“Our people easily surrounded and captured Kānekoa, Kahai, and Keawema‘uhili,” my father said. “They offered no resistance, for they knew that any show of defiance would end in their own deaths. They hoped that Kamehameha and his Kona allies would show them the same mercy that the late Kalani‘ōpu‘u had shown his opponents after he defeated Keawe‘ōpala so many years before.”
Kamehameha was merciful to the turncoats Kānekoa and Kahai, for they were his own uncles, after all. But he ordered Keawema‘uhili imprisoned to await execution and sacrifice to the war god, Kūkā‘ilimoku. With the Kona chieftains’ support, he now held presumed sway over all of the island of Hawai‘i, save Ka‘ū.
“The lands are all yours to divide now, Pai‘ea,” Kekūhaupi‘o told him. But it was not to be—not yet.
Pauoa, O‘ahu 1858
Esther and I are attending a gay celebration at the Hale Ali‘i, the official residence of His Majesty King Kamehameha IV, formerly Alexander Liholiho, and Her Majesty Queen Emma. It is by far the finest structure in Honolulu, boasting large rooms and an expansive portico and set back from the road amid well-manicured grounds. People sometimes call it “the palace,” but in reality the structure is too modest to be called palatial. It was originally built as a private home. Today it houses a throne room, a reception room, and a state dining room, but that is the sum of it. Hale Ali‘i, house of the chiefs, is more apt, as that designation can apply to any house—even a small, one-room, grass-walled, thatched-roof dwelling—where a chief holds court. The king and queen in fact live in a separate building elsewhere on the grounds.
The royal couple enjoy entertaining and they have given many dinners and balls since their marriage two years ago. But this evening is special, for the king and queen have invited all of Honolulu society, Hawaiian and haole alike, to join them in celebrating the passage of three months’ time since the birth of their son this past May.
Today it is no small thing for a Hawaiian child to survive his first thirteen weeks in the face of the constant onslaught of exotic haole diseases, and thus this night’s festivity is as much an expression of all the company’s profound relief as it is a cause for merriment. It is also an occasion for an outpouring of hope that the infant heir to our kingdom’s throne will live to reach his majority. It is a hope shared by the king’s cabinet ministers, almost all of whom are American émigrés. The king’s personal secretary is an American, too. Kamehameha IV is surrounded by haoles.
Anglophiles and ardent admirers of Queen Victoria and her consort, the king and queen have named their little boy Albert Edward, after the Prince of Wales. His full name is Albert Edward Kauikeaouli, the last name being in honor of Kamehameha IV’s predecessor, the late King Kamehameha III.
This evening, Emma pulls Esther aside to speak privately with her. Immediately thereafter, Esther runs to me. Emma has just asked me to serve as nurse and governess for baby Albert, Esther tells me breathlessly.
That is wonderful news, I say. Esther will at last have a baby to mother, albeit not her own. Wonderful, I say again.
It is just then that I notice the young man trailing in Esther’s wake and the young woman who is a step behind him. They are her friends, David Kalākaua and his sister Lydia Kamaka‘eha. Kalākaua and Lydia are both close to Esther in age; Kalākaua is imposing, tall and broad-shouldered, but he is growing pudgy around his waist and his visage is softening. Lydia is attractive; she has intelligent eyes and an engaging smile and a delicate nose. Her glossy black hair is piled high on her head, which is all the style among ali‘i women these days.
Look who is here, Esther says. You remember my friend David Kalākaua, don’t you dear? she asks. I can’t help noticing how her hand lightly brushes Kalākaua’s sleeve and his own hand as she speaks.
Of course, I say.
And you remember David’s sister, my friend Lili, of course, Esther adds. The young woman comes forward; I smile and nod to both of them.
Kalākaua is politically ambitious, a member of the king’s administration, and seems to be everywhere in Honolulu’s tight ali‘i social circle these days. His sister is almost certain to be found at any social occasion Kalākaua attends. They are of high ali‘i birth, descended as they are from two of Kamehameha’s most important chieftains and counselors, Keaweaheulu on their mother’s side and Kame‘iamoku on their father’s.
At Kalākaua’s birth in 1836, his parents named him La‘amea Kalākaua; his sister Lili‘u was born two years later. David and Lydia are their Christian names. Lydia, however, prefers to go by Lili. I take Lili’s hand and squeeze it lightly. Then I shake Kalākaua’s hand; his grip is firm.
How nice to see you both again, I say.
And you, sir, Kalākaua replies. He bows ever so slightly, according me the respect I am due as his elder and the nephew of Kamehameha I, whom our people nowadays most often call “Kamehameha the Great,” or simply, “The Conqueror.” Esther is still touching Kalākaua’s hand without realizing it and gazing up at him with a look that reveals something more than mere friendship.
We are returning home in our carriage when Esther turns to me and asks, What do you think of David and Lili, dear?
Lili is quite pleasant and Kalākaua seems a most agreeable fellow, I say. Then I add, You must have friends closer to your own age, of course.
At this, Esther moves closer to me and rests her head on my shoulder. Mahalo, Nāmākēha, she whispers in my ear. Her warm breath caresses my cheek and I feel myself stiffening.
In our bedchamber later, we make love, Esther with the enthusiasm of youth and I with the gratitude of advanced age. I gasp as I find release, and with pride that I still can. Esther makes little mewling sounds. Then she is crying and clinging to me. She wants a child of her own. She wants to bear our child, a grandchild of my father, the good prince, Keli‘imaika‘i, and a great-grandson of her forebear, Kaumuali‘i, the late mō’ī of Kaua‘i. It could still happen.
I hold Esther close and pray silently to the god Kū to guard the potency of my seed and deliver it safely to her womb and I add a prayer to Lono to make Esther’s womb fertile. I fall asleep listening to Esther’s soft breathing and the nocturnal symphony of the mating calls of the countless small frogs beyond our bedroom window.
Early in the morning, while my young wife yet slumbers, I slip out of bed and throw on my robe, feeling rejuvenated and eager to return to my manuscript. It is still dark. I strike a match, light the wick of an oil lamp, and carry it to my desk on the lanai. Now, in the flame’s wavering light, I begin to write once more.
Kamehameha
He niuhi ‘ai holopapa o ka moku
The man-eating shark devours all on the island.
Hōnaunau, 1782
M y earliest memories of Ka‘ahumanu are of a large woman. Even seated or lying on a mat, she loomed over me like the uplands that rise above our islands’ coasts. When I first became aware of her, at the age of two or three, she weighed several hundred pounds in the haole measure. And by the time I had turned five or six, she had become mountainous. When she stood over me, unless she bent toward me, the foothills of her bosom concealed the summit of her face from my view. But this is not the way she appeared to Kamehameha when he first saw her at Hōnaunau after the battle of Moku‘ōhai.
Ke‘eaumoku was taken to Hōnaunau after the battle to recover from his terrible wound. His wife, Nāmāhana, and his daughter, Ka‘ahumanu, came to Hōnaunau to look after him while a kahuna lā‘au lapa‘au, a kahuna skilled in our peoples’ medicinal arts, tended to him. Ke‘eaumoku was resting on a sedge mat in the shade of a thatched-roofed, open-air canoe shed, a few paces back from Hōnaunau’s small, sandy cove. Kameha and my father were sitting cross-legged in the sand next to Ke‘eaumoku’s mat when Nāmāhana and Ka‘ahumanu arrived by canoe. Kamehameha had not seen Ka‘ahumanu since the day she surprised him on the beach at Hana some seven years earlier. At first, he did not recognize the young woman who gracefully swung her long legs over the side of the canoe and
drew herself to her full height. She was even then large-framed, but yet most pleasing to the eye: tall; pleasantly broad across her firm, ripening bosom; still slim in the waist; and suggestively lush in the hips. She was then about fifteen years old. As she ran lightly across the sand to her father, her mother walking sedately behind her, my father heard Kamehameha suddenly suck in his breath.
“Your uncle could not take his eyes off Ka‘ahumanu,” my father said. “I had never seen Kameha so struck by a wahine before.”
“Father!” Ka‘ahumanu cried as she sank to her knees beside Ke‘eaumoku. “Oh, father!” she cried again, weeping and pressing her face against his chest.
Weakly, Ke‘eaumoku tried to reassure her. “Do not worry about me, daughter, I am not seriously wounded,” he said. “Here, look who has come to visit me.” Ke‘eaumoku gestured at Kameha. “It is our late mō‘ī Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s beloved nephew, Kamehameha. Surely, you remember him.”
Now Ka‘ahumanu looked up and spied Kameha for the first time. She blushed. “Oh yes, dear father,” she said. “I remember that one.” Ka‘ahumanu laughed, and Kamehameha laughed with her.
Nāmāhana and Ka‘ahumanu remained at Hōnaunau with Ke‘eaumoku until he was well enough to travel to his fiefdom at Honokua. Despite his interest in Ka‘ahumanu, Kamehameha was too preoccupied with other matters at this time to follow her.
Most immediately, Kameha was pressed to decide what was to become of Kiwala‘ō’s body. Kekūhaupi‘o argued for offering it to Kūkā‘ilimoku. “It will greatly strengthen your mana to sacrifice the body of a mō‘ī,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “It is customary to sacrifice the body of a king slain in battle, just as Kalani‘ōpu‘u sacrificed Keawe‘ōpala’s body when he defeated him.”
“That was different,” Kamehameha replied. “Keawe‘ōpala was no more than a distant cousin to Kalani‘ōpu‘u, whereas Kiwala‘ō was my ali‘i hoa hānau. I will not dishonor my first cousin by offering his body to the god.”
Kamehameha decreed that Kiwala‘ō’s bones should be purified and laid in the Hale o Keawe with his father’s. “Kiwala‘ō will be laid to rest with Kalani‘ōpu‘u,” he informed Kiwala‘ō’s mother, Kalola, who was both grief-stricken and angered by her son’s death at the hands of Kamehameha’s allies. If Kameha expected this boon to appease Kalola, he was disappointed.
“I will remain here only until my son’s bones repose in the hale,” she said. “Then I will go to live with my brother Kahekili on Maui, and I shall not return to Hawai‘i as long as you live.”
Her reproach stung Kameha, who had shared his first intimacies with Kalola and had always felt affection for her. He felt aggrieved because in his own mind, he had not sought war with Kiwala‘ō and he had not wished him dead. But he said nothing.
Keawema‘uhili still lived. Kamehameha meant to order his execution and offer his body to the god in a sacrifice marked by an elaborate ceremony. “Kameha wanted to teach a lesson to any would-be enemies that he was not to be trifled with,” said my father. But Keawema‘uhili’s son Keaweokahikona pleaded for his father’s life.
“I know that my father has done you a great wrong, Kamehameha,” he said. “But he is a defeated man now. He has always been a loving father to me. I beg you, please spare him.”
At these words, Kamehameha’s heart softened. “You came to my aid even when your own father opposed me,” he replied. “In gratitude, I will spare Keawema‘uhili for your sake alone. Return him to Hilo, but he must remain there and not threaten my people or my allies in the future.”
“Thank you. Your mercy will not be forgotten,” Keaweokahikona said.
Kamehameha may have gained some stature among our people by showing mercy to Keawema‘uhili, but he did not gain Keawema‘uhili’s allegiance. In the aftermath of Moku‘ōhai, Hawai‘i remained divided. Kamehameha’s rule extended no farther than Kona, Kohala, and the northern portion of the Hāmākua Coast. Keawema‘uhili still ruled in the Hilo District, southern Hāmākua, and northern Puna, while the ever-belligerent Keōua Kū‘ahu‘ula remained defiant in Ka‘ū.
Meanwhile, Kahekili, the mō‘ī of Maui, who coveted O‘ahu, Moloka‘i, and Lanai, resolved to wrest them from their rightful ruler, Kahahana. But Kahekili needed more war canoes before he could invade O‘ahu. His own people were unable to build new canoes fast enough to suit him, so he sent emissaries to Kamehameha in Kona to ask him for additional canoes.
“Kahekili, your father, asks you to send him fifty war canoes,” they said.
Already husbanding his resources for likely war with either Keōua Red Cloak, Keawema‘uhili, or both, Kamehameha was reluctant to relinquish any canoes. Moreover, he was angered by the emissaries’ assertion that Kahekili was his true father. “Kahekili is not my father,” he replied tartly. “And I have no canoes to spare for him.” He sent the emissaries away.
Discouraged but undaunted, the emissaries from Maui continued on to Keawema‘uhili’s court in Hilo, where they met with more success.
Laupāhoehoe, Hāmākua Coast, 1783
After Moku‘ōhai, the Big Island’s three rival camps had made ready for eventual war. Kamehameha, Keōua Red Cloak, and Keawema‘uhili increased their fighting forces, ordered the fabrication of more weapons, and sent their people to the uplands to fell koa trees for more war canoes. Yet even amidst these preparations, none of the three men was eager to commence the conflict.
“No one wanted to be accused of attacking the others unjustly,” my father said.
“Then why couldn’t they have agreed to share the island peacefully?” I asked.
“It was not in their natures,” he replied.
Kamehameha attacked first. The death of his uncle, Kānekoa, at the hands of Red Cloak, provided him the pretext he sought.
“After Moku‘ōhai,” my father said, “our uncles, Kānekoa and his brother, Kahai, went to live at Hilo under the protection of Keawema‘uhili. Kānekoa repeatedly pressed Keawema‘uhili for permission to return to their lands in the Hāmākua district, but he would give no answer. Finally, Kānekoa and Kahai rose in revolt against him.”
Keawema‘uhili defeated the two brothers and they fled to Ka‘ū, where Keōua Red Cloak welcomed them. Red Cloak granted them lands along Ka‘ū’s verdant north coast. “It was a generous grant,” my father said, “because much of Ka‘ū is desert. Red Cloak did it to spite Keawema‘uhili.”
Despite Red Cloak’s generosity, Kānekoa and Kahai eventually raised arms against him as well, declaring their independence and asserting their rule over northeastern Ka‘ū, from Wa‘a Pele Bay to the Puna District border. Marshaling his own forces, Red Cloak struck back, forcing them to withdraw toward Hilo. He overtook them in the uplands between the Ōla‘a forest and the Kīlauea crater and defeated them in a bloody battle that ended in Kānekoa’s death. With nowhere else to turn, Kahai fled to Kona and his nephew, Kamehameha.
Kahai arrived at Kamehameha’s court with a tale of betrayal. “We were living peaceably in Ka‘ū when Red Cloak and his people suddenly fell upon us without provocation,” Kahai said. “Red Cloak slew your uncle with his own hands.”
“By this time, of course, we had heard that Kānekoa and Kahai had provoked Keawema‘uhili,” said my father. “And we had reason to assume they had likewise provoked our cousin Keōua Red Cloak.”
Whatever the truth of the matter, Kānekoa’s death at the hands of Keōua Red Cloak was sufficient excuse for Kamehameha to attack his cousin, whom he despised, and Keōua’s then-ally, Keawema‘uhili. He summoned his closest advisers for a council of war. “The time has come to finish what we started at Moku‘ōhai,” he said.
The council decided that Kamehameha and Kekūhaupi‘o would lead an army overland from Kealakekua. Meanwhile, Ke‘eaumoku would simultaneously sail from Kohala down the Hāmākua Coast to Hilo to attack the enemy from the sea.
“Kamehameha and Ke‘eaumoku meant to trap Red Cloak and Keawema‘uhili between them,” my father said. “It was a good plan.” My father and hi
s kahu, Mulihele, marched with Kamehameha and his men, who were several thousand strong, from Kealakekua to the high plateau between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, a grueling ascent amid fog and rain. “We encountered no opposition along the way and though we were chilled and tired after our ascent from Kealakekua, we were in good spirits as we descended toward Kilauea,” said my father. Certain that Red Cloak and Keawema‘uhili would be watching for an attack by sea, Kamehameha intended to surprise his foes. “But it was we who were surprised,” said my father.
Before Kamehameha’s people could fall upon Hilo, they encountered a large enemy force south of the village. My father nearly lost his life in the ensuing debacle. “It was at Pana‘ewa,” my father said. “We were all at once surrounded by Keawema‘uhili’s people and the Maui warriors whom Kahekili had sent to Hilo in return for Keawema‘uhili’s canoes.”
“Do you mean the canoes my uncle Kamehameha refused to lend him?” I asked.
“Yes, those canoes,” my father said. “It was a terrible fight,” he continued. “Pololu and ihe spears fell on us like a sudden rainstorm and many of our men died outright.”
My father and his kahu were separated during the bloody hand-to-hand fighting that followed. “Suddenly, I was alone, and several Hilo and Maui warriors set upon me,” he said.
One warrior launched a sling stone at my father’s head. It missed. Simultaneously, another hurled a short ihe spear at his midsection. My father knocked it aside. A third warrior rushed at him swinging a club. That day, my father carried a crude sword he had fashioned from a haole iron dagger that Kameha had given to him. He slashed at his attacker with it. The sharp blade opened a deep, jagged gash in the man’s raised arm. The assailant dropped his club, clutched his wounded limb, howled in pain, and fell away. Now the two remaining men closed warily on my father from opposite sides. One warrior brandished a shark-tooth club. The other, the sling carrier, wielded a long pololū spear. “I could not have fought them both off,” my father told me. “In that moment, I prayed to Kūkā‘ilimoku for protection.”
Once There Was Fire: A Novel of Old Hawaii Page 30