Read Online The Last Bookaneer by Matthew Pearl - Free Book Online Page B

here,” Davenport said, stepping over my sympathy. “We wasted time enough on the train here. What is this nonsense about my life depending on speaking with you? The only reason I allowed Fergins to drag me out here is that I am curious to see what trick you are planning.”
    â€œNo trick! We have been flying at each other’s throats for so many years, Pen, but Lord knows I’ve always been honest about hating you. You’ll admit that. You are the fellow. You are the fellow.”
    â€œYou have said.”
    â€œBe patient with an old man.”
    â€œAn old devil.”
    Bill’s eyes widened and brightened. “Maybe so, Pen! I need to tell you some things, so take a seat and listen. Please. If you want the bookseller, let the old goat stay. He was always harmless as a butterfly.”
    Davenport rolled up his sleeves as if he were about to operate, and carried a stool close to the head of the bed. I took another stool by the foot of the bed.
    â€œThank you. Pen, I have seen firsthand what a scoundrel you become when someone questions your way of thinking, but you always were a gentleman at heart. There is a new mission, one of phenomenal importance and, potentially, profit.”
    â€œIs this about your Poe obsession? It is the way of the commonplace bookaneer to go in for a Holy Grail.”
    â€œNo!” Bill cried, coughing with exasperation as he tried to expel his words. “It’s not that. Something . . . bigger—Stevenson.”
    Stevenson. As in Robert Louis. One of the most popular living writers in the world. The author known for Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Treasure Island, and Kidnapped, whose work was demanded by readers around the world. We looked at each other. I knew Davenport’s mind was moving at great speed, though he did not look interested.
    â€œOne of the more capricious but gifted writers ever to set pen to paper. He is sailing the Pacific by private means to improve his health,” Davenport said. “They say he will return to Scotland when he feels restored, but nobody knows how long it will be.”
    â€œHe is never to return,” Bill said with somber finality.
    â€œAre you implying Stevenson died while at sea?” Davenport asked.
    â€œWhat do you know about the island of Upolu?” Bill asked.
    â€œI concentrate on the literary world. I do not know much about distant lands of illiterates. Fergins likes to know a little about everything.”
    â€œUpolu is one of the three primary Samoan islands,” I said, “formed by a volcano and still in its shadow. Samoa is also known as the Navigator Islands, because of the abilities of its natives to command the sea without any of our modern equipment. Upolu is its capital of government and commerce.”
    â€œI ask again. Is Stevenson dead?”
    â€œNo—not dead yet, Pen.”
    â€œThen has he been taken by savages?”
    â€œWorse! He remains by his own will. From what I have learned, he alighted at the island of Upolu and decided never to leave. Stevenson, or the shade of Stevenson, lives in seclusion there, an exile from all civilized people and things. Do you realize what it all means? How close we are?”
    â€œClose to what?” Davenport asked, and he made the slightest gesture to me, at which I removed a pencil and my notebook.
    â€œGlory, dear Pen! These writers take the essence of every person around them, turn them into books and stories without permission or even a simple thank-you, and want all the credit and glory for themselves. We are the only ones who can stand in the way, who can take that glory right from their pockets. God as my witness, I’ve taken some for myself these long years. The intelligence I have been able to collect informs me Stevenson is finishing the most important book of his life. But he is a bag of bones now, unlikely to survive much longer, and if his illnesses do not claim him first,