Belial’s choice of roles at Vailima, as usual, resulted from an incisive calculation. By establishing himself as a missionary who traveled among the various Samoan and other South Sea islands, he had reason for leaving the island at regular intervals. At first, I could not understand why he would want this, before realizing it afforded him the opportunity to secure precious tobacco from busier harbors. But there was more to it. Stevenson, like many writers, grew tired of any one topic or person easily, as we had witnessed. But in the case of Belial, any periods of waning interest by Stevenson would be reduced by the would-be missionary’s frequent trips off island.
Besides, whenever there was trouble at Vailima, Belial could step in because of his missionary collar. When Charlie ran amok, there was earnest Father Thomas to subdue him. When the poor servant was back in the stables, from that point on placed in restraints, it was Belial, as missionary, who prayed over him. The expression waiting just under the surface of Davenport’s face increasingly became, to say it lightly, volcanic. Though I cautioned him to stay clear of Fanny until we could determine whether she had discovered something about us, he ignored me and again volunteered to help her tend to Charlie in order to keep one eye on Belial; in fact, Davenport was inside the stable almost as much as Fanny and the hoary natives they called doctors. I sat inside that dim, cramped wooden structure as much as I could bear. Stevenson was clearly troubled. His movements became jerkier and less even when something weighed on his mind. He announced he was going to a village some distance away from Vailima to procure more of the special herbs the doctors had ordered for the servant.
“Can these herbs be trusted to be effective?” Davenport asked.
“It’s worth trying, and Jack is rather anxious to go for a ride, anyway,” Stevenson said, gathering some supplies to lash onto his horse’s saddle. “He is a bit of a dandy and likes to be seen by polite society.”
“I will happily accompany you, Tusitala,” Belial said.
“No. Charlie needs you. He has always been a young man of great faith in the Lord you preach.”
“I do not like to think of you going on your own,” Belial tried again.
“I could stand some company, and John Chinaman is occupied finishing some work on the west end of the property,” Stevenson replied. He turned to us. “Perhaps my other white gentlemen. Mr. Fergins? Mr. Porter?”
This time Belial’s usefulness worked to our benefit by keeping him tied to Vailima. We agreed to ride with Stevenson (to my surprise, Davenport seemed reluctant and almost teary-eyed leaving the suffering native’s side in the stables). When Belial turned to wish us good luck a flicker of annoyance marred his composure. As we exited, Charlie moaned, his brow bubbling up with beads of hot sweat.
That day we rode along difficult paths. I wouldn’t even consider half of them as having been cleared, and I know our horses would have agreed with me. The wilderness grew aggressively in Samoa as soon as there was a clearing made in it. I thought that either Stevenson or Stevenson’s horse was sick and might collapse, the novelist’s ride was so wobbly. But I realized this was simply the way wild Jack moved and, in fact, because the animal’s body and legs shifted position so frequently it was perfectly suited to the uneven terrain.
We came alongside one village that appeared to have been destroyed by a fire in the recent past. In spots the putrid smell of burnt animals still lingered.
“What happened to this place, Tusitala?”
“The Germans ordered it set afire, Mr. Fergins,” said Stevenson.
“The entire village?”
“Yes. The villagers here and a few other places had torn down a proclamation ordering them to swear fealty to Tamasese and renounce Mataafa, the former king.”
Passing out of the ruins and through a small village farther down the same road, it was a relief to notice people occupying the huts, but a collective tension rose with our presence—natives with rifles were slowly coming out onto the verandahs.
“Soi fua,” Davenport greeted a native man who passed our horses with a cold stare.
“Your Samoan comes along,” said Stevenson.
“I am trying.”
“That is what is important, to give a damn, as you Americans say. I used to admire the adventure books of Herman Melville until I realized how poorly he had mangled the names of the Marquesians and Tahitians,” commented Stevenson. “He didn’t even try for accuracy, as far I could tell. The romance of it mattered more than the real people.”
Anxious to be free of this village, I spurred my horse to pick up the pace.
“What’s the use of having eyes if we can’t see the world we pass through?”
“Yes, Tusitala.” I slowed my animal from a gallop to a trot, when what I really desired was a harum-scarum scamper.
Davenport knew what was on my mind. “They seem rather well armed here,” he said.
“Where there are traders, there will be ammunition. Aphorism—by Tusitala.”
“Perhaps they do not like foreigners in this village,” I said, as a way of suggesting we go back or change our route.
“No, they don’t. Certain foreigners, anyway,” Stevenson answered me. “Then again, were I a Samoan, I like to think I would advocate the massacre of all white people for what they’ve done here.”
“Tusitala!” I cried.
“They have seen white person after white person come and lie and manipulate them and rob them of their resources and lives. These particular villages are loyal to Tamasese, the sacred puppet who is beholden to the German consulate and their slave plantations. That is why they are suspicious of us. It is a widespread rumor that at Vailima we favor the position of the opposing rebels and their exiled king, Mataafa, and plan one day for his return.”
“Isn’t that the case?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Fergins, most definitely. Rumors are usually best ignored but also are usually true, you know.” By now our host sensed our nerves growing as more hostile faces of men with axes and rifles multiplied on all sides. He was never one to try to assuage fears during our time in Samoa; in fact, it seemed to me he was enjoying ours when he commented, “I guess the three of us will have to be the whole revolution, should it start today. But perhaps we ought to change the topic.”
“Please,” I urged.