THE NIGHT
A "beat" or a "scoop," otherwise known as exclusive news, is a
great matter to a newspaper man. To "put over a beat" gives soul
satisfaction, but to be beaten causes poignant feeling of another sort.
There have been some great beats and a multitude of little ones, but up
to the beginning of the European war, the greatest beat that was ever
put over came from a Paris correspondent.
This was the occasion when Henri de Blowitz, the famous representative
of the _London Times_, gave the full text of the treaty of Berlin
before the hour when it was actually signed. That was a real beat,
not to be classified with the majority of beats of later years, which
were often scandalous, more often paltry, and which often caused us to
wonder whether they were worth the cable tolls.
In ante-bellum discussions, the Paris correspondents often opined that
the coming conflict would open a more important field. At least we
would no longer chronicle the silly ways of fashion and the crazy ways
of society. The turf, the mannequin, the Rue de la Paix, and those
who drank tea at the Pré Catalan would give way to real and stirring
matters. We all schemed to put over a real beat as soon as the war
drums began to roll and the new Paris was revealed. The old Paris, in
the minds of American editors, had only been an important place for
unimportant things.
Looking back now at the beginnings of Armageddon, and at the particular
corner in which I performed a minor rôle, I can say generally that all
our schemes went wrong and that there were no "beats" of the slightest
importance secured by anybody. Remember, I am only speaking of Paris
and France. There were a few great beats elsewhere. There was the
famous "scrap of paper" interview given to the Associated Press. There
were some exclusive interviews secured in both Germany and England.
But France, the real theater of action, where beats were expected, was
quite the equal of Japan in her sudden tight sealing of every crevice
from which news either big or little might leak.
France had learned several lessons from the year 1870, but this one she
learned almost too well. So far as the neutral opinion of the world
was concerned, it was scarcely known that France had an army. Later,
but much later, and then very gradually, some real stories were passed
by the censor--but even then very few of them were beats.
But during the hectic week when France went to war the censorship was
almost overlooked and there were a few precious hours during which
the correspondents and their methods of communication were free. The
first sign of the censor was the shutting off of the telephone between
Paris and London. It had been my custom to talk with our London office
nightly in order that the news of the two capitals might be checked,
and that we might not duplicate stories.
The second night following the events of the foregoing chapter I talked
to our London bureau for the last time. All that day my mind had been
busy with one idea: "If war is declared, how can we beat the censor?"
The first answer that probably occurred to every correspondent was:
"Code." Alas, events moved too quickly. A secret code was a matter
that might have been arranged had we been given our expected months of
notice, but there was no time now.
I gave the call for our London office, however, with this idea still
uppermost in mind. I waited a quarter of an hour to be put through.
Then I heard the voice of my colleague. It sounded harassed. I shall
never forget his first remark after the communication was established.
I could almost see him pass a hand over a fevered brow; I could almost
hear the sigh that I am sure accompanied the words which were:
"My gracious, I never expected to live to see such days as these!"
It was quite natural that he should have said just that, but somehow
there did not seem any fitting reply. Also it seemed rather hopeless to
talk about codes. So I said:
"I am told that we will not be allowed to telephone after to-night."
He replied: "That's a fact. I guess this is good-by for a while." He
paused--then as an afterthought, added: "I think you would better just
send everything you can from Paris without paying any heed to whether
London does or not."
Inasmuch as a moment had arrived when there was only one possible way
to do many things, I quite agreed with him.
The conversation lagged.
"Well, good-by," I shouted.
"Good-by," he replied, "and good luck."
That was the end of the telephone as an adjunct to transatlantic
journalism. I have never spoken with our London office from that night.
After hanging up the receiver I had an idea.
It did not and does not now seem a particularly brilliant one; but,
again, it was the only possible thing to do. I turned to Mr. Duranty
and said:
"We will have a little race with the censor. We will crowd everything
possible on the cable before he gets on the job."
All the late editions were on my desk. I clipped and pasted everything
of interest on cable forms and sent them to the Bourse. Mr. Duranty
took them himself, "just to see if there were any signs of the censor,"
as he expressed it. Then I began to write, interrupted continually by
my dozen extra assistants. I had hired every freelance newspaper man
I could find--and I had also a number of volunteers, young American
visitors, too interested in events to be in a hurry to get out of the
city.
The night was warm and the windows all open. The boulevards were dense
with shouting people. There was no mistaking the cries on this night.
"À Berlin--À Berlin," echoed above the roar of the traffic and the
mob. Cuirassiers frequently rode through the streets but the crowd
immediately surged in behind them.
At ten o'clock the concierge mounted to protest against the street door
being open. She was afraid. She was alone in the _loge_. I told her
that the business of the office required the doors kept unlocked. She
went away and in a few moments came back with the proprietor of the
building, whom she had called by telephone. He insisted on closing the
street door. I told him this was a violation of my lease. In view of
the circumstances he persisted in his demand. I wheeled my chair about
and said to him:
"This office remains open--all night if I desire. It is a newspaper
office and we cannot close. If you interfere with me I guarantee that I
will keep a man there, but if necessary that man will be a soldier."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean that I will apply to the American Embassy for the protection of
my rights as an American citizen."
He went away and that difficulty ended.
I turned back to my work. I wrote thousands of words that night; when
not writing I was dictating, and piecing together the reports of my
assistants.
Mr. Duranty returned from the Bourse. His clothes were awry and he was
trembling with excitement. He had diverged, in his return trip, to the
Gare du Nord, to get a story of the stormy scenes there--thousands,
chiefly Americans, fighting for places in the trains for England. He
had been arrested, he explained. Oh, yes, he had been surrounded by a
mob at the Gare, who spotted him as a foreigner, and the police had
rescued him. He explained his identity and was released.
At the end of the story he suddenly leaped across the room to the
window. I leaped at the same moment and so did the stenographer. Across
the boulevard was a store that dealt in objects of art. The proprietor
was a German. During the day he had boarded the place with stout
planks. As we reached the window the sound of splitting and tearing
planks sounded above even the cries and roars of the angry people. One
look and Duranty was out of the office and in the street.
I sat in the window and watched the mob do its work. The torn planks
were used as battering rams through the plate glass, through the
expensive statuary and costly vases. In five minutes the place was
a ruin. Then the cuirassiers came and drove the crowd away. Duranty
returned with the details of the story. I asked him what the police
had said to the crowd.
"A man came out holding a marble Adonis by the arm," he replied. "A cop
said to him, 'Be good now--be good!' and the chap replied, 'Well, if I
can't smash it, you smash it!'--So the cop took it and leaped upon it
with both feet."
"Write it," I said; "also the Gare du Nord story."
It was midnight and the uproar was greater than ever. Processions
blocks long wended through the middle of the streets singing the
"Marseillaise," the "Carmagnole" and other fire-eating songs of the
Revolution. Through it all I worked, and steadily sent messenger after
messenger to the Bourse with the latest news from the various scenes of
action. No signs yet of the censor.
About one o'clock the crowd concentrated just below my window. The
cries grew fiercer and louder, with a more terrible note. I went to
the window. The faces of the mob were turned to an upper window of the
building next door. Some rash voice had shouted from that window a cry
that no man might shout that night in Paris with safety. He had cried:
"Hurrah for Germany!"
I crawled out on my window ledge and watched. The crowd filled the
street completely. They watched that upper window, they yelled their
rage and they battered against a great grilled iron door that baffled
their efforts. The police tried to disperse them, but as soon as the
street was partly cleared they surged back again. They hung about that
door, their faces turned up, the hate showing in their eyes, their
mouths open, bellowing forth their rage. They waited as patiently as
wolves that have surrounded a quarry that must come out to meet them
soon. But the waiting was so long that I crawled back from my window
ledge into the office.
I finished a despatch that I had compiled from various documents given
out to the morning papers by the Foreign Ministry, and of which I had
secured a copy. They were an undisputable proof that Germany meant
war on France, for they noted a dozen incidents proving that German
mobilization had been under way for days. The dawn was breaking as I
pushed my chair from the desk.
I told the stenographer and other assistants to go home and get some
sleep--not to report again until late afternoon. Duranty, who, like
myself, kept no hours but worked always while there was work to do,
sauntered into the private room. He had counted the words of copy that
had been filed that night--nearly twenty thousand.
The yelling of the mob below had given way to low rumbling. We had
ceased to think about it. We lighted our pipes and yawned.
"Shall we cut it out for a few hours?" Duranty asked.
"Think so," I replied. "We will hunt a cab and go home until noon."
I stifled another yawn and relighted my pipe.
A scream came from the sidewalk--my pipe dropped to the floor and we
were out on the window ledge.
A man was struggling in the middle of the street. He was the man who
had so rashly shouted "Vive l'Allemagne" from the window.
He fell and passed out of sight under a mass of bodies. The crowd
opened once. The man struggled to his knees. His face was covered with
blood. Again we lost sight of him. Then cuirassiers charged down the
street. One of them lifted a broken body across his saddle. That story
never reached New York. The censor was on the job.