Smoke and Bat found the other Nimíipuu leaders and relayed the bad news. “If they travel through Snake country, they will miss our lands,” Smoke explained. “When they reach Big River, they will be among Cayuse.”
The night before, Cayuse and Nimíipuu women had argued loudly about which nation should get the Sent Ones; Smoke had worried that a fight would break out. If the Cayuse got the Sent Ones and Books of Heaven, they would learn how to make guns and steel knives and compasses whose needles always pointed north. They would become wealthy and powerful, not the Nimíipuu.
“We cannot let Cayuse have them,” Smoke said. “I will stay with them, lead them to our lands.”
“But you will miss buffalo hunting,” Shooting Arrow said. “You will have no dried meat for winter.”
“You can hunt for me.”
Shooting Arrow thought about this for a moment before nodding. “I will do that.”
“I will also stay with Soyappos,” Bat said. “I speak their tongue better than anyone else.”
TWENTY
October 1836
Spalding’s heart sank as he stared up at the desolate mountains that rose across the river. In his second letter Parker had recommended the junction of the Snake and Clearwater as a good place for a mission, but they had found little good soil and no timber there. Spalding grew increasingly despondent as they traveled deeper into Nez Perce territory and the scenery did not change. It rained in the spring, no doubt, for the mountains and valleys alike were covered with grass, but by October it was scorched brown by the sun. Across the Clearwater, on the north side, the mountains were steeper and closer to the banks; sheer buttes of brown rock thrust themselves out of their peaks, two thousand feet above.
He rode at the end of the column, and as dust hovered over the riders ahead, he let himself fall far behind. He had now traveled 6,155 miles from Holland Patent, New York, according to his running count—rising every morning only to travel onward, toward some new place where they would briefly lay their heads. Was it only to find that the Nez Perce homelands were unsuitable for a mission, unable to support agriculture or provide timber for building? Had they crossed the entire continent only to arrive in this arid, inhospitable place?
Dr. Whitman had claimed the first promising spot—good, rich land between two forks of a small river, the bottomland covered with thick bulrushes six feet high. It was only a day’s ride east of Fort Nez Perce, a Hudson’s Bay trading post on the Columbia. But it was Cayuse land, so Spalding had not objected. It was the Nez Perce, Eliza kept reminding him, who had sent men to Saint Louis to request missionaries.
There was no way he could live with the Whitmans, he was sure of that. Despite his many prayers, he had not found it within himself to forgive Narcissa; her beauty was a constant reminder of his humiliation. And Dr. Whitman was a good man, determined to do right, but he could be exceedingly pigheaded. He had insisted on taking Spalding’s light wagon west from the rendezvous, against everyone’s advice. It had capsized repeatedly in the mountains, and their helper, young Miles Goodyear, had finally refused to take another step with the cursed thing. When Whitman insisted, they had lost his services. Later Whitman had faced up to the inevitable and abandoned it, to the amusement of both the Nez Perce and the English.
Thank God for the Hudson’s Bay men: possessed of proper English respect for a man of God, they had treated the Spaldings with great deference. Between them and the Nez Perce, who saw to their every physical need, the trip west from the rendezvous had been almost pleasant, and Eliza’s health had recovered fully. Both couples had arrived at the Columbia in better health than they had departed Saint Louis, thanks be to God. And after descending the river on a Hudson’s Bay boat, they had found Fort Vancouver, with its ample gardens and orchards, its barns and fields, a lovely place to recuperate and reprovision, particularly in light of the extraordinary hospitality provided by Chief Factor John McLoughlin. After nine days at Dr. McLoughlin’s table, enjoying the most plentiful and civilized food and drink they had ever known, Spalding and Whitman had decided to leave their wives in his good care, while they returned upriver to explore for locations and construct their new homes.
Spalding was stirred from his thoughts by hoofbeats; a rider loped back toward him. It was the redhead, William Clark’s son, nearly naked in the hot sun. When he reached Spalding he reined in and pointed east, up the river. “Good land.”
Spalding frowned. The hills to the east were lower than those they had been skirting all day, but they looked just as dry. “I do not see.”
The Indian motioned to Spalding, wheeled his horse toward the other riders, and broke into a canter. Spalding kicked his dun mare and followed, holding himself up off the saddle to protect his tender buttocks. They had ridden more than 50 miles yesterday, and just being in the saddle today was a discomfort.
The redhead pulled up when they reached Lawyer, who listened while the redhead spoke, then turned to Spalding. “Good land, near. Ride a bit more up river, then up valley.” He pointed southeast.
An hour later they reached a creek that flowed into the Clearwater, some 20 feet in width. The redhead stopped and pointed south, and Spalding gazed up the stream. The mountains were lower and the valley broader than the others that came down out of the hills, and timber dotted the creek here and there, some of it thick, as far as Spalding could see.
He prayed as they made the gentle climb along the creek, shadows lengthening in the late-day sun. He had almost given up hope, but perhaps this place would meet their needs. There was timber and water, and after a couple of miles and perhaps 400 feet of elevation, he could feel cooler air. The flat valley bottom appeared to be about half a mile wide between the foothills—enough for cultivating crops, if the soil was decent.
Daytime Smoke stopped near the spring, where the stream emerged large and clear from the foot of Thunder Mountain. The surrounding plain was dotted with cottonwoods, near the stream. There was little that pleased the Soyappo, and Smoke was afraid he would find this spot wanting, too. He and Dr. Whitman had traveled down the Big River, seen the green valley that had lured the earlier Sent Ones away. They had left their women there, and Smoke feared they would return there to settle.
Spalding dismounted, walked toward a cottonwood, and stood in the shade as a raven rose out of it and flew away to the north. Smoke dismounted and followed him anxiously. Spalding knelt by the stream and wet his handkerchief, wiped the dust from his face. Then he dipped with his hands and took a drink. He picked a small stick off the ground and dug into the soil, took a handful and sifted through it, smelled the odor of rich earth. It looked dark to Smoke, under the dried-out top layer.
Dr. Whitman squatted next to him. “What do you think?” he asked.
Spalding gazed around them. “Soil looks decent. And there’s water for irrigation.”
“We build lodge—any kind you want,” Smoke said.
Spalding gazed at the hills, which glowed golden in the late-day sun. Scattered red haws threw shadows on the parched hillsides. “I suppose it’ll do.”
Whitman turned to Smoke and nodded. “This place is good.”
Shouts went up from the others, and Smoke pumped Spalding’s hand up and down, beaming in celebration. “You be pleased!” he said. “Always pleased!”
December 1836
Sweat dripped down Daytime Smoke’s back, though his hands were almost numb from the cold. Twelve men strained under the weight of the pine log. They had made the long walk from the river, where they had cut down trees, twice already today. “Like near-buffalo we work, yet Black Beard refuses to teach us,” Beaver Head muttered.
“His house he wants built fast,” Smoke replied. “He is too busy working on it.” Spalding had a cutting tool that sliced the logs, to make flat boards for the floor, something Smoke had never seen before. It took two men to use it, one on each end.
“His double-skin lodge is perfectly warm,” Shooting Arrow grunted.
“Perhaps he does
not want anyone to hear his happy groaning at night,” Beaver Head said.
Smoke’s right shoulder felt like it would break by the time they threw their log on the pile. He had recruited as many of the local men as he could, and they had dug a hole for the house—a cellar, Spalding called it. Then they had laid boards across it, and now Spalding was building walls around it, by notching the logs at their ends and laying them on top of one another, so they fit together snugly at the ends. It was a clever trick, Smoke thought.
Thunder Eyes, the local headman and tewat, stood watching with his two sons. A short man, he wore a headdress made from the body of an eagle. The eagle’s eyes stared at them from atop his head, wings fell on either side of his head, and giant talons hung on his chest. “I cannot imagine what you are doing,” he said.
Smoke smiled. “Our Soyappo teacher wants a house of trees.”
“Is his mind not right?”
“He believes wooden houses are better.”
Thunder Eyes looked perplexed: “But he cannot move a wooden house.”
Smoke said nothing. It was hard to explain what he did not understand.
“Why does he not use his near-buffalo to drag them?” Thunder Eyes asked.
“I suggested it. He says they are not strong enough.”
Darting Swallow brought wooden bowls of warm soup, made from qawas cakes and kaeh-kheet roots. She and Mrs. Spalding were cooking for all the men who carried logs up from the river. Reverend Spalding joined them, and they took seats on the walls he was building.
The Soyappo surveyed the pile of unused logs and said something in his own tongue.
“We need thirty-two more,” Bat That Flies translated.
Thunder Eyes stared at Bat, his eyes wide: “You must carry thirty-two more?”
Bat nodded.
“Why don’t you help?” Spalding asked Thunder Eyes.
When Bat translated, the tewat laughed. “Women’s work I do not do”—he gestured at Smoke and the others—“like these girls.”
Spalding’s eyes darkened when he understood Thunder Eye’s words. He began to lecture, his words angry.
The tewat interrupted him: “A lodge made from trees you cannot move.”
“I do not want to move it,” Spalding said.
“One day you will, when you learn that we travel on water.” Thunder Eyes pointed north. “You will want to be near that river.”
When Bat translated, Spalding glared at him, stood up, and harangued him for several minutes in a heated tone. Then he turned and walked away.
Smoke and the others looked at one another, mystified. They turned to Bat That Flies for a translation, but he shook his head. “I did not understand it all.”
The tipi skin pressed in toward them in the cold wind, and the small flames danced. Smoke lay on his back, close to the fire with Darting Swallow, between buffalo robes. Little Fire and Takes Plenty lay on the other side of the fire, asleep. Swallow lay on her side, her head on his shoulder. “This Black Beard is crazy,” she whispered. “If he wants those trees, he should build his house where they grow.”
“Soyappos have different ideas.”
“Soyappos are strange creatures. His wife I like, but he frightens me.”
“I know.” Spalding looked almost inhuman sometimes, the way his thick black hair covered his head and face and his dark eyes stared out of the small space in between.
“I don’t like watching you do women’s work, either.”
“I have to, if I want to learn from him.”
“Why are you so anxious to learn from him?”
Smoke hesitated. He was not sure how to put it into words. All his life, he had wanted to know more about his father’s people. He wanted to read their books, learn to write, and, most important, understand how to hear the spirits who taught them how to make so many things. His wyakin spoke to him, warned him of danger, helped him find game. But it knew nothing of what these Soyappo spirits taught. “They know things,” he finally said. “Think of how we could live if we knew those things—if we could make firerock guns, and knives, and tradecloth.”
She frowned at him. “That is all you want, more guns and knives?”
He shook his head; he wasn’t even sure he understood it. But it was real, and it had been there since the day he met his first Boston. “These Soyappos, they understand things we have not even dreamed. If they want something new, they make it. If they want food, they grow it. We starve in a bad winter, and some of our children die. We fight Blackfeet and Big Bellies for our right to hunt buffalo, and some of our warriors die. Soyappos don’t worry about food, and they don’t worry about enemies; they have firerock guns. Our world is small; theirs is large. I want to know their world.”
“Perhaps you could learn faster from his wife. Already I can talk to her in our tongue.”
“Yes, if we stay here. Beaver Head and Bat That Flies have decided to live here, with their families. Shooting Arrow and Tamootcin also.”
She frowned: “Will their children go hungry during cold moons?”
“Shooting Arrow brought us meat.”
“But when warm moons come, would we travel to Buffalo Country, to hunt?”
“Black Beard says he can show us how to grow our food.”
“We cannot grow meat.”
“Then I will hunt and fish here, and you will dig roots.”
“You hate fishing. It bores you.”
“But I can do it, if we need food.”
“And I can hunt roots.” She moved her hand across his belly, then lower. “I think I found one.”
TWENTY-ONE
January 1837
The Spaldings lived at one end of the house in a room 18 by 18 feet, with two windows and a stove. The rest of the house, 18 by 24 feet, served as both school and church, with a fireplace and chimney at the far end. Most days Eliza did not mind the small quarters, because she spent the majority of her time outdoors, in the sun. Indeed, she felt stronger and healthier than she had in years. The exercise of their long journey had been good for her. It was only when the rains came and mud dripped through the ceiling that the small room felt oppressive. On those days she prayed, read her Bible, and called Jesus to her side to comfort her.
She had spent so many years pursuing a dream, living for a future that was just beyond their reach. Now she was teaching 100 men, women, and children, and their eagerness to learn astounded her. From morning until night they assembled, sometimes listening to her, sometimes gathering in groups to teach one another, while Eliza wrote out materials for them and painted pictures of Bible scenes. Soon she began teaching them hymns, and they took to singing with the same enthusiasm they brought to learning English.
She had always been good with languages, and Nez Perce came far more quickly to her than it did to Henry. As her ability to converse grew, the Nez Perce enfolded her in an embrace of warmth and kindness she had never before experienced. In the spring, she convinced Henry to take eight native children into their tiny home, to further their education in civilized ways, and every moment of her day was filled with their happy chatter.
Reverend Spalding worked on the house with his Nez Perce helpers, preached through translators, and administered to native illnesses. Though he had but a few weeks’ study of medicine, the Nez Perce flocked to him, assuming he could cure anything that ailed them. Every day he gave out cathartics for their bowel complaints, and often he bled those with more serious symptoms. Unfortunately, they began to bleed themselves, using arrow points, and infection often followed.
In March, Henry, Mr. Clark, and Mr. Lawyer traveled northwest, to Fort Colville, a Hudson’s Bay post on the northern Columbia, and returned with a full supply of seeds, including 15 bushels of potatoes. Some 1500 natives were camped nearby now, and with their help Henry planted two acres of peas, seven bushels of potatoes, a variety of garden vegetables, and a nursery of apple trees. At first they objected to plowing, said it was wrong to tear open Mother Earth. But Eliza talked with Law
yer and Clark and their wives about it, explained that it did not harm Mother Earth, it only helped her to bring forth more good things for her people. They already tore into Mother Earth to dig roots, she pointed out, which caused no permanent harm. Plowing and planting was just a way to make the harvest more abundant. The four of them understood, and they convinced most of those who had gathered nearby. It was like trimming your hair or your nails to make them more beautiful, Lawyer told everyone.
Her husband even convinced some of the Indians they could grow enough food to last through the winter, so they could stay and receive instruction during the summer, rather than hunting buffalo. He shared the rest of his seeds and potatoes with those willing to try the new way, and soon Clark, Lawyer, Joseph, and Timothy had 15 acres under cultivation.
In April, Eliza discovered she was with child. She prayed through the dazzling green spring and searing summer heat that she be allowed to keep this baby, that she be spared the pain and sorrow that had sent her to bed for a month after she lost her firstborn. When Dr. Whitman and his wife arrived in November, to help with the birth, Eliza was overcome by her emotions. She ran to Narcissa, wrapped tightly in robes against the wind, her eight-month-old infant in her arms, and the two women embraced, weeping, Eliza’s swollen belly and Narcissa’s child between them. To see another civilized face, a woman who spoke her own language, who had grown up in the small towns of western New York, like her, brought her to tears, and she could not stop crying. She had borne up well under the hardships, had grown to love the Indians, but to have a dear, civilized friend here, thousands of miles from home, gave her far greater comfort than she had ever anticipated.
She took Narcissa’s baby, Alice Clarissa, in her arms, held her, smiling and cooing at her, exclaiming at her beauty. Narcissa too beamed with happiness. Eliza could see the strain of the last year in her eyes—of hunger and childbirth, of care for an infant in the wilderness, of the six-day ride here through rain and snow and bitter winds. Lines had begun to form in the corners of her eyes, and her face had reddened in the sun. She remembered Narcissa’s beauty, the way she gathered men like a flame gathers moths, thought of the life she had left back in Prattsburg, and wondered that such a woman would give up all that she loved to live alone with her husband and child in such primitive conditions, all to bring God’s grace to the heathens. They had been opposites before—Eliza plain and shy, Narcissa radiant and outgoing. Henry had once proposed to Narcissa, she knew, and such knowledge had not been easy to bear in the company of one so beautiful. But that life was over, and now they shared the same life. Each was creating a home out of nothing, teaching Indians who understood only a few words of English. And soon Eliza would be joining Narcissa in raising a child, in a place so vast they could not reach help for days should something go wrong. The bond between them was suddenly deep: they talked for hours, like two sisters reunited.
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