Chapter 324: The Weight of Iron Horse

The first man who came to buy a Fieldmaster tractor arrived with a certified bank draft.

The second came with a formal contract.

The third arrived carrying a burlap sack of potatoes.

Arthur Pendelton, who kept the company’s books, was far more impressed by the first two. Ernest Teucher, however, found the third man the most compelling.

"Lord Teucher, I can’t afford to buy one of your machines," the old farmer said, setting the heavy sack onto the polished floor with a dull thud. "These came out of my own soil in Eastmere. I brought them because of what you’re trying to do."

Ernest looked down at the sack, then up at the weathered man. "Mr...?"

"Wilkins, sir. Henry Wilkins."

"Mr. Wilkins, you didn’t have to bring gifts."

"I know," the old man said, rubbing his hands together. "My grandson saw one of your green tractors working over near Mercer’s farm. He came running back talking about an iron dragon that tore through the clay without a single horse in front of it. I told him not to tell tall tales."

Hollen Vane chuckled from behind his drafting desk. "Well, with that exhaust pipe, it certainly roars like one."

"It does," Wilkins smiled, his eyes drifting out the tall factory windows. "I walked out to see it myself the next morning. I’ve worked the soil for fifty-one years, Lord Teucher. My father worked it before me. I’ve never seen anything quite like that machine." His voice softened. "I doubt I’ll ever own one in my lifetime. But maybe the boy will."

Ernest stood up from his desk and reached out to take the farmer’s calloused hand. "Thank you, Mr. Wilkins."

"Keep the potatoes, sir," Wilkins said, heading for the door. "They boil up sweet."

After the door clicked shut, Arthur looked down at the dirty sack on the rug.

"Ernest."

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Please tell me we are not accepting root vegetables as currency."

Hollen burst out laughing, while Ernest offered a modest shrug. "Only exceptionally good ones."

"I despise you both," Arthur muttered, adjusting his glasses.

Jokes aside, the trial program was forcing the team to face a harsh reality. Out in the countryside, the six experimental Fieldmasters were proving their worth. They pulled plows through tough soil, hauled wagons down rutted lanes, and powered stationary threshers from their belt pulleys.

Farmers were no longer asking if the machine worked. They were asking when they could buy one.

The answer arrived in a ledger Arthur set on the desk that afternoon.

"Sixty-eight thousand four hundred riels," Arthur announced.

Ernest stopped writing. Hollen paused mid-turn of his blueprint.

"Manufacturing cost?" Ernest asked, frowning.

"Unit build cost for a pilot batch of twelve," Arthur said evenly. "And that excludes tooling, dealer setup, spare parts, and warranty."

Hollen let out a sharp whistle. "That’s nearly seven thousand riels more than a fully finished Cargo One flatbed truck."

"Exactly," Arthur said, crossing his arms. "The truck has an enclosed steel cab, glass windows, road gears, and cargo space. The tractor has iron wheels, no roof, runs at walking pace, and costs more to assemble. If we price it for retail, only three dukes in the entire kingdom could afford one."

"The engine isn’t the problem," Hollen said, stepping toward the table. "It’s the casting tolerances. The rear axle and transmission housing flex, so the shop floor has to hand-fit every bearing and gear seat."

"How long does that take?" Ernest asked.

"Four hours per housing," Hollen replied. "Workers have to shim, scrape, measure, and fit each piece by hand because the raw castings from the foundry vary."

Ernest stood up and picked up his coat. "Then let’s go down to the shop floor."

Over the next three days, the three men walked through the Fieldmaster line part by part. They didn’t replace parts with cheaper metals or cut corners on strength; they eliminated wasted labor.

Hollen redesigned the main castings, giving them rigid internal ribs and clear reference points so machines could drill and mill them in a single setup. They standardized bolts so a mechanic needed two wrenches instead of five. They replaced complicated welded brackets with simple stamped plates, and borrowed bearings, grease caps, and seals directly from the Cargo One truck parts bin.

Three weeks later, Arthur laid down an updated ledger:

Production ScaleUnit Cost (Riels)First 12 Units (Original)68,400Revised 12 Units (Streamlined)60,900Annual Run of 48 Units53,600Annual Run of 120 Units48,700

"At one hundred and twenty units a year," Arthur explained, "we could sell the tractor for roughly sixty-one thousand riels and make a sensible return."

"Still a mountain of money for a farmer," Hollen noted.

"It is," Ernest agreed. "Which means we need to see how the numbers hold up in the hands of someone who actually earns his living with it."

William Mercer arrived at Oriel four days later. He wore his heavy woolen coat, carried a dog-eared ledger, and looked thoroughly out of place on Arthur’s clean Persian rug.

When Arthur offered tea, Mercer asked if he had whiskey instead, pointing out that he had been awake since four in the morning. Arthur, looking faintly startled, poured him a modest measure.

"We have a target price, Mr. Mercer," Arthur said, getting down to business. "Around sixty-one thousand riels."

Mercer set his glass down. He stared at the floor for several seconds, then blew out a long breath. "That’s a terrifying amount of plowing."

"Can it pay for itself?" Ernest asked.

Mercer opened his ledger and laid out the facts. "The machine cuts my plowing time by two-thirds on big, flat fields. But owning an engine isn’t just about fuel and oil. There’s interest, maintenance, winter downtime, and the weeks when rain turns fields into soup and the machine sits idle. If I have to pay five thousand riels every single month to a bank, two wet weeks in April will put me in the poorhouse."

"What if the payments followed the crops?" Arthur suggested, tapping his pen. "Larger installments after the harvest and spring prep, and negligible payments during the dead of winter?"

Mercer looked up, his brow furrowing. "A seasonal loan?"

"Precisely," Arthur said, jotting a note. "The banks get their money, but they don’t choke your cash flow when the fields are frozen."

Mercer nodded slowly. "Now you’re talking like a man who knows where bread comes from. If the banks agree to that, I can put down a deposit on a second machine the day your assembly line opens."