Chapter 1106: Joining Forces
Excited roars suddenly erupted within the tavern.
"Mr. Baxter is right! Hang those corrupt officials!"
"We demand true liberty..."
"Return the right to survive to the people!"
"First, bring down the damn price of sugar!"
Baxter raised his hand, signaling for silence, and projected his voice: "Whether it be corrupt officials, ruthless factory owners, or landlords, their privileges all stem from the Parliament that shields them.
"If we wish to reclaim the rights stripped from us, we must abolish the 'Rotten Boroughs' and grant every free Englishman the right to vote!
"Recently, because of the skyrocketing price of sugar, people have been protesting in the streets everywhere. Our London Corresponding Society must seize this opportunity to organize as many members and workers as possible to petition the government!"
The London Corresponding Society was a civil rights organization founded five years ago by the shoemaker Thomas Hardy. It advocated for universal suffrage, annual parliamentary elections, the abolition of Rotten Boroughs, and demanded respect for human rights and liberties, as well as the protection of workers' interests.
However, two years ago, Hardy was arrested on trumped-up charges of high treason. Several other high-ranking members of the Society were imprisoned alongside him, causing the organization to fall into a period of decline.
But this time, the soaring sugar prices had caused public indignation to boil over. Industrial workers were the most severely affected, and even many factory owners stood on the side of the workers—mostly because they could no longer tolerate the increasingly low operating rates of their machinery.
Recently, the number of people applying to join the London Corresponding Society had surged, giving Francis Place and other leaders of the organization a sense of renewed hope.
Baxter waved his hand forcefully. "Headquarters has decided to organize at least twenty thousand people next Friday to march to St James's Palace and protest..."
He was only halfway through his sentence when the tavern door was violently thrust open—perhaps even kicked—letting out a thunderous "Bang!"
The tavern owner instinctively turned around. "I am sorry, we are not open to the public today..."
He snapped his mouth shut instantly as he saw Bray, the Peace Officer of the St Giles district, appearing at the door with a pistol gripped in his hand.
Immediately, fifty or sixty men from the Patrol Team flooded inside, while several men armed with swords guarded every window from the outside.
"This is a private gathering," Baxter said, showing no trace of fear. "Please leave at once!"
A parish judge stepped out from behind the Peace Officer, waving a document in his hand. "John Baxter, you are charged with inciting a riot.
"Toby Howard, you are charged with participating in a riot...
"Mike Matthews, you are charged with..."
As he read out the names one by one, Bray signaled the Patrol Team members to step forward and seize them.
Baxter protested loudly, "You have no right to do this! I want to see a lawyer!"
No one paid him any mind.
Twenty minutes later, over a dozen members of the London Corresponding Society were led away with their hands bound, escorted by the sword-and-spear-wielding Patrol Team toward the Clink Prison.
The following day.
A very special guest arrived at the secret meeting room of the London Corresponding Society.
The Society's leader, Francis Place, gave a simple return of courtesy to the visitor and pulled out a chair for him. "To be honest, I never imagined there would come a day when we would cooperate with the Irish.
"However, from now on, we might become the closest of partners."
Thomas Emmett, the diplomatic head of the Society of United Irishmen, sat down and said in a low voice, "Britain today is like a pile of wood drenched in oil. As long as we join forces, we can surely make it burn with a fierce intensity."
Indeed, the London Corresponding Society had tens of thousands of members, and while the primary base of the United Irishmen was on the island of Ireland, it was not difficult for them to assemble over a thousand men in London.
The number of Irishmen might seem small, but more than a quarter of them were radical nationalists who were willing to risk their lives against the police, possessing formidable combat strength.
Place nodded. "Do you already have a plan?"
Emmett produced a map. "We intend to hold simultaneous demonstrations in London, Birmingham, Manchester, and other cities, blocking town halls, courts, and other vital departments to force Parliament to accept our terms!"
Looking at the clearly marked routes for advance and retreat on the map, Place could not help but rub his hands in excitement. "People in other regions will certainly follow suit. However, to make Parliament yield, we might need to persist for a long time."
"We have plenty of patience and perseverance!"
...
London.
Inside Jonathan's Coffee-House, the stockbroker Montes was leisurely savoring a dessert, chatting and laughing with his old friend Graby. His face showed none of the gloom he had displayed after his previous stock default.
The coffee-house door opened, and a blonde man in his thirties walked in.
He quickly located Montes, hurried over, and leaned down to whisper, "Boss, it is exactly as you predicted. Just now, Genoa United Credit and International Standard Statistics both downgraded Chatham's rating to Caa.
"The Stock Exchange is in a total frenzy right now. Everyone is selling desperately. I estimate the closing price today might fall below ten Pounds Sterling per share."
Chatham Dockyard had only been listed on the London Stock Exchange at the end of last year. Riding the massive wave of positive news regarding orders for over two hundred Steam Paddleboats, the stock price had surged to thirty-four Pounds Sterling per share in just three days.
And now, it had been hammered down to ten Pounds by the news of "mass cancellations of steamship orders."
The blonde man looked at Montes. "Boss, should we start taking our profits?"
The latter merely smiled slightly and asked Graby, "How many chips do we still have in our hands?"
"Not too many left, about 2,800 shares."
Montes nodded and flicked a finger at the blonde man. "Adam, help me dump them all."
Adam hesitated slightly. "But if we do that, if there is a sharp rebound, we will be left helpless."
"Do not make me repeat myself. Go and sell them immediately."
"Yes, Boss."
Once Adam had left, Montes immediately pulled Graby along. "Let us go talk to Mr. Curry Potter. I know he still holds over three thousand shares of Chatham.
"Our target for profit-taking is below five Pounds Sterling per share."
Indeed, after the previous Boulton-Watt crash, Montes had suffered heavy losses due to a buyer's default, even having to sell his house in Westminster.
But he did not sink into despair. Instead, he keenly observed that Chatham Dockyard had a heavy reliance on Boulton-Watt's products.
Subsequently, he conducted an on-site investigation and judged that the shipyard would be severely dragged down by Boulton-Watt's failures.
Thus, he persuaded several bankers to invest a total of one hundred thousand Pounds Sterling and began to short Chatham's stock with everything he had.
As luck would have it, the widespread cylinder leaks in the Engine52 units made it impossible for the Steam Paddleboats to be delivered, making his short-selling operation incredibly effective.
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