THE COWBOY PRESIDENT

by Michael F. Blake

  In typical fashion, Theodore jumped into the job with the intention of making a difference. The other two appointed commissioners were not the type of men to lead, let alone ruffle anyone’s feathers. This meant that if any reform or change were to happen, it would be up to the young man from New York. Shortly after the new commissioners were sworn in, their attention was called to a case in Indianapolis, which was a prime example of corruption infesting the civil service. Three ex-employees, all corrupt lackeys, had been fired with cause by a postmaster, who happened to be a Democrat. When a new postmaster was installed—a Republican—the three were rehired solely because of their political party affiliation. Theodore went to Indiana, where he forced the three men to resign, and left the postmaster chagrined.6

  The postmaster general, John Wanamaker, was not pleased with Theodore’s action. Wanamaker actively supported the “spoils system,” taking advantage of the government to further one’s own purposes. To men such as Wanamaker, reform was a dirty word, and a dangerous attitude. Frank Hatton, a former postmaster general, was the current editor of the Washington Post, and was actively against any effort to reform the civil service. Using his position, Hatton continually castigated Theodore’s reform-minded actions in the press. Ironically, one of Hatton’s attacks and deceptive claims led to a congressional hearing into the allegations of abuse and corruption by the civil service commissioners, namely Theodore.

  The charges against Theodore related to his securing a job in the Census Bureau for one Hamilton Shindy (known as “Shady Shindy”), despite the man’s violation of his oath of office, making false certifications, and not reporting violations of the Civil Service Law.7 Shindy admitted to approving tests without checking the answers, at the urging of his superior. After Theodore assured him his job would be protected, Shindy agreed to testify against his boss. Once he was finished testifying, Shindy was promptly fired, which angered Theodore. Despite Shindy breaking the law, Theodore felt obligated to uphold his promise. Contacting the Census Bureau, Theodore asked if they could give a position to Shindy. In Theodore’s eyes, Shindy had kept his word and testified, and Theodore, who had given his word, could not turn his back on the man. That would have been a violation of his code of honor. It was utterly unthinkable to him to do anything else. Even though he believed Shindy was a fool to have broken the law, Theodore, like the people in the West, kept his word. The prosecutor, aided by Hatton, did his best to smear Theodore, but failed. Charges against Theodore were proven false, and he was exonerated.

  Despite enforcing the law, and making some small headway in reform, Theodore quickly tired of his civil service commissioner position. Wanamaker and others did everything they could to thwart any major reform Theodore proposed. He was determined to continue in his efforts and would not give his detractors any satisfaction in forcing him out of office. However, a new job offer surfaced on April 17, 1895. Newspapers informed the citizens of New York City that Theodore, at the age of thirty-six, had been appointed as one of four new police department commissioners, taking the seat of president.

  Police officers were doubtful that this young man with a wide smile, bristling mustache, and glasses would do much to eliminate corruption in the department. They soon learned otherwise. Theodore quickly instituted changes, including creating bicycle patrols (bicycling had become a new fad in America during this period), and installing telephones in every station house for faster communication. Officers were required to be able to read and write. Theodore created meritorious service medals, and instituted a policy that every officer had to display proficient use of firearms after rigorous training. (It was during this period that the NYPD established one of the first police academies in the United States.)

  Theodore’s biggest challenge was the department mentality of allowing corruption to taint the officers. “I have the most important, and the most corrupt, department in New York on my hands,” he informed Bamie in a letter. “I shall speedily assail some of the ablest, shrewdest men in this city, who will be fighting for their lives, and I know well how hard the task is ahead of me. Yet, in spite of the nervous strain and worry, I am glad I undertook it; for it is a man’s work. But I have to stop my fourth volume [of Winning of the West] for the time.”8

  One way Theodore rooted out corruption filled him with delight. He took “midnight walks,” accompanied by friend and newspaper reporter, Jacob Riis. On these walks, usually sporting a cape or greatcoat, hat, and a cane, Theodore would prowl the streets, looking for officers not performing their duties (sleeping on the job) or, even worse, breaking the law (drinking on the job, gambling, or obtaining favors from prostitutes). His midnight prowls became so effective that the city newspapers began using Theodore’s likeness in editorial cartoons. The image of a big mustache, wide, square teeth, and glasses became synonymous with Theodore for the rest of his life. “I am immensely amused and interested in my work. It keeps me so busy I can hardly think,” he told Bamie. “These midnight rambles are great fun. My whole work brings me in contact with every class of people in New York, as no other work possibly could; and I get a glimpse of the real life of the swarming millions. Finally, I do really feel that I am accomplishing a good deal.”9

  The Sunday Excise Law, which began in 1857, forbade saloons from selling alcohol on Sunday; however, it was rarely enforced, or simply ignored. Theodore believed all laws, no matter how unpopular, must be enforced. The law was the law, with no exceptions. If the public was unhappy with a law, they could protest to their elected officials to have it repealed. Until then, all laws would be fully imposed. On June 10, 1895, Theodore instructed all his officers that the Sunday Excise Law would be thoroughly enforced, adding that even if they felt the law was “a bad one,” the police must pursue the law “to the letter.”10

  Imposing the Sunday Excise Law did not sit well with the working-class citizens of Manhattan, who looked forward to having a drink (or two) on Sunday—their only day off. For German immigrants particularly, the thought of going without beer with their Sunday dinner was unthinkable. Saloons ignored threats of being shut down, but when officers swarmed in to serve warrants and order doors closed, it was apparent that Theodore was not bluffing. A group of Germans formed a parade to protest the enforcement of the law. The participants and viewers did not expect Theodore to show up, feeling certain that he would hide from such open dissent, like most politicians. As he had done in Medora when Eldridge “Jerry” Paddock had threatened to kill him, Theodore faced his critics head-on by attending the protest. Watching the procession, he smiled at the placards that denounced him. A chorus of voices from the crowd chanted in German “Where’s Roosevelt?” Without missing a beat, Theodore replied, in German, “I am here!”11

  One day Jacob Riis and Lincoln Steffens, a reporter with the New York Evening Post, walked into Theodore’s office to ask him if he was planning to become president. Theodore jumped from his chair. “Never, never, you must never either of you remind a man at work on a political job that he may be President. It almost always kills him politically. He loses his nerve; he can’t do his work; he gives up the very traits that are making him a possibility,” he lectured them. Author Bram Stoker, of Dracula fame, saw Theodore at a literary dinner and in the police courts. His diary comments about Theodore sound like a description of the hero in a Western novel. “A man you can’t cajole, can’t frighten, can’t buy,” he noted.12

  Despite the ups and downs in his jobs, Theodore found happiness at Sagamore Hill and with his growing family. In addition to Alice Lee, his first son, Theodore Jr., was born on September 13, 1887. Theodore and Edith would have four additional children: Kermit (October 10, 1889), Ethel (August 13, 1891), Archibald (called “Archie”; April 9, 1894), and Quentin (November 19, 1897). Theodore loved them all, but it was apparent that Quentin was Theodore’s favorite, possibly because the boy was so much like his father—curious, adventurous, and rambunctious. By all accounts, all of the children were well loved by their parents, although Alice often
felt like an intruder. In later years, presidential meetings held at Sagamore Hill came to a complete halt at four o’clock in the afternoon, with Theodore announcing it was his time to play with his children. They would hike, roughhouse in the fields, climb trees, swim, row boats, and collect insects. Pillow fights would break out in any room at a moment’s notice, along with anything else that delighted all of them, especially Theodore. These same adventures, and more, would also take place at the White House. One of the more-accurate, and interesting, descriptions about Theodore came from his friend, British ambassador Cecil Rice Spring, who said, “You have to remember, the President is about six.”13

  Theodore’s service as New York City police commissioner eventually became more of a headache than a delight; many city politicians viewed his efforts as more troublesome than effective. When reform-minded officials were defeated in the election and replaced by Tammany Hall lackeys, Theodore lost his base of political support. Theodore’s biggest headache was a fellow commissioner, Andrew Parker, who did everything possible to stymie any proposed progress. Again, however, as he had done when serving as a civil service commissioner, he refused to resign, and the mayor, at least publicly, stated he would not fire him.

  When Republican William McKinley won the 1896 presidential election, Theodore hoped to be appointed assistant secretary of the navy. While his friends rallied on his behalf, this time Theodore had a big hurdle to conquer—McKinley himself. Although grateful that Theodore had spoken on his behalf during the presidential campaign, McKinley was wary of the young man’s pugnacious reputation, not to mention his overly vocal support of the United States’ taking military action if a situation called for it. Theodore quickly assured McKinley and Secretary of the Navy John D. Long that he would adhere to administration policies. He even offered to stay at his Washington office during the summer months. This was music to Long’s ears, who preferred to spend time tending his garden at his Massachusetts home than dealing with politics. With Long’s approval, on April 6, 1897, McKinley appointed Theodore assistant secretary of the navy at a yearly salary of $4,500. Secretary Long’s precarious health did not always allow him to handle a majority of the details of his position, let alone show up at the office. It fell—most happily—on Theodore to run the navy department. Relishing every moment, he pored over naval maps, studied ships, ordered expansion of the naval fleet and dry docks, promoted those who earned it, and fired the incompetent.

  A potential war with Spain was on many people’s minds in the spring of 1897. Spain’s draconian actions in Cuba and the Philippines had many concerned, but McKinley, a Union veteran of the Civil War, wanted to avoid armed conflict if at all possible. By June, calls for military action against Spain were gaining momentum over their treatment of Cubans rallying for independence. Cuba, which had been a Spanish colony for over four hundred years, was ever present in the newspapers that detailed Spain’s atrocities against men, women, and children. McKinley refused to take any steps against Spain because the country had done nothing to warrant American military intervention. Support for the Cuban rebels’ bid for independence was growing in many European countries, however, and it was just a matter of time before the United States would be pushed into action. When rioting escalated in Havana, President McKinley sent the battleship USS Maine to Cuba in January 1898. He assured Spain that the ship’s visit was not a hostile act but was done only to protect “United States businesses and interests.” As the Maine sat in the Havana harbor without incident, scuttlebutt among the sailors was that they would soon head to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras.

  Everything changed on the evening of February 15, 1898. An explosion obliterated the forward third of the Maine, and within minutes the ship settled to the bottom of the harbor, killing a total of 262 men. Although no one could exactly state what had caused the blast, many, including William Randolph Hearst’s New York Morning Journal, declared a Spanish mine was the culprit.14 Calls of “Remember the Maine !” filled the streets, newspapers, and offices in Washington. War fever swept the country. Hearst sent several reporters, including illustrator Frederic Remington, to cover the story, as well as promoting a $50,000 reward for the conviction of those responsible for the Maine ’s demise.15

  McKinley resisted calls to declare war against Spain. The president’s lack of action drove Theodore to the breaking point; privately, he claimed that McKinley had “the spine of a chocolate eclair.” In a final effort to avoid a military conflict, McKinley sent Spain an ultimatum, which included the demand that it accede independence to Cuba. Spain refused. On April 23, the president formally recognized Cuba’s independence, and, as many expected, Spain declared war on the United States. McKinley, as Lincoln had done at the outbreak of the Civil War, called for volunteers (125,000) to supplement the regular army.

  America, and Theodore Roosevelt, were going to war.

  Writing in his journal, Secretary Long commented about his soon-to-be-former assistant secretary:

  My Assistant Secretary, Roosevelt, has determined upon resigning, in order to go into the army, and take part in the war . . . He has lost his head to this unutterable folly of deserting the post where he is of most service and running off to ride a horse and, probably, brush mosquitoes from his neck in the Florida sands . . . how absurd all this will sound if, by some turn of fortune, he should accomplish some great thing and strike a very high mark.16

  With his resignation accepted, Theodore was given the rank of lieutenant colonel in the United States Volunteers (USV) unit. He would serve under Lt. Col. Leonard Wood, a fellow Harvard graduate, who had been a contract surgeon in the army during the Apache Wars and had earned a Medal of Honor for his actions during the Indian Wars. As usual, Theodore rapidly consumed books on military procedure, actions, and attacks. He had Brooks Brothers in New York City design his dress uniform: a khaki coat with a brown high collar and epaulets and matching khaki pants. His collar bore the crossed-sabers medallion, with the number “1” resting between the sabers, along with USV. To add a dash of color, he wore a navy-blue bandana with white dots around his neck. The left side brim of his campaign hat was pinned to the crown with the crossed-sabers medallion. Theodore carried a dozen pair of glasses, some sown into his hat. The pistol he carried had been salvaged from the Maine.17

  The time had come for Theodore, once again, to push himself. To prove himself against the odds. It was in this war, this fight, that he would expunge his father’s sin of not going into battle. He would make things right. For Theodore, this was another fantasy come true for him. As he had tested himself in the Dakotas, he would now test himself in battle, against an enemy in mortal combat. This was a glorious moment for him. He would leave his children behind, and Edith, who was recovering from a strained childbirth and removal of an abdominal tumor. She would be fine, ultimately—but Theodore left her for the glory of the fight. Since childhood, he had harbored a fantasy of being a hero in a military action. Theodore Roosevelt would lead men into battle, to glory—and possibly death.

  The volunteers who joined came literally from all walks of life. Cowboys, Indians, Hispanics, frontier lawmen, a few outlaws on the run, and alumni from Harvard and New York blue bloods. It was an eclectic group, to say the least. Theodore was so overwhelmed with requests to sign up that he had the sad duty of notifying men when the ranks were closed, including a twenty-two-year-old veteran of the Seventh Cavalry. His name was Edgar Rice Burroughs, who later created Tarzan.18

  Training for this volunteer group was set up in San Antonio. The New York blue bloods mixed with cowboys, Hispanics, and Indians (there were sixty Native Americans in the group). Their training was covered by newspapers reporters, who knighted this volunteer group “Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.” (One of the reporters was Stephen Crane, author of The Red Badge of Courage.) The Rough Riders had three mascots: Josephine, a mountain lion brought by the Arizona troops; a golden eagle, named after Theodore, came from the New Mexico contingent; and, a “rather disrepu-table but excee
dingly knowing little dog named Cuba.”19

  Following a month of training, men, horses, and supplies boarded a train for Tampa, Florida, where they would be put on cargo ships bound for Cuba. Tampa was anything but pleasant. Many called the city a “swamp hole” filled with humidity and mosquitoes. Instead of the well-managed military departure the volunteers anticipated, Tampa was a mass of confusion. There was no organization in dispatching troops to the few ships at dockside, and even worse, there were too few ships to carry all of the men and their horses. Forced to leave their horses behind, the Rough Riders quickly became an infantry unit. (Officers’ horses and pack mules were put aboard the ships.) Some units were told they would have to wait for additional transport—which never came. While troopers stood by to board a ship, Tampa’s suffocating humidity and blistering sun took its toll on them. Many sought shelter by crawling under freight trains parked next to the harbor. Raw, rank sewage from the town spilled into the harbor, itching in their nostrils.

  The ocean voyage to Cuba wasn’t much better. Theodore commandeered a ship, and it was quickly crammed with his men. Belowdecks, volunteers were lined in cramped, hot quarters. The outside deck was equally jammed, but at least the sea breeze offered some relief—provided the fellow next to you wasn’t vomiting from the rolling of the ship. The canned-meat rations went bad very quickly, and the drinking water wasn’t much better. The cargo ships the military had leased—for a hefty price— lacked the facilities to cook or store food for such a large group. But there was music! A band on board played “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” which became the unofficial melody of the Rough Riders.