[3]. Meaning rum, refreshments and tobacco.
He was to be found in all the out-of-the-way places and would go miles alone, usually on foot; though he had an old horse or ass, I forget which, he seldom rode it.
One day I was walking along near the coast when a little native boy of about six years of age, came limping out of the jungle scrub just by the track. I picked the little fellow up and discovered he had trodden on some glass, and had a deep gash in his foot. As I was carrying him down to the shore to wash his wound, Stevenson and a boy came strolling by. Stevenson, who was always very kind to children, examined the wound, took out his pocket-handkerchief and bound the foot up, after we had well bathed it: his manner to the little outcast was one of extreme tenderness.
I was living with two kindly disposed old natives at that time, so I picked the child up and carried him home. We found out the next day that the poor little fellow’s parents had been drowned by the upsetting of a canoe in a typhoon off Apia harbour. He was very thin and looked ill, so I gave my hosts some money and told them to feed him up, which they did. I became very fond of him; he had thick curls all over his head, and his cheery little brown face was lit up by a pair of beautiful brown eyes. He slept near me, and every morning he would jump off his bed-mat and caper about like a puppy and would insist in helping me put my boots on. He heard me play the violin and was deeply interested in it. I was always catching him looking at my violin, and each time he looked up at me artfully, as much as to say: “I must not touch your wonderful music. Oh no, I’m not that kind of Samoan baby!”
I only chided him once, when I caught the little dark tinker unscrewing all my violin pegs. He gave a terrified shriek as I ran after him, and was off like a frightened rabbit. When I at length caught him, and regained my property, he looked up at me with pleading eyes, gave a baby-like cry, and in musical, infantile Samoan phrases asked to be forgiven. So I at once placed him on my shoulder and gave him a ride to his heart’s delight; and after that he stood guard over my violin, and came rushing up to me if even the dog went near it. I let him sleep with me sometimes, and he placed his arms about my neck as though I were some sweet-bosomed mother; and so in that way fell asleep the little brown savage in the arms of Western civilisation.
Of course this is not telling you much of Robert Louis Stevenson, but to me, and in my memory of it all, it’s just as important, perhaps even more so. The old Samoan wife became very fond of Timbo, as I called him, and he became quite plump. So I secured a good home for him for life, or till he grew up, and therefore you will see that I have also done good mission work in the South Seas!
I heard when I came home afterwards that Stevenson had seen Timbo and given him some presents, including a box of tin German soldiers. Timbo gave me half of them. I was obliged to accept them to please him. If he’s alive still he must be a fine young fellow, for he was affectionate and plucky even as a tiny child. I remember how I once took him for a canoe ride, and his delight as I rocked the small craft in the shallow water till he fell overside, for he could swim like a fish. Once I took him out in Apia harbour and we went aboard a schooner that had encountered a typhoon; she was being overhauled, for her deck was almost washed clean, the rigging was a mass of tangle and the galley had been washed away. The skipper was a pleasant enough man; he hailed from San Francisco and had a voice that could compete with the wildest gale’s thunder, but nevertheless his heart was in the right place when whisky was scarce. I had met him ashore and, hearing that I came from Sydney, and had lived near his home in San Francisco, he got into conversation with me and hinted that there was a chance of a berth aboard for me, if I felt inclined to take it.
While I was on this schooner one afternoon suddenly Stevenson and his wife came on board; they had been brought out in one of the small native canoes that were always hovering by the beach, awaiting passengers wanting to visit the anchored crafts in the harbour. The novelist was in high spirits and helped Mrs Stevenson up the rope ladder in great mirth. Mrs Robert Louis Stevenson was an excellent sailor and made no fuss about the ascent, as she clambered up and leapt on the deck with a bounce!
The skipper knew them well and was very polite to them. A young American or Australian lady, I forget which, was also visiting on board, and the skipper introduced her to Mr and Mrs Stevenson. She devoted all her attention to the novelist, and as they were having lunch together in the schooner’s cuddy Stevenson’s misery, as she plied him with questions and reiterated her flattering approval of his books, was very evident. “Oh, I think your books most delightful; how do you think of such things? Was it really true about that rich uncle and the derelict piano? Have you read Lady Audley’s Secret?” So she rattled on. Stevenson looked appealingly at his wife, in an attempt to get her to engage the girl’s attention, but still she persisted in reiterating those things which she thought were music to the novelist’s ears. Suddenly Stevenson looked up, and with his fine eyes alive with satire said something to the effect that “he did not write books for ladies to read,” punctuating the remark with a look that made the garrulous visitor immediately retire into her shell.
The convivial equilibrium was not restored till the skipper sat down at the cuddy’s harmonium and, with his feet pedalling away at full speed, started to sing with his thunderous voice: