Theodore Rex - Edmund Morris [84]
Even citizens of other countries seemed to be aware of its importance. All Europe, Literary Digest reported, was “ringing with Roosevelt,” to the extent that Germans had begun to find him more fascinating than their own Emperor.
THE TRAIN SWUNG south again, then west. Old World place-names were checked steadily off the printed schedule. Portland. Portsmouth. Epping. Manchester. Newbury. Every stop a speech, or two or three. Every bypass a balm for the tired throat, a respite for reading.
To Roosevelt, as to all marathon campaigners, the trip became an accelerating blur, a mélange of whistle-stops, poking hands, curious eyes, and bands, bands, bands, raucously thumping. In between each, a few pages of English medieval poetry. A valley, a gleaming river. Vermont. Evening reception in Burlington. Night cruise on Champlain. Sleep. Lazy lakeside Sunday. Rest for raw throat. Sleep. Monday. September now; the lake chill-blue. Almost a year ago, on an island lying green in that water, a garden party, a shrill summons to the telephone. Czolgosz. McKinley. “Little ground for hope.” Dread anniversary approaching. What effect might it have on mad minds? Big Bill extra watchful.
Brattleboro. Girls in white strewing petals. Northfield, Massachusetts. Solemn divinity students. Ahem! “Men of righteous living … robust, virile qualities.” Fitchburg. Roses showering out of a bell of bunting. Harrumph! “We must get power … use that power fearlessly.” Dalton. Japanese lanterns dappling upturned faces. “The government is us … you and me!”
“THE GOVERNMENT IS US … YOU AND ME!”
Roosevelt during his New England tour, 1902 (photo credit 9.1)
Wednesday. Last day of tour. 3 September 1902. A glorious morning. Bright, crisp. Too nice to stay on train. Ride in open carriage to Pittsfield. Four elegant grays. Light, well-sprung barouche. Co-passenger: Governor Winthrop Murray Crane of Massachusetts. Opposite: Cortelyou. Up front: Big Bill Craig. Mounted escort. Berkshire hills. Bugles, cheers. Arrive Pitts-field. Two hundred schoolchildren. Songs in the sunlit air. “Friends and fellow citizens …” Ten minutes quite enough. Next stop: Pittsfield Country Club.
A smooth, downhill road, grooved in the center with a trolley track. This section of line closed off, presumably. Horses keep to right, just in case. But ahead, track cuts sideways across their path. 10:15 A.M. Behind, over the clatter of hooves, a rumbling. Horses now on curve of track. Louder rumbling behind; Craig half-turning, one great arm outstretched. “Oh my God!” A mad crescendo; bells, screams; a sudden, shivering crash. Craig engulfed in a blur of speed and noise. President, Governor, and secretary hurled in different directions, like fragments of a bomb.
ROOSEVELT LANDED ON his face at the side of the road. He lay still for a moment, as the interspliced carriage and trolley car skidded to a halt nearby. Then, tremblingly, he searched for and found his spectacles unbroken in the grass. The air was full of dust and shouts. Captain Lung came running. “Are you hurt, Mr. President?”
“No, I guess not,” Roosevelt grunted through bleeding lips. He stood up and peered about him. Governor Crane was unhurt. Cortelyou looked concussed. The coachman lay unconscious, blood oozing from his ears. Craig was nowhere to be seen. Roosevelt staggered over to the wreckage (the barouche overturned and stove in, the horses kicking feebly in harness). Beneath the trolley car was a mass of blood and bone. All eight steel wheels had passed over his bodyguard.
He saw a man in engineer’s uniform staring stupidly, and bunched his fists in his face. “Did you lose control of the car?” The man was too frightened to reply. “If you did,” said Roosevelt, voice shaking, “that was one thing. If you didn’t, it was a God-damned outrage!”
As his heir apparent mused later, it might also have been a national tragedy. John Hay calculated that Roosevelt had escaped death by just two inches. “Had the trolley car struck the rear hub instead of grazing it and crashing into the front wheel … Crane and