Roosevelt arrived at the stockpile panting heavily. Simplicio stood over the provisions pointing his rifle at Julio de Lima’s head. Julio held his hands locked behind his own neck. Roosevelt noticed several emptied tins beneath Julio’s feet. Julio cocked his head and spat toward Simplicio, whereas Simplicio stepped aside, keeping his gun steady. The camaradas jabbered amongst themselves, all pointing at the empty cans.
Two camaradas lurched forward toward Julio. Paishon jumped between them, trying his best to hold the vigilantes back. The men argued vociferously, but Roosevelt sensed without doubt that not a single man took Julio’s side. Roosevelt grinned wryly, knowing the men were only arguing over the severity of Julio’s impending castigation.
Roosevelt turned to Rondon, stating calmly. “A case can be made for summary execution, Colonel. Stealing food under such circumstances can be considered a capital offense.”
“Absolutely not,” Rondon replied. “That may be true in America’s Wild West or on the battlefields of Europe, but the laws of Brazil state otherwise. The man must be brought to justice in a civilized courtroom.”
“Then you expect to hold him in cuffs for the duration of the expedition?”
“No, senhor Roosevelt, but I will allow his comrades to decide his immediate punishment.”
Theodore Roosevelt smirked. “Yes, of course, my dear Colonel. I can now see where before my anger struck me temporarily blind to your overt wisdom.” He nodded.
The camaradas stripped Julio of his shirt and bound his wrists. Antonio cut a wispy tree-branch and removed its bark. He tested the contrivance’s effectiveness by thrashing the trunk of a rubber tree. Julio’s open defiance of only hours before transformed presently into uncontrollable shaking and cowardly pleas for mercy. Roosevelt turned his head in disgust.
Lieutenant Martin secured a rope to Julio’s cuffed hands and tossed its opposite end over a high tree branch. The Englishman tightened the rope drawing Julio’s arms sharply upward and exposing his bare back. The camaradas agreed to each take a single turn with the whip.
The laborers lined up without uttering a word. Antonio stepped forward, first in line. Antonio reared back and cracked Julio’s back. Julio began crying like a child. Simplicio stepped up next. He thrashed the whip hard enough to draw a narrow column of blood beneath Julio’s slumping shoulders. Julio’s harrowing wail echoed through the thick forest. Roosevelt cringed with each successive snap. Dr. Cajazeria could not bear to watch.
The last man in line, Lieutenant Martin, stood silently before the blubbering Julio. Despite Julio’s begging, Martin stepped forward and landed the final blow. Martin tossed the whip aside.
The men all stood silently for a few moments; it seemed like an eternity to Roosevelt.
Finally, Rondon said, his voice cracking, “Cut him down and get him cleaned up.” He motioned to Dr. Cajazeria. “We all have more than enough work to do before nightfall.”
The men resumed working on the dugout with a renewed vigor and cooperation that Roosevelt had not seen for several days. When nightfall arrived, they refused to stop working, citing their great progress and desire to finish the project and to get on their way. Some of the men held candles in the darkness while others stripped down to bare skin and plied their axes whilst shaping the new canoe.
The camaradas, nearing total exhaustion and physical collapse, were finally ordered to rest by Colonel Rondon. Roosevelt glanced at his watch under the candle’s flickering light; it was just before midnight.
The men awoke the following morning to a driving rain. Colonel Rondon offered the men their rations but they refused, stating their desire to finish the new dugout before midday. By mid-morning, they completed the canoe, and with straining arms and backs, dragged its massive hull down the bank and to the shore of the swollen river. And with great sighs of relief and hearty congratulations, they sat around the sputtering campfire and proudly devoured the provisions that Brazilian Colonel Cândido Mariano da Silva Rondon had long promised.
At noon the expedition was packed up and ready to once again launch upon the River of Doubt. Kermit christened the camp Broken Canoe Rapids and the men were all quite content to leave its muddy shores, mostly barren forests, and unpleasant memories, far behind. Julio de Lima stood quietly in the driving rain beside his assigned dugout, an isolated and dejected man. Roosevelt noticed him wince occasionally when attempting to adjust Dr. Cajazeria’s freshly applied bandages. Roosevelt figured Julio’s belly most likely content with the camarada’s fair share of ration, although it was against his and many of the other’s wishes—whereas Colonel Rondon came surprisingly to the scoundrel’s defense, declaring him a comrade like all others. “Together we will make it through this jungle,” Rondon said. “Divided, we will all certainly die.”
Teddy Roosevelt had little trouble finding fault in Rondon’s fine and noble words, and those simple utterances came at no more fitting a time, he concluded. The Brazilian Colonel and I may have our differences, but I must defer to his mastery in leading these leathery and hardened men of the Amazon.
Cherrie and Roosevelt settled into their wet seats at their canoe’s center, and Colonel Rondon issued the order to embark with a simple wave of his hand. And following several mighty shoves, the boat’s steersmen leaped upon the dugouts and paddled their creaky crafts northward and into the unknown.
CHAPTER 16
The Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition’s primitive canoes meandered down the river for several rain-soaked hours. Theodore Roosevelt sat unmoving, cloaked from head to foot in his trusted raingear while the forest surrounding him grew dark and menacing, ripe with the indescribable smells of nature opening its pores to receive its life-effusing waters. Beneath him, the dark water’s swirls and eddies danced a hypnotic waltz, drawing lasting images in his ever-pondering and contemplative mind.
The men spoke little as the dugouts negotiated a handful of minor rapids, and on the more treacherous stretches of river, the shallow-draught canoes became victims of the sloshing water, forcing the crews to the river’s edge for some urgent bailing. Before embarking on this day’s journey, both Rondon and Roosevelt agreed wholeheartedly to run as many rapids as possible, unless the water presented such dangers beyond reasonable estimation. Making time on the river was now crucial, Roosevelt thought. And well worth taking a few additional risks, although caution should not be thrown to the wind.
They made decent progress by late afternoon, veering slightly east of due north and directly toward the deeps of the Amazon jungle that lay like a sleeping green lioness just a few dozen miles distant. After the expedition pulled to shore to make camp for the night, Lyra reported they had advanced nearly sixteen kilometers since noon, and the men’s spirits lifted for the first time in several tumultuous days. Antonio pointed out a grove of fresh young palm near their prospective campsite and the camaradas quickly swarmed the area cutting swathes of the belly-filling plant.
The rains ceased by nightfall and the camaradas completed setting up camp. Rondon ordered the heavy dugouts dragged upon the muddy shore, not wishing to repeat the disastrous outcomes of the last handful of days, when the river flooded overnight and some of the vessels were damaged beyond repair. The men huddled around the roaring campfire speaking with renewed optimism, and Theodore Roosevelt beamed with hope upon this most welcome turnabout in the expedition’s mindset.
Julio, however, remained as isolated and brooding as ever. Now, even his closest allies simply allowed him his space.
The men, wet and exhausted, all retired early. Roosevelt inhaled deeply the cool, fresh air and then retreated to his tent.
Upon the dawn of a new day, Theodore Roosevelt marked the fifteenth day of March off his watermarked calendar. The men were eager to be on their way under clear skies, even at the expense of a bit of breakfast or a second cup of coffee. The camaradas completed packing up camp a short time later and milled around the riverbank waiting for the officers.
Lieutenant Martin came to Roosevelt and Rondo
n before they shoved off. The lanky Englishman waved his hand toward the north. “The river and the lands before us are unknown to me,” he said. “I have never progressed farther than the series of rapids we have just recently traversed.”
Rondon caught Roosevelt’s eye. “Thank you, senhor Martin. You have performed your guiding duties well.”
“Yes, bravo, Mr. Martin,” Roosevelt added. “You have been of great assistance and a hard worker.”
Martin continued, “By my estimation we are about to exit the land of the Navaïté and enter the domain of the Wide Belt tribe. The path ahead will be extremely dangerous. I recommend we proceed with great caution.”
“Yes,” Rondon said. “And I suggest you occupy the lead canoe. I realize the task will subject you to great risk, but you do appear most capable when encountering new and potentially hostile tribes.”
“As you wish, Commander Rondon.”
“Choose a partner to your liking. I will ask Mr. Kermit, João, and Simplicio to guide the second lead vessel.”
Much to Colonel Roosevelt’s surprise, Lieutenant Martin chose the brooding Julio to be his crewmate on the lead canoe. Speaking few words—even to each other—the duo shoved off onto the unfamiliar waters and quickly disappeared from sight. Kermit and his crewmates departed moments later.
Theodore Roosevelt waited on shore preparing to depart with George Cherrie. Roosevelt pulled close just as the naturalist was about to set foot on the dugout. “Martin has certainly chosen a curious companion in Julio, don’t you think?”
Cherrie shrugged. “Julio is perhaps the strongest paddler of the bunch when he sets his mind to the task, and they do have some history together.”
“There are times when that truth gives me great pause, Mr. Cherrie.”
The morning sun rose silently behind the entangled and impenetrable Amazonian forest as the expedition drifted swiftly down the murky waterway. Theodore Roosevelt gazed upon the towering Brazil-nut trees, awestruck by their grand elegance, and yet the mighty rubber held his fascination more directly, their broad trunks set in patchy groves and their wide leaves spreading out in all directions like the fans held by high society southern women to thwart the summertime heat.
Upon rounding a sharp corner in the river, Roosevelt noticed the land rising on both sides of the waterway, which stirred within him a sudden and elevated concern—experience had shown that higher land generally indicated the presence of rapids upon the river ahead. The signpost was not lost on Colonel Rondon, however; only moments later the Brazilian Colonel hollered loudly, urging all crew members to exercise extreme caution.
Roosevelt’s and Rondon’s suspicions were confirmed only twenty minutes later when they heard the familiar and disturbing sounds of rushing water at a distance ahead. Roosevelt noticed the river dividing into two channels with a rocky island at its center. A mild rapid spanned the left channel parallel to the island. Roosevelt could not see past the island and down the entire length of the right-side channel. Beyond the first rapid on the left side, the river dropped precipitously. Roosevelt turned to Cherrie. “The first rapid looks passable but the second set appears problematic.”
George Cherrie nodded in agreement.
Roosevelt noticed the outline of Martin and Julio’s canoe move past the first rapids. A moment later, Martin’s canoe crept toward shore above the second stretch of white water. Meanwhile, Kermit’s canoe was heading across the channel to the island splitting the river.
Colonel Rondon motioned the other dugouts to shore.
Once Roosevelt and Rondon stepped securely upon dry land, the Brazilian Colonel looked out across the channel and upon Kermit and Simplicio, who were now climbing over the tiny island at mid-stream. Rondon shook his head. “Kermit’s little maneuver is ill-advised,” he mumbled. “Just how does he think he can get back across the channel against the current and avoid the first rapids?”
“I can only guess he’s investigating the right-hand channel of the river. It could be a better route, perhaps.”
“Indeed, a noble thought, Colonel Roosevelt, but he still risks too much.” Rondon pointed downstream. “The second set of rapids can be traversed if the dugouts are emptied. We must find a route to portage the supplies.”
Colonel Roosevelt nodded with some reluctance.
Stating his concern for Kermit and his camarada’s safety, Rondon sent Dr. Cajazeria, Lyra, and the camaradas downriver on foot in the event something went horribly wrong. If all went well with the canoes, they would get a head start scouting a route to portage around the second rapids that rushed two-hundred yards farther downriver.
Ten minutes passed and the officers watched Kermit, João, and Simplicio return to their canoe on the small island. Kermit’s dog Trigueiro was the last to hop aboard before they shoved off into the hurrying current. With long frantic strokes they headed the canoe upstream for a hundred yards before turning toward the nearest shore where Rondon and Roosevelt waited anxiously.
Halfway across the channel, the canoe drifted dangerously close to the rapids despite the paddler’s best efforts. The rickety dugout shifted dead parallel to shore within a heartbeat and rolled over, spilling man and beast into the churning river.
Roosevelt gasped.
“Everyone, downriver,” Rondon hollered.
Roosevelt hustled through the woods and downriver as quickly as his fifty-four year-old body could carry him. His heart raced while his mind conjured up the unimaginable: how would he explain Kermit’s death to his fiancée Belle, and even more sadly, what would he say to Kermit’s mother Edith? Teddy Roosevelt shuddered at the thought.
Roosevelt spotted the first hopeful sign while heading back to the riverbank—Trigueiro stood near shore, shaking off water and barking wildly. Farther downstream, Roosevelt saw Colonel Rondon and George Cherrie assisting a soaked and exhausted Kermit from the water. Roosevelt breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Just then, they all noticed João staggering up the shoreline. “Simplicio,” João cried, breathing heavily and dripping water. “I saw him…” He waved downriver. “I saw him go over the next rapids.”
“Go help Simplicio,” Kermit muttered. “I’m quite alright… please, you must find Simplicio!”
They abandoned Kermit and filed down the rugged shore and through the woods running parallel to the second set of rapids. The ground tilted abruptly downward and Teddy Roosevelt slipped and bruised his right knee. Undeterred, he continued onward, arriving below the rapids trailing the other men.
Roosevelt bent to his knees catching his breath. Colonel Rondon stood before the men spouting orders. “Spread out! We have much ground to cover. Spread out!”
Roosevelt noticed a shattered chunk of paddle dancing within a small eddy near the shore.
The men, all crying out Simplicio’s name, advanced slowly down the shoreline. Two hundred yards downriver from the last rapids, Roosevelt heard someone holler loudly from out of the scrub near the bank. Colonel Rondon motioned everyone forward.
Roosevelt arrived to find Rondon and the camaradas standing over a battered and bloodied body. Lieutenant Martin and Julio stood to the side, expressionless.
Dr. Cajazeria bent down and grasped Simplicio’s limp wrist. He shook his head slowly.
“We found him amongst the rocks,” Martin said. “Poor fellow… He must have hit his head whilst tumbling in the rapids.”
Colonel Rondon sighed deeply and crossed his chest, asking for God’s blessing. The camaradas immediately followed suit. “We will dig his grave here,” Rondon said tersely. “But not until tomorrow morning. We are wasting precious daylight. We must complete the portage before nightfall.”
Leaving Colonel Roosevelt to stand watch over Simplicio’s body, the men hurriedly mapped and carved a portage route around the rapids. With the dugouts emptied and carrying two skilled paddlers, the camaradas ran the vessels easily over both patches of white water. When the sun settled beyond the towering rubber trees and with long shadows overtaking th
e deep jungle, the men set up camp at the base of the rapids near the spot where Simplicio’s body lay.
As nighttime fell, the camaradas all took turns digging Simplicio’s grave—all save for Julio, Roosevelt noted. Julio sat beside the fire staring into its searing flames. Theodore Roosevelt spat on the ground.
That evening after the camaradas had all retreated to their hammocks, Dr. Cajazeria asked to speak to both Roosevelt and Colonel Rondon in private. The doctor began meekly. “If I may beg the Colonel’s pardon, I…”
“Well, out with it, good doctor!” Roosevelt said impatiently. “Is there something on your mind?”
“I would like to declare firstly that I am not skilled in autopsies, and I am certainly not trained in criminal pathology.”
“Yes…” Rondon added. “Go on.”
“But I think Simplicio’s injury unusual in some respects.”
“Unusual?”
“Yes, senhor Roosevelt, unusual…”
Roosevelt caught Rondon’s eye. “Well, let us have it with both barrels, Dr. Cajazeria. Colonel Rondon and I can certainly judge between mere speculation and truth beyond reasonable doubt.”
“My analysis will be hypothetical for certain, yet there is within my speculation a tiny shard of evidence.” Cajazeria reached into his pocket and removed a two inch sliver of wood. “I would not have found this significant if it were not discovered lodged within Simplicio’s skull. The unfortunate camarada received many scrapes and bruises, yet his head clearly absorbed the fatal blow.”
Roosevelt asked, “A wooden paddle?”
“Or the side of the dugout when it toppled over,” Rondon countered.
“Yes and yes,” Cajazeria said. “It could have been either, or it may have been both; hence my hesitation to bring it to anyone’s attention.”
How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex Page 12
