Cruise
It was between eight and nine in the evening, precisely when the market stalls outside the Van der Linde Gang's bustling factory truly hummed with life, a vibrant, glowing artery of commerce. For this, Dutch, with his visionary pragmatism, had specially rigged up electricity outside, bathing the entire road in the warm, inviting glow of light bulbs.
The entire market stall area wasn't particularly sprawling, mainly concentrated on the barren, cleared land at the factory entrance's edge, where it wouldn't obstruct the main road. But it wasn't small either; at least fifty vendors had already set up their makeshift stalls, their wares spilling onto tables, and more were continuously joining, drawn by the irresistible scent of profit.
All the trees here had been mercilessly cut down, the land stripped bare, purely to allow vendors selling their goods to find space for their ever-expanding stalls, a testament to the factory's magnetic pull.
In just one short week, the market stalls outside Hope Ranch had already begun to gain a fearsome reputation, their fame spreading like wildfire across New Hanover, with even grizzled folk from distant Strawberry hearing tell of this new El Dorado.
After all, there was real, undeniable profit to be made here. It was said, whispered in awe, that one of the hottest selling items, a particularly potent women's cosmetic product, raked in over thirty dollars in net profit in a single night! This allowed the lucky vendor selling the product to pay off all their crushing debts overnight, a miraculous transformation from destitution to solvency.
Damn it, others worked themselves to the bone for a month and twenty dollars was the absolute most they could earn, with more earning ten-something dollars being considered a damn good job, a stable livelihood. Yet here, one could earn thirty dollars in a single night. It starkly showed how quickly, how miraculously, money could be made through sheer business acumen, amplified by Dutch's golden touch.
Because of this astonishing, undeniable prosperity, many desperate families in Valentine began consciously saving their meager pennies or wholesaling goods with whatever capital they could muster, eager to sell at the factory entrance. This place, Hope Happiness Ranch, was like a burgeoning university town, never lacking for buyers; one thriving factory supported an entire, bustling street.
"Hosea!" Dutch called out, his voice cheerful, as he, accompanied by a serene Miss O'Shea, weaved through the throng of market stalls, their progress slow amidst the lively crowd. He found Hosea sitting on a large rock, looking utterly content, enjoying some savory snacks with relish.
The old fellow was wearing the latest stylish and handsome men's clothing from their 'VDL' line, and at this moment, his mouth was gloriously greasy from his culinary indulgence.
This old man, too, Dutch noted with a satisfied smirk, had finally learned to enjoy himself; in fact, he made it a point to come out and eat dinner here every single night. After all, Mr. Pearson's camp cooking, bless his heart, was truly hard to stomach.
"Dutch!" Hosea smiled, a warm wave of his hand, his eyes twinkling. Not far behind him, in the deepening darkness, were the skeletal outlines of new buildings, their frames rising against the twilight sky. These buildings, Dutch knew, looked exactly like the same sturdy, prefabricated stalls found in a black market, designed for efficiency and rapid construction. These were the very market stall buildings Dutch was currently constructing, though they were not yet fully completed, still works in progress.
These, in his grand vision, would be the future factory district storefronts, the heart of his burgeoning city. As the makeshift market stalls expanded, these newly constructed buildings would eventually be rented out at a handsome price, which was also the rudimentary form of establishing a city, of building an urban infrastructure.
In addition, various wooden houses were being built behind these structures, meticulously planned, which would all be treated as future factory housing, providing accommodation for his ever-growing workforce. It could be said that Dutch, with his relentless ingenuity, utilized every money-making idea, every last cent of profit, to its absolute extreme.
"How is it, Hosea," Dutch asked, settling onto a rock beside his old friend, a comfortable sigh escaping him, then pulling out a match to light the cigar in his mouth, the scent of expensive tobacco mingling with the smells of food. "Do you still have any doubts about my ideas, old friend?"
"No, Dutch. I have no doubts whatsoever now, hahaha." Hosea laughed heartily, a genuine, booming sound. He felt that Dutch was becoming more and more amazing, more and more like a visionary prophet; it was as if he could see through everything, see the very fabric of the future. Whatever he said he would do would succeed with uncanny precision, and whatever he said would change about this place, this forgotten corner of the world, would change, irrevocably. This made him finally realize, with a profound sense of awe, that Dutch was always Dutch, always one step ahead, always manipulating the pieces on his vast chessboard.
"Alright, old friend, our situation here is pretty much settled, the foundations laid." Dutch took a deep puff of his cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke into the cool evening air. Ms. O'Shea, who was beside him, gave him a small, affectionate squeeze on the arm, then, with a warm smile, walked towards Karen and Mary-Beth, who were giggling among the bustling crowd of workers. Although she hadn't gotten along particularly well with Karen before, their personalities often clashing, the friendship among the Van der Linde Gang members, forged in the crucible of shared hardship, was surprisingly strong, almost unbreakable. When Dutch, in his busy schedule, didn't have time to bother with her, she often preferred to seek out Karen, for all their bickering.
And while Karen would quarrel and slap her every day in the camp, a constant, comical rivalry, it was Karen who, with surprising fierceness, stood up for Ms. O'Shea when the stern Ms. Grimshaw, the camp's matriarch, had beaten her for some infraction. The two were like classic tsunderes, hard to understand, their affection hidden beneath layers of feigned animosity.
Ms. O'Shea went to find Karen, their laughter already mingling. Meanwhile, Dutch and Hosea remained seated on the rock, their figures illuminated by the market's glow, discussing their next audacious plan.
"Did the machines you ordered last time come back, Dutch?" Hosea asked, his voice low, serious. "The ones for making bullets and firearms?"
"Yes, Hosea, the machines are back, right on schedule," Dutch replied, a satisfied smirk on his face. "And I need you to take Davey, Mac, as well as John and Bill to transport them back. Van Horn Trading Post isn't very peaceful, Hosea, you need to be careful this time when you go, exceptionally vigilant. Also, the machines can be transported directly to Shady Belle. Mr. Randy and Mr. Marko are already diligently researching the machines there. I think this entire set of machines should be completely sufficient for their research, enough to jumpstart our military production. Oh, right," Dutch said, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a piece of paper, folded precisely. "Also give this drawing to Mr. Marko and Mr. Randy, and let them research how to manufacture the repeating firearms shown in it!"
This particular drawing, Arthur's meticulous handiwork, held a pattern very familiar to modern people: the iconic AK-47. However, only the external shape was drawn with surprising accuracy; the intricate internal structure was not depicted at all, a mere outline of a terrifying future. Dutch didn't understand the complex structure and manufacturing principles of this type of firearm, and it was even very likely that such a thing couldn't be made at all right now, in this era; after all, he knew, seamless steel pipes seemed quite difficult to produce with their current technology. However, he still needed to try. What if it could be made? he mused. Anyway, he wasn't the one manufacturing it; he was only responsible for providing the grand ideas, the revolutionary concepts.
"Alright, Dutch. I heard Arthur say you two are going to Saint Denis again in the next couple of days?" Hosea took the drawing, unfolded it, looked at it for a couple of seconds, his brow furrowed, but didn't see anything particularly insightful. He then folded it carefully and put it in his pouch, then looked at Dutch, his gaze sharp, and continued to ask.
"Yes, Hosea," Dutch nodded, lighting another cigarette, his gaze fixed on the still bustling market stalls ahead. "The clothing factory needs more orders, a constant flow of gold, and also needs to continue expanding. And we want to advance into Guarma, to claim that island as our own, so we also need to communicate with the powerful figures in Saint Denis, to gauge the situation, to manipulate them. So we need to go to Saint Denis again, at least to solve the clothing issue first, to secure our legitimate business." He sighed, a faint exhalation of smoke. If there were only a thousand people in this factory, it wouldn't develop no matter what, it would stagnate, wither. So he needed to recruit more people, constantly recruit people, to ensure the healthy, vigorous development of this place. And the crucial issues of Guarma and women's rights also needed to be put on the agenda, pushed forward with relentless zeal.
"Alright, Dutch, I won't try to persuade you any further," Hosea said, a weary resignation in his voice. "But you'd best bring Arthur to ensure your safety, that's the most important thing! With you, the Van der Linde Gang will not decline, not truly." Hosea nodded, his eyes fixed on his friend. Privately, he might have his arguments with Dutch, his moments of doubt, but in public, in front of the gang, he always stood with Dutch, his loyalty unwavering.
Dutch and Hosea, two old friends, enjoyed the serene beauty of the night market, the vibrant hum of life around them. The newly built bunkers around them, formidable and unyielding, as well as the five bunkers strategically placed along this road, faithfully guarded the safety of the market stalls, their cold, metallic presence a chilling reassurance.
Since Dutch came to Valentine, the entire appearance of Valentine had changed anew, transformed. And even hooligans and small gangs, once a constant menace, had become much rarer, almost extinct. Damn it, Hosea thought, a grim, satisfied chuckle escaping him, no one, not a single soul, could face a bunch of bunkers bristling with Maxim guns without being scared stiff!
Early the next morning, as the sun painted the sky in hues of soft orange and pink, Dutch, Arthur, Miss O'Shea, and Mrs. Morgan, a quartet of calculated elegance, quietly slipped away from Hope Ranch. They were bound for Saint Denis, a mere train ride away, where, two nights later, Dutch would host a banquet – not just any banquet, but a meticulously orchestrated display of power, influence, and sheer audacity. The remaining day would be dedicated entirely to Dutch's final, crucial preparations.
Time, measured by the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels, flowed slowly. After nearly a full day's journey, the verdant, swampy outskirts of Saint Denis finally materialized, and Dutch and the others, disembarking with an air of practiced nonchalance, arrived in the sprawling, humid city. This banquet, Dutch knew, was different from any he had hosted before; he didn't yet possess a decent villa in Saint Denis, no grand manor befitting his burgeoning status. So, with a flourish that only Dutch could manage, he chose to hold this pivotal event on a magnificent cruise ship, moored elegantly at the city's bustling port.
Hosting a banquet on a cruise ship wasn't a novel idea in this era, a Gilded Age indulgence, but not many people actually did it. The rental cost of the cruise ship itself wasn't cheap, a princely sum, and these upper-class wealthy individuals, despite their vast fortunes, weren't wasteful in everything they did. But this, Dutch reasoned, was the first grand gathering of the clothing store members, his newly acquired, influential network, and Dutch wanted to make it undeniably upscale, at least visually presentable, a testament to his rising power.
So he spent two thousand dollars, a sum that would keep a common family fed for years, to rent the entire cruise ship for one glorious night. As for buying a permanent house in Saint Denis, it was not currently in his plans, despite his growing wealth. The housing prices in Saint Denis were ludicrously expensive, exorbitant sums for mere brick and mortar, and their identities, for all their growing legitimacy, were not completely whitewashed yet. It would be utter foolishness to spend tens of thousands of dollars to buy a house in this place that could be legally seized, confiscated, at any moment.
Besides, tens of thousands of dollars in liquid funds, currently burning a hole in his pocket, could be used for far more strategic things; buying real estate was, for Dutch, the least worthwhile thing to do. Moreover, Saint Denis, in his grand vision, would eventually belong to him anyway, absorbed into his burgeoning empire, and spending money to buy a house in his own future territory felt, to him, a bit displeasing, an unnecessary transaction.
Compared to ordinary, stuffy banquets held in grand ballrooms, a cruise ship banquet still held a certain novelty, a whiff of exoticism. There wouldn't be many such events throughout the year, and if there were, most of them would be shady casinos, floating dens of vice. However, with a casino already integrated into the cruise ship, it was much more convenient to arrange a formal banquet, a perfect cover for his true intentions.
After paying a steep rental fee of two thousand dollars, the magnificent cruise ship docked at Saint Denis Port was successfully leased by Dutch, its grand, ornate decks awaiting his guests. However, all the drinks, the fine wines, the premium cigarettes, and the expensive cigars needed on the cruise ship had to be meticulously prepared by them, the gang, which was yet another considerable expense. But compared to the vast income brought by the clothing store members, the immense, burgeoning profits from his empire, it was just a drop in the ocean, a mere pittance.
Finally, on the evening of the second day, a week after receiving their elegant invitations, members who had received letters, as well as the crème de la crème of Saint Denis's upper society – the Senators, the magnates, the socialites – began to arrive at Saint Denis Port with their impeccably dressed female companions.
"Oh, Mr. Lemieux, Ms. Dorothea, long time no see! Welcome, welcome to this humble banquet, your esteemed presence truly graces us!" Dutch, a vision in a custom-tailored black and white suit-like outfit, its long tailcoat swaying elegantly, stood at Saint Denis Port, a picture of perfect, almost unnerving, charm.
He greeted each arriving wealthy individual and Saint Denis Senator with a beaming, effortless smile, his eyes twinkling with calculated warmth. The unwritten rules for holding banquets in America were a bit different from those in, say, Europe. Regardless of whether you were personally familiar with someone, as long as they were from the upper echelons of society, you absolutely needed to invite them.
But it was your unforgivable social fault if you didn't invite them, an insult that would not be forgotten. However, in most cases, the invited guests would indeed come, their attendance a complex dance of social obligation and opportunity, a gesture of showing deference to each other. The main purpose, of course, was to expand one's connections at the banquet, to network, to subtly influence. Therefore, every single family in Saint Denis's intricate upper society, every prominent name, was invited to this grand, audacious banquet.
Ms. O'Shea, radiant and elegant, stood gracefully beside Dutch, wearing an exquisite gown. Her attire looked noble and breathtakingly beautiful; from a distance, one could even discern the intricate, embroidered patterns on the dress, subtly forming a familiar, almost humorous name: "Rhodes Brown." That's right, this very dress was the latest, most exclusive model of women's clothing, specially designed for Mr. Rhodes Brown, a lucky member drawn from the ten highly coveted membership cards he had purchased.
This Saint Denis Bank President from the powerful Morgan Family, a man of immense wealth, was incredibly rich. To further boost his already considerable reputation and establish himself faster in Saint Denis's cutthroat social circles, he had specifically spent ten thousand dollars, an unheard-of sum, to purchase ten memberships, simply for the prestige and the chance at a custom garment.
"Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, you've really given us a huge surprise recently! Oh, is that Mr. Rhodes Brown's name? Is this the clothing style designed for Mr. Rhodes Brown? Damn it, Mr. Van der Linde, you are truly a design genius! A visionary! I think this clothing style will quickly spread like wildfire, no woman can refuse such a beautiful, irresistible design!" Mr. Norton, a portly man with a booming laugh, stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with admiration, to shake Dutch's hand warmly, his grip firm.
They had all, these shrewd politicians and businessmen, witnessed Signor Bronte's recent, spectacular misfortunes, his public humiliation, and these families had even collectively, eagerly, snatched a massive piece of meat from Signor Bronte's very hands, enriching themselves at his downfall.
The illicit profits Signor Bronte had gained from selling slaves over the years were almost entirely surrendered, a forced concession, which was an enormous sum! Even if these upper-class families divided it among themselves, it was still an amount that no one could give up, a treasure beyond imagining! So, even though Signor Bronte still stood, a wounded, caged tiger, they were very, very satisfied with the outcome.
Most importantly, Dutch's predatory hand had not yet reached into the intricate, established networks of Saint Denis, and there were no immediate conflicts of interest with them, which was a result everyone desperately wanted to see. After all, they didn't want to get rid of one Signor Bronte only to unwittingly welcome another, a new, more dangerous tyrant. As for the formidable bunkers Dutch had built outside, the concrete bastions guarding his territories, the bunkers in Valentine, they were completely, blissfully unaware of these.
After all, no one, not a single soul among them, could imagine that someone would make a fortune just to build bunkers; this was simply unimaginable for a normal person! Who the hell makes money in this era, a time of boundless opportunity, just to build bunkers? A normal, ambitious person should want to squeeze into the city after making money, then make even more money in the city, become a superior person, a respected magnate, and eventually establish a legendary, influential family, a dynasty.
No one, absolutely no one, would make money and then build bunkers, constantly, obsessively, thinking about overthrowing America, about subverting the very order of things. This, they concluded, was simply not normal human thinking! In fact, their current, misguided speculation about Dutch was that he was making money, diligently saving it, and then planning to escape to some far-flung, exotic paradise after saving enough money, living out his days in quiet luxury.
This, they believed, was also the fundamental reason they believed Dutch didn't extend his hand into Saint Denis, a calculated decision to avoid attracting unnecessary attention before his grand escape.
"Hahaha, Mr. Lemieux, this is what I should do." Dutch laughed heartily, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Alright, sir, please come aboard the cruise ship. Have a good time tonight!" He naturally understood the true, veiled meaning of Norton's words, the subtle warnings hidden beneath the pleasantries. These damned politicians, he mused, had many ideas and ingrained notions about fighting within the rules, playing their petty games of influence. It could even be said that each of them was a shrewd, calculating person, a master of their confined domain.
But this, Dutch knew, was also their greatest drawback, their fatal flaw: their ideas were currently confined solely within the rigid, invisible rules of the city, unable to jump out and look at problems from a broader, more ruthless perspective. Just like Signor Bronte, who had been deeply involved in Saint Denis for many years, he too was deeply trapped in its intricate, suffocating web of rules.
"Alright, Mr. Van der Linde, hahahaha," Norton laughed heartily, a booming, confident sound, "your cruise ship banquet tonight will surely give us an unforgettable night, a truly memorable occasion!" He led Ms. Dorothea towards the gangplank of the cruise ship, his demeanor radiating an air of self-importance. As he passed Dutch, he stopped again, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, and quietly, conspiratorially, asked,
"Mr. Van der Linde, I think it's time for the issue of those redskins to have a resolution, don't you agree?" Targeting Bronte, the old regime, had benefited all their families, providing a shared feast. But these Saint Denis families, Dutch knew, would still continue their internal, petty squabbles, constantly vying for more power, more influence. Overall, it just meant everyone could get a piece of the pie. And targeting the Indians, the "redskins," was his Lemieux Family's direct way of currying favor with the immensely powerful Mr. Cornwall. If this matter was handled well, with precision and ruthlessness, only his Lemieux Family would benefit, gaining an unprecedented advantage. Therefore, the priorities were clear, brutally simple.
Dutch's expression didn't change at all, not a single flicker of emotion, and the charming smile on his face remained perfectly intact. He laughed heartily, his voice ringing with false cordiality, and said, "Of course, Mr. Lemieux, trust me, this matter will be perfectly resolved in less than two months! A clean, decisive resolution, just as you wish!"
"Very good, Mr. Van der Linde, I hope you remember your words." Norton nodded in satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with greedy anticipation, before turning to board the ship.
Ms. Dorothea had just finished whispering with Ms. O'Shea nearby, their heads close, sharing gossip. Now she walked over with a bright, genuine smile, greeting Dutch warmly. "Mr. Van der Linde, long time no see, dear!" She was not one of the decision-makers of the Lemieux Family, her power limited, so she had no right and could not know Norton's ruthless thoughts, his hidden agenda. In fact, the only reason she could come tonight was because of her surprisingly good relationship with Dutch, her genuine admiration for him; otherwise, her standing within the Lemieux Family was not enough to be a representative for external social events, to be seen in such high company. At most, she would just be pushed out as a trailblazer for women's rights, a convenient pawn in their game.
"Hahaha, Ms. Dorothea, have a good time tonight!" Dutch laughed heartily, a grand, theatrical gesture, stepping forward and kissing her hand with impeccable manners, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He then watched Ms. Dorothea follow Mr. Norton's footsteps onto the cruise ship, his eyes showing no gloom, no bitterness, but rather a hint of profound joy.
They remained high and mighty, he thought, a cold, cynical smile playing on his lips; even though the Van der Linde Gang had brutally demonstrated their might, their unwavering power, years of adherence to rigid rules, to the unspoken social contract, made these elite families feel even less threatened than the utterly broken Signor Bronte. Only Signor Bronte had now truly realized that the rules of Saint Denis, its intricate web of laws and customs, could not, would not, restrict the Van der Linde Gang, who operated by their own, brutal code.
While these damned upper-class individuals still lived high and mighty within these rules, comfortably using them as both means of defense and ruthless attack. But this, Dutch knew, was perfectly normal; after all, weren't the rules, the very fabric of their society, made by them to restrict others? They had long been accustomed to it over the years, blindly following the script of their own creation.