Colonel Roosevelt - Edmund Morris [331]
Thomas Marshall sat in aloof eminence, the official bearer of a floral arrangement from the President of the United States. (It consisted of the same economical carnations that had appealed to the students of Cove School.) Charles Evans Hughes showed up, impassive behind his whiskers. Warren Harding and General Wood looked prepresidential, now that they no longer had to worry about a front-runner for next year’s Republican nomination. Henry Cabot Lodge, the senior senator present, was flanked by Hiram Johnson and Philander Chase Knox. The House was represented by the outgoing Speaker, Champ Clark, and his aged predecessor, “Uncle Joe” Cannon. Governor Al Smith of New York attended as an unwelcome envoy from Tammany Hall, and Elihu Root and Joe Murray as Roosevelt’s oldest political patrons. A democratic variety of attendees crowded the other rows, most so strange to one another that only the Colonel could have embraced them all in his vast bear hug of acquaintance.
The service was almost cruelly short and spartan. Roosevelt’s favorite hymn, “How Firm a Foundation, Ye Saints of the Lord,” was recited, rather than sung, by the Reverend George F. Talmage:
When through fiery trials Thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be Thy supply.
At no time until the benediction did Father Talmage mention the name of the deceased. When he did, it evoked tears. “Theodore,” he said, “the Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious to thee.”
A single pull of the church’s bell alerted Edith, across the bay, that her husband was beginning his final journey. Outside, the mounted police waited in formation. They were no longer to be dissuaded from forming an honor guard. Spectators sobbed as the cortege, now lengthened enormously with other automobiles, wound back toward the bend of Cove Neck.
There was no room in the tiny parking lot of Youngs Cemetery for any vehicle except the hearse. Roosevelt’s grave awaited him at the top of a steep knoll. He had always enjoyed the birdsong in that fir-forested corner, and had long ago decided he wanted to be buried there. Typically, his chosen site involved a long hard climb. Slippery snow made it even harder for the six undertakers. They bent forward at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees as they labored under their burden. Father Talmage led the way in his surplice. He had as much difficulty in avoiding a soaked front hemline as Alice, Ethel, and Flora. Big men like Taft and Wood puffed in the rear. Only a party of fifty children from Cove School trotted up the path with ease.
The graveside view made the ascent worthwhile. There was a cutting breeze, bringing with it stray whiffs of wood smoke, but the sun was now fully out, and the bay glistened half white and half bright blue. Small spirals of mist rose from the frozen reeds. Already the snow between the surrounding trees was dotted with the spoor of rabbits and squirrels.
“THEY BENT FORWARD … AS THEY LABORED UNDER THEIR BURDEN.”
TR’s coffin is carried to his grave overlooking Oyster Bay, 8 January 1919. (photo credit e.2)
A laurel lining and berm of flowers camouflaged the fresh hole in the ground. Standing over it, a police bugler blew taps. Then the flag was unfolded from the coffin, revealing a rectangle of silver that read:
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
OCTOBER 27, 1858–JANUARY 6, 1919
As the engraved words sank out of sight, Father Talmage read the litany of committal. Lieutenant Otto Raphael, Roosevelt’s favorite Jewish policeman, muttered his own burial prayer in Hebrew. A flight of white geese wheeled and settled in the cove.
One of the last mourners to remain