“I hope you’re not surprised.”
“No, but I am disappointed.” Roosevelt sighed. “I’ll simply have to keep explaining to them that they are supposed to vote on the issues and not the tribal connections until they finally understand the principle involved.”
For the first time since they had met, Boyes felt sorry for the American.
“Not guilty?” repeated Roosevelt. “How in the name of pluperfect hell could they come in with a verdict of not guilty?”
He had turned the local theater into a court room, and had spent the better part of a week instructing the members of the Luba and Zande tribes in the intricacies of the jury system. Then he himself had acted as the presiding judge at the Congo Free State’s very first trial by jury, and he was now in his makeshift chambers, barely able to control his fury.
“It was a unanimous decision,” said Charlie Ross, who had acted as bailiff.
“I know it was a unanimous decision, Mr. Ross!” thundered Roosevelt. “What I don’t know is how, in the face of all the evidence, they could come up with it?”
“Why don’t you ask them?” suggested Ross.
“By God, that’s exactly what I’ll do!” said Roosevelt. “Bring them in here, one at a time.”
Ross left the room for about five minutes, during which time Roosevelt tried unsuccessfully to compose himself.
“Sir,” said Ross, re-entering in the company of a tall, slender black man, “this is Tambika, one of the jurors.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ross,” said Roosevelt. He turned to the African. “Mr. Tambika,” he said in heavily-accented Swahili, “I wonder if you could explain your decision to me.”
“Explain it, King Teddy?” asked Tambika, bewildered.
“Please call me Mr. Chief Administrator,” said Roosevelt uncomfortably. He paused. “The man, Toma, was accused of stealing six cows. Four eyewitnesses claimed to see him driving the cows back toward his own home, and Mr. Kalimi showed you a bill of sale he received when he purchased the cows from Toma. There is no question that the cows bore the mark, or brand, of the plaintiff, Mr. Salamaki. Can you please tell me why you found him innocent?”
“Ah, now I understand,” said Tambika with a large smile. “Toma owes me money. How can he pay me if he is in jail?”
“But he broke the law.”
“True,” agreed Tambika.
“Then you must find him guilty.”
“But if I had found him guilty, he would never be able to pay me what he owes me,” protested Tambika. “That is not justice, King Teddy.”
Roosevelt argued with Tambika for another few minutes, then dismissed him and had Ross bring in the next juror, an old man named Begoni. After reciting the evidence again, he put the question to the old man.
“It is very clear,” answered Begoni. “Toma is a Luba, as am I. Salamaki is a Zande. It is impossible for the Luba to commit a crime against the Zande.”
“But that is precisely what he did, Mr. Begoni,” said Roosevelt.
The old man shook his head. “The Zande have been stealing our cattle and our women since God created the world. It is our right to steal them back.”
“The law says otherwise,” Roosevelt pointed out.
“Whose law?” asked the old man, staring at him with no show of fear or awe. “Yours or God’s?”
“If Mr. Toma were a Zande, would you have found him guilty?”
“Certainly,” answered Begoni, as if the question were too ridiculous to consider.
“If Mr. Toma were a Zande and you knew for a fact that he had not stolen the cattle, would you have found him innocent?” asked Roosevelt.
“No.”
“Why?” asked Roosevelt in exasperation.
“There are too many Zande in the world.”
“That will be all, Mr. Begoni.”
“Thank you, Mr. Teddy,” said the old man, walking to the door. He paused for a moment just before leaving. “I like jury trials,” he announced. “It saves much bloodshed.”
“I can’t believe it!” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet and stalking back and forth across the room after the door had closed behind Begoni. “I spent an entire week with these people, explaining how the system works!”
“Are you ready for the next one, sir?” asked Ross.
“No!” snapped Roosevelt. “I already know what he’ll say. Toma’s a tribal brother. Toma can’t pay the bride price for his daughter if we throw him in jail. If a document, such as a bill of sale, implicates a Luba, then it must have been cursed by a Zande witch doctor and cannot be believed.” Roosevelt stopped and turned to Ross. “What is the matter with these people, Charlie? Don’t they understand what I’m trying to do for them?”
“They have their own system of justice, Mr. President,” answered Ross gently.
“I’ve seen that system in action,” said Roosevelt contemptuously. “A witch doctor touches a hot iron to the accused’s tongue. If he cries out, he’s guilty; if he doesn’t, he’s innocent. What kind of system is that, I ask you?”
“One they believe in,” said Ross.
“Well, that’s that,” said Roosevelt grimly, after opening the weekly mail. “Morgan isn’t interested in investing in a railroad.”
“Is there anyone else you can ask?” inquired Boyes.
“Bill Taft is mismanaging the economy. I have a feeling that the people who can afford to invest are feeling exceptionally conservative this year.”
Nevertheless, he wrote another thirty letters that afternoon, each soliciting funds, and mailed them the next morning. He expressed great confidence that the money would soon be forthcoming, but he began making contingency plans for the day, not far off, when construction of the Trans-Congo Railway would be forced to come to a halt.
“What do you mean, you have no more supplies?” demanded Roosevelt. “You had ample track for another five miles, Mr. Brody.”
Brody, a burly American, stood uncomfortably before Roosevelt’s desk, fidgeting with his pith helmet, which he held awkwardly in his huge hands.
“Yes, we did, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Well?”
“Its the natives, sir,” said Brody. “They keep stealing it.”
“Rubbish! What possible use could they have for steel track?”
“You wouldn’t believe the uses they put it to, sir,” answered Brody. “They use it to support their huts, and to make pens for their goats and cattle, and they melt it down for spearheads.”
“Well, then, take it back.”
“We were expressly instructed not to harm any of the natives, sir, and whenever we’ve tried to retrieve our tracks we’ve been threatened with spears, and occasionally even guns. If we can’t take them back by force, they’re going to stay right where they are until they rust.”
“Who’s the headman in your area, Mr. Brody?” asked Roosevelt.
“A Mangbetu named Matapoli.”
“I know him personally,” said Roosevelt, his expression brightening. “Bring him here and perhaps we can get this situation resolved.”
“That could take six weeks, sir — and that’s assuming he’ll come with me.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “That won’t do, Mr. Brody. I can’t pay your men to sit on their hands for six weeks.” He paused, then nodded to himself, his decision made. “I’ll return with you. It’s time I got out among the people again, anyway.”
He summoned Yank Rogers while Brody was getting lunch at a small restaurant down the street.
“What can I do for you, Teddy?” asked the American.
“I’m going to have to go to Mangbetu country, Yank,” answered Roosevelt. “I want you and Mr. Buckley to remain in Stanleyville and keep an eye on things here while I’m gone.”
“What about Boyes?” asked Rogers. “Isn’t that his job?”