Yes, I did see her during that period. I was confident that I knew what she was to Davenport and presumed to understand what he was to her, but I could not claim to know her. This is important to understand, Mr. Clover: nobody spent more time with Davenport than the two of us, but to each other we remained almost strangers until—until it was too late. As for Davenport, he only ever talked about what he wanted to talk about and usually he did not want to talk about her. Most of what I knew about Kitten came from my long study of the field. It was believed she was born in France but as a young woman traveled widely, chasing opportunity. Rumors persist about what she did during those years. She was a grave robber in Egypt, an opium trader in Hong Kong, a bravo (or assassin) in Berlin, depending on who tells you.
The next thing heard about her was during an extended time in America in the war that broke your country to pieces. Her role as a spy for both sides is recorded in two history books, one titled Spies of the Rebellion and another privately printed called Natural Traitors, which devotes half a chapter to a woman known then as Jane Grimm. During wartime, when American book publishing was as splintered as the rest of the country, this thirty-year-old Frenchwoman had occasion to smuggle the proof sheets of valuable books from the Southern states to Northern publishers, and vice versa, marking the beginning of a long career that would bring her great profit by utilizing her diverse set of skills as thief, smuggler, and trickster.
She had been known by a variety of names at different times and places, and like many who spend life operating in the shadows, she could have been forgiven for forgetting the one she was born with. Her name among the bookaneers was a bit of an affectionate jest among those who knew, despite her size, how really ferocious she was, like a kitten with a spool of thread.
Those two words of Davenport’s in his toast—to Kitten—ended any debate. I met the side of his glass with mine and prayed I would see my companion again.
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A TOLLING BELL from the deck alerted visitors to return to land.
I put my glass back on the bureau of Davenport’s stateroom. “I should leave you to it.”
“This mission is delicate, Fergins. Unusually so. If my subject were to somehow learn of the purpose of my presence, or be given any reason for extra caution, the mission could be compromised rapidly—and more precariously—than perhaps any other I’ve had. I will be on a primitive island, with infrequent chances to leave and little means of communication with the outside world.”
“You know, Davenport, that I am entirely discreet about our dealings.”
“The very reason I am reluctant to convey any doubt. I suppose I mean to urge you to reinforce even your usual discretion and make a fortress of your knowledge.”
“Without question,” I said solemnly, then thought I ought to add something more formal. “I vow to you before God I shall never say a word of it.”
“You always understood me, Fergins.” This was Davenport’s way of saying many things ordinary men would have uttered in plainer words: Thank you, or Stay in good health, or I will miss your company, my friend.
After exiting the berth and taking the long passage to the stairs, a new worry struck and slowed me down. He had sounded hesitant and seemed to be swatting at his own doubts. He had spoken as if we might not meet again. This is what I realized only at that moment: Davenport, for once, shared my dread and sense of danger. As the bell tolled on, I knew I had but a few minutes. I had to convince him to come off the ship with me, to forget this whole affair. Then I noticed something strange. A large fly, following in front of me wherever I turned. Then another black spot swirled right before my eyes, rising and dropping, becoming bigger, splitting into two. Black spots filled my vision; dryness plugged my throat. My knees trembled and buckled and I dropped down, gasping. I knew my earlier instincts were right, the trepidation, the fear that there were enemies hiding among us on this frigate. I tried to stand again and call out to Davenport to save himself but my legs were jelly.
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I CANNOT REMEMBER what visions I beheld while unconscious. I am vain enough to wish for something a little profound, if not Descartes’ dreams of a new sort of science then at least ones with entertaining portent, such as young Mrs. Shelley’s vision of the awful being that she would animate into Frankenstein’s creature, or Robert Louis Stevenson’s own nightmare of a respectable man who transformed into a disreputable criminal—perhaps my visions even contained something prescient about what was about to come in the Stevenson affair. A glimpse, perhaps, of a tall, thin white man presiding over a band of natives, death hanging over the scene. There is only one thing I do recall clearly: her face. I saw her. Kitten, whom Davenport had spoken of just a short time before black spots were multiplying before my eyes and contamination flowing through my veins. His musings about her must have invited her into my unconscious brain. I remember that I did not see her as you would see a portrait or a sculpture, fixed and final, or even as a memory, indistinct. I saw her as you would someone sitting where you sit across from me—on a train like this, with no one else to look at, no obstructions, the rest of the world receding.