I felt myself riding a wave of suspicion that I was misled again. “No—that can’t be right. The novel you spoke of, The Shovels of Newton French, was never published. I tried to find it over the years with absolutely no luck.”
He was nodding before I finished. “When Stevenson and I were planning that day what would happen, I talked about how I would help bring Newton French, his masterpiece, to light.
“‘That? Really?’ Stevenson gave me a humorless laugh under his breath. Then he said, ‘Well, that book. The more I think about it, the less I like the blasted thing.’
“‘It is your masterpiece. You said it was the masterpiece you had been missing from your career. I heard you say it!’
“‘I write two or three novels at a time, Fergins, with two or three more in mind at all times. They come cheaply, and you must serenade them while writing, but all novels are disappointments as soon as they leave your hands. Think of this fact: my reputation will always rest in good part on Treasure Island—Treasure Island, for goodness sake!—a book for boys written with considerably less labor and originality, and probably more than the usual unconscious plagiarism, than anything else I’ve written. I do not think it will live beyond me, though I believe Kidnapped might. But that thing I’ve just finished? Why, I’ve burned far better books that that.’
“He was carried to his bedroom after a fit of coughing during this conversation, and I was bid to follow a few minutes later. ‘Fifteen drops of laudanum, Fergins, that is all it usually takes.’ The novelist spit into a silver bowl, where I could see saliva swirled with blood. ‘Pay no attention; I have proven myself incapable of dying. You were correct that I was writing my masterpiece. It was not that foolish novel I was referring to.’
“I waited, holding my breath.
“‘Samoa saved me,’ Stevenson added in a very serious tone.
“I asked him rather bluntly what that had to do with anything. The novelist blinked like a man who has stood out in the sun after a long sleep. ‘Fergins,’ he finally replied, ‘when I lived in Edinburgh with its icy winds and conventions, I spent much of the day lying on my back just how you see me now. How little our friends in Europe know of the ease they might find here in Samoa. Half the ills of mankind can be shaken off without a doctor or medicine here. It was Mark Twain who first told me about the enchantment of the balmy atmosphere of the South Seas—said it would take a dead man out of his grave, and, you know how Twain caricatures things, but he was right. I know what I look like to you, like an old skeleton, but I have become a healthy old skeleton. Now, were I to be deported—that would be a death sentence for me. The German powers that seek my removal must be repelled. My very life, not to mention the future life of the island, depends upon it.’
“‘Then this masterpiece . . .’
“‘There,’ Stevenson said, looking at the pillow beside him on the bed, where a thick manuscript rested. It was in rough shape, the edges bent and folded, spotted with tobacco marks, the strained handwriting scribbled almost end to end, the very narrow borders of the paper filled with marginalia and notes. It was an incredible sight.
“It was the same novel he had just said should be burned, The Shovels of Newton French. Freshly confused, I was about to ask him again what it all meant, when I remembered how Davenport had found those original pages from Strange Case of Jekyll and Hyde—the very ones that led to Charlie’s death—that had been used as scraps for other writing. I flipped the novel over and found on the backs of some of the pages, scattered among other meaningless and discarded writings, an entirely different narrative. I asked him if this was another novel.
“‘Here is my masterpiece, Fergins. The most important thing I have ever written, that in which everything else I have tried culminates. It is no novel, heavens no. A comprehensive chronicle of the turmoil and the injustices of the foreign intervention in Samoa.’
“I scanned the pages, which contained dense descriptions of the islands’ political and military conflicts. I remembered Davenport had come across similar scribblings during his first searches at Vailima but never gave them a second thought. It had some potential titles written in a list, including A Footnote to History. I looked back up at Stevenson and he continued explaining to me:
“‘I have been writing it at the same time, Fergins, and with writing paper so rare and dear on the island, I had to conserve my materials and use the backs of my silly novel’s pages. It may be found unwelcome to that great, hulking bullering whale—I mean the public. Nor is it likely to make me any friends; in fact, other dangerous enemies will follow. Still, I must not stand and slouch but do my best. Without my name, perhaps five people would read this. A few hundred people may read this because of my name only. But that is all I need, for those will be the right people, among them statesmen. To have your work read, that is one thing, and I am used to it. To have it read by the right people—well, to modern authors that is positively utopian! There will be no money to be made, and yet there is something far more than that this book will bring to life. The pages in your hands will open the eyes of the Americans, whose hands are not immaculate but are the cleanest of the three powers, to send their forces to counter the Germans who have enslaved and terrorized the islanders.’