Dawn in Tennessee arrived silently, bringing with it a biting chill.
Corporal Michael O'Malley huddled in the damp, cold trench, trying to draw so warmth from a cup of scalding, bitter, smoky coffee.
Beside him, the veteran Shanahan, like a silent statue, repeatedly wiped his new rifle with a piece of oilcloth.
"How does it feel, Sergeant?" Michael whispered.
"Heavy," Shanahan's reply was brief, "a pound heavier than the old Springfield. And," he pulled the lever beneath the barrel, a crisp, smooth chanical sound echoing in the silent trench, "this thing is too complicated. On the battlefield, the more complex sothing is, the more likely it is to break down."
His words represented the sentints of all the veterans in the First and Third Infantry Regints. Yesterday afternoon, at the firing range, they had personally witnessed the devilish rate of fire of this rifle, nad Militech 1863.
But the firing range and the battlefield were two entirely different worlds.
"At least its bullets are good," another soldier said, as he pressed brass-gleaming cartridges one by one into the magazine from the side loading port, "Finally, no more struggling to bite open those damned paper cartridges."
Michael said nothing. He just held his rifle tightly. It was exactly as his uncle had described in his letter. It made him feel connected to that Boss far away in New York.
"Alright, lads," Shanahan finally finished cleaning his gun, "Eat sothing. Colonel McPherson's order is to attack promptly at sunrise. No one knows if this will be your last breakfast."
The soldiers silently took out their hard, stone-like compressed biscuits from their ration bags. Michael, mimicking the veterans, broke the biscuit into small pieces and dropped them into his coffee cup. A few seconds later, the hard biscuit turned into a warm, thick paste with a rich aty aroma.
"This stuff isn't bad at all," a young soldier said in surprise.
"At least it's better than those moldy 'green bricks'," Shanahan grumbled, and began his breakfast… At six o'clock sharp in the morning, as the first grey-white light of dawn illuminated the huge, scar-like earthen fortifications built by the Confederates across the Black River, the attack whistle did not sound.
Instead, dozens of cannons on the Union lines roared simultaneously.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Shells, trailing sharp whistles, soared over the Black River, exploding in clouds of dirt and gunpowder on the Confederates' positions. This was not a probing attack, but a saturation bombardnt aid at destroying everything.
In the frontline command post, Colonel McPherson calmly observed everything through binoculars. Beside him was Major Carter, who had co to observe.
"Major Carter," the Colonel's tone was calm, "your friend's rifle had better work as well as his canned goods. To support your 'live-fire test' this ti, General Sherman gave us all of the corps' reserve artillery shells."
"Today, we are attacking the Confederates' strongest stronghold outside Vicksburg—Fort Rattlesnake. In the past two months, we have lost over three thousand n here."
...The bombardnt lasted for a full half hour.
When the shelling finally ceased, the attack whistle sounded promptly.
"First Regint! Third Regint! Attack!"
"Charge!"
Sergeant Shanahan was the first to leap out of the trench. Michael and his comrades followed closely. This ti, they were no longer charging in traditional dense formations, but according to the new tactics urgently issued by the officers yesterday, advancing rapidly in skirmish lines of three n, providing covering fire for each other.
On the Confederates' positions, surviving soldiers crawled out of the shelters repeatedly plowed by artillery fire; they were all battle-hardened veterans, with no panic on their faces.
"Hold steady! Hold steady! Wait for them to cross the river!" a Confederates' Captain shouted, waving his saber.
As the blue figures of the Union army, stepping on the hastily built pontoon bridge, began to cross the Black River.
"Fire!"
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A dense volley of gunfire erupted from the Confederates' trenches. White gunpowder smoke instantly filled the entire position.
Union soldiers crossing the river fell in swathes, like wheat being cut down. Michael felt as if a scorching hurricane had swept past him, the river water churned into deadly splashes by bullets.
"Take cover! Return fire!" Sergeant Shanahan's roar sounded like thunder.
The soldiers instinctively threw themselves onto the pontoon bridge or hid behind makeshift cover. Then, they began to return fire in their unfamiliar new way.
"Bang!"
Michael lay on the ground, pulling the trigger towards the smoke-shrouded position opposite. The huge recoil made his shoulder ache. Without stopping, he yanked the lever, a hot shell casing ejected from the chamber, and a new bullet was instantly loaded.
"Bang!"
He fired again.
And it was at this mont that a bizarre scene unfolded on the battlefield.
On the Confederates' positions, following tactics they had practiced countless tis, a large number of soldiers, after completing their first round of firing, stood up one after another and began the tedious, multi-step muzzle-loading process.
In their view, the Yankees opposite should also be doing the sa thing at this mont. This was the bloody rhythm of the rifle era.
However, what awaited them was not a mont of respite.
But a storm of steel they had never seen or understood.
"Fire! Free fire! Empty all your bullets!"
Sergeant Shanahan looked at the grey figures standing up one by one opposite, like living targets. For the first ti, his usually steady eyes showed a bestial, bloodthirsty glint.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
On the positions of the First and Third Infantry Regints, nearly two thousand Militech 1863 rifles, at the sa ti, let out their first and most deadly roar.
The incessant gunfire completely drowned out all other sounds on the battlefield.
Hot brass casings rained down, constantly ejecting from the chambers.
Union soldiers didn't even need to aim precisely; they just needed to lie on the ground, constantly pulling the lever, sending bullet after bullet, forming an insurmountable wall of fire, towards the opposite position, which had already fallen into complete chaos and panic.
On the Confederates' positions, flesh and blood flew everywhere. Soldiers who had just stood up, preparing to reload, fell in rows, as if swept by an invisible, giant scythe.
"Devils! These are the devil's weapons!" a Confederates' officer cried out in despair, seeing his soldiers suffer over half casualties in just a dozen seconds.
"Retreat! Retreat quickly!"
Panic spread like a plague along the Confederates' defensive line. Their proud, sturdy fortifications seed so ridiculous and fragile in the face of that seemingly endless hail of bullets.
"Charge! All-out charge!"
Colonel McPherson, in the command post, watched the almost one-sided slaughter through his binoculars. He knew the ti was right.
"My God…" Major Carter murmured, looking at the enemy position, now sward by the Union army, with hardly a single shot of resistance fired again… Half an hour later, the battle ended.
Colonel McPherson and Major Carter personally walked into what was once hailed as the "insurmountable" Fort Rattlesnake.
Union casualties were fewer than three hundred. The Confederates, however, left over a thousand bodies on this small position, as well as nearly two thousand prisoners who had surrendered, having completely lost the will to resist.
Colonel McPherson walked up to a young Confederates' prisoner, who was huddled in a corner, trembling.
He asked, "Tell , what happened just now?"
"The guns… your guns…" the young soldier looked up, his eyes filled with incomprehensible fear, "Your guns wouldn't stop… they would never stop… it was like… like sewing machines from hell…"
Colonel McPherson did not ask further. He turned and looked at Major Carter, a complex expression mixed with awe and a hint of fear appearing on his always serious face for the first ti.
"Major, it seems the gift you brought is truly remarkable," his voice was hoarse with extre excitent.
"Soone! Send a telegram to General Sherman imdiately."
"Tell him Fort Rattlesnake has been captured. The gate to Vicksburg has been opened. We have found a key that can cut through the entire South."
On the morning after the Battle of Black River, the battlefield was filled with a scent of gunpowder, blood, and damp earth.
Union soldiers were silently cleaning up the land that had just been soaked in blood.
Corporal Michael O'Malley and his comrades, for the first ti after a large-scale charge, had so many n still standing to share cigarettes.
On their faces, there was none of the usual post-battle numbness of survivors; instead, there was a strange expression mixed with awe and lingering fear.
"God..." a young soldier said, his voice trembling as he looked at the Confederate bodies being gathered not far away, "How many people... how many people did we kill yesterday?"
No one answered him.
Sergeant Shanahan, a veteran, was squatting on the ground, carefully wiping his Militech 1863 rifle with a relatively clean cotton cloth.
His movents were as reverent as if he were polishing a sacred relic.
"Hey, Michael," he called out without turning his head, "Go check on that kid Patrick."
Michael nodded and quickly ran to the temporary dical station in the rear.
Inside the dical station, the wounded lay on makeshift stretchers, and the air was filled with groans and the sll of disinfectant.
But he quickly found Patrick.
Yesterday, Patrick's arm had been cut open with a deep, bone-visible wound again.
He was now leaning against an ammunition box, drinking a bowl of hot soup.
His left arm was wrapped in clean bandages, and though his face was pale, his spirits were good.
"Patrick!"
"Michael!" Patrick showed a weak smile when he saw him, "Hey, I'm fine.
The doctor said I still have my arm."
"Really?"
"Yes," a military doctor, who was inspecting the wounded, heard their conversation and walked over.
He looked at the bandage on Patrick's arm, his eyes filled with surprise.
The military doctor said, "Iodoglycerol is even more effective than God's holy water."
Just then, a commotion ca from nearby.
Several soldiers were escorting a captured Confederate Captain past them.
The Captain's face showed no anger of a defeated man, only a despair like a crumbling faith.
"...That wasn't a gun," he murmured, as if speaking to the soldiers escorting him, yet also to himself, "That was the devil's creation...
Our soldiers, they didn't even have ti to reload a second bullet... God, they... they were like harvested wheat..."
Michael listened quietly.
He looked at his comrade, who had once again saved his arm thanks to a bottle of dicine, and then thought of himself, who had survived because of a rifle...
Just as the gunshots at Black River had quieted, sumr in New York was just beginning.
In Felix's study, the fire in the fireplace flickered quietly.
The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and a sense of tranquility.
"Boss, this is the latest report Mr. Hayes sent back overnight from Philadelphia," Edward Frost placed a docunt in front of Felix.
Felix picked up the report and read it carefully.
It detailed the intricate power vacuum and entangled interests within the Pennsylvania Railroad Company after J. Edgar Thomson's dismissal.
"Although Thomson has fallen," Frost added, "his old subordinates on the board, especially Patterson, are still putting up a stubborn resistance.
They are uniting with so local bankers and suppliers in Philadelphia, attempting to nominate their own puppet to compete with us for the interim chairman position.
Mr. Hayes believes that the next board eting will be a tough fight."
"As expected," Felix's face showed no ripple of emotion.
"A large tree that has rotted for thirty years, even if its main trunk falls, its roots are still deeply intertwined."
"What about Baker's side?" Felix asked.
"Mr. Matthew Becker has successfully united Harrison and several other centrist directors," Frost replied.
"But their power is not yet enough to form an absolute advantage on the board.
They are all awaiting your next instructions."
Felix did not imdiately give instructions.
He simply stood up and walked to the large map of the Union.
His gaze lingered on the small red dot of Philadelphia for a long ti.
"Edward," he slowly began, "what do you think we lack most right now?"
"Funding?" Frost guessed.
"Mr. Hayes said in his report that if we want to completely defeat Thomson's remaining forces at the next board eting, we might need to invest a huge sum of money to acquire the scattered shares held by small shareholders."
"No, we are not short of money," Felix shook his head.
"What we lack most right now is a powerful weapon that can make all the wavering centrists unequivocally side with us."
"Evidence that proves to the entire Philadelphia, and even the entire New York, that standing with our Argyle Company is equivalent to standing with victory."
Just then, there was a knock on the study door.
The butler entered, holding a coded telegram sealed with the highest priority wax seal of the War Departnt.
"Sir," he reported, "This telegram is from the Tennessee front.
It was sent directly to you via military lines."
Felix's heart skipped a beat.
Perhaps, what he had been waiting for had arrived.
He took the telegram and broke the seal.
The content of the telegram was personally drafted by Colonel McPherson and co-signed by Major Carter.
The handwriting, due to excitent, appeared sowhat scrawled, but every word was like a hot bullet.
"Mr. Argyle:
Fort Rattlesnake was successfully captured by our First and Third Infantry Regints at 7:00 AM today.
In this battle, our forces annihilated and captured over three thousand enemy soldiers at a minimal cost of two hundred and seventy-four killed.
The 'Militech 1863' rifles provided by your company demonstrated overwhelming tactical advantages in combat.
dics report that Iodoglycerol disinfectant has reduced the mortality rate of our seriously wounded to an unprecedented level.
On behalf of all officers and soldiers, I extend our highest respect to you and all employees of your company."
Felix slowly put down the telegram.
He looked out the window at the prosperous and peaceful streetscape of New York.
The powerful weapon in his hand, capable of ending all argunts and hesitations, had roared in from the distant Southern battlefield.
He turned to Frost.
"Edward."
"Send a telegram to Tom Hayes and Matthew Becker in Philadelphia."
"Tell them," Felix's lips curved into a smile...
"Our cannonball has arrived."
Washington, War Departnt.
This building, brightly lit during warti, was the brain of the entire Union military machine. At this mont, in the very core of that brain—Secretary of War Edwin Stanton's office—the atmosphere was as heavy as the sky before a storm.
"...At Gettysburg, although General ade stopped Robert E. Lee's offensive, our own losses were equally heavy."
Army General Commander Henry Halleck, pointing at a city on the map located on the Mississippi River, said in a grave tone, "And in the West, General Grant's siege of Vicksburg has lasted for nearly two months. The soldiers' morale is slowly being eroded by disease and a war of attrition with no progress."
Stanton did not speak; he rely looked irritably at the casualty reports from the front, each filled with bad news.
The office door was suddenly pushed open.
A young assistant officer, who had even forgotten to knock, held a newly deciphered encrypted telegram, his face showing an expression of disbelieving ecstasy.
"Mr. Secretary! General Halleck!"
"Western Front... Western Front urgent telegram! General Sherman's troops have achieved a decisive victory at Black River!"
"What?" Stanton and Halleck stood up simultaneously.
Stanton snatched the telegram. It was a battle report personally drafted by Colonel McPherson and co-signed by Major Carter.
When he saw the astonishing casualty ratio on the telegram, even this Secretary of War, known for his coldness and composure, couldn't help but gasp.
"Halleck, co look at this."
Army General Commander Halleck took the telegram, and his reaction was even more intense than Stanton's.
"This... this is impossible!" he exclaid, "Did McPherson exaggerate the results? Taking Rattlesnake Fort, which the Confederates had been operating for two months, with fewer than three hundred casualties from two regints, and capturing over two thousand n? Were their fortifications made of paper?"
"The key is here, General." Stanton's finger heavily tapped another section of the telegram, "The new repeating rifle demonstrated a decisive and overwhelming tactical advantage in this attack."
"That young man," Stanton looked at Halleck, "he wasn't bragging."
...Half an hour later, a top-level ergency military eting was held in the War Departnt's main conference room.
Secretary Stanton, General Halleck, Ordnance Departnt Director Colonel Dale, Quartermaster Departnt Director, and several other generals responsible for strategy and logistics were all present.
Stanton distributed copies of the battle report to everyone. "Gentlen, I think this voice from the front line is more convincing than any argunt we could have here."
"Now, what we need to discuss is not whether that weapon is good or not. Rather," his tone beca unequivocal, "it's how many we need, and how quickly we need them."
The conference room was silent.
Everyone was slightly shocked by the impactful casualty ratio figures in the battle report.
"Mr. Secretary," General Halleck spoke first, his attitude having shifted from his previous skepticism to a soldier's instinctive desire for a powerful weapon, "I admit the results of this battle report are astonishing. But it must be considered that this was a surprise attack. The Confederates were completely unprepared for the firepower of this weapon. Once they adapt to this rhythm, the advantage might not be so obvious."
"Adapt?" Stanton scoffed, "General, how will they adapt? Are they going to make their soldiers load those damned Minie balls three tis faster?"
"More importantly is the production capacity issue."
Colonel Dale of the Ordnance Departnt raised a more realistic problem.
"What is Mr. Argyle' Militech's current monthly production capacity? According to him previously, it's ten thousand rifles? Even if it doubles, it's only twenty thousand. And we need to replace over a million rifles! His small private company simply cannot et our demand."
"You're right, Colonel."
Stanton nodded, he had clearly considered this issue long ago. "One company alone certainly isn't enough." He glanced at Springfield Armory Director Colonel Bishop, who was observing from the sidelines, "But let's not forget, we also have a 'co-production' agreent. Springfield Armory will be responsible for producing the vast majority of common parts and final assembly."
"So," Stanton looked at everyone present, throwing out his groundbreaking proposal, "I propose that we imdiately place an ergency production order totaling two hundred thousand 'Militech 1863' rifles with Mr. Argyle' Militech and our Springfield Armory!"
"This will be enough to re-equip all twenty of our most elite legions before next spring!"
"At the sa ti," he turned to the Quartermaster Departnt Director, "place a matching production order with Federal United Ammunition Company for a total of sixty million .44 caliber bullets!"
"I want to use these twenty legions, equipped with new weapons, as a sharp blade," Stanton's voice was full of power, "to completely cut through all of the South's defenses next year!"
Two hundred thousand rifles, sixty million bullets.
This astronomical order left everyone present feeling suffocated.
"Mr. Secretary..." The Quartermaster Departnt Director, a seemingly shrewd general, spoke with difficulty, "Your determination is very admirable. But... what about the money?"
"Two hundred thousand rifles, even at a co-production price of twenty-five dollars, would require at least five million dollars. Sixty million bullets would be another expense of several million dollars. This... this is a massive order totaling over ten million dollars. Our War Departnt's budget for this year simply doesn't have this money."
"Then go to Congress for it!" Stanton's reply was direct.
"Then this would require Congress to pass a special 'Ergency Military Appropriations Act.'" The Quartermaster Departnt Director's face was filled with difficulty. "And to get Congress to approve such a huge sum of money in such a short ti would inevitably lead to a lengthy, contentious political debate. Senator Hans of the Democratic Party and his friends will certainly not let go of this opportunity to attack us and Mr. Argyle."
Silence fell upon the conference room once again.
They had a weapon that could win the war, but found they might not be able to afford to buy it... After the eting, Stanton remained alone in his office.
He called in Major Carter, who had just returned.
"Carter," he looked at this young officer whom he greatly admired, "you have a good relationship with that Argyle, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I believe he is a true patriot."
"Good." Stanton nodded, "You personally go to New York. Tell him all the details of today's eting completely. Including our determination and our predicant."
He walked to the window, looking at the distant white Capitol Hill.
Stanton's tone beca aningful, "Tell him that the military's weapon order is ready."
"But to get those stingy gentlen on Capitol Hill to pay for it, he needs to co to Washington in person again."
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