In fact, Amatua ate a rather hearty breakfast, and lingered longer over it than perhaps was well for the best interests of his family. By the time he returned to the beach the cream had been skimmed from the milk. True, there was no lack of machinery and old iron, and mountains of tangled rope and other ship’s gear; but there was no longer the gorgeous profusion of smaller articles, for ten thousand busy hands had been at work since dawn. Amatua searched for an hour, and got nothing but a squashy stamp-album and a musical box in the last stages of dissolution.
He realised regretfully that he could hope for nothing more, and after trading his album to a half-caste boy for a piece of lead, and exchanging the musical box for six marbles, he again bent his energies to the finding of Bill.
For fear of a conflict, the naval commanders had divided their forces. The Germans were encamped at one end of the town, the Americans at the other, and armed sentries paced between. Amatua had never seen so many white men in his life, and he knew scarcely which way to turn first. He was bewildered by the jostling host that encompassed him on every side, by the busy files that were marshalled away to work, the march and countermarch of disciplined feet, the shrill pipe of the boatswains’ calls, and the almost ceaseless bugling. He looked long and vainly for Bill in every nook and cranny of the town. He watched beside the Nipsic for an hour; he forced the guard-house, and even made his way into the improvised hospital, dodging the doctors and the tired orderlies. But all in vain. He trudged into Savalalo and Songi, where the Germans were gathered, fearing lest Bill might have been thrown into chains by those haughty foemen; but he found nothing but rows of dead, and weary men digging graves. He stopped officers on the street, and kind-faced seamen and marines, and asked them earnestly if they had seen Bill. Some paid no attention to him; others laughed and passed on; one man slapped him in the face.
When he came back from the German quarter he found a band playing in front of Mr. Moors’s store, and noticed sentries about the place, and important-looking officers, with swords and pistols. He was told that the admiral was up-stairs, and that Mr. Moors’s house was now the headquarters of the American forces. A great resolution welled up in Amatua’s heart. If there was one man on earth that ought to know about Bill, it was the admiral. Amatua dodged a sentry, and running up the steps, he crept along the verandah, and peeped into the room which Kimberly had exchanged for his sea-swept cabin. The admiral sat at a big table strewn inches high with papers, reports, and charts. He was writing in his shirt-sleeves, and on the chair beside him lay his uniform coat and gold-laced cap. At another table two men were also writing; at another a single man was nibbling a pen as he stared at the paper before him. It reminded Amatua of the pastor’s school. Half a dozen officers stood grouped in one corner, whispering to one another, their hands resting on their swords. It was all as quiet as church, and nothing could be heard but the scratch of pens as they raced across the paper. Suddenly a frowning officer noticed Amatua at the door. “Orderly,” he cried, “drive away that boy”; and Amatua was ignominiously seized, led down-stairs, and thrown roughly into the street.
Amatua cried as though his little heart would break. He sat on the front porch of the house, careless of the swarming folk about him, and took a melancholy pleasure in being jostled and trampled on. Oh, it was a miserable world! Bill was gone, and any one could cuff a little boy. More than one sailor patted his curly head and lifted him in the air and kissed him; but Amatua was too sore to care for such attentions. It was cruel to think that the one man alone in Samoa who knew where to find Bill, the great chief-captain up-stairs, was absolutely beyond his power to reach. This thought was unbearable; he nerved himself to try again; he recalled the admiral’s face, which was not unkindly, though sad and stern. After all, nothing worse could befall him than a beating. Again he dodged the lower sentry, and sprang up the stairs like a cat. Again he gazed into that quiet room and listened to the everlasting pens. This time he was discovered in an instant; the orderly pounced at him, but Amatua, with his heart in his mouth, rushed towards the admiral, and threw himself on his knees beside him. The old man put a protecting arm round his neck, and the orderly, foiled in the chase, could do nothing else than salute.
“Anderson,” said the admiral to an officer, “it is the second time the boy has been here. I tell you he is after something, and we are not in a position to disregard anything in this extraordinary country. He may have a message from King Mataafa. Send for Moors.”
In a few moments that gentleman appeared, and was bidden to ask Amatua what he wanted. The officers gathered close behind their chief, and even the assiduous writers looked up.
“What does he want?” demanded the admiral, who had no time to spare.
“He wants to find a sailor named Bill,” said Moors. “He’s afraid Bill is drowned, and thought he would ask you.”
Every one smiled save the admiral. “Are you sure that is all?” he said.