writing job.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”
“My name is Josephine Breaux,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
The man’s mouth dropped open. Conversation stopped in the tables nearby, and from there, whispers rippled across the newsroom. Soon, everyone was staring.
The sudden attention made her nervous, but at the same time her heart was pumping with excitement. This was the reception she’d hoped to earn up north, an entire newsroom dropping their work to swoon when she entered. If only it were for her writing and not this other thing. This false reputation she’d earned.
The man adjusted his glasses again. “ The Josephine Breaux?”
“The same,” she said, and raised an eyebrow and glanced around the room at the gaping men, mostly young, who rose from their seats and edged over. “I seem to have lost my employment up north and am wondering if you have a reporter position available on staff.”
“Well, I’ll be a whiskered catfish. Josephine Breaux.” He wiped his hand and held it out. “I’m Solomon Fein, publisher of this rag. And of course you’ve got a spot. Hell, if I need to, I’ll fire one of these hacks.”
She took his hand for a vigorous shake and found herself grinning back at his smile and enthusiasm.
There was a bit of New York in his accent, mingled with a trace of old Europe. German, maybe? New Orleans was a mélange of immigrants, creoles, free blacks, and Northerners, in addition to the usual fire-breather secessionists, but if there was any hesitation about the war, it wasn’t coming from this publisher. The partisanship in the Crescent had made her old paper, the Morning Clarion , seem like a paragon of impartial reporting.
“In fact,” Fein said, “I’ve got work for you right now, if you’re up to a boat ride downriver. There’s business at Fort Jackson I need to cover. How fast can you grab your personal effects?”
At the fort? This was almost too perfect. Franklin had wanted her at the fort posing as a nurse. This would be even better.
“Fast enough.”
“Very good. Very good.” Fein looked across the newsroom. “Delaney, you’re off the hanging. You’ll be on the murdered Spaniard who turned up in the Algiers Canal. His landlady owns that boarding house above the gin mill on Gallatin.”
“Ah, come on, boss,” a young man protested. “Last time I went to Gallatin I almost got knifed.”
“What, you think I’d send a lady into that filth hole? It’s her first day! Go now, when all the drunks are sleeping it off, and you’ll be fine. Now get to it. Quick as a cat. The rest of you monkeys, back to work. We’ve got a deadline.”
Fein took Josephine’s arm and led her back toward the pressroom. The humming presses shuddered to a stop, and the last paper came off the press for the folders, who were busy supplying a crowd of dirty, print-stained newsboys for their last haul of the day. They came and went through the back doors into the alley behind, hauling wheelbarrows filled with paper bundles tied in twine. Confederate dollars changed hands between the men running the press and the newsboys. Nobody paid Fein and Josephine any attention.
“Your salary is four bucks a week. You cover a murder or enter the Irish Alley, the swamp, or have to run the gauntlet at Girod or Gallatin Street, you get a bonus of two bits.”
“Make it eight dollars. Plus bonuses and expenses.”
Fein’s eyes widened behind his round glasses. “Is that what they paid you in Washington?”
“No. They paid four fifty. But that was in silver. I figure you’ll be paying in greybacks. Four Confederate dollars is about two bucks up north. Anyway, I’m worth more than I was three weeks ago. You get something smuggled past the blockade, you’ve got to pay a premium.”
“So much for Josephine Breaux, patriot and heroine of the Southern cause.”
“Says the New York Jew who has doubled the price of his paper
“Oh, you have, have you? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”
“My name is Josephine Breaux,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
The man’s mouth dropped open. Conversation stopped in the tables nearby, and from there, whispers rippled across the newsroom. Soon, everyone was staring.
The sudden attention made her nervous, but at the same time her heart was pumping with excitement. This was the reception she’d hoped to earn up north, an entire newsroom dropping their work to swoon when she entered. If only it were for her writing and not this other thing. This false reputation she’d earned.
The man adjusted his glasses again. “ The Josephine Breaux?”
“The same,” she said, and raised an eyebrow and glanced around the room at the gaping men, mostly young, who rose from their seats and edged over. “I seem to have lost my employment up north and am wondering if you have a reporter position available on staff.”
“Well, I’ll be a whiskered catfish. Josephine Breaux.” He wiped his hand and held it out. “I’m Solomon Fein, publisher of this rag. And of course you’ve got a spot. Hell, if I need to, I’ll fire one of these hacks.”
She took his hand for a vigorous shake and found herself grinning back at his smile and enthusiasm.
There was a bit of New York in his accent, mingled with a trace of old Europe. German, maybe? New Orleans was a mélange of immigrants, creoles, free blacks, and Northerners, in addition to the usual fire-breather secessionists, but if there was any hesitation about the war, it wasn’t coming from this publisher. The partisanship in the Crescent had made her old paper, the Morning Clarion , seem like a paragon of impartial reporting.
“In fact,” Fein said, “I’ve got work for you right now, if you’re up to a boat ride downriver. There’s business at Fort Jackson I need to cover. How fast can you grab your personal effects?”
At the fort? This was almost too perfect. Franklin had wanted her at the fort posing as a nurse. This would be even better.
“Fast enough.”
“Very good. Very good.” Fein looked across the newsroom. “Delaney, you’re off the hanging. You’ll be on the murdered Spaniard who turned up in the Algiers Canal. His landlady owns that boarding house above the gin mill on Gallatin.”
“Ah, come on, boss,” a young man protested. “Last time I went to Gallatin I almost got knifed.”
“What, you think I’d send a lady into that filth hole? It’s her first day! Go now, when all the drunks are sleeping it off, and you’ll be fine. Now get to it. Quick as a cat. The rest of you monkeys, back to work. We’ve got a deadline.”
Fein took Josephine’s arm and led her back toward the pressroom. The humming presses shuddered to a stop, and the last paper came off the press for the folders, who were busy supplying a crowd of dirty, print-stained newsboys for their last haul of the day. They came and went through the back doors into the alley behind, hauling wheelbarrows filled with paper bundles tied in twine. Confederate dollars changed hands between the men running the press and the newsboys. Nobody paid Fein and Josephine any attention.
“Your salary is four bucks a week. You cover a murder or enter the Irish Alley, the swamp, or have to run the gauntlet at Girod or Gallatin Street, you get a bonus of two bits.”
“Make it eight dollars. Plus bonuses and expenses.”
Fein’s eyes widened behind his round glasses. “Is that what they paid you in Washington?”
“No. They paid four fifty. But that was in silver. I figure you’ll be paying in greybacks. Four Confederate dollars is about two bucks up north. Anyway, I’m worth more than I was three weeks ago. You get something smuggled past the blockade, you’ve got to pay a premium.”
“So much for Josephine Breaux, patriot and heroine of the Southern cause.”
“Says the New York Jew who has doubled the price of his paper
Similar Books
