Let's work together

"Now, now, Mr. Brown, let's not be so terribly... anxious," Dutch purred, a predatory glint in his eye as he leaned back in his saddle. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "How about we first embark on a little tour of our esteemed factory? I believe once we're there, the air will be perfectly clear, and we can be completely open with each other."

At this point, Dutch was no longer in any particular hurry. In fact, he rarely was. Whether it was the pompous, self-important figures of Saint Denis or the petty warlord Mr. Fusal of Guarma, none of them truly posed a significant, existential threat to the magnificent Van der Linde Gang. There was absolutely no need to fret, even without the colossal shadow of the Morgan Family looming behind them. The sole, compelling reasons for wanting to attach themselves to such an influential leviathan were, firstly, to deftly sidestep some unnecessary trouble, and secondly, to cunningly leverage the Morgan Family's truly massive scale to spectacularly accelerate their own progress.

Listening to Dutch's unhurried, almost dismissive tone, Mr. Brown could only manage a slightly dazed nod. He swallowed, then dutifully urged his horse forward, following Dutch and the others towards the legendary Shady Belle.

As they rode, the distinct, almost uncanny scenery of Shady Belle gradually materialized before Mr. Brown's increasingly bewildered eyes. They plunged through a dense, almost primeval forest – Shady Belle's magnificent natural barrier – and then, abruptly, rows of sturdy, imposing wooden barricades snapped into view. The wooden walls, like a meticulously crafted palisade, encircled Shady Belle, stretching from south to north, encompassing a truly considerable, almost intimidating area.

Two formidable watchtowers rose majestically at the northern and southern extremities, their wooden forms casting long shadows. And at the base of each tower, a small, curiously rounded mound, which Mr. Van der Linde had so eloquently described as 'marshy surging terrain,' served as a perfectly natural, perfectly deceptive boundary. The placement of these two particular mounds was so ingeniously subtle that Mr. Brown actually halted his horse, craning his neck, and took a lingering second look, a faint frown of concentration etching his brow.

Upon entering the gates of Shady Belle, Mr. Brown's jaw quite literally dropped. Rows upon rows of meticulously connected wooden factory sheds stretched before his astonished eyes, like some industrious, man-made hive.

"Mr. Brown," Dutch announced, his chest puffed out with a mixture of pride and theatrical modesty, "this, my dear sir, is our current second factory. Presently, we employ approximately one thousand diligent workers within the hallowed confines of Shady Belle – a harmonious blend of both our admirable female and male workers. When operating at peak production, our daily output, I'm delighted to inform you, can exceed a staggering six thousand dollars!

On average, two highly skilled individuals produce one garment per day, each garment commanding a respectable twenty-five dollars, allowing our five hundred female workers alone to generate a magnificent $6,250 daily."

"Oh, this is truly… an unexpected, marvelous income, Mr. Van der Linde!" Mr. Brown exclaimed, his voice tinged with sincere, wide-eyed astonishment. He gazed at the bustling, seemingly tireless female workers toiling away within the vast factory sheds. "Your output and sales volume, sir, could easily be considered the scale of a truly large factory, even in the most industrialized reaches of the East!"

In this bustling era, clothing factories were as common as mosquitoes, and even brand-name apparel had begun to emerge, adorning the pages of fashionable catalogues. In the wild, untamed West, the Van der Linde Gang's sprawling operation was, without a doubt, considered the largest garment factory.

But in the sophisticated, cutthroat world of the East, its scale could, perhaps, only be described as: still requiring a tad more practice. Yet, thanks to the gang's uncanny knack for excellent design and their trend-setting, almost prophetic styles, their clothing never suffered the indignity of unsold inventory. This, indeed, was the secret sauce behind their dizzyingly rapid expansion.

Mr. Brown surveyed the seemingly endless factory floor before him, his eyes taking in the constant, disciplined patrols of armed gunmen circling the perimeter. He felt an ever-growing sense of awe, a dawning realization that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde was truly, an utterly amazing human being. In a mere handful of months, he had taken a paltry, desperate gang and transformed it into a juggernaut, a force so potent that it had risen from merely surviving in the cracks of society to becoming an undeniable, formidable presence in Saint Denis, one that even the notoriously volatile Signor Bronte dared not provoke.

No wonder, he thought, his mind racing, no wonder Miss Camille had delivered such a curious, intriguing evaluation! It seemed that if he were to forge a cooperation with this enigmatic man now, it might truly yield astonishing surprises.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he might even be able to return to the hallowed halls of the Morgan Family with Mr. Van der Linde as his trophy, soaring into the very heart of their central circle!

Mr. Brown became more and more surprised, more and more impressed, with every meticulous detail Dutch revealed as he guided him through the sprawling compound. The palpable enthusiasm of the workers throughout Shady Belle, their almost ferocious diligence during work hours, the sheer professionalism of the stoic security guards, and the efficient precision of the transportation workers—it simply left him in a state of slack-jawed awe. Every single soul within the factory was toiling with a palpable fervor, seemingly without the slightest intention of slacking off.

Oh no. There was one.

Mr. Brown's gaze, ever watchful, sharpened, falling upon a lone female worker who had, with exquisite slowness, ambled away from her sewing machine. This particular worker looked positively brimming with unspent energy, laughing and chattering with the surrounding female workers, her movements a deliberate, almost mocking ballet as she leisurely made her way to the water dispenser. Her progress was painstakingly slow; she walked and talked, took a single, luxurious sip of water, then paused, stretching languidly, clearly milking the opportunity for a rest. It was clear to anyone with a working pair of eyes that she was taking shameless advantage of the break.

A wave of profound relief washed over Mr. Brown. Ah, he thought, a satisfied smirk curling his lips, this is a normal worker! Finally! No matter the era, he mused with a knowing sneer, these damned workers would always, always find ingenious ways to slack off. This, precisely, was why the major capitalists of the day were now ruthlessly implementing subcontracting systems. To truly make a fortune, one had to force these wretched souls to work themselves to death, to earn their pitiful, meager rewards, driving them to absolute exhaustion for the sake of their families and their miserable livelihoods!

Just as I thought, he concluded, a superior chuckle forming in his throat. How could the Van der Linde Gang's factory possibly be so utterly… unique?

No sooner had Mr. Brown's self-satisfied thought concluded than he saw, with a jolt, that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, who had been standing nearby, had also, with an unnerving precision, noticed the "slacking" female worker. Then, to Mr. Brown's quiet delight, he watched Dutch stride purposefully over.

A triumphant, almost gleeful smile blossomed on Mr. Brown's face. Excellent, he thought, rubbing his hands together with a barely concealed relish. These disgraceful slackers should be summarily eliminated. Damn it, they're handed a job on a silver platter and still harbor the audacity to slack off? This is simply the epitome of human laziness! And today, Mr. Van der Linde is here for an inspection, and he's brought me, a distinguished guest! This blatant slacking must have provoked Mr. Van der Linde's righteous fury. Should I, perhaps, offer a word of subtle encouragement later? A quiet suggestion for… 'optimization'?"

Mr. Brown stopped dead in his tracks, planting himself firmly at the factory entrance, eagerly watching Dutch's approach. In his line of sight, Dutch strode with powerful, determined steps, brimming with a furious momentum, clearly enraged to the absolute extreme.

As expected, the very next moment, Dutch's voice, clear and resonant, sliced through the humming factory noise.

"Ladies! Ladies, listen to me!" Dutch called out, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost melodious, completely devoid of any of the expected fury. He gestured expansively. "While you are working so diligently, don't you dare forget to take a proper rest! Our fundamental principle has always been that efficiency is far, far more important than sheer duration! Having well-regulated, sensible working hours not only guarantees greater work efficiency but also absolutely ensures your personal physical and mental well-being! Ladies, you have only just begun to truly live a happy life; you absolutely must not wear yourselves out!"

He then gestured towards the large, open windows, a beatific smile gracing his lips. "Oh, and I see the scenery around here is simply delightful. I think you might want to consider taking your beloved children for a lovely outing during your breaks. Of course, do be careful of alligators; I wouldn't want any of you to suffer a mishap on the very eve of true happiness!"

Dutch's voice was gentle, pleasant, and his words, surprisingly, made people feel a profound warmth spreading through their hearts.

Hearing Dutch's utterly baffling instructions, the female workers throughout the factory responded almost in unison, a chorus of affectionate, exasperated sighs: "We know, Master Van der Linde! You've said that countless times! We know!"

"Oh, Master Van der Linde," a female worker complained, stepping forward, her face a mask of profound resentment, "can't you just stop managing so much?! The children are at school now, and our husbands are on duty! Working only twelve hours a day is simply too short! What are we supposed to do with all that extra time? It's far better for us to gather here and get some work done while chatting more, isn't it?"

Working twelve hours a day, excluding one hour for lunch and rest, meant working from 8 AM to 9 PM. What, indeed, were they supposed to do with the remaining time? Were they expected to sleep for ten hours straight in their rooms? That would be utterly, soul-crushingly boring! Please, wasn't it infinitely better to gather and work while chatting, and even get more done?

"Yes, Master Van der Linde!" another female worker chimed in, her words receiving fervent agreement from the other workers. "We barely have anything to tidy up, we don't need to cook, and even the laundry is handled by dedicated staff! After dinner in the evenings, we literally have nothing else to do! Chatting together is simply not as fulfilling as letting us work and chat in the factory!"

Damn it, they all thought collectively, they had never, EVER seen such a good boss. Other bosses lived in constant fear that they would work too little, even resorting to whips and threats. Meanwhile, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde perpetually seemed to believe they worked too much! He had even, at one point, wanted them to work only eight hours a day! Damn it, if they only worked eight hours, what if Mr. Van der Linde went bankrupt?! Where would they ever find such a magnificent, benevolent job again?!

"Right!" a particularly bold worker shouted, her eyes blazing with conviction. "Mr. Van der Linde, we strongly demand overtime! In the evenings, we can absolutely, unequivocally spare time to work for another two hours! Especially during meal times, one hour is far, far too long; twenty minutes is completely sufficient for us to bolt down our food!"

"Or you can simply reduce our wages, Mr. Van der Linde!" another woman implored, clasping her hands together. "Nowadays, a man earning fifteen dollars a month is already considered high wages, and we earn twenty-five dollars a month, which is truly, utterly unreasonable! You take care of everything for us, so what earthly use is so much money to us anyway?! So either cut our wages directly to ten dollars a month, or let us work overtime!"

"Please, Mr. Van der Linde, let us work overtime! We really don't want the factory to operate at a loss because we're being lazy!"

"Mr. Van der Linde, if you don't agree, we'll work overtime secretly! We'll all work overtime secretly, and no one will report anyone. I'm sure our men will keep watch for us!"

Groups of female workers converged around Dutch, their faces contorted with a mixture of pleading and resentment, each offering different, increasingly baffling suggestions. Some desperately wanted to increase their work hours, others wanted to take on more workload, and still others, unbelievably, wanted to reduce their own wages. A cacophony of chattering voices filled the air, expressing their opinions with a vehemence that made Dutch recoil. He found himself vigorously refuting their increasingly fervent demands again and again.

"No! No! NO!" Dutch bellowed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He shook his head so hard his fedora almost flew off. "Ladies, I will absolutely not increase your hours, nor will I ever reduce your wages! My original, sacred reason for hiring you was to give you a truly better life! If we now reduce your wages and increase your hours, what in the damned world would I be, then, but just another one of those despicable, soul-crushing capitalists?! Your efforts, my dear women, are completely sufficient to cover your wages, and the factory, I assure you, even makes a handsome profit! So why, tell me, should we increase individual labor?! Damn it, don't daydream about such madness! I will only increase your benefits! And absolutely not that damned workload!"