The Heathen School Read online

  When Sarah returned home that evening, her mother was waiting. Mrs. N.: “Sarah, do you love John Ridge?” Sarah: “Yes, I do love John.” At that, Mrs. Northrup saw there was trouble in the camp.

  The Northrups decided that swift action was essential to prevent further dalliance between the two young sweethearts; they must send their daughter away. Thus, shortly thereafter Mr. Northrup took Sarah to her grandparents [Dr. Joel and Mrs. Mabel Sarah] in New Haven, and told them why and what he had brought her for. [He] wished them to make parties and introduce her to other gentlemen, and try every way to get her mind off John Ridge. Sarah would have none of it. She stayed three months, but would take no notice of any gentleman or any company. [She] had no appetite for food, lost flesh, and they thought she soon would be [a] victim of consumption. Understandably, her grandparents grew alarmed about her; there was nothing to do but send her home.

  There were difficulties, too, on John’s side. Major Ridge and Susanna expected their son to take a wife from within the Nation, preferably a chief’s daughter. Thus when John wrote home of his wish to marry Sarah, they were surprised and dismayed. Susanna consulted with one of the resident missionaries, who warned that a white woman might feel superior to “the common Cherokees,” and that her son would be more useful to his people “were he connected with them in marriage.” She then had a letter sent to John, objecting strongly to his “intentions.” But when he replied by reaffirming his love for Sarah, his parents were persuaded to yield.

  It was clear now that their feelings could not be denied: John was dying for Sarah, and Sarah was dying for John. Sarah’s parents weighed the possibilities and formed a new plan. Mrs. Northrup told John to go home and stay two years, and if he could come back without his crutches he might marry Sarah.

  At around the same time, the prudential committee of the American Board voted that John “be permitted to leave the School, & that it be recommended to his father to procure … his return home, as soon as practicable.” This was polite language for a forced removal, prompted (at least in part) by financial considerations. As Daggett noted, “he…[is] supported by the funds of the institution, but the expense and inconvenience which he occasions, is very considerable, without any prospect of advantage, to himself, or the cause [of missions].”19

  Indeed, John himself had finally come around: “[I]t is now his wish to go.” And go he did, together with three fellow Cherokee scholars who had completed their own time at the school. The group set out in mid-October. In deference to John’s still-fragile health, they traveled by ship instead of overland; in early November, they debarked in Charleston, South Carolina. There, and later in Augusta, Georgia, they visited local churches, with John stepping forward as advocate for mission-based philanthropy. Addressing several “very numerous” congregations, he presented a somewhat divided message. On the one hand, he stressed “the wretched state of the Heathen, particularly of the aborigines of this country…[whom] the hand of charity can only pluck … from final extermination.” On the other, he proudly recounted recent examples of “improvement” among his own people, the Cherokees, in order to refute “those who disbelieved in the practicability of Indian civilization.”20

  These appearances were notably successful; audiences responded each time by volunteering funds to support mission work. The same “liberality” would also assist “the Indian young men from Cornwall” in defraying the costs of their journey. While all were “warmly approved,” John made an especially strong impression; one newspaper account applauded his “fine spirit and excellent talents” as a speaker. (However, it also regretted that “he is not a professor of religion”—that is, a fully converted Christian.) In early December, the group reached the Cherokee country, where they received something of a heroes’ welcome. Once again, John was singled out for special praise. A white admirer would later comment that “from the time of his return from college” (meaning the Mission School), he was considered “a leading man in the Nation … the idol of the half-breeds, and well respected by most intelligent Cherokees.”21

  All the while, knowledge of John’s liaison with Sarah was confined to a small circle of Northrup and Ridge family members. It was not until the following April that Daggett’s report of their “intimacy” reached the offices of the American Board in Boston, and even then the matter was described in confidential tones, without reference to named individuals. According to a bit of doggerel composed shortly afterward by a young “versifier” who is said to have been employed at the Mission School: “They kept it a secret and did not tell / How Sarah loved an Indian well / Nor was the secret thing made known / Till from his country he did return.”22

  That December, John published in the missionary press a bitter denunciation of race prejudice, “the ruling passion of the age.” The Indian, he wrote, is “almost considered accursed … frowned upon by the meanest peasant” and compared unfavorably to “the scum of the earth.” No matter how well educated, how “modest and polite … his conduct … yet he is an Indian, and the most stupid and illiterate white man will disdain and triumph over [him].” The phrasing here closely reflected John’s own situation: well educated, modest, polite, the sum of his personal accomplishments. (Conversely, he must have known stupid, illiterate, disdainful whites.) This was, in any case, uncharacteristic—a new theme for him. All his previous comments on racial difference had looked toward linkage and cooperation.23

  In the meantime, he remained at home with his family, presumably in poor health and (at best) in limited contact with Sarah. Still, their feelings for each other did not abate. Then, as another New Year approached, John’s symptoms lessened enough to permit his return north to his intended bride. He set out in mid-December and reached Cornwall a month later. Evidently, Sarah’s parents agreed that the terms of their previous stipulation had been met; though still somewhat lame, John could walk without crutches. In short order, the couple’s intentions were “published” as banns in the local church, following long-established practice in such matters. Now, at last, the “secret thing” was fully exposed—and local reaction began to build. But John and Sarah were moving fast. On January 27, 1824, their marriage was formalized at a small gathering in the Northrups’ home. Rev. Timothy Stone, agent of the Mission School and an obvious choice to perform the ceremony, declined—apparently to protect his own, and the school’s, reputation. His colleague, Rev. Walter Smith, officiated instead.24

  Though set to return to the Cherokee Nation, the newlyweds remained in Cornwall for some days longer. As was customary in that era, they would visit—and be visited by—friends and relations, in a kind of ritual acknowledgment of their “married estate.” According to the report of a local resident, written several months after the fact: “On [the next] Sabbath morning … Col. Gold, a deacon in the church, called upon Ridge and his lady, and conducted them to the meeting house, and seated them with his family.” Presumably, this was intended as a public sign of personal respect—all the more so as it meant moving Ridge from his former position on the “scholars’ bench” to the deacon’s pew at the front of the church. Additional gestures would follow. Thus: “Ridge and his lady were invited to visit at Capt. Miles’, a wealthy farmer in the neighborhood … together with the aforesaid Deacon Gold and his lady.” There they were “treated with that marked attention which has hitherto been given to the members of the Foreign Mission School, by some of the inhabitants residing in the vicinity.” This, however, seems to have kindled resentment; the writer described it as “one of the causes…[of] the disgraceful affair,” which, in the coming months, would bring “so much excitement and disgust throughout our country.” (Indeed, his comment hints that some in Cornwall were already displeased with the “attention” frequently lavished on the scholars.)25

  Whatever its source, John and Sarah soon faced “the highest indignation” (as another report said). Years later they would describe to a friend how “the papers proclaimed it [their wedding] as an outrage, and preachers den
ounced it in the pulpit.” The news “flew with the wind”—from Cornwall, to the surrounding towns, to the rest of the state, and beyond. Threats were made by “the best and most respectable men…[to] drive the natives from the country…[and] heap indignity on the clergy engaged.” According to a “gentleman” from Litchfield, “fifty men had signed an instrument in writing, promising to … go in a body to Cornwall, and not return till they had entirely demolished the building in which the school was kept.” Sarah’s parents felt obliged to accompany the couple on their way out of town lest they become targets of attack; even so, John “came near to being mobbed.” At subsequent stops, as they traveled by stagecoach on the route south, they were met by “excited throngs, denouncing [Ridge]…for taking away as wife…a white girl.” He, for his part, readily acknowledged having entered the white world and “plucked one of its fairest flowers.” But what of it? He was not, he insisted, “her inferior in any respect.”26

  As more time passed, the tempest they left behind in Cornwall would only strengthen. According to Isaac Bunce, longtime editor of nearby Litchfield’s American Eagle, no “white man in town approved of that transaction, except their two clergymen, and two other families.” Recriminations were hurled about, most of them centering on the bride’s parents. It was said that her mother had “conspired” to promote the match, that the wedding had been performed in secret so as to deceive the public, even that her father, innocent of direct involvement, “was afflicted to distraction at the degradation of his daughter, has left the family and gone off, it [is] not known where.” (One account, allegedly from a friend and eyewitness, confirmed the father’s presence at the ceremony, but claimed that he “felt like death—felt dreadfully.”) Newspapers throughout Connecticut—and in “nine or ten [other] states” besides—became channels for vehement fulmination. Bunce was an especially harsh critic; in issue after issue he decried “the affliction, mortification, and disgrace, of the young woman [who]…throwing herself into the arms of an Indian … has thus made herself a squaw.” (For many readers, the word carried a particular connotation of sexualized ugliness.) He linked this “criminal connection” with the reigning “missionary spirit”—and, more particularly, with the readiness of the Cornwall school to embrace intermarriage as “a new kind of missionary machinery…[for] christianizing the savages [italics in original].” It was, he declared, “one of their objects … to break down all objections of colour, and make our daughters become nursing mothers to a race of mulattoes [italics in original].” Another local newspaper, the Litchfield Gazette, stated simply: “The intermarrying with the Indians and Blacks of the Missionary School at Cornwall, now begun, is … not a subject for irony.” To have Sarah “marry an Indian and [be] taken into the wilderness among savages, must indeed be a heart-rending pang.” Other opposers were inclined to blame the participants directly; “some … said that the girl ought to be publicly whipped, the Indian hung, and the mother drown’d.” Meanwhile, too, church leaders were reportedly “about to bring Mr. Smith to trial … for performing that marriage.”27

  Indeed, there was widespread expectation of more—and worse—to come. According to press accounts, “foreign scholars … have … been seen to walk arm in arm…[with] both married and unmarried ladies” from the town. Some of the stories passed around seemed truly “scandalous.” One recounted a nighttime gathering at which “Cherokees and Choctaws were snugly seated with the ladies, in the parlour.” Another told of a man who retired to bed, leaving his daughter “sparking it with an Indian.” In this connection, the American Eagle noted a particular bit of racially charged colloquial speech: a woman’s supposed request to a “tawny” suitor, “Indian, won’t you Indian me?” Still another report had Sarah Ridge writing from her new home to Cornwall friends “that they must marry [their Indian sweethearts], and come on, AS THEY HAD AGREED!” (The capitalization appears in the original. A source claimed to have “seen the letter.”) There were rumors that “other ladies there, being engaged … have got scare out of it”; more specifically, “a gentleman … informs us that three other marriages with these natives were supposed to be in treaty.” If “the principle” of intermarriage should be allowed to stand, “does it not promise to hundreds of other respectable families in this county, a similar bitter and heartrending pang, that will cease only with death?” Hundreds of other families! The possibilities were dire—and limitless.28

  To be sure, much of this was pure gossip and was rejected as such by many with close connections to the school. Moreover, public opinion was not all of a piece on the central question. A New Haven newspaper, having first declared its own “decided disapprobation of the unnatural union of different colours,” then gave space to the opposite viewpoint. This allowed an unidentified correspondent to condemn the published attacks on “the late marriage of an Indian to a white girl” as “conceited ebullitions of spleen.” In fact, the writer continued, “the man [Ridge] has a soul, and intelligence, and probably as much mind and refinement as the female; and when you have called him a man, your Bible tells you he belongs to your own species, and is made after the same Almighty image.” If only “intermarriages with the aborigines” had been undertaken from early colonial times, they would have proved the best possible means of advancing Indian “civilization”; moreover, the country might have been spared “oceans of blood and mountains of crime.”29

  The same writer ridiculed the “pitiful strain in which it is lamented that the society of those young Indians is preferred [by local women] to that of the whites of the same sex and age.” Yet the theme of racial insult was everywhere in public discussion; Litchfield editor Bunce returned to it repeatedly. One of his informants, apparently a Cornwall resident, declared it “a fact … that the Indians are treated with more attention and respect than the young white men of good standing.” There is some possibility that Sarah had a second suitor—a white neighbor—whose interest she at first encouraged but later rebuffed in order to wed John. (Thus another bit by the previously mentioned versifier: “Upon her side it does look dark / To think how she used her neighbor Clark / He went with her both night and day / While her dear John was gone away / And unto him she did not tell / How that she loved an Indian well.”)30

  The larger point—about romantic competition—was vigorously challenged by certain “Bachelors of Cornwall Valley.” In a letter to the Litchfield American Eagle, this group claimed to have met in “regularly convened” fashion, and then to have approved a series of sardonic “resolutions” explicitly denying “that the young ladies of this place show an undue partiality towards the members of the Foreign Mission School, and … that we are thus cast into the shade, and eclipsed by the intervention of these our tawny rivals [italics in original].” Additional letters to the same newspaper reviled its editor for espousing “the principles of an old hound Dog” and representing “the off scouring of the world”; Bunce, however, scorned them as unworthy of response, since their probable source was “some of the red pupils of the school.” So it went with the “marriage controversy”—to and fro, thrust and counterthrust—through much of the following year.31

  The school itself struck a studiously defensive pose. The members of its governing board composed an open letter, responding at length to the various “misrepresentations and groundless statements … by which the public have been abused.” (Mr. Northrup had not gone crazy; the marriage was “solemnized in open day … with the consent of both parents”—and so on.) Their chief purpose was to disclaim all responsibility on the part of the institution. First and foremost, “neither the Agents nor the Principal have had any concern, directly or indirectly, in advising, aiding, or assisting, respecting this marriage.” Second, the match had “not been the consequence of the ordinary operations of the School”; instead, it resulted from “peculiar circumstances, which can never be expected again to recur.” (The letter went on to describe John’s illness and his being kept for so long in the Northrup household; further, there had been
no “intimation from the family” of his developing relationship with Sarah.) Finally, reports of “other, similar connexions, between the scholars and young ladies of this place” were groundless; school rules, including some very “particular restrictions…[on] intercourse with the inhabitants,” ensured against any repeat occurrence. Thus, while not explicitly condemning the marriage, school authorities distanced themselves from it as much as possible. And they promised that nothing like it would happen again. Plainly, their greatest concern was to preserve the school’s good name—and, more especially, to reassure its legion of loyal supporters. In this regard, they would soon be badly disappointed, as the flow of “donations” began a sharp decline.32

  Some in the ranks of missionaries strongly disapproved of the school’s evasiveness. One described a series of anguished conversations with colleagues at work among the Cherokees. “If I am not mistaken,” he wrote to the American Board home office, “the President [Washington] and Secretary of War [Knox], but a few years since, recommended intermarriages with the Indians as a means of promoting their improvement.” He knew John Ridge to be “a man … worthy of respect in any community”—though now “shamefully abused by some northern editors.” The school’s leaders, by focusing solely on the matter of “excusing themselves,” had seemed to endorse the “objections” raised by critics. This would place other Cornwall scholars “in a very delicate situation.” Henceforth they “must not look at a young [white] woman, lest they should conceive an affection for her which could never be gratified”; more broadly, they must accept being “viewed with suspicion & as a grade of inferior beings.” Another missionary sent an account of recent “intermarriages” in the Cherokee country. These included two ministers with Indian wives, another “white man and a Cherokee girl,” and “our Cherokee brother Joseph Crawfish [who] was lawfully married to a white woman.” Why, he wondered, should matters be different in the North?33