Revolution
Chapter 5
"Give me liberty, or give me death!"
- Patrick Henry
The sun shone down on the wretched city of London, and for once it wasn't raining. There were clouds, but they didn't obstruct the sun's rays.
About an hour's walk outside of London, no one noticed the large, dark shape that descended from the sky like a vengeful angel. Through the clouds it went, heading towards the ground in a steady, if somewhat slow, manner. Soon, it was about five meters off the ground, its massive wings flapping up and down slowly.
A long rope ladder was lowered from the bottom of this great big flying contraption. Shortly after it, a figure shimmied down the rope ladder, valise slung over one shoulder.
As soon as they let go of the ladder, it was hauled back up, and the craft disappeared, leaving only the lone figure to walk to London.
Tom sat in the Underground's underground cavern, message apparatus on the table. The listening part of the radio was pressed against his ear, and the American twisted a dial right and left. The static he heard began to clear up.
"London to Nautilus," he tested, and was only answered by more static. He turned the dial again. "London to Nautilus."
"Nautilus to London," a voice came back over the line, with some static still. Tom twisted the dial, and it cleared.
"Nautilus to London. Do you read?"
"We hear you," Tom said, nodding at Damon, who stood next to him. "Is this Captain Nemo?"
"Yes, Agent Sawyer. Greetings."
"Hello, Captain," Tom said. "It's good to hear from you again."
"As it is from you," the enigmatic captain's voice came back, "I trust you contacted me for a reason?"
"Yeah, I did. I'd like to ask for your help in something."
The Captain's voice sounded impatient. "Agent Sawyer, I do not have the time to —"
"Captain, hear me out," Tom cut in. "It involves India's freedom."
"Go on."
The ship landed at Portsmouth, and its passengers filed out of the large ship that had come from Africa. Most of them were merchants or government officials; there was a whole delegation of Dante's men onboard, not that any of them took notice of him.
He separated from the crowd at the docks, knowing that the carriage awaited him at the edge of town. He had set sail from Morocco a month ago, and he found it somewhat comforting to be on English ground once more.
His black cat jumped down from his shoulder and walked beside him. He barely glanced down at his pet, who he knew would follow him everywhere. It meowed, eager to get on.
"Don't worry," he said kindly to it, looking down. "We'll be in London within a week."
It merely meowed in reply.
"Rest assured that the Nautilus will reach London in time."
"Thanks for agreeing, Captain," Tom said, concluding the conversation.
"You're welcome, Agent Sawyer."
"It's ex-Agent, Captain," Tom said, smiling a little. Trust Nemo to stand on formality.
"Are you no longer an agent in the Secret Service?"
"Not since 1901."
A pause. "I see. Well, I will see you in London within a week."
"Will do, Captain. London out."
"Nautilus out."
"Well?" Damon asked as Tom pulled off the listening apparatus. "Has he agreed?"
"Yes," Tom answered. "So that leaves one more to call on."
"I wonder how you're going to find that one," Damon said. "It's not looking good. Our men have been unable to locate any sign of him...We don't even know if he's still alive."
Tom nodded as he listened, running a hand through his messy locks — now no longer blond, because he had put a little saffron in it to dye it a bright orange — in a futile attempt to get them out of his face. "He's alive, I know it."
Damon quirked a brow. "We have no proof."
In response, Tom pulled out a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He handed it to Damon, nodding, "There's our proof."
His brow still raised, the other man read through the article. It was a few weeks old, and he could see it was torn out of The Strand. "It says here the man who broke into the Windermere household was caught and flogged."
Tom shook his head. "You know Wicked Will. He may be good, but he's not good enough to pull off a robbery like that."
He handed back Tom the newspaper clipping. "You think it's our man?"
"I don't think. I know."
Damon's brow disappeared behind his hairline. "Are you going to look for him?"
"Now, actually," Tom said as he stood up. Pulling his coat off from where it had been draped over the back of a chair. "I'm going to ask around, see if anyone's seen him."
"I'll come with you," Damon said, pulling on his coat as well. "Maybe Owen will know where he is."
"Or the other street kids."
"Or the other street kids," Damon nodded, following Tom out of the tent.
He looked out the window, watching familiar sights pass the carriage as it sped along its way to London. Ah, sweet England, he thought, not without some bitterness. Home to so much grandeur...and tragedy.
He remembered riding these very roads with his late wife. He missed her dearly, even though it was nearly five years since she had been killed. He wondered what she would say now. Residence in South America had made his skin darker than it had been before they had moved, and he remembered fondly about her problem with the weather there.
The coach was approaching London; he could recognize the buildings, despite it being years since he had returned to England. As they headed towards the great city, they passed through a shanty town. Children, far too skinny for their own good and covered in grime, looked on in curiosity as the coach passed them. Some of them tried running after it, to beg for food or money, but they couldn't keep up.
His heart broke. He and his wife had no children, but he felt deeply for these wretched victims of sheer poverty. They're so young, he thought, but they're so improvised. I wonder how many will die before year's end, he asked himself sadly.
All the more reason to help them, he mused as he leaned back into his seat. They were entering London now, and slowing down. All the more reason.
As the two friends walked down the street together, having come through a manhole earlier, Damon spotted Owen. "Owen," he called, waving to the young boy.
" 'ello, Mr. Archer, Mr. Caine," Owen nodded. His words came out slightly slurred, because he was chewing something.
"I thought you stopped chewing tobacco," Tom — whom most of the world knew as Noah Caine, people's representative in Congress — said, raising a brow. Owen shook his head and spat, while Damon looked on with disapproval.
"Keeps the hunger away. Cannon Street boys've been sharin' their stash with me," the boy explained. "What can I do for ye?"
"We're looking for someone," Tom told him. "Rodney Skinner. You've heard of him?"
Owen looked shocked. "Heard o' 'im? I used to live with the man!"
Tom and Damon exchanged glances, Tom's as if trying to say 'See? We found him!'.
"Where is he, Owen?" Damon asked.
"C'mon, I'll show you," Owen said, gesturing them to follow him as he turned and went down the street.
It took them about ten minutes to get to the dingy apartment. Dodging rodents of all kinds, puddles — whether or not they were water, they couldn't be sure — and drunks sprawled along the corridors, they came to the small apartment room.
Digging around in his pockets, Owen produced a key and unlocked the door. The first thing that hit the two men behind the boy was the stench. If smells could kill...they would have dropped dead.
Owen didn't seem at all affected. "Rodney, chap! You around?" he called cheerily as he entered the small flat.
Holding a hand up to his nose, Tom followed, while Damon chose to linger outside the door. "Skinner?" He tried to see in the darkness of the flat, but failed.
"Owen?" a voice came, weakly, from the corner of the room. There was the sound of leather scraping against wall. "Owen, lad, that you?"
"Rodney, where're you? I've brought some folks to see ye," Owen answered.
"O'er here," Skinner's voice called. He waved one arm, and Tom could barely make out the black of the coat from the black of the room. "The corner next to the stove."
Owen went over, and Tom helped him haul up the invisible man to his feet. Letting go of him caused him to sway on his feet, and the two had to grab him before he fell.
Damon came in, just to pull out of a chair, then retreated outside again. Tom and Owen literally dropped Skinner on the chair, and stepped back. Tom was worried; when pulling Skinner up, he had felt the track marks on the other man's arm. The thief's breath smelled distinctly of sherry.
Why did I expect this? Tom thought, despairing a little despite his optimistic nature. He steals jewels from one of the richest families in all of London and blows the money on drink and...is that opium? He asked himself, noticing the small sachets filled with white powder on the table.
"Chap, you alright?" Owen asked. Skinner shook his head, and mumbled something about his 'medicine'.
This cannot be a good sign, Tom thought, exchanging another glance with Owen.
A little shorter than usual, this chapter, but it'll suffice, I think. Please note that any updates may not be coming soon, as exams are approaching and my 'net time has be considerably shortened.