How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex

by Mark Paul Jacobs

  “Get away from that window this instant,” Stella said, lifting the perking coffee pot off the burner. “Didn’t the doctor just warn you about pneumonia? Weren’t you listening?”

  “What, dear?”

  Stella shook her head. “George, I seriously doubt anyone would be foolish enough to come all the way up from New York City on a night like this. Must all of the Museum’s business be so hurried? Could they not wait just a day or two for the weather to clear? What could be so important?”

  Cherrie spotted a pair of headlights through the snowflakes. He hobbled to the kitchen table and sat. “He’s here.”

  “Okay, I’ll warm up some stew.”

  Stella answered a rap on the front door. A tall young man carrying a large briefcase stood on the stoop dressed in a long trench coat and a snow-caked hat. The man removed his hat and dusted off the snow as Stella closed the door tightly behind him. The man smiled broadly. “Mrs. Cherrie, I can only presume?”

  “Yes, George has been expecting you. Come in and warm up. You must be exhausted having driven all this way in this snow.”

  Cherrie, feeling every one of his eighty-three years, rose slowly from the table. He locked eyes with the visitor, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties. The man placed the briefcase gingerly on the floor before removing his coat and gloves.

  “I can take those,” Stella said, gathering up the wet garments.

  The man extended his hand timidly. “My name is Jonathan Harner. I’ve been sent by Mr. Davison to represent the Museum in this affair.”

  Cherrie took Harner’s hand and shook firmly. “George Cherrie,” he said.

  Harner chuckled but quickly regained his composure. “I sincerely apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Cherrie, but you hardly need to introduce yourself to anyone who has studied Natural History or even to anyone who is familiar with Theodore Roosevelt’s legacy for that matter. I have been a great admirer of your work since I was a little boy and have attended several of your lectures.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I was one of those young college students sitting at the rear of the hall too intimidated to ask any questions.”

  “You should have spoken up. You must be bold and question those in authority. It is the best way to learn.”

  Stella smiled warmly. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Harner?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  Cherrie glanced down at Harner’s briefcase.

  Harner continued, “And if truth be told, I volunteered to bring this to you today. Mr. Davison wished to send it by special messenger, but I literally pleaded with him to reconsider. It was my chance to meet you, George Cherrie, one of my personal heroes and an actual living friend to one of our greatest presidents, Teddy Roosevelt! I just couldn’t resist the opportunity.”

  Stella said, “Isn’t that nice, dear.”

  “Colonel,” Cherrie said flatly.

  Harner paused. “Pardon me?”

  “Mr. Roosevelt abhorred that name. We simply called him Colonel or Colonel Roosevelt.”

  “Oh, I apologize…”

  “George!” Stella scolded. “Let the young man tell his story. Colonel Roosevelt has been gone for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he doesn’t mind what he’s called.”

  Cherrie chuckled mischievously. “So, Mr. Harner, what do you have for me? It must be pretty important for you to come all this way in the middle of a Vermont snowstorm. The telegram I received from the Museum was very vague, only hinting of something regarding the Roosevelt family or Colonel Roosevelt himself.”

  Harner grabbed the briefcase and placed it gently on the table before Cherrie. “Any personal correspondence or artifact of Theodore Roosevelt’s is given the utmost attention and is scrutinized closely. But finding previously undocumented correspondence of a man of such eminence is rarer still. And this particular oversight was extraordinary, as you will soon see.”

  “And how does this relate to me?”

  Harner opened the case and gingerly removed a four-inch thick yellowed and neatly wrapped package. Cherrie noticed the words: ‘Confidential’ and ‘For the addressee’s eyes only’ stamped on all sides. A hand-written mailing tag was affixed to the package’s center: ‘Mr. George K. Cherrie, Rocky Dell Farm, Newfane Vermont’.

  “We confirmed that it was indeed Theodore Roosevelt’s own handwriting,” Harner said.

  “Do you know approximately when he fabricated this?”

  “Our experts could not determine an exact date, but it was found amongst his final works, possibly in the final months of his life. Only Theodore Roosevelt himself could have told us why it was not mailed.”

  Cherrie’s heart thumped.

  “Is there something wrong, Mr. Cherrie?”

  “No, no, I often get quite emotional thinking about my old friend.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you know whether anyone has examined its contents?”

  Harner shook his head. “The package has remained sealed, presumably since President Roosevelt last held it in his own hands. It was discovered last year in the Museum of Natural History’s archives quite by accident. Since then we have made overtures to the Roosevelt families, who have in turn decided to turn the package over to you, the intended addressee, stating that Colonel Roosevelt would have wished it handled that way.”

  “Extraordinary...”

  Harner smiled broadly. “The Museum of Natural History would of course be interested in obtaining any new documents or notes from Mr. Roosevelt, if you choose to donate such papers. Anything scribed by a former President of the United States is of priceless historical value, especially when the author is Theodore Roosevelt.”

  “I will give it some thought, but first I would like to examine the package in private.”

  “George!” Stella said, shaking her head. “This young man has travelled a long way in a heavy snowstorm just to meet you. We just can’t send him back into the cold night. I won’t have it!”

  Harner waved his hand diplomatically. “No, Mrs. Cherrie, it is quite all right.”

  “But we have extra bedrooms…”

  “I’ve rented a room in Brattleboro for the evening. I must be on my way before the roads become impassable.”

  “I’m sorry, young man,” Cherrie said.

  Harner rose from the table, accepting his coat and hat from Stella. “There is one last thing I’d like to say, Mr. Cherrie. It has been an honor meeting you, sir, and I will remember this moment for the rest of my life. Just last summer I drove my wife and children out to see Yellowstone Park. What a stunning legacy men like Theodore Roosevelt and his predecessors have left for future generations with their tenacious efforts to preserve America’s stunning beauty. On our way home we made certain to visit the new Rushmore monument in South Dakota. What a grand spectacle to behold—Mr. Roosevelt carved high on a mountaintop in solid granite for all to behold, a statue that will stare down upon this earth for perhaps a hundred thousand years. What a fitting tribute to a truly great man. And to think, I’m now standing before a man who can call him a good, personal friend.”

  Cherrie entered his library and placed the package squarely at his desk’s center. He tossed a few logs into his fireplace, inhaled deeply, and sat. Taking a letter opener he cut gingerly into the parcel’s fragile edges. He gently pulled the contents free—a simple letter attached to an untitled manuscript. He opened the letter and began to read:

  November 28, 1918: Dearest George, It breaks my heart that Edith and I could not make it up to Rocky Dell this past fall as I have longed to do ever since you described to me your grand apple orchards and the taste of fresh honey while we slogged along half-starved in the Amazon. But I have not been feeling quite up to snuff lately due to this damn infected leg, which I’ve come to the rightful conclusion was part of the monster’s legacy as the Wide Belts had dutifully warned. But, sadly, nothing seems to help me now, not the salves or the lotions, not even the most expensive doctors in New York City can explain
why this poison remains within me and why I can do so little to fight its unstoppable progress.

  And yet it is of ‘the monster’ that I wish to speak to you about, now that my own demise seems eminent. George, I have been a fool, and I have been a coward. I can live with playing the fool, but I have been abhorred with cowardice in any form my entire life.

  I made the greatest mistake of my life when I returned from the Amazon telling only half-truths and even outright lies in a cowardly attempt to protect my own damn legacy. I knew any accounts of finding a living prehistoric (can we even use the term prehistoric?) beast in the Amazon would make me the laughingstock of the ages. I even used my oath to the Wide Belts to somehow justify my actions, but I only ended up making a complete jackass of myself and, consequentially, I have dragged you, Colonel Rondon, and even poor Kermit down this same damnable path.

  George, I would like to set matters straight once and for all.

  I know this will put you and Rondon in a tight spot once again, but I will write any testimonial stating your explicit innocence regarding this episode and its aftermath. I will say that you and Rondon were simply following my lead, which incidentally is the honest truth. I am more than willing to fall on this blade; and, as a matter of record, I will insist upon it!

  One such wrong that I, myself, must set right are my own memoirs. I have enclosed a copy of the updated version for your perusal. Please feel free to note any discrepancies or typographical errors.

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Theodore Roosevelt.

  Cherrie settled into his chair collecting a myriad of thoughts while his gut cycled through every conceivable human emotion. Finally, he could not help but chuckle. For all these years of anguish, my answer lay amid some dusty bin just two states away!

  Cherrie reached down and picked up the manuscript. He opened its cover and read: Through the Brazilian Wilderness by Theodore Roosevelt. He thumbed hurriedly through the chapters: With a Mule-Train across Nhambiquara Land, The English Stranger, The River of Doubt, Escape from the Wide Belts, My Encounter with the Jurassic… George Cherrie suddenly felt like the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted off his slumping shoulders. He felt liberated for the first time in over thirty years.

  Cherrie ambled to his office safe and began to spin its dial. The tumblers clicked in place and the heavy steel door swung open. Reaching to the bottom of a pile of paperwork, he pulled out a yellowed, eight by ten inch envelope. A small handwritten note was attached: Per the terms of my final Will and Testament, I require that this envelope be unopened and destroyed upon my death, George K. Cherrie, August 28, 1915.

  Cherrie sat down at his desk and broke the seal. He pulled out four glossy photographs and their corresponding negatives. The first shot was of a gangly and bearded Lieutenant Martin, paddling his dugout down the Rio Roosevelt. The second was of a massive three-toed footprint carved into a sandy beach. Flipping to the third photograph, he beheld a shadowy image of a newly dead monster from before the Stone-age, and the fourth was a clear picture of a battered and broken Theodore Roosevelt standing beside the creature’s nightmarish head.

  Cherrie stared at the last photograph for a few moments, gathering in details of the monster’s jagged teeth and its terrifying eyes that lay open since taking its final breaths on earth just hours before the image was captured. And yet something gave Cherrie great pause when he looked upon Roosevelt’s lined face. Cherrie grabbed a magnifying glass and leaned closer.

  There was something different in this shot—something in Roosevelt’s eyes. Cherrie had seen hundreds of photographs of Theodore Roosevelt’s trophies over the years, but this seemed odd—Roosevelt appeared detached, almost indifferent to his prey; there was no puffed chest or wry smile.

  George Cherrie rubbed his chin and looked up from his desk, catching his own reflection upon the picture window of his modest den. What he saw was a grey-haired old man who was quite humbled by the monumental task before him. Here was a man who is about to change the very course of history by shattering the legacy of one of the most enigmatic and beloved figures of all time, and all at President Roosevelt’s own bequest! And George Cherrie actually had Roosevelt’s explicit permission to do so in writing!

  Cherrie stared through the window and into the dark wintry night as the winds whipped the snow into a howling gale against his clattering wooden shutters. Suddenly, he felt chill.

  He felt a stirring in the deep recesses of his mind—a memory from half a lifetime ago, in a distant land where the afternoon sun scorched the earth and the humidity crushed men’s lungs and their will to persevere—sitting on a boulder overlooking a peaceful river with his new best friend, before any insurrections, murders, or before encountering any deadly beast. He with his cherubic face and trademark spectacles and toothy grin, raising his canteen in a spontaneous toast: “George, it has certainly been a glorious life we’ve lived, don’t you think? You know I’ve often been accused of being born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I can hardy disagree with this assessment. And yet most men born with my advantages never strive to make a difference in this world, to make an imprint on society other than to foolishly squander their inheritance. I believe the purpose of life is to somehow make the world better for those that follow—whether that is to become President of the United States and broker peace between two countries and save millions of lives, or teach two young students to read out of a one room shack in western Nairobi.

  “George, we are indeed most fortunate, and when that day comes when we stand before the gates of Heaven or Hell, who amongst the sainted or the damned can rightfully say they’ve formed friendships such as ours, breathed the air we have breathed, and have seen the sights we have seen.”

  “George!” Stella’s familiar voice from the kitchen drew Cherrie back to the drafty farm house on a cold and blustery January night. “Dinner’s about ready.”

  Cherrie thoughts turned to his lovely Stella, his children, and his precious grandchildren, and he smiled with unbounded delight. “I’ll be there in a minute, dear.”

  “Don’t be too long or the stew will get cold!”

  George Cherrie rose to his feet and gathered up Roosevelt’s letter and manuscript, along with his four photographs and negatives. He ambled over to the fireplace and tossed everything upon the flickering flames.

  ### END ###

  To review this work on Amazon.com please click: How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (Kindle)

  **********

  Mark Paul Jacobs lives in lovely Dauphin, Pennsylvania. He enjoys fishing the Canadian north, poker, and annoying his wife. He has authored two novels: How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the last Mighty T-Rex, a Historical Science Fiction tale set in 1914, and the hard science fiction novel: The Yaakmen of Tyrie, a powerful and mysterious tale of bravery, loss, perseverance, betrayal, and redemption. He is also quite proud of his awe-inspiring short story: The Day God Winked and his chilling novelette with the provocative title: The Watchers from within Moments Revealed, an almost universally well reviewed work for which he has written a screenplay suitable for an ‘Outer Limits’ episode. These and several other works are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, Sony, and Smashwords.com. How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the last Mighty T-Rex and The Yaakmen of Tyrie is available in paperback via Createspace.com. Mark is working on a movie screenplay tentatively called Stain which is a gritty murder conspiracy based in Central Pennsylvania similar to the movie ‘Fargo’ or ‘Reservoir Dogs’. Please enjoy his works and don’t be afraid to tell him what you think on his Facebook page, twitter account, or by email. And lastly, please take the time to leave him a review of his work; it doesn’t have to be long or long-winded, but it does make him feel that his hard word has touched someone’s life in some way. You can leave a review wherever his books are available.

  A few notes about my novel: The Yaakmen of Tyrie: currently offered at Amazon (Kindle) and Smashwords.com. An epic adventure of monumental proportions; A h
eroic tale of perseverance, bravery, loss, betrayal, and redemption; A deep, jaw-dropping mystery that will keep you guessing until the very last pages. The Yaakmen of Tyrie is set on an alien world with a double moon, and where men’s lives span only ten or eleven long years. Quintar is a Yaakman— one in the latest generation of men and women who partner with the giant, hairy bipeds to connect remote settlements nestled in the mountainous regions surrounding the Great Confluence of Tyrie. But Quintar realizes his destiny only after he stumbles upon an odd object high in the mountains, and he dreams of the mythical Thrimara. Thrust suddenly into politics by the Supreme Yaakleader Carathis, a man whose stare could melt any man’s arrogance; and accompanied by the brooding Lenna, the proud fisherman Barrazan, the young apprentice Kristren and Kristren’s mentor Entya, the secretive trapper Ruppon, and the diminutive scholar Porrias, Quintar embarks on a harrowing journey into the unknown wilderness on a quest to unravel Tyrie’s greatest mystery. Enjoy! Download: The Yaakmen of Tyrie, Now! Amazon (Kindle) or at Smashwords (all formats)

  Following is an excerpt (Chapters 1-9, complete Part 1) from my 5 part novel The Yaakmen of Tyrie. Enjoy!

  THE YAAKMEN OF TYRIE: PART 1: CONFLUENCE

  CHAPTER 1 (The Yaakmen of Tyrie)

  “Winter arrives early in the high regions,” thought Quintar, recalling one of his mentor Carathis’s stern lectures, offered so many cycles ago during his youthful training, far away to the southeast below the Great River’s confluence. “Many good Yaakriders have been lost venturing into the high mountains after the leaves of Payet lose their summer hues. Most are lured by plentiful game— fattened by winter’s approach— and quick profit.”