The Ant Returns – Chapter XI - La Révolution de Pont Chandon (Long, but what the hell, it's the weekend...)) (587 hits)
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-02-12 13:15:40 EST
(Prologue - http://www.ubersite.com/m/57985)
(Chapter I - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58042)
(Chapter II - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58125)
(Chapter III - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58205)
(Chapter IV - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58437)
(Chapter V - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58529)
(Chapter VI - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58649)
(Chapter VII - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58931)
(Chapter VIII - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59032)
(Chapter IX - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59219)
(Chapter X - http://www.ubersite.com/m/59343)
Chapter XI - La Révolution de Pont Chandon
The Abbé stood on the wide, worn stairs of the church, watching the mob that was growing in the marketplace. Wearing a black cassock, he hoped he looked as dark and grim as the gargoyles far overhead. To the villagers he appeared to be wringing his hands in consternation. Perhaps he was praying.
No one would have guessed that he was struggling with the urge to rub his hands in glee.
A dusky crow fluttered overhead and settled on top of the guillotine. It studied the Abbé with a cold eye and then flew away.
The marketplace was bustling. Those who raised food for the tables and worked wood, leather and metal, gathered in the square during the morning hours, setting up carts and booths to sell their goods to the more refined classes of Pont Chandon, or at least, to the cooks and maids and other servants of the more refined classes.
Order was always strictly maintained. Severe fines ensured that the square was always a civil place and that it was left clean when the working class departed for their side of town.
The Abbé looked down on the square and fought the urge to smile. People were pushing and shoving each other in the square. Harsh words and obscenities filled the air. The hold that was keeping tempers in check was weakening. So far the Abbé's plan was coming together nicely. His plan was simple, and bloody.
He was fully aware of why Henri Collison was consolidating his wealth. He knew that Collison wanted to help a small number of the great unwashed who toiled in the fields and shops. Abbé Lucien had come to the conclusion that Collison was indulging in a pointless pursuit.
The more money and power the commoners received, the more they would want. And where would the wealth and material possessions desired by the third estate come from? From those who had it now, of course. The nobility, and the Church.
Abbé Lucien could see that things were about to change forever in France. He knew that only those who were intelligent, fast-acting, and very rich would survive unscathed. Very few nobles had fled France even now, and he knew that those who survived would be those who returned after the troubles had passed.
Kings and governments might rise and fall, but the power wielded with gold or land was absolute and eternal. The Abbé wanted that power for himself.
He had already placed a few mouthpieces in the marketplace to let the crowd know that Henri had gathered his wealth together and fled the country.
He had also sent men into the side street establishments serving cheap beer and wine, spreading the word among the bitter and angry men who sat in the dark and tried to drink their troubles away. These men, and those gathering in the marketplace, would be shocked to learn that, alas, the Abbé could not provide the protection he had promised, after all. He would soon shift attention from Henri alone to the other entitled families on this side of the Chandon.
The poor were at the breaking point. How hard would it be to make them snap en masse and murder the rich, whom they outnumbered at least four to one?
The sight of the Abbé safely hidden behind the mercenaries he had promised would protect the people would further enrage the crowds.
Once the mêlée started, Lucien, being a concerned citizen as well as a man of God, would call in his personal guard to stop the aggressors, a personal guard augmented by Comte Pfaltzer, who was now on his way to Paris. It would be most unfortunate, violence would be the only solution, and the mercenaries serving the Abbé would find themselves engaged in a slaughter, and would not know a thing when they were shot down by Guertain, Fassel, or Huber.
Only Lucien, his personal guards, and half a dozen rich men, including the Comte, would survive to tell the tale, and in the meantime they would pillage all of the fine houses and shops for gold and silver and letters of credit and deeds to estates. They would all be rich, and no one would be the wiser.
Now his plan was coming into play. Already the rich men with whom the Abbé was in league were pulling their servants out of the marketplace, refusing to purchase any goods at all. The prices were too high, the men said. They would hold out until prices dropped.
The sellers of beef and mutton and chickens and produce and hand-crafted leather and wood and steel and stone were at a loss. They could not hold out. They depended on market days for their livelihood. If they could not sell their wares they could not buy from others to feed and clothe their families. It was an outrage.
A brief scuffle broke out and was cut short, but tempers were rising.
The Abbé covered his face with his hands as if reeling in dismay, allowing himself the relief of a nearly painful smile of triumph.
When he lowered his hands, his sudden frown of consternation was genuine. Henri Collison was striding into the center of the market.
*
When Rob had opened the door to Henri's home, a huge man wearing a bloodstained leather apron had taken a swing at him. Rob dodged the massive fist easily enough, his stomach flipping when he got a snoutful of the man's breath, a toxic mélange of old meat, rotting teeth, and cheap beer.
He stepped out into the street and found himself surrounded by tradesmen— the butcher in his bloody clothes, a couple of carpenters with rolled-up sleeves and sawdust trapped in the wiry hair of their forearms, a guy with the puckered and mottled scars of old burns on his hands who could have been a glass-blower or a blacksmith, and a host of others, occupations unknown.
They had two things in common. They were all weary, hard-working men, and they were all drunk and angry.
They surrounded Rob, and began drawing close.
"You're destroying this town," the butcher said. "You and the other high-born bastards like you. You take and you take and you never give back."
"We slave for you in good times and bad," one carpenter said. "And now when things are at their worst and we need help," he finished his thought by hawking a glob of phlegm at Rob's shiny new boots.
"Perhaps we should drag you to the square and let the mob deal with you," the burned man said. "There are a hundred men like us who have had enough. Enough!"
"I can save you the effort," Rob said. "I'll walk to the square myself."
The men were so surprised they stepped back, but stayed only a step or two behind Rob as he made his way to the square. Gilbert followed closely. Rob found his way easily enough. He just followed the roar of hundreds of outraged voices.
*
It took one simple act to change everything, and the Abbé had been waiting for that moment.
A frustrated merchant, tired of being berated by a nobleman, grabbed the rich man by his expensive frock and shoved him into a muddy rut. The mud was most disagreeable, since the substance that transmuted the dust of the market to slippery mud was a freshly passed stream of cow piss.
The nobles had been instructed to act in a most offensive manner, and at the first sign of trouble, to gather at the church, where the Abbé had protection standing by.
The rich men acted upon their instructions perfectly, motivated by genuine fear when they saw how enraged the mob of commoners had become. They gathered around the Abbé and watched as the mob was stirred up by one outraged voice and then another, and soon they were moving toward the church en masse.
The Abbé, still wearing his mask of displeasure, gestured with one hand. The massive doors of the church were thrown wide, and with the grim music of swords unsheathed and hammers cocked, thirty mercenaries came out of the church and formed up in rows five deep between the rich and the poor.
*
Rob came to the end of Henri's street and wondered what the hell was going on. In front of him was a wide clear path through the square. To his left were townspeople holding knives and hayforks and hammers and axes, the tools of their trade. To Rob's right was the Abbé, looking like he was experiencing hellacious gas pains while surrounded by soldiers bearing guns and swords... the tools of their trade.
So this is it, Rob thought. This is how it all began. Incidents like this, growing, spreading, bleeding into one another until, the whole country was in the grip of the madness they called the Terror.
The crowd began slowly backing away from the church, as if it were one massive organism, until a scrawny old man stepped forward and raised his hand. He was holding what Rob at first thought was a knife, until he realized it was a quill-pen.
"No more—" the old man cried, his voice cut short by a dry crack. It sounded like a desiccated branch breaking in the dead of winter. The man grabbed his chest and lurched dramatically, freezing for a moment like the centerpiece in an old oil painting. The quill slipped from his fingers.
Rob saw a puff of smoke rising from a musket, seeing and hearing a dozen other weapons cocked.
The quill feather and the gunpowder smoke were carried away by a little breeze. The old man collapsed in the square, and a few women screamed.
The men who had been at Rob's back suddenly rushed to join the mob, which was again advancing on the church.
Rob knew that he was mere moments away from watching a massacre, and he wasn't sure what he could do to prevent it.
He looked up at the sky, wishing for a flash of lightning, or a cascade of thunder. The sky was sunny and clear.
Rob clapped his hands.
The Abbé was delighted. Everything was proceeding wonderfully, and he was about to slip inside the safety of the church when a sound that could only have been created by the Lord Himself rent the air of Pont Chandon.
Some men thought it was the report of a massive cannon. Some thought it was the end of the world. Some thought it was an earthquake and that the church was going to come down on their heads.
There was a boom that shook their bones and made their teeth shiver in their sockets. Accompanying the boom was a sharp cracking noise so loud it made their ears pop and their eyes water. There was a sudden rush of wind through the square. It bowled some men over and raised a shifting curtain of dust.
Rob assumed his hand-clap would be loud, but he hadn't expected that he would be deafened by it as well.
As merchants and soldiers staggered about, some dropping to their knees in prayer and others calling for help in horrified voices as blood ran from their ears, the dust hanging in the air shifted and Rob clearly saw the Abbé yelling at the soldiers, one hand trying to rub the dust out of his eyes while the other grabbed one man's slack arm, raising a flintlock held in numb fingers toward the crowd.
Son of a bitch, Rob thought. He's stirring things up.
He leaped forward, a blur of movement sensed only by the path he cut through the slowly settling dust that still hung in the air like a thick fog. He grabbed the Abbé, harshly whispered, "Entendez la voix de Dieu!" into one ear, and threw the Abbé high into the air.
The Abbé screamed like a woman as the worn stairs dropped away from him. His bladder let loose when he realized he was ascending to the full height of the church, the golden crucifix on the spire of the bell tower reflecting sunlight into his eyes.
As he started to fall, he screamed again, a cry cut short when his descent stopped suddenly. One of the tower gargoyles was a dragon, with a short upturned horn on the end of its nose. The Abbé's cassock caught on the horn, and he dangled silently above the square.
Below him, the stone stairs, the mob, and the guillotine all seemed far away.
As the dust settled and the air cleared, most of the soldiers stationed on the stairs of the church seemed uncertain what to do next as they looked at the crowd of rich and poor, seeing the faces of every French town. They began lowering their arms, until one of them shouted, "This is not a revolution, this is a rebellion against the King!"
Rob recognized Huber as the speaker, and beside him Fassel added, "And a rebellion against God! Strike them down!"
There was another snap, a flintlock firing, and Rob saw Guertain holding a smoking weapon. Something moved past his head with a hummingbird sound and knocked the hat off of a man standing behind him.
The soldiers parted suddenly, leaving an empty avenue of stairs between them and the mob. Resting on thick wooden wheels in the door of the church was a small cannon.
The crowd broke and ran, men wearing aprons and muddy boots hiding beside men with powdered wigs on their heads and silver buckles on their shoes. Carts and wagons were knocked over to form a rough wall as a few uncertain shots were heard. No one was hit, but the shooters began reloading their weapons as others were leveled at the crowd.
Rob jumped behind a vegetable cart and assessed the situation. A line of firearms on the church stairs, not far away and on higher ground. A definite advantage. To either side, small groups of men with drawn swords, moving out to flank anyone trying to leave the marketplace. And in the door of the church, two men loading a charge into the cannon with practiced ease.
This place is gonna be a slaughterhouse, Rob thought. Welcome to La Terreur, more alive than any history book could ever make it.
At his feet was a large burlap bag of potatoes. He picked one up. It still had fresh earth clinging to it. It was small, and very firm. It's not a Spalding, he thought, but it just might do.
Guertain was tipping powder into the pan of his pistol when Fassel made a comment about the residents of Pont Chandon scurrying like vermin. He looked up to voice his agreement and saw something, some small fast-moving thing, hit Fassel between the eyes. Fassel voiced an urgent grunt, hunh!, and was flipped backwards, his hat spinning away. Guertain turned to ask Huber if he saw it too. There was a thump and Huber suddenly executed an exaggerated bow as the wind was knocked out of him. Something struck him in the throat, and he collapsed, releasing a weak gargle.
The projectiles suddenly filled the air, and Guertain started to run. He saw some of the things rolling about on the ground as men all around him grunted and went down. They were too large to be any form of shotl, he thought, unless someone was firing a multitude of miniature cannon. He finally recognized the objects as potatoes, a moment before one struck him on the temple and sent him rolling down the stairs.
"Voici quelques pommes de terreur pour vous!" Rob shouted, throwing more potatoes at the scattering soldiers and mercenaries.
The men to either side of Rob were amazed. To their eyes it was Henri Collison leading a revolt, here in quiet Pont Chandon! They were roused by this sight, both the rich and the poor, and together they surged past the makeshift barracades and disarmed the swordsmen.
Rob dashed across the square, checking to see that the bearer of every flintlock and musket was out cold. He had a passing thought that he may well have killed some of these men. He shrugged his shoulders. C'est la vie, he thought, as he passed the guillotine.
The cannon was a problem. If he couldn't take the time to disable it, pehaps he could... move it out of play, like a gamepiece.
No one was watching.
He grabbed the barrel of the cannon and lifted the thick iron tube carefully. The wheels creaked when relieved of their burden. He saw the stream, and tossed the cannon as hard as he could.
Now, everyone was watching.
In desperation Rob cried, "Voyez la puissance de Dieu!"
Rich and poor and mercenaries all fell to their knees as the power of God lifted the cannon and carried it swiftly to the stream.
They watched the cannon fall toward the stream. Toward the sturdy Chandon bridge. They watched the heavy cannon strike the old bridge with such force that cracks appeared in the old mortar. They watched as the charge still inside the cannon detonated, the bridge crumbling and falling into the small stream.
"Didn't mean to do that," Rob muttered. He turned on his heel and ran inside the church.
He passed through the narthex at the base of the bell tower (and once one was inside, the area considered the rear of the church) and into the broad expanse of the nave, with its rows of empty pews.
Very little light was filtered through the high stained-glass windows. Rob waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the illumination of hundreds of candles.
The sanctuary, where a massive golden cross was suspended over a marble altar, and the sacristy, where the Abbé or a priest would make preparations before a service, were both deserted.
To one side was a narrow wooden staircase winding high up into the tower, polished panels gleaming. Rob spared just a moment to pay tribute to the long-dead craftsmen who had worked the wood so beautifully.
The entire staircase seemed to hang in the air, clinging to the walls like a spider's creation. It was a trick of the eye. The staircase was actually given stability through sturdy beams dressed in deceptively delicate scrollwork, and hidden extrusions of stone from the walls of the bell tower supported each level. A clever illusion, very well done.
Lengths of rope leading up to the bells overhead passed unobstructed through the open center of the staircase.
Rob took the stairs two at a time, rising quickly up into the shadows beyond the candle light, until a fist like a brick snapped his head back.
Rob struggled to stay on his feet. In the gloom above him he saw a dark robe, meaty fists, and a smile punctuated by an ugly brown tooth. Brother Noiret, one of the Abbé's hoodlum priests. And that meant that Rancon was probably sneaking up behind—
A strong hand entwined itself in Rob's hair and pulled. His eyes watered and he wished he had taken Henri up on the offer of the wig after all. He was pushed over the railing. Below him was a long drop to the cold stone of the church floor.
He felt himself falling, flailing about in the near dark, when he grabbed a length of rope and aborted his fall. He bobbed up and down. Overhead, a bell began to ring.
Noiret and Rancon trotted down the stairs until they were level with Rob. Both men produced swords. Rancon took the weapons, standing ready, while Noiret moved a few steps further up and then climbed onto the angled railing and steadied himself.
He's going to jump, Rob thought. Son of a bitch. He's gonna jump and swing me right into those waiting blades.
There was no time to consider the outcome of any action. Noiret jumped just as Rob pulled himself up the rope. The bell rang again.
Noiret looked shocked as Rob reached out and grabbed him in midair. He roared with helpless rage as Rob turned him around and threw him down at Rancon as easily as tossing a bag of trash down a garbage chute. Noiret slammed into Rancon hard. Too hard.
Rob heard the muffled crack and snap of breaking bones, and wood splintering, and suddenly the stairs under Rancon and Noiret collapsed.
As the stairs fell, they pulled down the sections above them even as they crushed those below. Suddenly the bell tower was a thundering hell as tons of wooden beams and stairs and risers twisted and spun around Rob as they fell.
When all was quiet and the dust began to settle, Rob found himself unscathed, dangling from the rope in the center of the smooth-walled tower.
The rope suddenly went slack in his hands and Rob leaped for the nearest wall as the bell clapper dropped like a cannonball. He let go of the limp rope.
With a muttered curse, he began to climb.
*
The Abbé saw his scheme fall apart as the crowds below him dispersed, and then slowly reformed as one mass with no divisions between rich and poor, soldier and farmer. They were all united. They were all looking up at him.
He tried to reach above his head, to free himself, but a brief moment in which he felt himself slipping out of his cassock made him freeze with terror. A steady, chilling breeze twisted him this way, and that way. Old mortar fell from somewhere overhead, shifting in the air like powder. His heart was beating very fast, but it nearly shuddered to a stop when he heard the voice of God.
"Lucien du Mallion!"
Even the crowd heard that voice, the Abbé realized. He looked down upon them, his head throbbing from the thunderous roar, a fresh stream of urine trickling off the end of one fine boot to be whisked away by the wind.
"Confess your sins, Lucien du Mallion! Beg the forgiveness of those you have used to fulfill your greed!"
"It is true!" the Abbé shrieked, looking down at the crowds below. "I was willing to sacrifice all of you to gain wealth and power! I beg God's forgiveness!"
Rob wasn't sure what to do next. He was hunched out of sight of the Abbé behind a low wall of stone, speaking loudly into his cupped hands, the stone reverberating and making his voice sound pretty damn impressive. Maybe he should just let the Abbé sweat from this point on.
The Abbé felt strong hands grip his cassock and begin to lift him. He turned and began climbing across the face of the dragon gargoyle, hearing stone grind against stone and seeing more powdery mortar whisked away by the wind.
The stranger who looked like Henri Collison was leaning over the parapet and pulling him to safety. There was a loud crack and something shifted under the Abbé's feet. He jumped onto the shoulders of the gargoyle where they met the parapet, just as the dragon snout with its snarling jaws and jutting horn broke away.
"Careful!" Rob said, holding the Abbé steady on his narrow perch. "I've got you."
They both watched as the massive block of carved stone dropped away from them. The crowd below drew back and covered their faces as the dragon's jaws struck the steps of the church and shattered.
The massive horn was launched like a missile, toward the nearby guillotine.
The stone dragon horn struck the solid oak crossbar which capped the uprights of the guillotine. The wooden braces at the other end of the uprights splintered, and the upper part of the device tipped over like a felled tree. The crossbar came to rest against the bascule which had held so many bodies at the moment of death, the blade and the mouton— the heavy weight to which the blade was attached— still held firmly between the now upside-down uprights.
That voice, the Abbé realized. It was not the voice of the Lord. It was the stranger. All of the troubles that had plagued the Abbé had been caused by the stranger. It's him, Lucien thought, filled with a sudden rage as the stranger began lifting him over the parapet. He reached under his cassock and withdrew a jeweled dagger.
Rob was lifting the Abbé over the low stone wall when the wound on his left shoulder flared with a fresh, piercing pain. The Abbé was grinning at him and raising a bloody dagger, preparing to strike again.
"Back to hell with you, demon," the Abbé hissed. "Go back to the place from which you came!"
"I'm trying," Rob breathed, giving the man a little shove and letting go. "Believe me."
The crowd had begun to reform, when they scattered again, seeing the Abbé falling out of the sky like Lucifer cast down by the Lord. Most of the witnesses that day would later agree that He was an excellent marksman.
The Abbé dropped upon the shattered guillotine, his neck falling neatly between the uprights with enough force that the blade sliced his head free of his body. The Abbé's head rolled across the square, coming to rest on its side. The eyes fluttered and burned with rage, the lips forming breathless curses.
No one saw a man dressed in finery leap from the rear of the church roof, but Gilbert started to run when Henri's bloodied twin entered the square.
"Not so fast!"
Gilbert nearly cried out. The stranger was in front of him, as if by magic.
"You look like a dog that has been caught peeing in the house," the stranger said. "Tell me Henri is going to be safe. Tell me he is headed for a port city, on his way to England."
"Merde," Gilbert whispered. "I tried. Monsieur, believe me, I tried to set him right but my master insists that Paris holds the only help for his people. He is on his way there now, on his fastest horse. Messengers were set ahead on the road this morning, to prepare fresh horses. Monsieur Collison wants to ride fast until nightfall so he can get a room in Paris and start first thing in the morning. He was grateful for the help of the Comte."
The stranger roared. "What!"
"Comte Pfaltzer," Gilbert said, his body quaking. "It was the Comte who originally suggested the scheme to Monsieur Collison, the journey to Paris. He will be awaiting Henri there at Our Lady on Ile de la Cite, to offer any assistance my master may require."
Rob had always heard that the architecture of Notre Dame was impressive. He hoped he'd have a moment to appreciate it. "Fuck a duck."
Gilbert blanched. What an unusual thing to say!
The stranger grabbed Gilbert and lifted him off his feet. "Which way to Paris? Which road is the correct one?"
Gilbert pointed. "That way. There are signs and markers. It is a long journey, but the route is simple. You—" He staggered as his feet met the earth. The stranger was already gone, running inhumanly fast. "Good luck, Monsieur!"
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 12:11:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:25:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-02-14 15:20:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-02-14 14:13:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-02-14 11:22:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Merci
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-02-14 09:26:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-14 05:24:32 (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
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jackass
Submitted by EatMeCompletely (user info) at 2005-02-14 06:51:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't believe any comment is necessary. Great stuff.
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-14 05:24:32 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-13 18:44:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by ess-arr (user info) at 2005-02-13 16:07:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-13 03:22:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
FUCK!
I meant to post this earlier, and forgot...
Well, going by Pacific Standard time I'm only 20 minutes late...
Happy Birthday to horse87!
Submitted by Remission (user info) at 2005-02-12 19:15:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fucking awesome as usual
Submitted by Sideburns (user info) at 2005-02-12 18:49:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Read this series, you fucks.
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-02-12 17:19:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
So..
Once this series is done, how are you going to top it?
You've set the bar kind of high....
Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-02-12 17:02:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Can you stop kicking ass please?
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-02-12 16:52:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Yup.
Submitted by stardamage (user info) at 2005-02-12 13:26:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome!
Keep 'em coming! This is a series that I watch for every day to see if there's a new one up.