Strike

"We oppose the factory's unreasonable behavior! We declare that for the benefit of all workers, we are going on strike!" A worker representative shouted, raising a tin microphone. "Fellow workers, brothers, our lives have been hard enough. The wages we receive now are barely enough to eat our fill. I ask you all, have you ever seen anyone work as a laborer for six or seven years? Has anyone ever seen anyone like that?"

The crowd below fell silent for a moment, then shouted in unison, "No, no!"

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

"Because they either went to Americas or died from exhaustion in the factory!" another worker representative shouted. "Don't you agree?"

"Yes, yes!" the workers shouted.

"Brothers, brothers! Before, we could gamble, gamble that we could save enough for a ship ticket to Americas before we died from exhaustion. That was our only hope in this miserable life. But with wages like these now, can we still save enough for a ship ticket to Americas before we die from exhaustion? What will our final fate be? Now, even if we're in the worst situation, at worst we'll just die. But brothers, isn't accepting these wages also a death sentence? Since we're going to die anyway, why should we work ourselves to death? Why should we let these factory owners, these venomous snakes and beasts, these vampires build their manors and villas on our corpses?"

"Yes, I quit! I quit!"

"We're on strike! We're on strike!"

"We cannot allow them to live well on our corpses!"

More people joined in the chant.

"Hmph, let them starve to death! These lazybones, if they weren't so lazy or so stupid, why would they be starving? They deserve to starve!" a fat man who looked like a manager said viciously.

"Yeah, let these lazybones starve!" another follower-like man cursed beside the fat man.

"We can find just as many, or even more, workers on the street with just a turn of our head!" the fat manager said.

At this moment, something was said by the worker representative, and the crowd began to shout again. Finally, thousands of workers sang a song together:

"Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!

Arise, you wretched of the earth!

..."

"What, what are they trying to do? Are they trying to rebel?!" The fat manager's face was ashen. "Quick, close the doors! Don't let those thugs break in and damage the machinery!"

In this era, the conflict between workers and factory owners was very prominent. Labor disputes often led to workers storming factories and damaging machinery. So, as soon as he saw that things were not going well outside, the fat manager immediately issued such an order.

The police and security guards immediately retreated into the factory, and the metal gate slammed shut. The police and security guards climbed onto the wall, each holding a gun, pointing it at the agitated crowd below.

But the crowd didn't disperse; they remained outside the factory gate, continuing to sing. Some even pointed at the fat manager's image on the wall and berated him.

The fat manager didn't react much, but his henchman spat down and waved his middle finger at the people below.

"Damn it!" Some workers were furious and picked up stones from the ground, throwing them at the henchman. With him leading the way, more people picked up stones and threw them at the people on the wall, while others moved closer to the gate.

"Brothers, calm down, calm down!" shouted the worker representative from the London Textile Workers Mutual Aid Association. "Don't engage in direct conflict, you'll suffer..."

But the enraged workers wouldn't listen. They shouted, "Charge in! Charge in and kill these bastards!" and surged toward the gate.

"Stop them! Stop them!" The fat manager's face turned pale. "Shoot! Shoot!"

"Bang bang..." Gunshots rang out. At such close range, it was almost impossible to miss, and a large number of workers below immediately fell down.

"Run! Run!" someone shouted.

"They opened fire! They killed people!" someone shouted.

The crowd scattered and fled, some falling and being trampled underfoot by the fleeing mob.

"Keep hitting them, let them know what's what!" the fat manager shouted.

Gunfire continued...

In a house in Petticoat Lane, Fagin was changing the bandages on the grimacing Iron Tooth.

"Alright, Iron Tooth, you're lucky you weren't seriously injured. But be careful not to get the wound wet. Um, also, pray to God there won't be an infection," Fagin said after finishing bandaging the wound.

"Boss, what's our next step?" the Butcher asked.

"We'll organize the workers first, let them sabotage the factory to prevent them from hiring more workers, and bring their production to a halt. Every day they stop production now, they suffer considerable losses; bank loans and contract compensation from customers will keep that bastard Raine from breathing," Fagin replied.

"What about the scum who shot us? Are we just going to let them get away with it?" the Butcher asked.

"How could that be?" Fagin sneered. "My brother was injured. If nothing happens, how are we supposed to stay here? How are we supposed to get things done in the future? Heh, that old bastard Raine is hiding in the rich area, with lots of police and bodyguards. It won't be easy for us to take him down in a short time. But have you found out who the guy who ordered the shooting is?"

"We've found out. That guy is the factory's business manager, named Hindley, and he lives on Wendel Street."

Wendel Street is an area where so-called middle-class people with a little money live. There are fewer police there than in truly wealthy areas, but certainly more than in Petticoat Lane. Also, people like Hindley usually have one or two servants, but they don't have personal valet or bodyguards—they look rich, but there's still a big difference between them and truly wealthy people.

"Are you confident you can make him disappear without a trace?" Fagin asked.

"That's not a problem," the Butcher said. "Just tie a stone to it and throw it into the river."

"Hmm," Fagin nodded, then added, "Be careful before you act, lest you get tricked."

The factory's security detail and police shot and killed more than twenty workers. Such an event might have caused a huge uproar in later generations, but in this era, human life meant little. Of course, this situation didn't fundamentally change in later generations; for example, a worker's life was never as important as a stock market index. However, because later generations at least had a heretical force called the Soviet, they were still somewhat more hypocritical than this era. Although with the disappearance of the Soviet, they increasingly forgot that the Soviet had ever existed.

None of the mainstream newspapers reported on this matter prominently, not even the Whig Party, Tory Party, or New Tory Party newspapers. This wasn't because the Kingdom's government had issued an order prohibiting the reporting of such matters, but because, in their view, it simply wasn't news.

What is news? "Dog bites man, no news; man bites dog, that's news." While this saying originated in United States, it was already the prevailing standard in Britain journalism long before. Factory shootings that killed workers were so common they hardly counted as news. So what if a few dozen workers were killed? In London's poorest neighborhoods, several times that number hadn't died. What's the big deal?

Furthermore, while the Whig Party, Tory Party, and New Tory Party disagreed on many issues, even serious ones, they were remarkably united on the issue of dealing with striking workers. Nobles, factory owners, and bankers alike considered it a truly gratifying thing to kill those restless elements who dared to strike.

This is similar to how, in the later Lighthouse Country, Fox and CNN, while both considering each other to be fake news media, adopted a very consistent stance when reporting on news related to the "Occupy Wall Street" movement.

As for the France -backed newspapers of the Sevenpence Alliance, they also did not report on the matter, because the Whig Party friends of the France were also on the side of supporting the suppression of the striking workers.

Of course, France newspapers did report on this extensively. However, their intention was. "France workers, look how dark things are in Britain! Cherish your good fortune; it's a blessing from your past life! Just work in the factory for a year or two, and you can save enough for the trip to Louisiana and the cost of Louisiana down there. Britain workers never dreamed of such a thing; what more could you ask for?"

It seemed the matter would simply pass peacefully. However, Raine soon received reports that recruitment of new workers was not going well, as many people were spreading rumors about him and his factory: that those who entered his factory would only survive five years at most, being worked to death; that while the wages he offered seemed good, the contracts contained numerous deductions, leaving workers with nothing after a week, and even owing the factory money; that on average, the wages wouldn't even be enough to eat, let alone save enough to travel to Americas ... Some people even camped out at their recruitment point, stopping any worker who came by and advising them against going. In short, these rumors were having a very negative impact on recruitment.