Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 132 Cutting off the Meiji government's financial lifeline! (Seeking monthly votes)
One senator exclaimed, "Doesn't that require three thousand people?"

"That's right! Three thousand people!"

Barkley whirled around: “Gentlemen, California is the heart of the Gold Rush! We are the richest state in the country! Can’t we afford an army of three thousand?”

“We must expand! Expand the National Guard to three thousand men! And then—” He slammed his hand on the map.

"One battalion, stationed in Presidio! One battalion, stationed outside Los Angeles! One battalion, holding Stockton! One battalion, in San Jose! One battalion, controlling San Diego! The rest, remaining in Sacramento as a reserve!"

"What we need is not a rescue team, but a response force! We want to let those damn thugs, whether they are Irish, Dutch, or those ungrateful Chinese, know that if they dare to fire a single shot in the street, within thirty minutes, five hundred rifles and Gatling guns will be pointed at their heads!"

"This……"

Governor Irwin stood up, walked to the map, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes.

Barkley was scared.

But Barkley also gave him a perfect excuse.

An excuse that transformed him from an incompetent governor into a hardline reformer.

"A National Guard of three thousand men..."

Irving whispered, "This will require a huge budget, and Parliament will be in an uproar."

"But they will agree!"

Barkley immediately chimed in: "Think about what happened to Senator Crestwood! Think about their own estates and banks! They'll agree! They have to agree! It's for the safety of California!"

Governor Irwin stared at Barkley, the political clown he had always looked down on.

He suddenly realized that the clown was now very useful.

“You’re right, Mr. Barkley.”

Irving nodded thoughtfully: "California's security must be stabilized. I can no longer tolerate this anarchy. I need a strong person to execute this plan. Someone who understands the front lines, someone with guts."

Barkley's heart began to pound.

“Governor…”

“Mr. Barkley,” Governor William Irwin walked around the table to him, placing his hands on his shoulders, “I will propose to the legislature that you be appointed Chief Expansion Officer of the California National Guard, acting as Commander-in-Chief! I’ll give you the budget, I’ll give you the authority, and you go and recruit those three thousand men for me!”

Irving's eyes flashed with the cold glint of a political animal: "I want you to turn this army into a sword hanging over the heads of all the troublemakers in California! Can you do it?"

Barkley nearly fainted from ecstasy.

He forced back his trembling, stood up abruptly, and roared in the loudest voice he had ever heard: "Yes, Sir! I will not let you down, Governor! For California!"

Barkley walked out of the governor's mansion with a triumphant air.

The midday sun in Sacramento was blinding, but he felt incredibly comfortable.

He felt as if he were standing on clouds, not on mud.

He, Barkley, is no longer that stray dog.

He is the highest-ranking officer in the California National Guard!
Three thousand men! Three thousand guns!

His brain buzzed with the infusion of power.

“Qingshan…” He licked his dry lips, a ferocious fanaticism appearing on his face.

"Have you washed your neck?"

He even started to look forward to it.

I'm hoping for another riot in San Francisco.

No, riots aren't necessary. Just a tiny excuse, a little bit of unrest...

He would personally lead an entire battalion into San Francisco.

He would kick open the office door of that incompetent mayor Samuel with his military boots and lift that idiot up.

Then he would go to the police station.

He imagined that scene—

He was wearing a brand-new general's uniform, followed by fully armed soldiers, when he kicked open the door to Aoyama's office.

He would see the look of astonishment and fear on the Chinese man's face.

He would draw his silver-plated revolver, press it against Qingshan's forehead, and say to him with a smile:
"You're fired, you lowly Qing Dynasty dog."

No, I won't kill you.

Barkley scheming maliciously in his mind: "That's too easy on you. I'll arrest you, charge you with treason and collusion, lock you up in San Quentin State Prison, and let those fiercest blacks and Mexicans take turns fucking your ass! I'll make you wish you were dead!"

He stood by the carriage, trembling with the wicked fantasy, and let out a low, chuckling laugh.

Barkley is coming back.

At the same time, more than a hundred miles away.

Marlene O'Dell's farm in Northern California.

Lawson was lying on the porch of the newly built building, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat that covered most of his face, leisurely basking in the sun.

The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut hay and the sweet aroma of Marlene baking apple pie in the kitchen.

A stream of information, coming from a militia barracks in Sacramento, silently entered Lawson's consciousness.

“Barkley. Governor. Chief Expansion Officer. Three thousand men. Six battalions. Stationed separately.”

For a fleeting moment, Lawson's breath caught in his throat.

The straw hat covering his face moved slightly.

A few seconds later, a very soft sneer came from under the straw hat.

Lawson slowly raised his hand and pushed his straw hat up, revealing his deep eyes.

He squinted, looking at the leisurely white cloud on the horizon, and couldn't help but smile.

“Barkley…heh, Barkley…”

This political clown, who in his eyes wasn't even worthy of being a dog, this stray dog ​​who was so terrified of Qingshan that he wet himself, actually made a brilliant move.

No, this is not a good move by Barkley.

This is a brilliant move by Governor William Irwin.

This guy, who's obsessed with becoming president, has finally been pushed to the limit.

"Disperse the National Guard and establish rapid reaction forces..."

Lawson tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest of the recliner: "That's a very good idea."

This almost perfectly aligns with his own future plans.

A large, concentrated army, stationed in the capital, looked impressive, but was actually stupid and slow.

The prototype of a modern army is one that is dispersed and stationed in various key cities, maintaining stability in peacetime and assembling in wartime.

Barkley, or rather Governor Irwin, is doing what he most wants to do, but is currently unable to do.

"He wanted to expand the force, from less than 1,500 people to 3,000 people."

Lawson's mind began to work like the most sophisticated difference engine.

"This means he needs at least 1,500, or even 2,000 new recruits."

“He needs money.” — The state legislature will provide it.

"He needs a weapon." — Perfect timing, Suzaku Precision's new gun can find a buyer.

"He needs people."

Lawson's smile became playful.

Barkley believed he was building his own army, an army to take revenge on Green Mountain.

That poor idiot.

He had no idea that he was just a contractor.

A perfect contractor who doesn't have to pay a single penny of wages, yet the other party has to be grateful and work themselves to the bone for him.

He will use state government funds to build a perfect, legitimate military framework.

All Lawson had to do was fill the empty bottle with his own liquor.

Lawson picked up the lemonade from the small table next to him and took a sip.

Cool and sweet.

“National Guard…” he murmured to himself.

He already has over a dozen henchmen in the National Guard, and it seems he can squeeze in more.

Sausalito Pier.

Lawson's consciousness descended upon the assassin Mick.

He was standing in front of the window of the North Pacific Coast Railroad Company's dock dispatch office.

The glass was covered with seabird droppings and solidified salt crystals, distorting the view.

Mick was holding a cigar in his hand.

This is Aaron Bryant's hobby.

That idiot thought that by holding this thing in his mouth, he could act like a manager.

In order to become his most trusted second-in-command, Mick had to endure this inferior tobacco.

Aaron, that idiot, is probably back in that Gypsy bitch Zorina's room right now.

That idiot didn't even know that the reason he could earn Zorina's admiration and praise was entirely due to the eagle dollars that Mick secretly slipped to that Gypsy girl.

Zorina was manipulating him like a monkey.

An idiot whose big head is controlled by his small head.

This saved Mick some trouble.

With Aaron absent, Mick could easily browse through the newly delivered master shipment manifest.

This thin piece of paper, stained with coffee and cigarette ash, will determine the flow of wealth across the continent in the coming weeks.

Lawson's gaze swept over the illegible handwriting line by line.

Cotton fabric, railway tracks, whiskey, cured beef...

His gaze was fixed on a few words.

Port of origin: Yokohama

[Goods: Grade A raw silk]

Quantity: 300 packs (Bales)

[Status: Already received (WH-3), awaiting further consolidation]

"raw silk."

The piercing whistles and the foreman's roars outside the window vanished instantly. In Lawson's mind, time seemed to freeze.

The pungent smell of cigars and mold in the dispatch room also dissipated.

All other words on the list turned into blurry ink marks, except for the two words "raw silk," which were stretched and magnified in the field of vision.

A storm exploded in his mind.

Damn it, how could I forget about this!
These are not three hundred packages of ordinary goods.

This is not cotton, and it is not grain!

This is a financial artery flowing with gold!
In an instant, Lawson's understanding of the future, like a giant hand, forcefully tore through the historical fog of 1878.

Microparticle disease!
This plague that swept across Europe was not targeting humans, but rather silkworms.

France and Italy, the two silk giants of the Old World, had their sericulture industry almost completely destroyed by this disaster, and the entire industry was paralyzed.

Those once-proud European silk merchants are now begging for raw materials like dogs.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, in America...

This rapidly expanding industrial behemoth is experiencing explosive growth in its textile industry.

Paterson, New Jersey, the city known as the Silk Capital of America, is a place where factory owners are like a flock of fledglings eagerly awaiting food...

No, like a group of extremely thirsty addicts, screaming wildly and begging for any raw silk they could get their hands on.

Supply has almost dried up, while demand is surging.

Who can fill this vacuum?

Japan.

Lawson's thoughts flowed freely. In his eyes, the list had long since disappeared, replaced by the faces of short officials in Western suits with ridiculous mustaches from the Meiji government.

They staked the fate of the nation on it.

They are frantically earning foreign exchange by relying on this trans-Pacific raw silk trade, their only pillar industry that has consistently accounted for 60% of their total exports.

What do they do with this money?
In Lawson's mind, the image of a cold, steel behemoth clearly appeared.

1878...

Damn it, it's this year!
Japan has just received the Fusō ironclad warship, which they had long dreamed of, from the British!
They used that money to buy those damn coastal defense cannons from the Krupp factory in Germany.

They used this money to fund domestic railways and steel mills, and, imitating the West, frantically pushed forward their industrialization and military modernization.

The faces of those officials flashed through Lawson's mind, and their faces overlapped with the crazy, cruel militaristic faces of the future that he remembered.

A chilling killing intent solidified in his mind.

He seemed to hear a crisp click, like the cocking of a bullet.

"Sniper."

He found the trigger.

He has not only found the trigger, he is building the gallows himself.

Cutting off Japan's raw silk trade was tantamount to severing the Meiji government's financial lifeline.

This is no longer a simple business competition; it is about preemptively targeting a militaristic monster that will bring endless disasters in the future.

This was done while the baby was still in swaddling clothes; their oxygen tube was cut off, and the deformed infant was drowned alive in the bathtub!

Lawson's lips curled into an extremely cold smile on Mick's otherwise feignedly honest and simple face.

How do I cut it?

Compare us to them in silkworm farming? Compare us in terms of agricultural population?
Raising hundreds of millions of worms on millions of acres of mulberry trees?
That's something only an idiot would do.

That kind of time-consuming and labor-intensive meticulous work has an outrageously low cost-effectiveness.

Every penny Lawson has to be spent wisely.

He must, and can only, fight with the most powerful weapons America has ever used.

Industry, chemicals, and capital.

A single word cleaved through his thoughts like lightning.

Rayon.

The most common Lei Ying in later generations.

In Europe at that time, relevant chemical theories already existed.

Those scientists in white coats, tinkering with nitrocellulose in the lab, have already reached the edge.

They smelled the scent of money, but hadn't yet found the right key.

Historically, the Frenchman named Hilaire de Chardonnay had to wait another damn 16 years before he could formally apply for a patent for the adhesive method and shock the world at the Paris Exposition.

Lawson doesn't need to wait.

He wanted to take advantage of California, the land of gold and abundant resources, in 1878 to get ahead of the industrial production of rayon sixteen years ahead of schedule!

His mind began to work at a terrifying speed, precisely dissecting every aspect of industrialization.

The core raw material? Cellulose.

This is fucking tailor-made for California.

What is the cheapest and most abundant source of cellulose? Wood pulp and cotton linters.

Wood pulp?

Lawson's thoughts drifted across the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

There are the world's largest forest resources there, and the logging industry is at its most rampant and prosperous stage.

The waste wood and low-grade wood pulp produced by those logging sites every day are piled up like mountains and are worthless!
What's garbage to them is a gold mine to Lawson!
Cotton linters?
His thoughts then turned to the San Joaquin Valley.

The land there is being converted from wheat cultivation to cotton cultivation.

The vast amount of short fibers left over after cotton processing, cotton linters, are also an excellent source of cellulose!
Location? Auckland!

There is no place more perfect than this.

It was the western terminus of the transcontinental railroad, a major port, an emerging industrial center, and adjacent to San Francisco, all under his absolute control.

Lawson's consciousness has entered the laboratory of Suzaku Precision.

He doesn't need to start from scratch.

All he needed to do was give those die-hard engineers who were experts in chemical engineering a clear revelation.

He would sketch out a design for a spinneret. He would mix the wood pulp treated with carbon disulfide and caustic soda.

He would jot down a string of chemical formulas and leave them on the lab table.

The key technologies of the glue process are not difficult.

It simply involves using strong alkalis, such as caustic soda, to boil the cheap wood pulp, processing it into cellulose alkali, and then adding carbon disulfide.

This stuff has a pungent smell and is highly poisonous, but it will bring about an alchemical transformation.

The cellulose base will react with it to become a...

Lawson could even picture the scene: a thick, nauseatingly orange-yellow syrup.

This is adhesive.

The final step involves forcibly squeezing this viscous liquid into a dilute acid bath through a spinneret, a metal head with countless tiny pores.

A miracle will happen at that moment.

The adhesive liquid solidifies instantly upon contact with acid, producing continuous, shimmering filaments!
Rayon!

Lawson almost burst out laughing.

How will he completely dominate the market for those fragile, expensive natural silks from Japan?
He has absolute, overwhelming self-confidence.

First, cost.

Lawson's rayon is made from wood chips and cotton scraps that are abundant in California.

This cost him almost nothing!

The only investment was in the chemical plant and equipment.

Once industrial production lines are deployed, its production costs may be only one-tenth of those of Japanese raw silk, or even lower!
This is the first executioner's blade.

Secondly, quality.

That's what's truly deadly.

Industrial product: Rayon.

Its thickness, strength, and luster are absolutely uniform.

The things that the machine pulls out are all exactly the same.

And Japanese raw silk?
That was achieved by millions of farmers manually raising silkworms and reeling silk!

There are huge quality fluctuations between batches.

This pack might be coarse and yellow, the next pack might be fine and crisp.

The factory owners in New Jersey have long been driven mad by the torment.

This unstable raw material means that the machine will frequently jam, the silk threads will break constantly, and the dye absorption will be uneven.

This is a nightmare for large-scale industrial production.

They have no choice now, they only have one supplier in Japan, and they have to beg them to ship the goods.

Lawson's rayon will be a boon to them.

This isn't competition, it's a fucking one-sided massacre.

Lawson's gaze returned to the list.

[Status: Already received (WH-3), awaiting further consolidation]

The list states that more raw silk will arrive later, and this batch will be stored here for a month until it is consolidated before being loaded onto a train and transported to the east coast.

"A month later?"

Lawson whispered in his mind.

That's such a coincidence.

A month was enough time for his naked strangulation plan to explode in London, enough time for the North Pacific Coast Railroad (NPC) to fall into complete paralysis and chaos.

If this batch of priceless Japanese raw silk were to mysteriously disappear at that time, it would be the final straw that broke the camel's back for NPC.

I will gladly accept the fruits of the Japanese people's labor.

As for Aaron Bryant, he will have the great honor of sharing the blame for this unprecedented cargo theft, along with his boss, Rutham.

P.S.: You guys are amazing! You've pushed this book to the top of the best list. Don't worry about it being abandoned or having a bad ending. With such great readers like you, we'll only keep going uphill!
Finally, please vote for me, brothers!

(End of this chapter)