CHAPTER 6
With his hands braced upon his narrow hips, Colonel Cândido Rondon stood upon the Dúvida’s riverbank waiting patiently for Paishon and Lieutenant Martin to reposition the last of the seven Nhambiquara canoes to the near shoreline. The two men leaped to shore, and with the help of the other camaradas, lugged the bulky dugout onto dry land.
Paishon climbed the bank, reporting directly to Rondon and Roosevelt. He huffed deeply, speaking to the commanders in broken Portuguese, “Several of the dugouts are in need of serious repair, senhors.” He pointed. “Two are very old, one is small, and one is…” He shook his head. “Let us just say its structure is questionable. But the other three canoes appear to be in workable shape.”
Roosevelt scratched his stubbly chin. “We could have done better, or we might have done worse.”
“Repairable?” Rondon asked.
“Sim, Colonel Rondon, repairable yes.” Paishon motioned with his hands. “The two oldest can be lashed together to make them stronger.”
“For supplies?”
“Yes, for supplies. The others can be patched, almost… good.”
“How long will it take?”
“If we work very hard, senhors, I feel we could launch tomorrow at noon.”
Teddy Roosevelt smiled. “That is certainly grand news, good man. And it should give Amilcar and Miller enough time to meet up with us before we depart. Splendid!”
Rondon nodded. “Yes, these craft are simple, yet they should hold together and fit our needs.”
“And, more importantly,” Roosevelt added. “We will not waste an entire week of the camarada’s time constructing new boats.”
Colonel Rondon thought for a moment. He turned toward the riverbank where the camaradas were scouring the dugouts and discussing needed repairs. “Lieutenant Martin,” he called, motioning forward.
Martin’s head popped up from beside the nearest canoe. Now dressed in civilized shirt and trousers, he strode up the bank, chest forward yet unsmiling.
“Martin,” Rondon said flatly. “I want to commend you on your fine acquisition.”
Roosevelt reached out and grasped Martin’s hand. “Well done, old chap, and a hearty welcome to the expedition.”
Martin nodded politely. “The tribal chieftain at the nearest village was a difficult negotiator, but he finally succumbed to the generous gifts I offered. Let me just add that the craft were not the finest in their fleet by any estimation.”
“Regardless, you have saved the expedition a great deal of time and effort.”
Colonel Rondon motioned back toward the dugouts, waving his finger impatiently. “Well then, go now. We have more than enough work to do and in very little time.”
Theodore Roosevelt caught briefly Rondon’s dubious eye as Martin tromped down the bank to join the other camaradas. It will take a great deal more to convince Rondon to trust the wayward Englishman, Roosevelt pondered. And yet, Rondon can hardly be blamed for his stubborn reluctance, perhaps it will require even more to convince me.
The sun set abruptly beyond the shrouded western skyline, and the camaradas constructed a huge bonfire following a grueling day’s work. Roosevelt sensed a jubilant mood amongst the laborers as they sat around gnawing on fresh oxen-meat and scooping rations of beans and potatoes. To a man, the camaradas patted Lieutenant Martin on the back and exulted praise, a consequence of sparing the workers several extra back-breaking days of hard labor, Roosevelt surmised. Sitting amongst the officers, Roosevelt also sensed Rondon’s private brooding as the Brazilian Colonel watched helplessly while the Englishman’s popularity surged amongst his carefully selected and tightly-knit crew; although Roosevelt knew, without any doubt, the proud commander would never admit to such a blatant insecurity.
Theodore Roosevelt also kept one eye on the lazy and conniving camarada Julio de Lima between swapping stories with Kermit, Cherrie, and the Brazilian officers. Roosevelt noticed that Julio simply kept to himself and apart from the others, which wasn’t particularly unusual in Roosevelt’s eyes, since Julio was never popular amongst the strongly bonded group. And yet the separation between Martin and Julio appeared a bit overdone to Roosevelt, solidifying Teddy’s theory of an ongoing conspiracy of some sort.
Roosevelt, owing primarily to his stint as New York City’s Police Commissioner, delighted in playing sleuth in these types of situations; although he kept his observations to himself so long as the circumstances remained relatively trivial and didn’t endanger their mission. And yet this little affair puzzled the curious former president to no end. Why did Julio not just simply state that he knew and communicated with Martin before the Englishman strolled into their camp at Bonifácio? And why did Martin not mention Julio when he petitioned to join the expedition? And what can be gained by either man continuing this charade?
Teddy searched deeply yet found no immediate and concrete answers. Perhaps Martin is simply embarrassed to be associated with a slug like Julio. And yet, what could a lazy termite like Julio hope to gain by bringing a lonely wanderer on an expedition where he could possibly challenge him for a lucrative job? After the incident with Captain Amilcar, Julio most assuredly would have realized that he would be the first camarada fired if the officers decided to trim excess crew.
Roosevelt’s head spun, realizing he didn’t possess all the pieces necessary to solve this puzzle, and yet he vowed to unravel its layers like a garden-fresh onion. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned mystery, he thought playfully. But for now, Roosevelt would let the whole storyline play out without interference.
With full bellies and light hearts, both officers and crew retired early for the night upon a campsite nestled in the clearing beneath Rondon’s telegraph lines. Before crawling into his tent, Teddy Roosevelt glanced up at the crackling wires, lamenting perhaps the last trace of civilization the expedition would encounter for weeks, if not months, once they set out upon the mysterious waters of the Dúvida, thrusting headlong through the untamed Amazon forest.
The following day began well before dawn for the members of the Roosevelt-Rondon Expedition. By the time the stars began to fade amid brightening skies, every officer and high-ranking member was awake and sipping their second cup of coffee. Roosevelt attributed their rousing ambition to the excitement of beginning a new and perhaps final phase of their arduous mission. Meanwhile, the camaradas swarmed within the forested dimness completing repairs to the dugouts and distributing provisions under Rondon’s and Lyra’s watchful eyes.
By late morning, the dugout canoes were packed and ready for launch. Roosevelt and Cherrie cheered upon the timely arrival of Captain Amilcar and Miller’s Gy-Paraná splinter expedition. The two groups of officers and scientists greeted each other with firm handshakes and fond farewells and good-lucks. With a heavy heart, Theodore Roosevelt bid farewell to his loyal mule, sending the poor creature away to an uncertain fate with Amilcar’s men.
As the sun reached its zenith, the camaradas stood before Rondon and Lyra receiving their assignments. The Englishman Martin, Rondon, and Lyra would take the lead canoe to execute their painstaking surveys and mapping. Kermit Roosevelt would follow Rondon, accompanied by two camarada paddlers. The largest dugout would carry Theodore Roosevelt, Dr. Cajazeira, Cherrie, and three paddlers. The remaining camaradas would guide the supply canoe.
Just before shoving off, Rondon and Roosevelt pulled Martin aside. Colonel Rondon asked, “What obstacles can we expect to encounter during the first few day’s float?”
Martin pointed downstream. “The river is placid for several kilometers. We will encounter our first native group within a few days. There should be signs of their habitation along the way. I hope that I can convince them to let us pass without incident, if they don’t find us first.”
Roosevelt turned to Rondon. “And one last request, senhor Rondon. I would like to have the Portuguese Julio de Lima as bowman on my canoe.” Roosevelt caught briefly a flash of unease amid Lieutenant Martin’s blue eyes.
Roosevelt stood his ground. “That is what I wish.”
Rondon shrugged. “Fine, it shall be done.” Rondon whistled and waved Julio forward to Roosevelt’s canoe.
A short time later, the camaradas shoved the dugouts upon the over-flowing river while Amilcar and Miller stood upon the wooden bridge holding their cameras. With a final wave, Roosevelt settled into the canoe’s center along with Dr. Cajazeira and George Cherrie. And with a final push from their steersman, the creaky vessel launched into the swirling water.
Bending over his notes, Theodore Roosevelt wrote briefly: “12° 1´ latitude south and 60° 15´ longitude west of Greenwich. February 27, 1914, shortly after midday, we started down the River of Doubt into the unknown.”
Watching the narrow bridge disappear from view upon the river’s first bend, Teddy could not help but think: those words are probably the greatest understatement of the young century.
CHAPTER 7
Teddy Roosevelt sat quietly while the dugout skidded softly through the tumbling waters of the swollen Dúvida River. He rested his hands upon his chest and watched an endless wall of green giants stretch for a dreary sky. Roosevelt was struck by the relative stillness of the seemingly impenetrable forest with its sagging vines and broad leaves, its silence broken only occasionally by a distant odd and unidentified call or a solitary fluttering bird. Certainly this was not the Brazil he had dreamed of in his youth, teeming with slithering anacondas, snapping caimans, and colorful birds that filled the skies in never-ending droves.
Below the vessel’s hull, the river swirled effortlessly—shallow and impervious to sunlight and littered with sunken logs that jutted above the current like the spires of a rotting pier. Roosevelt’s steersman, a Mato Grosso native named Luiz, stood tall above the dugout’s stern with his eyes focused on the water searching for an impending rock or a misshapen stump. He frantically dipped his paddle to maneuver port or starboard while Roosevelt took a deep breath and closed his eyes drifting off for a brief nap.
Ahead and upon a left-hand turn in the river, Kermit ordered his canoe to shore for the thirtieth time since taking to the river. He carefully found solid footing and swatted some swarming insects and then pounded his survey rods a meter apart within sight of Lieutenant Lyra’s scope placed five-hundred meters upriver. Roosevelt turned and noticed Colonel Rondon dutifully reading his compass and scribbling in his notebook. Hurriedly, the two groups climbed back in their canoes and moved onward, only to repeat these steps a short way downstream.
Roosevelt and Cherrie grew weary of the survey team’s slow grind as the afternoon wore on, and they notified Rondon of their intent to forge ahead, taking with them the double-wide supply dugout along with its camarada pilots.
And upon the paddler’s powerful strokes, they moved down the river for a few hours before Roosevelt ordered the crewmen to shore and to make camp. With broad swipes of their axes and machetes, the camaradas cleared a patch in the dense underbrush in short order, pitching the officer’s tents on lofty dry land. And soon, a fire crackled at the campsite’s center sending smoke high into the stately trees.
Both Roosevelt and Cherrie sighed with relief when they noticed Rondon’s and Kermit’s canoes round the river’s bend shortly before nightfall. Soon after dragging their canoes to shore, the skies cleared and the stars shone brightly with the appearance of a new moon, and the air cooled.
Roosevelt sat beside the campfire conversing with Lieutenant Lyra. He noticed Julio and Lieutenant Martin continuing their overt—and somewhat suspicious—separation. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking casually, “How has Martin fared with the survey task?”
Rondon shrugged. “He listened to my orders. He kept his mouth shut, and he did what he was told.”
“Good, good.”
“Is there something on your mind, senhor Roosevelt?”
“Oh, no, nothing,” Roosevelt replied.
Retiring to their tents, both Teddy and Kermit Roosevelt fell immediately into a deep and restful sleep.
The survey teams pushed off early the following day. Roosevelt’s canoe remained beached at the campsite while George Cherrie shot and collected an assortment of exotic native birds. Cherrie finished preparing his specimens shortly before noon, and they set out upon the river amid intermittent showers that drenched them to the bone.
The procession of dugouts arrived at their first river confluence a few hours later. A small river merged from the east nearly doubling the Dúvida’s volume, Roosevelt calculated. When they reached their next campsite Colonel Rondon informed Roosevelt that the river was probably the same stream they had crossed ten days earlier on the road to the Bonifácio telegraph station. Colonel Roosevelt asked Martin to confirm this hypothesis and the Englishman concurred quite categorically. Measuring their effort so far, Lieutenant Lyra announced proudly that they had progressed sixteen and a half kilometers along the twisting river on the flotilla’s second day.
Roosevelt and Cherrie woke before dawn on the first day of March. They exited their tent and crept down to the river as the Brazilian wilderness’ pre-dawn nightlife buzzed in their ears. Hurriedly, they stripped to their underwear and tossed their filthy clothing upon the flattened rocks. Roosevelt slipped cautiously into the water, its torrent cool to the touch yet not uncomfortable under the Amazon’s incessant balminess. Roosevelt felt refreshed for the first time in days, wiping away a week’s layer of dirt and grime. Teddy harkened back to the days of his carefree youth, leaping buck-naked into a cool Adirondack lake on a bright and crisp late August morning.
Cherrie laid his rifle on the ground and followed Roosevelt’s lead. He waded into the stream, splashing like a child.
“My word, good man,” Roosevelt said suddenly, “stop that blasted splashing! The piranhas are quite content lying about without a dinner bell to entice them from their nooks.”
George Cherrie laughed heartily, dipping chest deep into the water.
Roosevelt glanced around nervously. “Blasted little finned carnivores…”
Cherrie smiled wryly. “Ah, but Mr. President, the piranha should be the least of your worries while mucking about in the waters of the Amazon. The candiru is a tiny catfish no bigger than a toothpick, yet it is known to invade and parasite the human urethra.”
Roosevelt furrowed his brow. “But how…? How does…?”
“Some say it follows the warmth of a man’s urine stream. Eventually it gets lodged in…” Cherrie smirked and pointed downward.
Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He grabbed his crotch. “Bloody hell.”
Cherrie laughed.
Teddy shook his head and chortled.
The two men waded back to shore and dried the best they could amid the oppressive humidity. They dressed quickly attempting to thwart the ferocious gnats and pesky mosquitoes.
Roosevelt secured his hat and gun. He turned and listened to the soft and familiar sounds of rainfall in the distance. Looking upstream, the storm approached like a monster lumbering though the forest’s canopy. Roosevelt felt the first heavy raindrops moments later.
Cherrie looked to the sky and shook his head.
“How I long to feel truly dry once again,” Roosevelt said. “And yet I feel I will not, until we are safe on the steamship sailing comfortably homeward.”
The camaradas packed up camp amid a torrential downpour. Before pushing away from the shore, Lieutenant Martin huddled with Colonel Rondon and Theodore Roosevelt, reminding them they would most likely encounter a native village during this day’s float.
“They are a sub-group of the Nhambiquara,” the Englishman said. “I have named them the Navaïté, but you may call them whatever you wish. I have stayed amongst them on several occasions, yet my last visit was two years ago before the onset of the rainy season. Their chief is a man named Chahknu. He is a very weak monarch, but he has accepted me into his camp in the past. Needless to say, his political po
sition amongst these unruly natives remains tenuous at best.”
“Will they let us pass unscathed?” Roosevelt asked.
“We shall see,” Martin replied. “Nothing is certain when dealing with these volatile and unpredictable tribes.”
Colonel Rondon raised his brow and then nodded in unequivocal agreement.
The sopping morning turned into a gloomy afternoon as the dugouts wound their way down the meandering river. George Cherrie and Dr. Cajazeira sat quietly, huddling close to the canoe’s center while Luiz and Julio pushed the vessel along with long graceful strokes. Roosevelt became mesmerized by the forest’s unique sights and somewhat monotonous sounds.
Roosevelt noticed Julio lurch with fear upon hearing any strange noise coming from the woods. The camarada dropped his paddle and stared nervously before resuming his pace upon Luiz’s growing impatience and overt ridicule. “What a disgusting coward,” Roosevelt thought. “And here sits a man who has spent nearly his entire life in the Amazon and he acts like a frightened child.”
Rounding a bend, they came upon several cultivated fields just as Martin had predicted. The fields were overgrown and studded with burned-out stumps. They found an old fish-trap a few hundred meters beyond the fields—the primitive but ingenious devise lay in disrepair at the mouth of a small stream. Roosevelt ordered Luiz to catch up with Rondon’s canoe.
Just ahead, Roosevelt spied a rope bridge spanning the Dúvida. The structure was fashioned of vines and suspended just above the water. Part of the bridge was intact but much of the assembly appeared to have been swept away some time ago. On either side of the river, Roosevelt noticed remnants of palm-thatched huts riddled with weeds.
The camaradas beached the canoes on the western riverbank. Roosevelt and the other expedition members climbed upon the muddy shore.
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