by Mike Resnick
“Are you suggesting we leave?” asked Boyes.
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s not that simple, John. Eventually we’ll have to, but if we leave now, the Belgians will just move back in and nothing will have changed. It’s our duty—our holy mission, if you will—to make sure that doesn’t happen, and that the Congo is allowed to develop free from all external influences, including ours.”
“That’s a mighty tall order, sir,” said Boyes. “For instance, what will you do about the missionaries?”
“If they’ve made converts, they’re here at the will of the people, and they’ve become part of the process,” answered Roosevelt after some consideration. “If they haven’t, eventually they’ll give up and go home.”
“All right,” said Boyes. “Then what about—?”
“All in good time, John,” interrupted Roosevelt. “We’ll have to work out thousands of details, but I feel in my bones that after two years of false starts, we’re finally on the proper course.” He paused thoughtfully. “Our first problem is what to do with Billy Pickering.”
“If you’re worried about the Belgians, we can’t give him a trial by jury,” said Boyes. “These people have hated the Belgians for decades. They’ll find him innocent of anything more serious than eliminating vermin, and probably vote him into the Presidency.”
“No, we can’t have a jury trial,” agreed Roosevelt. “But not for the reason you suggest.”
“Oh?”
“We can’t have it because it’s a Western institution, and that’s what we’re going to eradicate—unless and until it evolves naturally.”
“Then do you want to execute him?” asked Boyes. “That might satisfy the Belgians.”
Roosevelt shook his head vigorously. “We’re not in the business of satisfying the Belgians, John.” He paused thoughtfully. “Have Yank Rogers escort him to the nearest border and tell him never to return to the Congo. If the Belgians want him, let them get him.”
Having summarily eliminated the system of justice that he had imposed on the country, Roosevelt spent the remainder of the week eagerly dismantling the rest of the democracy that he had brought to the Congo.
13
Roosevelt was sitting beneath the shade of an ancient baobob tree, composing his weekly letter to Edith. It had been almost three weeks since he had embraced his new vision for the future of the Congo, and he was discussing it enthusiastically, in between queries about Kermit, Quentin, Alice, and the other children.
Boyes sat some distance away, engrossed in Frederick Selous’ latest memoirs, which had been personally inscribed to Roosevelt, whose safari he had arranged some three years earlier.
Suddenly Yank Rogers walked up the broad lawn of the state house and approached Roosevelt.
“What is it, Yank?”
“Company,” he said with a contemptuous expression on his face.
“Oh?”
“Our old pal, Silva,” said Rogers. “You want me to bring him to your office?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s too beautiful a day to go inside, Yank. I’ll talk to him right here.”
Rogers shrugged, walked around to the front of the building, and returned a moment later with Gerard Silva.
“Hello, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet and extending his hand.
“Ambassador Silva,” replied Silva, shaking his hand briefly.
“I wasn’t aware that Belgium had sent an Ambassador to the Congo Free State.”
“My official title is Ambassador-at-Large,” said Silva.
“Well, you seem to have come a long way since you were an Assistant Governor of an unprofitable colony,” said Roosevelt easily.
“And you have come an equally long way since you promised to turn the Congo into a second America,” answered Silva coldly. “All of it downhill.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” said Roosevelt.
There was an uneasy silence.
“I have come to Stanleyville for two reasons, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva at last.
“I was certain that you wouldn’t come all this way without a reason,” replied Roosevelt.
“First, I have come to inquire about the man, Pickering.”
“Mr. Pickering was deported as an undesirable some 19 days ago,” answered Roosevelt promptly.
“Deported?” demanded Silva. “He killed four Belgian soldiers!”
“That was hearsay evidence, Mr. Silva,” responded Roosevelt. “We could find no eyewitnesses to confirm it.”
“Pickering himself admitted it!”
“That was why he was deported,” said Roosevelt. “Though there was insufficient evidence to convict him, we felt that there was every possibility that he was telling the truth. This made him an undesirable alien, and he was escorted to the border and told never to return.”
“You let him go!”
“We deported him.”
“This is totally unacceptable.”
“We are a free and independent nation, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, a hint of anger in his high-pitched voice. “Are you presuming to tell us how to run our internal affairs?”
“I am telling you that this action is totally unacceptable to the government of Belgium,” said Silva harshly.
“Then should Mr. Pickering ever confess to committing a murder within the borders of Belgium, I am sure that your government will deal with it in a manner that it more acceptable to you.” Roosevelt paused, as Boyes tried not to laugh aloud. “You had a second reason for coming to Stanleyville, I believe?”
Silva nodded. “Yes, I have, Mr. Roosevelt. I bring an offer from my government.”
“The same government that is furious with me for deporting Mr. Pickering?” said Roosevelt. “Well, by all means, let me hear it.”
“Your experiment has been a dismal failure, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in each word he uttered. “Your treasury is bankrupt, your railroads and highways will never be completed, your bridges and canals do not exist. You have failed to hold the national election that was promised to the international community. Even the small handful of men who accompanied you at the onset of this disastrous misadventure have deserted you.” Silva paused and smiled. “You must admit that you are in an unenviable position, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Silva.”
“The government of Belgium is willing to put our differences behind us.”
“How considerate of them,” remarked Roosevelt dryly.
“If you will publicly request our assistance,” continued Silva, “we would be willing to once again assume the responsibility of governing the Congo.” He smiled again. “You really have no choice, Mr. Roosevelt. With every day that passes, the Congo retreats further and further into insolvency and barbarism.”
Roosevelt laughed harshly. “Your government has a truly remarkable sense of humor, Mr. Silva.”
“Are you rejecting our offer?”
“Of course I am,” said Roosevelt. “And you’re lucky I don’t pick you up by the scruff of the neck and throw you clear back to Brussels.”
“Need I point out that should my government decide that the Congo’s vital interests require our presence, you have no standing army that can prevent our doing what must be done?”
Roosevelt glanced at his wristwatch. “Mr. Silva,” he said, “I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds to say good-bye and take your leave of us. If you’re still here at that time, I’m going to have Mr. Boyes escort you to the nearest form of transportation available and point you toward Belgium.”
“That is your final word?” demanded Silva, his face flushing beneath his deep tan.
“My final word is for King Albert,” said Roosevelt heatedly. “But since I am a Christian and a gentleman, I can’t utter it. Now get out of my sight.”
Silva glared at him, then turned on his heel and left.
Roosevelt turned to Boyes, who was still sitting in his chair, book in
hand. “You heard?” he asked.
“Every word of it.” Boyes paused and smiled. “I wish he’d have stayed another forty seconds.” He got to his feet and approached Roosevelt. “What do you plan to do about the Belgians?”
“We certainly can’t allow them back into the country, that much is clear,” said Roosevelt.
“How do you propose to stop them?”
Roosevelt lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “There’s only one way, John.”
“Raise an army?”
Roosevelt smiled and shook his head. “What would we pay them with?” He paused. “Besides, we don’t want a war. We just want to make sure that the Congo is allowed to develop in its own way, free from all outside influences.”
“What do you plan to do?” asked Boyes.
“I’m going to return to America and run for the Presidency again,” announced Roosevelt. “Bill Taft is a fat fool, and I made a mistake by turning the country over to him. I’ll run on a platform of making the Congo a United States Protectorate. That ought to make the Belgians think twice before trying to march in here again!” He nodded his head vigorously. “That’s what I’ll have to do, if these people are ever to develop their own culture in their own way.” His eyes reflected his eagerness. “In fact, I’ll leave this afternoon! I’ll take Yank with me; I’m sure I can find a place for him in Washington.”
“You realize what will happen if you lose?” said Boyes. “The Belgians will march in here five minutes later.”
“Then there’s no time to waste, is there?” said Roosevelt. “You’re welcome to come along, John.”
Boyes shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. President, but there’s still a few shillings to be made here in Africa.” He paused. “I’ll stay in Stanleyville until you return, or until I hear that you’ve lost the election.”
“A little more optimism, John,” said Roosevelt with a grin. “The word ‘lose’ is not in our lexicon.”
Boyes stared at him for a long moment. “You mean it, don’t you?” he said at last, as the fact of it finally hit home. “You’re really going to run for the Presidency again.”
“Of course I mean it.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of challenges?” asked Boyes.
“Do you ever get tired of breathing?” replied Roosevelt, his face aglow as he considered the future and began enumerating the obstacles he faced. “First the election, then Protectorate status for the Congo, and then we’ll see just what direction its social evolution takes.” He paused. “This is a wonderful experiment we’re embarking upon, John.”
“It’ll be interesting,” commented Boyes.
“More than that,” said Roosevelt enthusiastically. “It’ll be bully—just bully!”
***
The date was April 17, 1912.
14
After returning home from the Congo, Theodore Roosevelt was denied the Republican nomination for President in 1912. Undaunted, he formed the Bull Moose party, ran as its presidential candidate, and was believed to be ahead in the polls when he was shot in the chest by a fanatic named John Chrank on October 14. Although he recovered from the wound, he was physically unable to campaign further and lost the election to Woodrow Wilson, though finishing well ahead of the seated Republican President, William Howard Taft. He lost what remained of his health in 1914 while exploring and mapping the River of Doubt (later renamed the Rio Teodoro) at the behest of the Brazilian government, and never returned to Africa. He died at his home in Sagamore Hill, New York, on January 6, 1919.
John Boyes made and lost three more fortunes in British East Africa, spent his final days driving a horse-drawn milk wagon in Nairobi, and died in 1951.
The Belgian Congo (later renamed Zaire) was granted its independence in 1960, and held the first and only free election in its history. This was followed by three years of the most savage inter-tribal bloodletting in the history of the continent.
1916:
The Bull Moose at Bay
This was written for the anthology Alternate Presidents, in which each author was told to reverse a presidential election, make one of the losers a winner, and see how his presidency would have fared. And since I was the editor, no one but me was going to write the story of Teddy Roosevelt’s 1912 presidency.
Roosevelt was always a populist and a progressive, far ahead of his time on certain issues—including the one in this story that stands a fair chance of costing him his bid for re-election. There’s one thing I know about Teddy—once he knew he was right he wouldn’t back off of a position one millimeter, even if it meant defeat.
The editor (me) thoughtfully allowed the author (me) to sell it to Asimov’s prior to the anthology’s publication.
***
I don’t care what may be his politics, I don’t care what may be his religion, I don’t care what may be his color. I don’t care who he is. So long as he is honest, he shall be served by me.
—Theodore Roosevelt
Speech at Cooper Union Hall,
New York, N.Y., October 15, 1886
Personally I feel that it is exactly as much a “right” of women as of men to vote. I always favored woman’s suffrage, but only tepidly, until my association with women like Jane Addams and Frances Kellor changed me into a zealous instead of a lukewarm adherent to the cause.
—Theodore Roosevelt
Autobiography (1913)
The date was October 27, 1916.
***
It was a birthday party, but it resembled a wake.
The President had invited only his family and a few close friends to his retreat at Sagamore Hill on this, his 58th birthday. He walked from room to room in the huge old mansion, greeting them, trying to joke with them, but unable to keep a dark scowl from periodically crossing his face. Even Alice, his oldest daughter, who had distracted her share of cabinet meetings and press conferences, seemed unable to distract him tonight.
“Well?” demanded the President at last.
“Well, what, Theodore?” asked his wife.
“Why is everyone tiptoeing around me?” he demanded. “I’m not dead yet. There are worse things than taking an enforced vacation.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll go back to Africa again, or explore that river the Brazilian government has been asking me to map for them.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. President?” said Elihu Root. “You’re going to spend the next four years in the White House.”
“This isn’t a political rally, Elihu,” answered Roosevelt. “It’s a quiet party, and you’re among friends.” He sighed deeply. “You’ve seen the papers, you’ve heard what the pundits say: I’ll be lucky to win six states.”
“I believe in you, Mr. President,” insisted Root.
“You’re my Secretary of War,” said Roosevelt, managing one of his famous grins. “You’re supposed to believe in me.” The grin vanished, to be replaced by a frown. “I wish I could say the same of the Republican Party.”
“They’re still angry at you for running and winning as a Bull Moose four years ago,” said Edith, standing in front of her husband and stroking his hair lovingly. “Some of them probably wish that fanatic who tried to shoot you in Milwaukee had been a better shot. But when they’re faced with a choice between you and Mr. Wilson, they’ll do what’s right.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “If I can’t win the Congress to my cause, how can I expect to win the people?” He strode restlessly across the parlor. “The choice isn’t between me and Mr. Wilson; if it was that simple, I’d have no fear of the outcome. It’s a choice between their principles and their prejudices, and given the splendid example of the Congress”—he spat out the word—”it would appear that their prejudices are going to win, hands down.”
“I just can’t believe it,” said Gifford Pinchot.
“Gifford, you’re a good man and a loyal man,” said Roosevelt, “and I thank you for the sentiment.” He paused. “But you’re my Director of National Parks, and trees do
n’t vote. What do you know about it?”
“I know that you came into office as the most popular American since Abraham Lincoln—probably since Jefferson, in fact—and that you managed to win the war with Germany in less than a year. We’ve become a true world power, the economy’s never been stronger, and there aren’t any more trusts left to bust. How in God’s name can they vote you out of office? I simply refuse to believe the polls.”
“Believe them, Gifford,” said Roosevelt. “You’ve got less than three months to find employment elsewhere.”
“I’ve spoken to Hughes, and he thinks you’re going to win,” persisted Pinchot.
“Charlie Hughes is my running mate. It’s in his best interest to believe we’re going to win.” Roosevelt paused. “That’s one thing I’m especially sorry about. Charlie is a good man, and he would have made an excellent President in 1920. A lot better than that fat fool from Ohio,” he added, grimacing at the thought of William Howard Taft, who had succeeded him the first time he had left office.
“Speaking of Charlie,” said Root, surveying the room, “I don’t see him here tonight.”
“This is a birthday party, for my friends and my family,” answered Roosevelt. “I’m sick of politicians.”
“I’m a politician, Theodore,” said Root.
“And if that’s all you were, you wouldn’t be here,” answered the President.
“What about him?” asked Root, nodding toward a tall, well- dressed young man who seemed uncomfortable in his surroundings, and viewed the world through an elegant pince-nez.
Roosevelt sighed. “He’s family.”
“He’s also a Democrat.”
“At least he’s still speaking to me,” said Roosevelt. “That’s more than I can say for a lot of Republicans.”
