January, 1885
TSC Offices, Chile
Alejandro Puig stormed into the office of Juan Antonio Arostegui, the consequences of such a rash action be damned.
"What have you done to my men?" - He asked, ina tranquil tone.
"Your men? They are employees of the Tarapaca Saltpeter Company. They work for us, not for you." - answered Arostegui, with the arrogance that two goons just a shout away could afford.
"Those men work under me. I command them and they have the boilers working at top efficiency. I guaranteed them good working conditions, but I take one week off to see my ill sister, only to find that one of your idiots have replaced me?"
"Listen up,
roto* de mierda, we tolerated you because you brought something useful for us. You increased our profits and sped up our productions. But, at the end of the day, you are no different than the beasts that carry the saltpeter and operate the machines. We can go to any bar and scoop a platoon of workers to replace the ones which we have lost. We can do the same with you, even if you can read and write and make some basic math. You and I are not the same."
"One of my men died of exhaustion. I have three others with horrible burns because your idiots didn't provide them their uniforms. One is permanently blinded because you didn't give him the protective glasses I requested."
"Those things cost money. If we give it to them, then oth-"
"I know how much a raw cotton shirt costs. Do you?"
"What?"
"Do you know how much money you'll spend on that? I could buy my whole team the equipment they'll use for a year with a week of my salary. You could give everyone at this office something similar and not make a dent on the TSC's profit margin."
"Wrong on both accounts."
"Huh, how so?"
"For one, you won't have a salary anymore at this company. For the other, it is cheaper to get another animal to do the work after one has fallen. There lays the profit, Puig."
Arostegui shouted, and the two goons entered the office, their intent clear.
Alejandro regained consciousness three days later, inside Mouchot's residence.
February, 1885
Almonte, Tarapacá
Constantino watched as Mouchot took notes on the modified portable engine. He had given up on what the frenchman was doing, but he was nonetheless fascinated by it. A man of intellect absorbed on his equations and abstractions.
"Monsieur Puig, we're ready for the test. Please lift the curtain."
The beam materialized on a large area of the boiler. It'd take time, but the water in it would begin to boil and then the steam would awaken the machine.
"I think the beam could be tighter, please move the focusing mirror five percent outside."
The beam remained the same size.
"Monsieur Puig? Are you still thinking about the strike at the office?"
Serrano watched as Puig snapped out of it. He wasn't the same man since the beating that the bastard Arostegui gave him. He seemed angrier, and pained.
"I fear that things will take a turn for the worst... those workers might be in danger."
"I know... I've seen in Paris just how ugly it can turn. But we are only three. A drop between two oceans, Monsieur Puig."
"Alejandro, we should focus on the task at hand. The strike will end sooner or later, and then it's back to the boilers for Mouchot and me."
"Monsieur Puig, if it will ease your mind, later we could go to the office and see how things are going. I'll do everything in my hands to ease tensions."
That promise was moot by the time Mouchot uttered them. A distant rumble could be heard. It came from the TSC.
Serrano knew what it meant. Puig did the same, and there was pure horror on his face. Justified horror. Only Mouchot didn't understand what it meant.
"What a curious noise. Maybe they're using explosives nearby?" Only then it struck him. Artillery.
Serrano stopped his work immediately. Puig was more diligent and dropped the curtains before climbing down the scaffolding, but he wasn't thinking at that moment.
Serrano had seen that same look hundreds of times before, and knew what to do. He gave Puig an order, the two men would go to the office and see what was going on. Maybe it was a mistake, or an accident or something. They hit the road and prepared to walk the ten kilometers between Almonte and the nitrate facility. They managed to walk (or, more accurately, limp) about two kilometers before reaching a roadblock managed by sailors.
Serrano tried to persuade them, he tried to gain their sympathy by telling them of his own military past. They answered him by aiming their guns at him and barking an order to retreat.
By the time they returned, well after the sun had set, Almonte was under martial law. Sailors marched on the streets, some men (and a few women) were taken prisoner.
And, in the night, a fire glowed in the west. The TSC' worker encampment made a dim mockery of the setting sun.
Mouchot's first impact on History had little to do with his innovations, although they were related to them. By lifting bottlenecks in the processing of nitrates, the Tarapacá Saltpeter Company ramped up its production. This increase was only partially achieved by hiring more men, and the other part was achieved by increasing the workload assigned to each worker. Twelve hour shifts turned into fourteen or even sixteen hour shifts. TSC higher ups didn't see a need to invest on the living conditions of the workers, as the closure of the War of the Pacific meant tens of thousands of former soldiers - and thousands of Chinese coolies who worked in Peru's guano industry - made an enormous pool of expendable labour.
Even by the standards of the time, the TSC's practices were considered exploitative. The workers demanded some improvements to their conditions, such as decent housing and a one hour lunch break, which were denied until they felt no other option but striking was available to them.
And, tolerated by the local authorities, the strike continued for two weeks before Santiago intervened. A detachment of the Navy was sent - the Army was left out of the loop as it was feared that the soldiers wouldn't shoot their former comrades - who laid siege to the offices.
Violence erupted a week after the arrival of the sailors, when a worker tried to smuggle food and was shot. This first shot was an opening for a massacre that left almost 800 dead.
Among the dead, there were 550 men and 227 women. 175 were children. 100 were Peruvians. 77 were Bolivians. 40 were Argentinians.
And 35 were Englishmen, hired to do specialized soldering work.
