Second Chance Love. Shannon Farrington

looked impressive from the outside, but the appearances were deceiving. David stepped inside only to discover the paper occupied just a small portion of the structure. The publisher, a man by the name of Peter Carpenter, served also as the executive editor, the editorial director and a host of other things. It was a struggling publication to be certain, but they were hiring.

      I need a job, he reminded himself. And I need one here in Baltimore. If I am careful with the money I saved before the war, I can get by on meager wages, at least for a while.

      “So you’re looking for work,” Carpenter said.

      The man was older than David, midthirties perhaps. He was curt, to the point, with a military-like manner that reminded David of the officers he’d once served under.

      “Yes, sir. I am.”

      “Reporter?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You got any experience?”

      The moment David mentioned he’d held an entry position at the Boston Journal, Carpenter asked to see some of his work. It wasn’t much and it certainly wasn’t very exciting, but the man looked intrigued. David held hopeful expectation.

      “You serve in the army?” Carpenter asked.

      “Yes, sir. I spent much of the time of service right here in Baltimore.” He told him about the hospital.

      The man’s eyes narrowed. His forehead furrowed. “Then you know the lay of the land. Politically speaking, that is.”

      “Yes, sir.” David was well aware Baltimore was a divided city. Immigrants and other newcomers favored a strong federal government, but many of the older established families still advocated strong states’ rights. As a Union soldier he’d received his share of derogatory remarks from those who supported the South.

      David wondered what view the man before him subscribed to and what position his paper took. He can’t be too sympathetic to the South, though. The city’s outright pro-Southern papers have all been closed. But does he lean too far in the opposite direction? Fearing suspension, many publications now painted the federal government in such a glorious light, it was simply unbelievable. David believed wholeheartedly in the preservation of the Union, but he also believed in freedom of the press. He was impressed when Carpenter then said, “Notice the sign on the door says the Free American. You can’t have a free America without a free press. I don’t care which army occupies this city, or who is vying for control of the statehouse. Here we stick to the facts. We don’t bury or sugarcoat them, and we don’t try to make the local leadership something they are not.” He paused. “If you can check your own political agendas at the door, the job is yours.”

      David’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you, sir.” Then suddenly fearing a return to coffee and sandwiches, he asked, “What exactly is the job?”

      “You’ll be handling local news and features.”

      He could feel the grin tugging at his lips.

      “You’ll report directly to me,” the man said, “and you can start immediately.”

      As excited as he was to take pen in hand, immediately was a little too soon. There was another matter to which David must tend, even though he dreaded doing so. I need to visit Elizabeth. I can’t put this off any longer. For, once I begin reporting, I don’t know what my schedule will be like.

      “Sir, I appreciate that, but given that I’ve only recently returned from Boston, I’ve a few matters I must see to first. Would tomorrow suffice?”

      Carpenter squinted. “Why were you in Boston? I thought you said you’d spent your service here.”

      “I did.” He explained his brother’s passing and then his return home. He didn’t tell him why exactly he had come back to Baltimore. He hoped the man would not ask. David wasn’t certain what he would say if he did.

      “My condolences,” was all Carpenter said. “I should have noticed the black armband. See to what you must. Tomorrow will suffice.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “Before you go, though, let me show you about.”

      Carpenter reached for a cane that was hooked to the back of his chair. David hadn’t noticed it until now. The man rose somewhat awkwardly from his seat. Knowing his newest reporter was curious, he said, “No. It isn’t from the war. I was born this way.”

      David nodded but didn’t say anything. He followed the man as he hobbled toward the newsroom. The space was clean and well organized but much smaller than what David had been used to in Boston. A half dozen or so desks were scattered about. Only a handful of men claimed them.

      “Gentlemen,” Carpenter announced. “Our newest reporter, Mr. Wainwright. He comes to us by way of the Boston Journal.”

      The men nodded their respect. Their publisher/editor then pointed to each one, starting with an older gentleman wearing spectacles. “This is Mr. Collins, business manager. He handles our advertising and circulation.”

      David acknowledged him.

      “Mr. Russell covers local events. Mr. Detwiler, foreign news and finance. Mr. Ross, cultural events and daily humor.” To which Carpenter then added, “The ladies seem to like him.”

      David wasn’t certain if the comment was made in regard to the man’s articles or looks. He did not ask, however. He was still too busy taking in his surroundings. There were no artists, no copy editors, no other reporters present.

      Perhaps they are in another office or out on assignment, he thought. Surely this isn’t everyone.

      “Well, that’s about it,” Carpenter said, as if he’d read his mind. “For now, anyway. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, you’ll also be handling whatever comes in over the wire concerning the war.”

      David gulped. So he was to cover national news, as well? It was sink or swim. I wanted a chance to write, he thought. It appears I have one. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

      At that moment a boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so, came into the room. He handed Carpenter a proof copy of the day’s edition. Evidently the man saw to that job, also.

      “And this is young Mr. Keedy, our assistant,” he said.

      David shook the boy’s hand. Keedy was wide-eyed, and innocent-looking, much like David had been before the war. God willing, the suffering will end before this young man comes of age to serve, he thought.

      Carpenter dismissed Keedy, then motioned David toward the staircase. “Our press is this way...”

      The moment David smelled the ink and paper, his excitement stirred. This is what I was meant to do.

      Given the limited number of news staff, he half expected to find an old-style flatbed press churning out today’s edition. Much to his surprise, however, the Free American boasted a decent-sized rotary press, a Taylor Double Cylinder, in fact. It was a little worse for wear but functional. David wondered if Carpenter had acquired it from one of his competitors who’d recently been closed down.

      A handful of typesetters and pressmen were busy preparing the machine, their over sleeves and fingers stained black. Carpenter introduced each of them, then motioned for David to return to the stairs.

      “You change your mind?” he asked, as though he feared David had. “Want to try your luck at the Sun?”

      David chuckled but did not let on that he’d already been there and been turned down. “No, sir,” he said.

      “Good. Before you go, I’ve got some work I want you to take with you. Notes and outline are all in order. Just write the piece after you settle your business. It won’t take long.” From his coat pocket he pulled out a folded set of papers, handed them over.