Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 586 The British Stock Market Crash
The London Stock Exchange has always been a center for the flow of global wealth, situated between the Americas and Europe, making it very convenient in terms of time.

The City of London not only trades stocks and government bonds, but also deals in shady money, with daily transactions amounting to tens of millions.

Outside the granite walls of the stock exchange building. At this hour, brokers in black suits and top hats would usually be crowding the entrance, exchanging cigars and whispering information. But today, the atmosphere was eerily cold—some people were hurrying along, clutching newspapers, the headline "Paris Stock Market Crash" blurred by the rain; others stood on street corners, repeatedly stroking their pocket watch chains, their eyes filled with unease.

The Paris Stock Exchange had collapsed; as the trading bell rang, a massive sell-off ensued. The railway sector was hit hardest, with Normandy Railway shares plummeting nearly 25% within minutes. Manufacturing and textile stocks followed suit, their prices crashing like kites with broken strings.

Outside numerous banks across France, depositors anxiously rushed to withdraw their cash. Bank reserves dwindled under the frenzied run, leaving bankers frantic. They frantically discussed countermeasures while simultaneously pressuring the stock exchange, hoping to find a way to stabilize the situation.

When news of the situation in France reached Britain, it caused considerable concern. Since the beginning of the new century, economic crises have been global; if France is like this, then Britain is not far behind.

At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, the exchange doors opened precisely on time. The usually bustling trading floor was now as if muted, with only the ticking of the clock on the dome breaking the silence. Brokers walked to their seats, their trading orders rustling in their hands, but the usual loud shouts were absent. The moment the opening bell rang, the tense atmosphere suddenly exploded—"Glasgow Rail stock has fallen! It's down five points!" A red-haired broker jumped to his feet, his handcuffs nearly crushing. His shout was like a spark, instantly igniting the entire hall.

"Liverpool cotton futures have collapsed too!" another voice immediately followed. The crowd that had been surrounding the cotton trading area instantly dispersed. Some stumbled towards the telegraph machines, wanting to send messages to their employers in Manchester, only to find long queues already formed, everyone's face etched with anxiety. On the blackboard in the center of the hall, chalk writing was erased and rewritten, and stock prices plummeted at a visible rate: railway stocks, mining stocks, colonial trade stocks—almost none were spared.

Just after ten o'clock, an even more chaotic commotion arose from the east side of the hall. A group of small shareholders, mostly small business owners from East London, dressed in tweed coats, had crowded there. Last year, they had invested all their savings in cotton, believing the rumors that it was a sure thing. Now, clutching their yellowed stock certificates, they were yelling at the exchange administrators: "Where's my money? Didn't you say cotton would go up? How come it's fallen like this now!" The administrators, hiding behind the counter, were pale-faced and could only repeatedly say, "Please calm down," but such reassurance seemed powerless in the face of panic.

At 1 p.m., the exchange suddenly announced a half-hour trading halt. This decision, far from easing the panic, only reinforced the belief that "the situation was beyond repair." The moment the trading halt bell rang, the hall erupted in the sounds of clattering chairs and tables—some people desperately threw their trading books to the floor, scattering papers everywhere; others slid down against the wall, ran their hands through their hair, and let out suppressed sobs. The telegraph machine continued to beep incessantly, each beep a pounding on people's already taut nerves.

The half-hour trading halt was like a brief respite, but it failed to calm the restless crowd. When the exchange's brass doors slowly opened again, the hall was not filled with the usual orderly brokers, but with a torrent of despair and anger. The hands of the dome clock pointed to 1:35 PM, each tick of the second hand like a countdown to this financial disaster.

The first to break the order were a group of mining company shareholders, mostly from the Welsh mining areas, their rough hands clutching sweat-soaked stock certificates. The middle-aged man at the head, wearing a coal-dust-covered work jacket, his usually dark face now flushed an unnatural red, slammed the stock certificates onto the marble counter. Shards of paper flew everywhere with his furious roar: "Three months ago you said Cornwall Copper Mine would pay dividends! Now look at this, the stock price has plummeted to less than the rocks in the mine! My miners are waiting for their wages to support their families, you owe us an explanation!"

The commotion grew louder, and the crowds that had been scattered across the various trading areas began to converge on the center of the hall. Some people held up railway company stock certificates and shouted slogans, while others gripped the sleeves of passing brokers so tightly that their fingernails almost dug into the fabric of their suits. Cigar ash fell from the black suits, mingling with the scattered trading documents on the ground, and was crushed into dust by the hurried footsteps of the crowd.

At exactly 2:00 PM, the telegraph machine suddenly emitted a series of rapid beeps, as if announcing new devastating news. The clerk responsible for receiving the telegram, having just finished reading the message, turned deathly pale, and the telegram sheet fell to the ground. People rushed forward, and someone picked up the telegram sheet and read aloud: "The National Discount Bank of Paris has announced a halt to payments! Six French railway companies have filed for bankruptcy!"

Everyone became agitated. Some people pounded their fists on the table, while others tried to tear off the price list posted on the blackboard. The wooden blackboard creaked and groaned under the shoving of the crowd, as if it might collapse at any moment.

An hour later, the once bustling trading hall gradually quieted down. Most people had left exhausted, leaving behind a mess—broken glass, scattered documents, crushed top hats, broken wooden sticks, and a few people still slumped on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. The stock prices on the blackboard had long since stopped updating; the last number displayed starkly reminded everyone of the cruelty of this crisis: railroad stocks had fallen by an average of 42%, mining stocks by 58%, colonial trading stocks by 65%...

The crowds on the streets gradually dispersed, leaving only a few scattered figures lingering on the street corners. The lights in the pubs slowly came on, and intermittent sobs and curses could be heard. Night slowly fell, and London was shrouded in a gloomy atmosphere. Only the clock on the dome of the Stock Exchange continued to tick, as if silently telling the story of the long and cruel financial disaster.

(End of this chapter)