A quick one while you wait for the next update
Honolulu
New Year’s Eve, 1895
Lieutenant Alioune Diop woke to the sound of guns.
He felt a moment of alarm, and then realized that the gunfire was far away, in the city, and that the
Prairial was safe at anchor in a neutral harbor. He wondered briefly what the shooting was all about, but he was still half-conscious and it was far too early; he sank back in hammock and let himself drift off.
He woke again half an hour later, this time to commotion above.
Captain Dufour’s voice found the shortcut to Diop’s brain, and he was instantly awake and throwing on his uniform. A minute later he was on deck, joining the growing crowd that had gathered around the captain and an excitable Hawaiian courtier.
“… have to help us,” the nobleman was saying in execrable French. “The Americans have the palace under siege.” He had a document in his hand and was waving it at the assembled sailors, saying something about a treaty.
Diop could almost see the captain turning over the possibilities. The
Prairial’s officers had all heard the rumors that the Americans were planning a coup, and that money and arms were flowing into the islands from mysterious sources. And France
did have a treaty of friendship with Hawaii, signed by a naval captain fifty years past, so the crew would be within its rights to intervene. Having the Hawaiian king in France’s debt might come in very useful…
“We’ll go,” Dufour said; no one could survive three years against the Royal Navy on the high seas without a large helping of reckless courage, and he was true to type. He waved at officers and barked orders. “Draw weapons! Marines on deck in five minutes. Sailors too, everyone not on watch.”
And five minutes later, there they were, armed with rifles and six of the new machine guns that one person could carry, hustling down the gangplank a squad at a time. They formed up on the dock and double-timed toward the sound of the guns, a bemused Diop taking his place at the head of his marine platoon.
“Shout ‘Lunalilo,’” he called. “Let them know which side we’re on.” The streets were lined with nervous Hawaiians, and the last thing he wanted was to get in a fight
before they got to the palace. “Lunalilo!” the men answered, and there were scattered cheers from the crowds.
They were less than a quarter-mile from the palace when they saw the first British uniform.
Diop’s first thought was that it was a trap: that the British had set this up to draw the
Prairial’s crew away from the ship. But then he heard the British soldiers shouting “Lunalilo!” just like his marines, and realized what must have happened. There must be a British ship in port – quite possibly hunting for the
Prairial – and another courtier had come to its captain to remind him of
Britain’s treaty with Hawaii.
The same thoughts were going through Captain Dufour’s mind and, no doubt, that of the British commander. Each was wondering the same thing:
can I take care of this enemy first? Diop wasn’t certain either side could; the crews looked evenly matched, and there was little to choose between them in armament.
Evidently theBritish captain had come to the same conclusion, because he waved down his officers and extended a languid hand toward the
Prairial’s company. His next words were in bad French: “Would Mademoiselle Frog care to join the dance?”
Dufour, again, took only a split second to decide. “Very well, as long as you clumsy
rosbifs don’t step on our toes.” There was an answering bark of laughter, a brief whispered conference, a new disposition, and without quite realizing what had happened, French and British sailors quick-marched toward the palace together.
The sight of battle greeted both crews as they reached the palace garden. All at once Diop understood why the defenders had held out so long; they had Maxims, and they’d set up impromptu machine gun nests amid the barricades. Evidently the Hawaiian king’s loyalists had their own sources of weapons.
The rebels outnumbered the loyalists and they had the palace surrounded, but they clearly hadn’t expected that kind of resistance; they had only two machine guns of their own, and they’d abandoned their assault on the barricades and pulled back to the outer gardens. They’d found some old cannon somewhere – a brace of six-pounders that were seventy years old if they were a day – and were bombarding the defensive positions, hoping to silence the Maxims and open a breach that they could force.
It all seemed like a comic-opera battle to a marine from a modern navy, but it was deadly serious business to the participants. There were bodies on the ground.
The defenders noticed the newcomers first, and evidently the Senegalese and Indian sailors were what caught their eye. “Pōpolo!” they called – it meant “blackberry,” and was what the Hawaiians called foreigners with dark skin.
Unfortunately, that also gave the game away to the rebels, and they erupted in consternation as they realized that reinforcements had arrived for the king. Their machine gun crews began wrestling their weapons around to face the French sailors, and officers shouted for the men to form a skirmish line.
“Down!” Dufour called as the British crew broke off and doubled around to attack the cannon. “Form line where you are! Machine gun fire!” Diop relayed the orders to his platoon and dropped to the ground. They were on the street, exposed, no cover to be had, but they could bring their machine guns to bear much faster than the rebels could, and they were trained soldiers rather than militia and hired guns. Bullets tore into the rebels’ flank; one of their Maxim crews was down before it could bring the weapon around, and their skirmish line dissolved even as it was forming.
“Up!” Dufour shouted. “Twenty meters and give it to them again!”
The
Prairial’s sailors shouted and charged for the outer gardens, where there would at least be cover. But the rebels still had more men, and their fire, undisciplined as it was, was taking a toll.
This would be the perfect time for the British to hang us out to dry, Diop realized, and for a moment, he felt a chill as he wondered whether the British captain had decided to let the rebels annihilate the French before he pressed his own attack home.
But then he heard gunfire coming from the rebels’ rear as the British sailors crashed into the gun crews. There was a moment’s sharp fighting, and the cannon fire ceased. The rebels wavered, and all of a sudden they broke, Americans and hired Hawaiians fleeing pell-mell down Beretania Street. That was the Hawaiian word for “Britain,” and the irony wasn’t lost on Diop as he counted up his men.
“… and we had two ships behind the convoy that you Frogs – begging your pardon – didn’t know about. So we waited till you were in among us, and then we brought ‘em around to trap you…”
Diop, bemused, listened to the British lieutenant across the table. Out on the street, Frenchmen and Senegalese were holding up British and Indians and being supported in their turn, trying their best to sing each other’s drinking songs. Diop, far from sober but needing food more than drink, had found a kindred spirit among the British crew, and they shared a heaping portion of kalua pig in a dockside restaurant.
“You got lucky,” he said, and started on a story of his own: a successful commerce raid that the
Prairial had conducted two months before, after which it had led three Royal Navy corvettes on a merry chase through the Marquesas.
“I’ll grant that you’re a match for us ship against ship,” the Englishman said; he was enough in his cups to be honest. “But we’ve got three times the ships you do. Why the hell did you get into this war anyway?”
“Ask Leclair, if you meet him before he goes to hell.”
The British sailor laughed. “There’s a New Year’s toast for you. To hell with Leclair, and may our own brass keep him company.” It was a proposition both men could drink to, and both did.
“And next year,” the lieutenant continued, “let me be back in London, and you in… hell, Dakar or some such bloody place?”
“Marseilles,” Diop answered, laughing. “My father was navy and merchant marine, and my parents opened a chandlery after he got out. When this stupid war is over, you should come visit.” On impulse, he tore a page from his notebook, scribbled his parents’ address, and handed it to the British officer. The other man looked nonplused for a second, but then he did the same.
“
Prairial, back to the ship!” called the deep voice of
Maître Villeneuve. “Our new English lady friends have graciously given us a day’s head start, so we need to be fresh in the morning!”
“I guess this is it,” Diop said, putting coins on the table to settle his share of the bill. “Get through safe.” The Englishman echoed the sentiment and downed the last of his beer.
A moment later, Diop was on the street, walking toward the docks where the royal Hawaiian flag was flying.