Colonel Roosevelt’s condition deteriorated over the next several days, and he was tended to continuously by Dr. Cajazeria. Kermit did his best to help, although stricken by malarial fever himself. Kermit made the entries in his father’s daily logs when Roosevelt lay too weakened to even hold his pen.
Ten days passed and the elevation of the surrounding land flattened considerably, and they made excellent progress between increasingly rare stretches of rapids. On April 15, 1914, six weeks after taking to the unknown river, Luiz discovered a hunk of wood that had apparently been cut with an axe, and the expedition rejoiced knowing they were finally approaching civilization once again.
With this encouraging news and feeling considerably better, Theodore Roosevelt gathered George Cherrie and Kermit beside his makeshift bed under the bright stars of the Amazonian night. “Well, I can now say with some confidence that I have again delayed my appointment at the Pearly Gates, at least for the duration of this grand and delightful expedition.
“During these past days in the infirmary I have thought long and hard of the incident we have had the misfortune of witnessing on this journey and the legacy strewn about in its horrific wake. All of my life I have regarded myself as less vain than the average politician, but alas I seem to have once again been deluded by my own arrogance. I gather being hood-winked by such a character as Martin and taken hostage by such a lithesome creature as Julio is a bit too much for my pride to swallow.
“I guess my pledge to the Wide Belts provides me some cover, but you two men are under no such governance and you can do whatever your conscience dictates. My decision to push these events aside will cause me great angst and will likely do so until the end of my days.”
“Colonel Roosevelt,” Cherrie said. “I owe you my life, and I will follow wherever you may lead.”
Kermit rested his hand gently upon his father’s shoulder. “Father, I will always be at your side.”
Theodore Roosevelt smiled uneasily. “Good, good. And it also gives me great pleasure to have successfully thwarted the Grim Reaper once again. That old boy has been stalking me for years now. I must surely frustrate him to no end.”
CHAPTER 31
Museu Nacional (National Museum of Brazil)
Rio de Janeiro
October 8, 1923
Like most who are obliged to speak before a large audience, wilderness hardened naturalist George K. Cherrie always felt a bit exposed—countless probing eyes set solely upon him, complete strangers acting as prosecutors, judges, and jury—every word parsed, every misstep smugly noted and revisited at the first opportunity, usually at the end of a long, draining discourse. Yet the words usually flowed easily for Cherrie, little anecdotes about adventures in untamed jungles, exotic wild creatures, and hardened men, anything to keep an audience amused and entertained and willing to sit through the more mundane droning about new species of colorful birds and their arduous habitats.
Dr. Juan Ortiz Lobão stepped toward the podium leading the first round of polite applause. He shuffled past Cherrie’s exhibit of illustrated drawings and offered his hand graciously. George Cherrie accepted with a deep sigh.
“On behalf of the National Museum of Brazil and the American Museum of Natural History, I would like to offer my sincerest gratitude to senhor Cherrie. How delightfully he has shared his keen scientific insights into South America’s abundant natural beauty and diversity as well as his riveting personal journeys.”
A second round of applause ended with Dr. Lobão’s gentle motions for order. “And now senhor Cherrie has agreed to take a few questions. Please be brief and to the point.”
A balding middle-aged man raised his hand and rose to his feet. He smiled broadly. “Can you share with us some of your emotions upon hearing of Theodore Roosevelt’s untimely death, and also whether you believe the rumors that his demise was a direct result of the infection he received during your expedition, even though he lived more than four years following your return?”
Cherrie cleared his throat. “Colonel Roosevelt and I became deep personal friends during our time together in the Amazon as do most men when thrust together under such dire circumstances. Naturally his death brought me great sadness and it still does to this very day. Your second question is mere conjecture, but from all accounts both he and his doctors had admitted his infected shin was the primary cause of his rapidly failing health near the end of his life.”
Another man stood. “Cândido Rondon is renowned for his Pacifist views, especially in regard to our native populations, whereas Theodore Roosevelt was known for seeking justice in the ways of the American Wild West. How did such diverse men coexist and command a mission such as the one you undertook?”
“Rondon and Roosevelt reconciled their differences very effectively.”
“Have you spoken to Rondon since Roosevelt’s death? Do you keep in touch with other members of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition?”
Cherrie pointed at his illustrations. “Does anyone wish to ask about my beautiful artwork?”
The audience giggled nervously.
Dr. Lobão waved his hand. “I do offer my deepest apologies, senhor Cherrie. Please understand that Cândido Rondon is a national hero to my countrymen, and President Roosevelt continues to be one of the most talked about personalities in the world. We do not often have an opportunity to pose such questions to someone who has personally experienced events that we can only gather from books or newspaper articles.”
Cherrie offered his warmest smile and nodded graciously. “I have not spoken to Commander Rondon since we exited the River of Doubt, although I have read his memoirs and accounts of our mission. This is my first visit to Rio since the end of the Great War and I plan to meet with the Commander later this week. As for the others, we are all busy with our work and have gone our separate ways.”
Dr. Lobão raised a single finger. “Mr. Cherrie has time for one more question.”
Cherrie scanned the room. A clean-shaven man in his early forties rose abruptly from his seat near the auditorium’s rear. He held a notebook in his left hand and a readied pencil in his right. “There have been many rumors circulating around the Mato Grosso region over this past decade that directly contradict many of Colonel Roosevelt’s accounts of the expedition and do not—”
“Pardon me. Can I have your name?”
“Sim, senhor, I humbly apologize. My name is Enrique Batista representing the Jornal do Brasil, Rio’s oldest and most prestigious newspaper.”
“Go on…”
“Well, senhor, there is Leo Miller’s account of a bearded white man who was hired by Colonel Roosevelt to guide the expedition?”
Cherrie shook his head. “The camaradas were all of Portuguese or African descent.”
“But why would senhor Miller—?”
“Leo Miller departed our group before we embarked on the river leg of the expedition. Leo is a good man, but he had little contact with the camaradas, whereas I got to know each and every one of these rugged men quite well. Now, allow me to pose a simple question to you, senhor Batista. Who do you think would most likely know the race and nationality of these individuals, me or him?”
The audience members murmured amongst themselves. Some stood and turned to catch a glimpse of the questioner.
“Why, you, senhor Cherrie. Although I do think it odd senhor Miller would make up such a claim without—”
“Does Miller still claim this as fact?”
“Well, no… He has since recanted his account of the white man. But still—”
“Senhor Batista,” Dr. Lobão interrupted. “Please refrain from badgering our special guest. He has graciously agreed to come all the way to Rio just to speak with us, and he should be treated with our best intentions.”
George Cherrie waved his hand. “Obrigado, senhor Lobão, but I am happy to tackle such difficult rumors if, by doing so, I can clear the air and set the record straight. Believe me; I’ve heard all this gossip before. Mr. Batista, do you have
any more questions?”
“Sim, senhor… Several members of the camarada’s families claim that Colonel Roosevelt met and pacified the recently discovered Wide Belt tribe of the deep Amazon, although in his book Roosevelt reported that you passed through this region without much incident, except for the death of Colonel Rondon’s dog. Many find this hard to believe, senhor. These natives are reputed to kill strangers upon sight.”
Cherrie shrugged.
“And there are accounts that you and Colonel Roosevelt documented a new and previously unknown creature while on this expedition and that Roosevelt hunted and killed this monstrous beast by himself and without any assistance. Is this also true?”
The auditorium erupted in muffled laughter. George Cherrie joined in the mirth accompanied by a shake of his head. “Senhor Batista, at the time of our expedition President Theodore Roosevelt was a fifty-four year old man beaten down by malaria, half-starved with one good leg and nearly blind in one eye paired with another that was not much better. If you wish to believe that Mr. Roosevelt could have slaughtered a wild animal of the Amazon larger than a centipede, well then by all means do so. And, by the way, I have some favored real estate to sell to you deep in the jungle.”
There was brief interlude of scattered applause amid continued murmuring.
Cherrie continued, “But sadly, great men like Theodore Roosevelt and your own Cândido Rondon are always trapped forever within a framework our own dreams and aspirations which is always grander than the human residing at their very core. Roosevelt was a man amongst men, but he would have been the first to admit he was far from a God. Please trust me when I say he remained firmly grounded, a mere mortal like us all. Tales such as this have besieged all men of elevated stature throughout history. And here, as they say, there is little new under the sun.”
George Cherrie stood back, basking in thunderous applause.
**********
Cherrie felt every jolt and every bump as the open-air trolley clanked along Rio de Janeiro’s outer boulevards and away from the city’s center toward the vast blue South Atlantic to the east. He inhaled the fresh salty air, and he could not help but think of playful summer vacations on Maine’s rocky coastline with Stella and the children—bygone days filled with little worries, corn on the cob, and succulent boiled lobster. Beyond the road, the ocean spread across an endless horizon, its surface shimmering under early spring’s inviting skies. Ships of all shapes and sizes clogged the harbor with masts reflecting the afternoon sun beneath the imposing cliffs of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain.
The trolley came to a screeching stop amid a cluster of passing automobiles with motors purring and spitting foul exhaust, making Cherrie long for simpler days of horses and carriages and long solitary excursions into pristine forests where the air was fresh and the mind could be at peace. The trolley driver turned to Cherrie with a friendly smile and pointed. “The Instituto Militar de Engenharia, senhor.”
Cherrie paid the driver his due and stepped off into the crisp Brazilian air. He strode down a concrete walkway and entered a large building constructed of stone, brick, and mortar. After being directed by a young man in a smart brown uniform to a prominent office on the building’s ground floor, Cherrie rechecked the door’s ornate title before stepping inside.
George Cherrie recognized immediately the smallish man huddled over a shiny oak desk cluttered with stacks of paper. Other than a few additional gray hairs, Commander Cândido Rondon appeared ageless, virtually unchanged from when they had gone their separate ways nine long and eventful years before.
“I have never seen a more unnatural sight as this, senhor, donned in civilian clothing and not barking out his daily orders. Can a man who has tamed the mighty Amazon be so uttered defeated by a simple pile of paper?”
Cândido Rondon glanced up. He smiled widely and rose to his feet. “Paperwork is the grease that lubricates a functioning bureaucracy, my friend, both military and civilian. I’m certain it works the same throughout the world. George Cherrie! What a delightful surprise.” Rondon slipped hurriedly around his desk, offering Cherrie a firm handshake and a manly hug. “I received your telegram only yesterday. I am so glad you could stop by. Please, senhor, sit… sit.”
Cherrie settled into one of the three plush chairs surrounding Rondon’s desk.
Rondon pulled up a chair beside him. “How is your family? Have you spent much time on your Vermont farm? I remember well your vivid descriptions of your orchards and of the autumn colors. How lovely a memory to cherish…”
“Not as much as I would like to spend, senhor. But recently I have thought of retiring from field work and returning to the States for good.”
“Ah, you are far too young for retirement, Mr. Cherrie. You have much more to offer the world, sim?”
“And look at you, a luxurious office and a fancy title: Director of Engineering of the Army?”
“Sim, sim, although you know I would give this all up to be back in the field again. How I miss the Mato Grasso and the Amazon, and I do miss my men.”
“Yes, I did receive word of Lieutenant Lyra, and I offer my heartfelt condolences…”
Cherrie noticed a genuine look of extreme sadness engulf Rondon’s rugged face. If it were any other man but Cândido Rondon, Cherrie would have expected the man’s eyes to mist and tear. "Yes, he died an honorable death, swept away while surveying the Rio Sepotuba five years ago.” Rondon shook his head. “He performed his duties admirably to bitter end. There will be no man—past, present, or future—his equal under my command.”
“Yes, he will be remembered as a good and loyal officer.”
Rondon paused for a moment. “And of senhor Roosevelt…?”
“Yes, and I wish to engage in some private talk.” Cherrie glanced toward the open doorway.
“I understand, of course.” Rondon rose from his chair and closed the door tightly. He returned to his seat.
Cherrie leaned in closely. “Have you had the opportunity to read the Colonel’s book?”
“Sim, senhor, ‘Through the Brazilian Wilderness’, sim…”
“What did you think?”
“Well, obviously, Mr. Roosevelt was very creative in certain aspects of—”
“Did this not trouble you?”
Rondon shrugged. “Mr. Roosevelt had every right to write his personal account of the expedition the way he saw fit, would you not agree? Whether he omitted any reference to Lieutenant Martin or altered the manner of Julio’s death, holds little relevance to the historical nature of the mission.”
“And of the dark beast…?”
“Yes, of course, this must be considered a tremendous loss to those like yourself who classify such creatures. Just last year Antonio and Luiz guided a group of prospectors back into the Wide Belt lands, finding the monument torn asunder and the stone building disassembled and the clearing overrun by the jungle’s natural encroachment. The Wide Belts have fought fiercely to defend their lands these past ten years, but the chief remembered Antonio in particular, telling him that the Arawuua no longer existed in the flesh and that the Kariati is no longer practiced. Tataire reminded Antonio of the sacred nature of the bygone ritual and how they should respect the Wide Belt’s ancestors by speaking little of its history, thus allowing its memory to fade with future generations.”
“Do you suppose this is the reason why the Colonel chose to omit these factual events in his memoirs? Do you believe he did so simply to appease the native’s ancestors?”
“Colonel Roosevelt was a man of his word, whether offered to men whom he regarded as peers or those he considered primitive savages. He was obliged to accept the Wide Belt’s terms in a gambit to spare all of our lives, and it appears he remained steadfast to his promise to the very end of his own life.”
“Hence, can you not see my eternal conflict, senhor Rondon? I was an eyewitness to perhaps the greatest scientific find of all time, and as a scientist I feel compelled to report such to the world, but doing so would expo
se an American icon to scorn and ridicule, along with the strong possibility it may be against his final wishes.”
“Perhaps he left the decision completely up to you, George.”
Cherrie rubbed his chin. “That was not quite the simple answer I wished to hear from you, Commander.”
“And what are Kermit Roosevelt’s thoughts on this subject? He also witnessed this event and he may understand his father’s reasoning far better than either of us.”
Cherrie sighed. “Kermit married Belle and they had three children, two of which Roosevelt had the pleasure of holding before he passed. But after returning from the war and after his father’s death, he was a changed man, spending more time with the bottle than with his young family.”
Rondon lowered his eyes and shook his head. “This is such a shame for one who is so young and who had shown so much potential.”
“I have met with him on several occasions, but he refuses to speak about the expedition or of his father’s wishes.”
“Well, senhor Cherrie, I sympathize greatly with your plight, but I personally did not bear witness to the beast, although I did glimpse one of its appendages. You may never know Colonel Roosevelt’s thoughts on the matter, lost with his untimely death, and the creature’s imprint upon this planet fades with every passing year and with the passing of the current-most Wide Belt generation. This is unfortunate, but it is the way of things—oftentimes God works in peculiar and mysterious ways.”
CHAPTER 32
Cherrie’s Rocky Dell Farm
Newfane, Vermont
January 3, 1948
George Cherrie leaned awkwardly over his cane and peered out of his kitchen window at huge snowflakes drifting softly from deep grey New England skies. The chilly darkness descended early in mid-winter and he lamented the passing of fall’s colors as the shadows overwhelmed the cottony-white landscape before him. Cherrie raised his shirt’s sleeve to remove his frosty breath from the window’s surface. He struggled to see his driveway’s end and the snow-covered roadway beyond.
How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex Page 21
