First Corps sent by Amadeo I.
Eight thousand fully equipped regular troops.
Leading at the very front were two regiments of hussars.
They wore ornate red uniforms, the plumes on their helmets fluttering in the wind. Sabers were gripped in hand, with old-fashioned carbines slung from their saddles.
Behind the cavalry came the infantry arranged in neat square formations.
They carried muzzle-loading muskets with fixed bayonets.
Military bands marched alongside the formations, beating war drums and playing stirring marches.
In the intervals between the infantry squares.
Thirty antique bronze smoothbore cannons were hauled by hundreds of horses, lumbering slowly down the dirt road.
It was plain to see that this was a classical nineteenth-century European army that prized honor and rigid formations.
Sullivan lowered his binoculars.
He turned his head to glance at the artillerymen and machine gunners beside him.
"Fuck... these European bastards, bringing a damn band to a battle. Bloody hell."
Sullivan pulled out his cigar and spat onto the ground.
"Adjust elevation, five thousand yards."
"Target: their artillery positions."
"Ignore the infantry and cavalry."
Sullivan issued his fire-distribution orders.
The artillerymen quickly cranked the elevating wheels, raising the muzzles slightly.
Cased brass rounds packed with high explosives slid effortlessly into the breeches, the heavy locking mechanisms clicking shut with a solid snap.
In the distance.
General Manuel, commander of the Spanish Royal First Corps, sat astride a white steed.
Spyglass in hand, he watched the bizarre train parked on the distant tracks and the enemies crouching like gophers in the pits on either side of the railway.
"The rebels don't even have a proper formation."
"Mounting cannons on a train—it is nothing short of a military farce."
Manuel spoke haughtily to his adjutant.
"Order the cavalry regiment to draw sabers and begin the charge."
"Crush those traitors hiding in the dirt pits beneath your hooves. Infantry squares, advance to one thousand yards and prepare for volley fire. Deploy the artillery where they stand."
As the order was passed down.
The low blare of bugles sounded across the plain.
Two thousand Spanish hussars clad in scarlet uniforms drew their gleaming sabers.
Led by their officers, they spurred their warhorses forward.
"For the King! Charge!"
A thunderous roar of hoofbeats shook the plain.
The spectacle of two thousand horses charging in unison was magnificent, kicking up dust that blotted out the sky.
Like a crimson tide, they surged madly toward Sullivan's position.
Sullivan watched the rushing torrent draw nearer and nearer.
He could even clearly see the fanatical, twisted expressions on the riders' faces.
"Range: two thousand yards."
The rangefinder operator nearby shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Artillery, open fire."
"Turn their smoothbores into scrap metal."
Ignoring the charging cavalry altogether, Sullivan issued the command with icy calm.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The ten 75mm breech-loading cannons erupted in a terrifying roar, the muzzle blast kicking up a gale across the flatcars.
Ten high-explosive shells traced immaculate arcs across the sky.
Bridging a distance of nearly three miles.
They slammed with pinpoint precision into the bronze smoothbore positions at the rear of the Spanish army, where the crews had just unhitched their horses and were preparing to deploy.
"Rumble!!"
Furious explosions detonated deep within the plain.
Severed limbs and shattered bronze cannon shards were hurled skyward amid plumes of fire.
With only a single volley.
The thirty cannons that General Manuel took such pride in were obliterated before they could loose even a single round.
General Manuel was so terrified he nearly tumbled from his saddle.
He looked back at the sea of flames in utter disbelief.
What kind of artillery was that?
How could their range and accuracy be so horrifying?
Yet he had no time left to ponder.
For the cavalry regiment had already closed to within five hundred yards of the enemy line.
The whinnying of warhorses was deafening.
The cavalrymen held their sabers high, bracing for the slaughter they were about to unleash.
"Gunners, let them hear the sound of the new era."
Sullivan broke into a ruthless grin.
Aboard the flatcars.
The gunners on the fourteen gatling guns clamped both hands tightly around the brass cranks.
And began churning forward with all their might.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!!"
The furious roar of gunfire instantly swallowed every hoofbeat and bugle call on the plain.
Fourteen metallic whips of fire forged of.45-caliber slugs lashed brutally into the crimson torrent of horsemen.
The foremost dozens of warhorses hit the wall of lead and looked as though they had crashed into an invisible barrier of solid steel.
The horses' chests were ripped to shreds by bullets, sending flesh and blood flying.
Before the mounted riders could even scream, the staggering kinetic force bowled man and mount into violent somersaults across the ground.
"Fire! Open fire, all of you!"
Down in the trenches.
Two thousand mercenaries raised their Vanguard Rifles.
No ranks, no commands.
Each man worked his lever at blinding speed, frantically emptying all fifteen rounds from his magazine.
This could no longer be called warfare.
Under such a crushing generational gap in firepower, the Spanish cavalry's charging formation disintegrated in an instant.
Warhorses screamed and collapsed in the thick hail of lead; the riders behind tripped over the fallen bodies, only to be mercilessly riddled into sieves.
A mere three minutes.
Just three short minutes.
White smoke began rising from the Gatling barrels under the blistering heat, the water in the cooling jackets churning in a violent boil.
Sullivan raised his right hand.
The gunfire ceased.
Across the Seville Plain, that once-haughty crimson tide was nowhere to be seen.
On the open ground less than two hundred yards from the trenches.
The corpses of warhorses and cavalrymen carpeted the field.
Blood converged into dark red streams, trickling across the parched earth.
The Spanish infantry squares to the rear came to a dead stop.
The soldiers bearing muzzleloaders stared blankly at the hellish slaughterhouse before them.
Against those steel monsters spewing continuous ribbons of fire, the muskets in their hands were rendered pathetic fire pokers.
Terror swept through the ranks of thousands in an instant.
No one knew who turned and ran first.
Right after, the formation of the entire Royal First Corps fell apart.
Soldiers sprinted toward the rear like headless flies, screaming in panic. Not even General Manuel's barrier troops could hold the line—in fact, the barrier troops turned and bolted right alongside them.
Sullivan stood on the flatcar.
Watching the Spanish regulars discard their weapons and armor as they fled.
"See? These are the rules."
The wind swept across the plains carrying the scent of gunpowder.
Victor Sullivan jumped down from the flatbed carriage, his riding boots splashing dark red mud as they hit the dirt.
He fished half a cigar and a match from his leather jacket pocket, then struck a match to light it.
In a clearing not far away, the carcasses of two thousand warhorses lay scattered haphazardly.
A few Spanish cavalrymen who had not yet breathed their last were groaning.
The mercenaries walked over with their rifles raised and expertly delivered a coup de grâce with a shot.
Two miles to the rear, General Francisco rode over with several of his Spanish officers. Their horses' hooves trod upon minced meat and broken sabers, the warhorses snorting uneasily.
Francisco reined in his horse, gazing at the clearing before him. Just moments ago, they were two thousand elite cavalrymen of the Royal First Corps, but now they were reduced to mere scraps of rotting flesh.
"My God..."
A young Spanish adjutant covered his mouth, bending over his horse's back to dry heave.
It wasn't as if he had never fought on a battlefield, but he had never witnessed such a bloody scene; it was truly physically sickening.
Sullivan exhaled a ring of smoke, walked to the front of Francisco's horse, and reached out to pat the horse's neck.
"General, don't just stand there watching the show."
With that, Sullivan pointed toward the north.
"That old bastard Manuel has run off with the remaining infantry. Your men must follow immediately and capture the railway stations and telegraph offices along the way for me."
"It shouldn't be difficult, right?"
Francisco was also somewhat nervous, his gaze shifting away from the riddled corpses and falling upon the gatling guns on the flatbed carriage that were still venting white smoke.
The drainage valves of the machine guns' water-cooled jackets were open, and boiling hot water was dripping down the carriage boards.
"Um... Mr. Sullivan, aren't you going to pursue them?" Francisco asked in halting English.
"Of course not. My boys need to eat, the gatling guns need to be oiled, and the cannons need to cool down." Sullivan turned and walked toward the train.
"We are only responsible for cracking the hardest walnuts; you'll have to do the remaining cleanup work yourselves. Remember, plant Queen Isabella's flag high so that the towns along the way know who has returned."
Francisco didn't dare put on airs any longer. He wheeled his horse around and shouted loudly in Spanish to his messengers, urging the infantry regiment in the rear to press forward quickly.
Too brutal!
This battle, which lasted less than twenty minutes, was transmitted to Madrid late that night along the uncut telegraph lines.
The Royal Palace of Madrid.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled, but the room was still chillingly cold enough to make one shiver.
King Amadeo I wore a gray military service uniform, pacing back and forth on the study's carpet. This House of Savoy prince invited from Italy had already lost quite a bit of hair after being in Spain for only two years.
The oak double doors of the study were pushed open, and Prime Minister Ruiz Zorrilla and Minister of War Fernando Córdoba walked in briskly.
Córdoba held a few sheets of telegraph paper in his hand, his fingers trembling slightly.
"Speak, what on earth is going on over in Seville?"
Amadeo stopped pacing, his irritation bleeding through his Italian-accented Spanish.
"Has Manuel already driven the rebels of Cádiz into the sea?"
Córdoba glanced at the prime minister and lowered his head to look at the telegram in his hand.
"Your Majesty... the Royal First Corps has been routed."
Amadeo froze in place, picking at his ear:
"What did you say?"
"Manuel brought eight thousand men and thirty cannons. Francisco in Cádiz only had two understrength regiments in his hands—how could they possibly be routed?"
"It wasn't Francisco who won." Córdoba handed over the telegraph paper.
"An urgent telegram sent by Manuel from Córdoba states that they encountered a modified armored train on the Seville plains. The rebels did not form line formations; they hid in trenches. The enemy had breech-loading steel cannons with a range exceeding three miles, and with just a single volley, they completely destroyed our smoothbore artillery position."
Amadeo snatched the telegraph paper and read down by the light of the gas lamp.
"Two regiments of hussars launched a charge at a distance of five hundred yards, and in less than three minutes, the entire army was wiped out. Fourteen hundred men were killed in action, and the rest were all captured or scattered... The infantry phalanx collapsed before even entering range."
Amadeo read the words on the telegram, his voice trembling more and more.
"Three minutes? Even if fourteen hundred fat pigs stood there waiting to be hacked with knives, they couldn't be hacked to pieces in three minutes! Is Manuel making up stories to shirk responsibility?!"
"Your Majesty, Manuel is not lying."
As Minister of War, Córdoba was very clear about the military changes in Europe in recent years.
"The telegram mentions that the rebels used a multi-barreled rotary artillery piece mounted on wheels, capable of firing bullets continuously like pouring water. Furthermore, the rifles in their infantry's hands are not muzzle-loaders or single-shot breech-loaders, but repeating rifles capable of firing a dozen or so rounds in succession."
Prime Minister Zorrilla interrupted with a frown:
"Multi-barreled rotary artillery?"
"You mean... the kind of machine guns and artillery used by the Germans in the Franco-Prussian War two years ago?"
"Roughly, but even more powerful."
Córdoba shook his head and walked over to the European map by the wall.
"The Germans' previous machine guns were relatively prone to overheating. But according to the description of the officers who escaped, this weapon is fed continuously via a copper hopper or canvas belt on top."
"This is the gatling gun created by the Americans at the end of the Civil War, and it's the latest improved model. And those ten breech-loading rifled cannons capable of precise hits from three miles away—this is definitely not something that can be manufactured domestically in Spain."
The study fell silent.
Amadeo slumped down into his chair, crumpled the telegraph paper into a ball, and threw it on the floor:
"Have you found out in whose name the rebels are fighting? Did the Carlists from the north make a detour to the south?"
"It is not the Carlists."
Prime Minister Zorrilla took out an informant's report just escaped from Cádiz from his briefcase.
"Port of Cádiz is flying the lily flag of the House of Bourbon, and Duke of Montpensier Antoine appeared at the City Hall of Cádiz yesterday. He proclaimed that the exiled former Queen Isabella II has handed over the throne's succession rights to his daughter Isabella. They are now carrying the banner of welcoming the restoration of the new queen."
"Antoine? That Frenchman?"
Amadeo slammed his fist onto the armrest.
"I knew that old bastard wouldn't stay quiet!"
"General Juan Prim's assassination two years ago definitely had his hand in it! But where did he get so much money and new-style weapons? His properties in Spain had already been largely confiscated!"
"He has someone behind him." Córdoba took over the conversation.
"Being able to produce ten of the latest breech-loading heavy cannons, dozens of gatling guns, several thousand repeating rifles, and over a million rounds of brass fixed ammunition all at once... Currently in the entire world, there are only two places that possess this kind of military industrial production capacity and are equipped with such weapons."
Amadeo raised his head: "Which two?"
"Berlin, or Washington." Córdoba held up two fingers.
"The Germans' Krupp arsenal has this kind of breech-loading steel cannon, and the Americans' repeating rifles and gatling guns seem to also have factories in Germany."
"Now our intelligence network in the south is completely paralyzed, and it's still unclear whether Bismarck wants to meddle in Spain or if the Americans are pulling strings behind the scenes."
"Regardless of who it is, they are now heading toward Madrid along the railway!" Amadeo stood up, his tone urgent.
"Cordóva, how many troops around Madrid can still be mobilized?"
"Your Majesty, the Carlists in the north suddenly acquired a large batch of old-style muskets last month and are attacking Bilbao. Our main forces are all pinned down in the northern mountains." Córdoba spread his hands.
"The Madrid garrison has only twelve thousand men, equipped with old-style Minie rifles and bronze cannons. If that train carrying machine guns and heavy cannons drives up to the walls of Madrid, we simply won't be able to hold out."
Amadeo walked to the window, looking at the pitch-black square outside. To be honest, he never wanted to stay in this country where people were assassinated every day and politicians argued constantly.
But if he were just driven away by Antoine's heavy cannons like this, the face of the House of Savoy would be completely disgraced.
He certainly didn't want that.
"Find the British."
Amadeo turned around.
"Zorrilla, have the Foreign Minister go see the British Minister to Madrid immediately! The British will absolutely not allow a Spain controlled by the French House of Orléans, or by Germans or Americans, to emerge!"
"That would directly threaten their Gibraltar!"
"It's no use; I already went to sound out the British Minister this afternoon." Zorrilla sighed.
"Britain still needs to assess the situation."
"However, we can first request emergency military assistance from London, purchasing their Armstrong cannons and Martini-Henry rifles. But as you know, that takes time."
"Right now, the fastest thing that can help us relieve the pressure is Paris."
"France?"
Córdoba shook his head in disappointment.
"President Thiers is having enough of a headache himself. The German army of occupation hasn't even completely withdrawn yet, so how could he possibly send troops to help us?"
"Of course I'm not asking France to send troops—I never even entertained that thought." Zorrilla's eyes turned cold.
"Isn't Antoine acting under the banner of Queen Isabella II abdicating in favor of Isabella? But Queen Isabella II herself is currently living in Paris! As long as she doesn't publicly acknowledge it, Antoine is legally a rebel."
"Issue the strongest possible diplomatic note to the French government immediately, demanding that they expel Queen Isabella II at once, or ideally extradite her directly back to Spain for trial! As long as we throttle this source in Paris, those wait-and-see royalist generals in Spain won't dare casually defect to Antoine!"
"Yes, let's do just that."
Amadeo nodded repeatedly.
"Send a telegram to Paris immediately!"
"Even if the French refuse to extradite her, we must force that old woman to shut her mouth in Paris!"
Meanwhile, over in France...
Inside a side hall of the Palace of Versailles, the seat of the provisional government of the Third Republic, President Adolphe Thiers sat behind a desk piled high with documents.
This short, seventy-something man wearing round-framed glasses clutched in his hand the diplomatic note just handed over by the Spanish ambassador to France.
Minister of Foreign Affairs Charles de Rémusat sat in the chair opposite, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Are the Spanish out of their minds? Speaking to us in such a tone?"
Thiers tossed the note onto the desk, his voice shrill.
"Extradite Queen Isabella II?"
"Does Zorrilla think Madrid is still in the era of the Spanish Armada from three hundred years ago? Even if we are facing difficulties right now, a second-rate country like theirs doesn't get to boss us around!"
"Mr. President, Madrid is genuinely in a panic." Rémusat tucked away his handkerchief.
"The mutiny at the Port of Cádiz... I heard Duke Antoine led a force equipped with new machine guns and heavy artillery, crushing Amadeo's Royal First Army on the plains of Seville."
"The Spanish government suspects that Queen Isabella II, living in exile in Paris, funded and orchestrated this restoration behind the scenes—and even suspects that we are secretly supporting the House of Orléans."
Thiers took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his sore nose forcefully.
"Supporting the House of Orléans?"
"I'd love nothing more than to stuff all those fellows from the House of Orléans and the House of Bourbon into gunny sacks and throw them into the Atlantic Ocean!" Thiers cursed.
"Take a look at the National Assembly right now!"
"Out of over six hundred seats, royalists hold over four hundred!"
"The Count of Chambord (Bourbon Legitimists) and the Count of Paris (Orléanists) conspire in the corridors of the Palace of Versailles every single day, trying to figure out how to overthrow the Republic and restore the monarchy!"
"I'm lucky if I can keep my own seat as President! Where would I find the spare time to meddle in Spain's messy affairs?!"
Rémusat leaned forward and lowered his voice:
"That may be true, Mr. President, but Spain's note has already been delivered, and the British ambassador to France conveniently asked about it this morning as well."
"The British are extremely sensitive about the batch of American- or German-made heavy weapons that appeared in Cádiz."
"If we show no reaction whatsoever regarding Queen Isabella II living in Paris, outsiders will truly believe that we are secretly supporting the House of Bourbon to restore power in Spain first, and then turn around to overthrow France."
Hearing this, Thiers put his glasses back on and stared at the documents on his desk for a long while.
"So what can we do? Send the gendarmerie to arrest Queen Isabella II and deport her?" Thiers shook his head.
"Rémusat, you know full well what consequences that would bring. Although Queen Isabella II is Spanish, her surname is Bourbon. If I use force against an exiled former queen, those four hundred plus royalist deputies in the Assembly will unite tomorrow to vote no confidence in me and overturn my cabinet completely!"
The current political situation in France was like walking a tightrope.
The only reason the royalists hadn't overthrown the Republic yet was simply because the Bourbon Legitimists (sharing roots with the Anjou Branch) and the Orléanists were bickering endlessly over who should become king and which national flag to use.
Although the candidate for the Legitimists had previously declared that he would never accept changing the flag—vowing he would rather die than ascend the throne otherwise.
But as long as he wasn't dead, there was always a chance for a turn of events, wasn't there?
Meanwhile, the Count of Paris, who had been quite despondent, instantly revitalized after his uncle Antoine ran off to contend for the Spanish crown, rushing over once again to lobby the Count of Chambord.
In other words, Thiers was currently maintaining his rule entirely by playing mediator and smoothing things over between the two factions.
"There's no need to use force, Mr. President."
Rémusat offered a suggestion.
"Perhaps we could send someone from the Department of the Interior to her villa in western Paris and put some pressure on her in private."
"Tell her that due to protests from the Spanish government, the French government is in a difficult position. Ask her, for the sake of bilateral relations, to leave France gracefully on her own and stay in Switzerland or Italy for a while. At the very least, have her issue a statement declaring that the rebellion in Cádiz has nothing to do with her and that Duke Antoine acted on his own initiative."
Thiers tapped his fingers on the desk, a smile surfacing on his face.
"Having her issue a statement disavowing Antoine... that's a good idea."
"Everyone knows she has a bad relationship with her brother-in-law Antoine. As long as she publicly denounces Antoine as a usurper, it will not only shut the mouths of Madrid and London, but also engineer a rift within the House of Bourbon, driving the royalists in the Assembly into infighting as well."
"Then I'll have the Prefect of Police from the Department of the Interior handle it immediately." Rémusat stood up.
"Go ahead. Be polite, and don't give anyone leverage to use against us." Thiers waved his hand.
At three o'clock that afternoon.
Two black four-wheeled carriages pulled up in front of Queen Isabella II's townhouse in western Paris.
Renault, the Prefect of Police in Paris, dressed in a sharp black formal suit, stepped down from the carriage accompanied by two aides.
But as soon as he reached the wrought-iron gate, he noticed something seemed off.
According to intelligence, there were usually only two elderly Spanish doormen dozing off at the villa's entrance.
But today, four tall, muscular young men stood at the gate. Standing ramrod straight with the hems of their overcoats open, their waists were conspicuously bulging, and their eagle-like eyes scanned the street.
What surprised Renault even more was that over a dozen luxuriously decorated carriages were already parked on the driveway in front of the villa.
Printed on the carriage doors were various ancient family crests—some belonging to the House of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, the Duke of Bourbon-Parma, and even several belonging to high nobility among France's native Legitimist royalists.
Something was wrong!
"May I ask who you are?"
A burly man at the door speaking English with a heavy American accent reached out to block Renault.
Renault frowned and said in French:
"I am Renault, Prefect of Police in Paris. On the orders of President Thiers, I am here to visit Her Majesty Isabella."
The Spanish doorman nearby hurriedly ran over to translate.
After hearing the translation, the burly man didn't move aside, but instead turned to look back at the villa's entrance.
The main doors were wide open, and Cánovas, Prime Minister of the court-in-exile, was standing on the steps. He wore a tailcoat, his chest covered in medals.
"Ah, Prefect Renault."
Cánovas walked down the steps, a faux politeness on his face.
"You've arrived at quite an inconvenient time. Her Majesty is hosting a private family tea party at home today, and has also invited a few reporter friends from Le Figaro and The Times. If you don't mind, perhaps you could come inside and stand at the back to listen in."