Howard watched the sky turn pink, then yellow, then blue. He no longer shivered. They had forgotten their hats in their haste and now their lips felt dry as stone. Their hands stung from salt and raw skin.
The water had run out hours ago.
But Kauai finally seemed to be getting bigger, and the currents in their favor, or perhaps it was just that they were all so tired they had acquired the feverish optimism of men in the desert who see mirage after shimmering mirage and still are sure the next one is real. The ocean had taken on a hallucinatory quality; each shadow became a fish, a bird, a man, a god. When it was Howard’s turn at the oars again, he rowed with his tongue hanging out shamelessly and his eyes squeezed shut. Only the Captain kept watch now; he spotted his herd of merino sheep just off the bow, but he was quiet about it. He didn’t want to startle either his shipmates or the animals.
Someone took Howard’s place at the oars and he sat with one hand into the wind, palm skyward, to soothe the pain.
Despite the lack of water, the exertion, and the blinding heat, the greatest danger—and the Niihauans did not realize this—came from the air. The United States military had orders to destroy any ship on the sea. But miraculously no one saw the bedraggled crew and their tiny craft. After rowing for eleven hours, the Waimea dock came plainly into view. On it were a crowd of people who, with guns sighted, waited tremulously for the Japanese invasion to begin.
When the boat pulled within shouting distance, two haole police officers waded in until knee deep and demanded in English that the rowers give their names and destination. Howard stood up in the boat and waved joyously. The man on the oars found a second wind and Howard, caught unaware by the sudden change in speed, almost fell overboard. Ignoring the drawn guns, they sped by the police officers and, when the hull hit the sand, tumbled over the gunnels, waving at the Kauaians. One police officer waded back onto shore and shouted.
-No boats on the water, he yelled angrily. Can’t you read that sign? He pointed to the large board with hand-painted lettering next to the dock.
-This is Mr. Robinson’s boat, said Howard. He was the only one who spoke or understood English.
-I don’t care whose boat it is, the police officer snarled. There’s a war on and no one’s allowed on the water.
The rest of the Niihauans were walking unsteadily up the beach. Some of the civilians, having quickly realized that these were not Japanese insurgents, put down their guns and reached to grab the men’s arms to keep them upright.
-But it’s Mr. Robinson’s, Howard repeated. Even with a war, which they knew about by now, no one superseded Robinson’s authority. They imagined that he was king of this island too, and that Makewali was his palace and the inhabitants here as beholden to him as were the Niihauans.
Howard kept asking for Robinson while the rest of the men in the boat jabbered on excitedly in Hawaiian. The haole police officers didn’t speak Hawaiian, but they quickly recognized that the boatload weren’t enemies of the state. Boozing locals, they grimaced to themselves. Ignorant natives too drunk to reason with. They told Howard to come with them to the police station. The other men would stay at the shoreline. They would call Mr. Robinson and straighten out whatever was going on.
Howard felt better once he had a little water and a seat beneath him that didn’t sway. He washed his hands carefully in a sink behind the station as he waited for Mr. Robinson to arrive. He inspected the loose flaps of skin and the blood blisters and decided that for now he could handle the pain if he remembered not to shake hands, as he was wont to do, or pick up buckets or saddles. He was ready with the apologies for Mr. Robinson: Sorry we left without permission, sorry about the fire, sorry about leaving the cattle and sheep and bees for this long, sorry about the stranger on the island…
A man entered the room with a hesitant walk. The brim of his hat was crumpled, and next to the long strides of the sergeant who accompanied him, his steps were jerky and short. At the police desk he stopped as if waiting for instructions. Howard squinted at him; something was familiar.
The man turned and called his name.
Howard blinked to clear his eyes. Perhaps this was an apparition that had followed him from the water.
His name was called again, and a hand rose.
Howard raised his own hesitantly.
The froth of a horse ridden fast in the morning heat had congealed on Mr. Robinson’s knees. His face was crimped with worry. He looked older, diminished, as if the air had been sucked from the interstices of his skin and left him limp. Howard’s confusion deepened; it was as if the Old Lord had sent a lesser twin to greet him.
-What’s happened over there, Mr. Kaleohano? There was Robinson’s familiar gait now, his feet hanging in the air an extra moment, as if more comfortable above ground than on it, his sky blue eyes flashing, a big hand reaching out to grip Howard’s shoulder. When Howard had regained his composure and started on his apologies, Robinson waved them aside.
-What’s happened? he repeated.
-A Japanese pilot landed. He wants to kill everyone, said Howard.
-The Japs are on Niihau? exclaimed Robinson. He repeated this in English and the hubbub in the station house stopped. Men leaned forward, openmouthed.
Howard nodded. He looked around the quiet police station and sized up the police officers. He’d always suspected that Robinson had his own contingent of law enforcers. Now that they knew the enormity of the situation, why didn’t they spring immediately into action for the Old Lord?
-You round up your men here, Mr. Robinson, and we leave now for the island.
-And there’s only one Jap, you say? You sure about that? Robinson paused. How can the whole island be terrorized by one pilot?
-That’s the bad news, said Howard, shaking his head. It’s the Haradas, Mr. Robinson. They help too.
Lieutenant Jack Mizuha heard of the battle on Niihau in the lunchroom that day. Eavesdropping over his plate of rice, he kept his face composed and hard. A Japanese pilot, they said. A nisei couple. Guns fired, houses burned. He tried to look nonchalant as he pushed his tray aside. Once in his dark, cramped office, he picked up the phone to call the district commander, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Fitzgerald.
-I’d like to lead the attack on Niihau, he told his superior.
-Now, Jack, the lieutenant colonel replied. We’ve got the CO handling it.
Mizuha heard him cough away from the phone, then put his hand over the mouthpiece and speak to someone in the background in muffled tones.
-Is it true that a nisei is helping the enemy army? Mizuha asked.
-Word travels farther than our artillery around here, Fitzgerald sighed. Seems these Niihauans are engaged in hand-to-hand combat and using ancient Hawaiian war techniques to defend themselves. There’re rumors about bombs dropping and Jap parachutists jumping in, but we’ve ascertained there’s only one soldier, as far as we can tell, if those Hawaiians know what they’re talking about. And yes, there’s a Jap couple been working there, who’re shooting right alongside the pilot.
Mizuha clamped his eyes shut. Terrible, terrible news, he thought, and he wondered what would happen to his family here on Kauai when people began to find out. It was one thing to get demoted from his command of the base because of prejudice; it would be quite another to be killed.
-This thing will blow over, Jack. You’re a good army man, Jack, we all know that. It’s just that sometimes we have to let the stupid people run the show for a while. This is the Stupid People Show now, right, Jack? So just sit tight, I know this rankles a bit, but be patient.
-I’m not asking for my command back. I’m asking to lead the rescue party to Niihau.
-I know what you’re saying, Jack. It just won’t look too good, sending you.
Mizuha then heard a small, sharp whoosh, which he realized was the sound of a match being struck.
-You understand, Jack, Fitzgerald continued after a pause in which Mizuha could see him stretching back, a cigar in his mouth and his feet planted wide, perhaps simultaneously reaching for the can of roasted macadamia nuts he always had on a nearby shelf.
-With all due respect, sir, replied Mizuha slowly, it might look better sending me. You’ll have yourself a race riot once people find out some nisei folks are helping the enemy. It’ll be anarchy here on Kauai, white coming down hard against yellow, you know as well as I do. Unless we show that we’re patriots, sir, this island will explode within hours.
There was a pause and a sucking sound. Mizuha waited.
-I see your point, Jack, Fitzgerald finally said. I’ll get back to you.