How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (24 page)

Disregarding the palpable danger closing in all around them, every man of
the
expedition pitched in and helped construct a bed of soft palm fronds to comfort Colonel Roosevelt.
Dr. Cajazeria
rolled up Roosevelt’s right trouser leg and wiped away a blotch of dried blood and bubbling yellow puss using some cloth and alcohol.
Cajazeria
leaned back, stroking his own chin. “The infection is advanced,
senhor
. Frankly, I have never seen human tissue break down so swiftly.”

“Yes,” Roosevelt replied sheepishly. “A mere scrape while wading in the river several days ago. I thought nothing of it at the time. I must apologize for not notifying you before.”

Kermit Roosevelt, stroking Trigueiro’s scrawny neck, caught George Cherrie’s raised eyebrow.

“Yes,
senhor
, but even a tiny wound under these conditions can lead to much bigger problems. Luckily I brought some of the best new ointments known to medicine. I should be able to get you through this ordeal, if your malaria can be kept in check.”

Roosevelt grinned. “I have great confidence in you, doctor, yet the Wide Belts may have different plans for me.”

“
Sim
,
senhor
, they may yet have the ultimate say whether or not any of us live to see the next sunrise.”

Lieutenant Lyra pulled two of his camaradas aside and huddled closely. Lyra waved his hand and the men wandered slowly toward the boats. A pair of arrows thumped the dugouts, and the camaradas immediately retreated.

Rondon raised his pistol and fired a single shot into the sky. He turned to Roosevelt, saying, “Just a little reminder of our capabilities.”

Roosevelt smirked. “Bully for you, Commander Rondon.” Roosevelt leaned up and glanced around. The natives, who had disappeared into the jungle following the gunshot, were slowly reemerging. “What we have here is a good, old-fashioned standoff,” Roosevelt said wryly.

Colonel Rondon wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m afraid that is only partially true,
senhor
. The natives, in fact, hold a significant advantage in numbers and in stealth. Our only advantage is that they are apparently still leery of our guns. But I am still puzzled why they have not simply slaughtered us, since they have obviously journeyed so far to do so.”

“Could they have some other agenda?”

“Once these natives groups set their collective minds on warfare, there is usually very little that can convince them otherwise, and yet I am not quite giving up hope.”

“Might they be willing to compromise?”

“We shall see…”

Roosevelt grabbed his Winchester and cradled it across his chest like a baby. “Well, we will know soon enough if they are in a chatting mood. If not, then I am willing to fight to the bitter end.”

A solitary native warrior emerged from the jungle. He crouched low and advanced toward the outsiders, jabbering loudly in his native language. The warrior raised and lowered his empty hands in a calming manner.

Rondon raised a brow. “Well, Colonel Roosevelt, it appears they wish to talk after all.” Rondon turned. “Antonio!”

Antonio ambled forward. He halted, listening closely to the approaching warrior. He turned to Rondon. “He is pleading that we do not use our ‘thunder sticks’. The Wide Belts wish to send a delegation that includes Chief Tataire and his father.”

“Antonio, tell him the Chief may speak to us, but we will keep our weapons at the ready while he does so.”

Antonio conversed briefly with the native and then translated for Rondon. “He says that having the sticks pointed at their warriors is not acceptable. He says they don’t quite trust us and that we may attempt to take Tataire captive with our magic.”

Theodore Roosevelt cocked his rifle. “That is a risk the chief must be willing to endure.”

Antonio inquired again, but the native stood silent with his chest pressed forward and his nose held high.

Rondon shook his head, muttering, “The chief realizes he holds all of the cards.” He waved his hand. “Lieutenant Lyra, order all the men to set aside their rifles.”

Chief Tataire emerged slowly from the forest followed by his gangly father. A handful of warriors strode forward, forming a human shield around the chief. The awkward delegation halted several yards from Colonel Rondon and the prone Roosevelt. Roosevelt discretely gathered up a few palm fronds to cover his rifle.

Chief Tataire’s eyes blazed fire. He spoke, translated by Antonio.

“You have trespassed on our sacred grounds, even though I strictly forbade you to do so. I would have served justice upon you swiftly if I were not cautioned by my father that you were likely still under the witches’ spell and that the spell had to be broken before we avenged our ancestors by consuming your flesh. The elders have counseled me that spells can be passed through your brain mass and its evil can drive warriors insane if their afflicted enemies are not purged while their eyes remain open and their minds are awake.

“Your escape from our village showed the strength of your spell, but my father has sensed the hardships you have endured along the river and now believes your spell has been weakened enough for us to finally take what is rightfully ours.”

Tataire gestured widely.

Roosevelt suddenly noticed at least a hundred armed warriors peering out from the jungle. Roosevelt slowly moved for his rifle, and he saw Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra doing the same.
Dr. Cajazeria
drew his pistol.

“You have insulted our ancestors. The penalty for such a transgression is death!”

“Wait!” Roosevelt shouted suddenly. “Antonio, tell him to wait!”

Antonio hollered out to the Wide Belt chief. Chief Tataire turned to his father, who replied with a short whisper. Tataire, looking somewhat disappointed, raised his hand signaling his warriors to stand down.

“Kermit,” Roosevelt hissed. “Show them the claw. Give the creature’s claw to the natives.”

“But father, that claw our only tangible proof—”

“Kermit, please don’t disobey me now! Such proof will be little consolation upon all of our deaths. Just do it!”

Kermit grabbed the burlap holding the foot-long claw carved from the monster’s forearm. He strode hurriedly toward the chief holding the bag forward as a humble offering.

Tataire accepted the bag and removed its blood-stained contents. Theodore Roosevelt thought Tataire appeared more confused than curious. The natives surrounding him murmured restlessly. Tataire’s father stepped forward and grasped the claw with widened eyes. “Arawuua!” he cried. Antonio translated the native’s words for all to hear. “The outsiders have slaughtered the sacred Arawuua!”

The natives jabbered loudly amongst each other, each reaching in and touching the claw with reverence. Tataire’s father offered the claw to his son and then strode directly toward Theodore Roosevelt without an escort. Despite a feeble and overtly-ignored plea from Tataire, the wrinkled native continued onward with his chest puffed forward and nose held high. He halted before Roosevelt, his eyes fixed upon Teddy’s wounded shin. Roosevelt thought he noticed a flash of sorrow within the man’s eyes.

The man spoke loudly, so that all—including his own son, the chief—could hear.

“This, I have not spoken even to Tataire, but my entire life I have been plagued by sleep-dreams that have troubled me to the point of madness. In these dreams I have seen great turmoil come to our people caused by invaders from beyond the earth’s edge. I was most disturbed by a dream telling me that I would be the last man of our tribe to see the Arawuua alive and that no great leaders will emerge from our ranks to confront the outsiders and defend our lands.

“The great visions tell me that our fate cannot be changed, but we will fight with great honor to slow those who invade our territory, because this is all we can do.”

Tataire’s father pointed to the east. “The ritual of the
Kariati
has served our people for countless sunrises, but I believe the Arawuua has now passed over the horizon and into the realm of sleep-dreams. Our world will decline from this time forward until our tribe also passes into memory, like all creatures that crawl upon the land and swim in the rivers and even the great trees that fall and rot into dirt.”

He pointed down at Roosevelt. “You have killed the sacred Arawuua. You are now a warrior of our tribe in the highest order and are free to come and go upon our lands as you desire, and the members of your tribe will not be harmed.”

“I am honored,” Roosevelt said diplomatically.

“But with this honor, we ask you to pledge to uphold the traditions of the Kariati and act with great humbleness, respecting the immense privilege the Gods have bestowed to you. Bragging of your exploits is said to bring great shame upon our peoples, along with flooding and drought.”

“I pledge with all my heart to uphold your most honored traditions,” Roosevelt replied.

**********

The expedition wasted little time climbing back into their dugouts and proceeding northward and down the twisting Rio Roosevelt River, and by nightfall they had already passed through the second gorge officially exiting the Wide Belt’s lands.

Colonel Roosevelt’s condition deteriorated over the next several days, and he was tended to continuously by Dr. Cajazeria.
Kermit did his best to help, although stricken by malarial fever himself. Kermit made the entries in his father’s daily logs when Roosevelt lay too weakened to even hold his pen.

Ten days passed and the elevation of the surrounding land flattened considerably, and they made excellent progress between increasingly rare stretches of rapids. On April 15, 1914, six weeks after taking to the unknown river, Luiz discovered a hunk of wood that had apparently been cut with an axe, and the expedition rejoiced knowing they were finally approaching civilization once again.

With this encouraging news and feeling considerably better, Theodore Roosevelt gathered George Cherrie and Kermit beside his makeshift bed under the bright stars of the Amazonian night. “Well, I can now say with some confidence that I have again delayed my appointment at the Pearly Gates, at least for the duration of this grand and delightful expedition.

“During these past days in the infirmary I have thought long and hard of the incident we have had the misfortune of witnessing on this journey and the legacy strewn about in its horrific wake. All of my life I have regarded myself as less vain than the average politician, but alas I seem to have once again been deluded by my own arrogance. I gather being hood-winked by such a character as Martin and taken hostage by such a lithesome creature as Julio is a bit too much for my pride to swallow.

“I guess my pledge to the Wide Belts provides me some cover, but you two men are under no such governance and you can do whatever your conscience dictates. My decision to push these events aside will cause me great angst and will likely do so until the end of my days.”

“Colonel Roosevelt,” Cherrie said. “I owe you my life, and I will follow wherever you may lead.”

Kermit rested his hand gently upon his father’s shoulder. “Father, I will always be at your side.”

Theodore Roosevelt smiled uneasily. “Good, good. And it also gives me great pleasure to have successfully thwarted the Grim Reaper once again. That old boy has been stalking me for years now. I must surely frustrate him to no end.”

Museu Nacional
(National Museum of Brazil)

Rio de Janeiro

October 8, 1923

Like most who are obliged to speak before a large audience, wilderness hardened naturalist George K. Cherrie always felt a bit exposed—countless probing eyes set solely upon him, complete strangers acting as prosecutors, judges, and jury—every word parsed, every misstep smugly noted and revisited at the first opportunity, usually at the end of a long, draining discourse. Yet the words usually flowed easily for Cherrie, little anecdotes about adventures in untamed jungles, exotic wild creatures, and hardened men, anything to keep an audience amused and entertained and willing to sit through the more mundane droning about new species of colorful birds and their arduous habitats.

Dr. Juan Ortiz
Lobão
stepped toward the podium leading the first round of polite applause. He shuffled past Cherrie’s exhibit of illustrated drawings and offered his hand graciously. George Cherrie accepted with a deep sigh.

“On behalf of the National Museum of Brazil and the American Museum of Natural History, I would like to offer my sincerest gratitude to
senhor
Cherrie. How delightfully he has shared his keen scientific insights into South America’s abundant natural beauty and diversity as well as his riveting personal journeys.”

A second round of applause ended with Dr.
Lobão’s
gentle motions for order. “And now
senhor
Cherrie has agreed to take a few questions. Please be brief and to the point.”

A balding middle-aged man raised his hand and rose to his feet. He smiled broadly. “Can you share with us some of your emotions upon hearing of Theodore Roosevelt’s untimely death, and also whether you believe the rumors that his demise was a direct result of the infection he received during your expedition, even though he lived more than four years following your return?”

Cherrie cleared his throat. “Colonel Roosevelt and I became deep personal friends during our time together in the Amazon as do most men when thrust together under such dire circumstances. Naturally his death brought me great sadness and it still does to this very day. Your second question is mere conjecture, but from all accounts both he and his doctors had admitted his infected shin was the primary cause of his rapidly failing health near the end of his life.”

Another man stood. “Cândido Rondon is renowned for his Pacifist views, especially in regard to our native populations, whereas Theodore Roosevelt was known for seeking justice in the ways of the American Wild West. How did such diverse men coexist and command a mission such as the one you undertook?”

“Rondon and Roosevelt reconciled their differences very effectively.”

“Have you spoken to Rondon since Roosevelt’s death? Do you keep in touch with other members of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition?”

Cherrie pointed at his illustrations. “Does anyone wish to ask about my beautiful artwork?”

The audience giggled nervously.

Dr.
Lobão
waved his hand. “I do offer my deepest apologies,
senhor
Cherrie. Please understand that Cândido Rondon is a national hero to my countrymen, and President Roosevelt continues to be one of the most talked about personalities in the world. We do not often have an opportunity to pose such questions to someone who has personally experienced events that we can only gather from books or newspaper articles.”

Cherrie offered his warmest smile and nodded graciously. “I have not spoken to Commander Rondon since we exited the River of Doubt, although I have read his memoirs and accounts of our mission. This is my first visit to Rio since the end of the Great War and I plan to meet with the Commander later this week. As for the others, we are all busy with our work and have gone our separate ways.”

Dr.
Lobão
raised a single finger. “Mr. Cherrie has time for one more question.”

Cherrie scanned the room. A clean-shaven man in his early forties rose abruptly from his seat near the auditorium’s rear. He held a notebook in his left hand and a readied pencil in his right. “There have been many rumors circulating around the Mato Grosso region over this past decade that directly contradict many of Colonel Roosevelt’s accounts of the expedition and do not—”

“Pardon me. Can I have your name?”

“
Sim
,
senhor
, I humbly apologize. My name is Enrique Batista representing the
Jornal do Brasil
, Rio’s oldest and most prestigious newspaper.”

“Go on…”

“Well,
senhor
, there is Leo Miller’s account of a bearded white man who was hired by Colonel Roosevelt to guide the expedition?”

Cherrie shook his head. “The camaradas were all of Portuguese or African descent.”

“But why would
senhor
Miller—?”

“Leo Miller departed our group before we embarked on the river leg of the expedition. Leo is a good man, but he had little contact with the camaradas, whereas I got to know each and every one of these rugged men quite well. Now, allow me to pose a simple question to you,
senhor
Batista. Who do you think would most likely know the race and nationality of these individuals, me or him?”

The audience members murmured amongst themselves. Some stood and turned to catch a glimpse of the questioner.

“Why, you,
senhor
Cherrie. Although I do think it odd
senhor
Miller would make up such a claim without—”

“Does Miller still claim this as fact?”

“Well, no… He has since recanted his account of the white man. But still—”

“
Senhor
Batista,” Dr.
Lobão
interrupted. “Please refrain from badgering our special guest. He has graciously agreed to come all the way to Rio just to speak with us, and he should be treated with our best intentions.”

George Cherrie waved his hand. “
O
brigado
,
senhor
Lobão,
but I am happy to tackle such difficult rumors if, by doing so, I can clear the air and set the record straight. Believe me; I’ve heard all this gossip before. Mr. Batista, do you have any more questions?”

“
Sim
,
senhor
… Several members of the camarada’s families claim that Colonel Roosevelt met and pacified the recently discovered Wide Belt tribe of the deep Amazon, although in his book Roosevelt reported that you passed through this region without much incident, except for the death of Colonel Rondon’s dog. Many find this hard to believe,
senhor
. These natives are reputed to kill strangers upon sight.”

Cherrie shrugged.

“And there are accounts that you and Colonel Roosevelt documented a new and previously unknown creature while on this expedition and that Roosevelt hunted and killed this monstrous beast by himself and without any assistance. Is this also true?”

The auditorium erupted in muffled laughter. George Cherrie joined in the mirth accompanied by a shake of his head. “
Senhor
Batista, at the time of our expedition President Theodore Roosevelt was a fifty-four year old man beaten down by malaria, half-starved with one good leg and nearly blind in one eye paired with another that was not much better. If you wish to believe that Mr. Roosevelt could have slaughtered a wild animal of the Amazon larger than a centipede, well then by all means do so. And, by the way, I have some favored real estate to sell to you deep in the jungle.”

There was brief interlude of scattered applause amid continued murmuring.

Cherrie continued, “But sadly, great men like Theodore Roosevelt and your own Cândido Rondon are always trapped forever within a framework our own dreams and aspirations which is always grander than the human residing at their very core. Roosevelt was a man amongst men, but he would have been the first to admit he was far from a God. Please trust me when I say he remained firmly grounded, a mere mortal like us all. Tales such as this have besieged all men of elevated stature throughout history. And here, as they say, there is little new under the sun.”

George Cherrie stood back, basking in thunderous applause.

 
**********

Cherrie felt every jolt and every bump as the open-air trolley clanked along Rio de Janeiro’s outer boulevards and away from the city’s center toward the vast blue South Atlantic to the east. He inhaled the fresh salty air, and he could not help but think of playful summer vacations on Maine’s rocky coastline with Stella and the children—bygone days filled with little worries, corn on the cob, and succulent boiled lobster. Beyond the road, the ocean spread across an endless horizon, its surface shimmering under early spring’s inviting skies. Ships of all shapes and sizes clogged the harbor with masts reflecting the afternoon sun beneath the imposing cliffs of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain.

The trolley came to a screeching stop amid a cluster of passing automobiles with motors purring and spitting foul exhaust, making Cherrie long for simpler days of horses and carriages and long solitary excursions into pristine forests where the air was fresh and the mind could be at peace. The trolley driver turned to Cherrie with a friendly smile and pointed. “The
Instituto Militar de Engenharia
,
senhor
.”

Cherrie paid the driver his due and stepped off into the crisp Brazilian air. He strode down a concrete walkway and entered a large building constructed of stone, brick, and mortar. After being directed by a young man in a smart brown uniform to a prominent office on the building’s ground floor, Cherrie rechecked the door’s ornate title before stepping inside.

 
George Cherrie recognized immediately the smallish man huddled over a shiny oak desk cluttered with stacks of paper. Other than a few additional gray hairs, Commander
Cândido
Rondon appeared ageless, virtually unchanged from when they had gone their separate ways nine long and eventful years before.

“I have never seen a more unnatural sight as this,
senhor
, donned in civilian clothing and not barking out his daily orders. Can a man who has tamed the mighty Amazon be so uttered defeated by a simple pile of paper?”

Cândido
Rondon glanced up. He smiled widely and rose to his feet. “Paperwork is the grease that lubricates a functioning bureaucracy, my friend, both military and civilian. I’m certain it works the same throughout the world. George Cherrie! What a delightful surprise.” Rondon slipped hurriedly around his desk, offering Cherrie a firm handshake and a manly hug. “I received your telegram only yesterday. I am so glad you could stop by. Please,
senhor
, sit… sit.”

Cherrie settled into one of the three plush chairs surrounding Rondon’s desk.

Rondon pulled up a chair beside him. “How is your family? Have you spent much time on your Vermont farm? I remember well your vivid descriptions of your orchards and of the autumn colors. How lovely a memory to cherish…”

“Not as much as I would like to spend,
senhor
.
 
But recently I have thought of retiring from field work and returning to the States for good.”

“Ah, you are far too young for retirement, Mr. Cherrie. You have much more to offer the world,
sim
?”

“And look at you, a luxurious office and a fancy title: Director of Engineering of the Army?”

“
Sim
,
sim
, although you know I would give this all up to be back in the field again. How I miss the Mato Grasso and the Amazon, and I do miss my men.”

“Yes, I did receive word of Lieutenant Lyra, and I offer my heartfelt condolences…”

Cherrie noticed a genuine look of extreme sadness engulf Rondon’s rugged face. If it were any other man but
Cândido
Rondon, Cherrie would have expected the man’s eyes to mist and tear. "Yes, he died an honorable death, swept away while surveying the Rio Sepotuba five years ago.” Rondon shook his head. “He performed his duties admirably to bitter end. There will be no man—past, present, or future—his equal under my command.”

“Yes, he will be remembered as a good and loyal officer.”

Rondon paused for a moment. “And of
senhor
Roosevelt…?”

“Yes, and I wish to engage in some private talk.” Cherrie glanced toward the open doorway.