As to the third purchase there could be no manner of doubt; some ’ava, the white, dry root which, pounded in water and strained by the dexterous use of a wisp of fibre, supplies the Samoan for the lack of every comfort. Oh, how the ’ava would rejoice his father in those dismal woods, where he lay with the famishing army, bearing hunger, cold, and misery with uncomplaining fortitude. And it should be none of that dusty, spotted stuff that so many traders sell to unknowing whites, or natives in a hurry, but the white ’ava from Vaea, which grows the very finest in the South Seas. And the last quarter? How was that to go? Was it to be a new lava lava, or a white singlet, or two rusty cans of salmon, or some barrel beef? Amatua would have dearly loved some marbles; but in the depressed state of the family’s finances these were not to be thought of. The beef was the thing; the strong, rank beef that comes in barrels; you could get a slab of it for a quarter, and Latapie, the French trader, would give you a box of matches besides, or a few fish-hooks, for every quarter you spent at his store.
Having finished his calculations, Amatua started off to do his shopping. Even in the short time he had spent in the corner of the ruined church the sea had noticeably risen and was now thundering along the beach, while on the reefs a gleaming spray hung above the breakers like a mist. The stormy sky was splashed with ragged clouds and streaked with flying scud. At their moorings the seven ships rolled under until they seemed to drown the very muzzles of their guns; and the inky vapour that oozed from their funnels, and the incessant shrill shrieking of the boatswains’ whistles, all told a tale of brisk and anxious preparation. “Oh, poor Bill!” thought Amatua, and looked away. The wharf from which he had seen the last of his friend was already a wreck, nothing showing of it but the jagged stumps as the seas rolled back.
Two boys told him that a boat of Misi Moa’s had been smashed to pieces, and that a big whaler from Lufilufi that pulled fifty oars had shared the same fate. Knots of white traders stood gazing solemnly out to sea; the provost guards from the ships were ransacking the town for the few men they still missed, and they were told to hurry or their boats would never live to carry them back. There was a general air of apprehension and excitement; people were nailing up their windows and drawing in their boats before the encroaching ocean; and the impressiveness of the situation was not a little heightened by the heavy guard of blue-jackets lined up before the German consulate, and the throngs of Tamasese’s warriors that swarmed everywhere about, fierce of mien in that unfriendly town, with their faces blackened for war, and their hands encumbered with rifles and head-knives. But Amatua had no time to think of such things; the signs of war were familiar to him, and the armed and overbearing adversaries of his tribe and people were no longer so terrible as they once had been.
The increasing roar of the sea and the wild sky that spoke of the impending gale kept the thought of Bill close to his heart, and he went about his business with none of the pleasure that the spending of money once involved. Not that he forgot his prudence or his skill at bargaining in the anxiety for Bill that tore his little heart. By dint of walking and chaffering, he came off with twenty hardtack for his first quarter; with the soap he extorted a package of starch; and after he had sniffed beef all the way from Sogi to Vaiala,—a distance of two miles,—he became the proprietor of a hunk at least six ounces heavier than the ruling price allowed. The ’ava was of a superb quality, fit for a king to drink.
It was late when Amatua got home and crept into the great beehive of a house that had been the pride of his father’s heart. The girls shouted as they saw him, and old Lu’au clapped her hands as her quick eyes perceived the soap. His mother alone looked sad—his poor mother, who used to be so gay and full of fun in that happy time before the war. She had never been the same since her cousin, the divinity student, had brought back her brother’s head from the battle-field of Luatuanuu—that terrible battle-field where the best blood of Samoa was poured out like water.
She looked anxiously at Amatua’s parcels, and motioned him to her side, asking him in a low voice how and where he had got them.
“It was this way,” said Amatua. “Bill and I are brothers. What is mine is Bill’s; what is Bill’s is mine. We are two, but in heart we are one. That’s how I understand Bill, though he talks only the white man’s stutter. ‘Amatua,’ he said, just before he got into the boat,—I mean what he said in his heart, for there was not time for words,—‘we are all of us in God’s high-chief hands this day; a storm is coming, and my place is on my ship, where I shall live or be cast away, as God wills. Take you this dollar and spend it with care for the comfort of all our family; take my very valuable watch, that ticks louder than a missionary clock, and my handkerchief of silk, the like of which there is not in Samoa, and keep them for me. My life is God’s alone, but these things belong to all of our family. Stand firm in the love of God, and strengthen your heart to obey his high-chief will.’”
It was late when Amatua awoke. The house was empty save for old Lu’au, who was kindling a fire on the hearth. A strange uproar filled the air, the like of which Amatua had never heard before—the tramp of multitudes as they rushed and shouted, deafening explosions, and the shrill, high scream of the long-expected gale. Amatua leaped from his mats, girded up his loin-cloth, and ran headlong into the night. It was piercing cold, and he shivered like a leaf, but he took thought of nothing. He ran for the beach, which lay at no great distance from his father’s house, and was soon panting down the lane beside Mr. Eldridge’s store. It was flaming with lights and filled with a buzzing crowd of whites and natives; and on the front verandah there lay the dripping body of a sailor with a towel over his upturned face. The beach was jammed with people, and above the fury of the gale and the roaring breakers which threatened to engulf the very town there rang out the penetrating voices of the old war chiefs as they vociferated their orders and formed up their men. Even as Amatua stood dazed and almost crushed in the mob, there was a sudden roar, a rush of feet, and a narrow lane opened to a dozen powerful men springing through with the bodies of two sailors.
Amatua turned and fought his way seaward, boring through the crowd to where the seas swept up to his ankles, and he could make out the lights of the men-of-war. There was a ship on the reef; he could see the stupendous tangle of her yards and rigging; every wave swept in some of her perishing crew. The undertow ran out like a mill-race; living men were tossed up the beach like corks, only to be sucked back again to destruction. The Samoans were working with desperation to save the seamen’s lives, and more than one daring rescuer was himself swept into the breakers.