Lawless (44 page)

One night in late November, after he’d gone home, the office of
Labor’s Beacon
was burned out by a fire discovered around midnight. Two other offices in the building were also gutted. Gideon offered to make good on the damage. The landlord promptly accepted, then sent an attorney around to say Gideon’s lease had been canceled. Rather than contest, Gideon found cramped quarters two blocks south. He asked himself whether Thomas Courtleigh was responsible for the landlord’s behavior. He was surely responsible for the fire at the
Beacon.

And for one at the printer’s in early December. That fire destroyed the just completed press run of an issue containing a long article about the tragedy at Ericsson’s, and a scathing editorial attack on the president of the W & P. Once again Gideon’s apologies and a more than generous financial settlement didn’t help much. The printer gladly took his money to rebuild the destroyed storage area, but he wanted no more of Gideon’s business.

Even during these difficult times, Julia wasn’t far from his thoughts. He corresponded with her from each office. Her letters came from all over the midsection of the country: a hamlet in northern Wisconsin; Terre Haute; Louisville; Indianapolis—there, she said, she’d been driven from a stage by rocks hurled with such ferocity that she wondered if the men throwing them had been paid. She reported a pattern of increased harassment. In the past it had happened only occasionally. Now there was some sort of trouble at every lecture.

For this reason, each of her letters urged him to remember one thing above all. If Courtleigh intended to keep after him—and the mysterious fires certainly seemed to verify it—Gideon had to fight back from a position of strength. He wasn’t wavering in his determination to join the family paper, was he?

No, he wrote in reply, he was not. He’d prepared a final
Beacon
and carried it to the typesetter’s without telling Strelnik it was the last one. Nor had he shown his assistant the editorial which said so. He planned to talk with Strelnik after he spoke to his stepmother—and he was ready to do that now. He promised to let Julia know how he fared.

The last edition was being handled by a seedy print shop just off the Bowery. The night the issue was run, freezing rain struck the city. The printer’s roof leaked—or so he said when Gideon called the next day and discovered that the entire run had been ruined.

Yes, the man would be happy to print the papers again if he were paid. But he avoided Gideon’s stare when he said it. Gideon looked up at the unusually large hole in the roof. It measured a yard and a half across and hadn’t been there the day before. It was much too big to be accidental.

His anger changed to weary resignation. He’d probably never learn how Courtleigh managed to keep track of his whereabouts, but it was obvious how Gideon’s suppliers were being turned against him. The printer had undoubtedly been well compensated for letting hooligans smash the roof and pour water over the finished papers.

“Do you want me to run the edition again, Mr. Kent?” the printer asked.

“No. You’ll have to be satisfied with the money you got for ruining the first one.” He stalked out while the printer protested that he didn’t understand.

From that day, Gideon began to see an enemy in every passing face, and a threat in every shadow. He was still feeling that way in the second week of December when he took the train down to the Jersey shore to visit the summer home his stepmother had transformed into an all-year residence.

Except for those times when he’d ridden into battle, he could hardly remember having been so nervous.

It was a blustery gray day, requiring the light of all the parlor lamps. The sea was running high. Great white-crested mountains of water rose out beyond the tide line, then rushed in and crashed apart as new peaks appeared behind them. Gideon came immediately to the point as his stepmother poured tea.

Molly Emerson Kent was approaching fifty. She was a solidly built woman of five feet six inches with a matronly bosom and a wide smile, which revealed a good many teeth and made her plain face radiant. She said she found the size of her mouth embarrassing.

She handed Gideon his cup just as he finished speaking. “So. It’s to be the
Union,
is it?” Suddenly she smiled that dazzling smile. “You would have made your father very happy.”

“What? He wanted me on the paper?”

“Let’s say he considered it a shame for you to stay where you are.” She stirred hot milk into her cup as the cottage creaked and whined in the gale.
The verse from Judges,
he thought.
Julia was right.

“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 never 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.”