by Mike Resnick
The little Yorkshireman remained by the dying embers for a few more minutes, wondering how just much time Roosevelt had before everything fell apart.
VI.
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 powwow 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 to 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.”
Roosevelt stared at him for a long moment.
“Well?” said Boyes at last.
“John, if you can save us that much money without cheating the natives, get as rich as you like.”
Boyes smiled. “I don’t mind if I do, Mr. President.”
“You’re a remarkable man, John.”
Boyes shook his head. “I’m just a skinny little guy who had to learn to use his head to survive with all these brawny white hunters.”
“I understand you gave one of them quite a lesson in fisticuffs,” remarked Roosevelt.
“You mean Buckley? I had no choice in the matter,” answered Boyes. “If I’d let him get away with
it, by next week they’d all be backing out on their bargain.” Suddenly he smiled again. “I gave him a bottle of gin and helped him finish it, and by the next morning we were good friends again.”
“You’re in the wrong profession, John,” said Roosevelt. “You should have been a politician.”
“Not enough money in it,” answered Boyes bluntly. “But while we’re on the subject of politics, why did we run the Belgians off? Sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with them.”
“It’s simply a matter of practicality,” answered Roosevelt. “I think we gave them enough of an insult that the governor of the Congo will have to come here in person to prove that we can’t get away with such behavior—and the sooner we meet with him, the sooner we can present our demands.”
“What, exactly, do we plan to demand?”
“We’re going to demand their complete withdrawal from the Congo, and we’re going to stipulate that they must make a public statement in the world press that they no longer have any colonial ambitions in Africa.”
“You’re not asking for much, are you?” said Boyes sardonically.
“The Belgians have no use for it, and it costs them a fortune to administer it.” Roosevelt paused. “King Albert can go find another hunting reserve. We’ve got a nation to build here.”
Boyes laughed in amusement. “And you think they’re going to turn it over to a force of 53 men?”
“Certainly not,” said Roosevelt. “They’re going to turn it over to the natives who live here.”
Boyes stared intently at Roosevelt. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“That is what we’ve come here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“We have a job to do, John, and time is the one irreplaceable commodity in this world. We can’t afford to waste it.”
“Are you sure you’re not being a little premature about this, Mr. President?” asked Boyes. “I thought we’d spend a year building a native army, and—”
“We can’t win a war with the Belgians, John.”
“Then what kind of pressure can you bring to bear on them?” asked Boyes, puzzled.
“We can threaten to lose a war with them.”
Boyes frowned. “I don’t think I quite understand, sir.”
“You will, John,” said Roosevelt confidently. “You will.”
VII.
It took the Assistant Governor of the Congo exactly seven weeks to hear of Roosevelt’s summary dismissal of his district representative and to trek from Stanleyville to the American’s base camp, by which time the rains had come and gone and the ex-President had enlisted not only the entire Mangbetu nation to his cause, but seven lesser tribes as well.
Word of the Belgians’ impending arrival reached camp a full week before they actually showed up—“God, I love those drums!” was Roosevelt’s only comment—and Yank Rogers and the Brittlebanks brothers were sent out to greet the party and escort them back to camp.
Roosevelt ordered Boyes to send five of their men out on a two-week hunting expedition. When the little Yorkshireman asked what they were supposed to be hunting for, Roosevelt replied that he didn’t much care, as long as they were totally out of communication for at least fourteen days. Boyes shrugged, scratched his head, and finally selected five of his companions at random and suggested they do a little ivory hunting far to the south for the two weeks. Since they had virtually shot out the immediate area, he received no objections.
When the Belgian party finally reached the camp, Roosevelt was waiting for them. He had had his men construct a huge table, some thirty feet long and five feet wide, and the moment they dismounted he invited them to join him and his men for lunch. The Assistant Governor, a tall, lean, ambitious man named Gerard Silva, seemed somewhat taken aback by the American’s hospitality, but allowed himself and his twenty armed soldiers to be escorted to the table, where a truly magnificent feast of warthog, bushbuck, and guinea fowl awaited them.
Roosevelt’s men, such as could fit on one side of the table, sat facing the west, and the Belgian soldiers were seated opposite them. The American sat at the head of the table, and Silva sat at the foot of it, thirty feet away. Under such an arrangement, private discussions between the two leaders was impossible, and Roosevelt encouraged his men to discuss their hunting and exploring adventures, though not more than half a dozen of the Belgian soldiers could speak or understand English.
Finally, after almost two hours, the meal was concluded, and Roosevelt’s men—except for Boyes—left the table one by one. Silva nodded to a young lieutenant, and the Belgian soldiers followed suit, clustering awkwardly around their horses. Then Silva stood up, walked down to Roosevelt’s end of the table, and seated himself next to the American.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, sipping a cup of tea.
“It was quite excellent, Mr…?” Silva paused. “What would you prefer that I call you?”
“Colonel Roosevelt, Mr. Roosevelt, or Mr. President, as you prefer,” said Roosevelt expansively.
“It was an excellent meal, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva in precise, heavily-accented English. He withdrew a cigar and offered one to Roosevelt, who refused it. “A wise decision,” he said. “The tobacco we grow here is decidedly inferior.”
“You must be anxious to return to Belgium, then,” suggested Roosevelt.
“As you must be anxious to return to America,” responded Silva.
“Actually, I like it here,” said Roosevelt. “But then, I don’t smoke.”
“A nasty habit,” admitted Silva. “But then, so is trespassing.”
“Am I trespassing?” asked Roosevelt innocently.
“Do not be coy with me, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva. “It is most unbecoming. You have brought a force of men into Belgian territory for reasons that have not been made clear to us. You have no hunting permit, no visa, no permission to be here at all.”
“Are you telling us to leave?”
“I am simply trying to discover your purpose here,” said Silva. “If you have come solely for sport, I will personally present you with papers that will allow you to go anywhere you wish within the Congo. If you have come for some other reason, I demand to know what it is.”
“I would rather discuss that with the governor himself,” responded Roosevelt.
“He is quite ill with malaria, and may not be able to leave Stanleyville for another month.”
Roosevelt considered the statement for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, we’ve wasted enough time already. I suppose you’ll simply have to take my message to him.” He paused. “I suppose it doesn’t make much difference.
The only thing he’ll do is transmit my message to King Albert.”
“And what is the gist of your message, Mr. Roosevelt?” asked Silva, leaning forward intently.
“My men and I don’t consider ourselves to be in Belgian territory.”
Silva smiled humorlessly. “Perhaps you would like me to pinpoint your position on a map. You are indeed within the legal boundaries of the Belgian Congo.”
“We know where we are, and we fully agree that we are inside the border of the Congo,” answered Roosevelt. “But we don’t recognize your authority here.”
“Here? You mean right where we are sitting?”
“I mean anywhere in the Congo.”
“The Congo is Belgian territory, Mr. Roosevelt.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “The Congo belongs to its inhabitants. It’s time they began determining their own future.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” said Silva. “It has been acknowledged by all the great powers that the Congo is our colony.”
“All but one,” said Roosevelt.
“America acknowledges our right to the Congo.”
“America has a history of opposing imperialism wherever we find it,” replied Roosevelt. “We threw the British out of our own country, and we’re fully prepared t
o throw the Belgians out of the Congo.”
“Just as, when you were President, you threw the Panamanians out of Panama?” asked Silva sardonically.
“America has no imperial claim to Panama. The Panamanians have their own government and we recognize it.” Roosevelt paused. “However, we’re not talking about Panama, but about the Congo.”
Silva stared at Roosevelt. “For whom do you speak, Mr. Roosevelt?” asked Silva. “You are no longer President, so surely you do not speak for America.”
“I speak for the citizens of the Congo.”
Silva laughed contemptuously. “They are a bunch of savages who have no interest whatsoever in who rules them.”
“Would you care to put that to a vote?” asked Roosevelt with a smile.
“So they vote now?”
“Not yet,” answered Roosevelt. “But they will as soon as they are free to do so.”
“And who will set them free?”
“We will,” interjected Boyes from his seat halfway down the table.
“You will?” repeated Silva, turning to face Boyes. “I’ve heard about you, John Boyes. You have been in trouble with every government from South Africa to Abyssinia.”
“I don’t get along well with colonial governments,” replied Boyes.
“You don’t get along well with native governments, either,” said Silva. He turned to Roosevelt. “Did you know that your companion talked the ignorant natives who proclaimed him their king into selling him Mount Kenya for the enormous price of four goats?”
“Six,” Boyes corrected him with a smile. “I wouldn’t want it said that I was cheap.”
“This is ridiculous!” said Silva in exasperation. “I cannot believe I am hearing this! Do you really propose to conquer the Belgian Congo with a force of 53 men?”
“Absolutely not,” said Roosevelt pleasantly.
“Well, then?”
“First,” said Roosevelt, “it is the Congo, not the Belgian Congo. Second, we don’t propose to conquer it, but to liberate it. And third, your intelligence is wrong. There are only 48 men in my party.”
“48, 53—what is the difference?”
“Oh, there is a difference, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt. He paused. “The other five are halfway to Nairobi by now.”
