To Davenport this apathy was an exercise in self-discipline. In order to concentrate on his mission alone he refused to play a part in the inevitable excitement of reaching a new shore, when every detail of whatever you can make out assumes the shape of a revelation. But I relished the moment, and could understand what the officer meant about knowing Upolu on sight. At the center of the island, a giant volcano jutted up to the heavens, with other mountain ranges spread across the rest of the island. It was unusual, beautiful, and rough. First we heard, then saw a silver waterfall crashing down from hundreds of feet above. There were four warships along the coast, one with American and three with German colors. As we glided closer, there could be seen the wrecked hulk of the German warship Hines had told us about, circled by loud gulls and swept over by a frustrated white surf avenging itself in rust. About one mile away, a pilot boat awaited us, bobbing up and down on the great foamy breakers, which is when I went to rouse the still-indifferent Davenport. After we laid anchor at the harbor, we were met by a fleet of long, narrow canoes, each occupied by one white man at the stern and muscular brown-skinned rowers lining the sides. More Samoans waited at the shore, holding up jewelry made of shells, as well as chickens and mats, presumably for sale or trade.
Books comparing the various races of savages in the South Seas are filled with praise for the Samoans. They tend to be as tall as Europeans, their skin a combination of red and brown that is less jarring to the eye of certain whites than the midnight black skin and wild, frizzy hair of the inhabitants of some nearby islands. Native Samoans often wear mustaches but consider smooth chins cultivated. The peculiar tattoos that cover much of the skin of both sexes suggest the appearance of being fully clothed even though they never are. The sight of the native women with uncovered breasts was shocking not only to me, but even to my much more cosmopolitan companion. Still, the fact that Samoans are not cannibals tends to curry great favor with foreigners. Even putting aside not eating us, they are among the friendliest people you could meet. Their smiles are sincere, their eyes open and honest, their attitudes light and well-meaning.
One of the first things I noticed as we moved closer was that the natural colors on the island were almost impossibly varied, sparkling and bold, starting with the fish rushing away from our path beneath our canoe. The natives were wrapped in a multitude of colors, too, with wildflowers and cloths, and their smooth skin shimmering in the sun with tattoos, sweat, ocean water, and coconut oil. The air was clean and thin, with a mixed floral scent that was strong everywhere.
After climbing a ladder down the side of the frigate, Davenport and I joined a few other passengers in one of the canoes. The white man in our craft introduced himself as representing the English consulate. As Hines had informed us, the capital of Apia, situated at the harbor, had been gobbled up and divided over the years among the three foreign powers—Great Britain, America, and Germany—arranged in proximity to their respective consulates and array of warships. There were also churches of several denominations, from which the missionaries operated. This busy area was called “the beach,” and that was where all white settlers and visitors congregated for their safety. Only a fool would think to lodge elsewhere. We were fools, but I did not know it yet.
I have stood in a full suit in the sultry climate of Castile watching where a government censor was carrying a crate of books while awaiting Davenport’s instructions; have lined my hat with writing paper to deflect the sun of Siena in the middle of August, while wearing a long black cloak to conceal a smuggled fourteenth-century book. But tropical heat is oppressive in a unique way. It consumes you entirely. It seems to enter the skin and eyes, to crawl under the hair and nails; it becomes part of you and takes your breath. I’d learn there are only two Samoan seasons: hot and dry, and hot and rainy.
The Englishman wore what we would discover was the typical uniform of white men in the South Seas, which was a thin suit of white linen and a large straw hat. He was a pleasant, gray-haired man whose skin had become a faint bronze from the tropical sun. Mine, as bad luck would have it, would turn splotchy and itchy during our time on the island. The consul passed the back of his hand across his brow, as though he were the one doing the rowing rather than the natives, who sang—or chanted—as they pulled us toward the shore. “Apologies for the heat; can’t do much for it but bathe and drink ’ava—that is like their wine. The brown folk like sun, anyway.”
“How do you like being on the island?” Davenport asked.
“We do some good for the people here. Oh, you’ll come across some complaints—maybe you have already from the navy men. I hear the King of Tonga is talking about drafting a constitution so no foreign powers knock on their door. But most of the islands around here would be lucky indeed to have as much interest from more advanced governments as Samoa does.”
“Even from the Germans?” asked Davenport.
He cleared his throat, also clearing away Davenport’s question. “Do you fellows need any advice on lodging at the beach during your stay?”
“No,” was Davenport’s answer. “We have that settled.”
I was as surprised as the consul appeared to be.
“We do need transportation to the interior, where we will be staying,” Davenport continued.
“I can help arrange that,” said the man, after a rather curious expression had crossed his face.
He told us there were hardly any coaches or buggies on the island because they simply did not fit on the roads. Supplies and belongings had to be tied in bundles to the horses or stored in saddlebags. When we reached the beach, which curved into a half-moon shape, we hired two horses for ourselves and a guide on horseback to lead us. During our ride, Davenport told me that he had already rented a cottage.
“From whom? We have spoken to nobody else since landing.”
“Hines.”
Hines, that hateful enemy of mine from the frigate, turned out to own a significant amount of land in Samoa. After riding almost an hour across uneven terrain through lush, monotonous jungle, we reached the “cottage,” a simple but sturdy oval hut with two rooms, a verandah that ranged three sides of the structure, and an iron roof that caused a ruckus with the alighting birds or raindrops. Out there we were entirely alone with the exception of a sunny native, Cipaou, whose service came with the lease.