Amatua found himself beside a man who had just been relieved, and was thunderstruck to find that it was no other than Oa, an old friend of his, who had been in the forest with Mataafa.
“How do you happen here, Chief Oa?” shouted Amatua.
“The Tamaseses have retired on Mulinuu,” said Oa. “It is Mataafa’s order that we come and save what lives we can.”
“Germans, too?” asked Amatua, doubtfully, never forgetful of his father’s wound, or of his uncle who fell at Luatuanuu.
“We are not at war with God,” said the chief, sternly. “To-night there is peace in every man’s heart.”
Amatua stood long beside his friend, peering into that great void in which so many men were giving up their lives. Sometimes he could make out the dim hulls of ships when they loomed against the sky-line or as the heavens brightened for an instant. Bodies kept constantly washing in, nearly all of them Germans, as Amatua could tell by their uniforms, or, if these were torn from them in the merciless waters, by the prevalence of yellow hair and fair skins. Amatua shrank from the sight of these limp figures, and it was only his love for Bill that kept him on the watch. Poor Bill! How had he fared this night? Was he even now tumbling in the mighty rollers, his last duty done on this sorrowful earth, his brave heart still for ever? Or did he lie, as so many lay that night here and there about the town, wrapped in blankets in some white man’s house or native chief’s, safe and sound, beside a blazing fire?
Amatua at last grew tired of waiting there beside Oa. The cold ate into his very bones, and the crowd pressed and trampled on him without ceasing. He cared for nothing so long as he thought he might find Bill; but he now despaired of that and began to think of his tired little self. He forced his way back, and moved aimlessly along from house to house, looking in at the lighted windows in the vain hope of seeing Bill. Of dead men there were plenty, but he could not bear to look at them too closely. He was worn out by the horror and excitement he had undergone, and when his eyes closed, as they sometimes would, he seemed to see Bill’s face dancing before him. He was a very tired boy by the time he made his way home and threw himself once again on the mats in that empty house.
It was a strange sight that met Amatua’s gaze the next day on the Apia beach. The wind had fallen, and the mountainous waves of the previous night had given way to a heavy ground-swell. But the ships, the wreckage of ships, the ten thousand and one things—the million and one things—which lined the beach for a distance of two miles! One German man-of-war had gone down with every soul on board; another—the Adler—lay broken-backed and sideways on the reef; the Olga had been run ashore, and looked none the worse for her adventure. The United States ship Vandalia was a total wreck, and half under water; close to her lay the Trenton, with her gun-deck awash; and within a pistol-shot of both was the old Nipsic, her nose high on land. The British ship, the Calliope, was nowhere to be seen, having forced her way to sea in the teeth of the hurricane.
Amatua went almost crazy at the sight of what lay strewn on the beach that morning. He ran hither and thither, picking up one thing and then throwing it away for another he liked better: here an officer’s full-dress coat gleaming with gold lace, there a photograph-album in a woful state, some twisted rifles, and a broom; everywhere an extraordinary hotchpotch of things diverse and innumerable. Amatua found an elegant sword not a bit the worse for its trip ashore, an officer’s gold-laced cap, and a ditty-box, full of pins and needles and sewing-gear and old letters. He would also have carried off a tempting little cannon had it weighed anything under a quarter of a ton; as it was, he covered it with sand, and stood up the broom to mark the place, which, strange to say, he has never been able to find since. He got a cracked bell next, a tin of pork and beans, a bottle of varnish, a one-pound Hotchkiss shell, a big platter, and a German flag! This he thought enough for one load, and made his triumphant way home, where he tried pork and beans for the first time in his life—and did not like them.
It would have fared badly with him, for there was nothing in the house for him to eat save a few green bananas, had it not been for the Samoan pastor next door. The pastor had hauled a hundred-pound barrel of prime mess pork out of the surf, and in the fulness of his heart he was dividing slabs of it among his parishioners. Another neighbour had salvaged eleven cans of biscuit-pulp, which, though a trifle salt, was yet good enough to eat.