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THE CRESCENT-SHAPED ISLET in question was so small no map or chart shows it. The few histories of it I have found suggest it was discovered by Captain Bligh a few weeks before the infamous mutiny against him. I had to travel two days with no more than four hours’ sleep in order to secure my transportation. The islet was part of a chain of land masses that formed a tail of the 150 islands that comprise Tonga. It had very little fertile land and was rocky even where verdant. I could see almost nowhere to land, the edges skirted with coral reefs and rough-breaking water even at mid-and low tide. I had been told that the small number of natives who settled there served as lookouts in the event enemies of Tonga tried to approach. This was confirmed as soon as we coasted through the early gloom of dawn into a treacherous and narrow opening in the rocks, the closest thing the isle had to a harbor. A group of watchful islanders appeared on the beach with spears out.
The natives who rowed my vessel stopped suddenly, some distance from shore. I was about to demand to know why they halted our progress. Then I noticed a rope drawn across the harbor’s opening that would have capsized us. My escorts offered a series of elaborate gestures to our greeters to indicate that I wanted to visit and that I was coming in peace. The island guardians kept their eyes on me while my escorts conveyed the purpose of the tired, weather-beaten foreigner seated in the middle of the canoe: to meet the half-legendary Fa’amoemoeopu.
The rope was soon lowered but their continued skepticism toward my visit was palpable once I stood on the beach. All my pockets and cuffs were searched. Then I was asked to remove my boots and they led me farther ashore. The sand felt surprisingly solid between my toes. I was brought up a hill alone to a hut to wait, wait, and wait, and I could only hope the guides and oarsmen I had hired from the Cook Islands would not grow impatient enough to strand me. I pressed my fingers to my temples. Hanging from the rafters, there were palm-leaf baskets filled with colorful birds, whose squawking made any attempt to think or rest impossible.
New places and experiences don’t frighten me. I was not the boy who once boarded a train to flee my small village. Indeed, if I was ever to return to New York City after my wandering years, I do not think I would be belittled by it. Neither was I so impressed as I once was by newness for its own sake. I could hardly remember all the places I sailed, and the journeying had only left me more restless. Still, there was something different about this. It seemed I had not merely reached another spot on the map of the world, but rather was seeking entrance into the secret life of a man who did not wish to be found. The truth dawned on me. My life could be at the mercy of Pen Davenport, this white dictator who had long ago traded civilization for raw power.
“If you please,” said a tall bejeweled native who entered the hut with a silent step and spoke with a stern voice, but managed to convey enough kindness toward me to give me a little comfort. He left a tray that had a bowl of cold orange soup, some mango and pineapple, and some white grubs wrapped in leaves. I thanked him and I devoured almost all (leaving behind the grubs, which I feared might still be living). The tall native returned and gestured for me to follow.
I walked behind him up a steep hill to a larger structure, a building with a verandah and some enclosed rooms, though the roof and beams were still of the native style and I had to duck my head under the eaves upon entering. Once inside, I was brought into a chamber that I suppose could be called a parlor, though it had no chairs—just the mats on the floor in the style of so many of the islands in the area.
There was a white man lying on a mat on the floor, stretching his feet into the air. Chickens were pecking at the ground around him. He wore a loose-fitting native gown, the bland color of bamboo, while around his head a garland of satiny red and purple leaves marked him as a person of authority. His radiant face, revealed in the glow of the strong sunset coming through the windows, was covered by a full white beard.
“Fa’amoemoeopu?”
“My dear Mr. Clover, what a pleasure,” said Mr. Fergins, a single tear creeping down his cheek.
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“BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” I said after an exchange of mutually surprised greetings. “I expected to find Pen Davenport. . . .”
“Look at me, weeping like a schoolboy to meet an old friend,” Mr. Fergins said, sniffing and drying his eyes. “Davenport?” He pronounced it as though he had not heard or spoken the name in a long time.
“From the descriptions I heard of Fa’amoemoeopu, a white man who had been in the prison on Upolu . . .” Even as I said it I recalled that the bookseller had been confined, however briefly, in the prison alongside Davenport. “Never mind. What could have possibly brought you back here after you returned to London?”