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  Roosevelt looked about him at the room. “We’ve moved a few things,” said Wilson, vaguely. “I’m not sure what.”

  “Well, there was a president between the two of us—can’t think of the name—and I wasn’t asked here all that often in those days.” Burden had never seen the Colonel try to please, if not an elder, a superior. He was startled at just how winning and boyish the Colonel could be when he wanted something. “No. I always think of this room as the room where I said, after I was elected in 1904, that I wouldn’t run again in 1908.”

  “I wonder,” said Wilson, “if you hadn’t said that, if I’d be here at all.”

  “I don’t know. But I do know that Mr. Taft would never have been here.” Roosevelt was flat. “I can guarantee that. But I made a promise to the country, and I kept it.”

  “Never to run for re-election?” Wilson was like a kindly tutorial guide with a promising student.

  “Exactly! Never to run for re-election.” Roosevelt gave a dazzling smile. “In 1908.” With a crash, the door to 1920 was kicked open. Wilson for a third time versus Roosevelt for a second time in his own right, though, for all practical purposes, a third term, as he’d inherited most of the murdered McKinley’s second term. “But all that’s past, Mr. President. To say the least. I want us to win this war, and to lead the world, and I want to do my part, as my four sons, all of age, will do theirs.”

  “I know. Mr. Baker has spoken to your oldest, I think. Mr. Baker was much moved …”

  “I want them to have their crowded hours of glorious life, as I’ve had mine, and will still have.” Wisely, the Colonel did not leave the President an opening for a negative. “As a state paper, I regard your declaration, and its argument, as the equal of Washington and Lincoln. But it needs one thing yet to make it live, and that is for us, you and me, to inspire the nation to carry out your dream.” When it came to flattery, Burden was amused to find that the Colonel could give as lustily as he took. Since Wilson was entirely human when it came to simple vanity, he visibly expanded under his predecessor’s praise.

  The dialogue went well, better than Burden had dreamed, considering what the two had said and thought of one another, all of which was now, the Colonel exuberantly declared, so much “dust in a windy street, if only we can make your message good.”

  Thus, Roosevelt welcomed Wilson to Roosevelt’s war. Then the volunteer division was mentioned. Before Wilson could respond, the Colonel was on his feet, superbly impersonating himself. “I am willing to go forth to my fellow Americans and preach the sword of the Lord and of Gideon. I can raise armies of volunteers of the best—the flower—of the nation, as we did once before in my time, and before that, too, in Lincoln’s day …”

  “But in Lincoln’s day, there were too few volunteers.” Wilson’s voice was suddenly urgent and, again, Burden heard not the elegant neutrality of the Princeton professor’s voice but that Southern cadence of—what other word if not freedom but rebellion? “That is the problem before us. We must conscript the young men. Draft them. Find a new word for draft, if necessary, but no matter what the word, there is so little time to do so much in.” The President interrupted himself. “I know that you think I should have led us into this war a year ago, but if I had, only you—worth ten divisions—would have followed me.”

  “All that is past.” The Colonel sank into his chair. “You are president. I am not. The burden’s yours. God help you. I will go, for what it’s worth. Clemenceau has asked me to come to France, just as a symbol of our will to fight.…”

  Burden was fascinated to watch so skilled a politician as Roosevelt make so fundamental a mistake. For a French premier to request the aid of an ex-president was to insure a presidential veto.

  “All Europe finds you fascinating, Colonel. As do we.” Virginia was replaced by Princeton. “But we must not discourage those men we draft by setting up a special corps of volunteer soldiers.” Before Roosevelt could interrupt, Wilson was quick to add, “Not that uses cannot be made of the volunteer spirit and of—of the sword of Gideon. I am also wary of allowing ourselves to become too much enamored of one side or the other, in which I follow General Washington, perhaps, more than yourself, which is why,” and now Wilson began to weave his own artful magic, “I want peace without victory for all sides, if humanly possible, since victory for one is defeat for the other, and should that happen the cannons will sound once more, and there will be more blood in the next generation. So I have presented us not as an ally of the Allies nor indeed as an enemy of the people of the Central Powers, but as an ‘associated power,’ to see peace made, justice done, and—ah, life enhanced.” Adroitly, Wilson led Roosevelt away from the specifics of his visit; and spun for him one of his verbal webs, so plausible, so beautiful and so, very often, misleading. Wilson had once confessed to Burden that whenever he was faced with an office-seeker, the surest way to get him off the subject was “to control the conversation yourself and take the high moral ground. Often he will be ashamed to mention his interested errand.” Of course, Roosevelt knew the trick, too; he also knew when to allow a certain smoke to obscure conflicting interests. He shifted the conversation from his own particularity to the generality.

  “As you and I close ranks, so the whole country must.” The Colonel turned his head toward the window and the white April light. “I suggest to you now, privately, what I shall soon be writing about in the Kansas City Star. They now want me to be a regular newspaper writer, every week, and if there were the time …” A slight pause made it clear that if the Colonel did not get his military command he would be regularly heard from in the press, as the not-so-loyal opposition.

  If Wilson had grasped the implicit warning, he chose to ignore it. Chin held high, righteousness itself embodied as a Presbyterian elder, Wilson nodded encouragingly; and let the other talk. So far, on points, they were even by Burden’s calculation. “I refer now to the German-language press, which has been, from the beginning, disloyal to this country. I would, as a military necessity, shut all those papers down.”

  Wilson blinked his surprise. “Isn’t this—arbitrary? Surely, they are guaranteed the same freedoms—”

  “This is war, Mr. President. Lincoln suspended habeas corpus, shut down newspapers, and we’ll have to do the same …”

  “I hope not. After all, we shall have a military censorship that will apply to everyone. This should keep the Germans on a tight lead.”

  “They are also centers of treason—or potential treason anyway. Why run a risk? We must—you must, sir, tighten everyone’s lead in the name of victory. Many would-be traitors—German sympathizers—pretend to be peace-lovers, to be—what’s their phrase?—‘conscientious objectors.’ Well, I would treat them conscientiously! I would deny them the vote. If they are of military age and refuse to fight for their country, then they must forgo their citizenship.”

  Wilson was taking all this remarkably well, thought Burden. He continued to nod politely, judiciously—most judiciously when he observed mildly, “I suppose the Supreme Court could find some way to disenfranchise them.”

  “Supreme Court!” Roosevelt’s fist struck his own knee so hard that he winced, and the pince-nez fell loose on its cord and dangled on his shirt-front. “You are the commander-in-chief. And this is war. So you, you, are president, court and congress all combined. Do what needs doing, do it fast. The world’s almost ours at last!” Roosevelt was on his feet. “We have all the gold now. All the money power. England and France, Germany and Russia, they will never recover from this blood-letting. Their empires are as dead and gone as Nineveh and Tyre. Oh, what a glorious time you’ll have of it!”

  “Shall we trade places?” Wilson’s smile was genuine.

  “Yes! This minute!” Roosevelt roared with laughter. “Why, if I had enough Rough Riders I’d come in here like a Mexican bandit and take over …”

  “I’d help you,” Wilson sighed. “You are more suited for this than I.”

  “I think so, too.” Roosevelt
was blunt. “But history has ruled otherwise. If these states are still under a lucky star, as we were when I was here, you shall be—glorious, Mr. Wilson, and I’ll retract all my partisan statements.”

  “Logothete, too?”

  “I thought you’d fancy that one. Secretly, of course.”

  Wilson laughed for the first time. “I don’t like it. But I’d never deny it. I am a man of words. Like you.” He thrust.

  Roosevelt did not blink, and his response was mild. “But there is also action …”

  “Ah, Colonel, words are the greatest action of all, words are what bind us to Heaven—and to hell. At the end, as well as in the beginning, there is only the word.”

  Roosevelt stood now in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, hands behind his back, just as he had stood so many times in that same spot when he had been the president. “Then, perhaps,” he said, smiling, “if that’s the case, I should select my words with more care.”

  “In this matter, Colonel, you are the judge, not I.”

  Burden had a curious sense of time having doubled. This was 1917; yet, simultaneously, this was also 1907; and there were two presidents in one Red Room.

  Then the Colonel broke the spell. He crossed to Tumulty, who rose, respectfully. “Now here’s the sort of fighting Irishman I like.” He slapped Tumulty on the back. “By Jove, Tumulty, you are a man after my own heart! Of course, you have six children.…” Burden knew then, for absolute certain, that Roosevelt would be a candidate in 1920. Why else memorize the exact number of the egregious Tumulty’s brood? “But I’ll tell you what. You get me over to France, and I’ll put you on my staff, and Mrs. Tumulty won’t have a thing to worry about.” Roosevelt turned to Burden. “Senator, you’re still a strapping lad. You come, too.”

  “Shall I pack my toga?”

  “No. Turn it in. Plenty of senators in this country. In fact, far too many.”

  “We are in perfect agreement on that.” Wilson stood up. “I suppose you’ll want me to volunteer, too.”

  “It would set a fine example.” Roosevelt chuckled.

  “I could go as a chaplain, I suppose.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Mr. Wilson. I would put you in charge of the great guns. You’re a born artilleryman, as Mr. Taft and I discovered in 1912. Anyway, you have your place already. The first place. You are my commander-in-chief. I’ve come here to get my orders.” Roosevelt gave a fairly smart salute, which the President gravely returned. Then in a general storm of farewells and good feeling, the Colonel was gone, leaving Burden with the President and Tumulty. From the entrance hall, Rooseveltian “bullies” could be heard. Wilson looked, quizzically, at Burden. “Well, that was an experience,” he said. “He’s like a great big boy.”

  “Who can charm the little birds out of the trees,” said Tumulty.

  “What about the big birds?” Burden could not guess what Wilson would do.

  But the President was still bemused. “I always found him charming, personally. But there is now a sort of sweetness about him that was not there before. Four sons, he has,” Wilson’s voice lowered, “and he wants them all to go to war, with him.… I’m glad I have daughters.” Wilson’s mood lightened. “Anyway, he’s hard to resist. I can see what it is the people love about him.” Wilson sounded, to Burden, wistful. As a public man, Wilson aroused admiration—and hatred—but no affection.

  “But what will you do?” Burden was direct. “Does he get his division of volunteers?”

  “Senator Harding wants him to have three divisions,” said Tumulty.

  Wilson spread wide his arms and stretched his back. “If it were up to me, why not? But I leave the military to the military. At the moment, they fear that special volunteers—like these—will wreck our whole system of drafting men. Also, he’s no general.”

  Wilson’s hand rested now on a large bronze head of Abraham Lincoln. “Thank God for Lincoln! You know, when I taught history, I taught Lincoln. And I was struck how, when the war came, he made every mistake it was possible to make. Well, thanks to his bad example, we won’t make the same mistakes now.”

  “One of his mistakes,” Burden was now trying to draw Wilson out, “was the appointment of opposition politicians as generals.”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, turning to Tumulty. “See if the coast is clear. I don’t want any photographs of me with the Colonel.”

  Tumulty and Burden left the Red Room. The Colonel could be seen through the open door, talking to journalists. Tumulty turned back into the Red Room. “He’s got the Pathé news-reel cameras photographing him, and won’t be budged.”

  Wilson then appeared in the doorway, and with a comic timing worthy of a Mack Sennett movie, he tiptoed across the hall to the elevator, with mock-terrified glances over his shoulder, as if pursued by a ghost in a graveyard.

  And that was that. The Colonel would not get his division. But there was an excellent chance that he might get another four-year lease on the White House. In a curious way, with or without military glory, Theodore Roosevelt could no longer lose. After a decade’s absence, luck was now with him again, which meant, at his age, to the end.

  3

  Kitty sat on a boulder overlooking Rock Creek, her eye on the baby, as it tottered ever closer to a clump of shiny poison ivy at the foot of an English walnut tree whose green fruit glowed in the summer sun. “Why not,” said Kitty, “put the parlor here, over the creek, and our bedroom over there?”

  “The road’s too near.” Burden had taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, and felt free of all things worldly except Kitty, who had become surprisingly pretty as she aged; she was no longer the somewhat hard-faced young woman that he had felt obliged to marry because her father was the master of the Democratic Party of their state. If nothing else, Caroline had taught him never to disguise his motives from himself. In early days, Caroline had shocked him. Now he shocked her whenever he chose to reveal just how the affairs of the republic were conducted. Admittedly, the shock to her system was not moral: rather, she appeared to resent the lack of form to American life, so unlike France, where everyone knew what to expect, including the exact nature of the almost always predictable unexpected.

  On the other hand, Kitty was a natural politician, true heiress to her father, the legendary judge, not only as a political tactician but now as possessor of her late father’s fortune soon to be transformed from abstract stocks and bonds into wood, brick, stone.

  Burden himself had never been able to acquire money. Somehow or other the munificent seventy-five hundred dollars a year salary of a United States senator was hardly enough for them to live on, even though their large house in American City was always profitably rented. When it came time to go home to vote or to campaign, they would check into the Henry Clay Hotel across from the state capitol, and pretend that they had been living in town all year, just folks, with only the odd trip to Washington.

  The first installment of Kitty’s inheritance had gone to buy one and a half acres of Rock Creek Park, mostly wooded hills whose undergrowth was as green and thick as any jungle. In fact, the park was almost too much of a jungle for Burden’s taste, as he seized his daughter’s pinafore just as she was about to bury her face in a cluster of poison ivy which could, within hours, cover its victim with oozing itching blisters, torment for an adult, hell for a child.

  “Diana!” Kitty’s voice sounded too late. “What is it about poison ivy? Jim Junior had a dowsing rod for the stuff.”

  Burden settled himself on a fallen log opposite Kitty, Diana on his knee. Birds silently circled overhead, their singing-mating season past. Now they were solicitous parents and providers, as well as flight instructors to the young—and mourners for those who fell to earth.

  “The architect says that this should be the parlor, facing south.” Burden tried and failed to imagine a room where they were sitting. Jungle or not, he preferred the open. Unlike most boys brought up on a farm, he did not prefer the indoors, as long, of course, as he did
not have to do chores. “She’ll grow up here,” he added, looking down at Diana, a grave as yet speechless child, who sighed.

  Kitty took a crust of bread from her handbag. Then, bread in hand, she extended her arm. The miracle, as Burden always thought of it, occurred in a matter of seconds. A large thrush made several close passes in order to get a good look at Kitty before he settled on her wrist. Then he took the bread in his beak, shook it free of encumbering crumbs, and rose to a branch of the nearest tree, where he ate the crust and watched Kitty.

  “How do you do it?”

  “I’ve always done it.” Kitty’s relationship with the animal world was intimate, collusive, extra-human. All creatures came to her without fear; and she was there. As a girl, she had befriended a full-grown wolf, dying of hunger during a hard winter. The wolf had followed her about like a dog; then, according to the Judge, while she was at school, the wolf had attacked the hired man and the hired man had shot the beast in self-defense. To which Kitty had replied with a terminal coldness, “No, Father. You just had him killed.” Father and daughter never spoke of the subject again but father and son-in-law did discuss the matter years later, and the Judge had said, with puzzled awe, “How did she know—how could she know that I killed the brute when there was no one there to see me?” It was decided then that Kitty was psychic, at least with animals and birds. She seemed less interested in people as opposed to voters. She knew as much of Burden’s alliances and arrangements as he did; yet he was certain that she knew nothing of Caroline. He also suspected that if she did know, she would be indifferent. Odd, he thought, not to know your own wife as well as—a thrush did. When Jim Junior had died at six, it was Burden who had wept. Kitty had simply busied herself with the funeral arrangements; then she had quarrelled with her Negro cook over the refreshments for the wake, a bit of Romanism popular in their Protestant state. That was the end of their son.

  Although a cool west breeze was rustling the branches of the taller trees, Burden was still uncomfortably hot. But then everyone said that this was the hottest summer in memory, the first war-time summer. “High ceilings.” Kitty looked up at the tallest tree, an oak.