“Kamehameha had become especially sensitive on this point once the court moved to Kohala,” my father said, “since he was the district’s high chief and the welfare of Kohala was his responsibility. But he dared not voice his objections to our uncle.”
Far removed from Kalani’ōpu’u’s court at the opposite end of the Big Island, ‘Īmakakoloa had no reservations about confronting his king. When Kalani’ōpu’u sent emissaries from Kohala to Puna to demand tribute from ‘Īmakakoloa’s people, he refused. When Kalani’ōpu’u learned of this, he shook his head and declared, “Īmakakoloa will pay; his people will pay.” Then he returned to his feasting and ‘awa drinking.
The mō‘ī was in no haste to move against ‘Īmakakoloa, even after the recalcitrant chieftain rose in armed rebellion against him. He remained at Kapa‘au, feasting nightly, drinking ‘awa, and commanding all at his court—men, women and even children—to dance with him until at last the people of Kapa‘au, like the people of Kona, had exhausted their food stores and had nothing left to give to their mō‘ī. Kalani’ōpu’u next moved his court to Waipi‘o. Kamehameha and my father moved on with him.
Having settled the issue of Kiwala‘ō’s succession at least to his own satisfaction at Waipi‘o, Kalani’ōpu’u ordered a new heiau built there. He dedicated this heiau, Moa‘ula, to the war god. “Look, nephew,” he said to Kamehameha, to whom he had just entrusted the god’s keeping, “see how I increase the number of your god’s sacred houses.” Kameha nodded his head but said nothing.
Next, Kalani’ōpu’u moved with his chiefs and warriors to Hilo, where he ordered the construction of yet another temple for the war god. From Hilo, he dispatched his army to the neighboring Puna District to subdue ‘Īmakakoloa’s rebellion. While his people fought in Puna, Kalani’ōpu’u dwelled at Waiākea, continuing to feast, drink, and dance the hula every night.
Though Kiwala‘ō and Kamehameha wished to join the fighting, he kept them close to him. “It is not fitting that you should stoop to fight this renegade,” he told them. My father thought that Kalani’ōpu’u had a different reason for keeping his son and nephew out of the fray. “Even though he hoped he had settled the succession at Waipi‘o,” my father said, “Kalani’ōpu’u feared that Kiwala‘ō and Kamehameha would compete for glory in the fight against ‘Īmakakoloa, and that a battlefield rivalry would only engender ill feelings between them.” Kalani’ōpu’u did send his sons by Kaneikapolei to fight against ‘Īmakakoloa. “Aside from joining their father in pillaging some defenseless villages on Maui, Keōuape‘e‘ale and Keōua Red Cloak had not as yet engaged in serious battle,” said my father. “Kalani’ōpu’u decided that it was time for them to be tested as men. By all accounts, they acquitted themselves well.”
‘Īmakakoloa’s men were defeated in a matter of months, but ‘Īmakakoloa—sheltered by the people of Puna—eluded capture by Kalani’ōpu’u’s forces for a full year. During this time, Kalani’ōpu’u moved his court from Hilo to Punalu‘u in Ka‘ū and then farther south and upcountry to Kamā‘oa. There he built another heiau for the war god and awaited word of ‘Īmakakoloa’s capture.
At last Kalani’ōpu’u ordered one of his chiefs, Puhili, to lay waste to the entire Puna District until ‘Īmakakoloa’s people gave him up. Starting at ‘Āpua, just across the Ka‘ū-Puna border, Puhili burned whole villages, crops, and canoes. “Puhili went through Puna ahupua‘a by ahupua‘a, pillaging makai to mauka, until at last ‘Īmakakoloa’s own kahu gave him up,” my father told me. ‘Īmakakoloa was brought before Kalani’ōpu’u at the new Pakini Heiau. The mō‘ī gave Puhili the honor of slaying the rebel chieftain. “‘Īmakakoloa was forced to kneel at Kalani’ōpu’u’s feet. His arms were tied behind his back,” my father said. “Puhili set his foot on ‘Īmakakoloa’s neck, gripped his long hair and pulled his head back. Then he reached down and slashed his throat with a lei o manō.” The weapon’s jagged shark teeth sliced through ‘Īmakakoloa’s windpipe. He collapsed, still alive and struggling to breathe, even as his blood pooled beneath him on the heiau’s lava-stone floor. Puhili then stove in ‘Īmakakoloa’s skull with a war club. “He struck at ‘Īmakakoloa more than once,” said my father. “It was not a merciful death.”
“That was not wise, Pai‘ea,” Kekūhaupi‘o said quietly. Kamehameha and his kahu were sitting side by side at Kalani’ōpu’u’s boisterous feast celebrating the capture, execution, and sacrifice of the rebel ‘Īmakakoloa. “You gained nothing by presuming to offer ‘Īmakakoloa’s body to the god. You only angered your royal cousin, needlessly.”
“I showed my royal cousin that I am not to be trifled with, Kekū,” Kameha replied, making no attempt to mask his irritation.
“He will trifle with you all the same.”
Though he would not then admit it, Kamehameha knew that Kekūhaupi‘o was right. “Kameha regretted his impetuous action,” my father said. “He realized that he had angered not only Kiwala‘ō, for which he was not sorry, but also a number of chiefs whom he might one day need as allies, which he did regret.”
The hostility toward Kamehameha among the chiefs at court soon reached a dangerous intensity. Keawema‘uhili, high chief of Hilo, was heard to say that Kameha should be slain for his temerity. “It was kapu for anyone but Kiwala‘ō to offer up ‘Īmakakoloa’s body to the god,” he claimed.
Kalani’ōpu’u became so anxious for his nephew’s safety that he urged him to leave the court. “It is time for you to return to your people in Kohala,” he told Kamehameha one evening, a few days after the temple ceremony. “They require your presence more than I do.” Kalani’ōpu’u needed to say no more. Kameha understood that it was dangerous for him to remain at Kamā‘oa and he was grateful for his uncle’s concern. He departed for Kohala the next morning and remained there until the following year, when Kalani’ōpu’u died.
Hōnaunau, 1782
My father insisted that it was Kiwala‘ō, spurred on by his uncle Keawema‘uhili, chief of Hilo, who provoked Kamehameha to battle. Others have claimed that it was Kekūhaupi‘o and the other Kona chieftains who pushed Kameha into bloody conflict with his royal cousin. In any case, my uncle’s rivalry with Kiwala‘ō, if not yet bitter, was already pronounced, and I believe that after Kalani’ōpu’u’s death, conflict between the two was inevitable. I can only recount the subsequent events as best I understand them.
The mō‘ī of the Big Island died at Kā‘iliki‘i, a coastal village in southern Ka‘ū. It was mid-1782 when Kalani’ōpu’u’s mana fled his wasted body. Kamehameha was tending to his chiefly duties in Kohala when Kekūhaupi‘o brought him the news.
As it happened, Kekūhaupi‘o came upon Kamehameha while he and my father were engaged the sport of lele kawa—cliff jumping. In this sport, our people endeavored to jump from the highest palis into the sea and enter the water so cleanly as to barely make a splash. Kameha was just about to jump into the water when Kekūhaupi‘o found him. Grasping his student by one elbow, he cried, “Kamehameha! Kalani’ōpu’u has died. You must come away with me at once.” Kekūhaupi‘o added reprovingly, “It is time to cease this sporting and devote yourself to serious matters.”
“Kameha did not deserve this rebuke,” my father told me. “For in truth, he was merely enjoying a brief respite from his obligations when Kekūhaupi‘o chastised him.”
Upon his return to Kohala the previous year, Kamehameha had devoted himself to improving the industry of his people, directing the maka‘āinana in improvements in farming and fishing. He was not one to satisfy himself with simply ordering others about. As he led his warriors in battle, so he led his people in domestic labor. “Kameha worked alongside the people,” my father said. “He suspended the kapus that required the common people to keep their distance from him so that he could share in the work of planting taro and building fish ponds. The people loved him for this.”
Kameha also spent many hours training his warriors. “It was a peaceful time, but Kamehameha understood that the tranquili
ty was no more than an interlude, and he wanted his people to be ready for the next fight, with whomever and wherever it might come,” my father said.
“Why must we go at once?” Kameha demanded, visibly irritated at the reprimand. Kalani’ōpu’u was known to be ill and thus his passing was not unexpected. Mourning for any deceased mō‘ī was a prolonged affair.
“You must come with me to Ka‘ūpūlehu,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. Ka‘ūpūlehu was a village in North Kona. “It is urgent. The Kona chiefs are gathering there even now. They are preparing for war.”
“War? With whom, and why?” Kamehameha asked.
“Why with Kiwala‘ō, of course,” Kekūhaupi‘o replied. “He is taking our lands from us.”
Kalani’ōpu’u had commanded that his bones should be interred with the bones of other late rulers of the Big Island at the Hale o Keawe at Hōnaunau. After the old mō‘ī’s death, Kiwala‘ō prepared to fulfill his father’s last wish. The new king delegated his uncle and principal adviser, Keawema‘uhili, to organize a flotilla that would convey Kalani’ōpu’u’s bones and his funeral party from Ka‘ū to the sacred place of refuge in South Kona. After ten days, when the heat of the funerary imu had melted the flesh from Kalani’ōpu’u’s bones, Kiwala‘ō and his court embarked for Hōnaunau in four great double-hulled canoes.
Upon learning of Kalani’ōpu’u’s death and seaborne funeral procession, Ke‘eaumoku and several other Kona chiefs had hurried to the South Kona coastal village of Ho‘ōpūloa, just above the Ka‘ū border, to meet the mourners. “Ke‘eaumoku and the other chiefs went aboard Keawema‘uhili’s canoe,” Kekūhaupi‘o told my father. “After they wailed together for Kalani’ōpu’u, Ke‘eaumoku, knowing of Kalani’ōpu’u’s desire to be interred at the Hale o Keawe, told Keawema‘uhili that the Kona chiefs would accompany the funeral flotilla to Hōnaunau. But Keawema‘uhili said they were taking Kalani’ōpu’u’s bones to Kailua.”
This news greatly disturbed the Kona chiefs. “Why else would Kiwala‘ō bring his father’s bones so far up the Kona Coast for burial, except to deprive us of our lands?” they asked. Kekūhaupi‘o, Ke‘eaumoku and the other Kona chiefs returned to their own canoes in a state of great agitation, breaking off from the funeral fleet and making for Ka‘ūpūlehu to muster their forces for a fight with Kiwala‘ō’s people. As it happened, a storm descended on the Kona Coast a day or two later, forcing Kalani’ōpu’u’s funeral flotilla to land at Hōnaunau, where it remained. Thus, it was there rather than at Kailua that Kiwala‘ō made known his intentions regarding the lands of the Kona chiefs, whose fears would prove justified.
When Kamehameha reached Ka‘ūpūlehu with Kekūhaupi‘o and my father, he found Ke‘eaumoku in a state of high dudgeon. “Your chiefly cousin Kiwala‘ō would render us landless in our own country,” Ke‘eaumoku exclaimed after he and Kameha had hugged and wailed their greetings. “He means to give all of our lands to his uncle Keawema‘uhili and the other chiefs of the rainy side. We must not abide this!” Ke‘eaumoku’s half-brothers, the twins Kame‘iamoku and Kamanawa, scowled in agreement. It was common knowledge that the Hilo chief Keawema‘uhili and the chieftains of the neighboring Puna and Hāmākua districts coveted the temperate and fertile uplands of the Kona and Kohala districts on Hawai‘i’s dry side. For the arid lands of the Ka‘ū district, they cared little.
When Ke‘eaumoku said “we,” he meant to include Kameha. But in truth, my uncle’s hold on his lands in Kohala was never threatened by Kiwala‘ō, who respected his father’s wish that Kameha’s authority over Kohala should continue even after his own death. But as Hawai‘i’s new mō‘ī, he meant to divide the rest of the Big Island’s land as he saw fit. And as the reigning chieftains of Kona, Ke‘eaumoku, his brothers, and even Kameha’s own kahu, Kekūhaupi‘o, felt threatened. They sought to draw Kamehameha into their quarrel with Kiwala‘ō. Kameha was not quite ready for that.
“This is a time for mourning, not fighting,” he said. “I wish only to go to Hōnaunau to join my cousin in grieving for my uncle. We will learn the truth of Kiwala‘ō’s intentions soon enough.”
“But Pai‘ea,” Kekūhaupi‘o demurred, “in the meantime, we would do well to be prepared for the truth at such time as we should learn it.”
“Doubtless you are correct in that, Kekū,” Kamehameha said. “Let us make the necessary preparations, then.”
Following Kekūhaupi‘o’s counsel, Kamehameha and the Kona chiefs positioned their warriors around Kealakekua Bay. The twins Kamanawa and Kame‘eiamoku invested Nāpo‘opo‘o. Their half-brother Ke‘eaumoku settled with his warriors at Ka‘awaloa. Kamehameha took his people to Ke‘ei, Kekūhaupi‘o’s village.
“Kiwala‘ō has more warriors than we do,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “If we must fight, the ground between Ke‘ei and Hōnaunau will be the most favorable for us. It is pitted and there is much sharp ‘a‘ā lava. It does not favor large battle formations. And by occupying all the villages around Kealakekua in force now, we can compel Kiwala‘ō’s people to meet us there.”
“Kamehameha chose Ke‘ei because he wished to be closest to the battle-field when the fighting began,” my father said.
Of all the Kona chieftains, Ke‘eaumoku was the most enthusiastic for war. “Ke‘eaumoku was certain that Keawema‘uhili and his rainy-side allies coveted his lands below Hōnaunau, and he was convinced that Kiwala‘ō would accede to their demands,” my father said. “Moreover, he had not been in battle since Kalani’ōpu’u’s Maui campaigns, and was anxious to blood his pahoa again. Ke‘eaumoku loved a good fight.”
Just as Kiwala‘ō had honored his father’s wish to entrust Kohala to Kamehameha, Kamehameha respected Kalani’ōpu’u’s wish for peace between his son and his nephew. “I will go to Hōnaunau to grieve for my uncle Kalani’ōpu’u with my cousin Kiwala‘ō before I will raise my spear against him,” he told Ke‘eaumoku and the others. “And I will appeal to him to divide the land fairly among all the chiefs.” How Kamehameha could have expected Kiwala‘ō to give his appeal a sympathetic hearing after his own impetuous action at the Pakini Heiau, I cannot say.
Canoes lined the lava-stone shelf from one side of the point at Hōnaunau to the other as ali‘i came from throughout the Big Island to mourn Kalani’ōpu’u, whose bones had been laid to rest at last in the Hale o Keawe. All the rainy-side chieftains were there, as were the chieftains from the dry-side districts of Kona and Kohala. Now it was time for the ritual purification of Kalani’ōpu’u’s bones, still kapu despite their cleansing in the imu. The kapu would be lifted by a ceremonial offering of ‘awa to Kūkā‘ilimoku and to Kiwala‘ō, the new mō‘ī.
The ceremony commenced with the arrival of Kiwala‘ō and the island’s principal chieftains, who took their seats around a large mat specially made for the occasion. My father looked on from a respectful distance. “It was Kameha’s part as the keeper of Kūkā‘ilimoku to prepare the ‘awa—one portion for Kiwala‘ō, one for himself, and one as an offering to the god,” he told me.
Kamehameha chewed the root of the pepper plant from which the ‘awa was derived. When he had reduced the root to a soft pulp, Kameha spat the pulp into a large, hollowed-out half gourd containing water mixed with ōlena—turmeric. After thoroughly combining the pulp and the water in this vessel, he strained the resulting mixture through grasses into three coconut-shell cups, one filled with water of the coconut, another with sugar cane juice, and the third with pure rainwater. This last had been collected mauka of Hōnaunau, high on the mountainside where Lono’s clouds surrendered their moisture nearly every afternoon. The first cup was for Kiwala‘ō, the second for Kamehameha, and the third cup was for the god. This cup, Kamehameha, the keeper of Kūkā‘ilimoku and his heiau, held high over his head and offered to the god with a prayer.
Here is the ‘awa O god,
Choicest ‘awa only,
Food for your child,
Drink of the prized leafed ‘awa,
Of the ‘awa of Kāne, planted
From him who chewed in his mouth,
It stands ready to be poured.
O heavenly being whose shadows fall upon the land of the living,
To the myriad gods,
To you, O Kū, who are life.
Kamehameha set this cup on the mat and then offered the first cup of ‘awa to his royal cousin Kiwala‘ō. “All expected Kiwala‘ō to accept this cup from Kameha and drink from it,” my father said. “But instead, he turned to Keawema‘uhili and handed the cup to him. Kameha was both surprised and angered.” But Kamehameha said nothing. He only stared intensely at Kiwala‘ō.
Keawema‘uhili lifted the cup to his own lips. But before he could drink from it, Kekūhaupi‘o leaped to his feet, and lunging past both Kamehameha and the new mō‘ī, dashed the cup from Keawema‘uhili’s hands. As the spilled ‘awa spread across the mat in a darkening stain, an apprehensive murmur spread among the chieftains and the gathered onlookers.
Now Kekūhaupi‘o stood over the mō‘ī, with no regard for the kapu that required all chieftains of Kekūhaupi‘o’s rank to sit or squat in Kiwala‘ō’s newly elevated presence. “You have wronged your royal cousin by this action,” he thundered down into Kiwala‘ō’s startled, upturned face. “The one whose bones lie there has decreed that you and Kamehameha are to be the keepers of the land and the god,” Kekūhaupi‘o said, gesturing angrily at the Hale o Keawe where the earthly remains of Kalani’ōpu’u now reposed. “Each of you must respect the other. Yet now you show nothing but disrespect for Kamehameha, who, as was his obligation, has chewed the ‘awa for you. And only for you!” Kekūhaupi‘o jabbed a clenched fist with one outstretched finger at Keawema‘uhili, who stared back at him without flinching.
Now the murmurs of the assembly turned to loud protests, which coalesced and hardened into threats. “This is rebellion! This is treason!” the chieftains allied with Keawema‘uhili cried. They directed their angry shouts not at Kekūhaupi‘o, who had spoken so harshly to Kiwala‘ō, but at Kamehameha, who had said nothing.
Once There Was Fire: A Novel of Old Hawaii Page 27