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CHAPTER 15

The Red Letters

      THE SPRING of 1455 was a desperate, joyless season in Mainz and the surrounding towns. Half the small nobles in western Germany were at war with each other, and every traveler brought fresh news of more fighting. Peasant farmers were kidnaped by roving bands of hired soldiers and forced to take part in nameless battles, on behalf of causes they never understood. Laborers and wood-cutters were found murdered beside the roads, and whole villages were burned to the ground. And nobody seemed to know who was responsible.

      Then came rumors of other strange events: in a distant part of the country, a mob of starving peasants had marched on a nearby castle, killed all the duke's men at arms, stolen everything they could carry and set fire to the rest! (And how and why were so many people starving in a countryside filled with rich farms.)

      Although no fighting took place near the city of Mainz, its citizens were deeply uneasy. Travel decreased, and by late spring, shipments of metal and cloth became less frequent, and the materials themselves went up in cost. Milk and fruit grew scarce, and before hot weather arrived, the price of grain had doubled.

      The mayor sent petitions for help to the noble dukes and lords in the surrounding countryside, but no help was forthcoming. And when Peter's best typesetter left to spend the Easter season with his mother in Bingen — only twenty miles away — he never returned. Letters of complaint to King Frederick went unanswered, and at last the citizens of Mainz began to talk of hiring soldiers to protect the city, in case of attack.

      In addition to the trouble caused by undelivered supplies, Peter had more personal causes for concern. The printing work went forward in fits and starts . . . and he was waiting despondently for word of Christina's marriage.

      As for Gutenberg, he showed no surprise when he heard that Peter had managed the impossible and wrung an extension of time from Johann Fust. He was too busy developing new type to print the big capital letters.

      They had all been warmly enthusiastic over the idea.

      "We can use woodcuts," Zell had cried at once. "We'll strike in each one by hand, and the artists can touch up the type when they illuminate the rest of the page!"

      "I was thinking that we might use an engraving process," Peter suggested. "Artists have been using the technique for some years. An engraving has a beautiful, delicate line, and it would let us include much more detail."

      "No, we should cast the type just as we do for the regular letters," Gutenberg said quickly. "We'll set the letters in forms of the same size and run each page through the press a second time."

      Mentelin nodded. "The great capitals will be much larger and more complex than the letters we're already using. The red ink will have to be of a different consistency, so it will spread properly and leave a smooth impression."

      "We'll keep trying until we get what we need. It will have to be mixed separately anyway — it's red, not black."

      The old man was exhilarated by the new ideas and eager to them into action. He began designing the type at once. Mentelin and Zell were set to work making the molds and punches they would cast from, while Peter continued supervising the rest of the work.

      As soon as the first red capitals were finished, more printing materials were ordered, and experiments began, using the new type.

      Unfortunately, instead of speeding up production, work on the Great Bible was moving more slowly than ever. Sheet after sheet of paper was wasted as they tested out inks and adjusted the position of the new initials on the page. What's more, while the press was being used to print the tall, red letters, the printing of the black body type had to wait its turn.

      By this time, it was full summer, and Peter was almost desperate.

      He went to Gutenberg. "Sir, there are only a few months left, and hundreds of pages are waiting to be printed. We need to build a second press."

      Gutenberg frowned. "Still worried about your friend, the banker?"

      Peter ignored this sarcasm. "We have to finish the Great Bible before harvest time," he answered steadily.

      "Of course we do," Gutenberg agreed. "I want to finish it too. But you must be patient, my boy. I've been working on this process all my life, and it takes time."

      Patience? More than a dozen men had been at work on this for three years, Peter thought. We've been working day and night! In that amount of time, they could have produced almost forty Bibles by writing them by hand with quill and ink!

      Aloud, he said, "Sir, I understand that some delays can't be avoided, but right now, we're actually producing fewer pages each day that we used to. While you're using the press for the new color work (and yes, I know that I was the one who suggested the change), the black-type work must wait, and the workmen are doing nothing. What's more, every time we switch from red ink to black — or black to red — the press has to be cleaned meticulously, and that takes still more time. A second press would solve the whole problem."

      Gutenberg shrugged. "Then by all means, build a new press, if you wish. But I doubt that old Fust will approve the expense."

      "He'll have to," Peter said grimly. "We must finish the Bible before the harvest comes in this autumn! We've given our lives to this work, and we must have something to show for it! Not only for Mr. Fust." (He thought briefly of Christina.) ". . . But for you, Sir. And for me, and for Mentelin and Zell — and for the whole world! Sir, the world needs our printing, and it can't wait much longer!"

     


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