The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 807 - 377: Britain, Do Not Cry for Me (Part 2)

85.5 points, 85.2 points, 84.9 points...

On the bulletin board, the staff in charge of holding the chalk could hardly keep up with the rapid decline of the public bonds. He had just written a new number, and before he could catch his breath, a new quote forced him to hastily erase the previous price and replace it with a lower one.

The entire stock exchange was filled with despair, although the gentlemen here were mostly healthy and well-dressed.

They felt as if the ones clashing with the rioting crowd in Greenwich were not the Scotland Yard police and the Royal Horse Artillery guarding Woolwich Arsenal, but them, the stockbrokers.

This was not the London Stock Exchange, but rather Hell on Earth.

Perhaps unable to withstand the tremendous psychological pressure, or maybe unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere, some elderly men in the crowd were already showing signs of dizziness, and those whose health was slightly weaker were being helped by servants to the benches of the stock exchange to rest.

These old men shakily took out handkerchiefs, cautiously wiping their faces, while their sharp eyes, honed over decades, remained fixed on the bulletin board inside the exchange.

83.3 points, 83.0 points, 82.8 points, 82.7 points, 82.7 points...

The numbers on the bulletin board were like lightning bolts striking the heads of these shrewd old foxes.

The old men leaned forward, craning their necks, exchanging glances. They conveyed messages just with their eyes. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Each could see suspicion and doubt in the others’ eyes.

Was the decline of public bonds slowing down?

They glanced up again at the frenzied sellers.

The sellers were still dumping their bonds, their frenzy undiminished...

If that’s the case...

Then who was buying all the public bonds they were selling?

The old foxes instinctively turned towards Rothschild’s seat not far away. Lionel Rothschild still sat there as if oblivious, his expression serious, looking no different from before.

However, a keen observer noticed that his pocket had become more bulging than before, revealing a faint white envelope.

Rothschild had received a message!

It was a bolt from the blue!

After a brief shock, the old men couldn’t help but exchange quick glances. They didn’t communicate verbally for fear of leaking the news, but slightly raised their eyebrows as if seeking mutual confirmation.

Many of these old brokers had been contemporaries of Lionel’s father, Nathan Rothschild, so they naturally remembered how that damn newly rich Jew made his name in the Financial City.

The Battle of Waterloo on June 18, 1815, wasn’t just a victory for the Duke of Wellington but also a triumph for Nathan Rothschild.

When the anti-French coalition led by the Duke of Wellington defeated the reinstated Napoleon Bonaparte, a war messenger arrived in Folkstone, Britain, on the morning of June 19, reporting the crucial result of the battle to Nathan Rothschild, who had been waiting there for three days.

Upon learning of the British victory, Nathan didn’t immediately make the news public. Instead, he secretly rushed to the London Stock Exchange while the market was still uncertain, and the public largely expected Britain to lose.

In the exchange, Nathan created a false impression by instructing Rothschild’s brokers to sell British Public Bonds, making it seem like Britain had been defeated in the Battle of Waterloo, causing a panic sale of British bonds in the market and leading to a drastic drop in bond prices. Nathan then swooped in to acquire these bonds at low prices amidst the panic.

After the Battle of Waterloo, the Rothschild Family, led by Nathan, quickly rose to become one of the largest private holders of British Public Debt, alongside the Baring Family. With this status, they naturally became one of the 21 original shareholders of the Bank of England.

From that day on, no one in the Financial City dared to insult Nathan to his face as an uncultured Jewish nouveau riche, even though his habit of flaunting gold coins in his pockets to strangers was quite annoying.

In their silent eye contact, the old brokers quickly reached a consensus.

Nathan’s son truly lived up to his father, using the same crude tactics as the elder Rothschild.

Did these damn Jews think we were easy to fool?

The old brokers fell silent. They neither stood up nor immediately waved their checks to join the scramble for chips. Instead, they discreetly summoned their apprentices, whispering a few words in their ears.

The apprentices’ faces froze, showing a puzzled expression towards their bosses.

However, their curiosity was soon suppressed by the stern looks from the old men.

The apprentices understood their bosses’ silent instructions: any questions could be asked later; for now, just secretly scoop up the chips. If Rothschild could pick them up, why couldn’t they?

In this strange atmosphere, over twenty apprentices quickly merged into the excited crowd.

Following their bosses’ instructions, they discreetly bought small amounts of the British Public Bonds that had been beaten to the ground.

Even though they only bought 300 to 500 pounds at a time, the large number of them quickly made their old foxes’ schemes evident on the bulletin board.