We launch from Kohala before dawn, paddling for deep water. I wear a gourd helmet, a coconut fiber battle cape, and boar tusk wrist guard. Thirty miles of channel to cross. The sun breaks over the water. ʻOama (young goatfish) skitter the surface.
We are nine hundred waʻa peleleu and kakaka canoes carrying an army 30 lau (12,000) strong. My men do not fear death. The great ones are those who charge into battle without fear. They live for war. We are an island united. Ali’i Kauanoano has the Piʻipiʻi, elite warriors from Hilo and Hāmākua. Kekūhaupiʻo commands the ʻĀlapa, those North Kona warriors who are experts with spear and sling.
The ʻOkaka, an army from South Kona, is led by the great Keʻeaumoku, father of my queen. I bring the hoahānau, my personal army of koa warriors. I will hold the hoahānau back until the tipping point in battle, that time when the charge of my fierce young warriors will overwhelm the enemy’s willpower.
John Young and Isaac Davis, my cannon haoles, are here. Kaʻiana and Kekūhaupiʻo are here too. Kekūhaupiʻo, my bodyguard, would sacrifice his life to defend me in battle. And Kaʻiana, it was you who left the safety of Kauaʻi to join me. Your blood is sacred and your mana strong. Your body is stout like mine but more graceful. You made the heads of my aliʻi wahine turn in court, their eyes filling with admiration for a new aliʻi with a body to rival mine. You are young enough to be my son, had I married early. My queen admires and respects you.
Our paddles carve through ʻAlenuihāhā Channel. A school of dolphin surfaces. My twin lauhala sails billow in the wind. I believe these are stronger than Cook’s linen sails on the Resolution. My canoe has two 80-foot long koa hulls and a swivel cannon mounted to its bow. We carve through the blue swells between islands.
Maui, a green gem on the horizon. How friendly those slopes appear and how calm the coast appears. Maui was once ruled by Kahekili, my father. The new king of Maui, Kalanikūpule, knows we are crossing. His army gathers in Kahului. He is my half-brother and inherited the island from Kahekili.
An aliʻi may give his son an island. But he cannot give him the mana to defend it. When I take this island, I will tell the makaʻāinana they are free from the rule of Kahekili’s cruel son.
We make the southeastern shore yet are a great distance from Kahului. Hāna smoke curls skyward. Dogs bark onshore. The green backside of Hāna beckons. I stand and raise my ihe and say, “E aho hoʻi ka make ana i ke kauā, he nui nā moepū,” (It is better to die in battle, many will be the companions in death).
Kaʻiana raises his musket. Warriors bang paddles against the sides of their canoes. If I die in battle on Maui, I will have many good friends in death. Hāna is mākaʻu loa. I sense danger in Hāna’s long curve and shores hidden behind lava pinnacles.
We reach the entrance to the bay. Lava rock walls enclose it. The shoreline is a forest of ʻulu, hala, and coconut palms. Fog creeps down from the mountain. I must find ʻOlopū, the sacred adze stolen from Hilo.
ʻOlopū is koʻi naʻi aupuni, a battle-adze once belonging to the great Hawaiʻikuauli. This aliʻi ancestor never lost when carrying ʻOlopū into battle. The thief is a low chief living near Hāna. I see fisher folk onshore as we glide in. Kekūhaupiʻo leaps out, grabs our bow, and guides us in.
We beach and lift our canoe over the rocks and rest its hull on sand. Davis and Young remain offshore. My haoles refuse to land Lōpaka until scouts report a safe shore. Lōpaka is not our only cannon. I have three small ones stowed on other canoes, along with muskets, gunpowder, and fuses.
I march the shoals with my warriors. Kaʻiana speaks to the makaʻāinana. A fisherman claims ʻOlopū is in the hands of a Kokomo chief. He knows of the ax because the chief threatened to butcher him with it for failing to bring promised hogs.
We follow the river up through a koa forest. Most of my men wear battle capes and gourd helmets. Wāhine bathing in a pool go silent when we pass.
We reach the hala groves of Kokomo. Kaʻiana hands me a gourd of water. I drink deeply. He is the man I want to take my place should I fall on Maui.
Keʻeaumoku sends scouts into the hala. The day is hot and quiet. No sign of man, animal, or bird. The scouts do not return. Warriors drift through the grove like ghosts, pouring between the hala trunks before forming a crescent. These Kokomo men are both young and old. Most wield spears.
“Kahalui,” I call. My men fan out, forming a rival crescent. Both sides shout challenges. A big man leaves their crescent with arms raised. He is Kapakahi the Giant, a warrior who fought alongside Kahekili. He wears a red malo and a necklace of ʻilio teeth. He once broke the backs of our bravest men and hurled their bodies off the ʻĪao cliffs.
Kapakahi beckons me forward. “ʻAʻole, Kamehameha,” Kekūhaupiʻo says, “I will fight the giant.”
I know my kumu believes if I’m killed my men will flee. Yet, if I refuse the challenge my men will see me as a coward. “Bring my ihe,” I tell Kekūhaupiʻo. He hands it to me. I grip the handle of my short spear and approach the giant. He is tall but gray. My arms and legs are more muscled.
“Eh, Kapakahi,” I call. “Where is my brother?”
“Waiting in Kahului,” the giant answers. “Ten mano (four thousand) strong. Blood from your island will again fill our rivers and streams.”
“Give me the ax, Kapakahi,” I tell him.
Kapakahi claps. A warrior brings him ʻOlopū. He raises the sacred ax – its blade catches the sun and glows the green of the sea. “Ae, Kamehameha,” he says, “you will never reach ʻĪao. Today, you die in Kokomo.”
He whirls ʻOlopū. I keep my spear chest level. Kapakahi stinks of ʻilio (dog). Kahuna believe dog spirits haunt those eating their flesh. Kapakahi swings. I block his blow with my ihe. My spear keeps him from getting close enough to kill. He swings again. I crouch – the blade flies over my head.
His third blow catches my shoulder and opens me up. Blood splatters down my chest. I drop my spear. Kekūhaupiʻo brings me the aʻu ko pāhoa, a swordfish dagger. I duck another blow, swing my dagger and slash open Kapakahi’s thigh. I strike again, the jagged teeth of the swordfish bill ripping open his ʻōpū (belly). The giant falls to his knees. The Kokomo crescent breaks, its warriors vanishing in the hala. I pry ʻOlopū out of Kapakahi’s hand.
My kumu presses kapa cloth to my wound. Dearest Kekūhaupiʻo, master of the art of war, I am a warrior because of you. We trained in Waimea where you taught me hand-to-hand combat and how to use weapons. Now the giant lies at my feet and Kokomo villagers are free.
Oh Kaʻiana, dear friend and great warrior, I entrust you with the muskets. You are my Queen’s favorite on court because of your mana. You will lead our musket men in Kahului.
Keʻeaumoku impales the giant’s head on the tip of his spear and leads us back. I see respect in my men’s eyes. I hold up the sacred ax when we reach our beached canoes. The men chant. I hide fear for what awaits us. Ahead is a wide valley swarming with hardened warriors who have never tasted defeat. My half-brother commands them.
Davis and Young wrap river stones in kapa (barkcloth). We will use them as cannon fodder in Kahului. My strongest paddlers will steer the canoes with the cannons and muskets.
At first light we launch. We struggle against a strong current offshore and a rugged coastline of ʻaʻā (lava rock). I order our canoes to retreat to the deep blue-black water past the reef, where the current is weak and the water calm.
To be continued in July…
