A hemisphere away from New York, in the remote wilderness of Brazil, the delayed news of Margaret’s death had an unusually powerful and unsettling impact, casting a pall over the entire expedition that had started in her youthful, vibrant company nearly four months before. Having looked forward to their arrival in Utiarity as one of their last contacts with civilization, and a reason for festivities, Roosevelt’s men found even that small pleasure stolen from them, and quickly forgot any thought of celebration. The men of the Roosevelt-Rondon Scientific Expedition somberly returned their thoughts to the trip before them, and to very real concerns about their own mortality in the months to come.
CHAPTER 8
Hard Choices
HEAVY SHEETS OF RAIN swept over Utiarity the day after Roosevelt reached it, drenching the muddy little village and its population—which was more than doubled by the arrival of the mule train. Even in such a squall, however, the town offered a welcome respite for Roosevelt and his men.
Little more than a clearing in the rough, scrubby forest that surrounded it, Utiarity was divided into two parts. One section was composed of the buildings of the Rondon Commission, and the other, where the Pareci Indians lived, was a set of twelve rectangular huts with steeply pitched palm-thatch roofs held up by roughly hewn wooden poles. In a sense, the village was a triumph of man over nature, having been carved out of the wilderness just a few years earlier by a handful of telegraph line soldiers. But it was a temporary victory at best. Utiarity’s grounds were nothing but forlorn-looking stretches of stone-pocked dirt encircled by a seemingly endless green expanse of trees and vines. Wherever the citizens of Utiarity looked, there was wild nature, waiting to reclaim what was rightfully her own.
The Pareci Indians, who had made their peace with Rondon and his men some years earlier, had been convinced to abandon their nearby forest villages to work at, and help protect, the telegraph station. Unlike the men of the expedition, the Pareci were accustomed to the sweltering heat and driving rain of their native climate, and did not see why the deluge should inhibit their celebrations in honor of the expedition’s presence. Whenever the downpour let up, the Pareci would quickly gather in the square to play a rousing ball game that fascinated their visitors. The ball, which the Pareci made themselves, was a light, hollow sphere of rubber about eight inches in diameter. The players, of whom there were eight or ten on each team, would line up facing one another with the ball on the ground between them. Then, suddenly, to the joy of the small crowd, one player would run into the middle, dive headfirst at the ground, and butt the ball with his head as hard as he could. A player from the other team would then butt the ball back, this time sending it high enough into the air that one of his opponents could catch it on his head, Roosevelt wrote, “with such a swing of his brawny neck, and such precision and address that the ball bounds back through the air as a football soars after a drop-kick.”
The game continued until one player was able to connect with the ball so successfully, never using any part of his anatomy but his head, that it flew high over the heads of his opponents for an obvious and thrilling goal that sent the fans of the winning team into shrill, elated cries of victory. The Americans were impressed by the skill and dexterity of the players, but taken aback by the wild abandon with which they threw themselves headfirst toward the hard, rock-studded ground. “Why they do not grind off their noses I cannot imagine,” Roosevelt marveled.
* * *
AS WELCOME as it was, the distraction offered by the Indians’ enthusiastic games could not outpace the deepening foreboding among the men. With each passing day, it was becoming increasingly clear to Roosevelt that he was going to have to take drastic measures if the expedition hoped to descend—and survive—the River of Doubt.
Even before reaching Tapirapoan, the men had agreed that not all of them would be able to descend the river. While they made their way across the highlands, they had been steadily adding men to their expedition, men who would be indispensable to their safety and the success of their journey. In Tapirapoan alone, they had added 148 camaradas to the contingent of eleven officers. Of greatest importance to the expedition were the additions of Dr. Cajazeira and a man named Lieutenant João Salustiano Lyra. A military engineer and skilled surveyor, Lyra had accompanied Rondon on three of his previous expeditions, including the 1909 journey during which he discovered the River of Doubt, and had helped map large swaths of the Amazon. Although he had come close to losing his life several times while following Rondon, Lyra had never hesitated to venture back into the jungle with his colonel.
It was immediately apparent to everyone in the expedition that the cuts would have to come from within the American contingent, not the Brazilian. The first difficult decision had centered on the two American naturalists, Cherrie and Miller. Although both men were hardworking and experienced explorers, their skills overlapped to a large degree, and having two naturalists was a luxury that the expedition could no longer afford. Only one of the men would continue with the expedition; the other would descend the Gy-Paraná, which Rondon had already mapped but which would offer good opportunities for collecting. This was a less dangerous journey (though not significantly so, judging from the recent drowning deaths of Rondon’s soldiers on the same river), and could be made in a batelão, a large wooden boat with a tree-trunk keel and arched palm-leaf roof, that Rondon had arranged to have sent up the river to meet them. Scientifically, however, it was also much less important than the descent of the wild, unknown River of Doubt, and neither the hardbitten, middle-aged Cherrie nor the ambitious young Miller had much interest in it.
Rather than choose between his two naturalists, Roosevelt had suggested that they draw lots or find some other way to make the decision themselves. After giving the matter some thought, however, Miller had simply fallen on his sword. “It seemed to me that, as Cherrie was the older and more experienced man,” he wrote, “he was justly entitled to accompany the colonel on the journey down the new river.” Roosevelt agreed with Miller’s decision, but sought to ease the young man’s disappointment. “When I get back I am anxious to help you send Miller to complete his work around Mount Duida,” he wrote to Osborn. “He ought to have $5,000 for the trip. I will subscribe $1,000, and do my best to help raise the remainder. . .. I wish to give this as a kind of consolation prize to Miller!”
Roosevelt had also concluded that his old friend Father Zahm was not suited to the treacherous passage down the uncharted river. Zahm, like Miller, would continue with the expedition until it reached the River of Doubt, but at that point he would be shunted off to another, less challenging journey. “Father Zahm has now been definitely relegated from the Rio da Duvida trip and goes down the Gy [-P]araná,” Kermit wrote to his mother. Even though the trip had been Zahm’s idea in the first place and, at his age and with his failing health, he was unlikely to return to the Amazon, few members of the expedition shed any tears for him. “All for each, and each for all, is a good motto,” Roosevelt had once written, “but only on condition that each works with might and main to so maintain himself as not to be a burden to others.”
Kermit certainly would not miss the elderly priest. He had thought Zahm unfit for this type of expedition from the moment he met him in Bahia, and this impression had only been confirmed as the expedition progressed. Zahm had “no real harm to him,” Kermit wrote. “He’s just a very commonplace little fool.” Even Roosevelt had placed increasingly less stock in his old friend. “Of our whole expedition every one works hard except good little Father Zahm,” he wrote to Edith. But, though he would not excuse Zahm’s flaws, Roosevelt always treated the priest kindly, never forgetting that he had been one of his few faithful friends in 1912. Throughout the campaign, Zahm had carefully monitored the political pulse of the Catholic laity, and at a time when nearly everyone else was abandoning Roosevelt, he had made it clear that his own support was unwavering. Borrowing from Psalm 44, Zahm had encouraged his friend to “Prospere procede et regna”—proceed p
rosperously and reign. “Win or lose, Father,” Roosevelt had answered, “there are certain friendships I have tested in this campaign . . . and among these friendships is my friendship with you.”
Zahm must have been humiliated to find himself pushed out of the expedition that he had planned to lead with Roosevelt. But, characteristically rebounding, he sought to make the best of it, asserting that the change in plans had actually been his own idea. Indeed, Zahm, the master of self-promotion, could do even better than that. After reaching Manáos, he assured his brother, Albert, he then planned to set off on an expedition that would outshine nearly any other in its feats of exploration. If his health held up, he wrote, he hoped to travel “through the heart of South America from Patagonia to the Caribbean. It will be the first time the trip has ever been made, and will in the estimation of every one that has heard of it be an extraordinary achievement and one that will contribute more towards making the southern continent known to the world than any similar undertaking in South American history. This is the opinion of some of the most eminent men in South America, all of whom are enthusiastic about the enterprising ‘sacerdote Norte Americano,’ as they are pleased to call me.”
Any prospect that Father Zahm might have had for reviving his hopes of glory with his new itinerary, however, was soon undone by his worsening relations with the rest of the men, and his concern for his own comfort. Even now, Father Zahm came up with a new idea for the remainder of his journey with the expedition, and proposed it to Rondon.
Given the discomforts of traveling, the priest explained, the best solution would be for him to ride in a divan chair on the shoulders of four strong Indians. This suggestion seemed straightforward and practical to Zahm. But Roosevelt and Rondon must have been rendered almost speechless by the image of Father Zahm riding across the highlands like Montezuma on the bent backs of his subjects. While the Brazilian colonel kept his composure, he made it perfectly clear to Zahm that no Pareci would submit to such degrading and subservient work.
Surprised that Rondon had recoiled at his suggestion, Father Zahm reassured him that, in Peru, carrying a member of the Roman Catholic clergy in such a fashion was “an honour worth disputing.” “Father Zahm called our attention to the noteworthy fact that such a great difference should exist in the natures of men of an almost identical degree of civilization,” Rondon later wrote, restraining his contempt for Zahm, but just barely. “We, however, did not share in our friend’s astonishment, inasmuch as we consider this and other differences as natural consequences of the methods adopted for the education of the Indians. . .. If we propose to educate men, so that they may incorporate themselves into our midst and become our co-citizens, we have nothing more to do than to persevere in applying the methods up to the present adopted in Brazil: if, however, our intention is to create servants of a restricted and special society, the best road to follow would be the one opened by the Jesuitic teachings.”
When it was clear that Rondon would not relent, Zahm appealed to Roosevelt, a decision that proved to be his undoing. “Indians are meant to carry priests,” he explained to his old friend, “and I have resorted to such transportation several times.” Roosevelt, who was well aware that Rondon was an Indian and a Positivist and had witnessed firsthand the mistreatment of Indians in the Dakota Territories, chose his words carefully before replying to Father Zahm. “But you will not commit such an affront to my dear Colonel Rondon’s principles,” he said in measured tones.
Since the day he had met Rondon on the Paraguay-Brazil border, Roosevelt had gone to great lengths to show his Brazilian co-commander every courtesy and mark of respect that his experience and position, as well as his character, deserved. Not only did Roosevelt admire Rondon’s accomplishments as an explorer and a military man, but he respected his philosophical beliefs. “The colonel’s Positivism was in very fact to him a religion of humanity,” Roosevelt wrote, “a creed which bade him be just and kindly and useful to his fellow men, to live his life bravely, and no less bravely to face death, without reference to what he believed, or did not believe, or to what the unknown hereafter might hold for him.”
Roosevelt also insisted that he and Rondon be treated as equals in every way. One night during their overland journey, as the men sat on the damp ground around their oxhide dinner table, Rondon had ceremoniously produced two chairs: one for Roosevelt and the other for Father Zahm. Zahm surely welcomed the simple luxury, but Roosevelt refused to take a seat unless Rondon also had a chair. “Mr. Roosevelt positively declared to me, that as long as he was in the wilderness he would accept nothing, and do nothing, that might have an appearance of special attention to his person,” Rondon recalled. “And consequently just as he saw me sit so would he sit himself.”
Father Zahm, however, apparently did not have the same qualms about demanding special treatment. Finally, after what Rondon described as a heated exchange over Zahm’s request to be carried in a divan chair, Roosevelt invited the priest to step into his tent. By the time the two men reappeared, Zahm was on his way home. “Since you cannot ride a horse,” Roosevelt told him, “you will go back to Tapirapoan, accompanied by Sigg.”
No one was happier to hear the news of Zahm’s departure than Kermit. “Father Zahm is being sent back from here,” he wrote Belle. “He showed him[self] so completely incompetent and selfish that he got on everyone’s nerves, and then he tried a couple of things that made it easy to send him back.”
The next day, Roosevelt sat down with a blank piece of paper and, aware that his friend would arrive home ahead of him, took the unusual step of handwriting a brief but formal record of Zahm’s dismissal, which everyone but the camaradas signed.
Utiarity
Feb. 1st 1914
Every member of the expedition has told me that in his opinion it is essential to the success and well being of the expedition that Father Zahm should at once leave it and return to the settled country.
Theodore Roosevelt
The above statement is correct.
Candido Mar. Rondon Jacob Sigg
Leo E. Miller Euzebio Paul
J. S. Lyra L. Oliveira
Geo K. Cherrie Anthony Fiala
José A. Cajazeira Kermit Roosevelt
Even Sigg, whom Zahm had hired and whose fate was tied to the priest’s, stepped forward to sign the document.
* * *
AFTER LEAVING Utiarity, the mule train resumed its grueling progress toward the headwaters of the River of Doubt, adhering closely to the crude trail blazed by the Rondon Commission. An astronomical effort had gone into simply erecting the poles that supported the telegraph line. First a team of about twenty men would map the area, cutting down and stripping the branches from trees deemed straight and tall enough to hold up their raw copper wires. Then an oxcart would deliver a newly dismembered tree to the eight men whose job it was to erect the telegraph pole. Two men would slip a rope around the pole and then strain to pull it toward them from one side, while the other six men struggled to lift the pole from the opposite direction. It was dirty, exhausting work that was usually done in blazing heat or a thunderous downpour, and on an empty stomach.
Following in the path of the telegraph builders, Roosevelt and his men were spared the exhausting and often deadly toil that had gone into building the lines, but even so their progress was still painfully slow and their daily routine was defined by the same strict military regimentation and discipline that were the hallmark of all Rondon’s explorations. Every morning the men were startled out of their sleep by a sharp bugle. As they awoke, Juan, a black camarada whom Miller described as being “as big-hearted and obliging as he was tall and powerful,” would duck his head into their tent with a pot full of coffee, which he poured, black and steaming, into aluminum cups.
In the tender light of the early morning, the camaradas would saddle their mules so that they would be ready to ride as soon as the officers finished their breakfast. Roosevelt would usually try to duck away at this time, to get in some wr
iting before the long day’s ride began. This was often his only opportunity to work on the series of articles he was writing for Scribner’s magazine: Once the men mounted their mules, they did not stop until late in the afternoon, and then usually had to wait four or five hours more for the mule train to arrive with their baggage.
Before they left camp each morning, Rondon would announce how many kilometers they would ride that day. There were eleven telegraph line poles per kilometer, and a consecutive number had been carved onto each pole, so, by watching the poles pass by, the men could easily estimate how far they had to go until they reached the next campsite. Even a short day, however, could seem unbearably long. Kermit had developed sores on his legs, and they became so inflamed that at one point he had to spend almost an entire day standing straight up in his stirrups. Early in the overland journey, Cherrie had driven a palm thorn into one of his legs, and the point remained buried a half-inch deep in the muscle, partially paralyzing his foot. They were all tormented by hordes of gnats, sand flies, horseflies, and small, stingless bees that the Brazilians call lambe-olho, or “eye lickers.” These bees swarmed around their hands and faces, congregating at the corners of their eyes and buzzing about their lips with maddening persistence. Not even the most thundering swat would dissuade them. As described by H. M. Tomlinson, who had traveled through the Amazon in 1909 and 1910, and had suffered their ceaseless attentions, the stingless bees preferred “death to being dislodged from [their] enjoyment.”
The most difficult part of every day’s ride, however, was the rain, which had begun mildly enough at the beginning of their journey but was now falling, Kermit wrote his mother, “mournfully, dismally, and ceaselessly; in a sort of hopeless insistent way.” Their mules slipped and stumbled in the slick, thickening mud, and collecting specimens for the museum had become, Cherrie complained, “a practical impossibility.” One day, the Americans and the Brazilian officers were obliged to stand, without shelter of any kind, for hours in a heavy downpour while they waited for the mule train to arrive with their tents. “Everything became mouldy,” Roosevelt wrote, “except what became rusty.”
The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey Page 11