Hail to the Baron

Excerpt from Novel

In my spare time, I have been working on a historical novel - an alternate history about one of the most colorful figures in American history: media magnate William Randolph Hearst. Hearst pioneered the tabloid-style newspaper, with lurid pictures, comic strips and "yellow journalism". As one of America's wealthiest and most powerful men, he usually got whatever he wanted. But there was one desire that he never fulfilled: the US Presidency. Hail to the Baron is set in a world where he gets his grandest desire...

Following is the first few pages. In these pages, he is not yet President. They set the scene, and help to explain how he could indeed have become President. (If you want to know more, you'll have to read the book... but sadly, it's not yet published - or even finished.)

PART 1

October 1917.

Millions of people hated WR.  He was happy with that.

            It was a good sign.  Once they got the anger out of their bones, perhaps they could listen to reason.

            He couldn't understand it.  America was the world's greatest nation.  Everyone agreed on that.  And how did that happen?  Easy: she had turned her back on the British Empire.  Like much of the civilised world, Americans had fought tooth-and-claw to win their freedom from the Limeys.  And now they were expected to be angry at Germany -- the country that gave the world Mozart, apple strudel and the printing press -- because they were at war with Britain, a country that had given the world many centuries of misery and bad food.

            Wars are fine, he thought, as long as they make sense.  This one didn't.  For that reason, he had declared himself a pacifist.

            And that sealed it.  Nobody liked him now.

            He approached the stand, taking a deep breath, preparing to make his announcement.  He had no choice.  He had to dispose of a dream.

            Leaning his bulky frame on the lectern, he looked at the assembly, knowing full well that most of them despised him.  He took another deep breath, bracing himself for the silent cheers that were about to greet his first announcement.

            "Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that my bid for the mayoralty of New York has met with ... some opposition."

            In the front row, Governor Al Smith stifled a smile.  WR had never been so understated.  In fact, he had never before known him to be even slightly understated.

            "It is for that reason that I have decided to withdraw my candidacy" -- moving on quickly before anyone could react -- "and instead I have agreed to support the candidacy of Brooklyn County Judge John F Hylan."

            There was rude laughter from a few pockets of the audience.  Al had to admit: WR might be a corrupt, Hun-loving pig, but at least he had a sense of humour.

            "Mr Hylan will make an excellent alternative to the current Mayor, John Mitchel, who deserves an E-minus for his neglect of our children's education!"

            Al's studied frown became a little more genuine.  WR wasn't joking; he really did intend to support Judge Hylan.  And with WR behind him, Al's worst fears seemed disarmingly close.  One of the stupidest men in politics was in danger of becoming Mayor of New York City.

"What exactly do you feel is the problem with the party, Mr Hearst?"

            WR looked up from his newspaper at the young man who was waiting next to him at the elevator.  A handsome, broad-shouldered devil, holding a long-stemmed cigarette holder that made him look distinguished beyond his years.

            "They're all morons," said WR, who was in no mood to say anything positive.

            They both entered the elevator.  "With all due respect, that's not very constructive."

            "Is that so?"

            The man gave him a warm grin, as he seemed to do with ease.  "If you say what you think the Democrats do wrong, it can help us to fix the system."

            "The best way to fix the system is for them to stop being morons," said WR helpless

            The elevator opened up, revealing the ground floor.  "That still doesn't strike me as a foolproof solution," smiled the young man.

            "Really?  And who are you?"

            "Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself:  Senator Franklin Roosevelt."

             "Ah, Senator Roosevelt."  WR shook his hand.   "I've read about you in my papers. Following in your cousin's footsteps, eh?"

            "I ... have my ambitions."

            WR nodded back at him, forcing a tight smile.  For a Democrat, there was something surprisingly likeable about this fellow.  "Good luck, son.  At least you notice there's something wrong.  That's always a good start."

            He walked out to meet his Cadillac, counting on his fingers the number of Democrats he could still trust.  He was right, of course: most of them were morons.

            Granted, President Wilson was fine, apart from his total lack of redeeming qualities.  As for Al Smith... WR had been racking his brains to find a good thing to say about him.  Finally he came up with the fact that the man wasn't President yet.  That was a good thing.  WR was intending to nurture that quality, so that it stayed with Al for the rest of his life.

Al thought equally highly of WR, and he was worried sick.  WR, after all, had a terrible habit of making things go his own way.

            Al didn't realise, of course, that all was not going well for WR.  For a start, he was almost bankrupt.

            WR had been bankrupt before.  For him, it was almost a regular event.  True, his personal income was fifteen million a year, but he had his expenses.  A vast art collection, scores of antiques and objets d'art, mansions all over the world, even the castle that he was now building in California.  Spending was never a problem.

            He was born into money.  Plenty of it.  The saddest part of his childhood had been the discovery that he could never live in Buckingham Palace.

            Instead, he had inherited a newspaper.

            This did not excite him.  Newspapers are not as glamorous as palaces.  They were nothing more than a cheap, disposable way to inform people of world events.  He always thought they were incredibly dull.

            But he was stuck with one, so he chose to enliven it.  To add a new feature to the endless, boring stream of words presented in edition after edition.  The feature: entertainment.

            And so he invented "yellow journalism".  It made him lots of money, and he didn't even need a patent.  Okay, it was junk - almost like it was used in the bathroom and then sold - but let's face it, it was more fun.  He gave spicy gossip and racy photos to his readers.  When someone invented a character called "the Yellow Kid" in 1895, WR had a new gimmick to draw the readers' attention. A full-page "Yellow Kid" cartoon every week, in colour. Then came Happy Hooligan, Foxy Grandpa, The Katzenjammer Kids ...  He'd invented the daily comics.

            There was one problem left: News had not become any more interesting. The last time anyone had flocked to read the latest paper was back when he was a baby, during the American Civil War, when there was really something good to read about.

            On a rainy winter's night, it hit him. 

            That was it!  What could sell better than a war?  He looked at the world, and decided that Central America was as good a place as any.  Through his large empire of newspapers, he would set about causing trouble between Spain and America. He would even send an artist to Cuba to cover the unrest.

            "What unrest?"

            "Haven't you heard, Fred? Things are really happening over there."

            A week later, Fred would send him a wire.  He was sitting around the beach with nothing to do.  There was no war.

            "You furnish the pictures," WR wired back, "and I'll furnish the war."  It was a famous quote now.

            So finally, there it was.  A little inconvenience known as the Spanish-American War.  Why make up news when you can really make it?

            William Randolph Hearst had always considered himself something special.  Writer, publisher, businessman, statesman, empire-builder, art collector, tycoon, campaigner, lobbyist, peace-lover and connoisseur of fine German cuisine.  Someone who was placed on Earth, in his privileged position, to make it a better place.

            But as he read the reports from his men in Havana, something struck him hard.  He was now possibly the second most powerful man in the land.  Third or fourth if you counted Rockefeller and Vice-President Roosevelt, but why would you do that?

            There was only one way left to go.

            Straight to the top.

From behind wiry spectacles, Larry J. O'Reilly perused the morning edition of The New York Times.  "Even the Times is predicting a landslide for Hylan."

            "Of course," smiled George Thompson from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles.  "We don't just report news. We make it happen."

            "We'll know for sure this afternoon," Larry smiled.

            George stared back at him. "We know already."

            Larry shrugged, happy to believe it.  In over a decade as WR's political secretary, he had learned a few things.  Firstly, you had to assume the impossible.  Occasionally it would happen.

            Secondly, however much time one spent with WR, George always knew him better.  Like most valets, he was paid to read his employer's mind, which he did exceedingly well.

            Thirdly, WR was ambitious.  He would not stop until he... until he...

            "Where exactly will he stop?"

            "You mean the Chief?" asked George, gazing up from the papers once again.

            For a few seconds, Larry regretted thinking out loud.

            "I thought you knew that," said George.  "He wants to be the most powerful man in America."

            Well yes, he did know that.  Still, it was a pleasant surprise to hear George's admission.

            "And what do you think of that?" Larry continued.

            George gave one of his rare smiles.  "The Chief is basically a fair man.  He sometimes bends the rules, but usually for a good cause.  If anyone deserves power, it's him."

            "You seriously think that?"

            "Of course.  A lot of people would like to be President.  Knowing some of the others, I'd infinitely prefer it to be him."

            Suddenly, Larry was a little concerned.  "So he still entertains the dream of being President?"

            Pause.  "I presume he does."

            Presume?  George never "presumed" anything about WR, but this time it seemed like he almost didn't want to believe it.  Much as Larry had to admire WR's dogged persistence, this was one pipe dream that should have ended years ago.

            In his head, Larry went over WR's abortive steps towards the Presidency.  Joined the Democrats as a Congressman back in '02, tried for the candidacy two years later.  And four years after that.  And four years after that.  He thought he was powerful enough to give them victory on a plate.  They thought he would be nothing but trouble for that very reason.

            Now, one would think, he was at a dead end.  Both major parties hated him.  So did nearly everyone else in America.  But still he wanted to be President.

            Larry leaned back on the armchair, taking a deep breath.  He expected that he would not be relaxing for some time.

Judge Hylan went over the stage directions in his head, as he had discussed them with Larry earlier that day.   So far, all had gone well.  His speech had been looked over by WR himself, so it was almost completely media-proof.  He had read it out brilliantly, even if he did say so himself.  There was no need, of course.  WR had already hired two guys to say it for him. 

            Now for the hard part.

            He took a swig of water, imagining it was something stronger, and looked down at the assembled vultures.

            "Any questions?"

            Several hands were raised at once, several voices yelling for attention.  He looked around and saw Abraham, in the front row as promised, wearing a red shirt.  He pointed to him, as rehearsed.

            "Judge Hylan," said Abraham, notebook at the ready, "what policy have you adopted towards the poor and underprivileged citizens of New York City?"

            "I'm glad you asked," said Judge Hylan. "We intend to solve the problem from its roots.  I've already been in discussion with community leaders about both increasing employment opportunities in the city, and if necessary, controlling prices on essential goods.  Needless to say, these are also the solutions that will ensure New York's continuance as the business hub of America, and indeed the world."

            "Thank you," said Abraham into his notebook, putting the final touches on a lurid cartoon.

            So far, so good.

            More yelling for attention.  Judge Hylan had never felt so wanted.

            He looked around for Hildy, who was supposed to be wearing a white shirt.  He saw him there, thrust behind a broad-shouldered photographer.

            "You in the white shirt."

            "Mr Hylan." Hildy pushed his way in front of the photographer. "What support do you plan to give to those New York residents who are currently serving their country?"

            "Rest assured, substantial funds and services will be allocated to those brave men who are currently serving America - and indeed, the entire world - in this terrible war," he said with practised sobriety.  "Not only do they simply deserve to be treated as heroes, but they are also gaining the skills and demonstrating the strength of character that has built America.  Don't forget that many of the greatest Americans - from George Washington onwards - manifested their greatness not through wealth or academia, but on the battlefield."

            Judge Hylan looked around smugly, as the assembled throng continued their yelling.  He was looking for Clem, somewhere near the back, dressed in blue to make him easier to see.  He saw him, waving his arm in the air, and happily pointed to him.

            "Mr Hylan."  It was another reporter, someone he didn't recognise, who had been standing just next to Clem.  Judge Hylan wanted to interrupt - say "I wasn't pointing at you" - but he was too stunned.  Clem was lost for words.  At the back of the room, Larry looked at him and shrugged.  Judge Hylan was on his own.

            "Is it true," said the reporter, "that your policies and political decisions are based on those of newspaper publisher William Randolph Hearst; that you are, in fact, a puppet?"

            This was not what Judge Hylan wanted to hear.  He was expecting the question about how much he supported the President.  The answer to that question had been prepared, so it poured out anyway.  He had no control over it.

            "You are talking of a man who has a critical and continually challenging job of international importance.  As we discovered last year, he has the support of the American people, and of course he has mine.  It is important to realise that running the country is not the role of any one man, nor even of one group of people, but of every single man, woman and child in America.  Our role goes beyond the polling stations; it goes to what each of us do to make this great nation even greater."

            A pause, followed by an applause.

            More yelling.  Larry let out a sigh of relief.  The answer had been strangely appropriate.  One of Judge Hylan's aides stepped on to the pulpit, calling out "No more questions, thank you."

            The operation was a success.  In a few weeks, Judge Hylan would be Mayor of New York City.

PART 2

November, 1918.

Armistice.  Less than two years earlier, the United States had entered the war.  Now they had won.

            This was a shame for WR.  Not only had President Wilson done something foolish, killing thousands of young Americans in the process, but he was coming out of it smelling sweet.  Perhaps in future months, people would wake up to the senseless slaughter of their boys in Europe, but right now everyone could hear only one word: VICTORY.

            For the moment, no man, woman or child in the country could say anything against the President.

            Except one.  WR hated him with a passion.  Besides, he had the job he wanted.  The country needed someone with WR's qualities, and WR himself happened to have them in ample supply.

            Sure, it was a fantasy, but WR loved seeing his fantasies come to life.  He didn't have a plan just yet, but he knew he had to do a few things.  First of all, he had to deal with anyone who stood in his way.

            Al Smith, for example.