Revolution
Chapter 23
He don't care
if we're dead or alive
Three satin pillows are under his head
While we're begging for bread to survive...
You got your thugs
with their sticks and their slugs
Yeah, but we got a promise to keep!
Once and for all
Something tells me the tide'll be turnin'
Once and for all
There's a fire inside me
That won't stop burnin'
Now that the choices are clear
Now that tomorrow is here
Watch how the mighty will fall
For once and for all!
This is for kids shinin' shoes in the street
With no shoes on their feet every day
This is for guys sweatin' blood in the shops
While the bosses and cops look away
This is to even the score!
This ain't just newsies no more!
This ain't just kids with some pie in the sky
This is do it or die!
This is war!
Once and for all
We'll be there to defend one another
Once and for all
Every kid is a friend
Every friend a brother
Five thousand fists in the sky
(Five thousand fists in the sky)
Five thousand reasons to try
(Five thousand reasons to try)
Better to die than to crawl!
Either we stand or we fall!
For once
Once and for all!
- "Once And For All", Newsies
The long, mournful bells of Big Ben rang across all of London. Half of the great city's population had gathered on the streets to see Zalma's funeral. Children shoved their way to the front of the crowds and some climbed trees to get a better look.
The funerary procession began to make its way down; it would only last for about an hour, and Dante had to sit through the whole ceremony. He wasn't happy about it, but the people needed their king.
His platform was mounted just outside the grounds of what had once been Buckingham Palace. Sons and daughters of nobility were seated on another platform set up near his own. They looked bored and spoilt. Many had secretly voiced objections to the whole procession, but fear of Dante and any reprisals were to be avoided at all costs, ensuring that Dante never heard a word of the complaints.
Still, he had his means. Spies deployed in the house, contacts who knew all and then some. He knew every little secret of each of the nobility and people of note. The case of Lord St. Simon was a good case in point. Although much of it was hush-hush and most of the details lost after the Great Detective's death — which, Dante noted with some satisfaction, had involved M (#1) — he had been able to gather enough intelligence to know that Robert Walsingham de vere St. Simon (#2) had once married an already-married woman. Dante knew that St. Simon had not known that his wife had been married, but with enough twisting of the facts he could make the general public believe anything.
The Rassendylls (#3) had not been very happy that Zalma would be having a state funeral complete with a band and soldiers. They had kept it under warps, but Dante and Reed knew that Rose had thought it was disrespectful. Robert Rassendyll was seated behind him, his wife beside him. Rose was fanning herself furiously, a sign of her unhappiness.
Dante reclined in his chair. He didn't really care what the rest of the world thought; his rule was absolute, his minions feared. Reed was very good in scaring the people into submission. Together they formed a powerful force that was not to be reckoned with.
Music started to play; a long, mournful requiem to Zalma von der Pahlen. The funerary procession started to move slowly along the streets in front of Dante and the others assembled. Across the street, women and children threw flowers at the coffin as it passed them.
Inwardly, Dante rolled his eyes. Zalma was already dead; it wouldn't do much good for them to throw flowers at her.
Young Anne looked out of the window shades, standing on tip-toe to see the procession past under her window. She heard footsteps, and turned to see her governess come up to her. Miss Lois Cayley came to stand next to her young charge.
Anne's parents were out with the King to watch the state funeral. Anne had been left with Miss Cayley, and despite orders from her parents not to let her watch, Miss Cayley thought it would be good for the eight-year-old to see.
"Miss Cayley," Anne asked, face still glued to the window. "I thought the King didn't like Miss Pahlen."
"No, child, he didn't."
"Papa and mama were talking about it last night," Anne said. "Papa said the people will be angry, that they would not be happy."
"No, they won't." Miss Cayley looked at her.
"Are they angry, Miss Cayley?"
"Of course they are, child," she answered softly. Lois had connections with the Underground. She was a member of their ranks, but she was with Anne. Someone had to take care of the little girl. "Of course they're angry."
"Why, Miss Cayley?"
She turned to smile at Anne. So curious, as always. "Because Zalma was a hero to the people. With a state funeral, the King is trying to say that Zalma was his hero, too. It's the final insult."
Skinner heard the funeral song as the procession drew nearer and nearer. They were moving slowly, letting everyone have good look at the grandeur of the whole parade. Dante was showing off, trying to claim Zalma as his hero.
The people from the Abbey were right in front, chanting and praying in Latin. There were a few boys of Owen's age there, too; about three or four of them. The altar boys were clean and dressed in white, unlike Owen and his children.
People around him strained their necks to catch a glimpse of her, before she was buried in Westminster Abbey. He had heard the other men talk: she would never be buried there; Dante did not respect her so and had seen her as a hindrance. She'd have a memorial there but she would most likely be thrown in some pit and forgotten.
Behind the religious group were some guards, dressed up all formal and nice in their tailored suits. He had to suppress a laugh when Owen made a rude gesture at them. He understood that the children weren't too fond of the guards of the Second Reich.
Taking a step back as one of the men passed dangerously close to him, Skinner tripped on the edge of the curb. He almost fell backwards but caught himself in time. He turned around to say sorry to Tom, but then he realised the spot behind him was empty.
Tom had disappeared.
Looking around, trying to locate his friend, Skinner searched in vain. Tom must have slipped away when no-one had been looking. Where the blazes had he gone to?
His eyes scanned the area, trying to locate a blob of yellow hair. There were too many about, and eventually he gave up. Switching to another tactic — looking for a black-robed person, surely there wouldn't be too many of those about — he could locate none, either.
The invisible thief started to get worried. Had Tom been mugged? He'd seen it before; thugs garrotting victims by pressing their fists on their windpipes 'til the unlucky bloke fainted and lost his voice. It was a widespread tactic, and even though Skinner had never used it, he knew it to be pretty effective.
Worse of all, he was stuck where he was. It was impossible to get through the crowd and to the back of the street, where Tom might have been lying, propped up against a lamppost or something, without revealing his presence.
He just had to hope for the best and pray that a Toby (#4) had not gotten to his friend.
Joe watched as the memorial procession passed down the streets of Washington. The crowds had gathered by the street's edge and black was the colour of choice amongst the people. Zalma may have been across the Atlantic, but they all knew of her work.
Jonny's newsies were scattered about. Joe was standing next to him. He hoped that the young boy remembered their deal.
Further down the road, closer to the White House, platforms had been erected for Bevis (#5) and his fat pigs of aristocracy to watch in comfort the proceedings.
Joe could imagine how Bevis looked like now: dressed in fine clothes that costed more than any of the lower class could ever hope to earn, with that damnable crow sitting on his shoulder. Bevis was never seen without his crow.
Most of the world believed that the crow and Bevis had some kind of special affinity with each other, but Joe knew there was more to that; the governor of North America had the ability to speak to animals. The crow was his minion of sorts and carried his orders out to other animals. Whether they chose to respond to his orders or were forced to, Joe did not know, but he was not too concerned about any animals. If everything went as planned, Bevis would have only his crow...and how much damage could one crow cause?
The hearse passed him and Jonny. The child threw a flower as it passed him. Joe rested a hand on top of Jonny's head. It was sad that such a brave and forceful human rights fighter had to die so soon. Of course, Jonny thought it was due to the fact that Zalma had never been healthy. Joe couldn't find it in him to tell him otherwise; that Zalma had been murdered by Dante.
Nick was back in New York; no doubt they had their own service there. He was there to make sure that, after Dante's parade, the governor of New York would not be able to retire to Waldorf Hotel (#6) with the wealthy and famous of New York. There would probably be a feast then.
Underneath his heavy coat, Joe gripped his trusty Webleys tightly. All they were waiting for was the signal from London. He wasn't sure how and when it would come, but he had trust in his long-time friend. He'd know.
Sue fanned herself as she watched from her private balcony. Mao stood next to her, sweating under his collar. The heat was oppressive, but she remained unaffected by it.
She had rented a small unit so she could watch the proceedings in comfort and not amongst the crowds that had formed all around Beijing. From her vantage point, she could see General Fang clearly.
The other woman was as dangerous as Fu Manchu's daughter. Her long metal claws glinted in the sunlight as she tapped her fingers on the fine rosewood chair she had perched herself on. Sue wanted to deal with her nemesis directly; Mao was capable enough to guide the people. If he needed help, there was always the Council of the Seven and her father.
She doubted that he would need any; he had proved himself a strong and decisive leader in the past, despite his young years. This would let her take care of Fang herself, and she was grateful for that.
Underground members were everywhere. Soon, when the go-ahead from London came — all hell would break loose on General Fang. The Underground would show themselves and war would be declared with a bang.
Robur looked down at Moscow with well-disguised contempt. High in the clouds, the Albatross, the Meteor and the ragtag fleet that the Underground called its own were waiting.
Using a wonderful new technology of Fogg's, Robur was able to transmit a visual image of what was occurring from the Albatross to the other ships. It was like a photograph, except the things in it were moving; Phileas was rather proud of it. It was still in its prototype stage, but it was working well so far.
"Ready the men," Robur ordered one of his crew. "Tell them that the signal from the Black Duke will come soon." The crewmember ran off to disperse his captain's orders.
It would come very soon, Robur knew, most likely before the end of Zalma's funeral. All over the world it was being broadcast over the radio, and the Albatross was no exception.
The funeral song was blaring from loudspeakers set in the corner of the bridge. He had no idea how the signal would be, but the stoic Russian captain had a feeling it would be over the radio. Then again, he could be wrong.
Below them, Dante's magnificent Aerial Attack Force, better known as the AAF, were waiting. When Dante's own parade started, they would show off their moves and awe the people. Robur's contacts told him that Kurtz would board one of them later, but they did now know which one.
It was of little consequence. At the end of the day, all of them would be destroyed or captured by the Underground. Vladivostok would be the AAF's best choice to repair and refuel their ships — Robur would make sure the base in Moscow was destroyed before they could use it. But Vladivostok would be severely crippled, because a fleet was dispatched there to cause as much damage as they could.
Robur smiled to himself, despite the grim mood the funeral songs were putting everyone in. The Second Reich would pay for the final insult to the people.
AJ mixed with the crowd that had gathered to watch Zalma's final earthly journey. He was at the outskirts of the city, close to where the Versailles was located. The festivities would normally have begun in the heart of the city itself, but Hélène had insisted that both the parades would begin and end at the magnificent palace.
Christian stood next to him, looking about nervously. The young Englishman was jumpy, but he hid it well. His friends were all over the place; the 'children of the revolution', as they called themselves, were scattered all over Paris and surrounding areas.
Looking across the street, AJ could see fellow Underground members. They were armed and ready; all they had to do was to wait.
No one knew when the signal for battle would come; AJ had a feeling that it would be as dramatic as Tom's escape from the gallows, maybe even more so. Beneath his own coat, AJ could feel his weapons, heavy and comforting.
Around him, his Underground men knew what to do. AJ looked towards the Versailles. He couldn't see Hélène, but he knew she was there. Her father, probably, but he couldn't be sure.
He didn't care. Hélène was his target. With her, the flag that flew on the top of the Eiffel Tower would come down.
The sea spray was cool against Ahab's weathered cheek. The Pequod was anchored not far off from the Australia coast. Around the Pequod, the other ships that made up the fleet were also anchored.
Looking about, Ahab saw the captains of the other ships standing on the deck, heads turned in the general direction of the mainland. The flag on the ships' masts was that of the Second Reich. The dragon fluttered in the wind, then drooped as it died down.
Some of Ahab's crew had pleaded with him not to put up the flag. He understood why they were so averse to it. They had been extremely unwilling to climb up to the crow's nest to attach the flag and in the end, Broad Arrow Jack had taken it upon himself to do so.
His crew were gathered in various places on deck around their captain, most of them having found a place on the rigging. Someone had brought a radio onboard, and the broadcast from London was audible but full of static. They were a quarter of a mile from the shore, masquerading as merchant ships, hence the flag.
Of course, there was something prepared for later on that would shock the living daylights out of the Second Reich. Broad Arrow Jack was standing in the crow's nest, the only one there. He was charged with the important task of the surprise, and Ahab knew his second-in-command would do a great job.
Everyone was tense. They knew it was coming and soon. His young, able crew were ready to spring into action, as were the crews of the other ships.
He pulled out his spyglass and looked towards the harbour, trying to spot his Second Reich counterpart. There, in the stands — yes, it was definitely Joseph Conrad (#7). An old man, but for every year of his age he had twice the amount of experience. He was fifty-five but still going strong.
Ahab fully intended to be rid of Conrad. Both of them were old and not too far from their ends. If they did not die now, then they would die soon. Ahab wanted his death to be an honourable one. The thought of dying an old, sick man in a bed was unbearable. If I am to meet my death today, he thought, then let it be at the hands of a worthy opponent.
Percy had not swapped his finery for simpler clothes. He had to maintain an appearance — had he dressed any different from normal, someone would notice and the revolution would be put at risk. He did not want that to happen, so he was willing to get his expensive coats and shirts ripped if it came to it.
He had not opted to join the officials and important people of Rio in the middle of the grand stands that had been erected for the occasion. Instead, he was at the edge of the seats. In the confusing after London declared war, he intended to slip away and join Tony and the men.
Up until then he had to keep up the illusion that he was a fop. A wealthy fop who had a taste of clothes of the era circa the French Revolution, but a fop nonetheless. It was a façade he was tired of, but it was very effective. After all, who would believe that a fop could lead a cell of the Underground?
His new gun and sword were not with him. He felt unprotected and more than a little nervous, but he carefully hid it from everyone, especially the Underground members. The people needed a figurehead. In the absence of the Black Duke, the responsibility fell to him. It was a heavy burden, and a familiar one.
Percy made sure his thoughts did not show on his face as he watched the funerary proceedings. The radio transmission from London was loud and clear, especially from where he was sitting. He would have no trouble hearing the declaration when it came.
Mistoffelees had curled its little furry body on Nikola's shoulders, a dark shape on the slender man's body.
The deadly doctor was an odd figure in the crowd of mostly natives, gathered about the streets of Morocco. No-one paid him any mind, though. The Africans had learnt to ignore the white men.
Mistoffelees' head rose up from its spot on Nikola's shoulder as the front of the convoy passed them. It gave a sad little mew, sounding very much like a newborn kitten.
"Now, now, Mistoffelees," Nikola said softly, reaching up a gloved hand to stroke the feline's silky black fur, "Don't be upset. Zalma will be avenged."
His cat purred in agreement, keen eyes watching every move of the convoy. Nikola was sure that Mistoffelees would wreck its fair share of chaos when the time came. In fact, he was expecting it.
He would also cause his fair share of havoc as well. Usually he had no appetite for fighting, but today he had vowed that the Comte would go down, and so go down he would.
Of course, he would be heavily guarded by his men. They had sworn absolute loyalty to him, mostly because their families had some sort of debt with the Comte. But even men could be persuaded by the threat of death and perhaps even amnesty from whatever they owed the Second Reich.
The vial of clear liquid rested in a small case that he had put in his coat pocket. No-one except Philippe de Chagny would be the victim of its contents. For the others Nikola had reserved the edge of his steel blade, hidden in his cane. He had used it only twice before but, while he would have rather stuck to his poisons and chemicals, he had found that the occasional use of a sword was necessary.
The final insult would be paid for in blood.
Black peered through the spyglass at the flotilla of Second Reich ships some distance to the starboard of his own. Around him, the Underground ships were ready to lift anchor once the signal was given.
He was no fool. Despite the fancy decorations that adorned the warships, he knew that they were fully armed and battle-ready. He'd come up against a few of them before. Black Michael was a paranoid man. Black supposed it came from years of intrigue in the courts of Ruritania.
At least two warships were always armed and fully manned. Of the four that were stationed at Greenland itself, two more were not too far out of sailing range. Black had to make sure that the two warships didn't make it to the Artic Sea in time to help, or to capture them.
He had capable captains with him; he could assign them that job. However, there was still the signal to wait for. London couldn't have stressed the point more; no action was to be taken until the signal came through.
The sounds of a traditional funeral song came over loudspeakers mounted all over the harbour. Even from the Pequod's distance of three-quarters of a mile offshore, Black fancied he could hear the faint requiem.
Skinner's attention had returned to the funeral. Slowly the procession made its way to where he and the others stood. He tried to see the coffin, which was being pulled along by two sturdy horses, but there were too many men.
The bells in Westminster chimed mournfully, but suddenly the front of the crowd started to make plenty of noise. What was happening? Skinner tried to see what was causing the excitement — and had the shock of his life.
Tom was on the back of a white steed, galloping towards the funeral procession, standard in hand!
And on the very top of the pole...Skinner couldn't believe his eyes. The Underground flag flew brave and true, whipping in the wind as its bearer made steady progress.
A roar rose up through the crowds as Tom passed them, a blur of white and gray. In front of the procession, which had come to a sudden halt, Tom stopped his horse. The great beast was huge, and looked like a white devil, breathing mist into the chilly London air.
The look on Tom's face was positively terrifying. Defiance, pride, courage, determination and others had chosen to paint themselves on the canvas of his face.
"This is for Dante." His voice rang out loud and clear in the silence that had reigned after his dramatic appearance. It was impossibly loud. Surely there was some sort of device concealed on him somewhere that was magnifying his voice over the loudspeakers. Skinner supposed it was something like hijacking a radio signal, just like they had done a few days ago.
"The Underground gives him one last chance to give up peacefully." The horse skittered, but Tom brought him under control again. "One last chance to surrender with no bloodshed. Does he accept?"
Dante nearly roared in fury. The beast inside him did roar, however, as he jumped up from his seat. "Reed!"
"I know!" Reed was scrambling to get to the front, where the announcer was looking dumbfounded.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
"I-I don't k-know, sir," the man stammered. "T-they took over the s-signal and we couldn-n't get it b-back."
Reed positively growled like an animal and snatched the microphone away from him as Dante came hurrying down towards them.
"The Underground stole our signal again," Reed informed him as the terrified man shrunk back. "Sawyer is transmitting."
"Does he accept?" the Underground leader's voice rang out again.
Reed looked at Dante, who looked at him before grabbing the microphone. "The Second Reich will never surrender!"
"The Second Reich will never surrender!"
So be it, Tom thought. He raised the banner high in the air for the entire world to see. "For freedom!"
The world around him roared.
(#1) The Great Detective in question here is Sherlock Holmes; his death was chronicled in The Final Problem, where he and Prof. James Moriarty were believed to have fallen to their deaths in Reichenbach Falls. Everyone, of course, know that Moriarty or M returned in the LXG movie.
(#2) Lord Robert Walsingham de vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, was from one of the Sherlock Holmes cases by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, called The Noble Bachelor. He married the unwittingly still-married Hatty Hay Moulton.
(#3) The Rassendyll family are a family of nobility in England in Anthony Hope Hawkins' novel The Prisoner of Zenda (1894). They're comprised of brothers Robert and Rudolf, the former of whom is married to a woman called Rose.
(#4) A person who robbed others on the street was known as a Toby. They were the ones who practiced garrotting.
(#5) Bevis was created by Richard Jefferies and appeared in Wood Magic (1881) and its sequel, Bevis (1882). The version used here is from the second book. Bevis, at age 5 or 6, has the ability to speak with animals and plants. They're intelligent and talk to him also.
(#6) The Waldorf Hotel was built in 1893 by William Waldorf Astor. In 1929 it located uptown and the Empire State building built over the site.
(#7) Writer of Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad (real name Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski) was of Polish descent, and in 1874, he abandoned his education to become a seaman. He spent the next twenty years sailing around the world before finally settling down and writing Almayer's Folly, Heart of Darkness, and others.
The scene with Lois and Anne is inspired by a similar scene from 1998's Les Miserables, in which Valjean (Liam Neeson) explains to Cosette (Claire Danes) why the people are marching against the king's decision to give Lamarque a state funeral.
Garrotting was also a problem in Victorian England. Some folks made money by producing thick leather collars that protected a wearer from garrotters.