The Rough Rider

by Gilbert, Morris

  “No sense talking to him—he’s got his mind made up.”

  “I was afraid it would be that way. Frankly, Aaron, I don’t know that anyone could dissuade him.”

  Aaron finished his breakfast, and then rode into town with his uncle. He got out at the front of the imposing building that housed the New York Journal, the flagship for Hearst’s newspaper kingdom, and said cheerfully, “Maybe I can catch a ride back with you. I don’t think my interview with Hearst will take long. I’m tired of the Yukon, and I don’t know much about it anyway.”

  “All right. Come by my office when you’re ready to go,” said Mark as he flicked the lines, and the carriage started down the street.

  Aaron moved through the large doors and entered into the bustling, noisy world of a big-city newspaper. Wherever he looked, nobody walked. Everyone ran as though they had forgotten how to walk. Somehow, Aaron was certain that not all the running was necessary. It was the charged ambience that did something to people. He had read a dime novel or two about the world of newspapers, and would not have been terribly surprised if someone had come rushing in, screaming, “Hold the press!” Nobody did, however, and he made his way to the second floor, where he found the office of William Randolph Hearst. It sat in one corner, occupying the full end of that floor. A small, supercilious man with a hairline mustache looked up disdainfully from a desk as Aaron approached. “I’d like to see Mr. Hearst,” Aaron said pleasantly.

  “So would a lot of people.” The voice was almost a sneer, and with one finger the man caressed his mustache. He did that several times, as if he had to assure himself that it still existed. His eyes looked twice their size through the thick spectacles that perched on his wiry nose.

  “I think he’s expecting me,” Aaron said mildly. The behavior of the clerk amused him. “He sent word to my uncle—Mr. Winslow, Vice President of the Union Pacific.”

  “Oh, I see.” The clerk took one more loving stroke with his finger on the mustache, then said, “If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if Mr. Hearst can see you.” His voice sounded as though he were completely and totally certain that Mr. Hearst would do no such thing. And it was obvious to Aaron that the man enjoyed stopping anyone who dared to interrupt Mr. Hearst’s busy schedule. The clerk turned and minced his way through the door after knocking softly.

  Aaron walked about the spacious office, noticing that the walls were ornamented with large pictures. They were all paintings of horses jumping over fences. Aaron studied one of them carefully and said aloud, “That fellow doesn’t know how to paint horses.” Then he heard the door close silently and turned.

  “Mr. Hearst will see you.” The clerk seemed miffed and sat down and began writing on a sheet of paper.

  Aaron passed through the door and found Hearst standing beside a window, staring down at the traffic. He turned at once, his pale eyes revealing nothing, though his lips turned up in a rather formal smile. “Well, Mr. Winslow—you got my message, then?”

  “Yes, I did, Mr. Hearst. But if it’s about the Klondike—”

  “No, no!” Hearst waved his hand airily, dismissing all of the gold rush with one gesture. “That’s taken care of. Sit down, won’t you?” He waited until Aaron took a seat in a large leather chair and said, “Actually, I have something quite different to talk to you about. I was having lunch with your uncle the other day, along with several other businessmen. Mark Winslow tells me that you have a brother who is going to fight in the war.”

  “I’m afraid so!” said Aaron, wondering what Hearst wanted from him.”

  “Afraid so?” Hearst raised his eyebrows and lifted his head. He had a long nose and long face, and now he raised his long fingers and laced them together. “Don’t you believe in the war?”

  Diplomatically, Aaron said, “I just got back from the Yukon. All we heard there was that the battleship Maine got blown up and a lot of Americans were killed.”

  “Oh, there’s more to it than that—much more, I assure you! And we’re going to do something about it, too. I’ve thrown every ounce of power of this newspaper into this business, and it’s rolling now like a juggernaut.”

  “It seems so. Everywhere I go I hear gums flapping just to get the war started.”

  “Exactly!” Hearst came over, leaned back on the walnut desk, crossed his arms, and stared down at Aaron. “Tell me about your brother,” he said abruptly.

  Taken aback, Aaron gave a brief history of his family, adding, “Actually, my parents sent me to New York to talk Lewis out of joining the army.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “His mind’s made up. He’s going and that’s that!”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Hearst stood up straight, walked over to the window, and stared down for a few moments silently. Finally, he turned back and the grin on his face touched his eyes. “Would you like to go with him?”

  “Go with him? Why, I have no idea of doing such a thing, Mr. Hearst!” said Aaron, surprised at the man’s sudden offer.

  “I can tell you two reasons why you should,” said Hearst as he walked back to his desk.

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  Hearst held up one long forefinger and touched it, saying, “First, you can’t keep him from going, but if you go with him, at least as an older brother you can try to look out for him.”

  Aaron stared at Hearst. “Well, I suppose that’s true. Although I’m not sure how much help I’d be.”

  “At least you’d be there. I know how younger brothers are. Your uncle Mark told me that he’s quite an idealist. It’d be like him, Mark said, to go charging in with all guns blazing and get himself killed over some romantic idea of his.”

  “That sounds like Lewis, all right,” Aaron admitted. He thought about it for a moment. It was an idea that had not occurred to him, but now that Hearst had mentioned it, somehow it seemed . . . right. “What’s the other reason?” he asked quickly.

  “The other reason,” Hearst smiled, “is that you’re a young man who needs a job—and I have an offer to make to you.”

  “You mean, working for the paper?”

  “Exactly!” Hearst grew excited. “I’ve hired the finest talent in the world! The finest journalists from around the world are going to cover this war. Stephen Crane is going to be there—and Richard Harding Davis has an exclusive contract with my paper to go and report the news. Frederic Remington, the great artist, has accepted an offer to go and do sketches of the war. . .” Hearst went on, bending back his long fingers as he named the large group he had enlisted to cover the Spanish-American War. As he talked, a smug smile of satisfaction settled on the man, who thoroughly enjoyed the power and influence he had to shape people’s lives to benefit his domain.

  When Hearst slowed down, Aaron said in a puzzled tone, “Well, you certainly don’t need another reporter—which I’m not anyway!”

  “Ah, but I want to touch every base! I want to portray every angle,” Hearst exclaimed. “Look here, Aaron! Those fellows I mentioned are all professional reporters, standing off somewhere a mile away when the action takes place. What I would like,” he said slowly, “is to have the story of the war told by someone right in the throw of it. A private—right where the actual shooting takes place. You see how exciting that could be! Why, everyone would read it!”

  “Has it ever been done before?” asked Aaron, feeling drawn into the man’s excitement.

  “I don’t know, but it’s going to be done now.” Hearst came to stand before Winslow, saying, “You’re perfect for the job. Your story about the Klondike—it was well written, factual, and very readable. That’s the kind of real-life story my readers want to read about.”

  “I read your version of it—the one that was printed. It was much more exciting than the original,” Aaron remarked dryly.

  “Oh, that—well, we have to remember that our readers need a bit of excitement. That’s what they thrive on. Anyway, what do you think of the idea? Will you accept my offer?”

  Aaron st
raightened himself in his chair slowly and thought for a moment. He wasn’t an impetuous young man, but now the impulse to land a job with some adventure was very strong. Finally, he looked up and grinned. “Lewis is supposed to be the romantic one, but we’re talking about a salary, I suppose.”

  “Yes, in addition to what you’ll get from your regular army pay. You’ll do it, then?”

  “All right, I will! But from what I hear, it’s hard to get in.”

  “That’s true. There are too many volunteers. Shows the stuff our young Americans are made of! But I think I can help you with that.”

  “Lewis is dying to join Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. I don’t suppose there’s a chance we can do that?”

  “More than a chance! Teddy loves to be in the spotlight. He’d do anything for publicity. He’d love to have someone right beside him writing up his heroics for the American people. I’ve already thought of that,” Hearst smiled happily. “I’ll write him a letter of introduction, and you and your brother can deliver it to him personally. Roosevelt’s training his unit of men in San Antonio. Go find your brother and get down there as quickly as you can—I’ll see you get tickets on the train.”

  “Do you really think he’ll let us in, Mr. Hearst?”

  William Randolph Hearst stared at Aaron. A smile turned the edges of his thin lips upward in a smirk.

  “Young man,” he proclaimed firmly, “that cowboy will do anything to get his picture in the paper!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  An Army Is Born

  Its official designation was First Volunteer Cavalry Regiment, but the unit Teddy Roosevelt drew together was known to the public and the men involved as the Rough Riders. San Antonio, Texas, had become the mustering point for the regiment—partly because it was good country to buy horses.

  Aaron and Lewis had arrived after a few sleepless nights on a train that had been jammed to capacity. Disembarking at the station, it had been simple enough to find their way to the camp, for everyone they met was talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s army. “They’re going to put the run on them Spaniards,” a scrawny station agent informed the two men when asked for directions. “Don’t think you fellows can get in, though. Everybody’s trying and nobody’s making it.”

  Aaron, however, reached inside his coat and felt the weight of the letter from Hearst in his inner pocket. Aaron went out to the busy street to employ a carriage while Lewis gathered their bags. Throwing them in, he and Lewis then proceeded to the camp. “Look at that dust!” Lewis said with excitement as they approached the encampment. “Gosh, there must be a thousand horses running around!”

  “I guess so,” Aaron said. When they’d paid the driver and set their bags on the ground, he stopped a sergeant, asking, “Where can I find Colonel Roosevelt?”

  The sergeant, a tall, rawhide individual, studied them, and then answered with a careless, nasal Texas twang. “Right down yonder,” he pointed. “You ain’t gonna miss ’im. He’s likely to be on a horse.”

  So indeed they found Roosevelt riding a mottled brown-and-white horse. He was wearing a khaki army uniform that was wrinkled beyond recognition, and his brimmed hat was pinned up on one side in the fashion of a white African hunter. Aaron could see his white teeth flashing and hear his shrill voice rising over the sound of horses racing by. “Probably be hard to catch him not busy,” he said to Lewis. “Might as well brace up right now.”

  Aaron marched over, accompanied by Lewis, ignoring the two lieutenants who glared at him. “I have a letter here, Colonel Roosevelt, from Mr. William Randolph Hearst of the New York Journal.”

  Roosevelt settled his glasses more firmly on his nose and stared down at Aaron. “Hearst? Let me see it!” He grabbed the letter, tore open the envelope, and scanned it rapidly. When he glanced up, he looked the two men over carefully. “You know what this letter says?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Colonel. I hope you’ll find a place for us. We’re anxious to serve with you.”

  Roosevelt crumpled the letter up and closed his mouth for a moment over his prominent teeth. He stared at the two men, his smallish eyes gleaming. “Got no time for excess reporters,” he snapped vigorously. “But if you can soldier I can use you. Can you ride?”

  “Yes, sir, we both can,” Aaron said quickly. He knew Lewis was a poor horseman, but this was no time to bring that up. “We’re fit and in good shape, Colonel. And we’re good shots, too!” He hoped that Roosevelt would not ask them to prove their marksmanship, for he himself was only mediocre with a gun and Lewis was not much better.

  Roosevelt jammed the letter in his pocket and said, “Not a bad idea—getting the reporting from a soldier’s point of view. That’s what Hearst wants,” Roosevelt explained to his two lieutenants. “Put these men in a good squad where they can be close to the action.”

  A wave of relief washed over Aaron, and he nodded quickly, “Thank you, sir!”

  Roosevelt yanked his horse’s head around and rode off in a wild gallop, calling out directions to a group who were assembling a small herd on the perimeter of the camp.

  “You two come with me,” the officer said. “I’ll get you fitted out. I’m Lieutenant Baines and you’ll be in my company.”

  The rest of the day went like a whirlwind. Aaron and Lewis received uniforms, rifles, and were given a chance to prove their horsemanship. Lieutenant Baines was not overly impressed by what he saw.

  Lewis was given a mount that had been barely broken in, and he almost got bucked. The officer shook his head in disgust and grunted, “Most of the fighting will wind up being done on foot, anyhow. There is too much of a jungle for cavalry. Go on down to the rifle range and tell Sergeant Hawkins I said to teach you how to shoot.”

  As they walked away, Lewis said, “I can’t believe it!” His eyes were gleaming, and he was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “We’re actually Rough Riders, Aaron! Why, there must be twenty million fellows that would give anything to be in our shoes!”

  Aaron could not help feeling a little infected by Lewis’s excitement. He’d reached this point under duress, but now that it was started, he found himself drawn to it. “Well, we’ve got one job that’s more important than anything else,” he said cautiously.

  “What’s that, Aaron?”

  “To come out of this thing alive. Dead is a long time!”

  “Oh, we’ll be all right,” Lewis explained cheerfully. “Let’s go down and start shooting.”

  They took their turns at the firing range, faring better there than they did at riding green broke mounts. When they finished, they walked to the large mess tent that had been set up and ate a supper of tough, poorly cooked beef, along with the inevitable beans. Lieutenant Baines assigned them a small tent on the outer perimeter of the encampment. Lewis went to sleep at once, but Aaron lit a short candle and sat up with his back braced against a pole. By the flickering yellow light, he pulled out a small notepad and began to write with a stub of a pencil:

  There’s never been an army quite like this. I read in the paper that Roosevelt said it’s the most typical American regiment that’s ever marched or fought, that it even includes a score of Indians. But this isn’t exactly the way it is. I’ve never seen such an assortment of men. We’ve got Ivy League football players, Indians and Indian fighters, quite a few lawmen, including one former Marshall of Dodge City, a national tennis champion, and quite a few professional gamblers have joined the regiment. There’s a little bit of everything. A lot of the cowboys are pretty colorful. They’ve got names like Cherokee Jack, Rattlesnake Roger, and Happy Harrigan. We even have some Texas Rangers in the outfit.

  He paused and looked at what he’d written. I don’t have any idea how to write about this, he thought wearily. There’s never been a war like this. Weariness caught up with him and he put his writing materials away and lay back on the narrow cot. The sounds of the camp came to him, horses milling in the corral not far away, sometimes one of them lifting a shrill whinny over the night. The call
of a guard floated to him from far down the line. Hundreds of men all sleeping, waiting to set sail and head into battle. There was something about the quiet and the peace of the air that seemed deceitful. The world was not really like this—quiet and peaceful; it was full of hardships, danger, death, and heartache. A man had to savor these peaceful times when they came—put them in a secret part of his mind so that he could draw on them when things got really tough.

  Glancing over at Lewis, Aaron felt a sudden wave of affection for this younger brother of his. I’ve got to keep him safe, he thought almost desperately. I’ve just got to!

  ****

  The response to President McKinley’s call for a hundred and twenty-five thousand volunteers had been overwhelming. Over a million men had wanted to enlist. However, two men were singled out and promptly drafted. Fitz Lee, nephew of General Robert E. Lee, was a portly sixty-three-year-old West Pointer who had not worn a uniform since that day in April 1865 when he’d led the last Confederate charge at Farmville, Virginia. He was chosen because he’d acquired a comprehensive knowledge of the Cuban situation.

  But the most unusual choice of all came when President McKinley sent an invitation to a former Confederate. Joseph Wheeler arrived at the White House one day in a fine black Brewster Phaelon buggy, pulled by a large black gelding. He looked like a frail, little old man as he was helped down. He was sixty-one years old, and he drew himself up to his five feet five inches. His hair was neatly trimmed and his beard was snowy white. The dark-suited doorman took his hat and cane and ushered Wheeler in to meet with the President. McKinley came around from the large desk in his office and shook Joe Wheeler’s hand, saying, “General, I’ve sent for you to ask if you want to go—and if you feel able to go.”

  At once, Joseph Wheeler heard the sound of bugles from his youth. He’d led charges against the Federals with all he had in him, and now said briefly, “Yes, Mr. President. I’m honored that you’ve considered me. And I will serve this country that I love so much to the best of my ability!”