by Mike Resnick
“I think I prefer Mr. President,” replied Boyes. “I’m used to it.”
Roosevelt shrugged, then looked out the window as the crowd began lining up at the long buffet tables.
“They don’t think I can do it, do they, John?”
“No, sir, they don’t,” answered Boyes honestly.
“Well, they’d be correct if I applied their outmoded methods,” said Roosevelt. He drew himself up to his full height. “However, this is a new century. We have new technologies, new methods, and new outlooks.”
“But this is an old country,” said Boyes.
“What is that supposed to mean, John?”
“Just that it might not be ready for your new approach, Mr. President.”
“You saw the chiefs out there, John,” said Roosevelt. “They’re my strongest supporters.”
“It’s in their best interest to be,” said Boyes. “After all, you’ve promised them the moon.”
“And I’ll deliver it,” said Roosevelt resolutely.
10
Boyes walked into the state house and was ushered into Roosevelt’s office.
“Where have you been, John?” asked Roosevelt. “I expected you back three days ago.”
“It took a little longer than I thought to set up my trading company,” answered Boyes. “But if your laborers ever arrive, at least they won’t starve to death. I’ve got commitments for flour and meat.”
“What are you trading for them?”
“Iodine,” answered Boyes. “That’s what took me so long. My shipment was late arriving from Nairobi.”
“Iodine?” repeated Roosevelt, curious.
Boyes smiled. “There are some infections even a witch doctor can’t cure.” He sat down in a leather chair opposite Roosevelt’s desk, looking quite pleased with himself. “An ounce of iodine for thirty pounds of flour or one hundred pounds of meat.”
“That’s immoral, John. Those people need that medication.”
“Our people will need that food,” answered Boyes.
“My hospitals will put you out of business,” said Roosevelt sternly. “We will never withhold treatment despite a patient’s inability to pay for it.”
“When you build your hospitals, I’ll find something else to trade them,” said Boyes with a shrug. He decided to change the subject. “I hear you held your first local election while I was gone. How did it go?”
“I would call it a limited success.”
“Oh?”
“It was a trial run, so to speak,” said Roosevelt. “We selected a district at random and tried to show them how an election works.” He paused. “We had a turnout of almost ninety percent, which is certainly very promising.”
“Let me guess about the unpromising part,” said Boyes. “Your candidates didn’t get a single crossover vote.”
Roosevelt nodded his head grimly. “The vote went one hundred percent along tribal lines.”
“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?”
&n
bsp; “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?”
“John will be accompanying me,” answered Roosevelt. “The Mangbetu seem to be very fond of him.”
“They’re equally fond of you, Teddy.”
“I enjoy his company,” said Roosevelt. He smiled wryly. “I’ll also find it comforting to know that the state house hasn’t been sold to the highest bidder in my absence.”
***
“John,” remarked Roosevelt, as he and Boyes sat beside a campfire, “have you noticed that we haven’t seen any elephant sign in more than a week now?”
The horses started whinnying as the wind brought the scent of lion and hyena to them.
“Perhaps they’ve migrated to the west,” said Boyes.
“Come on, John,” said Roosevelt. “I’m not as old a hand at this as you are, but I know when an area’s been shot out.”
“We’ve shipped a lot of ivory to Mombasa and Zanzibar during the past year,” said Boyes.
“I didn’t mind our men making a little money on the side, John, but I won’t have them decimating the herds.”
“They’ve been more than a year without a paycheck,” answered Boyes seriously. “If you tell them they have to stop hunting ivory, I doubt that more than a dozen of them will stay in he Congo.”
“Then we’ll have to make do without their services,” said Roosevelt. “The elephants belong to the people of the Congo Free State now. We’ve got to start a game department and charge for hunting licenses while there’s still something left to hunt.”
“If you say so,” replied Boyes.
Roosevelt stared long and hard at him. “Will you be one of the ones who leaves, John?”
Boyes shook his head. “I’m the one who talked you into this in the first place, Mr. President,” he answered. “I’ll stay as long as you do.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’ve made more than my share of money off the ivory anyway, and I suppose we really ought to stop while there are still some elephants left. I was just pointing out the consequences of abolishing poaching.”
“Then start passing the word as soon as we get back,” said Roosevelt. Suddenly he frowned. “That’s funny.”
“What is, sir?”
“I felt very dizzy for just a moment there.” He shrugged. “I’m sure it will pass.”
But it didn’t, and that night the ex-President came down with malaria. Boyes tended to him and nursed him back to health, but another week had been wasted, and Roosevelt had the distinct feeling that he didn’t have too many of them left to put the country on the right track.
***
“Ah, my friend Johnny—and King Teddy!” Matapoli greeted them with a huge smile of welcome. “You honor my village with your presence.”
“Your village has changed since the last time we were here,” noted Boyes wryly.
Matapoli pointed proudly to the five railroad coach cars that his men had dragged miles through the bush over a period of months, and which now housed his immediate family and the families of four of the tribe’s elders.
“Oh, yes,” he said happily. “King Teddy promised us democracy, and he kept his promise.” He pointed to one of the cars. “My democracy is the finest of all! Come join me inside it.”
Roosevelt and Boyes exchanged ironic glances and followed Matapoli into the coach car, which was filled with some twenty or so of his children.
“King Teddy has returned!” enthused the Mangbetu chief. “We must have a hunt in the forest and have a feast in your honor.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Matapoli,” said Roosevelt. “But it has been many months since we last saw each other. Let us talk together first.”
“Yes, that would be very good,” agreed Matapoli, puffing out his chest as the children recognized the two visitors and raced off to inform the rest of the village.
“Just how many children do you have?” asked Roosevelt.
Matapoli paused in thought for a moment. “Ten, and ten more, and then seven,” he answered.
“And how many wives?”
“Five.”
The puritanical American tried without success to hide his disapproval. “That’s a very large family, Matapoli.”
“Should be more, should be more,” admitted the Mangbetu. “But it took many months to bring the democracies here.”
“Had you left them on the track, you could have traveled all across the country on them,” Boyes pointed out.
Matapoli threw back his head and laughed. “Why should I want to go to Lulua or Bwaka country?” he asked. “They would just kill me and take my democracies for themselves.”
“Please try to understand, Matapoli,” said Roosevelt. “There are no longer Mangbetu or Lulua or Bwaka countries. There is just the Congo Free State, and you all live in it.”
“You are king of all the countries, King Teddy,” answered Matapoli. “You need have no fear. If the Bwaka say that you are not, then we shall kill them.”
Roosevelt spent the next ten minutes trying to explain the Congo Free State to Matapoli, who was no closer to comprehending it at the end of the discussion than at the beginning.
“All right,” said the American with a sigh of resignation. “Let’s get back to talking about the trains.”
>
“Trains?” repeated Matapoli.
“The democracies, and the steel logs they rolled upon,” interjected Boyes.
“Another gift from King Teddy,” said Matapoli enthusiastically. “No longer can the leopards and the hyenas break through the thorns and kill my cattle. Now I use the metal thorns, and my animals are safe.”
“The metal thorns were built so that you and the other Mangbetu could travel many miles without having to walk,” said Roosevelt.
“Why should we wish to go many miles?” asked Matapoli, honestly puzzled. “The river runs beside the village, and the forest and its game are just a short walk away.”
“You might wish to visit another tribe.”
Matapoli smiled. “How could we sneak up on our enemies in the democracies? They are too large, and they would make too much noise when they rolled upon the iron thorns.” He shook his head. “No, King Teddy, they are much better right here, where we can put them to use.”
Long after the feast was over and Roosevelt and Boyes were riding their horses back toward Stanleyville, Roosevelt, who had been replaying the frustrating day over and over in his mind, finally sighed and muttered: “By God, that probably is the best use they could have been put to!”
Boyes found the remark highly amusing, and burst into laughter. A moment later Roosevelt joined him with a hearty laugh of his own, and that was the official end of the Trans-Congo Railway.
***
They came to a newly-paved road when they were fifteen miles out of Stanleyville and, glad to finally be free of the bush and the forest, they veered their mounts onto it. As they continued their journey, they passed dozens of men and women walking alongside the road.
“Why don’t they walk on it, John?” asked Roosevelt curiously. “There can’t be fifteen trucks in the whole of the Congo. Until we import some more, we might as well put the roads to some use.”
“They’re barefoot,” Boyes pointed out.
“So what? The road is a lot smoother than the rocks alongside it.”
“It’s also a lot hotter,” answered Boyes. “By high noon you could fry an egg on it.”
“You mean we’ve spent a million dollars on roads for which there not only aren’t any cars and trucks, but that the people can’t even walk on?”