Colonel Roosevelt (72 page)

FIVE PACKAGES
THAT
Roosevelt did not have to burden his mule with were the early chapters of his book for Scribners. Each had been handwritten on the same triple-carbon pads that he had used in British East Africa, and mailed to New York from post offices along the Paraguay. The last, “Up the River of
Tapirs,” had gone off in care of Frank Harper. Roosevelt intended to dispatch two more before the expedition reached José Bonifácio. The rest, describing his actual descent of the Dúvida, he might as well take home with him.

No sooner had he left Tapírapoan than he began his sixth chapter, “Through the Highland Wilderness of Western Brazil,” with a sentence bound to attract the attention of armchair travelers:

He left Robert Bridges to cut the redundant second phrase, his indelible pencil eagerly moving on to other descriptions of tropical fauna. Jaguar or
jaçanã
, animal or bird, every species down to the tiniest insect was worthy of study, as were plants and flowers. Literary style mattered less, but occasionally, as in
African Game Trails
, he was capable of stretches of perfect prose:

The command detachment proceeded across the plain. There was no need for anyone to consult a compass, thanks to the bright filaments that Rondon and his engineers had strung westward. Even if a rider went astray in search of specimens or game, he could find his way back by listening for the humming of the wires.

A daily camp rhythm soon established itself. Early every morning a bugle sounded (Roosevelt sometimes adding his own reveille, a prolonged, Sioux-like
Who-o-oo-oop-ee!)
. Then Juan, Rondon’s black orderly, went from tent to tent with coffee. Breakfast was served while the
camaradas
saddled up the pack animals. Each day’s trek was determined by the distance between available watercourses. Every few nights there would be a line-maintenance station to sleep in, with whitewashed walls, thatched or tiled roof, and cool stone floors. Dinners in camp were served under the stars, on two rawhides spread on the ground. Having fasted all day, the Americans did not stint themselves of beef, venison, pork and beans, and
canja
, the rich, thick Brazilian broth of chicken and rice. (Rondon noted with amusement that Roosevelt’s Portuguese vocabulary extended to just two words:
mais canja
, “more soup.”)

“
M
AIS CANJA
,
‘M
ORE SOUP
.’ ”
Expedition members at dinner. Clockwise around the rawhide: Zahm, Rondon, Cajazeira, Kermit (cross-legged), Miller, Cherrie, three unidentified Brazilians, Roosevelt, Fiala
.
(photo credit i15.3)

On 24 January, Kermit noted in his diary, “We’re over the divide and into the Amazon side now.” The only visible evidence of this was the northerly trend of the rivers they crossed. Otherwise, the equidistance of the horizon
ahead with that behind gave no sense of progress. As Father Zahm put it, in his literary way, the Plan Alto was so flat, “
one felt justified in denying the earth’s sphericity.”

By now Kermit was openly contemptuous of Zahm, describing him in letters home as “a very commonplace little fool” and “an incessant annoyance” who seemed to think that a man of God was entitled to special privileges. Among these was freedom to beg off chores, order Jake Sigg around, and boast about how many humble souls he had saved. His laziness was so extreme that Kermit took to referring to him as “Lizzie’s brother,” after a languid, melon-loving
morrocoy
tortoise that Miller had trapped.

Although the priest was flattered to have been presented with a saddle almost as fine as Roosevelt’s, he did not enjoy having to sit on it fourteen hours a day. A muleteer was deputized to walk beside him in case he fell off.
Zahm was alarmed when boxes labeled “Roosevelt South American Expedition” began to show up in the grass, evidently bucked by some of Amílcar’s resentful critters.

Relief for him was at hand at Rio Juruena station, in the form of a caterpillar-tread
caminhão
truck that belonged to the Brazilian Telegraphic Commission. It was a speedy vehicle, able to crawl at thirty miles per hour even across swamps. When Cherrie and Miller, who were unable to do much collecting on the hoof, got permission to travel ahead to Utiariti in it, Zahm jumped at the chance to ride along.

Kermit was not the only person pleased to see him go. Colonel Rondon, as a nearly full-blooded Indian and convert to the Positivist humanism of Auguste Comte, mistrusted Catholic clergymen and especially resented their “fatherly” posturing toward aboriginal people. All the way up the Paraguay, Zahm had been laying hands on the heads of uncomprehending children, blessing and baptizing. Rondon foresaw trouble ahead at Utiariti, in the heart of Nhambiquara country. The local Indians, among the most primitive in South America, were not likely to take kindly to a cassock-wearing stranger who descended on them
deus ex machina
.

Rondon’s misgivings were compounded by the fact that
he had himself founded Brazil’s national Indian-affairs agency, the Serviço de Proteção aos Indios e de Localização de Trabalhadores Nacionais. It was no less paternalistic than the Catholic Church in seeking to pacify and assimilate interior tribes—especially the Parecís and Nhambiquaras, who lived along telegraph routes and whose labor was needed to build and maintain the lines. Yet Rondon had a deep, consanguineous concern for the dignity of all Indians. He was passionate in his Positivist belief that the descendants of the white men who had killed them in war, occupied their lands, and visited strange diseases upon them, owed them a debt that should now be repaid.

When Roosevelt first saw some Parecís Indians on the twenty-ninth, he thought they looked much the same as ordinary Brazilian
caboclos
, or backwoodsmen.
They wore clothes and sandals. But that was more than could be said for their womenfolk. Some of the younger ones were content with a loincloth or less. He noted approvingly that they had many children—friendly, naked urchins who came up trustfully to be petted.

The great cascade of the Rio Papagaio heralded itself the following day with a distant roar and slowly intensifying vibration underfoot. Then mist columns appeared, swaying and breaking. Riverside trees opened out and disclosed a stupendous sheet of white-green water, thundering into an almost invisible gorge. Roosevelt was thrilled, and told Rondon so. “With the exception of Niagara, there is nothing in North America to compare with this fall at Utiariti.”

He forgot, or modestly chose not to say, that he had once been
compared to Niagara himself.

MUCH AS HE WOULD
have liked to spend hours staring at the cataract, he had to deal with a disagreeable problem in town.
Father Zahm had made himself unctuously objectionable to Utiariti’s Parecís population. He was claiming “a goodly number of baptized Indians” as a result of his visit.

Kermit sneered and Roosevelt was infuriated, but Rondon felt unable to stop the priest from catechizing.
The Serviço de Proteção’s official policy, framed by himself, was to respect the “spiritual freedom” of Indians. That included allowing them to pledge to any creed, as long as they were not forced to do so.

When the two colonels met up with Zahm, they found him in full missionary mode. He said he wanted to spread the word of God into “Nhambiquara Land,” the stretch of broken country extending from Utiariti to José Bonifácio. Rather than ride any more on a mule, he thought he would travel in a
padiola
, or sedan chair, borne by some Parecís.

“The Indian is used to carrying priests,” Zahm explained. “Often in the past I’ve used this way of getting around.”

Before Rondon could protest, Roosevelt said, “You realize, of course, that you will be abusing the principles of my good friend Colonel Rondon.”

A heated three-way discussion ensued. Zahm said that Peruvian Indians considered it an honor to bear the weight of Roman Catholic clergy. Rondon replied that such servility was contrary to “the habits and character” of Brazilian tribes. His agency was working to make them full citizens of the republic. If it meant to suppress them, he added sarcastically, it would model its policies on those of the Jesuits.

Roosevelt ended the argument by summoning Zahm to his tent. He heard the priest out, then issued a formal order. “Since you can’t stand to ride any more, you will return to Tapírapoan immediately, and Sigg will go with you.”

Moving at once, as he had as President, to prevent any appointee from suing for wrongful dismissal, he scribbled a memo for his fellow principals to sign:

Nine signatures were appended, including even Sigg’s.

FEBRUARY
CAME
with a heavy rain that delayed Zahm’s departure and cast Kermit into deep gloom. “
Cat very sad,” he noted in his diary, using his pet name for himself, and on the next day, “Cat most unusually sad.” He was accustomed to a sense of social isolation that set him apart, even when surrounded by jocular company. But his current malaise was primarily sexual. Just before he had set off up the Paraguay with his father, Belle Willard had surprised him by accepting his written proposal of marriage. Her letter had awakened in him a vast impatience to have done with this expedition, so much less enjoyable than the great Roosevelt safari of five years before. The longer he languished in Mato Grosso, the more he feared Belle might change her mind. Her father was now President Wilson’s ambassador to Spain. She was a party-loving young lady, and relocation to Madrid was sure to enlarge her already glittering field of acquaintance.