by V. E. Ulett
The last glimpse he had was of the three of them bound together with sennet twine round their wrists. Blackwell’s heart ached, he knew the fate of captives of these raids. The women would become slaves to men who would come to them in the night, wearing masks to preserve their dignity. And the little boys, his dear sons, would be kept for sacrifices when the war canoes were launched.
He watched, helpless to aid them, taken out by a single stroke of an ancient weapon. Mercedes was her younger self, her body whole; with not a stitch to cover her lovely nakedness. Blackwell knew she would be suffering in her good Christian heart. A sudden vision flashed before him of Edward being thrown beneath a war canoe, his pale face and inscrutable blue eyes turned accusingly on Blackwell, while Aloka was swung by his ankles toward the canoe’s prow.
Blackwell woke with a start and a pain in his chest, his arms felt paralyzed at his sides. For several moments he lay this way, immobile and afraid. The compass over his head, the creaking of the rigging and the ship’s hull under pressure of sail comforted him, and Blackwell’s heart returned to its duty and a regular beat.
He swung his legs out of the berth and sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and left the cabin.
Mercedes looked so peaceful in repose, so unlike the poor shrieking creature of his dream, that Blackwell only meant to gaze on her and not disturb her rest. The ship gave an awkward gripe, however, and he was obliged to plant his feet rather firmly and clap hold of a timber overhead. She was a light sleeper and woke on the instant.
“Jim?” She sat up. “Are you ill?”
“No, its ...”
“The children? The ship?”
Her tone had a slightly frantic edge and he saw how it must be for her, woken in the middle of the night, hardly sure where she was. Blackwell came forward and edged one great ham onto the side of her berth.
“No, sweetheart, nothing like that, no emergency. Forgive me if I frightened you. It’s me, I...I need you. Will you come lie with me?”
“Oh!” She threw her arms round his shoulders, relief in her voice. “Of course I will.”
He moved to pick her up out of the berth, but she said, “I need to use the quarter gallery first, darling.”
If she was surprised he should be waiting for her in the dark just outside the privy, rather than in his double berth, Mercedes did not show it. She grasped his arm with both her hands, and even kissed his shoulder as he led her to his sleeping cabin. Not for the first time, Blackwell wondered what he’d done to deserve such a woman.
He wondered again when they were lying together in his cot, and Mercedes immediately reached for his cock.
“But, you are not—”
“No. Did you think I woke you just for that?” It was obvious what she thought, for she still held him in a warm clasp. “Is there no end to your tender love, sweetheart? Most wives would cry out at such behavior.”
His wife merely shifted against him, and moved her hand to rest over his heart.
“Are you going to tell me what troubles you?”
“I suppose I must, since I roused you out.”
Blackwell would not have told her, if he could have decently avoided it. He’d rather not speak of battles, real or imagined; least of all to a lovely woman. He felt this way in spite of what he knew of Emma’s experiences, and how women were not such very different creatures to men.
She kissed him when he finished speaking. “Here I am with you, dearest James. Your sons are grown men. Edward in London, how I miss him! And Aloka somewhere at sea by now, would not you think?”
“That is just the thing. I know it was only a nightmare, but for some time past I’ve been feeling that I’ve done ill to bring you, and all of us, back here to the Islands. If we’d remained in England, Emma would not—″
“Life cannot be managed. You and I both know that. If it could, we probably would not be together now.”
“God between us and evil.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.
Because of that evil dream the cry of land ho! next morning, a hazy, misty morning, did not strike the same pleasure into Captain Blackwell as he found in the faces of his officers and men. Albion ghosted along, everyone straining for glimpses between the parting mists, of verdant slopes and a welcoming people. Close to the shore were green lawns dotted about with coconut and breadfruit trees and, much to the delight of the seamen, the native huts. No sight could be more grateful to a seaman, after a long cruise, then the places sheltering welcoming, dusky flesh. Beyond this pastoral scene rose a dense forest where waterfalls could be glimpsed in cascading glory.
“It don’t look inviting, sir,” Captain Bowles was explaining, “there is a wicked reef that appears to close the mouth of the harbor, and the sea breaks most violently against it. But in fact there is a channel, with upwards of half a mile between the east end of the reef and the shore. We surveyed it in the year four when I was with, why with you, sir, that is to say...with Captain Verson.”
It was still uncomfortable, speaking of that time. Captain Blackwell had not been along on the survey of Hilo Bay because he’d been a captive on Kauai, and his first lieutenant Mr. Verson had command of his ship.
“Now we shall have the benefit of your diligence, Nathan. You say there is good holding ground?”
“The channel leads to a wide and safe basin, sir, with good bottom, gradually shoaling from ten feet to five fathoms a mile or so from shore.”
Albion was on the point of opening the mouth of that channel, when the morning mists lifted and Captain Blackwell and his crew beheld a sight that made him call for all hands to put the ship about. Two hundred war canoes lay in Hilo Bay. Each capable of holding between forty and eighty men. Fierce skilled warriors in their prime.
Captain Blackwell called for his best telescope and studied the shore and the bay. By this time the presence of a foreign vessel had been noticed, and several fishermen in the roads were approaching Albion.
“Let them come aboard, Captain Bowles,” Captain Blackwell said.
He wanted to find out what was afoot.
Two fishermen came up the side, tanned, lean, middle aged men, Captain Blackwell’s own age or older. They gazed forward and aft once on deck, with exclamations of wonder at the ship’s size and armament. Captain Blackwell thought these declarations rang false, and were more along the lines of what they felt was expected and due out of pure civility.
“Aku hunters,” Captain Blackwell addressed them directly in their own language, “who is to be fallen on by those war canoes?”
Their surprise was such that he thought it best to make himself known. “I am the ali‘i Blackwell, sent by His Britannic Majesty’s government as consul-general to the Hawaiian Islands.”
Now the two fisherman were agape, overawed, and they exchanged knowing nods. One said, “Ali‘i Blackwell, I did hear of a white man—” but left off when he caught a glimpse of the pursed lips of his companion.
“It is a party to be led by Kapihe’s brother Karaimoku,” the second man said. “Against the upstart on Kauai. Ata Gege’s son.”
“Grandson, do you mean?”
“The very bugger. Soon as word reached Kauai of the death of our dear sovereign, what does the savage do but seize the moment to rebel and set himself up as King.”
For the first time Captain Blackwell noticed the intent stares of the ship’s officers and crew. He could hear them thinking, ‘Black Savages ain’t in it.’
“Who rules on Hawai‘i, at this ahupua‘a?” he asked in English and then in Hawaiian.
The men answered quite readily that Karaimoku and Ka‘ahumanu were joint regents in the King’s absence, and Ka‘ahumanu was at present in residence at Hilo. Captain Blackwell was on the point of questioning the fishermen further, as to the news reaching the Islands of the sovereign deaths, but he caught sight of an approaching canoe.
This was no ordinary canoe but a double hulled one, two canoes lashed together with a raised platform between them. For battle or fo
r visits of state; the canoe was intricately carved at both ends. Captain Blackwell recognized the craft moving rapidly through the water toward them. It was paddled by ten muscular men working in perfect union, first stroking on one side of the canoe and then on the other, shifting their paddles at exactly the same instant. Here was precision, it was rather like what was required to put a ship about smartly, never missing stays.
The two native fishermen backed away when the regal visitor came up the side and strode confidently onto the quarterdeck. Ka‘ahumanu was an impressive woman, tall like most of her countrymen, and weighing above two hundred seventy pounds, with a fierce eye and a proud bearing. She wore a tapa cloth skirt, dyed red in respect of her station, and was quite bare above the waist; with great dignity, Ka‘ahumanu strode straight up to Captain Blackwell. Taking a caplet of flowers from her own head, she placed it on his, and proceeded to salute him in the native fashion.
It was an intimate greeting, witnessed by all on deck, but one about which Captain Blackwell felt no discomfort. Nothing of the dread that other side of the Islander’s nature inspired. Captain Blackwell and Ka‘ahumanu turned to Captain Bowles. They had last met some twenty years before, when Captain Blackwell and Mr. Bowles had witnessed King Kamehameha beat his favorite wife, the nineteen year old Ka‘ahumanu. Captain Bowles bowed slightly to receive the flower wreath Ka‘ahumanu moved to place on his head, and straightening, looked directly into her capacious bosom. A furious blush suffused his already ruddy face.
This seemed rather to please Ka‘ahumanu, for she went round the deck with Captain Blackwell as he showed her the ship with a gay, almost girlish air. The queen’s attendants were astonished. Captain Blackwell remembered how she’d once called Mr. Bowles handsome, and received a beating for her impudence.
“Should you like to go below, Ma’am?” Captain Blackwell asked, on bringing Ka‘ahumanu back to the quarterdeck. “Captain Bowles, would you care to join us?”
“Captain, is it?” Ka‘ahumanu said in Hawaiian, glancing over her shoulder as they passed into the captain’s cabin. “No longer just Mister.”
A person of Ka‘ahumanu’s bulk could not fit comfortably in a sloop’s between decks, and there was not much to choose between the two captains in terms of height and girth. They were fairly cheek by jowl once seated in Albion’s cabin. Mercedes was the only one that seemed to fit in the setting, small and delicate as she was, and Ka‘ahumanu eyed her askance.
The queen spoke to Captain Blackwell in a way that might have been called mannish by Europeans. She was the regent, or joint-regent, of her nation, and the Islands had had women rulers or ali‘i time out of mind. Her speech was bold, straightforward, and the timbre of her voice pitched low, rumbling forth from her great barrel chest. Captain Blackwell was put in mind of another such woman: Aloka’s mother. In his diplomatic capacity, Captain Blackwell’s first concern was to know whether the sad tidings of Liholiho had reached Hawaii.
“In O‘ahu the British whalers brought this tale,” Ka‘ahumanu said, “of the death of our King, who is my son by kinship. They hourly expect the ship with his remains. Here in Hawai‘i we did not believe this news, until the eclipse.” Ka‘ahumanu paused with a significant look, and desired Captain Blackwell to translate for their companions.
“An eclipse of the moon, you see, foretells the death of a great chief,” Captain Blackwell explained to Mercedes and Captain Bowles.
Captain Blackwell had to inform Ka‘ahumanu it was not just her adopted son and his queen who’d perished, but Kapihe and Kuanoa also had been lost in Chile. The British ship carrying the sovereigns’ remains and her surviving countrymen would arrive in several weeks.
Mercedes refilled teacups, and they all stared down into them or gazed out the stern windows, while Ka‘ahumanu absorbed this news. Whenever an ali‘i died there was a re-distribution of his lands to kinsmen, and Ka‘ahumanu was related to everyone.
“I am sorry for Karaimoku,” she said at last. “He has an affectionate nature, and Kapihe’s death will grieve his tender heart. To say nothing of his hopes that Kapihe would appear over the horizon, in time to launch his ships in war with Kaumuarii—he calls himself George. Karaimoku hoped Kapihe might be aboard your ship, this ship. He did not come himself because he is ashore with the ali‘i of Maui, those backward sods.”
A little surprised at this last, for Ka‘ahumanu was a noblewoman of Maui, Captain Blackwell instead told her how much he’d esteemed Kapihe. He did not mention Kapihe’s choice of successor, and with a feeling of trepidation Captain Blackwell asked about this so called George.
George was in fact Aloka’s half brother. They were both the sons of princess Kalani of Kauai. Captain Blackwell had known Kaumuarii as a boy, when they called him the Ali‘i Kāne. The one who would inherit from Ata Gege. Upon his leaving the landholdings of Ata Gege, Kalani had thrust Aloka after Captain Blackwell, insisting he should be taken away, fearful less the child be killed by his brother when they came to manhood. ‘There can be only one king’. Her words rang in memory. As a father and as England’s representative in the Islands, Captain Blackwell gave full attention to Ka‘ahumanu’s account of George.
Kaumuarii, a young chief of Kauai, had spent some years in North America, where he had taken the name of George. Liholiho’s absence seemed a favorable opportunity to George, of gaining possession of his native island and its resources. He was descended from an ancient line of kings, and had easily raised sufficient warriors to support him. When word of this rebellion reached Oahu, where Karaimoku resided, he instantly sent to the several islands to rally the chiefs. Karaimoku himself had come to Hawaii some days previous, with his followers, to gather his forces.
“No one wants a return to the warfare of the bad old days. That is why Karaimoku is acting so swift, old though he is. This young puppy must be put down. Maui has sent a few unseasoned young ali‘i and a handful of warriors. You cannot imagine our hunger for men.” Ka‘ahumanu licked her lips, and the two Englishmen loosened their stocks almost in unison. “Come to Karaimoku’s council of war this evening, Ali‘i Blackwell. I shall give you a pilot and whatever else you require for your ship.”
Captain Blackwell glanced at Mercedes. It was plain from the intelligent, apprehensive look on her face that Mercedes understood the better part of their conversation in Hawaiian.
Noticing the exchange of glances, Ka‘ahumanu said, “You can bring as many of your men as you wish, and wahine Blackwell.” She nodded at Mercedes. “Women are not unwelcome at councils of war. We are not like white men.”
Captain Blackwell sat back in his chair at those words, and told Ka‘ahumanu he would consider of it. Then he led the way in the exchange of presents, and the visit concluded pleasantly.
Ka‘ahumanu stepped onto her double canoe, and arranged herself on its platform, wearing an English bonnet. She was pleased with her prizes, and she looked back complaisantly at the two tall figures standing in discussion on the ship’s quarterdeck. Ka‘ahumanu wondered what a fine stout man like the ali‘i Blackwell could want with that skinny, delicate looking woman of his. Wahine Blackwell was sick too, if she was not much mistaken. Ka‘ahumanu had little sympathy for women, and indeed men, who were in her opinion poor goers.
Mercedes had mixed feelings sitting alone in Albion’s cabin, amid the soft mats, fine woven bowls, wooden paddles, and pa‘ūs and malos of tapa cloth that had been the gifts of Ka‘ahumanu. The voices of the two captains drifted down to her. Mercedes had felt Ka‘ahumanu’s contempt for her as a person of no family or connections, and this invitation to a council of war stung too, as though that should sway Captain Blackwell in his decision to attend. Of course she must be guided by him, they all must—he was England’s representative in the islands—and she could not imagine that he would want her there.
Her sleep had been fitful these last several nights, the tropical climate seemed to be sucking the spirit out of her. Mercedes hoped she would adjust, Captain Blackwell had brought her there
for her health. His welfare was uppermost in her mind at the moment, and Mercedes wished he were able to go ashore with a file of Marines and a full boat’s crew of officers and good English tars at his back.
That was not to be, they were not a man-of-war. Her own good English tar came in to her directly.
“Mercy, sweetheart.” He was huffing and blowing a little himself, making his way to a seat. “Tell me what you think, eh? Not all white men disregard their lady’s opinion, you know.”
She had to smile at that. “I was just thinking I should be much easier if you had a dozen lobsters, and your barge’s crew to accompany you.”
“Bless you, sweetheart, there’s no need of that.” Captain Blackwell smiled, then looked down. “You do not put much store in my abilities, I fear, now I’m grown old.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Karaimoku himself is a man of sixty, I am told. You are not to worry, there is no danger in this meeting. There will be none heeded but cool old heads at war. Besides, I believe I shall be welcomed, something of the prodigal returned.”
“Oh, James.” She went over and put her arms round his shoulders. “They’d best treat my prodigal well. Remind them there is a 46-gun ship just over the horizon.”
Captain Blackwell gave a bark of laughter and patted her arm over his chest. “Perhaps I shall.”
“Who do you take with you then?” Mercedes asked, settling on the small sofa beside his armchair.
“Captain Bowles must come, he is a great favorite of Ka‘ahumanu—”
“In case I had not noticed.”
“Just so. And I shall take young Parsons with me, he shows an interest in their language and culture.” Captain Blackwell had no young gentlemen aboard, no marines, and Parsons was a junior lieutenant, or second mate in merchant-ship parlance, which of course the captain would never use. “And my boat’s crew, in course, as you so kindly suggest.”
