The Birth of a Megacorporation
While the United States scrambled to plant its flag across Northeast Asia, seizing on the chaos engulfing Europe, the industries of the American North stood at a fateful crossroads, teetering on the brink of total transformation.
In 1859, successful commercial drilling in Titusville, Pennsylvania, lifted the curtain on the petroleum industry. Wildcatters swarmed any patch of ground that looked even slightly promising, and by the early 1860s the region was already producing more than a million barrels annually.
The star product of the age was not gasoline but kerosene. Cheaper and brighter than whale oil or coal oil, it fueled an explosion in the use of oil lamps. Petroleum had become literal liquid gold—dig in the right spot and fortune bubbled up from the earth.
Countless men went mad chasing it.
“Kiyaaaaah! It’s coming! It’s coming out! There’s oil here too!”
“Whoa! Everyone gather around this spot! We’re all going to be rich!”
Where oil appeared, a town sprang up overnight. Where it didn’t, the settlement collapsed just as quickly, leaving another ghost town behind. This frenzy of boom and bust swallowed the entire North.
When ordinary men struck oil on land they already owned and became millionaires in a single day, it was only natural that crowds of frenzied speculators would come running.
Yet the drilling business itself was nothing more than one colossal gambling den.
“What? What did you say? Thirty cents a barrel? What kind of bullshit is that? It was seven dollars just yesterday!”
“The price dropped a little in the last twenty-four hours.”
“A little? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“…Four dollars a barrel today? You bastards must be joking…”
The price of crude swung between a miraculous ten dollars a barrel at its peak and a mere ten cents at its lowest. These weren’t gentle, cyclical fluctuations. No exaggeration—prices could collapse to one-fortieth of their value or surge thirtyfold in the span of a single day. Such insanity occurred almost daily.
Watching the spectacle in real time, Rockefeller reached a firm conclusion.
“Drilling is a fool’s game for men addicted to get-rich-quick schemes. We need to focus on the side of the business that can generate stable, reliable profits.”
The wildcatters who spent their days wandering the countryside sinking wells were nothing but market-wrecking trash. Once the industry matured, such gamblers would vanish naturally. Rockefeller’s business instincts—rooted in order and efficiency—saw that refining, not mere extraction, was the true gold mine that would print money for decades to come.
With confident strides, he knocked on the door of Serget’s office.
Serget had only just returned from the South, flush with the triumph of opening the reclusive Eastern kingdom of Joseon. With mountains of dollars and pounds soon to pour in, he would surely view new investment proposals favorably.
“Chairman, I have something to report… huh?”
The moment he opened the door, Rockefeller saw a familiar head of hair. Andrew Carnegie. The man’s face was lit with the same predatory grin he always wore when plotting someone’s ruin. He was in the middle of delivering a report to Serget.
“What are you doing here? Whose knees did you break this time?”
“Look who’s talking. Shouldn’t you be somewhere singing hymns? What brings you all the way here?”
“Unlike certain people, I came to discuss an honest, constructive way to make money with the Chairman.”
“Good Lord, I can already feel my chest tightening. I shudder to think how piously you’ll twist Christian logic to justify another fortune. You are tithing faithfully, I hope? The local church must be expanding daily thanks to your generosity.”
“I suppose I can’t compare to a man who keeps an entire army of hired thugs employed. I hear the Pinkerton Detective Agency sends you a fat envelope of cash every Christmas.”
“What? Jealous?”
Trading venom the instant they laid eyes on each other was nothing new. Their personalities and business philosophies were polar opposites, so they snarled at every meeting—yet somehow, they complemented each other perfectly.
Serget, watching the familiar spectacle, set down his teacup with a practiced motion and waved a hand.
“That’s enough. You’re both giving me a headache. The fact that two busy men showed up at the same time tells me you’ve each brought something interesting. Let’s hear it.”
Rockefeller straightened at once.
“Chairman, the situation in the North is extraordinary. A petroleum boom is erupting around Titusville, Pennsylvania. This is no passing fad. We are witnessing the birth of a colossal new energy source that will reshape the world.”
“And?”
“We must seize control of this goose that lays golden eggs. However, pouring resources into mindless drilling carries far too much risk.”
The man who dominated refining would eventually dominate the entire American energy sector. Rockefeller continued with absolute confidence that Serget would share his vision.
“What we should focus on is refining. Monopolizing the purchase of crude and its conversion into kerosene offers the most certain path to profit. No matter how wildly producers behave, without a refinery their oil is little more than black sludge.”
As expected, Serget nodded with clear interest.
“Not bad. Monopoly—the word I like best.”
“And in my opinion…”
Rockefeller tried to continue, but Carnegie suddenly cut in.
“How do you plan to move that oil? By wagon? Half of it will spill onto the dirt roads.”
“…For now, rail transport would be most efficient.”
“Then we’ll need railroads. And to build railroads, we’ll need rails. We’ll also need tanks to store the oil.”
Carnegie seized the conversational baton smoothly, his voice gaining strength.
“Chairman, it’s steel. Cotton shipments are only going to increase, and the petroleum Rockefeller mentioned will soon be gushing everywhere. Our current cast iron simply won’t suffice. The age of steel is coming, whether we like it or not.”
“Steel, you say.”
“Exactly. Even the refining business Rockefeller described suffers from terrible transportation inefficiencies, which prevents true price stabilization. We must build proper rail networks and, eventually, pipelines to carry the oil directly. All of it rests on steel.”
Only steel could withstand the high pressure and corrosive nature of petroleum transport. Beyond that, Carnegie was certain steel would become indispensable to nearly every industry in the future. Though current technology still required patching with wrought iron, business was about looking ahead.
“Your cotton, Rockefeller’s refining, and my steel. If these three elements mesh together perfectly, Serget Cotton will construct an empire no one in America can challenge.”
Serget watched the two men alternate their passionate presentations and let out a soft chuckle.
“Did you two rehearse this outside? How does everything line up so perfectly?”
“N-no! Why would I coordinate with this rigid, sanctimonious—”
“I was about to say the same. Who would conspire with a gangster boss like—”
Both men waved their hands in disgust and shook their heads, but they could not deny the single vision already forming in their minds.
The synergy was flawless. Once these pieces began turning together, they might very well give birth to a corporation capable of dictating the fate of the entire United States.
“Good. Then let’s expand the board. You both have a rough idea how much pure profit Serget Cotton is generating, yes?”
“An astronomical amount.”
“We’re diverting a portion of that capital to the North.”
“Oh!”
“Build a colossal refinery in Cleveland—on a scale that makes competitors too terrified to even look in its direction. Then slash prices. Ten cents? No. Drive costs so low that we can sell at five cents a barrel and still profit. Crush them all.”
Rockefeller’s eyes widened.
“Funding aside… to operate a refinery of that size, we need stable crude supply. With prices jumping wildly, how do we lower costs?”
“Don’t worry about that. Don’t you remember? We once purchased vast tracts of land in the North at rock-bottom prices.”
Serget pulled an old property deed from his desk drawer and tossed it over.
“Ah, that’s right.”
“You don’t mean…”
“Back then no one wanted the land, so I bought enormous amounts for next to nothing. It cost less than acquiring one or two cotton plantations.”
Exactly as he said. People now spoke of “Oil Creek” this and that, but at the time those Pennsylvania parcels had been worthless. One could have purchased an entire valley for the price of one or two cotton farms.
Rockefeller hurriedly examined the documents and his jaw dropped.
“Th-this… these properties sit directly atop the most promising oil-bearing zones. Chairman, why on earth did you own these?”
“I simply thought they might be useful for warehouses someday. Two thousand five hundred dollars for a hundred acres seemed like a bargain. And now it turns out oil gushes from them? Lucky me. The areas that produced the black water were especially cheap, so I focused my purchases there.”
Rockefeller and Carnegie stared at each other in astonishment. Some men were simply destined for greatness. Had God Himself marked this man to become rich?
While others paid crushing royalties to drill on leased land, he would pump oil from his own soil and refine it in his own facilities. Cost competitiveness wasn’t even a contest. At this rate, it seemed entirely possible he could drive every rival out of business within five to ten years.
“Carnegie, head to Pittsburgh and establish an ironworks. Rockefeller, don’t discard the residues left after refining—save every drop of asphalt and heavy oil. There will be endless demand for railroad tie preservation and road paving.”
“Understood. Nothing will go to waste.”
The three men’s vision was perfect.
Although countless competitors existed in the North, this group already controlled massive oil fields and could feed crude into their facilities at virtually zero cost. On top of that, they could pour the limitless cash generated by Serget Cotton—the so-called Cotton Money—into the venture without restraint.
No enterprise on earth could withstand such an overwhelming wave of capital.
“Won’t we be accused of monopoly later? The Northerners won’t sit still for this.”
“Don’t worry. We already have the perfect pretext prepared.”
If they didn’t like it, what could they possibly do about it?
Serget smiled lazily, twirling a pen between his fingers.
“After the last war, didn’t Northern capitalists swarm South with sacks of money and buy up land indiscriminately? We’re simply returning the favor. We’ll use the fortune earned from cotton to purchase Northern industry.”
“Ah… so this is the South’s economic retaliation against the North.”
“Precisely. Southerners will cheer us on. And the more the North attacks us, the more tightly the South will unite behind us, forming an impenetrable wall.”
A flawless design that secured both moral justification and practical gain while mastering the war of public opinion.
In the warm atmosphere, Serget was about to sign the approval documents when he suddenly snapped his fingers as though remembering something.
“Now that I think about it, the timing is perfect.”
“Sir?”
“You both know Leo is hosting a birthday party soon, yes? That would be the ideal moment to gather as many influential figures as possible and casually plant the idea. Politicians will be there too, so rather than bothering to meet them one by one, we can deliver the message to everyone at once.”
Rockefeller looked puzzled.
“Leo? I did receive an invitation… but didn’t he loudly declare he would organize everything with his own power and connections, without any help from you, Chairman?”
Both Carnegie and Rockefeller knew how determined Leo was about this party. His ambition to succeed entirely on his own ability and personal network without leaning on Serget was admirable.
Serget gave a small smile and shook his head.
“Of course I’ll leave the planning and execution entirely to him. He said he would handle it himself—how commendable. It deserves respect. However…”
Leo was the chief of staff who served the chairman of Serget Cotton. Though he had refused assistance, his position placed him closer to the chairman than anyone else in the company.
“How could I truly sit back and do nothing? He is my chief of staff, after all. I should at least prepare the stage so that Leo can shine brighter than anyone.”
Besides, there could be no more fitting occasion to signal that the company was ascending to an entirely new dimension. The mere fact that major figures of society would attend the birthday party of a mere second-in-command—and a Black man at that—would itself prove that the times had changed.
The completed picture was beginning to receive its colors.
The vast white cotton fields that blanketed the South.
The blue storage tanks that would carry kerosene into Northern factories and homes.
And the glowing red steel that would bind it all together.
White, blue, and red.
How fitting…
The three colors crafted by Serget Cotton’s hands were combining.
Together, they formed something strikingly similar to the American flag.