The Iron Heel Page #12

"The Iron Heel" by Jack London, published in 1908, is a dystopian political novel that explores themes of authoritarianism, class struggle, and revolution. It is considered one of the earliest examples of dystopian fiction, influencing later works like 1984 and Brave New World.

• Novel

								

to do?”

He shook his head.

“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” I said
solemnly.

Again his face became impassioned, and he lifted it, not to me, but to
heaven.

“I’d let me soul an’ body burn in everlastin’ hell for them children of
mine,” was his answer.

Henry Dallas, the superintendent, was a vulpine-faced creature who
regarded me insolently and refused to talk. Not a word could I get from
him concerning the trial and his testimony. But with the other foreman
I had better luck. 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, and 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 ripped[6]
out a savage oath, and clenched his fist as though about to strike me.

 [6] It is interesting to note the virilities of language that were
 common speech in that day, as indicative of the life, ‘red of claw and
 fang,’ that was then lived. Reference is here made, of course, not to
 the oath of Smith, but to the verb ripped used by Avis Everhard.

“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 men[7]
into the houses of all the well-to-do, there would be a great deal of
shooting, wouldn’t there?”

 [7] This reference is to the socialist vote cast in the United States

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