How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex (7 page)

Teddy Roosevelt sat quietly while the dugout skidded softly through the tumbling waters of the swollen Dúvida River. He rested his hands upon his chest and watched an endless wall of green giants stretch for a dreary sky. Roosevelt was struck by the relative stillness of the seemingly impenetrable forest with its sagging vines and broad leaves, its silence broken only occasionally by a distant odd and unidentified call or a solitary fluttering bird. Certainly this was not the Brazil he had dreamed of in his youth, teeming with slithering anacondas, snapping caimans, and colorful birds that filled the skies in never-ending droves.

Below the vessel’s hull, the river swirled effortlessly—shallow and impervious to sunlight and littered with sunken logs that jutted above the current like the spires of a rotting pier. Roosevelt’s steersman, a Mato Grosso native named Luiz, stood tall above the dugout’s stern with his eyes focused on the water searching for an impending rock or a misshapen stump. He frantically dipped his paddle to maneuver port or starboard while Roosevelt took a deep breath and closed his eyes drifting off for a brief nap.

Ahead and upon a left-hand turn in the river, Kermit ordered his canoe to shore for the thirtieth time since taking to the river. He carefully found solid footing and swatted some swarming insects and then pounded his survey rods a meter apart within sight of Lieutenant Lyra’s scope placed five-hundred meters upriver. Roosevelt turned and noticed Colonel Rondon dutifully reading his compass and scribbling in his notebook. Hurriedly, the two groups climbed back in their canoes and moved onward, only to repeat these steps a short way downstream.

Roosevelt and Cherrie grew weary of the survey team’s slow grind as the afternoon wore on, and they notified Rondon of their intent to forge ahead, taking with them the double-wide supply dugout along with its camarada pilots.

And upon the paddler’s powerful strokes, they moved down the river for a few hours before Roosevelt ordered the crewmen to shore and to make camp. With broad swipes of their axes and machetes, the camaradas cleared a patch in the dense underbrush in short order, pitching the officer’s tents on lofty dry land. And soon, a fire crackled at the campsite’s center sending smoke high into the stately trees.

Both Roosevelt and Cherrie sighed with relief when they noticed Rondon’s and Kermit’s canoes round the river’s bend shortly before nightfall. Soon after dragging their canoes to shore, the skies cleared and the stars shone brightly with the appearance of a new moon, and the air cooled.

Roosevelt sat beside the campfire conversing with Lieutenant Lyra. He noticed Julio and Lieutenant Martin continuing their overt—and somewhat suspicious—separation. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking casually, “How has Martin fared with the survey task?”

Rondon shrugged. “He listened to my orders. He kept his mouth shut, and he did what he was told.”

“Good, good.”

“Is there something on your mind,
senhor
Roosevelt?”

“Oh, no, nothing,” Roosevelt replied.

Retiring to their tents, both Teddy and Kermit Roosevelt fell immediately into a deep and restful sleep.

The survey teams pushed off early the following day. Roosevelt’s canoe remained beached at the campsite while George Cherrie shot and collected an assortment of exotic native birds. Cherrie finished preparing his specimens shortly before noon, and they set out upon the river amid intermittent showers that drenched them to the bone.

The procession of dugouts arrived at their first river confluence a few hours later. A small river merged from the east nearly doubling the Dúvida’s volume, Roosevelt calculated. When they reached their next campsite Colonel Rondon informed Roosevelt that the river was probably the same stream they had crossed ten days earlier on the road to the Bonifácio telegraph station. Colonel Roosevelt asked Martin to confirm this hypothesis and the Englishman concurred quite categorically. Measuring their effort so far, Lieutenant Lyra announced proudly that they had progressed sixteen and a half kilometers along the twisting river on the flotilla’s second day.

Roosevelt and Cherrie woke before dawn on the first day of March. They exited their tent and crept down to the river as the Brazilian wilderness’ pre-dawn nightlife buzzed in their ears. Hurriedly, they stripped to their underwear and tossed their filthy clothing upon the flattened rocks. Roosevelt slipped cautiously into the water, its torrent cool to the touch yet not uncomfortable under the Amazon’s incessant balminess. Roosevelt felt refreshed for the first time in days, wiping away a week’s layer of dirt and grime. Teddy harkened back to the days of his carefree youth, leaping buck-naked into a cool Adirondack lake on a bright and crisp late August morning.

Cherrie laid his rifle on the ground and followed Roosevelt’s lead. He waded into the stream, splashing like a child.

“My word, good man,” Roosevelt said suddenly, “stop that blasted splashing! The piranhas are quite content lying about without a dinner bell to entice them from their nooks.”

George Cherrie laughed heartily, dipping chest deep into the water.

Roosevelt glanced around nervously. “Blasted little finned carnivores…”

Cherrie smiled wryly. “Ah, but Mr. President, the piranha should be the least of your worries while mucking about in the waters of the Amazon. The candiru is a tiny catfish no bigger than a toothpick, yet it is known to invade and parasite the human urethra.”

Roosevelt furrowed his brow. “But how…? How does…?”

“Some say it follows the warmth of a man’s urine stream. Eventually it gets lodged in…” Cherrie smirked and pointed downward.

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He grabbed his crotch. “Bloody hell.”

Cherrie laughed.

Teddy shook his head and chortled.

The two men waded back to shore and dried the best they could amid the oppressive humidity. They dressed quickly attempting to thwart the ferocious gnats and pesky mosquitoes.

Roosevelt secured his hat and gun. He turned and listened to the soft and familiar sounds of rainfall in the distance. Looking upstream, the storm approached like a monster lumbering though the forest’s canopy. Roosevelt felt the first heavy raindrops moments later.

Cherrie looked to the sky and shook his head.

“How I long to feel truly dry once again,” Roosevelt said. “And yet I feel I will not, until we are safe on the steamship sailing comfortably homeward.”

The camaradas packed up camp amid a torrential downpour. Before pushing away from the shore, Lieutenant Martin huddled with Colonel Rondon and Theodore Roosevelt, reminding them they would most likely encounter a native village during this day’s float.

“They are a sub-group of the Nhambiquara,” the Englishman said. “I have named them the
Navaïté
, but you may call them whatever you wish. I have stayed amongst them on several occasions, yet my last visit was two years ago before the onset of the rainy season. Their chief is a man named Chahknu. He is a very weak monarch, but he has accepted me into his camp in the past. Needless to say, his political position amongst these unruly natives remains tenuous at best.”

“Will they let us pass unscathed?” Roosevelt asked.

“We shall see,” Martin replied. “Nothing is certain when dealing with these volatile and unpredictable tribes.”

Colonel Rondon raised his brow and then nodded in unequivocal agreement.

The sopping morning turned into a gloomy afternoon as the dugouts wound their way down the meandering river. George Cherrie and Dr.
Cajazeira
sat quietly, huddling close to the canoe’s center while Luiz and Julio pushed the vessel along with long graceful strokes. Roosevelt became mesmerized by the forest’s unique sights and somewhat monotonous sounds.

Roosevelt noticed Julio lurch with fear upon hearing any strange noise coming from the woods. The camarada dropped his paddle and stared nervously before resuming his pace upon Luiz’s growing impatience and overt ridicule. “What a disgusting coward,” Roosevelt thought. “And here sits a man who has spent nearly his entire life in the Amazon and he acts like a frightened child.”

Rounding a bend, they came upon several cultivated fields just as Martin had predicted. The fields were overgrown and studded with burned-out stumps. They found an old fish-trap a few hundred meters beyond the fields—the primitive but ingenious devise lay in disrepair at the mouth of a small stream. Roosevelt ordered Luiz to catch up with Rondon’s canoe.

Just ahead, Roosevelt spied a rope bridge spanning the Dúvida. The structure was fashioned of vines and suspended just above the water. Part of the bridge was intact but much of the assembly appeared to have been swept away some time ago. On either side of the river, Roosevelt noticed remnants of palm-thatched huts riddled with weeds.

The camaradas beached the canoes on the western riverbank. Roosevelt and the other expedition members climbed upon the muddy shore.

Kermit glanced around the abandoned village, saying abruptly, “They appeared to have all gone on holiday.”

Lieutenant Martin shook his head.
 
“These are a nomadic people. Perhaps the river’s flooding forced their hand.” He rubbed his beard. “And yet I’m not absolutely certain.”

“Then we will be safe to pass?” Roosevelt asked.

Rondon said, “They could have rebuilt farther downriver. In such a scenario, we could be placing ourselves in great danger.”

“Yes, Commander Rondon,” Martin said. “That hypothesis is quite likely, although they may have headed west to the shores of the Madeira or even the Gy-Paraná.”

“That leaves us quite a dilemma,” Roosevelt said. “Does it not?”

“Yes,” Rondon replied thoughtfully. “Indeed it does.”

The officers and Lieutenant Martin stood wordlessly for a few moments while Rondon’s dog Lobo and Kermit’s Trigueiro ran about sniffing the settlement. The other camaradas waited patiently, either standing near the officers or tending to the canoes.

Finally, Rondon said, “Mr. Martin, I hesitate sending any man on such a dangerous mission, yet knowing these native’s whereabouts would be reassuring to the entire expedition.”

Martin nodded. “I understand.”

“But I ask you to complete your assignment quickly. If the tribe cannot be tracked, you must surrender your search immediately. Under no circumstance will we wait here longer than two nights.”

Paishon, upon hearing the conversation, shoved a rifle and some ammunition into Martin’s hands.

Martin inspected his rifle. “There is no reason to wait for me, Colonel Rondon,” he said, motioning downriver. “The upcoming rapids are very severe and will force you to portage the canoes and supplies. This will occupy the expedition for several days, allowing us ample time to catch up.”

“Us...?” Rondon asked.

“Yes, I would respectfully request an armed companion, preferably a volunteer from amongst my fellow camaradas. I’m confident in my ability to track the whereabouts of these natives on my own, yet some strong-armed backup might come in handy in a pinch. This tribe could be working under new management.”

Rondon pondered for a moment before responding. “Yes,
senhor
Martin, I cannot in good conscience send you off alone without escort of some sort.”

Julio de Lima suddenly stepped forward. “I will volunteer, Commander Rondon. I will go with
senhor
Martin.” Julio removed his hat and dipped his head politely.

Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He shook his head.
Of all men to volunteer for such a dangerous assignment… Julio!
Theodore Roosevelt couldn’t help but smirk.

“This will be acceptable,” Rondon replied, along with a seemingly disingenuous sigh.

Roosevelt believed he detected a brief twinkle in Rondon’s steely eyes.
Did he just witness the crafty Brazilian colonel ridding himself of his laziest camarada while still fulfilling his promise to Lieutenant Martin?
 
The good Colonel must be beside himself with glee.

“Simplicio!” Rondon hollered. “Take Julio’s place on the Colonel’s dugout.” Rondon turned to Roosevelt. “Of course, with Colonel Roosevelt’s implicit permission...”

“Of course,” Roosevelt replied with a subtle nod.

The camaradas quickly prepared a few days ration for two men. Roosevelt wished the men “Godspeed” and then watched Martin and Julio stride away from the river and through the abandoned village. Moments later, they were swallowed by the living forest. Teddy could not help but ask himself what game these two men were playing.
Maybe they will disappear for good,
he thought.
Perhaps they just hitched a short ride under the protection of an armed expedition. And yet their ultimate goal remains clouded in such mystery.