“What about Lieutenant Martin?” Cherrie asked suddenly.
“What of him?”
“Do you suppose he’d be interested in running a gold mine and getting rich?”
“Why not ask him yourself?”
“I thought you two were close, good friends. Colonel Roosevelt and I even discussed the possibility that you two were partners of some sort.”
“Mr. Cherrie, you were… what are the correct English words… wildly misinformed.”
“You did spend many months on Fawcett’s expedition in Martin’s company?” Roosevelt asked. “And you did recommend him for this expedition, is that not also correct?”
“Yes, but we owe each other no allegiance.”
Roosevelt noticed Julio had begun to slur his words. “Well George, it appears we must ask Lieutenant Martin to be a partner in our little future venture. Mr. Julio is not interested by his own words.”
“It seems so,” Cherrie replied despondently. “And yet Lieutenant Martin is the better choice if one thinks this through thoroughly. Martin is a first-rate, honest man and a solid worker.”
Julio sneered.
“And you disagree?” Roosevelt asked.
“Let me just say, I could tell you…” Julio cut himself short.
“Is there anything you wish to add, Julio?”
“Just that every man is not all he appears to be.” Again, Julio eyed Cherrie’s bottle.
“Go on.” Roosevelt nodded to Cherrie, who promptly refilled Julio’s tin.
Julio took a sip, peered around, and inched closer. “Our Englishmen has a questionable past—a past he has conveniently hidden from you and Colonel Rondon.”
“This is very interesting, Julio, yet I still find him a fine choice and worthy of partnership, is that not right, George?”
Cherrie nodded like a faithful dog.
Julio grinned. “Then, senhors, you have no problem hiring an escaped criminal?”
Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Hmmm, that would give me pause, if it could be proved true and not merely innuendo.”
Julio hesitated for a moment before continuing: “Commander Fawcett hired Martin knowing of his shady past, mostly because he was impressed with Martin’s high-brow English education and his ability to study and understand the more primitive natives of Bolivia. Martin had been sent to South Africa as a British officer in 1901 but soon turned against his own people and sided with the British settlers, the Boers or Bitterenders as he referred to them. The British charged him with heinous crimes and he was shipped off to an island named Bermuda with other Boer prisoners of war.”
“Let me just add, George,” Roosevelt said. “During the Boer war a decade ago, the British interned about five thousand Afrikaans on a few tiny islands near Bermuda. I was informed in presidential briefings of several successful mutinies and escapes. A few of the men, I was told, escaped to other Caribbean islands and some even vanished into the jungles of Venezuela.”
“Yes,” Julio said. “And Lieutenant Martin was one of these men. Fawcett knew Martin had escaped from a British prison, but he never knew what crimes the British had charged him with. Only in private and with me did he reveal the whole story, and even I cannot tell what is true and what is not.”
“Go on.”
Julio’s eyes glazed over, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Martin told me the British accused him of murdering twenty-seven of these South African settlers: men, women, and little children. He said the British wanted him to confess to the crime, telling the public that he did so, so that the British would be wrongly accused of the massacre and the Boers would reap benefit from the public outcry in an effort to remove the British occupiers from their land.”
“Do you think Martin capable of such an act,” Cherrie asked.
Julio shrugged. “I do not know, but…”
“But, what?”
Julio shook his head and then rose on wobbly feet. “Good night, senhors. And thank you for your fine drink.” He staggered away into the darkness.
Theodore Roosevelt turned to George Cherrie with a raised brow.
The following day dawned bright and clear. Kermit and Lyra got an early start moving the canoes down to their present campsite. After eating a trifle of breakfast, Lieutenant Martin led Rondon, Roosevelt, and Cherrie on a scouting mission downriver.
The group sliced their way through the dense jungle and along the riverbank for an hour and a half, keeping their rifles ready and their eyes and ears trained on the forbidding forest. The land was both peaceful and beautiful, Roosevelt thought. Such a lovely haven the Wide Belts have chosen to procure for their sacred tribal lands.
At the point of turning roundabout and heading back to camp, Colonel Rondon ordered a brief rest upon a long stretch of sandy shoreline. Roosevelt sat on the spongy ground and enjoyed the lush green scenery while Cherrie stirred restless after taking only a few minutes respite. The naturalist wandered away toting his rifle and camera. Roosevelt closed his eyes taking in the sounds of small chirping birds and distant monkey calls.
“Men,” George Cherrie hollered suddenly from fifty yards downstream. “Come here!”
Martin, Rondon, and Roosevelt gathered near Cherrie. The naturalist pointed downward. Roosevelt noticed a two and a half foot long, three-toed track carved deeply in the sand.
Martin’s eyes widened. The boney Englishman bent to the ground. “The tracks are sharp and appear to have been made no longer than a day or two ago. If older, the rains would have certainly eroded their contours.” Martin ran his willowy fingers along the footprint’s base.
Cherrie methodically snapped a few photos before pointing out a series of massive prints leading away from the water and into the rainforest. Roosevelt caught the naturalist’s blank stare. While the others stood silent, Roosevelt noticed Cherrie’s face turning a ghostly white.
CHAPTER 24
The men retraced their path upriver, slipping hurriedly through the forbidding jungle with rifles readied and their eyes and ears trained upon the dense green barrier hindering their advance. Roosevelt saw the Amazon in a different light these past few hours, discarding any romantic notions of a lush paradise full of colorful birds and slithering reptiles, replaced with the suffocating feeling of a tightening noose looped around his neck and pulled snug, starving him of life effusing breath and crushing his world-famous resolve. Roosevelt could only guess Rondon and Cherrie felt the same as they pushed through the tangled foliage, halting upon any odd noise from places distant and unseen; although Martin appeared the least concerned about the prospect of a chance encounter with a ferocious and monstrous stalking beast. Teddy Roosevelt watched the emaciated Englishman with cautious fascination—whereupon their frequent stops to catch their breath, Martin’s eyes twinkled with glee and his face glowed in nearly raptured joy. The man is obviously insane, Roosevelt mused. It appeared Cherrie may have been right all along; although Martin seemed competent in his many assigned tasks, there remained hidden beneath his gnarled exterior a mind lacking solidity and purposeful consistency. The man was certainly an enigma.
They found the dugouts loaded and ready for launch upon arriving back at camp. The crew stood anxious and eager to be on their way, looking to Colonel Rondon to issue the much anticipated order. Roosevelt observed that Rondon said nothing of finding the immense tracks, even to his trusted Lieutenant Lyra while they prepared to board the boats. Taking his cue from Rondon, Roosevelt deflected a few questions from an inquisitive Kermit before getting underway. George Cherrie simply donned his hat and settled into his usual seat with his head held low. Roosevelt had never seen the normally stalwart naturalist so subdued and contemplative. He looked like he had just seen his grandmother’s ghost!
Colonel Rondon issued a single terse command and the men hurriedly launched the canoes. Moments later, the last of the dugouts drifted freely down the Rio Roosevelt, and Theodore Roosevelt could almost taste the undeniable sense of relief amongst the entire crew as they took to the relative
safety of the river, away from the tangled shore and the darkness therein.
They floated along the meandering waterway for over an hour as the midday sun bore directly through the forest’s canopy beneath the deep blue Brazilian sky. The air was still and the heat unbearable to the asthmatic Roosevelt, who fanned his perspiring face continuously while the dugout skidded over the somber waters. And still, although the camaradas labored under excruciating heat, none to a man suggested they pull to shore for a brief respite beneath a grove of shady palms or within the shadow of a giant rubber. Teddy Roosevelt calculated they had progressed several kilometers beyond the sandy beach where they had found the creature’s tracks.
Moving steadily along a peaceful stretch of river, Roosevelt was overwhelmed by a strange calm as his thoughts synchronized with the paddler’s rhythmic strokes. Breaking his spell, he gently wiped his spectacles and glanced over at the lead canoe carrying Lieutenant Martin, who pushed his vessel forward with great and purposeful ease, no doubt cognizant of any stirring or strange sounds emanating from the mysterious jungle. What must Martin be thinking, passing so very near to his personal obsession? What must occupy his thoughts, being so near the beast for which he had sacrificed so many long years in the wilderness, and yet not granted permission to carry his individual crusade to its rightful conclusion? Roosevelt suddenly bore great empathy for the erratic Englishman, who had so far served the expedition with the utmost skill and diligence. Roosevelt felt both saddened and guilty to rob a man of his mortal goal after living such a privileged and adventurous life himself, even if the man was quite possibly a certifiable lunatic. If Martin were to get up and leave upon their next encampment to pursue his dream, I would not in the least think any worse of him. He had certainly earned the opportunity in my eyes.
Theodore Roosevelt once again felt the water picking up pace as the dugouts rounded a sharp corner in the river. He noticed another series of impassable rapids several hundred yards ahead. Even above the din of rushing water, Teddy could hear open grumbling amongst the camaradas.
The western shoreline appeared the most accessible to Roosevelt—flat stones formed a gradual shoreline ending at the water’s edge. The land was somewhat elevated, split by a pass that funneled into the wilderness beyond. Roosevelt could clearly see a man-height pile of stones guarding the pass’s gateway.
Colonel Rondon pointed to the west. “To the shore!” he cried.
The camaradas hesitated upon Rondon’s command—in a near mutinous mood, Roosevelt deduced. Many of the dispirited camaradas shook their heads and jabbered to their crewmates while paddling upstream, holding their battered craft steady against the river’s flow.
“You cannot paddle upriver forever,” Rondon hollered. “The rapids ahead will shred your canoes if you dare attempt its decent. We all stand a much better chance by taking to shore.”
Slowly, and with great reluctance, the camaradas beached their canoes upon the stony bank. Lieutenant Martin was the first man to step ashore followed by Rondon, Roosevelt, and then Cherrie. All of the officer’s attention was drawn to the odd stone tower standing just a few yards above the floodplain.
Teddy Roosevelt approached the artifact and rubbed his chin. Before him, the monument towered ten feet from base to apex.
“Obviously a marker of some sort,” Rondon noted, “constructed by men.”
“Yes,” Martin said excitedly, “and with a well-defined purpose, do you not agree?” He pointed. “Clearly it serves as a beacon to the lands beyond and testament to the sacred traditions of the Wide Belt people.”
“Quite possibly,” Colonel Rondon muttered. “But we have little time for such distractions. We must bypass these rapids quickly and be on our way before nightfall.” Rondon waved his hand. “Get those dugouts unloaded!”
Roosevelt took note of Martin’s surprisingly indifferent response to Colonel Rondon’s abrupt dismissal of the Englishman’s adept observation. Roosevelt caught George Cherrie’s skeptical eye and shook his head.
The camaradas emptied the dugouts in less than fifteen minutes, stacking the modest provisions on the rocky shore. Colonel Rondon set out immediately with Dr. Cajazeira and four camaradas to hack a path through the brush and bypass the rapids. Like countless times before, Kermit and Lieutenant Lyra collected ropes to lower the empty boats down the most serious of the white-water chutes.
Teddy Roosevelt and George Cherrie grabbed their rifles and stalked the group’s periphery while Paishon and the remaining camaradas began to stage the supplies a short way into the jungle near the area where Rondon had started his supply pathway. Roosevelt noticed several camaradas securing rifles, no doubt leery of the Wide Belt’s legend or hopeful of taking a monkey or two for dinner. Last in line, Julio de Lima grabbed a rifle and full box of ammunition.
“Good,” Roosevelt said, leaning close to George Cherrie. “It’s about time Julio pitched in to harvest some fresh meat for his comrades. Could this be an optimistic sign that he has finally decided to lend a hand?”
“Indeed,” Cherrie said, pointing his nose toward Martin. “But what of him?”
Roosevelt watched the wiry Englishman strap the heaviest of the provisions upon his back and meander away from the river. “He is undoubtedly our most tireless worker. How can a man sporting such a rail-thin physique be as strong as an ox?”
“And yet, Colonel, have you not noticed that he has not taken a shred of food in several days?”
Roosevelt rubbed his chin. “Curious…”
“I do wonder where he gets the strength—”
A sharp bang echoed from the nearby jungle. Roosevelt and Cherrie flinched and ducked defensively. Moments later, Roosevelt heard a ruckus behind a grove of palms, followed by several men’s screams.
Suddenly, Antonio and two unarmed camaradas leaped from the brush waving their arms in sheer panic. “Julio mato Paishon!” Antonio cried. “Julio mato Paishon!”
Roosevelt turned quickly to Cherrie for translation.
“Julio has killed Paishon,” the naturalist hissed. “By God, what more could go wrong on this bedeviled mission? Julio has just murdered Paishon.”
CHAPTER 25
The men froze in place with their heads held low for several tense minutes, unsure whether Julio lurked just inside the jungle’s folds and would emerge shooting indiscriminately. Kermit and Lyra joined Roosevelt and Cherrie, training their eyes and rifles on the deceivingly tranquil forest.
Antonio grabbed his hat’s brim and scampered over to the officers. “He just pointed his rifle straight at Paishon’s chest and pulled the trigger, senhors,” the camarada said breathlessly. “I could not believe my eyes! He just pulled the trigger and murdered Paishon in cold blood.”
Roosevelt seethed. “Mark my words, Antonio, Julio will pay for his crime, and he will pay dearly.” Roosevelt scanned the jungle’s periphery. “And yet, we must be very patient and cautious until he shows his hand.”
“Yes,” Kermit added. “He may seek revenge on us all, picking us off one by one using the jungle as cover. An unstable mind is capable of anything!”
“Sim, senhor.”
Roosevelt noticed Lieutenant Martin grabbing a rifle and a box of ammunition. Seemingly undeterred by the danger, the lanky Englishman advanced slowly toward the jungle.
“No,” Roosevelt hissed. “It’s not safe, Lieutenant. Get back!”
Martin ignored Roosevelt’s order and continued onward.
“Blasted!” Roosevelt shook his head. He grasped is rifle and started after Martin. Moments later, Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra followed Roosevelt.
They came upon Paishon’s lifeless body a short way into the forest. Colonel Rondon, still breathing heavily, stood over the bury camarada, who lay face down in a pool of spreading blood. Roosevelt glanced down. He noticed several shattered supply boxes.
Dr. Cajazeira bent to his knee, examining Paishon’s wounds. “Straight through the heart,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “He dropped dead instantly
where he stood, never having a chance to defend himself.”
Rondon caught Roosevelt’s eye. “Who did this?” The Brazilian Colonel pulled his revolver from his holster.
“Julio.” Roosevelt spat the name like a poisonous viper.
Rondon acknowledged with a firm nod. “Lieutenant Lyra, stay here and guard the doctor. We must secure the nearby forest and assign guards if necessary. Julio must not be allowed to strike again.”
“And look,” Cherrie added, pointing toward a few cans spread upon the forest’s floor. “Julio must have murdered Paishon simply to steal food.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Kermit said. “Where does he intend to go?”
“A madman defies common logic,” Rondon replied.
Dr. Cajazeira rose to his feet and unbuckled his revolver. “Go, senhor Lyra. I can defend myself.” He brushed his hand. “Go!”
Theodore Roosevelt’s blood boiled. “And we shoot upon sight, correct?”
Colonel Rondon shook his head, pulling nose to nose with the former president. “Absolutely not, Colonel Roosevelt, doing so will be impossible in Brazil. We bring suspected criminals to court for trial in this country. We don’t allow our citizens to be murdered by a vengeful mob.”
Roosevelt thrust his fingers downward. “He who kills must die! That is how we do things in America—an eye for an eye. Paishon was too good a man to have died without being avenged.”
“You are not in the United States, Colonel. You are in my republic, and here, you will obey our laws.”
Roosevelt waved his hand. “Time is being wasted talking nonsense. Let us fan out in these woods. If Julio is taken alive, I suppose we must drag him back to camp in time for tea and crumpets.”
The entire expedition team searched the surrounding forest for a good half-hour before Lieutenant Martin reported finding human footprints a few hundred yards beyond the crude stone monument. “He was heading away from the river and deep into the jungle to the west,” the Englishman said with an odd gleam in his eye. “There is little doubt he is hell-bent on stealing the Wide Belt’s sacrificial treasures.”
How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex Page 17