How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex

by Mark Paul Jacobs

  Kermit asked the bleak question that his famous father could not manage to articulate: “Then you have trekked the entire length of the river?”

  “No, unfortunately I have not progressed farther than several weeks journey beyond Colonel Rondon’s bridge.”

  Theodore Roosevelt sighed deeply. He exchanged relieved glances with Rondon, Kermit, and finally Cherrie.

  “But I can tell you that these lands are scarcely populated, yet there are tribes who will slaughter any unprepared outsiders upon sight. And I needn’t tell you that fresh meats are scarce in the deep jungle, and, let us just say, civilized mores are practically nonexistent. And I shan’t get any more graphic than that, dear fellows.”

  Roosevelt shuttered. “And how do you propose to help us?”

  “I am a professional Social Anthropologist, Commander Roosevelt. I have already forged a relationship with some of these tribes, and if we encounter new groups, I pledge to offer my expertise in this regard.”

  “One important question comes to mind,” Kermit said abruptly. “Why? Why would you want to subject yourself to such a journey?”

  “Why?” Martin laughed. “Why? I entered the Amazon for roughly the same reasons as you and Colonel Roosevelt, dear man—for fame and accolades and for science and to understand the human condition. I did not proceed further because I travelled alone, and I heeded the native’s warning that the lands beyond were bleak and horrifically dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Roosevelt said. “Well, the entire Amazon is dangerous, sir. Of what nature of danger did they speak?”

  “I cannot say. The natives often weave tall tales to ward off strangers, yet I took this particular warning very seriously.”

  Roosevelt scratched his head. “I see…” He glanced toward Rondon, who stood crossed-armed and staring into the campfire. “Thank you for pleading your compelling case, Mister Martin. Now I must ask you to excuse yourself so that Colonel Rondon and I can discuss your application.”

  Martin rose to his feet. He nodded curtly and then strode amongst the dancing Nhambiquaras. He laughed merrily pointing out his new nappies to the swirling ebony-colored women and children, their faces glowing with a mixture of mild ridicule and sheer delight.

  Colonel Rondon shook his head. “I would like to say firstly and most ardently that I do not like him. And even more importantly, he would be another mouth to feed, which we cannot afford.”

  “Colonel,” Roosevelt said. “I trust your judgment of men beyond any second-guessing. I only ask that you consider what this man can offer the expedition.”

  “The only thing he will likely offer is the real potential of mutiny amongst my camaradas. He is arrogant and a threat to morale. I have seen this before.”

  “That is a justifiable concern, yet his knowledge of the river’s headwaters may be instrumental in protecting our canoes and could possibly save our lives. And he could help with the natives.”

  “If he is telling the truth…”

  Roosevelt turned to Kermit. “What do you think, son?”

  “Father, there is no doubt that this man is an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. And having someone along who knows the river would make our lives easier and safer. But there’s something puzzling about this man, something that struck me while I was listening to his tale. How does he know so much about our expedition? And if, as he says, he has been wandering the Amazon for years, how did he know our destination? And how did he know when to intercept us here at the Bonifácio station?”

  “Those are excellent questions, Kerm.”

  “Do you not see, senhors,” Rondon interjected, “this man is deceitful and will have to be watched at all times. He keeps things to himself—things that reflect poorly on his past or things that he may use at a later time to enhance his personal situation. I don’t trust him.”

  Roosevelt paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Unquestionably, this man Martin is not perfect, and there does seem to be many legitimate concerns about his background.” Roosevelt looked skyward before turning back to Rondon. “I may regret this decision, but I would like to give this man a chance.”

  Rondon shook his head. “As you wish, Colonel Roosevelt, but please understand that it is against my innermost instincts.”

  “I understand,” Roosevelt replied somberly. “And it shall be thusly noted in my journal. This is my decision alone.”

  Colonel Rondon waved as if he’d washed his hands of the entire matter.

  Roosevelt called out for Martin to return to the campfire. Martin strolled back sporting the same bothersome grin. He sat on the very spot that he’d recently vacated.

  “I have decided to allow you the opportunity to join our troupe.”

  “Splendid! And I commend you upon your astute decision. Apparently, President Roosevelt, you are as wise as your reputation suggests.”

  Roosevelt hurriedly eyed Kermit, Cherrie, and then finally Rondon. “But first we have a condition for which you must agree, and we also have task for you to perform to prove your mettle. Complete the task admirably and you will be welcome to join our expedition.”

  “Oh?” Martin laughed. “A task? How positively delightful!”

  “Firstly, you will not have officer status within this expedition. You will be granted the position of a lowly laborer amongst Colonel Rondon’s ranks and completely under his command—one of his hard-working camaradas. I will see to your compensation upon the mission’s end.”

  Martin bowed. “I was to expect no special treatment, Colonel.”

  “Secondly, you are tasked to contact one of the Nhambiquara tribes near the river and negotiate the procurement of seven canoes for our journey.” Roosevelt fired Rondon a quick glance. The taciturn Brazilian raised a brow, but Roosevelt also noticed a trace of concurrence written across Rondon’s leathery face.

  Martin stroked his chin; his grin evaporated. “That is a tall task, Colonel Roosevelt. Canoes are highly valued possessions amongst these people.”

  “Colonel Rondon will gladly provide some items to sweeten your bargaining.”

  Martin paused for a moment, eyeing each of the officers in turn. Finally, he sighed with resignation. “Well, if this is what must be done, then I will accept this challenge and apply my utmost effort to see to its successful completion.”

  Theodore Roosevelt had made numerous decisions during his long and storied career—some were good, some bad, some indifferent, and some that turned out to be absolute disasters. He always firmly believed that the nature of a good leader was not to be perfect—men were mortal and not Gods—but to be bold, hold true to your own principles, and to issue quick and decisive edicts. Roosevelt often marveled at the instincts granted so graciously to him, and he did not know whether it was by his unique upbringing, hard work, or even by divine providence, but he was ever thankful, nonetheless. And in many ways he felt humbled by this gift that enabled him to experience life like no other human on earth—the innate ability to persuade other humans to his own position. Thank God I was not born with evil in my heart, he often thought to himself, never sharing such dark contemplations with anyone, even his most intimate confidants like Edith, or Kermit, or any of his other children. I shudder to think of myself as a potential Genghis Khan or Caligula.

  But experience taught Roosevelt another great gift: the ability to search his gut and divine the potential fallout of his decisions. Perhaps this is why he was such a successful politician, he reasoned. Yet here, before this smiling and near-naked stranger, Theodore Roosevelt felt conflicted and confused. His head told him to accept the stranger without prejudice and be on with the mission, but his gut told him to be extremely cautious. And more importantly, his instincts cried out that perhaps he had just made a monumental blunder.

  Roosevelt accepted Martin’s outstretched hand and shook firmly. He noticed Colonel Rondon strolling away, brandishing a most rude and uncharacteristic grin. For the first time in his life, Theodore Roosevelt wished he had the special ability to read anot
her person’s mind. In fact, at this very moment, he wished he could eavesdrop on the thoughts of two men.

  CHAPTER 4

  The azure sun rose slowly above the Mato Grosso’s bleak forest welcoming Roosevelt and the expedition’s mule train as they plodded along between clusters of stubbly brush and rock outcroppings the girth of a modestly-sized home. Within a few short hours, Roosevelt noticed that the open prairies had all but disappeared as they began to twist their way downward and off the Brazilian plateau, and the nature and species of the trees began to transform, growing thicker and taller and spaced such that their limbs touched in a broad tangled mesh. Although Colonel Rondon and his navigator Lieutenant Lyra insisted that they still trekked upon what they considered “The Highlands”, Roosevelt could smell and sense the approach of the infamous Amazon jungle, deep in the lowlands ahead and to the north.

  Roosevelt removed his hat and brushed his sweaty brow. He looked skyward, watching the sun draw a misty haze against the matted branches while his mule bounced along the overgrown pathway. He could feel the moist stale air trapped within the forest’s underbelly swelter like a blacksmith’s oven, pressing his exposed skin and penetrating deeply his body and dampening his spirit.

  Roosevelt’s mule took a few uneven steps in the slick mud and Teddy grabbed his saddle to regain his balance. Roosevelt reasoned sadly that his loyal beast, so severely weakened by the poor feed and strenuous journey, would not survive a fortnight after reaching their goal. Such was the fragility of life in this harsh and deadly country, he concluded.

  As the team crossed a small brook, Roosevelt noticed a frail mule slurping darkened water from a stagnant pool. The pathetic creature glanced up with brown eyes set upon the travelers, apparently not able to gather enough strength to bolt away. Teddy shook his head. Three oxen carcasses littered the earth beside the shaky mule. Two of the beasts appeared to be hurriedly butchered while the other animal seemed to have simply collapsed. Huge black birds pecked relentlessly at the remains. Teddy noticed the mule’s scrawny legs quiver as if awaiting death’s sweet escape.

  Roosevelt raised his hand and the mule procession halted. Teddy Roosevelt climbed to the ground and stroked the dying creature’s snout. Roosevelt had seen this sight far too many times over the past month—castoffs from Captain Amilcar’s advance supply train that could no longer pull their weight—the truly innocent casualties of the expedition. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking gently, “Do you suppose we can spare one shell?”

  Colonel Rondon grabbed hold of his reins attempting to steady his anxious mule. He leaned forward and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, senhor Colonel, but bullets are a precious commodity. We had best reserve what we can for senhor Cherrie’s specimens and to defend against large predators and unfriendly natives.”

  Roosevelt turned back to the dying mule and nodded in inevitable agreement.

  Rondon sighed deeply. He stroked his chin and turned rearward. “Paishon!”

  Paishon hustled forward, brandishing his knife in one swift motion.

  “No,” Rondon ordered suddenly. “Eu quero Martin.”

  Paishon stopped in his tracks. He eyeballed Colonel Rondon and scratched his head.

  Lieutenant Martin stepped forward without a heartbeat’s hesitation. He dug his roughened toes into the spongy earth, tugging awkwardly on his newly acquired attire—shirt and trousers purchased by Roosevelt from a telegraph worker at Bonifácio. He accepted Paishon’s knife with a quick nod, and then strode with head held high in classic British fashion directly to Roosevelt and the sick mule. “Sir,” he said, positioning the knife’s blade against the mule’s brain.

  Roosevelt glanced away just in time to miss the fatal jab. The mule released a sickening yelp and dropped to the ground. A pool of expanding red formed beneath Roosevelt’s boots. Rondon’s dog Lobo sniffed the carnage before turning away and whimpering. Martin bent to the stream and nonchalantly swished the blood from Paishon’s blade. Without a word, the Englishman marched back to Paishon and returned the knife.

  Roosevelt solemnly returned to his own mule and exchanged a quick glance with the expressionless Rondon. He pondered for a moment about the myriad differences between Rondon and his own style of command, and yet, at least in this one area, they were in complete and total agreement. Orders must be obeyed without question, and all new men under one’s command should be thoroughly tested.

  With an abrupt tug on his reins, Colonel Rondon turned and urged his beast forward. And, with a leg-up from Paishon, Roosevelt hoisted himself upon his saddle and dutifully followed the taciturn Brazilian commander down the path.

  By early evening and nearly seven backbreaking miles from the Bonifácio station, Rondon’s and Roosevelt’s mule train finally arrived at a modest campsite set beside a small brook littered with tents and a variety of pack animals. Colonel Rondon pulled his mule alongside Roosevelt’s beast. “We have nicknamed this area Sete de Setembro,” Rondon said. “This brook flows directly into the Dúvida, or the River of Doubt, as you have preferred.” He pointed. “Our actual embarkation point is six miles farther north.”

  Roosevelt had reviewed the plan with Rondon countless times over the past several weeks. They were to meet up here with Captain Amilcar and combine and reallocate their supplies and then split their group into two separate expeditions. Amilcar, along with the naturalist Leo Miller and several other men, would continue overland for three days to the west and then descend the previously explored waters of a stream named the Gy-Paraná, and then they would proceed down the Madeira River to the Brazilian city of Manaos. He and Rondon, and Rondon’s navigator Lyra, along with Kermit, Cherrie, and Dr. Cajazeira would strike out upon the unknown waters of the Dúvida. The only variable to this equation were the number and makeup of the camaradas eventually invited to partake in Roosevelt’s flotilla.

  If, as expected, Lieutenant Martin failed to secure the canoes from the Nhambiquara natives, then the Dúvida mission would be delayed an entire week while the camaradas painstakingly constructed a half-dozen vessels for their river journey. Roosevelt inhaled deeply, wishing that the mysterious Englishman would come through in the end and prove Rondon wrong. Hope springs eternal, he thought, but, alas, practical realities appear to rule our sacred existence.

  Roosevelt and Rondon dismounted their mules, and the camaradas swarmed around the officers and gathered in their exhausted pack-beasts. Roosevelt stretched his stiffened back while Kermit leaned down and scratched Trigueiro’s ear. Captain Amilcar greeted the two Colonels with a firm handshake and a wide smile. “Welcome to our little retreat,” the stalwart Brazilian officer said. “We arrived nearly two days ago, safe to a man, yet our animals are certainly in poor shape. But now, thankfully, their journey is nearing completion.”

  Roosevelt replied, “And this while our adventure only enters a new phase.”

  “Yes, Colonel Roosevelt, yes.”

  “What of the supplies?” Rondon asked directly.

  Amilcar’s smile faded. “We have opened some of the crates and have found a large portion to be… How can I say this…? Useless.”

  Rondon’s eyes narrowed. “Useless?”

  “Yes commander, hundreds of kilos of stuffed olives and spices for gourmet meals, and even fine wines from Europe. Yes, quite heavy and quite impractical for a river journey in small canoes.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “How many days of good, honest stake can be set aside for the Dúvida mission?”

  “Enough for forty or fifty days.”

  Roosevelt and Rondon exchanged wordless gazes. Roosevelt sighed. “Then we will have to make do with what fate has provided.” He laughed. “It appears that we have little choice at this point. I cannot speak for the others, but I have no intention of turning back. We have come too far and have risked too much.”

  “Indeed,” Rondon said. “We can fish and hunt when we are able. We can also supplement our meals with wild nuts and palmito, the core of immature palm trees which is bland to
the tongue but will fill our bellies and fight off hunger.”

  Roosevelt rubbed his belly.

  “Besides,” Rondon continued. “Our canoes must be packed light and be flexible enough to withstand turbulent waters. Minimizing our provisions will have its advantages. We must also strive to reduce our personal baggage, stripping such to our most elemental needs.”

  Colonel Rondon’s eyes wandered amongst the camaradas, who were busily tending to the pack animals and sorting provisions. “And have there been any disciplinary problems?”

  “No, commander,” Amilcar replied. “All has progressed without incident.”

  “Good, good.”

  Roosevelt noticed Amilcar peer at a group of three men, one of which was a young, brawny full-blooded Portuguese man that Amilcar had hired in Tapirapoan named Julio de Lima.

  True to his sociable nature, Theodore Roosevelt had gotten to know—within the bounds of military and social decorum—most all of the camaradas who had accompanied them on their mission. Generally, and despite the obvious language difficulties, he had found them to be hard-working and hardened men, dedicated to their tasks and fiercely loyal to Rondon. But one exception was this man Julio. Even by Roosevelt’s casual observations, Julio did only what was asked of him and nothing more, complained about what he had done to most everybody who would listen, and had as much distain for the other camaradas as they had for him. Through Roosevelt’s social networking, the ex-president discovered that Captain Amilcar experienced his own flare-ups with the fiery Brazilian early in their mission, having to disarm the violent camarada during a knife fight—a fight that Amilcar later confessed would have assuredly led to the death of either combatant.

  In subsequent meetings with Amilcar, Roosevelt never asked why he had granted such a despicable and unworthy man a chance at redemption, and he could only guess why Amilcar did not report his concerns about the simple laborer to Colonel Rondon—Teddy Roosevelt had resigned himself to leave such personnel decisions to the expedition’s Brazilian commanders. Yet he knew Julio’s standing with Amilcar remained tenuous at best, and he remained under the Captain’s and Roosevelt’s constant watch. Military commander Colonel Theodore Roosevelt shook his head in mild disagreement regarding the entire affair. Captain Amilcar is a good man and an excellent officer, he thought, but perhaps a tad too lenient in some circumstances. If these camaradas were under my solitary command, a man like Julio would never be allowed to continue with the expedition. The fact that Julio was a strapping and healthy lad—qualities in short supply at this point—appeared to be the only plausible explanation.