The Other Teddy Roosevelts

by Mike Resnick

  Another brief exchange followed. “He wants to know where the gifts of civilization are.”

  “Tell him they’re too big for our small party of men to carry, but they’re on their way.”

  The chief listened, finally flashed Roosevelt a smile, and turned to Boyes.

  “He says any enemy of the Belgians is a friend of his.”

  Roosevelt stepped forward and extended his hand. The chief stared at for a moment, then hesitantly held out his own. Roosevelt took it and shook it vigorously. Two of the old man’s bodyguards tensed and raised their spears again, but the chief said something to them and they immediately backed off.

  “I think you startled them,” offered Boyes.

  “A good politician always likes to press the flesh, as we say back home,” responded Roosevelt. “Tell him that we’re going to bring democracy to the Congo.”

  “There’s no word for democracy in Swahili.”

  “What’s the closest approximation?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  The chief suddenly began speaking. Boyes listened for a moment, then turned to Roosevelt.

  “He suggests that our men leave their weapons behind and come join him in a feast celebrating our friendship.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Maybe he’s as friendly as he seems, but I don’t think it would be a good idea just yet.”

  “All right,” responded Roosevelt, holding his hand up to his glasses as a breeze brought a cloud of dust with it. “Thank him, tell him that the men have already eaten, but that you and I will accept his gracious invitation while our men guard the village against the approach of any Belgians.”

  “He says there aren’t any Belgians in the area.”

  “Tell him we didn’t see any either, but one can’t be too careful in these dangerous times, and that now that we are friends, our men are prepared to die defending his village from his Belgian oppressors.”

  The chief seemed somewhat mollified, and nodded his acquiescence.

  “Did you ever drink pombe?” asked Boyes, as the chief arose and invited them into his hut.

  “No,” said Roosevelt. “What is it?”

  “A native beer.”

  “You know I don’t imbibe stimulants, John.”

  “Well, Mr. President, you’re going to have to learn how to imbibe very fast, or you’re going to offend our host.”

  “Nonsense, John,” said Roosevelt. “This is a democracy. Every man is free to drink what he wants.”

  “Since when did it become a democracy?” asked Boyes wryly.

  “Since you and I were invited to partake in dinner, rather than constitute it,” said Roosevelt. “Now let’s go explain all the wonders we’re going to bring to the Congo.”

  “Has it occurred to you that you ought to be speaking to the people about democracy, rather than to the hereditary chief?” suggested Boyes wryly.

  “You’ve never seen me charm the opposition, John,” said Roosevelt with a confident smile. He walked to the door of the hut, then lowered his head and entered the darkened interior. “Give me three hours with him and he’ll be our biggest supporter.”

  He was wrong. It only took 90 minutes.

  5

  They spent the next two weeks marching deeper into Mangbetu territory. News of their arrival always preceded them, transmitted by huge, eight-foot-drums, and their reception was always cordial, so much so that after the first four villages Roosevelt allowed all of his men to enter the villages.

  By their eighth day in Mangbetu country the remainder of their party had caught up with them, bringing enough horses so that all 53 men were mounted. Boyes assigned rotating shifts to construct camps, cook, and hunt for meat, and Roosevelt spent every spare minute trying to master Swahili. He forbade anyone to speak to him in English, and within two weeks he was able to make himself understood to the Mangbetu, although it was another month before he could discuss his visions of a democratic Congo without the aid of a translator.

  “A wonderful people!” he exclaimed one night as he, Boyes, Charlie Ross and Billy Pickering sat by one of the campfires, after having enlisted yet another two thousand Mangbetu to their cause. “Clean, bright, willing to listen to new ideas. I have high hopes for our crusade, John.”

  Boyes threw a stone at a pair of hyenas that had been attracted by the smell of the impala they had eaten for dinner, and they raced off into the darkness, yelping and giggling.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Everything’s gone smoothly so far, but…”

  “But what?”

  “These people don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. President,” said Boyes bluntly.

  “I was going to mention that myself,” put in Charlie Ross.

  “Certainly they do,” said Roosevelt. “I spent the entire afternoon with Matapoli—that was his name, wasn’t it?—and his elders, explaining how we were going to bring democracy to the Congo. Didn’t you see how enthused they all were?”

  “There’s still no word for democracy in Swahili,” answered Boyes. “They probably think it’s something to eat.”

  “You underestimate them, John.”

  “I’ve lived among blacks all my adult life,” replied Boyes. “If anything, I tend to overestimate them.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “The problem is cultural, not racial. In America, we have many Negroes who have become doctors, lawyers, scientists, even politicians. There is nothing a white man can do that a Negro can’t do, given the proper training and opportunity.”

  “Maybe American blacks,” said Billy Pickering. “But not Africans.”

  Roosevelt chuckled in amusement. “Just where do you think America’s Negroes came from, Mr. Pickering?”

  “Not from the Congo, that’s for sure,” said Pickering adamantly. “Maybe West African blacks are different.”

  “All men are pretty much the same, if they are given the same opportunities,” said Roosevelt.

  “I disagree,” said Boyes. “I became the King of the Kikuyu, and you’re probably going to become President of the Congo. You don’t see any blacks becoming king or president of white countries, do you?”

  “Give them time, John, and they will.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You may not live to see it, and I may not,” said Roosevelt. “But one of these days it’s going to happen. Take my word for it.”

  A lion coughed about a hundred yards away. Both men ignored it.

  “Well, you’re a very learned man, so if you say it’s going to happen, then I suppose it is,” said Boyes. “But I hope you’re also right that I’ll be dead and buried when that happy day occurs.”

  “You know,” mused Roosevelt, “maybe I ought to urge some of our American Negroes to come over here. They could become the first generation of congressmen, so to speak.”

  “A bunch of your freed slaves set up shop in Liberia a few years back,” noted Charlie Ross. “The first thing they did was to start rounding up all the native Liberians and sell them into slavery.” He snorted contemptuously. “Some democracy.”

  “This will be different, Mr. Ross,” responded Roosevelt. “These will be educated American politicians, who also just happen to be Negroes.”

  “Their heads would be decorating every village from here to the Sudan a week later,” said Pickering with absolute certainty.

  “The Belgians may be oppressing the natives now,” added Boyes, “but as soon as they leave, it’ll be back to tribal warfare as usual.” He paused. “Your democracy is going to have exactly as many political parties as there are tribes, no more and no less, and no tribal member will ever vote for anyone other than a tribal brother.”

  “Nonsense!” scoffed Roosevelt. “If that philosophy held true, I’d never have won a single vote outside of my home state of New York.”

  “We’re not in America, Mr. President,” responded Boyes.

  “I obviously have more faith in these people
than you do, John.”

  “Maybe that’s because I know them better.”

  Suddenly Roosevelt grinned. “Well, it wouldn’t be any fun if it was too easy, would it?”

  Boyes smiled wryly. “I think you’re in for a little more fun than you bargained for.”

  “God put us here to meet challenges.”

  “Oh,” said Charlie Ross. “I was wondering why He put us here.”

  “That’s blasphemy, Mr. Ross,” said Roosevelt sternly. “I won’t hear any more of it.”

  The men fell silent, and a few moments later, when the fire started dying down, Roosevelt went off to his tent to read.

  “He’s biting off more than he can chew, John,” said Billy Pickering when the ex-President was out of earshot.

  “Maybe,” said Boyes noncommittally.

  “There’s no maybe about it,” said Pickering. “He hasn’t lived with Africans. We have. You know what they’re like.”

  “There’s another problem, too, John,” added Ross.

  “Oh?” said Boyes.

  “I have a feeling he thinks of us as the Rough Riders, all in for the long haul. But the long rains are coming in a couple of months, and I’ve got to get my ivory to Mombasa before then. So do a lot of the others.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Charlie,” said Boyes. “He’s offering us a whole country. There’s not just ivory here; there’s gold and silver and copper as well, and somebody is going to have to administer it. If you leave now, we may not let you come back.”

  “You’d stop me?” asked Ross, amused.

  “I’ve got no use for deserters,” answered Boyes seriously.

  “I never signed any enlistment papers. How can I be a deserter?”

  “You can be a deserter by leaving the President when he needs every man he can get.”

  “Look, John,” said Ross. “If I thought there was one chance in a hundred that he could pull this off, I’d stay, no question about it. But we’ve all managed to accumulate some ivory, and we’ve had a fine time together, and we haven’t had to fight the Belgians yet. Maybe it’s time to think about pulling out, while we’re still ahead of the game.”

  Boyes shook his head. “He’s a great man, Charlie, and he’s capable of great things.”

  “Even if he does what he says he’s going to do, do you really want to live in the Congo forever?”

  “I’ll live anywhere the pickings are easy,” answered Boyes. “And if you’re smart, so will you.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, John,” said Ross, getting up and heading off toward his tent.

  “How about you, Billy?” asked Boyes.

  “I came here for just one reason,” answered Pickering. “To kill Belgians. We haven’t seen any yet, so I guess I’ll stick around a little longer.” Then he, too, got up and walked away.

  The little Yorkshireman remained by the dying embers for a few more minutes, wondering how just much time Roosevelt had before everything fell apart.

  6

  Two months into what Roosevelt termed their “bully undertaking” they finally ran into some organized resistance. To nobody’s great surprise, it came not from the various tribes they had been enlisting in their project, but from the Belgian colonial government.

  Despite the imminent arrival of the long rains, Roosevelt’s entire party was still in the Congo, due mostly to the threats, pleadings, and promise of riches that Boyes had made when the ex-President was out of earshot.

  They had made their way through a dense forest and were now camped by a winding, crocodile-infested river. A dozen of the men were out hunting for ivory, and Pickering was scouting about thirty miles to the west with a Mangbetu guide, seeking a location for their next campsite. Three more members of the party were visiting large Mangbetu villages, scheduling visits from the “King of America” and arranging for word to be passed to the leaders of the smaller villages, most of whom wanted to come and listen to him speak of the wonders he planned to bring to the Congo.

  Roosevelt was sitting on a canvas chair in front of his tent, his binoculars hung around his neck and a sheaf of papers laid out on a table before him, editing what he had written that morning, when Yank Rogers, clad in his trademark stovepipe chaps and cowboy stetson, approached him.

  “We got company, Teddy,” he announced in his gentle Texas drawl.

  “Oh?”

  Rogers nodded. “Belgians—and they look like they’re ready to declare war before lunch.”

  “Mr. Pickering will be heartbroken when he finds out,” remarked Roosevelt wryly. He wiped some sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “Send them away, and tell them we’ll only speak to the man in charge.”

  “In charge of what?” asked Rogers, puzzled.

  “The Congo,” answered Roosevelt. “We’re going to have to meet him sooner or later. Why should we march all the way Stanleyville?”

  “What if they insist?”

  “How big is their party?” asked Roosevelt.

  “One guy in a suit, six in uniforms,” said Rogers.

  “Take twenty of our men with you, and make sure they’re all carrying their rifles. The Belgians won’t insist.”

  “Right, Teddy.”

  “Oh, and Yank?”

  The American stopped. “Yes?”

  “Tell Mr. Boyes not to remove their wallets before they leave.”

  Rogers grinned. “That little bastard could find an angle on a baseball. You know he’s taking ten percent off the top on all the ivory our men shoot?”

  “No, I didn’t know. Has anyone objected?”

  “Not since he went up against Big Bill Buckley and gave him a whipping,” laughed Wallace. “I think he’s got notions of taking a percentage of every tusk that’s shipped out of the Congo from now til Doomsday.” He paused. “Well, I’d better round up a posse and go have a pow-wow with our visitors.”

  “Do that,” said Roosevelt, spotting an insect that was crawling across his papers and flicking it to the ground. “And send Mr. Boyes over here. I think I’d better have a talk with him.”

  “If you’re going fight him, I think I can get three to one on you,” said Rogers. “The rest of ‘em never saw you take out that machine gun nest single-handed at San Juan Hill; I did. Want me to put a little something down for you, Teddy?”

  Roosevelt chuckled at the thought. “Maybe a pound or two, if it comes to that. Which,” he added seriously, “it won’t.”

  Rogers went off to gather some of the men, and a few minutes later Boyes approached Roosevelt’s tent.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did, John.”

  “Is it anything to do with the Belgians? Yank Rogers said you were sending them away.”

  “They’ll be back,” said Roosevelt, wiping his face once again and wondering if he’d ever experienced this much humidity anywhere in America. “Pull up a chair, John.”

  Boyes did so, and sat down opposite Roosevelt.

  “John, Yank tells me that you’ve got a healthy little business going on here.”

  “You mean the ivory?” asked Boyes, making no attempt to conceal it.

  Roosevelt nodded. “We’re not here to get rich, John. We’re here to turn the Congo into a democracy.”

  “There’s no law against doing both,” said Boyes.

  “I strongly disapprove of it, John. It’s profiteering.”

  “I’m not making a single shilling off the natives, Mr. President,” protested Boyes. “How can that be profiteering?”

  “You’re making it off our own people,” said Roosevelt. “That’s just as bad.”

  “I was afraid you were going to look at it like that,” said Boyes with a sigh. “Look, Mr. President, we’re all for civilizing the Congo—but we’re grown men, and we’ve got to make a living. Now, for most of them, that means ivory hunting when we’re not busy befriending the natives. Believe me when I tell you that if you were to forbid it, eighty percent of the men would
leave.”

  “I believe you, John,” said Roosevelt. “And I haven’t stopped them from hunting ivory whenever they’ve had the time.”

  “Well, I haven’t got any spare time, between running the camp and acting as your second-in-command,” continued Boyes, “so if I’m to make any money, it can’t be by spending long days in the bush, hunting for ivory. So unless you see fit to pay me a salary, this seems like the most reasonable way of earning some money. It doesn’t cost you anything, it doesn’t cost the natives anything, and every one of our men knew the conditions before they signed on.”

  Roosevelt considered Boyes’ argument for a moment, then nodded his consent.

  “All right, John. Far be it from me to stand in the way of a entrepreneur.” He paused for a moment. “But I want you to promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll let me know before you indulge in any other plans to get rich.”

  “Oh, I’m never without plans, Mr. President,” Boyes assured him.

  “Would you care to confide in me, then?”

  “Why not?” replied Boyes with a shrug. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Once you start putting your railroad through here, you’re going to need about ten thousand laborers. Now, I don’t know if you’re going to draft some workers from the local tribes, or hire a bunch of coolies from British East, or import all your labor from America—but I do know that ten thousand men eat a lot of food. I thought I’d set up a little trading company to deal with some of the tribes; you know, give them things they want in exchange for bags of flour and other edibles.” He paused. “It’ll be the same thing I did with the Kikuyu when they built the Lunatic Line, and I kept 25,000 coolies fed for the better part of two years.”

  “I don’t want you fleecing the same people we’re trying to befriend,” said Roosevelt. “We’re here to liberate this country, not plunder it.”

  “If they don’t like what I have to trade, they don’t have to part with their goods,” said Boyes. “And if they do like it, I’ll undersell any competitor by fifty percent, which will save your fledgling treasury a lot of money.”