Friday, September 24, 1869.
Early morning New York was shrouded in a layer of mist. The high humidity in the air made it feel stiflingly hot.
While the traders on Wall Street were still drinking their coffee, no one knew that a financial tsunami was already brewing at the gates of the Gold Exchange on Broad Street.
At 9:30 AM, the exchange doors opened.
A tide of people flooded into the domed trading hall—the "Gold Room."
There were no chairs here, only a trading pit in the center enclosed by a circular brass railing. Hundreds of brokers crowded inside like a pack of hungry wolves.
On the black marble boards on the walls, yesterday's closing price was written in chalk: $144.25 per ounce.
"The market is open! It's open!"
The bell rang.
"Hurry, I want to buy ten thousand ounces of gold at $145! Buy it for me, now!"
This roar came from Albert Speyer.
He was Gould's most trusted chief broker, a German with a voice like a lion.
This single roar served as the overture to the madness.
"I'll bid $146! Dammit, get out of my way. I want more!"
Speyer waved his arms, spit flying everywhere.
Gould himself did not appear on the trading floor because he found the traders too noisy.
Instead, he sat in a nearby carriage with the curtains drawn, constantly sending instructions via messengers.
But Jim Fisk was present.
Wearing his signature admiral's uniform, he stood in a second-floor box, looking down at the slaughter below like an emperor.
"Holy shit, squeeze those shorts to death for me!" Fisk shouted loudly. "We'll buy from anyone who dares to sell. We're going to send gold to the moon!"
The prices were jumping.
146... 147... 148... The trading hall was filled with roars, screams, and curses.
These voices blended together to form a hair-raising, low-frequency rumble that would later be known as "The Roar of Wall Street."
Many importers and exporters who were shorting gold turned pale at this moment.
Their goods were still at sea, and they needed gold to pay customs duties. If the price of gold continued to rise, they would go bankrupt.
"Please, I beg you. I have children to feed!"
An old broker knelt on the ground, desperately trying to close his positions.
"$149! Sell me just a little!"
"Hahaha... Get lost, you idiot!" Fisk laughed wildly from upstairs, appearing incredibly arrogant.
"There is no gold under 150. You want some? Go dig for it in California, you moron!"
By 10:30 AM, the price of gold broke $150 per ounce in a short span of time.
This insane price sent the entire exchange into a state of hysteria.
All traces of reason in their minds had vanished.
People no longer cared about the actual value of gold; they only knew that if they didn't buy now, it would be even more expensive the next second.
As the saying goes, the emotions had reached a fever pitch... and at this moment, in an unassuming office two blocks away from the exchange.
Felix sat in a chair by the window, holding an unlit cigar.
Beside him, Tom Hayes wore headphones, stationed by the private telegraph machine that connected to the trading hall.
"What's the price of gold now?" Felix asked.
"152, Boss."
Hayes's voice was a bit excited; he hadn't seen such a crazy scene many times in his life.
"Gould and Speyer are on a buying spree, as if they don't care about money at all. It's said that the Tenth National Bank gave him a check with an unlimited limit."
"What 'unlimited limit'? Those are all rubber checks," Felix said coldly.
"The Tenth National Bank just happens to have a good relationship with Gould."
"Boss, Gould is putting his head on the chopping block right now," Flynn added from the side.
"He actually bet all the liquidity of himself and the Erie Railroad. If the price of gold drops below $140, they'll likely end up begging on the streets."
"It's $155!" Hayes suddenly shouted.
Felix stood up and walked over to the map.
"Flynn, any word from Boutwell?"
"Not yet," Flynn replied.
"Orton said that line is very quiet. It seems the President's order is still on the way."
"Hmm, understood." Felix turned around.
"Hayes, notify Group 1 and Group 2. They can start warming up."
"Have them dump ten thousand ounces in short orders for every $0.50 rise within the $155 to $160 range."
"Remember to disperse them. Use names that sound like some unlucky Southern planters."
"Understood, Boss."
Hayes began quickly writing instructions on paper and handing them to the nearby runner... back at the exchange.
The price was still climbing. Speyer had already shouted himself hoarse, but he remained like an untiring machine.
"$158, buying fifty thousand dollars worth!"
At this time, some strange sell orders appeared on the market.
They weren't very large, only a few thousand ounces each time.
But it was like dropping a few drops of cold water into a boiling pot of oil.
"Fuck you, who's selling?" Fisk frowned in the box. "Check it, is it the Department of the Treasury?"
"Doesn't look like it," a subordinate quickly ran up to report.
"It's some scattered accounts, likely retail investors taking profits."
"Hmph, serves them right that these retail idiots can't make money," Fisk snorted unpleasantly.
He was the one charging ahead, and these retail investors were always dragging him down.
"Eat up all their stock and make them regret it for the rest of their lives!"
"$160 per ounce!"
When this number appeared on the blackboard, the entire room went silent for a second.
This was a psychological barrier.
At this price level, many small and medium-sized banks were already facing the risk of a bank run because their reserves had devalued.
"Continue!"
Speyer received Gould's latest instruction: push it to $165 at all costs.
Then Speyer raised his hands and charged into the crowd like a madman.
"$160, I want to buy another thirty thousand ounces, who dares sell to me?"
At this moment, he was the king of this place.
But he didn't see that at the edge of the crowd, several brokers in ordinary suits were quietly squeezing in.
In their pockets, they carried death warrants from the "Patriot Investment Company."
11:30 AM.
Felix looked at his watch.
"It's about time."
He snuffed out the cigar in his hand.
"Hayes, tell them to open the floodgates halfway."
"It's time to show Gould and the others what a real tsunami looks like."
11:45 AM, New York Gold Exchange.
The air in the hall was suffocatingly hot; sweat trickled down the traders' cheeks and dripped onto the floor littered with scrap paper and cigarette butts.
"Move it, fuck you! $162 an ounce! I'm buying gold, it's all mine!"
Speyer stood in the center of the trading pit, his tie pulled askew and his eyes bloodshot.
He was like an out-of-control steam engine, his only instruction being to charge forward and shout.
Just then, a thin broker wearing gold-rimmed glasses squeezed to the railing. He was a trader under Hayes, codenamed "Shadow."
"I'm selling gold."
Shadow's voice wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally piercing in the intervals between Speyer's roars.
"Twenty thousand ounces at $162."
The crowd around the hall, which had been chasing the rally, fell silent for a moment.
Twenty thousand ounces?
That was no small amount; it was a significant portion of the entire New York gold market's liquidity.
Speyer was also somewhat stunned.
He looked at the unfamiliar face, his mind racing. Who was this? Who had so much stock? Could it be... "What? You said you're selling gold?" Speyer roared.
"Are you sure you have the goods? Oh buddy, I have to tell you, if you can't deliver, you'll go to jail!"
"Thanks for the concern, I have the goods."
Shadow took several copies of warehouse receipts from his briefcase; they were physical vouchers for gold stored in the underground vaults of several top New York banks.
"Do you take it?" Shadow asked coldly.
Speyer gritted his teeth. Gould's strict orders still echoed in his ears: Clear all obstacles.
"I'll take it!" Speyer shouted. "Twenty thousand! Deal!"
"Deal."
This transaction exhausted the last of the margin Gould had just raised.
But this was only the beginning.
"Selling."
In another corner, another unknown broker raised his hand.
"Ten thousand ounces. Price 161.5."
"Selling, ten thousand ounces. Price 161."
Sell orders began to fall like raindrops.
No, like hail.
Behind every sell order was the massive capital Felix had hidden under layers of front companies.
He used the gold that the Argyle Bank had hoarded for years, which at this moment became the sharpest of weapons.
The price began to waver.
162... 161... 160... In the second-floor box, Jim Fisk's fat face began to twitch.
"This is impossible!" Fisk grabbed the railing.
"Where did all this gold come from? Has Boutwell made a move?"
"No!" a subordinate shouted.
"The Department of the Treasury hasn't made a move yet; these are all private accounts! Dammit, it's like all the gold in New York has come out!"
Fisk felt a surge of fear.
He realized they had fallen into a massive trap. A bottomless pit.
"Tell Jay! We can't hold out!"
...
In a carriage near the Grand Opera House.
Jay Gould looked at the price sheet in his hand, his hand trembling.
"Someone is setting a trap," Gould's voice was hoarse.
"This style... it feels too familiar. Calm, ruthless, and with an incredible amount of capital."
"Is it Argyle?"
Gould uttered the name, muttering to himself with some uncertainty.
Because currently in New York, only a few people had the strength to produce so much gold.
And he had sought him out before; he knew about the gold matter this time.
So Gould immediately placed Felix at the top of his suspect list, but he was also a bit unsure.
Because according to intelligence, Felix's people were also buying. There was no sign of selling at all, plus the current market sentiment was on the verge of collapsing.
His mind was in a mess, unable to distinguish the truth.
"Jay! What do we do?"
Jim Fisk ran down, drenched in sweat.
"Our capital chain is broken; the Tenth National Bank refuses to honor any more checks!"
Gould closed his eyes.
This time would likely be a failure, but he was a master of survival. Before the ship sank, he had to salvage the lifebuoys first.
"Send someone to tell Speyer to keep shouting 'buy'."
Gould suddenly opened his eyes, his gaze becoming more determined.
He had no way back; he had to take a gamble. He didn't believe there was that much gold to sell.
Moreover, he could try to unload some stock; he wasn't looking to make a huge profit now, he just wanted to secure his gains early.
"Ah, what did you say? But we're out of money! How can we buy without money?"
Fisk was somewhat bewildered.
Of course, it could also be that he was too anxious now, and his mind had gone blank.
"I know... I know we're out of money, so just have him shout the price and use verbal commitments to buy. Even if it's faked. We must make the price hold for a while."
Gould looked left and right before lowering his voice.
"Let him draw the fire at the front and prop up the price."
"Ah? Will that work? What about me?"
"You go and secretly sell the gold we bought in small, rapid batches."
Gould took out a spare ledger; it was his private secret account.
"While Speyer is still acting crazy, we need to sell the gold under our own names first. Run as much as we can to at least minimize the losses. Even if gold continues to rise later, we'll just have made a little less profit."
This was Gould.
At the critical moment, he would even betray his own chief trader... 12:05 PM.
Argyle Building.
The specially made telegraph machine finally rang again.
"Dot-dot... dot-dot-dot..."
A signal sent personally by Orton.
Flynn grabbed the paper tape and read aloud:
"Urgent telegram received from Washington. Secretary of the Treasury Boutwell has officially signed the order: immediately sell eight million dollars of treasury gold. The order has been sent via Western Union telegraph."
"Now!"
Felix stood up abruptly, looking at that moment like a general who had pressed a nuclear button.
Hayes, initiate 'God Time'.
"Orton's side will intercept this message for thirty minutes. But these thirty minutes, we're going to turn them into a century."
"Notify all traders: no more concealment, no more batches."
"Dump everything across the board!"
"I'm going to use this news of eight million dollars, plus our own dollar short orders, to crash the gold price through the core of the earth!"
...In the exchange.
Speyer was still there like a clown, shouting "Buy at 160."
But he gradually realized that the way the people around him looked at him had changed.
It was the look one gives a dead man.
Suddenly, a group of new brokers rushed into the trading pit. They weren't low-profile like the previous "Shadow"; they were like a firing squad.
"Selling ten thousand ounces, at market price!"
"Selling three thousand ounces, no limit!"
There was no price negotiation; they just dumped.
The $160 line of defense was torn to shreds like paper.
157.2... 156.8... 156.3... The price plunged so fast that even the ticker machines couldn't keep up. The paper tape jammed, spitting out only a mess of garbled code.
People began to scream.
Some tried to rush out the doors, only to be blocked by the crowd pouring in from outside to watch the spectacle.
Amidst this chaos, the delayed news finally spread throughout the hall.