Chapter XVII: War 323 (7)

In 1895 he had been appointed police commissioner, and was already in the thick of the hard fight to reform the Police Department. He writes in August of that year: “Governor Hill and I have had two savage tilts. I have not the slightest idea of the ultimate results of our move on the excise question, but we have made a good fight against heavy odds.” Perhaps, of all the pieces of work done by my brother, none stands out more clearly than the splendid achievement of remaking the Police Department into a fine working body, for which the whole city of New York had the utmost respect, and on which it leaned for safety and protection. I have but few letters from him during that period, for, much to our delight, he was once more in our midst, and many and many a time would I go down to the old Vienna bakery on the corner of 10th Street and Broadway, and he would come from Mulberry Street, where his office was, and together we would sit over the type of lunch he loved so well: either bread and milk or a squab and _café au lait_. I can still see Senator Lodge’s expression when he joined us on one of these simple occasions, and asked in a somewhat saturnine manner whether any one _could get_ a respectable lunch at the place we loved so well! What talks we had there over all the extraordinary situations that arose in the Police Department. There he described to me the delicious humor of the parade inaugurated by the German brewer societies as a protest against his enforcement of the law. They were parading to show their disapproval of him, but at the last moment, as a wonderful piece of sarcasm, they decided to invite him to review the parade, hardly thinking that he would accept the invitation. Needless to say, he _did_ accept it, and leaning over from the platform where he had been invited to sit, he saw the mass of marching men carrying banners with “Down with Teddy,” and various other more unpleasant expletives. One company, as it passed the reviewing-stand, called out: “Wo ist Teddy?” “Hier bin ich,” called out the police commissioner, leaning over the railing and flashing his white teeth good-humoredly at the protesting crowd, who, unable to resist the sunshine of his personality, suddenly turned and, putting aside the disapproving banners, cheered him to the echo.

It was during that same time, the story ran, that two recreant policemen who left their beats at an inopportune moment were called to the realization of their misdemeanor by coming face to face, in a glass window-case, with a set of false teeth which, they explained, grinned at them with a ferocity so reminiscent of the strong molars of the police commissioner, that they almost fainted at the sight, and hastily returned to their forsaken duties. Many and many a settlement-worker told me in those days that they could go anywhere in the most dangerous parts of the city, during the administration of Theodore Roosevelt, and the police were always on hand, always ready to protect those who needed their care.

At that time also I was amused one day when he told me the story about his little Irish stenographer, a young girl whose knowledge of orthography was less than her sympathetic interest in the affairs of the police commissioner! He took a warm interest in the nice young Irish girl, hard worker as she was, an important factor in the support of a large family of younger children, and could not bear to dismiss her from his service, in spite of her alarming mistakes in spelling. He said he always had to look over her manuscript and correct it in spite of his many other cares, and he laughingly remarked that it was well he did, as having dictated the following sentence in connection with a certain policeman, “I was obliged to restrain the virtuous ardor of Sergeant Murphy, who, in his efforts to bring about a state of quiet on the streets, would frequently commit some assault himself,” the young Irish stenographer, listening to the rapid dictation, spelled “some assault” “somersault,” and, as my brother remarked, one could not but laugh at the thought of Sergeant Murphy performing somersaults like a circus clown on Mulberry Street, and, fortunately, the word caught the ever-watchful eye of the police commissioner before the report was printed, and, even in spite of the inconvenience, he set himself to work to improve the young stenographer’s mistaken orthographic efforts.

In spite of his busy days and busy nights, he had time, as usual, to write to me when he thought that I needed his care or interest. I was far from well at the time, but was obstinately determined to go up to visit my boys at St. Paul’s School, and he writes me: “Won’t you let Douglas and me go up to St. Paul’s, and you stay at home? If you will do this, I shall positively go for anniversary on June 2nd. I believe you should not go on these trips whether for pleasure or duty, and should take more care of yourself. Your loving and anxious brother.”

He himself has given in his autobiography many incidents connected with his police commissionership.

The force were devoted to him, as were his Rough Riders later, largely on account of the justice with which he treated them, and the friendly attitude which he always maintained toward them. Otto Raphael, a young Jew, and a young Irishman called Burke were two of the men whom he promoted because of unusual bravery, and their loyalty and admiration followed him unswervingly. On the sad day when he was carried to the little cemetery at Oyster Bay, Burke--now Captain Burke--had been put in charge of the police arrangements for the funeral. As he stood by the grave, the captain turned to me, the tears streaming down his face but with a smile in his blue Irish eyes, and said: “Do you remember the fun of him, Mrs. Robinson? It was not only that he was a great man, but oh, there was such fun in being led by him. I remember one day when he was governor, and I was in charge of him, and I was riding by the side of his carriage down Madison Avenue, and he suddenly stuck his head out of the window and, ‘Burke’ said he, ‘we are just going to pass my sister’s house. I want to get out and say “how do you do” to my sister.’ ‘I don’t think you have time, governor’ I said, ‘I am afraid you are late now.’ ‘Oh, now, Burke, I want you to meet my sister. Get somebody to hold your horse,’ he said; ‘it won’t take a minute.’ And with that he leaped out of his carriage and was ringing the front door-bell in a flash. I followed him and I heard him call out to you, Mrs. Robinson, that he had his friend Lieut. Burke with him, and could he bring him up-stairs to shake hands, and sure enough he did, and when I went down-stairs again I heard him telling you some story, and the two of you were laughing fit to kill. When I got back that night to my wife, I said: ‘Susan, if you are ever downhearted, all you have to do is to go up to 422 Madison Avenue when the governor stops to see his sister, and hear them laugh.’”

The commissionership was a big job well done, and the city of New York could not but feel a sense of great regret when President McKinley promoted the active young commissioner to be assistant secretary of the navy in 1897. It was his pride and one of his greatest satisfactions in later years to feel that he was instrumental in preparing our navy for the war with Spain. For many years he had been convinced that the Spanish rule in Cuba should not continue; and the condition in Cuba, he felt, was too intertwined with the affairs of the United States to be differentiated from them. In the days of President Cleveland, my brother had felt that action should be taken, and in the same way he was convinced that Mr. McKinley was only putting off the evil day by not facing the situation earlier in his incumbency. As was the case in almost every crisis which arose, either national or international, during my brother’s life, he seemed to have a prescience of the future, and, therefore, he almost invariably--sometimes before other public men were awake to the contingency--sensed the need of taking steps to avert or meet difficulties which he felt sure would soon have to be faced.

The young assistant secretary of the navy was not very popular with the administration on account of the views which he felt it his duty honestly to express. On March 6, 1898, he writes to my husband: “Neither I nor anyone else, not even the President can do more than guess. We are certainly drifting towards and not away from war, but the President will not make war, and will keep out of it if he possibly can. Nevertheless, with so much loose powder around, a coal may hop into it at any moment. In a week or two, I believe, we shall get that report. If it says the explosion was due to outside work, it will be very hard to hold the country. [He refers to the blowing up of the battleship _Maine_ in Havana harbor.] But the President undoubtedly will try peaceful means even then, at least, at first.”

At the time of the writing of that letter, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt had been very ill and was still very delicate, and my brother had not only the many worries of the department in which he was working, as he himself puts it, “like a fiend, for we have serious matters ahead,” but he also had the great anxiety of her condition on his heart. On the 28th of March: “I have been working up to the handle here, and have about all I can do on hand now. I have very strong convictions on this crisis, convictions which, I fear, do not commend themselves to my official superiors.” And again on April 2, 1898, he writes in full to my husband, who was always one of his most welcome advisers:

Navy Department, April 2, 1898.

DEAR OLD MAN:

In one way I was very much pleased at receiving your letter, for it
shows the thoughtfulness and affection you always feel for me. In
another way your letter makes it very hard for me. All my friends
have written me as you have, and yet I am convinced that you are
all wrong. Do not misunderstand me. It may well be that I can’t
get down with an Expeditionary force even if, as I think unlikely,
an Expeditionary force is started before next fall. Indeed I
think I shall probably have to stay here, and I should certainly
stay here until we got a successor broken in. But if I get a fair
chance to go, or could make a fair chance, I conscientiously
feel that I ought to go. My usefulness in my present position is
mainly a usefulness in time of peace, because in time of peace
the naval officers cannot speak freely to the Secretary and I can
and do, both to the Secretary and President, even at the cost
of jeopardizing my place. But in time of war the naval officers
will take their proper positions as military advisers, and my
usefulness would be at an end. I should simply be one of a number
of unimportant bureau chiefs. If I went I shouldn’t expect to
win any military glory, or at the utmost to do more than feel I
had respectably performed my duty; but I think I would be quite
as useful in the Army as here, and it does not seem to me that
it would be honorable for a man who has consistently advocated
a warlike policy not to be willing himself to bear the brunt of
carrying out that policy. I have a horror of the people who bark
but don’t bite. If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in
politics, or ever have accomplished it, it is because I act up to
what I preach, and it does not seem to me that I would have the
right in a big crisis not to act up to what I preach. At least I
want you to believe that I am doing this conscientiously and not
from merely selfish reasons, or from an impulse of levity.

I shall answer Corinne in a day or two. April 13th I was to have
been in Boston, but if we have trouble, I, of course, can’t get
away. I hope Corinne will stay over the following Sunday, so I may
have a good chance to see her.

Faithfully yours.

The above is a most characteristic letter. Those who were nearest to him, like myself and my husband, and even Senator Lodge, were doubtful of his wisdom in leaving his important position (I mean important for the affairs of the country, not for himself) as assistant secretary of the navy to take active part in the war, should war come, but he himself knew quite well that being made of the fibre that he was, he must act up to what he had preached. Nothing is more absolutely Theodore Roosevelt, was ever more thoroughly Theodore Roosevelt, than that sentence. “I have a horror of the people who bark but don’t bite. If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in politics, or ever have accomplished it, it is because I act up to what I preach, and it does not seem to me that I would have the right in a big crisis not to act up to what I preach. At least I want you to believe that I am doing this conscientiously and not from merely selfish reasons or from an impulse of levity.” No sentence ever written by my brother more fitly expressed his attitude toward conviction and acting up to conviction.

VIII

COWBOY AND CLUBMAN

A RHYME OF THE ROUGH RIDERS

The ways of fate they had trod were as wide
As the sea from the shouting sea,
But when they had ranged them side by side,
Strenuous, eager, and ardent-eyed,
They were brothers in pluck, they were brothers in pride,
As the veriest brethren be.

They heard no bugle-peal to thrill
As they crouched in the tangled grass,
But the sound of bullets whirring shrill
From hidden hollow and shrouded hill;
And they fought as only the valiant will
In the glades of Guasimas.

Aye, they fought, let their blood attest!--
The blood of their comrades gone;
Fought their bravest and fought their best,
As when, like a wave, in their zealous zest
They swept and surged o’er the sanguine crest
Of the heights of San Juan.

So here’s to them all--a toast and a cheer!--
From the greatest down to the least,
The heroes who fronted the deadliest fear,
Leader and lad, each volunteer,
The men whom the whole broad land holds dear
From the western sea to the east!

--Clinton Scollard, 1898.

Those April days of 1898 in Washington were full of an underlying current of excitement. Drifting toward war we certainly were, and within a very short few weeks the drift had become a fixed headway, and Captain Dewey, on the receipt of a certain telegram from a certain acting secretary of the navy, was to enter Manila Bay, and by that entrance, and by the taking of Cavite, to change forever the policy of the United States. Theodore Roosevelt had been criticised for the amount of ammunition used in practice by the gunners of the navy during the past spring. He knew only too well that the real extravagance in either army or navy comes from lack of foresight, and the fine marksmanship of the sailors and marines was to prove a feather in the cap of the young assistant secretary.

Everything was bustle and hurry toward the end of April. Within a few days the assistant secretary was to become the lieutenant-colonel of the Rough Riders, or, as they were at first called, The First U. S. Volunteer Cavalry. Mr. McKinley offered to Mr. Roosevelt the colonelcy of the regiment, but he, with modesty and intelligence, refused the offer, knowing that he was not as well fitted by experience for the position as was his friend, Mr. McKinley’s physician, that gallant surgeon in the army, Leonard Wood, who had had as a younger man so much experience in the campaign against Geronimo. The two young men, within a year of each other in age, had been friends for some time, having many tastes in common, and the same stalwart attitude of unswerving Americanism. Their friendship had been cemented during the spring of 1898 by the fact that they felt that their views in connection with the mistakes of Spain in Cuba were very sympathetic. On the long tramps which they took together on those spring afternoons, they discussed the all-important question over and over again, and also discussed the possibility of raising a regiment of men from the fearless, hardy cowboys and backwoodsmen of the West. It was no sooner known that Leonard Wood and Theodore Roosevelt were about to raise a regiment to go to Cuba than every sort and kind of individual flocked to their standard. The mobilization of the regiment took place in San Antonio, Texas.

My brother writes to me on May 5, 1898, from Washington:

“You could not give me a more useful present than the watch. It was exactly what I wished. Thank old Douglas too, for the watch and for his many many kindnesses. I hope to leave to-morrow, but Wood, who is now in San Antonio, may keep me here a day or two longer to hurry up the shipment of the troops, rifles, etc. I much want to get with the regiment to help get it into shape, but there will be many tedious and irritating delays, of course. I have about twenty-five ‘gentlemen rankers’ going with me from the Knickerbocker Club, and twelve clean-cut stalwart young fellows from Harvard,--such fine boys. I feel rather like a fake at going, for we may never get down to Cuba at all, and if we do, I do not think we shall see very serious campaigning, while proper care will prevent the serious risk of disease.”

And again on May 8:

“Kenneth turned up just in time. [Referring to my husband’s young Scotch cousin, Kenneth Douglas Robinson, associated with my husband in business, who was confident that he was doing the right thing to follow his hero, Theodore Roosevelt, into the Spanish War.] I enlisted him and sent him off with Bob Ferguson [another Scotch friend] and the rest....”

And again on May 12, after I had sent him a poem, he writes:

“My own darling sister:--I loved the poem and I loved your dear letter; it made me sure that you really knew just how I felt about going. I _could not_ stay; that was the sum and substance of it;--although I realize well how hard it is for Edith, and what a change for the worse it means in my after life. It will be bitter if we do not get to Cuba, but we shall have to take things as they come. Your own brother.”

I had doubted whether it was his duty to go to Cuba, feeling it might be even more his duty to remain in his important and difficult position of assistant secretary of the navy, but Theodore Roosevelt would not have been his true self unless he had practised what he had preached so vigorously.

Kenneth Robinson writes on May 17 from San Antonio:

“Theodore has been drilling us the last few days. The men always do their best when he is out. He would be amused indeed if he heard some of the adjectives and terms applied to him, meant to be most complimentary but hardly fit for publication. We certainly are a curious aggregation,--cavalry men, cowboys, college men, etc.”

And Bob Ferguson, our very dear friend who had made America his home, and was like a member of our family, writes early in June:

“You should see some of the broncho busting that has been going on daily in camp;--the most surprising horsemanship, and though it cost about a man a day at first, knocked clean out, the busted-rate is now diminishing. The men, as you can imagine, are well satisfied with their commanders; Theodore has a great hold on them, and before long he will be able to do anything he likes with them. The Army officers said they had never seen such a body of men. One of the troops from Arizona came almost entirely from one large ranch; they all know each other and will fight shoulder to shoulder. Our own troop--‘K’ was rather a gay affair at first, a little gang of Fifth Avenue ‘Dudes’ having constituted themselves as leaders before Theodore arrived, but now it has a large number of first rate cow-punchers and sheriffs drafted into it, and has been increased one-third beyond its normal strength. We are more or less intelligent, and are looked to as the possible crack troop.”

It is interesting to look back and remember that that Company “K” was indeed a “crack troop,” and the writer of the above lines became one of its most gallant officers. What a body of men they were! The romance of mediæval days was reborn in that regiment, and the strange part of it all was that they had so much of chivalry about them, in spite of the roughness of the cowboys, in spite of the madness of the bronco-busters, in spite, perhaps, of another type of madness injected into the regiment by the Fifth Avenue “Dudes”; still, that body of men, as a whole, stood out for gallantry and courage, and gentleness of spirit wherever gentleness of spirit was needed in the hard days to come. There was a poem written at that time, “The Yankee Dude’ll Do,” and I remember the little thrill with which I read it, realizing how the names that up to that time had been connected with rather gay and useless lives became bywords for hard, persistent work “to make” good in the various companies.

Theodore himself writes to me on June 7 in camp near Tampa, Florida:

“First Regiment, U. S. Volunteer Cavalry.

“We are on the point of embarking for Cuba. Yesterday I thought I was going to be left, and would have to stay on this side during the first expedition for they intended to take but four troops. Now, however, they intend to take eight, and unless the transports give out, I shall go. I need not say how rejoiced I am, for I could not help feeling very bitterly when it seemed that I would be left. This really is a fine regiment, and Count Von Goetzen and Capt. Lee, the German and English Military Attachés, watched our gun drill yesterday in camp with General Sumner, and all three expressed what seemed to be sincere astonishment and pleasure at the rapidity with which we had got the men into shape. I wish you could see how melancholy the four troops that remain behind feel; it is very hard on them. I had the last two squadrons under my care on the harassing journey on the cars and it was no slight labor. How I would like to have Douglas as an officer in this regiment with me. He would take to it just as I do.

“Well, if our hopes are realized, we sail tomorrow for Cuba, but nobody can tell how many of us will get back, and I don’t suppose there is much glory ahead, but I hope and believe we shall do our duty, and the home-coming will be very very pleasant for those who do come home.”

How my heart ached as I read those last words and realized that the chances, in all probability, were strongly against his coming home again.

On June 12:

On board U. S. Transport _Yucatan_.

DARLING CORINNE:

I suppose it is simply the ordinary fortune of war for the most
irritating delays to happen, but it seems to me that the people at
Washington are inexcusable for putting us aboard ship and keeping
us crowded to suffocation on these transports for six days in
Tampa Harbor, in a semi-tropical sun. The men take it with great
resolution and good humour, but if we are kept here much longer,
it cannot fail to have a bad effect upon them. We have been
dismounted, but I care nothing for that if only we are sent, and
given a chance to get into the game. I wish you could see or could
have seen us at some of the crises when, for instance, we spent all
night standing up opposite a railway track, waiting for a train to
come, and finally taking coal cars in the morning.

On the 14th he writes to my husband:

“We are about to sail and as we are at the mouth of the harbor, it is hardly likely that we can be recalled.... It has been most interesting even when the work was irritating and full of worry. The regiment is a wonderful body of men and they have taken to discipline with astonishing readiness and are wild with eager enthusiasm. Those of us who come out of it safe will be bound together all our lives by a very strong tie. You may rest assured I haven’t the slightest idea of taking any risk I don’t feel I absolutely must take.”

There was no doubt of the strong tie that bound the Rough Riders, as they were later called, together. We always teased my brother when, as President, he would suddenly announce that “Happy Jack of Arizonia,” or some such erstwhile comrade, was eminently fitted for a position for which the aforesaid “Happy Jack” did not seem to have strong qualifications. How they loved their leader, and how that love was returned! Whenever my brother spoke of his “regiment” a note of tenderness came into his voice such as might be heard in the voice of a woman when speaking of her lover.

That same day, June 14, Bob Ferguson wrote to me:

“Theodore is absolutely radiating. He just lent me ‘Vanity Fair’ in return for a box of peppermints, and it has been queer just at this moment to read about old Curzon street and the Brussels’ Ball; but Becky made us laugh more than ever after reading nothing but Tactics or a local newspaper for several weeks.... This country is becoming the laughing-stock of the world at present, and the German experts really do not believe the United States can fight. It will bring on big world complications unless they show their power soon.”

The above opinion is interesting in the light of what the German experts again felt about the United States before we entered the Great War in 1917!

On June 15 a letter dated in the Gulf of Mexico runs as follows:

“We are steaming southward through a sapphire sea, wind-rippled under an almost cloudless sky. There are some forty-eight craft in all, in three columns,--the black hulls of the transports setting off the gray hull of the man-of-war. Last evening, we stood up on the bridge and watched the red sun sink and lights blaze up on the ships for miles ahead, while the band played piece after piece from the Star Spangled Banner (at which we all rose and stood uncovered) to The Girl I Left Behind Me. It is a great historical expedition and I thrill to feel that I am part of it. If we fail, of course, we share the fate of all who do fail, and if we are allowed to succeed, for we certainly shall succeed if allowed, we have scored the first great triumph of what will be a world movement. All the young fellows have dimly felt what this means, though the only articulate soul and imagination among them belong, rather curiously, to Ex-sheriff Capt. Buckey O’Neil of Arizona.”

The above Buckey O’Neil, leaning over the rail at sunset, would often quote Browning, my brother used to tell me, or Whitman, or even Shelley. He was a real “Bret Harte” character, and one of my brother’s greatest griefs in the days to come was that that gallant officer was amongst the first to fall. He had just exposed himself to Spanish fire somewhat unnecessarily, and my brother said to him: “Get down, Buckey; I cannot spare you.” The other laughingly replied, “There isn’t a bullet made that can kill me, Colonel,” and literally, as he spoke, a stray shot struck him and he fell dead across my brother’s knees. But to return:

June 20, 1898--Troop Ship near Santiago.

All day we have steamed close to the Cuban coast; high
barren-looking mountains rise abruptly from the shore, and at this
distance look much like those of Montana. We are well within the
tropics and at night, the Southern Cross is low above the horizon.
It seems too strange to see it in the same sky with the friendly
Dipper.

And then later:

June 25, 1898--Las Guasimas--

Yesterday we struck the Spaniards and had a brisk fight for two
and a half hours before we drove them out of their position. We
lost twelve men, killed or mortally wounded, and sixty, severely
or slightly wounded. Brodie was wounded,--poor Capron and Ham Fish
were killed; one man was killed as he stood beside a tree with me,
another bullet went through a tree behind which I stood and filled
my eyes with bark. The last charge I led on the left using a rifle
I took from a wounded man. Every man behaved well; there was no
flinching. The fire was very hot at one or two points where the men
around me went down like nine-pins. We have been ashore three days
and were moved at once to the front without our baggage. I have
been sleeping on the ground in a mackintosh, and so drenched with
sweat that I have not been dry a minute day and night. The marches
have been very severe. One of my horses was drowned swimming
through the surf. It was a fierce fight; the Spaniards shot well,
but they did not stand when we rushed.

We received the details of the fight of Las Guasimas on the 4th of July, I remember, and all night long I sat on my piazza on Orange Mountain, thinking, with a strange horror, of the danger in which my brother had been and still was.

On June 27, 1898, another letter, this time dated Santiago:

“We have a lovely camp here by a beautiful stream which runs through jungle-land banks. The morning after the fight, we buried our dead in a great big trench, reading the solemn burial service over them, and all the regiment joined in singing ‘Rock of Ages.’ The woods are full of land crabs, some of which are almost as big as rabbits; when things grew quiet, they slowly gathered in gruesome rings around the fallen.”

Bob Ferguson also adds interesting evidence to the courage of the First Volunteer Cavalry under fire.

Las Guasimas--June 25, 1898.

Theodore and Wood are more than delighted with the conduct of the
men. You never heard such a hail of shot. The enemy, of course,
knew when we would be in the jungle, and we could only guess their
whereabouts. Their volleys opened up from all directions. Theodore
did great work skipping from one troop to another, and directed
them as they were deployed, but we can only trust that this kind
of thing won’t happen too often, for fear of results. It was, in
fact, a surprise party, however, an expected one. Our men rushed
into a known ambush with the careless dash of the cow-puncher.
Once in, they literally had to hug the ground while the trees
above and beside them were torn to shreds.... Theodore has marked
the Spaniard all right--and the name of his regiment will never
be spoken of any too lightly. They really did not understand
fear and would willingly repeat the dose tomorrow. Poor Ham
Fish,--he was such a good-hearted, game fellow, and I got to like
him ever so much on the way down;--it is more than much now!--The
Spaniards showed any amount of skill in their tactics, and only the
extraordinary grit of our men undid their calculation, together
with the good work of a parallel column of Regulars, who cleared
the Spaniards off a flanking ridge in the forest in the finest
style--otherwise they could have out-flanked us on either side and
given us Hell in open sight. So far, it seems like fighting an
army of invisible Pigmies.... Kenneth was awfully good yesterday
after the fight. He was the first to volunteer to help the wounded
when the entire troop was too exhausted to move;--he carried them
for hours until his back gave out.... We really did splendidly
yesterday. The Regulars are to have their turn now. We have been
blooded ourselves. We lost too many officers. One little fellow,
shot right through both hips, was the greatest little sport. He
refused to be attended to until others were made comfortable,
and he lay and smoked his pipe patiently. One man walked to the
hospital with five wounds:--in the neck, right shoulder, right
hand, left thigh, and one other.

It is a matter of interest to print the above extracts, for even when my brother wrote his book called “The Rough Riders,” he could not give quite the spirit which the letters, penned at the moment of the happenings, can so fitly interpret. Bob Ferguson again, on July 5, gave an important description of my brother:

Before Santiago, July 5, 1898.

We have been having the devil of a fine time of it, shooting
Spaniards, and being “stormed at by shot and shell.” When I caught
up with Theodore, the day of his famous charge, (having been held
in the reserve line until tired of being pelted at from a distance)
“T” was revelling in victory. He had just “doubled up” a Spanish
officer like a jack-rabbit, as he retreated from a block house....
That same evening, having reached the most advanced crest possible,
with about 300 men, and having the whole Spanish Army firing at
us from their entrenchments around the city, the summit of our
ambition was almost reached.

Theodore moved about in the midst of shrapnel explosions like
Shadrach, Meschach & Sons in the midst of the fiery furnace,
unharmed by the vicious Mauser balls or by the buzzing exploding
bullets of the Irregulars.... Theodore preferred to stand up or
walk about snuffing the fragrant air of combat. I really believe
firmly now, that they cannot kill him. It looks, too, somewhat
as if they would not get a chance for a spell, for our lines are
around the Spanish Dog’s throat, and he will be smothered by our
fire in a moment should the fight open once more. It would seem
a shame now to have to damage them any more, for they say the
streets are full of wounded and spent balls shower among them....
Theodore has sure made his mark on the Spaniard,--and the Rough
Riders [the regiment had already ceased to be called the First
Volunteer Cavalry, and was never again known as anything but the
Rough Riders] will _remain_--pitching bronchos and all, afoot
or on horseback!... The “bob whites” whistle all around these
plantations, and transport one straight back to Sagamore Hill on a
summer’s day. The mountains here are glorious; the valleys, a dream
of drooping palms, and dark, cool, shaded mangroves clustered; soft
bamboo waves near the creeks and smiling ridges, once all under
cultivation.

My brother himself, in a letter dated from Santiago, July 19, 1898, writes:

“Darling Corinne:--‘Triumph tasted’!--for that, one will readily
pay as heavy a price as we have paid; but it is bitter to think
that part of the price was due to the mismanagement of those in
authority. The misery has been fearful. Today, out of my four
hundred odd men in camp, one hundred and twenty-three are under
the doctor’s care. The rest of the six hundred with whom I landed
are dead or in the rear hospitals. I cannot explain the breakdown
of the transportation service, the commissariat, or the hospital
service.”

I quote the above letter for the special purpose of recalling to my readers the fact that Colonel Roosevelt was much criticised later for instigating the writing of a “round-robin” letter in the summer, urging the authorities to bring home the regiments after the victory was won. Due to the “breakdown” which he describes, the men were dying like flies, and had that “round robin” (severely censured by my brother’s enemies) not been written, had the authorities at Washington not decided to follow the suggestions of Theodore Roosevelt and order our gallant men back from their death-trap, very few of that expedition to Cuba would have lived to tell the tale. At the end of the above letter, after describing in full the sufferings of the men because of lack of care, he says:

“They have been worn down by the terrific strain of fighting, marching, digging in the trenches, during the tropical midsummer; they have been in the fore-front, all through, they never complained though half-fed and with clothes and shoes in tatters; but it is bitter to think of the wealth at home, which would be so gladly used in their behalf if only it could be so used. They are devoted to me, and I cannot get their condition out of my thoughts. If only you could see them in battle, or feeding these wretched refugee women and children, whose misery beggars description. [Did I not say that these wild, strong men of the West were gentle in heart as well as fierce in courage!]

“Well, it is a great thing to have led such a regiment on the crowning day of its life. Young Burke [Eddie Burke] is well and is a first-class man and soldier. I like and respect him. Bob earned his promotion. The New York men have stood the strain well. I felt dreadfully about Kenneth’s wound that day, but I was near the line, with my men, nearest the Spaniard, and I could not have gone back or held back for my own son. No man was ahead of me when we charged or rushed to the front to repel a charge; and indeed, I think my men would follow me literally anywhere. In the hard days I fared absolutely as they did, in food and bedding,--or rather, the lack of both. Now, yellow fever has broken out in the Army and I know not when we shall get away, but whatever comes, it is all right and I am content. Love to little Teddy and all the others. Your brother.”

The same day he wrote my husband:

“Two of our men have died of yellow fever. We hope to keep it out of camp, and if we succeed, I trust we shall soon get to Porto Rico. Whatever comes, I cannot say how glad I am to have been in this. I feel that I now leave the children a memory that will partly offset the fact that I did not leave them much money. I have been recommended for the Colonelcy of this regiment, and for the medal of honor. Of course, I hope to get both, but I really don’t care very much, for the _thing itself_ is more important than the reward, and I have led this regiment during the last three weeks, the crowning weeks of its life. There is nothing I would have exchanged for having led it on horseback, where, first of all the army, we broke through the enemy’s entrenchments. By the way, I then killed a Spaniard myself with the pistol Will Cowles raked up from the _Maine_. Of the six hundred men with whom I landed, less than three hundred are left; the others are dead or in the hospital; the mismanagement has been beyond belief.”

Alas, how sad it seems that the mismanagement should have been beyond belief at such a time!

On July 27 a letter dated “First Regiment, U. S. Volunteer Cavalry, in camp near Santiago de Cuba,” was received by my husband. A very characteristic letter it was, full of the joy of a fight well fought, and full also, of that tremendous human sympathy with his men, combined with an intelligent practicality which resulted later in the “round robin,” requesting that the men who had fought so bravely, should not be allowed to die of disease unnecessarily by being retained for no good reason in the broiling heat of a Cuban summer.

“Dear Douglas,” he writes, “we had a bully fight at Santiago, and though there was an immense amount that I did not exactly enjoy, the charge itself was great fun. Frankly, it did not enter my head that I could get through without being hit, but I judged that even if hit, the chances would be about 3 to 1 against my being killed.

“As far as the political effect of my actions;--in the first place, I never _can_ get on in politics, and in the second, I would rather have led that charge and earned my colonelcy, than serve three terms in the United States Senate. It makes me feel as though I could now leave something to my children which will serve as an apology for my having existed. [How much his existence needed an apology!] In spite of the strain, and the anything but hygienic conditions under which we have lived, I am in very good health. If we stay here all summer, we shall have yellow fever among us, of course, but I rather think I will pull through that too. I wish they would let us go to Porto Rico, or if not, then let me get all my regiment together in Maine or somewhere like that and get them in trim for the great campaign against Havana in the Fall. I wish you could see these men. I am as proud of them as I can be, and I verily believe they would go anywhere with me. They are being knocked down right and left, however, with the fever. I shan’t take any risks unless I really think I ought to, and now, I begin to believe that I am going to get home safely.”

A letter from Bob Ferguson about the same time backs up his future position in regard to moving the men, and reiterates:

“It was a glorious spin, over trenches and barbed wires instead of oaken panels, however. One never expects to see the like again;--Corinne and Anna must have suffered terribly from Theodore’s wild, whirlwind career! His courage all through was so simple and so true to him. The Spaniards laughed at the Cubans, and said they had no fighting to do until the Americans came;--they ‘kept on coming.’ One officer told Colonel Wood that the Americans were ‘magnanimous, brave, and ferocious.’ If Cervera had stayed in harbor with his ships, we would have been in the devil of a hole between starvation and fever. It is lucky things went as they did.”

And again, on August 6, he writes to me:

“These dreary Cuban days and dark and dismal nights are drawing to a close for the time,--Thank the Lord and Theodore. [The much-criticised “round robin” had had its effect.] It is hardly fair to damn this country that way, however, for in reality, it is most inexplicably beautiful. In the sunshine of the morning, when once in a while an almost refreshing breeze comes, then the tropical valleys bask and smile in the most enticing luxuriance, and entrance one into lazy dreams of fairy-land. The mass of the scarlet acacia, the trails of morning-glories, and lilies, and the hot growth of all kinds,--above all, the graceful and kingly royal palm and his harem, the slender, tall, clustering bamboos,--are all lovely. These things by moon-light were simply inexpressible; however, the real side of nature is deadly sun, over-whelming, drenching rain, dark, drizzly mist and dew, fever, malaria, filth, disgust with everything. Well, this is at an end now, and almost time it were, for there would not be many left to tell the tale if left here all summer as the President and Secretary proposed to leave us only a couple of days ago, but Theodore ‘sicked one’ as your Stewart’s whole pack of pup-dogs could not commence to do. If we take a final fall, it will be at Havana in the autumn and not with yellow fever, if we can help it, here at Santiago. You all had a dreadful time of it, probably far worse than we merry men of the Greenwood. Honestly, while it is all going along and when there is an advance, the spirits rise amazingly and one trips forward as gaily as in Sir Roger or any other airy measure. That, however, is the one really satisfactory sensation. Lying passive in reserve, and being searched and found by the long-range mausers and shrapnel in the bushes, is not so cheerful an occupation; in fact, it is a low proceeding altogether.

“Whooping along from time to time ‘thoro bush--thoro brier,’ with a wildish throng, firing, cheering, laughing, and running,--that, is a very different story, and holding the advance point in spite of orders to retire (!) is another thing to make even novices chuckle inwardly when they once feel they can do it,--but Theodore was the sparkle to all that fun.

“I could make your flesh creep, however, with horror; meanwhile, you can picture to yourself in pleasant nightmares, flocks of vultures and buzzards, the dead and wounded lost in the tangled growth,--and swarms of crabs,--great big land crabs with one, enormous, lobster-like claw, creeping, rustling, scuffling thro’ the dried aloes and palmettoes.... War never changes its hideous phantasms. The heroism of even modern men (and none the less of the women who let them go) is the one thing to glory and hope in. We pack up tonight. My love to all.”

And so ended the brief and glorious career of the Rough Riders, a career which has about it a touch of Roland and Robin Hood. These letters, written _at the time_, are valuable refutations of some bruited questions, and the very people who criticised certain actions of my brother, _at the time_, would be the first, I verily believe, now, to wish they had withheld their criticism.

The depleted regiment, emaciated beyond words, returned to Montauk Point on Long Island, and my husband and I came down from the Adirondack Mountains to meet them at Camp Wyckoff. What a night we spent in a Red Cross tent at the camp! How we talked! How good it was to greet the gallant men again, so many of whom we knew and loved, and how infinitely interesting to come in contact with the wild Westerners about whose courage and determination my brother had written such glowing accounts.

In the last letter my brother wrote to my husband from Santiago, the sentence “As for the political effect of my actions, I never can get on in politics” was soon to be refuted, for hardly had he arrived at Montauk than the politicians flocked surreptitiously to sound him as to the possibility of his running for governor of New York State, but that’s another story!

The throb of parting from their leader was soon to be experienced by the gallant men who had followed Theodore Roosevelt so eagerly in the Cuban jungles. Picturesque to the end, the mustering out of the Rough Riders, under blue autumnal skies at Montauk Point, was the culmination of its romantic career, and many a ferocious fighter and wild bronco-buster turned from the last hand-clasp of his colonel with tears in the eyes which had not flinched before the fiercest Spanish onslaught.

IX

THE ROUGH RIDER STORMS THE CAPITOL AT ALBANY

THE MAN WHO CAN

(Old Saxon for “The King”)

WRITTEN OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT

How shall we know “the man who can”?
(That was the Saxon phrase, they say.)
Nay, perchance we shall find the man
Close to our hearts and lives to-day!

Soldier and patriot, strong of hand,
Keen of vision to know the time,
Quick and true to the hour’s demand,
Poet, too, without rune or rhyme!

Poet, because through mists of sin
He finds the best as it yet shall be.
Faces evil, yet dares begin
To _live_ the good that his soul can see.

Speech like an arrow, swift and straight,
Strength that smites to the core of wrong;
Smile that mocks but an adverse fate,
Heart of a boy, that leaps to song.

Honor scornful of life or place,
Courage brightest in sordid strife;
Such is the man whose first, best grace
Was the simple crown of a stainless life!

--Marion Couthouy Smith.

It could not have been a pleasant thought to Mr. Thomas Platt (the acknowledged Republican boss of New York State, and a most interesting and unusual personality) when he realized that the tremendous popularity of the colonel of the Rough Riders would force him to accept the suggestion of some of the Republican leaders that this same colonel should be the Republican nominee for governor that autumn of 1898. The dash of the Rough Riders up San Juan Hill was not more strenuous than Theodore Roosevelt’s sudden and unexpected storming of the Albany Capitol. What an autumn it was! Every imaginable obstacle was put in the way of his success. He was accused of not having paid his taxes; he was bitterly impugned by a certain number of his former friends and adherents--Independents--who did not believe that he should accept the “regular” nomination, and many and varied were the battles fought about and around his personality.

The whole campaign had to be arranged so suddenly and hurriedly that all kinds of amusing, although sometimes unpleasant, contretemps occurred. One remains clearly in my mind. There was to be held near Troy a country fair. Its date had apparently not been determined upon before my brother had agreed to speak at what promised to be a large colored meeting the evening of the same day on which the fair was to be held. My brother had not expected to have to go to the fair, but a sudden summons came, saying that it was very important that he should appear and make an out-of-door speech to a large concourse of up-state farmers. He was torn from Oyster Bay at an abnormally early hour and dashed up to Troy. Meanwhile, the newspapers of Albany and Troy had announced that he could not be present owing to his engagement for the evening in New York. The consequence was that the attendance at the fair at the time he was supposed to speak was almost nil, and he returned to New York much depressed at the apparent lack of interest. I came in from my country home to dine with him and go to the colored meeting. The colored people were especially enthusiastic about my brother’s candidacy, because the Tenth Regiment of regulars, a colored regiment, had stormed San Juan Hill side by side with the Rough Riders. The meeting scheduled had been widely heralded, and we started for the hall with the conviction that although the _day_ had been a failure the _night_ was going to justify our highest expectations. Arriving at the hall, one old man with a long gray beard, sitting in the front seat, was apparently the total of the great audience that had been promised. My brother and I waited in the little room near the platform, anxiously peering out every now and then, hoping that the hall would soon be filled to overflowing, but no one came, and after an hour and a half of disheartening disappointment, we shook hands warmly with the faithful elderly adherent--who had remained silently in his seat during this period of waiting--and left the hall. My brother, in spite of distinct distress of mind, turned laughingly to me as we walked rapidly away and said, quoting from Maria Edgeworth’s immortal pages: “Little Rosamund’s day of misfortunes!” The next day the morning newspapers announced that the evening newspapers had given the misinformation that the Republican candidate for governor would not be able to return from the Troy fair in time for the colored meeting, an announcement which had so discouraged the colored folk that only one old man had been true to his colors!

From that day on, through the strenuous campaign, my brother was known by the family entirely as “Little Rosamund.”