The Last Bookaneer by Matthew Pearl Page B

stand and pretend to swim. Now the sins of my youth, like the young chicken, came home to roost. I tried to put myself in the best position to imitate swimming.
    Light suddenly poured in from above.
    â€œFergins!”
    I looked up to see Davenport. The bookaneer, standing over me, looked confused, as though I had just woken him up. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as he glanced around.
    â€œDavenport!” I exclaimed, my voice sounding raspy, with a note of horror stuck in it. I had been rolling around madly on the floor.
    â€œDo you know—” He interrupted himself with a soft chuckle. “Do you know what you look like? Fergins”—more low laughter directed at me—“what are you doing?”
    â€œSwimming. Well, preparing to,” I said with as much dignity as possible.
    â€œNow you look like you’ve seen a ghost—or, no, that you are a ghost yourself. You know, those books you’ve given me suggest the Samoan people believe in a wide variety of ghosts and demons living around them at all times. It’s a fascinating way to view the world. That with each death, the world grows more populous.”
    He opened the shutter on the window and a little more light crept into the berth. The same chamber, I realized with a jolt, where I had poured champagne.
    â€œWait a minute,” he went on, taking my spectacles from their case, which was on the table.
    â€œThat is very kind, thank you, but . . .” I shook my head, dizzy and lost for words. “What happened?”
    â€œI found you on the edge of the stairs—facedown, Fergins. Quite worrisome.”
    â€œDavenport, we must act quickly. You are in danger. I believe I was poisoned!”
    He did not seem moved one way or the other. “Sedated.”
    â€œDo you mean . . . ? Please know I mean no offense by this question, Davenport, but do I understand correctly that you did this to me? You brought me to your berth and mixed some kind of drugs into the champagne?” He hadn’t even a sip from his own glass, I remembered.
    He appeared, if not offended, irritated by my statement. “This is your berth. I had arranged for it in advance with Ormond, the very fine old English skipper of this Colossus . Mine is just across the corridor. Smaller and less well appointed, but adequate.”
    â€œWhy would you do it, Davenport?”
    â€œLet us take some fresh air to talk about it.”
    We went above and took some chairs up on the deck. Sailors occasionally passed on some errand in their uniforms, which were far less starchy than I remembered upon boarding. We were out at sea and the winds were strong and the snow-white sails full and magnificent. Davenport crossed his legs and looked over at me, as though he were back in the Garrick Club in ’71 waiting for my part of our first conversation.
    â€œDavenport!” I repeated. “Aren’t you even going to explain?”
    â€œI needed you to come with me to Samoa,” he said with his usual absence of emphasis, his hands crossed over his lap. “Think of the position I was in. You increasingly dislike long ocean voyages as you’ve gotten older. You grow nauseated and turn green. Even ten years ago your sea legs were wobbling. Remember the time you had to retrieve me from southern Italy and the schooner nearly capsized?”
    â€œI recall something about it.”
    â€œAnd I am not blind, my dear Fergins. I could see that your concerns about my mission flowed deeper than the treacherous passage, as you admitted. Would you have come with me halfway across the world this time?”
    â€œYou never asked me.”
    â€œOh, you would have readily agreed to it. Then, at the last moment, you would have confessed that you could not keep your resolve and would have apologized profusely before quickly disembarking and trying to take me with you.”
    â€œNot so.” I tried to stay