The Last Bookaneer

by Matthew Pearl

  That was the beginning of the end.

  I had to leave for some travels to conduct some business at Davenport’s behest, and when I returned to London he was in as wretched a state as I had seen in the ten years I’d known the man.

  He didn’t stop moving as I tried to talk with him, and I could not follow his broken line of discussion. “Mark this, Fergins . . . someone has lured her into a scrape. . . . Someone has done it!”

  He went up and down his rooms, pacing, I thought, until I realized he was plucking up clothes, maps, and scraps of writing paper. I recognized these scraps: they had been accumulated over many years, and written on them were the locations of trusted men and women in every quarter of the world.

  “Calm yourself, Davenport, please. If we can just talk about this calmly, I am certain . . . If you could just stand still and explain . . .”

  “Calmly! She’s missing. Kitten—she’s gone missing!”

  “On a confidential mission,” I suggested.

  “I’m not a fool, Fergins. I know when she is on a mission. She has been lured into something, I promise you. She was so distracted by her mission for the Shelley papers that she must not have noticed some trouble was brewing against her.” There was a whistle that rose up from below the window. Davenport glanced down to the street, then took my hand and gave it a hard, affectionate squeeze, as unexpected as a slap in the face. “I’ve pinned some instructions for you on the wall next to the fireplace, Fergins. Mind my affairs for a while. You are the only man I trust in London. I do not have time to answer any of your questions but one: I am going to find Kitten and bring her home.”

  “But go where? Davenport, you cannot simply walk out the door without so much as a . . .”

  I listened to his footsteps on the stairs as long as they could be heard. Just like that, he was gone, and the circumstances of Kitten’s disappearance still a mystery to me.

  X

  The morning we unceremoniously left our cottage with nothing more than half a biscuit and coffee in my stomach, I was exhausted, having spent more than an hour gathering fruit before going to sleep and then lying awake wondering about the nightmares that ravaged Davenport. I was so hungry and groggy, I nearly nodded off as I followed in the hoof steps of Cipaou’s and Davenport’s horses. I had to tie my spectacles behind my head to keep them from being blown off. I tried a few times to ask Davenport where we were going, having to wait until the narrow paths widened enough to fit next to his horse, and even then I had to shout over the gusts.

  “I told you,” he said, shouting back (having to raise his voice made him angry), “that I am tired. We are going to Apia, and I want no discussion.”

  “So the mission will be aborted? Left to Belial to complete?” I asked, offended by the idea. “We have come so far. A shrug? Is that your response?”

  There is not much more of this conversation to report, because the ride was increasingly slow and tedious due to the trees and branches that were tossed around by the shrieking wind. Our horses lowered their heads and stretched themselves out. The horizon was an eerie movement of black and purple, as if the night had never fully made space for day. Finally, Cipaou blocked our way with his horse, and after Davenport demanded an explanation, the loyal Samoan announced the tempest was so dangerous that we had to return to the cottage. I expected bullheaded Davenport, if only because he had engineered this ride, might argue, but he pulled his horse back and complied. Maybe he was relieved to retreat; maybe after he’d had a chance to think he knew we had come too far to throw away his mission. This was rather perfect for Davenport. It gave him a way to retract his decision without admitting he was wrong.

  By the time we were finally approaching the cottage again, my eyelids were heavy, my limbs numb, and this time I actually fell asleep on horseback. I would have tumbled right to the ground if the shout of Cipaou had not woken me. I shook myself but remained in a state of dreamlike confusion: there was our plot of land, but the cottage had vanished. Once we came closer, we found the wind had blown the little place over into a pile of ruins. This ridiculous ride, this petulant whim of Davenport’s, had probably saved our lives. It had happened again: his instincts were right even when all of the reasons were wrong.

  “The devil has visited this house!” Cipaou cried.

  Cipaou was distressed about the discovery but even more distressed about the prospects of finding other shelter before the wind became so strong the horses would refuse to continue, and before the rains fell. We crossed the stream that formed the border of the property, and after another hour came upon some of Stevenson’s outside boys collecting his cows, which had scattered. Cipaou spoke with these young men and then returned to us.

  “Vailima is the closest shelter safe for white men. Come, follow me!”

  Our attempted flight to Apia had brought us all the way back to Vailima, where the outside boys immediately stabled our horses and rushed us to the front door as though expecting us. Stevenson watched all of it with his face pressed against the window and came to greet us.

  “I received your card saying that you planned to leave the island,” he said, mulling the notion over with a curious expression. Even so, he did not seem surprised to have us on his doorstep.

  “I’m afraid we didn’t go very far, after all,” Davenport said. “Our hut could not withstand the winds.”

  “Nor would you have gone much farther until the first storm comes and goes,” Stevenson said flatly. “My white gentlemen,” he said, this time the phrase a gentle critique of our inexperience, “as soon as my boys returned with the tidings that your hut tumbled down, I have had them on the ready for your arrival.”

  The skies were shrieking against the windows with heavy gusts, as though to say that we had arrived just in time.

  “We will not inconvenience you long. I understand the Germans have a few vacant houses available on the other side of the island. As soon as we can, we will ride that way. I know they are involved in rather shady activities on their plantation, Tusitala, but I’m afraid we must rely on their generosity.”

  “Generosity!”

  The novelist was outraged by Davenport applying that word to his political rivals on the island. In no time at all, Stevenson was giving orders to various servants for us to stay at the house and to accommodate Cipaou, though our servant declined, insisting on continuing to ride toward his own family. Fanny passed by on her way to another part of the house and, hearing the news of our staying on, gave a nod. She did not say anything, and I had to imagine she felt insulted that her warnings had been ignored.

  I did not have time to ponder the state of mind of the novelist’s wife very long before Belial entered from the other side of the room. He was pristine as ever in his priestly collar and frock and a somber expression of concern.

  “I’m afraid there is still so much grief over poor Charlie,” the faux missionary said, crossing himself. “I have been spending more and more time among our dusky brothers and sisters here because of it. Why, I’m practically living here as of late.”

  “Can you imagine,” Stevenson said to Belial, “that our friends were considering taking shelter with the Germans?”

  Belial puckered his lips in a show of measured thought. “You know, Tusitala, that I must remain neutral in my mission.”

  “How unfortunate for you, Father Thomas. Mr. Porter. Mr. Fergins. You will stay right here through the storm. No protests. I command it. There is plenty of space, and my boys are already untying your belongings from your horses. You are part of Vailima, and this home is your home now.”

  Davenport’s eyes traveled from Belial to Stevenson and back. “We’re grateful, Tusitala.”

  When we were alone and walking to the other side of the house to our rooms, I grabbed Davenport’s arm. I wanted to scream at him but forced a whisper: “You planned this.”

  “Go on.”

  “You d
ismantled the foundations of our cottage while I was out picking up coconuts and breadfruit. You knew we needed to stay at Vailima, but without making it seem to be our choice. And you threatened to take lodgings from the Germans, knowing how that would rankle in Stevenson’s mind.” I kicked myself for believing that the mission had been aborted—in fact, it was the opposite. Davenport’s maneuver had pushed us into the next phase. I had a mixture of admiration and astonishment that he would destroy our home in order to create the most believable scenario.

  “Hines’s cottage, you meant,” he whispered back. “Not ours, not really. You should be happy for his loss.”

  “I do not wish him ill, in particular,” I said. “I am just a bookseller. I do not have enemies.”

  “You underestimate yourself, only fools have no enemies. Fergins, soon will come the triumph you’ve been waiting to witness.”

  He was right, much to my frustration. I had been waiting. Not only since our passage to Samoa, but it was the kind of moment I had longed for since I began to assist the bookaneers. I would never have acknowledged it, but I was consumed with fresh enthusiasm.

  So began our eventful residence at Vailima. The household was awakened at daybreak each morning by the sounding of the conch shell. Our presence—and Davenport’s proximity to Stevenson just when his book would be finished—seemed to unnerve Belial, who as a result showed up with an even greater frequency. Belle was tickled by all the excitement of the storm, fulfilling Lloyd’s observation that the potential for trouble woke her senses. Fanny, meanwhile, remained conspicuous in her absence from the public rooms. Stevenson’s spirits, though, were fully revived by having houseguests, despite the worrisome weather, which kept that very umbrella now hanging behind you on my coat rack, at my side at all times. He took us on long walks through the house and around the grounds while preparing for the storm. On one of these dark, cloud-covered expeditions, we were walking through the garden. We were supposed to be looking for any weak spots in the red roof above that would have to be reinforced, but our host was spending most of the time discussing his favorite nuances of the Samoan language.

  “Alovao: it is the gem of the Samoan dictionary,” Stevenson was saying. “It means to avoid guests, for in Samoa there are always guests on their way, but literally it means ‘to hide in the wood.’ Hold on there. Did you hear something, too?” His narrow face perked up in the fashion of a hound dog’s. A brief, piercing noise from somewhere in the house surprised all three of us.

  We all ran inside to find the source. Davenport could run much faster than either of us. The commotion having ceased, Stevenson split from us and tried a different direction. Knowing Davenport always possessed a keener-than-ordinary sense of hearing, I followed him into another section of the house, where we traced a loud, bellowing voice.

  Belial was there, holding out a copy of the Bible. He seemed flustered and was crying out: “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me!”

  Vao was on the other side of the Bible, tiptoeing away from the fiery recitation, her bare feet deftly avoiding a pool of red on the floor. I feared it was her blood, but feared more it could be Belial’s, as violence by any Samoan against a white man could only end with a native’s death. But as we came closer I could see it was wine.

  Tulagi was tugging at Belial’s coattails with his small hands. “Stay away from the girl or be sorry you ever laid eyes on Tulagi!” he shouted, his attempts at restraining futile.

  “Be gone, little man!” Belial shouted. He gripped his cane and swung, hitting the dwarf on the backside and sending him to the floor. Vao threw herself on the cane and wrested it away.

  Undaunted, Belial swiped my umbrella out of my hands and once again began hitting the dwarf, over and over, splattering blood of the poor man; he raised his arm higher. Tulagi cringed and curled into a ball to prepare himself. Davenport caught the umbrella from behind and stopped what may have been a death blow.

  “I suggest that whatever is the matter, end this presently, Father Thomas,” he said with the almost preternatural calmness that still managed to impress me after many years.

  “This is not your concern, Mr. Porter. Am I understood?”

  His eyes blazed. It was not Davenport’s interference with the beating that seemed to provoke him. Rather, it was the fact that Vao took cover behind my companion and placed her arm into his, her hand into his, her strong fingers interlocked in his. Davenport might have been just as taken aback at the native beauty’s touch as Belial must have been, but any surprise he felt was hidden.

  Tulagi broke the staring match between the bookaneers by using his last ounce of strength to shout up at them. “Go on, now! Go away, now, Pope Thomas! Tulagi commands it!”

  “The work of a missionary is not easy among the savages,” Belial said to us, as he straightened the top half of his suit before exiting the room. He licked his lips, a slow, rather disgusting gesture that I’d later notice he did often but I only marked now for the first time. He dropped my umbrella, freshly speckled with blood, two of its metal ribs broken and its spine bent from the impact. “I merely asked the young woman for help choosing a necktie for morning prayers and in her primitive way she reacted poorly, as you see. Worry not, my white brothers. I will not judge your misunderstanding.” He turned again to look at Vao before he left, his eyes traveling from her face down to her bosom. “Cover yourself up, harlot, if you hope to escape the wrath of the Lord.”

  “What happened in here?” I asked the two natives after Belial was gone. Davenport had bent down to check on Tulagi, but the dwarf slapped him away, then proceeded to pull on his leg to raise himself to his feet.

  “Fortunate Tulagi found you when he did,” Tulagi said to Vao in Samoan. “‘What happened?’” he repeated my question. He seemed to be dizzy from his beating but would not let any of us inspect his wounds more closely. “Why, I found that missionary trying to convert Vao to his religion—her, the tapo of her village, Tulagi’s charge, daughter of one of the greatest chiefs of Samoa, a man who would have been king, if this were still a just place!”

  “The daughter of a chief,” Davenport repeated the words to himself.

  Vao was still holding on to him, with no apparent intention of letting go. The dwarf interrupted this tableau, which must have seemed as dangerous to him as it did to me, pulling her away and out the door. Just then, Stevenson caught up to us. He was winded from running and the exertion had brought on a coughing fit.

  “What is it? What had happened?”

  “Nothing important, Tusitala,” Davenport answered without hesitation or a hint of deception. “Just a broken wineglass.”

  Stevenson examined the scene with a deliberate look. “Well,” he said, “I suppose the storm has set all our teeth on edge. That reminds me, my white gentlemen. I must ride out to the consulate to send some responses about this deportation business before the rains land. There was a yacht that sank in the Pacific a few weeks ago, and you may want to write out a message to wire your relations or they are liable to read about it in the papers and think you were on it.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Davenport. “My aunt in Chicago believes every worthwhile tragedy must involve a member of our family.”

  • • •

  I HAD TO LAUGH inside when Davenport left with Stevenson to send their telegrams—not only to think of a confused woman in Chicago named Porter handed a message from a nephew she never heard of but also because as long as I could remember, Davenport hated telegrams on principle. If they did not contain bad news, he’d insist, they contained something offensively mundane. “If you are ever in trouble, Fergins,” he once commented with aristocratic irritation when I had to make a stop at a Paris hotel’s telegraph office, “throw a rock through my window.”

  Yet, the first thing I heard about Davenport’s search for Kitten back in London in 1882 came in the form of a wired mes
sage:

  Come as soon as possible. Hotel de Ville. Geneva.

  Though it was unsigned, I had helped Davenport for more than ten years by that time; I would have known a message from him by the rhythm of its words. It had been almost a month since he had left me standing in his hotel room to watch out the window as he climbed into a hackney coach. I was surprised that his path would go through Geneva, as I had reason to believe Kitten had already been there when looking for the Mary Shelley story, and that great mission of hers had been over and done with before her return to London and subsequent disappearance.

  Geneva had a part in the fascinating history of Shelley’s novel. It was during a summer trip there with her husband, the poet Percival, when she dreamt her inspiration for Frankenstein. She was eighteen.

  Unlike Davenport, who, I’d teased, was born with the ocean’s temper, I have never felt myself a natural traveler, especially with long distances involved. But there was no hesitation on my part after I read the message. A series of steamers and trains brought me to the Continent and into Switzerland. I was driven right to the hotel named in the telegram, but did not find the bookaneer signed in under any of his usual aliases. I waited, knowing nothing of Geneva or where else to look; this made me appreciate Davenport’s own challenge to find a woman who could have been anywhere on earth, a woman whose profession depended on her being able to go anywhere and become part of the scenery.

  I fell asleep in a comfortable chair in the corner of the sitting room by a hearty fire. Then I heard Davenport’s voice chastise me. At first I thought I dreamt it.

  “Asleep. Asleep!”

  I stirred, catching my breath and emitting a loud noise through my nose. He was standing over me in an ankle-length, loose-fitting coat.