A Curious Fragment Page #2

"A Curious Fragment" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of existentialism and the human condition. The narrative unfolds through a series of introspective observations made by the protagonist, delving into the complexities of life, nature, and the inevitability of death. Through vivid imagery and poignant reflections, London captures the essence of human curiosity and the search for meaning in a chaotic world, ultimately offering a contemplative take on existence and our place within it. The story is a testament to London's literary prowess, showcasing his ability to intertwine philosophical musings with engaging storytelling.

• Novel

								

the slaves that thereafter he was called "Bloody Vange." You see, my
brothers, what interesting things are to be found in the books when one
can read them. And, take my word for it, there are many other things,
even more interesting, in the books. And if you will but study with me,
in a year's time you can read those books for yourselves--ay, in six
months some of you will be able to read those books for yourselves.

Bloody Vange lived to a ripe old age, and always, to the last, was he
received in the councils of the masters; but never was he made a master
himself. He had first opened his eyes, you see, in a slave pen. But oh,
he was well rewarded! He had a dozen palaces in which to live. He, who
was no master, owned thousands of slaves. He had a great pleasure yacht
upon the sea that was a floating palace, and he owned a whole island in
the sea where toiled ten thousand slaves on his coffee plantations. But
in his old age he was lonely, for he lived apart, hated by his brothers,
the slaves, and looked down upon by those he had served and who refused
to be his brothers. The masters looked down upon him because he had
been born a slave. Enormously wealthy he died; but he died horribly,
tormented by his conscience, regretting all he had done and the red
stain on his name.

But with his children it was different. They had not been born in the
slave pen, and by the special ruling of the Chief Oligarch of that time,
John Morrison, they were elevated to the master class. And it was then
that the name of Vange disappears from the page of history. It becomes
Vanderwater, and Jason Vange, the son of Bloody Vange, becomes Jason
Vanderwater, the founder of the Vanderwater line. But that was
three hundred years ago, and the Vanderwaters of to-day forget their
beginnings and imagine that somehow the clay of their bodies is
different stuff from the clay in your body and mine and in the bodies
of all slaves. And I ask you, Why should a slave become the master of
another slave? And why should the son of a slave become the master of
many slaves? I leave these questions for you to answer for yourselves,
but do not forget that in the beginning the Vanderwaters were slaves.

And now, my brothers, I come back to the beginning of my tale to tell
you of Tom Dixon's arm. Roger Vanderwater's factory in Kingsbury was
rightly named "Hell's Bottom," but the men who toiled in it were men, as
you shall see. Women toiled there, too, and children, little children.
All that toiled there had the regular slave rights under the law, but
only under the law, for they were deprived of many of their rights by
the two overseers of Hell's Bottom, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster.

It is a long story, but I shall not tell all of it to you. I shall tell
only about the arm. It happened that, according to the law, a portion of
the starvation wage of the slaves was held back each month and put
into a fund. This fund was for the purpose of helping such unfortunate
fellow-workmen as happened to be injured by accidents or to be overtaken
by sickness. As you know with yourselves, these funds are controlled
by the overseers. It is the law, and so it was that the fund at Hell's
Bottom was controlled by the two overseers of accursed memory.

Now, Clancy and Munster took this fund for their own use. When accidents
happened to the workmen, their fellows, as was the custom, made grants
from the fund; but the overseers refused to pay over the grants. What
could the slaves do? They had their rights under the law, but they
had no access to the law. Those that complained to the overseers were
punished. You know yourselves what form such punishment takes--the fines
for faulty work that is not faulty; the overcharging of accounts in the
Company's store; the vile treatment of one's women and children; and the
allotment to bad machines whereon, work as one will, he starves.

Once, the slaves of Hell's Bottom protested to Vanderwater. It was the
time of the year when he spent several months in Kingsbury. One of the
slaves could write; it chanced that his mother could write, and she had
secretly taught him as her mother had secretly taught her. So this slave
wrote a round robin, wherein was contained their grievances, and all the
slaves signed by mark. And, with proper stamps upon the envelope, the
round robin was mailed to Roger Vanderwater. And Roger Vanderwater did
nothing, save to turn the round robin over to the two overseers. Clancy
and Munster were angered. They turned the guards loose at night on the
slave pen. The guards were armed with pick handles. It is said that next
day only half of the slaves were able to work in Hell's Bottom. They
were well beaten. The slave who could write was so badly beaten that he
lived only three months. But before he died, he wrote once more, to what
purpose you shall hear.

Four or five weeks afterward, Tom Dixon, a slave, had his arm torn off
by a belt in Hell's Bottom. His fellow-workmen, as usual, made a grant
to him from the fund, and Clancy and Munster, as usual, refused to pay
it over from the fund. The slave who could write, and who even then was
dying, wrote anew a recital of their grievances. And this document was
thrust into the hand of the arm that had been torn from Tom Dixon's
body.

Now it chanced that Roger Vanderwater was lying ill in his palace at the
other end of Kingsbury--not the dire illness that strikes down you and
me, brothers; just a bit of biliousness, mayhap, or no more than a bad
headache because he had eaten too heartily or drunk too deeply. But it
was enough for him, being tender and soft from careful rearing. Such
men, packed in cotton wool all their lives, are exceeding tender and
soft. Believe me, brothers, Roger Vanderwater felt as badly with his
aching head, or THOUGHT he felt as badly, as Tom Dixon really felt with
his arm torn out by the roots.

It happened that Roger Vanderwater was fond of scientific farming, and
that on his farm, three miles outside of Kingsbury, he had managed to
grow a new kind of strawberry. He was very proud of that new strawberry
of his, and he would have been out to see and pick the first ripe ones,
had it not been for his illness. Because of his illness he had ordered
the old farm slave to bring in personally the first box of the berries.
All this was learned from the gossip of a palace scullion, who slept
each night in the slave pen. The overseer of the plantation should have
brought in the berries, but he was on his back with a broken leg from
trying to break a colt. The scullion brought the word in the night, and
it was known that next day the berries would come in. And the men in the
slave pen of Hell's Bottom, being men and not cowards, held a council.

The slave who could write, and who was sick and dying from the
pick-handle beating, said he would carry Tom Dixon's arm; also, he said
he must die anyway, and that it mattered nothing if he died a little
sooner. So five slaves stole from the slave pen that night after the
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