by Bodie Thoene
The picture changed then to a podium in front of an airplane as an officer in full dress naval uniform walked up and began to speak. A line of text displayed under his face read: Captain Jeremiah A. Denton, Navy, first American Released. His voice was thick with emotion. “We are honored to have the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances. We are profoundly grateful to our Commander in Chief and to our nation this day. God bless America.”
The newscaster appeared on screen again. “Captain Denton has been in captivity for nearly eight years after his aircraft was shot down into the Ma River in July of sixty-five.”
Next off the plane was Lieutenant Commander Everett Alvarez, Junior, the first American pilot shot down over Viet Nam, held in captivity for eight and a half years.
“Doctors at the base hospital said the men all appeared in ‘reasonable condition,’ though each was very excited about his first dinner on friendly ground. A dietician preparing the food said the most popular items were steak, eggs, and ice cream.”
Tears welled in Sandi’s eyes. The news was so good for so many people tonight, and she really was happy for them. It just wasn’t good news for her.
Someone approached the bar at her left elbow, but she didn’t want to show her tears, so she refused to turn. A moment later a man’s voice, soft and gentle, spoke, and Sandi recognized it as that of Archie Kalakaua.
“It’s great to see these guys free, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded but kept her eyes fixed on the wavering images on the screen.
“I was lucky,” he continued. “I just lost my hand and one eye. These guys lost years of their lives.”
Sandi reached for a stack of cocktail napkins and grabbed a few to dab her eyes.
“Tears of joy?” Archie asked.
“Auntie Hannah didn’t tell you about me—my situation?” Sandi asked.
Archie laughed. “Did she tell you about me before we met? Auntie Hannah’s no gossip. You tell her something in secret, that’s the way it stays. How about you tell me?”
At the renewed mention of the POWs, Sandi did feel a need to talk to someone about it all…about John. Especially to someone who had been there himself.
“My husband, John, was fourth infantry. In March of sixty-nine, his company was ambushed. Someplace called Kontum?” She paused as though he might agree he’d heard of the place but continued when she realized how silly the notion was—like a tourist asking, “So you’re from California? Do you know so-and-so?”
“Anyway, they were relocating villagers away from combat zones. Their trucks hit mines along the road, and they were fired on from a hill across the river. They fought them off quickly, but my husband was wounded. They called for a helicopter evacuation for him and a few others.
“Turns out the VC hadn’t been run off after all; they were just hoping to lure in more targets. When the helicopters came in, a new attack came from right next to them—the jungle on their side of the river. Both helicopters were shot down with rockets, and the scene was overrun by foot soldiers. By then, John was one of the few left alive. They dragged him off into the jungle.”
Archie was stunned. “H–how do you know all this? I mean, who survived to—”
“A friend of his from his platoon was pinned under a truck after the second attack. They must’ve thought he was dead, or they’d have taken him too, but in any event, he saw it all. They swept through, killed the villagers—children too. Shot anyone who tried to run, bayoneted those too injured to be of use to them. A few, like John, are still out there somewhere.”
“I’m so sorry, Sandi,” Archie said genuinely, patting her shoulder.
But Sandi didn’t want to hear condolences, not yet. As long as John didn’t turn up on any list, dead or alive, there was reason to hope. She ignored Archie’s words as though he hadn’t said anything. “Missing in action, but not an official POW. But that’s the way it is in South Viet Nam, I guess. My dad has a friend in the State Department who says that the camps in South Viet Nam are a lot less organized. There’s some speculation that the North may not even know how many more prisoners they have down there.
“Anyway, look at me, going on like I know what I’m talking about. What about you, Archie? You’ve been there. You know what it’s really like. Whenever John wrote, I always got the feeling he was trying to shield me from how bad it was. How did you get your injuries?”
It was Archie’s turn to stare at the television, then, as if contemplating how much he should share. Or maybe he’s remembering, Sandi thought.
After a long pause he said, “Ah, well. Nothing as dramatic as all that. Wrong place, wrong time is all. Happened to a lot of us.”
As he stared up at the fuzzy picture rolling the newscast credits, Sandi scrutinized the right side of his face. From this angle, he certainly was handsome, and she wondered if he intentionally approached people on their left to keep his good side toward them.
In the awkward silence that followed, Sandi thought of the huge number of severely wounded Americans who were home or would be soon—over a hundred thousand so far. How she would rather have John back even missing one hand and one eye, than not at all.
She took a big swig of the now-watery drink and patted Archie on his shoulder, as he’d done for her. “Thanks for listening,” she said. “I think I’ll hit the hay.”
Archie nodded without looking toward her, but she saw him turn to watch her leave the room.
* * * *
Victorian England, December 1890
The train from Great Harrowden School for Girls to London was old and drafty. The Midland Railroad professed to operate more frequent services by having fewer cars to each train. In practice, MR’s penny-pinching ways meant poor maintenance and frequent breakdowns.
Annie slept against Kaiulani’s shoulder as the misty countryside rolled by. Hannah, nursing a sniffle, read Jane Austen’s novel Emma to pass the time. The journey was interrupted by whistle stops at every small village along the way from Northamptonshire.
As the train track curved away ahead of them, Kaiulani saw the engine’s once-cherished paint scheme of Brunswick green and gold covered in soot and streaked with oil. The carriages, once stylish in chocolate and cream, were now a uniform muddy gray.
The railroad’s coat-of-arms was displayed on a chipped, faded plaque hanging over the door. Most of the heraldic emblems were obscured, but the wyvern surmounting the crest was still evident, a cone of flames erupting from the dragon’s mouth.
Kaiulani, grateful for the warmth of her sister against her, adjusted the wool scarf around her throat. Whatever heating properties the railroad’s mascot possessed did not translate into wintertime comfort for the passengers.
Hannah lowered the book and peered at Kaiulani. “Christmas. Think of the beach in Ainahau right now.”
Kaiulani did not smile. “Surfing. Warm sky. Warm water. Warm sand.”
“Whales and luaus.”
“Parties beneath the banyan tree.” Kaiulani closed her eyes and sighed with the memory. “Warm.”
“As we three exiles travel the world, the only place we wish to be is half a world away from us.” Hannah stared over Kaiulani’s shoulder as the door to the train car opened and closed, and a blast of cold wind whipped past. “Don’t look now,” Hannah warned as she quickly buried her face in the novel.
“What?” Kaiulani turned to look and instantly regretted her curiosity.
Sauntering up the swaying aisle was Andrew Adams, recognizable, though swathed in layers of clothing with his bowler hat shoved down low over his ears. He was followed by a similarly dressed, though heftier young man of red cheeks, pink ears, and shining nose.
The university students wore matching school ties of broad navy stripes set apart by narrow crimson lines.
“Did he see you?” Hannah did not look up.
“Afraid so.” Kaiulani managed a feeble smile at their archenemy.
Suddenly Andrew’s smirking face intruded on the
ir space. “Well, well, my three little maids from school.”
Hannah sniffed. The smell of whiskey was on his breath. “And good day to you too, Andrew. Ever the gentleman, we see.”
“What is the native greeting?” He was slightly drunk. He snapped his gloved fingers. “Aloha. George, meet Her Highness, the Royal Princess Kaiulani, and companions.”
George swayed into a sideways bow and belched softly. His eyes were slightly unfocused.
“Aloha,” Kaiulani replied, not meeting Andrew’s eyes. She stared at his necktie instead.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Kaiulani, riding coach along with the common folk.” Andrew took a silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed the lid. “A little something to keep off the chill?” He pretended to offer a swig to the scowling girls. With a shrug, he took a deep swallow and smacked his lips, then passed the container to George, who took a long pull. “London for Christmas break? I hear the great princess Kaiulani now answers to her English cognomen. Victoria is it? Vicky?”
Hannah raised the book higher in an attempt to ignore him.
Kaiulani lifted her chin and stared out the window at a line of winter-blasted elms. “At school I am Vicky. But among my close friends from home I remain Kaiulani.”
Andrew slurred as the whiskey took hold. “School—or a savage island? That’s the choice? Well, let me be the first in the greater civilized world to greet you, Vicky.” He gave the end of his tie a flick. “London, King’s College, salutes you.”
The blue-uniformed conductor passing by gave Andrew a disapproving look. “Rugby. Next station stop is Rugby. Rugby, your next stop.”
Kaiulani exhaled loudly. “You’re looking well, Andrew. How is Mister Adams, your father?”
“And how is the king, your uncle? Sober yet?” Andrew laughed coarsely. Facing George, he lifted his eyebrows in an attempt to convey the subtle sarcasm of his remark. Andrew failed when his friend merely stood blinking and repeating, “Alo-ah? Alo-hah?”
Kaiulani pressed her lips together in an attempt to remain civil. “The Kingdom of Hawaii Nei still lives.”
Andrew straightened, then rocked a bit with the motion of the train. “Mister Stevenson’s letters have been filled with sad news—so sad—government chaos in Hawaii. It seems your uncle, the king, is losing his fight to maintain control…of his drinking.”
Hannah snapped, “Like anyone else we know? It’s Christmas, you blaggard. Can you not wish us well and be on your way?”
Andrew studied the feather in Kaiulani’s hat. “How does one say Merry Christmas in your native tongue?”
Without opening her eyes, Annie replied, “Mele Kalikimaka.”
Andrew pretended to write it down on his glove. “Can you spell that?”
Kaiulani answered Hannah quietly, “He’s drunk. Pay him no mind. To argue with a drunkard is to argue with a howling dog. He has put a thief in his mouth to steal away his brains.”
Andrew looked from one girl to the next. “Eh? What was that?”
Kaiulani smiled grimly. “I pray Mister Stevenson’s health is improved. Now, Mister Adams, we bid you adieu.”
He snorted. “Adieu? French. Not Aloha? Aloha. Love. Isn’t that the meaning? Charming. Charming.”
Hannah would not be deterred. “Perhaps this barbarian haole will repent and take the pledge and foreswear drink.”
Andrew lifted his hat and let it drop on his head. “Take the pledge?” He made the sign of the cross. “Perhaps when the king of Hawaii takes the pledge. And with that, I bid you Aloha! Come, George.” Andrew staggered down the length of the aisle, grasping for support at every alternate seat back.
George, to his credit, lifted his hat as a final polite gesture upon exiting. The proper effect was lost when the wind snatched it from his hand and sent it swirling into the Midlands countryside.
Chapter Nine
Christmas in London!
Kaiulani studied the swirling snowflakes glimpsed through the window of their fourth-floor suite. She looked up from the book of Christina Rossetti’s verse open on her lap. The poet’s words were meant to evoke the birth of Jesus in Judea. The description of this time of year could have been drawn from the English countryside:
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter, long ago.11
It was so much easier to enjoy the poetry while seated in the warm, comfortable drawing room of the Savoy! A coal fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth. Beside the princess, on a round ebony-and-mother-of-pearl-inlaid table, was a pot of tea, next to a three-tiered silver tray of cakes. Annie stood staring out at the snow-shrouded Thames, cup of Darjeeling in hand. Hannah nursed her cold in a barrel-backed armchair drawn close to the fire, reading Bram Stoker’s new novel, The Snake’s Pass. Stoker’s work told of the romance of a pair of tormented lovers—one Irish and the other British.
The Savoy had only opened six months earlier. It was not only the newest hotel in London but by far the most fashionable, the most marveled over by European society.
Their holiday stay was a gift from Kaiulani’s English foster-father, Theo Davies.
This London interlude was also a family reunion of sorts. Kaiulani’s cousin, Prince David Kawanakoa Piikoi, called Koa, was staying in London for the season.
Kaiulani heard Koa speak in glowing terms about the design of the hotel: the modernity of its elevators; the elegant design of its cupola-topped towers; the practical efficiency of its glazed brickwork that resisted staining by London’s soot.
Kaiulani agreed with Koa’s assessment of the Savoy’s wonders but felt he had missed the most important. The elaborate bathroom in the girls’ suite was fitted out with marble fixtures and featured hot and cold running water.
The Savoy was also the first hotel anywhere to be completely lit with electric lights. The clerk who escorted Kaiulani’s party to their rooms had insisted on snapping on the switches in every chamber, while patiently explaining that it was not dangerous. “Every bit as safe as gaslights,” he said.
Five minutes following that tour, the porter who delivered their luggage carried out an identical performance.
After he left, Hannah remarked to Kaiulani, “You don’t have the heart to spoil their fun, do you?”
Some years earlier Kaiulani had herself thrown the switch that ignited Honolulu’s first electric illumination.
Kaiulani shrugged and smiled wryly. “They expect barbarians such as we are to be impressed with their magic fire. Why disappoint them?”
Brushing a couple of gingerbread crumbs from the bodice of her crimson, high-waisted afternoon dress, Kaiulani savored the recollection. She straightened her lace-trimmed sleeves and retrieved her volume.
Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;
heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable-place sufficed
the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.12
There was a tap at the door. Turning from the window to answer it, Annie admitted Prince Koa and his friend, Clive Davies, Theo’s son.
Koa had grown into a fine-looking man in his twenties. From being a broad-faced youngster, he was now an elegant figure sporting a neatly trimmed handlebar moustache.
“Ladies,” he said as he entered with his arms full of parcels, “I have gifts.”
Though rumors had circulated around Hawaii Nei for years that Koa and Kaiulani were the perfect royal match, his gaze immediately sought Hannah’s. That was as it should be, Kaiulani reflected. Koa would always be her good and true friend and cousin, but she could not imagine being in love with him.
Clive, on the other hand, had matured into a handsome man. He had a broad forehead, a strong jaw, and wavy chestnut hair. The breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his trim waist were both set off by the belted Norfolk jacket he wore.
K
oa might look dapper, but in Kaiulani’s opinion, he was a poor stick next to Clive.
“Aloha, Clive,” Kaiulani said.
“Princess,” he replied. “Miss Hannah. Miss Annie.”
Koa distributed a wrapped package to each of the young women, then accepted a pastry from the tray. He took a bite, getting powdered sugar in his moustache.
“Shall we open these now?” Annie asked.
