A RHYME OF THE ROUGH RIDERS

The ways of fate they had trod were as wide
As the sea from the shouting sea,
But when they had ranged them side by side,
Strenuous, eager, and ardent-eyed,
They were brothers in pluck, they were brothers in pride,
As the veriest brethren be.

They heard no bugle-peal to thrill
As they crouched in the tangled grass,
But the sound of bullets whirring shrill
From hidden hollow and shrouded hill;
And they fought as only the valiant will
In the glades of Guasimas.

Aye, they fought, let their blood attest!—
The blood of their comrades gone;
Fought their bravest and fought their best,
As when, like a wave, in their zealous zest
They swept and surged o’er the sanguine crest
Of the heights of San Juan.

So here’s to them all—a toast and a cheer!—
From the greatest down to the least,
The heroes who fronted the deadliest fear,
Leader and lad, each volunteer,
The men whom the whole broad land holds dear
From the western sea to the east!

—Clinton Scollard, 1898.

Those April days of 1898 in Washington were full of an underlying current of excitement. Drifting toward war we certainly were, and within a very short few weeks the drift had become a fixed headway, and Captain Dewey, on the receipt of a certain telegram from a certain acting secretary of the navy, was to enter Manila Bay, and by that entrance, and by the taking of Cavite, to change forever the policy of the United States. Theodore Roosevelt had been criticised for the amount of ammunition used in practice by the gunners of the navy during the past spring. He knew only too well that the real extravagance in either army or navy comes from lack of foresight, and the fine marksmanship of the sailors and marines was to prove a feather in the cap of the young assistant secretary.

Everything was bustle and hurry toward the end of April. Within a few days the assistant secretary was to become the lieutenant-colonel of the Rough Riders, or, as they were at first called, The First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry. Mr. McKinley offered to Mr. Roosevelt the colonelcy of the regiment, but he, with modesty and intelligence, refused the offer, knowing that he was not as well fitted by experience for the position as was his friend, Mr. McKinley’s physician, that gallant surgeon in the army, Leonard Wood, who had had as a younger man so much experience in the campaign against Geronimo. The two young men, within a year of each other in age, had been friends for some time, having many tastes in common, and the same stalwart attitude of unswerving Americanism. Their friendship had been cemented during the spring of 1898 by the fact that they felt that their views in connection with the mistakes of Spain in Cuba were very sympathetic. On the long tramps which they took together on those spring afternoons, they discussed the all-important question over and over again, and also discussed the possibility of raising a regiment of men from the fearless, hardy cowboys and backwoodsmen of the West. It was no sooner known that Leonard Wood and Theodore Roosevelt were about to raise a regiment to go to Cuba than every sort and kind of individual flocked to their standard. The mobilization of the regiment took place in San Antonio, Texas.

My brother writes to me on May 5, 1898, from Washington:

“You could not give me a more useful present than the watch. It was exactly what I wished. Thank old Douglas too, for the watch and for his many many kindnesses. I hope to leave to-morrow, but Wood, who is now in San Antonio, may keep me here a day or two longer to hurry up the shipment of the troops, rifles, etc. I much want to get with the regiment to help get it into shape, but there will be many tedious and irritating delays, of course. I have about twenty-five ‘gentlemen rankers’ going with me from the Knickerbocker Club, and twelve clean-cut stalwart young fellows from Harvard,—such fine boys. I feel rather like a fake at going, for we may never get down to Cuba at all, and if we do, I do not think we shall see very serious campaigning, while proper care will prevent the serious risk of disease.”

And again on May 8:

“Kenneth turned up just in time. [Referring to my husband’s young Scotch cousin, Kenneth Douglas Robinson, associated with my husband in business, who was confident that he was doing the right thing to follow his hero, Theodore Roosevelt, into the Spanish War.] I enlisted him and sent him off with Bob Ferguson [another Scotch friend] and the rest....”

And again on May 12, after I had sent him a poem, he writes:

“My own darling sister:—I loved the poem and I loved your dear letter; it made me sure that you really knew just how I felt about going. I could not stay; that was the sum and substance of it;—although I realize well how hard it is for Edith, and what a change for the worse it means in my after life. It will be bitter if we do not get to Cuba, but we shall have to take things as they come. Your own brother.”

I had doubted whether it was his duty to go to Cuba, feeling it might be even more his duty to remain in his important and difficult position of assistant secretary of the navy, but Theodore Roosevelt would not have been his true self unless he had practised what he had preached so vigorously.

Kenneth Robinson writes on May 17 from San Antonio: “Theodore has been drilling us the last few days. The men always do their best when he is out. He would be amused indeed if he heard some of the adjectives and terms applied to him, meant to be most complimentary but hardly fit for publication. We certainly are a curious aggregation,—cavalry men, cowboys, college men, etc.”

And Bob Ferguson, our very dear friend who had made America his home, and was like a member of our family, writes early in June:

“You should see some of the broncho busting that has been going on daily in camp;—the most surprising horsemanship, and though it cost about a man a day at first, knocked clean out, the busted-rate is now diminishing. The men, as you can imagine, are well satisfied with their commanders; Theodore has a great hold on them, and before long he will be able to do anything he likes with them. The Army officers said they had never seen such a body of men. One of the troops from Arizona came almost entirely from one large ranch; they all know each other and will fight shoulder to shoulder. Our own troop—‘K’ was rather a gay affair at first, a little gang of Fifth Avenue ‘Dudes’ having constituted themselves as leaders before Theodore arrived, but now it has a large number of first rate cow-punchers and sheriffs drafted into it, and has been increased one-third beyond its normal strength. We are more or less intelligent, and are looked to as the possible crack troop.”

It is interesting to look back and remember that that Company “K” was indeed a “crack troop,” and the writer of the above lines became one of its most gallant officers. What a body of men they were! The romance of mediÆval days was reborn in that regiment, and the strange part of it all was that they had so much of chivalry about them, in spite of the roughness of the cowboys, in spite of the madness of the bronco-busters, in spite, perhaps, of another type of madness injected into the regiment by the Fifth Avenue “Dudes”; still, that body of men, as a whole, stood out for gallantry and courage, and gentleness of spirit wherever gentleness of spirit was needed in the hard days to come. There was a poem written at that time, “The Yankee Dude’ll Do,” and I remember the little thrill with which I read it, realizing how the names that up to that time had been connected with rather gay and useless lives became bywords for hard, persistent work “to make” good in the various companies.

Theodore himself writes to me on June 7 in camp near Tampa, Florida:

“First Regiment, U.S. Volunteer Cavalry.

“We are on the point of embarking for Cuba. Yesterday I thought I was going to be left, and would have to stay on this side during the first expedition for they intended to take but four troops. Now, however, they intend to take eight, and unless the transports give out, I shall go. I need not say how rejoiced I am, for I could not help feeling very bitterly when it seemed that I would be left. This really is a fine regiment, and Count Von Goetzen and Capt. Lee, the German and English Military AttachÉs, watched our gun drill yesterday in camp with General Sumner, and all three expressed what seemed to be sincere astonishment and pleasure at the rapidity with which we had got the men into shape. I wish you could see how melancholy the four troops that remain behind feel; it is very hard on them. I had the last two squadrons under my care on the harassing journey on the cars and it was no slight labor. How I would like to have Douglas as an officer in this regiment with me. He would take to it just as I do.

“Well, if our hopes are realized, we sail tomorrow for Cuba, but nobody can tell how many of us will get back, and I don’t suppose there is much glory ahead, but I hope and believe we shall do our duty, and the home-coming will be very very pleasant for those who do come home.”

How my heart ached as I read those last words and realized that the chances, in all probability, were strongly against his coming home again. On June 12:

On board U.S. Transport Yucatan.

Darling Corinne:

I suppose it is simply the ordinary fortune of war for the most irritating delays to happen, but it seems to me that the people at Washington are inexcusable for putting us aboard ship and keeping us crowded to suffocation on these transports for six days in Tampa Harbor, in a semi-tropical sun. The men take it with great resolution and good humour, but if we are kept here much longer, it cannot fail to have a bad effect upon them. We have been dismounted, but I care nothing for that if only we are sent, and given a chance to get into the game. I wish you could see or could have seen us at some of the crises when, for instance, we spent all night standing up opposite a railway track, waiting for a train to come, and finally taking coal cars in the morning.

On the 14th he writes to my husband:

“We are about to sail and as we are at the mouth of the harbor, it is hardly likely that we can be recalled.... It has been most interesting even when the work was irritating and full of worry. The regiment is a wonderful body of men and they have taken to discipline with astonishing readiness and are wild with eager enthusiasm. Those of us who come out of it safe will be bound together all our lives by a very strong tie. You may rest assured I haven’t the slightest idea of taking any risk I don’t feel I absolutely must take.”

There was no doubt of the strong tie that bound the Rough Riders, as they were later called, together. We always teased my brother when, as President, he would suddenly announce that “Happy Jack of Arizonia,” or some such erstwhile comrade, was eminently fitted for a position for which the aforesaid “Happy Jack” did not seem to have strong qualifications. How they loved their leader, and how that love was returned! Whenever my brother spoke of his “regiment” a note of tenderness came into his voice such as might be heard in the voice of a woman when speaking of her lover.

That same day, June 14, Bob Ferguson wrote to me:

“Theodore is absolutely radiating. He just lent me ‘Vanity Fair’ in return for a box of peppermints, and it has been queer just at this moment to read about old Curzon street and the Brussels’ Ball; but Becky made us laugh more than ever after reading nothing but Tactics or a local newspaper for several weeks.... This country is becoming the laughing-stock of the world at present, and the German experts really do not believe the United States can fight. It will bring on big world complications unless they show their power soon.”

The above opinion is interesting in the light of what the German experts again felt about the United States before we entered the Great War in 1917!

On June 15 a letter dated in the Gulf of Mexico runs as follows:

“We are steaming southward through a sapphire sea, wind-rippled under an almost cloudless sky. There are some forty-eight craft in all, in three columns,—the black hulls of the transports setting off the gray hull of the man-of-war. Last evening, we stood up on the bridge and watched the red sun sink and lights blaze up on the ships for miles ahead, while the band played piece after piece from the Star Spangled Banner (at which we all rose and stood uncovered) to The Girl I Left Behind Me. It is a great historical expedition and I thrill to feel that I am part of it. If we fail, of course, we share the fate of all who do fail, and if we are allowed to succeed, for we certainly shall succeed if allowed, we have scored the first great triumph of what will be a world movement. All the young fellows have dimly felt what this means, though the only articulate soul and imagination among them belong, rather curiously, to Ex-sheriff Capt. Buckey O’Neil of Arizona.”

The above Buckey O’Neil, leaning over the rail at sunset, would often quote Browning, my brother used to tell me, or Whitman, or even Shelley. He was a real “Bret Harte” character, and one of my brother’s greatest griefs in the days to come was that that gallant officer was amongst the first to fall. He had just exposed himself to Spanish fire somewhat unnecessarily, and my brother said to him: “Get down, Buckey; I cannot spare you.” The other laughingly replied, “There isn’t a bullet made that can kill me, Colonel,” and literally, as he spoke, a stray shot struck him and he fell dead across my brother’s knees. But to return:

June 20, 1898—Troop Ship near Santiago.

All day we have steamed close to the Cuban coast; high barren-looking mountains rise abruptly from the shore, and at this distance look much like those of Montana. We are well within the tropics and at night, the Southern Cross is low above the horizon. It seems too strange to see it in the same sky with the friendly Dipper.

And then later:

June 25, 1898—Las Guasimas—

Yesterday we struck the Spaniards and had a brisk fight for two and a half hours before we drove them out of their position. We lost twelve men, killed or mortally wounded, and sixty, severely or slightly wounded. Brodie was wounded,—poor Capron and Ham Fish were killed; one man was killed as he stood beside a tree with me, another bullet went through a tree behind which I stood and filled my eyes with bark. The last charge I led on the left using a rifle I took from a wounded man. Every man behaved well; there was no flinching. The fire was very hot at one or two points where the men around me went down like nine-pins. We have been ashore three days and were moved at once to the front without our baggage. I have been sleeping on the ground in a mackintosh, and so drenched with sweat that I have not been dry a minute day and night. The marches have been very severe. One of my horses was drowned swimming through the surf. It was a fierce fight; the Spaniards shot well, but they did not stand when we rushed.

We received the details of the fight of Las Guasimas on the 4th of July, I remember, and all night long I sat on my piazza on Orange Mountain, thinking, with a strange horror, of the danger in which my brother had been and still was.

On June 27, 1898, another letter, this time dated Santiago:

“We have a lovely camp here by a beautiful stream which runs through jungle-land banks. The morning after the fight, we buried our dead in a great big trench, reading the solemn burial service over them, and all the regiment joined in singing ‘Rock of Ages.’ The woods are full of land crabs, some of which are almost as big as rabbits; when things grew quiet, they slowly gathered in gruesome rings around the fallen.”

Bob Ferguson also adds interesting evidence to the courage of the First Volunteer Cavalry under fire.

Las Guasimas—June 25, 1898.

Theodore and Wood are more than delighted with the conduct of the men. You never heard such a hail of shot. The enemy, of course, knew when we would be in the jungle, and we could only guess their whereabouts. Their volleys opened up from all directions. Theodore did great work skipping from one troop to another, and directed them as they were deployed, but we can only trust that this kind of thing won’t happen too often, for fear of results. It was, in fact, a surprise party, however, an expected one. Our men rushed into a known ambush with the careless dash of the cow-puncher. Once in, they literally had to hug the ground while the trees above and beside them were torn to shreds.... Theodore has marked the Spaniard all right—and the name of his regiment will never be spoken of any too lightly. They really did not understand fear and would willingly repeat the dose tomorrow. Poor Ham Fish,—he was such a good-hearted, game fellow, and I got to like him ever so much on the way down;—it is more than much now!—The Spaniards showed any amount of skill in their tactics, and only the extraordinary grit of our men undid their calculation, together with the good work of a parallel column of Regulars, who cleared the Spaniards off a flanking ridge in the forest in the finest style—otherwise they could have out-flanked us on either side and given us Hell in open sight. So far, it seems like fighting an army of invisible Pigmies.... Kenneth was awfully good yesterday after the fight. He was the first to volunteer to help the wounded when the entire troop was too exhausted to move;—he carried them for hours until his back gave out.... We really did splendidly yesterday. The Regulars are to have their turn now. We have been blooded ourselves. We lost too many officers. One little fellow, shot right through both hips, was the greatest little sport. He refused to be attended to until others were made comfortable, and he lay and smoked his pipe patiently. One man walked to the hospital with five wounds:—in the neck, right shoulder, right hand, left thigh, and one other.

It is a matter of interest to print the above extracts, for even when my brother wrote his book called “The Rough Riders,” he could not give quite the spirit which the letters, penned at the moment of the happenings, can so fitly interpret. Bob Ferguson again, on July 5, gave an important description of my brother:

Before Santiago, July 5, 1898.

We have been having the devil of a fine time of it, shooting Spaniards, and being “stormed at by shot and shell.” When I caught up with Theodore, the day of his famous charge, (having been held in the reserve line until tired of being pelted at from a distance) “T” was revelling in victory. He had just “doubled up” a Spanish officer like a jack-rabbit, as he retreated from a block house.... That same evening, having reached the most advanced crest possible, with about 300 men, and having the whole Spanish Army firing at us from their entrenchments around the city, the summit of our ambition was almost reached.

Theodore moved about in the midst of shrapnel explosions like Shadrach, Meschach & Sons in the midst of the fiery furnace, unharmed by the vicious Mauser balls or by the buzzing exploding bullets of the Irregulars.... Theodore preferred to stand up or walk about snuffing the fragrant air of combat. I really believe firmly now, that they cannot kill him. It looks, too, somewhat as if they would not get a chance for a spell, for our lines are around the Spanish Dog’s throat, and he will be smothered by our fire in a moment should the fight open once more. It would seem a shame now to have to damage them any more, for they say the streets are full of wounded and spent balls shower among them.... Theodore has sure made his mark on the Spaniard,—and the Rough Riders [the regiment had already ceased to be called the First Volunteer Cavalry, and was never again known as anything but the Rough Riders] will remain—pitching bronchos and all, afoot or on horseback!... The “bob whites” whistle all around these plantations, and transport one straight back to Sagamore Hill on a summer’s day. The mountains here are glorious; the valleys, a dream of drooping palms, and dark, cool, shaded mangroves clustered; soft bamboo waves near the creeks and smiling ridges, once all under cultivation.

My brother himself, in a letter dated from Santiago, July 19, 1898, writes:

“Darling Corinne:—‘Triumph tasted’!—for that, one will readily pay as heavy a price as we have paid; but it is bitter to think that part of the price was due to the mismanagement of those in authority. The misery has been fearful. Today, out of my four hundred odd men in camp, one hundred and twenty-three are under the doctor’s care. The rest of the six hundred with whom I landed are dead or in the rear hospitals. I cannot explain the breakdown of the transportation service, the commissariat, or the hospital service.”

I quote the above letter for the special purpose of recalling to my readers the fact that Colonel Roosevelt was much criticised later for instigating the writing of a “round-robin” letter in the summer, urging the authorities to bring home the regiments after the victory was won. Due to the “breakdown” which he describes, the men were dying like flies, and had that “round robin” (severely censured by my brother’s enemies) not been written, had the authorities at Washington not decided to follow the suggestions of Theodore Roosevelt and order our gallant men back from their death-trap, very few of that expedition to Cuba would have lived to tell the tale. At the end of the above letter, after describing in full the sufferings of the men because of lack of care, he says:

“They have been worn down by the terrific strain of fighting, marching, digging in the trenches, during the tropical midsummer; they have been in the fore-front, all through, they never complained though half-fed and with clothes and shoes in tatters; but it is bitter to think of the wealth at home, which would be so gladly used in their behalf if only it could be so used. They are devoted to me, and I cannot get their condition out of my thoughts. If only you could see them in battle, or feeding these wretched refugee women and children, whose misery beggars description. [Did I not say that these wild, strong men of the West were gentle in heart as well as fierce in courage!]

“Well, it is a great thing to have led such a regiment on the crowning day of its life. Young Burke [Eddie Burke] is well and is a first-class man and soldier. I like and respect him. Bob earned his promotion. The New York men have stood the strain well. I felt dreadfully about Kenneth’s wound that day, but I was near the line, with my men, nearest the Spaniard, and I could not have gone back or held back for my own son. No man was ahead of me when we charged or rushed to the front to repel a charge; and indeed, I think my men would follow me literally anywhere. In the hard days I fared absolutely as they did, in food and bedding,—or rather, the lack of both. Now, yellow fever has broken out in the Army and I know not when we shall get away, but whatever comes, it is all right and I am content. Love to little Teddy and all the others. Your brother.”

The same day he wrote my husband:

“Two of our men have died of yellow fever. We hope to keep it out of camp, and if we succeed, I trust we shall soon get to Porto Rico. Whatever comes, I cannot say how glad I am to have been in this. I feel that I now leave the children a memory that will partly offset the fact that I did not leave them much money. I have been recommended for the Colonelcy of this regiment, and for the medal of honor. Of course, I hope to get both, but I really don’t care very much, for the thing itself is more important than the reward, and I have led this regiment during the last three weeks, the crowning weeks of its life. There is nothing I would have exchanged for having led it on horseback, where, first of all the army, we broke through the enemy’s entrenchments. By the way, I then killed a Spaniard myself with the pistol Will Cowles raked up from the Maine. Of the six hundred men with whom I landed, less than three hundred are left; the others are dead or in the hospital; the mismanagement has been beyond belief.”

Alas, how sad it seems that the mismanagement should have been beyond belief at such a time!

On July 27 a letter dated “First Regiment, U.S. Volunteer Cavalry, in camp near Santiago de Cuba,” was received by my husband. A very characteristic letter it was, full of the joy of a fight well fought, and full also, of that tremendous human sympathy with his men, combined with an intelligent practicality which resulted later in the “round robin,” requesting that the men who had fought so bravely, should not be allowed to die of disease unnecessarily by being retained for no good reason in the broiling heat of a Cuban summer.

“Dear Douglas,” he writes, “we had a bully fight at Santiago, and though there was an immense amount that I did not exactly enjoy, the charge itself was great fun. Frankly, it did not enter my head that I could get through without being hit, but I judged that even if hit, the chances would be about 3 to 1 against my being killed.

“As far as the political effect of my actions;—in the first place, I never can get on in politics, and in the second, I would rather have led that charge and earned my colonelcy, than serve three terms in the United States Senate. It makes me feel as though I could now leave something to my children which will serve as an apology for my having existed. [How much his existence needed an apology!] In spite of the strain, and the anything but hygienic conditions under which we have lived, I am in very good health. If we stay here all summer, we shall have yellow fever among us, of course, but I rather think I will pull through that too. I wish they would let us go to Porto Rico, or if not, then let me get all my regiment together in Maine or somewhere like that and get them in trim for the great campaign against Havana in the Fall. I wish you could see these men. I am as proud of them as I can be, and I verily believe they would go anywhere with me. They are being knocked down right and left, however, with the fever. I shan’t take any risks unless I really think I ought to, and now, I begin to believe that I am going to get home safely.”

A letter from Bob Ferguson about the same time backs up his future position in regard to moving the men, and reiterates:

“It was a glorious spin, over trenches and barbed wires instead of oaken panels, however. One never expects to see the like again;—Corinne and Anna must have suffered terribly from Theodore’s wild, whirlwind career! His courage all through was so simple and so true to him. The Spaniards laughed at the Cubans, and said they had no fighting to do until the Americans came;—they ‘kept on coming.’ One officer told Colonel Wood that the Americans were ‘magnanimous, brave, and ferocious.’ If Cervera had stayed in harbor with his ships, we would have been in the devil of a hole between starvation and fever. It is lucky things went as they did.”

And again, on August 6, he writes to me:

“These dreary Cuban days and dark and dismal nights are drawing to a close for the time,—Thank the Lord and Theodore. [The much-criticised “round robin” had had its effect.] It is hardly fair to damn this country that way, however, for in reality, it is most inexplicably beautiful. In the sunshine of the morning, when once in a while an almost refreshing breeze comes, then the tropical valleys bask and smile in the most enticing luxuriance, and entrance one into lazy dreams of fairy-land. The mass of the scarlet acacia, the trails of morning-glories, and lilies, and the hot growth of all kinds,—above all, the graceful and kingly royal palm and his harem, the slender, tall, clustering bamboos,—are all lovely. These things by moon-light were simply inexpressible; however, the real side of nature is deadly sun, over-whelming, drenching rain, dark, drizzly mist and dew, fever, malaria, filth, disgust with everything. Well, this is at an end now, and almost time it were, for there would not be many left to tell the tale if left here all summer as the President and Secretary proposed to leave us only a couple of days ago, but Theodore ‘sicked one’ as your Stewart’s whole pack of pup-dogs could not commence to do. If we take a final fall, it will be at Havana in the autumn and not with yellow fever, if we can help it, here at Santiago. You all had a dreadful time of it, probably far worse than we merry men of the Greenwood. Honestly, while it is all going along and when there is an advance, the spirits rise amazingly and one trips forward as gaily as in Sir Roger or any other airy measure. That, however, is the one really satisfactory sensation. Lying passive in reserve, and being searched and found by the long-range mausers and shrapnel in the bushes, is not so cheerful an occupation; in fact, it is a low proceeding altogether.

“Whooping along from time to time ‘thoro bush—thoro brier,’ with a wildish throng, firing, cheering, laughing, and running,—that, is a very different story, and holding the advance point in spite of orders to retire (!) is another thing to make even novices chuckle inwardly when they once feel they can do it,—but Theodore was the sparkle to all that fun.

“I could make your flesh creep, however, with horror; meanwhile, you can picture to yourself in pleasant nightmares, flocks of vultures and buzzards, the dead and wounded lost in the tangled growth,—and swarms of crabs,—great big land crabs with one, enormous, lobster-like claw, creeping, rustling, scuffling thro’ the dried aloes and palmettoes.... War never changes its hideous phantasms. The heroism of even modern men (and none the less of the women who let them go) is the one thing to glory and hope in. We pack up tonight. My love to all.”

And so ended the brief and glorious career of the Rough Riders, a career which has about it a touch of Roland and Robin Hood. These letters, written at the time, are valuable refutations of some bruited questions, and the very people who criticised certain actions of my brother, at the time, would be the first, I verily believe, now, to wish they had withheld their criticism.

The depleted regiment, emaciated beyond words, returned to Montauk Point on Long Island, and my husband and I came down from the Adirondack Mountains to meet them at Camp Wyckoff. What a night we spent in a Red Cross tent at the camp! How we talked! How good it was to greet the gallant men again, so many of whom we knew and loved, and how infinitely interesting to come in contact with the wild Westerners about whose courage and determination my brother had written such glowing accounts.

In the last letter my brother wrote to my husband from Santiago, the sentence “As for the political effect of my actions, I never can get on in politics” was soon to be refuted, for hardly had he arrived at Montauk than the politicians flocked surreptitiously to sound him as to the possibility of his running for governor of New York State, but that’s another story!

The throb of parting from their leader was soon to be experienced by the gallant men who had followed Theodore Roosevelt so eagerly in the Cuban jungles. Picturesque to the end, the mustering out of the Rough Riders, under blue autumnal skies at Montauk Point, was the culmination of its romantic career, and many a ferocious fighter and wild bronco-buster turned from the last hand-clasp of his colonel with tears in the eyes which had not flinched before the fiercest Spanish onslaught.