The Missing Blunt Boy

“George, it is your turn now” called Mr. Bourassa, beckoning George to come forward.

George rose from the wooden chair. The eyes of the two younger boys who were also waiting followed him until Mr. Bourassa ushered him into Superintendent Henderson’s office.

The old man smiled wearily up at George from his desk. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

George did so hesitantly. He’d never been summoned to the superintendent’s office before. He didn’t get into much trouble and he wasn’t a good enough student to be invited for private tutoring.

It was Saturday and George had been looking forward to playing in the woods with some of the other boys. But he and the other Seminole students had been marched from the dining hall to the schoolhouse immediately after breakfast.

“How is his English?” the superintendent asked Mr. Bourassa.

“Like the others, it is quite poor.”

“How can it be that after three years here at Choctaw these boys do not know basic English?”

George listened to the two men speak without understanding.

“It is like I have said,” replied Mr. Bourassa. “Some of them cannot learn books. They are more suited for trades.”

“That is conversation for another time,” the superintendent huffed and then turned his attention to George. “What is your name?”

Name.

Na-ket.

“George W. Hord.”

“What is your other name?”

Name.

Na-ket.

“George W. Hord,” George said again.

“No, no…” the superintendent muttered. “Is your name Billy?”

George shook his head.

Superintendent Henderson and Mr. Bourassa exchanged a glance and the superintendent tapped his forefinger above his upper lip.

“Your father. Is he a chief?”

Father.

Chilth-keh.

Chief.

Mik-ko.

George nodded, “Yes.”

The superintendent’s gaze intensified and it made George squirm. “Is your father John Blunt?”

“No,” George said.

Superintendent Henderson hit his fist on the desk. George’s chest leaped in fright.

“Are you sure? Is your father Chief Blunt? Are you Billy Blunt?” the superintendent asked in exasperation.

George stared blankly at the superintendent unsure of what to say or do.

“There are two more,” Mr. Bourassa declared.

The superintendent nodded. “Bring the next one in.”

*

“This is the boy,” Superintendent Henderson said, putting his hand on George’s shoulder.

Colonel Johnson examined George with a critical eye. “But he says Chief Blunt is not his father?”

“That is correct, but communication is difficult. He is the only one of the six that says his father is a chief. If he is not the one, I fear your suspicions might be right.”

“The War Office is dissatisfied with our prolonging of the affair,” said the colonel. “Let us hope that bringing the boy to the commissioner will appease them.”

“I cannot imagine him obtaining much from interrogating the boy further,” Henderson remarked. “The whole lot of them have failed to recall their names before arriving at the school or produce the names of their fathers.”

“Well, let us hope that Commissioner Herring is as good at Indian relations as his post advertises,” declared the colonel before he turned away and marched toward the stagecoach.

The superintendent prodded George to follow.

*

George did not care for the city. It was loud and filled with strange smells. Leaving his homeland for Choctaw Academy had been a difficult change, but at least there were open fields and forests in Kentucky.

The people of Washington D.C. didn’t seem to mind being crammed in so tightly with one another as George watched them from the stagecoach window. He did not understand it. And he did not understand why he was here.

He knew the Choctaws and Potawatomis were anxious back at school. Their tribes were being forced away from their homes. The boys worried for their families and feared being left behind. Were his people being pushed out of their home too? Was he here to talk to President Jackson and tell him to stop the removal?

The stagecoach came to a halt and Colonel Johnson led George into a building. Soon he found himself in another whiteman’s office, but it wasn’t the president’s, it belonged to a jovial looking man named Mr. Herring.

“Ah, this must be George!” Mr. Herring exclaimed as George was nudged into a chair while the colonel remained standing.

“Yes, Commissioner,” said Colonel Johnson. “Superintendent Henderson has tried to ascertain if he is indeed Billy Blunt, but without success. I hope you will be able to get this affair sorted.”

Mr. Herring’s countenance turned serious. “I shall do what I can, but might I say that this could have all been avoided if proper records were kept upon the boys’ arrivals. I daresay any man or woman who can wield a pen could have written down a name such as ‘Billy’.”

Colonel Johnson’s lips were pressed in a straight line. Then he said, “I shall speak with Henderson and see what can be done about collecting such records.”

“That would be a good start, but a better measure would have been for you to release the boys when the request for their return was first received, Colonel Johnson. Then we would not have such a dire situation on our hands at all, would we?” asked Mr. Herring pointedly.

Colonel Johnson opened his mouth to give a retort, but Mr. Herring waved his hand and said, “Leave the boy with me. You can collect him in an hour.”

Colonel Johnson marched out and Mr. Herring’s smile gradually crept back into place as he peered at George.

“Welcome, George,” Mr. Herring said. “You.” He pointed at George. “Have traveled.” He made two of his fingers look like the walking legs of a man. “A long way.” He drew his hands from close together to far apart. “To see me.” He pointed to his eyes and then to his own chest.

George nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You have learned math at Choctaw, yes?” Mr. Herring asked as he slid a piece of parchment with numbers on it toward George.

“Yes,” George said proudly. He was quite good with numbers.

Mr. Herring retrieved a few coins from his pocket and put them on the desk in front of George. “How many coins?”

How many?

Nah-cho-mah?

George moved his fingers swiftly over the coins. “Six coins. Forty-one cents.”

“Very good!” said Mr. Herring. He pointed at George. “You. How many names?”

George’s brow furled as he thought. Wauca lah-nee was the name his mother called him. Golden Bull was the name the trader called him when George showed him his namesake. Jack Vacca was the name his father gave him when he sent him into the whiteman’s world. And George W. Hord was the name the superintendent gave him when he arrived at Choctaw.

“Four.”

Mr. Herring nodded understandingly. “And name four.” He held up four fingers. “Is George?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is name three?” Mr. Herring asked, lowering one finger.

“Jack Vacca,” George stated.

Mr. Herring was quiet for a moment. George wondered why the white men were so curious about his name. The Choctaw boys told a story of a man with no name, “the Nameless Choctaw”, who could not win himself a war name. But for George and other boys at school they seemed to have too many names. They put them on and took them off like a pair of shoes. Wauca lah-nee was the pair of leather moccasins he’d worn running across muddy banks under the high southern sun. George W. Hord was the pair of stiff shiny leather school shoes that slapped the wooden floors of the schoolhouse.

Finally Mr. Herring spoke again. “At Choctaw there was sickness, death.” He pretended to wretch. Then he closed his eyes and slumped in his chair.

Sick.

Dead.

E-ah-kal-e-mas-cheh.

Mr. Herring opened his eyes. “Two Seminoles.” He held up two fingers. “Dead.”

“Yes,” George said faintly.

“Names?” Mr. Herring asked. “Third names?” He held up a three.

George’s chest became heavy. The smell of vomit and feces rushed into his mind. As did the sight of dry lips and eyelids that wouldn’t open. Then the feel of earth and the taste of salty tears.

“Orsler,” George said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Cho-se.

Brother.

George pointed to himself and said, “Brother.”

Sympathy flooded Mr. Herring’s gaze. “I am sorry, George.” He pointed at George. “You and Orsler. Your father. Name?”

“Vacca Pechassie.”

Mr. Herring held up two fingers again. He wiggled one forwards and backwards. “Orsler.” Then he wiggled the other. “Name?”

George recalled the mound of dark dirt beside the one where he spilled tears. “Aaron.”

Upon hearing the name, Mr. Herring seemed relieved. “Aaron. Father. Name?”

George shook his head. “No father. No mother.”

Mr. Herring exhaled and his shoulders loosened. He pointed at George again. “You. Father. Chief.”

“Yes.”

“You. Seminole.” Mr. Herring held up one finger. Then on his other hand he held up all five fingers. “Five other Seminoles. One more. Father. Chief.”

George nodded. He understood. “Billy.”

“Billy," Mr. Herring echoed. "And what is Billy's fourth name?” He flashed four fingers.

“Charles Phillips.”

Mr. Herring smiled and pushed the coins on the desk toward George. “Thank you, George.” Then more to himself than to George, he continued,“When Colonel Johnson returns, I will tell him the good news. Chief Blunt’s son is alive. Soon the six of you will be going home. Though it should have been all eight if the colonel had not stalled the inevitability.”

One word caught George’s attention.

Home.

Wela.

For some, Choctaw had become home. But for George it was the house and cow pasture beside the swift river coursing through the surrounding everglades.

Chickee. Wakahonta. Withlacoochee. Pah-ha-yo-kee.

His people’s homeland. He missed it, especially as he sat in this whiteman’s office in this strange city. His homeland was beautiful and he could see why the white men wanted it for themselves. But would they just turn it into an ugly place like this?

Mr. Herring was a nice man, but George wished he and President Jackson would be content with what they already had. His people had lost much, but the white men always wanted more.

George’s father had sent him to Choctaw to learn the whiteman’s ways so that he could help his people. But he was just a boy whose tongue did not take to English. And if the Choctaw and Potawatomis were being pushed from their homes. Surely his people would be too and it would be too late to fight with words.

George stared out the window at the bustling streets and wondered when he would see his home again. And if he did see it again, would it only be to say good-bye?

Ilcep-ah-non-es-tchah.

***

Part of the sixth grade English Language Arts curriculum that I teach includes a module focused on Native American Indian Boarding Schools. The first time I was preparing to teach this module I had a lot of learning to do. In all my years of history instruction I’d never heard of these schools. Even the most well known example, the Carlisle Industrial School, was never mentioned in a single textbook or lecture.

As a part of an introductory lesson my students and I looked at a map showing all the Native American Indian Boarding schools that were once operational within the United States. Using the map and the list of schools with it, we could see that in our state of Kentucky there was only one such school: Choctaw Indian School.

The resources for the following overview of Choctaw Academy’s history include Great Crossings: Indians, Settlers, and Slaves in the Age of Jackson by Christina Snyder and several online articles which are linked below.

The school was started after the Choctaw leader’s dissatisfaction with missionary schools had escalated and they negotiated a treaty to receive educational funds from the U.S. government.

The money was used to establish a boarding school on farmland owned by a Kentucky politician named Richard M. Johnson. The school was initially formed for Choctaw students, but students from many other tribes attended as well.

During the school’s years of operation, 1825-1842, there were many problems stemming from mismanagement as well as other factors.

Money was pocketed by Johnson instead of being spent on the students.

Trade skills were taught against the wishes of the Native American tribe leaders.

Racial tensions flared between the Native American students and enslaved workers on Johnson’s plantation.

The Indian Removal Act was passed in 1830 and the Choctaw people were the first tribal group to be forcibly relocated.

There was a cholera outbreak at the school in 1833 and nine students died, two of which were Seminole.

Seminole Chief Blunt had requested all students return as they prepared for removal in May of 1833. Johnson stalled and then the cholera broke out in June.

Chief Blunt refused to relocate until his son was returned to him. Johnson and the Superintendent, Thomas Henderson, were fearful that Chief Blunt’s son, Billy, had been one of the Seminole boys who died.

Johnson took the one boy who said his father was a chief to Washington D.C. for questioning at the Office of Indian Affairs. Commissioner Elbert Herring was able to figure out which boys had died and that Billy was still alive.

Though there were many complaints from Native American students and tribal leaders about operations at Choctaw, Johnson used his political power to circumvent them. He served as a U.S. senator and even became Vice President of the United States in 1837 under President Martin Van Buren.

There are numerous points of interest in the history of Choctaw Academy, but the ordeal of identifying Billy Blunt captured my attention. I had several questions about how the confusion ever occurred.

I learned it was typical for the school officials not to write down names of students when they arrived. Even when boys had Anglicized names like Billy, they were given new ones.

The students probably still had a poor proficiency in English after three years at Choctaw and miscommunication issues would have been difficult to navigate.

Furthermore, some of the student’s may have feigned ignorance because they didn’t want to be sent away from Choctaw. Billy Blunt reportedly cried and asked to return to school when he was reunited with his father.

Choctaw was one of the earliest chapters in the Indian Boarding Schools era of the U.S. It was formed out of cooperation between Choctaw Tribe leaders and the U.S. Government. But by the founding of the Carlisle School in 1879 relations had deteriorated and attendance became compulsory. Instead of promoting education the goals became assimilation and erasing Native American culture. An estimated 200 students died and were buried at Carlisle.

Orsler Vacca and orphan Aaron, who died at Choctaw, were precursors to the many Native students who would die at Indian Boarding Schools. And the names of such children would be erased from history if they were ever written down at all.

Sources:

Explore Kentucky History: Choctaw Indian Academy