Post by Lorpius Prime on May 8, 2009 3:47:34 GMT -5
Epilogue
Bartholomew Cornelius Godwin leaned as far back as his plush leather chair would allow him. As he did so, he looked out his floor-to-ceiling office window and chewed on the stub of his Havana cigar. Barry knew that most people resented him for his plush chair, his big window, and his Havana cigars. That was exactly the reason that Barry owned all of those things. What was the point of status and wealth if you couldn't lord them over other people?
But as Barry leaned back in his chair, looked out his window, and chewed his cigar, he found that none of them were making him feel very happy at the moment. Outside his window, the city of London was bathed in the orange light of sunset shining through unusually thin cloud cover. Someone other than Barry might have been moved to paint a picture of the scene, but Barry just ground the end of his cigar down between his teeth.
Barry was having a lousy day to top off a lousy week that followed a lousy month. Barry thought that most of his days were pretty lousy, but today had been lousier than usual. It was after six o'clock and there was still no word from the Board of Directors, who were apparently still meeting in a hotel down on the Strand. They were probably haggling over some obscure element of the Times finances. Barry didn't know why he was so anxious about the meeting; he already knew what the Board would decide. What they had already decided. Barry had finally lost that argument last night.
Perhaps he couldn't enjoy his nice chair and office window so much because he knew this would be the last day he had the chance. Whenever the Board finally settled the last detail of their agenda, they were going to send word over to the Times' offices, and then Barry would be fired.
Barry clenched his teeth even harder and pushed the chair back further, causing its mountings to squeal.
From their point of view, it looked like the right decision, of course. The Telegraph had rolled the Times twice in the last month, first with their Victory Day special, and then again with their timely coverage of this whole South German crisis. It wasn't Barry's fault; of course, his staff had been gutted by events completely beyond his control. But even so, the Times had taken a beating on Barry's watch. Someone had to take the blame just to keep up morale. And Barry Godwin's harsh relationship with his underlings ought to mean his removal would lift their spirits even more. Yes, it made perfect sense from the Board's perspective.
Of course, Barry couldn't give a damn about the Board's perspective. They were firing him. He was a mean son of a bitch, but you had to be to get any results out of the mob of air-headed intellectual wannabes that worked in this department. Barry got results—barring acts of God and terrorism—and that wasn't a record he was about to apologize for. The Board of Directors could eat his cigar ash if they thought any differently. Barry had told the Chairman so last night—which had probably helped him make up his mind to fire Barry.
Barry had resigned himself to that outcome, he just hadn't expected it to take so bloody long. He'd come in today expecting to be cleaning out his desk before lunch. Instead, he'd ended up having to do real work as if it was any other day. And he'd gotten to eat his lunch with Francis Osborne, the Chief Editor for Americas section. His department was stumbling from one journalistic coup to the next. Francis normally couldn't find his ass with both hands, and his recent successes were driving Barry up a wall.
Actually, it was probably the rumors that Francis would replace Barry as Europe editor which had him so phenomenally livid at the moment.
Unable to take the cheery sight of the setting sun anymore, Barry spun his chair back around to face his desk. On it was sitting a few sheets of thin brown telegraph paper. Barry took his cigar out of his mouth to tap off some ashes, and then rapped the knuckle of his thumb against the message a few times. It had arrived just after lunch and had made the prospect of finishing a last full day of work somewhat more interesting for Barry.
The Times had not yet found truly qualified replacements for either John Mills or Sam Reynard, which left Barry filling column spaces with a great deal of crap prepared by less capable writers and—on one particularly gruesome day—Barry himself. Tomorrow's issue would have about a page worth of material that simply made him cringe.
Barry ran the first page of the telegram through his fingers. The writing in it wasn't exactly spectacular either, and on a normal day Barry would have tossed it straight into the trash. It belonged in the gutter rags of the penny press, for the Times to publish it would be an embarrassment.
Which was exactly why it made for interesting possibilities on this day.
"Fire me, will they?" Barry muttered.
He picked up the entire telegram and straightened the pages in his hands. Then he crushed his cigar into his ashtray.
"Jeanine!" he growled.
His secretary opened the door to his inner office and walked in. She looked at him from over his desk, lips and eyes drawn tightly.
"Yes, Mr. Godwin?" she asked after a moment.
Barry thrust the telegram in her direction.
"Take this down to the shop," he commanded. "Have them pull all of page seven and run this instead."
Jeanine took the telegram, and glanced at the routing information. Her expression unraveled as she did, eyes widening. She looked up to stare at Barry for a moment, and then her face twisted into an expression that Barry had never seen from her before. She smiled.
"You're a good man, Mr. Godwin."
Barry frowned in abject horror. It took him nearly a full minute to recover and give his secretary a stern look.
"You have work to do, Jeanine," he said gruffly.
"Yes, Mr. Godwin," Jeanine said, still smiling. She turned and left his office, shutting the door gently behind her.
Barry stared after her for a moment, and then snorted. He opened one drawer of his desk to take another cigar from its box. After putting it between his teeth and lighting it with a match, Barry turned back around in his chair. Outside his big window, the sun had sunk beneath the skyline, and its light had changed from orange to purple.
Jeanine was wrong. What he was doing was a low blow. It was nothing more than a simple abuse of power, designed to extract some amount of payback from the people who were casually brushing Barry aside. Maybe they'd think less of him, but by God they would remember him for it.
Barry sucked in the smoke from his cigar to hold it in his mouth for a moment. He smiled at the taste, letting the smoke escape through his teeth. Revenge was sweet.
Dear Readers,
This will be my last column for the Times. I am not joining another newspaper, the Times has always been and will continue to be my preferred newspaper, and if I should ever take up the pen again, it will surely be to publish in these pages. But I cannot say when that might be, so I think it best to simply say that I am retiring.
It would be impossible for me to explain all of the reasons for my retirement here, and I will not attempt to do so. That is not the purpose of this essay.
Most of my readers will have seen a story some weeks ago that listed me among the dead in the wreck of the Welsh Rover over Bavaria. Many of you are also aware that that report was in error, and that I survived the wreck and returned to England. Few of you, however, know the circumstances of my survival; and I doubt that anyone fully understands that story, including myself.
But I do not intend to tell that story either, and for a number of reasons. Suffice it to say that it was not an experience I shall soon forget, that many good people and friends died, and that my words alone could not provide the honors they deserve. It is my highest hope that they may receive an honest accounting and a proper memorial one day, but this cannot be it.
Instead I intend to offer, to the extent that I can, a summary of the articles that I went to Bavaria to write.
It was decided in May that the Times would print a special section in celebration of Victory Day. I was to travel to Bavaria in order to perform research and offer the German perspective on the events of 1886. For a variety of reasons that I have already alluded to, it proved impossible for us to complete our special, and it was never published. However, I still spent a good deal of time in Germany, and I have no wish to let my experience go to waste. I believe that my time there has given me insights into the German mind that few Englishmen could ever know. On some previous occasions I have tried to imagine what the Occupation must feel like to the Germans, but now I know that feeling first hand.
I know that in the past many of my readers—including my own father—have condemned me for an overly gracious liberalism. I myself have always thought that my Tory colleagues were a bunch of arrogant, pompous, and xenophobic twits. But even when the Tories were in power, my loyalty to queen and country has never wavered. I have always thought of our Empire as the true light of this world. I believe with all my heart that the British crown is mankind's best and only defender of justice and freedom.
But we may be the only ones who see ourselves that way.
It took me a long time to comprehend the bitterness and resentment that the Germans feel towards us in Bavaria. As I read about the South German revolts, I feel sad, but I am no longer surprised. The men and women taking up arms against our soldiers are surely misguided, but they are honest. They have not begun fight on a whim, and I think it will be difficult to convince them to abandon it. The Government assures us that the revolts will be subdued soon. While I hope that they are right, I do not share their confidence. I have even less faith that our allies in Berlin and Vienna are as strong as they claim. I was in Munich during the Emergency; I watched their armies melt before my eyes. I fear our troubles have only just begun.
It further pains me to admit that I can offer no suggestions of a solution. Our problem is fundamental. The German people do not know us. They seem to think that we are distant oppressors and monsters. I do not know how to correct this, and I am afraid that it may be impossible if we must now fight another war against them. But if we cannot teach them better, if we cannot make them see who we really are, then we will always be fighting this war. So long as we are monsters to them, they will always tremble in our presence, and secretly hope for an opportunity to drive us away. Should we suppress the revolt, we must find a way to change their minds.
First, however we must win. Above all else, that is imperative. I only hope that the cost of victory is not too terrible to allow reconciliation. We just celebrated our victory over these people 120 years ago, and now we are fighting them again. Perhaps God is telling us that we can never truly have a final victory and an eternal peace. I sincerely hope not.
I wish that I could offer a more optimistic view, but I do not have one; I do not see the way out of this. All I have now is my faith. I cannot believe that the men and women I have seen die did so in vain. Surely their deaths will lead us to a better world, even if the path is unclear.
May we reach the end sooner rather than later.
I am your servant,
Jay Thomson Blake
Bartholomew Cornelius Godwin leaned as far back as his plush leather chair would allow him. As he did so, he looked out his floor-to-ceiling office window and chewed on the stub of his Havana cigar. Barry knew that most people resented him for his plush chair, his big window, and his Havana cigars. That was exactly the reason that Barry owned all of those things. What was the point of status and wealth if you couldn't lord them over other people?
But as Barry leaned back in his chair, looked out his window, and chewed his cigar, he found that none of them were making him feel very happy at the moment. Outside his window, the city of London was bathed in the orange light of sunset shining through unusually thin cloud cover. Someone other than Barry might have been moved to paint a picture of the scene, but Barry just ground the end of his cigar down between his teeth.
Barry was having a lousy day to top off a lousy week that followed a lousy month. Barry thought that most of his days were pretty lousy, but today had been lousier than usual. It was after six o'clock and there was still no word from the Board of Directors, who were apparently still meeting in a hotel down on the Strand. They were probably haggling over some obscure element of the Times finances. Barry didn't know why he was so anxious about the meeting; he already knew what the Board would decide. What they had already decided. Barry had finally lost that argument last night.
Perhaps he couldn't enjoy his nice chair and office window so much because he knew this would be the last day he had the chance. Whenever the Board finally settled the last detail of their agenda, they were going to send word over to the Times' offices, and then Barry would be fired.
Barry clenched his teeth even harder and pushed the chair back further, causing its mountings to squeal.
From their point of view, it looked like the right decision, of course. The Telegraph had rolled the Times twice in the last month, first with their Victory Day special, and then again with their timely coverage of this whole South German crisis. It wasn't Barry's fault; of course, his staff had been gutted by events completely beyond his control. But even so, the Times had taken a beating on Barry's watch. Someone had to take the blame just to keep up morale. And Barry Godwin's harsh relationship with his underlings ought to mean his removal would lift their spirits even more. Yes, it made perfect sense from the Board's perspective.
Of course, Barry couldn't give a damn about the Board's perspective. They were firing him. He was a mean son of a bitch, but you had to be to get any results out of the mob of air-headed intellectual wannabes that worked in this department. Barry got results—barring acts of God and terrorism—and that wasn't a record he was about to apologize for. The Board of Directors could eat his cigar ash if they thought any differently. Barry had told the Chairman so last night—which had probably helped him make up his mind to fire Barry.
Barry had resigned himself to that outcome, he just hadn't expected it to take so bloody long. He'd come in today expecting to be cleaning out his desk before lunch. Instead, he'd ended up having to do real work as if it was any other day. And he'd gotten to eat his lunch with Francis Osborne, the Chief Editor for Americas section. His department was stumbling from one journalistic coup to the next. Francis normally couldn't find his ass with both hands, and his recent successes were driving Barry up a wall.
Actually, it was probably the rumors that Francis would replace Barry as Europe editor which had him so phenomenally livid at the moment.
Unable to take the cheery sight of the setting sun anymore, Barry spun his chair back around to face his desk. On it was sitting a few sheets of thin brown telegraph paper. Barry took his cigar out of his mouth to tap off some ashes, and then rapped the knuckle of his thumb against the message a few times. It had arrived just after lunch and had made the prospect of finishing a last full day of work somewhat more interesting for Barry.
The Times had not yet found truly qualified replacements for either John Mills or Sam Reynard, which left Barry filling column spaces with a great deal of crap prepared by less capable writers and—on one particularly gruesome day—Barry himself. Tomorrow's issue would have about a page worth of material that simply made him cringe.
Barry ran the first page of the telegram through his fingers. The writing in it wasn't exactly spectacular either, and on a normal day Barry would have tossed it straight into the trash. It belonged in the gutter rags of the penny press, for the Times to publish it would be an embarrassment.
Which was exactly why it made for interesting possibilities on this day.
"Fire me, will they?" Barry muttered.
He picked up the entire telegram and straightened the pages in his hands. Then he crushed his cigar into his ashtray.
"Jeanine!" he growled.
His secretary opened the door to his inner office and walked in. She looked at him from over his desk, lips and eyes drawn tightly.
"Yes, Mr. Godwin?" she asked after a moment.
Barry thrust the telegram in her direction.
"Take this down to the shop," he commanded. "Have them pull all of page seven and run this instead."
Jeanine took the telegram, and glanced at the routing information. Her expression unraveled as she did, eyes widening. She looked up to stare at Barry for a moment, and then her face twisted into an expression that Barry had never seen from her before. She smiled.
"You're a good man, Mr. Godwin."
Barry frowned in abject horror. It took him nearly a full minute to recover and give his secretary a stern look.
"You have work to do, Jeanine," he said gruffly.
"Yes, Mr. Godwin," Jeanine said, still smiling. She turned and left his office, shutting the door gently behind her.
Barry stared after her for a moment, and then snorted. He opened one drawer of his desk to take another cigar from its box. After putting it between his teeth and lighting it with a match, Barry turned back around in his chair. Outside his big window, the sun had sunk beneath the skyline, and its light had changed from orange to purple.
Jeanine was wrong. What he was doing was a low blow. It was nothing more than a simple abuse of power, designed to extract some amount of payback from the people who were casually brushing Barry aside. Maybe they'd think less of him, but by God they would remember him for it.
Barry sucked in the smoke from his cigar to hold it in his mouth for a moment. He smiled at the taste, letting the smoke escape through his teeth. Revenge was sweet.
* * *
Dear Readers,
This will be my last column for the Times. I am not joining another newspaper, the Times has always been and will continue to be my preferred newspaper, and if I should ever take up the pen again, it will surely be to publish in these pages. But I cannot say when that might be, so I think it best to simply say that I am retiring.
It would be impossible for me to explain all of the reasons for my retirement here, and I will not attempt to do so. That is not the purpose of this essay.
Most of my readers will have seen a story some weeks ago that listed me among the dead in the wreck of the Welsh Rover over Bavaria. Many of you are also aware that that report was in error, and that I survived the wreck and returned to England. Few of you, however, know the circumstances of my survival; and I doubt that anyone fully understands that story, including myself.
But I do not intend to tell that story either, and for a number of reasons. Suffice it to say that it was not an experience I shall soon forget, that many good people and friends died, and that my words alone could not provide the honors they deserve. It is my highest hope that they may receive an honest accounting and a proper memorial one day, but this cannot be it.
Instead I intend to offer, to the extent that I can, a summary of the articles that I went to Bavaria to write.
It was decided in May that the Times would print a special section in celebration of Victory Day. I was to travel to Bavaria in order to perform research and offer the German perspective on the events of 1886. For a variety of reasons that I have already alluded to, it proved impossible for us to complete our special, and it was never published. However, I still spent a good deal of time in Germany, and I have no wish to let my experience go to waste. I believe that my time there has given me insights into the German mind that few Englishmen could ever know. On some previous occasions I have tried to imagine what the Occupation must feel like to the Germans, but now I know that feeling first hand.
I know that in the past many of my readers—including my own father—have condemned me for an overly gracious liberalism. I myself have always thought that my Tory colleagues were a bunch of arrogant, pompous, and xenophobic twits. But even when the Tories were in power, my loyalty to queen and country has never wavered. I have always thought of our Empire as the true light of this world. I believe with all my heart that the British crown is mankind's best and only defender of justice and freedom.
But we may be the only ones who see ourselves that way.
It took me a long time to comprehend the bitterness and resentment that the Germans feel towards us in Bavaria. As I read about the South German revolts, I feel sad, but I am no longer surprised. The men and women taking up arms against our soldiers are surely misguided, but they are honest. They have not begun fight on a whim, and I think it will be difficult to convince them to abandon it. The Government assures us that the revolts will be subdued soon. While I hope that they are right, I do not share their confidence. I have even less faith that our allies in Berlin and Vienna are as strong as they claim. I was in Munich during the Emergency; I watched their armies melt before my eyes. I fear our troubles have only just begun.
It further pains me to admit that I can offer no suggestions of a solution. Our problem is fundamental. The German people do not know us. They seem to think that we are distant oppressors and monsters. I do not know how to correct this, and I am afraid that it may be impossible if we must now fight another war against them. But if we cannot teach them better, if we cannot make them see who we really are, then we will always be fighting this war. So long as we are monsters to them, they will always tremble in our presence, and secretly hope for an opportunity to drive us away. Should we suppress the revolt, we must find a way to change their minds.
First, however we must win. Above all else, that is imperative. I only hope that the cost of victory is not too terrible to allow reconciliation. We just celebrated our victory over these people 120 years ago, and now we are fighting them again. Perhaps God is telling us that we can never truly have a final victory and an eternal peace. I sincerely hope not.
I wish that I could offer a more optimistic view, but I do not have one; I do not see the way out of this. All I have now is my faith. I cannot believe that the men and women I have seen die did so in vain. Surely their deaths will lead us to a better world, even if the path is unclear.
May we reach the end sooner rather than later.
I am your servant,
Jay Thomson Blake