by Bodie Thoene
But Sandi called from beside the boat, “Archie! Aren’t you swimming too?”
Holding his left arm behind his back, he peered over the side and shook his head. “I usually stay topside, in case anyone needs to be picked up.”
“Oh, come on,” Sandi argued, swiveling her head toward where the family of tourists was crawling out of the surf onto the warm sand. “They won’t need you unless one of those rare Hawaiian land-sharks shows up.” She imitated the woman’s nervous question: “How big did you say that one was again?”
He laughed and went to fetch a couple more sets of swimgear for them, hanging each piece by its straps from his left forearm. Walking back to where Sandi dangled from one of the boat’s inflatable bumpers, he dropped her mask and snorkel, then one flipper, then the other, making sure she was able to don each before handing her the next.
As he sat down beside the pile of elastic straps, plastic, and steel that made up his artificial arm, he sighed heavily and shook his head. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he raised his right hand to remove the patch that covered where his left eye had been, tucking it in the cuff of the prosthetic. He stuck the oval swim mask to his face, using the suction of its seal, then pulled the clingy rubber strap slowly over his curly brown hair.
Only then did he make his way to the cockpit and ease into the water. With some well-practiced contortions, he slipped on each fin and swam around to Sandi.
“Whoa,” she said when he appeared. “You scared me. I was expecting you to come cannon-balling off the deck like I did.”
“That’ll get you an A for effort, but only a C for style.”
As they bit down on their snorkels and kicked for the nearest outcropping of coral, Sandi watched the bottom rising to meet them. Archie didn’t use his arms while they swam, carrying them straight at his sides instead. Swimming just a few feet behind, she could stare openly at his left, noting that it was amputated just above the wrist. She could also tell how uncomfortable the prosthesis must be. There were deep red indentations in his skin from each of its seams and straps, running from his shoulder to the missing hand.
She was reflecting again on his resilience when Archie stopped abruptly and spun toward her, treading water. Spitting his snorkel from his mouth, he asked excitedly, “Can you hold your breath well?”
She didn’t know what “well” meant, figuring she could probably do a minute underwater if she had to. She shrugged.
“Well, try,” Archie said, inverting himself in the water and kicking for the bottom.
She followed his example, and they touched the sand about ten feet down. Archie looked toward her and raised one finger to his lips, then cupped his hand to his right ear to suggest the word: listen.
She cocked her head then and, just when she thought it was some silly joke and her lungs began to burn, she heard it. A deep guttural impact, like an intermittent humming, sounded three times, followed by what sounded to Sandi like a tuba, sliding from the lowest note it could make to the highest. This also repeated a few times. Sandi stared intently into Archie’s mask, trying to convey the question she had.
Finally her lungs couldn’t bear it, and she kicked hurriedly to the surface, gasping for air. “What was that?” she panted when Archie appeared a second later.
“Whale song!” He was panting too. “That’s coming from probably miles out in the channel, but that’s how they communicate with each other.”
“It’s beautiful,” Sandi said. “Stunning. I could feel it in my chest.”
Archie nodded. “There are some really cool projects going on in the Islands right now. The same people who fought to ban hunting them a few years ago are working on microphones that can record them underwater. Really neat stuff.”
They recreated the descent four more times before both were too winded to do it anymore. Swimming back to the boat along Archie’s right side, Sandi mostly watched the ocean bottom slide along beneath, but occasionally she shot a glance toward him, marveling at the world in which he lived and his obvious pleasure in sharing it with others.
She heard herself say, “Beautiful.”
“Yes. Gotta tell the truth,” Archie agreed, swinging onto the swim step. “She really is.”
Chapter Fifteen
Royal Kingdom of Hawaii
Crumpling up a sheet of paper, Andrew Adams tossed it over his shoulder. It landed amid a heap of six other false starts. This literary effort had to get past the first paragraph if it was ever to be a story for the Paradise of the Pacific magazine.
The Master’s Reading Room where Andrew had his desk was adjacent to The Mission House on Front Street. Since coming to the Islands, Andrew had filled a variety of roles for the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions under which he served. In addition to maintaining the lending library, Andrew taught English to Hawaiian children and served as a scribe for illiterate sailors. Lahaina was also home to a school where ABCFM missionaries bound for the Orient came for language studies. Andrew’s duties included overseeing their housing and organizing tutors for them.
All of which paid him very little. Andrew supplemented his allowance by contributing articles to Hawaiian papers and periodicals.
Just now he was working on a piece about the paniolos—Hawaiian cowboys—of the Parker Ranch. Leaning back in his chair, Andrew laid aside his pen to ease his aching neck muscles and stare out at the hedge of hibiscus blossoms. Despite the fact the calendar indicated January, the west Maui temperature was a balmy 75 degrees. There was a faint tang of sulfur in the air, wafted on the Kona wind from the volcanoes of the Big Island a hundred miles away.
A stack of back issues of Paradise was on the corner of the desk. As Andrew’s boot nudged the table leg, the heap slid sideways, dumping across the floor.
Starting a new article was always the hardest part of his writing, and today’s attempt seemed more difficult than usual. Andrew was restless—an effect of the Kona wind, or perhaps his longing for Kaiulani. His unfinished weekly letter was on the blotter. Filled with news from the Islands, it lacked the truth of what was in Andrew’s heart. How could he tell Kaiulani that visions of her in his arms inhabited his every waking hour? The distance between Lahaina and London was more than half a world away. Her destiny as queen was too far beyond his reach. Andrew could never tell her how much he loved her.
He stood, yawned, and stretched. Maybe he should walk down to the harbor. Even if he found no additional inspiration there, he might at least throw off the crushing drowsiness.
Harlan Boyd, publisher of the Paradise and also of a newspaper called the Lahaina Intelligencer, loomed in the doorway. “Adams,” he snapped, “you working on that paniolo piece?”
When had Andrew promised to have it ready? Could it really already be two weeks overdue?
“Just doing a little polishing,” Andrew returned. “On your desk tomorrow.”
“Never mind,” Boyd said. “Got a newspaper assignment for you. Already cleared it with your ABC boss. There’s something brewing in Honolulu. Want you to go sniff it out; write it up.”
“Brewing?”
“My Honolulu correspondent has an abscessed tooth, worse luck. But his last dispatch said Lorrin Thurston had figured out a way to depose the queen. Said it was going to happen soon. Need you to look into it.”
“Depose the queen? End the monarchy? With what—an armed uprising?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out. Here’s five dollars’ advance. Get going. You just have time to make the inter-island steamer.”
* * * *
Though rushed in his leave-taking, Andrew had plenty of time during the crossing from Maui to Oahu to ponder what lay ahead. Every point he reviewed involved memories of Kaiulani. What would happen to her if the queen were really deposed?
Such a move would mean the end of the monarchy, and then Kaiulani would never be queen. What would the princess have to come home to, if she were not the heir? if there were no throne for her to inherit?
Wo
uld she ever come back to Hawaii at all, or would she stay abroad? It was not an idle thought. Andrew could not imagine Kaiulani’s willing submission to being ruled by a thieving gang of shop clerks and sugar planters.
Ever since Queen Liliuokalani came to the throne, there had been rumors that Thurston and the Reformers were plotting something. The stories were mostly discounted, since everyone knew gossip was one of Hawaii’s besetting sins.
There was one reason it might be different—worse—this time. The queen had often spoken of a new constitution, but her ideas about what would be changed had never been articulated till now.
If what Andrew had heard was true, Liliuokalani wanted to remove the property ownership requirement for voter eligibility. That change would give power to more landless native Hawaiians.
The other purported amendment probably stung the reformers even more. The queen wanted only Hawaiian citizens to be able to vote. The present constitution allowed resident aliens, which term included most of the Americans, the right to vote.
Taking the vote away from them would cause an all-out battle, and preparations for battle seemed to be going forward in the Honolulu Harbor.
Just offshore lay the U.S. man-of-war Boston. As Andrew watched, the gun crews carried out drill after drill, though no shots were fired. Parties of marines drawn up along the rails were armed with rifles.
Andrew could not believe Americans would forcibly invade the Hawaiian capital. What was going on here?
It was easier to obtain the answer than he expected.
Once on shore Andrew noticed a file of haoles traveling in a ragged column like pretend soldiers. They were unarmed but had the clenched-jawed look of men on a desperate mission.
A lone Hawaiian policeman fled at the men’s approach.
Andrew joined the tail of the procession. “What’s the trouble?”
“Who are you?” responded a man with twin brown streaks in his otherwise blond beard.
“Adams,” Andrew replied tersely. “Reporter for the Intelligencer.”
“Say, that’s all right, then,” the militiaman replied. “Just make sure you spell my name proper. Herrold, Alvin. H-E-R—”
“No talking in ranks, Herrold,” boomed the captain of the troop, dropping back beside Andrew.
Herrold spat tobacco juice and clamped his mouth shut.
Andrew addressed the officer, who identified himself as Captain Colburn. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”
“The Committee of Safety called out the militia,” Colburn retorted. “Might be rioting if the queen publishes the new constitution. Gotta protect Americans and American businesses.”
“So where are you going?”
“The armory on Beretania Street,” was the reply.
* * * *
Once inside the Beretania Street Armory, Andrew slipped away from the militiamen and took a position in a shadowed alcove at the side of the hall. Among the merchants who were leaders in the Reform Party, there were many who knew Andrew supported the monarchy. Given the angry rhetoric, this was not the time to be denounced as an opponent.
Lorrin Thurston, the spitting image of his missionary grandfather, strode to a podium and raised his hands for silence. But Andrew knew Thurston’s resemblance to his grandfather was only skin-deep. The man’s heart was hard. He worshipped the twin gods of power and money. “The time has come,” he said with a dramatic pause, “to liberate these islands from a corrupt and dissolute family of despots.”
Shouts of “Hear! Hear!” rang over the arched ceiling of the chamber.
“Thanks to our good friends Misters Peterson and Parker,” Thurston continued, “we have received timely and vital warning of the queen’s treachery.”
Andrew leaned forward. This was not only extraordinary exaggeration but outright hypocrisy as well. The two men being hailed as heroes were Queen Liliuokalani’s foreign minister and attorney-general—traitors to their oath and their sovereign.
“They inform me that the queen intends to announce her wicked document tomorrow. My friends,” Thurston said, spreading his arms to embrace the crowd. “My friends, this must not be allowed to happen. The queen is guilty of breaking her oath to uphold the constitution.”
Andrew’s head was spinning with the twisted logic. The queen, by proposing to change the constitution, was guilty of treason. But this gang of greedy, power-hungry men planned to use force against a lawfully elected sovereign because they disapproved of her ideas?
“And now,” Thurston resumed, “we welcome another friend of right-thinking people: U.S. minister to Hawaii, the honorable John L. Stevens.”
Andrew was now well and truly alarmed. Stevens, the bent, white-bearded curmudgeon, despised the Hawaiian royalty to the point of being rude to the queen. Had he convinced America to join in this coup?
Stevens bowed stiffly to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, but it was Thurston who continued speaking. “Tomorrow, early, I and a delegation will go to the palace. We will denounce the queen as a traitor. We will tell her she must abdicate. We will tell her she has no choice, and that resistance will mean needless bloodshed.”
The first stirrings of unrest circled the hall. “How many guards has she got?” someone called. “What if they arrest you and open fire on us?”
Thurston thrust out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his lapels. “The queen’s force amounts to less than two hundred men. I see that number in this room right now. And Minister Stevens will certify that in order to protect American lives and property, the captain of the USS Boston must land an armed party of marines, which he has already agreed to do.”
The level of cheering reached a new level of pandemonium. “Out with the old, in with the new!” they chanted. “Hawaii shall belong to America!”
“Away with bloated, drunken, heathen monarchs!”
“Now is the time to strike!”
A wave of dread swept through Andrew as he thought of Kaiulani. There was nothing the enemies of the monarchy would not do to gain power. The words of Psalm 94 flashed through his mind: “They crush your people, O Lord…and they say, ‘The Lord does not see’…does he who formed the eye not see?”
When the militiamen began to march around the hall like at a political convention, Andrew thought it was time to leave. He had sidled along the wall as far as a side door when he glimpsed a familiar face near the platform.
Clive Davies gestured eagerly for Thurston’s attention and received a tight-lipped smile and a curt bob of the head in reply.
What was Clive up to, speaking with Kaiulani’s enemy?
Andrew melted back into the gloom to see what would happen next.
* * * *
The crowd inside the armory was a long time dispersing. For men who might be going into bloody battle, they acted remarkably cheerful and even giddy with excitement. Were it not for the fact that Thurston would not allow them to drink alcohol inside the armory, the celebration would have lasted still longer, Andrew thought.
Even after the militia departed in search of liquid refreshment, the leadership of the Committee of Safety conferred amongst themselves. Assignments were handed out: who was to carry the ultimatum to the queen, who was to direct the movements of the marines if their assistance should be needed, and who would climb to the top of the church steeple to direct the artillery fire from the ship.
Artillery fire? Against the native Hawaiians? Andrew was aghast. He remained in the shadows, listening.
Finally only Thurston and Clive Davies remained.
“Yes, Clive,” Thurston inquired. “What is it? Very busy right now.”
“Have you thought,” Clive ventured, “about how the native population will react after tomorrow? I mean, what if there was a way to diffuse their anger at losing their queen?”
“Go on,” Thurston said. “I’m listening. You have such a plan?”
“I have power in…in a certain quarter,” Clive suggested, tugging a lock of his dark hair. “I believe—no, I know, I can
guarantee—that the Princess Victoria Kaiulani would be welcomed home by her people.”
“What’s your point?” Thurston demanded.
“Put Kaiulani on the throne in place of the old queen,” Clive explained in a rush. “Tell the people they can keep their precious monarchy—only you and the committee will run the government.”
Only with great difficulty did Andrew restrain himself from leaping on Clive right then. He forced himself to remain still and listen, remembering that Thurston had hundreds of by now drunken militiamen within earshot.
“With yourself as prince consort, I suppose?” Thurston observed drily.
“I’m only thinking of the good of Hawaii,” Clive said archly.
