That summer marked my last run on the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad before I joined the merchant navy, where I would remain in service for more than five years. The first two years I sailed the African and Asian continents, and I suppose it could be said that the experience changed and hardened me, but no more or less than any other man; after a brief sojourn on my own, I shipped with another vessel, which went through the South Seas.
There is so much to see when touring new places, I’ve found it interesting to notice what I remember and what is soon forgotten. What stays in my memory about my first passage through the South Seas are colors. Because of the volcanic coral below, the ocean waters take on a variety of colors depending on the spot, as though a rainbow dripped into the water. As we hove to, the giant black hull of our ship seemed an unwanted conqueror of all that beauty, the seabirds crying out at us. All the ships and buildings that could be seen on land from the sea were of European or American styles; only in the interior of the islands would I see what the native houses were like. Naturally, when I found myself in that amazing part of the world I began thinking again of the events as told to me by Mr. Fergins. The details were as fresh in my mind as if they had happened last week and happened to me; indeed, they were more real than some of my own adventures. When I had the opportunity to visit Samoa, with a little free time on my hands, I could not resist. I hired a guide and asked to go to Vailima.
Upolu was quiet. I saw scorched ground and from a distance I spied severed human heads on stakes—brown and white heads alike, and three of the heads appeared to be taken from women—but judging from the degree of decomposition, these horrific remnants of war must have been baking in the sun for a long time. My guide said that after an unusually dry season, famine had struck the island and the war halted. I had learned from Stevenson’s book on Samoa (which I eventually read during my travels) that the island could have famine or it could have war, but it could not sustain both.
Vailima was as desolate as the island itself. Most of the livestock I’d heard described by Mr. Fergins wandered free or were gone altogether; two lonely horses grazed in the humid afternoon air near the paddock. One was a black mare with a lump on her knee. I recognized the other one as the novelist’s unmistakable piebald circus animal, Jack. His mane was filled with flowers. Jack raised his head with a faint snort and blinked out at me with handsome but vacant eyes; I could picture him rearing on his hind legs and dancing. Instead he just chewed his grass and, tiring of me, lowered his head again. After a time, the tall, slender figure of a man approached and my heart beat fast with anticipation. He was wearing a straw hat and dark sun spectacles and was barefoot.
As he came closer, I recognized Lloyd Osbourne from Mr. Fergins’s descriptions as a sturdy man with a juvenile face. He seemed sluggish in general, an impression made stronger by the striped cotton clothes that looked like pajamas, but he appeared equal to having visitors, even a stranger. He led the way inside to the great hall. There was the piano—now covered in layers of dust, like much of the furniture in the house—that Pen Davenport had once ordered Mr. Fergins to play.
“You can play?” Mr. Osbourne said in a tone between a question and a statement.
“My father’s church had an organ and he used to teach me when the chapel was empty. I only know some very stiff church music, unfortunately,” I said, running my fingers just above the keys, thinking of the bookseller nervously coaxing out Stevenson on Davenport’s command.
We were joined by a native girl, no older than fourteen, who sat on the floor and mixed a drink in a sliced coconut shell.
“Have you had ’ava?” my host asked.
“I’ve heard about it from—” I stopped short. “. . . some of the sailors.”
“Chewed root mixed with water, and strained. Oh, it takes some getting used to. But it’s authentic, at least, more than can be said for the tinned beef and religions we’ve managed to introduce to the islanders. ’Ava is made in a rather grotesque fashion in the young girls’ mouths, but one gets used to anything. Just stay away from green root.”
“Oh?”
“The green ’ava root is stronger, and has a positively awful effect in nonnatives, so much that they cannot move their legs for twenty hours or so. The natives giggle about it, but you wouldn’t if you ever drank it.”
“Thank you,” I said, as the shell came to me.
“My stepfather is over there,” Mr. Osbourne said. I followed his gaze to a window that opened onto a view of the volcanic mountain rising above us. “We had a great ceremony with some of the local chiefs who helped carry his body up.”
“What happened?” I asked, taking a small sip of the pungent beverage. “Forgive me for not knowing, Mr. Osbourne. I have been at sea and we see newspapers infrequently.”
“Why, it was about a year ago from this past December. He wrote hard all day, another new novel he judged his best work—about a father who is a judge and a son who is a lawyer in Edinburgh—he always thought a new book would be his best. We had our ’ava as usual. He actually mentioned how well he was feeling, and that he was thinking of making a lecture tour of America as Dickens once did. He was talking and talking on the verandah, as buoyant as you please, when he suddenly dropped to his knees. We brought him to that green chair and later our little brass bedstead was carried down here. I took the fastest horse we had—Louis’s fearless old circus creature, Jack—and went to fetch the doctor. When I jumped off, the doctor got on and Jack brought him back as though the animal knew what was happening and what was needed. I refuse to give Jack up for any price, for I think he is extraordinary, and the native boys who pass drape him in flowers as a reward for how he tried to save Louis. But, in any event, Louis never recovered consciousness. ‘Tofa!’ whispered the Samoans all around the house. Sleep.”