There, on the second-story verandah, the long figure of a man was wrapped into the hammock. I knew that some nights the novelist found relief from his physical ailments by sleeping in the hammock. I could see in the dim blue mushroom-shaped lamps of the verandah that there was a conch shell beside the hammock, alongside the ever-present supply of extra tobacco. A cat was curled up by his feet.
The netted cradle rocked Stevenson and the cat back and forth. After trading whispers, neither Davenport nor I could say whether the man above us was asleep or awake. The long face was covered in shadows. Thunder from the retreating storms rolled through the mountain. Davenport started scrambling across the grounds toward the paddock and I did the same. Sao, Laefoele, Stevenson: the ways to be caught were multiplying at a rapid rate. When we were close enough to the paddock for our eyes to memorize the path beyond, Davenport extinguished our torch under his boot. The blinding darkness that swept around us immediately made the decision seem like a bad one. The hammock still rocked back and forth in a blue glow, now the only light we could see. Stevenson’s head had turned slightly, facing us. For all the gold in the world I still could not say whether the novelist was awake, though the fact that he was not moving from his hammock in spite of our flight suggested he slept soundly. Then I noticed that Stevenson’s long toes curled and then stretched, curled and stretched again, scratching the cat’s back. Davenport perceived this at the same time I did, and launched into the best run he could manage. Stevenson had been watching us all along, toying with us.
When Davenport emerged from the paddock climbing on a horse, his aches seemed to recede; the creature’s strength became his own. He reached down to me.
“What are you waiting for, Fergins?”
“Not Jack.”
“What?”
“We can’t take Jack! He’s Tusitala’s favorite! It will kill him.”
“It is the best animal on this rotting terrain, and our best chance; now take my hand!”
The hammock was empty and the next noise was the sound of a conch being blown. The slightest differences in the shell’s notes could call the family to dinner or announce that the island was at war, but neither of us had mastered the sounds enough to guess their meanings. Then we heard shouts in Samoan, including one deep, angry voice I recognized as Sao’s, amid the din of general chaos we had just unleashed.
I never before noticed how tall Jack was. I was struggling to climb up behind Davenport, and slipped down into a cloud of dust.
“Go without me,” I urged.
He was determined to wait, but I had hit the ground hard. When we heard hoof-falls I yelled again for him to go, and Davenport finally set himself on the animal and galloped away. A few moments later, I heard Jack snorting and whinnying, the sounds moving back toward me. The clouds covering the moon had begun to fall away. There were silhouettes of Samoans everywhere I looked. Axes, rifles, and knives were at the ready.
? ? ?
WE SPENT THE REST of the night in the same room from which we had originally escaped, this time with two guards at all times who were, I assume, exhorted by Stevenson to stay more vigilant, or at least awake. We made no further attempts to flee. The next morning we were escorted by John Chinaman and two young Samoans into Stevenson’s sanctum, where the master of the house was sitting up in the bed, not so different from the position I now take telling you the story. The bed was covered in mosquito netting. His flageolet was disassembled into many pieces, spread out on the quilt in front of him.
“I have just discovered what is wrong with me, my white gentlemen,” Stevenson said, looking at his reflection in a small mirror. He contorted his face a couple of times, then turned to the profile. “I look like a Pole.”
Davenport and I glanced at each other, unsure if the novelist waited for a response.
Stevenson put down the mirror and waved his hand over the segments of his musical instrument. “Seventeen separate members, you see, my white gentlemen, and most of these have to be fitted on their individual springs as fine as needles. Sometimes two at once, with the springs showing different ways.” His rage seemed to have dissipated, at least outwardly.
I looked again at Davenport, whose eyebrow was now raised and taut as he was nodding in agreement.
“Tell us just one thing, if you would,” the bookaneer said. “About the other stream.”
Stevenson squinted.
“We only found four,” Davenport explained. “Vai means water and lima means five. We looked everywhere we could. Where is the fifth stream and where does it lead?”
The novelist shrugged. “There are only four. ‘Vailima’ sounded better than the Samoan word for ‘four streams.’”
Davenport smiled his gratitude for the explanation, then tried to build on the exchange with a confidential tone. “Perhaps we can still work out an arrangement, Tusitala.”
“Do you know what the traditional punishment for deception in Samoa is, Mr. Porter?” Stevenson said, now looking right at him. “Apologies, I mean Davenport. It is this: You are cast off alone in a canoe in the middle of the ocean. If you are lucky, you die at sea rather than make land on one of the cannibal islands.”
“Is that your intention for us?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“I forced Mr. Fergins to accompany me,” Davenport said. “He deserves no punishment.”
Stevenson opened his mouth, then closed it before he started again. “Do you know what angers me most? The truth should have occurred to me. After all, where would one meet a man as agreeable as you, but in fiction? A man who would volunteer to hold my cigarette after only knowing me a few weeks.” He twisted two pieces of the flageolet together. “I have been disappointed in so many friendships I supposed I tricked myself into having high hopes. Has any author ever fought back against you bookaneers?”
“Some.”
“Have any succeeded? Have you literary Robin Hoods and Rob Roys ever been vanquished by a mere scribbler?”