Dakota Read online

  “Not all that much, no, sir. Dr. Murdock ordered laudanum to ease her discomfort. She’s actually doing very well.”

  “Yes, I know you’re doing everything possible. I believe I will sit with her for a while.”

  “I’ll just wait in the parlor, then. Call if you need me.”

  She went out. Roosevelt walked to the bed, mentally prepared for the worst. Alice’s features were pale, somewhat gaunt, and her auburn hair, long and loose, fanned down across her shoulders. Her breathing was shallow, her lips slightly parted, the lashes of her eyes still, as though she’d fallen into a deep sleep. He seated himself in a chair beside the bed and lightly stroked her cheek with his fingertips. He thought, even now, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

  The memory of it, the day they’d first met, suddenly flooded his mind. Her name was Alice Hathaway Lee, and it was during his third year at Harvard. She was seventeen, the daughter of a wealthy businessman, the family prominent in Boston society. Roosevelt was bewitched from the moment he saw her and told friends she was the most enchanting creature he’d ever known. He courted her for two years, and four months after his graduation from Harvard they were married at Chestnut Hill, the Lees’ family estate. He thought then, and had never doubted it since, that he was the luckiest man in the world.

  Alice was vivacious and animated, with a sly humor that led him to call her his sunny little bride. After a honeymoon in Europe, they settled into the mansion on Fifty Seventh Street, and her vibrant gaiety quickly enchanted everyone in the Roosevelt family. They were soon the toast of New York’s social elite, invited to a whirlwind of dinner parties and gala balls hosted by the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers. They danced the nights away, carefree and laughing, while he spent his days in law school at Columbia University. Others were quick to comment that they’d never seen a couple so perfectly matched.

  Ever his most ardent supporter, Alice reveled in whatever enterprise he undertook. His family, particularly an uncle who had assumed the helm of the Roosevelt & Company importing firm, had argued strenuously against Theodore’s entering the political arena. Their social position and their sober Dutch heritage held that politics was suitable only for low-class Irishmen, certainly not for men of his status. But Alice, who was unwavering in her faith, insisted that he follow his dreams, wherever they might lead. Her pride in his accomplishments ultimately became the pride of the Roosevelt family.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  Roosevelt’s reverie was broken by the nurse’s voice. Alice was still fast asleep, and when he glanced at the wall clock he realized he’d been lost in rumination for almost an hour. He turned in his chair and saw the nurse waiting in the doorway. Her look was grave.

  “Dr. Murdock asks that you come to your mother’s room. He suggested you come right away.”

  “Yes, of course,” Roosevelt said, pushing out of his chair. “You’ll look after my wife?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here when you return.”

  The family was gathered around the bed when Roosevelt hurried into the room. Bamie and Corinne were crying softly, and Elliot looked paralyzed with grief. Dr. Murdock stood apart, his features stoic, nodding to Roosevelt, as if to say it was time. Roosevelt moved past Elliot, joining Bamie and Corinne at the head of the bed.

  Martha Bullock Roosevelt appeared strangely at peace. Her labored breathing of an hour ago was now little more than a gentle gasp, slow and irregular and fainter by the moment. Her face was composed, somehow less flushed, her high, patrician cheekbones rosy with color. The small clock on her writing desk lightly chimed midnight, and shortly afterward she drew her last breath. Her visage was serene in death.

  Bamie and Corinne began sobbing, and Elliot mopped his face with a handkerchief. Roosevelt felt numb and cold, struggling against tears, afraid, once started, he might never stop. Dr. Murdock took his arm.

  “Your place now is with your wife, Mr. Roosevelt. Your mother is at peace.”

  Roosevelt nodded, unable to speak, unable to console anyone, least of all himself. He walked back down the hall, entered the suite, and relieved the nurse in the bedroom. He dropped into the chair, searching Alice’s face a moment, and found nothing to kindle any vestige of hope. His shoulders slumped, and he leaned forward, his head bowed.

  Once, when he was a small boy, his father had told him that you cannot bargain with God. Yet now, fresh from his mother’s passing, he thought it unmerciful of God to take his wife at such a young age. She was only twenty-two, with a newborn daughter and a lifetime of promise before her. Surely there was mercy if he could somehow find the right words.

  Hours later, his head still bowed in prayer, night slowly faded to the dinge of dawn. Throughout the night, he had wracked his mind for something he might offer God to spare her life. He repeated it now as a litany of his shortcomings, a benediction for blessing and mercy. He was vain and prideful, overly ambitious, sometimes arrogant in his swift, harsh judgment of these who opposed his will. He would renounce his wealth and social position, his political aspirations, even sacrifice his pride. He would impoverish himself, devote his life to charity and good works for the poor.

  All that and more he would exchange to have her whole and well, to see again her sunny smile. He prayed, head bowed in supplication, offering all he had or would ever have for the miracle of life. Yet, after hours of humbling himself, even as he mouthed the words once again, he could not shake his father’s admonition that bargaining, however well intentioned, fell on deaf ears. God would not hear.

  “Teddy.”

  Her eyes were open and she was looking at him with a faint smile. Roosevelt took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “My love,” he said, thinking there were miracles after all. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, now that you’re here.”

  “I came as quickly as I could.”

  “Of course. I knew you would.” Her smile was limned in the dull light of day. “And you see, I’ve waited for you.”

  Roosevelt kissed her hand. “By thunder, we’ll have you up and around in no time!”

  A dim shape came swimming forward in her mind. She focused on the blurred image, watching it sputter and weave closer. The image suddenly took clarity, and she saw, so clearly now, that it was a flame. Not bright or fiery, somehow lessening in intensity, but nonetheless a flame.

  “Sweet Teddy …”

  Then, gathering itself in an ebbing spark, the flame flickered and died. Her eyes closed on a last soft breath.

  “Alice?”

  Roosevelt felt his heart lurch. Her fingers were loose in his hand, her features still, and he knew she was gone. His throat constricted, and he moved forward, tenderly taking her in his arms. His eyes welled with tears.

  “Oh, my dear sunny Alice.”

  Unbidden, he heard again her final words, and he knew, however long he lived, they would remain with him forever. Her benediction as she went on alone.

  Sweet Teddy …

  TWO

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my …”

  The Reverend Dr. Edward Hall, pastor of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, looked out over the assemblage. Before the altar were two rosewood caskets, the air heady with the scent of floral arrangements. The church was filled with mourners come to pay their respects.

  The family was seated in the two front pews. Roosevelt and Bamie, Corinne and her husband, Douglas Robinson, Elliot and his family, Alice’s parents, and a dozen or more relatives drawn by the tragic loss. They were all too aware that they had sat in these very pews six years ago for the funeral services of Theodore Senior.

  Roosevelt scarcely heard the pastor. Four days had passed since the death of his wife and mother, time to arrange the funeral and extend invitations to those closest to the family. His expression impassive, Roosevelt was consumed by a fiery bitterness, charring everything that had once represented happiness a
nd tranquillity, and hope. His outlook on life now rang false, as if heard through the tuning fork of death. A sinister tone that his world had gone dark forever.

  The pews on either side of the aisle were crowded with distinguished guests. Among the social oligarchy were the Astors, the Harrimans, and the Vanderbilts. Sen. Warner Miller, the statewide czar of the Republican Party, was there representing Gov. Grover Cleveland, and his entourage included a score of sober-faced assemblymen from the New York legislature. Henry Cabot Lodge, a fellow politician and Roosevelt’s closest friend, had traveled by train from Boston for the services.

  “… With the certainty that we shall all meet again at the Resurrection, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  The Reverend Dr. Hall closed the services in a somber voice. He looked down from the pulpit at the family, his gaze lingering a moment longer on Theodore, whose loss was twice as hard to bear. Elliot, who had made the funeral arrangements, only yesterday had told Dr. Hall that Theodore showed little interest in his newborn daughter and seemed somehow disoriented by the condolences of those few friends he’d seen over the weekend. The family, Elliot confided, feared for his sanity.

  The burial ceremony was to be held at Greenwood Cemetery. Outside the church, two regal black hearses, each drawn by four black horses, waited at curbside. A long line of carriages extended south on Fifth Avenue for three blocks, and uniformed police had closed off the intersecting streets. The drizzle and fog had been borne seaward on westerly winds just that morning, and a warm sun arced higher in a cloudless sky. Crowds gathered along Fifth Avenue to watch the procession.

  There was a delay while attendants prepared to carry the caskets from the altar to the hearses. The family, followed by friends and mourners, came out of the church and slowly made their way to the waiting carriages. Roosevelt paused on the steps, his manner curiously abstract, and accepted condolences from Senator Miller and his colleagues in the legislature. As the others filed down the steps, Henry Cabot Lodge remained by Roosevelt’s side. They stood wrapped in silence for several moments.

  “Dr. Hall gave an excellent service,” Lodge finally ventured. “His remarks about your mother and Alice were most commendable.”

  “Yes, very nice indeed,” Roosevelt said absently. “I must remember to thank him.”

  “I’m sure no thanks are necessary. Your mother, as I recall, was one of his most devout parishioners.”

  “And Father as well. He and Dr. Hall were quite active in charitable causes. His eulogy when Father passed on was one I shall never forget.”

  “Need it be said, your loss is my loss, old friend. I greatly admired your mother and father, and like all who knew her, I adored Alice.”

  “Thank you, Cabot.”

  Henry Cabot Lodge, like Roosevelt, was a man of wealth who gloried in the political arena. He had served two terms in the Massachusetts House of Representatives and as chairman of the Massachusetts Republican Party and even now was campaigning as a candidate for the U.S. Congress. A Boston Brahmin, old money and elite among the elite, he shared with Roosevelt an aristocratic lineage of inherited wealth and unswerving ambition. No public office, they often joked, was beyond their grasp.

  Yet their kindred spirit went beyond politics. They had met at Harvard, and their friendship was one of intellect and mutual respect. Despite their relatively young age, they had each made their mark and garnered praise, in the literary world. Lodge had authored biographies of Alexander Hamilton and Daniel Webster and published A Short History of the American Colonies. Roosevelt, while still at Harvard, had published The Summer Birds of the Adirondacks, and only last year he had published, to much critical acclaim, The Naval War of 1812. Their work was much sought after by publishers.

  Lodge admired Roosevelt as well for his ability to quote Omar Khayyam, disclaim at length on German poetry, and discuss in esoteric terms naval strategy, forestry, Greek drama, and metaphysics. Roosevelt, in turn, held Lodge in great esteem for his integrity and his high-minded attitude about government. Unlike many politicians, Lodge’s word truly was his bond, and his scathing attacks on graft and corruption often made national headlines. He and Roosevelt were men of breeding who shared the belief that honest government was the birthright of the people.

  “Quite a turnout, hmmm?” Lodge said, trying to make conversation. “Wasn’t it good of Senator Miller to come down from Albany? He’s a fine man.”

  Roosevelt nodded. “Yesterday he called on me at home. We spoke at length about the future.”

  “The future?”

  “I’ve requested a leave of absence from the legislature. He was reluctant, but in the end, he agreed.”

  “I confess I’m at a loss,” Lodge said. “Why would you take a leave of absence?”

  “Alice was …” Roosevelt hesitated, as though searching for words. “The light has gone out of my life, Cabot. I’m not at all sure I wish to continue in politics.”

  Lodge was taken aback. He fully appreciated the depth of his friend’s bereavement. Yet Lodge understood as well the import of such a hasty decision. In the last election, Roosevelt had promised his constituents that he would break the power of the Tammany Hall political machine. On February 14, the day his daughter was born, he had pushed through legislation that appointed him chairman of a Special Committee to investigate corruption in New York City.

  Immediately afterward, in the hallway outside chambers, a Tammany Hall politico had insulted him, questioning his personal motives in the affair. Roosevelt, who had been the welterweight boxing champion at Harvard, would not brook an insult to his honor, and he’d knocked the man unconscious with two swift blows. Only yesterday, in an article on his tragic loss, The New York Times had noted that “Theodore Roosevelt has the moral force of a crusader where individual honor and political reform are concerned.”

  “Have you considered the consequences?” Lodge asked. “Your future in public office might well be jeopardized.”

  “Perhaps,” Roosevelt said with little interest. “I need time to come to terms with … my situation.”

  “How much time?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “What will you do with yourself, Theodore? You’ve never been one to sit and watch the passing parade.”

  “I leave day after tomorrow for the ranch in Dakota Territory. All the arrangements have been made.”

  Not quite a year ago, in the spring of 1883, Roosevelt had traveled to Dakota Territory to hunt buffalo. He’d spent three weeks out West and discovered, apart from the thrill of the hunt, that the region was attracting ranchers from throughout the cattle industry. Always alert to investment opportunities, he had bought a ranch on the Little Missouri River, outside the town of Medora. The original owner, a man named Bill Merrifield, had been retained to manage the operation.

  “I’ve never been more amazed,” Lodge said with a bemused look. “Have you any idea how long you’ll be away?”

  “Until I find what I’m looking for.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To be perfectly frank, I’m not quite sure, Cabot. I only know I won’t find it in New York.”

  The doors to the church opened. The Reverend Dr. Hall stepped outside, his vestments colorful in the bright forenoon sunlight. He led the pallbearers carrying the caskets toward the waiting hearses.

  Roosevelt and Lodge followed them down the steps.

  A cheery fire burned in the grate. The study was paneled in dark wood, with bookshelves built into the walls and a large walnut desk positioned facing the fireplace. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through windows looking westward on Fifty Seventh Street.

  Roosevelt laid his pen aside. Two days had passed since the funeral services, and tonight he would depart for Dakota Territory. A good part of his time had been devoted to thinking through the memorial he planned to write. His purpose was to capture the spirit of his late wife in words, without being mundane or overly sentimental. He leaned forward and studied a single sheet of paper
on the desk.

  IN MEMORY OF MY DARLING WIFE

  She was beautiful in face and form, and lovelier in spirit; as a flower she grew; and as a fair young flower she died. Her life had always been in the sunshine; there had never come to her a single great sorrow; and none ever knew her who did not love and revere her for her bright, sunny temper and her saintly unselfishness. Fair, pure, and joyous as a maiden; loving, tender, and happy as a young wife; when she had just become a mother, when her life seemed to be but just begun, and when the years seemed so bright before her—then, by a strange and terrible fate, death came to her.

  And when my heart’s dearest died, the light went from my life forever.

  Theodore Roosevelt

  Roosevelt folded the sheet of paper, satisfied with his effort. Once he had penned the memorial, it occurred to him once again that he was now a widower. A line from one of Tennyson’s poems came to mind: “‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all.” He took comfort from the thought and felt it quite likely he would remain a widower the rest of his life. In his view, which was rigidly moral, the mystical union between man and wife simply didn’t exist outside marriage. He resigned himself to a lifetime of celibacy.

  Tonight, he reflected, would place him on a journey to an uncertain future. His gaze wandered around the room, touching on the bookshelves and the marble fireplace, and he was reminded that it had once been his father’s study. As a child, his physique frail and suffering from asthma, he had spent many evenings in this very room with the man he thought of as Greatheart. He recalled one evening in particular, perhaps the turning point in his life, when he was wracked by a severe attack of asthma. His father had said to him, “Theodore, you have the mind but not the body. You must work to make your body.”

  Theodore Senior, to emphasize the lesson, installed a gymnasium in the house. Young Roosevelt, with his father’s supervision, undertook a daily regimen of weight lifting and calisthenics. His physique slowly developed muscle and strength, and by his early teens the debilitating effects of asthma had all but disappeared. A few years later, at the family’s summer home in upstate New York, he was so fit that he routinely paddled a canoe back and forth across the lake and rode his horse at breakneck speeds over the countryside. His sturdy growth enabled him to excel at boxing and wrestling during his years at Harvard.