The Other Teddy Roosevelts

by Mike Resnick

  “Is he sending anything at all?” asked Boyes.

  “I requested ten thousand men, and he’s sending six hundred!” said Roosevelt furiously. “I told him I needed at least twenty million dollars to build roads and extend the railroad from Uganda, and he’s offered three million. Three million dollars for a country a third the size of the United States! Damn the man! J. P. Morgan may be a scoundrel and a brigand, but he would recognize an opportunity like this and pounce on it, I’ll guarantee you that!” He paused and suddenly nodded his head vigorously. “By God, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll wire Morgan this afternoon!”

  “I thought he was your mortal enemy,” remarked Boyes. “At least, that’s the way it sounds whenever you mention him.”

  “Nonsense!” said Roosevelt. “We were on different sides of the political fence, but he’s a competent man, which is more than I can say for the idiot sitting in the White House.” Roosevelt grinned. “And he loves railroads. Yes, I’ll wire him this afternoon.”

  “Are we refusing President Taft’s offer, then?”

  “Certainly not. We need all the manpower and money we can get. I’ll wire our acceptance, and send off some telegrams to a few sympathetic newspaper publishers telling them what short shrift we’re getting from Washington. I can’t put any more pressure on Taft from here, but perhaps they can.” Roosevelt shook his head sadly. “It serves me right for putting a fool in the White House. I tell you, John, if I didn’t have a job to do right here, I’d go back to the States and take the nomination away from him in 1912. The man doesn’t deserve to run a second time.”

  Roosevelt ranted against the “fat fool” in the White House for another fifteen minutes, then retired to his room to draft his telegrams. When he emerged an hour later for lunch, he was once again his usual pleasant, vigorous, optimistic self. Boyes, Bill Buckley, Mickey Norton, Yank Rogers, and Deaf Banks were sitting at a table beneath an ancient tree, and all of them except Banks, who hadn’t heard the ex-President’s approach, stood up as he joined them.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen,” said Roosevelt, pulling up a chair. “What’s on the menu for this afternoon?”

  “Salad and cold guinea hen in some kind of sauce,” answered Norton. “Or that’s what Madame Vincennes told me, anyway.”

  “I love guinea fowl,” enthused Roosevelt. “That will be just bully!” He paused. “Good people, Monsieur and Madame Vincennes. I’m delighted that they offered to be our hosts.” He paused. “This is much more pleasant than being cooped up in those airless little government buildings in Stanleyville.”

  “I hear we got some bad news from your pal Bill Taft,” ventured Rogers.

  “It’s all taken care of,” answered Roosevelt, confidently tapping the pocket that held his telegrams. “The men he’s sending will arrive during the rainy season, anyway—and by the time the rains are over, we’ll have more than enough manpower.” He looked around the table. “It’s time we considered some more immediate problems, gentlemen.”

  “What problems did you have in mind, sir?” asked Buckley, as six black servants approached the table, bearing trays of salad and drinks.

  “We’ve had this country for two months now,” answered Roosevelt. “It’s time we began doing something with it—besides decimating its elephant population, that is,” he added harshly.

  “Well, we could decimate the Belgians that have stayed behind,” said Buckley with an amused smile. “Billy Pickering would like that.”

  “I’m being serious, Mr. Buckley,” said Roosevelt, taking a small crust of bread from his plate and tossing it to a nearby starling, which immediately picked it up and pranced off with it. “What’s the purpose of making the Belgians leave if we don’t improve the lot of the inhabitants? Everywhere we’ve gone we’ve promised to bring the benefits of democracy to the Congo. I think it’s time we started delivering on that promise. The people deserve no less.”

  “Boy!” said Norton to one of the servants. “This coffee’s cold. Go heat it up.”

  The servant nodded, bowed, put the coffee pot back on the tray, and walked toward the kitchen building.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to civilize them when they can’t remember from one day to the next that coffee’s suppose to be served hot and not warm,” said Norton. “And look at the way he’s loafing: it could be hot when he gets it and cold by the time he brings it here.”

  “The natives don’t drink coffee, so it can hardly be considered important to them,” answered Roosevelt.

  “They don’t vote, or hold trial by jury, either,” offered Buckley.

  “Well, if we’re to introduce them to the amenities of civilization, I think that voting and jury trials come well ahead of coffee drinking, Mr. Buckley.”

  “They can’t even read,” said Buckley. “How are you going to teach them to vote?”

  “I plan to set up a public school system throughout the country,” said Roosevelt. “The Belgian missionaries made a start, but they were undermanned and under-financed. In my pocket is a telegram that will appear in more than a thousand American newspapers, an open appeal to teachers and missionaries to come to the Congo and help educate the populace.”

  “That could take years, sir,” noted Boyes.

  “Ten at the most,” answered Roosevelt confidently.

  “How will you pay ‘em, Teddy?” asked Rogers. “Hell, you can’t even pay us.”

  “The missionaries will be paid by their churches, of course,” said Roosevelt. “As for the teachers, I suppose we’ll have to pay them with land initially.”

  “That might not sit too well with the people whose land we’re giving away,” noted Rogers.

  “Yank, if there’s one thing the Congo abounds in, besides insects and humidity, it’s land.”

  “You say it’ll take ten years to educate them,” continued Rogers. “How will you hold elections in the meantime?”

  “By voice,” answered Roosevelt. “Every man and woman will enter the polling place and state his or her preference. As a matter of fact, there will probably be a lot less vote fraud that way.”

  “Did I hear you say that women are going to vote too, Teddy?” asked Yank Rogers.

  “They’re citizens of the Congo, aren’t they?”

  “But they don’t even vote back home!”

  “That’s going to change,” said Roosevelt firmly. “Our founding fathers were wrong not to give women the right to vote, and there’s no reason to make the same mistake here. They’re human beings, the same as us, and they deserve the same rights and privileges.” Suddenly he grinned. “I pity the man who has to tell my Alice that she can’t cast her vote at the polls. There won’t be enough of him left to bury!”

  “You know, we could raise money with a hut tax,” suggested Buckley. “That’s what the British have done wherever they’ve had an African colony.”

  “A hut tax?” asked Roosevelt.

  Buckley nodded. “Tax every native ten or twenty shillings a year for each hut he erects. It not only raises money for the treasury, but it forces them to be something more than subsistence farmers, since they need money to pay the tax.”

  Roosevelt shook his head adamantly. “We’re supposed to be freeing them, Mr. Buckley, not enslaving them.”

  “Besides,” added Boyes, “it never worked that well in British East. If they didn’t pay their hut tax, the government threw them into jail.” He turned to Roosevelt and smiled. “You know what the Kikuyu and Wakamba called the jail in Nairobi? The King Georgi Hoteli. It was the only place they knew of where they could get three square meals a day and a free roof over their heads.” He chuckled at the memory. “Once word of it got out, they were lining up to get thrown in jail.”

  “Well, there will be no such attempt to exploit the natives of the Congo,” said Roosevelt. “We must always remember that this is their country and that our duty is to teach them the ways of democracy.”

  “That may be easier said than done,” said Rogers.
/>   “Why should you think so, Yank?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Democracy’s a pretty alien concept to them,” answered Rogers. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

  “It was an alien concept to young Booker T. Washington and George Washington Carver, too,” said Roosevelt, “but they seem to have adapted to it readily enough. It’s never difficult to get used to freedom.”

  “We ain’t talking freedom, Teddy,” said Rogers. “They were free for thousands of years before the Belgians showed up, but they ain’t never had a democracy. Their tribes are ruled by chiefs and witch doctors, not congressmen.”

  “And now that the Belgians are clearing out,” added Norton, “our biggest problem is going to be to stop them from killing each other long enough to get to the polls.”

  “All of you keep predicting the most dire consequences,” said Roosevelt irritably, “and yet you ignore the enormous strides the American Negro has taken since the Emancipation Proclamation. I tell you, gentleman, that freedom has no color and democracy is not the special province of one race.”

  Boyes smiled, and Buckley turned to him.

  “What are you looking so amused about, John? You’ve been here long enough to know everything we’ve said is the truth.”

  “You all think you’re discouraging Mr. Roosevelt, and that if you tell him enough stories about how savage the natives are, maybe you’ll convince him to join you long enough to kill every last elephant in the Congo and then go back to Nairobi.” Boyes paused. “But I know him a little better than you do, and if there’s one thing he can’t resist, it’s a challenge.” He turned to Roosevelt. “Am I right, sir?”

  Roosevelt grinned back at him. “Absolutely, Mr. Boyes.” He looked around at his companions. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “I’ve heard enough doomsaying for one day. It’s time to roll up our sleeves and get to work.”

  9

  Roosevelt stared at his image in the full-length ornate gilt mirror that adorned the parlor of the state house at Stanleyville, and adjusted the tie of his morning suit.

  “Good thing that little German tailor decided not to leave,” he remarked to Boyes, who was similarly clad, “or we’d be conducting matters of state in our safari clothes.”

  “I’d be a damned sight more comfortable in them,” replied Boyes, checking his appearance in the mirror, and deciding that his hair needed more combing.

  “Nonsense, John,” said Roosevelt. “We’ve got reporters and photographers from all over the world here.”

  “Personally, I’d much rather face a charging elephant,” said Boyes, looking out the window. “I don’t like crowds.”

  Roosevelt smiled. “I’d forgotten just how much I miss them.” He put on his top hat and walked to the door. “Well, we might as well begin.”

  Boyes, unhappy and uncomfortable, and feeling quite naked without his pistol and rifle, followed the American out the front door to the raised wooden platform that had been constructed in front of the state house the previous day. The press was there, as Roosevelt had said: reporters and photographers from America, Belgium, England, France, Italy, Portugal, Kenya, and even a pair of Orientals had made the long, arduous trek to Stanleyville to hear this speech and record the moment for posterity. Seated on the front row of chairs, in a section reserved for VIPs and dignitaries, were the paramount chiefs of the Mangbetu, the Simba, the Mongo, the Luba, the Bwaka, the Zande, and the Kongo (which centuries ago had given the country its name). There was even a pair of pygmy chiefs, one who whom was completely naked except for a loincloth, a pair of earrings, and a necklace made of leopards’ claws, while the other wore a suit that could have been tailored on Saville Row.

  The crowd, some six hundred strong, and divided almost equally between whites and black Africans, immediately ceased its chattering when Roosevelt mounted the platform and waited in polite expectation while he walked to a podium and pulled some notes out of his pocket.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I thank you for your attendance and patience. I realize that, with our transportation system not yet constructed, you may have had some slight difficulty in reaching Stanleyville”—he paused for the good- natured laughter that he knew would follow—”but you’re here now, and we’re delighted to have you as the guests of our new nation.”

  He paused, pulled a brand-new handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped away the sweat that had begun pouring down his face.

  “We are here to proclaim the sovereignty of this beautiful land. Some years ago it was known as the Congo Free State. At the time, that was a misnomer, for it was anything but free. Today it is no longer a misnomer, and so it shall once again be known as the Congo Free State, an independent nation dedicated to the preservation of human dignity and the celebration of human endeavor.”

  A pair of blue turracoes began shrieking in a nearby tree, and he smiled and waited a few seconds until the noise had subsided.

  “What’s past is past,” he continued, “and the Congo Free State begins life with a clean slate. It bears no rancor toward any person or any nation that may have exploited its resources and its people in the past. But”—and here Roosevelt’s chin jutted out pugnaciously—“this land will never be plundered or exploited again.” He stared darkly out at his audience. “Never again will a privileged minority impose its will upon the majority. Never again will one tribe bear arms against another. Never again will women do most of the work and reap none of the benefits. And never again will the dreadful spectres of ignorance, poverty and disease run rampant in what Henry Stanley termed Darkest Africa.” He raised his voice dramatically. “From this day forward, we shall illuminate the Congo Free State with the light of democracy, and turn it into the exemplar of Brightest Africa!”

  Roosevelt paused long enough for his words to be translated, then smiled and nodded as the row of chiefs rose to their feet and cheered wildly, followed, somewhat less enthusiastically, by the Europeans.

  “Thank you, my friends,” he continued when the chiefs finally sat down. “We who have been fortunate enough to help in the birth of the Congo Free State have great plans for its future.” He smiled triumphantly. “Great plans, indeed!” he repeated emphatically.

  “Within two years, we will extend the East African Railway from its present terminus in Uganda all the way to Stanleyville, and within another year to Leopoldville. This will give us access to the Indian Ocean, as the Congo River gives us access to the Atlantic, and with the modern farming methods we plan to introduce, we will shortly be shipping exports in great quantity to both coasts.”

  There was more applause, a little less rabid this time, as most of the chiefs had only the haziest understanding of an economy that extended beyond their own tribes.

  “We will construct public schools throughout the country,” Roosevelt added. “Our goal is nothing less than 100% literacy by the year 1930.”

  This time the applause came only from the chiefs, as the whites in the audience looked openly skeptical.

  “We will soon begin the construction of modern hospitals in every major city in the Congo Free State,” continued Roosevelt, “and no citizen shall ever again want for medical care. American engineers will build dams the length of the Congo River, so that we can generate all the electricity that a modern nation will need. While leaving vast tracts of land untouched as national parks and game reserves, we will nonetheless criss-cross the country with a network of roads, so that no village, no matter how remote, remains inaccessible.”

  He paused and glared at the disbelieving white faces in his audience.

  “We will do everything I have said,” he concluded. “And we will do it sooner than you think!”

  The assembled chiefs began cheering and jumping around in their enthusiasm, and the remainder of the audience, sensing that he had concluded the major part of his address, applauded politely. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will all rise, we will, for the very first time, raise the flag of the Congo Free State.” He turne
d to Boyes. “Mr. Boyes?”

  Boyes withdrew the folded flag that he had been carrying inside his morning coat, waited for an honor guard of khaki-clad native soldiers to approach, and solemnly handed the flag over to their leader. The soldiers then marched to a recently-erected flagpole near the platform, and began raising a banner that depicted the colorful shields of twenty of the major tribes arranged in a pattern on a field of green, while Yank Rogers, who had been unable to create a national anthem on two days notice, played a military march on his ancient bugle. Roosevelt stood at attention and saluted, Boyes and the chiefs followed suit, and the reporters, politicians, and dignitaries were quick to rise to their feet as well.

  When the flag had been raised and the rope secured at the base of the flagpole, Roosevelt faced the crowd once more.

  “I have been selected, by the unanimous consent of the tribes that are represented here today, to draft and implement a democratic constitution for the Congo Free State. During this time I shall hold the office of Chief Administrator, an office that will be abolished when the first national election is held one year from today. At that time all the people of the Congo Free State, regardless of race or gender, will choose their own President and legislature, and their destiny will finally be in their own hands.”

  He stared out at the audience.

  “I thank you for your attendance at this historic ceremony. Lunch will be provided for everyone on the lawn, and I will be available for interviews throughout the afternoon.”

  He climbed down from the platform to one last round of applause, finally allowed them a look at the famed Roosevelt grin, waited for Boyes to join him, and disappeared into the interior of the state house.

  “How was I, John?” he asked anxiously.

  “I thought you were excellent, Mr. President,” answered Boyes truthfully.

  “Mr. Chief Administrator, you mean,” Roosevelt corrected him. Suddenly he smiled. “Although by this time you certainly know me well enough to call me Teddy. Everyone else does.”