The Fox of France - Chapter 330 (Patreon)

Chapter 330: Strike

"We oppose the unreasonable actions of the factory, and for the benefit of all workers, we declare a strike!" A worker representative raised a tin megaphone and shouted to everyone, "Comrades, brothers, our days have been tough enough, the wages we get now barely put food on the table. Let me ask you, have you seen anyone working as a laborer for six or seven years? Have you?"

The crowd below fell silent. After a while, they all shouted together, "No, no one!"

"Why not? Why?" the worker representative shouted.

"Because they either went to America or died from exhaustion in the factories!" another worker representative yelled loudly, "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, it is!" the workers shouted.

"Brothers, brothers! In the past, we could hope to save enough for a ticket to America before we worked ourselves to death. That was our only hope in this painful life. But with these wages, can we save enough for that ticket before we die of exhaustion? What will be our fate in the end? Right now, even if we're miserable, at most, we'll end up dead. But brothers, accepting these wages is also a kind of death, isn't it? If both paths lead to death, why should we work ourselves to death? Why should we let them, these factory owners, these venomous beasts, these bloodsuckers, build their estates and mansions on our corpses?"

"Yes, no more, no more!"

"We strike, we strike!"

"We won't let them thrive on our dead bodies!"

More people joined in the outcry.

"Hmph, let them starve! These lazy lot, if they weren't so lazy or dumb, how could they starve? They deserve to starve!" a manager-looking man said fiercely.

"Yes, let these lazy lot starve!" another follower-like person echoed.

"We just need to turn around, and we can find as many or even more workers on the streets!" the stout manager said.

At this point, the worker representative on the other side said something, and the crowd started shouting again. Finally, thousands of workers together sang a song:

"Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!

Arise, ye wretched of the earth!

..."

"What are they trying to do? Revolt?" the stout manager turned pale, "Quick, close the gates, don't let those ruffians come in and damage the machines!"

During this era, conflicts between workers and factory owners were pronounced. Incidents of workers storming factories and wrecking machines were not uncommon. So, upon sensing something amiss outside, the stout manager immediately issued such an order.

Police and factory guards swiftly retreated into the factory, and the gates, clad in iron, slammed shut. The police and guards climbed onto the walls, holding guns, facing the agitated crowd below.

However, the crowd didn't disperse; they continued to gather outside the factory gates, still singing. Some pointed and cursed vehemently at the stout manager on the wall.

The stout manager remained unresponsive, but the follower beside him spat viciously downwards and flipped off the people below.

"You bastards!" some furious workers picked up stones from the ground and hurled them at the follower. With someone leading the charge, more people started throwing stones at those on the wall, and some even approached the gates.

"Brothers, calm down, calm down!" shouted the worker representative from the London Textile Workers' Mutual Aid Society, "Don't engage in direct conflict, it'll cost us..."

But the enraged workers were in no mood to listen. They yelled, "Charge in, charge in, beat these bastards to death!" and started closing in on the gates.

"Stop them, stop them!" the stout manager's face turned white, "Shoot, shoot!"

"Bang, bang..." gunshots rang out. At such close range, almost no shots missed, and the workers below immediately fell in large numbers.

"Run, run!" someone yelled.

"They're shooting, they're killing!" someone else shouted.

The crowd scattered, some fell, trampled by the fleeing masses.

"Keep firing, let them know our power!" the stout manager yelled.

Gunshots continued...

In a room on Petticoat Lane, Fekin, the leader, was bandaging the wounded Iron Tooth.

"You're lucky, Iron Tooth, didn't hit anything vital. But be cautious, don't let the wound touch water. Also, pray to God, hoping there won't be an infection," Fekin said after finishing the bandaging.

"Boss, what's our next move?" asked the butcher beside him.

"We'll organize the workers first, stop them from hiring more, halt their production. Each day they stop, they'll suffer losses—bank loans, contractual compensations from buyers—it'll suffocate that wretch in Rayne," Fekin replied.

"What about those scum who shot us? Are we letting them off?" the butcher asked.

"How could we?" Fekin sneered, "Hurt my brothers, and if we let it slide, how will we survive here? How will we carry on? Ha, that old man Rayne hides in the rich district, lots of cops, lots of bodyguards. It won't be easy to touch him for a while. But that one who ordered the shooting—have you found out who he is?"

"We have. He's the business manager at the factory, called Sinclair, lives on Wendell Street."

Wendell Street was an area where moderately affluent people lived, fewer cops than in the real rich district but more than Petticoat Lane. People like Sinclair mostly had a servant or two, but no personal valets or bodyguards—they looked wealthy but were far from the real elite.

"Are we sure we can make him vanish without a trace?" Fekin asked.

"No problem," the butcher said, "Tie a stone to him and throw him in the river."

"Good," Fekin nodded, then cautioned, "Be careful before making a move, don't get tricked."

...

The factory guards and police shot and killed over twenty workers. Such an event might have caused an uproar in later times, but in this era, human lives were not considered precious. Of course, even in later times, there was no fundamental change. For instance, the lives of workers were never as significant as stock market indices. But because of the appearance of a heresy called the Soviet Union in later times, there was more hypocrisy compared to this era. Although, with the disappearance of the Soviet Union, people gradually forgot its existence.

None of the official newspapers prominently covered this incident, neither the Whig Party's papers nor the Tory Party's nor even the papers of the New Tory Party. It wasn't because the royal government ordered a blackout on such matters but because, in their eyes, this incident hardly qualified as news.

What's news? A dog biting a man isn't news; a man biting a dog is. Although this saying came from later Americans, in the British news industry, they long followed this standard. Factory workers being shot wasn't news; it was a commonplace occurrence. Just a few dozen workers dead? Which street in London's poorer districts doesn't have several times that number of dead workers? What's the big deal?

Moreover, the Whigs, Tories, and New Tories had severe disagreements on many issues, but when it came to dealing with striking

workers, they were remarkably aligned. Be it the aristocrats, factory owners, or bankers, all thought that killing those daring to strike was a much-needed relief.

Just like in later years in the Beacon Country, although Fox and CNN considered each other fake news, their attitudes towards reporting on the "Occupy Wall Street" movement were remarkably uniform.

Similarly, the French-backed newspaper, the Seven-Penny Alliance, with a French background, also didn't report this incident. Because the Frenchmen, friends of those in the Whig Party, also stood in support of suppressing the striking workers.

It seemed like this incident would pass calmly. But soon, Rayne received reports that hiring new workers wasn't going smoothly because many were spreading rumors about him and his factory: those who enter his factory live at most five years, worked to death; the wages he boasts about seem good, but the contracts have numerous clauses for wage deductions. After a week's work, they don't even earn a penny, perhaps even end up owing the factory money. On average, the pay isn't enough for food, let alone savings for America. Some people even stationed themselves at their hiring spots, grabbing any approaching worker, advising them not to join. In short, various rumors severely impacted recruitment efforts.

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