"How about that?" Sturtevant said. "We just bit the King of England right in the ass."
"Now all we have to do is see whether we got away with it," George said. He wished the boat would go faster.
"Will you look at that crazy son of a bitch!" Vic Crosetti burst out.
Sam Carsten looked. The Sandwich Islander in question was indeed crazy, as far as he could tell. The fellow was skimming over the waves toward shore standing upright on a plank maybe nine or ten feet long and a foot and a half or two feet wide.
"Why the devil doesn't he fall off and break his fool neck?" Sam said. "You wouldn't even think a monkey could do that, let alone a man."
"Yeah, you're right," Crosetti said. "But I ain't gonna let him hear me call him a monkey. He'd break me in half." That was undoubtedly true. The surf-rider, who came up onto the beach with the plank on his head, was a couple of inches above six feet and muscled like a young god, which was all the more evident because he wore only a dripping cotton loincloth dyed in bright colors.
"Hey, pal," Carsten said, and tossed him a dime. "That's a hell of a ride you had there." Crosetti coughed up a dime, too.
"Thank you both very much, gentlemen," the fellow said. Like a fair number of his people, he talked like an educated Englishman, which made it hard to treat him like a nigger. His skin was only a couple of shades darker than Crosetti's, anyhow.
"Where did you learn to do that, anyway?" Sam asked. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized he'd been stupid. Too late to do anything about it then, of course. That was the way the world worked.
The native laughed at him. It wasn't a snotty laugh, it was a friendly laugh: maybe because the surf-rider was a friendly guy, maybe because he knew better than to get himself in trouble squabbling with the U.S. Navy. Both, Sam judged. The fellow said, "Having grown up here in Honolulu with the sea as my neighbor, so to speak, it was a sport I acquired as a boy. I confess I can see how surprising it might appear to those born in other climes."
"Other climes, yeah," Carsten said, while Vic Crosetti did his best, which wasn't any too good, to keep from snickering. As always, every inch of Sam's flesh the sun touched was cooked red and juicy.
"How come you talk so damn fancy?" Crosetti asked.
"This is how English was taught to me," the Sandwich Islander said with another shrug. "Since you Americans came here, I have learned the language may be spoken with a number of different accents."
"Haven't heard anybody here who's got quite as much mush in his mouth as you do," Crosetti said. Was he looking for a fight in spite of denying it before? He hadn't had that much to drink yet; he and Sam had only just come on leave from the Dakota.
The surf-rider sighed. "You must understand, gentlemen, that under the previous administration my father was assistant minister for sugar production, thus enabling me to acquire rather better schooling than most of my contemporaries."
Sam needed a moment to realize that under the previous administration meant when the British ran the show. He needed another moment to realize something else. "Your father was assistant what-do-you-call-it, and you took our dimes? Christ on His cross, I bet you can buy and sell both of us and hardly even notice you've done it."
"It may be so, but, for one thing, we Hawaiians-we prefer that to Sandwich Islanders, if it matters to you-have discovered expediency to be the wiser course in dealing with the occupying authorities. Had I refused your money, you might have thought I was insulting you, with results unpleasant for me." The fellow's smile revealed large, gleaming white teeth. "And besides, you both chose to reward me for my skill out of what I know to be your small pay. Especially in wartime, acts of kindness and generosity should not be discouraged, lest they disappear altogether off the face of the earth."
"Whew!" Carsten couldn't remember the last time anybody had done that much explaining. "You ought to be a chaplain, uh-"
"John Liholiho, at your service." The surf-rider's bow could have been executed no more smartly had he been wearing top hat, cutaway, and patent-leather shoes rather than gaudy loincloth and bare feet. "And with whom have I had the pleasure of conversing?"
Carsten and Crosetti gave their names. Crosetti plucked at Sam's sleeve, whispering, "Listen, do you want to spend the time chewing the fat with this big galoot, or do you want to get drunk and get laid?"
"We got a forty-eight, Vic-don't have to be back on board ship till day after tomorrow," Sam answered, also in a low voice. "God knows it's easy to find a saloon and a piece of ass in this town, but when are you going to run across another real live aristocrat?"
"Ahh, you want to be a schoolteacher when you grow up," Crosetti snarled in deeply unhappy tones. But he didn't leave. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his tropical white bell-bottoms and waited to see whether Sam could make standing on the beach banging his gums with a native more interesting than a drunken debauch.
John Liholiho peered over toward the jutting prominence of Diamond Head while the two sailors talked with each other. The presumably British school he'd attended had trained him in more things than an upper-crust accent; he showed very plainly that he was not listening to a conversation not intended for him. Carsten wished most of the sailors he knew had a matching reserve instead of being snoops.
He didn't really know how he was going to make this more fun than getting lit up and having his ashes hauled, either. After a little thought, he asked, "So how do you like it, living under the Stars and Stripes?"
The Sandwich Islander-no matter how he thought of himself, that was how Carsten thought of him-frowned. "You do realize, of course, that this is a question on which circumspection might be the wisest course for me?" Seeing Sam hadn't the slightest idea what circumspection was, he translated his English into English: "I might be wiser to keep quiet or lie."
"What am I going to do, shoot you?" Sam said, laughing. Crosetti plucked at his sleeve again. He shook off his pal.
Liholiho gave him a serious look. "Two friends of my father's of whom I know for certain have suffered this fate. It does give one pause. On the other side of the coin, the protectorate the British exercised over these islands was also imperfectly humane. Mr. Carsten, would you prefer to be thought of as a bloody wog or a nigger?"
Since Sam had been thinking of John Liholiho as a nigger not ten minutes before, he had to work as hard at keeping his face straight as when he was raising on a pair of fives in a poker game. "Anybody called me either one of those things, I'd punch him in the teeth."
"Yeah." Now Vic Crosetti's attention was engaged. "I get called a fuckin' dago or a wop, that's bad enough."
"People seldom call me these things to my face, though I have heard nigger in a mouth or two since you Americans came." The surf-rider seemed to have a British sense of precision, too. He went on, "What one is called, however, sometimes matters less than how one is seen. If the powers that be reckon one a wog or a nigger, one is not apt to be taken seriously regardless of the potential value of one's contributions."
"That's too complicated for me," Carsten said, thinking he should have headed out and got drunk after all.
But Crosetti got it. "He's saying it's like he's an ordinary sailor, and he's trying to convince an admiral he knows what he's talking about."
John Liholiho beamed at him. "Mr. Crosetti, I am in your debt. You Americans and our former British overlords do tend to look at race as if it were rank, don't you?-yourselves being admirals, by the very nature of things. I shall have to use the analogy elsewhere."