Vao had informed me of this room the night before, as we designed the scheme. She had said: “It is a room believed to be highly guarded in the consul. It is said in there they keep details of their plans, inch by inch, to control all Samoa and force the natives and the other foreign powers under their thumb.”
As we had planned, I refused to show them anything on the maps until they agreed to all my conditions. This included a request for a lucrative official position in the German commercial firm, as preposterous a demand by a British bookseller as if I had asked to be made a Samoan chief. When they excused themselves to debate my terms, I examined the maps displayed around the room. Everything was marked in German, but fortunately it has long been one of my best languages because of its importance in collecting philosophical and scientific texts. As soon as I had examined everything in reach, I put them on a wild goose chase for the cannibals.
With the charcoal and paper, and Vao’s help with geography, I sketched the locales to the best of my recollection.
“I hope I didn’t catch your jaw too hard,” Vao said as I worked on the map, examining my chin.
I felt myself turn beet red at her touch, and shrugged a little. “It needed to be convincing. I know Tulagi would be proud of you.”
I did not mean to sadden or embarrass her, and though she blushed, I believe the thought of Tulagi’s delight in her brought her comfort. With her further assistance, I marked the locations that seemed to match those places on the Germans’ maps that had appeared to indicate the isolated outposts and hiding places controlled by the Tamasese government. With what Vao had already discovered, we concluded that the information Belial traded on Stevenson must have gained him sanctuary in one of these places.
We rode off as soon as we could gather our belongings; one of the spots on our list was a remote encampment that had been completely blocked off early on in the storm, eliminating it as a possibility. There was one locality we concluded was farther from the harbor than Belial would be willing to go. Another one was a cavern high up on one of Upolu’s lush, treacherous mountains. We stopped at the foot of it and squinted up through the mist, then went around from another side. We could see hints of life: small fires that were lit on the outer ledges that contained entrances.
“He’s been in there,” Vao said.
“Someone looks like they have. How do you know it is him?” I asked.
She smiled at my ignorance. “Because no Samoan would enter, not without a man like him, anyway.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You see, Chief Fergins, the caves are filled with the banished spirits of our former gods, the ones forced out by the Christian religions brought by white missionaries. They have long since turned into aitu, demonic ghosts. That is why you will see no caves on maps made by us. But if a white man is inside the cave, the devils will be kept safely at bay. So if there are Samoans inside those caverns, then so is a white man.”
Vao’s description of the aitus made me remember Tulagi, streaks of lightning in the sky creating a glow across his face, reciting the history of the island to himself. She became quiet and contemplative, maybe carried away by her own memories of her champion.
We waited many hours without progress until a soldier passed along the way alone, returning from some chore, and Vao called after him. He was armed with a blade, but Vao’s beauty stopped him in his tracks, and gave her time to explain that she was a tapo and daughter of a deceased chief, and had some questions. He seemed to recognize her, or at least her dialect, and he invited us to walk with him.
This was the story the soldier told us.
A week or so after the worst of the last hurricane had ended, one of Tamasese’s advisers was working to repair a broken fence in a remote parcel of his land when he was approached by a bedraggled white man, pulling a leather satchel alongside him. It seemed he had been walking through the bush for miles. As frightening as was his entire aspect, the adviser said the man’s eyes were the most fearsome trait about him—dark and deadly.
This adviser sent for a buggy and the man was transported to the king’s village. Once the man was recognized as Thomas, the powerful Marist missionary, word was immediately brought to Tamasese. Belial asked for sanctuary from enemies, and in return he would provide information on various enemies of the king’s whom he had come into contact with as a missionary.
The missionary was sequestered as he had requested, taken from the king’s palace to these secret caverns. He announced the rules to all soldiers who guarded him: Samoans were not to speak to him without their heads bowed; they were never to look into his eyes. When one native was slow to understand this request, and asked Belial if he could bring him anything to eat, Belial took a riding whip and slashed him across the neck and back until the whip unraveled.
The king at once began asking the new white chief advice on various political issues. It was said that their new white premier decided to write a codification of laws for the king—he called those the Heathen Codes—while he lingered in the caves. He began suggesting new laws for the king’s followers to abide by regarding women’s clothes (there should be more) and dancing (there should be none). Belial seemed very content and rarely went above the surface.
“Sometimes, he spoke to himself down there, but not just words,” said the soldier regarding Belial. “Almost a chant, and sometimes he dances.”
“Then he is still inside there?” I asked him, after Vao translated his words for me.
The soldier ignored me, justifiably appalled by my twopenny Samoan, so Vao repeated my question.
The soldier shook his head with relief. “When we brought news of a white man released from Tale-Pui-Pui, and that one had visited the German consul to find out where he was, he demanded to be carried to another location. Carried, I mean, on a litter decorated with flowers of his choosing—it took six of us eight hours.”