No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  I shall be delighted to welcome you. You sound like a fellow after my own heart with your interest in native ways of life. For a change I shall be the contented spectator rather than the nervous subject of the magic eye. Our Samoans have not yet suffered so brutally at the hands of Europeans as have the New World Indians, but most of the traders routinely despise them. Although I’ve had the opportunity to meet many Americans I know less about their northern neighbors except that I believe they have stayed closer in spirit to their Scottish and English forebears.

  The trees reached high above them, huge banyans over a hundred feet tall, with monumental trunks. Then suddenly there was the house, in a clearing in the jungle. Like the Widow MacKenzie’s house on Rona this building too was unexpected. Both houses seemed to clasp tightly to their surroundings, one perched on the rocky beach, the other erupting from lush jungle. This house though, unlike the widow’s, was brightly colored. Its wooden walls were painted a vivid blue and topped by a dusky red corrugated iron roof. It had two storeys, with a veranda on both levels along the north side. Large enough to be a mansion or a summer palace, it was much more imposing than Tom had expected. His apprehension grew as they halted in front of the building and dismounted. A gangling figure strode toward him, arms outstretched and face grinning.

  “Pleased to meet you at last. Mr. John Robinson, I presume? Robert Louis Stevenson at your service,” he said, his voice deep and resonant for such a frail body. His head nodded, a heavy bloom on a drooping stalk.

  “How do you do?” Tom replied, extending his hand.

  The handshake was unexpected too, solid and firm, even though the wrist poking out from the shirtsleeve was as twiglike as a sickly child’s. Tom thanked his guides and paid them while Louis watched, his dark, glittering eyes missing nothing. He showed Tom into the house, holding back a hanging mat suspended from the doorway for there were no doors. They entered a large hall that made Tom want to gasp in surprise. It was clad in shining planks of redwood like a luxurious ship. Paintings and photographs were clustered on the walls but there was no chance for Tom to examine them as Louis rushed on.

  “I’ll show you the family seat while the servants take your luggage,” he said, over his shoulder. “Vailima is my wife’s pride and joy. The name means ‘Five Waters’.”

  As Louis strode through to the dining room, Tom had to lengthen his stride to keep up. There was an incongruous fireplace, silk curtains in shimmering streams of yellow and silver, and an antique sideboard.

  “Now you can meet the family in the family seat.”

  The people sitting in the well-worn leather seats around the table fell silent and turned to stare at the stranger. They were clearly waiting for lunch and Tom felt as if he were the goose being carried in on a serving platter.

  Louis introduced Tom to the three people there. “Joe Strong, my son-in-law,” he said indicating a figure dressed in a sailor’s shirt and cap.

  As he stood up Tom saw that he wore a lava-lava, knotted around his waist and strangely, trouser bottoms visible underneath the hem. Tom ducked at a sudden swooshing sound behind him. There was a blur of flapping wings. A gaudy blue parrot swerved into the room and landed, squawking, on Joe’s shoulder.

  “Captain Flint,” said Tom, with a nervous laugh.

  Joe groaned and rolled his eyes. “No, just Peter.”

  Joe’s wife, Belle, was small and neat with a hesitant smile, quite different from her brother Lloyd Osbourne, a tall fair man whose chilly blue eyes glinted behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “That’s my whole family, apart from Fanny and my mother who you’ll meet later,” Louis said. “I’ll get one of the servants to show you to your quarters. We’ve put you in the small cottage where we lived before we built the big house. Then join us for luncheon if you wish.”

  “Thank you but I’m tired after the journey. Maybe I could join you later?” replied Tom, wanting to escape. He could hear the drawling American voices start up again once he and Louis left the room with its discordant furnishings.

  “There’s a banquet tonight. When there’s a ship in port, I like to invite the officers,” Louis said and Tom nodded, trying not to stiffen. “Americans, they’re more fun than the English ones,” Louis added. “Not a universal rule, of course.” Tom grinned in relief.

  Louis was right. They were agreeable company. Five of them, all cheerful and talkative and not too curious about an aging English man living in Canada. Tom was amused to see the servants’ special livery of striped jackets and lava-lavas in Stewart tartan. Like the fireplace, a sort of misplaced Scottish baronial fantasy.

  The meal was astounding too. Tropical fruit he had expected but not in such variety, fried banana, pineapple soaked in wine, coconut cream baked in leaves, and tarts made from cape gooseberries. The other foods were lavish, too—fish, prawns, pigeons, roasted pig, and sweet potatoes.

  “We lack none of the trappings of civilisation,” Louis said, as coffee and more wine was brought in. “That’s why I have to work my fingers to the bone writing.” It was said lightly, but Tom noticed how Fanny glowered.

  “I grow much of the fruit and vegetables,” she said.

  “Of course you do my dear and you must show Tom your garden tomorrow.”

  “I should be delighted,” Tom said, but his heart sank at the prospect of having to spend time with this odd, dumpy woman who was dressed in a sort of voluminous striped nightdress. She had an air of barely controlled ferocity, like a chained guard dog.

  “Of course we weren’t complete pioneers,” she told him the next morning, as she showed him her vegetable garden. All the plants jostled and twisted upward, straining for light. “When we arrived we found some ancient banana and papaya trees half strangled by the jungle. I brought seeds from Australia, melons, tomatoes, and pineapples—No boy! Don’t dig a hole there. Wait until I tell you what to do,” she shrieked at one of the sweating Samoan laborers.

  “They won’t listen, think they know best and then wonder why I won’t keep them on,” she grumbled, bustling ahead and swiping at the undergrowth with a stick.

  Tom couldn’t resist turning back and winking at the young man who was scowling at her back. As they walked back to the house, Fanny continued her litany of grievances.

  “I have to keep everything running smoothly and watch over Louis’s health as well. All these visitors are sucking the life out of him. Then off he goes for a gallop on Jack and leaves me fretting that he’ll suffer a fall.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t want to add to his burdens, Mrs. Stevenson. My plan is to slip away and take some photographs of the servants.”

  She grunted and fell silent. They returned to the house to find a substantial lunch being prepared: duck, chicken, baked yams, and taro pudding. The American sailors were still in residence, as convivial as the night before. Tom watched Louis reveling again in his role of a tropical Highland chieftain. He pressed everyone to eat their fill, topping up their glasses and hooting with laughter at their jokes as his family munched silently. Louis spurted energy. He was the beam that dazzled all the passing vessels. Tom shivered as he thought how that light could suddenly be quenched. He remembered the time as a young boy when he found a bewildered pheasant bumbling into their garden to escape the guns. It seemed unharmed and he had brought it some of the chickens’ feed to peck at but when he returned later it was lying on the ground, its burnished plumage ruffling in the breeze. The creature was stone dead, its heart stopped by shock.

  “Now, let me find you some subjects to photograph,” Louis said, wrapping an arm around Tom’s shoulder as they all rose and staggered away from the table.

  “No, don’t let me interrupt your writing,” Tom replied. “I’ll find the Samoans I saw earlier.”

  “Do you ride? Take Jack. He needs the exercise.”

  Tom was glad to take the horse and let him trot up into the hills. Although the air was humid, it was fresher than the fevered atmosphere in the house. Tom found the men he had me
t before. They were glad to stop work and pose for him. They had an easy grace and needed little direction. He touched the arm of the young man he had winked at earlier to move him into position and as he did so he marveled at the smoothness of his skin and the supple muscles underneath. It was a similar sensation as the first time he had touched a snake. He had expected something slimy and flaccid but instead was surprised by its dry, firm surface.

  The men enjoyed being photographed in the same way as the Indians used to. Tom supposed that it was because the process gave them dignity. They parted with much laughter and back slapping. Reluctantly turning Jack’s head back down the hill, he resolved to bid farewell to his host the next day and return to the port, even if it meant he had to wait there for a steamer. As it was his last night in the house, he decided that for once he would take a glass or two of wine with his dinner.

  “Well, Mr. Robinson, did you take your pictures of our Samoan boys? I’m surprised you didn’t want portraits of all of us, too. Usually visitors can’t wait to photograph us.” Fanny’s voice was peevish.

  “Well, the purpose of my travels is to take pictures of native peoples. To record their way of life before it vanishes.”

  “Does that matter? The Samoans’ way of life when white men came here was a very idle one.” Lloyd’s pale eyes had a hostile glare as he turned to Tom.

  “Well, of course Nature is more bountiful here than in Canada. Indians in North America have a harder struggle against the climate.”

  “Pah,” Lloyd sneered and looked at his mother. “We don’t find Samoans to be willing workers.”

  Louis watched them, his dark eyes unfathomable. Feeling uncomfortable Tom changed the subject. “While I was photographing them something odd happened. A strange sight emerged from the jungle. A middle-aged man, dressed like the other Samoans except for his head. As he walked toward us I could see him smoothing down the starched tail of a white widow’s cap that streamed down his back. Once he was satisfied with the lie of his headdress, he smiled at me in a gracious manner. Then he sat down straight-backed for me to take his picture.”

  “He’s a thief. It’s another of their faults.” Fanny glared at her husband. “It’s all very well for you to laugh. They worship you. Tusitala, the teller of stories, they call him,” she said, turning to Tom. “You indulge them like children and leave it to others to instill some discipline.”

  “Well, well, well. Mother has been complaining for weeks about how her caps keep disappearing when she sends them to be laundered. I think our friend here has solved the mystery. They’re trophies. Magpies like glittering objects while Samoans collect widow’s caps,” Louis said, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “That proves my point about them being unreliable,” said Lloyd.

  Exasperated, Tom decided to challenge him. “Did you follow horticulture before you came here? Or another profession?”

  “He would have become an engineer like so many in my husband’s family. But his eyesight prevented him,” Fanny said in a tone that brooked no dissent. “He devotes himself to managing the estate. He has the thankless task of overseeing the outside boys while my daughter Belle supervises the inside staff.”

  “We’re all working like niggers on this god-damned estate,” added Joe Strong. His parrot had been clinging to the curtain rail, its head tucked under its wing. Now it woke up and screeched at the sound of his voice. “That’s right, you tell the fellow it’s none of his business, coming here, pointing his lens everywhere and asking damn questions.”

  Louis listened, tight-lipped, his eyes swiveling between the speakers.

  “Hi, everyone. I hope I’m not too late, “a jovial voice rang out from the doorway.

  “No, of course not, Lieutenant Barker,” Louis replied with a smile. “There’s plenty still here to eat. We were talking about different professions. You remember Mr. Robinson from last night? He’s been photographing our Samoan workers.”

  “Sure. You’re from Canada, sir? But you came out from England?”

  “And you haven’t told us what you did there?” Lloyd’s tone was sharp.

  Lieutenant Barker raised his eyebrows. “I would guess you were in uniform once, sir, like me. The Navy? You’ve the bearing of an officer.”

  Now everyone was scrutinising Tom, the American smiling, Louis quizzical, Fanny and her family suspicious.

  Tom paused to slow his breathing. “I wish that were true. I’ve always been drawn to the sea and ships but the nearest I got to them was working for a shipping company. Until I crossed the Atlantic.”

  “And you chose the northern wilderness rather than the States,” Barker laughed, tapping Tom on the arm to show he was joking.

  “Neither country is as beautiful as Samoa though,” Tom said, “And I’m very grateful to our kind host,” he added, raising his glass in Louis’s direction.

  What did it matter? He would soon be leaving. He wasn’t a fugitive any more. Still caution made him push his wineglass to one side. He said little as wine, laughter, and loud opinions flowed freely. Although Louis’s tongue seemed to have loosened as much as the others, Tom sensed the author’s eyes probing him. As soon as he decently could Tom made his apologies, blaming a full day for his tiredness. As he left the room he could feel their eyes pricking him.

  He walked back to the cottage and pushed aside the flimsy mat hanging limp in the humid night air. He would have preferred a door to close behind him.

  Chapter 51

  Samoa, 1891

  The unaccustomed wine made Tom restless. Eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep until a sound startled him. He lay rigid in the dark. He had no idea of the time and he could feel his heart battering against his ribs. Easing himself into a sitting position he could sense rather than see a figure in the doorway. Tom sprang to his feet.

  “What is it?” he croaked, through cracked lips.

  No reply. He shuffled toward the figure. His groping hand touched an arm,

  “Come outside, so that I can see you.”

  Whoever it was backed out willingly enough until Tom could see his face in the moonlight. It was the young Samoan he had winked at that morning. Now he stood smiling uncertainly and shifting from foot to foot.

  “What do you want?” Tom whispered, although he knew the answer. The young man leant forward and clasped his hands around Tom’s bare, sweating back. Tom groaned as his body signaled its readiness. He kissed the soft wide mouth, sliding his hands down the young man’s spine to the curve of his buttocks.

  “No.” He jerked his hands away and pressed the palms against the Samoan’s smooth chest. “I’ve resisted since Silent Owl died.”

  The young man frowned, understanding the action but not the words.

  “Wait.” Tom went back inside and returned with a fistful of coins. “Take these and use them well,” he said, ramming the money into the Samoan’s hands.

  As the young man padded away into the darkness Tom heard a shriek. That bloody parrot. Was its owner out in the moonlight? If so, he was up to no good. Tom felt too jarred to go back to sleep again. So he lit a candle, tugged on his clothes, and stuffed his belongings into his bag. He would go to the main house as soon as it was light, find something to eat in the kitchen and leave. It would be rude not to bid anyone farewell but no matter. He couldn’t endure this place any longer. If he stayed he would be suffocated, like the banana trees in the jungle.

  He was creeping past the dining room, carrying a plate of fruit when he heard footsteps behind him. There was Louis himself descending the stairs.

  “An early breakfast?” he asked, “Or an early escape? I spent the night reclined in my study. Won’t you join me for a short while? We writers are vultures, plucking meat from other men’s lives and I’m sure there are fine pickings from yours.”

  This was said with a boyish grin and to his surprise Tom found himself nodding and smiling back. He followed Louis upstairs into a library whose walls were covered in hundreds of books, their spines shinin
g as if they had been polished.

  “I have to get them varnished or they would rot away in this climate. My study’s through here.” He indicated a monastic cell, with a narrow bed and shelves crammed with books. Although cramped it had two windows, one facing the sea toward the port of Apia and the other looking out on Mount Vaea.

  “It’s like a cabin,” Tom exclaimed.

  “What more could a man want? The sea and the hills.” Louis pulled out a chair and offered it to Tom while he flopped down on the camp bed. “Look at this. Isn’t it ingenious?” He pulled a cord that lowered a small table down from where it was suspended from the ceiling. “I can write in comfort without rising from my bed. I wish I could have had this when I was a child. Now we won’t be disturbed. I’m sure you’ve led an adventurous life, even though you pretend you haven’t. I can see it in your face. The man who hides behind the cloth to take pictures but never appears in them himself.”

  Seeing Tom’s eyes widen in alarm he added, “Have no fears. I will turn and twist what you tell me. No one will recognize you when they read the story.” He reached into a cupboard for a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Although still wary, Tom was seduced by Louis’s manner, guileless and complicit at the same time. Why not? This would be very different from talking to Captain Otter all those years ago. That had been a confession. This was a chance to become immortal. So over several hours his life story poured out, sometimes in a spate, at others a sluggish trickle or a looping meander turning back on its self.

  When he ended, Louis said, “Despite everything you’ve achieved, you still skulk on the fringes of society like a renegade Jacobite.”

  Tom bridled.

  “I don’t intend any offence. I’m only surprised that you can’t forgive yourself for a youthful error of judgment. Look at me. I was a colossal disappointment to my father. Refusing to join the family business. He disapproved of my writing and my morals. Yet, despite his disapproval he never cut me off. In that respect I’ve tried to follow his example with my own children, well stepchildren, as best I can.”