This chapter is...really really long. And it has an insane amount of footnotes, so yeah. ;;
I swear, age is catching up with me. I've just found out that I missed three full annotations on the previous two chapters. In Chapter 16, John St. Leger is from Zalma. In Chapter 17, Becky Thatcher and Amy Lawrence are creations of Mark Twain's from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
Revolution
Chapter 18
Sic vis pacum, parabellum.
If you want peace, prepare for war.
- Latin saying
A collective gasp of horror had run through the group that was gathered in Dante's study. Dante looked smug beyond all reckoning, while Reed seemed pleased with himself.
Personally, Chauvelin didn't know what to think or feel. A town had just gone up in massive explosions, and the Black Duke was surely in some kind of daze. The Underground had just suffered a setback — they may very well postpone this revolution they were planning. That brought with it a small sense of triumph.
But the thought of all the innocents who had been there, who had been killed, sickened him. He retained little memory of his childhood, but it was sad to know that a town's worth of children would not have lived past their teens. It is for the Second Reich, he reasoned with himself. It is to stop the revolution that will overthrow the Second Reich.
In his time as Reed's protégée, Chauvelin had seen acts of cruelty and injustice committed by the Kwaden, Reed, and Dante. Some of them had disturbed him, like when Dante had ordered a shanty town razed — but he had always been able to reason himself, to justify their actions. His conscience was clear; no nightmares disturbed him.
But this was too much. He hid his horror behind a mask of aloofness. It is for the Second Reich, he though again. It became a mantra as he tried to fully absorb what had just happened.
It clicked into place; the reason why Reed and Dante had been cooped up in the latter's personal study, why a group of officials from the American department of the Second Reich had been sent to St. Petersburg.
It is for the Second Reich, Chauvelin tried to drill into his conscience. He couldn't stop the nagging feeling that it was wrong.
Skinner pushed away the heavy canvas that served as a door to the tent. Tom sat on his camp bed, head in his hands.
"Hey," the thief said quietly. Tom didn't reply, just sat there. Skinner entered, conscious of the fact that his friend might not really appreciate his presence. He sat down on his own camp bed, facing the blond American. "How're you holding up?"
Not good, can't you see that, dimwit? A voice in his head said. He ignored it and watched Tom. It took the younger man some time before he was able to answer.
"I'll live," he replied hoarsely, looking up. His eyes had a kind of hollowness that Skinner had only seen in people who had just lost their entire family. Which, on reflection, was exactly what had just happened to Tom. A deep grief marred that hollowness, like a streak of black against white.
It was pretty obvious Tom was trying to be brave. He wasn't crying, which was not normal — but he'd had to deal with plenty of grief in his thirty-something years. He couldn't help but think he was a jinx; anyone he formed a bond with would die. First Huck, then Allan; years later, Becky had followed that grisly path. After that, countless others. Now he had lost what had remained of his family and his town.
He was standing at the edge of a very deep and large chasm called despair. In any minute he would topple over, never to climb out again. He both hated and loved Skinner for coming in. He saw the greasepaint face hovering near his through vision blurred with unshed tears. The thief was able to read people better than anyone Tom knew, and he was glad to have a friend like Skinner. After all, he thought bitterly. Doesn't misery love company?
Tom leaned back, resting his head against a support that held the tent up and closing his eyes. "I just...didn't expect this, y'know?" I've lost everything you wanted to go back to, he added mentally. Skinner nodded, sympathetic. He didn't understand and probably never would, but he was making an effort to; for that, Tom was thankful. "I thought St. Petersburg would be safe."
"I don't reckon you're the only one who did," Skinner said gently. "What about that Joe character from the meeting? He's from St. Petersburg too. Don't really think he's doing very well an' good either."
"Yeah."
A comfortable silence reigned between the two; outside, muffled sounds of activity could be heard. Damon's voice floated into the tent, directing the men to prepare the weapons and supplies.
Tom was battling his demons. Skinner could tell as much. It was an open secret amongst the League that Tom blamed himself for Allan's death. They weren't entirely sure if he had gotten over his childhood friend's death. Skinner was no expert in human psychologically, but he knew the horrors of post-war life. He wouldn't be surprised if Tom had lost more friends and family before today.
"Hey, Sawyer..." Skinner started a little hesitantly. "Don't blame yourself. You couldn't have known."
Tom gave a bitter laugh, keeping his eyes closed. "I should have. Dante has his sources; he would've been able to found out sooner or later."
"You couldn't have expected it, Sawyer, admit as much."
"I could have, and I should have," Tom replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He wasn't successful. "I should have. Everyone..." He swallowed back tears. "Everyone wouldn't have died."
"I should've sent more boats there — more people would've been able to get out before the explosions," he continued. "I should've anticipated this, evacuated the town — I should've known Dante would be able to find out once he'd gotten my name." A dizzying whirlwind of all the possibilities, of all that he could have done, suddenly engulfed him. "I should've told the men there to stop any Second Reich men from entering the town. I should've gotten them to check the ground every day, just in case —"
"Look, Sawyer," Skinner said suddenly, grabbing the American by the shoulders roughly. His eyes flew open and he was startled to see Skinner's face near his. "You can play the 'I should've' game to your heart's content for all I care, but think of the kids! You told me yourself that you fight the Second Reich for the kids out there — all of them, all over the world. You worked years for this revolution. If you're going to give up now, I say you're not good enough to be the Black Duke, hero of the world, of the Underground!"
"Yeah, you've lost everyone you've ever loved," he continued, shaking Tom for emphasis. "But so has half of the Underground. That's why they've all been working for you all these years, because you lead a dream of freedom from Dante and Reed and the Kwaden! If you give up not, you're betraying yourself, them, and the world."
He let go of Tom and stood up, glaring at him. "You make your decision. Will you stay in here and brood like a kicked puppy, or will you go out there and lead the men into glory? It's your choice."
He stalked out of the tent.
Joe was pale as death; Nick was worried. He had spent time with the American Underground leader, knew that Joe Harper was fiercely proud of his little town in Mississippi. After all, wasn't the Underground's leader Tom Sawyer a St. Petersburgian as well?
There was silence in the abandoned train station. Everyone felt Joe's loss. The rest of the world knew — America would react with outrage as soon as the shock wore off.
Joe would be a different story. He would react in one of two ways; despair and get all moody and depressed, or be as enraged as the nation he was the leader of. Nick sincerely hoped it would be the second way. Right now, though, he had to snap his friend and chief out of his daze. To accomplish this end, the New York resident pulled out a hip flask. It was full of good old-fashioned Kentucky bourbon — whiskey was hard to come by in the dregs of New York society — and it would help, Nick believed. He gently put in Joe's hands, knowing that Joe hated to be mothered.
"Take it," he said, while using his other hand to shoo the others out of the side room. They began to file out of the room quickly; they understood that the Comte Heliotrope needed time alone. Joe took it, his movements sluggish and slow. "Drink," Nick ordered. "It'll help."
After Joe had finally taken a sip of the bourbon, it seemed that the facts finally sank in. His shoulders sagged even more, and a sob escaped his lips as he covered his face with shaking hands. Nick took the flask from him, quietly corking it and putting it back in his pocket.
"My wife," Joe sobbed, "Oh my god, my wife..."
Nick's heart went out to the young man. Few people outside St. Petersburg had known that Joe Harper and Amy Lawrence were married and had been together for seven years. He had known that Joe was married, though the attractive young man didn't publicize the fact. He and Amy had valued their privacy, not to mention it would have been infinitely more dangerous.
She had stayed in St. Petersburg when he had come to Washington — she was supposed to be safe there, where Dante and Reed couldn't touch her! Joe couldn't believe it; no, he wouldn't believe it. His beloved Amy wasn't dead, his mother and father and sister hadn't gone up in flames, the house was still standing, life was perfectly normal in St. Petersburg...
He had no choice but to believe it.
Joe didn't care that he was supposed to be a symbol of strength for the American people. He didn't care that Nick Carter was in the same room, or that revolution had just been declared. He didn't care about the freedom of the world, or the recruiting that he would have to do. All he cared and knew at that moment was his wife and his family was dead and gone. The town he had grown up in and loved with all his heart had just been destroyed entirely.
He felt a strong hand rest on his shoulder. Nick was still around, then, and comforting him. Joe would have to thank him later. He would also have to encourage the people and the members of the Underground, and create drop sites for volunteers to join the Underground. That would all have to wait for later.
Right now, it was his turn to cry.
Mistoffelees had pounced on a newspaper and was tearing it up into shreds, hissing and growling away. Nikola watched as the front page photograph of the king was mutilated by the angry cat.
"Calm yourself, Mistoffelees," Nikola said as he pressed his fingertips together. Mistoffelees was doing its mutilation on the floor near the table, and it paid no heed to its master. The radio was switched off, and the cries for liberty had died down from the plantation. Mistoffelees continued its loud hissing, and Nikola hoped that no one chose this time to enter his office. He was quite sure that the cat would attack the poor soul.
Sighing, Nikola took the other newspaper on the table and tossed it to the black cat. It also had the photograph of Dante on its front page, and Mistoffelees gladly attacked this one too, showing its displeasure.
Nikola sat, deep in thought, for a while. Suddenly he got up — so sudden, in fact, that Mistoffelees was startled and hissed at him before going back to tearing up Dante — and walked over to a cupboard to the side of the room. Pulling open a drawer, he removed a case. Returning to the desk, he opened it, pleased to see that he still had a few vials of his most lethal and painful poison left. As if sensing what the doctor had pulled out from the cupboard, Mistoffelees paused in its activities.
"Yes, Mistoffelees," Nikola reassured it, "The best I have." He pulled out the vial of the clear liquid and held it up to the light, examining it. "This is for our good friend the Comte Philippe de Chagny (#1)." Mistoffelees purred, as if not understanding. Nikola raised a brow and looked down at the cat. "Dante's viceroy. He shall pay for the death of the innocents."
Mistoffelees purred, finally sated somewhat. Nikola tossed another newspaper — this one was a local one, and bore the face of the Comte on its cover. Nikola's black cat pounced on this one and proceeded to tear it apart.
Percy paced furiously in his study. Anthony Dewhurst (#2) sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, watching him. Percy was muttering curses at the Second Reich in general. Suddenly he turned to face his long-time friend.
"Sink me, Tony," Percy suddenly said, "Sink me! Our second revolution —"
"Third," Tony corrected. "Industrial revolution."
"— our third revolution and this is the first time anyone has done something like this!" Percy finished, plopping his large frame into the chair. "Even the French didn't do something so...so barbaric back then!"
Percy had been around since the French Revolution back in 1789. Tony and Marguerite had been too. When everyone else had turned gray and had passed on — Tony, Percy and Marguerite had not. More than two centuries later, none of them knew why or how; they just were immortal, or so it seemed. Marguerite had died when the guillotine had sliced her head clean off; only violence could kill them. Yes, they could be hurt — but if they were left alone, they could live forever.
"Don't forget," Tony pointed out, "Dante wasn't around during the French revolution." Percy glared at his friend from his chair, and Tony raised his hands in a 'don't-shoot-me' gesture.
"The bastard," Percy said. "He blew up an entire town. Imagine, all the kids there...the bastard."
Tony ran a hand through his thick, brown hair. Anthony Dewhurst — or Tony, as Percy always called him — was one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter two centuries ago. Tony was an ex-Lord; he dropped the title when he made his disappearance with Percy in the mid-1800s. He, like Percy, was tall and broad of shoulders; the two shared plenty in common, and that included the loud laughter and merry face. Whether by birth or by upbringing, Tony was a very courteous man. Marguerite had, over the course of two hundred years, commented how impressed she was by it. Her husband had to keep up the appearance of a nincompoop, and it was always Tony who had to act as the well-bred right-in-the-head one.
Right hand man to Percy, Tony was a well-known face in the South American Underground. He and the new members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had been training farmers how to wield swords, fire and load guns and the like. Percy's plantation was a cover for the operations that went on at night, in addition to being a major source of funding for the Underground's cells in Brazil.
Percy got up again, frustrated and horrified. Marguerite, god bless her soul, would be all for charging into Dante's Brazilian government office and killing everyone there. Percy, on the other hand, knew that the revolution would be put at serious risk if he did that. Reluctantly, he decided not to storm into the office and killing everyone.
"War begins in four days, Percy. You can get back at the Second Reich then," Tony said, watching as his friend paced furiously up and down the room.
"Ay," Percy agreed, stopping at the window and looking to the city, just two miles away from the plantation. "In four days, Hélène (#3) shall regret she ever joined the Second Reich."
Sue had nearly dropped her cigarette when the news of St. Petersburg's destruction reached her in the form of a gray carrier pigeon that landed on her windowsill. She held the piece of paper over the flickering candle flame and watched as it burned to ashes.
She dropped the harmless remnants of the message into the waste bin next to her desk. The pigeon had flown off earlier with her reply that she had received the message. The daughter of the world's best criminal mind exited the study, which adjoined to her bedroom, and went over to one of the lacquer cupboards near the fine bed. The lacquer cupboard was large enough to hide a man. Made up of five levels — four pull-out drawers and one large compartment for clothes — it stood at almost six feet. The beautiful woman seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and pulled open the topmost drawer.
In it were fans; some were made of delicate paper, with Chinese poetry from the dynasties written in precise calligraphy; others had seen masterful strokes of a brush, leading to a picturesque landscape of the Chinese countryside. There were others similar to the European fans made of cloth or lace — there was even one with precious jewels set in it. Sue had dozens; they were all placed lovingly on some of the finest silk in the country.
Sue knew everything there was to know about fans; she could do the fan signals as well as any Victorian woman of good birth could. As a child she had been tutored in European deportment, partially because of her Russian mother's wishes. Fu Manchu despised everything of the West — her mother had begged, and he had given in.
Her mesmerizing green eyes glanced at each before they found the fan in question. A small smile came to her lips as she picked up the delicate lace fan. It was a shade of midnight blue, so dark it was almost black. The curious thing about it was that it had silver spikes at the edge of each rib. Sue opened the fan with a skill earned by years of practice, her long, ivory fingers handling the deadly weapon with a mastery only a woman could acquire. The soft whizzing sound of its opening the only noise in the chamber.
The deadly steel spikes gleamed in the candle-light. Their sharpened tips would slice through any throat with ease.
Very soon, General Fang (#4) would be at the receiving end of Sue's wrath.
Ahab's eyes narrowed in anger. From within the ship, his first mate came out, eyes blazing with fury. "Captain —"
Ahab held a hand out to stop him. "I know, Jack (#5), I know. And I would storm the office too, but now is not the time." Broad Arrow Jack opened his mouth to speak again, but Ahab silenced him with a look. "I understand, but not now. We will wait until the revolution."
The fiery young man stopped, and instead came to stand beside his captain. "Captain, when will the revolution start? It's been ten years already, yet..." He trailed off, afraid he had gone too far.
Ahab didn't say anything, just looked out at Melbourne. The cries for freedom had died down, and everyone was now shock-still with the news of St. Petersburg's destruction. He pointed at a flag mast off in the distance, where the black and white dragon flag of the Second Reich waved in the wind. "Do you see that flag over there, Jack?"
The other man squinted; he could see it clearly enough. "Yes."
"In four days, that flag will no longer fly." He glanced sideways at the young and eager man. "In four days, I will personally go there and pull that flag down."
AJ was furious. He had grabbed his bag and stalked off — he needed to get back to the Underground's French headquarters under the Opera. He was carrying a few small boxes of gunpowder for the muskets Erik (#6) had managed to acquire during his absence.
He hurried through the empty Opera house — it was early afternoon and ballet rehearsals didn't start until four — hoping that the heavens would strike down the Duke (#7) with lighting, hail, a falling flower pot, or something equally as bad.
He passed the dressing rooms that belonged to Carlotta (#8), the Opera's star attraction — and pain in the neck — he stopped. Within, a group of the French Underground's more religious members had gathered there and had formed a prayer circle.
They held crosses in their hands, and one of them was praying in French. AJ's fury subsided — they were praying for any survivors, though it was unlikely there were any, and for the grace of God for the residents of the town who had not been there.
It was depressing; soon news would come in that no survivors had been found and the tears and prayers would start all over again. AJ started on his journeey again, but with a muted step. His rage had vanished totally; while there was still anger at the Second Reich and Dante in general, it was much less than what he had experienced earlier.
He moved further down into the cellars, and within a few minutes he found himself on one of the banks of the lake under the Opera. He waved, and the boatman pushed off from the other side. As he waited, he reflected, trying to think of what he could do to avenge the innocents who died in America.
He would have to ask for suggestions – probably from Erik or the Persian daroga (#9) with whom the Opera Ghost seemed to have a strained relationship with. Perhaps both. Just then, the boat touched the shore. AJ boarded, careful not to let the bag touch the water, and sat. The boatman, an aging Frenchman, pushed off the bank. As he rowed, he spoke to AJ.
"M'sieur Chrome," he said, using AJ's alias, "You heard the king's announcement?" At AJ's nod, he continued. "M'sieur, we must get back at the Second Reich. It is only right that we blow up something of theirs —"
The Underground leader shook his head. "No." They were nearing the other shore. "We wait, my good man, until the day of the revolution."
"Will it be soon, m'sieur?" the man asked eagerly as they touched shore. "Since the Black Duke said over the radio for the men to come out."
"Oh, very near," AJ nodded again. He stood up and stepped onto solid ground. "Very near." He paused. "What is your name, monsieur?"
"Roland Napoleon Bonaparte (#10), m'sieur."
AJ raised a brow. "Bonaparte?"
"Grand nephew of the man himself." Roland beamed. The other man nodded.
"I'll remember you, monsieur Bonaparte," AJ said, lingering near the water's edge. "Trust me, when I get rid of Dante's man in Paris, the Vicomte Alanbrooke (#11), you shall be among the first to know."
Black glowered. He peered through his telescope and saw Second Reich's flag whipping around in the frozen South Pole winds. He was sorely tempted to get his crew to destroy the flagpole that held it up, but knew now was the time for prudence. Beside him, his lieutenant swore in French.
"The beast," Raoul de Chagny (#12) said through clenched teeth — the youth Frenchmen always did have a problem with Greenland's climate. "Captain, Black Michael (#13) must pay for this. Let me take a few men, we'll go in and be out within a quarter of an hour."
Black lowered his telescope and raised a brow. "Go in where and do what?"
"Go into Black Michael's office, of course," Raoul answered. "And kill him."
Black scowled at his first mate. "No. You will do no such thing." Raoul opened his mouth to protest, but Black's scowl deepened. "I know you want to go back to France, Raoul, but you won't rush; not now, not ever. The revolution comes soon. Then you can kill Black Michael."
Raoul kept quiet; he knew his captain had more sense in him that he himself could probably ever get. He would wait. But when the revolution came, he swore to himself that Black Michael would die, and die horribly.
Robur crossed himself. By nature he wasn't a very religious man, but the lost town deserved his prayers. He stood up and crossed the room, opening the door and leaving his library-cum-study. His dark eyes blazed with a fury he hadn't felt in quite awhile, one that was quite rare to his calm and collected self.
Dante would pay. Kurtz, Dante's Russian viceroy, (#14) would pay.
He walked through his apartment in Moscow; he would have to get into contact with the Albatross. The Indian Nemo had given him some interesting ideas for armory while in London, and Robur had been able to modify one of his inventor's armor to suit the design specs that Nemo had given him. Phileas (#15) hadn't been too happy about that, but he couldn't deny that they would, in theory, hold up against the Second Reich's Aerial Attack Force better.
He entered a small side-room; its door was hidden behind a very large painting of Catherine the Great. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he then sat down in the chair that was one of the sole pieces of furniture in the room.
The other was a table. It had two sets of telegraph apparatus on it; one was wired directly to the Albatross, another to the secret base of the Russian Underground. Now, he went for the second one. He sent out a quick message, checking the status of the installation of the armor. The answer came soon enough; it was proceeding very well, and he imagined he could hear Phileas nagging at the engineers.
He sent back a message, telling the engineers in the base to hurry. A whole fleet needed their armor installed by Sunday morning.
Robur promised himself that the airship that held Kurtz on it would be the first to be destroyed.
A quarter of an hour had passed since his talk with Tom, and he wondered whether he would do the right thing. Mina and Jekyll had arrived ten minutes ago, and Skinner was talking to the concerned two when the tent flap was pushed aside.
Tom came outside. A hush came over the other League members when the revolutionary approached them.
"I've made my choice," he told them, looking Skinner in the eye. His voice was strong, with a stronger resolution that Skinner had ever heard from him before.
"The revolution will go on."
(#1) Philippe is Raoul's brother from Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, which was published in 1911.
(#2) Lord Anthony Dewhurst appeared in The Scarlet Pimpernel. He is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and one of Percy's most trusted associates.
(#3) Hélène is the daughter of Fantômas, the Genius of Evil. Fantômas was created by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain for monthly stories that appeared in 1911. Hélène is a smoker of opium, and who dresses up in men's clothes and wears a death's-head tattoo. She's also her father's partner-in-crime, so to speak.
(#4) General Fang is from the 2004 movie adaptation of Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days.
(#5) Broad Arrow Jack (real name John Ashleigh) was created by E. Harcourt Burrage in a penny dreadful published in 1866. Jack is a young Englishman fallen on hard times in Australia who becomes the outlaw Broad Arrow Jack, called so because of the arrow brand on his back. The novel ends with Jack married to an aristocrat somewhere in England.
(#6) Erik (alias the Phantom of the Opera alias the Opera Ghost) is, again, from The Phantom of the Opera.
(#7) The Duke was in the 2001 movie Moulin Rouge!. Enough said.
(#8) Carlotta, of The Phantom of the Opera, is the Opera's star.
(#9) The daroga — Persian for 'chief of police' — is also from The Phantom of the Opera. He had saved Erik's life in Persia before, but later in the events of the novel he plays a part in Raoul's finding out of the Phantom's hideout.
(#10) Roland Napoleon Bonaparte (1858-1924) was a real person. He was the son of Napoleon's nephew's, which made him a grand-nephew, I think.
(#11) The Viscount Alanbrooke really existed. Born in 1883 as Alan Francis Brooke to a prominent North Irish family, he was educated in France and also in the Royal Military College in Woolwich, England. He served with the Royal Artillery in France during World War 1.
(#12) Raoul de Chagny is one of the main characters of Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera (1911). He is a sailor and a patron of the Paris Opéra.
(#13) "Black Michael" is the wicked Duke of Strelsau, Ruritania, which was created by Anthony Hope Hawkins for 1894's The Prisoner of Zenda.
(#14) Kurtz, of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness (1899), is the agent for a company of ivory traders; he is corrupted by the power he gains over the natives of the Belgian Congo.
(#15) Jules Verne created Phileas Fogg, the star of Around The World in Eighty Days, 1873. Need I say more?