The Heathen School Read online

  It was, even beyond the terminus, the various people who made these things—in towns and villages stretched far across the interior of the Chinese mainland. First, the tea farmers in the eastern provinces above Canton who harvested the remarkably bountiful shrub three times a year, in dozens of varieties and grades. (Americans preferred green tea, especially the so-called young Hyson, which came principally from Kiangsi and Chekiang.) And also the merchants who brought the tea to market, mostly on rivers and streams in small, shallow-hulled junks. And the silk growers in the lower Yangtzee Valley who tended both the precious fiber-producing caterpillars (Bombyx mori, aka silkworm) and the equally essential caterpillar-sustaining mulberry trees. And, not least, the painters, carvers, carpenters, silversmiths, porcelain workers, and other anonymous craftspeople whose handiwork would grace the homes, and lives, of strangers half a world away.10

  It was—most importantly here—Hawaii. Set roughly in the middle of this entire web, and known then as the Sandwich Islands, the Hawaiian archipelago served as crossroads, as refitting and provisioning stop, as vacation spot, as pleasure garden, as commercial entrepôt, as hiring station, as escape hatch, and (beginning about 1820) as key target for American missionaries. Ships arrived from several directions—Sitka Bay, the coastal towns of Peru and Chile, other parts of Polynesia—reflecting the different segments of the China Trade. Most stayed for intervals of from two weeks to two months before proceeding on across the Pacific. Officers, crew, and supercargoes alike described the islands in paradisiacal terms—“designed by Providence,” wrote an admiring visitor, “to become … a place for the rest and recreation of sailors, after their long and perilous navigations.” All praised “the genial climate, the luxurious abundance, and the gratifying pleasures” to be found there. All enjoyed the remarkable variety of fresh food and drink, especially pork from the hogs that ran more or less wild onshore, fowl of several types, tropical fruits and vegetables such as breadfruit and taro, and coconut, with its delicious milky contents. Most partook of the freely flowing liquor in the form of locally distilled rum and gin. And, perhaps inevitably after the long months at sea, many sought the company of lissome wahines, native women described as wonderfully “complaisant” and “amorous.” (By one account, similar to many others, “they would almost use violence to force you into their embrace.” But much of this activity was simple prostitution.)11

  It was, finally, a host of impressions—thoughts, feelings, wishes—that grew, and spread, and palpitated in the hearts and heads of the innumerable throng whose lives it touched. Widened eyes, expanded horizons, a lifted gaze, a new sense of possibility and potency: thus its impact across the length and breadth of what was then called “Young America.” For the China Trade was indeed a key part of our national youth. “China,” wrote a pioneer sea captain who had seen for himself, “is the first for greatness, richness, and grandeur of any country ever known.” (Might America rise one day to become its equal?)12

  As often as not, there was some reshuffling of personnel while the trade ships stood at anchor in Hawaiian harbors. Some sailors would decide to remain in the islands—would jump ship to become, in effect, deserters. Others were discharged by their captains for insubordination, incompetence, or failure to perform their duties. (Men from either category might subsequently put down roots in native communities; a few actually rose to the status of chiefs, or trusted advisers to the royal family.)13

  The process also went the other way, with Hawaiian men hiring on as crew for the remainder of a voyage. Known as kanakas (the islanders’ word for themselves, modified in shipboard parlance to “knackies”), they would then sail to Canton, to London, to New York or Boston—and, in some cases, might begin a long career at sea. Most of these men led difficult, unrecorded lives, on the margins of organized society.14

  One, however, would become a famous exception. He was called Obookiah, with “Henry” added in front. Even today, he is much remembered in Hawaii. And, across a large swath of nineteenth-century America, few names were more well and widely known than Henry Obookiah.

  • CHAPTER TWO •

  “Providence unquestionably cast them on our shores”

  Who was Henry Obookiah? In the legend that would come to surround his life, one scene anchored all the rest.

  On an autumn afternoon in the year 1809, at the main door of Yale College, in New Haven, Connecticut, a stream of undergraduates flows steadily in and out. Off to one side, a rather odd-looking young man—of “dusky” complexion and in ragged apparel—stands watching, and quietly weeping. After several minutes, his presence is noticed and acknowledged by some of the students. When asked the cause of his distress, he replies, haltingly and in broken English, “that nobody gives me learning.”1

  Should we believe this as historical fact? Perhaps not; when set in the context of the entire Obookiah legend, it seems almost too good to be true. Still, it can be taken as a kind of capsule of much that did happen—in this place, with these people, at around this time. For Obookiah did reach New Haven at some point during the summer of 1809, following his arrival in New York, with a certain Captain Caleb Brintnall, aboard a China Trade ship called the Triumph. And he did take up residence, together with his friend and fellow “knacky” Thomas Hopoo, in the captain’s own home. And he did then become acquainted with a large number of Yale students. And the students did offer him some of the “learning” he craved.2

  At first, however, he was discouraged by his “ignorance” and difficulties with the English language. Hopoo seems to have done better; according to Obookiah’s later recollection, “friend Thomas went to school to one of the students in the College before I thought of going to school.” At this point, Obookiah was inclined to return home, having “heard that a ship was ready to sail from New York … for Owhyhee.” But after staying another week, he was invited by a particular undergraduate—Edwin W. Dwight—to begin regular lessons “to read and write,” and soon became a frequent visitor to Dwight’s college room. Years later, Dwight recalled Obookiah’s initially “unpromising” appearance: his “rough sailor’s suit,” his “clumsy form,” his seemingly “inactive … mind.” As time passed, however, he began to display “an unusual degree of discernment,” a trait that belied “the dulness which was thought to be indicated by his countenance.”3

  One senses here a complicated mix—of appreciation and condescension, of closeness and distance. There was, too, some genuine camaraderie. Obookiah proved himself “dextrous as a mimic,” and, from time to time, delighted his new friends with suggestive and satirical “imitations.” Walking strangely and flapping his arms, he would ask pointedly, “Who dis?” When once the pattern was reversed, and he was mimicked by another, “he burst into a roar of laughter and fell upon the floor, where he indulged his mirth until he had exhausted his strength.” In fact, this little picture is laced with ambiguity; Obookiah appears something of a buffoon. Other descriptive bits reflect his struggles in learning, his fondness for petty mischief, and his sense of the “ludicrous.” English, in particular, came to him slowly. (Long afterward, in a letter to Dwight, he recalled “one morning [when] I came into your room in College, and…you say, ‘what c.a.p. spell?’ Then I say, ‘c.a.p. pig.’ ”) Sometimes he would mock his own “heathen” religion: “Owhyhee gods! they wood, burn. Me go home, put ’em in a fire, burn ’em up. They no see, no hear, no any thing.” Not surprisingly, his Yale tutors saw him very much as an exotic.4

  Yet, in some ways, Obookiah’s reception was remarkably full and positive—even generous. When he tired of living with Captain Brintnall, or perhaps when the captain tired of him, he was quickly invited into the household of Yale’s president, Rev. Timothy Dwight (a distant relative of young Edwin). There he stayed put for several months, while continuing his education. The president himself, and perhaps dozens of sympathetic undergraduates, sat with him to guide his lessons.

  The president’s home was a stately Georgian-style building of three stories and fif
teen rooms, closely abutting the college grounds. Its occupants at that point included members of Dwight’s immediate family—his wife and two youngest sons—plus a couple of indentured house servants. The duties of a college president meant that both students and faculty would be frequently dropping in. Moreover, Dwight cut a large figure well beyond the boundaries of Yale (and New Haven). His eminence among the Protestant clergy led to his being widely, if informally, known as “Pope Dwight”; he was a writer, poet, and naturalist, as well. No doubt, therefore, his home was open to important visitors from near and far. What his young Hawaiian guest might have thought of all this, we can only imagine—likewise what the others thought of the guest. But the bare fact of being invited, and accepted, into such a household is itself noteworthy.5

  If President Dwight or any of the interested students had asked Obookiah about his origins, what might he have said? Later biographical accounts offer a riveting story.

  When he is just “a lad of about 12 years … two parties [are] contending for the dominion of the island [on which he lives].” A battle ensues. There is a “dreadful slaughter.” His father is directly involved. The other side emerges victorious. His family then flees to the mountains and remains hidden for several days. Driven by thirst, they go looking for a spring and are promptly surprised by enemy forces. The father escapes, but the mother and children are taken and “put … to the torture.” At this, the father returns—whereupon he, “with his wife, [is] cut in pieces.” Obookiah takes up an “infant brother upon his back” and attempts to run away. But the brother is speared from behind and dies soon after. Obookiah is caught “and saved alive, because he [is] not young enough to give them trouble, nor old enough to excite their fears.” He is then held captive together with an aunt, whom he considers “the last individual of his kindred.” At one point, he gets free “by creeping through a hole into a cellar.” But his aunt is condemned to die and “taken to a precipice, from which she [is] thrown and destroyed.” Obookiah, “feeling himself more than ever alone,” runs to the same spot and tries also “to throw himself over,” but at the last moment he is caught and brought back. Thus is he preserved “by a kind interposition of Providence”—for reasons that will be revealed only by the subsequent course of his life.6

  This, too, was part of the legend; its details cannot now be confirmed. (Nor could they have been in New Haven in 1810.) But some of the timing and structure does conform to known elements of Hawaiian history, and even to independently established facts of Obookiah’s life. We can be quite certain about his birth—in the village of Ninole, Ka’u district, on the eastern shore of the Big Island of Hawaii, in about the year 1787. We know, too, the names of his parents and their own points of origin: Keau (father), also from Ka’u district, and Kamohoula (mother), from Napo’opo’o, on the island’s western shore.7

  The entire Hawaiian archipelago was then undergoing a major, and violent, transformation. The leading islands had long been divided into numerous separate chiefdoms. But a process of unification had recently begun, with one particular chief—later to be known as King Kamehameha I—leading the way. Starting in 1782, and continuing for a full decade, the islands were convulsed by a succession of civil wars. By 1792, Kamehameha had gained control nearly everywhere. However, sporadic local resistance continued for some while longer, culminating in a final, failed rebellion, on Hawaii itself, led by a subchief named Namakeha.8

  This last, which ended in August 1798, may have been the war to which the Obookiah legend refers. And his father could have been a partisan of the defeated Namakeha. In any case, there followed a period of peace, with the islands joined under the rule of Kamehameha and his court. Here, then, was the setting for the next stage of Obookiah’s life, some of it described in his own words.

  “The same man which killed my father and mother took me home to his own house.” Though he seems “amiable” enough (and so, too, his wife), Obookiah does not “feel contented.” After another year or two, he finds “one of my Uncles who was a priest among them.” The uncle “wished me not to go back … but to live with him” instead. However, Obookiah’s captor is for a time unwilling; long negotiations ensue. Finally, they reach an agreement: The boy will be transferred from the one household to the other—“and I lived with my uncle a number of years.” The uncle is indeed a native priest (kahuna), at a site called Hikia’u near Napo’opo’o; he decides that his young nephew should be trained “for the same service.” Thus Obookiah is “taught … long prayers” and given the task of repeating them daily in the “temple of the idol.” Eventually, he will assume personal charge of “three important gods.”9

  In short: As Obookiah passed through childhood, he was himself marked for the life of a kahuna. Ironically—in light of what became of him later on—indigenous Hawaiian religion was entering a period of decline. Christian influence had begun to seep into the islands even before the arrival of missionaries, with the rise of the China Trade. Traditional practice was sometimes neglected and core principles flouted (a trend that Kamehameha tried to reverse by executing a number of violators). There is no evidence that young Obookiah was affected by any of this while going about his duties as an apprentice priest. But something was making him feel restless. As he remembered much later: “I began to think about leaving that country to go to some other part of the globe. I did not care where I shall go to. I thought to myself that if I should get away … probably I may find some comfort, more than to live there [in Hawaii] without father or mother.”10

  The process that would lead to Obookiah’s departure was long and tortuous. Captain Brintnall and his ship the Triumph had reached Hawaii in 1807 and “tarried some time.” While there—and after having “completely gained the confidence” of Kamehameha—the captain agreed to take one of the king’s sons back to America “to receive an education.” As part of the same arrangement, two more Hawaiian youths were chosen to accompany the prince as “attendants”; this pair, apparently, was Obookiah and Hopoo. The king, however, soon changed his mind, “influenced by the fears of his subjects, that some evil would befall the Prince”; his son would remain at home after all. Meanwhile, Obookiah and Hopoo, “having their expectations excited, and a strong curiosity to see America, were unwilling to relinquish the voyage.” But now the problem was Obookiah’s uncle, who—acting in loco parentis—refused his permission. An elaborate struggle ensued. At one point, Obookiah was confined to a room as a virtual prisoner, and obliged to hear out the tearful pleas of “my old Grandmother.” (She “asked me what was my notion…[to] go with people whom I knew not.… She said that I was very foolish boy.”) Eventually, he escaped and swam out to the ship, with his uncle in close pursuit, only to be again “brought forth.” Now the uncle offered a compromise: “[H]e would not let me go … unless I paid him a hog for his god.” Whether or not this condition was fulfilled, the parties at length agreed, “and I … bid them farewell.” (Hopoo seems not to have experienced similar difficulties.)11

  At last they were on their way, and enrolled as members of the Triumph’s crew. From Hawaii, the ship sailed to an island off the Northwest Coast (present-day Alaska), to retrieve a group of “twenty or thirty men” previously left there “for sealing business.” No doubt, too, it took aboard a full cargo of sealskins. En route, Obookiah made an important connection with one Russell Hubbard, “a son of Gen. H. of New Haven [and]…a member of Yale College.” Hubbard had gone to sea following his graduation in 1806, hoping that a change of air and climate would resolve some (unspecified) health difficulties. He was deeply pious—in Obookiah’s phrasing, “a friend of Christ”—hence, in due course, he began teaching his Hawaiian shipmates the rudiments of Protestant belief. Obookiah would long, and fondly, remember this “very desirable young man”; perhaps, indeed, the Hubbard friendship helped smooth his way when he fetched up, a year or so later, at Yale.12