by Mike Resnick
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 crisscross 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 turned 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.”
“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.
X.
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 tribe 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.
* * *<
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“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?”
“It’s 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.”