Francis nodded without any particular expression.
Everything was unfolding exactly as he had expected.
“Son, take a look at this.
It’s the draft of the address I’ll be giving to the American people shortly.
See if you think anything still needs fixing.” Francis stepped forward and accepted the manuscript.
William and Ballantine gathered around as well, and the group began reading it together.
There were none of the grand but empty formalities like “At this time of national crisis” or “I speak to you in my capacity as President of the United States.” Instead, the speech simply had the President explain, in plain language: “I know how the newspapers have been portraying me.
I know you’re worried about the banks.
Here’s what I’m going to do next…” Every sentence was sincere, concise, and easy to understand.
Factory workers could understand it.
Farmers could understand it.
Housewives could understand it.
Clearly, Roosevelt had written the speech exactly as Francis had suggested before: “If the President could sit in front of a microphone and, in an ordinary conversational tone—as though chatting with his own family—tell the American people what happened to the banks, what the government plans to do, and what they themselves should do…” “Mr.
President, this is an excellent speech.” Francis paused for a moment.
“That said, I do have one small suggestion.” “Go on.” Francis turned his eyes toward the fireplace.
“Washington isn’t nearly as cold today as it was before, but I’d still like the fireplace to be lit.” Roosevelt and the others looked at him in confusion.
“Most ordinary workers and farmers have probably never seen the White House in their lives.
They have no idea what the Diplomatic Reception Room looks like.
To them, a place like this feels distant and untouchable.” “But they know fireplaces.
They know the sound of firewood crackling.” “If the fire is burning while you speak, they’ll be able to picture the scene in their minds.
Their President won’t feel like he’s speaking from an office in the White House or from a podium in Congress.
Instead, it’ll feel as though he’s sitting beside the fireplace in his own living room, talking to them as an ordinary man.” “That will carry more weight than any amount of eloquent rhetoric.” The room fell silent for a moment.
Then Roosevelt smiled.
“You hear that?
Go on—build up the fire.
I want the whole United States to hear those logs crackling.” The staff immediately hurried over to add more wood.
Another staff member stepped forward and leaned in to remind him quietly, “Mr.
President, ten minutes remaining.
We should test the equipment first.” Roosevelt nodded and was wheeled away.
The two men behind him immediately stepped forward.
“Louis Howe, White House media adviser.” The man on the left extended his hand.
“Francis Roosevelt.” “Stephen Early, Press Secretary.
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.
Francis.” The man on the right offered his hand as well, his smile noticeably warmer than Louis’s.
Stephen held onto Francis’s hand instead of letting go, looking him straight in the eye with undisguised admiration.
“Mr.
Francis, allow me to say this—using radio to let the President speak directly to the entire nation is nothing short of a stroke of genius.” “To be honest, I never imagined radio networking technology had advanced this far.
We’d always treated it as nothing more than ‘another kind of newspaper’…” Louis chimed in from the side.
That very morning, the two of them had just been reprimanded by Roosevelt.
It hadn’t been an angry outburst, but rather the far more painful kind of rebuke that said, “I’m disappointed in you.” After the meeting, they had locked themselves in an office, racking their brains for a solution.
But no matter how they looked at it, every option came down to the same few ideas: negotiate with Hearst, make concessions to him, or try to buy off a few editors to secure more balanced coverage.
None of those approaches, however, had any hope of putting the controversy to rest anytime soon.
Because Hearst wasn’t just one man.
Behind him stood newspapers that accounted for a huge share of the nation’s circulation.
If you went groveling to Hearst now, he’d only think you weren’t groveling hard enough.
But now, everything had changed.
They had found an entirely new weapon.
A weapon that would shake the entire American media industry.
The ones who should be worried now were Hearst and the other newspaper tycoons.
“This method may be effective, but in the end, what will truly earn the people’s trust is the President’s sincerity.
And that sincerity is reflected in the speech the two of you prepared.” Francis paused before continuing, “But I’m confident that after tonight, we’ll have achieved something significant.” Louis and Stephen exchanged a glance.
Neither said a word, but both looked at Francis with newfound respect.
The young man wasn’t just good at coming up with ideas—he also knew how to share the credit.
Someone like that would go far in the White House.
…
A few minutes before eight o’clock.
The Washington Press Club.
Dozens of veteran reporters sat gathered around a floor-standing radio, as silent as though they were attending a funeral.
No one spoke.
They were waiting.
Waiting for the man who intended to go around them to begin speaking.
Whether that broadcast succeeded or failed would determine the future standing of everyone in the room.
…
A farm on the banks of the Mississippi River.
An elderly farmer sat beside his radio, a long-stemmed tobacco pipe in his hand, his eyes fixed on the dial of the old receiver.
Static crackled through the speaker as the frequency was adjusted.
Then, silence.
…
A bar in a coal-mining town in Ohio.
The unemployed miners crowded around the counter.
Normally, this would have been the loudest hour of their day.
Cursing the capitalists.
Cursing the government.
Cursing fate.
Cursing the incompetents in the White House.
But tonight, everyone sat quietly, staring at the radio on the bar.
The owner had turned off the blaring music, and even poured drinks with unusual care.
…
Washington.
Hearst’s study.
The fireplace was lit there as well, but its flames brought no warmth.
Hearst sat in a large leather armchair with a gleaming floor-standing radio before him.
His hands were folded over his stomach, his face dark with gloom.
The ashtray at his side, however, already held three half-smoked cigars that had been stubbed out.
At that very same moment…
Morgan.
Rockefeller.
DuPont.
The men who held America’s economic lifeblood in their hands had all set aside whatever they had been doing and quietly taken seats before their radios.
…
The Diplomatic Reception Room, White House.
The firewood in the fireplace burned brightly, its cheerful crackling echoing clearly through the otherwise silent hall.
Roosevelt sat before the microphone and adjusted his posture.
The manuscript lay open in front of him, but his eyes never fell upon it.
He had read those words so many times that he could practically recite them from memory.
Eight o’clock sharp.
The technician raised his thumb and flashed an “OK” sign.
The red broadcast light came on.
Roosevelt leaned forward slightly, his lips only a few inches from the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.” —