Manifest Destiny

“Dee-lighted.” The eyes quickly lost their flash; they became somber again and it was as if Roosevelt hardly heard Pack’s words:

“Now, if I could have a few moments—your opinions about the Chicago convention, the political—”

“I think not,” said Roosevelt, turning away. “I came out here for the climate. I’ve retired from politics.”

“Sir, I’m sure my readers would like to know your view of the election ahead.”

“I have no view,” Roosevelt piped. “None whatever.” He bent to gather his valises. “Joe, lead the way.”

Joe was troubled. It seemed uncharacteristic for Roosevelt to refuse the opportunity of a platform from which to deliver his opinions.

Pack tried another flank. “Now, sir—if you’ve got just one moment, the Marquis De Morès asked especially to meet you.”

It stopped Roosevelt. Again a momentary interest sparked in the wan eyes. “De Morès. Where is he, then?”

“Just over there.” Pack gestured toward the private railroad car.

De Morès said, “Oh, I shall be the richest financier in the world.” He smiled at Roosevelt when he spoke; but he meant what he said. The comment was in reply to Roosevelt’s expressed admiration for the size and formidable solidity of the brand-new abattoir with its towering brick chimney.

“The Marquis will do it, too,” Pack said. “Don’t you find a mighty excitement in knowing we are here at the begi

Lord Almighty, Joe thought. Spare us.

Roosevelt was saying in a dull sort of voice, “Ambition’s a fine attribute. I admire a man with determination and drive.” While he spoke, his gaze drifted toward Madame. Joe saw Pack watching that exchange of glances as if he were trying to read something into it.

They had greeted each other with careful formality. Joe remembered Madame’s earlier words: Teedie … Poor thing. Did everyone in New York refer to Roosevelt as “Teedie”? Or had it been a slip of the tongue, revealing something more than casual acquaintance?

Joe couldn’t tell. In any event they behaved like virtual strangers under the perceptive eye of the Marquis.

De Morès said to Roosevelt, “You’ll find good hunting to the north this time of year. The country’s rough but the game should be plentiful. You may have the luck to find elk this month. Of course you’ll be traveling with the proper comforts.”

“I prefer to travel light,” said Roosevelt, as if delivering a eulogy. “Hardships can be fine things.” His glance may have remained on Madame’s lovely face a moment or two too long. Once again Joe saw his friend Pack observe the exchange; Pack’s face showed plainly that he was offended.

Roosevelt’s piping high voice rattled suddenly, snapping words out in a rush, as if to cover a moment of embarrassment: “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been at the christenings. I managed to miss them both, didn’t I. Trapped in a crowded smoky room in dear old Albany. No rest for the wicked, they say. But my very best wishes went out to you, of course.”

“Yes,” she replied easily. “My father pointed out your card. ‘That’s from Teedie Roosevelt,’ he said.”

“I’ve left that childish name behind.” He smiled—one of those facial punctuation marks that were his habit; all those great square teeth—and turned to De Morès. “I’m not sure, under the circumstances, whether to pronounce your title ‘Markee’ in the French fashion or ‘Marquiss’ as they say in England, and so I’ve decided,” he concluded after drawing a wheezing breath, “that I’ll just call you Mr. De Morès, because we have no marquises in the United States of America.”

In the corner of his vision Joe saw Madame la Marquise avert her face to hide what may have been a quick smile—of amusement? Of memory?

Roosevelt offered his hand to De Morès. “That’s settled then. I look forward to seeing you soon. And your delightful wife.”

Demoted to an egalitarian Mister, the Frenchman accepted the proffered handshake only after a pause that was long enough to be insulting. Roosevelt didn’t appear to notice. He shook hands briefly with Pack, bowed deeply—perhaps an inch too deeply?—to Madame la Marquise and summoned Joe with a jerk of his head.

Joe endeavored to help carry the luggage but Roosevelt refused to relinquish it. “Just show the way. I can carry for myself. Didn’t come out here to be waited upon.”

Joe pointed north and Roosevelt promptly tramped away.

Pack glared after him. “What an insufferable prig. What an utter disappointment.”

You’ll change that opinion when you get to know him, Joe thought.

Walking away to catch up with his client, Joe heard De Morès say with a bite in his tone, “Tell me, Arthur. Is he Jewish?”

“I don’t think so. Dutch ancestry, I believe.”

“I don’t like him.”

Joe caught up and led Roosevelt upstreet, ignoring the fit of coughing.

There was no paint on the town; the smell of new boards was in his nostrils—evidence that the wind was favorable, for otherwise they’d have smelled nothing but the abattoir’s stink.

Roosevelt said, “I should feel sorry for Medora if I were you, old fellow. She’s got herself a cavalier despot for a husband.”

Joe was surprised by the remark. A year ago Roosevelt surely wouldn’t have made it; he’d have been too filled with vigor—he’d have found something admiring to say about the couple.

Now there was a bitter note in the piping voice and an intolerance that hadn’t been there before. Give him half an excuse, Joe thought gloomily, and the silly dude would get himself in serious trouble if he went around making those kinds of remarks about the imperial Frenchman. Joe felt he should warn Roosevelt that De Morès was too conceited to let an insult pass; and that he was well armed at all times. But he couldn’t think of a way to do it that might not offend the little dude, so—just for the time being, he reckoned—it was all right to leave things alone.

Two months ago in the spring there had been rain—torrents. The river had run full, crashing down its banks. Two months from now by August it would dwindle to a fitful stream lurching through cut-clay cha

From there they struck south along the dirt track that passed for a wagon road. It took them across the rails and upriver beneath the bluff—Roosevelt’s hatbrim lifted and turned as he focused his interest on the brand-new De Morès château up there—and around a bend through shade of cottonwoods that briefly interrupted the blast of afternoon sun.

Joe Ferris was thinking about the girl he had left behind in Newfoundland. In his memory he saw the laugh in her green eyes—as good as a kiss.

Must have been the sight of De Morès’s big house that put him in mind of his girl. Didn’t usually think about her in the daytime.

He heard Roosevelt: “It’s said Mr. De Morès has killed two or three Jews in duels.”

“Doesn’t like Jews, does he?”

“I take him to be an unpleasant man all around,” said Roosevelt. “Well despite all that, old fellow, it’s good to be back. I feel as if I’ve come home. It’s an enchanted country. D’you know Poe’s tales and verses? These Bad Lands look just the way Poe sounds.”

Joe sca

He didn’t know much about anybody called Poe. He’d done some reading in the books from school and from his mother’s library bookcase and he had enjoyed some of them, especially the Sir Walter Scott ones, but none of it seemed to apply much to the country hereabouts, and he didn’t know what Mr. Roosevelt meant but he wasn’t curious enough to inquire further.