The McKinley-Roosevelt ticket won the election in November. Mark Hanna, a US senator and McKinley’s closest adviser, implored the president to remain healthy for the next four years, the most important thing he had to do. The moment Theodore was chosen as a running mate, Hanna had not been happy. Early in the campaign, he once blurted to associates, “Don’t any of you realize that there’s only one life between this madman and the Presidency?”38
Presidential swearing-in ceremonies during this period took place in March because of the milder weather. Theodore sat alone in the carriage as it made its way to the Capitol, where he’d take his oath of office. There exists brief film footage of this moment, Theodore sitting stoically and alone, looking ahead, not acknowledging the crowd. He doesn’t wave, tip his hat, or smile broadly. It reminds one of a funeral procession.
Another custom was for the Senate to meet for one week in March before adjourning, returning in October. This was done to avoid the oppressive heat and humidity that filled Washington in the late spring and throughout the summer. Once his four-day duty in the Senate was over, Theodore and his family would return to Sagamore Hill. For the next six months, Theodore enjoyed his days at the rambling home with Edith and the children, which helped to soothe the problems that came with his new job. Not only was the vice president basically a ceremonial figurehead, but he also could not publicly speak out on any issue without first considering how it would reflect on the administration. Anything Theodore said or did was now fodder for newspaper reporters looking to make something out of nothing. The Democratic press loved to point out his slightest mistake, taunting him. Theodore was forced to remain silent, growing to dislike the position more and more. He told Leonard Wood that the vice presidency was an “abnormal job” and felt it should be abolished. “The man who occupies it may at any moment be everything; but meanwhile he is practically nothing.”39
The Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York, opened in May 1901. It was a world’s fair covering 350 acres, celebrating the “commercial well-being and good understanding among the American Republics.” A grand canal more than a mile in length surrounded the ornate buildings, which were illuminated at night with electric power. Patrons could marvel at new machines to make life easier, as well as take a “trip to the moon.” This was the first “dark ride” attraction; for the unheard-of price of fifty cents, thirty visitors would board an “airship-ornithopter” and blast off for the moon. Along the way, they’d see views of Niagara Falls and then Earth before landing on the moon. Exiting the airship, visitors could explore the moon’s surface (a large papier-mâché set), before visiting the Man in the Moon’s palace, complete with dancing “moon maidens.”40
President McKinley had spent September 5 touring the grounds with his wife, and gave a public speech. The following day, the president returned to the exhibition and greeted the public in the Temple of Music building. The line moved through without incident, people happily shaking the hand of the president. Among those in the line was Leon Czolgosz, a disgruntled anarchist and the son of Polish immigrants. Approaching McKinley, the president noticed the man’s right hand was bandaged with a handkerchief. Reaching out to shake the man’s left hand, Czolgosz shoved his right hand toward McKinley’s body and fired twice from a .32 pistol concealed in the handkerchief.41
McKinley was rushed to a nearby hospital where surgeons found that one bullet had simply gashed McKinley’s ribs. The second bullet hit the president in the stomach but had gone through. Theodore was in Vermont attending a luncheon of the state’s Fish and Game League when he was informed of the news; he immediately left for Buffalo. Upon his arrival, Theodore was told that the doctors had managed to stabilize the president’s condition. With McKinley showing signs of improvement over the next few days, Theodore was urged to take his planned family trip in the Adirondacks.
The cabin was located in Camp Tahawus, a remote resort location within the park. Although several family members had planned to accompany Theodore on a hike to the top of a nearby mountain, inclement weather left only Theodore and a few friends to trudge on. Mist and clouds forced the group to move down to a small lake. As the group sat by the lake eating their lunch, Theodore saw a man running up the trail, holding a piece of paper.
Even before he read the telegram, Theodore knew it was serious.
That Damned Cowboy!
What a place the Presidency is for learning to keep one’s temper.
THE LAST OF TWO TELEGRAMS THEODORE RECEIVED AT THE CABIN informed him that President McKinley was sinking fast and that the vice president was to waste no time in coming to Buffalo. It was raining when he left by buckboard, enduring a rough and bumpy ride along a dark trail that, fortunately, the horses knew by memory. Even so, he urged the driver to go faster.
As the sun was breaking over the horizon, the buckboard pulled up to the North Creek train station. A train was waiting, the engine quietly hissing, holding its steam to rush its very important passenger to Buffalo. Climbing aboard, a telegram informed Theodore that President McKinley had died at 2:15 a.m. Arriving in Buffalo at 1:25 p.m., he was taken directly by carriage to the two-story home of an old friend, Ansley Wilcox. Theodore, who chose to be sworn in at Wilcox’s home instead of the residence where McKinley’s body was lying in state, took the oath of office at 3:30 p.m. on September 14. He spoke briefly with Cabinet members, later announcing to gathered reporters that all six officers agreed to remain in their positions, “at least for the present.”
“It is a dreadful thing to come into the Presidency this way; but it would be a far worse thing to be morbid about it. Here is the task, and I have got to do it to the best of my ability; and that is all there is about it,” Theodore wrote to Lodge. “I believe you will approve of what I have done and of the way I have handled myself so far. It is only the beginning, but it is better to make a beginning good than bad.”1
Mark Hanna, who was stunned by McKinley’s death, not to mention his recollection of the eerie request he had made of McKinley on Election Night, reportedly lashed out in private, “Now we’ve got that damned cowboy as President!”
Hanna was correct about one thing: Theodore would often be referred to as “The Cowboy President” by the press and the public. The earliest political cartoon portraying Theodore as a cowboy appeared in the New York World on October 31, 1886, during his campaign for mayor. Theodore is portrayed wearing chaps, boots and spurs, a bandana, and a cowboy hat, while throwing a lasso around a steam train with the face of Democratic candidate Abram Hewitt on the front of the engine. A political cartoon during Theodore’s tenure as a civil service commissioner showed the young man, clad in buckskin clothing, sitting astride a bucking horse, looking calm as his quirt, labeled “Reform Law,” is raise above his head. The saddle is labeled “Civil Service Reform,” while the haunch of the horse is branded “Spoilsman.” His hat, which has flown off his head, has a piece of paper coming out from under the brim on which appears “The Commission Means Business. T. R.” When he was governor of New York, the Denver Post illustrated Theodore, in full cowboy regalia, riding a tiger with a collar that read “Tammany” (for Tammany Hall, the Democratic Party), firing his gun. The caption read, “The Champion Rough Rider of the World.”2
For political cartoonists, Theodore’s background in the West, and his role as leader of the Rough Riders, provided them with a profusion of material. From the time of his governorship through his presidency, cartoonists usually portrayed Theodore in either Western or Rough Rider attire, a pistol on his hip or a rifle in hand. Artist Bernard Partridge of the British humor magazine Punch paid tribute to Theodore as he took over the presidency mounted on a horse, with an American flag as the saddle blanket, sporting cowboy attire. He is looking to the horizon, his right hand shielding his eyes. The caption reads “The Rough Rider.”3
Because of these cartoons and the press’s constant mention of Theodore’s days in the West, the public was quickly drawn to their new leader. His magnetic charm and
down-to-earth attitude—suffering no fools—appealed to the American citizen. Many in the Midwest and West claimed him as “one of us,” even though his total time residing in Medora between 1884 and 1887 was just north of 365 days. But he was one of them. Theodore Roosevelt’s blue-blooded mentality, apparent during his early adulthood, was quickly shed when he went west to live among the cowboys and cattlemen. His Harvard degree meant nothing to the people of the land. His political career up to that point was irrelevant to them. Who he was as a man mattered. People would judge him by how he conducted himself. They originally regarded him as a dude, something of a joke. Yet he persisted. He stayed with them, much like riding a bucking horse. Theodore came to earn their respect and trust, until they considered him one of their own. He talked a good fight, and his previous actions in other positions demonstrated he could be counted on. Now, more than ever, he had to prove to the American people that he was truly one of them.
Theodore, although publicly stating that he would carry on the plans of the McKinley administration, quickly made it apparent that it was now his administration. One of his biggest steps, which left the pro-business Republicans aghast, showed the public where this administration, and its leader, stood on behalf of the people.
Corporations at the turn of the century were the biggest employer within the United States, and some of the wealthiest. They controlled the country and the politics. When two (or more) corporations merged, they were, during this period, referred to as trusts. Trusts held monopolies on many goods and services, whether raw materials (such as sugar, cotton, and coal) or transportation. These monopolies controlled every aspect of American life and were free to charge for their products whatever price they could get away with. Without competition for goods and services in the open marketplace, the public had almost no opportunity to do business with anyone but the trusts.
In 1901, Jerome Hill, president of the Great Northern Railway, struck a deal with E. H. Harriman, of Union Pacific Railroad, to join J. P. Morgan’s Northern Pacific. Together, the trio would form the largest trust in the country, and the second largest in the world. Purchasing enough stock of Burlington and Quincy Railroad, the three men held the controlling interest, which gave them ownership of rail lines across most of the Western half of the United States. They created the Northern Securities Company, a “holding company” that would serve as a channel for the company profits, which were estimated to be $100 million a year. J. P. Morgan’s own newspaper, the New York Sun, did not release the news of the company’s formation until the stock market had closed on November 13. As word spread about the major merger, the newspapers and the public were aghast. Headlines in competing newspapers screamed that if no other merger violated the Sherman Antitrust Act, this one did, by a mile.4
Theodore was against the alliance. Contrary to common belief, Theodore was not an all-consuming buster of trusts. He was far more in favor of regulating instead of busting them, believing they were, in many cases, necessary for the good of the economy. However, this one he would not approve, seeing it as a simple power grab. Theodore realized that such a merger would hurt small farmers and businesses because railroads gave price breaks to companies that shipped large amounts of material. Businesses and farmers shipping smaller quantities received no reduction in fees. With this major merger, only higher rates could be expected for shipping, as well as higher ticket rates for passengers. Theodore instructed Attorney General Philander Knox to file a suit against the Northern Securities Company for violation of the Sherman Antitrust Act. The case moved its way through the various courts until 1904, when the Supreme Court, in a five-to-four vote, ruled that the trust violated the law and ordered it be broken up. Theodore believed that going after the Northern Securities Company would serve as a warning to other trusts to act within reason or face legal challenges.
Coal, the black, dirty mineral, was the source of power for almost everything in the United States in 1902—trains, ships, machines. Coal was used to cook food and provide heat in the winter. It was as essential to the way of life in America then as oil is today. A labor dispute in May 1902 caused anthracite coal miners to walk off their jobs, shutting down 147 Pennsylvania mines. Mine owners refused to discuss the workers’ demands, which included a pay increase, shorter working hours, and union representation. The life of a coal miner meant hard, backbreaking work, deep down in the mines where cave-ins were common. If a tunnel collapse didn’t kill a man, then slow death by “black lung” was certain. Men contracted asthma or emphysema, which aged them greatly before they were thirty—if they lived that long. Children worked in the mines for six dollars a month, straddling chutes that moved along chunks of coal at a rapid rate. Their job was to pull out the rocks, and the children often suffered serious accidents.
As the summer months of 1902 came to an end, the last of the coal reserves were delivered. Fall and winter were fast approaching; people needed coal to keep their homes and apartments warm. Trains had to move goods across the country. As fall progressed, schools were forced to close. Mobs looted any remaining coal cars.
Theodore had no constitutional right to intervene; neither would any law on the books allow him to step between the miners and the owners. Only his moral law told him he had to act for the good of the country. He summoned representatives for the miners and the owners to a meeting.5 He suggested that the workers return to the mines while submitting to the arbitration of a board chosen by the president and agreed upon by the mine owners. John Mitchell, representing the mine workers, readily agreed. The owners flatly refused. The stalemate and strike continued. It looked as if it would be a bleak winter.
“Well, I tried and failed,” Theodore wrote to Mark Hanna. “I feel downhearted over the result, both because of the great misery made necessary for the mass of our people, and because the attitude of the operators will beyond a doubt double the burden on us who stand between them and socialistic action. But I am glad I tried anyhow. I should have hated to feel that I had failed to make any effort. What my next move will be I cannot yet say.”6
His next moved involved Secretary of War Elihu Root holding a discreet meeting with J. P. Morgan. Morgan used his influence to get the mine owners to agree to an arbitration panel, while the workers went back to the mines. The mine owners were adamant that no one from labor be part of the arbitration panel. In addition, they demanded that the panel consist of an officer of the engineer corps (with military or naval service), an expert mining engineer who had coal-mining experience, a judge of the United States Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, a man of prominence (“eminent as a sociologist”), and, finally, a man active in mining and selling coal.
At first Theodore bristled at the demands, but then he saw a silver lining in this gray cloud. He proposed E. E. Clark, chief of the Brotherhood of Railway Conductors, as the “eminent sociologist.” Theodore argued that as a union leader, Mr. Clark had to have “thought and studied deeply on social questions.” Mine owners agreed, and the workers went back to work. The arbitration panel’s decision was to cut a worker’s day from twelve to nine hours, and to provide them a 10 percent pay increase. Union recognition would have to wait for another day. The strike ended just before the cold winter set in.
“I shall never forget the mixture of relief and amusement I felt when I thoroughly grasped the fact that while they would heroically submit to anarchy rather than have Tweedledum, yet if I would call it Tweedledee they would accept it with rapture; it gave me an illuminating glimpse into one corner of the mighty brains of these ‘captains of industry,’ ” Theodore wrote in his autobiography.7
With the coal strike resolved, Theodore shook off the formalities of political life and jumped back into the clothes of a hunter. He traveled in early November to Smedes, Mississippi, for a black bear hunt. Theodore had the worst luck during the next five days in finding a bear to shoot, which no doubt reminded him of his first buffalo hunt. With his inability to bag a bear, reporters were quickly painting “the great
hunter” as an inept, laughable figure in their columns. Frustrated at not shooting a bear, the newspaper coverage left him chagrined.
Holt Collier, the main guide for this trip, eventually caught a black bear, lassoing it around the neck and tying it to a tree. Theodore rushed to find a muddied, scrawny animal—a mere 235 pounds, and almost as big as Theodore himself. He flatly refused to shoot the bear, which was in very poor shape, stating it wasn’t sportsmanlike to shoot an animal that was tied up. He ordered the animal be put out of its misery.8
Reporters quickly grabbed on to the story of Theodore refusing to shoot a bear tied to a tree. The public went wild with approval, especially after Washington Post cartoonist Clifford Berryman produced a sketch of a black bear with a rope around its neck held by a hunter. Theodore’s back is turned on the animal, his gun lowered and waving a hand in disgust. Titled “Drawing the Line in Mississippi,” it became very popular. In his subsequent editorial cartoons of the president, Berryman always had Theodore accompanied by a small, cute bear cub.9
Legend has it that Morris and Rose Michtom of Brooklyn were so taken with Theodore’s compassion for the bear that they made two small stuffed bears, which they put on display in their stationery and novelty store. Both bears quickly sold. Morris Michtom reportedly wrote to Theodore asking his permission to name the bears they planned to sell after him. The president supposedly gave his blessing, although expressing doubts that his name would help sales. (There is no record of Michtom’s letter, or Theodore’s response, in the voluminous Roosevelt collections.) The couple sold the toy bears, dubbed “Teddy’s Bears,” for $1.50 each. Business was very brisk, and by 1907, the Michtoms formed the Ideal Novelty and Toy Company, which went on to become one of the biggest toy companies in the country for nearly eighty years.
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 24
