How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (20 page)

Abruptly, Paishon approached the officers followed by many of the camaradas with the exception of Lieutenant Martin and Julio de Lima. Paishon removed his hat and bowed his head. Peering up, he said, “Senhors Rondon and Roosevelt, the men have voted. Many of us firmly believe we should not enter the Wide Belt’s sacred lands.”

Theodore Roosevelt stood silently, watching the disheveled camaradas gather before the officers with their hats in hand and their eyes downcast. Roosevelt had prepared himself for some time to tackle the real possibility of insurrection amongst the laborers, but he never imagined in might occur in such an orderly and polite manner. Colonel Rondon and Cherrie appeared equally bewildered.

“And just what do the men fear?” Roosevelt asked finally.

Paishon scratched his head. “The men have learned that the Wide Belts consider the lands beyond the gorge to be holy, and also that a terrible beast lurks in the jungle more ferocious than any previously known.”

“These are just myths, Paishon,” George Cherrie said. “Stories handed down through generations of native oral tradition, most likely meant to frighten rivals from good hunting grounds.”

Cherrie’s words appeared to cause some stir amongst the men. Several crossed their chest asking God’s blessing. Luiz and another camarada whispered nervously into Paishon’s ear.

“
Senhor
Cherrie,” Paishon continued. “Most of us were raised good Catholics, but native blood also flows through our veins—some of us more than others. To say our father’s and forefather’s traditions do not matter to us is…”

“No, Paishon, I did not mean to imply—”

“Wait, George,” Roosevelt interrupted with a raised palm. “I believe we should all be respectful of these men’s beliefs. But I also think we officers have done a poor job keeping the rank-and-file informed on such matters. And for this, I offer humble apologies to all.”

“
Sim
,
senhor
, but now the story of the Wide Belts has been shared, and I’m afraid all are not convinced the best way is forward.”

Roosevelt sensed a stalemate forming between the two groups, and upon looking at Rondon and Cherrie’s blank stare, it appeared they too had quickly run dry of any solid ideas to break the logjam.

 
Abruptly, Lieutenant Martin stepped forward. “Colonels, if I may interject some of my own thoughts on this issue?”

Roosevelt glanced toward Rondon, who replied with a subtle shrug. Roosevelt nodded curtly to Martin. “Any ideas will be welcome, Lieutenant.”

Martin turned and addressed the camaradas. “It is true the Wide Belts covet the land beyond this gorge as sacred and forbidden to any outsider, and it is also true they believe the surrounding jungle is home to a terrible beast of which there is little equal in the Amazon or elsewhere on this continent or on earth, for that matter.”

The camaradas stirred once again.

Martin waved his hand reassuringly. “But the Wide Belts have not encountered this beast in a generation, even though they have ventured to this land each year to fulfill ritualistic traditions. Antonio can bear out these statements, owing to his presence at the Wide Belt’s village and his direct interpretation of the chieftain’s words.”

Paishon looked to Antonio, who acknowledged with a quick nod. “Then,
senhor
Martin,” Paishon said. “Are you saying that the beast no longer exists and that our worries are unfounded?”

Theodore Roosevelt glanced toward Cherrie.

Martin hesitated. “That I cannot say, although the Wide Belts did describe the beast as a forest dweller and not a creature of the water.”

“Then, the river may be safe?”

“Yes, if we don’t venture far from its bank.”

The camaradas huddled amongst themselves. Finally, Paishon said, “The men are still reluctant to tread on any sacred tribal land. They believe doing so will bring great misfortune to us all.”

“Of course,” Martin replied diplomatically. “And I sympathize with your plight. But all of you must make a very hard decision and you must decide quickly.” Martin pointed toward the dense forest. “There is deep jungle to either side of us. If you decide to take that route, you could walk a hundred kilometers and not reach another river tributary; whereas proceeding back upriver will take you back into the midst of the hostile Wide Belts. Personally, I feel the choice is clear. Together we can work our way forward or we can all die slowly on this very spot. What is your choice?”

The camaradas conferred amongst themselves once again, but Roosevelt noticed much heated debate this time around. After several tense minutes, Paishon turned back to Martin. “We have decided to move forward, but we do so with great reservation.”

Roosevelt did not see a solitary happy face amongst the gathered men.

“Good, good,” Colonel Rondon replied dolefully.

The camaradas settled around the fire still jabbering quietly. Martin sat alone and away from the rest.

“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Roosevelt said to Rondon. “Another unfortunate roadblock thrust into our midst, confounding this already heartrending journey. What more could go wrong?”

“
Sim
, yes, and it was Martin who ended up seizing the initiative where we officers apparently failed to do so. He should be commended for resolving a rather tricky situation, don’t you think?”

Roosevelt inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. “Yet do you not worry that Martin may seize the upper hand with the workers? He could be quite an adversary if he gains clout politically?”

 
“These men are in an all-out fight for survival, Colonel Roosevelt, and nature itself is their primary enemy. S
enhor
Martin certainly knows this fact.” Rondon sighed. “And yet, if he does have ill intentions, there may be little we can do about it at this point.”

Colonel Rondon did very little to sooth Roosevelt’s pressing concerns. Rondon nodded politely and then retired for the night.

Roosevelt could not resist watching Lieutenant Martin’s eyes sparkle amid the fire’s light, and he sensed George Cherrie doing exactly the same. He pulled close to the naturalist, saying softly, “Interesting…”

“Indeed,” Cherrie replied.

“I would certainly like to know what’s going on in that Englishman’s head.”

“As would I, Colonel, as would I.”
 
Cherrie smirked mischievously. “Well, I think I may have a ruse that just might work.”

“Oh?”

“But it may involve some actions that—let us just say—employ less than honorable methods.”

Roosevelt grinned. “Mr. Cherrie, you oftentimes surprise me, but I’m all ears. Go on.”

“With your permission of course, honorable President Roosevelt, I would not wish to do anything that could blemish your good name.”

Roosevelt chucked. “George, you do realize I have been involved in politics for many years, right? I think Robespierre once said, ‘Sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet’. Now, out with it! What is your plan? I can’t tell you how much I enjoy a good caper.”

“Let me just say for now it involves a good portion of Kermit’s remaining scotch whiskey and a certain Mr. Julio de Lima.”

The twenty-ninth day of March dawned with much angst and anticipation amongst both officers and laborers of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition. Following another rationed breakfast, Colonel Rondon and a contingent of camaradas set out to carve a path over the closest mountain to portage their remaining supplies. In the meantime, Kermit, Lyra, Martin, and three of their best paddlers were tasked with lowering the canoes down the rapids that sliced through the mile-long gorge. Theodore Roosevelt fretted over all of the monumental tasks standing before them.

Following a day of intense labor, Rondon and his men finally hacked their way to the mountain’s peak. From a high vantage atop the trail, Roosevelt stood on an open rock face and gazed over a grand vista comprised of thick forested green hills and a distant mountain range that reminded him of the low-ridged Alleghenies of central Pennsylvania. Beneath him, he could discern a ribbon of rapids upon the river, ending at their planned campsite amid the forest below.

Three full days passed, and the entire expedition settled into their newly organized campsite at the base of the gorge. Under the heading: April 1, 1914 Roosevelt wrote of the favorable weather they enjoyed over the past several days and of his deep desire to experience the end of the seemingly ceaseless Brazilian rainy season.

Kermit and Lyra reported to Rondon that all of the canoes had been successfully moved down to the last set of rapids above the campsite and that they could be on their way by noon of the following day. This was welcome news to the camaradas who kept vigil each night whilst passing through the gorge, their eyes and ears trained on any odd or unusual disturbance emanating from the bleak Amazonian forest, beyond.

Colonel Rondon shot and killed a large monkey, and the men welcomed the fresh meat despite their meager allotments. The entrails of the beast were boiled down and given to the emaciated and ravenous Trigueiro.

Roosevelt and George Cherrie sat beside their tent amid the pleasant moonlit night. Cherrie poured Roosevelt a shot of scotch and both men shared a silent toast to seal their imminent conspiracy.

Roosevelt noticed Julio de Lima’s face emerge from out of the darkness. He removed his hat and nodded respectfully. “Paishon has sent me at your request,
senhor
Colonel.”

“Oh, yes, good fellow. Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra have kept me informed of your hard work in getting those dugouts through the gorge. I just wanted to commend you personally. Bravo!”

“
Sim
,
o
brigado
,
s
enhor
Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt reached out and offered Julio a small bag of tobacco. “And here, take this and enjoy. This is simply a small token of our appreciation for a job well done.”

“
Sim
, thank you!”

George Cherrie maneuvered the scotch bottle in plain view, its glass sparkling in dim moonlight. Roosevelt noticed Julio’s eyes widen like saucers. The camarada’s parched lips slid back and forth against his discolored teeth.

“Ah, my good man,” Cherrie said. “Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like to partake in a small drink amongst comrades and friends?” He motioned. “Sit down, please.”

Cherrie poured a healthy portion of the scotch into a tin cup. Julio sat on the ground and raised his hands like a street panhandler. He accepted the cup with shaking hands and then chugged its contents in a single swift motion. He released a deep gasp of satisfaction.

Roosevelt caught Cherrie’s eye.

“More?” Cherrie held the bottle forward and refilled Julio’s cup.

“I was just telling Mr. Cherrie,” Roosevelt said, “of how I greatly admire the hardy and good-natured men of the Brazilian highlands.”

Julio nodded curtly before taking another sip of scotch.

“You realize, Julio, I shall be organizing and financing other missions to Brazil in the years to come, and I always have an eye out for good leaders. I can pay quite well, much more than you can earn on the docks in Tapirapoan.”

Julio snorted in what Roosevelt could only interpret was a rebuff of his gracious yet disingenuous offer.

“Then a solid, high-paying job is not to your liking? Have you other plans?”

“With all due respect, Colonel, a wealthy man like you cannot appreciate the struggles of the working poor in my country.”

Theodore Roosevelt smirked. “Yes Julio, of course I cannot. And I sincerely apologize for my lack of understanding of your countrymen’s plight. But a smart man like you cannot be satisfied with slogging sacks of wheat for a pittance, will you?”

Julio smiled through crooked teeth. He took another sip of scotch. “What else do you have in mind?”

“A stake in a Brazilian gold mine, for instance?”

Julio’s eyes danced. “That is certainly an interesting offer, Colonel. Please, go on.”

Roosevelt leaned closer. “I could always use a good foreman, someone who could crack some heads if the native laborers, let us just say, become unruly or troublesome.”

Julio waved his hand contemptuously. “I am not interested.”

“What about Lieutenant Martin?” Cherrie asked suddenly.

“What of him?”

“Do you suppose he’d be interested in running a gold mine and getting rich?”

“Why not ask him yourself?”

“I thought you two were close, good friends. Colonel Roosevelt and I even discussed the possibility that you two were partners of some sort.”

“Mr. Cherrie, you were… what are the correct English words… wildly misinformed.”

“You did spend many months on Fawcett’s expedition in Martin’s company?” Roosevelt asked. “And you did recommend him for this expedition, is that not also correct?”

“Yes, but we owe each other no allegiance.”

Roosevelt noticed Julio had begun to slur his words. “Well George, it appears we must ask Lieutenant Martin to be a partner in our little future venture. Mr. Julio is not interested by his own words.”

“It seems so,” Cherrie replied despondently. “And yet Lieutenant Martin is the better choice if one thinks this through thoroughly. Martin is a first-rate, honest man and a solid worker.”

Julio sneered.

“And you disagree?” Roosevelt asked.

“Let me just say, I could tell you…” Julio cut himself short.

“Is there anything you wish to add, Julio?”

“Just that every man is not all he appears to be.” Again, Julio eyed Cherrie’s bottle.

“Go on.” Roosevelt nodded to Cherrie, who promptly refilled Julio’s tin.

Julio took a sip, peered around, and inched closer. “Our Englishmen has a questionable past—a past he has conveniently hidden from you and Colonel Rondon.”

“This is very interesting, Julio, yet I still find him a fine choice and worthy of partnership, is that not right, George?”

Cherrie nodded like a faithful dog.

Julio grinned. “Then,
senhors
, you have no problem hiring an escaped criminal?”

Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Hmmm, that would give me pause, if it could be proved true and not merely innuendo.”

Julio hesitated for a moment before continuing: “Commander Fawcett hired Martin knowing of his shady past, mostly because he was impressed with Martin’s high-brow English education and his ability to study and understand the more primitive natives of Bolivia. Martin had been sent to South Africa as a British officer in 1901 but soon turned against his own people and sided with the British settlers, the Boers or Bitterenders as he referred to them. The British charged him with heinous crimes and he was shipped off to an island named Bermuda with other Boer prisoners of war.”

“Let me just add, George,” Roosevelt said. “During the Boer war a decade ago, the British interned about five thousand Afrikaans on a few tiny islands near Bermuda. I was informed in presidential briefings of several successful mutinies and escapes. A few of the men, I was told, escaped to other Caribbean islands and some even vanished into the jungles of Venezuela.”

“Yes,” Julio said. “And Lieutenant Martin was one of these men. Fawcett knew Martin had escaped from a British prison, but he never knew what crimes the British had charged him with. Only in private and with me did he reveal the whole story, and even I cannot tell what is true and what is not.”

“Go on.”

Julio’s eyes glazed over, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Martin told me the British accused him of murdering twenty-seven of these South African settlers: men, women, and little children. He said the British wanted him to confess to the crime, telling the public that he did so, so that the British would be wrongly accused of the massacre and the Boers would reap benefit from the public outcry in an effort to remove the British occupiers from their land.”

“Do you think Martin capable of such an act,” Cherrie asked.

Julio shrugged. “I do not know, but…”

“But, what?”

 
Julio shook his head and then rose on wobbly feet. “Good night,
senhors
. And thank you for your fine drink.” He staggered away into the darkness.

Theodore Roosevelt turned to George Cherrie with a raised brow.

The following day dawned bright and clear. Kermit and Lyra got an early start moving the canoes down to their present campsite. After eating a trifle of breakfast, Lieutenant Martin led Rondon, Roosevelt, and Cherrie on a scouting mission downriver.

The group sliced their way through the dense jungle and along the riverbank for an hour and a half, keeping their rifles ready and their eyes and ears trained on the forbidding forest. The land was both peaceful and beautiful, Roosevelt thought.
Such a lovely haven the Wide Belts have chosen to procure for their sacred tribal lands
.

At the point of turning roundabout and heading back to camp, Colonel Rondon ordered a brief rest upon a long stretch of sandy shoreline. Roosevelt sat on the spongy ground and enjoyed the lush green scenery while Cherrie stirred restless after taking only a few minutes respite. The naturalist wandered away toting his rifle and camera. Roosevelt closed his eyes taking in the sounds of small chirping birds and distant monkey calls.

 
“Men,” George Cherrie hollered suddenly from fifty yards downstream. “Come here!”

Martin, Rondon, and Roosevelt gathered near Cherrie. The naturalist pointed downward. Roosevelt noticed a two and a half foot long, three-toed track carved deeply in the sand.

Martin’s eyes widened. The boney Englishman bent to the ground. “The tracks are sharp and appear to have been made no longer than a day or two ago. If older, the rains would have certainly eroded their contours.” Martin ran his willowy fingers along the footprint’s base.

Cherrie methodically snapped a few photos before pointing out a series of massive prints leading away from the water and into the rainforest. Roosevelt caught the naturalist’s blank stare. While the others stood silent, Roosevelt noticed Cherrie’s face turning a ghostly white.