The Other Teddy Roosevelts (18 page)

“I’m sure they’re passing the word.”

“To their fellow tribesmen, maybe,” answered Rogers. “I wouldn’t bet on their talking to anyone else.”

“You sound like a pessimist, Yank,” said Roosevelt.

“Pessimism and realism are next-door neighbors on this continent, Teddy,” said Rogers.

“And yet you stay,” noted Roosevelt.

Rogers smiled. “I figure if anyone can whip this country into shape, it’s you—and if you do, I want to be able to laugh at all those Brits who gave up and left.”

“Well, stick around,” said Roosevelt. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Rogers. “I haven’t heard you rile up a crowd since you ran for Governor of New York. I was in Africa before you ran for President.” Suddenly he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew an envelope. “I almost forgot why I rode all this way,” he said, handing it to Roosevelt.

“What is it?”

“A letter from Boyes,” answered Rogers. “He said to deliver it to you personally.”

Roosevelt opened the letter, read it twice, then crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into a pocket.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to hear me giving any speeches this week, Yank,” he announced. “I’ve got to return to Stanleyville.”

“Something wrong?”

Roosevelt nodded. “It seems that Billy Pickering found four Belgian soldiers in a remote area in the southwest, men who had never received word that the Belgians had withdrawn from the Congo, and shot them dead.”

“You mean he had me ride all the way here just for that?” demanded Rogers.

“It’s a matter of vital importance, Yank.”

“What’s so important about four dead men?” asked Rogers. “Life is cheap in Africa.”

“The Belgian government is demanding reparation.”

“Yeah, I see where
that
can make it a little more expensive,” admitted Rogers.

12

“I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle it,” Boyes said, staring across the desk at Roosevelt, who had just returned to Stanleyville less than an hour ago.

“You were right to summon me, John.”

“So far they haven’t made any threats, but we’re receiving diplomatic communiques every other day.”

“What’s the gist of them?”

“Reparation, as I mentioned in my note to you.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “They know we don’t have any money,” he answered. “They want something else.”

“Pickering’s head on a platter, I should think,” suggested Boyes.

“They don’t care any more about their soldiers than
he
did,” said Roosevelt. “Let me see those communiques.”

Boyes handed over a sheaf of papers, and Roosevelt spent the next few minutes reading through them.

“Well?” asked Boyes when the American had set the papers down.

“I don’t have sufficient information,” answered Roosevelt. “Have they gone to the world press with this?”

“If they have, we won’t know it for months,” said Boyes. “The most recent paper I’ve seen is a ten-week-old copy of the
East
African Standard
.” He paused. “Why would going to the press make a difference?”

“Because if they’ve gone public, then they’re positioning themselves to try to take the Congo back from us, by proving that we can’t protect European nationals.”

“But they weren’t nationals,” said Boyes. “They were soldiers.”

“That just makes our position worse,” replied Roosevelt. “If we can’t protect a group of armed men who know the Congo, how can we protect anyone else?”

“Then what do you want to do about Pickering?” inquired Boyes.

“Where is he now?”

“In the jail at Leopoldville. Charlie Ross brought him in dead drunk, and locked him away.”

“The proper decision,” said Roosevelt, nodding approvingly. “I must remember to commend him for it.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to, Mr. President,” said Boyes. “He’s back in Kenya.”

“Charlie?” said Roosevelt, surprised. “I’d have thought he’d be just about the last one to leave.”

Boyes paused and stared uncomfortably across the desk at Roosevelt.

“Except for Yank Rogers and me, he was.”

“They’re
all
gone?”

“Yes, sir.” Boyes cleared his throat and continued: “You did your best, sir, but everything’s coming unraveled. Most of them stuck it out for better than two years, but we always knew that sooner or later they’d leave. They’re not bureaucrats and administrators, they’re hunters and adventurers.”

“I know, John,” said Roosevelt, suddenly feeling his years. “And I don’t hold it against them. They helped us more than we had any right to expect.” He paused and sighed deeply. “I had rather hoped we’d have a bureaucracy in place by this time.”

“I know, sir.”

“I wonder if it would have done much good,” Roosevelt mused aloud. He looked across at Boyes. “That trip I just returned from—I wasted my time, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“We needed more teachers,” said Roosevelt. “One man can’t educate them overnight. We needed more teachers, and more money, and more time.”

Boyes shook his head. “You needed a different country, Mr. President.”

“Let’s have no more talk about the inferiority of the African race, John,” said Roosevelt. “I’m not up to it today.”

“I’ve never said they were inferior, Mr. President,” said Boyes, surprised.

“Certainly you have, John—and frequently, too.”

“That’s not so, sir,” insisted Boyes. “No matter what you may think, I have no contempt or hatred for the Africans—which is why I’ve always been able to function in their countries.” He paused. “I understand them—as much as any white man can. They’re not inferior, but they
are
different. The things that are important to us are of no consequence to them, and the things they care about seem almost meaningless to us—and because of that, you simply can’t turn them into Americans in two short years, or even twenty.”

“We did it in America,” said Roosevelt stubbornly.

“That’s because your blacks were being assimilated into a dominant society that already existed and was in possession of the country,” answered Boyes. “The whites here are just passing through, and the Africans know it, even if the whites don’t. They may have to put up with us temporarily, but we won’t have any lasting effect on their culture.” He paused as Roosevelt considered his words, then continued: “When all is said and done, it’s their country and their continent, and one of these days they’re going to throw us all out. But what follows us won’t look anything like a Western society; it’ll be an African society, shaped by and for the Africans.” He smiled wryly. “I wish them well, but personally I wouldn’t care to be part of it.”

“I’ve said it before, John: You’re a very interesting man,” said Roosevelt, a strange expression on his face. “Please continue.”

“Continue?” repeated Boyes, puzzled.

“Tell me why you wouldn’t care to be part of an African nation based on African principles and beliefs.”

“For the same reason that they have no desire to become Americans or Europeans, once we stop bribing them to pretend otherwise,” answered Boyes. “Their culture is alien to my beliefs.” He paused. “Democracy, and the Christian virtues, and the joys of lit- erature, and a reverence for life, all these things work for you, sir, because you have a deep and abiding belief in them. They won’t work here because the people of the Congo
don’t
believe in them. They believe in witch doctors, and tribalism, and polygamy, and rituals that seem barbaric to me even after a quarter century of being exposed to them. We couldn’t adapt to their beliefs any more than they can adapt to ours.”

“Go on, John,” said Roosevelt, his enthusiasm mounting.

Boyes stared at him curiously. “You’ve got that look about you, Mr. President.”

“What look?”

“The same one I saw that first night we met in the Lado Enclave,” said Boyes.

“How would you describe it?” asked Roosevelt, amused.

“I’d call it the look of a crusader.”

Roosevelt chuckled with delight. “You’re a very perceptive man, John,” he said. “By God, I wish I were a drinking man! I’d celebrate with a drink right now!”

“I’ll be happy to have two drinks, one for each of us, if you’ll tell me what you’re so excited about, Mr. President,” said Boyes.

“I finally understand what I’ve been doing wrong,” said Roosevelt.

“And what is that, sir?” asked Boyes cautiously.

“Everything!”
said Roosevelt with a hearty laugh. “Lord knows I’ve had enough discussions on the subject with you and the others, but I’ve always proceeded on the assumption that I was part of the solution. Well, I’m not.” He paused, delighted with his sudden inside. “I’m part of the problem! So are you, John. So are the British and the French and the Portugese and the Belgians and everyone else who has tried to impose their culture on this continent. That’s what you and Mickey Norton and Charlie Ross and all the others have been telling me, but none of you could properly articulate your position or carry it through to its logical conclusion.” He paused again, barely able to sit still. “
Now
I finally see what we have to do, John!”

“Are you suggesting we leave?” asked Boyes.

Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s not that simple, John. Eventually we’ll have to, but if we leave now, the Belgians will just move back in and nothing will have changed. It’s our duty—our holy mission, if you will—to make sure that doesn’t happen, and that the Congo is allowed to develop free from all external influences, including ours.”

“That’s a mighty tall order, sir,” said Boyes. “For instance, what will you do about the missionaries?”

“If they’ve made converts, they’re here at the will of the people, and they’ve become part of the process,” answered Roosevelt after some consideration. “If they haven’t, eventually they’ll give up and go home.”

“All right,” said Boyes. “Then what about—?”

“All in good time, John,” interrupted Roosevelt. “We’ll have to work out thousands of details, but I feel in my bones that after two years of false starts, we’re finally on the proper course.” He paused thoughtfully. “Our first problem is what to do with Billy Pickering.”

“If you’re worried about the Belgians, we can’t give him a trial by jury,” said Boyes. “These people have hated the Belgians for decades. They’ll find him innocent of anything more serious than eliminating vermin, and probably vote him into the Presidency.”

“No, we can’t have a jury trial,” agreed Roosevelt. “But not for the reason you suggest.”

“Oh?”

“We can’t have it because it’s a Western institution, and that’s what we’re going to eradicate—unless and until it evolves naturally.”

“Then do you want to execute him?” asked Boyes. “That might satisfy the Belgians.”

Roosevelt shook his head vigorously. “We’re not in the business of satisfying the Belgians, John.” He paused thoughtfully. “Have Yank Rogers escort him to the nearest border and tell him never to return to the Congo. If the Belgians want him, let
them
get him.”

Having summarily eliminated the system of justice that he had imposed on the country, Roosevelt spent the remainder of the week eagerly dismantling the rest of the democracy that he had brought to the Congo.

13

Roosevelt was sitting beneath the shade of an ancient baobob tree, composing his weekly letter to Edith. It had been almost three weeks since he had embraced his new vision for the future of the Congo, and he was discussing it enthusiastically, in between queries about Kermit, Quentin, Alice, and the other children.

Boyes sat some distance away, engrossed in Frederick Selous’ latest memoirs, which had been personally inscribed to Roosevelt, whose safari he had arranged some three years earlier.

Suddenly Yank Rogers walked up the broad lawn of the state house and approached Roosevelt.

“What is it, Yank?”

“Company,” he said with a contemptuous expression on his face.

“Oh?”

“Our old pal, Silva,” said Rogers. “You want me to bring him to your office?”

Roosevelt shook his head. “It’s too beautiful a day to go inside, Yank. I’ll talk to him right here.”

Rogers shrugged, walked around to the front of the building, and returned a moment later with Gerard Silva.

“Hello, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet and extending his hand.

“
Ambassador
Silva,” replied Silva, shaking his hand briefly.

“I wasn’t aware that Belgium had sent an Ambassador to the Congo Free State.”

“My official title is Ambassador-at-Large,” said Silva.

“Well, you seem to have come a long way since you were an Assistant Governor of an unprofitable colony,” said Roosevelt easily.

“And
you
have come an equally long way since you promised to turn the Congo into a second America,” answered Silva coldly. “All of it downhill.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” said Roosevelt.

There was an uneasy silence.

“I have come to Stanleyville for two reasons, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Silva at last.

“I was certain that you wouldn’t come all this way without a reason,” replied Roosevelt.

“First, I have come to inquire about the man, Pickering.”

“Mr. Pickering was deported as an undesirable some 19 days ago,” answered Roosevelt promptly.

“Deported?” demanded Silva. “He killed four Belgian soldiers!”

“That was hearsay evidence, Mr. Silva,” responded Roosevelt. “We could find no eyewitnesses to confirm it.”

“Pickering himself admitted it!”

“That was why he was deported,” said Roosevelt. “Though there was insufficient evidence to convict him, we felt that there was every possibility that he was telling the truth. This made him an undesirable alien, and he was escorted to the border and told never to return.”

“You let him go!”

“We deported him.”

“This is totally unacceptable.”

“We are a free and independent nation, Mr. Silva,” said Roosevelt, a hint of anger in his high-pitched voice. “Are you presuming to tell us how to run our internal affairs?”

“I am telling you that this action is totally unacceptable to the government of Belgium,” said Silva harshly.