On the train returning to Connecticut from Indianapolis, Miller felt more relaxed than ever.
He leaned back in the soft seat, watching the Ohio fields rapidly receding outside the window, toying with the first-generation prototype breech presented to him by Dr. Gatling.
Sitting opposite him, the young lawyer Arthur Hayes was still organizing the thick patent transfer agreent, his face still showing the excitent of having completed a task.
"Mr. President," Arthur couldn't help but say, "I still find it a bit incredible. You... you convinced that stubborn doctor in less than an hour. I had prepared an entire set of argunts regarding patent law and infringent risks, but I didn't use a single word."
"Because the weapon the Boss provided is more effective than legal statutes, Arthur."
Miller put the heavy breech back into his pocket. "To deal with an idealist, you can't just talk to him about money. You have to help him see a shortcut to achieving his ideals."
He recalled what Felix had told him in the smoke-filled shooting range before their departure: "Miller, rember, you're not going to fight this ti; you're going to recruit. Dr. Gatling is not our enemy; he is a comrade who has not yet returned to our ranks."
Now, this comrade had finally returned to the ranks.
That night, an encrypted telegram personally written by Miller was sent from Whitneyville, Connecticut, traveling hundreds of miles to a mansion on Fifth Avenue in New York.
The content of the telegram was simple.
"Boss:
The Doctor has boarded. All patents are in port. Mission accomplished, awaiting new instructions.
— Miller"
Felix looked at the decoded ssage Frost handed him, a knowing smile on his face. He casually tossed the thin telegram paper into the flas of the fireplace.
"Edward."
"The last legal obstacle has been cleared. Now, it's ti to truly make our dormant war machine roar."
...Early the next morning, Felix's instructions arrived via telegraph to every relevant corner of his business empire.
In Connecticut, at the Militech factory.
Production Manager Frank Cole, upon receiving the telegram, imdiately gathered all his core engineers and craftsn. He did not give any lengthy speeches, but simply unrolled a large, brand-new workshop blueprint, personally revised and approved by Felix, onto the huge workbench dedicated to the "Militech machine gun" project.
"Gentlen," his voice echoed through the empty workshop, full of power, "The Boss's order has been given. The 'Organ of Death' will officially enter the mass production preparation phase starting today."
"Silas," he turned to the chief craftsman with calloused hands, "I need you to imdiately lead your forging team to collaborate with Mr. Griffith's laboratory. According to the specifications on this blueprint, forge us the first batch, a total of fifty sets, of high-strength molds and fixtures specifically for the assembly line."
"Jas," he then looked at the young engineer, "you are responsible for all machine tool modifications. I need those new machines shipped from Hartford to be fully converted within a week into specialized machine tools capable of semi-automated, continuous processing of gun barrels and receiver components."
"As for the expansion of the new factory," he looked around, "I have already applied to the Boss for a new budget. Next to this open space, we will build a brand-new, independent factory building specifically for machine gun assembly and testing. It will have its own firing range and ammunition depot."
Dr. Richard Gatling, the new consultant who had arrived in Whitneyville less than two days ago, stood at the edge of the crowd. He looked at the bustling, organized, and disciplined industrial scene before him, and then thought of his own small, workshop-style laboratory with only three craftsn.
For the first ti, he so intuitively felt what a terrifying force the "industrial system" Felix Argyle spoke of truly was.
Frank walked over to him, a respect unique among engineers on his face.
"Doctor," he said, "welco to Militech. The Boss specifically instructed that you have complete technical freedom here. The independent laboratory that has just been cleared for you, all its equipnt and personnel, will be personally selected by you."
"However," Frank added, "he also hopes that you can quickly translate those brilliant ideas about 'optimizing the ammunition feed chain' and 'improving firing rate stability' into concrete blueprints that can be realized in the workshop."
Gatling looked at Frank, then at the magnificent blueprint not far away, which was being transford from paper into reality by countless people at an astonishing speed. His inventor's heart began to beat violently with a passion called "creation."
"Of course." He nodded, his eyes full of light, "Now, let's begin."
...anwhile, in New York, Felix's study.
Felix was not in a hurry to enjoy the victory of this patent battle. He was looking for the most suitable buyer for the fruits of this victory.
"Edward," he said to Frost, "draft a telegram and send it to Major Carter in Washington."
Frost imdiately spread out the letter paper, ready to record.
"Tell him," Felix's thoughts were crystal clear, "First, Militech is honored to announce that Dr. Richard Gatling, the pioneer in the field of revolving barrel weapons, has officially accepted my invitation to join our R&D team. From a legal standpoint, we now possess all exclusive patents and production rights for such weapons within the States."
"This is a statent, Edward," Felix explained, "it's to demonstrate our technological monopoly to the War Departnt."
"Second," he continued, "inform him that our 'Pioneer Model 1863 Revolving Machine Gun,' having incorporated Dr. Gatling's valuable experience, has completed its final optimization and design. We are ready to conduct a full-performance demonstration of the highest standard for the War Departnt at any ti."
"We can compare it on the sa field with any in-service weapon, including Dr. Gatling's own early models, to prove its overwhelming superiority."
Frost's pen glided quickly across the paper; he could feel the oppressive business logic behind the Boss's telegram.
"So... what about the price, Boss?" he asked, "Should we include an initial quote?"
"No." Felix shook his head, a smile on his face that only a hunter would understand.
"It's not ti to talk about price yet."
"What we need to do first is to make Secretary Stanton and those generals fall in love with this weapon. Let them see with their own eyes what kind of storm it can unleash on the battlefield."
"They need to understand," Felix looked out the window at the bustling yet undercurrent-filled landscape of New York, "that this weapon is different from previous rifles; it is sothing that can end the war and achieve victory faster."
"As for the price of victory," he concluded, "that will be determined by their desire."
Late sumr 1863, Virginia.
The rhythm of war here was drawn out like a slow, painful groan.
The smoke of Gettysburg had not yet fully dissipated when the Union Army of the Potomac and Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia once again fell into a suffocating standoff along rivers and hills.
In the camp of the 72nd Pennsylvania Infantry Regint, the atmosphere was as oppressive as an impending downpour.
Captain Vance leaned against an oak tree, half its crown shorn off by artillery fire, absentmindedly wiping his Colt revolver at his waist with an oilcloth.
His Company C had just received a batch of brand-new weapons.
This news did not stir much ripple among these battle-hardened veterans. They had seen too many "new gadgets," most of which were less useful than a sharpened stick in Virginia's damp mud.
"Boss," his deputy, an Irish veteran nad O'Connell, spat out his tobacco quid and spoke in a hoarse voice, "I still don't think this thing is very reliable. Too many parts, too delicate. Roll it in mud and water, and I bet it'll turn into a fire poker."
He was referring to the newly issued "Militech 1863" rifles, which glowed with a deep blue luster.
Soldiers gathered in small groups around the crates filled with the new guns, their faces full of curiosity and suspicion. A young soldier clumsily imitated the officer's demonstration, trying to pull the lever beneath the rifle body. The crisp "click" sounded particularly abrupt in the camp.
"I heard a wounded soldier from the Western Front bragging," another veteran said, "that General Sherman's troops used this thing to mow down an entire brigade of Confederates by the Black River like cutting wheat."
"Bragging," O'Connell snorted, "What do those cowboys on the Western Front know about fighting? They're facing militian with farm tools. Here, in Virginia, across from us are the devils left behind by 'Stonewall' Jack."
Captain Vance did not join their argunt. He simply stood up and walked to the pile of weapon crates.
He picked one up, feeling its heavy weight and perfect balance. As a professional soldier graduated from West Point Military Academy, he could feel an unprecedented industrial power from the cold steel of this rifle.
"O'Connell," he spoke, his voice not loud, but it made all the surrounding chatter cease.
"Here, Boss."
"Pass on my order. Everyone, imdiately begin live-fire training. I don't care how you fought before. From today on, you must forget about ramrods and paper cartridges. You only have one action—pull the lever, then shoot."
His gaze swept over his soldiers, who still wore skeptical expressions.
"I don't care if you like it or not," his voice grew stern.
"Tomorrow morning, the army will launch a probing attack on the Confederates' defense line across the Rappahannock River. And our company's mission," he pointed to an inconspicuous small hill on the map, "is to establish a strongpoint here, next to this abandoned mill. We will hold back all possible counterattacks from the enemy."
"Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
...The next morning, a thin mist shrouded the Rappahannock River valley.
Captain Vance and his Company C had quietly constructed a makeshift defensive line around the old mill, which now only consisted of a few broken stone walls.
"They'll co out of that woods," O'Connell lay prone behind the stone wall, observing the open ground opposite with binoculars, "It's always the sa, first they shell us for a while, then their infantry will swarm out like gray ants."
Vance did not speak.
He simply checked the rifle in his hand, then said to the ssenger beside him, "Tell everyone, free fire. Give all your bullets."
At nine in the morning, the Confederates' artillery barrage arrived as expected. But the intensity was not great, clearly just a routine preparatory bombardnt.
After the shelling, the sharp sound of the attack horn blared from across the river.
Just as O'Connell had predicted. Rows of Confederates soldiers in gray uniforms, bayonets fixed, erged from the woods and began to advance steadily towards the mill using standard linear infantry tactics.
"Hold steady... wait until they're closer..." Vance's voice was as calm as ice.
When the first rank of Confederates soldiers entered the effective range of two hundred yards.
"Fire!"
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A relatively sparse volley of gunfire erupted from behind the stone wall. Dozens of Confederates soldiers fell.
The Confederates officers paid no attention to this. This was normal attrition of war. They brandished their sabers, urging their soldiers to continue advancing.
They knew that after the Northern soldiers opposite completed their first volley, they would need at least half a minute to perform the tedious muzzle-loading. And that half-minute would be enough for them to shorten the charge distance by another hundred yards.
However, the expected lull in firepower did not occur.
What greeted them was a storm of tal they had never imagined, like a hellish anvil.
"Shoot! Keep shooting!"
O'Connell's roar had beco hoarse with excitent. He lay on the stone wall, like a madman, constantly pulling the lever, firing bullet after bullet into the open ground opposite.
The entire position of Company C instantly transford into a volcano spewing flas and death.
"Click! Bang! Bang! Click! Bang!"
The continuous gunfire completely drowned out all other sounds on the battlefield. Hot brass casings rained down, clattering and bouncing from behind every stone wall.
The Union soldiers didn't even need to stand up; they just needed to hide behind cover, repeating that simple yet deadly action as quickly as possible.
The Confederates' charging formation was instantly broken.
They fell in rows, like a herd of bulls hitting an invisible wall. So experienced veterans tried to find cover and return fire.
But they soon discovered in despair that by the ti they had just completed one difficult reload, the enemy opposite had already poured at least five, or even ten, bullets at them.
This was not a battle.
This was a one-sided slaughter.
"Devils... they are devils..."
A surviving Confederates corporal threw away his rifle and scrambled backward, fleeing. His face was filled with the fear of a shattered faith.
An hour later, the battle was over.
After suffering nearly four hundred casualties, the Confederates retreated in disarray to the other side of the river without even touching the mill's stone walls. Captain Vance's Company C had fewer than ten n lightly wounded by stray bullets.
When the army's commander, a brigadier general, personally rode to the position, he was utterly stunned by the sight before him.
The open ground in front of the mill was covered with gray bodies. And behind the stone walls, the Union soldiers leaned against the walls, gasping for breath. Their rifle barrels were scalding hot from excessive firing, and at everyone's feet lay a small mountain of brass casings.
"Captain..." The brigadier general dismounted. He walked up to Vance, his voice trembling with excitent, "Tell , you... how did you do it?"
Captain Vance did not answer imdiately.
He just slowly raised the rifle in his hand, still reeking of gunpowder.
He looked at this cold object that had completely changed his perception of war, and after a long ti, he spoke hoarsely.
"General," he said, "the tis... seem to have changed."
"Yes, but war... war never changes Captain..."
Late sumr of 1863, Atlanta, Georgia.
This city, which had rapidly expanded during the war, was the industrial and transportation heart of the entire Confederate South, as well as a stage for its glamour and anxiety.
To raise funds for the front lines, a charity bazaar organized by the Atlanta Ladies' Relief Society was grandly held in the square in front of City Hall.
Confederate flags hung limply in the muggy air, and a military band was playing "The Bonnie Blue Flag," but the music couldn't drown out the buzzing of hushed whispers in the crowd.
The defeats at Vicksburg and Gettysburg hung like two massive dark clouds over the hearts of every seemingly proud Southerner.
Scarlett O'Hara, wearing an exquisite dress adorned with black gauze, refashioned from her mother's old gown, stood behind the bazaar stall belonging to the Twelve Oaks plantation.
She had no interest in the bazaar itself, but she knew that maintaining visibility at such an event was crucial for a young widow and her precarious family reputation.
"Oh, Scarlett, you look beautiful," her sister-in-law, lanie Hamilton, said gently as she arranged a basket of homade bandages on the stall. "Ashley would surely write a poem for you if he were here."
"Poems don't buy money, lanie."
Scarlett responded absently, her gaze sweeping over the well-dressed gentlen in the square, calculating whose pockets were most likely to pay for her "patriotic fervor."
Just then, two familiar figures caught their attention.
It was the Calvert brothers, Sterling and Boyd. They had once been the most dazzling knights of the state, the stars of every ball.
But now, they wore faded gray military uniforms, having returned from the Virginia front, their faces etched with a weariness beyond their years. Sterling's arm was still in a sling.
"Sterling! Boyd!"
Scarlett imdiately put on her most charming smile and went to greet them. "My goodness, you're back! Quick, tell , did you teach those Yankees another harsh lesson?"
Boyd, the once liveliest younger brother, rely managed a strained smile and said nothing.
Sterling, the elder brother, let out a dry sound devoid of any humor.
"Lesson? Miss O'Hara, we almost got 'taught a lesson' by them."
"How could that be?" lanie also walked over, her eyes filled with worry. "Our soldiers are the bravest in the world."
"Brave..."
Sterling chewed on the word, his eyes staring blankly into the distance. "Yes, we are brave. We charged their positions in neat formations, just like always. We could even see the fear on their faces."
"But," his voice began to tremble slightly, "their gunfire... it didn't stop."
"What do you an?" Scarlett asked, puzzled.
"It didn't stop, Miss O'Hara."
Sterling looked at her, saying each word distinctly, "It wasn't one shot after another. It was a... a continuous wall of fire and steel. Our n fell row after row, like wheat under a scythe. They didn't even... didn't even have ti to load a second bullet."
"The sound," deep fear appeared in his eyes, "it was like a thousand sewing machines tearing cloth at the sa ti. But it wasn't cloth, it was our flesh and blood."
Scarlett and lanie were both stunned; they had never heard such a terrifying description.
"A new weapon," a lazy yet magnetic voice ca from behind them. "A repeating rifle the New Yorkers call 'Pioneer.' It seems the rules of war are undergoing so interesting changes."
Captain Rhett Butler had appeared there at so point, dressed in an impeccable white linen suit, a cynical smile playing on his lips.
He was Atlanta's most notorious blockade runner and its most loved-and-hated man.
"Mr. Butler," lanie nodded politely, but with a hint of distance in her eyes.
"How do you know all this?" Scarlett asked curiously.
"Because I just returned from Nassau, my dear." Rhett's gaze lingered on Scarlett's captivating face for a mont.
"There, not only are there French perfus and English lace, but also arms dealers and spies from various European countries. All they talk about now is that young man nad Argyle in New York, and his factory that can churn out repeating rifles like a sausage machine."
Just then, Senator Wigfall of Georgia, surrounded by a host of local dignitaries, walked towards them.
"Oh, Captain Butler!" The Senator enthusiastically shook his hand. "I heard you've once again brought much-needed supplies for our great cause?"
"Of course, Senator," Rhett's smile held a hint of mockery, "enough so that the ladies of Atlanta won't have to worry about new ball gloves for the next three months."
The Senator's face stiffened slightly.
Rhett, however, acted as if he hadn't noticed. He glanced at the pale Calvert brothers nearby, then lowered his voice a little.
"However, Senator, what I couldn't bring this ti are weapons that can counter those 'Pioneer rifles.' I t a Prussian military observer in Nassau. He said that the firepower of that rifle is enough for a well-trained infantry company to easily suppress the charge of an entire organized battalion."
"And that's not the scariest part," Rhett continued. "The scariest part is that our intelligence agents report that Argyle isn't just building rifles. He's also building sothing... even crazier. A monster with six barrels that spins like a windmill, spraying hundreds of bullets in a minute."
"Impossible!" Senator Wigfall's face turned crimson. "You're shaking our morale! Our Tredegar Iron Works can build the best cannons in the world! We..."
"Is that so?" Rhett interrupted him, his smile completely gone. "Then, Senator, can you tell when our best ironworks will be able to produce even one brass bullet for our soldiers that can fit into those new rifles?"
...Half an hour later, in a secluded office at City Hall.
Senator Wigfall placed a glass of bourbon whiskey heavily on the table in front of Rhett. With no outsiders in the room, his face shed all pretense, leaving only anxiety and anger.
"Rhett, is everything you said true?"
"Of course, I don't have a habit of lying." Rhett leisurely sipped his drink. "Our intelligence system is almost blind in New York. Argyle's company has a higher security level than our armories. All I know is that he's madly producing weapons, dicine, and food in a way we can't comprehend. He alone supports over a third of the Yankees' logistical innovation."
"Can we replicate it?" another official from Richmond asked.
"Replicate it with what?" Rhett retorted. "With our machine tools that are still pulled by mules? Or with steel that can't even guarantee qualified gun barrels?"
He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the bazaar, still putting on a brave face.
"Gentlen," his voice was like a cold verdict, "you must understand. This is no longer a war about courage and honor. This is a war of industry."
"And we," he said slowly, "are losing it."
Rhett left the despair-filled office and returned to the square.
He saw Scarlett, successfully using her impeccable charm to persuade an elderly plantation owner to donate a large sum of cash to the "cause." Her face glowed with the vibrant radiance of a victor.
Rhett looked at her, then at the empty-eyed wounded soldiers nearby, and the politicians in the background who were worried about their future.
A complex, unreadable emotion flickered in his usually cynical eyes.
"They are still dancing to the music," Rhett murmured softly, a bitter curve forming on his lips.
"But they don't know that the ballroom beneath their feet has been built on the top of a volcano."
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