History That Doesn't Suck - 116: Teddy Roosevelt’s Foreign Policy: From Big Stick Diplomacy to the Panama Canal

Episode Date: August 1, 2022

“I [will] be obliged to interfere, by force if necessary, if the Germans [take] any action which look[s] like the acquisition of territory in Venezuela.” This is the story of foreign policy (“Big Stick” Diplomacy) in the Theodore Roosevelt White House. TR loves the West African proverb: “Speak softly and carry a big stick: you will go far.” It defines the Cowboy President’s approach to life—particularly to foreign affairs—and as Germany rattles the saber at indebted Venezuela, Monroe Doctrine-supporting Teddy doesn’t hesitate to tell the Kaiser’s diplomats … “softly” … that those are fighting words. But as Teddy expands the Monroe Doctrine with his “Roosevelt Corollary,” questions arise about the US acting as the Western Hemisphere's self-appointed police force. Particularly when the US interferes in Colombian affairs by backing an independence movement on the Panamanian Isthmus. Is this about supporting the oppressed? Or is TR making an imperialist move to make sure the US can build a canal through the American continents? Winning the Nobel Peace Prize, preventing wars, yet showing American strength with the Great White Fleet—and all of this while undertaking one of the most daunting, impossible engineering feats in world history. This is Teddy Roosevelt on the world stage. ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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What did it take to survive an ancient siege? Why was the cult of Dionysus behind so many slave revolts in ancient Rome? What's the tragic history and mythology behind Japan's most haunted ancient forest? We're Jen and Jenny from Ancient History Fangirl. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work, receive ad-free episodes, bonus content, and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a

seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the episode notes. It's the afternoon of August 5th, 1905, and we're on the deck of the presidential yacht, the USS Mayflower, as she lays at anchor in the waters of Long Island's Oyster Bay. It's a gorgeous area, and President Theodore Roosevelt's 155-acre estate, Sagamore Hill, aka the Summer White House, is not too distant on the shore. But we aren't here to visit TR's beloved shingle-style home. We're here for a matter of international importance, as Teddy hosts Japanese and Russian delegations on this very vessel for peace talks.

But will representatives of these powerful warring empires listen to an American president? To TR? Well, things are just starting below deck. Let's head down and see. In one of the yacht's many salons, U.S. admirals, officers, and the like mingle as best as they can with lower-level Japanese and Russian dignitaries. As they do, Teddy makes introductions between the two gentlemen who could end the Russo-Japanese War. Baron Komura, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Vita. The two top diplomats, the plenipotentiaries, stand in stark contrast. Representing the

militarily succeeding but financially bleeding Japanese empire is Baron Komura Jitaro. A Harvard graduate, the Baron speaks excellent English, is well-schooled in Western thought, and is incredibly short. Tiny, even. Meanwhile, Count Sergei Vita represents the losing but proud Russian Empire. A non-English speaker, the Count is relying on his French and intimidating physique. The thickly bearded Russian is six and a half feet tall. Political cartoonists love the height difference between the two diplomats, but Kumura isn't intimidated in the least. The two gentlemen politely exchange a less than warm salutation. Undeterred by their lack of congeniality, the bespectacled president turns to the giant Russian and asks, Mr. Vita, will you come in to lunch with Baron Komura? He then shows them and their entourages into an adjoining room,

with almost no chairs. That's right. Rather than upset either delegation with the possible faux pas in the seating arrangement, T.R. is serving an informal cold lunch to be eaten standing by everyone apart from him and the plenipotentiaries. Soon, Teddy raises a glass of champagne. Gentlemen, I propose a toast to which there will be no answer

and which I ask you to drink in silence, standing. I drink the welfare and prosperity of the sovereigns and to the peoples of the two great nations whose representatives have met one another on this ship. It is my earnest hope and prayer in the interest not only of these two great powers, but of all civilized mankind, that a just and lasting peace

may speedily be concluded between them. All sip. Teddy chats casually with the plenipotentiaries. In English with Komura, and in French with Vita. Negotiations seem to be off to a strong start. Teddy then disembarks to return to Sagamore Hill, while the Japanese and Russians head north to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to continue talks. TR will now stay out of it, as long as things proceed well, that is.

But trouble brews as the month wears on. Despite being on the ropes, Tsar Nicholas II has his gargantuan Russian diplomat insisting that Russia will not surrender Japanese-occupied Sakhalin Island, nor pay an indemnity. Ugh. While Tiar doesn't expect them to accept everything the Japanese ask, which includes Russia forfeiting captured Navy vessels and limiting where its Navy sails, his patience with Russia is growing thin. The president summons Mr. Vita's junior plenipotentiary to Sagamore Hill. It's now four in the afternoon, Saturday, August 19, 1905. Traveling since 7 a.m. from New Hampshire down to New York, Baron Ramon van Rosen has just arrived at Teddy's Oyster Hill estate. He finds the physically active president dressed in white flannels and playing tennis.

And he keeps playing. T.R. only speaks to the white-bearded Russian diplomat amid lulls in the game. Teddy tells the Baron that the Japanese will drop their demands to take Russian ships and limit the Russian Navy's navigation. But as for Sakhalin Island, Russia's got a cave. While both nations have a history with it, Japan's occupied it, and in this imperialist world, occupation settles the question. The sweaty, exercising president even offers an American example. We Americans are ensconced at Panama and will not leave.

But TR has another suggestion. Between this island and the indemnity question, Russia should offer to buy the northern half of Sakhalin from Japan as a compromise on both points. The bearded baron leaves less than happy. TR back channels as the days go on. His communications fly from Tokyo to St. Petersburg and beyond. He also tells Japan's junior plenipotentiary that seeking an indemnity payment

will only cost cash-strapped Japan more in the long run if Russia recommences hostilities. Yet, neither side seems ready to budge. It's now Tuesday, August 29th. A month of tense negotiations appear on the edge of failure as the gargantuan and diminutive plenipotentiaries sit opposite of one another. Mr. Vita then slides a paper across the table. This is Russia's final offer. Baron Komura picks it up and reads, It says Russia will concede the southern half of Sakhalin, but won't pay a penny in compensation. This is far less than Japan wants.

It's also far more than Russia wants to give. Further, Japan now controls Korea and Manchuria, and even if they continue this war, would emptying the war chest to take Siberia from Russia do any real good? The Japanese diplomat decides this offer is better than continued hostilities. He accepts. The Russo-Japanese war is over, and as the successful facilitator of these talks, TR becomes the first American to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. He promptly gives the nearly $40,000 prize money to Congress,

asking it to use these funds to establish an industrial peace committee. But more than this prestigious award, Teddy has elevated the United States' stature in the world. Indeed, the nation's turn-of-the-century meteoric rise seems only to quicken under its cowboy president. How does he do it? According to Teddy, it's simple. Speak softly and carry a big stick. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Speak softly and carry a big stick.

You will go far. Theodore Roosevelt loves this West African proverb, and it comes to play in his foreign policy, which is exactly what we'll cover today with the stories of Teddy's big stick diplomacy and dealings with the world abroad. Having seen his gift for logic and delicacy in helping to end the Russo-Japanese War, we'll now observe how he uses a powerful combination of deft negotiation

backed by military might in the arena of foreign policy. I'll give you all the highlights, including the Algeciras Conference and the Great White Fleet, but we'll focus on two stories above all. First, the spat between Monroe Doctrine upholding TR and the German Empire over Venezuela. And second, a project that far outlasts Teddy's presidency, the Panama Canal. The first of these is classic big stick diplomacy. Meanwhile, the Panama Canal, which is an epic tale in and of itself, will prove world-changing. We'll see how Teddy justifies actions his critics call straight-up

imperialism as he picks up this costly, deadly project from the defeated French. And can the Americans do it? If so, it'll be an engineering marvel that'll change world trade. It'll also greatly strengthen the United States' big stick. So ready to avoid a few wars and split two continents asunder over the next hour? Sounds doable to me. Let's back up a few years then and tackle the Venezuela crisis. Rewind. Ah, Venezuela.

A land of natural beauty with a long Caribbean coastline, it has nonetheless had a rough go of late. Corruption, civil war. As a result, this verdant South American nation has accrued serious debt in the United Kingdom and Germany by late 1902. Around 62 million bolivars, or several millions of dollars to express that in U.S.

currency. But now, Venezuela's sharp-bearded, dark-haired president, okay, dictator, Cipriano Castro, is neither paying up nor willing to discuss the matter with his two powerful creditors. But both the U.K. and Germany intend to collect what's theirs, at gunpoint if necessary. President Theodore Roosevelt is good with that. While we saw in episodes 104 and 105 that Teddy is a fierce advocate of the Monroe Doctrine, which, I'll remind you, is the assertion that the United States will not tolerate further European colonization or other unsavory shenanigans in the Western Hemisphere, we also know from our recent Square Deal episodes that he's all about treating people fairly. European colonization, or other unsavory shenanigans in the Western Hemisphere.

We also know from our recent Square Deal episodes that he's all about treating people fairly. That goes for nations, too. Therefore, Teddy doesn't see the Monroe Doctrine as a free pass for Latin America to thumb its nose at European powers. So, in Teddy's view, if Venezuela took the loans, it needs to honor that and pay up. If its president won't pay or even discuss the matter, he understands Germany and Britain sending warships to blockade the coastal nation. Fair enough. But can he trust Germany not to go further? Now, Teddy loves Germany.

He's got German blood, briefly lived in Dresden as a child, and speaks the language, which along with his French makes him trilingual, but TR doesn't trust that the rapidly expanding Second Reich will hold back in Venezuela. Kaiser Wilhelm II has already spurned the open-door policy in China by snatching up Zhao Zhou. So why wouldn't he do the same in Venezuela? If that happens, then TR will have to act as that would be a clear violation of the Monroe Doctrine. That's why Teddy has asked the two European empires for assurances that they won't seize any land while blockading Venezuela. Britain has obliged, but Germany isn't

so forthcoming. Sounds like it's time for Teddy to speak softly and carry a big stick. It's December 8th, 1902. The German ambassador, Theodor von Halben, and his retinue have just arrived at the White House. The meeting is entirely ceremonial, but the similarly named president is happy to take advantage of this time to talk with the walrus mustache-wearing German. Once the two of them are alone, T.Riar speaks his mind about Germany's intentions in Venezuela. Tell the Kaiser that I have put George Dewey in charge of our fleet to maneuver in West Indian waters, that the world at large should know this merely as a maneuver, but I regret to say that I will be obliged to interfere, by force if necessary, if the Germans take any action which looks like the acquisition of territory in Venezuela or anywhere along the Caribbean. George Dewey.

That name should ring a bell. We bonded with this living legend and admiral of the U.S. Navy in episode 105, when George essentially kicked off the Spanish American war by demolishing the Spanish fleet in Philippine waters. Now Teddy's got George down in the Caribbean on standby in case the Germans get up to no good. Conversation continues. The German Theodore assures our American Theodore that Germany has no intention of seizing Venezuelan territory.

Uh-huh. Well, with thoughts of Germany's track record in China, Teddy doesn't buy it. He lays out an ultimatum. Kaiser Wilhelm II must provide a full disclaimer stating that Germany will not take Venezuelan territory within the next 10 days. If not, George Dewey and his nearby fleet

will move in to observe Venezuela's coast closely. Far, far more closely. Teddy feels he's been polite yet clear. If we trust his singular telling of things, that is, some historians discount his ultimatum narrative. But will the ambassador relay this message and its serious implications of military muscle. The next day seems to indicate no. The UK and German blockade sees four Venezuelan gunboats. The Germans destroy three of them. President Cipriano Castro then asks the American government to intervene on his behalf,

and Secretary of State John Hay forwards the request to the British and Germans, letting them both know that the US is willing to step in and arbitrate peacefully. But the days are passing, and TR's ultimatum deadline is drawing closer with nary a word of assurance from the Kaiser. Seems TR and His Excellency Theodor von Halben may need another chat if full-on war is to be avoided. It's a good thing he's coming by. It's a dark and dreary Sunday morning, December 14th, 1902, and German Ambassador Theodor von Halben is just arriving at the White House. He soon greets the rough-riding president, likely in the executive office, and they begin to chat.

His excellency starts with small talk. The cold, gloomy weather. Tennis. And then it feels like the ambassador is wrapping up. In fact, he's standing and starting to leave. But Teddy stops him and follows up on the Venezuela situation. He first asks if Germany will accept the Secretary of State's offer to arbitrate. The German Theodore responds quickly and sharply,

No. In the clearest of terms, TR answers that the Kaiser is risking war then. To drive the point home, he reminds his fellow Theodore of last week's ultimatum and tells him it's no longer ten days, now it's nine, and with six days already passed, that puts the deadline 72 hours out on December 17th. That's right. TR's spoken softly, but he's still carrying a big stick. The ambassador leaves, still insisting that the Kaiser will never arbitrate. He can't believe the president is serious.

But Dredd sets in. What if he is? That night, the bespectacled mustachioed ambassador braves a snowstorm and makes his way to the train station. He's traveling all the way to New York City to consult with the German consul general there, Karl Bunz. Karl and the president are friends. Surely, if anyone knows if the American leader is serious, it's Karl. Once in Manhattan, Theodore finds no comfort in his colleague. The New York-based diplomat informs him that Teddy doesn't bluff. Dear God, the German ambassador realizes he hasn't a moment to lose.

He sends word on December 16th of tomorrow's deadline and urges arbitration. With only 24 hours to go before Admiral George Dewey and the Caribbean fleet move south toward Venezuela, Teddy and his White House advisors are preparing for the worst. The British advise the president that they agree to arbitration in principle, meaning the Germans stand alone if the Americans intervene. But then, right at the wire, Germany acquiesces. Two days later, December 19th, both the British and German governments invite Teddy to arbitrate their claims in Venezuela. A great war has been avoided, at least for now. Both sides of the Atlantic breathe a massive sigh of relief. As I mentioned earlier, some historians doubt the narrative I just relayed to you, which is TR's narrative. There are no official records of certain visits or messages transmitted.

But as Teddy's biographer Edmund Morris points out, these sorts of omissions make sense in the delicate realm of international diplomacy. To quote him on the German ambassador's December 14th visit to the White House, it suited everybody concerned that blank paper should obliterate the diplomatic record. Wilhelm was still free to end the crisis without evidence of being coerced. Close quote.

And surely, Teddy's good with that. He understands the need to let national leaders save face. After all, his goal isn't to use the big stick, which, in this case, is George Dewey and his fleet. Tay's approach is to keep that metaphorical club in hand while being such a straight shooter that, when he softly says he'll swing it under a given condition, his opponents know it isn't a bluff,

as the German ambassador now clearly understands. Of course, this philosophy also means that the United States' stick better be big enough to strike fear. And we know Teddy's already thought that way for a long time. He's pushed for a stronger, more modern Navy, a bigger stick, if you will, ever since his days as Assistant Secretary of the Navy. But the Venezuela crisis isn't just an example of TR living by his beloved West African proverb. It's just after this experience that TR expands on the 80-year-old Monroe Doctrine.

In brief, Teddy says that, while the Monroe Doctrine stated that the United States has the right to manage foreign relations in the Western Hemisphere by preventing European powers from further colonization in the Americas, it's time to go a step further. The U.S. is now claiming the right to intervene in the domestic affairs of its American neighbors, which it will do as needed to tamp down on bad actors, or again,

prevent European colonization. This add-on is known as the Roosevelt Corollary, and Teddy Roosevelt will share this new twist on the Monroe Doctrine next year in his 1904 address to Congress. Here's an excerpt. It is not true that the United States feels any land hunger or entertains any projects as regards the other nations of the Western Hemisphere, save such as are for their welfare. All that this country desires is to see the neighboring countries stable, orderly, and prosperous. Any country whose people conduct themselves well can count upon our hearty friendship. If a nation shows that it knows how to act with reasonable efficiency and decency in social and political matters,

if it keeps order and pays its obligations, it need fear no interference from the United States. Chronic wrongdoing or an impotence which results in a general loosening of the ties of civilized society may in America, as elsewhere, ultimately require intervention by some civilized nation. And in the Western Hemisphere, the adherence of the United States to the Monroe Doctrine may force the United States, however reluctantly, in flagrant cases of such wrongdoing or impotence, to the exercise of an international police power. Our interests and those of our southern neighbors are in reality identical. They have great natural riches, and if within their borders the reign of law and justice obtains,

prosperity is sure to come to them. While they thus obey the primary laws of civilized society, they may rest assured that they will be treated by us in a spirit of cordial and helpful sympathy. We would interfere with them only in the last resort, and then only if it became evident that their inability or unwillingness to do justice at home and abroad had violated the rights of the United States or had invited foreign aggression to the detriment of the entire body of American nations. It is a mere truism to say that every nation, whether in America or anywhere else, which desires to maintain its freedom, its independence, must ultimately realize

that the right of such independence cannot be separated from the responsibility of making good use of it. And so, it's with this line of thought that the old NYPD commissioner-turned-U.S. president will soon anoint the United States the Western Hemisphere's police force. But it raises questions with his critics. Who is the United States to decide when a nation has crossed the line? To decide which South American nations are righteous and which are not? And even before these words are uttered, the Roosevelt administration will act on this ideology, bringing the big stick to bear in Colombia's domestic affairs. Specifically,

in that nation's northern region known as the Isthmus of Panama. Want to learn how you can make smarter decisions with your money? Well, I've got the podcast for you. I'm Sean Piles, and I host NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast. On our show, we help listeners like you make the most of your finances. I sit down with NerdWallet's team of nerds, personal finance experts in credit cards, banking, investing, and more. We answer your real-world money questions and break down the latest personal finance news. The nerds will give you the clarity you need by cutting through the clutter and misinformation in today's world of personal finance. We don't promote get-rich-quick schemes or hype unrealistic side hustles. Instead, we offer practical knowledge that you can apply in your everyday life.

You'll learn about strategies to help you build your wealth, invest wisely, shop for financial products, and plan for major life events. And you'll walk away with the confidence you need to ensure that your money is always working as hard as you are. So turn to the Nerds to answer your real-world money questions and get insights that can help you make the smartest financial decisions for your life. Listen to NerdWallet's Smart Money Podcast wherever you get your podcasts. When Johan Rall received the letter on Christmas Day 1776, he put it away to read later. Maybe he thought it was a season's greeting and wanted to save it for the fireside. But what it actually was, was a warning, delivered to the Hessian colonel, letting him know that General George Washington was crossing the Delaware and would soon attack his forces. The next day, when Rall lost the Battle of Trenton and died from two colonial Boxing Day musket balls, the letter was

found, unopened in his vest pocket. As someone with 15,000 unread emails in his inbox, I feel like there's a lesson there. Oh well, this is The Constant, a history of getting things wrong. I'm Mark Chrysler. Every episode, we look at the bad ideas, mistakes, and accidents that misshaped our world. Find us at ConstantPodcast.com or wherever you get your podcasts. It's November 3rd, 1903. Colombian General Juan Tobar and a few of his officers are seated on a bench just outside the barracks of Panama City, deep in conversation with the garrison's commander, General Esteban Huertas. Their topic, rumor of an imminent separatist revolt.

It seems some influential residents of this long knack of land connecting the American continents, that is, the Isthmus of Panama, want to canal so desperately that they're willing to secede from Colombia. In fact, those concerns are why Juan Tobar is even here today. His ship, the Cartagena, only steamed into the Atlantic port of Colón late last night. He and his officers took the 50-mile train ride across the Isthmus just a few hours ago. Now in Panama City, they look over the Pacific Ocean as they discuss the situation and wait for their 400 troops yet to arrive on a later train. As they talk, a company of soldiers marches out of the barracks. The commander and his officers don't give it a second thought, until they find bayonets pointed at them, that is. The company's young captain then addresses the surprised group.

Generals, you are my prisoners. Juan Tobar can hardly believe his ears. He indignantly answers. I am the commander-in-chief. Unfazed, the captain replies. You and your aides. By whose orders? General Huertas.

Almost instinctively, Juan lunges at a soldier. But it's no use. The bayonets quickly put him and his officers at bay. The Colombian commander calls to every soldier within the sound of his voice, begging them not to stand for this, to be patriots, not traitors. It's useless. No one comes to Juan's aid as he and his officers are disarmed and thrown in jail. The next day, a key conspirator slash

Panamanian independence leader, Dr. Manuel Amador, goes to Panama City's police headquarters to speak with the incarcerated Colombian generals. Among them is his friend, General Ramon Amaya. The doc tells him, You must understand that we who started this movement are not insane. We fully appreciate the fact that in no case could we withstand all the rest of the nation, and in consequence, we had to resort to means that, although painful, were indispensable. The United States has fully entered into this movement. Not another Colombian soldier will ever disembark again on any of the coasts of the Isthmus, and our independence is guaranteed by that colossus. Dr. Manuel Amador wasn't exaggerating. The United States is supporting this independence movement.

Though hardly an ominous threat by itself, a U.S. gunboat, the two-masted Nashville, dropped anchor in Cologne's waters just a few hours before General Juan Tobar's ship did on November 2nd. Meanwhile, more ships are en route, and the U.S. government officially recognizes Panama as a sovereign nation just a few days after this all started, on November 6, 1903. But why does the U.S. care about Panama? The answer to that goes back quite a ways. Since the 16th century, international seafarers have dreamed of a waterway between North and South America.

And of course they have. The two continents form a 10,000-mile wall dividing the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, yet are only connected by a relatively thin 50-mile neck of land called an isthmus. Spanish conquistador Vasco Nunez de Balboa became the first European to cross this isthmus in 1513, and countless international travelers have used the shortcut since. But you know that from episode 83, when I told you about how the then-future Central Pacific Railroad founder, Collis Huntington, did so while traveling from New York to San Francisco in 1849.

Crossing the Isthmus rather than sailing around South America cut 8,000 miles off the trip. For most, it generally means cutting two months of travel. Now imagine if massive cargo or passenger ships could use this same shortcut by gliding through a canal in a single day. The savings in time and money for the world would be incalculable. And that's why Columbia let France's Ferdinand de Lesseps

take a crack at building this canal in the 1880s. White-haired, mustachioed Ferdinand was a natural choice. He oversaw the successful construction of the Mediterranean and Red Sea-connecting Suez Canal. So, if this Frenchman delivered the waterway that has spared ships from sailing around Africa since 1869, surely he could do the same with South America, right? The French company entrusted with the Panama Canal, Compagnie Universelle Internationale du Canal Interoceanique, soon fell right into his hands.

As at Suez, Ferdinand began to carve a single sea-level channel between the two bodies of water. But as shovels tore into the isthmus' mountains and shifting clay, as workers became jaundiced, vomited blood, and died from yellow fever, the Frenchmen slowly learned Panama is no Egypt. Between 1881 and 1889, Ferdinand managed little more than scratching the surface at a bankrupting expense of $287 million, or 8 billion in 21st century dollars, and ended up with an astonishingly large body count.

20,000 dead employees. Talk about failure. And while a second French company rose from Ferdinand's ashes half a decade later in 1894, Compagnie Nouvelle du Canal de Panamá, it was soon apparent that it would need a buyout. And by the turn of the century, half a decade later in 1894, Compagnie Nouvelle du Canal de Panamá, it was soon apparent that it would need a buyout. And by the turn of the century,

the company's rep, Philippe Bounovarie, was angling for the United States to be that buyer. Now, the U.S. already wanted a canal through the Americas. It stands much to gain as the world's largest exporter of manufactured goods. More than that, though, the continent-spanning nation has two coasts to protect. It would be a game-changer if U.S. warships could quickly move from one ocean to the other. Such a canal wouldn't only be an economic boon, it would make Teddy's Big Stick more effective. The U.S. government was already

considering a canal through Nicaragua, but concerns over volcanoes and Philippe's masterful lobbying killed that idea. In 1902, Congress opted instead to buy out the French company for $40 million, provided the U.S. could acquire all necessary legal rights from Colombia, of course. And those negotiations looked good. In January 1903, the two countries' reps worked out a treaty in which Colombia would provide the U.S. a 100-year renewable lease on the strip of land needed to build the canal. For this, the U.S. would pay $10 million up front with a quarter million annual payments thereafter. But then the Colombian Senate decided the price was too low. It refused to ratify and the treaty died. Ah, now we've come full circle.

Although the U.S. ratifies treaties in the same way, this fed the image that Colombia, fresh out of a civil war and with a long history of revolts on the Isthmus, was corrupt. At least, this became the narrative for the eager-to-build-a-Canal-Roosevelt administration. To quote Teddy, Thus, the U.S. supported Colombia's separatists. Amid the cries and accusations of wrongdoing by anti-imperialists, the Roosevelt administration signs a treaty with the new Republic of Panama just weeks after it breaks from Colombia. In it, the United States guarantees Panama's sovereignty while the new nation grants its protector the right to build this canal on even better terms than those rejected by the Colombian

Senate. The U.S. is now set to pick up with the canal where France left off, and on May 6, 1904, Teddy appoints John Findlay Wallace as the project's chief engineer. An accomplished engineer with experience in railroads and even a hand in managing traffic flow at Chicago's Colombian Exposition of 1893, John Wallace sets off for Panama that June. But even with a workforce of 3,500, things move slowly. Workers grow tired of living off of overpriced canned sardines, and many call it quits, while those who don't risk yellow fever. Meanwhile, our chief engineer feels hemmed in with oversight from the U.S. government's seven-member Ismanian Canal Commission, and even with his adaptation of

Bucyrus steam shovels, which can remove five cubic yards of dirt per scoop, landslides and flooding quickly wipe out progress. So much for making the dirt fly, as TR directed. Doing little better than the French, John Wallace quits in June 1905. Critics have a field day with the chief engineer's short tenure. One newspaper calls this just desserts for the president's, and I quote,

land piracy. But Teddy isn't a quitter. Almost immediately, TR looks to another railroad man, one who, like himself, turned rugged in the American West, John Stevens. A fearless, well-built, dark-haired 52-year-old New Englander, John reluctantly agrees to serve as the canal's chief engineer. And by August 1st, he's taking a very different approach.

He stops the digging. To be clear, the stop is very temporary, and much of what I'm about to describe overlaps chronologically between late 1905 and 1906. But all of that said, John sees that he has to do something about his hungry, disease-fearing workforce. Proclaiming that, quote, the digging is the least thing of all, close quote. He turns much of his attention to these needs. As David McCullough describes in his book, The Path Between the Seas, entire communities were to be planned and built from scratch. Houses, mess halls, barracks, more hospitals, a visitor's hotel, schools, churches, clubhouses, cold storage facilities,

laundries, sewage systems, reservoirs, close quote. It's a truly impressive feat, though skilled workers will see most of these benefits. The heavily Black Caribbean unskilled workers will benefit the least. John also empowers the canal's chief sanitary engineer, Dr. William Gorgas, to fight yellow fever. See, William is a proponent of the relatively new and somewhat controversial mosquito theory, which posits that mosquitoes, not bad air, spread malaria and yellow fever.

While the former chief engineer kept him in check on this point, John Stevens supports the good doctor. No expenses spared on wire screens, soap, fumigation pots, and more. John even diverts 4,000 of his growing workforce to Dr. William Gorgas, who uses this small army to fumigate Panama City and Colón, and to spray oil on standing water, ranging from cisterns to cesspools,

thereby killing mosquito eggs and larvae. Malaria and other diseases will continue to affect workers, but yellow fever is simply unheard of on the Isthmus after November 1905. And now, with much-needed infrastructure and public health policies in place, John's employees turn their attention back to the canal. They'll start by restoring the French-neglected railway. Now, why the French or even his American predecessor didn't use the railroad to haul dirt is beyond John,

but doing so is an obvious necessity to this railroad-trained chief engineer. John, or Big Smoke, as his employees start calling the cigar-chewing chief engineer, has his men lay stronger, more durable tracks. But as they do, John is also coming to better understand the challenges of building a canal through less-than than level Panama. Particularly concerning is a low mountain ridge running right through the canal's path. John knows he has to cut a nine-mile-long valley through it. Yet this Culebra Cut, as it's known, which will need to go down at least 200 feet to reach sea level, has defeated everyone to date. Between the jungle's regular rainfall and

the clay-like earth, landslides wash away any progress like waves lapping over a sandcastle at the beach. John is soon convinced this canal's only hope is a redesign. Rather than a sea-level canal, it needs to be a lock canal. Now, what on earth does that mean? Well, a sea-level canal is flat. It simply connects one body of water to the other, just as Ferdinand de Lesseps did at Suez. But a canal doesn't actually have to be a flat channel if there are locks in it. A lock canal has one or more chambers, each of which has gates that can seal it off. When a vessel enters a given chamber, the gate behind the ship closes, that is, it locks shut, and water rushes in or empties out of the chamber to raise or lower the water level.

Once the water level is the same as the next segment, or chamber, if the lock has multiple levels, the gate before the vessel opens, or unlocks, and the ship continues on. Basically, it's like a watery elevator for boats, and given Panama's less-than-level nature, especially at the Culebra Cut, John thinks a lock canal is the way forward. Unfortunately, this means telling Congress that it's been blowing money on the wrong design for a year and a half. Fighting the forces of government momentum, John informs Congress a sea-level canal is folly. He estimates that, if it's possible at all,

it could not be completed before 1924. A lock canal, however, could be completed in eight years, by January 1914. Congress is nervous. The 1889 Johnstown flood I told you about in episode 97 still casts its shadow. It fills many legislators with pause as they think of a series of concrete barriers

literally forming an ocean staircase. Months of debate ensue, but in June 1906, the Senate votes by a narrow 36 to 31 to give its blessing to the Locke Canal. In all likelihood, this thin majority just saved their nation from the same ignoble failure as France. How many of them actually grasp that, we'll never know. But the key thing is that John Stevens can finally really do what Teddy hoped John Wallace

would do, make dirt fly. The fierce New Englander continues to build up the railway. By the time the Senate votes for the Lock Canal this summer, his workers have already laid 350 miles of rail. John has them build two sets of track, in fact, so no locomotive ever has to wait. With steam shovels digging, dynamite blasting, and trains continuously chugging,

the logistically-minded chief engineer's workforce of now 24,000 is soon excavating as much ground in a day as the French did in a month. Yet, amid this success, morale is sagging. Yellow fever is gone, but pneumonia and malaria are still wreaking havoc, especially among the canal's 19,000 unskilled Black Caribbean workers. On-the-job accidents are taking life and limb. It's at this productive yet depressing point that the canal becomes the destination of the first international trip ever taken by a sitting U.S. president.

It's just past 8 30 in the morning, November 16, 1906, and legions of men are working at the south end of the culebra cut specifically they're preparing what will become the pedro miguel locks which one day will hold back the waters of the enormous man-made gatun lake's pacific side but as their powerful steam shovels scoop up and drop chunks of earth on locomotive pulled flat cars, a star-spangled passenger train arrives. Once it comes to a stop, a husky, mustachioed and bespectacled gentleman wearing a Panama hat and an all-white suit descends. It's none other than the President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. Showing no concern for the puddles from this morning's coming and going rainfall, Teddy walks enthusiastically around the site.

But it isn't long before the hands-on rough rider insists on experiencing the work itself. He climbs into the cockpit of the 10-man operated 95-ton USIRIS steam shovel. It's an incredible sight. Yet to muddy his immaculate white hat and suit, Teddy is so conspicuous sitting at the controls of this rivet-covered behemoth of a machine whose toothy bucket can tear eight tons of dirt from the ground in a single scoop. Yet the rough rider, cowboy president looks at ease.

With his balled-up left hand firmly planted at his waist, he exudes confidence, presidential power. And we know this because a photographer captures the image. It is perhaps one of the most iconic photos of this larger than life president. But this is no mere photo op for the energetic, strenuous life living commander in chief. He's got much to do before the day is done.

TR inspects everything. He wants to see the powerful locomotives hauling dirt, then watch as the steam-powered plows clear the train's several flat cars of detritus in a matter of minutes. He watches dynamite blast through rock in the Culebra Cut. Purposely coming when the weather would be worst, he marvels at the water flowing down the Cut's clay, landslide-prone walls, and thinks his lucky star is that John Stevens convinced Congress to use locks

rather than build a sea-level canal. And he talks to everyone. Teddy later reports, During the day, I talked with scores of different men, superintendents and heads of departments, divisions and bureaus, steam shovel men, machinists, conductors, engineers, clerks,

wives of the American employees, health officers, colored laborers, colored attendants. T.R. has concerns about food quality, compensation, and the health of Black workers. Yet, he's nonetheless impressed with what John Stevens and Dr. William Gorgas are doing, and very positive as he boards the Louisiana a few days later. Spirits are up among the workers, and the press sounds more upbeat with headlines like

a strenuous exhibition on the isthmus. But no one can better capture TR's realistic enthusiasm than himself as he reports the following to Congress a few weeks later. Of the success of the enterprise, I am as well convinced as one can be of any enterprise that is human. It is a stupendous work upon which our fellow countrymen are engaged down there on the isthmus. And while we should hold them to a strict accountability

for the way in which they perform it, we should yet them to a strict accountability for the way in which they perform it, we should yet recognize, with frank generosity, the epic nature of the task on which they are engaged and its worldwide importance. They are doing something which will redound immeasurably to the credit of America, which will benefit all the world, and which will last for ages to come. Yet, just as everything appears on track, as this digging army removes a record-breaking 500,000 cubic yards from the Culebra cut in January 1907, John Stevens decides he's done. The logistical mastermind chief engineer resigns.

Once again, Teddy needs a new chief engineer. Someone not only as capable as John, but who will see through the years of digging and lock system building ahead. Someone who will see this not as a job, but as a calling, a duty. That someone is Lieutenant Colonel George Washington Gothels. Three years ago, in 1904,

the powerful French and British empires settled old rivalries by signing their Entente Cordiale. Germany didn't like that, particularly as this advanced French ambitions in the North African kingdom of Morocco. Feeling its power threatened, the Second Reich began talking of war. Now, this crisis over Morocco came to a peaceful conclusion at last year's Al Jazeera's conference of 1906,

but Kaiser Wilhelm II didn't love it. President Theodore Roosevelt had to push to get him to accept the outcome. Crisis avoided, but how long will the world's empires keep their sabers sheathed? The British Navy's newly completed HMS Dreadnought has just redefined the meaning of battleships. Russia's tightening up its relationship with France and Britain. And ascendant, powerful Japan is so furious about San Francisco's Asian-excluding segregated schools and violent anti-Asian rioting,

some fear its growing Navy will soon set its sights on America's Pacific coast. Good God. It's like militarism is becoming a global contagion. Teddy has an answer for Japan. Diplomacy, of course, and the two nations will soon come to what they call a gentleman's agreement.

But as his administration speaks softly, it will also display the nation's big stick. Well, this isn't just because of shaky relations with Japan, but at the end of this year, in December 1907, Teddy will send 16 white painted warships, quickly nicknamed the Great White Fleet, on a 14-month tour circumnavigating the globe while making diplomatic visits to key nations like Japan.

It's a brilliant move. I mean, it's a diplomatic mission that doubles as a pageantry of American naval might, reminding Japan or any bellicose European powers to think twice before coming at Uncle Sam and his big stick navy. Yet, it will take the Great White Fleet months to sail around South America. In the event of war with Japan, those months could be the difference between holding and

losing the Philippines or Hawaii. Ah, this is exactly why TR wants this trans-oceanic canal at Panama. And Lieutenant Colonel George Washington Gothels is the man to finish it. Put on Teddy's radar by Secretary of War William Howard Taft, George Washington Gothels, or simply the Colonel, as he's often called, is the perfect new chief engineer for the Panama Canal. He brings a sharp mind, as evidenced by his performance as a student and former instructor at West Point. But more than that, the trim, six-foot officer has years of applicable experience designing canals, locks, and dams. He pushed the limits in Tennessee, building a single lock at

the Muscle Shoals Canal that can lift vessels 26 feet. And crucially, Teddy is sure Colonel G.W. Gothels won't quit until the job is done. We can see this in the colonel's reply to a friend congratulating him after his February 1907 appointment. Quote, It's a case of just plain duty. I am ordered down. There was no alternative. Close quote.

And with that resolute attitude, the colonel reports for duty on the isthmus that March. But canal employees are not so sure about having a military man as their chief engineer. Many here love John Stevens. They feel he fights for them. Can these civilian employees really trust an army officer, they wonder.

Meanwhile, steam shovel operators decide this changing of the guard is their moment to push for a significant raise. In May 1907, their strike brings the operation of all but 13 of 68 shovels to a screeching halt. Wow. Welcome to Panama, George. But the colonel quickly proves that he's neither one to mess with nor a bad apple. The strike is crushed. George simply hires new crews. Meanwhile, he makes Sunday mornings his office hours. From 7.30 to noon, men of any rank, color,

or nationality are welcome to come to his office and air their grievances to him personally. It's a winning move. The colonel might not be the warmest man around, but that level of investment in his employees wins hearts and minds. Let's not think this means smooth sailing from here on out. Accidents and disasters never cease to be a part of life in the Canal Zone. It's December 12, 1908, and the work is in full swing at a rocky section in the Culebra Cut called Basso Bispo. Dirt and rock-packed trains fly down the tracks as steam shovel scoop and 120 men on the west side of the cut prepare to blast away rock. Right at this moment, the sizable, heavily Spanish team is placing 8-inch long

dynamite sticks in the 50-plus holes already drilled into the rocky hillside. They set the fuses, but aren't wiring up anything yet since the plan isn't to blast until 5 o'clock. This is 22 tons of explosives after all. They're playing it safe. But as the foreman and another employee are placing the last stick, something happens. Without warning, the dynamite suddenly explodes. Rock and flesh alike fly into the air. Men nearby the sudden catastrophe spring into action, sifting through the rocks, searching for their colleagues,

and quickly get the wounded loaded on arriving relief trains. Twenty-three men died in that blast. Another forty are wounded. It's the single largest killer in the canal's construction, but apart from size, it is by no means an outlier. Accidents claim lives and maim workers frequently. Perhaps that's why construction simply rolls on in the aftermath. Big as this disaster is, it just isn't out of place.

But things really progress at this point. It's only the following year, on August 24, 1909, that concrete work for the locks begins at Gatun. Meanwhile, George Washington Gothels institutes a bit of competition to move these locks along. Having divided the canal into three divisions, he intentionally splits up army and civilian leaders between the two divisions with locks, the Atlantic and Pacific, respectively. He does so knowing each group will want to best the other. This, plus the legitimate excitement of his now

50,000 workers, speeds the work. They finish the last set of locks a year ahead of schedule in May 1913. Now, we can easily fail to appreciate the locks enormity once these chambers are filled with water, so before that happens and they start to function, per my description earlier as watery elevators that raise and lower ships, let's pause and take this all in. Each chamber is 1,000 feet long, 110 feet wide, and when we add in the 13 to 20 foot thick solid concrete floor, 81 feet tall. To borrow historian David McCullough's size comparison, each chamber is roughly as long as the Eiffel Tower is tall. Impressed yet? If not, now more than double the width you're imagining

because with traffic going both ways, each lot consists of a pair of side-by-side chambers divided by a 60-foot wall between them. Imagine digging a trench, a valley really, that could accommodate this. And the sheer mass of concrete required to build the locks is unreal. Roughly 4.5 million cubic yards.

To put that another way, each lock is made of more concrete and steel than the future Empire State Building will be. So multiply that future achievement by six and now we're in the ballpark of these locks. But the engineering feats aren't done. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you about the lock's gates.

With two sets on each side of the locks, save the lower set at Mura Flores, we have a total of 46 gates. Seven feet thick, 65 feet long, and varying from 47 to 82 feet in height, they close in a V-shape and swing open as double doors. Each gate is made of several hundred tons of steel. Yet, with their lower halves being hollow and watertight, they're also quite buoyant.

As a result, the power required to operate the electric motors turning the bull wheels that make these gargantuan steel doors open and close aren't terribly big. Yes, electric motors. The still young General Electric Company installs 1,500 electric motors at the canal, which open and close the gates, run the valve system that raises and lowers the water level in each chamber, and operate the various locomotives that will run along the walls at each lock to guide ships through. The mightiest of these motors won't exceed 150 horsepower, meaning that if you drive an electric car,

your daily commute engages a more powerful engine than any at this canal. Oh, and get this, the canal's power is self-sustaining, running off of hydropower generated by its own moving water. It's nothing short of brilliant. On October 13th, 1913, a newly elected, bespectacled president, an academic named Woodrow Wilson, fills the Culebra Cut with water from the Gatun Lake by blowing up the canal's earthen dike at Gaboa. Not that he's there. Woodrow does so from the executive building

in Washington, DC. He presses a button at 2.01 in the afternoon and telegraph lines deliver the electrical signal to the wired dynamite in Panama at 2.02. An old French crane boat, the Alexandre Lavallee, becomes the first ship to pass through the whole canal on January 7th, 1914. But the canal's grand opening happens that August. Care to experience it with me? Come on, let's go through the Panama Canal.

It's just after 7 a.m., August 15th, 1914. We're on Panama's Atlantic coast, standing on the deck of the SS Ancon. As she lies at anchor not far from the city of Colón, at the smaller town of Cristóbal's Pier 9 in Limón Bay. About 300 people are on board. Visiting dignitaries are few, but we have some very important people on board, like Panamanian President Belisario Porres and the Panama Canal's former chief engineer, now serving

as the zone's first governor, George Washington Gothels. But we won't play who's who. The ship's moving. In the capable hands of our mustachioed canal pilot, Captain John A. Constantine, we first steam out into the Atlantic, just to get the full effect, then return south to Limon Bay. Thousands of spectating Panamanians and remaining canal workers line the banks as we enter a seven mile long channel. Soon, we see two sets of enormous dark double doors in the water ahead. They're divided by a 60 foot wide land barrier that's lined with railroad tracks, which run parallel to more tracks on both sides of both sets of doors.

These are the Gatun locks. Once we've approached, cables are quickly run between our ship and four electric-powered locomotives. With two of them on each side of us, the locomotives tow us into the lock's first chamber at two miles per hour. Once the gates behind us close, the gravity-reliant valve system sends water through the massive pipes in the concrete below. The chamber fills, our ship rises, and once we are at the same level as the next chamber, the next set of gates open. It takes 70 minutes, but after doing this two more times, the cables running to the locomotives are released, and we come out the other side of the three-level Gatun Locks, 85 feet above sea level. We're now on Gatun Lake, created by damming the Chagris River and relocating thousands of Panamanians. It's one of the largest man-made lakes that'll ever exist.

We sail 22 miles across the lake and part of the river, then into the nine-mile-long Culebra Cut. It's so easy to forget now that it's underwater, but remember, we're passing through what used to be mountainous terrain. Now, the waters we're steaming through are a minimum of 40 feet deep. At the end of the cut, we come to the Pedro Miguel Locks. We go through the same electric locomotive towing process that we did at the Gatun Locks. The difference is, this lock is only one step rather than three, and this time, our watery elevator is taking us down,

a little more than 30 feet down to be precise. We then sail a mile and a half across Miraflores Lake to a final two-step lock by the same name, which lowers us the rest of the way down to sea level. We next pass through one last 8-mile channel, emerging in the Bay of Panama around 6pm. And as we complete our passage aboard the SS Ancon, the Panama Canal is officially open. The 8,000-mile, 2-month trip around South America is now a thing of yesteryear. Even for sizable cargo or passenger

ships, passing between the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean is now a matter of 50 miles and a single day. Theodore Roosevelt's administration is long over by the time the Panama Canal is completed. He'll never see the finished work in person. Yet, despite the Panama Canal's construction spanning three U.S. presidential administrations, T.R., William Howard Taft, and Woodrow Wilson, it will forever be seen as Teddy's project. And he claims that. While speaking in Berkeley, California back in 1911, he unabashedly proclaimed, I took the Canal Zone. So what do we make of his taking the 10-mile-wide strip of Panama known as the Canal Zone? Opinions differ.

In the eyes of Teddy's detractors, he's abused Colombian sovereignty by aiding the Panamanian separatists. His administration then took advantage of the Panamanian people through the Hey! Buenavaria Treaty, which not only enabled the United States to build the canal, but granted it titular sovereignty over the canal zone. In short, the big stick-wielding rough rider was a pure imperialist, but Teddy's fans see it very differently. As his biographer Louis Auchincloss so succinctly argues, quote, TR saw his chance to improve world trade and render our fleet more

formidable against an already menacing Japan at the price of giving independence to a small, oppressed nation that passionately desired its liberty. When one thinks of what the United States has done in our time all over the globe to foment resistance to dictators, sometimes at a questionable gain either to us or the people we aim to help, it seems to me that one must think twice before calling TR an irresponsible imperialist. So, fomenter of sedition? Righteous liberator whose own big stick policies merely happen to benefit? Or something in between, as perhaps befits a Nobel Peace Prize winning rough rider? The debate over the legitimacy of Teddy's actions in Panama will undoubtedly never end.

Wherever one stands on Teddy's role, though, one thing is undeniable. The Panama Canal is a wonder, an incredible human achievement. So much credit belongs to the genius of people like John Stevens and George Washington Gothels. This canal would not have happened without them. But much credit is also due to the tens of thousands who, with spade or steam shovel, excavated over 25 million cubic yards of earth. Upwards of 25,000 of them gave their lives carving this canal through the Americas. Most died during the French years, but even with the brilliance of Dr. William Gorgas, 5,609 died during the American era. And as such a large majority of the international workforce were Black Caribbean men,

they make up the vast majority of those deaths from 1904 on, about 4,500. Yet, for all the blood and sacrifice, for all the wonder and brilliance, the world barely notices the Panama Canal's grand opening. All that militarism we've heard about in this episode is exploding in Europe as the continent's great, powerful empires, now divided into two opposing alliance systems and armed with the most deadly technologically advanced weaponry the world has ever seen, are mobilizing for a great and terrible contest. And as this happens, the world has little concern for Panama. But we aren't ready to charge into this war that, in time, will include the United States. We still need to experience William Howard Taft's presidency, amend the Constitution a few times,

experience Teddy Roosevelt's Bull Moose campaign, witness the miracle of flight, and see the spread of automobiles. All these stories and more are yet to come. The progressive era is far from over. Thank you. Jeremy Wells, Jessica Poppett, Joe Dobis, John Frugal-Dougal, John Boovey, John Keller, John Oliveros, John Radlavich, John Schaefer, John Sheff, Jordan Corbett, Joshua Steiner, Justin M. Spriggs, Justin May, Kristen Pratt, Karen Bartholomew, Cassie Conecco, Kim R., Kyle Decker, Lawrence Neubauer, Linda Cunningham, Mark Ellis, Matthew Mitchell, Matthew Simmons, Melanie Jan, Nick Cafferill, Noah Hoff, Owen Sedlak, Paul Goringer, Randy Guffrey, Reese Humphreys-Wadsworth,

Rick Brown, Sarah Trawick, Samuel Lagasa, Sharon Theisen, Sean Baines, Steve Williams, Creepy Girl, Tisha Black, and Zach Jackson.