spared the difficulties that would ensue if, as the result of some misfortune, we were compelled to emancipate him
de facto.”
There was some truth—perhaps a lot of truth—in that. Jackson had to recognize it. Longstreet made him think of a fast-talking hoaxer, selling Florida seaside real estate under water twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four. But the president had been elected to make decisions of this sort. “I am a soldier, Your Excellency,” Jackson said. “If this be your decision, I shall of course conduct myself in conformity to it.”
II
Theodore Roosevelt looked over his ranch with considerable satisfaction.
Ranch
was the western word, of course, borrowed from the Spanish; back in New York State, it would have been a farm.
He sucked in a deep breath of the sweet, pure air of Montana Territory. “Like wine in the lungs,” he said. “No coal smoke, no city stinks, nothing but pure, wholesome, delicious oxygen.” He’d been a scrawny weakling when he came out to the West a couple of years before, an old man inside though he’d scarcely passed his twentieth birthday. Now, though older by the calendar, he felt years—decades—younger inside. Strenuous labor, that was the trick.
One of the hands, a grizzled ex-miner who possessed but did not rejoice in the name of Philander Snow, cocked an eyebrow at that. “Oxy-what, boss?” he asked.
“Oxygen, Phil,” Roosevelt repeated. “Oxygen. What we breathe. What makes lamps burn. What, without which, life would be impossible.”
“I thought that was whiskey, or maybe women, depending,” Snow said. “More women in the Territory than there used to be, and nowadays I can’t do as much with ’em. Ain’t that the way it goes?” He spat a mournful stream of tobacco juice onto the ground.
Roosevelt laughed, but quickly sobered. His education made him stick out in these parts. He had trouble talking with his hands, with his fellow ranchers, and even with the townsfolk in Helena about anything past superficialities. Sometimes he felt more nearly an exile than an emigrant from his old way of life. The closest civilized conversation was down in Cheyenne, or maybe even Denver.
But then Philander Snow remarked, “It’ll be lambing time anyday now,” and thoughts of the work at hand replaced those having to do with combustion and metabolism.
Off in the distance, the sheep cropped the new spring grass. The ranch had several hundred head, and a couple of hundred cattle to go with them. Along with the fields of wheat and barley and the vegetable plot near the ranch house, Roosevelt produced all the food he needed, and had a tidy surplus to sell. “Self-sufficiency,” he declared. “Every man’s dream—and, by jingo, I’ve got it! Lord of the manor, that’s what I am.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your manners, boss,” Snow said, spitting again. “Oh, you was kind of fancified and dudish when you first got here, I reckon, but you’ve done settled in nice as you please.”
“For which I do thank you, Phil, most sincerely.” As he had many times in the past, Roosevelt reflected that, while both he and his hands used English, they did not speak the same language.
“This here’s a nice spread you got,” Snow said. “Not so small you can’t do all sorts of things with it, not so big you got to have your own army before you can get any work done. Down in Texas, I hear tell, they got ranches big as a whole county, do nothin’ on ’em but raise cows. Pack of damn foolishness, anybody wants to know.” Another stream of brown landed wetly in the dust.
“You get no arguments from me.” Roosevelt looked south, as if, someone having mentioned Texas, he could see it from here. “Do you know, it broke my father’s heart when the United States lost the War of Secession, but I’d say we’re just as well rid of those Rebels. They’d bring their ways of doing things—everything larger than life, as you say—up here if we were still
de facto.”
There was some truth—perhaps a lot of truth—in that. Jackson had to recognize it. Longstreet made him think of a fast-talking hoaxer, selling Florida seaside real estate under water twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four. But the president had been elected to make decisions of this sort. “I am a soldier, Your Excellency,” Jackson said. “If this be your decision, I shall of course conduct myself in conformity to it.”
II
Theodore Roosevelt looked over his ranch with considerable satisfaction.
Ranch
was the western word, of course, borrowed from the Spanish; back in New York State, it would have been a farm.
He sucked in a deep breath of the sweet, pure air of Montana Territory. “Like wine in the lungs,” he said. “No coal smoke, no city stinks, nothing but pure, wholesome, delicious oxygen.” He’d been a scrawny weakling when he came out to the West a couple of years before, an old man inside though he’d scarcely passed his twentieth birthday. Now, though older by the calendar, he felt years—decades—younger inside. Strenuous labor, that was the trick.
One of the hands, a grizzled ex-miner who possessed but did not rejoice in the name of Philander Snow, cocked an eyebrow at that. “Oxy-what, boss?” he asked.
“Oxygen, Phil,” Roosevelt repeated. “Oxygen. What we breathe. What makes lamps burn. What, without which, life would be impossible.”
“I thought that was whiskey, or maybe women, depending,” Snow said. “More women in the Territory than there used to be, and nowadays I can’t do as much with ’em. Ain’t that the way it goes?” He spat a mournful stream of tobacco juice onto the ground.
Roosevelt laughed, but quickly sobered. His education made him stick out in these parts. He had trouble talking with his hands, with his fellow ranchers, and even with the townsfolk in Helena about anything past superficialities. Sometimes he felt more nearly an exile than an emigrant from his old way of life. The closest civilized conversation was down in Cheyenne, or maybe even Denver.
But then Philander Snow remarked, “It’ll be lambing time anyday now,” and thoughts of the work at hand replaced those having to do with combustion and metabolism.
Off in the distance, the sheep cropped the new spring grass. The ranch had several hundred head, and a couple of hundred cattle to go with them. Along with the fields of wheat and barley and the vegetable plot near the ranch house, Roosevelt produced all the food he needed, and had a tidy surplus to sell. “Self-sufficiency,” he declared. “Every man’s dream—and, by jingo, I’ve got it! Lord of the manor, that’s what I am.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your manners, boss,” Snow said, spitting again. “Oh, you was kind of fancified and dudish when you first got here, I reckon, but you’ve done settled in nice as you please.”
“For which I do thank you, Phil, most sincerely.” As he had many times in the past, Roosevelt reflected that, while both he and his hands used English, they did not speak the same language.
“This here’s a nice spread you got,” Snow said. “Not so small you can’t do all sorts of things with it, not so big you got to have your own army before you can get any work done. Down in Texas, I hear tell, they got ranches big as a whole county, do nothin’ on ’em but raise cows. Pack of damn foolishness, anybody wants to know.” Another stream of brown landed wetly in the dust.
“You get no arguments from me.” Roosevelt looked south, as if, someone having mentioned Texas, he could see it from here. “Do you know, it broke my father’s heart when the United States lost the War of Secession, but I’d say we’re just as well rid of those Rebels. They’d bring their ways of doing things—everything larger than life, as you say—up here if we were still
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