Confederate territory to glean information about troops and river defenses, yet so far she had given up more than she’d gained. Fabricated information, admittedly. Instead, she should have been pumping her mother’s old friend for anything useful. The woman must know all sorts of things: the state of fortifications up and down the river, the effectiveness of the blockade, the morale and attitude of the people who lived and worked between St. Louis and the mouth of the river. Instead, Josephine had come away with nothing.
From now on, she vowed, she would be in charge of such encounters, and not reactive. But not with Francesca Díaz Hancock. It didn’t matter how tired she felt, Josephine was determined to leave the hotel the next morning before the other woman awoke.
J osephine used the trip to the Crescent to regain her confidence. She picked up a copy of the paper, plus one of its rivals, the Picayune , before leaving the Paris Hotel. A cab carried her away from the hotel, driven by a striking man wearing a long black coat with tails and a top hat that made him look like a young mulatto Abraham Lincoln.
It had rained during the night, which had cleared some of the filth from the gutters, and the air was fresh enough that she was able to lower her kerchief from her mouth and nose as they clopped up the street, so she could concentrate on reading the news.
The date was August 20, 1861—yesterday’s papers. The rebels had apparently won a significant battle in Missouri on the tenth, which had reversed Union gains in the border state. The Crescent crowed that Missouri was about to join the Confederacy, but this sounded fanciful. In the east, the nearest she could parse through the sneers and false rumors, General McClellan had organized and strengthened the Union Army of the Potomac and was preparing another push south toward Richmond. The US Navy had captured two forts in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, tightening the blockade.
In short, the stalemate continued. Four months since Fort Sumter and the men on both sides of the Mason–Dixon who had boasted of a short war now looked like fools. It was hard to imagine the conflict ending any time soon. Maybe it would last all the way through 1862 and take several more bloody battles before the South came to its senses.
Twenty minutes later her hands were dirty with newsprint, and as she entered the big open room of the New Orleans Daily Crescent , she felt immediately at home. The clip-clip-clip sound of the presses hummed through the building. Men hunched over tables, scribbling furiously with ink-stained fingers. Others gave dictation to women with notepads. A man with round glasses thumbed through line drawings with an artist chewing on his pencil. Others were writing ad copy or hauling bundles of paper tied with twine.
Josephine decided that the man with the round glasses was in charge, and walked over to wait until he was done with the artist.
“He looks dead,” he told the artist, slapping down one drawing, which showed a man lying in the street, with bystanders surrounding him. “I want him drunk. Put an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand; make these people more amused than shocked. Put a few whores in the crowd.”
“The alderman was found on the levee,” the artist complained, “not the Irish Channel.”
“I know that. It says so in the confounded article. But that doesn’t matter. Make it look like the Irish Channel. It’s more lurid, will get the outrage flowing.”
Josephine had apparently found David Barnhart’s New Orleans counterpart. Scandal sold papers everywhere.
The artist hurried off, and she cleared her throat.
The man pushed back his glasses. He had dark, curly hair, a face smudged with ink and newsprint, and a sharp gaze that ranged over her with a skeptical look.
“Are you the new stenographer? Jenkins’s girl? So help me God, you had better be faster than that Irish woman. That was an insult.”
“I’ve come for a
From now on, she vowed, she would be in charge of such encounters, and not reactive. But not with Francesca Díaz Hancock. It didn’t matter how tired she felt, Josephine was determined to leave the hotel the next morning before the other woman awoke.
J osephine used the trip to the Crescent to regain her confidence. She picked up a copy of the paper, plus one of its rivals, the Picayune , before leaving the Paris Hotel. A cab carried her away from the hotel, driven by a striking man wearing a long black coat with tails and a top hat that made him look like a young mulatto Abraham Lincoln.
It had rained during the night, which had cleared some of the filth from the gutters, and the air was fresh enough that she was able to lower her kerchief from her mouth and nose as they clopped up the street, so she could concentrate on reading the news.
The date was August 20, 1861—yesterday’s papers. The rebels had apparently won a significant battle in Missouri on the tenth, which had reversed Union gains in the border state. The Crescent crowed that Missouri was about to join the Confederacy, but this sounded fanciful. In the east, the nearest she could parse through the sneers and false rumors, General McClellan had organized and strengthened the Union Army of the Potomac and was preparing another push south toward Richmond. The US Navy had captured two forts in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, tightening the blockade.
In short, the stalemate continued. Four months since Fort Sumter and the men on both sides of the Mason–Dixon who had boasted of a short war now looked like fools. It was hard to imagine the conflict ending any time soon. Maybe it would last all the way through 1862 and take several more bloody battles before the South came to its senses.
Twenty minutes later her hands were dirty with newsprint, and as she entered the big open room of the New Orleans Daily Crescent , she felt immediately at home. The clip-clip-clip sound of the presses hummed through the building. Men hunched over tables, scribbling furiously with ink-stained fingers. Others gave dictation to women with notepads. A man with round glasses thumbed through line drawings with an artist chewing on his pencil. Others were writing ad copy or hauling bundles of paper tied with twine.
Josephine decided that the man with the round glasses was in charge, and walked over to wait until he was done with the artist.
“He looks dead,” he told the artist, slapping down one drawing, which showed a man lying in the street, with bystanders surrounding him. “I want him drunk. Put an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand; make these people more amused than shocked. Put a few whores in the crowd.”
“The alderman was found on the levee,” the artist complained, “not the Irish Channel.”
“I know that. It says so in the confounded article. But that doesn’t matter. Make it look like the Irish Channel. It’s more lurid, will get the outrage flowing.”
Josephine had apparently found David Barnhart’s New Orleans counterpart. Scandal sold papers everywhere.
The artist hurried off, and she cleared her throat.
The man pushed back his glasses. He had dark, curly hair, a face smudged with ink and newsprint, and a sharp gaze that ranged over her with a skeptical look.
“Are you the new stenographer? Jenkins’s girl? So help me God, you had better be faster than that Irish woman. That was an insult.”
“I’ve come for a
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