by Bodie Thoene
Thurston appeared to ponder the suggestion, then shook his head. “No, it’s too late for that now. The monarchy must go. The kingdom must go. Hawaii must and shall become part of America, and before that can happen, we must do away with kings and queens.”
Thurston exited the Armory then, leaving Clive to mutter to himself: “Either way, she’ll have to marry me. She has no other choice.”
“Not if I can help it,” Andrew argued, stepping out of the darkness. “You utter scoundrel. The princess would never have gone along with your scheme, and she will certainly never marry a traitor like you.”
Lunging forward with a shout, Clive swung his fist at Andrew’s face.
Andrew slipped under the blow. A short, hammering right hand caught Clive in the ribs, making him double over. Then Andrew’s left swung upward, striking Clive on the point of the chin.
Though heavier and slightly taller than his opponent, Clive flew backwards, hitting the back of his head on the wall. He slid downward, his arms out flung.
Andrew stood above his fallen foe. “I may not be able to stop what’s happening here. But I can, and I will, stop you.”
Chapter Sixteen
The streets rang with the chaos of an unleashed mob. Thurston’s vigilantes smelled blood, and their eagerness to get on with the coup increased moment by moment.
Andrew slipped into the grounds of the palace by a rear gate. Members of the Hawaiian Royal Guard milled about the grounds. Summoned from their homes on short notice, and used to performing only ceremonial duties, half of them were unarmed and most were barefoot.
Andrew managed to get one of the officers to take him to the queen’s chamberlain. Once in the presence of that austere, silver-haired, amber-skinned man, Andrew explained his mission. “You don’t know me,” he said. “But you know my father and our connection to the father of the princess. The queen needs to be warned about what’s happening.”
Queen Liliuokalani sat surrounded by six Hawaiian women, each as old as she. Four guards were posted about the chamber, one by each royal feathered standard or kehili.
“Majesty,” Andrew began, “Mister Thurston—”
“I am already aware there is a plot underway,” the queen responded. “Mister Thurston is coming to see me at noon. I will not be moved by his threats. He will not dare to offer violence to my person.”
“Majesty,” Andrew said slowly, “with respect, he has a large party of armed men, and the Americans may land a party of marines.”
“I cannot believe the United States would be involved in the illegal takeover of a friendly nation,” the queen returned.
“I hope you’re correct,” Andrew said, then added what he had seen of Minister Stevens at the rally in the armory.
Liliuokalani’s face twisted in a grimace. “That man,” she said scornfully, “is no friend of mine or of Hawaii. But even he is not foolish enough to start a war.”
Andrew tried one last time to move the queen to action. “Then at least let all of your troops be armed. If you make a show of force, it may make the rebels hesitate.”
“It is good,” the queen agreed. “I will send a trusted officer to return with a load of weapons from the armory.”
“Not the Beretania Street Armory,” Andrew cautioned. “It is in the hands of the rebels.”
* * * *
1973
The ancient gramophone in the corner of Auntie Hannah’s room hummed softly, spinning the disc of a symphonic piece toward its crescendo. The rich red mahogany wood of the machine’s cabinet had more scratches and grooves than the records it played, but its sculpted brass horn was brightly polished and still projected the sounds with a mournful clarity.
Sandi sat on the linen locker at the foot of the bed, listening as Auntie Hannah hummed along softly as though she were one of the instruments. Her tired, breathy voice had the same thin quality as the music, and when Sandi closed her eyes, it was difficult to distinguish between them.
“Do you like it, my dear?” the old woman asked, noticing Sandi’s pensiveness.
“It’s beautiful, Auntie Hannah. What is it?”
“Beecham, a great conductor. He preferred to perform the work of lesser-known composers. But when he applied himself to the greats, it was wonderful. This is his orchestra performing Beethoven’s Seventh—very rare—a short arrangement of the second movement, so it could fit on the record.”
“Beautiful,” Sandi said again. Too soon the music was over. The horn hissed and crackled as the stylus slid over the paper label in the center of the disc. As Sandi walked to switch it off, her eyes swept over the framed photos adorning Auntie Hannah’s dresser.
When the machine was silent, she returned to examine the pictures more closely. They stood like soldiers, ranked four deep, spanning a history of photographic technology from ancient, fading tintypes to a few modern, square Polaroids. It was one of those that caught Sandi’s eye.
In it, Archie Kalakaua wore a jersey and football pads as he knelt on one knee in the grass, resting a fist on a helmet by his side. His number, 44, was emblazoned in yellow across his chest, and his attempt at a menacing stare made Sandi smile.
“Archie was a football player?” she asked.
“Oh my, yes.” Hannah looked up from a letter. “In 1966 Archie was on a full scholarship at USC. He was so young and so fast, his teammates told him to change his number to 45. They called him ‘The Colt.’ He was drafted into the army before he played a game.”
Hearing a note of sadness creep into her voice, Sandi couldn’t help but ask, “What happened, Auntie Hannah? How was he injured?”
“Oh, well, he doesn’t tell me much. He always says he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why don’t you ask him, dear?”
“I have. He said the same thing to me, but I have this terrible feeling he’s simply trying to protect me. The way John always did in his letters. I don’t need protecting. I want to know.”
Auntie Hannah pursed her lips and considered Sandi’s words. “I understand you, child. I have experienced that many times myself as a younger woman.”
Sandi smiled and shook her head. Still holding the snapshot, she settled on the bed at Hannah’s feet.
Auntie Hannah sighed. “When Archie was first transported to the hospital at Pearl, I made one trip to see him there. He was so surprised and happy to see a friendly face. But he decided that he should not tell it. Perhaps he never will.”
Sandi gazed at the smiling face of the young football hero. The smile was the same. But the deepest wound was living a life alone. She understood that kind of hurt.
“But you should know,” Auntie Hannah said firmly. “You should know what he deals with every day. If he seems distant, or ever upset…it’s enough to say his friend was killed. The circumstance of his own survival is miraculous, at the least.”
Auntie Hannah took the picture from Sandi and looked at it lovingly. “This is what he’d rather remember. Moments like this, and who he used to be. He’s rebuilding his life slowly. Some of our boys may never be able to do that after what they’ve seen. But Archie’s strong. He’s a fighter—like his great-grandfather.” She paused, smiling then. “Fetch me another picture, dear?”
Sandi rose and Auntie Hannah directed her to a silver frame holding a black-and-white photo. But for his clothes and a mustache, the man pictured there looked just like Archie. Sandi whistled at the similarity.
“That’s him,” Hannah said. “A wonderful, loving man. And our Archie is just the same. A gentleman, if ever one lived. You’ll see, dear. God has given him such a spirit. He may never be the same. How could you ever be the same? But someday he’ll be as good as new.” The old woman cocked her head as if she heard some faraway voice calling her.
Sandi cradled the old photograph in her hands. “Where was this taken?”
“Ulupalakua. Up country. We took the children back to show them where it really happened—the truth of it. No one knew. No one. Life was so uncertain then.” Sh
e paused. “I knew I loved him, but he didn’t give me a clear sign he cared in that way. I felt…warm, you know…when he was near. I was certain that he would protect us with his own life. That’s who he was.” She hummed at some vision of a long ago time and place. “And Archie’s heart is so much like his—so much. You will see for yourself, my dear.”
* * * *
Royal Kingdom of Hawaii
Queen Liliuokalani’s loyal and trusted retainer—the one dispatched with Andrew to fetch a wagonload of arms—seemed as dim and tired-looking as the swaybacked, potbellied gray horse pulling the ancient cart. Keiwe was the only soldier who could be spared from the force protecting the palace, the guard captain told Andrew. After all, Keiwe was so bowlegged he couldn’t march, and he didn’t know how to load a gun anyway.
Nor did the captain offer to spare any of his men to guard the return trip from the arms storage. “But no one will suspect you, anyway,” the captain assured Andrew. “Keiwe, he hauls the night soil from the barracks. This is his wagon.”
Andrew did not like the look of the Honolulu streets. Women and children were nowhere to be seen, while the number of haoles carrying ax handles, pistols, and some rifles increased dramatically a few blocks from the palace. They loitered on street corners and gathered on lanais, as if only awaiting the order to take action.
As Andrew and Keiwe neared the arms storage on Kiong Street, they discovered they were already too late. The rebels had broken into the armory and were even now stealing crates of rifles for their own forces.
“Back to the palace,” Andrew urged. “Nothing we can do here.”
“Wait,” Keiwe urged. “My cousin, Leialoha, coming. Policeman.” Down the street toward the rebels bustled a blue-uniformed Hawaiian patrolman. His uniform jacket, buttoned up to his chin, looked snug enough to be painful, but there was no doubt he intended to intercede against the pack of insurgents.
What could one lone officer do against this mob? Twenty rebels had already broken open a case of weapons and were brandishing them. Six more containers were stacked in place of the barrels on a beer wagon.
Leialoha seized the bridle of the beer wagon. “Get down,” Andrew heard him order the driver. “No steal queen’s guns.”
“Turn loose, you heathen,” the driver shouted, slashing at the policeman with a buggy whip.
The policeman grabbed the whip on the second blow and wrestled it out of the rebel’s hands.
“Get down,” he said again. “You under arrest.”
To Andrew’s horror the driver drew a pistol from his belt. “I warned you,” he said as he pulled the trigger.
The Colt exploded with a roar and wounded the Hawaiian in the shoulder.
With that single shot, the battle of Honolulu was on.
When Keiwe rumbled forward to drag his injured cousin to safety, the militiaman Andrew recognized as Alvin Herrold drew a bead on him with a rifle.
Andrew leapt on the rebel’s back. The rifle fired skyward, missing its target. Andrew and Herrold rolled over and over, struggling to possess the weapon.
As he lost the dispute for the stock of the gun, Andrew gave up his attempt to hold it and closed his fingers around Herrold’s throat.
Eyes bulging, Herrold relinquished the rifle and slapped the ground to signify his surrender, just before a gun butt struck Andrew in the back of the head… .
* * * *
When Andrew came to, he was propped against a wall in an alley. Who had pulled him out of harm’s way, he never knew.
A squad of U.S. marines tramping up the street spotted him, and their lieutenant ordered a medical orderly to bandage his skull. “Lucky you got a hard head,” the attendant said. “Nothing busted.”
“What’s happened?” Andrew asked groggily.
The orderly shrugged. “Nothing much. Few busted noggins, like yours. Gunshot wound or two. Captain sent us ashore first thing, and we got order restored double quick.”
“I meant, what about the queen?”
The attendant eyed Andrew curiously. “You mean that cannibal chieftess? Say, you ain’t one of them, are you?”
Andrew denied it, then said, “Can I go now?”
“Sure, only get off the street before dark. There’s a curfew on. Orders to shoot looters and curfew breakers. ’Course that means Hawaiians, right? Just be careful.”
Andrew headed toward the palace but was drawn to a large crowd assembled in front of the Hawaiian government office building. Lorrin Thurston climbed the steps and addressed the crowd. There were no Hawaiian soldiers or policemen anywhere in sight. Raising his hands for silence, Thurston announced: “The former monarch, Liliuokalani, has agreed to step aside.”
When the cheering that greeted these words subsided, Thurston continued, “She recognizes that resistance would be futile. To prevent further bloodshed, she has ordered her guards to stack their weapons and go home.”
More cheering.
Andrew’s head throbbed.
“We, the members of the Committee of Safety, have formed a provisional government, effective immediately. Tomorrow we will send representatives to Washington, petitioning the United States to recognize us as the duly constituted, lawful authority. We will not permit anything, or anyone, to interfere with this spontaneous movement to preserve our precious freedoms.”
In those words Andrew heard both irony and danger: freedom was what had been stolen today.
And now that the queen was a virtual prisoner, Kaiulani was squarely a target of Thurston’s threat.
At a slight movement of Thurston’s hand a bugler began to play, and Thurston turned his head toward the roof of the building. Drawn by his gaze, the onlookers stared upward as well.
As the trumpet sounded, the Hawaiian flag was hauled down from the pole, and the Stars and Stripes took its place.
Chapter Seventeen
Arrests of loyal cabinet ministers continued throughout the afternoon and evening of the monarchy’s downfall. Many of Thurston’s rebels used the turmoil as an excuse to settle old scores. Hawaiians who had refused to sell property to haoles were denounced as “dangerous to the Provisional Government.” Such a recommendation, unsupported by any witnesses, was enough to get a man detained.
In Lahaina the old prison was called Hale Paahao, the “Stuck in Irons House.” Andrew didn’t know what Honolulu’s jail was called, but he didn’t want to learn its name by close acquaintance. He had not seen Clive Davies again since the conflict in the armory, but Andrew was certain Clive had condemned him to Thurston.
Even though the cocoon of bandages hiding his features was a good disguise, the sooner Andrew got away from Honolulu and back to Lahaina, the better. In the meantime, Andrew would not jeopardize any of his friends and family by going to their homes. Instead he took a flea-bitten room in dingy sailors’ quarters by the harbor.
Andrew awoke in the blackness of night with his head hurting worse than ever. There was such a drumbeat in his brain that made it seem as if the rickety bedframe was shaking.
A dog began to howl. Soon there was a regular chorus of wailing canines and neighing horses.
Andrew’s eyes snapped open, despite the pain. The room really was shaking. The wall over Andrew’s head leaned toward him as if to whisper a secret. A cloudy, chipped mirror, the chamber’s only decoration, plummeted to the floor and shattered.
Earthquake!
Tremors on these volcanic islands were common, and Andrew had felt many before. But this was a bad one.
The rumble from deep within the earth increased in both volume and intensity. The bass groaning of the island met a harmony of toppling chimneys and plunging masonry, all set off against a melodic line of terrified shouting and drunken oaths.
Fires sprang up as collapsing flues spread live coals across wooden floors. Sparks, swirling in the breeze like malevolent fireflies, ignited thatched roofs.
Bracing himself in the doorway of the room, Andrew waited for the shaking to stop. It did so after what seemed like
an hour but in reality was less than a minute.
Moans and cries for help punctuated the unnatural stillness; then the incessant clamor of fire alarm bells succeeded all other noises.
* * * *
Victorian England
The gas lamp flickered above Kaiulani’s bed. Wind swept inland from the Irish Sea and howled around the corners of Sundown.
Kaiulani felt a shaking and heard a great rumble from deep beneath the earth. The keening wail of a Hawaiian woman was in the wind.
Kaiulani opened her eyes. She could dimly see an old Hawaiian woman, dressed in rags. She stood beside the portrait of the young woman in The Soul’s Awakening hanging on the wall opposite Kaiulani’s bed.
