The Coming

by David Osborne

  Swan Lighting died three nights later, while Daytime Smoke lay delirious, sweating and coughing between his robes. He was awakened by Darting Swallow’s wails, and it took him a moment to understand what had happened. He felt his mother’s cold brow, then searched for a pulse. No, she couldn’t be gone! But the wails that filled their longhouse made it impossible to deny. Feverish, he reached for his knife and cut off his braids. He was lifting his left sleeve when Darting Swallow seized his arm and shouted, “No! You are too weak to cut yourself! I do not want to lose you, too!”

  He struggled against her, but she was right; he was weak. He opened his hand and let her take the knife, then knelt over his mother’s body and wept. It was his fault, all his fault. He had brought Whitman and Spalding, and Whitman had brought the wagon trains. Fitzpatrick had warned him, four snows before, to stay away from white settlers. Smoke had visited him after Whitman led the first large group of wagons through the Valley of the Nepahah, to ask how his people should respond. Was Tom Hill right? he had asked. Would the Soyappos take Nimíipuu land some day? Hill was a mixed blood born far toward the rising sun, who knew Soyappos well and spoke their tongue—he had trapped beaver with them for many snows, then married a Nimíipuu woman and settled with Flint Necklace’s band. When he was young, Soyappos had taken the lands of his people and many other nations, forced them to move across a great river, where many had starved because buffalo were no longer plentiful. He said missionaries like Whitman and Spalding came first, convinced people to live like Soyappos. Then others came to settle, bringing diseases that killed many. By the time soldiers came to take their lands, nations were too weak to resist. When Smoke asked Fitzpatrick if Tom Hill spoke the truth, Fitzpatrick would not deny it. “Trappers are different,” he’d said. “But stay away from wagon trains. They’ll bring ye nothin’ but heartache.”

  Smoke wiped the sweat off his brow and blinked, tried to clear his mind. A cold wind cut at him, but inside his robe he was sweating. There was fire in his throat and pain in his eyes.

  Everyone was staring at him. His mother’s body, wrapped in a buffalo robe, lay at the bottom of the empty grave. They were atop a hill some distance from camp, under a gray sky.

  He tried to focus. Darting Swallow had handed him a leather bag, and he remembered now that it carried his mother’s possessions. He reached in, found her favorite knife, dropped it in the hole. Then her comb, the pot for boiling water she had bought from the King George men, her best necklace of blue beads. Finally her copper bracelets. He watched as they bounced off the robe and fell into the dirt beside her.

  His eyes blurred with tears as women began to push dirt back into the hole. It landed on the robe with a sickening thud, and Little Fire sobbed. Smoke reached for her, pulled her close. Next to her Takes Plenty stared into the hole, his young face a fierce mask. The robe was disappearing under the dirt. Smoke stared as the last corner thrust up out of the dirt, but the women kept pushing the loose soil into the hole until it was full.

  Someone dropped a stone on top of her grave, then another, and another, until there was a pile heavy enough to keep the wolves and coyotes from digging her up. Small Salmon stepped forward with his rattles and began to sing. He shook the rattles over the grave, moving them from head to toe and across, covering every speck of dirt, helping Swan Lighting’s spirit leave her body and travel to the Land Above. Smoke stared at Small Salmon, and when the tewat’s eyes met his own he could see fear. The tewat knew he deserved to die.

  When he was finished, Swallow led Smoke down the hill, through the dry grass. When they reached his spotted gelding Takes Plenty handed him his firerock gun. He stood in his stupor, confused, until Swallow whispered in his ear, reminded him that he had promised to kill his strongest horse, so his mother could ride to the Land Above. He reached up, took the rope in his hand, and turned back up the hill. Every step was an effort. His breath came hard; sweat beaded on his brow. He stopped before he reached the top, bent over, his tall frame racked by coughs. Finally Swallow led him on, and after what seemed an endless journey, they reached the grave. Swallow whispered again. He reached up, held his horse’s long head on his shoulder, stroked his powerful neck. The horse pressed down on his shoulder, acknowledged his affection, then tossed his head and snorted. A powerful buffalo runner, he had carried Smoke into rampaging herds with no fear. The horse had never let him down, so he knew he would not let his mother down. He thanked him for his many years of faithful service, asked him to carry his mother well and far. As he raised his gun he could barely see through his tears. He pulled the trigger and the horse’s forelegs crumpled. Blood spurted from the wound, and he fell in a heap on the grave.

  Sometimes when Smoke awoke Darting Swallow was pouring water into his mouth. Sometimes she held a wet cloth on his face. In his dreams Soyappo wagons traveled through his village, one after another, pulled by huge, fat oxen. They pulled their wagons over the ceremonial space in the middle of the village, dug deep ruts into it, then dirtied the water as they crossed the river. They were like buffalo: there were thousands of them, and they left destruction in their wake.

  The Soyappos who drove the wagons stared at the Cayuse, their faces white and hard. They carried rifles. One shot Small Salmon’s dog when it came up to sniff an ox.

  The wagons stopped and the white woman with the stout body descended and walked toward Smoke. Her gray hair was tied up on top of her head, like a fist. Her cold eyes filled Smoke with a fear so deep it almost paralyzed him. He greeted her, hesitantly, uneasily, asked if she had eaten, invited her to a meal. When she entered the longhouse her two children were with her, their naked white bodies covered with angry red rashes. They sat by her side and stared at Smoke and Swallow, their eyes wide and unblinking, as if dead.

  Swallow fed the woman a good stew of camas root and elk meat, but she did not speak, and a smile never softened her eyes. Smoke could hear the wagons moving outside, the whips cracking and the wheels groaning. He told her she must leave or she would be left behind by her people. She glared at him, then nodded to the children, who floated across the fire. The boy wrapped himself around Smoke, hot to the touch, and choked him, trying to get inside his skin. Smoke struggled, but he was weak and feverish, and he could not drive the boy away. The girl had wrapped herself around Swallow, and as he watched she forced open his wife’s mouth and entered it, slipped inside her. The boy was trying to do the same, but Smoke fought him, pushed him away, refused to open his mouth. The boy was persistent, and Smoke grew tired, feeble. Finally the boy pried open his mouth and slithered down his throat.

  THIRTY-ONE

  November 1847

  “Father, we’ve arrived!” Eliza squealed.

  Spalding smiled at his daughter. She had been awaiting this day, when she could start school at the Whitman Mission, for months. Here were her only white friends—the Sager girls, Meek’s daughter Helen Marr, Bridger’s girl Mary Ann, and the rest Brother and Sister Whitman had taken in. Eliza had turned 10 just a week ago, had insisted on departing immediately.

  She beamed at him and kicked her pony into a canter. He let her go, turned in the saddle to check on the packhorses and mules. He always enjoyed riding into the mission, discovering anew this pleasant haven of industry and civilization in the midst of godless wilderness. Dr. Whitman was industrious almost to a fault, and the scene unfolding before them was a testament to his energies. To Spalding’s left a millpond lay amidst the waist-high ryegrass, filled by a long race dug from the west and drained by a short one to the east, where the mill building lay, as yet unfinished.

  After the pond, the 30-acre farm came into view, bordered by a weathered, gray, split-rail fence that ran perfectly straight along the road, its posts not upright but crisscrossed like X’s. On the left side of the fence lay an irrigation ditch and five buildings—two houses, a blacksmith shop, a barn, and the mill—along with assorted outbuildings: a granary, a corncrib, smokehouses, henhouses. The two handsome homes, built of large adobe brick
s, gleamed from their fresh whitewashing, their window frames and doors a rich brown, their sod roofs almost as dark. As Spalding drew abreast of the first house he could see half a dozen covered wagons and more than 100 head of horses and cattle grazing on the short grass. Past the barn, toward the river, sheep grazed. And past the mission house, which seemed to grow longer every year as Whitman added rooms, stood the apple orchard.

  Eliza had reached the gate and dismounted, leading her pony through the opening and tying it to the fence. A door flew open and Elizabeth Sager burst out, and the two girls squealed with joy as they danced around one another.

  Dr. Whitman emerged from the house as Spalding dismounted. Though there had been years of undeniable difficulty in the beginning, Spalding had come to value the doctor’s friendship. He was a devout Christian and a steadfast colleague on whom the Spaldings could always depend, out here amongst the wicked and the savage. He still looked tall and strong, but dark hollows haunted his eyes and lines creased his forehead. He clasped Spalding’s hand, gazed at the 17 mules and packhorses Spalding had brought from Lapwai, loaded with sacks of grain. “Thank you, Reverend Spalding. We sorely need the grain. We have been besieged again with travelers who cannot go on.”

  Spalding glanced around them, at the wagons and carts, the horses and cattle and sheep, the men standing around the corral. “How many?”

  “Almost seventy will winter here. Without your grain, I fear we would all starve.”

  “That which God has provided for Mrs. Spalding and me he has provided for thee as well, Brother Whitman.”

  “We are all grateful.”

  “And fatigued, from all appearances. Are you well, Doctor?”

  “The emigrants have brought measles with them. Two children have died in recent days; three are still in danger.”

  “How many in your family now?” Spalding asked.

  “We have adopted eleven.”

  “My word. All Christian?”

  Whitman nodded soberly. “The crossing leaves many an orphan. Pray Eliza does not succumb to the measles as well. We’ve had to close the school, so many are sick.”

  Spalding’s dark eyes widened.

  Whitman looked away. “The Cayuse are taking it hard. Three to five a day succumb in Tilokaikt’s village alone.”

  “You cannot save them?”

  Whitman stared at the ground, shook his head. “I tell them not to use the sweat lodge on those who are ill, but they refuse to listen. They take them from the sweat lodge straight to the freezing river …” He looked up, and Spalding could see the helplessness in his eyes. “Then they blame me. Some think I am poisoning them. Others expect me to cure their children, and when I fail, they say I should die. Some of the friendly Cayuse warned Mr. Settle that Mrs. Whitman and I would be killed. He has advised me that we should all leave, for our own safety, and he plans to depart shortly.”

  “Mrs. Spalding and I have discussed leaving many times,” Spalding said with a sigh. “The hostiles do whatever they can to drive us off.”

  “But how can we move seventy people, a dozen of whom are deathly ill?” Whitman asked. “Where would we take them? Who would feed them? We cannot just leave them.”

  “When I was away last spring, the savages accused my cattle of trampling their corn. They demanded payment. When Eliza refused, they threatened to kill her and the children and burn the house down around them. She told them to do as they pleased and shut the door in their faces.”

  Whitman seemed lost in his own thoughts, barely registering Spalding’s words. “I am considering selling the mission to the Catholics.”

  “No!” Spalding stared at Whitman in shock.

  “If they agree, I shall go to the Cayuse and ask them to choose. If they prefer Catholics, we shall depart. It is the only route to safety I can determine.”

  “You would condemn their souls to the Papists’ perverted teachings?”

  “To save the lives of seventy Christians, I would.”

  Spalding’s mind reeled. If the Whitmans departed, what would become of the Spaldings’ mission? Would the Cayuse victory incite the Nez Perce? Would his tenure become unsustainable?

  Narcissa appeared at the door, her eyes red. “Salvijane has passed,” she said.

  Whitman closed his eyes. He said nothing, and the silence lay between them like a still pond. Finally he opened his eyes. “We must bring Tilokaikt here to see the corpse, so he understands that white children are dying as well.”

  Daytime Smoke’s arms and hands felt like ice. He stared up at the smoke hole above him; stars floated in a small patch of black sky. Wind gusted against the tipi, billowing the skins inward.

  He sat up and looked at the fire, which had burned to ashes. On the other side of it he could see three shapes, and suddenly the nightmare he had been living came back to him. He threw off his buffalo robe and tried to stand, but his head felt so light he had to sit down again. He crawled past the fire and knelt by Darting Swallow, felt her forehead. It was hot, and her breath came in painful rasps. He bent close to her face, saw the red blotches. He looked down at his own arm; his rash had been replaced by brown, crusted scabs that were cracked and peeling.

  Little Fire faced away from him, on her side. He felt her forehead; it too was burning. Takes Plenty was the same.

  He sat back, stunned. He had survived, but his entire family was ill. He looked around for water, but the Soyappo pot they used was empty. Nor did he see any food hanging from the poles in back of the lodge. He went to the skin bag that kept their supply of dried meat; it was empty. Little Fire’s dogs were nowhere to be seen.

  He stood up slowly, waited for his head to stop spinning. He pulled on his capote and his moccasins and pushed his way out of the lodge.

  All was still in camp save for the cold wind, which rustled the cottonwoods. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, but there was no moon. He looked away from the river, past the longhouses, toward the south. Only a few horses grazed. He walked until he reached the top of the rise and could see all the grazing lands. Two-thirds of the herd was gone.

  He turned back toward camp, hurried to the closest longhouse, and pulled open the flap. It was dark inside—no fires glowed—and he was met with an overwhelming stench. It smelled like the village latrine, and something worse. He moved slowly, tripped on someone, whispered an apology. The person did not stir. He knelt down and felt the leg he had bumped; it was stiff and cold. He almost fell backward in his haste to retreat.

  He called out, but no one moved. He could see a dozen other shapes under the robes. He approached another, afraid but compelled to find out if anyone lived. It was a woman lying facedown. She was cold, waxy; when he turned her, her eyes stared blankly, unblinking. He moved to the next shape. It was a small child, also dead. He felt his stomach rise as it came to him what the other odor was. He backed up, ran to the door, and pushed through the flap, retching. There was nothing in his system to come up, but still he retched, bent over, gasping for breath.

  Young Chief, a Cayuse headman who lived along the Umatilla, sent a messenger asking Dr. Whitman to come tend to his sick and dying. Disturbed by the warning from Mr. Settle, Narcissa pleaded with him not to leave. But her husband explained that the Catholics were launching a new mission at Young Chief’s village, and he was anxious to discuss their interest in purchasing his own mission, should the Cayuse choose them.

  Spalding watched the two of them say good-bye. Narcissa held her husband by both hands and implored him to hurry back, tears in her eyes.

  The two men rode for five hours through darkness and a drenching rain, kept only partially dry by their oilskins. As they rode, Spalding brought Whitman up to date on events with the Nez Perce. “The school is empty,” he confessed. “And only a few dozen attend worship. The Christians are cowed and silent; the devil has the upper hand.”

  “It is the same here—I have not taught the Cayuse for two years.” Whitman shrugged hopelessly. “They refuse to listen.”

/>   They rode in silence for a long moment, staring ahead into the murk. “I fear that if the Cayuse do not ask us to leave,” Whitman said, “our remaining days on this earth will be few.”

  Spalding shivered. Two days ago, in Yellow Bird’s lodge near Fort Nez Perce, an Indian had entered and asked him, “Is Dr. Whitman killed?” The man had expected an affirmative answer, he was certain.

  When he told Whitman this, the doctor gazed bleakly at him. “Perhaps our death would do more for Oregon than we could ever accomplish by living.”

  “Dr. Whitman, what ever could you mean?”

  “We need a strong territorial government to defend the emigrants and preserve order. Perhaps our death would finally convince Congress to act.”

  Spalding was speechless. He thought of young Eliza, and fear seized him.

  The trail to the Umatilla dropped down into a canyon whose freshet emptied into the river. They rode parallel to the creek about halfway down the canyon, then doubled back in a hairpin turn to recross the steep slope. Rain had turned the path into slick mud, and where the trail doubled back Spalding’s horse lost its footing and fell. His head slammed into the ground and a blinding pain shot through his right leg, trapped under the horse. As the animal rolled and then rose he managed to get loose of the saddle and lay prone on the wet grass, below the trail. Whitman reached him in a matter of seconds.

  “Reverend Spalding, are you injured?”

  He reached up, felt the side of his head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “Where?”

  “My head. And my right leg, just below the knee.”

  Whitman examined him. “No break is visible.” He lifted Spalding in his arms, carried him to his own horse. “Can you ride?”

  “I shall try.” Whitman boosted him up and he put his good leg in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. He let the other leg dangle, did not dare put it in the stirrup.