to the assistant secretary of the navy, Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt and his Rough Riders were with Shafter and this gave Hart an opportunity to observe the future president at close, sometimes too close, quarters. The Vixen picked up the day’s dispatches and took them to Daiquirí or Siboney, then someone had to take them inland to the army and bring back replies. As chance would have it, there was only one officer-horseman on board the Vixen. Having gained experience by riding to school in Michigan, Tommy Hart qualified as a dispatch rider. Often Sharp would order Hart to take a message to Colonel Roosevelt and see if TR could come back to the Vixen for a chat. On at least four occasions there was enough of a lull on the battlefield to allow Theodore Roosevelt to accept the invitation. “He would be riding with an aide or two on each side,” Hart recalled, “always talking, and I rode on behind. It was very hot in Cuba at that time. Mr. Roosevelt, as the world knows, was one of these men who perspire very freely, and he was not clean at all. In fact, riding behind, I could always smell him.”22
As soon as Roosevelt arrived aboard he would disappear into the bathroom, which was still equipped as it had been by the yacht’s wealthy former owner. Shortly, a pile of dirty clothes would be passed out and into the hands of waiting mess boys who would hustle them below decks for laundering. Then after much steam, soap, and scrubbing a glistening Theodore Roosevelt would appear, dressed in Alexander Sharp’s clothes and ready for dinner. The wine stores were also much as the owner had left them, the Vixen having been very hastily commissioned. Sharp had the only key and never used it except when Roosevelt was on board, but his visits were deemed occasions worthy of vintage wines. The wine, the friendship, and no doubt the circumstance of sitting off an enemy coast in such palatial surroundings made these meals quite remarkable. “The talk,” Hart recalled, was splendid, since “Sharp was a man of the world, the second officer was too,” and Theodore Roosevelt was no mean raconteur. After dinner the future president would collect his clean clothes and disappear again into deepest Cuba. All in all these were memorable occasions for a young midshipman.
Soon Roosevelt and the rest of the army were bringing considerable pressure on the defenses of Santiago. Someone had to give and Admiral Cervera was ordered to do the giving. The admiral was distinctly unenthusiastic about his chances, but despite his grim foreboding, he chose 3 July 1898 to sally forth and do battle and possibly, just possibly, escape. Meanwhile, Sampson, in a final effort to reconcile his differences with the army, had sailed eastward in the New York to meet with Shafter and explain to him why the navy could not broach the mine-infested entrance to the harbor. With Sampson away, Schley was in tactical command at 9:35 a.m. when the Infanta Maria Teresa, Vizcaya, Cristóbal Colón, Almirante Oquendo, and two destroyers appeared in line, steaming out of the harbor. Schley, in the Brooklyn, much to his later regret and to the impairment of his reputation, turned east rather than in the direction of the enemy. He later claimed he was taking prudent evasive action, but to some his turn implied panic; whatever the case the Brooklyn was late in taking up the chase. All the other major U.S. ships, the New York, Oregon, Texas, Iowa, and Indiana moved immediately to pursue the fleeing Spaniards; only the Massachusetts, which was coaling at Guantánamo, missed the action. The speedy Vixen was in the midst of the fray, thus providing Hart with a view he would have been denied had he stayed with the Massachusetts. Soon the Brooklyn made up lost time and led the American battle line as they fired time after time at the Spanish ships. It was all very exciting as, one by one, the enemy ships either sank or were beached. The Cristóbal Colón, the fastest of Cervera’s cruisers, was the last to give up. It had been a magnificent battle from the point of view of the Americans; they suffered only one man killed and one wounded, while the Spanish lost their entire fleet, and had 160 men killed and more than 1,800 captured. Although in the opening stages of the war the navy had been outmaneuvered by Cervera, the victory off Santiago swept all criticism from the public press, as editorialists and speakers outdid themselves in heaping praise on the gallant sailors. Only Schley’s turn at the opening of the battle marred the surface of naval perfection.
With the victory over the Spanish fleet, the war was all but ended. Hemmed in on land and defeated at sea, the Spaniards had little choice but to surrender and on 16 July that course was chosen by General José Toral. On 10 December 1898 the Treaty of Paris was signed, formally bringing to a close the conflict known in some quarters as the “splendid little war.” As a result of that conflict Spain was not only forced out of Cuba, but the United States gained a foothold in the Far East when Spain agreed to cede the Philippines in return for twenty million dollars.
That cession later proved fateful for Hart, but as of 1898 the war fought off Cuba was the most exciting time of his life. Letters of commendation and the notice he attracted among peers and superiors helped to burnish the image he had at the Naval Academy. The experience matured him as well, as was evinced when he returned to Annapolis to take his final examinations. In the final rankings, as of June 1899, with a mark of 809.01 out of a possible 1,000, he was seventh in his class of forty-seven members. His close friend, Harry E. Yarnell, with a mark of 856.64, stood at the top of the class. These final rankings were the ones that would count on the Navy List for assignment and future promotion. The long cruise in foreign waters had incidental benefits. For one thing, there was no place to spend money, so the budding young officer had a chance to catch up on his debts and began his formal naval career with a clean financial slate.
At twenty-one Tommy Hart still looked like an adolescent. The war had matured him, to be sure; however, his scrapbooks from these days contain many pictures of a sky-larking youngster posing for the camera surrounded by young men and a surprising number of young women, obviously having a wonderful time. But, as he later said, this was in many ways a lonely time for him. His salary did not allow many trips home and there was not much reason to go, anyhow. He had lots of childhood friends, but apparently felt little desire to see his father. Tommy had not spent even Christmas at home since he was fifteen. This separation from family left an impression on him that lasted well past his adolescence. One does not have to be a psychologist to know that all people have strong reactions to their parents. Tommy’s problem was that he had no real mother first to love and then to break away from. His father was surely a figure of authority when he was present, but he was not present often. John Hart apparently wavered between punishing and indulging his son; he did very little counseling or advising in anything other than cursory, general terms. Psychologists tend to agree that if a boy has limited contact with his mother, and Tommy had virtually none, he will have an idealized concept of mothers and their role.23 At the same time, men look for women like their mothers, or in Tommy’s case, like he imagined his mother to be. As for the influence of his father, Tommy would naturally strive to emulate him to some degree and if possible to surpass him. Another psychological reaction about which we can safely hypothesize is that Hart would put great stress on the importance of family life and try to create for himself and for his own family what he had not had as a child.
So, as Tommy Hart approached maturity, he was deprived and seeking in one sense and blessed and satisfied in another. The academy and his profession had become a substitute for some of the things he had never had. After a rather rocky start, he had done well at Annapolis; his ability and courage had been tested in the face of battle. How far would he go, and how he would get there remained to be seen.
For the next twenty years Hart was occupied in a variety of activities. He started his professional career, got married, and served in another war. He also set the pattern, at least in part, for the rest of his life. In dealing with this formative period, it is instructive to examine some fundamental questions. What were the influences and experiences that shaped Thomas Hart into a mature naval officer? How did he determine his career goals? Who was his model? How did he change from a rather callow youth of twenty-two into a serious, exemplary, professional of forty-two?
The
