by John Demos
The 175th anniversary, in February 1993, brought another ceremonial round of “remembrance and celebration.” Once again, planners organized simultaneous events in both Cornwall and Hawaii. By then, moreover, a group of Obookiah’s kinfolk had incorporated themselves to promote “the return [of] his remains to his homeland.” Together, they raised money (upward of $25,000) from both private and foundation sources, and secured the approval of Cornwall authorities. In truth, some in the town were reluctant about this. An “informational meeting” at the First Church considered all sides, but in the end most agreed that “the family’s wishes” should trump other concerns. Obookiah’s place in Cornwall’s history would not be compromised, remarked one resident, for “part of him will always be with us.” The process that followed took a month to complete, with several intervening stages. In effect, it reversed the arc of Obookiah’s own life—by moving from essentially Christian (and “white American”) elements to others rooted in native Hawaiian tradition.3
On July 12, 1993, the grave was opened for exhumation. As curious onlookers gathered around, Connecticut’s state archaeologist and half a dozen assistants carefully removed the facing on top, then worked down through several inches of topsoil, a layer of flat stones, and a large quantity of sand—to find, at a depth of nearly five feet, a fully intact skeleton. The original coffin, though decayed, had left a clear imprint in the sand. Most striking of all was an assemblage of brass tacks in what would have been the chest area, formed in the shape of a heart and enclosing the initials H and O and the number 26 (Obookiah’s presumed age at the time of death). There was also a scattering of glass shards, apparently the remnants of a viewing window placed at head level. Each of these features—the stones, the glass, the tacks—was unusual in grave-site construction; taken together, they implied a high degree of care and interest.4
The remains, when removed, were wrapped in cloth and placed in a new casket made from Hawaiian koa wood. On the second Sunday following, the church held a ceremony of “homegoing.” Close to two hundred worshipers attended, including native Hawaiians from various parts of the country, some of whom claimed kinship to Obookiah. Two who were Protestant ministers led prayers and songs in both English and Hawaiian. According to a subsequent account, “everyone wore a colorful lei entwined with Hawaiian tea leaves.”5
A day later, the casket, now in the hands of the kinfolk, was flown to Honolulu. There it was conveyed to a succession of island sites—two schools and at least seven churches—for religious services and other expressions of public respect. The conclusion of this tour was set in and around the great bay with the heiau at which Obookiah had spent most of his later childhood. From here on, every step (as reported in local newspapers) was carefully choreographed to represent significant aspects of his life—especially his Hawaiian origins. The casket was carried to the shore from the sea in a large canoe. There was a “symbolic swim” by one of the relatives “out to where the ship Triumph was anchored in 1808.” Finally, on August 15, came the moment of reinterment. The proceedings featured a native ceremony called ka oha ola hou (meaning “the bamboo lives again”). At the close, U.S. senator Daniel Akaka offered remarks; Obookiah, he said, was “one who positively altered the course of a people, a state, and a nation.” Then came a procession to the grave—a handsome vault raised somewhat above ground level and capped by a stele with commemorative inscriptions. Marchers passed “between a human chain of women dressed in full-length black gowns carrying in their hands bright orange feather leis that resembled torches.” As the casket was lowered, and emotion crested, “observers noted a break in the darkened sky, when the sun peered out and the storm clouds dissipated.” The day concluded with a luau—a feast of traditional foods—with music from ukeleles and “hand-made acoustical instruments,” and hula performances. Through it all, participants kept repeating, “Praise God, Henry’s home.”6
And so he was.
There are more burials to mention. In north Georgia, on a gentle knoll not far from the original Cherokee capital of New Echota, lies a rough square of embedded stones, shaded by tall trees and enclosing a tiny graveyard. In the middle stands a plain limestone slab with the following inscription:7
To
the memory of
HARRIET RUGGLES
wife of
MR ELIAS BOUDINOT
She was the daughter of
Col Benjamin Gold
of Cornwall Con
where she was born
June 1805
And died at New Echota
Cherokee Nation
Aug 15 1836
Aged 31
We seek a rest beyond the skies
Her beginning and her end: born in Cornwall, died in the Cherokee Nation, resting now beyond the skies. But the stone gives no hint of how much lay in between. Her growing‑up as “one of the fairest, most cultured ladies of the place [Cornwall].” Her status as “the idol of her family.” The gradual, intensely private ripening of her attachment to Elias, and of his to her. Their eventual acknowledgment—first to each other, then to her family, finally to the world at large. The agonizing rift with her siblings, and the “great turmoil” that followed, both locally and far beyond. Her determination to proceed, against the “fix’d & unalterable” opposition of so many around her. The terrible night of public repudiation on the town green, as she watched from a hiding place in a nearby house while her effigy burned in a fire lit by her closest brother. The shocked resentment among Cherokees about such overt prejudice, together with the indignant response of some (not all) missionary leaders. The wound felt by Elias, prompting his temporary “fall” from Christian ways—and the bitterness of his “Ishmaelite” writing. And yet, when feelings had finally cooled, their “splendid wedding” in her parents’ home, with Elias so fully accepted that some who were present “almost forgot … he was an Indian.”
All of it leading, after many years had passed, to exactly here.
Finally: what’s called the Polson Cemetery, in the northeast tip of Oklahoma, a mile or so from the border with Missouri. Here one finds the graves of several Ridge family members. It’s a two-acre plot, with a framed sign at the entrance reading ridge-watie and an American flag flying alongside.
Today it’s surrounded by hay fields, part of a larger area known as Peter’s Prairie. (Peter was one of Major Ridge’s slaves; why the land was named for him is unknown.) The site of John Ridge’s house, long since destroyed, was about two hundred yards to the northeast. On the other side, the land slopes down toward Honey Creek, a clear, gently flowing stream that seems to have been part of what attracted the Ridges to this spot in the first place. There are remains of some old barns, perhaps from the time of the family’s settlement here. Major Ridge’s widow, Susannah Wickett, returned to the property some years after the murders; following her death, ownership passed to a grandson. Except for one brief interval, it has remained in the hands of descendants ever since. Local belief held that Major Ridge and John had buried money near their houses; and, in the late nineteenth century, people from the surrounding towns would dig at likely spots in search of it. (Nothing was ever found.)8
John Ridge was buried here immediately following his death, but with no marker at all for more than a century. As long as bitter feeling about removal remained abroad in the Nation, there was reason to fear that any public memorial to the leader of the Treaty Party would invite desecration. Finally, in the 1960s a modest stone was set alongside one for his father; it reads as follows:
JOHN RIDGE
CHEROKEE LEADER
BORN ROME, GA. 1802
ASSASSINATED HERE
JUNE 22, 1839
Even more than in the case of Harriet Gold Boudinot, this stone seems to beg for additional information. His life, after all, made an astonishing story of movement and change, of accomplishment and defeat. Born and raised in the Cherokee Nation, the son of a widely admired chief. Spirited away by missionaries to a completely different life in
the world of white people. Revealed there as a quick study, who would make the most of his special educational opportunities. Half of a notorious love match across racial lines; target from then on of racist intolerance. Thrust into leadership roles at an early age. Eloquent speaker, gifted writer, passionate defender of Cherokee rights and interests. Colleague, opponent, and friend of U.S. presidents, cabinet secretaries, congressmen, and other figures of prominence. Obliged by his own best instincts and judgment to reverse course and embrace—albeit reluctantly—the necessity of removal. Successful planter and businessman, slave owner, husband, father of seven. And victim, finally, of a bitter internecine struggle.
So: three grave sites to consider. Together, they evoke the sweep of the heathen school story: its geographic range, its remarkable cast of characters, its violent twists and turns, its emotional depth, its eventual, conclusive finality. As well, they disclose its interior meanings, including:
The bedrock ambition to make the world a better place—and, in that regard, something intrinsic to American culture and history.
The challenge posed by human difference—pointing, then, toward the diverse, multicultural people we have become today.
The hubris of overreaching—and the harsh reality of failure.
But the story will not quite rest there. In the summer of 2010, the Cornwall Historical Society mounted an elegant little exhibition on the school, including artifacts from its heyday, maps, images of individual scholars, helpful descriptive information, and lectures by historians with knowledge of one or another pertinent topic. Special guests included half a dozen descendants of John Ridge and Elias Boudinot; some came from as far away as Oklahoma and California. There were also Hawaiian visitors, collaterally related to Henry Obookiah, one of whom traveled to Cornwall by motorcycle from Michigan. The atmosphere was pleasant, friendly, animated—with just a hint in the air of the troubled history that had led to this point.
As the absolute finale, resident members of the Gold family hosted a dinner for the visiting Ridge and Boudinot kin. No others were invited, only the descendants on both sides. The hosts commented afterward on “the normalcy of the evening.” Conversation flowed easily around current lives and interests. At some point, it was decided to show how everyone present was related. To this end, the group created a large genealogical chart, showing all manner of cousin connections. Otherwise, history was not invoked. “The past was what it was,” remarked one participant. “It was just nice to catch up and learn about another part of the family.”9
Perhaps for them, this was closure at last. But what about other participants in the story? Certainly, nothing closed for the Protestant missionary movement as a whole. Its leaders did make one important, strategic adjustment—at least in part as a result of the Cornwall experience. From then on, there would be no more concerted efforts to bring “wild men … to our shores” for religious conversion and training; instead, “the Great Cause” would be centered in foreign lands. This would avert the danger that more “innocent maids” might someday be lured to join Sarah Northrup and Harriet Gold in crossing the race line. Indeed, missionary work would grow and flourish in its redirected mode. And its part in the collective life of a “redeemer nation” would become ever more conspicuous. The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions would sponsor projects in dozens of different countries. (The spirit of all this would remain unchanged: Both then and thereafter the “heathen” must be saved from their own “gross errors” and wickedness.)
Nor would closure come to the places from which the original scholars had been drawn. Hawaii would pass through a tumultuous, and searing, process of change, one that continues to the present day. The native population would be steadily cut down by disease and other causes. White immigrants from the U.S. mainland would arrive in ever-larger numbers (followed by many others from Japan, Southeast Asia, and some parts of Europe). Large-scale plantation agriculture (sugarcane, rice, pineapples, coffee) would reshape the local economy, while reducing indigenous workers to a state of virtual peonage. Political power would pass to a new—mostly white—elite. Traditional culture would be shunted aside. And eventually the islands would become one with the larger United States, first through an imposed annexation, then with the granting of full statehood. (The missionaries and their descendants were deeply involved in these transformations. And Henry Obookiah himself could be seen as a source point for some of them.)
American Indians, too, were subject to a grinding sequence of change, without closure. Cherokee removal became the starting point for generations of conflict both inside and outside the Nation. As such, it was a prototype for the dislocations forced upon many different Indian groups for decades to come. (As architects of removal, John Ridge and Elias Boudinot would be long remembered—sometimes admired, more often vilified. Even today they remain highly controversial figures.)
None of this, of course, was solely attributable to the Mission School; much the same would have happened without its influence. The school was one link among countless others in a many-stranded chain that has no end.
And what, finally, of closure for an author and his readers? We can close a book—the physical object—but not the thoughts and feelings it evokes. We can bid good-bye to its principal characters—in this case, Obookiah, Boudinot, Ridge, Sarah Northrup, Harriet Gold, Herman Daggett, Jeremiah Evarts—but their stories linger. We can travel back from “history” to our present lives—known people, familiar places, established routines—but the journey has left its mark. Would we have it otherwise?
Acknowledgments
My helpers with this book have been many, their contributions extraordinary. My research began at the Public Library in Cornwall, Connecticut, where Virginia Potter pointed me toward a valuable archive on Mission School history. Created some years before by the late Michael Gannett (and since relocated to the Cornwall Historical Society), this material got me off and running. Mr. Gannett would quickly become a major source of advice and counsel on all things Cornwall; I very much regret that he won’t see the completion of the project. Early on I was put in touch with Ann Schillinger, another in the town’s sturdy band of local historians. For long stretches Ann became virtually a collaborator—running down sources on my behalf, answering my many inquiries about matters both large and small, and providing exactly the sort of encouragement every historian/author yearns for. Jeremy Brecher was my tour guide through the visible landscape; his deep knowledge directly informed the writing of my “interlude” on Cornwall. Charles and Barbara Gold shared with me pertinent details of their family’s history, up to and including the poignant meeting described at the end of that same interlude.
Another of the interludes concerns Hawaii. My visit there was facilitated by Barbara Anderson, Barbara Lee, and, most of all, Marie Delores Strazar and Louis Doody. The latter pair drove me all over the Big Island, hosted me at their hillside cabin, and offered valuable insights into Hawaiian history and culture. While in Honolulu I had a long and useful discussion with Douglas Warne, whose work in reconstructing the lives of Hawaii-born “scholars” at the Mission School is unmatched. After my return I profited from several e-mail exchanges with Fred Hoxie (himself Hawaii-born).
The third, and last, of the interludes is about the original territories of the Cherokee Nation (especially what is today north Georgia). In touring that region I was fortunate to have the company of Bob Morrissey; his reactions enlarged and enhanced my own. The proprietors of the Chieftains Museum (Rome, Georgia), once the home of Major Ridge, gave me a cordial reception. And W. Jeff Bishop enabled me to read the results of a careful site evaluation carried out by the National Park Service on the home built and occupied by John Ridge (Calhoun, Georgia). I learned about Ridge home sites in Oklahoma from Nancy Brown, a direct descendant of Major Ridge and John, and the current owner/occupant of those properties.
In addition to all that I found in Cornwall, archival holdings at the following institutions proved essential: Hought
on Library (Harvard University), current custodian of the original records of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions; Sterling Library (Yale University), repository of important papers from the Gold, Morse, and other mission-connected families; the Connecticut Historical Society (Hartford); the American Antiquarian Society (Worcester, Massachusetts); the local historical societies of Litchfield, Woodbury, and Torrington, Connecticut; the Norman Rockwell Museum (Stockbridge, Massachusetts); the Huntington Library (Pasadena, California); the Arkansas Historical Commission (Little Rock); and the Mission Houses Museum (Honolulu, Hawaii). Staff at each of these places afforded me unfailing courtesies.
In gathering the illustrations I received valuable assistance (and, in some cases, permissions) from William Reese, James Boudinot, Alec C. Frost, Raechel Guest, and others at the Cornwall Historical Society, the New Echota Historic Site (Calhoun, Georgia), Chieftains Museum, and, most especially, Mark Chiusano.
My project was supported by fellowships from the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study and the American Antiquarian Society, and by a grant from the provost’s office at Yale University. While at the Antiquarian Society I was fortunate to have Mark Mulligan working as my research assistant.
