We make the reef of Kahului Bay. I search for an omen.
A honu surfaces. Our sails crack in the wind. The mountain peaks are hidden by clouds except for ʻĪao, the one shaped like an ihe. Makaʻāinana onshore watch us advance. Kaʻiana, in my lead canoe, finds a reef passage that cuts through the coral. We follow.
The villagers flee from the shoreline. I hold ʻOlopū. This green blade is as sharp as manō teeth. My men shake their spears and knock their clubs against the canoes. They are anxious to fight. The sea here is milky blue. We glide up the sandy shore. Behind the beach is the valley.
Young slides our wide-mouthed Lōpaka across the sand on its koa sled. He is the gunpowder. Smith is the fuse. Kekūhaupiʻo removes the ʻiako (outrigger booms) and the ama (floats) from our canoes.
There will be no retreat, even if our backs are to the sea. Kaʻiana hands me the totem. I raise Kū – the red feathers on his head bristle. This is a good sign. I tell my men, “I mua e nā pōkiʻi, e inu i ka wai ʻawaʻawa. ʻAʻohe hope e hoʻi mai ai.” Forward my younger brothers and drink of the bitter waters. There is no hope of retreat.
My island once tasted defeat on Maui when ʻĪao Stream was clogged with the bodies of Kohala warriors. But our men fought on, even after Kapakahi and his killers joined Kahekili’s crescent in the valley. The giant smashed Kohala men with a stone club and broke the backs of so many that they fled for the cliffs. Kapakahi gave chase. He threw our warriors off the cliff into the stream below.
Kekūhaupiʻo tells me we are being watched. He points up. I see a man on the ridge perched on a mānele (palanquin). He has a spyglass. Men support the mānele on their shoulders.
Kalanikūpule, once a master of the pīkoi (tripping club), is now too weak to walk. His lust for rum withered his arms and legs, making him as weak as an old wahine. He must be carried to the battle yet still commands.
I send scouts into the valley and see fear in their eyes when they return. They speak of an army twice our size. But size alone does not win battles.
We march over wet earth shadowed by koa. The ʻauwai (channels) in the earth flow with water meant for loʻi deep in the valley. It troubles me to have my men trample through channels used to grow taro.
We reach an enemy crescent stretched between valley walls. The ground here is soggy and terraced. Rain begins. This soft battlefield favors the defenders. “Makawalu,” I call. I want to flank my army with elite koa warriors.
Squads form left and right of my main force. Kekūhaupiʻo brings me the bowl. I drink and share ʻawa with my fellow warriors. If the enemy swarms from the sides, the koa will slaughter them like hogs before they reach my main army. The bowl empties. I order the Haoles to sled our cannons forward. Kaʻiana joins the front line with his musket men. The cannons are aimed.
Young fills Lōpaka with black powder while Davis sticks in a fuse. The fuse sparks – the big cannon booms. Muskets fire. The small cannons shoot first volleys. The Haoles reload and volley again. Bodies pile up in loʻi. The black fog of gunpowder drifts into the valley.
The enemy crescent breaks, its warriors fleeing for ʻĪao Stream. Some claw their way up the valley walls. A few wail war cries and charge. Kaʻiana cuts them down. Those reaching us die quickly. Keʻeaumoku plunges his iron dagger into a Maui man’s chest.
The fog clears. Scouts spot another crescent waiting deeper in. Maui warriors peer over the top of the pā pōhaku, stonewalls dividing this valley into districts. I order the cannons forward. ʻŌʻō (digging sticks) with sharpened points have been abandoned by the farmers. Our feet trample huli (baby taro). Our attack will hurt the makaʻāinana’s food supply. For that I grieve.
“Fire!” says John Young. Cannon volleys shatter a stonewall. The second crescent crumbles. They regroup and swarm. I call for the hoahānau (brethren). My elite charge into this swarm, fighting hand-to-hand. They push the enemy south until their warriors are cornered between valley wall and stream. Most of the enemy have abandoned their weapons and can only hurl stones. Killing them is easy. ʻĪao Stream turns red with the blood of Maui men.
And what of Kalanikupule? My half-brother has left the ridge on his mānele. Scouts tell me his bodyguards are paddling him to Oʻahu, where our father rules. I must challenge him there.
