How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (25 page)

“I understand, of course.” Rondon rose from his chair and closed the door tightly. He returned to his seat.

Cherrie leaned in closely. “Have you had the opportunity to read the Colonel’s book?”

“
Sim
,
senhor
, ‘Through the Brazilian Wilderness’,
sim
…”

“What did you think?”

“Well, obviously, Mr. Roosevelt was very creative in certain aspects of—”

“Did this not trouble you?”

Rondon shrugged. “Mr. Roosevelt had every right to write his personal account of the expedition the way he saw fit, would you not agree? Whether he omitted any reference to Lieutenant Martin or altered the manner of Julio’s death, holds little relevance to the historical nature of the mission.”

“And of the dark beast…?”

“Yes, of course, this must be considered a tremendous loss to those like yourself who classify such creatures. Just last year Antonio and Luiz guided a group of prospectors back into the Wide Belt lands, finding the monument torn asunder and the stone building disassembled and the clearing overrun by the jungle’s natural encroachment. The Wide Belts have fought fiercely to defend their lands these past ten years, but the chief remembered Antonio in particular, telling him that the Arawuua no longer existed in the flesh and that the Kariati is no longer practiced. Tataire reminded Antonio of the sacred nature of the bygone ritual and how they should respect the Wide Belt’s ancestors by speaking little of its history, thus allowing its memory to fade with future generations.”

“Do you suppose this is the reason why the Colonel chose to omit these factual events in his memoirs? Do you believe he did so simply to appease the native’s ancestors?”

“Colonel Roosevelt was a man of his word, whether offered to men whom he regarded as peers or those he considered primitive savages. He was obliged to accept the Wide Belt’s terms in a gambit to spare all of our lives, and it appears he remained steadfast to his promise to the very end of his own life.”

“Hence, can you not see my eternal conflict,
senhor
Rondon? I was an eyewitness to perhaps the greatest scientific find of all time, and as a scientist I feel compelled to report such to the world, but doing so would expose an American icon to scorn and ridicule, along with the strong possibility it may be against his final wishes.”

“Perhaps he left the decision completely up to you, George.”

Cherrie rubbed his chin. “That was not quite the simple answer I wished to hear from you, Commander.”

“And what are Kermit Roosevelt’s thoughts on this subject? He also witnessed this event and he may understand his father’s reasoning far better than either of us.”

Cherrie sighed. “Kermit married Belle and they had three children, two of which Roosevelt had the pleasure of holding before he passed. But after returning from the war and after his father’s death, he was a changed man, spending more time with the bottle than with his young family.”

Rondon lowered his eyes and shook his head. “This is such a shame for one who is so young and who had shown so much potential.”

“I have met with him on several occasions, but he refuses to speak about the expedition or of his father’s wishes.”

“Well,
senhor
Cherrie, I sympathize greatly with your plight, but I personally did not bear witness to the beast, although I did glimpse one of its appendages. You may never know Colonel Roosevelt’s thoughts on the matter, lost with his untimely death, and the creature’s imprint upon this planet fades with every passing year and with the passing of the current-most Wide Belt generation. This is unfortunate, but it is the way of things—oftentimes God works in peculiar and mysterious ways.”

Cherrie’s Rocky Dell Farm

Newfane, Vermont

January 3, 1948

George Cherrie leaned awkwardly over his cane and peered out of his kitchen window at huge snowflakes drifting softly from deep grey New England skies. The chilly darkness descended early in mid-winter and he lamented the passing of fall’s colors as the shadows overwhelmed the cottony-white landscape before him. Cherrie raised his shirt’s sleeve to remove his frosty breath from the window’s surface. He struggled to see his driveway’s end and the snow-covered roadway beyond.

“Get away from that window this instant,” Stella said, lifting the perking coffee pot off the burner. “Didn’t the doctor just warn you about pneumonia? Weren’t you listening?”

“What, dear?”

 
Stella shook her head. “George, I seriously doubt anyone would be foolish enough to come all the way up from New York City on a night like this. Must all of the Museum’s business be so hurried? Could they not wait just a day or two for the weather to clear? What could be so important?”

Cherrie spotted a pair of headlights through the snowflakes. He hobbled to the kitchen table and sat. “He’s here.”

“Okay, I’ll warm up some stew.”

Stella answered a rap on the front door. A tall young man carrying a large briefcase stood on the stoop dressed in a long trench coat and a snow-caked hat. The man removed his hat and dusted off the snow as Stella closed the door tightly behind him. The man smiled broadly. “Mrs. Cherrie, I can only presume?”

“Yes, George has been expecting you. Come in and warm up. You must be exhausted having driven all this way in this snow.”

Cherrie, feeling every one of his eighty-three years, rose slowly from the table. He locked eyes with the visitor, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties. The man placed the briefcase gingerly on the floor before removing his coat and gloves.

“I can take those,” Stella said, gathering up the wet garments.

The man extended his hand timidly. “My name is Jonathan Harner. I’ve been sent by Mr. Davison to represent the Museum in this affair.”

Cherrie took Harner’s hand and shook firmly. “George Cherrie,” he said.

Harner chuckled but quickly regained his composure. “I sincerely apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Cherrie, but you hardly need to introduce yourself to anyone who has studied Natural History or even to anyone who is familiar with Theodore Roosevelt’s legacy for that matter. I have been a great admirer of your work since I was a little boy and have attended several of your lectures.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was one of those young college students sitting at the rear of the hall too intimidated to ask any questions.”

“You should have spoken up. You must be bold and question those in authority. It is the best way to learn.”

Stella smiled warmly. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Harner?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Cherrie glanced down at Harner’s briefcase.

Harner continued, “And if truth be told, I volunteered to bring this to you today. Mr. Davison wished to send it by special messenger, but I literally pleaded with him to reconsider. It was my chance to meet you, George Cherrie, one of my personal heroes and an actual living friend to one of our greatest presidents, Teddy Roosevelt! I just couldn’t resist the opportunity.”

Stella said, “Isn’t that nice, dear.”

“Colonel,” Cherrie said flatly.

Harner paused. “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Roosevelt abhorred that name. We simply called him Colonel or Colonel Roosevelt.”

“Oh, I apologize…”

“George!” Stella scolded. “Let the young man tell his story. Colonel Roosevelt has been gone for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he doesn’t mind what he’s called.”

Cherrie chuckled mischievously. “So, Mr. Harner, what do you have for me? It must be pretty important for you to come all this way in the middle of a Vermont snowstorm. The telegram I received from the Museum was very vague, only hinting of something regarding the Roosevelt family or Colonel Roosevelt himself.”

Harner grabbed the briefcase and placed it gently on the table before Cherrie. “Any personal correspondence or artifact of Theodore Roosevelt’s is given the utmost attention and is scrutinized closely. But finding previously undocumented correspondence of a man of such eminence is rarer still. And this particular oversight was extraordinary, as you will soon see.”

“And how does this relate to me?”

Harner opened the case and gingerly removed a four-inch thick yellowed and neatly wrapped package. Cherrie noticed the words: ‘Confidential’ and ‘For the addressee’s eyes only’ stamped on all sides. A hand-written mailing tag was affixed to the package’s center: ‘Mr. George K. Cherrie, Rocky Dell Farm, Newfane Vermont’.

“We confirmed that it was indeed Theodore Roosevelt’s own handwriting,” Harner said.

“Do you know approximately when he fabricated this?”

“Our experts could not determine an exact date, but it was found amongst his final works, possibly in the final months of his life. Only Theodore Roosevelt himself could have told us
why
it was not mailed.”

Cherrie’s heart thumped.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Cherrie?”

“No, no, I often get quite emotional thinking about my old friend.”

“I understand.”

“Do you know whether anyone has examined its contents?”

Harner shook his head. “The package has remained sealed, presumably since President Roosevelt last held it in his own hands. It was discovered last year in the Museum of Natural History’s archives quite by accident. Since then we have made overtures to the Roosevelt families, who have in turn decided to turn the package over to you, the intended addressee, stating that Colonel Roosevelt would have wished it handled that way.”

“Extraordinary...”

Harner smiled broadly. “The Museum of Natural History would of course be interested in obtaining any new documents or notes from Mr. Roosevelt, if you choose to donate such papers. Anything scribed by a former President of the United States is of priceless historical value, especially when the author is Theodore Roosevelt.”

“I will give it some thought, but first I would like to examine the package in private.”

“George!” Stella said, shaking her head. “This young man has travelled a long way in a heavy snowstorm just to meet you. We just can’t send him back into the cold night. I won’t have it!”

Harner waved his hand diplomatically. “No, Mrs. Cherrie, it is quite all right.”

“But we have extra bedrooms…”

“I’ve rented a room in Brattleboro for the evening. I must be on my way before the roads become impassable.”

“I’m sorry, young man,” Cherrie said.

Harner rose from the table, accepting his coat and hat from Stella. “There is one last thing I’d like to say, Mr. Cherrie. It has been an honor meeting you, sir, and I will remember this moment for the rest of my life. Just last summer I drove my wife and children out to see Yellowstone Park. What a stunning legacy men like Theodore Roosevelt and his predecessors have left for future generations with their tenacious efforts to preserve America’s stunning beauty. On our way home we made certain to visit the new Rushmore monument in South Dakota. What a grand spectacle to behold—Mr. Roosevelt carved high on a mountaintop in solid granite for all to behold, a statue that will stare down upon this earth for perhaps a hundred thousand years. What a fitting tribute to a truly great man. And to think, I’m now standing before a man who can call him a good, personal friend.”

Cherrie entered his library and placed the package squarely at his desk’s center. He tossed a few logs into his fireplace, inhaled deeply, and sat. Taking a letter opener he cut gingerly into the parcel’s fragile edges. He gently pulled the contents free—a simple letter attached to an untitled manuscript. He opened the letter and began to read:

November 28, 1918: Dearest George, It breaks my heart that Edith and I could not make it up to Rocky Dell this past fall as I have longed to do ever since you described to me your grand apple orchards and the taste of fresh honey while we slogged along half-starved in the Amazon. But I have not been feeling quite up to snuff lately due to this damn infected leg, which I’ve come to the rightful conclusion was part of the monster’s legacy as the Wide Belts had dutifully warned. But, sadly, nothing seems to help me now, not the salves or the lotions, not even the most expensive doctors in New York City can explain why this poison remains within me and why I can do so little to fight its unstoppable progress.

And yet it is of ‘the monster’ that I wish to speak to you about, now that my own demise seems eminent. George, I have been a fool, and I have been a coward. I can live with playing the fool, but I have been abhorred with cowardice in any form my entire life.

I made the greatest mistake of my life when I returned from the Amazon telling only half-truths and even outright lies in a cowardly attempt to protect my own damn legacy. I knew any accounts of finding a living prehistoric (can we even use the term prehistoric?) beast in the Amazon would make me the laughingstock of the ages. I even used my oath to the Wide Belts to somehow justify my actions, but I only ended up making a complete jackass of myself and, consequentially, I have dragged you, Colonel Rondon, and even poor Kermit down this same damnable path.

George, I would like to set matters straight once and for all.

I know this will put you and Rondon in a tight spot once again, but I will write any testimonial stating your explicit innocence regarding this episode and its aftermath. I will say that you and Rondon were simply following my lead, which incidentally is the honest truth. I am more than willing to fall on this blade; and, as a matter of record, I will insist upon it!

One such wrong that I, myself, must set right are my own memoirs. I have enclosed a copy of the updated version for your perusal. Please feel free to note any discrepancies or typographical errors.

Hope to hear from you soon,

Theodore Roosevelt.

Cherrie settled into his chair collecting a myriad of thoughts while his gut cycled through every conceivable human emotion. Finally, he could not help but chuckle.
For all these years of anguish, my answer lay amid some dusty bin just two states away!

Cherrie reached down and picked up the manuscript. He opened its cover and read:
Through the Brazilian Wilderness by Theodore Roosevelt
. He thumbed hurriedly through the chapters:
With a Mule-Train across Nhambiquara Land, The English Stranger, The River of Doubt, Escape from the Wide Belts, My Encounter with the Jurassic…
George Cherrie suddenly felt like the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted off his slumping shoulders. He felt liberated for the first time in over thirty years.

Cherrie ambled to his office safe and began to spin its dial. The tumblers clicked in place and the heavy steel door swung open. Reaching to the bottom of a pile of paperwork, he pulled out a yellowed, eight by ten inch envelope. A small handwritten note was attached:
Per the terms of my final Will and Testament, I require that this envelope be unopened and destroyed upon my death, George K. Cherrie, August 28, 1915
.

 
Cherrie sat down at his desk and broke the seal. He pulled out four glossy photographs and their corresponding negatives. The first shot was of a gangly and bearded Lieutenant Martin, paddling his dugout down the Rio Roosevelt. The second was of a massive three-toed footprint carved into a sandy beach. Flipping to the third photograph, he beheld a shadowy image of a newly dead monster from before the Stone-age, and the fourth was a clear picture of a battered and broken Theodore Roosevelt standing beside the creature’s nightmarish head.

Cherrie stared at the last photograph for a few moments, gathering in details of the monster’s jagged teeth and its terrifying eyes that lay open since taking its final breaths on earth just hours before the image was captured. And yet something gave Cherrie great pause when he looked upon Roosevelt’s lined face. Cherrie grabbed a magnifying glass and leaned closer.