“I’ve made and lost three fortunes on this continent,” answered Boyes bluntly. “Some gut instinct tells me that there’s another one to be made in the Congo. Besides,” he added with a smile, “it sounds like a bully adventure.”
Roosevelt laughed at Boyes’ use of his favorite term. “Well, at least you’re being honest, and I can’t ask for more than that. Now let’s get back to work.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. “It seems to me that as long as the Mangbetu control the area, it makes sense to work through them, to use them as our surrogates until we can educate all the natives.”
“I suppose so,” said Boyes. “Still, we can’t just walk in there, tell them that we’re bringing them the advantages of civilization, and expect a friendly reception.”
“Why not?” said Roosevelt confidently. “The direct approach is usually best.”
“They’re predisposed to dislike and distrust you, Mr. President.”
“They’re predisposed to dislike and distrust Belgians, John,” answered Roosevelt. “They’ve never met an American before.”
“I don’t think they’re inclined to differentiate between white men,” said Boyes.
“You’re viewing them as Democrats,” said Roosevelt with a smile. “I prefer to think of them as uncommitted voters.”
“I think you’d be better advised to think of them as hostile — and hungry.”
“John, when I was President, I used to have a saying: Walk softly, but carry a big stick.”
“I’ve heard it,” acknowledged Boyes.
“Well, I intend to walk softly among the Mangbetu — but if worst comes to worst, we’ll be carrying fifty big sticks with us.”
“I wonder if fifty guns will be enough,” said Boyes, frowning.
“We’re not coming to slaughter them, John — merely to impress them.”
“We might impress them more if we waited for some of your engineers and Rough Riders to show up.”
“Time is a precious commodity,” answered Roosevelt. “I have never believed in wasting it.” He paused. “Bill Taft will almost certainly run for re-election in 1912. I’d like to make him a gift of the Congo as an American protectorate before he leaves office.”
“You expect to civilize this whole country in six years?” asked Boyes in amused disbelief.
“Why not?” answered Roosevelt seriously. “God made the whole world in just six days, didn’t He?”
They remained in camp for two days, with Roosevelt becoming more and more restless to begin his vast undertaking. Finally he convinced Boyes to trek across the mountain range, and a week later they set up a base camp on the eastern border of the Belgian Congo.
The ex-President was overflowing with energy. When Boyes would awaken at sunrise, Roosevelt had already written ten or twelve pages, and was undergoing his daily regimen of vigorous exercise. By nine in the morning he was too restless to remain in camp, and he would take a tracker and a bearer out to hunt some game for the pot. In the heat of the day, while Boyes and the porters slept in the shade, Roosevelt sat in a canvas chair beside his tent, reading from the 60-volume library that accompanied him everywhere. By late afternoon it was time for a long walk and an hour of serious bird-watching, followed by still more writing and then dinner. And always, as he sat beside the fire with Boyes and those poachers who had begun making their way to the base camp, he would speak for hours, firing them with his vision for the Congo and discussing how best to accomplish it. Then, somewhere between nine and ten at night, everyone would go off to bed, and while the others slept, Roosevelt’s tent was always aglow with lantern light as he read for another hour.
Boyes decided that if Roosevelt weren’t given something substantial to do he might spontaneously combust with nervous energy. Therefore, since 33 members of his little company had already arrived, he broke camp and assumed that the remaining 15 to 20 men would be able to follow their trail.
They spent two days tracking down a large bull elephant and his young askaris, came away with fourteen tusks, six of them quite large, and then marched them 20 miles north to a Belgian outpost. They traded the tusks for seven blooded horses, left three of their party behind to acquire more ivory and trade it for the necessary number of horses, and then headed south into Mangbetu country.
They were quite a group. There was Deaf Banks, who had lost his hearing from proximity to repeated elephant gun explosions, but had refused to quit Africa or even leave the bush, and had shot more than 500 elephants. There was Bill Buckley, a burly Englishman who had given up his gold mine in Rhodesia for the white gold he found further north. There was Mickey Norton, who had spent a grand total of three days in cities during the past twenty years. There was Charlie Ross, who had left his native Australia to become a Canadian Mountie, then decided that the life was too tame and emigrated to Africa. There was Billy Pickering, who had already served two sentences in Belgian jails for ivory poaching, and had his own notions concerning how to civilize the Congo. There were William and Richard Brittlebanks, brothers who had found hunting in the Klondike to be too cold for their taste, and had been poaching ivory in the Sudan for the better part of a decade. There was even an American, Yank Rogers, one of Roosevelt’s former Rough Riders, who had no use for the British or the Belgians, but joined up the moment he heard that his beloved Teddy was looking for volunteers. Only the fabled Karamojo Bell, who had just killed his 962nd elephant and was eager to finally bag his thousandth, refused to leave the Lado.
It was understood from the start that Boyes was Roosevelt’s lieutenant, and the few who choose to argue the point soon found out just how much strength and determination lay hidden within his scrawny, five foot two inch body. After a pair of fist fights and a threatened pistol duel, which Roosevelt himself had to break up, the chain of command was never again challenged.
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.”