All America Rises

Feilan nodded, showing no extra emotion. This was all within his expectations.

"Son, take a look at this. This is the speech I'll be giving to the whole country shortly. See if there's anything wrong with it."

Feilan stepped forward and accepted the manuscript.

William and Ballantine gathered around as well, and the group began reading it together.

There was no "at this time of national peril," nor any of those hollow yet sonorous official clichés like "in the name of the President of the United States."

Instead, the President simply explained things to everyone in plain language:

"I know how the media has portrayed me. I know everyone is worried about the banks. Here is what I intend to do next..." Such sincere, concise, and easily understood words.

Workers could understand it. Farmers could understand it. Even housewives could understand it.

Clearly, Roosevelt had drafted the speech entirely according to what Feilan had told him before: "If Mr. President could sit before a microphone and, in an ordinary tone, talk to the people of the nation as though chatting with family—tell them what happened to the banks, what the government planned to do, and what they should do..."

"Mr. President, this is an excellent speech."

Feilan paused. "However, I have one small suggestion."

"Go on."

Feilan's gaze shifted to the fireplace. "Washington isn't actually that cold today, but I still hope the fireplace can be lit."

Roosevelt and the others looked somewhat puzzled.

"Those ordinary workers and farmers may never have seen the White House in their lives, nor do they know what the Diplomatic Reception Room looks like. Places like this carry an air of lofty distance to them."

"But they know fireplaces. They know the sound of firewood burning. If the crackling of the wood is heard during the speech, they'll be able to picture it: our President isn't speaking from an office in the White House or from a podium in Congress. He may be sitting before the fireplace in his own living room, talking to them as an ordinary person."

"That will be more powerful than any flowery rhetoric."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then Roosevelt smiled.

"Did you hear him? Go stoke the fire. I want all the United States to hear the sound of that wood."

The staff immediately hurried over to add more logs.

A staff member stepped forward, bent close, and quietly reminded him, "Mr. President, ten minutes remain. We need to test the equipment first."

Roosevelt nodded and was then wheeled away.

The two men behind him immediately stepped forward.

"Louis Howe, White House media adviser."

The man on the left extended his hand.

"Feilan Roosevelt."

"Stephen Early, press secretary. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Feilan."

The man on the right also offered his hand, his smile more open than Louis's.

Stephen did not let go. Looking straight into Feilan's eyes, he spoke with undisguised admiration. "Mr. Feilan, allow me to offer my praise. Using radio to let the President communicate directly with the people of the entire country—what a genius idea."

"Honestly, I never expected radio network technology to have reached this point. Before this, we'd all treated it as 'another kind of newspaper'..."

Louis chimed in from the side.

That morning, the two of them had just been reprimanded by Roosevelt.

It had not been an enraged rebuke, but the kind that said, "You have deeply disappointed me." That hurt even more.

After the meeting, they had shut themselves in their office and racked their brains for a solution.

But no matter how they studied it, their options were either negotiating with Hearst, making concessions to him, or finding a way to buy off a few editors and create some balanced coverage.

Yet regardless of the method, it would be nearly impossible to quell the storm quickly.

Because Hearst was not alone. Behind him stood more than half the newspaper circulation of the United States.

If they went to kiss Hearst's ass now, he would certainly think they had not kissed it hard enough.

But things were different now.

They had found an entirely new weapon.

This weapon would shake the entire media industry of the United States.

The ones who should be worried were the media tycoons led by Hearst.

"This method may be useful, but what will ultimately make the public believe is the President's own sincerity. And that sincerity is reflected in the speech the two of you prepared."

Feilan paused. "But I believe that after tonight, we'll certainly gain a great deal."

Louis and Stephen exchanged a glance. Neither spoke, but there was more agreement in their eyes.

This young man did not merely know how to come up with ideas. He also knew how to share the credit with others.

A person like that could go far in the White House.

It was nearing eight o'clock.

Washington Press Club.

Dozens of veteran journalists sat around a floor-standing radio, silent as if attending a funeral.

No one spoke.

They were waiting.

Waiting for the man who intended to "bypass them" to begin speaking.

Whether the man on the radio succeeded would also determine the weight of everyone present in their profession from then on.

A farm by the Mississippi River.

An old farmer sat beside a radio, clutching a pipe of dry tobacco as he stared at the dial on the old set.

Static and the scratchy sound of tuning came from the radio, then it fell quiet.

Ohio, a bar in a coal-mining town.

The unemployed miners crowded before the bar.

At this hour on any other day, it should have been the noisiest time of their day.

Cursing the capitalists, cursing the government, cursing fate, cursing those 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 the utmost care.

Washington, Hearst's study.

The fireplace was burning too, but its flames brought no warmth.

Hearst sat in a broad leather chair, a gleaming floor-standing radio before him.

His hands were folded over his stomach, his face dark as a storm cloud.

Yet in the ashtray beside him lay three cigars, each only half-smoked before being crushed out.

At that same moment, Morgan, Rockefeller, DuPont...

Those who controlled the economic lifeblood of the United States had all set aside what they were doing and sat quietly before their radios.

The White House, Diplomatic Reception Room.

The firewood in the fireplace burned brightly, its crackling especially clear in the silent hall.

Roosevelt sat before the microphone and adjusted his posture.

The manuscript lay open before him, but his gaze did not rest on it. He had read those words too many times and could nearly recite them from memory.

Eight o'clock sharp.

The technician raised a thumb and gave an "OK" gesture.

The red recording light came on.

Roosevelt leaned forward slightly, his lips only inches from the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."