“So the mission will be aborted? Left to Belial to complete?” I asked, offended by the idea. “We have come so far. A shrug? Is that your response?”
There is not much more of this conversation to report, because the ride was increasingly slow and tedious due to the trees and branches that were tossed around by the shrieking wind. Our horses lowered their heads and stretched themselves out. The horizon was an eerie movement of black and purple, as if the night had never fully made space for day. Finally, Cipaou blocked our way with his horse, and after Davenport demanded an explanation, the loyal Samoan announced the tempest was so dangerous that we had to return to the cottage. I expected bullheaded Davenport, if only because he had engineered this ride, might argue, but he pulled his horse back and complied. Maybe he was relieved to retreat; maybe after he’d had a chance to think he knew we had come too far to throw away his mission. This was rather perfect for Davenport. It gave him a way to retract his decision without admitting he was wrong.
By the time we were finally approaching the cottage again, my eyelids were heavy, my limbs numb, and this time I actually fell asleep on horseback. I would have tumbled right to the ground if the shout of Cipaou had not woken me. I shook myself but remained in a state of dreamlike confusion: there was our plot of land, but the cottage had vanished. Once we came closer, we found the wind had blown the little place over into a pile of ruins. This ridiculous ride, this petulant whim of Davenport’s, had probably saved our lives. It had happened again: his instincts were right even when all of the reasons were wrong.
“The devil has visited this house!” Cipaou cried.
Cipaou was distressed about the discovery but even more distressed about the prospects of finding other shelter before the wind became so strong the horses would refuse to continue, and before the rains fell. We crossed the stream that formed the border of the property, and after another hour came upon some of Stevenson’s outside boys collecting his cows, which had scattered. Cipaou spoke with these young men and then returned to us.
“Vailima is the closest shelter safe for white men. Come, follow me!”
Our attempted flight to Apia had brought us all the way back to Vailima, where the outside boys immediately stabled our horses and rushed us to the front door as though expecting us. Stevenson watched all of it with his face pressed against the window and came to greet us.
“I received your card saying that you planned to leave the island,” he said, mulling the notion over with a curious expression. Even so, he did not seem surprised to have us on his doorstep.
“I’m afraid we didn’t go very far, after all,” Davenport said. “Our hut could not withstand the winds.”
“Nor would you have gone much farther until the first storm comes and goes,” Stevenson said flatly. “My white gentlemen,” he said, this time the phrase a gentle critique of our inexperience, “as soon as my boys returned with the tidings that your hut tumbled down, I have had them on the ready for your arrival.”
The skies were shrieking against the windows with heavy gusts, as though to say that we had arrived just in time.
“We will not inconvenience you long. I understand the Germans have a few vacant houses available on the other side of the island. As soon as we can, we will ride that way. I know they are involved in rather shady activities on their plantation, Tusitala, but I’m afraid we must rely on their generosity.”
“Generosity!”
The novelist was outraged by Davenport applying that word to his political rivals on the island. In no time at all, Stevenson was giving orders to various servants for us to stay at the house and to accommodate Cipaou, though our servant declined, insisting on continuing to ride toward his own family. Fanny passed by on her way to another part of the house and, hearing the news of our staying on, gave a nod. She did not say anything, and I had to imagine she felt insulted that her warnings had been ignored.
I did not have time to ponder the state of mind of the novelist’s wife very long before Belial entered from the other side of the room. He was pristine as ever in his priestly collar and frock and a somber expression of concern.
“I’m afraid there is still so much grief over poor Charlie,” the faux missionary said, crossing himself. “I have been spending more and more time among our dusky brothers and sisters here because of it. Why, I’m practically living here as of late.”
“Can you imagine,” Stevenson said to Belial, “that our friends were considering taking shelter with the Germans?”
Belial puckered his lips in a show of measured thought. “You know, Tusitala, that I must remain neutral in my mission.”
“How unfortunate for you, Father Thomas. Mr. Porter. Mr. Fergins. You will stay right here through the storm. No protests. I command it. There is plenty of space, and my boys are already untying your belongings from your horses. You are part of Vailima, and this home is your home now.”
Davenport’s eyes traveled from Belial to Stevenson and back. “We’re grateful, Tusitala.”
When we were alone and walking to the other side of the house to our rooms, I grabbed Davenport’s arm. I wanted to scream at him but forced a whisper: “You planned this.”
“Go on.”
“You dismantled the foundations of our cottage while I was out picking up coconuts and breadfruit. You knew we needed to stay at Vailima, but without making it seem to be our choice. And you threatened to take lodgings from the Germans, knowing how that would rankle in Stevenson’s mind.” I kicked myself for believing that the mission had been aborted—in fact, it was the opposite. Davenport’s maneuver had pushed us into the next phase. I had a mixture of admiration and astonishment that he would destroy our home in order to create the most believable scenario.