The Final Journal Entry of Samuel Caldwell Colt

The Final Journal Entry of Samuel Caldwell Colt
 
It has to be said that I grew up in the lap of luxury. My uncle Samuel Colt, is, without a doubt, one of the richest men in America and he is my guardian as my father, his brother John Caldwell Colt, died before I was born. He committed suicide the day before he was to be hung for the murder of Samuel Adams during an argument over a bill of some $1.35. Apparently the jury found the “he fell on my hatchet, which I thought was a stick five times” as well as his attempt to cover up the incident unreliable testimony.
Anyway, a few months later my mother, Caroline Henshaw, who had married John the night before his death gave birth to me. She promptly left the child with my uncle, Samuel, and disappeared to the west. I eventually found her, but that is not this tale.
 
No, this is a tale from my younger days here in the prosperous and gentile countryside of Connecticut. Having returned from my trip to find my mother I returned to Hartford where my father was building a new workshop at the factory.
 
It was a pleasant morning on the 21st of May when I caught my father at breakfast. He greeted me heartily,
“Welcome back Samuel! I hope you found out west what you were looking for.”
 
“I did, and more.” I replied, now was not the time to cause issuance with what my mother had claimed in Salem.
 
Samuel had always treated me well and I had an excellent upbringing with the finest of tutors and even attended Cheshire Academy and have been studying at Brown University. I saw no reason to upset the situation at this point in time.
 
“Good, good, you can tell me all about it later, but come with me I want you to see what we’ve done at the factory.”
 
That was odd, Uncle Samuel rarely brought me into things involving the family business. He wanted me to find my own way in the world and indulged my somewhat mercurial interests. Nevertheless he was passionate today and the chance to share some of that passion was contagious. I happily accepted his invitation and we set off for the Hartford Factory.
 
Along the way he explained how Elisha K. Root had managed to make machines so that 80% of the work was done by them and only 20% by human hands. This had allowed him to achieve his dreams of making what came to be called the “Assembly Line.”
 
The factory was plain enough to look at, a three story affair, long and thin with a foundry at one end and the final assembly plant at the other, white with a red rood and with simple lines and tall smoking chimneys leaping from the foundry end while water and steam wheels turned the axles and powered the process. Such mechanical workings were things I had been kept away from but they were nevertheless quite fascinating to see in operation. Young children scuttle about cleaning and maintaining the machines.
 
Knowing that some gun parts were made by machine, he envisioned that all the parts on every Colt gun to be interchangeable and made by machine, later to be assembled by hand. His goal was the assembly line.The work was organized by order and each element of the firearms were to be assemble, in order, moving across the factory floor, each handed off to the next worker who would complete the next step in the task of assembling the device. That was his dream.
 
And in that factory I could see that his dream had come true.
 
Workers toiled seamlessly with the machines and devices like one giant hive, it reminded me of a Bee’s nest, I had studied them and done some drawings of the interiors of them in art class.
 
“Uncle, this is incredible, it is as if the workers are like the drones in a beehive,”
 
“I never thought about that he said, but you have hit upon it my lad.”
 
At that point Elisha had come over as well as Gustave Young, a Bavarian my uncle had hired for engraving work, it seems there was some disagreement over the placement of the engraving stations in the factory.
I was left to wander a bit, and went about the factory, making a few sketches and chatting with some of the workers. They were amiable and seemed to enjoy the work.
 
“Easiest and best paying job I’ve had.”
“Mr. Colt treats us well.”
“I feel respected here, not like at some other factories.”
 
Having come from humble roots and dealt with the injustices of being indentured as a farmer once Uncle Samuel tended to treat his workers and employees well. A fairly uncommon sentiment of the day I might add.
 
Before I knew it I had gotten lost.
In something of a concern I looked around and tried to establish my bearings.
I could not.
All directions looked the same.
 
All I saw was machinery and ants or bees crawling upon it, drones working tirelessly for the hive. Faces obscured by dim lighting the individuality erases, All that was was the Factory, everything else was but a part. An interchangeable part, even the people serving the machines, perhaps especially them as I realized the ants and bees were the people moving among the Great Machine.
 
“AAARRRGGHH”
 
“It hurts!”
 
The scream brought me back to my senses.
 
I looked about and noticed a young boy had been scalded by steam. I pushed the workers aside and examined the lad.
 
“What is your name son?” I asked him as he cupped his leg in his hands.
 
“Hiram, sir” he replied.
 
“Let me see the wound Hiram if you would, I have some medical training” I asked him and he slowly opened his hands.
 
I lifted the clothing aside and was able to see the steam had produced a bad burn, deep enough to be damaging but not bad enough that it might cause amputation unless aggravated.”.
 
“Call for a stretcher he must be taken to the hospital.”
 
At that point a burly man came over and said “Hiram, get back to work someone’s got to grease those gears.”
 
“Certainly not, he could lose his leg without proper medical attention. And who would you be, sir?” I inquired.
 
He puffed out his chest and said, “I am the overseer here, Bartholomew, Bartholomew Wright. And who might you be, sir, and what authority do you have here.” He said “sir” in such a way that implied he certainly did not mean it.
 
I just smiled and laughed a little.
 
“My name is Samuel C. Colt.”
 
The assembled workers took a small step back and a hushed gasp among them.
 
Then I heard Uncle Samuel making his way through the crowd.
 
“Oh, Hiram, you have gone a gotten hurt. Let’s get you to a doctor. Samuel, can you carry the lad while I send for help.”
 
“Certainly Uncle.” I said and hefted the boy up in my arms.
 
“And the rest of you get back to work!” Uncle bellowed.
 
I saw Bartholomew cuff some other young lad, whom I will never know the name of, and tell him things with much pointing and annoyance. It reminded me of the dance of a bee, telling the other members of the hive where the nectar it found was.
 
“Sorry you had to see that Samuel.” Uncle said. “Still a minor incident, with the new assembly line set up and running we can produce pieces of finer quality and greater reliability than ever before. It is the wave of the future my lad, the wave of the future.” He was beaming, the queen of the hive with her workers and attendants serving her and the Hive as a whole.
 
I never again set foot into one of Uncle’s factories. You see, while the Queen may be in charge of the hive she is still just one part of it, and as much a prisoner too it as any other.
 
“Marvelous isn’t lad. A whole new way of life and prosperity awaits us.” Uncle Samuel declared.
 
“Absolutely, you have accomplished great things Uncle, congratulations!” He talked amiable after dropping the young child, what was his name again, I guess it doesn’t matter, at the hospital. We went back to the house and had lunch and then Uncle went off to check in on matters concerning the advertising and legal aspects of the business, he was a genius at those aspects of the business as well, and I decided to take my leisure among the local paths and orchards.
 
Along one of those paths I stumbled upon a tree buzzing with activity, clearly it was ready for spawning. The bees were busily whisking what that could off to some new colony somewhere else in the orchid, clearly it was a good time for the bees as well.
 
“What a marvelous new world awaits us indeed. At least the bees seemed happy, busy at least, very busy.” I vowed to never again set foot in one of Uncle’s factories.
 
Uncle died early in the next year, gout, a disease of overabundance. I never brought up Caroline's documents to him. There seemed no point.
 
His new wife Elizabeth Jarvis, with her young son and her brother Richard, whom Uncle left as the main inheritors of his estate tried to contest the part of the will that left me a $2 million dollar sum. When I produced the marriage contract proving that he and Caroline Henshaw were wed in Scotland in 1838 and that I was possibly the heir to not only the family name but the company along with it they grew quite concerned. However I was content with the money I had left after paying off the lawyers. I never want anything to do with factories ever again, the buzzing of the hive, the beating of the hammers, the droning sounds, the drones themselves, the lawyers and treachery of the rich and well to do. I have left it all behind. The Factory, University, the family, Hartford, as I have the name Samuel, with all due regards father, I want to choose my own name and make my own place in this world, I have chosen Carlton James Colt for my new name. It sounds fitting, for as long as it lasts.
 
After leaving the courthouse and Hartford behind I stopped at his grave and paid my respects. I thanked him for what he had given me as the cold wind blew and then I took the stage to New York City. It seems the hive known as the United States Government had passed some sort of conscription act and while I could easily have paid the $300 for the Exemption I decided not to do so. My parents were dead, my remaining family wanted nothing to do with me anyway, business and industrial work was truly disturbing, friends of mine from the University were signing up in patriotic fervor for the war effort while others took the Exemption to hide behind the walls of their hives, so why not, I had nothing else to do now anyway.
 
As I rode off to quite another revelation about humanity I wondered if Samuel Adams thought, in his dying moments, or John C. Colt, in his, that the $1.35 was worth it. I know $ 2 million is not.