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Authors: Kenneth Whyte
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BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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Arriving in Jacksonville, Crane registered under an assumed name at the elegant St. James Hotel. He wrote his brother with instructions for his will and began looking for a ship. It would take him all of December to find one. Meanwhile, he expertly made his way to the backrooms of the dingiest waterfront taverns and a strip of brothels known collectively as The Line. Within two or three days of hitting town, he had won the heart of Cora Taylor, keeper of the Hotel de Dreme, the finest whore-house in Jacksonville.
Miss Cora was a vivacious redhead from a Boston family of artists and art dealers. She had been married at least twice, once to a baronet. She shopped for clothes in Paris and had taken the Orient Express to Constantinople, and she was rumored to have landed in Jacksonville on a millionaire’s yacht. In addition to a passion for literature—Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen—she possessed a complete indifference to conventional morality. “Sometimes I like to sit at home and read good books,” she wrote, “at others I must drink absinthe and hang the night hours with scarlet embroideries. I must have music and the sins that march to music. These are moments when I desire squalor.”
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Miss Cora happened to be reading one of Crane’s novels when he walked into her sporting house for dinner. Straightaway, they recognized each other as soul mates. He wrote fond inscriptions in her book while still penning love letters to the sweetheart he had left up north (a woman to whom he owed a great deal of money). Within days, Crane was living at the Hotel de Dreme. Scovel joined him there regularly, and took him riding to improve his health. He believed Miss Cora was “just the woman” for his friend Stevie. Ernest McCready was impressed with her as well: “Fact is, she was a cut above us in several ways, notably poise and surety of command of herself and others.”
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Crane finally tore himself away from his new love on December 31, feeling a little melancholy but, as he would later write, “When a man gets the ant of desire-to-see-what-it’s-like stirring in his heart, he will wallow out to sea in a pail.”
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His pail was the
Commodore,
a 123-foot tug commanded by a Captain Murphy. It left dock at 8 p.m., bound for Cienfuegos with a $10,000 payload including “203,000 cartridges, 1,000 pounds of giant powder, 40 bundles of rifles, 2 electric batteries,” and 300 machetes. The voyage was trouble from the start. The
Commodore
ran aground on a mud bar before exiting the St. Johns River. When it finally hit open water, it ran directly into a thumping southeasterly squall. Even experienced hands were queasy. Crane stayed on deck with Captain Murphy, impressing the ship’s cook by never quailing as the
Commodore
was tossed about.
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Commodore,
a 123-foot tug commanded by a Captain Murphy. It left dock at 8 p.m., bound for Cienfuegos with a $10,000 payload including “203,000 cartridges, 1,000 pounds of giant powder, 40 bundles of rifles, 2 electric batteries,” and 300 machetes. The voyage was trouble from the start. The
Commodore
ran aground on a mud bar before exiting the St. Johns River. When it finally hit open water, it ran directly into a thumping southeasterly squall. Even experienced hands were queasy. Crane stayed on deck with Captain Murphy, impressing the ship’s cook by never quailing as the
Commodore
was tossed about.
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The tug was only a few hours out to sea when it sprang a leak in the boiler room and then with water accumulating, its bilge pumps failed. Crane joined a human chain passing bailing buckets back and forth, but the water only deepened. On deck, amid the wind and spray, the captain ordered the
Commodore
’s three large wooden lifeboats cut free and lowered into the now-monstrous waves. The crew and passengers piled in and began rowing to shore. Captain Murphy, with his arm in a sling, Crane, and two others remained on deck. They would take their chances in a ten-foot dinghy.
Commodore
’s three large wooden lifeboats cut free and lowered into the now-monstrous waves. The crew and passengers piled in and began rowing to shore. Captain Murphy, with his arm in a sling, Crane, and two others remained on deck. They would take their chances in a ten-foot dinghy.
The captain insisted the dinghy stay close to the ship until it went down. Despite its heavy cargo and waves as high as the captain had ever seen in those parts, the pail was still afloat at dawn. As the four men sat bobbing in the dinghy, bailing to keep active and warm, one of the lifeboats returned. It carried seven men, including the first mate, who apparently wanted to retrieve something from the sinking tug. As the lifeboat approached, it was staved, either by contact with the tug or by a wave. While it disintegrated, the seven men clambered onto the stern of the
Commodore.
They fashioned a raft from planks and barrels and lowered it into the waves. The first mate fell in and was drowned. Three sailors made it onto the raft but it quickly broke to pieces and they too were lost. The other three went down with the
Commodore
a few minutes later. Cold, drenched, and exhausted, Crane and one of his dinghy mates now began to row—or, rather, steer—toward a tiny point of light some fifteen nautical miles in the distance.
Commodore.
They fashioned a raft from planks and barrels and lowered it into the waves. The first mate fell in and was drowned. Three sailors made it onto the raft but it quickly broke to pieces and they too were lost. The other three went down with the
Commodore
a few minutes later. Cold, drenched, and exhausted, Crane and one of his dinghy mates now began to row—or, rather, steer—toward a tiny point of light some fifteen nautical miles in the distance.
The little dinghy bounced among the foaming waves all that day and through the night. The men alternately rowed and bailed, moving as gingerly as possible under constant threat of capsize. They had no food and they could not sleep. They shivered with cold and ached from the strain of the oars. Although haunted by the faces of the seven lost men, Crane felt a warmth of camaraderie in the little vessel. “The correspondent, who had been taught to be cynical of men, knew even at the time [that] this was the best experience of his life.”
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The pinpoint of light for which they were aiming—the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet—had grown to a milky smudge by dawn on January 2. They could make out land by late afternoon but saw no signs of life. Meanwhile, a fresh squall was whipping up and the seas were growing more treacherous, especially as they approached shore. Captain Murphy ordered the dinghy back out into deeper water, where they had more control. They spent another night riding tall, black waves, this time while being circled by a shark. At dawn they could see land again but still no human activity. They decided to crash into shore, come what may.
Three of the four survived, including Captain Murphy with his injured wing. Crane was dragged from the surf by one of the locals who had run down to meet the dinghy, bringing blankets, flasks, and coffee. The last thing he saw before collapsing on shore was the lifeless form of the ship’s oiler, Billy Higgins.
Crane spent the night in a Daytona Beach cottage. Cora Taylor arrived the next morning, fearing the worst. The
Commodore
’s two other lifeboats had landed the previous day, and word had spread that the tug was lost, and her lover with it. A telegraph operator saw the two of them at the station in Daytona Beach, wrapped in each other’s arms, awaiting a northbound train.
Commodore
’s two other lifeboats had landed the previous day, and word had spread that the tug was lost, and her lover with it. A telegraph operator saw the two of them at the station in Daytona Beach, wrapped in each other’s arms, awaiting a northbound train.
All of the major newspapers carried accounts of the
Commodore
’s wreck and Crane’s ordeal. (At least one publication jumped the gun and published his obituary.) His companions in the dinghy praised his courage. “Crane is a man every inch of him,” declared Captain Murphy.
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The writer recovered quickly enough to deliver Bacheller a thousand-word account of his adventure, syndicated January 7. The new story did not bury memories of the Tenderloin scandal, but it did help to restore Crane’s reputation. He would later rework “the best experience of his life” into what is arguably his finest short story, “The Open Boat.”
Commodore
’s wreck and Crane’s ordeal. (At least one publication jumped the gun and published his obituary.) His companions in the dinghy praised his courage. “Crane is a man every inch of him,” declared Captain Murphy.
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The writer recovered quickly enough to deliver Bacheller a thousand-word account of his adventure, syndicated January 7. The new story did not bury memories of the Tenderloin scandal, but it did help to restore Crane’s reputation. He would later rework “the best experience of his life” into what is arguably his finest short story, “The Open Boat.”
ON JANUARY 9, Richard Harding Davis and Frederic Remington joined a passel of tourists and businessmen aboard the
Olivette,
a regularly scheduled passenger ship running from Key West to Havana. Davis was still in a foul mood: he was traveling neither on a luxury yacht nor on a swashbuckling filibuster but aboard a tourist tub, and he was about to become one of many reporters in Havana rather than one of a few with the insurgents. He was completely fed up with Remington: “I would rather manage an Italian opera company than him.” He was cross with the
Journal,
too. “Had we not wanted to go so much,” he wrote his family, “neither of us would have put up with the way we have been treated.”
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Olivette,
a regularly scheduled passenger ship running from Key West to Havana. Davis was still in a foul mood: he was traveling neither on a luxury yacht nor on a swashbuckling filibuster but aboard a tourist tub, and he was about to become one of many reporters in Havana rather than one of a few with the insurgents. He was completely fed up with Remington: “I would rather manage an Italian opera company than him.” He was cross with the
Journal,
too. “Had we not wanted to go so much,” he wrote his family, “neither of us would have put up with the way we have been treated.”
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Davis was somewhat mollified on landing when U.S. consul general Fitzhugh Lee turned out to meet him and promptly arranged an introduction to General Weyler. The Spaniard struck Davis as “a dignified and impressive soldier.”
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He extended his visitors all the usual courtesies and granted them permission to travel throughout the island, so long as they stuck to Spanish-run railroads and steamships—restrictions imposed on all foreigners. Weyler also promised Davis and Remington they could join him on his next campaign but said that he did not expect to be leaving any time soon.
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He extended his visitors all the usual courtesies and granted them permission to travel throughout the island, so long as they stuck to Spanish-run railroads and steamships—restrictions imposed on all foreigners. Weyler also promised Davis and Remington they could join him on his next campaign but said that he did not expect to be leaving any time soon.
Still hoping to meet up with some insurgents, and certain that he was not going to find any in Havana, Davis accepted an invitation from the proprietor of a sugar plantation in Santa Clara province. He and Remington, with an interpreter, boarded a train and passed through the Cuban countryside, noting its beauty and the distant smoke from burning cane fields. They spent a night in Jaruco amid cows and chickens in a flea-ridden barn. On January 15, they reached Matanzas, which Davis thought looked like Paris, at least compared to Jaruco. Remington was less impressed. He declared that he had seen enough of Cuba for his purposes. He had signed on with Hearst for a month, and his month was almost up. The United States was not going to invade Cuba in the three or four days left under his agreement, and the insurgents were nowhere to be found. He turned back to Havana and booked passage to New York.
It is to this moment that we owe one of the most remarkable anecdotes in the history of American journalism. James Creelman, in his 1901 memoir,
On the Great Highway,
reports the following exchange of telegrams between Remington and Hearst:
On the Great Highway,
reports the following exchange of telegrams between Remington and Hearst:
W.R. Hearst,
New York Journal
, N.Y.:
Everything is quiet. There is no trouble here. There will be no war. I wish
to return.
RemingtonRemington, Havana:
Please remain. You furnish the pictures, and I’ll furnish the war.
W.R. Hearst.
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Neither Remington’s telegram nor Hearst’s reply have ever been produced. Creelman is the sole source for the anecdote and he does not claim to have laid eyes on the original documents. The story attracted little attention when it was published in Creelman’s memoir amid a fanatical defense of yellow journalism as a supreme force for justice and progress in the world. But in 1907 a correspondent for
The Times
of London gave it new life in an article, asking, “Is the Press of the United States going insane?”
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The Times
of London gave it new life in an article, asking, “Is the Press of the United States going insane?”
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Hearst, in response to the
Times
piece, dismissed the alleged telegrams along with the suggestion that he was chiefly responsible for a war as “clotted nonsense.” Nonetheless, “I’ll furnish the war” has become his most famous utterance. During the 1930s and ’40s, when Hearst was indisputably the most significant publisher in America as well as a frightening (to some) political force, it seemed entirely plausible to many commentators that he would attempt to start a war in order to sell newspapers, and the anecdote enjoyed its heyday. It was Exhibit One in any discussion of journalistic menace and the megalomania of press lords. In the 1960s, biographer W.A. Swanberg took Creelman’s story at face value and used it to argue that Hearst suffered from a Napoleonic complex, among other forms of psychological damage. By the end of the twentieth century, Hearst had been dead for several decades and the fear and awe he had once generated was giving way to dismissal and ridicule. Biographer David Nasaw argues that the only reason anyone believed that Hearst played a pivotal role in Cuba was because of Hearst’s zealous self-promotion.
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Times
piece, dismissed the alleged telegrams along with the suggestion that he was chiefly responsible for a war as “clotted nonsense.” Nonetheless, “I’ll furnish the war” has become his most famous utterance. During the 1930s and ’40s, when Hearst was indisputably the most significant publisher in America as well as a frightening (to some) political force, it seemed entirely plausible to many commentators that he would attempt to start a war in order to sell newspapers, and the anecdote enjoyed its heyday. It was Exhibit One in any discussion of journalistic menace and the megalomania of press lords. In the 1960s, biographer W.A. Swanberg took Creelman’s story at face value and used it to argue that Hearst suffered from a Napoleonic complex, among other forms of psychological damage. By the end of the twentieth century, Hearst had been dead for several decades and the fear and awe he had once generated was giving way to dismissal and ridicule. Biographer David Nasaw argues that the only reason anyone believed that Hearst played a pivotal role in Cuba was because of Hearst’s zealous self-promotion.
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It is probable that something like the exchange reported by Creelman occurred: he was a generally reliable reporter and unlikely to fabricate from whole cloth an anecdote about two men still active in journalism. Remington’s half of the conversation is believable. An alarmist about Cuba, he was disappointed that the U.S. didn’t invade while he was there—“I think there will be a war with Spain,” he had written to his wife from Key West.
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The words attributed to Hearst cannot be dismissed out of hand given that he is on record as savoring an opportunity to push Spain out of the Caribbean, and only a year away from taking partial credit for furnishing a war (not withstanding his letter to the
Times
). But, that said, there are serious problems with Creelman’s story.
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The words attributed to Hearst cannot be dismissed out of hand given that he is on record as savoring an opportunity to push Spain out of the Caribbean, and only a year away from taking partial credit for furnishing a war (not withstanding his letter to the
Times
). But, that said, there are serious problems with Creelman’s story.
In the paragraph introducing the telegrams in his memoir, Creelman writes that Hearst, with his alert “eye for the future,” sent Remington and Davis to Cuba with instructions “to remain there until the war began.” There is no doubt that by “war” Creelman means not the ongoing Cuban insurrection but military conflict between the United States and Spain. Creelman then presents the telegrams and claims that Hearst was “as good as his word” in furnishing the war and liberating Cuba.
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But we have known since the publication of Richard Harding Davis’s letters in 1918 that he and Remington were hired for exactly one month, not for however long it took for the United States to declare war on Spain, and that their mission was to meet and travel briefly with the i nsurgents.
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But we have known since the publication of Richard Harding Davis’s letters in 1918 that he and Remington were hired for exactly one month, not for however long it took for the United States to declare war on Spain, and that their mission was to meet and travel briefly with the i nsurgents.
Creelman is wrong in his facts and he fundamentally mistakes the nature of the Davis-Remington assignment. Given that the credibility of his report rests not on documentary evidence but on his own authority, Creelman’s anecdote is highly suspect. In the absence of the original documents or further evidence, it is impossible to know exactly what was communicated between Hearst and Remington, and any speculation as to what might have been said or meant is futile.
If Hearst did send any kind of a message to Remington asking him to remain in Cuba, he was not heeded. Remington had contracted for a month and when his time was up, he flew the island, appalled at its condition: “more hell there than I ever read about. . . . small pox—typhoid—yellow jack—dishonesty—suffering beyond measure,” he wrote the journalist Poultney Bigelow. He left a less encumbered and, hence, more cheerful Richard Harding Davis to continued his tour of the western provinces.
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BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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