Matters were not so very dull while the war lord was away on his forays. A considerable populace had been drawn to Haupu, and there were dances and feasts, games, excursions, trials at arms, races, and swimming matches, in which Hina shared when it pleased her. Reservoirs for water, storehouses for food, and parks of ammunition were also to be established, for none could tell when the fort might be attacked. A long time passed before it was besieged. That time might never have come had not Hina left at home two sons with long memories. For years, as they approached manhood, they devoted themselves to rousing the people of all the islands and preparing a navy that should be invincible. Kaupepee kept himself informed of these measures, and now and again discouraged them by swooping on their shipyards, destroying their craft, and running off with a priest or two for a sacrifice. This kind of thing merely hastened his punishment, and in time ten thousand soldiers in two thousand boats were sighted from the battlements of Haupu. A land force was sent to attack the stronghold from the hills. Kaupepee’s brother could not prevent this. He was allowed to remain neutral. He foresaw the inevitable. When he implored the chief to give up Hina, save himself and his warriors, and agree to a future peace, Kaupepee would not listen. He had a thousand men, well armed, and his enemies had an almost life-long hate to gratify. “If my day has come,” he said, “let it be as the gods will. When the battle is over, look for me on the walls. I shall be there among the dead.” The king went away with bowed head, for he knew he should never see the defender of Molokai again.
Early in the morning the fleet put out from its harborage, where the gods had been invoked and the priests had declared the omens kindly. The mother of Hina stood in the prow of one of the first canoes, her white hair blowing about her head in snaky folds, her black eyes glittering. A fire burned before her on an altar of stone, and on this she threw oils and gums that yielded a fragrant smoke. As the walls of Haupu came in sight, bristling with spears, she began a battle-song, which her warriors took up, crew by crew, until the mighty chant echoed from the crags and every heart thrilled with the hope of conflict. As the boats advanced almost within reach of the slings from the citadel, the land army was seen advancing over the mountains far in the distance. Haupu would be beleaguered shortly. Kaupepee gathered his people around him, told of the odds against them, and confessed that the end might be defeat, adding that if there was one whose heart failed him the gates were open and he could leave, freely, with the good-will of all who stayed.
Not a man moved. With one cry of “Close the gates!” they declared for death, if so be that the gods were against them. The chief smiled and prepared for the defence. Some cried that the shore was crowded with enemies. Kaupepee replied, in Spartan phrase, “Our spears will be the less likely to miss.” A messenger arrived offering terms if Hina were given up. The answer was, “She is here. Come and take her.”
The land force had been making a demonstration against the narrow bridge of rock that led to the fortress, and had succeeded so well, according to a prearranged plan, that almost the entire garrison had crossed the plateau to that side, when shouts of triumph arose from the ravines. The enemy had entered them and was smashing the boats of Kaupepee to fragments. That cry of defiance was mis-timed. In a few moments a thunderous roar was heard that echoed through the abyss and paralyzed the hands of those who were attacking the gates. The men who had run to the walls, on hearing the shouts below, had let loose, into the depths, a deadly avalanche of earth, rocks, and timber. When the dust of it had drifted out, scores, hundreds, of dead and dying were seen half-buried in the fallen mass. Armed with spears, knives, and axes, a little company sprang over the parapet, and, running down the narrow trail to the bottom, despatched the survivors,—all save a few who swam to the reserve boats, and six who were carried up to the fort for sacrifice. One majestic chief, who had led this attack from the sea, avoided knives and missiles and drew away in safety with the other few who escaped. He was one of the sons of Hina. “He is brave; I am glad he remains unharmed,” said Kaupepee.
For several days the siege went on, the men within the defences taking heart from this first success, that had cost the enemy two thousand men. The sea approach was abandoned, and now that Kaupepee’s boats were destroyed or injured, so that he could not get away, the assailants concentrated their efforts on the landward side. They had devised a movable wall of wood, heavily braced, like that used by the Romans and Assyrians in their military operations. Foot by foot they gained the isthmus and slowly crossed it, those immediately behind this defence being protected from the slings and javelins of the garrison,—that reached those at a greater distance, however. On a rainy night they pushed this wall against the gates, found the entrance to the tunnel, and at dawn were ready for the final assault. It began with a downpour of spears and stones, before which it was impossible to stand. Then the heavy slab that masked the inner door to the tunnel was lifted, and in another minute five thousand men were pouring over the walls and through the passage. Not one man attempted flight. Contesting every inch of ground and fighting hand to hand, the men of Molokai retired before the invaders. There was an incessant din of weapons and voices. At last, the garrison—the fifty who were left of it—and their chief were crowded to the temple in the centre of the plain. One of the besieging party scrambled to the roof and set it afire with a torch. The fated fifty rushed forth only to hurl themselves against the hedge of weapons about them. Kaupepee was transfixed by a spear. With his last strength he aimed his javelin at the breast of a tall young chief who suddenly appeared before him,—aimed, but did not throw; for he recognized in the face of the man before him the features of the woman he loved,—Hina. The javelin fell at his side and he tumbled upon the earth, never to rise again. Every man in Haupu was killed, and its walls were levelled: Hina was found in her cottage, and although she bewailed the death of her lover, she rejoiced in her restoration to her mother and her sons.
The Hawaiian Orpheus and Eurydice
Upon the slopes of Hualalai, just under the clouds and among the fragrant sandal-woods, lived Hana and her son, Hiku. They made their living by beating bark into cloth, which the woman took to the coast to swap for implements, for sea food, for sharp shells for scraping the bark, and she always went alone, leaving Hiku on the mountain to talk to the animals, to paint pictures on the cloth, and to play on curious instruments he had made from gourds, reeds, and fibre, for he could play music that made the birds stop in their flight to listen. The mother loved the son so much that she wished to keep him by her so long as she lived, and that was why she never let him go with her to the shore. She believed that if he visited the towns and tasted the joys of surf-riding, shared in the games of the athletes, and drank the beer they brewed down there, and especially if he saw the pretty girls, he would never go back to his mountain home. And though Hiku wondered what life was among the people on the shore, he was obedient and not ill content until he had passed his eighteenth birthday.
As he sat one evening with eyes fixed on the far-off sea, sparkling under the moon, the wind brought the hoarse call of the surf and a faint sound of hula drums, and a sudden impulse came upon him to see the world for himself. He called to his mother that he was going down the mountain. She tried with tears and prayers and warnings to stay him, but his resolution was taken, and off he went, saying that he would be back again some day. Though he was as green as grass and untaught in the practices of the settlements, Hiku was a fellow of parts. He was not long in making a place for himself in society, and his first proceeding was to tumble head over heels in love. His flame was Kawelu. She received him graciously, flung wreaths of flower petals about his neck in the pretty fashion of her people when he called, as he did every day from sunrise until dark; and when he could row a canoe and had learned how to swim and to coast over the breakers in her company, he had gained paradise.
The day came, however, when these pleasures palled upon him, when he wondered if his mother had kept on sorrowing, when he had a longing to see his old home, to breathe the pure, cool air of the hills. He was an impulsive fellow, so he kissed Kawelu and told her that he must go away for a while; that she could not go with him, because his mother would probably dislike her. He had not walked a mile before he discovered that Kawelu was following secretly. He increased his speed, yet still she followed, and presently this persistence on her part began to anger him. The one thing he had taken from home was a magic staff that would speak when questions were put to it, and the youth now asked what could be done to turn the girl homeward. It told him to order vines to spring so thickly behind him that she could not break through, and they so sprang at his command. He could no longer see Kawelu when he looked back, though he heard her voice calling softly, reproachfully, and when he reached home, to the joy of his mother, he knew that the girl must have given up the pursuit, as she really had; for, discouraged by the steepness of the mountain and the ever-increasing tangle of vegetation, she returned to her village.