New York Tribune via Chronicling America
New York Tribune via Chronicling America

Wilson Wins Reelection

New York Tribune via Chronicling America
New York Tribune via Chronicling America

Erik Sass is covering the events of the war exactly 100 years after they happened. This is the 256th installment in the series.  


The 1916 U.S. presidential election saw the acceleration of a major political realignment, as the Democratic Party led by Woodrow Wilson sought to build a stable majority by co-opting many of the activist ideals previously espoused by the “Progressive” wing of the Republican party, while the latter struggled to heal the ideological fractures laid bare in the 1912 election.

In the end the GOP was unable to rebuild its coalition in the face of Wilson’s wily policy poaching, handing the election – and with it, the direction of U.S. foreign policy towards war-torn Europe—to the Democratic incumbent.

On November 7, 1916, after a hard fought campaign, Wilson squeaked out a win with 277 electoral votes to 254 for his Republican opponent Charles Evan Hughes, drawing on the Democratic Party's traditional Southern strongholds, as well as relatively new converts in the Mountain West and West Coast. The final decision hinged on one of the big swing states, California, with a modest 13 electoral votes (the full tally wasn’t known for almost a week afterwards, reflecting the technology of the era).

Erik Sass


Of course the war itself was a major issue in the 1916 election, along with the punitive expedition against Pancho Villa, but these were just two controversies among many. Vast and inwards-looking by nature, the United States was also energized and divided by a range of domestic questions, which were at least as important to the outcome of the contest as the debates over American intervention in Europe and Mexico.

The arguments which most divided public opinion in these years generally concerned the social and economic impacts resulting from the country’s rapid industrialization over the preceding half-century, which had provided a new host of ills for the crusading Progressive movement to attack following the demise of slavery. Internal disagreements over these issues had contributed to the open split in the Republican Party in 1912, pitting the Progressive wing under Teddy Roosevelt, who supported organized labor and trust-busting, against the laissez-faire conservative wing under William Howard Taft.

In the unusual four-way presidential contest of 1912, between Wilson, Roosevelt, Taft, and the socialist Eugene Debs, this dissension in the Republican ranks ended up giving the White House to Wilson with just 41.8% of the popular vote. Stung by this largely self-inflicted defeat, in 1916 the GOP resolved to unite around a single compromise candidate who could win back Progressive voters. They eventually settled on Associate Supreme Court Justice Charles Evans Hughes, who resigned his position to run for office (and was later appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme Court by Herbert Hoover, making him one of only two justices in U.S. history to be appointed twice).

Facing a resurgent Republican coalition, Wilson decided to tack towards the center by adopting a slew of Progressive policies, including the formation of new agricultural banks to lend to farmers – a move which naturally appealed to Wilson’s Democratic base in the rural South, but also curried favor with Midwestern farmers previously more likely to vote Republican. A workmen’s compensation act for federal employees was also passed with relative ease, since it didn’t affect the private sector.

Other Progressive moves by Wilson required a careful balancing act to avoid alienating key members of the Democratic coalition: for example his decision to support a law banning child labor annoyed Democratic Senators from southern states with lots of textile factories, but in July 1916 they finally heeded the president’s call and passed the bill (probably swayed by the inducement of the agricultural banks).

Perhaps the clearest signal of this new direction was Wilson’s appointment, in January 1916, of the pro-union lawyer Louis Brandeis to the Supreme Court, a major victory for organized labor. Also shocking was Wilson’s support for trade tariffs and anti-dumping legislation to protect American industry from foreign competitors, reversing almost a century of Democratic support for free trade with the brazen theft of a plank from the Republicans’ 1912 platform.


The war undoubtedly played a role in the presidential contest of 1916, but it would be hard to argue that it was decisive, considering that key players on both sides were at pains to highlight their opposition to U.S. intervention, and both presidential candidates left their stances ambivalent at best, exemplified by Wilson’s famous slogan “He Kept Use Out of War” (with no guarantee he would continue to do so).

No surprise, these stances mirrored the state of American public opinion. On one hand, a vocal minority – exemplified by the bellicose former President Teddy Roosevelt—had favored U.S. intervention on the side of the Allies almost from the beginning, citing Germany’s violation of Belgian neutrality and the “outrages” (atrocities) committed by German troops in Belgium and northern France. Later some Americans were swayed to the pro-war side by the German submarine campaign against neutral shipping, including the sinking of the Lusitania, with the loss of scores of American lives.

Indeed, some Americans were so committed to the idea of intervention that the Preparedness Movement, as it was called, set up privately funded officer training programs to teach citizens military skills at so-called “Plattsburgh Camps,” named after the chief training facility in Plattsburgh, NY. Altogether around 40,000 young men, almost all drawn from the college-educated upper class, underwent training at these camps.

On the other hand, a majority of Americans continued to oppose U.S. intervention well into 1916, and what limited support for intervention there was tended to wane when Germany appeared to satisfy U.S. diplomatic demands by backing down from unrestricted U-boat warfare, as it did in 1915 and 1916. Meanwhile the British naval blockade of the Central Powers and blacklisting of companies that traded with them, which hurt American businesses, dampened pro-Allied sentiments considerably.

Always mindful of these attitudes, Wilson sought to placate the pro-intervention segment of public opinion by launching his own “Preparedness” drive, with new bills expanding the U.S. Army and Navy, and constant diplomatic pressure on both Germany and Britain to cease threatening American lives and interfering with American commerce on the high seas.

These measures allowed him to avert war while maintaining American prestige at home and abroad, which in turn enabled him to both preserve the loyalty of the Democratic Party’s staunch pacifist wing, led by William Jennings Bryan, and deprive his Republican opponents of political ammunition at the same time. In fact, Republican grandees nixed a possible run by Teddy Roosevelt in 1916 because they feared, probably rightly, that his open pro-war stance would cost them the election. During the campaign Republicans criticized Wilson for being too soft when it came to German submarine warfare, but hardly committed to armed intervention themselves.

Despite that Wilson’s reelection came as a disappointment to pro-Interventionists who viewed him as practicing what a later generation would call “appeasement.” Edmond Genet, an American volunteer fighting with the French air force as a pilot, was typically despondent in a letter home written November 15, 1916:

"Hughes lost and there’s another four years ahead of us with Wilson at the helm… we have lost every bit of hope… Where has all the old genuine honor and patriotism and human feelings of our countrymen gone? What are those people, who live on their farms in the West, safe from the chances of foreign invasion, made of, anyway? They decided the election of Mr. Wilson. Don’t they know anything about the invasion of Belgium, the submarine warfare against their own countrymen and all the other outrages which all neutral countries, headed by the United States should have long ago rose up and suppressed and which, because of the past administration’s “peace at any price” attitude have been left to increase and increase?"


But behind the scenes the U.S. was already drifting towards war as 1916 drew to an end, even if most ordinary Americans didn’t realize it. Abroad, the new military high command in Germany, led by chief of the general staff Paul von Hindenburg and his close collaborator Erich Ludendorff, was usurping the authority of the civilian government by pushing Kaiser Wilhelm II to resume unrestricted U-boat warfare, on the assumption that the United States either wouldn’t fight or would declare war in name only.

Even before the resumption of unrestricted U-boat warfare became known, Germany and the U.S. were on a collision course, due to individual submarine commanders overstepping their bounds, apparently with the winking acquiescence of Berlin. Thus on November 20, 1916, Wilson’s personal confidante Colonel E.M. House wrote to Secretary of State Robert Lansing, relating a conversation he had with the German ambassador, Bernstorff, in which House warned the German diplomat “we were on the ragged edge and brought to his mind the fact that no more notes could be exchanged: that the next move was to break diplomatic relations.” Across the Atlantic, in his memoirs the American ambassador to Germany James Gerard, recalled that sometime in the autumn of 1916 Ludendorff “had stated that he did not believe America could do more damage to Germany than she done if the two countries were actually at war, and that he considered that, practically, America and Germany were engaged in hostilities.”

Other, possibly more powerful forces were also pushing the U.S. towards war. Beginning in 1915 U.S. banks had loaned colossal sums to the Allies—with Wilson’s tacit permission—and the country was enjoying an economic boom as these loans were funneled back to U.S. manufacturers for weapons, ammunition, vehicles, food, fuel, and other supplies (giving rise to the U-boat controversy). As much as the Allies now depended on U.S. production to sustain their war effort, it was also becoming clear that American banks and industry were equally dependent on the Allies for their solvency.

Caught in a tightening vise formed by two interrelated pressures—the threat of renewed U-boat warfare and America’s growing entanglement with the Allies—Wilson was running out of room to maneuver.

See the previous installment or all entries.

Aidan Monaghan/AMC
What AMC's The Terror Got Right (And Wrong) About the Franklin Expedition
Aidan Monaghan/AMC
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

WARNING: This post contains spoilers for The Terror. If you haven't finished the show, don't read further!

We know the outcome of Captain Crozier's battle with Tuunbaq in the AMC series The Terror, and that he chose (as some rumors have suggested) to live with the Inuit rather than return to London when he has the chance. Now, it's time for a post-mortem (sorry) of the show's historical highlights. While Dan Simmons, author of the book on which the show is based, created Lady Silence and her supernatural evil spirit—Tuunbaq definitely wasn't stalking the men of the Erebus and Terror back in 1847—much of the show is faithful to the actual events of the Franklin expedition, one of the most enduring mysteries in polar exploration. Here's a rundown of what The Terror got right, and where the show slipped up.


A scene from AMC's The Terror with Sir John Franklin and James Fitzjames
Capt. James Fitzjames (Tobias Menzies), left, and Sir John Franklin (Ciaran Hinds) survey the ice.
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

Right off the bat, The Terror envelops viewers in an icy world that increasingly mirrors the crews’ isolation and desperation. In the first tragic scene, a sailor falls overboard into a sea of accurately rendered pancake ice. In another scene, Captain Francis Crozier sees a sun dog—a solar phenomenon caused by sunlight refracting through clouds of ice crystals, often witnessed by polar explorers. The officers' uniforms and caps are also recreated with authentic details. As the hopelessness of their predicament dawns on the officers and men, summer’s 24-hour daylight vanishes, replaced by the 24-hour darkness of winter. The imprisoned ships tilt with the pressure of the pack ice.

There were a few hiccups noticed by sharp-eyed viewers in the Remembering the Franklin Expedition Facebook group, however. Caulker's mate Cornelius Hickey has a fondness for cigarettes, but most sailors probably smoked pipes at the time, and definitely not inside the ship. (Good thing they had that fire hole bored into the ice!) And assistant surgeon Harry Goodsir’s technique with the Daguerrotype camera in the blind would have produced a terrible photo. His 20th-century stopwatch wouldn’t have helped.


A scene from AMC's The Terror with Sir John Franklin and Capt. Francis Crozier
Captain Francis Crozier (Jared Harris), right, tries to convince Sir John that they're going to need rescuing pretty soon.
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

In a flashback in Episode 3, Sir John Franklin’s good friend Sir John Ross asks the soon-to-depart commander if the Admiralty had any plans for his rescue. When Franklin says one won’t be needed—since the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror are the best-provisioned ships ever sent to the Arctic—Ross warns him that he’s being naïve. In real life, this conversation was much different, and it didn’t take place at the Admiralty.

Franklin and Ross knew firsthand how a well-provisioned expedition can become a fight for survival. (In Episode 6, Captain James Fitzjames hears the story of Ross’s disastrous Victory expedition from the Erebus's ice master Thomas Blanky, who was really there in 1829-1833.) Ross instead offered to rescue Franklin himself, and captained (at age 72!) a privately funded schooner in search of his lost friend in 1850. And because Ross and the Admiralty had had a major falling out decades before, Ross wouldn’t have been chatting with Franklin at the Admiralty's HQ in Episode 3, and he definitely wouldn’t have been there to hear Lady Jane Franklin’s plea for a search party in Episode 4.

Sir John Ross was the uncle of Sir James Clark Ross, whom we see in the first scene of Episode 1 and its replay, from a different point of view, at the end of Episode 10. In real life, Sir James was one of Crozier's closest friends.


In a foreboding sign of things to come, Franklin removes a tiny blob of lead from his mouth while eating dinner with Fitzjames in the first episode. By Episode 4, the ships’ cooks are complaining that much of the canned meat is spoiled, and able seaman John Morfin shows up in Goodsir’s infirmary with a blackish line along his gums, an ominous sign of lead poisoning. To test that hypothesis, Goodsir feeds the monkey Jacko some of the canned meat, and then reveals his theory to the surgeon Stephen Stanley: The meat is contaminated with lead and the men have been eating it for more than two years.

The storyline is built upon a famous theory that is now in doubt. In the mid-1980s, forensic anthropologists found high levels of lead in Franklin crewmembers' remains. They suggested the source was poorly sealed food cans, and that lead poisoning led to the men’s deaths. But recent research has pointed to the Erebus’s and Terror’s unique water systems [PDF], which used lead pipes, as the primary source of contamination. And, a 2015 study compared lead content among seven crewmembers’ remains and found wide variation, suggesting some men may not have been debilitated.


A scene from AMC's The Terror with Goodsir and Young
Dr. Goodsir (Paul Ready) tries to save David Young (Alfie Kingsnorth).
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

David Young, the first fatality of The Terror, doesn’t show any signs of scurvy in Goodsir’s autopsy. But by the summer of 1848, the remaining crew camped on King William Island hasn’t eaten fresh meat in three years, and the Navy-issued lemon juice rations have either run out or lost potency. Signs of severe Vitamin C deficiency appear: Fitzjames’s old bullet wounds, which he boasted about at the officers' table in the first episode, begin to open up, and a rough-looking Lieutenant George Henry Hodgson loses a tooth as he chews the leather from his boot (a nod to Franklin’s awful 1819-1822 Arctic expedition) in Episode 9. The scenes match what most, though not all, historians and researchers now believe: that a grim combination of scurvy, starvation, exposure, and underlying illnesses spelled the end for Franklin’s men.


A scene from AMC's The Terror with Sir John Franklin and Tunnbaq
Tuunbaq takes a deadly swipe at Sir John.
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

The terrifying scene in Episode 3 in which Tuunbaq mauls Franklin to death and shoves him down the fire hole is most likely not the way it actually happened. Historically speaking, just after the men abandon ship in April 1848, Crozier and Fitzjames updated the note left in the cairn the previous spring. They reported that “Sir John Franklin died on 11th June 1847”—just 19 days after Lieutenant Graham Gore and mate Charles Des Voeux had left the same paper behind on May 24, 1847 and reported the crews “all well.” Unfortunately, it’s the only record ever found about the expedition’s progress, and no one knows for sure how Franklin died or what happened to his body. Inuit oral histories collected by Franklin scholar Louie Kamookak suggest Franklin was buried under a flat stone somewhere on King William Island, but to date, no trace has been found.


The wild masquerade party in the middle of the bleak and frozen Arctic, which Fitzjames orders as a morale-booster for the men in Episode 6, may seem like a total anachronism. In real life, it was a time-honored tradition. (We don't know for sure if the Erebus and Terror had a carnival because no logbooks from the expedition have been found, but it's likely that they did.) In 1819-1820, Sir Edward Parry led the first polar expedition to purposefully overwinter in the Arctic. He worried about how the men would fare psychologically during the months of darkness and teeth-cracking cold, so he brought along trunks of theatrical costumes and launched the Royal Arctic Theatre, a fortnightly diversion for the officers and men to perform silly plays and musicals. It kept the men busy writing shows, practicing their parts, and building sets, which Parry thought was the key to staying sane. The scheme was such a success that subsequent expeditions kept the tradition going. But unlike in The Terror, the frivolities didn’t end in fiery conflagrations and mass casualties. 


A scene from AMC's The Terror with Cornelius Hickey
Mr. Hickey (Adam Nagaitis) cooks up a mutiny.
Aidan Monaghan/AMC

In Episode 7, Hickey plans a mutiny and convinces enough of the desperate men to follow him, splitting the remaining officers and men into two groups and, in Episode 9, taking Crozier captive. Hickey also kidnaps Goodsir because, as the expedition’s sole remaining surgeon, he is the only one who knows how to wield a bone saw. We don’t know, though, if there was an actual mutiny among the Franklin survivors. The remains of some of Franklin's men were found in different locations, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate a breakdown of order. Smaller groups may have split off from the main group because they simply couldn’t march any farther or had decided to return to the ships. Despite the harsh conditions of service in the Royal Navy, mutinies were quite rare.


Hickey’s followers, starving and desperate, dine on morsels of steward William Gibson in one of Episode 9’s most wrenching scenes with historical precedent. Hudson’s Bay Company trader John Rae discovered the truth about the Franklin expedition from interviews with Inuit in 1854, including testimony that the men resorted to cannibalism to survive. In his infamous letter to the Admiralty, he wrote, “from the mutilated state of many of the bodies, and the contents of the kettles, it is evident that our wretched countrymen had been driven to the last dread alternative as a means of sustaining life.” Victorian England refused to believe it—but Inuit testimony and forensic research [PDF] supported Rae’s account, finally revealing the expedition’s fate.

(c) Field Museum, CSZ5974c, photographer Carl Akeley, used with permission.
The Time Carl Akeley Killed a Leopard With His Bare Hands
(c) Field Museum, CSZ5974c, photographer Carl Akeley, used with permission.
(c) Field Museum, CSZ5974c, photographer Carl Akeley, used with permission.

Carl Akeley had plenty of close encounters with animals in his long career as a naturalist and taxidermist. There was the time a bull elephant had charged him on Mount Kenya, nearly crushing him; the time he was unarmed and charged by three rhinos who missed him, he said later, only because the animals had such poor vision; and the time the tumbling body of a silverback gorilla he'd just shot almost knocked him off a cliff. This dangerous tradition began on his very first trip to Africa, where, on an otherwise routine hunting trip, the naturalist became the prey.

It was 1896. Following stints at Ward’s Natural Science Establishment and the Milwaukee Public Museum, Akeley, 32, had just been appointed chief taxidermist for Chicago’s Field Museum of Natural History, and he was tasked with gathering new specimens to bolster the 3-year-old museum's fledgling collections. After more than four months of travel and numerous delays, the expedition had reached the plains of Ogaden, a region of Ethiopia, where Akeley hunted for specimens for days without success.

Then, one morning, Akeley managed to shoot a hyena shortly after he left camp. Unfortunately, “one look at his dead carcass was enough to satisfy me that he was not as desirable as I had thought, for his skin was badly diseased,” he later wrote in his autobiography, In Brightest Africa. He shot a warthog, a fine specimen, but what he really wanted was an ostrich—so he left the carcass behind, climbed a termite hill to look for the birds, then took off after a pair he saw in the tall grass.

But the ostriches eluded him at every turn, so he returned to camp and grabbed the necessary tools to cut off the head of his warthog. However, when he and a “pony boy” got to the spot where he’d left the carcass, all that remained was a bloodstain. “A crash in the bushes at one side led me in a hurry in that direction and a little later I saw my pig's head in the mouth of a hyena travelling up the slope of a ridge out of range,” Akeley wrote. “That meant that my warthog specimen was lost, and, having got no ostriches, I felt it was a pretty poor day.”

As the sun began to set, Akeley and the boy turned back to camp. “As we came near to the place where I had shot the diseased hyena in the morning, it occurred to me that perhaps there might be another hyena about the carcass, and feeling a bit ‘sore’ at the tribe for stealing my warthog, I thought I might pay off the score by getting a good specimen of a hyena for the collections,” he wrote. But that carcass was gone, too, with a drag trail in the sand leading into the bush.

Akeley heard a sound, and, irritated, “did a very foolish thing,” firing into the bush without seeing what he was shooting at. He knew, almost immediately, that he'd made a mistake: The answering snarl told him that what he’d fired at was not a hyena at all, but a leopard.

The taxidermist began thinking of all the things he knew about the big cats. A leopard, he wrote,

“... has all the qualities that gave rise to the ‘nine lives’ legend: To kill him you have got to kill him clear to the tip of his tail. Added to that, a leopard, unlike a lion, is vindictive. A wounded leopard will fight to a finish practically every time, no matter how many chances it has to escape. Once aroused, its determination is fixed on fight, and if a leopard ever gets hold, it claws and bites until its victim is in shreds. All this was in my mind, and I began looking about for the best way out of it, for I had no desire to try conclusions with a possibly wounded leopard when it was so late in the day that I could not see the sights of my rifle.”

Akeley beat a hasty retreat. He’d return the next morning, he figured, when he could see better; if he’d wounded the leopard, he could find it again then. But the leopard had other ideas. It pursued him, and Akeley fired again, even though he couldn’t see enough to aim. “I could see where the bullets struck as the sand spurted up beyond the leopard. The first two shots went above her, but the third scored. The leopard stopped and I thought she was killed.”

The leopard had not been killed. Instead, she charged—and Akeley’s magazine was empty. He reloaded the rifle, but as he spun to face the leopard, she leapt on him, knocking it out of his hands. The 80-pound cat landed on him. “Her intention was to sink her teeth into my throat and with this grip and her forepaws hang to me while with her hind claws she dug out my stomach, for this pleasant practice is the way of leopards,” Akeley wrote. “However, happily for me, she missed her aim.” The wounded cat had landed to one side; instead of Akeley’s throat in her mouth, she had his upper right arm, which had the fortuitous effect of keeping her hind legs off his stomach.

It was good luck, but the fight of Akeley’s life had just begun.

Using his left hand, he attempted to loosen the leopard’s hold. “I couldn't do it except little by little,” he wrote. “When I got grip enough on her throat to loosen her hold just a little she would catch my arm again an inch or two lower down. In this way I drew the full length of the arm through her mouth inch by inch.”

He felt no pain, he wrote, “only of the sound of the crushing of tense muscles and the choking, snarling grunts of the beast.” When his arm was nearly free, Akeley fell on the leopard. His right hand was still in her mouth, but his left hand was still on her throat. His knees were on her chest and his elbows in her armpits, “spreading her front legs apart so that the frantic clawing did nothing more than tear my shirt.”

It was a scramble. The leopard tried to twist around and gain the advantage, but couldn’t get purchase on the sand. “For the first time,” Akeley wrote, “I began to think and hope I had a chance to win this curious fight.”

He called for the boy, hoping he’d bring a knife, but received no response. So he held on to the animal and “continued to shove the hand down her throat so hard she could not close her mouth and with the other I gripped her throat in a stranglehold.” He bore down with his full weight on her chest, and felt a rib crack. He did it again—another crack. “I felt her relax, a sort of letting go, although she was still struggling. At the same time I felt myself weakening similarly, and then it became a question as to which would give up first.”

Slowly, her struggle ceased. Akeley had won. He lay there for a long time, keeping the leopard in his death grip. “After what seemed an interminable passage of time I let go and tried to stand, calling to the pony boy that it was finished.” The leopard, he later told Popular Science Monthly, had then shown signs of life; Akeley used the boy’s knife to make sure it was really, truly dead.

Akeley’s arm was shredded, and he was weak—so weak that he couldn’t carry the leopard back to camp. “And then a thought struck me that made me waste no time,” he told Popular Science. “That leopard has been eating the horrible diseased hyena I had killed. Any leopard bite is liable to give one blood poison, but this particular leopard’s mouth must have been exceptionally foul.”

He and the boy must have been quite the sight when they finally made it back to camp. His companions had heard the shots, and figured Akeley had either faced off with a lion or the natives; whatever the scenario, they figured Akeley would prevail or be defeated before they could get to him, so they kept on eating dinner. But when Akeley appeared, with “my clothes ... all ripped, my arm ... chewed into an unpleasant sight, [with] blood and dirt all over me,” he wrote in In Brightest Africa, “my appearance was quite sufficient to arrest attention.”

He demanded all the antiseptics the camp had to offer. After he'd been washed with cold water, “the antiseptic was pumped into every one of the innumerable tooth wounds until my arm was so full of the liquid that an injection in one drove it out of another,” he wrote. “During the process I nearly regretted that the leopard had not won.”

When that was done, Akeley was taken to his tent, and the dead leopard was brought in and laid out next to his cot. Her right hind leg was wounded—which, he surmised, had come from his first shot into the brush, and was what had thrown off her pounce—and she had a flesh wound in the back of her neck where his last shot had hit her, “from the shock of which she had instantly recovered.”

Not long after his close encounter with the leopard, the African expedition was cut short when its leader contracted malaria, and Akeley returned to Chicago. The whole experience, he wrote to a friend later, transported him back to a particular moment at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, which he’d visited after creating taxidermy mounts for the event. “As I struggled to wrest my arm from the mouth of the leopard I recalled vividly a bronze at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, depicting the struggle between a man and bear, the man’s arm in the mouth of the bear,” he wrote. “I had stood in front of this bronze one afternoon with a doctor friend and we discussed the probable sensations of a man in this predicament, wondering whether or not the man would be sensible to the pain of the chewing and the rending of his flesh by the bear. I was thinking as the leopard tore at me that now I knew exactly what the sensations were, but that unfortunately I would not live to tell my doctor friend.”

In the moment, though, there had been no pain, “just the joy of a good fight,” Akeley wrote, “and I did live to tell my [doctor] friend all about it.”

Additional source: Kingdom Under Glass: A Tale of Obsession, Adventure, and One Man's Quest to Preserve the World's Great Animals


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