acedavey replied to your post “acedavey replied to your post “I Am Seeing Newsies In Fifteen...”
Oh no! I'm seeing it the 7th. I have rehearsal on Sundays so that was the only option. (and yes I'm so pumped for the new cast)
ooph, so close! i really could only go to the sunday matinee because i have school and homework and saturday is shabbat so i can’t go then either. i can’t believe i convinced my parents to drive 2 hours each way just so i can see newsies again :P rehearsal for what?
[[EDITOR’S NOTE: This is a (very very late) story for the Newsies Winterslump Writing Swap, based on acedavey’s prompt, “a movie-based AU where Jack refuses to scab and the consequences of that choice (2) On the subject of the movie, I really want more stuff with Boots and Spot interacting, shipped or not.”
It’s NOT canon to the rest of this blog, but it’s an AU of its universe (i.e. the Refuge background is the same).
Warning: being (partially) a Refuge story, it does get somewhat dark and violent.]]
“We must have you pretty scared, old man.”
A month ago, if anyone’d told Jack he’d be talking to Joe Pulitzer, he’d have laughed in their face. And if they’d said Joe would be offering two hundred dollars and a ticket to Santa Fe—well, Jack would have asked what exactly they’d been drinking.
He had laughed, when Denton asked him: “You’re going up against the most powerful men in New York. Does that scare you?” And, cocksure as ever, Jack had drawled out, “Yeah, look at me. I’m tremblin’.”
And the truth was, he wasn’t scared of Joe. The old man was weak and half-blind and Jack was convinced that by working together, the boys could win.
But—knowing what’d happen, that Snyder was waiting outside the door—
Jack was terrified.
But he hid it. Jack had been hiding his fear for a long time, first in the Refuge and then on the streets, the flash of panic in his eyes always replaced with overconfidence. He got so good at it sometimes, he almost believed it himself.
And he wasn’t afraid of Joe.
When Joe mentioned Davey, though—that was what hit him. Dave and the boys. Dave couldn’t deal with jail, not the Refuge, he wasn’t hardened enough and Jack didn’t want him to have to be—
But what’d harden him more was betrayal.
Jack knew that. Betrayal had almost cost them the strike before, when Spot had insisted on proof. Jack was one of Spot’s best friends, but Spot’s best friend of all had betrayed him once. Spot had learned to be prudent, learned to be wise, learned to harden his heart and use only his head.
And betrayal could cost them the strike again. The thought that a friend had sold them out for a dime-novel dream. And while Jack wanted Santa Fe more than anything else in the world, he couldn’t climb over the other boys’ backs to get there.
He’d never get there.
Jack knew that, too, a cold knife of fear in his stomach. He’d escaped the Refuge once. He’d led protests. The boys called him a hero.
And juvenile delinquents in New York’s House of Refuge weren’t allowed to have heroes.
He’d die.
But he wouldn’t betray the boys.
“I ain’t doin’ it, Joe.”
And Joe stared. “You would risk your friends’ lives like this? Refuse your freedom, the theirs, for a tenth of a penny?”
Jack gave a grim smile. “Ain’t you heard? War’s about power.”
“Your friend David? You’d like to see him in jail?”
“Dave’s too smart to get caught.” He was too careful, too vigilant, he was always the one who saw Snyder coming—
Dave saw Snyder that night, but Seitz was right.
He had nowhere to go.
* * *
“Where’d he go?”
Mush stood in the middle of the street, peering into the darkness where David had run after the carriage. “You think they caught him?”
“No,” Blink said quickly, “Dave wouldn’t get caught—”
“I thought Jack wasn’t gonna get caught.” Race spoke around the cigar clamped in his teeth, nervously eyeing Les. But the kid just insisted, “He’s got Jack! They ran off somewhere, hidin’!”
But, half an hour later, when David still hadn’t returned…
“What do we do, Kid?” Mush asked.
“Maybe him an’ Jack went to the lodgin’house—”
“No!” Les cried. “They’d come meet us! David knows!”
“What if—”
But the sound of horseshoes on cobblestones cut them off. And while only two people had been in the carriage before—now there were three.
Dave was hunched over, arms crossed over his stomach, staring down, and Jack…Jack was on the floor of the carriage, leaning on Dave’s knees, head lolling back. Race swore. And Boots, who’d been silent, said “I’m goin’ to Brooklyn.”
“Boots!” Mush exclaimed, and Blink yelped out “What?!”
“He’s our only chance! With Davey and Jack gone—”
“But you can’t go to Brooklyn!”
“Why? Are you gonna lead?” Boots looked at Race doubtfully. “If Spot can’t lead the strike, he’ll at least get ’em out.”
Race rolled his eyes. “No one gets kids from the Refuge.”
But Boots shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
Les jumped out of hiding, sword at the ready. “I’m goin’, too!”
“No you ain’t, kid.” Race caught hold of his collar, but changed his grip to sling an arm around his shoulders instead. “We’re goin’ back to your mama.” He sure wasn’t looking forward to meeting Les’s folks. Not if it meant telling them their oldest son was in jail.
“Mush,” Blink confessed, when the others had gone, “…I think Jack’s gonna die.”
* * *
Race was a coward.
He’d gone to the Jacobs’ door, hat in hand, planning to tell the truth…but when the door opened, and Mrs. Jacobs was gentle and pretty as anything, and Sarah was washing the dishes, and he could see Mr. Jacobs asleep in a chair, he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin their family. He didn’t know what he could do.
And so, being a coward, when Mrs. Jacobs asked, “David’s still at the meeting?”, Race just stammered, “Yes ma’am.”
“We came back for strike materials,” Les announced quickly. “And we need Sarah.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Jacobs raised an eyebrow, and Sarah tilted her head, but she clearly knew something was going on.
“Strike materials,” repeated Les.
So Sarah glanced around, saw Denton’s article, and pounced on it. “I told Davey to take this,” she said, which was not a lie.
“You need Sarah?” her mother asked.
And Racetrack said, “Yes, ma’am. We need feminine wiles to win this strike.”
As soon as they’d left the apartment, Sarah turned on them. “Why—”
“It’s the Refuge. Jack an’ Dave both.” Race’s mouth tightened. “Boots is over in Brooklyn, but I don’t know what we can do—”
Sarah shut her eyes, trying to process. Dave in the Refuge. Jack in the Refuge. Her brother. Her friend. She wished she had yarn with her—she thought best when her hands were distracted—but for lack of anything better she smoothed out the article…
“Yes,” she said.
Race frowned. “Pardon?”
“It’s not something we can do.” She folded the article, type-side out, and shoved it toward him. “We need Denton.”
“Denton hates us,” Les said.
“No, he doesn’t.” She scanned his words again—“last night I saw brute force exercised against mere children”… “I don’t mean he’ll write articles. He’s got connections.”
“To who, the president?” Race snorted. “The strike’ll be crushed by then.”
“No, to the governor.” Her eyes were fever-bright, but still flashed with a hunt of amusement. “Bryan Denton, the Sun’s war correspondent. He wrote about San Juan Hill. …Don’t you read what you sell?”
She had disappeared and come back with Denton’s card by the time Race quit staring. “I sell the World an’ he writes for the Sun,” he finally grumbled.
But Sarah was already running, Les and his sword at her heels, and Race had no choice but to follow.
* * *
“Boots.”
Boots didn’t know how long the two had been trailing him, but they stepped aside at the same time, one on either side of him. Fife was on the left, a scrawny kid who moved faster than lightning, and on the right was Hawk, Spot’s lieutenant, a tall grey-eyed boy even older than Jack.
It was Hawk who spoke. “What’s goin’ on.”
Boots was shaking, the sweat dripping down his back more from fear than the hot summer night, but he met Hawk’s eyes. “We need help,” he said breathlessly. “Snyder’s got Dave now.”
“Go.” And at Hawk’s word, Fife was gone.
* * *
“We know you’re leaving,” Sarah told Denton, “but we need your help—if the governor knew—Jack said Snyder hid things—”
“Have him charge up the hill!” Les yelled. “Like in Cuba!”
Denton chuckled. “I can try, but I’m not sure—”
“Listen.” Race spoke quietly. He’d sworn not to squeal, but one night Jack had woken him up, thrashing— “Jack said Snyder’ll kill him.”
Sarah drew in a sharp breath.
“An’ he doesn’t make stuff like that up. An’ we saw him tonight an’ I ain’t sure if he’s…”
“Race.” Sarah’s voice was fierce. “Jack’s not dead.”
Denton didn’t respond, only picked up the telephone and placed a call to the governor’s mansion. “Hello, this is Bryan Denton,” he said once he got through, “—yes, I realize it’s—yes, an emergency—”
And finally, “Hello, sir, Bryan Denton. I need to call in that favor.”
* * *
Spot didn’t speak for a long time, but his eyes blazed in the street lamps and even Hawk stepped out of his way.
“They’ve got Jack an’ the Mouth.” It wasn’t a question—it was almost like swearing. But he exhaled sharply—not a sigh. Spot never sighed. “We’re gonna win this.”
He turned to Fife, ordering, “I need all o’ the boys in New York. Every newsie in every borough. Meet in front o’ the World. Six a.m.”
“Spot—”
Boots nearly swallowed his tongue when Spot turned on him. But the Brooklyn boy waited, and Boots went on, through a dry mouth, “What about all o’ the shoeshine boys? Helpin’ us would help them.”
Spot was quiet so long Boots thought maybe he hated him. Maybe it hadn’t been right to speak up. But then Spot nodded, clapping a hand to the younger boy’s shoulder. “Good. Shoeshine boys. Factory girls. Apprentices. Get ’em all.”
Another bird appeared from the shadows, and at Hawk’s nod sped into the night.
Boots was still afraid, but he had to ask: “What are we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna fill up the whole square. Shut it down so it can’t move. We’ll stop the whole city if we have to, an’ can.” He turned to Hawk. “You get your best boys an’ get ’em out o’ the Refuge.” And then he tucked his cane under his arm. “You an’ me, Boots,” he said. “We’ll go talk to the boys.”
Boots had never been completely alone with Spot Conlon. The Brooklyn leader had always been surrounded by birds, his own army, and the way they respected him made Spot seem bigger. Hawk was a head taller, but Boots had never noticed the height difference.
Now, though—there was barely a difference between Spot and Boots, and Boots was twelve.
He still felt smaller, but when they yelled over the side of the bridge, it was a war cry.
“…Do you really think we can do it?” Boots asked finally.
Spot turned to him. “It’s all we can do.”
—And a moment later, he snorted. “If Jack can lead, so can you.”
Boots stared.
“You’re Manhattan’s leader now, ain’t ya?” Spot reached out and nudged his shoulder, quietly proud. “You’re the only one doing the sensible thing.”
* * *
Jack had tried to protect Dave.
He’d told him to run, first of all, but Dave didn’t know which alley to take and just ended up trapped in a dead end. And on hearing his voice, trying to talk sense in sharp, shrill tones and then crying out in pain, Jack had sprinted to help him.
It didn’t work. All Jack knew once he tackled the bull was an elbow to the face and a billy club to the knee, and then it all was a blur of smeared lights and sickening pain as they dragged him off.
“Dave.” Jack spoke into the darkness, flinching as he formed the word, feeling the itch of dried blood cracking on his face.
“I’m right here.”
There was a hand on Jack’s arm; as his eyes adjusted to the grey moonlight, he saw the shadow of Dave’s curls and, right where a swath of light hit his friend’s face, a black eye swollen shut.
“…You okay?”
“My God.” David’s voice broke and Jack struggled to sit up, wrapping his arms around him, his knee hurting so much he couldn’t breathe. He finally choked out “Dave—”
“No, I’m all right, I—” David swallowed, barely forcing the sound out. “How’d you stand this?”
And Jack’s answer was fierce: “You can’t let ’em beat ya.”
In a moment he added, “Joe tried to get me to scab. I said no.”
“What’d they offer?”
“Two hundred bucks and a train ticket.”
“Jack.” Dave’s grip tightened; Jack could tell he was shivering. Jack was burning up, the pain and the worry and anger all acting at once. He had to keep fighting. He had to get Dave to fight. He had to make sure Dave would fight even after Jack—
“Sullivan!” Snyder’s voice rapped at the door, sharp and sudden as any knock. “Mr. Pulitzer offers you one more chance.”
“No.”
“I have the authority to release Mr. Jacobs.”
Jack paused, pulling back to look Dave in the eye. Was it betrayal if Dave knew why he’d done it? But he’d just opened his mouth when Dave yelled “Never!”
Moving in front of Jack, an arm outstretched to protect him, David shouted, “He’ll never scab! Ever!”
“Very well.” And before Jack could react the door opened, blinding him and Dave both with the sudden light, and then someone reached in and pulled David away.
Jack scrambled after him, sprawling, leg buckling, choking but ignoring the pain. He threw himself against the door, screaming “DAVE!”
Snyder opened the food slot. “You brought this on him,” he said calmly. “It’s your fault, like everything else.”
Jack could hear David’s voice fade off down the hall, yelling words only he would know, things about inhuman, inhumane, lawyers and never. Always “never.”
Then, for a moment, it was silent, and Jack’s heart leapt, thinking maybe they’d taken him out, maybe Denton or his parents had paid his bail—but then a lock clicked and leather struck skin and Dave yelped and Jack roared “No!”
He knew the sound too well. It wasn’t a crack, it was a dull impact, and Dave choked off a cry and Jack leaned his head on the heavy wood. The next time, Dave couldn’t hold back, and Jack yelled “Davey—” and David yelled “No! Jack, I’m fine!”
His words cut off with a gasp, and then Jack heard the whimper, and screamed “No—wait, Davey—Snyder, stop—”
“Jack, you can’t let ’em beat you!”
“Sullivan! Hear him? Your fault!”
“No!” They both yelled at once, David angry, Jack desperate; and the next time Snyder hit him, Jack rammed into the door. “Davey!”
But the door wouldn’t yield, and Jack kept jumping, throwing his weight against it until his shoulder was so bruised he yelped and his bad leg collapsed under him. Dave was choking back sobs and Jack swore he could feel his heart breaking, letting out a ragged breath as the tears came, muttering, “Davey…Dave, please…,” shaking in the thin crack of light coming under the door with Dave’s strangled cries filling his ears until he just couldn’t take it and screamed “Snyder, no—please, I’ll do it, just—”
“David!”
Jack couldn’t process the voice before the door flew open again, and instead of a savage grip Jack felt hands on his shoulders, gentle and firm, and Denton’s voice soothing “Jack, it’s okay—Jack, we got him—”
And then Dave and Sarah appeared in the doorway, David’s shirt hanging in shreds and his face white with pain, leaning on Sarah, and Sarah sobbed softly “Jack” and Denton’s arms wrapped around him. “Easy,” he said. “You’re all right, Jack, you’re safe.”
Jack couldn’t believe it. Letting Denton help him to his feet, he stumbled toward Dave, who met him halfway, David hissing in pain as Jack hugged him fiercely but not letting go all the same, Jack’s leg trembling as he tried to keep weight off his shattered knee. Sarah came up, put a hand on his arm, and he kissed her. Or she kissed him. Jack wasn’t sure who had started it, but it felt like home.
But still—
“Snyder,” he said, and Denton ducked under his arm. “You’ve got a friend outside.”
“What?”
And when Jack limped out, there stood Snyder in handcuffs, and Governor Theodore Roosevelt.
“Mr. Kelly.” T. R. stuck out his hand. “I understand we’ve already met.”
Jack just stared. “How—”
“I wish I’d known,” T. R. told him, taking Jack’s hand in both of his own. “And I’m sorry.”
“Jack! Dave!” A familiar voice rang down the hall, and Crutchy appeared in his nightshirt, leaning on Ten-Pin. “You guys doin’ all right? Boy, you shoulda seen it. The doors fly open an’ he’s wavin’ his walkin’ stick like a sword—” Crutchy beamed.
“I’m reforming the Refuge at once,” T.R. said. “All the charges looked into—the Warden and guards all arrested—”
Sarah took Jack’s hand, her other arm still around David’s waist. Dave looked surprised at the news, and Jack…Jack was stunned.
“You’re free,” Denton said quietly, squeezing Jack’s shoulder. At normal volume he went on, “Now, you boys have a strike to win. Are you up to it?”
Jack tried a step on his bad leg, wincing more than he wanted to admit, but Denton smiled. “You don’t have to walk. The governor’s letting us use his coach.”
T. R. flashed a grin, mustache bristling. “And this time, you don’t sneak aboard.”
* * *
Boots was surprised to see the crowd already gathered in newsie square by the time he and Spot arrived from Brooklyn, and it continued to grow by the minute. Race was surprised to see the governor’s carriage. But what surprised them the most was when the carriage doors opened and Davey stepped out, and Jack, and Sarah and Crutchy, and the paddywagon followed full of other boys with Hawk and his birds sitting up on the roof.
Spot swore, seeing Jack limping heavily, Dave moving stiff, but Boots smiled. “You did it.”
“No, we did.” Spot glanced over, eyes crinkling in a slight smile. “We’ll make a leader out o’ you yet.”
* * *
Joe didn’t have to give in, of course. But when two battered newsboys with fire in their eyes showed up flanked by the governor and that journalist Joe’d fired years ago—something about only wanting to cover the really important stories—and the square was jam-packed with chanting strikers so even the police couldn’t get through, there wasn’t much else he could do.
“It’s not right,” he muttered, pen shaking as he signed the contract.
“Yeah, well, wars ain’t about right or wrong, Joe. They’re about power.” Jack’s nose was crooked and bruised, but he still cocked an eyebrow, that easy confidence back. And this time he wasn’t scared. Not of anything.
But David, the Walking Mouth, had to get his two bits in. “But it’s right and wrong, too.” He tapped on the contract, his eyes dancing. “This is right.”
Jack looked over and grinned. “Let’s go tell the boys, Dave.”
When they walked out of the World building, Crutchy was talking to Boots, saying, “Jack says you can’t let ’em beat ya, and I bet—”
Jack just looked at him.
“Jack—”
And Jack grinned at Les, saying, “Well, no one told Joe that.”
acedavey replied to your post “What are you liveblogging if you don't mind my asking?”
That sounds super cool I'll have to check it out
It’s really great! It’s set just a few months after the fall of the second Death Star, ummm.... I shared a link to a sample of it, lemme find it again... ah, here it is! Do check it out, it’s even the intro to my favorite of the new characters in this book.
What are you liveblogging if you don't mind my asking?
I’m reading the new Star Wars book, Aftermath. Well, by reading I mean I’m listening to the audiobook while packing up my room, but it occasionally requires me setting down whatever I was in the middle of and pausing screeching loudly.
It’s really, really good!!!!
I just. It was briefly threatened that someone was dead.
