“None that I’ve heard. And for good reason.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because it can’t be done. The floor is bedrock. We can’t even build a bridge here, and believe me, we’ve tried. It would take years to make the harbor twenty feet deep. No, this harbor is staying as it is for some time.”
Nellie glanced at Ingram. She had heard enough. “Well. Thank you for your time,” said Ingram to Blake.
“This is a lovely spot,” said Nellie. “Perhaps we can find something smaller.”
She put her arm through Ingram’s and they walked away, like any other young married couple.
“I hope so, ma’am,” called Blake. “You won’t regret it.”
Nellie squeezed his arm. She was excited. “Well done, Ingram. Extremely well done.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ingram.” The appellation made her smile, but he wished it had been for real.
She didn’t bother to stop and wait to be announced. She just barged right in.
Maybe it was the fact that she was a woman, or maybe it was because she had been there before, but the guards and secretaries outside Gould’s office expected her to stop and ask to see the Great Man, as everyone else did. But Gould could have told them she was not like everyone else.
Neither, of course, was he, so when she sailed straight into his office and strode up to his desk, he seemed as if he had been waiting for her for the past half hour.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” she demanded.
Gould looked directly at her, understanding in an instant exactly what she knew.
One of the guards grabbed her by the arm. “You have to leave, miss—”
“Not until I’m finished.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gould—” The guard started to pull her away.
“Let me go!” She clenched a fist and threatened to punch him. “Now!”
“It’s all right, Mike. She can stay.”
The guard released her arm. He did not take kindly to being shown up in front of his employer. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Gould. I thought she was more of a lady.”
“Oh, she is a lady, Mike. She’s simply more insistent than the rest of them.” The guard left the room.
“So,” said Gould. “What can I do for you, Miss Bly?”
“Hilton’s plan for a harbor at Montauk. It’s not going to work.”
“No.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since they began buying up the land from the Indians. I hired divers to measure the depth. At low tide, it is four feet a half mile offshore. There is no machinery currently in existence that could create a harbor for a modern ship out of those conditions.”
He leaned back in his chair and waited for her next question.
“How could Hilton and Corbin not realize that the ships won’t be able to dock there?”
“They have been too busy congratulating themselves. You see, they are railroad men, and there is no railroad problem engineers cannot solve. Mountains, deserts, valleys, rivers—engineers have figured out ways around all of them. The same is not true for ships. If anything, the problems have become more challenging as the ships have gotten larger and larger. The weather has been too cold to begin construction. I suspect by March or April Hilton will realize that fortune has not smiled on him.”
“Why did you not say anything? Why let them be the fools?”
“I was looking to sell the Manhattan Elevated. Certain changes are about to occur that will dramatically reduce its value, and I needed an eager buyer.”
“What kinds of changes?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. So will they. There are very few buyers who could afford such a purchase on short notice, and with cash. Essentially only two people: Hilton and Corbin. Fortunately, it only took two.”
“But they would never do business with you,” she said, starting to put it together, “unless they thought they were getting the best of you.”
“Precisely.”
“And that’s where I came in. You brought me in to get under Hilton’s skin, to rile him up so he wouldn’t think straight and would jump at the chance to hurt you.”
Gould nodded.
“So you used me.”
“We used each other. Your publisher sold quite a few newspapers thanks to this story.”
“Not $20 million worth. What else did you lie about? Did you even know Miss Lazarus?”
“In passing. We met at Seligman’s funeral. When I learned of her involvement with the Montauks, I became more interested and learned what I could about her.”
“So when I told you about Maria Pharaoh going to Emma, you already knew all about that, even though you acted like you were hearing it for the first time. You just wanted me to print a story that would let Hilton and Corbin feel so full of themselves, they would make an offer on your railroad.”
“It was you who insisted on writing the story, Miss Bly. I actually recommended against it, if you recall.”
“Knowing that it would only make me want to write it all the more.”
Gould said nothing. He didn’t have to. Nellie knew she was right. She felt completely manipulated, like a child’s puppet.
“When you first brought me to your office, how did you know I would believe you?”
“I didn’t, but I had to try something. I had an asset worth $20 million that was soon going to be worth nothing. Hilton and Corbin were two of only a handful of possible buyers. Hilton has obvious character weaknesses. I needed someone who could prey on his irrationality about defeating me, and from what I could tell, that would come easily to you. Knowing your history, in fact, you would relish it. Now, don’t look so put upon. Before we met, you were about to give up on the case and tell Pulitzer that Miss Lazarus died of natural causes. If not for me, you would not even have a story at this point.”
“Possibly. But thanks to me, you are $20 million wealthier.”
“Yes. And I am most grateful.”
His brazen indifference to truth stunned and disgusted her.
“I’m going to write all this in a story, let people see what a liar and scoundrel you really are.”
“They already know, Miss Bly. It makes no difference to me. Now that Hilton and Corbin’s cash sits safely within my bank, you can write whatever you like.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jay Gould
With the help of Ingram’s strong coffee, she stayed up much of the night writing the Montauk Harbor story. She had never really drunk coffee before and was surprised how alert her mind felt, though her body was aching for sleep. It felt as if little factory workers were coursing through her veins. Ingram was used to keeping long hours on little sleep, and he kept a fresh pot of coffee brewing throughout the night for her. She even did something she never did with anyone: she showed him her story before she turned it in. She trusted Ingram. Somewhere along the line, she realized, she had fallen hopelessly in love with him. It may have been when he’d invited her and her mother to live with him, or when he dropped everything to ride out to Long Island. Or it may have even been when they first met and he saw through her disguise but went along for the sake of the patients. But she knew he had captured her heart, and she never wanted to leave him.
Maybe she would move to Europe with him after all, or maybe he would decide to stay in New York. But she could not bear the thought of living apart from him.
“Stop daydreaming and write,” he said. “Or we’ll never get to sleep.”
She never did get to sleep. She stayed up all night fussing with the story, getting every detail precisely correct, going over every word, making sure everything was exactly right. But sleep turned out to be unnecessary since the story generated so much excitement that it would have woken Nellie from the dead. She took a horsecar from Ingram’s house to the World and was waiting for Cockerill when he arrived at 7 a.m.
Cockerill immediately recognized its import and race
d to show it to Pulitzer, who did what no one at the World could ever remember him doing: he came down to the newsroom and began editing the story himself. He said it would be the biggest story since the election, and he intended to play it up as such. The three of them worked together, with Pulitzer and Cockerill verifying facts and incidents and pressing her for more because they wanted the story out for the afternoon papers. With his genius for the public’s taste, Pulitzer knew exactly what he had on his hands. They printed twice the normal number of afternoon papers and still sold every single one.
NEW YORK HARBOR TO REMAIN NATION’S LARGEST
Montauk Point Fails to Hold Water
By Nellie Bly
New Yorkers can breathe a sigh of relief, as the commercial wharf at Battery Park will remain the nation’s largest for the indefinite future.
The wharf, and the city, had been threatened by the announced plans of Henry Hilton and Austin Corbin to open a competing wharf at Montauk Point on Long Island. The two railroad magnates had touted that their wharf would be a faster and less expensive embarkation point for travelers and cargo from Europe. Indeed, Congress had allocated funds for a new immigration center at the new wharf. However, according to knowledgeable engineers, divers, and ship captains questioned by the World, the water around Montauk Point is no more than ten feet at its deepest point. This is below the twelve-foot hulls in standard use for immigrant ships today, and well below the twenty-foot depth of the ships expected to be in operation next year. This means that Montauk Point can be a viable harbor for nothing larger than small sailing yachts or fishing trawlers.
Hilton and Corbin have expended enormous sums of money on Montauk Point, including a right-of-way through the entire length of Long Island and a twenty-square-mile area of land around the Point itself. When asked what they planned to do with the land instead of a wharf, the two magnates offered a surly “No comment” to the World.
Hilton and Corbin had completely rattled the city with their plan to ruin New York Harbor, and people were overwhelmed with relief that the biggest economic component of the city’s well-being, bigger even than Wall Street, would remain intact. Strangers stopped and hugged and congratulated one another as if a war had ended.
But the relief and joy were soon followed by a deep anger. How dare these two men jeopardize the city of New York! Millions of people had been genuinely frightened for themselves and their families, and they wanted these robber barons punished. Mayor Grant, like any good politician, knew when the public wanted its pound of flesh, and he began to extract it the very next morning, almost as if he had been lying in wait for it. He summoned the press to City Hall—Cockerill directed Nellie to go, along with a more senior reporter named Wiley, who ordinarily covered that beat—and announced that “It is time for all trains in this city to run underground. The blizzard of last winter brought us to a halt, and the ongoing pollution we suffer every day makes it difficult for many of us to get around and even to breathe. If the trains run underground, and the city takes over the new system, we can practically eliminate all of these problems. This afternoon I am sending to the Council a referendum for a subway system to be built with city funds, to begin as soon as possible upon voter approval. London has had a subway system for twenty-five years. It is time for New York City to have the same and even go them one better.”
There was thunderous applause. The subway would cost a fortune, and no one had any idea where the city would get the money to pay for it, but everyone in that room, every New Yorker who read about it, was thrilled to have the city build one and remove themselves from the clutches of Henry Hilton and Austin Corbin.
“What about the elevated railroads?” asked a reporter from the Tribune.
“The ones owned by Hilton and Corbin?”
“Yes.”
“What about them?” shot back the mayor.
“Will they continue to run?”
“Under my proposal, within five years all trains in the city will have to depend on electricity and run underground. So, we won’t be seeing much more of their trains.”
The room was abuzz. This announcement would terminate a huge business. “Is that legal, Mr. Mayor? Aren’t you destroying their business?”
“My lawyers tell me the plan is legal. Anyone who wishes to challenge it in court is of course perfectly free to do so. But we’ll take our chances. As for destroying their business, I have the same compassion for them as they had for the people of New York.”
More cheers.
“What will they do with their trains?”
“I haven’t spoken to them. Maybe they can ship them out to Montauk. I understand there’s plenty of room,” said the mayor to much laughter.
The questions, all to his liking, continued. Grant was in political heaven, an elected official taking action with the public completely behind him.
Nellie tugged at the sleeve of the World’s old pro Wiley, who thought he’d seen it all.
“Why did he wait until now to announce a subway system?” she asked. “Why didn’t he do it after the blizzard?”
“Because Jay Gould owned the Manhattan Elevated, and Gould controls the judges. He could have tied it up in court for years. But now Gould is out of it.”
“Why didn’t he do it the day after Gould sold?”
“I suspect Gould knew what was coming and told him to wait for the right time. And he did. Now the mayor is in his debt.”
As Nellie surveyed the fawning press and cheering supporters, she had to shake her head in admiration. Hilton and Corbin’s $20 million investment in the Manhattan Elevated had collapsed. Their investment on Montauk Point and Long Island would not pay off for decades, if then. And the mayor, along with Jay Gould, held all the cards.
She stayed late to work with Wiley on the story. A thirty-year veteran of City Hall politics, he didn’t like having to share a story with anyone—male or female, young or old—and made that known to Cockerill.
“Just remember,” Cockerill said. “Without her, there wouldn’t be a story.”
“I understand that,” said Wiley. “But I can take it from here.”
“So can she. And if you can’t see your way clear to work with her, she’ll do it herself.”
“Is that coming from Pulitzer or from you?”
“Both.” The newsroom had heard all about Pulitzer’s favoritism toward Nellie. But if Wiley was trying to drive a wedge between editor and publisher, it wasn’t working. Muttering not all that quietly, he walked over to Nellie. She was seated at her desk.
“So how do you want to go about this?” Wiley asked gruffly.
“I thought you would write the story, and I’d check your spelling.” He looked at her to see if she was kidding.
“Cockerill said we’re to work on it together,” he said.
“I’ve read your stories, Mr. Wiley. When I worked at the Pittsburg Dispatch, one of the older reporters pulled me aside and said I could do worse than to pattern myself after you.”
He wasn’t sure if she was trying to flatter him or telling the truth. He hated flatterers. “And what older reporter was that?”
“Erasmus Wilson.”
He brightened. “You know Erasmus Wilson?”
“He was my best friend at the paper. He said I should say hello for him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
“I didn’t want any special favors.”
He shook his head. “You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble in this newsroom, Miss Bly.”
“Is that so?”
“I would have pummeled any newsman who gave you a bad time.”
“And now?”
“You don’t need my help.”
It was a begrudging compliment that she didn’t take lightly.
“I meant what I said about you writing the story,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help? Anything to write or to check?”
“Can yo
u make coffee?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you at least drink coffee?”
“Yes. But only recently.”
“All right. Make yourself busy. I’ll have something for you in an hour or so.”
Wiley filled a kettle with some water and put it over the fire. Then he went to his desk and started writing. Nellie watched him. She was relieved he didn’t resent her. She would have fought him had it been necessary, the way she’d had to fight almost everyone else, but what she could really use was an ally in the newsroom. The truth was, she had admired his writing ever since she started as a reporter, and she knew she could learn from him.
She still had work to do on the Emma story. She had thought she was done, once Hilton had been brought to a kind of justice, but Cockerill, after checking with Pulitzer, had said no. Hilton may have been responsible for Emma’s death, but as Pulitzer pointed out, Emma’s name was not even mentioned in Nellie’s story. The assignment had been to get to the bottom of Emma Lazarus’s death, and she hadn’t done that. She had chafed when Cockerill delivered the news, but she knew he was right. She still wasn’t sure who’d poisoned Emma, or how. In point of fact she had no idea.
She turned to the stack of Emma’s writings on her desk. She had read everything Emma had ever written, searching for some clue of her murderer. The poems were remarkable. But future generations would never see most of them, like “The New Colossus” or “1492.” It was a crime. Emma was in effect dying a second time, at the hands of her sisters. Her work was about to be buried forever. She had spent her last days with Richard Gilder, arranging the poems for her legacy, but the sisters were undoing all of that. And no one could stop them.
She reached for the poem Julia had given her, the last Emma had written, looking back on her life. The title was “Assurance.” Nellie couldn’t get it out of her mind:
Last night I slept, and when I woke her kiss
Still floated on my lips. For we had strayed
Together in my dreams, through some dim glade,
The New Colossus Page 24