THE COWBOY PRESIDENT

by Michael F. Blake

  When the Civil War began in April 1861, it tore families apart— including the Roosevelts. The Bulloch family’s loyalty fell to the Confederacy, while Theodore Sr. was a confirmed Lincoln-Union supporter. With Martha awaiting the birth of their fourth child, Theodore Sr. faced a decision that many men, in both the North and the South, were confronting. Martha’s brothers had joined the opposition; adding to the tension, her mother and sister were now living with them. For Theodore Sr. to march off and fight against the Confederacy would place tremendous strain on his marriage, not to mention the possibility of his having to fire on one of his in-laws in battle. Therefore, like others who had the financial means, Theodore Sr. paid a bounty and hired a substitute to serve in his place.8 To help in the war effort, Theodore Sr. sponsored a civilian commission that visited various military camps, urging soldiers to set aside money to send home instead of spending their meager pay with unscrupulous sutlers.

  Corinne always believed Theodore was forever disappointed that his father chose not to fight for the Union, while his uncles defended the Confederacy. (A teenaged Theodore reportedly said he would have fought for the Union if he had been old enough.) Interestingly, his autobiography omits any mention of his father’s choosing not to fight in the Civil War and his work on civilian committees. Theodore’s tendency to completely ignore something that was painful to him would become very obvious in two decades. It also explains why he was so fervent in wanting to be part of the Spanish-American War, forming his own group of army volunteers.

  In 1865, at the age of seven, Theodore’s interest in natural history took hold of him. Passing an outdoor market one day, he spied a dead seal laid out on a slab of wood. The mammal filled “me with every possible feeling of romance and adventure.”9 He eventually obtained the seal’s skull, and with two cousins quickly established the “Roosevelt Museum of Natural History.” Two years later, Theodore wrote a detailed thesis (with illustrations) entitled “Natural History of Insects,” detailing “their habits from observ-a-tion” of ants, spiders, fireflies, beetles, and dragonflies. He soon found himself mesmerized by birds, reading every book he could, taking profuse notes, and sketching meticulous drawings. Theodore, much to the distaste of the household help and his mother, also took up taxidermy. (None of the Roosevelt children attended school, having private tutors to oversee their educational needs.)

  When Theodore turned twelve, his father, concerned that his son was still frail and reedy, told the boy he had to expand his body as he had his mind. Young Theodore took the advice to heart, and with the tenacity he would display in his adult life, began to remake his body. The second-floor piazza was set up with all sorts of athletic equipment, and, very slowly, the exercises began to show results. During a trip to Maine, Theodore learned a humbling lesson. Another asthma attack sent him on his own to Moosehead Lake, where two boys his own age bullied and picked on him unmercifully. Finally standing up to defend himself, the two boys, he wrote later, handled “me so as not to hurt me much,” and prevented him from inflicting “any damage.” Returning home, he asked to learn the art of boxing, which was taught to him by former prizefighter John Long. Theodore, by his own admission, was a “slow and awkward pupil,” but stayed at it. “I can see his rooms now, with colored pictures of the fights between Tom Hyer and Yankee Sullivan, and Heenan and Sayers, and other great events in the annals of the squared circle,” he recalled in his autobiography.10 During his presidency, Theodore was boxing with an army officer one day when he received a hard blow, leaving him blind in his left eye. He never mentioned it, fearing it would result in a backlash against the officer.

  Theodore’s father planned another European excursion in October 1872, focusing not only on parts of Europe, but also Egypt and the Holy Land. (Their first visit was in 1869–70.) For Theodore, the land of Egypt was filled with adventure. “At eight o’clock we arrived in sight of Alexandria. How I gazed on it! It was Egypt, the land of my dreams. . . . It was a sight to awaken a thousand thoughts, and it did.”11 He rode an Arabian horse he named Grant over the sands. He said the animal was “very swift, pretty and spirited.” He found the Jordan River to be, in his eyes, the equivalent of a small creek back home. As the family cruised up the Nile River, Theodore noted in a letter to his aunt Anna (Mittie’s sister) that “I think I have never enjoyed myself so much as in this month. There has always been something to do, for we could always fall back upon shooting when everything else fails us. And then we had those splendid and grand old ruins to see, and one of them will stock you with thoughts for a month. The templ[e] that I enjoyed most was Karnak. We saw it by moonlight. I never was impressed by anything so much. To wander among those great columns under the same moon that had looked down on them for thousands of years was awe-inspiring; it gave rise to thoughts of the inef-fable, the unutterable; thoughts which you cannot express, which cannot be uttered, which cannot be answered until after The Great Sleep.”12

  It was during this monthlong cruise that Theodore shot his first African bird. “I have had great enjoyment from the shooting here . . . As you are probably aware Father presented me on Christmas with a double barreled breech loading shot gun, which I never move on shore without, excepting on Sundays,” he wrote his aunt Anna.13 It was the beginning of Theodore’s fascination with hunting, not to mention mounting his trophies. He associated hunting with manliness; it was a way of proving oneself against nature, a rite of passage into adulthood. The characteristics found in Basil, the hero of Mayne Reid’s The Boy Hunters, are mirrored in Theodore. For Basil, the chase of the quarry is the biggest thrill, even more so than the actual killing. The danger the chase provides stirs his emotions. It was the same for Theodore, who always found the chase the most exciting part of hunting.

  “The chase is among the best of all national pastimes; it cultivates that vigorous manliness for the lack of which in nation, as in the individual, the possession of no other qualities can possibly atone,” he wrote in the preface of The Wilderness Hunter.14 Like many events in his life, hunting a wild beast was a test of his ability, to prove to himself that he could do it, and succeed.

  Theodore turned fifteen as his family sailed back to America in the fall of 1873. After a year and a half of private tutoring, Theodore passed Harvard’s entrance exams and was accepted into the class of 1880. He had designs to major in natural sciences, and his father advised him that if this was his chosen field, he would have to take it seriously. Theodore also understood that if he selected science as a career, he “must abandon all thought of the enjoyment” a moneymaking career could offer, and “find my pleasures elsewhere.”15 At the university, Theodore became disillusioned with their approach to natural sciences, which “utterly ignored the possibilities of the fauna naturalist, the outdoor naturalist and observer of nature.” Harvard treated biology as a science of the laboratory and microscope, something that a man with Theodore’s energy could not tolerate. He had to be outside, observing and watching nature in its element. For him, working in a laboratory was akin to sitting in a jail cell. “There was a total failure to understand the great variety of kinds of work that could be done by naturalists . . . . My taste was specialized in a totally different direction, and I had no more desire or ability to be a microscopist and section-cutter than to be a mathematician. Accordingly, I abandoned all thought of becoming a scientist.”16

  In his first year, Latin and mathematics proved to be his shortcomings, and he had to make a mad scramble to keep up his grades. His memory was very good (some said it was close to photographic), especially when it was something that interested him, such as poems and the common names of birds. Basically, whatever stimulated his interest, he never forgot.

  Harvard students who took a first glance at Theodore that freshman year were left with an odd impression. He wore his sideburns in the muttonchops style; he ran from one class to another (it was considered bad form to run anywhere at the university); he had a high voice, and was oblivious to the others students’ loud shenaniga
ns while he studied at the library—not to mention his hobby of conducting taxidermy in his room. However, his personality and growing charisma soon won over his detractors. Theodore became a member of the Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity, joined the Porcellian Club in his junior year (membership was the highest social honor at the university), and served as the secretary in the Hasty Pudding Club. He was also president of the literary fraternity, Alpha Delta Phi, and vice president of the Natural History Society.

  Theodore longed to play football, but not only did his myopic eyesight prevent him, his slight build and lack of coordination also left him on the sidelines of most sports. However, hiking, rowing, and riding horses filled him with great delight. Classmate Richard Welling recalled that he agreed to accompany Theodore ice-skating one afternoon. Welling, having observed his friend’s slight build while exercising at the school gymnasium, thought their excursion on the ice would be short-lived. The ice on the pond proved to be very rough, and the wind bitingly harsh. After a few minutes on skates, Welling thought to himself, Theodore would have enough. Instead, the bespectacled skater had a grand time, exclaiming, “Isn’t this bully!” Welling wanted to quit, but Theodore showed no signs of letting up. The harder the wind blew, the better Theodore liked it, continually exclaiming how “bully” it was. Only when darkness fell did Theodore call it a day.17

  Theodore Sr. began experiencing intestinal cramps in late October 1877. His condition worsened in early December, when he collapsed, with doctors believing he had acute peritonitis. Theodore Sr. did his utmost to hide his discomfort from his children—especially Theodore. “I am very uneasy about Father,” Theodore wrote to his sister Bamie on December 16. “Does the Doctor think it anything serious? I think that a traveling trip would be the best thing for him; he has always too much work on hand. Thank fortune, my own health is excellent, and so, when I get home, I can with a clear conscience give him a rowing up for not taking better care of himself.”18 Arriving home for the holidays, the son naturally worried over his father’s condition, yet on Christmas Day, he noted in his diary that his father was “much better.”

  Theodore returned to Harvard after the holidays, unaware how dire his father’s condition really was. It was not acute peritonitis but a malignant tumor in the bowels that had left him screaming in agony.19 Late Saturday afternoon, February 9, Theodore received a telegram instructing him to come home immediately. Hopping the overnight train, he arrived in the morning to find his father had passed away shortly before midnight. “I feel that if it were not for the certainty, that as he himself has so often said, ‘He is not dead but gone before,’ I should almost perish,” Theodore wrote in his diary on February 12.20

  Theodore Sr. left a long shadow for his children to fill. He had been a well-known philanthropist over the years, creating the Roosevelt Hospital, Bellevue Training School for Nurses, and the New York Orthopedic Dispensary for the Deformed and Crippled. He was a heavy donor to the YMCA, and founded the Children’s Aid Society, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the American Museum of Natural History. On Sundays, he would teach in mission schools in the morning, while in the evenings, he served supper at the Newsboys’ Lodging-House, which he also helped found. He took urchins off the street and, with the help of his Children’s Aid Society, sent them to work and live on farms in the West. An oft-told story described Theodore Sr., with a fixed expression, walking into the offices of a business colleague. Seeing his determined look, they would simply ask, “How much this time, Theodore?”21

  Theodore’s father left him an inheritance of $125,000, which would be paid out annually in the sum of $8,000 per year. While it was a healthy amount for the time, it did not give him complete financial independence, but Theodore splurged, purchasing fine suits and, in his senior year, a horse and buggy.

  During the early days of September 1878, he met a man who not only had an impact on his life, but with whom he formed a friendship that lasted until Theodore’s death. William Sewall was an authentic woodsman, complete with a full beard. As a boy, he had learned the ways of the woods and was an expert with an ax. A respected logger, he also worked as a guide in the Maine woods. Theodore met him when he traveled to Island Falls for a hunting expedition on the recommendation of his old tutor, Arthur Cutler. Sewall, aware of Theodore’s health issues, was doubtful the young man could handle the outdoor rigors, but he was quickly proven wrong.22 For three weeks, the two men canoed, hiked, fished, swam in lakes and creeks, hunted, and camped. Theodore enjoyed every minute of it.

  Sewall took a liking to Theodore almost from the start. He told his nephew, Wilmot Dow, that Theodore was “a different fellow to guide from what I had ever seen.” Theodore was always obliging and never complained, even though it was obvious that he did not always seem up to snuff. (Decades later, Theodore admitted that in Sewall’s company he would have been ashamed to have complained.) Sewall noted years later that people said Theodore was headstrong and aggressive, but he never found him to be that way except when necessary. “I’ve always thought that being headstrong and aggressive, on occasion, was a pretty good thing,” he commented.23

  For Theodore, Sewall was just like the frontiersmen he had read about in books—a living, breathing version of Crockett, Boone, and Natty Bumppo combined. (Sewall felt that his nephew, Wilmot, was a much better guide and hunter than he was.) Thirteen years older than Theodore, Sewall became the young man’s mentor, showing him the ways of the woods, and also becoming the older brother Theodore never had. In Sewall’s words, they “hitched well” from the beginning. Not only was he a gifted woodsman, but he was also well read and, like Theodore, a lover of heroic literature. The two would swap quotes from books as they paddled a canoe or hiked a trail.

  In October of that year, Theodore’s life took another change. He fell in love.

  Alice Lee was a seventeen-year-old beauty from a Boston family. She was tall and energetic, with pale blue eyes framed by golden curls and a smile that many said just radiated. (Because of her intoxicating smile, family and friends nicknamed her “Sunshine.”) They met at a party given by a friend and fellow Harvard classmate, Richard Saltonstall. Theodore was immediately smitten. “A very sweet, pretty girl” is how he described her. After spending Thanksgiving in her company, Theodore, in his typical fashion, vowed he would win her heart. It was a venture that would, at times, drive him “nearly crazy,” as Alice, although fond of her pursuer, played coy with her true feelings. To distract himself from Alice’s just-out-of-reach commitment, Theodore began writing what would become the first of his thirty-seven books, The Naval War of 1812, in December 1879.

  “I am so happy that I dare not trust in my own happiness,” Theodore wrote in his diary on January 20, 1880, regarding Alice’s accepting his proposal of marriage.24 Ten days before their wedding, he wrote to Alice, “Oh my darling, I do so hope and pray I can make you happy. I shall try very hard to be as unselfish and sunny tempered as you are, and I shall save you from every care I can. My own true love, you have made my happiness almost too great; and I feel I can do so little for you in return.”25

  They were married on his twenty-second birthday, October 27, 1880, at Brookline Unitarian Church. Spending a brief two-week honeymoon in Oyster Bay, New York, the newlyweds moved into the Roosevelt family home on Fifty-Seventh Street, occupying the third floor. The couple’s official honeymoon began in May 1881, when they traveled to Ireland, England, France, Germany, Holland, and Switzerland. During their stay in the latter country, Theodore climbed the famous Matterhorn in two days. Ironically, just before he graduated from Harvard, a doctor examined him and found he had an irregular heartbeat. The physician advised his young patient to eliminate any strenuous activities. Typically, Theodore ignored the warning.

  In June 1880, Theodore ranked number 21 out of 177 students at his graduation from Harvard. That fall he enrolled at Columbia Law School, but the practice of law lost its appeal for Theodore, who felt the teach
ings in the textbooks and classroom were “against justice.” Examining his prospects, he felt limited. He enjoyed writing, but it could not sustain him and his wife. He had some interest in politics, but it wasn’t the type of career a well-raised, cultured young man entered. The well-to-do regarded politics as a job for “lower types,” such as saloon owners and laborers, although the wealthy did not hesitate to throw cash at a candidate that benefited their own interests. The profession of politics was a hard, often bruising, engagement—much like life in the West. Parties were run by an organization, not gentlemen. The term political machine was used to describe the groups that ran the Democratic and Republican parties. Tammany Hall was one of those political organizations, controlling the Democratic ticket in New York City. Such organizations would deliver votes for a chosen candidate in return for favors, such as lucrative city contracts, ignoring certain criminal acts, or creating a job as a favor. To reciprocate, the chosen candidate was assured of winning handily, plus receiving monetary favors.

  The headquarters of the Twenty-First District of the Republican Party Association was situated above a saloon on Fifty-Ninth Street. They called it Morton Hall, which catered to businessmen and professionals, albeit a different caste than one would find on Fifth Avenue. It became the church of Theodore’s political baptism.

  Joseph Murray was one of those lower-society people the well-to-do ignored—unless they needed a political favor. A refugee from the Irish famine, Murray had fought in the Union Army, and later was recruited by Tammany Hall to help deliver votes for certain candidates. Murray, a street fighter, was not one to shy away from a confrontation in order to get a man elected. The power brokers in Tammany Hall had promised Murray many things for his help but never delivered. That was their mistake. Offended by their failure to keep the promises made to him, Murray switched to the Republican Party and made use of the same tactics he had used to help the Democrats. The result was that the Republicans won heavily in the next election, much to the dismay of Tammany Hall. Always on the lookout for a new candidate who would serve the Republican Party (and his own efforts), Murray soon settled on Theodore. When he suggested that the young man run for the State Assembly on the Republican ticket, Theodore jumped at the idea.