The Iron Heel. Jack London

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СКАЧАТЬ James Smith was a hard-faced man, and my heart sank as I encountered him. He, too, gave me the impression that he was not a free agent, as we talked I began to see that he was mentally superior to the average of his kind. He agreed with Peter Donnelly that Jackson should have got damages, and he went farther and called the action heartless and cold-blooded that had turned the worker adrift after he had been made helpless by the accident. Also, he explained that there were many accidents in the mills, and that the company’s policy was to fight to the bitter end all consequent damage suits.

      “It means hundreds of thousands a year to the stockholders,” he said; and as he spoke I remembered the last dividend that had been paid my father, and the pretty gown for me and the books for him that had been bought out of that dividend. I remembered Ernest’s charge that my gown was stained with blood, and my flesh began to crawl underneath my garments.

      “When you testified at the trial, you didn’t point out that Jackson received his accident through trying to save the machinery from damage?” I said.

      “No, I did not,” was the answer, and his mouth set bitterly. “I testified to the effect that Jackson injured himself by neglect and carelessness, and that the company was not in any way to blame or liable.”

      “Was it carelessness?” I asked.

      “Call it that, or anything you want to call it. The fact is, a man gets tired after he’s been working for hours.”

      I was becoming interested in the man. He certainly was of a superior kind.

      “You are better educated than most workingmen,” I said.

      “I went through high school,” he replied. “I worked my way through doing janitor-work. I wanted to go through the university. But my father died, and I came to work in the mills.

      “I wanted to become a naturalist,” he explained shyly, as though confessing a weakness. “I love animals. But I came to work in the mills. When I was promoted to foreman I got married, then the family came, and . . . well, I wasn’t my own boss any more.”

      “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

      “I was explaining why I testified at the trial the way I did—why I followed instructions.”

      “Whose instructions?”

      “Colonel Ingram. He outlined the evidence I was to give.”

      “And it lost Jackson’s case for him.”

      He nodded, and the blood began to rise darkly in his face.

      “And Jackson had a wife and two children dependent on him.”

      “I know,” he said quietly, though his face was growing darker.

      “Tell me,” I went on, “was it easy to make yourself over from what you were, say in high school, to the man you must have become to do such a thing at the trial?”

The suddenness of his outburst startled and frightened me. He ripped⁶ out a savage oath, and clenched his fist as though about to strike me.

      “I beg your pardon,” he said the next moment. “No, it was not easy. And now I guess you can go away. You’ve got all you wanted out of me. But let me tell you this before you go. It won’t do you any good to repeat anything I’ve said. I’ll deny it, and there are no witnesses. I’ll deny every word of it; and if I have to, I’ll do it under oath on the witness stand.”

      After my interview with Smith I went to my father’s office in the Chemistry Building and there encountered Ernest. It was quite unexpected, but he met me with his bold eyes and firm hand-clasp, and with that curious blend of his awkwardness and ease. It was as though our last stormy meeting was forgotten; but I was not in the mood to have it forgotten.

      “I have been looking up Jackson’s case,” I said abruptly.

      He was all interested attention, and waited for me to go on, though I could see in his eyes the certitude that my convictions had been shaken.

      “He seems to have been badly treated,” I confessed. “I—I—think some of his blood is dripping from our roof-beams.”

      “Of course,” he answered. “If Jackson and all his fellows were treated mercifully, the dividends would not be so large.”

      “I shall never be able to take pleasure in pretty gowns again,” I added.

      I felt humble and contrite, and was aware of a sweet feeling that Ernest was a sort of father confessor. Then, as ever after, his strength appealed to me. It seemed to radiate a promise of peace and protection.

      “Nor will you be able to take pleasure in sackcloth,” he said gravely. “There are the jute mills, you know, and the same thing goes on there. It goes on everywhere. Our boasted civilization is based upon blood, soaked in blood, and neither you nor I nor any of us can escape the scarlet stain. The men you talked with—who were they?”

      I told him all that had taken place.

      “And not one of them was a free agent,” he said. “They were all tied to the merciless industrial machine. And the pathos of it and the tragedy is that they are tied by their heartstrings. Their children—always the young life that it is their instinct to protect. This instinct is stronger than any ethic they possess. My father! He lied, he stole, he did all sorts of dishonorable things to put bread into my mouth and into the mouths of my brothers and sisters. He was a slave to the industrial machine, and it stamped his life out, worked him to death.”

      “But you,” I interjected. “You are surely a free agent.”

      “Not wholly,” he replied. “I am not tied by my heartstrings. I am often thankful that I have no children, and I dearly love children. Yet if I married I should not dare to have any.”

      “That surely is bad doctrine,” I cried.

      “I know it is,” he said sadly. “But it is expedient doctrine. I am a revolutionist, and it is a perilous vocation.”

      I laughed incredulously.

      “If I tried to enter your father’s house at night to steal his dividends from the Sierra Mills, what would he do?”

      “He sleeps with a revolver on the stand by the bed,” I answered. “He would most probably shoot you.”

“And if I and a few others should lead a million and a half of men⁷ into the houses of all the well-to-do, there would be a great deal of shooting, wouldn’t there?”

      “Yes, but you are not doing that,” I objected.

      “It is precisely what I am doing. And we intend to take, not the mere wealth in the houses, but all the sources of that wealth, all the mines, and railroads, and factories, and banks, and stores. That is the revolution. It is truly perilous. There will be more shooting, I am afraid, than even I dream of. But as I was saying, no one to-day is a free agent. We are all caught up in the wheels and cogs of the industrial machine. You found that you were, and that the men you talked with were. Talk with more of them. Go and see Colonel Ingram. Look up the reporters that kept СКАЧАТЬ