“Of course,” Molly continued, “I’m pleased too. Newspapering has become intensely competitive of late. It needs young men with vigor and strength. I must say Theo Payne’s a fine teacher, though. He’s managed to pound quite a lot into the head of an unexceptional lady who once ran a boardinghouse—” She sipped tea. “I hope you haven’t made this decision lightly, Gideon.”
“No, far from it.”
“Good. You’re not applying for some clerk’s position that can be handled with a minimum of effort. If you hope to become worthy of the job of publisher, not just fill it—as I did, out of necessity, when Jephtha died—you’ll need to understand every facet of the paper’s operation. There are more of them than you’ve ever imagined. You must also understand the Union’s purpose today.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Isn’t its purpose the same as it’s always been?”
“Not at all.” She went on to remind him that many newspapers had started as adjuncts of a printing business. It had been that way with the Bay State Federalist, Philip Kent’s first venture in journalism some eighty years earlier. “In those days, a paper was founded to promote a specific point of view—the owner’s, or that of the political party to which he belonged. The pattern held true in the penny press right up through the war. Then, like everything else in this modern world, newspapers began to change. The Union is nominally Republican. But it no longer exists for the sake of the party. In other words, like Mr. Dana’s Sun and Gordon Bennett’s Herald and a few others, the Union no longer automatically endorses everything its party does. You must understand that change to understand the work you want to do. Today the Union’s chief product, and its most important and prestigious element, isn’t an editorial of the sort you write so well. It’s news. Facts. Information, not opinion.”
He was deflated to hear her say that. His editorials were his pride, and the main reason for the Beacon’s existence. Except for the Chicago article that had died a-borning in the Bowery print shop, he’d never had an exclusive news story of any consequence.
Molly leaned forward, growing more animated.
“This is an exciting time for newspapers. The modern paper exists to give people the facts they need to make sound judgments about local or national matters. It’s a mighty instrument for good—or evil, for that matter. Since it appeals to the masses, it can sway them. Its potential power is frightening. Using that power can be an awesome responsibility. I’m sorry if all this startles you—”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Fiddlesticks, dear. I can read your face nearly as well as I could read your father’s. I’m only trying to prepare you for your first encounter with Payne. I know you’ve met him.”
He nodded. “Twice.”
“But you haven’t really dealt with him. You two must get along. You won’t unless you remember what it is the Union’s selling.”
Gideon wondered why it was necessary for a stockholder to appease Mr. Payne. But he said nothing.
“I’m sure you can learn that lesson,” Molly continued in a reassuring way. “That’s always been one of your tremendous strengths, learning quickly. You understand grammar and you’ve taught yourself to have a facile pen. Now you’ll have to master everything from page makeup to the latest advertising techniques—I trust you know both Macy’s and Lord and Taylor’s broke the tyranny of one-column ads last year? First in the Times, then in the Tribune and the Union.”
He shook his head. He thought that all metropolitan papers still hewed to the single-column, so-called tombstone style presentation of both news and advertisements. Of course he paid very little attention to the advertising content of the leading dailies. He could recall seeing a few ad cuts in the Union—trademarks, mostly—but that was it. It made him realize he knew precious little about the family enterprise, other than that it was a morning sheet and sold for four cents, the current price of most of its competitors. He renewed a vow to work hard and base his judgments on the realities of the marketplace, not on some lofty notion of what the idealized newspaper should be.
Seeing how unsettled he was, Molly smiled and tried to cheer him.
“There are scores of things to learn, Gideon, but they’re all fascinating. I think you’ll find the process a pleasure, not a chore. You’ll have to think about features. Poetry, humor—they’re relatively new and readers seem to like them, but old-line editors believe they have no place in a news organ. Stunts are becoming quite the thing on some papers. Young Gordon Bennett claims the Herald doesn’t merely report news—it makes news. And he’s proved it by sending his roving correspondent to search for that missing African missionary. He’s spending thousands to outfit Mr. Stanley in Zanzibar right now, and should Stanley locate Dr. Livingstone, it will be one of the biggest stories of the decade. Payne grants that, but he still doesn’t care for stunts. You’ll become involved in more than editorial policy, though. You’ll have to make decisions about people—should you hire women as general reporters? Men may resent it. Still, Emily Bettey’s doing splendidly at the Sun. Then there’s the business side—such things as the maximum price we can profitably pay for newsprint. In the last five years it’s cost as little as eight cents a pound and as much as twenty-six.”
By now Gideon was desperate to show Molly he knew something—anything! Unfortunately he’d left most of the technical details of the Beacon to the printer who had handled it for him, and all he could dredge from memory was one meager fact, lamely offered.
“The paper we use is made from old rags, isn’t it?”
With a forgiving smile, she said. “Not entirely.” His face fell.
She patted the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. No one expects you to know everything before you start. There are new inventions called Keller machines. From Germany. They shred wood fiber. For the first time they make mechanical wood pulp an acceptable base for newsprint. The Union is now being printed on a sheet that’s forty percent mechanical pulp, sixty percent rags. Two months from now, those sheets will be traveling through the Hoe Company’s newest and best web-perfecting press.”
Thoroughly humbled, he said, “What the hell’s that?”
She laughed. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, dear. A web is a continuous sheet of newsprint. A perfecting press prints both sides during a single feed. The presses represent a huge investment, but they’re the coming thing. Theo can tell you anything else you want to know.”
“Molly, I hate to say it, but I’m getting a mite tired of hearing the editor’s name invoked as if he’s some kind of god.”
Her tone grew a shade less cordial. “In certain circles, he’s considered just about that.”
“Hell’s fire—excuse me—he’s only the editor. We own the paper.”
“But he makes it run. Theophilus Payne is fifty-six years old. He has an uncontrollable drinking problem. He can be irascible and insufferably rude. But in my opinion and the opinion of others much more qualified to judge, he has only two peers among his contemporaries: Horace Greeley and Charles Dana. Payne’s lifted the Union from an average daily circulation of fifty-five thousand—slightly below the Staats Zeitung, which after all is a foreign-language paper—to ninety-three thousand. That’s very close to the Herald, and only five or six thousand behind the leaders, the Daily News and the Sun. Payne’s a perfectionist. Demanding—sometimes unreasonably so. He’s fired career journalists for what you might consider a trivial lapse in grammar. I also know he thinks trade unions are pernicious organizations—”
“But our printers belong to their local, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“And the typographers belong to theirs?”
“Yes, your father forced that issue and permitted organization in 1866. Payne almost assaulted him, then went on a four-day binge. Now let me finish answering your question as to why he’s so important. It’s quite simple. He makes a profit for us. And he does it in a way we can be proud of. You don’t have to convince me to accept you on the Union. I’d ne
ver deny you a job there. But you’ll have to convince Payne. I have absolute faith in his judgment. In fact,” she added, very softly, “if he won’t have you, I’ll back him up.”
Gideon sat all the way back in his chair and whispered, “Good God.”
Her expression was sober. “I thought you’d be a bit shaken by that. You noticed I delayed getting around to it.”
Benumbed, he nodded.
“Would you like a touch of whiskey, dear?”
“No, thanks. Molly—”
“Yes?”
“I hope you won’t take offense. This is said in admiration, not criticism. I just didn’t realize you’d become such a hard businesswoman.”
“I don’t take offense. I do take exception. I hope I’m a good businesswoman, not merely a hard one. There’s a significant difference. I’ve only become what I had to, Gideon. You were busy with your own enterprise, and major decisions had to be laid at someone’s doorstep. By default they were laid at mine. I’ve come to enjoy the responsibility. But as I said, I’d be grateful to relinquish it to someone younger. You’ll become as hard as I—out of necessity. The New York newspaper industry is ferociously competitive. And you can’t change a man’s mind about anything unless he buys your paper instead of your rival’s.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Theo won’t let you forget it—if you pass the test.”
With another of those shining smiles meant to soothe away his anxiety, she poured more tea for both of them.
“Let’s drink a toast to the success of your forthcoming interview.”
They did, but it didn’t reassure him that he’d succeed with Theophilus Payne.
Chapter II
On Newspaper Row
i
A WEEK BEFORE Christmas, Gideon took Strelnik to supper at a modest but pleasant tavern on Ann Street, a few steps east of its junction with Broadway and Park Row. They sat at a table by a window. It was just seven o’clock as they ordered veal chops and ale.
The first flakes of a snow began to come straight down in the windless air. Strelnik raised the subject of the letter to subscribers, which he’d finally seen. Gideon was compelled to explain. He finished by saying, “As a matter of fact, I’m going up to the Union tonight.” He’d been inventing excuses for postponing the visit, no doubt from fear that he’d fail to win Payne’s approval.
Strelnik shoved his mug of ale to one side and squinted through the smoke of his cigarette. “And the demise of the Beacon is final?”
Gideon nodded.
“Whether the Union will have you or not?”
Another nod.
The bearded man snickered. “The worker’s paradise is here at last. The boss may be rejected by his own employee. Gideon, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’ll go crawling to the editor of that capitalist rag.”
“Who hates Southerners, by the way,” Gideon put in, hoping to jolly the little man out of his bitterness. “Molly came up to Yorkville to visit the children last week, and she again confessed Payne isn’t as coldly objective as she first led me to believe. He used to despise secessionists, but since that issue has been settled he’s switched to hating trade unionists.”
Strelnik wasn’t amused. He flung his cigarette on the pegged floor and stamped on it. “Isn’t that splendid? Well, it’s very clear you’ve sold out.”
“Damn it, Sime, I have not!” Heads turned as he raised his voice.
“Yes you have. You’ve sold out the movement completely.”
“I’ve found a better way to promote the movement.”
“Pfaugh. I know what happens when a man becomes a boss.” The word was supremely contemptuous. “That Mr. Dana who runs the Sun—you know how much he likes trade unions.”
“He loathes them, just like Payne. What’s the point?”
“Twenty or thirty years ago he was a socialist.” Gideon gaped. “Ask anybody, it’s God’s truth. Owning things changes people. Power changes people too. It’s done that to you.”
Abruptly he stood up. Angry now, Gideon grabbed his arm.
“Don’t act childish. I haven’t had a chance to give you all the details about the closing of the Beacon. I intend to pay you three months’ wages to tide you over while—”
Strelnik wrenched loose. “We don’t want your charity. Leah does piecework sewing at home. We can survive. Even if we couldn’t, I wouldn’t touch your money now. Go hobnob with your rich friends. Next time we meet we’ll be on opposite sides of a strike line.”
“Sime, you’re wrong. You’ll see.”
Strelnik laughed in a scornful way. For a moment more he gazed at his friend with barely suppressed contempt, then spun and walked away. The tavern door made a soft, sighing sound as it closed. Its lower edge was already blocked by a buildup of wet snow.
Gideon looked out the window as Strelnik’s bearded figure ghosted by, stirring the falling snowflakes. Strelnik didn’t so much as glance his way.
ii
Park Row ran northeast from the intersection of Broadway and Ann. The city’s major papers were concentrated along the east side, in a short stretch known as Newspaper Row. It encompassed the blocks from Broadway up to Printing House Square, the tiny triangle where Nassau and Frankfort came in. On the west side of the street lay the snow-covered expanse of City Hall Park.
It was a lovely evening, with the fluffy snow continuing to drift straight down. Gideon was oblivious to the beauty of tree branches and rooftops piled high with white like a winter scene in a book of fairy tales. He was thinking of Strelnik.
He felt wretched about the man’s accusations. That was true even though Strelnik could be almost foolishly partisan, and Gideon believed his former assistant was definitely in the wrong this time. Still, he didn’t want to lose Strelnik’s friendship. He hoped time would heal the rift. He planned to send Leah Strelnik a draft for her husband’s severance pay. She was practical enough to accept the money with no quibbles about its source.
Newspaper delivery wagons went racing up and down Park Row in the lamplit darkness. They were traveling at top speed despite the hazardous condition of the street. Gideon was twice bumped by harried men in derbies rushing on some errand or other. Reporters, he surmised. The telegraph helped gather news these days, but there was still no substitute for the reporter’s legs.
Soon he began to experience a little of the sense of intimidation he’d felt at Courtleigh’s house. Here indeed lay power. The power that reposed in men’s minds, and men’s published thoughts. The generally nondescript buildings hulking in the snow housed some of the mightiest institutions in the land.
The Herald. The Tribune. The Sun. Times. Star. Mail and Express. Commercial Advertiser. Jay Gould’s World, acquired as part of a stock deal.
He couldn’t think of all the names. But there among them, facing the Times and Greeley’s Tribune on Printing House Square, stood the three-story building with the signboard reading NEW YORK UNION. The board bore the emblem devised by the family’s founder—the stoppered bottle partially full of tea.
Philip Kent had adopted the symbol when he started his first printing establishment during the Revolutionary War. He had owned and prized such a bottle. He’d collected the contents when he participated in Mr. Samuel Adams’ famous tea party in Boston Harbor. The actual bottle, green glass with the old tea still inside, stood on the mantel in Yorkville. It was one of a number of priceless mementoes of the Kent family’s past.
The December night felt almost warm because of the snow’s insulating effect. Gaslights blazed all across the second floor of the Union—the arched windows of the editorial department.
Gideon gazed at that brilliance and decided his timidity was not only shameful but foolish. Hadn’t Jeb Stuart proved time and again that fear never won an engagement for any man or any army? Besides, he was legitimate heir to some of the power on Newspaper Row, and the fact that he didn’t yet know how to use it didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. He could and he would.
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His chin lifted. He strode toward the triangular park and saw a number of ragged boys huddling around the base of the statue of the nation’s most famous printer, Dr. Benjamin Franklin.
As Gideon’s boots crunched the snow in the park, heads came up. Cigarettes glowed beneath the bills of dirty caps. One young face was completely hidden by exhaled smoke. Gideon heard comments exchanged in Yiddish and German. There were about a dozen of the young Street Arabs, as they were called, seeking shelter near the statue. On other occasions he’d seen such boys at the wagon docks of various papers, waiting to be given stacks of the latest edition on consignment. The boys hawked the papers on street corners all over town. And those weren’t the only locations they worked. Since his talk with Molly, he had started studying the New York newspaper industry, and he knew the Daily News had boosted its circulation to eighty thousand by lowering its price to a penny and sending boys into tenements to tap a completely new market.
He passed the statue and walked on toward the entrance to the Union. One of the boys got up and followed. Gideon heard the footsteps. He stopped in front of the building and turned.
Dull light from the frosted windows of the ground-floor press room fell across the face of a startlingly handsome youngster of about twelve. The boy was saved from prettiness by a cheerfully insolent mouth. He wore ragged trousers tucked into heavy black knee stockings, a man’s coat with huge holes in it, a scarf and a cap that he dragged off as he asked, “Mister, do you know whether the Union will be printing any extras tonight?” Extra editions were a staple of the trade.
“Couldn’t say, son. I don’t work here.”
“Oh, I thought you were a reporter.” The boy’s voice startled Gideon because it was really two voices, a somewhat nasal adolescent one, and a beautiful adult baritone. The boy seemed unconcerned about the abrupt shifts from one to the other. He started away. “Good evening.”
What a remarkable voice, Gideon thought. When it changed permanently, the lad would have all the makings of an orator. Curious, he called to the retreating figure, “Out pretty late, aren’t you?”