The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt (108 page)
Read The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt Online
Authors: Edmund Morris
R
OOSEVELT HAD CANCELED
last year’s event, saying that “we will parade again when we have something to boast about.”
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He was not feeling particularly boastful in the spring of 1896 either, yet there was a lot to be said, psychologically speaking, for a show of unity in the ranks. Despite reports of discontent and renewed corruption from various precincts, he was convinced that “the bulk of the men were heartily desirous of being honest.”
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And if Parker was to be fired (as the Mayor kept promising), the department’s moral regeneration would surely continue.
On the first day of June he found himself gripping the rails of a reviewing stand at Fortieth Street and Fifth Avenue. Magnificent sunshine warmed his tails and top hat, and he enjoyed a rare moment of repose as the drumbeats grew louder downtown.
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His fellow Commissioners were on their best behavior; Mayor Strong beamed kindly upon him; he, in turn, grinned wider and wider at his first sight of the force en masse.
More than two thousand men came up the avenue in wave after wave of blue serge, their white gloves rising and falling like lines of foam, their helmets and brass buttons coruscating. Chief Conlin led the way on an immense bay horse whose coat was rubbed and curried to the sheen of satin. The crowd gave him a thunderous ovation, but saved its biggest roar for the “bicycle squad”—an innovation of Commissioner Andrews—twenty-four burly patrolmen wobbling determinedly along on wheels.
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The parade was adjudged a smashing success, and redounded greatly to the credit of “President Roosevelt.”
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At its conclusion he was mobbed by cheering well-wishers, and horses had to be brought in to clear an escape route for him.
B
UT THE SOUND OF
marching bands had hardly died away before public attention was drawn to renewed hostility between the Commissioners. Amid rumors that Strong had again demanded
Parker’s resignation, and again been refused,
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the Police Board assembled for a regular meeting on Wednesday, 3 June. It proceeded to give the most convincing demonstration yet of its inability to function as an administrative body.
Roosevelt listened stonily while Commissioner Grant offered as a “treaty of peace” a new set of rules governing promotions. He was willing to approve the rules—anything to get the department moving again—but was in no mood to tolerate any more obstructionism from across the table. Only that morning the
Herald
had published a humiliating cartoon of himself being crushed by Parker, in the form of a great, smiling weight, while the caption enquired, “Will the ‘Strong’ Man Lift It?”
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Predictably, Parker waited until both Roosevelt and Andrews had expressed their approval of the rules before subjecting every one to destructive legal analysis. Roosevelt’s face darkened to deep red, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as the maddening voice droned on, stinging him with insults that passed too quickly for retort. The two men stared steadily into each other’s eyes, forgetful of other people in the room, obsessed by their struggle for supremacy.
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When Roosevelt spoke in reply, his voice sounded surprisingly deep and guttural, and every word was bitten into precise syllables—a sure sign of danger to those who knew him. One of the items of agenda awaiting discussion was the new police revolver, a .32-caliber, double-action, four-inch Colt. Reporters watched in fascination as the president of the Board absentmindedly fondled it, then, still talking, picked it up and shook it “slowly and impressively” in Parker’s face.
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On this occasion it was Roosevelt who controlled himself, and Roosevelt who won. After four hours of relentless pressure, Parker, pale with exhaustion, agreed to the adoption of the rules.
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B
UT HE STILL
obstinately refused to confirm the promotions of Brooks and McCullagh, much less resign his commissionership. Mayor Strong, who was prevented by the Power of Removals Act from dismissing him without trial, asked Roosevelt to draw up a list
of five formal charges, including “neglected duty, malfeasance, and misfeasance.”
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For some reason the charge of personal corruption was not among them. There was yet another, much more devastating charge, which Roosevelt could have used, had he wanted to. The story, as told by Jacob Riis, sounds apocryphal, but it has been confirmed by two independent sources.
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I was in his office one day [that June] when a police official of superior rank came in and requested private audience with him. They stepped aside and the policeman spoke in an undertone, urging something strongly. Mr. Roosevelt listened. Suddenly I saw him straighten up as a man recoils from something unclean, and dismiss the other with a sharp: “No, sir! I don’t fight that way.” The policeman went out crestfallen. Roosevelt took two or three turns about the floor, struggling evidently with strong disgust. He told me afterward that the man had come to him with what he said was certain knowledge that his enemy [Parker] could be found that night in a known evil house uptown, which it was his alleged habit to visit. His proposition was to raid it then and so “get square.” To the policeman it must have seemed like throwing a good chance away.
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If Parker had been caught
in flagrante delicto
he could doubtless have been persuaded to resign: but Roosevelt “struck no blow below the belt.”
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And so the five formal charges were served, and public hearings set to begin on 11 June in Mayor Strong’s office. Elihu Root was appointed prosecutor, and General Benjamin F. Tracy, late of the Harrison Administration and now a Platt intimate, announced he would appear for Parker.
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T
HE “TRIAL,”
which dragged on sporadically until 8 July, proved to be anticlimactic and dull. The weakness of Roosevelt’s charges was apparent from the start,
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and the evidence, droned out to the whir of electric fans, sounded trivial. It consisted largely of lists of
meetings which Parker had missed, and lists of documents he had allowed to pile up on his desk. General Tracy effectively proved that Roosevelt was no slouch at missing meetings himself, when there were lucrative offers to speak out of town.
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He also suggested that Parker’s reluctance to promote Brooks and McCullagh might be justified, and got Roosevelt to admit that as president of the Board he had advanced several ill-qualified men in 1895 simply because they “gave promise of being useful”—in some cases, not even bothering to check their records.
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One of the few entertaining moments of the proceedings came when Tracy deflated a Rooseveltian tirade thus:
| R OOSEVELT | … It was a long time before I could make up my mind about Mr. Parker. I struggled against it. I recognized his great ability. But at last I was forced to the conclusion that he was guilty of neglected duty; that he was mendacious, treacherous, capable of double dealing and exercising a bad influence … |
| T RACY | Hasn’t the whole trouble come from the fact that you had to yield to Mr. Parker? |
| R OOSEVELT | No, sir, I would be glad to yield to him if he was right. |
| T RACY | (dryly) You enjoy yielding to a man, don’t you? |
| R OOSEVELT | (with great energy) By George, I do, and that’s a fact! |
“He looked surprised,” reported an onlooker, “when the crowd shrieked with laughter.” Parker, seated not six feet away, joined in the general mirth.
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Mayor Strong made no secret of his dissatisfaction with the evidence presented by the prosecution. In contrast, that of the defense was impressive. Grant and Conlin testified in Parker’s praise, and Parker himself made a convincing witness. Relaxed, graceful, and articulate, he cited fact after fact which, in the words of the
Sun
, “made him out as having been exceedingly active in the performance of his duties almost from the hour of his appointment.”
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Roosevelt’s loyal ally,
The New York Times
, was tempted to agree, and forecast that if Strong upheld the prosecution, Parker
would be vindicated in court. Most other newspapers expected the Mayor to dismiss the charges once the trial came to an end. As one editor pointed out, the real issue could not be legally considered. It was that “irreconcilable” personality differences made it impossible for Roosevelt and Parker to work democratically together.
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The only way of resolving it was for one of them to resign; and since both were proud men, that day might be long in coming.
D
ULL AS THE
P
ARKER
trial was, it might have sparked more interest had its first few sessions not coincided with the Republican National Convention in St. Louis. The petty tensions prevailing between prosecution and defense in Mayor Strong’s office were as nothing compared with the huge forces then contending on the banks of the Mississippi; yet in a microscopic way they reflected the party struggle. Here was a quiet, kindly man of bland political persuasion (William L. Strong/William McKinley) seeking to transcend the rivalry of an arrogant individualist (Theodore Roosevelt/Thomas B. Reed) and an organization man (Benjamin F. Tracy/Levi P. Morton).
Of the participants in the trial, Roosevelt was by far the most adaptable in his candidate loyalty and the quickest to respond to what was going on in St. Louis. Since at least 1892 he had cherished the idea of electing Reed President of the United States.
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But his veneration for the Speaker had begun to abate early in the New Year. Reed, he now believed, was not firm enough on financial issues and not aggressive enough in recommending a larger navy. About the same time Roosevelt had found it expedient to campaign in a few delegate primaries for Governor Morton of New York—Boss Platt’s personal candidate. While doing so, he kept an uneasy eye on the candidacy of William McKinley. After leaving Congress in 1890 McKinley had twice been elected Governor of Ohio, and the country now seemed ready to forgive him for his harsh policies as Majority Leader. Indeed, the financial panic of 1893 was now widely seen as the result of overreaction to McKinley’s wise revisions of the tariff.
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Although Roosevelt had been favorably disposed toward McKinley in the past at least as a person,
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he now felt sudden
qualms. “It will be a great misfortune to have McKinley nominated,” he wrote, in one of the indiscretions Henry Cabot Lodge saw fit to delete from their published correspondence. “… If I could tell you all I have learned since his campaign has progressed, you would be as completely alarmed over the prospect of his presidential nomination as I am.”
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That was on 27 February. Less than a month later he had acknowledged “a great wave for McKinley sweeping over the country” and expressed “great disappointment” with Reed. The latter’s overbearing personality had alienated a considerable number of professional politicians. Roosevelt might forgive him
that
, but he could hardly approve the tone of a letter his friend sent him in late May, when McKinley emerged as the clear favorite for the nomination. “In a word, dear boy, I am tired of this thing … the receding grapes seem to ooze with acid and the whole thing is a farce.”
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