The Other Teddy Roosevelts (12 page)

They began marching south and west, moving further from the border and into more heavily forested territory as they sought out the Mangbetu. By the time a week had passed, eighteen more men had joined them.

On the eighth day they came to a large village. The huts were made of dried cattle dung with thatched roofs, and were clustered around a large central compound.

The inhabitants still spoke Swahili and explained that the Mangbetu territory was another two days’ march to the south. Boyes had the Brittlebanks brothers shoot a couple of bushbuck and a duiker, and made a gift of the meat to the village. He promised to bring them still more meat upon their return, explaining to Roosevelt that this was a standard practice, as one never knew when one might need a friendly village while beating a hasty retreat.

Roosevelt was eager to meet the Mangbetu, and he got his wish two mornings later, shortly after sunrise, when they came upon a Mangbetu village in a large clearing by a river.

“I wonder how many white men they’ve seen before?” said Roosevelt as a couple of hundred painted Mangbetu, some of them wearing blankets and leopardskin cloaks in the cold morning air, gathered in the center of the village, brandishing their spears and staring at the approaching party.

“They’ve probably eaten their fair share of Belgians,” replied Boyes. “At any rate, they’ll know what a rifle is, so we’d better display them.”

“They can see that we have them,” answered Roosevelt. “That’s enough.”

“But sir—”

“We’ve come to befriend them, not decimate them, John. Keep the men back here so they don’t feel that we’re threatening them,” ordered Roosevelt.

“Mr. President, sir,” protested Mickey Norton, “please listen to me. I’ve had experience dealing with savages. We all have. You’ve got to show ‘em who’s boss.”

“They’re not savages, Mr. Norton,” said Roosevelt.

“Then what
are
they?”

Roosevelt grinned. “Voters.” He climbed down off his horse. “They’re our constituents, and I think I’d like to meet them on equal footing.”

“Then you’d better take off all your clothes and get a spear.”

“That will be enough, Mr. Norton,” said Roosevelt firmly.

One old man, wearing a headdress made of a lion’s mane and ostrich feathers, seated himself on a stool outside the largest hut, and a number of warriors immediately positioned themselves in front of him.

“Would that be the chief?” asked Roosevelt.

“Probably,” said Boyes. “Once in a while, you get a real smart chief who puts someone else on the throne and disguises himself as a warrior, just in case you’re here to kill him. But since the Mangbetu rule this territory, I think we can assume that he’s really the headman.”

“Nice headdress,” commented Roosevelt admiringly. He handed his rifle to Norton. “John, leave your gun behind and come with me. The rest of you men, wait here.”

“Would you like us to fan out around the village, sir?” suggested Charlie Ross.

Roosevelt shook his head. “If they’ve seen rifles before, it won’t be necessary, and if they haven’t, then it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Is there anything we
can
do, sir?”

“Try smiling,” answered Roosevelt. “Come on, John.”

They began approaching the cluster of warriors. A dog raced up, barking furiously. Roosevelt ignored it, and when it saw that it had failed to intimidate them, it lay down in the dust with an almost human expression of disappointment on its face and watched the two men walk past.

The warriors began murmuring, softly at first, then louder, and someone began beating a primal rhythm on the drum.

“The Lado is looking better and better with every step we take,” commented Boyes under his breath.

“They’re just people, John,” Roosevelt assured him.

“With very unusual dietary habits,” muttered Boyes.

“If you’re worried, I can always have Yank act as my interpreter.”

“I’m not worried about dying,” answered Boyes. “I just don’t want to go down in the history books as the man who led Teddy Roosevelt into a Mangbetu cooking pot.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “If it happens, there won’t be any survivors to write about it. Now try to be a little more optimistic.” He looked ahead at the assembled Mangbetu. “What do you suppose would happen if we walked right up to the chief?”

“He’s got a couple of pretty mean-looking young bucks standing on each side of him,” noted Boyes. “I wish we had our rifles.”

“We won’t need them, John,” Roosevelt assured him. “I was always surrounded by the Secret Service when I was President—but they never interfered with my conduct of my office.”

***

They were close enough now to smell the various oils that the Mangbetu had rubbed onto their bodies, and to see some of the patterns that had been tattooed onto their faces and torsos.

“Just keep smiling,” answered Roosevelt. “We’re unarmed, and our men are keeping their distance.”

“Why do we have to smile?” asked Boyes.

“First, to show that we’re happy to see them,” said Roosevelt. “And second, to show them that we don’t file our teeth.”

The Mangbetu brandished their spears threateningly as Roosevelt reached them, but the old headman uttered a single command and they parted, allowing the two men a narrow path to the chief. When they got to within eight feet of him, however, four large bodyguards stepped forward and barred their way.

“John, tell him that I’m the King of America, and that I bring him greetings and felicitations.”

Boyes translated Roosevelt’s message. The chief stared impassively at him, and the four warriors did not relax their posture.

“Tell him that my country has no love for the Belgians.”

Boyes uttered something in Swahili, and suddenly the old man seemed to show some interest. He nodded his head and responded.

“He says he’s got no use for them either.”

Roosevelt’s smile broadened. “Tell him we’re going to be great friends.”

Boyes spoke to the chief again. “He wants to know why.”

“Because I am going to bring him all the gifts of civilization, and I ask nothing in return except his friendship.”

Another brief exchange followed. “He wants to know where the gifts of civilization are.”

“Tell him they’re too big for our small party of men to carry, but they’re on their way.”

The chief listened, finally flashed Roosevelt a smile, and turned to Boyes.

“He says any enemy of the Belgians is a friend of his.”

Roosevelt stepped forward and extended his hand. The chief stared at for a moment, then hesitantly held out his own. Roosevelt took it and shook it vigorously. Two of the old man’s bodyguards tensed and raised their spears again, but the chief said something to them and they immediately backed off.

“I think you startled them,” offered Boyes.

“A good politician always likes to press the flesh, as we say back home,” responded Roosevelt. “Tell him that we’re going to bring democracy to the Congo.”

“There’s no word for democracy in Swahili.”

“What’s the closest approximation?”

“There isn’t one.”

The chief suddenly began speaking. Boyes listened for a moment, then turned to Roosevelt.

“He suggests that our men leave their weapons behind and come join him in a feast celebrating our friendship.”

“What do you think?”

“Maybe he’s as friendly as he seems, but I don’t think it would be a good idea just yet.”

“All right,” responded Roosevelt, holding his hand up to his glasses as a breeze brought a cloud of dust with it. “Thank him, tell him that the men have already eaten, but that you and I will accept his gracious invitation while our men guard the village against the approach of any Belgians.”

“He says there aren’t any Belgians in the area.”

“Tell him we didn’t see any either, but one can’t be too careful in these dangerous times, and that now that we are friends, our men are prepared to die defending his village from his Belgian oppressors.”

The chief seemed somewhat mollified, and nodded his acquiescence.

“Did you ever drink
pombe
?” asked Boyes, as the chief arose and invited them into his hut.

“No,” said Roosevelt. “What is it?”

“A native beer.”

“You know I don’t imbibe stimulants, John.”

“Well, Mr. President, you’re going to have to learn how to imbibe very fast, or you’re going to offend our host.”

“Nonsense, John,” said Roosevelt. “This is a democracy. Every man is free to drink what he wants.”

“Since when did it become a democracy?” asked Boyes wryly.

“Since you and I were invited to partake in dinner, rather than constitute it,” said Roosevelt. “Now let’s go explain all the wonders we’re going to bring to the Congo.”

“Has it occurred to you that you ought to be speaking to the
people
about democracy, rather than to the hereditary chief?” suggested Boyes wryly.

“You’ve never seen me charm the opposition, John,” said Roosevelt with a confident smile. He walked to the door of the hut, then lowered his head and entered the darkened interior. “Give me three hours with him and he’ll be our biggest supporter.”

He was wrong. It only took 90 minutes.

5

They spent the next two weeks marching deeper into Mangbetu territory. News of their arrival always preceded them, transmitted by huge, eight-foot-drums, and their reception was always cordial, so much so that after the first four villages Roosevelt allowed all of his men to enter the villages.

By their eighth day in Mangbetu country the remainder of their party had caught up with them, bringing enough horses so that all 53 men were mounted. Boyes assigned rotating shifts to construct camps, cook, and hunt for meat, and Roosevelt spent every spare minute trying to master Swahili. He forbade anyone to speak to him in English, and within two weeks he was able to make himself understood to the Mangbetu, although it was another month before he could discuss his visions of a democratic Congo without the aid of a translator.

“A wonderful people!” he exclaimed one night as he, Boyes, Charlie Ross and Billy Pickering sat by one of the campfires, after having enlisted yet another two thousand Mangbetu to their cause. “Clean, bright, willing to listen to new ideas. I have high hopes for our crusade, John.”

Boyes threw a stone at a pair of hyenas that had been attracted by the smell of the impala they had eaten for dinner, and they raced off into the darkness, yelping and giggling.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Everything’s gone smoothly so far, but…”

“But what?”

“These people don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. President,” said Boyes bluntly.

“I was going to mention that myself,” put in Charlie Ross.

“Certainly they do,” said Roosevelt. “I spent the entire afternoon with Matapoli—that was his name, wasn’t it?—and his elders, explaining how we were going to bring democracy to the Congo. Didn’t you see how enthused they all were?”

“There’s still no word for
democracy
in Swahili,” answered Boyes. “They probably think it’s something to eat.”

“You underestimate them, John.”

“I’ve lived among blacks all my adult life,” replied Boyes. “If anything, I tend to overestimate them.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “The problem is cultural, not racial. In America, we have many Negroes who have become doctors, lawyers, scientists, even politicians. There is nothing a white man can do that a Negro can’t do, given the proper training and opportunity.”

“Maybe American blacks,” said Billy Pickering. “But not Africans.”

Roosevelt chuckled in amusement. “Just where do you think America’s Negroes came from, Mr. Pickering?”

“Not from the Congo, that’s for sure,” said Pickering adamantly. “Maybe West African blacks are different.”

“All men are pretty much the same, if they are given the same opportunities,” said Roosevelt.

“I disagree,” said Boyes. “I became the King of the Kikuyu, and you’re probably going to become President of the Congo. You don’t see any blacks becoming king or president of white countries, do you?”

“Give them time, John, and they will.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You may not live to see it, and I may not,” said Roosevelt. “But one of these days it’s going to happen. Take my word for it.”

A lion coughed about a hundred yards away. Both men ignored it.

“Well, you’re a very learned man, so if you say it’s going to happen, then I suppose it is,” said Boyes. “But I hope you’re also right that I’ll be dead and buried when that happy day occurs.”

“You know,” mused Roosevelt, “maybe I ought to urge some of our American Negroes to come over here. They could become the first generation of congressmen, so to speak.”

“A bunch of your freed slaves set up shop in Liberia a few years back,” noted Charlie Ross. “The first thing they did was to start rounding up all the native Liberians and sell them into slavery.” He snorted contemptuously. “Some democracy.”

“This will be different, Mr. Ross,” responded Roosevelt. “These will be educated American politicians, who also just happen to be Negroes.”

“Their heads would be decorating every village from here to the Sudan a week later,” said Pickering with absolute certainty.

“The Belgians may be oppressing the natives now,” added Boyes, “but as soon as they leave, it’ll be back to tribal warfare as usual.” He paused. “Your democracy is going to have exactly as many political parties as there are tribes, no more and no less, and no tribal member will ever vote for anyone other than a tribal brother.”

“Nonsense!” scoffed Roosevelt. “If that philosophy held true, I’d never have won a single vote outside of my home state of New York.”

“We’re not in America, Mr. President,” responded Boyes.

“I obviously have more faith in these people than you do, John.”

“Maybe that’s because I know them better.”

Suddenly Roosevelt grinned. “Well, it wouldn’t be any fun if it was too easy, would it?”

Boyes smiled wryly. “I think you’re in for a little more fun than you bargained for.”