Davenport and I said we had not.
“German warship,” continued Hines, leaning back on the cool wooden bench and stretching his legs out, though there was hardly room for all of us in the small space around the table. He was pleased to assume the role of expert. “The Germans sent it to anchor at the Samoan harbor of Apia to enforce their government’s preferences in the last battle for the rule of the islands three years ago, which was between two of its chieftains—Mataafa, who the natives had chosen as king, and Tamasese, the savage who had made a deal with the Germans to rule how they wished him to. Its guns pointed at the coast, there the hulking vessel waited to be defied. It could eradicate a whole village with a single shot. Then a hurricane ripped it from its spot and brought the ship down at the top of the reef where it remains—a complete wreck.”
“Nature keeps to its own plans.”
“And probably prevented war between the Americans and Germans. Listen closely—here is what is most remarkable. The natives formed lines of men to rush into the beating surf and try to save the lives of the German sailors who, only hours before, were prepared to fire on their villages. You see, the savages are simple and good fellows, on the whole, who bow down to the needs of the white men when it comes to it.”
“What happened after the storm?” I asked.
“The Germans kept their position having the most sway on the Samoan island. The consul ordered three more warships to take the Adler’s place, while the Americans and British each carry one of theirs at a time, like the Colossus, and bring them in and out as they see fit.”
In addition to learning more about the current German stranglehold over the Samoan people, we picked up from the merchant and some of the experienced sailors a few useful Samoan words, adding to those we had gathered from the dry pages of our books. Davenport was also using the time to observe Hines and the other passengers and make certain none were there for the same reasons as we were.
—Very sorry to interrupt.
Pray interrupt when you like, for this tale is for you to hear, Mr. Clover, not me to tell.
—Well, as I understood it, Mr. Fergins, by the time of your ocean passage, the laws on copyright were already set to change, isn’t that so?
That’s right. The international copyright treaties were signed at Berne and the underground market for books was about to fall under the jurisdiction of courts in just a few months from the time I speak about, in the beginning of that July.
—You said there were hardly any bookaneers remaining, since everyone knew the profession was doomed. Why would Mr. Davenport worry there would be another one in his midst without him knowing?
Even in this extinction period for bookaneers, Davenport simply could not quash his suspicious nature. After all, he was pretending to have a purpose other than his real one, and so could the Australian, or anyone else we met up until the time Davenport held Stevenson’s novel in his hands. You wonder if he wouldn’t know another bookaneer by sight. True enough, in most cases. However, any person can be a bookaneer without even realizing it.
So Davenport contrived a reason to suggest an invitation into the merchant’s berth, and after a few moments, he had taken the inventory he needed. Especially of the books (of which there were just three, two on etiquette and manners, and one called The Thorough Business Man), but also ancillary objects, with an eye toward any of the following: spyglasses, especially smaller ones that could be hidden in a pocket; professional pens, erasers, and other writing instruments that could be used to alter or forge manuscript pages; pens (or cuff links or buttons or similarly inconspicuous items) just slightly too large—by a few millimeters around—that were actually hollow hiding places for purloined papers (a bookaneer could fold a standard piece of paper to the size of a five-cent coin without damaging it); cords that could replace telegraph wires and appear to be operational but actually hinder communication. A bookaneer’s arsenal. This man did not have any of these.
“You—bookworm,” Hines hailed me one evening at the captain’s table.
“Did you say something, Hines?” His comments were so often rude or simply random this had become my first reply to anything he said.
“You know me, busy enough with important ledgers and the rest, don’t have any more space in my brain for your fine books, friend,” he said, believing, I suppose, that saying the word friend would make me forget his abuse. “You in particular may have some trouble on the island.” A silk handkerchief, engraved with his full name, would often be drawn, readied for a sneeze or to dry his brow, only to be crumpled from one hand to the other and back, unused.
“What do you mean, Hines? What kind of trouble?” I asked.
“Books, friend! Savvy? You will have trouble finding books. They do not exist in Samoa.”
“What do you mean?”
“The natives just tell their stories to each other, like chattering birds. As I understand it, they appoint certain men to be memorizers—legend keepers—who are in charge of remembering their race’s simplistic tales and passing them on. You might be interested to know that there is one white scribbler living on Upolu, though, up on a mountainside in Apia. R. L. Stevenson—you must have heard of the fellow.”
“I heard a rumor about him sailing the South Seas,” said Davenport, knowing that ignorance would risk more attention than partial knowledge. “What’s a man like Mr. Stevenson doing in a place that has no books?”
Hines hunched forward slightly. “Meddling.”