The Old Lion: A Novel of Theodore Roosevelt

PROLOGUE

December 1918

Oyster Bay, New York

His decline began months before, a recurring illness made worse by news of Quentin’s death. His son had been taken by the war, while in his glorious flying machine, this new tool of killing that so fascinated young men who knew nothing of their own mortality. Quentin had been shot down by his German adversary in July, a few months before the war had ended, one of so many, most of them unknown to any but their families. But Quentin’s death made bold headlines. He was, after all, Teddy Roosevelt’s son.

The impact on Roosevelt was mostly well hidden, some of his closest friends catching glimpses of sorrow, few ever seeing his tears in those quiet places where the grief overwhelmed him. But Roosevelt had a public face: politics and friendships and the adoring crowds. Among those who watched him closely were the men who kept to their high perches, and for them, there would be decorum, always. He was, after all, the man who established his own brand of decorum, his own manners and crusty habits, and for so long, all those important men, if they mattered to him at all, knew they could only go along for the ride.

Fewer still noticed that he had begun to slide, his energy ebbing, the speeches not as boisterous. If the crowds noticed, they might have seen that he was no longer the charging bull. But still they hallooed and waved and cheered him as in the old days.

Throughout the summer of Quentin’s death, Roosevelt’s grief was made worse by a deadly fear for his other three sons, warriors all in the Great War that only now had sent them home. There had been wounds and the agonizing viciousness of mustard gas, and despite his sons’ reassuring letters that all were safe, Roosevelt, and especially Edith, still carried the fear that some horrible piece of news was yet to come. For her, it was a mother’s natural anguish. For him, it became something very different, the blow to his emotions taking hold of old injuries, an unavoidable weakness that seemed to creep over him like a blanket of punishment.

He had been so very strong, so active and robust, even in the later years as president and beyond. What the public could not see, and his friends denied, was the old leg injury, surgically repaired by frustrated doctors, the wound worsening and then healing yet again. It had occurred in 1902, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, his carriage in a vicious collision with a trolley car, killing his beloved bodyguard, Big Bill Craig. The damage to Roosevelt’s shin bone had seemed unworthy of mention, and Roosevelt’s own energy, still the speeches, always the confrontations with any challenge, had masked the pain and, ultimately, the seriousness of the damage. For years, infections followed, the pain rarely leaving him be. As he traveled the world, he fought to hide the limp, never speaking of such a weakness. But that changed in the jungles of the Amazon—another wound, in the other leg, striking him down with yet another vicious infection, made worse by his chronic malarial fever. In a place where healthy legs might ensure survival, Roosevelt hobbled his way through the worst conditions he had ever endured.

But now, with the Great War finally past, with his three sons safe, the loss of his youngest boy took hold even more. The grief and the injuries caused ailments that spread throughout Roosevelt’s body, odd and varied pains, more desperate labor for the doctors. There seemed to be no cure for the torment, and by late 1918 the ailments had worsened, nearly paralyzing him. Despite optimistic reports fed to the newspapers, initially that he lay in a hospital bed suffering merely from attacks of lumbago and then later that he had surgery to correct a painful toothache, what the public would not be told was just how badly his spirit had been weakened. His body was losing the same fight. The pains and weakness were becoming constant, what his mystified doctors now guessed to be severe rheumatism or gout or perhaps sciatica. The vertigo came now, confining him to his hospital bed. Finally, a string of good days, stronger, the vertigo gone, and when he insisted that he could manage, the doctors allowed Edith to take him home to Long Island, to his precious Sagamore Hill. Once home, she settled him into his own private room, what had long ago been a nursery for five of his children, bright sunlight through tall windows. The separation allowed Edith a fair night’s sleep, as much sleep as a wife could find with her husband suffering so.

As Christmas came, much of the family gathered in loving support, but more symptoms set in, signs of a pulmonary embolism, persistent high fever, more attacks of vertigo, forcing him to remain in bed.

Through it all, he would not stop working, a source of frustration for those attempting to care for him. But his protests were obeyed. His letters went out, some across the Atlantic, to powerful friends and acquaintances in England and France, where the wrestling match had begun to settle the catastrophic costs of the Great War. It was no secret that Roosevelt hated President Woodrow Wilson, considered him a disaster for the nation’s foreign policy, and was absolutely certain that Wilson’s naked idealism and mindless ambition would accomplish nothing to heal anyone’s wounds and might sow the seeds for yet another war. As Wilson sailed for Europe, expecting a triumphant reception even from the villainous Germans, talk grew that the president had a desperate fear that Teddy Roosevelt would return to the presidency in 1920. Roosevelt gave few hints about any such plan, despite the energetic push from so many in his party and from the public that he should run for the office once more. But Roosevelt knew his political life was past, that his ailments, the severity of the pains and the weakness, meant that his time was drawing to a close. For most of his life, he had predicted his own longevity, insisting to any and all, including Edith, that he would survive only until he was sixty.

He was sixty.

PART I

THE YOUNG LION

His life was the unpacking of an endless Christmas stocking.

—MARGARET LOUISA CHANDLER, FAMILY FRIEND

CHAPTER 1

December 25, 1918

Sagamore Hill, New York

The president was received by, well, some estimates say two million Frenchmen turned out, waving flags and whatnot.

Roosevelt turned away from her, said, My sister visits me to bolster my spirits, and this is what she brings. On Christmas Day yet. Woodrow Wilson is a hero for the ages, while I lie here as a lump of bacon fat.

Dear Teedie, I only tell you what you will read in the papers. And you will read them, despite Christmas, or whatever affliction you have today. I have never known you to ignore any news that might annoy you.

He turned to Corinne, saw a smile. Fine. My sister insults me. But I cannot scold you. You’re one of my caretakers, after all.

He flexed his aching fingers, the pain a sudden shock. He looked at the splint around his hand. When did this happen?

Edith was there now, a hand on Corinne’s shoulder. Last night. The doctor said the splint would help keep your hand and wrist immobile. You complained woefully about the pain in your fingers. She paused, said softly, You don’t recall?

"Of course I recall. I’m no invalid, you know."

The word hung between them, and he knew his protest had been overblown.

"No, of course you’re not. We’re just pampering you until you’re completely not an invalid. What should we call you in the meantime?"

Bull Moose will do.

His sister laughed, but Edith kept a frown.

"They’re still pushing you to come back, you know. More letters this morning. Bull Moose indeed. They want you to run. I do wish you would tell them once and for all to leave you alone. This is not the time for such foolishness. I’m not certain that agreeing to this writer’s request for an interview is a good idea at all. You need your rest."

He didn’t want this, not now.

My precious Edie, the 1912 election was my final hurrah, or perhaps my final whimpering farewell. Regardless how many love the term Bull Moose, I do not. I’m not going to run for anything, not president, not local constable. He paused, fought for a breath. But it is flattering, yes? They still love me. I rather enjoy holding on to that. If Mr. Hagedorn wishes to write about me yet again, dig into all my wonderful accomplishments, should I complain? I think not. The public does adore me, after all.

Corinne laughed.

I see that your gift for sarcasm hasn’t been damaged. She looked up at Edith. He’s right, though. Is there harm? They want him to run because he’s beloved, and Mr. Hagedorn can sell books about Teedie because people want to read them. There is no harm, Edie.

Edith lowered her head.

Of course. It’s hard to argue against any of that. We’ve all seen the crowds. Edith clapped her hands, bringing him to attention. All right, that’s it for politics. You want to wind yourself up, wait for Mr. Hagedorn. This young man has been begging to see you again since you’ve been home. But be prepared for him to press you, and hard. I’m only concerned for my husband. The doctor will be here in about an hour, and I don’t want you holding back anything. Not now. Please, Teddy.

He looked at them both, saw soft fear, drew more pain from their concern than from the ridiculous agony in his hand. He flexed his fingers again, habit, flinched again from the sharp pains.

I hurt. But it is not necessary for you both to mother-hen me like this. I am no child. He paused. Well, usually. But right now, I just hurt. And I think I’ve got a fever again. You’re a little blurry too. Or perhaps that’s just me.

Edith bent low, a hand on his forehead. She said nothing, but he knew the look.

Fever it is, then. My wife can hide nothing from me. I suppose you should hurry that doctor along if you can.

He rolled slightly away, stared at the brightness of the window, too bright, closed his eyes.

Corinne said, I’ll leave now, Edie. Maybe he can get some rest. Call me if you need me.

She was gone in a rustle of her dress, and Edith sat now, her hand on his arm. He wanted to turn, facing her, but there was no strength, no energy at all. He tried to open his eyes, the sun blinding him again, the weight of his fever swirling through his head.

Thank you, Edie. I’ll sleep now. My hand hurts.

HE HEARD A familiar sound outside the window.

That singing. It’s a cardinal, a male. He paused, his mind drifting, the sound of the bird filling him with the kind of joy he had always felt when hearing such a variety of songs, identifying every kind of bird, a talent that even master naturalists had found astonishing.

God, I remember it all. My father did that, opened a marvelous door to everything about nature. Egypt, the entire family absorbing so much, but none enjoyed that trip as much as I did. If I could, I would return right now.

The images were in his mind, Egypt and the great river, so many birds, the excitement of the hunting excursions, trophies he never could have imagined. Close by, the cardinal serenaded him again, brought him home. He fought through the blurriness, tried to see Edith.

No cardinals in Egypt, you know. Saw more birds there than anyone could ever expect, species no one here can possibly imagine. Every day, something old, something new. I perfected my taxidermy skills on that trip. Laid out my laboratory on the deck of the boat, a very tedious process, you know. Arsenic is an essential ingredient, and I had a dickens of a time trying to find someone who would sell it to me. He smiled. Apothecary fellow thought I was intending to poison my family. I suppose there’s a good bit of poisoning in those parts. The smells never bothered me, but the rest of the family has a peculiar sensitivity to the odors of nature. It’s their loss. He smiled, again, tried to ignore the heat in his brain. Father would hunt with me, and we’d ride these donkeys all through the bogs and swamps along the Nile. And later, I saw mummies, touched one, black, leathery skin. Remarkable. The pyramids too.

He forced his eyes open, tried to sit up straight. His heart was beating rapidly, an unpleasant surprise.

I’m talking too much. Too many stories. Sorry.

She cradled a glass of lemonade, held it out toward him.

You celebrate the best times in your life. There is no fault in that. You have told me these stories often. You should tell them to the writer, he’ll want to hear all of it.

He nodded, said quietly, They had pharaohs, you know. Nobody else can say that. Remarkable. He focused on her again. When will that young fellow, Hagedorn, when will he be here?

Tomorrow, Teddy. Friday.

If I must see him, I suppose I will.

Be kind, Teddy. You have already agreed, and he has already done a marvelous job writing about you. His book last year was wonderful. And if I didn’t believe you could trust him, I would say so. She laughed. And besides, I’ve never known you to avoid the chance to speak about yourself to a willing audience.

Edith stood suddenly.

The front door. Now who…?

She was gone quickly, a swirl of color, and he stared toward the door, puzzled, had heard no doorbell. But the thoughts were swept away by her sudden return, a paper in her hand.

A messenger, came out from Oyster Bay, a telegram.

Well, what’s it say?

She opened the envelope, read for a long moment, wide eyes.

My word. It’s from the French government. There’s to be an official citation from Marshal Pétain. They want to award Quentin the Croix de Guerre.

He was stunned, reached for the paper.

"They must not do that. He is no different from a thousand others. He should not be singled out. We will not celebrate his death."

"Teddy, you must accept that he is not like so many others. He is your son."

They must not do this!

His voice had risen to a shout, concern on her face.

Teddy, we can write them, graciously refuse, if that is your wish.

Yes, we will do that. They will not refuse me. This sounds like Woodrow Wilson’s doing, feeling generous, so he asks them to toss my family a bone. I should strangle him when he returns.

Mrs. Roosevelt?

The voice came from outside the room, and Edith moved that way, was gone again. He felt a wave of dread, thought, Hagedorn already? Is it Friday? He kept his focus, thought of what he would say to the young man, what sort of inane questions he might have. But she returned now, her face betraying something dreadful.

What?

She took a breath, trying to control her emotions.

Another messenger, a note from Washington, the War Department. They recovered part of the seat from the wreckage of Quentin’s plane. She stopped, shook her head. "It’s in a crate downstairs. They thought you’d like to have it."

He stared at her, deadly silence in the room. There were tears on her cheeks now, the grief rising up yet again. She sat on the edge of the bed now, and he wanted to say something, to comfort, but no words would come, too much pain of his own. He thought of the macabre gift, was furious now, clenched his fists, searing pain in one hand. Some clerk, he thought. A perfectly stupid gesture by someone who simply doesn’t care. Your son is dead. Here’s where he sat when he died. Whoever did this needs a perfect thrashing.

The fury gave way to the creeping weakness, and he glanced at his fists, useless weapons. So much is gone, he thought, and now even the memories are slipping away. I had good fists, could dish out a fair thrashing to anyone who needed it, unless the asthma came. The asthma. Thank God, no more of that. So long ago.

CHAPTER 2

March 1868

New York City

The creature pursued him, caught him now, long snakelike tendons wrapping around the boy’s throat. He fought, struck out with useless fists, the tendons now stronger, sharp sinews strangling him, the creature growing, a dragon, fire in its face, the burn engulfing the boy, spreading all through him.

Aaagh!

He awoke to wet sheets and a hollow gasping, still struggling to breathe. He fought mightily, still no air, and he panicked, a faint scream, all the sound he could manage. But it was enough, the door open, light beyond, the voice of his father, the great lion, chasing away the dragon.

Here now, Teedie. It’s all right. I’ve got you.

In the next bed, his younger brother, Elliott: What is it? The asthma again?

Yes, Elliott. Go back to sleep. I’ll take him away.

His mother was there now, a silhouette in the doorway, and his father turned to her, said, It’s all right, I’ll carry him outside, a carriage ride in the cool. You should stay with Elliott, put him back to sleep. He said to the boy now, Come. It’s a cool night. It will help. The man’s strong arms slid beneath the boy, raised him up, clear of the sweat-soaked bed, lifting him away from the awful places, the creatures that so often tormented him, burned holes in his lungs, sucking away his air. The attacks seemed always to come at night, horrible dreams that came with the choking strangulation, the desperate gasps for air that, until he woke, took the form of great beasts. His father had always seemed to be the savior, and the boy had begun to see the man as a lion, marvelous in his strength, the powerful good in all the bad the boy suffered through.

His father carried him outside, the cool air, scattered lamplight mostly from windows of strangers. The carriage was waiting, a sharp order from his father instantly obeyed by a servant who had seen this before. The boy was aboard now, felt a slight jostling from the horses, his father dropping heavily down on the seat beside him. The boy’s gasping had eased, but the twitching and cold stabbing in his lungs came still, a choking cough, the panic again, always, that the next breath might be the last one. But his father’s strength was contagious, and the boy slid one arm through his, his father’s arm now wrapping around the boy, swallowing him in a powerful shield.

We’ll go up Broadway, past Herkimer’s house. Keep quiet, though … well, of course, if you can. It’s very late.

The boy pushed against his father’s coat, could feel the horror in his chest beginning to fade, as it so often did when his father took control. His mother could manage, and often she had no choice, when the great man was away. The boy accepted the prescribed treatments with as much stoicism as a nine-year-old could manage, his mother following the guidance of the doctors: administrations of vomit-inducing drugs, enemas, and all manner of vile potions designed to cleanse away the symptoms of the asthma. But his father’s strength was the preferred treatment.

The carriage rolled steadily north, up Broadway, past Twenty-Third Street, a soft narration from his father as to who lived in most of the homes. But the boy heard only his own breathing, the gasps and choking fading away, a soft rhythm to the breaths that meant the asthma was gone, beaten back again by the great strength of the man beside him.

The carriage stopped. The chilly air pushed past them by a silent breeze.

There, Teedie. You feeling better? I have no notion just why a little fresh air will chase away the illness. But I know never to question what accomplishes the goal. The cooler the better, that much I have observed. He paused. You know, Teedie, though I never suffered your particular affliction, I always remember what it was like to be a child, all the torment and terror that can come from things you don’t understand. I am here for you, always, to protect, to defend if necessary, though I would rather that, one day, you learn to defend yourself. No man gains the respect of any around him if he does not stand up for himself, even if it means responding to a gross insult with a hearty use of the fist. I should like to see you tighten yourself, gain some girth.

The boy leaned forward, looked up into the man’s eyes.

Girth?

Well, what I mean, Teedie, is that you must apply yourself to strengthening your body. Add muscle to your arms and legs. Become stronger. It is drudgery, to be sure. But, perhaps, as you grow older, you will find ways to strengthen yourself in many ways. In a few years, you might be ready to take up boxing.

What’s that?

The ultimate sport. Two men, toe to toe, fists for weapons. The stronger man might win, or he might not. But the better fighter, the best boxer, that’s who will nearly always come out victorious. That should be you. But not yet. You’re too young, and you require a stronger body.

Roosevelt hung on the man’s words, wanted more, but the message had reached him. He was a sickly boy, thin, unlikely to intimidate anyone. He slipped one hand into his nightshirt, his fingers wrapping completely around the upper arm.

I’ll try, Father. Maybe if I get muscles, the asthma won’t come anymore.

His father hesitated, then said, Perhaps. Let’s find out, shall we? You may make use of the upstairs terrace. I shall secure some suitable equipment, hand weights and so forth. Perhaps we can construct some additional exercise areas outside. I shall consult Mr. John Wood, the proprietor of the gymnasium. He will certainly have some ideas on the subject and will likely oversee your efforts. You should also spend more time in the outdoors, walk, climb, anything to get your heart engaged. The outdoors should become your hobby, as it is mine.

Yes, sir. I will begin right away.

The boy was excited now, thought of those men with the great arms, the men who worked at the markets, loading and unloading every kind of barrel and box.

Where do I go to run about, or climb? Are there mountains nearby?

His father laughed. Begin small, my boy. Go to the trees right along here, near Twenty-Third Street, find some large boulders. Go over to the woodlands on Nineteenth Street. Perhaps, though, it would be best not to educate your mother about your efforts until you have mastered them. Women do tend to worry.

The boy smiled, tried to offer the knowing glance he saw on the face of his father. But the lamplight was fading, darkness over the carriage, silence now between them.

Yes, I will do this, he thought. I will find some place in the parks to run or climb. And Father will be proud.

His father pushed the carriage in a tight circle. The boy knew the routine, that they would return home, that he would return to the bed, that before the night was through, he might again struggle against the dragons.

April 1869

New York City

I’m a failure. A pretender.

His older sister sat in one corner of the room, stifled a laugh.

You are no one’s failure. You just have a … naturally thin body. In time, you’ll grow out of that, and gain more of a man’s shape.

He turned to her, tilted his head.

Please, Bamie, tell me just how you know so much about men’s bodies. If the boy didn’t understand his own impropriety, his older sister certainly did.

"Teedie, you do not ask such a thing, ever. I know biology and physiology and I am acquainted with a good many adults. You are as well. Look at them, look at your father. None of them resemble you, do they? They are not shaped like you. Very few are thin boys. So, stop complaining and continue with your exercise."

He looked again into the mirror.

I had thought there would be some change. Perhaps a single muscle, somewhere. Instead … a pretender. I won’t scare anybody.

HE WALKED ALONG the street, caught the smells now, the market ahead in the next block, repeated her instructions to himself.

A chicken, no head. Be sure it’s freshly killed. Yes, Mother.

He knew the instructions had come from the cook, that his mother would likely never soil her hands with the carcass of a freshly killed chicken. He loved her, doted on her as much as a boy could. She was beautiful and fragile, prone to sickness, always dressed in white. Her background was so very different from nearly all the social circles in New York. She was, in fact, a Confederate, raised in Roswell, Georgia, to a staunchly Southern family. If her discreet loyalties during the Civil War brought any significant conflict into her marriage to Theodore Sr., the children rarely saw any hint of it. What they knew of the South was what she revealed to them, as well as her soft gentility and her reliance on servants to handle the carcasses of chickens.

The market was a hive of activity, the boy slipping past crowds of men in suits, some in bloodstained butchers’ aprons, others behind great tables and wagons of fruit and all manner of vegetables. The smells were digging into him now, and he hurried, saw the tall, heavy figure of his mother’s desired butcher, Mr. Poindexter.

Ah, young Master Roosevelt. A chicken, then?

Roosevelt could never figure out how the man always knew what he wanted, even when the boy had forgotten himself.

Yes, sir. No head, please.

Well, of course. I have some Rhode Island reds here, just received today. New breed come down from New England. No matter. What matters most is whether your mother will be happy with it. That she will.

Poindexter went about his work with the chicken, and the boy shook his head against the smells, his eyes settling on a dark shiny carcass to one side.

What is that, sir?

Poindexter laughed, pointed to the next wagon.

Hey, Barnaby. Young Master Roosevelt here’s caught sight of your trophy. Give him a look then, will ya?

Roosevelt moved that way, the man called Barnaby busy with a gaggle of noisy customers. He glanced at the boy, put a thumb past his shoulder toward the carcass.

Go on. Take a gander. We don’t get many of them near here.

Roosevelt moved that way, apprehension and growing excitement.

What is it?

Poindexter laughed now, said,

It’s a seal. Deader’n my Aunt Millie, and she’s been gone a dozen years. Take a closer look, Master Roosevelt. Don’t be bashful. Even if he could bite, he won’t.

He moved close, then closer, bent low, studied the eyes, the whiskers, the skin, the mouth slightly open. He reached out a slow hand, touched the skin, cold, a thin fur coat.

Where’d you kill him?

Barnaby said, The harbor, of course. You ain’t likely to find one on Fourteenth Street.

What you gonna do with it?

Sell it, boy. That’s why I’m here. You got some coin, you can buy it for yourself.

Roosevelt suddenly felt an ache of poverty.

No, got no money of my own.

Well, then, look all you want. But stand aside for the customers.

Poindexter held up a paper package.

Here’s your chicken, Master Roosevelt. Be quick now. Your mother will have my hide if she thinks this bird ain’t fresh as daisies.

He took the package, his eyes still on the carcass, then turned and jogged home.

FOR SEVERAL DAYS, the boy visited Barnaby’s wagon at the market, the seal still there, no apparent takers. By the fifth day, the carcass was beginning to ripen severely, and Barnaby seemed to concede that there was a feeble market for whole seals, even if the pelt was valuable indeed. As a last effort at capitalism, he skinned the seal, stretched out the hide, a liberal coating of salt, hoping to attract some interest in the pelt alone. For the boy who had stood by admiring for so many days, Barnaby offered a reward. Young Master Roosevelt was given the skull.

It was the happiest day of his young life.

THE DOOR HAD been opened to a new world, and now, the studies followed, enormous varieties of books on the natural sciences, stories of great journeys into the unknown, from the explorations of David Livingstone to the theories of Charles Darwin and the astounding detail in the study of birds by John James Audubon. The books kept coming, furnished usually by his father, and some were too far advanced for the ten-year-old reader, but when the words were complex, the pictures usually were not. The notion of fur and feathers, all encasing the same kinds of hearts and lungs, the food chain with of course man at the top—all of it opened him up to a world of the natural sciences. In New York, the studies were limited to the exhibits in museums or, as with the seal, what might be on display in the markets. But, to his surprise, New York could be rich hunting as well, even in his own backyard.

In the weeks that followed, he began collecting what he called specimens, all manner of birds, frogs, small mammals—anything he could find around the streets close by his home. Some were captured alive, some were impossible to gather except as corpses. Eventually, his assembly gained a name, the Roosevelt Natural History Museum. If no one outside his home had any notion that such a place existed, those inside certainly did. The first hint had been the odor.

In time, the studies grew more complex, books giving way to taxidermy and biology with a penknife. To his dismay, no one in his family seemed to grasp his passion for the subject, and though he rarely heard the conversations, he knew that his parents and older sister were becoming concerned that his need for the outdoors was becoming far more unusual than the usual activities of an adolescent boy. As he grew into adolescence, his zeal increased, and even his father supported Roosevelt’s lust for the outdoors, though no one else in the family had expected the pursuit to include so much carnage.

April 1872

New York City

My God in heaven! Teedie! Where in the world are you?

He suspected the source of his older sister’s shrill anger, tread slowly toward the kitchen, peered in carefully.

Hello, Bamie.

Hello? I just found an entire colony of frozen mice wrapped in paper on our block of ice. Since mice do not open doors, I am certain they were put there by this family’s great naturalist. Is that true?

She was four years his senior, but seemed to tower over him with all the formidable presence of their mother. He puffed out his chest as much as he dared, said, Well, Bamie, if you do not chill them, they will soon become quite wretched. It is much more difficult to dissect and study the workings of their organs if they are beyond spoiled.

She stared at him, seemed suddenly to accept the logic of his statement. Her anger snapped back into place.

How about this, Teedie. Dissect, or whatever peculiar thing you do to these creatures before they become … spoiled. Do your studies, make your notes, or whatever else you do, and then, when you’re done, dispose of these creatures in the outdoors. Not where we chill our milk.

But Bamie, there are too many for me to study. Even now, I have a colony of moles in a box under my bed, and there are two very fine specimens of snapping turtles secured to the legs of the laundry cabinet.

Yes, I know. The housekeeper is threatening to resign if you do not keep your vermin out of her way.

He felt insulted, shook his head at the ignorance of so many who did not appreciate nature’s ways.

What about my birds?

Bamie seemed to draw back a half step. What birds?

They’re dead of course. Father insisted I not allow them to flit about the house. I keep them on the terrace, lined up in order of size or color, if not both. I truly wish I had access to a larger display case, to expand my museum. I could maintain a permanent display.

Bamie put her hands on her hips, her head tilted slightly.

Good Lord, why?

He shook his head, annoyed by her ignorance.

Really, Bamie. The longer I work at this, the more knowledge I will gain. I am barely thirteen. There is an entire world I have not yet experienced. The books are wonderful, but I want to go out there myself, see for myself what so many others are writing about. I am considering a career in taxidermy. Mr. Bell has been teaching me his technique, and he says I have what it takes.

What does it take? A strong stomach, no doubt.

Her look softened, and he saw the crippling twist in her back now, the lifelong agony that kept her so often inside the house. She pretended not to notice his gaze.

"You have already been to Europe, Teedie. By pure accident, you happened to be where Pope Pius was passing through, and you actually met him, dared to accept a handshake. We expected you to draw some kind of serious wrath from the Catholic Church. Instead, the pope smiled at you. Did you not find something there to hold your interest? Anything else beyond taxidermy? Good Lord, drying out dead animals. To what purpose?"

He was amazed at the question.

"To learn, Bamie. Some people explore outside, some explore these tiny worlds inside. I am prepared to do both. And, I’m sorry, but I didn’t learn anything from the pope."

She seemed defeated, let out a breath.

Just try not to smell up the house. And store your rodents where they do not so completely offend. Again, was there nothing else in Europe you found entertaining?

It had been the year before, a journey that stayed with him as much for his suffering, constant bouts of asthma, as for the school lessons that dogged him along the way, including an unpleasant stay in a family’s home in Dresden. Though his father had done as much as possible to open up the experiences of a European journey to his family, for the boy it seemed more like tedium. Bamie seemed to read him, had mixed feelings herself about the European trip, a trip that did little to comfort the curvature in her spine.

Never mind, Teedie. I have no doubt that you will visit every place you wish to see and bring home every manner of creature, dead or alive, that suits you. God help us.

July 1872

Oyster Bay, New York

Eyes closed, my boy.

He waited with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas presents. He felt the glorious weight in his hands now, knew the feel, didn’t wait for the command to open his eyes.

Father! Is this…?

It is yours now, Teedie. You’ve learned how to handle the gun, and it’s time you had a piece of your own. Be careful, and be wise. Go about your hunting for birds or whatever else you find so appealing, but there will be no shooting near houses, no matter what creature might be close by.

No, certainly not, Father. Oh my, but she is beautiful.

He ignored the laughter from his sisters behind him, the reaction to his labeling the weapon in the feminine. His mind focused only on the gun now, and he studied the detail, a double-barrel shotgun, twelve gauge, French made.

The maker, sir, I forget the name.

Lefaucheux. You’ll remember soon enough. It’s engraved there, on the barrel. Beware of one minor inconvenience, Teedie. You’ll have a bruised shoulder now and then. That piece kicks like a mule.

THERE TEEDIE! To the right!

He swung the shotgun in that direction, the sky empty, the voice of his brother.

Teedie! You let him go. Why? He was fine.

Roosevelt scanned the skies, pretended not to hear his brother’s critique.

There, another! Shoot him!

He swung around, searched frantically, nothing, his brother’s taunting now becoming infuriating. But Elliott calmed now, as though something more was happening.

I don’t understand, Teedie.

Never mind. Here, you take the next one. You seem to conjure these ducks out of thin air. Let’s go over to the small pond, there’s usually something in there. Don’t damage my gun.

Elliott crept ahead, and Roosevelt saw a flash of motion, little else, a sudden blast from the shotgun. The bird fell close to Roosevelt’s feet, Elliott now cheering himself, running close, grabbing the fallen duck by the neck.

How about that, Teedie! We’ll make supper from this one.

Roosevelt managed a smile, said in a low voice, I didn’t see him. Good shooting, though. Maybe I’ll get the next one.

I hope so, Teedie. It doesn’t seem like you can see any of them too well.

HERE. TRY THESE on.

Spectacles?

He took them from his father’s hand.

Why would I need spectacles?

He slid them onto his nose, hooked them behind his ears. The room seemed to explode in colorful detail—his father’s beard, the lace in his mother’s white dress, Bamie behind her, smiling. His father said,

Those examinations from the doctor made it pretty obvious you had some sort of vision problem. He says you are severely nearsighted. This was his prescribed cure. What do you think?

He stared around the room, the light through the window, distant trees moving with the breeze, a vase of flowers in the next room, small petals of red and blue.

I see things. I see everything. This is incredible, Father.

His father laughed, a pat on the boy’s shoulder. There is a good-sized flock of seagulls gathering close to the shore. Let’s take your shotgun outside and see if you can find them. That should be a fine test.

They moved outside, his little brother, Elliott, trailing behind. Roosevelt carried the shotgun, moved with quick, excited steps, glanced down to the grass and gravel, small stones he had never seen before. He looked up, a jay flying past, graceful motion, then another, a robin. My God, he thought. I have missed so much. I have missed all of it.

They crept up a low rise, the water beyond, and he could hear the call of the gulls, several rising up, then disappearing down behind the hill. Beside him, his father said,

Go on, Teedie. Take one. Let’s try out those spectacles. He left the two of them behind, crept up the hill, saw the birds spread out on the water. He readied the gun, then lunged forward. The gulls responded, a half dozen now airborne, and he focused on one, stared straight out along the twin barrels, pulled the trigger.

The gull dropped in a heap, and he stared at it, then the shotgun, turned now, held the gun aloft, a beaming smile.

Thank you, Father. This changes everything!

CHAPTER 3

September 1872

New York City

He struggled to pull on his pants, the button too tight. He sucked in his breath, and his stomach, tried again. The button held, and he dared to exhale, thought, What has happened? The pants legs are too short, and the waist too small.

He hadn’t worn these particular clothes in a long while, had thought they would work well in the gymnasium. They have shrunk, certainly. Or … the thought warmed him, a burst of happiness. I have grown. He swung his arms, noticed now that his shirt was tighter, and he flexed one arm, the knot of muscle above his elbow. Finally! Finally! It is working. Father was right.

He moved to the mirror, studied every part of him, more hints of muscle in his forearms, and he flexed his biceps, impressed himself. Why have I not noticed? Does this mean I’m becoming an actual man? That is a question for Father.

He jogged downstairs, saw one of the maids recoiling, as though he was a madman.

Lucille, where is Father?

She pointed toward the study, and he moved that way, saw him seated with an enormous book spread across his lap.

Excuse me, Father. I have news.

His father looked up, studied him, said,

Your pants are too small. Must we go shopping?

Roosevelt rocked on his heels, proud of the observation.

Yes, sir, my pants are too small. Likely because I have become larger.

His father studied him again, nodded.

So you have. Perhaps you will grow larger still. You still have much to learn about boxing and climbing.

Roosevelt hesitated, waited for more, another useful gem of advice. But there was only silence, and finally, Roosevelt