Synopsis

In one of his most accomplished, compelling novels yet, acclaimed New York Times bestseller Jeff Shaara accomplishes what only the finest historical fiction can do – he brings to life one of the most consequential figures in U.S. history – Theodore Roosevelt – peeling back the many-layered history of the man, and the country he personified.

From the mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth century, from the waning days of the rugged frontier of a young country to the emergence of a modern, industrial nation exerting its power on the world stage, Theodore Roosevelt embodied both the myth and reality of the country he loved and led.

From his upbringing in the rarefied air of New York society of the late 19th century to his time in rough-and-tumble world of the Badlands in the Dakotas, from his rise from political obscurity to Assistant Secretary of the Navy, from national hero as the leader of the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War to his accidental rise to the Presidency itself, Roosevelt embodied the complex, often contradictory, image of America itself.

In gripping prose, Shaara tells the story of the man who both defined and created the modern United States.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

December 25, 1918

Sagamore Hill, New York

“The president was received by, well, some estimates say two million Frenchmen turned out, waving flags and whatnot.”

Roosevelt turned away from her, said, “My sister visits me to bolster my spirits, and this is what she brings. On Christmas Day yet. Woodrow Wilson is a hero for the ages, while I lie here as a lump of bacon fat.”

“Dear Teedie, I only tell you what you will read in the papers. And you will read them, despite Christmas, or whatever affliction you have today. I have never known you to ignore any news that might annoy you.”

He turned to Corinne, saw a smile. “Fine. My sister insults me. But I cannot scold you. You’re one of my caretakers, after all.”

He flexed his aching fingers, the pain a sudden shock. He looked at the splint around his hand. “When did this happen?”

Edith was there now, a hand on Corinne’s shoulder. “Last night. The doctor said the splint would help keep your hand and wrist immobile. You complained woefully about the pain in your fingers.” She paused, said softly, “You don’t recall?”

“Of course I recall. I’m no invalid, you know.”

The word hung between them, and he knew his protest had been overblown.

“No, of course you’re not. We’re just pampering you until you’re completely not an invalid. What should we call you in the meantime?”

“Bull Moose will do.”

His sister laughed, but Edith kept a frown.

“They’re still pushing you to come back, you know. More letters this morning. Bull Moose indeed. They want you to run. I do wish you would tell them once and for all to leave you alone. This is not the time for such foolishness. I’m not certain that agreeing to this writer’s request for an interview is a good idea at all. You need your rest.”

He didn’t want this, not now.

“My precious Edie, the 1912 election was my final hurrah, or perhaps my final whimpering farewell. Regardless how many love the term Bull Moose, I do not. I’m not going to run for anything, not president, not local constable.” He paused, fought for a breath. “But it is flattering, yes? They still love me. I rather enjoy holding on to that. If Mr. Hagedorn wishes to write about me yet again, dig into all my wonderful accomplishments, should I complain? I think not. The public does adore me, after all.”

Corinne laughed.

“I see that your gift for sarcasm hasn’t been damaged.” She looked up at Edith. “He’s right, though. Is there harm? They want him to run because he’s beloved, and Mr. Hagedorn can sell books about Teedie because people want to read them. There is no harm, Edie.”

Edith lowered her head.

“Of course. It’s hard to argue against any of that. We’ve all seen the crowds.” Edith clapped her hands, bringing him to attention. “All right, that’s it for politics. You want to wind yourself up, wait for Mr. Hagedorn. This young man has been begging to see you again since you’ve been home. But be prepared for him to press you, and hard. I’m only concerned for my husband. The doctor will be here in about an hour, and I don’t want you holding back anything. Not now. Please, Teddy.”

He looked at them both, saw soft fear, drew more pain from their concern than from the ridiculous agony in his hand. He flexed his fingers again, habit, flinched again from the sharp pains.

“I hurt. But it is not necessary for you both to mother-hen me like this. I am no child.” He paused. “Well, usually. But right now, I just hurt. And I think I’ve got a fever again. You’re a little blurry too. Or perhaps that’s just me.”

Edith bent low, a hand on his forehead. She said nothing, but he knew the look.

“Fever it is, then. My wife can hide nothing from me. I suppose you should hurry that doctor along if you can.”

He rolled slightly away, stared at the brightness of the window, too bright, closed his eyes.

Corinne said, “I’ll leave now, Edie. Maybe he can get some rest. Call me if you need me.”

She was gone in a rustle of her dress, and Edith sat now, her hand on his arm. He wanted to turn, facing her, but there was no strength, no energy at all. He tried to open his eyes, the sun blinding him again, the weight of his fever swirling through his head.

“Thank you, Edie. I’ll sleep now. My hand hurts.”

* * *

HE HEARD A familiar sound outside the window.

“That singing. It’s a cardinal, a male.” He paused, his mind drifting, the sound of the bird filling him with the kind of joy he had always felt when hearing such a variety of songs, identifying every kind of bird, a talent that even master naturalists had found astonishing.

“God, I remember it all. My father did that, opened a marvelous door to everything about nature. Egypt, the entire family absorbing so much, but none enjoyed that trip as much as I did. If I could, I would return right now.”

The images were in his mind, Egypt and the great river, so many birds, the excitement of the hunting excursions, trophies he never could have imagined. Close by, the cardinal serenaded him again, brought him home. He fought through the blurriness, tried to see Edith.

Copyright © 2023 by Jeff Shaara

About the Author

JEFF SHAARA is the award-winning, New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of seventeen novels, including Rise to Rebellion and The Rising Tide, as well as Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure – two novels that complete his father’s Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, The Killer Angels. Shaara was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey, grew up in Tallahassee, Florida, and lives in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

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