by Mike Resnick
In his splendid “Bully!” Mike Resnick imagines Roosevelt’s magnificent effort to bring what he saw as the benefits of American civilization to the Belgian Congo, its enormous natural resources, and its equally enormous mosaic of squabbling tribes. There is a Kipling poem, “The Naulahka,” with the mournful lines
“And the end of the fight is a tombstone white
with the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear: ‘A Fool lies here
Who tried to hustle the East.’”
How Teddy Roosevelt became that Fool, and what happened to him during and afterwards, is the thesis of “Bully!”
What’s most interesting, as Mike Resnick documents, is how close this came to really happening. Roosevelt thought hard about staying in Africa in 1910. In the end, he decided not to. If he’d decided otherwise…Well, thinking about what might have sprung from his deciding otherwise is why we play the game of alternate history to begin with.
And Mike does it with what looks like effortless ease. Work that looks effortless, of course, is commonly anything but—it’s a very hard special effect to pull off. But Mike has several unfair advantages. First and foremost, he’s a fine, fine writer. He also has a thorough understanding of the people he’s writing about, which isn’t quite the same thing, though it’s related. And, finally, he has seen big stretches of the territory he’s writing about, which gives an immediacy you can’t get any other way.
It’s easy to understand why “Bully!” was a Hugo and Nebula finalist. It truly is a story that lives up to its name.
I have always considered Theodore Roosevelt the most fascinating and accomplished of all Americans. His life speaks for itself: ornithologist, taxidermist, boxer, naturalist, rancher, cowboy, bestselling author, police commissioner, Rough Rider, Governor of New York, President, African hunter, Brazilian explorer. Just remarkable.
I had written some science fictional allegories about Africa, and at one convention I heard two self-important young men pontificating on a panel that Africa’s current woes were because it had been colonized by Europeans rather than by Americans who would bring American democracy and know-how to the continent.
Now it just so happened that another of my favorite historical characters, John Boyes, was poaching elephants in Uganda’s Lado Enclave when Roosevelt’s safari passed through there, and he offered to put a team of fifty hardened hunters under Roosevelt’s command if the ex-President would be interested in bringing Western civilization to the Congo.
Roosevelt declined, but I got to thinking about how he might have gone about it, and finally I wrote “Bully!”, which was both a Hugo and a Nebula nominee for Best Novella in 1991, and topped the Science Fiction Chronicle Poll as well.
BULLY!
I.
THE DATE WAS JANUARY 8, 1910.
* * *
“At midnight we had stopped at the station of Koba, where we were warmly received by the district commissioner, and where we met half a dozen of the professional elephant hunters, who for the most part make their money, at hazard of their lives, by poaching ivory in the Congo. They are a hard-bit set, these elephant poachers; there are few careers more adventurous, or fraught with more peril, or which make heavier demands upon the daring, the endurance, and the physical hardihood of those who follow them. Elephant hunters face death at every turn, from fever, from the assaults of warlike native tribes, from their conflicts with their giant quarry; and the unending strain on their health and strength is tremendous.”
—Theodore Roosevelt
AFRICAN GAME TRAILS
“…When we were all assembled in my tent and champagne had been served out to everyone except Roosevelt—who insisted on drinking non-intoxicants, though his son Kermit joined us—he raised his glass and gave the toast ‘To the Elephant Poachers of the Lado Enclave.’ As we drank with him one or two of us laughingly protested his bluntness, so he gravely amended his toast to ‘The Gentleman Adventurers of Central Africa’, ‘for,’ he added, ‘that is the title by which you would have been known in Queen Elizabeth’s time.’
“A real man, with the true outdoor spirit, the ex-President’s sympathy with and real envy of the life we were leading grew visibly as the evening advanced; and he finally left us with evident reluctance. I, for one, was shaken by the hand three times as he made for the door on three separate occasions; but each time, after hesitatingly listening to the beginning of some new adventure by one of the boys, he again sat down to hear another page from our every-day life. We even urged him to chuck all his political work and come out like the great white man he was, and join us. If he would do this, we promised to put a force under his command to organize the hunting and pioneering business of Central Africa, and perhaps make history. He was, I believe, deeply moved by this offer; and long afterwards he told a friend that no honor ever paid him had impressed and tempted him like that which he received from the poachers of the Lado Enclave.”
—John Boyes
THE COMPANY OF ADVENTURERS
* * *
Roosevelt walked to the door of the tent, then paused and turned back to face Boyes.
“A force, you say?” he asked thoughtfully, as a lion coughed and a pair of hyenas laughed maniacally in the distance.
“That’s right, Mr. President,” said Boyes, getting to his feet. “I can promise you at least fifty men like ourselves. They may not be much to look at, but they’ll be men who aren’t afraid to work or to fight, and each and every one of them will be loyal to you, sir.”
“Father, it’s getting late,” called Kermit from outside the tent.
“You go along,” said Roosevelt distractedly. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.” He turned back to Boyes. “Fifty men?”
“That’s right, Mr. President.”
“Fifty men to tame the whole of Central Africa?” mused Roosevelt.
Boyes nodded. “That’s right. There’s seven of us right here; we could have the rest assembled inside of two weeks.”
“It’s very tempting,” admitted Roosevelt, trying to suppress a guilty smile. “It would be a chance to be both a boy and a President again.”
“The Congo would make one hell of a private hunting preserve, sir,” said Boyes.
The American was silent for a moment, and finally shook his massive head. “It couldn’t be done,” he said at last. “Not with fifty men.”
“No,” said Boyes. “I suppose not.”
“There are no roads, no telephones, no telegraph lines.” Roosevelt paused, staring at the flickering lanterns that illuminated the interior of the tent. “And the railway ends in Uganda.”
“No access to the sea, either,” agreed Boyes pleasantly, as the lion coughed again and a herd of hippos started bellowing in the nearby river.
“No,” said Roosevelt with finality. “It simply couldn’t be done—not with fifty men, not with five thousand.”
Boyes grinned. “Not a chance in the world.”
“A man would have to be mad to consider it,” said Roosevelt.
“I suppose so, Mr. President,” said Boyes.
Roosevelt nodded his head for emphasis. “Totally, absolutely mad.”
“No question about it,” said Boyes, still grinning at the burly American. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Roosevelt, his teeth flashing as he finally returned Boyes’ grin. “By God, it’ll be bully!”
II.
“Father?”
Roosevelt, sitting on a chair in front of his tent, continued staring through his binoculars.
“Kermit, you’re standing in front of a lilac-breasted roller and a pair of crowned cranes.”
Kermit didn’t move, and finally Roosevelt put his binoculars down on a nearby table. He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and began scribbling furiously.
“Remarkable bird viewing here,” he said as he added the roller and the cranes to his list. “That’s 34 species I’ve seen today, and we haven’t even had breakfast
yet.” He looked up at his son. “I love these chilly Ugandan nights and mornings. They remind me of the Yellowstone. I trust you slept well?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Wonderful climate,” said Roosevelt. “Just wonderful!”
“Father, I’d like to speak to you for a few moments, if I may.”
Roosevelt carefully tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket. “Certainly,” he replied. “What would you like to talk about?”
Kermit looked around, found another canvas chair, carried it over next to his father, and sat down on it.
“This entire enterprise seems ill-conceived, Father.”
Roosevelt seemed amused. “That’s your considered opinion, is it?”
“One man can’t civilize a country half the size of the United States,” continued Kermit. “Not even you.”
“Kermit, when I was twelve years old, the best doctors in the world told me I’d always be underweight and sickly,” said Roosevelt. “But when I was nineteen, I was the lightweight boxing champion of Harvard.”
“I know, Father.”
“Don’t interrupt. People told me I couldn’t write a proper sentence, but I’ve written twenty books, and four of them have been best-sellers. They told me that politics was no place for a young man, but when I was 24 I was Speaker of the House of the New York State Legislature. They told me that law and order had no place in the West, but I went out and single-handedly captured three armed killers in the Dakota Bad Lands during the Winter of the Blue Snow.” Roosevelt paused. “Even my Rough Riders said we couldn’t take San Juan Hill; I took it.” He stared at his son. “So don’t tell me what I can’t do, Kermit.”
“But this isn’t like anything else you’ve done,” persisted Kermit.
“What better reason is there to do it?” said Roosevelt with a delighted grin.
“But—”
“Ex-Presidents are supposed to sit around in their rocking chairs and only come out for parades. Well, I’m 51 years old, and I’m not ready to retire yet. Another opportunity like this may never come along.” Roosevelt gazed off to the west, toward the Congo. “Think of it, Kermit! More than half a million square miles, filled with nothing but animals and savages and a few missionaries. The British and French and Portuguese and Belgians and Italians all have had their chance at this continent; Africa ought to have one country developed by someone who will bring them American know-how and American democracy and American values. We’re a rustic, frontier race ourselves; who better to civilize yet another frontier?” He paused, envisioning a future that was as clear to him as the present. “And think of the natural resources! We’ll turn it into a protectorate, and give it favored nation trading status. There’s lumber here to build thirty million houses, and where we’ve cleared the forests away we’ll create farms and cities. It will be America all over again—only this time there will be no slavery, no genocide practiced against an indigenous people, no slaughter of the buffalo. I’ll use America not as a blueprint, but as a first draft, and I’ll learn from our past mistakes.”
“But it isn’t another America, Father,” said Kermit. “It’s a harsh, savage country, filled with hundreds of tribes whose only experience with white men is slavery.”
“Then they’ll be happy to find a white man who is willing to redress the balance, won’t they?” replied Roosevelt with a confident smile.
“What about the legalities involved?” persisted Kermit. “The Congo is a Belgian colony.”
“They’ve had their chance, and they’ve muddled it badly.” Roosevelt paused. “Suppose you let me worry about the Belgians.”
Kermit seemed about to argue the point, then realized the fruitlessness of further debate. “All right,” he said with a sigh.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” said Kermit. “What do you know about this man Boyes?”
“The man’s a true pioneer,” said Roosevelt admiringly. “He should have been an American.”
Kermit shook his head. “The man’s a scalawag.”
“That’s your conclusion after being wined and dined in his tent for a single evening?”
“No, Father. But while you were taking your morning walk and watching birds, I was talking to some of his companions about him. They thought they were bragging about him, and telling me stories that would impress me—but what I heard gave me a true picture of the man.”
“For example?” asked Roosevelt.
“He’s always in trouble—with the law, with the British army, with the Colonial Office.” Kermit paused. “They’ve tried to deport him from East Africa twice. Did you know that?”
“Certainly I know it,” answered Roosevelt. Suddenly he grinned and pointed to a small book that was on the table next to his binoculars. “I spent most of the night reading his memoirs. Remarkable man!”
“Then you know that the British government arrested him for…” Kermit searched for the word.
“Dacoity?”
Kermit nodded. “Yes.”
“Do you know what it means?” asked his father.
“No,” admitted Kermit.
“In this particular case, it means that he signed a treaty with the Kikuyu and got them to open their land to white settlement, and some higher-up in the Colonial government felt that Mr. Boyes was usurping his authority.” Roosevelt chuckled. “So they sent a squad of six men into Kikuyuland to arrest him, and they found him surrounded by five thousand armed warriors. And since none of the arresting officers cared very much for the odds, Mr. Boyes volunteered to march all the way to Mombasa on his own recognizance.” Roosevelt paused and grinned. “When he walked into court with his five thousand Kikuyu, the case was immediately thrown out.” He laughed. “Now, that’s a story that could have come out of our own Wild West.”
“There were other stories, too, Father,” said Kermit. “Less savory stories.”
“Good,” said Roosevelt. “Then he and I will have something to talk about on the way to the Congo.”
“You know, of course, that he’s the so-called White King of the Kikuyu.”
“And I’m an honorary Indian chief. We have a lot in common.”
“You have nothing in common,” protested Kermit. “You helped our Indians. Boyes became king through deceit and treachery.”
“He walked into a savage kingdom that had never permitted a white man to enter it before, and within two years he became the king of the entire Kikuyu nation. That’s just the kind of man I need for the work at hand.”
“But Father—”
“This is a harsh, savage land, Kermit, and I’m embarking on an enterprise that is neither for the timid nor the weak,” said Roosevelt with finality. “He’s the man I want.”
“You’re certain that you won’t reconsider?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “The subject is closed.”
Kermit stared at his father for a long moment, then sighed in defeat.
“What shall I tell Mother?”
“Edith will understand,” said Roosevelt. “She has always understood. Tell her I’ll send for her as soon as I’ve got a proper place to house us all.” Suddenly he grinned again. “Maybe we should send for your sister Alice immediately. If there’s any native opposition, she can terrify them into submission, just the way she used to do with my Cabinet.”
“I’m being serious, Father.”
“So am I, Kermit. America’s never had an empire, and doesn’t want one—but I made us a world power, and if I can increase our influence on a continent where we’ve yet to gain a foothold, then it’s my duty to do so.”
“And it’ll be such fun,” suggested Kermit knowingly.
Roosevelt flashed his son another grin. “It will be absolutely bully!”
Kermit stared at his father for a moment. “If I can’t talk you out of this enterprise, I wish you’d let me stay here with you.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Someone has to make sure all the trophies we’ve taken get to the American Mus
eum on schedule. Besides, if we both stay here, the press will be sure I died during the safari. You’ve got to go back and tell them about the work I’m doing here.” Suddenly he frowned. “Oh, and you’ll have to see my editor at Scribner’s and tell him that I’ll be a little late on the safari manuscript. I’ll start working on it as soon as we set up a permanent camp.” He paused again. “Oh, yes. Before you woke up this morning, I gave a number of letters to Mr. Cunninghame, who will accompany you for the remainder of the journey. I want you to mail them when you get back to the States. The sooner we get some engineers and heavy equipment over here, the better.”
“Heavy equipment?”
“Certainly. We’ve got a lot of land to clear and a railway to build.” A superb starling walked boldly up to the mess tent, looking for scraps, and Roosevelt instantly withdrew his notebook and began scribbling again.
“The Congo’s in the middle of the continent,” Kermit pointed out. “It will be very difficult to bring in heavy equipment from the coast.”
“Nonsense,” scoffed Roosevelt. “The British disassembled their steamships, transported them in pieces, and then reassembled them on Lake Victoria and Lake Nyasa. Are you suggesting that Americans, who could build the Panama Canal and crisscross an entire continent with railroads, can’t find a way to transport bulldozers and tractors to the Congo?” He paused. “You just see to it that those letters are delivered. The rest will take care of itself.”
Just then Boyes approached them.
“Good morning, Mr. Boyes,” said Roosevelt pleasantly. “Are we ready to leave?”
“We can break camp whenever you wish, Mr. President,” said Boyes. “But one of our natives tells me there’s a bull elephant carrying at least one hundred and thirty pounds a side not five miles from here.”
“Really?” said Roosevelt, standing up excitedly. “Is he certain? I never saw ivory that large in Kenya.”
“This particular boy’s not wrong very often,” answered Boyes. “He says this bull is surrounded by three or four askaris—young males—and that he’s moving southeast. If we were to head off in that direction”—he pointed across the river to an expanse of dry, acacia-studded savannah—“we could probably catch up with him in a little less than three miles.”