Felix was awakened by a cacophony of sounds drifting through the basent walls.
He sat up from his makeshift bed and stretched his stiff body, wincing at the protest of muscles unused to such crude accommodations. Church bells rang sowhere above, mingling with the steady thud of footsteps from Mrs. Hudson's apartnt, reminders that a new day had begun, whether he was ready for it or not.
His first act was practical, almost ritualistic. He scalded a towel with water boiled over the fireplace, then ticulously washed his face and hands. In 1860, with its questionable standards of hygiene, even such a small habit of cleanliness could an the difference between life and death.
"Mr. Argyle, your breakfast." Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed down the stairwell.
Felix crossed to the stairs and accepted the basket she handed down, a piece of dark bread and a cup of milk. It was included in his rent, sothing he'd specifically negotiated. He needed to ensure his food and water sources were absolutely clean.
"Thank you, madam."
"Mind you bring that basket back up," Mrs. Hudson said, already turning away.
After a quick breakfast, Felix erged from the basent. He needed information now, sothing to confirm his understanding of this era's pulse, to verify that his mories of history remained accurate.
The Bowery District in the early morning proved far more "awake" than it had been the previous evening. People flowed along the streets in steady streams. Cargo wagons rumbled past. Workers hurried toward their destinations. Together, they ford a vivid urban tableau that spoke of a city on the cusp of sothing montous.
Felix's goal was clear: newspapers.
He hadn't walked far when a child's voice cut through the morning air.
"Newspaper! Newspaper! The New York Herald! Lincoln's latest moves! The Southerners are going to rebel!"
A freckle-faced newsboy, no more than ten years old, clutched a stack of papers nearly as large as himself. He wove through the crowd with practiced agility.
Felix called out to him. "Hey, how many kinds of newspapers do you have?"
The newsboy stopped and looked up, his response automatic and well-rehearsed. "Sir, I have The Herald, The Tribune, and The Tis. Two cents each. Which one do you want? The Tribune curses the Southerners the hardest!"
"Give one of each."
Felix fished six cents from his pocket and handed them over.
"Yes, sir!" The newsboy's eyes lit up, such a generous custor was a rare find. He deftly pulled out three different newspapers and passed them to Felix, adding his sales pitch: "Sir, you are truly a discerning gentleman! Reading multiple newspapers is the only way to stay inford about important national affairs!"
Felix took the papers, then asked casually, "Tell sothing, son. Do you really think there will be a war?"
"Of course, sir!" The newsboy waved his small fist, youthful fervor blazing on his face. "My dad says those slave-owning traitors must all be hanged on Capitol Hill! Then I'll join the army and be a drumr boy."
Looking at the child's excited expression, Felix felt a chill settle in his chest. War, in the mouths of politicians, was glory. In the imagination of common people, it was adventure. Only those who truly experienced it understood the reality: a bloody at grinder that consud young n and spat out corpses.
But he revealed none of this. Instead, he simply smiled. "Sounds like a fine plan. Good luck, little fellow."
With that, he turned back toward his basent. He didn't linger on the street, he knew these thin newspapers contained sothing more precious than gold. They contained the future.
---
Back in the basent, Felix closed the door and spread the three newspapers across the floor. He lit his oil lamp and began reading them word by word, his heart pounding with each confirmation of what he already knew.
The New York Tribune's front page bore an inflammatory headline: "Clouds of Disunion Loom Over the Union! South Carolina's 'Fire-Eaters' Clamor for Secession!"
The article detailed the radical rhetoric of Southern state legislators, who declared that if "the Black Lover Republican" Lincoln was elected president, the Union would cease to exist.
The New York Herald took a more asured approach, analyzing the economic conflicts between North and South: "Northern industrialists advocate protective tariffs to resist the impact of cheap British manufactured goods. Southern plantation owners, however, rely on cotton exports to Europe and require free trade. This fundantal economic divergence is pushing our nation to the brink of a cliff..."
Felix grabbed a piece of charcoal from the fireplace and heavily underlined the words "tariffs" and "free trade."
"That's right," he murmured. "That's how it was. All wars, in the final analysis, are economic wars."
The Tis, which catered more to the lower classes, focused on sensational stories: "Appalling! Escaped Slave in Virginia Caught and Publicly Flogged to Death in Broad Daylight! Is This What Our 'Compatriots' Are Doing? For Sha!"
Every word validated Felix's mories, confirming that the wheel of history was rolling forward along the exact trajectory he rembered. War was no longer a question of whether, but when and how.
"According to history, Lincoln will be elected in November," Felix said softly, tracing Lincoln's na with his finger. "Then South Carolina will declare secession in December. Next April, the cannons of Fort Sumter will sound."
He closed his eyes, seeing the cascade of events yet to co. "The army will rapidly expand from the current ten thousand n to hundreds of thousands, perhaps more than a million. So many mouths to feed. Logistics will be the Federal Governnt's biggest headache."
He opened his eyes, and they glead in the lamplight. "For , this is an opportunity."
He picked up another piece of charcoal and wrote "canned food" on a blank sheet of paper, underlining it twice.
"Perhaps I can provide them with an answer, an answer for which they will pay a high price."
Felix stood and began pacing the cramped basent, his mind racing as a plan took shape. He spoke aloud, as if explaining his thoughts to an invisible companion, or perhaps convincing himself.
"First, I need the technology. Current canning processes are too primitive. Lead-sealed seams, inefficient and prone to causing heavy tal poisoning. But I can improve it. Double-seaming technology. It's not complicated, just requires so custom tools."
He continued pacing. "Second, raw materials. Beef, pork, beans... once the war starts, prices will skyrocket. I must secure a batch of cheap, stable supplies before the war fully erupts."
"Finally, sales. I'll need an opportunity to get my product directly into the sight of military procurent officers."
He paused, then threw the paper with his notes into the fireplace. The flas devoured it instantly. In this era, secrets had to be kept locked in one's mind.
Watching the paper burn, Felix felt a surge of determination. All the knowledge in his head, all the mories of a future yet to co, they were transforming into clear, feasible steps.
He stood at the starting point of this great river of history, holding a map to the future.
"Since there's a plan," he said, extinguishing the oil lamp, "let's begin."
---
He pushed open the door and stepped once more into the bustling streets of New York. His first destination: the pawn shops, blacksmith shops, and junkyards scattered throughout the city. He would use his remaining dollars to build his first money-printing machine.
"Sir, how much for this pot?"
In a blacksmith's shop near the docks, Felix pointed to a cast-iron pot half a man's height, covered in rust and clearly long abandoned.
The blacksmith, a burly German immigrant with arms as thick as Felix's thighs, glanced at Felix, then at the pot. "That's for boiling ropes on ships. Big and heavy. If you're sure you need it, five dollars."
"Too expensive." Felix shook his head and turned to leave without hesitation.
"Hey, buddy, wait!" The blacksmith hadn't expected such a decisive exit. "So how much can you offer?"
Felix t his eyes and slowly raised three fingers. "Three dollars. That's all I can give. It's just scrap tal, sir. Besides , I doubt anyone would buy it to cook with."
The blacksmith's face twitched as he weighed his options: let the tal rust in the corner, or take three dollars cash.
Cash won. "Alright, buddy, you've convinced . Three dollars, but you haul it away yourself."
"Of course." Felix paid readily.
But he didn't leave imdiately. Instead, he continued searching through the shop, eventually spending two more dollars on discarded sheet tal, iron rods, and miscellaneous tools. What the blacksmith considered junk, Felix saw as treasure.
Over the next several hours, Felix visited pawn shops and flea markets throughout the district. Like an experienced treasure hunter, he acquired every item he needed for the least amount of money: an old bench vise for one dollar, large tin snips for fifty cents, cheap charcoal for two dollars.
By the ti he returned to Mrs. Hudson's basent, dusk had fallen. He'd spent $8.50, leaving him with $81.50.
"Mr. Argyle, what are you doing bringing all this dirty junk into my basent?" Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the stairs, frowning at his haul with obvious disgust.
"Don't worry, ma'am," Felix replied, breathless from dragging the sheet tal down the stairs. "These will soon beco sothing useful. And I promise to keep the place clean."
"It better be as you say, Mr. Argyle." She grumbled but said nothing more, perhaps mollified by the breakfast arrangent.
---
Over the following days, Felix barely left the basent. He began by thoroughly cleaning the large pot, polishing it repeatedly with sand and stones, boiling it multiple tis until the inner surface glead. This pot would be his key equipnt for high-temperature sterilization.
Then ca his secret weapon: a rudintary manual seaming machine for canning. In the twenty-first century, this would be simple technology. In 1860, it was revolutionary.
Currently, all cans were sealed by soldering, workers sared molten lead to attach lids to bodies. The result was poor sealing, frequent burns from lead drips, and long-term risk of poisoning.
Felix's design was elegantly simple: use a bench vise to secure the can body, then employ two specially polished rollers. The first would curl the edges, the second would press them tight, making the lid and body interlock securely.
Creating the rollers proved the most difficult step. Without a lathe, he could only use files and sandpaper, grinding two iron lumps salvaged from the junkyard, milliter by milliter. The basent filled with the grating sound of tal on tal, hour after hour, day after day.
"Mr. Argyle, what on earth are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson finally snapped, her voice carrying down from above. "That noise keeps awake every night!"
Felix imdiately stopped and rushed to apologize. "I am terribly sorry, ma'am! Please give two more days. After that, I promise, no more noise."
"Two days, my foot! If you make noise after two days, I'll throw you and your junk out together!"
Felix knew he had to accelerate his work.
---
Late at night, two days later, Felix finished the final polish with sandpaper and let out a long breath. He held up the two oddly-shaped but perfectly smooth rollers, admiring them in the lamplight.
The most crucial components were complete.
He mounted the rollers onto a simple fra of iron rods and wood, adding a hand-cranked handle. Before him sat a seaming machine, a fusion of modern industrial wisdom and rudintary nineteenth-century craftsmanship.
To test it, he carefully cut circular pieces of sheet tal with tin snips to form can bodies, plus circular lids with raised edges. After hamring these parts into a rough cylinder, he secured one in the bench vise.
He took a deep breath and began cranking the handle.
The first roller pressed down with a satisfying creak. The edge of the lid curled inward, hooking onto the flange of the can body.
Success!
Felix switched to the second roller and cranked again. This one pressed tight, completely sealing the hooked edges into an airtight double seam.
Click!
Felix stopped and lifted the finished can. The seam was smooth and tight, more perfect than any can currently on the market. He filled it with water, inverted it, and shook it vigorously.
Not a single drop leaked.
"It worked," he whispered, his voice trembling despite his efforts at control.
This ugly machine would be the engine of his fortune. With it, he could produce cans safer, more reliable, and cheaper than any competitor's.
But there was no ti for celebration. The successful first step ant the busier second step had already begun. He needed to buy ingredients and produce his first batch of products, goods impressive enough to open doors.
Every cent of his remaining fifty-so dollars had to be spent wisely.
He cleaned the basent, sweeping tal scraps into a corner, then changed into his only presentable set of clothes and walked out into the fading light.
The real work was about to begin.
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