In the drawing there are a half-dozen young men standing aimlessly, many with their hands in their pockets, as if in line for a free lunch. They are placed, however, on a ramp leading into the maw of a huge iron pot atop a roaring fire.
The pot is labeled CUBA.
A leather-aproned Hephaestus-as-blacksmith grins down into the brew, steam curling around his large, boyish face—unmistakably a caricature of the Chief—as he pumps a large hand-bellows to excite the flames. A chute extends from the base of the pot, and marching out on it is a neat row of identical, uniformed soldiers with rifles on their shoulders.
THE CRUCIBLE OF WAR
—reads the caption, and the Cartoonist is hard-pressed to say whether the whole effect is critical or laudatory. The soldiers look manly and forthright, a vast improvement over the loafers they had once been, and the Chief might seem either demonic or merely industrious. Since an equal number of men are seen leaving as are seen entering the crucible, there is no indication that any have been lost within it. The word is that the Chief pinned this one on the wall of his office and called the Herald to compliment them on the likeness.
The other drawing portrays him as an old geezer, bent double with age and supporting himself on a crutch labeled WAR WITH SPAIN. A Latin-looking nurse wields an oversized hypodermic, injecting JINGO JUICEinto his buttocks while Joe Pulitzer, hands on hips, observes disapprovingly.
GOOD FOR THE CIRCULATION
If anything will improve circulation it is the nurse, one of Templeton’s specialties, her dress much more form-fitting than would be allowed on a white woman. Pulitzer’s World has always been merciless to the Chief, of course, accusing him of having manufactured the Evangelina Cisneros affair and of scuttling any hope of diplomatic solution in Cuba. But Old Jewseph has jumped on the war wagon so wholeheartedly himself that this can only be viewed as a purely personal attack.
So once again the Cartoonist is drawing the Eagle.
He has a knack for birds, better than any of the big salary boys, and the Chief knows it. The trick is to make them express themselves with their feathers. The Chief wants not only to rebuke the Spanish and his competitors, but to remind the readers that we need a good scrap, that this won’t be American against American, no—if certain people would just get out of the way we could step out and take our place among the Great Powers.
The Eagle, spear and arrows clutched in its talons, strains its wings as it attempts to soar skyward despite the chain around one leg, with Pulitzer and Senator Hanna and a couple of the other naysayers hauling back on it, heels dragging the ground as the mighty raptor threatens to lift them all away. His Pulitzer needs some work, a decent enough likeness but not sufficiently craven. The Eagle’s feathers, if you had to put it into words, are proud but angry. Uncle is there already, speaking to his companion yet to be drawn, President McKinley.
SHE’LL FLY IF YOU LET HER
—Sam is saying. The Chief wants the President to be uncertain but dignified. He also wants to try a small boy, an onlooker, off to one side and very much upset by the spectacle, labeled OUR FUTURE WARRIOR or something similar. The terrible effect of peace-mongering on tender minds. The Eagle is looking with furious concentration at a trio of distant islands, Cuba, Porto Rico, and Guam, each with a palm tree and a Spanish flag sticking up from them. Adding China, though in tune with the ambition of the picture, might be confusing.
And maybe Sam should have a rifle.