Scrooge had been so close to redemption, but the timing had just turned out bad for him. He had gone through all the soul-searching and personal revelations wrought by the three specters and reached the conclusion that he must mend his ways and turn his greed to philanthropy. Alas, while reflection was in his dreams that night, it was revolution that was in the London air that morning.
He certainly had a chance to be warned, if he had paid more attention to Cratchit's family during the vision the Ghost of Christmas Present had shown him. To be sure, he had been thoroughly taken in by the plight of Bob's invalid son, Tiny Tim. Scrooge had an ambitious plan for the child's physical salvation involving the best doctors, the best tutors, the finest and brightest future a lad of such low prospects could ever wish for. But he had neglected to pay attention to other members of the Cratchit clan, especially the eldest daughter Martha.
Martha was apprenticed to a milliner, a satisfactory enough position but with not a very ambitious or promising future for a young woman of Martha's spirit and intelligence. She had no delusion in fact of just what the future did have in store for her- the milliner may have prevented her from a life of street walking like her childhood friend Nancy; but she'd have to sell herself all the same for a life of matrimonial prostitution.
So it was, as Scrooge watched her sickly brother and listened to her father blather on to mum about Tim being an inspiration at church to the hoity parishioners, Martha was pigeon holing her brother Peter regarding a self-printed pamphlet that was circulating around her shop.
"It's called 'Outline of a Critique of Political Economy'," Martha explained, handing him a crudely bound stack of printed pages. As he scanned it, she continued. "Written by a German named Friedrich Engels, some wealthy industrialist's son livin' in Manchester. His dad owns a sewin" thread mill there and 'ad sent Freddy to 'learn the family business'.
"He learned about it alright- learned what a piss pot the 'Industrial Revolution' in England really is! This 'ere paper's a condemnation of the whole growin' institution? Like that's a surprise to you, me, and every workin' stiff in London or anywhere else in England!"
"I like how this here German writes that 'industrialism has turned mankind into a horde of ravenous beasts bent on devouring each other'," Peter said, referring to the pamphlet. "Certainly does describe how men like me are fightin' for scraps at our jobs while the governors dine offen our labors. Or miserable misers like Mr. Scrooge act like an old tormentin' cat playin' with mice like our father!"
Long after Tim and the other children had gone to bed (and the specters of Scrooge and Christmas Past had drifted invisibly off into the ethers), Martha and Peter huddled with their father and mother around the small table to continue an old and bitter argument about the unfairness of their lots in life.
"'Cor, there's real un-Christian and downright traitorous thinkin' to be 'ad in this pile o' papers!" Mrs. Cratchit declared, trying to shame her oldest offspring. "Ya outt'n'a be passin' this mess around the shops like that; could give workin' folks wrong ideas and stir up trouble! Wot's this German bloke think 'e's doin' printin' this thing up and handin' it out all over London?"
"Not his idea to be spreadin' it out just yet," Martha explained. "The story is he's been plannin' ta take it back to France and print it in some Socialist journal. But he showed it to some friends, and they took it on themselves to pass the pamphlet around, quiet like, to show the average man that there are some in higher places staring to take notice of how bad things are- "
"Martha tells me it's creatin' a stir among the shops and workhouses, more than just the usual grumblin' about how bad workin' life is," Peter chimed in. "Stirrin' people up enough to want to do more than just grumble and grouse!"
"Stir a pot up too much, and all you'll get is a tipped over pot and a big mess; no good comin' of it!" their mother said, dismissively. "You, back me up 'ere, Bob Cratchit; wot de you think of this rubbish?"
"Maybe I've already reached a tipping point, myself," Bob muttered as he sat in his chair with his head bowed wearily.
"More like a tip-ling- point if ya ask me," his wife sneered at him. "Just how much Christmas cheer did ya wash down at the Public House afore ya came home?"
"Barely enough to get warm from sitting in that old skin-flint's freezing office!" Cratchit declared angrily. "Bad enough we can't afford the coal to keep warm in our own home. That evil miser won't pay for more than a hod the whole winter for that stove in his counting house!"
"That miserable usurer'd never be able to burn enough coal to thaw his greedy heart!" Martha hissed.
"Stop that talk, now, Martha Cratchit!" her mother warned. "Wot would the Good Lord be thinkin' if'n He heard you speakin' that way on Christmas Eve!"
"Yes, what would he think?" Bob asked, more to himself that to the room. "What would 'He who made the blind to see and the lame to walk' think of a world where a man such as Scrooge makes so many miserable just to benefit the size of his coffers?" Cratchit looked up and caught his son's and daughter's eyes.
"If He who whipped the money lenders out of the Temple were here today, what would he do to rectify the suffering of His children in London?"
His voice was loud enough now to disturb the slumber of his other children. Stirring and sleepy mutters could be heard coming from the other room now; mutters mixed with coughs and small moans as the little ones tried to settle back down. Cratchit had turned at the sounds; now he turned back to address his wife and eldest prodigy.
"Who else knows this is likely the last Christmas dinner we will have with our Tiny Tim?" More moans whispered from the room behind him.
"Martha," he stated. "I am proud to see you apprenticed, but I fear any day now you might succumb to the madness that plagues so many among the hat makers? Peter, I know you plan to enlist in the King's army and give your life abroad; if only to avoid the press gangs that could sweep you into a worse life in the Navy?
"My dear, I see you how you grow thinner every day," he addressed his wife. "You starve yourself so our babies can have a few more scrapes of food? I live in daily fear of either passing out at my desk, frostbitten fingers clutching my writing pen; or finally losing my position from one of old Scrooge's bitter moods. No, I feel quite stirred up tonight; my pot of resentment is full to the brim and tipping over!
"I do believe that, to paraphrase a line from a serial novel I skimmed a few years back: 'This is the best of times to END the worst of times'!"
Martha and Peter stared at their father, eyes wide with wonder and pride. Mrs. Cratchit, however, just sat back in her chair and began a slow, sarcastic clap.
"Quite the speech, Disraeli," she sneered. "And how do ya suppose to start this new 'Bastille Day'? Takes more'n a pamphlet and stirred up grumblers ta mount a revolution. How're ya plannin' to raise an army? Pay fer weapons? Bribe the coppers to look the other way?"
Bob reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a set of tarnished keys.
"I know of a certain counting house with stacks of cash that have gathered dust for far too many years?" He held up the keys by their rusted ring and rattled them temptingly. "Shall we liberate some coins, and then liberate the people they were swindled from?"
While Scrooge was waking up the next morning to the discovery that he had survived his night of hauntings, Cratchit made his way through the frozen streets to the wretched counting house that was the bane of his existence- and the depository of a ridiculously vast amount of unused cash. He opened the back door and unlocked the safe boxes holding the carefully horded gains of Scrooge's usury. Meeting him there soon after would be Peter, who had first stopped at the pub to enlist an unsavory individual that Scrooge had employed in the past to aid in the recovering of delinquent loan payments. Bill Sykes would in turn send for Fagin and his pack of curs to provide willing arms and backs to transport the sacks and satchels of Scrooge's liberated treasure.
Martha meanwhile had enlisted her old street pal Nancy (and Sykes' girl) to spread the word that there was money to be had for anyone who wanted to be recruited into a new "political party"- which would come to be called "The Christmas Liberation Carolers". Their movement grew organically, taking the aristocracy completely by surprise on the one day of the year that no one would expect "Peace on Earth" could be replaced by "Power to the Masses".
Even as this movement gathered steam and numbers, Bob Cratchit was still in Scrooge's office, greeting the arrival of Mrs. Cratchit and Tiny Tim with a satchel of crowns and sovereigns that he presented to them. Crying out how now they would want no more and Tim could finally get the care and healing he needed, the three embraced one another tightly- only to be interrupted by a roar of outrage from the open door of the counting house behind them.
Scrooge stood there, dumbfounded and wrathful. Bob had not expected to see him, had assumed this would be the one banking day of the year the old skinflint would not come to his office. But he had also no way of knowing of Scrooge's plans to turn over a new leaf and embark on a life of generosity- which, of course, would indeed require an unplanned trip to his counting house.
"Unholy Spirits!" the old man cried out incomprehensibly to the sky. "Is this what you had planned when you bewitched me in the night? To distract me in my sleep while thieves plotted to empty my coffers?" Looking back down at the horrified trio clinging together, he pointed his walking cane at Bob.
"You! Cratchit! Is this how you repay me for all my years of generosity to you!!??" And with that Scrooge raised the cane and brought it down on Bob's head. As his father fell backwards to the floor, little Tim wailed and hobbled to Bob's aid.
Scrooged stormed over and, reaching down, grabbed away the lad's crutch. As the boy fell back, to be caught in his mother's arms, Scrooge swung the crutch and broke it in half against Bob's writing desk. He flung the broken shaft at Tim, who barely caught it.
"If you are to die, "Scrooge hissed at Tim. "You had best do it soon, and decrease the surplus population!"
Tim looked down wretchedly at the remains of his beloved crutch, "You monster," he barely sobbed out. "This was carved from a branch of Christ's beloved holly tree!"
And then the small child let out a howl of grief and rage, and with impossible strength and speed hopped on his one good leg toward the miserly fiend that was the bane of his family's existence. Before the surprised Scrooge could react, the boy raised up the jagged end of the crutch and thrust it down into the old man's chest!
Scrooge fell like a sack of rancid pudding. Tiny Tim collapsed onto the floor in front of the body, sobbing. Then, to his amazement, two sets of strong loving arms picked him up and enveloped him. The child looked up to see not only the face of his mother, but also the ashen but very much alive visage of his father,
"Father! You're alive, you're alive!" Tim cried with joy.
"Yes, yes, but with a spitting headache, my dear boy." Bob answered, one hand gingerly holding onto a growing lump atop his head. "Come, now, best we take my 'Christmas bonus' and find an open hospital. Peter will be here soon to gather the rest."
With an effort, Bob got to his feet and lifted Tiny Tim in his arms. Looking down at the crumbled body of Scrooge, Bob lamented: "Oh, my child, what have you done? God forgive us?"
"No," Tim proclaimed, his eyes set in steel and this voice full of new found strength. "God BLESS us- every one!"
"Yes,' his parents agreed in unison. "God Bless Us, Every One!"
And continuing to bellow that cry, the Cratchits stepped around the body of the evil miser (ironically with a stake of holly buried in his heart) and walked out into the streets chanting the soon to be adopted battle cry of the revolution.
End
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