“Ailon’e? What is ailon‘e?” Kalani‘ōpu‘u asked.
“That, in there, is iron,” the younger man said, pointing at the pouch in Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s hands. “And that is iron,” he said, pointing at the strange adze that still lay on the deck. “And that is iron,” he said, pointing at the dagger.
Addressing this man as “One-Who-Speaks-for-Lono,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u replied, “We have more pigs as well as taro, sweet potatoes, bananas, and breadfruit. We will trade them for more of your ailon‘e.” One-Who-Speaks, as he became known to our people, arranged for the big basket to be lowered again. The paddlers in the Hawai‘ians’ second canoe, now arrived, loaded all their goods into it and then climbed to the great canoe’s deck as the basket was raised. A brisk trade, ultimately satisfying to both sides, now commenced.
While the trading proceeded under Puna’s supervision, “Lono” and One-Who-Speaks conducted Kalani‘ōpu‘u, Kiwala‘ō, Kamehameha, Kekūhaupi‘o, and Holo‘ae on a tour of the great canoe’s deck. My father trailed after them. “Kalani‘ōpu‘u marched around the deck as if it belonged to him,” my father said. “I think he was trying to show his people that he was not intimidated by ‘Lono,’ that his mana was still powerful even in the presence of a god.”
As the tour progressed, Kalani‘ōpu‘u pointed at various objects and asked One-Who-Speaks what they were. Few of his answers were intelligible to the Hawai‘ians, as our people’s own language had no equivalents for them. But despite this, Kalani‘ōpu‘u made a great show of understanding, pursing his lips and nodding at each answer. “Lono” walked alongside the pair throughout this interrogation, listening intently, but interjecting nothing himself.
When the group reached the front of the vessel, ascending some steps to a raised platform, Kamehameha spoke up. “And what is that?” he asked, pointing at a dark cylindrical object. Clearly made of “ailon‘e,” it resembled the larger objects he had seen in the square openings in the great canoe’s side.
“That is a small cannon,” One-Who-Speaks replied.
“Kano‘ono,” Kameha said, repeating the unfamiliar sounds. “What is it for?”
One-Who-Speaks turned to “Lono” and spoke rapidly to him in his strange, twittering tongue. “Lono” called out to his men, who moved to the cannon. One carried a container that looked to be made of iron and the other a wooden rod that was round and blunt on one end. These men had no helmets and were bare to the waist. Their chests, arms, and backs were reddened, and they wore nothing on their heads. One man’s hair was yellow, and the other’s was bright red. “Look there!” Kiwala‘ō cried. “Flames shoot from that one’s head, and the other has hair like Kāne’s sun.”
The Hawai’ians watched as the men loaded the cannon and primed the fuse, gaping at their unfamiliar tools and procedures, unsure of their purpose. Particularly shocking was the ease with which they produced a spark, using a flint, to ignite a piece of oiled rope. “We had never before seen a fire started in this manner, or so easily,” my father said.
The two men now stood erect, looking expectantly at “Lono,” who said a single word in his unintelligible tongue. Now, one of the men touched the rope’s smoldering end to a small hole at the rear of the cannon. None of the Hawai‘ians was prepared for what happened next.
“We heard a sudden boom,” my father said. “It was loud and sharp, like the sound of Pele’s fury. The weapon my brother called a ‘kano‘ono’ spit smoke and fire.”
Nearly all the Hawai‘ians recoiled in terror from this spectacle. Kalani‘ōpu‘u stumbled backward and collided with Kiwala‘ō. The two of them hugged each other and wailed. Kekūhaupi‘o fell to his knees. Holo‘ae reflexively raised his arms in supplication. Many of the paddlers jumped into the bay. My father bolted toward the deck railing and would have followed them if his own brother had not restrained him.
“Kamehameha was no less unnerved by the gun’s firing than the rest of us,” my father recalled, “but he was determined not to show it. He held me tightly by one arm and said, ‘Do not flee brother; no harm has come to us from this kano‘ono. It is all noise and smoke. Noise and smoke has never hurt anyone.’”
The Hawai‘ians’ reaction to this demonstration seemed to amuse “Lono,” who smiled and tipped his bi-cornered helmet toward them. The rest of his company erupted in boisterous laughter.
“See, brother,” Kamehameha said, “how terrible can this kano‘ono be if these strange people laugh at it? Perhaps it is for driving away evil spirits. It may be that we have nothing to fear from it.”
“In that moment,” my father recalled many years later, “I think Kameha was merely trying to reassure me. He was mindful of Moho’s story of the death-dealing ‘water-squirters’ at Kaua‘i. I think he suspected the danger they presented, and was determined to find out for himself.”
The firing of the cannon brought an abrupt end to Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s visit to “Lono’s” great canoe. Untangling himself from Kiwala‘ō and straining to maintain his dignity, Kalani‘ōpu‘u motioned One-Who-Speaks to his side. “I must go ashore now, on matters of urgent business,” he said.
Disembarking from the great canoe proved to be more awkward for Kalani‘ōpu‘u than boarding it, for the demonstration of the cannon had left the mō‘ī of Hawai‘i too unsteady to descend the ladder. He quavered at the edge of the deck and then almost lost his grip on the railing as he tried to set foot on the first step. It was clear that even with the powerful Puna positioned below to steady him, Kalani‘ōpu‘u was in danger of falling to the deck of his own canoe. At last, “Lono’s” people lowered him, along with the Hawai‘ians’ newly obtained iron, in the same large net basket that had earlier brought the trade goods and pigs on board. His people followed, some descending the steps while others clambered over the great canoe’s side railings and dropped or dove into the water and swam to their canoes.
The iron Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s people had acquired in trade was not the only prize the Hawai‘ians came away with that day. “Whenever our people saw something of interest, and provided none of the strange beings were looking their way,” my father said, “they took it.”
Not all of the Hawai‘ians came away with Kalani‘ōpu‘u from “Lono’s” great canoe. Kamehameha and Kekūhaupi‘o remained on board, as did my father.
B efore Kalani‘ōpu‘u departed, Kamehameha asked him for permission to remain for some time with “Lono.” Kalani‘ōpu‘u was reluctant at first to give his assent. “‘Lono’ and these strange beings may be gods,” he said. “And what if we have somehow offended them? Who knows how they will treat you if you stay.”
“Uncle, they are exceedingly strange, but they are only men,” Kamehameha replied. “If you allow Kekū, my brother, and me to stay with them for a while, we may be able to learn more about them. I do not believe any harm will come to us.”
Kalani‘ōpu‘u then turned to his kahuna nui, Holo‘ae. “What is your opinion of these beings?” he asked.
Holo‘ae frowned and furrowed his brow. “Lord, I am still undecided about this,” he replied. Then, glancing at Kameha, he said, “But I do not believe ‘Lono’ would allow any harm to befall Kamehameha or his companions. His intentions so far have seemed entirely benevolent. Let ‘Lono’s’ great canoe take one of our canoes in tow and leave some paddlers here with Kameha so that he can easily return to us when he is ready.”
Kalani‘ōpu‘u summoned One-Who-Speaks to his side and explained matters to him. One-Who-Speaks in turn spoke in his twittering tongue to “Lono,” who readily assented to this plan.
And so it was settled.
Sailing on “Lono’s” great canoe proved a wondrous adventure for the Hawaiians. Kamehameha, my father and Kekūhaupi‘o moved to the high deck at the rear of the great canoe, where they could see nearly everything.
“As soon as Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s canoe was away and our remaining double-hulled canoe was secured to the back of ‘Lono’s’ vessel with a stout line, a great commotion began,�
� said my father. There was much loud calling back and forth among ‘Lono’s’ people, commencing with ‘Lono’ himself. The men with the cornered helmets called out in succession to each other and finally to the other men with the bare chests and pink skin, and they in turn rushed this way and that. Two men ran to a large vertically mounted cylinder at the front of the great canoe and commenced pulling on long bars to turn it. The Hawai‘ians, who had never before seen such a device, nor a wheel of any kind, watched in fascination as the haoles labored to weigh the ship’s anchors. “Look!” exclaimed Kamehameha, pointing to the heavy chain of iron links wrapping around the cylinder, “They bring up a rope made of ailon‘e!”
“We heard much creaking and groaning as the haoles turned this thing,” my father said. “We knew that there must be something very heavy at the end of that big ailon‘e rope.”
Responding to the barked commands, other bare-chested people leaped to the masts and climbed into their branches on wide rope ladders that could hold a half-dozen or more men at once. They wrapped their legs around the branches and unfurled the great canoe’s square sails. Dirty white like the true Lono’s scudding rain clouds, the sails soon filled with the god’s own breeze. Then, at first barely discernibly to the Hawai‘ians, the ship began to move.
“First, we heard the water slapping against the sides of the great canoe,” my father said. “Then we noticed the rolling of the deck. Next, we looked to its front and saw that its long nose was now rising and falling. And then we looked behind us. We could barely credit our own eyes. We saw a broad wake spreading behind the great canoe. The island of Maui was receding from us at great speed. Our paddlers were huddled together on the lower deck at the middle of the great canoe. They began to wail and hug each other in fright.”
Through all this, Kamehameha, Kekūhaupi‘o, and my father kept their places. Kameha never ceased looking about this way and that, observing everything. “This is all most interesting,” he said to my father and his kahu.
Kamehameha, Kekū, and my father made the most of their brief stay aboard the great canoe. With One-Who-Speaks acting as their guide, they explored every part of the vessel, visiting the hold, where the bare-chested ones slept in hammocks amid the canoe’s stores; the galley, where food was prepared; and the gun deck, where the cannons peered out at the sea through openings in the great canoe’s side.
The gun deck was a cave-like place divided into several compartments. Its confined spaces were sparingly illuminated by daylight admitted through the open gun ports. The Hawai‘ians were forced to stoop to avoid striking their heads against the cross beams of the deck’s low ceiling. “What are those for?” Kamehameha asked One-Who-Speaks, pointing at the black iron balls nestled in a groove along the bottom of one of the gun deck’s walls.
One-Who-Speaks paused before answering, pondering how best to explain a cannonball’s purpose. “Those are food for the cannons,” he said. “We feed them to the cannons and they spit them out at our enemies.”
Kameha continued his interrogation. “The kano‘ono spit out these things when your people touch them with their fire ropes?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied One-Who-Speaks.
From that moment, Kameha and Kekūhaupi‘o were most interested in learning about these unusual weapons. They put many more questions to One-Who-Speaks. They asked him about the nature of the black “sand” that was poured into the mouths of the cannons; about how the people who fired the weapons could ignite their “fire ropes” so easily; about the smoke that streamed from the cannons’ mouths; about the nature and power of the iron balls that the cannons spat. One-Who-Speaks answered their questions as best he could.
“The black ‘sand’ is a powder that burns and becomes very angry when it is ignited,” he said.
“We strike iron against a special stone to make a spark,” he said.
“The smoke is from the fire which burns very hot inside the cannon when the black sand is lit,” he said.
“The cannon spits out the ‘food’ when the fire burns hot inside it,” he said, “and the cannon ‘food’ flies swift and far.”
“With this kano‘ono food, you can slay your enemies from afar, just as we do with our sling stones, is that so?” Kamehameha asked. It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes,” replied One-Who-Speaks. “But it is much more powerful and travels much farther than the stones from your slings. It is so heavy, flies so fast, and strikes so hard that not even the side of a great canoe can stand up to it, let alone a man,” he said, with some pride.
Kamehameha nodded at this. He pondered the cannon and its “food” for a moment, saying nothing. Then, baring his teeth, which glinted white against his dark face in the gun deck’s dim light, he grinned at One-Who-Speaks. “Mahalo,” was all that he said.
One-Who-Speaks smiled back at Kameha, somewhat uneasily now.
Later, Kamehameha, Kekū, and my father saw some people on the great canoe’s top deck who were dressed very differently from the others. They wore red cloaks that shone brightly in the sun and some carried long iron sticks.
“Who are those people?” Kekūhaupi‘o asked.
“They are marines,” replied One-Who-Speaks, “soldiers-of-the-sea.”
“What is it that they carry, those sea soldiers, those mālīn‘e?” Kamehameha asked, wrestling with the unfamiliar consonants.
“They are called muskets,” said One-Who-Speaks.
“Mūk‘e?” Kameha repeated, struggling anew with the strange sounds. “What are mūk‘e?”
“They are little cannons,” answered One-Who-Speaks.
And so it went.
When Kamehameha and his kahu were not questioning One-Who-Speaks about weaponry, my father questioned him about “Lono” and the people on the great canoe. “I was most interested in discovering what I could about their customs aboard that vessel, their true names, and whence they had come,” he told me.
“One-Who-Speaks, what is that twittering sound you make with the others on this canoe?” my father asked.
“It is our own way of talking. It is called English.”
“Ī‘īklī?” My father repeated, tentatively.
“Yes,” said One-Who-Speaks, smiling, “that is close enough.” Then he asked, “Tell me, why do you call me ‘One-Who-Speaks’?”
“Because we know you as the one who speaks to us for Lono.”
“Ah yes, for Orono. I see,” said One-Who-Speaks. “But my true name is Jem Burney. What is your name?”
“Pu‘unē…Pu‘unē,” my father said, trying again to negotiate the unfamiliar sounds of this strange talk called Ī‘īklī. He could not manage Jem. “Pu‘unē,” he said, “my name is Kalanimālokuloku.”
Now it was Jem Burney’s turn to stumble over strange sounds. “Tala… Talani…Talani-ma…” Finally, he said, “It is too much for my simple tongue. May I call you Talani?”
“That is close enough, Pu‘unē,” my father replied, and then he and Burney began to laugh.
From Pu‘unē, my father learned that “Lono” was the captain of both great canoes, and that his true name was Cook; Kāpena Kuke, my father and my uncle called him. Those in the cornered helmets were Kuke’s sub-chiefs, among them John Gore and James King. Ko‘o‘e and Ki‘ine, my father called them. In my father’s understanding, Gore and King ruled the lesser chiefs and the bare-chested, helmetless ones—the commoners—in Cook’s absence. Charles Clerke—Kale‘eke was the best my father could manage—was chief of the other great canoe, answering to Cook. “Pu‘unē” was one of Clerke’s lesser chieftains. Clerke had seconded him to Cook to serve as his interpreter because of his exceptional facility with our people’s tongue. There was no priest on either of the two great canoes as far as my father knew.
“So this ‘Lono,’ or ‘Kuke’ as you call him, is the great canoes’ mō‘ī and the ones with the cornered helmets are their ali‘i,” Kamehameha said, when my father explained this to him. “And the rest are kānaka. Why do th
ey not prostrate themselves before their chiefs? Do they have no kapus?”
“They do not prostrate themselves, nor do they sit or kneel before their chiefs,” my father said, “but they must obey them.”
Indeed, my father had learned, the penalties for disrespect, or, worse still, for outright disobedience aboard the great canoe, were quite harsh. “We do have tapus,” Burney had assured him. “If a man insults or disobeys one of our ali‘i, he can be whipped, provided our chief, Cook, orders it.” And in cases of severe disobedience, a man could be “keel hauled.” Those were the words Burney used, because he could not express them in our own language.
“What is ke‘el‘e ha‘olo?” my father asked.
“The keel is under the bottom of the great canoe. It runs from the front to the back,” Burney replied. “When a man is keel hauled, his hands are tied to the end of one rope and his feet to the end of another and he is pulled under the keel for its entire length.”
My father looked up and down the length of the great canoe’s deck. “That is a long way to be dragged under water, especially if a man is not pulled quickly,” he said. “Can your people hold their breath that long?”
“Some cannot,” Burney said.
“What?” Kameha had asked, upon hearing of these punishments. “They do not immediately slay those kānaka who violate their kapus? What kind of justice is that?”
“Oh, they do slay them if they deem the violation sufficiently serious,” my father said, “but not while they are still on the great canoe.”
“We take those men back to England,” Burney had explained when my father questioned him on this point.
“Ī‘īklī‘ana? What is Ī‘īklī‘ana?” asked my father.
“It is our own island,” Burney said. “It is far away. There, our highest chiefs consider those men’s offenses. And if they so decree, those men are slain.”
Once There Was Fire Page 20