She stared past him, confused. The Indians split into two lines and thundered by, whooping and firing as before. She saw beards on several of them. One held a rifle high, with a white flag attached.
She leaned forward, touched her husband’s back. He turned to her and grasped her hand. “They’re friendly, Eliza. Some are white. God in his mercy watches over us.”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick?” she cried. “Who are they?”
“An advance greeting party. We’re two days from the rendezvous.”
Smoke finally reined in where Thomas Fitzpatrick stood waiting. He dismounted and they clapped each other on the shoulders and pumped each other’s hands, grinning from one ear to the other. Four years earlier Smoke had saved Fitzpatrick’s life, in a battle with Big Bellies, and they had become brothers.
Fitzpatrick introduced Smoke to two new Soyappos, who wore clothes made of tradecloth, not skins. The first, Dr. Whitman, was tall and broad-shouldered, with blue eyes so dark they were almost gray. He looked to be only a few years older than Smoke, but his hair was already pebbled. His high cheekbones, prominent eyebrows, and unsmiling eyes gave him a forbidding look.
The second, Reverend Spalding, was shorter, his hair and long beard pure black, his dark eyes intense. “They are holy men,” Fitzpatrick told him, “come to find a suitable location to teach.”
Smoke’s English had improved, but he was not sure he understood: “Medicine men? To teach us?”
Fitzpatrick nodded, then turned to the Soyappos. “This gentleman,” he said, “is Daytime Smoke, son of William Clark.”
The short one frowned, but the tall one stuck out a hand: “Pleased to meet you.”
“You know my father?” Smoke asked. “He sent you?”
“No,” Dr. Whitman said. “But we heard that a delegation of your people visited him and asked for missionaries.”
“My uncle,” Smoke said. “I asked him to go.”
“Then it is your doing that brought us here,” the man said with a smile. “Not sent by William Clark, but summoned by the son of William Clark. Either way, surely it is the will of God.”
Henry Spalding stopped his horse and gazed out at the wide valley, bisected by two small rivers, cottonwood and alder hugging their edges. He could see hundreds of tipis, in four separate camps. The larger river, the farthest away, was the Green, Whitman said. Beyond it lay the fur trappers’ camp. Two miles to the south, on the open prairie that stretched along Horse Creek, lay a small Indian camp. Perhaps four miles north along the creek Spalding could make out several dozen more tipis. All lay under a blazing sun, scarcely a cloud visible.
Spalding felt as if he should be rejoicing, but it was not easy to summon such feelings after Reverend Parker’s letter, which had been delivered that morning by an Indian. Parker, the one who had started all this, who had recruited Whitman last year, was not returning to the rendezvous as promised. His journey over the mountains to the Nez Perce lands had been exceedingly difficult, he said, and his health had suffered badly. The trail over the mountains was highly unsuitable for women and quite impossible for wagons. He had been offered free berth aboard a British ship anchored at the mouth of the Columbia—to Oahu, in the Sandwich Islands—and he had chosen to return home by that route, rather than face the rigors of the mountain crossing again.
“Not a word about where we might build our missions!” Whitman had seethed. “Not a word of advice about the Nez Perce, their country, or even an alternate route to their homelands!” From the first day, Whitman swore, Parker had proven himself utterly useless.
As the caravan descended into the valley, Spalding could see riders leaving the three camps and approaching the ford, where the wagons would cross Horse Creek. He rode in the rear, and as his horse approached the shallow stream he watched Narcissa Whitman dismount on the far side, the hem of her riding skirt disappearing into the prairie grass. She had ridden all day near the front of the caravan, a boisterous young fur hunter named Joe Meek never far from her side. Spalding watched as the Indian women surrounded her, shook her hand, and kissed her cheek. He could hear her exclamations and laughter all the way across the stream. The natives did the same to Eliza when she emerged from the wagon, though she took it more quietly.
He heard whooping off to his right and saw Richard and John surrounded by a group of Indian boys their age. John was laughing and shouting, always the lighthearted one. He had learned enough English, including a few choice curse words, to entertain the fur men all the way across the plains. When his father appeared on horseback he raced to him and they embraced. But what most affected Spalding were the tears in Richard’s eyes as he took off his hat and shook hands with his friends, just as if he were in civilized company back home.
Spalding lifted his boots out of the stirrups as his horse waded the stream. He dismounted on the far side and stroked the neck of the tired beast, let it drink. A man as thick as a tree, with wild black hair and beard, approached Whitman and clapped him on his back: “Mighty pleased to see you again, Doc!”
Whitman shook his hand, both of them grinning. Then he turned to Spalding: “This is Jim Bridger. Jim, meet Reverend Spalding.”
Bridger almost yanked Spalding’s arm out of its socket. “Good to know ye! Doc here cut me open last year and took out an arrowhead I’d been carryin’ for some time.” He turned back to Whitman: “Look how good I healed!” He lifted his buckskin shirt to show off a three-inch scar on the back of his right hip: “I reckon meat jes’ don’t spoil in these mountains!”
Spalding shuddered. If the whites out here were this coarse, what hope was there for Indians?
Early the next evening Spalding stood in the dust with Eliza and watched 600 nearly naked heathens stage a mock war, painted and plumed in full regalia, in honor of their new guests. Their pounding horses, wild shrieks, and booming guns put his teeth on edge. Could these savages ever open their hearts to the Lord? Could he convince them to renounce their sins, give up their primitive ways, their wars, and their fiendish dancing, and accept Jesus as their savior? At least their women were fully clothed. Along the trail they had encountered Pawnee women who went about half naked, the temptations of the flesh always visible.
He looked over at Eliza, wondered what she was thinking as she watched the spectacle. She had rested well last night and much of today, but he was concerned about her health. Had she the strength to endure what was to come? By all accounts, the more difficult half of the journey lay ahead.
He heard a laugh and turned to his left, where Narcissa Whitman stood, her face alight with amusement at something Meek had whispered in her ear. Spalding felt his face burn as he watched her bat her blue eyes at the young trapper, who had barely left her side since he and the others had scared them half to death with their greeting, three days ago. He didn’t know how Whitman could stand such behavior. No God-fearing woman should be allowed to act this way, not out here, amongst two hundred men who had not seen a white woman for God only knew how long.
Narcissa held a mackinaw blanket over her shoulders, like a shawl. Her hair poked out beneath a pink gingham bonnet that matched her calico dress, neither of which he had seen on the journey. She had saved her fancy clothing to show off to the trappers, while his poor, plain Eliza made do with her worn black dress, faded now by the unrelenting sun. The way the trappers doted on Narcissa and Dr. Whitman, it was as if the Spaldings were poor, ignorant cousins.
Since their second day together Spalding had known that traveling with the Whitmans was a mistake. Dr. Whitman was a righteous man, steady, serious, good with an axe or hammer. He and Narcissa had been kind to Eliza when she was ill. But Narcissa was still the spoiled girl Spalding had known in Prattsburg, with her constant need to be the center of attention. She was attractive and full of life, of that there could be no doubt. But she was fickle; young Meek would soon find that out.
He and Eliza had agreed to join the Whitmans for one reason only: these Indians had begged for missionaries, and to be assured
of their cooperation would be an enormous blessing. But could he abide working with the Whitmans? For the sake of the Lord, could he rise above his emotions?
He remembered the first time he’d seen Narcissa. Her reddish-gold hair, piled up on her head, had shone in the light that streamed through the plain church windows, and when she opened her mouth the entire congregation had sat as if frozen, under thrall to the loveliest soprano that had ever graced their pews.
It took him four weeks to work up the nerve to speak to her—she was always surrounded by people, the center of every activity. She caught him staring at her repeatedly, and each time she greeted him with a warm smile. Finally, after a service in late May, he retreated to the privy and gave himself a vigorous talking-to, somehow worked up the courage to introduce himself. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure as he complimented her singing: “Why thank you, Brother Spalding. It is a gift from the Lord, and we must use our gifts to lift our spirits unto Him, must we not?”
She ignored his clumsy stammer and sailed on, talked about the fine sermon Reverend Hotchkiss had preached, her embrace of the Lord at age 16, her deep desire to bring God’s word to the poor heathens who lived in darkness without it. He left church that afternoon barely aware of his feet touching the ground.
From then on they talked every Sabbath. Often he walked her home, and every month she shared her copy of the Missionary Herald with him. He thanked God for his studies at Franklin Academy—as painful as they had been, Spalding a good eight years older than the other students—for he could finally read well enough to comprehend it. They spoke at length of the missions portrayed in the Herald, Siam and China and the Sandwich Islands. It was during that year, his 25th, that he first contemplated college and seminary, and Narcissa encouraged him enthusiastically, walking beside him, gesturing, once even breaking into a full-throated rendition of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” And yet she had never once invited him into her family home.
It was on one of those walks, on a moonlit Christmas Eve, that he had finally confessed his feelings. The service had been hymns and readings, and at the end everyone lit a candle and the smell of hot wax filled the room, mixing with the sweet scent of the fir wreaths on the walls. Her red silk dress shimmered in the candlelight.
As he walked her home the moon was so bright the trees cast shadows, the air so cold snow crunched beneath their feet. She clung to his arm for warmth in her long overcoat, and her touch intoxicated him. When they reached the ample clapboard home Judge Prentiss had built on the village square and she turned to bid him good night, he could not bear to let her go. He took her mittened hands in both of his, fell to one knee, and in an unpremeditated rush of emotion blurted out his affection for her. He must have truly been drunk with love, for before he knew it he was asking if she could ever find it in her heart to become his wife.
For a fleeting second a look of horror spread across her face. She struggled to recover her equanimity, but she could not take back that moment. He knew instantly, despite her effusive professions of friendship, that when she told him she could not consider being more than his good friend, she meant that a daughter of Judge Prentiss could never stoop so low as to marry Henry Spalding, born to an unwed mother who bound him out to a stranger’s home just two months after his first birthday. It was the worst moment of his life, worse even than the night his foster father whipped him and cast him out at 17, the word “Bastard!” ringing in his ears.
Dr. Whitman strode toward them out of the dusk, the small, brown leather bag in which he carried his instruments and medicine at his side. Narcissa reached for him: “Ah, Marcus, always working. Come, Mr. Meek has just told me the most fanciful story about giant bears.”
Whitman listened to the story and grunted, as if attempting to laugh but failing. Then he moved on to Spalding, handed him a paper. He spoke in a low tone, so the others could not hear: “A Mr. McLeod of the Hudson’s Bay Company has arrived, with another letter from Parker.”
Spalding looked at the paper but did not open it.
“He says we should travel with the Hudson’s Bay people. They’ll take a southern route, along the Snake River. It promises to be much less taxing than the route he took.”
Spalding’s dark eyes still smoldered. “What about the natives? They plan to hunt buffalo, then cross the mountains on the route they took with Parker.”
Whitman glanced at the warriors, dashing back and forth in front of them. “They say it will take four months to return to their homes. That means we would arrive in November, with no supplies, no food for the winter, no idea where to settle.”
Spalding was in no mood to be told what to do. “The Indians will tell us where to settle. And give us food.”
Whitman got the exasperated, impatient look he wore whenever someone threw an obstacle in his way. “Brother Spalding, do you honestly propose to take your wife on the mountain crossing Reverend Parker described in his first letter? The Indians are clear, we can take no wagon on that route.”
Spalding knew Whitman was right, but he was not about to admit it. “You do as you think best, Doctor.”
Whitman stared at him: “And you, Reverend?”
“I have come to the conclusion that we would be best creating two missions. One for the Nez Perce, one for the Cayuse.”
Whitman’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. Spalding could see from his eyes that he was not altogether surprised. He supposed they had both known this for some time now. “And you will travel with them when they go north to hunt buffalo?” Whitman asked.
“Mrs. Spalding and I shall talk with the Hudson’s Bay men about the route. Then we shall make an informed decision.”
The next morning, Daytime Smoke concentrated as the Sent One with the black beard led them in worship, but he could only understand bits and pieces. He smiled with delight when the two Soyappo women sang—the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It was hard to take his eyes off the one with golden hair; even her voice was perfect, more beautiful than any bird’s.
Most of the Nimíipuu and Cayuse attended, but few Soyappos did. The trappers had celebrated through the night; most were still sleeping it off.
After the service, Smoke brought his family forward and introduced them to Reverend Spalding. Little Fire had seen eight springs now, Takes Plenty, five. Both children had black hair, but Little Fire’s skin was lighter than her brother’s, and she had her mother’s thin nose and face.
Smoke asked if he could touch the Book of Heaven, show it to the children. The Sent One gazed at him for a long moment, as if testing him. Then he handed it over.
It was covered with a thick brown piece of hide that had gold markings on it. He opened the cover and stared at the leaves inside, as thin as the wings of a butterfly, yet covered with many small signs on both sides. He passed it to Swallow, then held it down for the little ones to see.
Spalding stared at him. “You are the son of William Clark.”
“Yes. My mother marry Clark.”
Spalding’s dark eyes clouded, and he spoke so rapidly Smoke could not follow him. Smoke glanced at Bat That Flies, who had joined them. He was better with tongues than anyone Smoke had ever known—so good with words that the Soyappos called him Lawyer.
“He says that in Creator’s eyes they were not married,” Bat said.
Swallow said, “But in Nimíipuu way they were married.”
Spalding spoke slowly now, as if explaining something to children.
“Only people married by spirit men who use Book of Heaven are married in Creator’s eyes,” Bat translated.
Swallow scowled. “In Creator’s eyes no Nimíipuu are married? When fur hunters marry our women, they use no Books of Heaven.”
Bat said something to Spalding, who looked annoyed. Smoke wanted to calm him, to heal whatever breach they had opened. He reached into the hide bag that hung around his neck and pulled out his pipe.
Spalding shook his head and motioned as if to push the pipe away.
�
�Tobacco he dislikes too?” Smoke asked Bat That Flies.
“Do you understand English, Mr. Clark?” Spalding asked him.
“A little.”
“Do you understand that your mother and father were not married in the eyes of the Lord?”
“Yes.”
Reverend Spalding’s eyes softened. “Mine were not married either.”
Smoke gazed at him in surprise.
“I was conceived in sin and born in sin. But I fell to my knees and confessed my sins—my entire condition of sin. Then I gave myself to Jesus, who taketh away the sins of the world.”
“I want to learn,” Smoke replied, though he understood little of what Spalding had said.
Spalding reached out, touched his elbow. “Mr. Clark, I will teach you and your wife, and marry you properly. My wife will teach your children. If you learn well, I will baptize you into the spirit of the Lord.”
Smoke had no idea what this last point meant, but he nodded vigorously. Finally, a Sent One had promised to come and teach them Soyappo medicine.
The next day the Soyappos informed Smoke and Bat That Flies that they would travel with the King George men, through Snake country, not with the Nimíipuu. “We cannot let them escape again,” Smoke told Bat That Flies. Two summers before, a holy man had come to the rendezvous, with several helpers. He said he was looking for a good place to teach about the Creator and his Book of Heaven, and he promised to come look at Nimíipuu country. But the Nimíipuu had never seen him again, and King George trappers had told them he journeyed down the Big River and settled far below the falls. Last year Dr. Whitman had come with Reverend Parker. While Whitman returned to recruit more Sent Ones, Parker had traveled with the Nimíipuu to see their lands. But he too had departed.
“We must lead them to our lands, show them where we live, help them build a lodge,” Smoke said. “Black Eagle would want that.” If these Sent Ones did not settle with the Nimíipuu, Black Eagle’s death would have been in vain.
The Coming Page 14
