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

by James L. Haley

  “And what does it mean?”

  “That mean, may blessings be ever with thee.”

  Mrs. Dwight set down her spoon. “How lovely!”

  “Mahalo nui loa,” said Obookiah. “That mean, thank you very much.” In this fashion the dinner passed through its courses.

  “It is a beautiful language,” said Clarity, “but I cannot tell how the words are separated. Are there any books?”

  “No, no writing in my language. But”—he brightened—“me read English, and speak my language. So me translate Bible for my people.”

  Mrs. Marsh grew more interested. “But that would require a very thorough knowledge of English. Do you feel you know it quite well enough?”

  Obookiah grinned. “Don’t need English. Hebrew more easy.”

  A murmur of “What?” echoed in the room, even from those who had not been taking part in the conversation.

  “It is entirely true,” said Dr. Dwight, “he is not exaggerating. This past term he has received excellent marks in the biblical languages. There seems to be something in the structure of written Hebrew that resonates in his native tongue. I have no idea what it is, but the connection is astonishing.”

  “And yet,” interjected the younger Edwin Dwight, “there are parts of English that remain beyond him. Henry, try saying, ‘The red rabbit ran down the road.’”

  Obookiah laughed and dropped his head at having to repeat a parlor trick he had plainly attempted many times before. “The . . .” Then he cocked his head to one side, straining mightily within his mouth to shape his tongue to mimic the sound, but finally spat out “weddwabbit” and stopped in self-censure.

  “Try!” encouraged the younger Dwight. “It is not hard. ‘The red rabbit.’”

  Obookiah tried again but threw up his hands helplessly, leading the others in self-deprecating laughter. “My language, we not make that sound.”

  “Yes,” interjected Clarity. “From what you spoke, it sounds as though in your language, consonants are always followed by vowels, and you make much greater use of vowels than we do.”

  “Yes!” Obookiah beamed. “Everybody, listen to her, she understand!”

  “So,” said Mary Dwight, “from what you have told us, in your native religion, to break any commandment is death. There is no provision for forgiveness, or redemption?”

  Obookiah held up a hand in correction. “No, that not right. We have place to forgive. Say somebody break kapu. Kahunas chase him, gonna kill him. He run and run, try to reach place to forgive. If he reach it, kahunas there purify him, forgive him. Then, nobody hurt him. This place, called Pu’uhonua o Honaunau. That mean City of Refuge.”

  Edwin Dwight leaned over. “What was that, again?”

  “Pu’uhonua o Honaunau.” Obookiah’s face lit up mischievously. “Can you say?”

  “What?”

  “You say!” he insisted.

  Edwin Dwight hung his head, knowing he had been bested. “Puku,” he began, “no, how, now—” and gave up.

  “Try!” Obookiah poked him. “Is not hard!” The pointedness of his turning the joke back on Edwin Dwight caused the company to dissolve in laughter, none more so than the younger Dwight himself, nodding gamely, bowing in surrender.

  This somber house, thought Clarity, these dour people, surely these sad walls needed many more evenings such as this. “Dr. Dwight,” she ventured, “if it can be done, what all would be involved in opening a school for missionaries?”

  The venerable president of Yale peeled his spectacles from his face, unmasking the pale and wrinkled thin skin about his eyes, and placed the glasses in a case which he tucked in a pocket. “Oh, my, it will be an effort of years. It would not suffice to send evangelists of the Bible. Missionary work in new lands requires doctors and teachers and farmers, who can elevate their lives, as well as ministers of the gospel. And then those laypeople must also be trained, and not just in the Bible, but in missionary techniques of how to transmit the Good News to the heathen.”

  “And we would need more native speakers,” added Edwin Dwight.

  “Got more natives!” enthused Obookiah. “My friend Hopu, came to America with me, he live in Bristol. And Kaumuali’i, he live in New Haven and he the son of a king!”

  “And then,” said Beecher, “we must provide for the safety of the missionary company. Let us not forget that there have been places in the South Pacific where the British have sent missionaries, who wound up not just feeding the hungry, they were the dinner.”

  “Have you considered this well, Henry?” asked the elder Dwight. “If you return home and attack your people’s ancient religion, they may turn on you and kill you.”

  “I am ready,” Obookiah said, a little defiantly. “That Bible says, ‘He who lose his life for my sake shall find it.’ Is it not so? If is God’s will that I die telling people about Jesus, I am ready. Are you not ready?”

  “We all commend your zeal, Henry,” said Beecher, “but there is much more to consider, such as the safety of the women. And, certainly, we could only send married couples to undertake such an effort.”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely,” Timothy Dwight said, and nodded in agreement.

  That was an element Clarity had not expected. “What? Why?”

  Beecher looked embarrassed. “My dear, the South Seas are home to, shall we say, a licentious culture, utterly lacking in shamefacedness. Their aggression and perverseness in this regard has been the downfall of Western sailors since the islands were discovered. The temptations have proven insuperable to the strongest Christian single men. We dare only send missionaries who are already well settled in the marital estate.”

  “And”—the elder Dwight raised one finger—“couples who can provide examples of godly, Christian marriage to the heathen.”

  When Clarity’s mother dabbed her lips with her napkin and said, “Well, at least we’re good for something,” it raised a new din of laughter around the table.

  A tiny figure appeared in the doorway, barefoot, in a nightgown, clutching a doll, noticed simultaneously by several of the company. “Well, good evening, young lady,” said Mrs. Dwight.

  Beecher’s back was to the door and he turned in his chair. “Harriet! Child, why are you not in bed?”

  The child of barely four rubbed her eyes. “I heard laughing. It sounded so gay.”

  “Still, my dear, you should be asleep.”

  Clarity sensed the situation and rose. “She was asleep, Reverend. It was our boisterousness that disturbed her rest.” Her gaze caught that of Roxana Beecher; she was pale, able to sit and eat but she had said little, and it was obvious that mounting the stairs would exhaust her. “With your permission, I will take her back up and put her to bed.”

  “We would be most obliged,” said Beecher.

  Clarity rose and walked over to the door. “Would you like that, Harriet?”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Putnam.” She extended her hand, but rather than take it Clarity reached under her arm and hefted her up, and Harriet wrapped her arm around Clarity’s neck. “Oh my goodness,” Clarity groaned. “You are getting to be a big girl!”

  “Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, Harriet. Off you go, now.”

  In the hall Clarity found a single candlestick, which she lit from the sconce on the wall. “Hang on tight!” She felt Harriet tighten her grip as with her free hand Clarity gathered her dress before her and she mounted the New England stairs, steep and narrow as a ship’s ladder. When she reached the top, Harriet whispered, “You should put me down now, Mrs. Putnam. I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

  Clarity set her down noiselessly. “Do you want me to come bundle you back into bed?”

  “Oh, yes, please. My sisters sleep very deeply, we will not wake them.”

  “Do you have a warming pan?”

  “Oh, it is st
ill warm from before.”

  “All right.” The mattress was of deep down, still bearing the impress of Harriet’s body from when she left. Clarity pulled the covers up to her chin.

  “Will you tell me a story?”

  Clarity betrayed no outer hint of it, but inside she felt a wash of panic. She had never told a story before in her life, and now suddenly she was confronted by her own incongruity. What kind of author must she ever be if she could not tell a story to satisfy a four-year-old? She stalled. “Does Papa tell you stories?” she whispered.

  “Sometimes.”

  “What are they about?”

  “Bad people who go to hell and burn up forever.”

  “Oh, my!” She hardly knew what to think of what struck her as appalling parental ineptitude, to terrorize toddlers with the flames of hell. “Well! Well, do you have any of Mr. Newbery’s story books?”

  “Yes. Little Goody Two-Shoes is my favorite.”

  “Is it nearby?”

  “Yes, on the chest under my little sewing box.”

  The bed frame made a tiny creak as the ropes suspending the mattress relaxed when she got up to fetch it.

  “Would you read me chapter four, please? It is very short.”

  “Very well.” Clarity leaned forward into the candlelight to search for it.

  Harriet whispered eagerly, “Page eighteen.”

  Clarity noted how this was likely significant but set it aside as she read very softly, “‘Chapter four: How Little Margery Learned to Read, and by Degrees Taught Others.’ Little Margery saw how good and wise Mr. Smith was, and concluded that this was owing to his great learning: Therefore she wanted of all Things to learn to read. For this Purpose she used to meet the little Boys and Girls as they came home from School—”

  Harriet proved correct, the chapter was only three pages long, and two of those had woodcut illustrations covering half of them. Yet Harriet look so relaxed at the end that Clarity thought she had fallen asleep again, but when she stopped reading, Harriet opened her eyes and whispered, “May I tell you a secret?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “I am like Margery. I, too, have a secret plan to learn to read.” She motioned with a finger for Clarity to lean closer. “I must whisper it right in your ear.”

  Clarity found her smile growing as the confidence passed between them. “Of course I will help you learn, darling. Never fear, I will discuss it with your father, and we will see what we can work out. Can you sleep now?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Clarity knelt down to her level. “You are a very grown-up and thoughtful little girl.” She did not add her amazement to hear Harriet talking like a miniature adult.

  “Thank you for bringing me up. Good night.”

  Clarity was uncertain whether the child was capable in this frozen house of reaching out for affection, and so kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, my darling.”

  For just a second Harriet beamed, her first artless act of the night, and closed her eyes.

  Clarity gathered her dress again and descended the stairs, to find the company disbanding in the hall. “Oh,” she said to Dr. Dwight, “I fear I have missed out on more learned discourse.”

  “As when you were little? Ha! I suspect that you understood more of what passed around you than you let on.”

  She took his hand. “All children do, don’t you think?”

  “I know it may seem a bit early to break up our gathering, but many, other than yourself and mother, have come from distant points, and we must allow them to return home before the hour is too terribly late.”

  Clarity helped her mother arrange her cloak, after which Mrs. Marsh finally extended her hand to him. “Dr. Dwight, the evening has been as stimulating as it was entertaining. We are so delighted that you invited us.” Freddy had brought the sleigh to the front door and Dwight helped her up into it.

  Seeking out Clarity, Obookiah bowed. “To you me bid very good night, Mrs. Putnam.”

  Clarity recognized his restraint, and extended her hand in the modern way. “Good night, Mr. Obookiah. I have so enjoyed meeting you.”

  He took her hand, again surprised that she had offered it. “Thank you.”

  Discreetly she leaned forward. “And just between us, I rather like Miss Clear Day.”

  Obookiah smiled but knew better now than to laugh, bowed again, and backed away.

  Mrs. Marsh had already snuggled beneath the blanket in her sleigh as Beecher accosted Clarity at the front door. “My dear Mrs. Putnam, may I offer you a small word of caution?”

  Clarity was arranging the hood of her cloak over her hair. “Of course, Reverend.”

  “Henry Obookiah has made great strides toward civilization since coming to the Lord. But there are still many things he does not understand.”

  “Yes?”

  “He is a young man, with a young man’s desires, and should you become too friendly with him—” Beecher was clearly struggling. “If we can get him home, among his own people, perhaps he can marry, but no one has yet put it to him plainly that he shall never have a white woman. He does not understand the difference in color, in his yet degraded condition.”

  Clarity looked full into Beecher’s eyes set in his face like melting wax. “You mean in his innocence?”

  Beecher winced. “I mean, in his lack of sophistication. It would be easy for you, however unwittingly, to lead him into . . . impossible expectations.”

  She extended her hand. “I shall take heed. Mother is waiting, good night.”

  Freddy helped her into the carriage, and tucked a blanket around their legs and under their feet. “Daughter,” said Mrs. Marsh suddenly, “this was a day that the Lord hath made, and I did not rejoice in it. We are bundled warmly and the night is beautiful. How would you feel about just taking a short ride?”

  Clarity made a mighty attempt to hide the earthquake that rocked her, for she had never known her mother to do anything spontaneous. “I should like it,” she said. “I should like to very much. Freddy, would you be willing?”

  Meriden had the reins in hand. “That would be well. The horses have had no exercise today. Where shall we go?”

  “Do you know,” said Mrs. Marsh, “it has been many years since I have been out to our pond. With moonlight and the snow? I should like to see it. You know its location, I believe, Mr. Meriden?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Freddy. He flicked the pair lightly with the reins and turned up the North Road toward Goshen at an easy canter.

  It was six miles to Goshen, but their pond tract lay not quite so far. Almost at once Clarity was lost in thought, which turned to the strange young man she had conversed with and perhaps befriended. She had not ever deeply considered the largeness of the world, that there were whole societies with ancient ways of living of which she had no understanding—a world of deep mystery. It seemed a great mistake to think of the English or the Americans as innately superior, the English with their imperial hauteur, the Americans with their clinging to slavery. Surely this darker sea of humanity extended across all races, each capable of unspeakable cruelty and depravity, yet surely susceptible to the elevation of kindness. Bliven had told her something of this when he returned from the Barbary Coast, told her of the customs of the Berbers—people in some ways still savages, yet people who prostrated themselves and prayed five times each day. She knew no one who prayed five times a day.

  These Sandwich Islanders, Henry Obookiah’s people, seemed to have never heard of the Lord God, yet they were a people to whom the original language of the Bible was closer to their native tongue than English was. Could it be that there was something in their innocence, also, that was closer to God? Could it be that there might be ways in which they were in fact closer to God than Beecher was, with all his chilly fussing and pettifogging?

  “You are very pensive, my d
ear.”

  Clarity had not noticed that her mother had taken her hand for some minutes, and smiled quickly. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  She imagined that the evening’s events presented her with a new sewing box, tightly packed with topics to think on. She agreed to own it and to think on them, and so allowed herself for the moment to settle back and enjoy the moonlight and snow, and sleigh bells, and the rolling pale fields as they glided by.

  A mile short of Goshen, Freddy turned the horses east down an unmarked lane, faint but perceptible under the snow. It soon began to follow a tumbling brook, into a patch of forest, where the water broadened into the pond, frozen blue-white, where Freddy reined in the horses in a clearing.

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mrs. Marsh quietly. “Do you know, Daughter, this is where your father and I started our life together.”

  She did know very well, from many tellings. “I cannot imagine anything more romantic, Mama.”

  Mrs. Marsh removed a gloved hand from beneath their blanket and pointed. “I know the cornerstones of our little house must still be in those trees over there. Your father inherited this tract, and when he went into business he rode every day into Goshen and back again. His family were the founders of Litchfield, but he did not want to just follow along on what they had done, and he removed himself until he did well enough to move back on more independent terms.”

  “Yes. I imagine that is a reason why he overcame his objection to my desire to marry Bliven. He saw a little of himself in him.”

  “I did not know until many years later that he placed a mortgage on this property to buy his first stake in the trading company. I have so little head for gambling, I should have died from fear. He did not tell me until he safely held the deed again.”

  Conversation faded, and but for a snort from the horses, and the small distant tumble of water as the pond flowed out into the brook from beneath its frozen crust, the silence was utter. “I was not very brave, you see,” Mrs. Marsh continued after a time. “I mean, who among us can know where life will take us? Look at that young man tonight, from the Sandwich Islands. From where he started, how could he have ever imagined being here now? Either God has a plan for us, or it is a fantasy. Yet look at his life, who could say it is not the product of design?”