After snapping a few pictures I take the bus to lower Manhattan in search of sites related to the November 25, 1864, attack. There’s now a Best Buy electronics store where the Winter Garden Theatre used to be. All the other buildings have been replaced by more formidable structures or paved over completely. By midafternoon I’ve found most of the addresses where the Confederate agents had struck. A majority of them, it’s hard not to notice, are only a block or two away from where the Twin Towers once stood.
From lower Manhattan I head to the Exchange Place, the first stop outside of New York City on the PATH train route. After I climb the stairs out of the underground station, I see train tracks several hundred feet away. And a waiting platform. I trot over, and all the signs read EXCHANGE PLACE.
I circle the small, above-ground station to shoot pictures and search for any sort of historic plaque or marker. Nothing. I set my camera bag on the ground and suddenly stand bolt upright. I take a step back and realize that I’m on top of a giant cast-iron map of the New Jersey and Manhattan waterfronts. I must have walked over it a dozen times since I’ve been here.
Looking closer, I find little boxes of text by their respective points of interest: “Communipaw Massacre 1643—Dutch settlers massacred 80 Indians as they slept”; “July 30, 1916—Ammunition trains and barges exploded at Black Tom Wharf. The shock wave was felt as far away as Philadelphia. Many believed it to be the work of saboteurs”; “1954—On the Waterfront filmed with Marlon Brando.” I search for the Exchange Place itself on the map, and the only little box near it says, “You are here.” There’s nothing about Booth and Lincoln.
Over the next twenty minutes or so, not a single soul looks at the map. I start photographing the folks on the platform, all of whom seem (as I was) oblivious to the bounty of historical information directly beneath them. It’s possible that they’re regular commuters well familiar with the map and its inch-long boxes, but I doubt this is true of all of them.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” a woman says to me, “but I was just wondering what you were doing.” Far from minding, I’m happy to tell her that we’re standing right on top of a great cartographic treasure trove of historic places, and no one appears to notice. “So I was photographing them not noticing,” I say.
She looks down and reacts exactly as I did, instantly stepping back as if the ground had vanished and then reappeared before her eyes. “I’ve been commuting from here for almost a month, and I’ve never seen this before.”
I point out a few favorite spots and then repeat the Booth/Lincoln story.
“Right where we’re standing?” she asks.
“I’m not sure if it’s here exactly, but somewhere around this place.”
“That’s amazing,” she says. I tell her I think so, too.
By this time I have to race to Penn Station to catch a train for Washington, D.C. As I’m dashing off I glance back and see the woman conversing amiably with two other people as all three look intently at the map under their feet.
My epiphany comes minutes after Amtrak Northeast Regional 137 rolls out of Manhattan: I will search for unmarked sites across America that have been forgotten over time. One trip, all regions of the country. And not only in major metropolitan areas but in small towns and communities from coast to coast. Historic sites aren’t just clustered in Beacon Hill, Greenwich Village, Hyde Park, Fisherman’s Wharf, and other big-city neighborhoods. They are everywhere.
Since I’ve recently lost both the one stable job I’ve ever held and a pretty wonderful girlfriend (no hard feelings), the timing is perfect. My calendar, to say the least, is clear. And if I don’t do this now, I doubt the opportunity will ever arise again.
Back in Washington I pull from my bookshelf a road atlas purchased years ago that has sadly gone unused, and I flip through the pages. My mind begins racing as I contemplate the sheer logistics of such an undertaking, of researching and pinpointing so many little-known sites, finding historians and experts to guide me along the way, and coordinating (even though I’ll probably drive much of the trip) countless airline, train, and bus schedules. Weather will be a factor, too; flight delays and cancellations are all but assured during summer hurricane season in the South and winters in the North and Midwest. There are those who can toss some underwear and extra pairs of socks into a backpack, leap out the front door, and cast their fortunes to the wind. I’m not that kind of traveler. I’m all for spontaneity and serendipitous discoveries, but with limited funds and time, I’ll have to maintain a tight schedule and know exactly where I’m going from the start. There’ll be no margin for error. Ultimately I estimate that it will require five to six months to plan the trip and then at least as long to visit every site on my itinerary.
This is madness, I begin to think, a whim-driven folly better suited for the young and not a man nearing his forties.
All the more reason to go. It’s decided.
From the outset I need to establish my terms. Words like forgotten and overlooked are, admittedly, subjective; what might be unfamiliar to one person is another’s area of expertise. Many of the stories I’ve collected in those twenty-four filing cabinets were referenced in obscure magazines and journals or cited in footnotes and parenthetical asides from out-of-print books. They haven’t permeated the popular culture and, at best, only hazily ring a bell to some people. It’s not the most scientific criterion, but part of the reason for visiting the sites—along with confirming that they’re not marked—is to ascertain how well they’re known to those who live nearby. I want even the locals to be surprised.
Every spot must also be nationally significant and represent a larger narrative in American history. Ideally, I plan to cover the full sweep of our nation’s past, from the first Native Americans, Spanish explorers, and Pilgrims who set foot on this land to the pioneers, patriots, inventors, soldiers, artists, and activists who transformed it. Not every story can or will be epic in scope, but the impact of each protagonist should reverberate beyond any one state or region.
Priority one is to plot out where I’m going and what I hope to find, and by that I don’t mean just the actual sites. This journey must be more than a grand sightseeing adventure. Along with searching for the physical places, I want to explore why any of this matters. Ever since a fire gutted our family’s home in Washington, D.C., destroying hundreds of personal letters, photos, and other irreplaceable memorabilia, I’ve become more conscientious about preserving history. But beyond mere sentimentality, what difference does it honestly make if historic sites are torn down, boarded up, bulldozed, or simply neglected?
And why have so many of them been forgotten in the first place?
PART I
WHERE TO BEGIN
Starting Points
NIIHAU
The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.
—G. K. Chesterton
LOCATED ABOUT TWENTY-TWO hundred miles from the continental United States and nicknamed “the Forbidden Island,” Niihau is the westernmost inhabited isle on the Hawaiian chain. The seal-shaped speck of land is also the world’s largest privately owned island, stretching approximately nineteen miles long and six miles across at its widest point. In 1864 a clan of Scottish ranchers, the Sinclairs, purchased Niihau for $10,000 in gold from King Kamehameha V, and their descendants—the Robinsons—still own it to this day. (The king also offered the Sinclair family Waikiki, but they passed.)
No tourists are allowed on Niihau except those who are personally invited by the Robinson family or who fly in from neighboring Kauai (“the Garden Isle”) on Niihau Helicopters Inc., a Robinson-operated business that offers four-hour tours and daylong safaris. Other companies run sightseeing and snorkeling boat trips that skirt the coast from a mile out. But I need to go ashore; the story I’m pursuing involves a small plane that made an emergency landing near the main village more than seventy years ago, and the ensuing manhunt for the
pilot sparked a panic on America’s mainland that had major social and political repercussions. Getting to the island is no easy feat, and its remoteness, I suspect, accounts for why “the Niihau incident” isn’t better known.
Hawaii was slotted for the end of my travels, when I planned to be in the neighborhood anyway (that is, around Washington State), but while piecing together my itinerary, I called Niihau Helicopters and immediately hit a snag.
A very pleasant woman named Shandra told me that the pilot couldn’t shuttle just one passenger out to the island, so I’d have to join an already scheduled party of three or more. Shandra could find only one day on their calendar when they had a group short by a single person, and I confirmed on the spot. Liftoff would be in three months, which cut my preparation time for the entire journey in half.
There was another problem.
If a storm blew in or the other passengers canceled at the last minute, the flight to Niihau would be postponed indefinitely. I wouldn’t be charged, but I’d have gone all the way to Hawaii for nothing. My only option was to make a reservation and hope for the best.
Over the next three months, I frantically began coordinating the remainder of my itinerary. The original plan, and certainly the most logical and economical strategy, was to zigzag across the country in one clean, continuous line, either from side to side or top to bottom. But, as with Niihau, I had to schedule my visits according to what worked best for the various guides and historians who’d be touring me around in their respective towns. My final route looked as if it had been mapped out more by Jackson Pollock than by Rand McNally.
Every few weeks I called Shandra to make sure the other parties hadn’t pulled out, and every time she assured me that they were still committed.
On my way to Kauai, I hopscotched the Hawaiian Islands, hitting Maui first to check out Charles Lindbergh’s grave near a small abandoned church in Kipahulu. There’s room for two but he’s buried alone; his wife, Anne, instructed that her ashes be scattered in Maine, thousands of miles away. The legendary pilot’s nearest neighbors are a row of gibbon apes named Kippy, Keiki, Lani, and George—the beloved pets of Lindbergh’s close friend Sam Pryor.
Later that afternoon I flew to Oahu and photographed a statue of Abraham Lincoln outside the Ewa Elementary School. A memorial to Lincoln here seems odd, considering that Hawaii wasn’t a state in Lincoln’s day and was officially neutral in the Civil War. As it turns out, a handful of Hawaiians volunteered to fight for the Union, and Lincoln, as president, endeared himself to the territory by writing a heartfelt letter of condolence to King Kamehameha V in February 1864 after his younger brother, King Kamehameha IV, passed away.
From Oahu, it was on to Kauai.
With twenty-four hours to go, I phoned Shandra one last time. “Sorry to keep bugging you,” I said, well aware that I must have been testing her patience. Hawaii’s relaxed, aloha spirit hadn’t yet permeated my East Coast, type A disposition. “I’m a bit of a control freak,” I explained apologetically.
“As long as you’re the one who said it,” Shandra replied, laughing, and then confirmed that, yes, everything was looking good. “Just be here no later than eight thirty A.M.”
I told her I was setting not one but two alarms and arranging for a wake-up call.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” she said.
With alarms and phones ringing at 7:00 A.M., I’m up.
So is the sun, which is a welcome sight, although a slow-rolling avalanche of dark clouds is encroaching on the horizon.
At the office for Niihau Helicopters I wait nervously in the parking lot. One car pulls up, then a second. I finally meet my fellow passengers—a couple in their fifties from New Jersey and a former Marine from San Diego, who’s with his wife and their young daughter. They’re an affable group, but frankly I’m just thrilled they all showed up.
During a brief orientation, we’re told that we’ll be flying on an Agusta A-109 (its predecessor, also owned by the Robinsons, was used in the opening scene of Jurassic Park); once we’re on the island we may pick up shells as souvenirs; the black rocks along the beach are very slick, so be careful; sandwiches will be served for lunch; and we’ll have several hours to rove around, snorkel, take pictures, and so on. We learn a little about the island’s history, but there’s no mention of the Niihau incident.
From the heliport it’s a fifteen-minute ride out to the island, and once Niihau comes into view, our pilot, Dana Rosendal, who flew Cobras and Hueys in the Army, dips and swoops the copter above points of interest and offers additional tidbits of information. The number fluctuates, but approximately 130 people live there now, Dana tells us. An eco-Luddite’s dream, Niihau has few cell phones, televisions, or personal computers, and what minimal power the villagers do require is wind- and solar-generated. They drink and wash with fresh rainwater. None of the roads are paved, and most islanders rely on bikes and horses for transportation. It’s also the only island where Hawaiian is the primary language. There is one modern structure, a U.S. Navy installation far from the central village, that conducts missile defense operations. (Three weeks before I arrived in Kauai, North Korea threatened to shoot a Taepodong-2 ballistic missile “toward” Hawaii to test its range. I almost called Shandra to see if this might scuttle our flight but, in a rare instance of self-restraint, decided against it.)
We pass high over three villagers, and they wave at us. “Everyone here is real friendly,” Dana says. Niihau doesn’t even have a jail.
The copter sets down on a dirt landing pad near a tin-covered shed, and immediately we all go our separate ways. With no commercial buildup (not even restaurants or supermarkets; everything is boated or flown in), there’s a timeless quality to the landscape, which makes it easier to envision what happened here some seven decades ago.
I hike inland a bit and try to imagine what Hawila Kaleohano, a twenty-nine-year-old villager who had stepped outside of his home to see why his horse was neighing loudly and acting spooked, must have thought when, from out of nowhere, a small plane came in low and fast and slammed into the rough soil, kicking up clouds of dirt until finally skidding to a stop in front of his house.
The pilot, who appeared to be Japanese, had sustained minor injuries and was barely conscious. Kaleohano pulled him from the smoking wreckage and then searched through the cockpit, hoping to find some form of identification. Kaleohano discovered a pistol and a stash of documents. He learned that the pilot’s name was Shigenori Nishikaichi, and he was twenty-one years old.
More villagers rushed to the scene. They only spoke Hawaiian, so someone sent for Ishimatsu Shintani, an older man who had been born in Japan and could speak the language fluently. By the time Shintani arrived, the pilot was alert, and the two had a brief conversation—and then Shintani left without explanation.
Perplexed, the villagers located the Robinsons’ caretaker and assistant beekeeper Yoshio Harada, a thirty-eight-year-old Hawaiian-born man who, like his wife, Irene, was of Japanese ancestry. Nishikaichi, the pilot, confided to Harada that the Imperial Navy had just bombed Pearl Harbor and the United States and Japan were now at war. Harada shared none of this with the villagers.
Although the islanders were without electricity and phone lines, they were aware that diplomatic relations between the two countries had been strained. None of them knew, however, that the U.S. naval base on the main island of Oahu was under attack and that Nishikaichi had flown in the invasion’s second wave. After his plane was struck by enemy fire, Nishikaichi was forced to crash-land on Niihau.
That afternoon the villagers threw a party for the young pilot. They roasted a pig and sat around the fire playing guitar and singing. With everyone at ease, Nishikaichi asked Hawila Kaleohano for his papers back. Kaleohano politely refused.
Hours later, from a crackling, battery-powered radio, the villagers heard about Pearl Harbor and realized that Nishikaichi was an enemy combatant. They decided to detain him until the island’s owner, Aylmer Robinson, arri
ved the next morning from his main residence in Kauai. He could then take Nishikaichi back to the proper authorities.
Monday came but no Aylmer.
Yoshio and Irene Harada offered to house Nishikaichi, and the villagers agreed—so long as he remained under close watch.
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday passed with still no sign of Aylmer, who’d never been absent this long. The villagers climbed to the top of the highest point on Niihau and, after waving kerosene lanterns in the direction of Kauai, lit a massive bonfire. They didn’t know that the Navy had imposed an emergency ban on all travel in the area, and Aylmer—who is believed to have seen the flickering lights and suspected that they signaled trouble—could only watch helplessly. Nishikaichi used the delay to his advantage, gaining the trust of the Haradas.
On Friday, December 12, Shintani attempted to bribe Kaleohano for the airman’s papers. Despite the significant amount of cash offered (about $200), Kaleohano, convinced that they must contain sensitive military information, said no.
By some accounts, later that afternoon Irene Harada began playing a record on the couple’s hand-cranked phonograph. The music was not for entertainment but to muffle the sounds of what was about to happen next. Her husband and Nishikaichi snuck up behind the lone villager guarding their home and wrestled him to the ground. They locked him in a warehouse and gathered up a shotgun and pistol before setting out to retrieve Nishikaichi’s papers and additional weapons.
From his outhouse, Kaleohano spied Harada and Nishikaichi approaching his home. Knowing that eventually they’d find him unless he made a break for it, when the two men momentarily looked in the opposite direction, Kaleohano dashed toward the village. Harada pivoted, aimed his shotgun at Kaleohano, and fired but just missed him. Kaleohano shouted at the top of his lungs for everyone to run, that Harada had helped the Japanese pilot escape and they were both armed. The villagers, at first incredulous that their friend and neighbor had turned on them, scattered.
Here Is Where: Discovering America's Great Forgotten History Page 2