Triangle

New York City
“As you can see, our workers are very busy,” Max Blanck explained to Charlie as he showed him around the work floor of his textile company, Triangle Shirtwaist. “We employee over six hundred workers, most of them young women. We prefer recent immigrants, as we want to give them the opportunity to make something of themselves.”
Charlie was interested in visiting other textile companies since he would be running one himself someday—or at least he thought he would be. He was looking to do some investing of his own, and Triangle was known around the city for being able to fill large quotas quickly. Charlie wanted to see how it was done.
As Mr. Blanck continued to talk up his establishment, Charlie couldn’t help but notice the girls all looked tired and worn out. The factory was stuffy without a lot of ventilation. The area was also very crowded. “How much are their wages?” Charlie asked, cutting off the statement Mr. Blanck was making about the top-of-the-line equipment the young ladies used.
“Oh, uhm, well, we pay fifteen dollars per week,” he replied, his head held high.
“Fifteen dollars per week?” Charlie repeated, stopping in his tracks. “You don’t say?”
“Well, as I mentioned, many of the girls are young. They have the opportunity to make more. Once they become more skilled.”
Charlie glanced behind him at the liegeman he had recently hired, a man by the name of Stephen Jenkins who, so far, was almost as unimpressive as Mr. Blanck’s treatment of his workers. Expecting to catch Stephen’s eye to signal that he needed an excuse to leave, Charlie found the young man eyeing some of the girls instead. Shaking his head in annoyance, Charlie turned back to his tour guide. “Well, Mr. Blanck, I thank you for your time…” he began.
Seeing that he was losing the opportunity for a possibly substantial financial investment, Max Blanck interjected. “Our process works, Mr. Ashton, I assure you. These girls are able to turn out an amazing volume of product.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be associated with someone who pays so little and works his employees so hard,” Charlie explained, taking his hat from Stephen and placing it on his head. “Now, if you can show me to the nearest exit.”
“Yes, sir, it’s right over here,” Mr. Blanck said.
They approached a side door and Max fumbled for a key in his pocket. It took him a moment, but eventually, he managed to get it unlocked, stepping back out of the way as he pulled it open.
“Locked doors that open inward?” Charlie couldn’t believe his eyes.
“There are ample exits, I assure you. This one is only locked so that we may check the women’s purses as they leave. Some of them have sticky fingers, it seems,” Mr. Blanck replied, though his voice began to show annoyance with Charlie’s reprimanding now that he was certain he wouldn’t be getting any money from the millionaire.
Shaking his head, Charlie made his way down the steps, Stephen in tow. The eight floors to the ground floor were rather awkward since Mr. Blanck no longer seemed willing to try to sell his company to someone who was clearly disgusted, and Charlie felt no need to continue to point out safety hazards to someone who didn’t care about his workers.
Once they finally reached the ground floor, Mr. Blanck walked Charlie and Stephen to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ashton,” he said offering his hand.
Charlie took it and nodded, absently thinking he would need to find a sink so he could wash away any stains that may have transferred from Mr. Blanck’s dirty hands. “Thank you,” Charlie replied politely, though he couldn’t force himself to say more.
He began to exit the building only to turn to find Stephen still standing inside staring off into space. “Stephen?” he shouted, startling the young man, who nodded at Mr. Blanck and then grabbed the door from Charlie as he walked through.
His next meeting was only a few blocks away, and as he made his way up Washington Place, he considered what to do about these two predicaments. Clearly, he needed to say something to someone about the operations inside the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, although he wasn’t sure who might listen. And then there was Stephen.
It had been almost three months since Charlie had graduated from Harvard. He’d taken Stephen on shortly thereafter. It seemed like he’d interviewed dozens of applicants, and none of them were quite what he was looking for. Stephen came highly recommended by a friend of his father who had employed him in just such a position but said he had needed to let him go because his nephew wanted the position. When John had complained to the friend about Stephen’s inadequacies, the other man had simply laughed and said, “Yes, that seems about right.” Charlie soon realized he’d only been handing off his problem to someone else.
“Stephen,” Charlie called over his shoulder, “give me a rundown of this next factory we are about to visit.”
“What’s that, sir?” Stephen asked, struggling to keep up.
“The next factory. Remind me of what we are looking at,” Charlie repeated, trying to be patient.
They stopped at a corner to let several automobiles go by. While Charlie owned a few of the vehicles, he preferred to walk whenever he could, especially around the city. He wondered how long it might be before everyone was zooming about, and no one got any exercise at all.
“Right, sir,” Stephen muttered. He was carrying Charlie’s attaché case and began to open it, right there on the corner.
“Stephen, what are you doing?” Charlie asked, turning to stop him.
“I need the notes,” the young man replied.
Charlie let out a frustrated sigh. “You shouldn’t need the notes. We certainly aren’t getting them out here on the street corner. You must know something of Barnaby and Sons’ Textile Company without having to flip through pages of documentation.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Stephen stammered. “I’m afraid I’ll need to look at the notes.”
Charlie pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, attempting to stop the enormous headache he could feel forming behind his eyes.
“Founded in 1875 by Benjamin Barnaby, he later brought on his sons, Jeremiah and Josiah. Originally located on Flushing, as the company continued to grow, Barnaby realized they’d need a new location with more room. In 1882, he moved the factory to its present location, here on Washington Place. While they are not the most profitable textile company, only bringing in about seventy percent of the revenue brought in by their largest rival last quarter, Barnaby and Sons’ is known for paying decent wages and treating their employees with respect.”
Charlie couldn’t believe his ears. About halfway through the speech, he had realized that the stranger in the bowler hat standing next to them was answering his question and turned to face him. While other people were stepping around them to finally cross the busy intersection, Charlie stood staring at the shorter, slightly older man, not sure what to say.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to interfere. I just thought… if you really needed some information about Barnaby and Sons’, well I could help.”
“Do you work for Barnaby?” Charlie asked, still not sure what to make of this fellow.
He laughed. “Oh, heavens no. I am currently employed at the tavern down the street there, Henige’s. No, I don’t work at Barnaby or any of these factories. But I hear a lot, and I have a good memory. Is there anything else you’d like to know, Mr. Ashton?”
Charlie almost asked how this stranger knew his name, but then he realized practically everyone knew his name. “No, thank you,” he replied, shaking his head to clear it.
“Very well, then. Have a nice day.”
“You, too,” Charlie replied as the other man began to cross the road. He turned and looked at Stephen who was staring at the building across the other intersection, not paying any attention whatsoever. He realized a few seconds too late that he hadn’t even caught the other fellow’s name. Turning to see where he might be, he saw that he had already made it across and was too far out of earshot to hear even if he might holler. Now, there were several motor coaches coming through and they would need to wait.
Sighing in frustration, Charlie pulled out his pocket watch. They had ten minutes and about three more blocks to walk. He was hopeful they wouldn’t be late. He hated being late. As the traffic slowed and they began to walk across the street, he looked at Stephen and decided it was time to do something. He could no longer let this person who was supposed to keep him on target make him look foolish.
The meeting with Benjamin Barnaby Jr. went considerably better than the one at Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, and by the time he was done touring the facility, Charlie thought he might actually have found a good place to invest some money. What that stranger on the street had said about taking care of their workers was certainly true, at least in comparison to the last place, and Charlie felt that the Barnabys cared about their employees similarly to the way he and his father cared for theirs.
That being said, Stephen had tripped and nearly fallen into one of the machines. He had been unable to answer a single one of Charlie’s inquiries, and he’d gotten his attaché case caught on a piece of equipment, and upon jerking it free, nearly sent it flying into a group of young ladies working at a nearby sewing station.
Something had to be done.