Three Weeks in December (9781609459024) by Audrey Schulman Read Free Book Online

ethic atrophied by the torrid heat. Jeremy knew Thornton had much more experience with Africa and its natives than he did, but he was unsure how to jibe the man’s statement with the fact that Otombe was continuing to trot on without stopping for what must be at least six miles.
    The Indians who built the railroad were also an alien dark-complected lot, but they were much closer to the British in terms of common assumptions about the strictures and hierarchy of society. They knew how to read the details of Jeremy’s clothing to discern his status and how to apply flattery when requesting a favor. From what he had observed so far, however, many of them seemed to get fulfillment, not from laboring hard for the British Empire as the English wished them to, but rather from attempting to outsmart the system.
    The other day, he had ridden over the hill into the stone quarry perhaps an hour earlier than he normally did. Instead of hearing the busy ring of iron against stone, the entire quarry was silent, one hundred and seven masons stretched out in the little shade offered by the rocks, several men snoring. The three jemadars in charge were playing cards, their whips looped loosely beside them. As the rustling awareness of his arrival spread, men jumped to their feet and hammered away at the first available rock. In that instant, he could see the big-eyed fear of punishment battling with their pride at all they had gotten away with.
    But even at times like this, it was clear they had learned the rules of the white man’s system—were not standing apart, simply watching, like the Africans. Whenever his Indians requested an advance on their wages or a day off their eyes were lowered like women’s.
    So far he had continued to pay the railroad’s standard wages out of fear of the men considering him weak, but at night he truly struggled with what fair pay should be for manual labor in this intemperate land where a simple scratch could lead to gangrene. Two days ago, he had examined the accounting books to get a sense of where the railroad’s major expenditures lay. Checking the month’s final totals, he had marveled at how cheaply so much labor could be engaged here on the dark continent. It was only after several minutes of study that he noted, underneath each man’s name, a tidy column of negative numbers. After some inquiry, he learned that their wages were docked for the expenditure of shipping them here and then back to their native land, as well as for what they ate and drank and for any new clothing they acquired while here—all of this clothing purchased through the railroad’s store. Glancing at these negative numbers, it was unclear how much might remain to send home to their families.
    This arrangement bothered him. He had been raised to consider the responsibilities of class. He believed that those with affluence and power also inherited the onus to toil harder than anyone else, to be the last one in bed at night and the first one up, to make sure all was done for those who performed the more menial work. Thirty years ago, one of his Grandpapi’s workers had gotten yanked halfway into the thresher by the edge of his sleeve. He had had four children under six. Of his own volition, Grandpapi sold a fifth of his farm to give the money to the widow. This was a tale frequently invoked by the family when discussing current events. Responsible leadership, his mother maintained, this was what the nation needed more of; then there would not be this unstated war between the Carnegies of the world and unionizers like Mother Jones. Responsible leadership—as was seen in her family, his mother believed—was what had made the Turnkeys all that they were.
    Jeremy did not remember if she had talked this way, lionizing her family, before his father had disappeared. Of course there was not much he remembered from back then, before he was five, before they had moved in with Grandpapi—her