Revolution
Chapter 26

"You ask, what is our policy? I will say; 'It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us: to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy.' You ask, what is our aim? I can answer with one word: Victory — victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival."
- Sir Winston Churchill

Skinner felt the need to interject with the facts. "Didn't Sherlock Holmes die years ago? In Sweden or something?"

"Switzerland, my good sir, Switzerland," Mycroft corrected. "Only I, Albert and a few others are aware that he did not, in fact, plunge to his death at Reichenbach, as Dr. Watson has led the public to believe." Then, as if as an afterthought, "He has not been informed."

Tom looked thoughtful, but cautious. "How did you find us?"

"I had just arrived in London," Mycroft told them, "And entered my room in the club when a small, rather ingenious black cat came in with a note." He produced it from his pocket. Tom took it; he recognised Nikola's neat script. So that's where Mistoffelees went to when we went to see Zalma's body, he thought.

"What do you want us to do with him?" Skinner asked, eyeing the big man. "He's too far away to be fighting."

"Mycroft wants us to make sure Albert gets his rightful title as King," Damon piped up from his spot on the cot. He made a move as if to get up, but then one of the doctors threw him a dirty glare and he sat back down again. "They threatened to make me sleep if I got up," he muttered as an explanation. "What do you say?" He looked up at Tom.

Tom crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. At length, he said, "I don't want him to join the fighting. The survivor of the Royal Family should live to take the throne. Mr. Holmes, you and your brother keep him safe in Sussex. We'll get rid of Dante; when everything's settled, he'll be made king."

As if sensing the caution and scepticism that laced Tom's voice, Mycroft said, "I assure you, sir, that Albert has been aptly trained for his future role. Sherlock and I took pains to ensure that he will not grow up to become Dante."

"I don't doubt that," Tom smiled. "But I guess even the best training can go awry. With great power comes great responsibility."

Mycroft nodded; he could understand where this young man was coming from. They had talked about this and the Holmes brothers had agreed that, until Albert was old enough, he would have a regent. "Then I propose that Albert have a regent appointed until you feel he is older and wise enough to become a ruler."

"The law states — well, stated, anyway — that he's supposed to have a regent until he's eighteen," Damon pointed out. "Like Queen Victoria, except she never needed it. I don't think Dante eradicated that when he and the lawyers revised the justice system."

"We'll stick to the law." Tom crossed his arms over his chest. "Albert is only fourteen, he still has a few years before he can ascend to the throne. I don't think this" — he gestured at things in general, referring to the fight — "will last four years. Four weeks, maybe four months, but not four years. And if it does..." He straightened, standing to his full height, something he did more often now. "Mr. Holmes, you and your brother are charged with taking care of him by the Underground resistance movement."

"Consider it done, Duke," Mycroft nodded. "Rest assured Sherlock and I will keep Albert safe from the Second Reich."

"Thanks."

Mycroft inclined his head, and with a half-bow, left the tent. Tom looked down at his second-in-command. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine." He waved it off, and lowered his tone, as if they were in on a conspiracy. "I'm just here to make it look like I'm listening to doctor's orders. As soon as they look away I'm outta here." Skinner and Tom laughed. His leg may be hurt, but his wit sure wasn't. "One of the Kwaden got lucky. It's not deep; I'll be back in shape tomorrow. You're not going to get rid of me so easily." He grinned.

Damon strode purposefully towards the guard post. As he had predicted, the minute the doctors had looked away he had snuck out and made a run for it. His leg hurt, but he didn't care; it was just a minor wound, not as bad as some of the others they had seen. He justified his case by saying that the bed would be open to someone else who needed it more than him, when the doctors found him. Now, though, he was on his way to look for Tom and Skinner. Some of the men had directed him towards the camp, on the forefront of the perimeter. He was again armed; one of the kids had run back to the tent to get his guns.

This was one of the many camps they had set up along the riverbank after they had secured the south of the Thames. It was near the hospital tent, and he took special care to be as inconspicuous as possible, just in case one of the doctors happened to look out and see him. The main area of the camp — that is, the fort-like part of it, where the guns were fired — was fortified with unused crates and junk. It kept the bullets out and the others safe.

He ducked underneath some men carrying an injured comrade off, joining Tom and Skinner by the edge. The latter was poking at his dinner, while Tom was strumming something on a broken guitar. He'd heard that tune before, somewhere a long time ago. The words came to his mind unbidden: What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming? (#1)

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Tom asked, slowing his playing. "How's your leg?"

"I told you I'd be fine." He noted the Winchester lying next to Tom on the ground. It was loaded, and while they weren't expecting any attack, it never hurt to be prepared. "Has there been any news from our men on the other side?" He inclined his head towards the other bank of the river, which they could see clearly in the moonlight. Tom shook his head; there had been no word, although Blake had assured him that their men were capable of defending themselves. The reassuring thing was that there not been any explosions, so it was likely Somerset House was still in one piece.

"Blake came by earlier," Skinner informed him. "He said they're trying to make contact with the other side by radio, see how they're doing. Nemo's men are bringing some equipment over from the Nautilus to help the radio people."

Damon nodded and peered over his shoulder. The hospital tent was busy as ever. It would be some time yet before his disappearance was noticed. He turned around and was about to say something when the gunshots and screaming started.

Tom dropped his bowl and, grabbing his Winchester, ran to the front. The men already there were had taken aim and were shooting at the occupants of the small boat that had landed on their side. It was Second Reich. Someone was screaming something, but he couldn't understand, not over the boom of the muskets as they discharged. Blake was quick to arrive on the scene; a minute or so more of shooting, and then his men were down by the water, wrestling the intruders to the ground and disarming them with quick efficiency.

He lowered his gun, shaking his shaggy blond locks out of his face. He thought he could relax when the screaming started again and his name was called. He spun to his left to locate Jimmy. The boy was crouching by a figure, who lay prostrate on the ground...Owen. "Mr. Sawyer! Help!"

He pushed past the people who were flocking to the scene of the fight. Blake's men were taking prisoners; he would deal with them later. This was much more pressing. He nearly dropping his gun as he slipped down the slight slope that led to the water, but he managed to get to the bottom unhurt. Damon and Skinner followed close behind, attracted by Owen's voice.

"Owen, what happened!" He cradled Owens's dirty head. There was blood all over his front and it was spreading fast. He was barely conscious, fading in and out. Jimmy was hysterical, but he calmed down enough as the others reached them to tell his tale.

"Me and O-Owen, we was down by the river — Blake s-said we're low on bullets, so we figured — since t-there'd be shooting earlier, there'd be shells — we was picking them up w-when the boat — we were shouting at the guys — t-then the shooting, an' then we was goin' to get back b-behind the lines — then Owen, he, he fell, an' t-then there was b-blood all over — please, you gotta help him!" He dissolved into a sputtering wreck from there on, crying and begging Tom to help him, between wailing what sounded like a prayer.

It's no good, Tom thought with a sinking heart as he pulled away the dirty rag that Owen called a shirt. He's been shot. His heart plummeted to meet his spleen when he saw the gaping hole in his chest. He was aware Damon next to him and yelling for a doctor, of the people who were crowding around them, and of Skinner holding Jimmy and trying to calm him down, with little success. His focus was on Owen as the child opened his eyes. "Stay with me, Owen. Don't fall asleep; you have to stay with me." Please, don't let him die. He's too young...he still has his whole life ahead of him, please don't let him die.

"Mr. S-Sawyer," he wheezed. He took Tom's hand and the cold and wet feeling of a handful of bullet shells greeted his open palm. "Hope...this helps." He passed out.

"Owen! Don't scare me! Owen! Wake up, wake up!" Tom shook him roughly. "No! I won't let you die! Owen!"

Jimmy started wailing again, clinging to Skinner. The invisible man looked shaken to the core and Damon stopped yelling. Tom didn't care. Owen was dead. He knew there would be casualties, but Owen...was opening his eyes?

"He's alive! He's alive!" The doctors came running, bringing an old gurney with them. "He's alive!" He had to relinquish Owen to them as they loaded him onto a gurney and carted him off.

"Is he going to survive?" Skinner asked quietly as Tom stood up. He came to stand next to his friend after handing Jimmy to Mina. They would take care of him for now.

"He'll live." He'll live. He had probably never been more relieved to be able to hear those two magic words. Two very important words that he wished he could have been able to say on at least two more occasions, but he banished the thoughts from his mind. He had a feeling Huck and Allan would have gladly have traded in their turns so that Owen could go on to see another day.

"Sawyer!" Blake scrambled down the gravel. "Sawyer!" He ran to meet them. "We have hostages...you won't believe who we got." His raised brow prompted Blake to call forward two of his men, who held the prisoner between them. He wasn't fighting the former constables; he seemed almost resigned to his fate.

"Blimey," Skinner whispered. "It's Chauvelin."

(#1) Those lines are from The Star-Spangled Banner, the American national anthem. It was written on the morning of 14 September 1814 by Francis Scott Key, after he saw the American flag still flying over Fort McHenry, which had been shelled the night before. It was originally titled Defense of Fort M'Henry.