By their eighth day in Mangbetu country the remainder of their party had caught up with them, bringing enough horses so that all 53 men were mounted. Boyes assigned rotating shifts to construct camps, cook, and hunt for meat, and Roosevelt spent every spare minute trying to master Swahili. He forbade anyone to speak to him in English, and within two weeks he was able to make himself understood to the Mangbetu, although it was another month before he could discuss his visions of a democratic Congo without the aid of a translator.
“A wonderful people!” he exclaimed one night as he, Boyes, Charlie Ross and Billy Pickering sat by one of the campfires, after having enlisted yet another two thousand Mangbetu to their cause. “Clean, bright, willing to listen to new ideas. I have high hopes for our crusade, John.”
Boyes threw a stone at a pair of hyenas that had been attracted by the smell of the impala they had eaten for dinner, and they raced off into the darkness, yelping and giggling.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Everything’s gone smoothly so far, but…”
“But what?”
“These people don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. President,” said Boyes bluntly.
“I was going to mention that myself,” put in Charlie Ross.
“Certainly they do,” said Roosevelt. “I spent the entire afternoon with Matapoli — that was his name, wasn’t it? — and his elders, explaining how we were going to bring democracy to the Congo. Didn’t you see how enthused they all were?”
“There’s still no word for democracy in Swahili,” answered Boyes. “They probably think it’s something to eat.”
“You underestimate them, John.”
“I’ve lived among blacks all my adult life,” replied Boyes. “If anything, I tend to overestimate them.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “The problem is cultural, not racial. In America, we have many Negroes who have become doctors, lawyers, scientists, even politicians. There is nothing a white man can do that a Negro can’t do, given the proper training and opportunity.”
“Maybe American blacks,” said Billy Pickering. “But not Africans.”
Roosevelt chuckled in amusement. “Just where do you think America’s Negroes came from, Mr. Pickering?”
“Not from the Congo, that’s for sure,” said Pickering adamantly. “Maybe West African blacks are different.”
“All men are pretty much the same, if they are given the same opportunities,” said Roosevelt.
“I disagree,” said Boyes. “I became the King of the Kikuyu, and you’re probably going to become President of the Congo. You don’t see any blacks becoming king or president of white countries, do you?”
“Give them time, John, and they will.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You may not live to see it, and I may not,” said Roosevelt. “But one of these days it’s going to happen. Take my word for it.”
A lion coughed about a hundred yards away. Both men ignored it.
“Well, you’re a very learned man, so if you say it’s going to happen, then I suppose it is,” said Boyes. “But I hope you’re also right that I’ll be dead and buried when that happy day occurs.”
“You know,” mused Roosevelt, “maybe I ought to urge some of our American Negroes to come over here. They could become the first generation of congressmen, so to speak.”
“A bunch of your freed slaves set up shop in Liberia a few years back,” noted Charlie Ross. “The first thing they did was to start rounding up all the native Liberians and sell them into slavery.” He snorted contemptuously. “Some democracy.”
“This will be different, Mr. Ross,” responded Roosevelt. “These will be educated American politicians, who also just happen to be Negroes.”
“Their heads would be decorating every village from here to the Sudan a week later,” said Pickering with absolute certainty.
“The Belgians may be oppressing the natives now,” added Boyes, “but as soon as they leave, it’ll be back to tribal warfare as usual.” He paused. “Your democracy is going to have exactly as many political parties as there are tribes, no more and no less, and no tribal member will ever vote for anyone other than a tribal brother.”
“Nonsense!” scoffed Roosevelt. “If that philosophy held true, I’d never have won a single vote outside of my home state of New York.”
“We’re not in America, Mr. President,” responded Boyes.
“I obviously have more faith in these people than you do, John.”
“Maybe that’s because I know them better.”
Suddenly Roosevelt grinned. “Well, it wouldn’t be any fun if it was too easy, would it?”
Boyes smiled wryly. “I think you’re in for a little more fun than you bargained for.”
“God put us here to meet challenges.”
“Oh,” said Charlie Ross. “I was wondering why He put us here.”
“That’s blasphemy, Mr. Ross,” said Roosevelt sternly. “I won’t hear any more of it.”
The men fell silent, and a few moments later, when the fire started dying down, Roosevelt went off to his tent to read.
“He’s biting off more than he can chew, John,” said Billy Pickering when the ex-President was out of earshot.
“Maybe,” said Boyes noncommittally.
“There’s no maybe about it,” said Pickering. “He hasn’t lived with Africans. We have. You know what they’re like.”
“There’s another problem, too, John,” added Ross.
“Oh?” said Boyes.
“I have a feeling he thinks of us as the Rough Riders, all in for the long haul. But the long rains are coming in a couple of months, and I’ve got to get my ivory to Mombasa before then. So do a lot of the others.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Charlie,” said Boyes. “He’s offering us a whole country. There’s not just ivory here; there’s gold and silver and copper as well, and somebody is going to have to administer it. If you leave now, we may not let you come back.”
“You’d stop me?” asked Ross, amused.
“I’ve got no use for deserters,” answered Boyes seriously.
“I never signed any enlistment papers. How can I be a deserter?”
“You can be a deserter by leaving the President when he needs every man he can get.”
“Look, John,” said Ross. “If I thought there was one chance in a hundred that he could pull this off, I’d stay, no question about it. But we’ve all managed to accumulate some ivory, and we’ve had a fine time together, and we haven’t had to fight the Belgians yet. Maybe it’s time to think about pulling out, while we’re still ahead of the game.”
Boyes shook his head. “He’s a great man, Charlie, and he’s capable of great things.”
“Even if he does what he says he’s going to do, do you really want to live in the Congo forever?”
“I’ll live anywhere the pickings are easy,” answered Boyes. “And if you’re smart, so will you.”
“I’ll have to think about it, John,” said Ross, getting up and heading off toward his tent.
“How about you, Billy?” asked Boyes.
“I came here for just one reason,” answered Pickering. “To kill Belgians. We haven’t seen any yet, so I guess I’ll stick around a little longer.” Then he, too, got up and walked away.
The little Yorkshireman remained by the dying embers for a few more minutes, wondering how just much time Roosevelt had before everything fell apart.
Two months into what Roosevelt termed their “bully undertaking” they finally ran into some organized resistance. To nobody’s great surprise, it came not from the various tribes they had been enlisting in their project, but from the Belgian colonial government.