The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War

by James L. Haley

  Dwight introduced his wife, who stood at his side, Mary née Woolsey, the daughter of New York money, backing Dwight’s descent from Jonathan Edwards himself. Who had not read, and heard, his famous sermon describing “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”? And who could come away from it not feeling much like that insect that the Almighty held over the fire of hell, and might let fall at his pleasure?

  She appeared to be her husband’s equal in age and had a stern look about her, a steel that was concealed to the casual eye by her feminine features and dress. Clarity imagined that she would reach greatly advanced years. Inwardly, Clarity was pleased with herself, how the new persons she met she sized up as potential characters with their own peculiar stories, grist for novels that she would write.

  “Mrs. Marsh.” Dwight bowed ever so slightly, smiling tightly and without showing any teeth, likely a matter of declining dentition more than excessive rigidity of temper. “How very good to see you again, it has been quite some time.”

  Clarity’s mother smiled and inclined her head to the equal degree but did not curtsey and did not extend her hand. “Dr. Dwight, it was very kind of you to invite us. Mrs. Dwight, you look well.” It was the appropriate posture for a wealthy dowager who contributed materially to the well-being of the church. Indeed, all knew that Mrs. Marsh was if anything a caryatid without whose support their edifice might well not stand.

  “Young lady,” said Dwight to Clarity, “you probably do not remember us. You were a very little girl when last we met.”

  Clarity did not often get to use the poise she had practiced in Miss Pierce’s School for Girls. “Oh, perhaps I have a vague memory—something of learned discourse far above my understanding.”

  The Dwights chuckled approvingly. Timothy Dwight was renowned for his intellectual prowess. It was widely known that he had been a prodigy who had learned his alphabet at one sitting, and who could discourse on the precepts of the Bible when he was but three years old. The brilliance of his theological career, his mastery of the biblical languages, was equaled only by his reputation as an indefatigable traveler. There seemed to be no corner of New England which he had not visited, and preached, and spread his grace and common touch, even as he took voluminous notes, ferocious notes, on the resources of the countryside, on the character of the towns and their people for the benefit of the pastors who would come after him to safeguard their spiritual welfare. Did this town lack a subscription for a cemetery? He could help. Did that town need improved harbor facilities? He could write a letter to their representative in the Congress. His decades of experience had taught him that people could easier love the Bible who first loved its messengers.

  “Well, Mrs. Putnam, they tell me that your husband is an officer in our Navy. I am sorry he could not be here.”

  “Thank you, he was lately serving with Captain Hull in the Constitution. He now has his own command, a sloop-of-war called the Tempest.”

  “Then we shall pray that he will be as safe in her as he was in that frigate. Let us hope cannonballs bounce off her as well.”

  How quickly that story has spread, thought Clarity, Old Ironsides.

  “You have not met our special guest,” said Dwight eagerly. “Reverend Beecher, you must introduce her, he is just over there.”

  “Yes,” Beecher agreed. As he led Clarity and Mrs. Marsh across the room, Clarity thought how skillful Dwight was, to direct her to a new and important person to meet while keeping his own line of admirers moving.

  They approached a slim young man, elegantly dressed, very dark with curling black hair. She had assumed that he was a Negro and a servant, except he did not bear a tray; indeed he sipped a glass of punch as he conversed among others with great animation, flashing a smile of bright white teeth. His eyes fixed on Clarity as they approached and he did not wait on an introduction but stepped forward, smiling. “What your name?”

  “Clarity.” She extended her hand. “Mrs. Clarity Putnam.”

  He took it, surprised that a woman would venture to touch him. That had not been his experience. “Clarity? Like, see far?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  He giggled unaffectedly. “A clear day. Miss Clear Day!”

  “Henry,” said Beecher, “you may address her as Mrs. Putnam.”

  “Yes, of course.” The young man smiled. “Please excuse me. My name—” He uttered a brief tumble of syllables that used parts of the tongue and throat unknown to English. “They can’t say it, they call me Henry Obookiah.”

  “Mr. Obookiah,” repeated Clarity.

  “Very good!”

  “Mr. Obookiah, may I introduce you to my mother?”

  He bowed somberly. “In my country, people give great honor to mothers.”

  “Do they indeed?” inquired Mrs. Marsh.

  “Oh, yes. People fear kings, honor queens.”

  Mrs. Marsh cocked her head in perspicacity. “Well, then, I think I like your country very much.”

  “Thank you! Please, meet my friend, Mr. Edwin Dwight, young cousin of that great man over there.”

  They were interrupted as the same butler who had gone out to send Freddy to the kitchen entered the parlor to announce that dinner was served, and they began moving toward the dining room. Obookiah stayed by Clarity. “Is not funny? In your country, all people who look like me are slaves!”

  “Oh, not slaves!” she exclaimed. “Many of them are servants, but not slaves.”

  “They have money? Go live where they want?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “So, they kind of slaves?”

  The company seated themselves, Clarity between Obookiah and her mother, until it was only the elder Dwight who remained standing, at the head of the table. “My dear friends, since as we know the Holy Scripture tells us that wherever even two are gathered in the name of our Lord, there is He also, does it not follow from the arithmetic that wherever”—Dwight tapped his finger quickly in the air, affecting to count the number at the table—“wherever a dozen and a half are gathered in His name, His loving presence must be nine times greater?”

  He paused for the appreciative chuckle to die away.

  “Will you favor me by joining me in the first verse of ‘Rock of Ages’?” He raised his hand to indicate when to begin.

  Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

  Let me hide myself in Thee.

  Let the water and the blood

  From Thy riven side which flowed

  Be of sin the double cure,

  Cleanse me from its guilt and pow’r.

  “Oh, my friends, what a wonderful and instructive song was written by the Reverend Mr. Toplady, back when I was a young man. And while he did eventually fall from the Way, and became a Methodist, still the sentiment of his prayerful song was no less sincere.”

  Mrs. Marsh leaned halfway over to Clarity, who leaned halfway back. “Please let this not be a long sermon,” she whispered, “for I am very hungry.”

  “Our own movement, whose passion is shared by those around this table, the passion to spread the gospel of our Lord to the heathens around the world, did not begin as it did for Reverend Mr. Toplady, by seeking shelter during a storm in the cleft of a rocky defile in Somerset in England. It began rather here, when five righteous young souls, who had met in a meadow by the Hoosic River six years ago to pray and debate the way of the Lord, sought shelter from a storm in a lowly haystack. And as they looked out upon that harvested field, they realized that the single greatest mission, for them and for all believers, was to bring the light of salvation to the darkest corners of the world. Forasmuch as our Savior gave the Great Commission unto His disciples, He gives it also unto us, to go and preach the Good News to all nations. Thus was born our American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, which those around this table have supported so nobly. And I wish to tell you, as we approach the first anniversary o
f sending out our first evangelists, to benighted and mysterious India, we have received a letter from their leader, Brother Adoniram Judson. He rejoices to inform us that all of our dear friends who made the journey to India are well, but he is grieved to inform us that owing to the unfortunate state of affairs between the United States and England, the British East India Company have not welcomed them into Calcutta. In fact, they are being thrown out.”

  An audible groan rose from the company.

  The group’s corresponding secretary, Samuel Worcester, impossibly young and pretty and self-assured and well dressed, opened his hands to the air. “There, you see? This ill-advised and improvident war which we have launched upon the British thwarts the very will of God.”

  Before she could check herself, Clarity flashed, yet politely. “Forgive me, Brother Worcester, but if the British Empire were not run by fools like those in Calcutta, we would have no war. Nor would we have needed a revolution, I daresay.”

  “Keeping to the matter at hand,” Dwight interjected with friendly control, “our brethren report that some Burmese residents of Calcutta have informed them that they may expect a warmer reception among the Buddhists of Burma than they have received among the Hindus of India. Accordingly, they report their present intention to apply to the King of Burma, Bodawpaya, for permission to go there. And they have begun acquiring Burmese texts and have engaged a tutor to learn their language and customs.”

  “The work of the Lord is righteous,” volunteered Lyman Beecher. “No one said it would be easy.”

  His wife, Roxana, was sitting by him, pale and tired but doggedly the hostess. “And they just spent two years learning the language of the Hindus.”

  “Oh, that effort is far from wasted,” said Dwight with confidence. “They have already translated the most important books of the Bible into the Hindu language, and they will be gotten into the country. And then, when relations between us and the British improve and a permanent mission is established, the ground will be better prepared. Indeed, as we cast our eye about the world even as those first five under the haystack looked at that wet field, we are filled with awe at the sheer scope of the task before us. But we are not discouraged. God is pointing the way, for He has brought among us this remarkable young man who many of you have had the opportunity to meet.”

  Obookiah leaned over to Clarity and whispered, “He make me blush.”

  “He comes to us from the Sandwich Islands, on the very opposite side of the world, and totally unknown to civilization, until discovered by the famous Captain Cook, even within the lifetimes of many of us. As he imparts his story to us during our dinner, you will hear, I doubt not, the most remarkable story you have ever heard. And now, dear Lord”—his visage rose upward—“we pray that You will bless this nourishment to our bodies, that we may ever glorify Thee.”

  Amens murmured around the table as Dwight seated himself and added to Roxana Beecher next to him, “Especially the turtle soup, which I have not tasted these last two years, and which I am beside myself to dip a spoon into.”

  As the soup was served, Clarity was the first to prompt him. “Do tell us, Mr. Obookiah, how you came among us.”

  “In my country, you say Sandwich, we call it Hawai’i, there was a war.” He was answering her question, but spoke loudly and clearly enough that all could hear. “Old king die, different chiefs have a war to see who be new king.”

  “That does not sound very sensible,” said Clarity.

  “True. But always been so.” He spoke easily, albeit slowly, making certain the meaning of words before he uttered them. “Any king die, chiefs who want be king go to war. Biggest chief, name Kamehameha, want be king. My chief, Keouakuahuula, also want be king.”

  “Wait, please!” Clarity touched his hand lightly. She had never heard so many vowels in a row, and tried it herself. “Keoua? Not K-a-e-i-o-u-a?”

  Laughter exploded around the table, from Obookiah most of all. “You make joke! Think maybe name got all vowels”—he pointed at her in merry accusation—“but got no i in it!”

  “Ah, yes. No i.”

  “One day,” he continued, “Kamehameha warriors come to my village. Burn houses, kill people. My parents run away. Take me, little brother, run up mountain, hide in cave.” His mood began to quiet, and then darken. “Got no water, can’t go out, warriors looking everywhere. After two days, my parents say to me, ‘You stay here, hide, we go ask for mercy. We done nothing, maybe they not kill us.’ They go down, warriors take ’em.” His voice broke, but he recovered himself. “Kill ’em, cut ’em in pieces. Cut off heads, make sacrifice to war god.”

  Clarity had had no idea that his narrative would take such a horrifying turn, and the shock around the table was palpable.

  “Thank you, Henry,” interrupted Beecher. “We all feel for the pain that you have suffered; perhaps now we should speak of more pleasant things.”

  Clarity teetered for an instant, deciding whether to speak or not. “Forgive me, Reverend Beecher. We are the ones who compelled him to relive this memory. To cut him off now because it is difficult for us to hear must communicate to him that it is not important to us, and that is most surely not the case. Perhaps we should hear him out.” From the silence around the table, Clarity could not divine whether it was because others agreed with her or they were nonplussed that she had contradicted a man, and a clergyman at that. She determined to continue before the others could further calculate her boldness. “Mr. Obookiah, of course you do not have to continue, if it is too painful for you. But we are most interested to hear the rest of your story. What would you prefer?”

  “You are very kind, Mrs., I will tell you. Me crying,” he said, and shrugged. “Me just little boy, crying. Warrior saw me, said, ‘Look up there! Let’s go get him!’ I took baby brother, carry him across my back, start to run away. One warrior take a spear and throw it. Hawai’i spears.” He looked around the room for a comparison. “Very big. Longer than table, maybe high as ceiling. Spear go through my brother, kill him, same spear I feel go in my back. I fall. Warriors come up with clubs and knives. They pull out spear, pull off my brother, I saw him dead. One says, ‘Wait! Look! He nephew to Lono. Better not kill him, we take him there.’”

  “How terrible,” hushed Clarity. “Who was Lono? He must have been very important.”

  “Lono is god of storms, and harvest, and . . . and, how do you say?” he asked the younger Dwight, who put a napkin to his lips a little too long.

  “Fertility,” he mumbled.

  A hush of “Oh, my” went around the table.

  “Me not really nephew to god, my uncle his priest, we say his kahuna. They take me to uncle’s temple, he raise me, teach me be priest to storm god. Teach me chants, teach me ceremonies, teach me sacrifice people.”

  “Human sacrifice?” gasped Clarity.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You have sacrificed people?”

  “No, no, me just a child, still learning, but watch many times. Later, I visit my mother’s sister, warriors come, say she break law. Say she ate banana. Not true.” He shook his head. “She no eat banana. But they take her, throw her off cliff. She scream all way down, long way down, so long way. Cliffs at Kealakekua, thousand feet high.”

  Clarity saw the look in his eyes and realized that he was hearing her fading scream, over again, even at that moment.

  “For eating a banana?” asked Mrs. Dwight with incredulity.

  “Oh, yes. My country, woman eat banana is terrible sin.” Obookiah shook his head again. “My people in such darkness.” He gestured around the table. “Men, women, eat together, is terrible sin. In my country, Hawai’i, if we all eat dinner together, we all be taken to temple and killed. Many things like this. I make up my mind, get away! Go anywhere! One night, I jump in water, swim out to American ship. Brig Triumph, Captain Brintnall, New Haven.” Obookiah was conscious that he had recited ship, m
aster, and home port in the best American fashion, and allowed himself to look just a little proud. “Sailors kind to me. Teach me reading, teach me Bible, teach me Jesus. We go all over world. See China, see Africa, see England. Come to New Haven. I live with Captain Brintnall, he give me more learning.”

  “You really have come on quite a journey!” said Clarity.

  “Yes, ma’am. One day, he show me Yale College. Oh! Young men everywhere, learning.” He closed his eyes in rapture, but opened them in sadness. “But no one talk to me. I find library, see books and books and books full of learning, but no one talk to me. I go outside, sit down and cry.”

  Obookiah laid his hand on Edwin Dwight’s arm. “Then this man find me, say, what is wrong? I say, no one will give me learning. He say, we will so give you learning. He take me to Mr. Timothy Dwight.” He nodded across the table to the elder Dwight. “They and others teach me so many things.”

  “I am so glad,” Clarity said.

  “They teach me more about Jesus.” Obookiah paused, his earnestness profound almost beyond fathoming. “Hawai’i gods no good, you see? We take wood”—he held up his hands—“our hands make ’em. They no see, no hear, no do nothing. They not gods, we make ’em! Me wanna go home, put ’em in a pile, burn ’em up! Christian god,” he whispered, “he make us. Send Jesus to love us. My people don’t know this. Me wanna go home, teach ’em. But Mr. Dwight, Mr. Beecher, say me not ready.”

  “Perhaps you should be patient,” Clarity suggested. “When you go home, your people will have many questions. If they ask you a question and you cannot answer it, they might not believe you, and that must damage your cause. Should you not be as thoroughly prepared as possible?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Me know you are right, they are right, but me in a hurry. Every day, my people live and die in darkness, this hurts me.”

  There was a moment’s quiet around the table. “I have never heard your language,” said Clarity. “Will you say something?”

  Obookiah thought for just a second, and said gently, “E pili mau na pomaika’i ia ‘oe.”