"Don't say you can't accept it; I can't either!" Arthur confessed, a wry smile playing on his lips as he shook his head slowly, his gaze following Hosea's. Their eyes swept across the bustling, transformed port, taking in the surrounding scenery with a shared sense of awe and disbelief. "Hosea. I still feel like an outlaw, a man of the wilderness, but when I go out now, people actually call me Mr. Morgan… Oh, I know Dutch's plans have always been grand, always ambitious, but I never expected this one to be so outstanding, so utterly revolutionary!" He chuckled, a low, incredulous sound.
Five months ago, when they had first arrived in Saint Denis, they were still exclaiming loudly, their voices filled with raw wonder, marveling at its sheer prosperity and grandeur, a city seemingly beyond their reach. Who would have thought that a mere five months later, under Dutch's audacious, meticulously crafted plan, they would not only be permanently stationed in Saint Denis but would have become its hidden, absolute controllers, pulling the strings from the shadows?
Damn it, Arthur thought, a surge of power mixed with disbelief. The entire Saint Denis—no, the entire Lemoyne and the entire New Hanover—had become the undisputed territory of their Van der Linde Gang. It sounded like an outrageous boast, a madman's fantasy, but it was undeniably, undeniably happening right before their very eyes.
"Oh, don't be so emotional, gentlemen; your constant sentimentality is giving me a headache." Mac finally burst out, unable to hold back any longer. He threw his hands up in exasperation, his voice tinged with impatience, interrupting their philosophical musings. "Let's quickly get this cargo moved and sold! Sentimentality won't fill our coffers!"
He then clambered onto the nearest carriage with a grunt, his movements brisk, and with a practiced shove, opened the heavy lid of a large wooden cargo box inside.
Inside the cargo box, neatly packed and gleaming, was an entire batch of newly manufactured Marko semi-automatic rifles! Their dark barrels shimmered.
The rifles were fresh from the factory, their metallic surfaces still cool to the touch, and even the thin film of gun oil used for maintenance reflected the surrounding scenery in the morning light, looking exquisite and brimming with a violent, purposeful beauty.
One carriage alone carried five massive cargo boxes, each meticulously capable of holding ten gleaming rifles and their corresponding ammunition, a deadly payload. According to Dutch's predetermined rifle price, set at a lucrative one hundred and fifty dollars per rifle, that single carriage carried at least seven thousand five hundred dollars worth of goods! (Guns themselves were quite expensive; a Maxim gun in Europe during the same period cost as much as three hundred and forty-six pounds, which translates to about five thousand dollars today, showing how astronomically expensive firearms were.)
And a single rifle, not counting its inherent artistic value or the complex machine costs involved in its creation, but purely based on material and labor costs, had a ridiculously low production cost of between one and one and a half dollars. This meant they would earn a staggering profit of at least seven thousand four hundred and fifty dollars per carriage.
This entire batch of a dozen carriages, when sold, would amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars! A fortune!
Damn it, Mac thought, his eyes wide with avarice, pure profit, absolute pure profit! More profitable than even selling high-end clothing! This single batch of goods directly recouped all the enormous funds Mr. Van der Linde had allocated for building the fortifications in Guarma and ordering all the specialized machinery and equipment. From this point on, it was all pure, unadulterated profit, straight into their pockets!
"Oh ho ho, firearms! Damn it, the arms business Dutch always talked about, his grand vision, has finally begun!" Mac cackled, his voice rough with glee. He reverently took out one of the rifles, its cold metal sleek in his hands, laughing heartily as he kissed the gun barrel twice, a grotesque display of affection. "Oh, I'm going to love Mr. Marko to death! He's definitely a goddamn genius!"
Damn it, Mac vowed to himself, his mind already spinning with ambitious schemes, the arms trade Dutch always talked about has finally been successfully implemented! Mac decided then and there that he would personally ensure the Van der Linde Gang's firearms would be sold all over the world, their influence spreading like wildfire!
"Alright, Mac, put the gun back." Arthur sighed, a look of weary exasperation on his face as he watched Mac's bizarre display. He cursed at Mac, his voice low, tinged with a hint of disgust. "If someone sees you being so… disgusting with the gun, it definitely won't sell!" He then turned to Hosea, his expression shifting to one of business. "Hosea, then we'll start selling this batch of guns, immediately."
"Of course, child, the sooner the better." Hosea nodded, his eyes bright with approval, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Our firearms' reputation must be established swiftly, become legendary! At the very least, in a short time, it must completely cover New Hanover and Lemoyne!" He then looked pointedly at Signor Bronte, who stood nearby, his clown pajamas still soaking wet, his eyes wide, utterly stunned and mesmerized by the gleaming display of firearms.
"Alright, Signor Bronte, you gentlemen should board the ship now." Hosea commanded, his voice firm, gesturing towards the oil tanker. "John, take the men and escort these gentlemen to the ship's deck. Once all the machinery is transported to the cargo hold, we should depart immediately! We have new business to attend to!"
Hosea paused, a faint frown creasing his brow. "Oh, damn it, why does that sound a little familiar to me?" he muttered under his breath, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him as he watched the scene unfold.
At Hosea's command, John, ever the loyal enforcer, barked orders to the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen, directing them to escort this motley group of ruffians and former dignitaries onto the waiting steamboat.
Arthur, Mac, and Hosea stood at the port, watching the grim procession, somewhat dazed. They looked at the menacing iron rods in the hands of the escorting gunmen, gleaming coldly. They observed the ominous Maxim guns mounted securely around the steamboat's deck, their presence a stark reminder of the new order. Their eyes then fell on the handcuffs and leg irons binding the hands and feet of these ruffians, clanking faintly with each step. And finally, their gaze rested on the large steamboat itself, an instrument of both commerce and transport.
This entire scene, so chillingly efficient, so utterly devoid of dignity for the prisoners, seemed to have occurred here a hundred years ago, a ghostly echo from a darker past.
"It does feel a bit familiar, Hosea," Arthur said, withdrawing his gaze with a strange, almost haunted expression. He turned to Mac, a troubled look in his eyes.
"Alright, let's not worry about these issues anymore, Mac." Arthur dismissed the unsettling feeling with a shake of his head, forcing himself back to the present. He clapped Mac on the shoulder. "Have everyone drive the carriages and start distributing the goods to the gun shops in Saint Denis. I think Saint Denis, with its burgeoning needs, should be able to handle this entire batch of goods without issue."
"Okay, Arthur." Mac nodded briskly, his earlier emotional display replaced by a focused, businesslike demeanor. He turned and began giving crisp orders to the waiting gunmen, their voices already echoing through the port.
This batch of goods wasn't much, only a few hundred guns in total, a mere trickle compared to the demand. Saint Denis, a city rapidly arming itself under the new regime, could definitely handle this quantity; even several times more wouldn't be too much for its burgeoning black and grey markets.
In this volatile era, whether escorting a valuable vehicle, transporting sensitive goods, or simply traveling long distances through dangerous territories, possessing a good, reliable rifle could undoubtedly make one's safety index skyrocket, providing a vital edge in a brutal world.
Although Mr. Van der Linde's pervasive presence now significantly alleviated immediate safety concerns for his loyalists, this was still America, and the Wild West was notorious for its fierce, often violent customs. People pulling out guns at the slightest disagreement, settling disputes with lead rather than words, were common occurrences, and no one, absolutely no one, wanted to be left unable to lift their head after being hit by a sudden, devastating burst of bullets. The arms trade, therefore, was not merely commerce; it was a trade in survival itself.