The Coming

by David Osborne

  Spalding had prayed almost nonstop since Eliza’s labor commenced, but when she began to cry out in pain, he could stay in the house no longer. He paced in front of their home, too anxious to sit. A dozen Nez Perce waited with him, huddled around a fire. They had given up beseeching him to come sit with them.

  He could not bear to think of losing another child, or even worse—losing his dear wife. He had first come to know her only through correspondence, introduced by a mutual acquaintance. But in the years since that day he had come to rely on her steady good sense, her unquestioned faith. She was the rock that anchored his own faith. Should he lose her, he could never go forward out here, all alone.

  The door opened behind him and his heart jumped to his throat. He turned, saw Whitman duck through the opening, tried to read the meaning of his solemn eyes.

  The doctor held out his hand: “Congratulations, Reverend. You are the father of a healthy baby girl.”

  Spalding let out a gasp, felt the world spin around him. “And Eliza?”

  “Mother is resting comfortably.”

  The air filled with triumphant whoops, and the yip-yip-yipping of the women brought others running from tipis that spread to the south.

  Spalding seized the doctor’s hand in both of his and tears filled his eyes: “Thank you, Brother Whitman! Thank you and your dear wife for all your labors on our behalf! You are a blessing from God himself!”

  He could not let go of the doctor’s hand, so overcome was he. “Oh Doctor, I am such an unworthy creature to deserve these blessings!”

  “We are all unworthy, Reverend Spalding.”

  “But I am so often rash in my words and deeds. I am a selfish, small man, an unredeemed sinner, and I beg your forgiveness for the many times I have spoken harshly and acted rudely toward you and your wife.”

  Whitman’s gray eyes took on a kindly cast: “We are all sinners, Brother Spalding. We do the best we can, and God handles the rest. I forgive you and bless you, and I pray that you will forgive me my sins as well, for none of us is perfect.”

  Mr. Clark and his wife walked forward with their children, each smiling, each holding one end of a cradleboard lined with the soft white fur of the mountain goat. Proudly they presented it to Spalding. He could not help but smile: Would his daughter grow up in a cradleboard, like an Indian child? It would never have occurred to him to construct such a thing, and even now something within him objected. But he thanked them effusively, held it up for Dr. Whitman, and the two of them admired it. For travel, he knew, it would be a great convenience. Surely, God’s grace lived among these people.

  TWENTY-TWO

  August 1838

  Spalding shoved the plank down toward Clark, who hammered his end into place. They sat atop the new blacksmith shop, hammering roof boards in the hot summer sun. Spalding hammered his end, then pulled a cloth from around his neck and wiped the sweat from his face. Today there were only three of them working: Spalding, Timothy, and Clark. The two Indians had cut their hair short and often wore civilized clothes, but in the heat they had resorted to loincloths.

  They had been working on buildings all summer, ever since he and Eliza had decided to move down to the river and construct a larger, two-story house. It was difficult to find men willing to carry logs down from the other house; too many had lost interest, or were off hunting buffalo. Clark had recruited far and wide, and with Spalding’s other loyal followers—Lawyer, Timothy, and Joseph—they had finally managed it. When Dr. Whitman arrived, the two of them had led their faithful helpers upriver to cut more trees, then floated them downriver. The slow pace was enormously frustrating, and Spalding had done everything in his power to coerce the men who lived nearby to help. He had threatened to abandon them, to close the mission. He had even threatened the whip, which he had already used on occasion to punish petty crimes or disobedience. But most had ignored him, mocking those who did what they called women’s work. Many of the Nez Perce appeared to be a different race entirely from when he had first come among them—selfish and deceptive, seeking only what might benefit them materially. Beaver Head and Flint Necklace had already given up on him, moved their families away.

  He heard riders, looked east, hoping others had come to help. But it was the local chief, Thunder Eyes, and his sons, who had been hunting buffalo all summer.

  “Welcome, James!” Spalding called out, in Nez Perce, when they had reined in. “Was your hunt successful?”

  Thunder Eyes gazed up at him. “No. We found few buffalo.”

  “I am sorry. Perhaps you will stay next year and plant crops.”

  The chief scowled. “Soyappos are killing buffalo for their skins. Twice we found piles of rotting meat.”

  “White people like buffalo robes.”

  “Some tell us whites kill buffalo to starve Indians, so whites can take land. They have done this toward rising sun, they say.”

  “Preposterous! They just want furs, for robes. I tell you, white men pay dearly for buffalo robes.”

  James said nothing more, examining the partially completed roof. He had been helpful for a time, so Spalding asked if he and his sons would like to help finish the new building.

  “You are slow to learn, for a teacher,” James responded. “For use of my land, it is time you paid me.”

  Spalding eyed him coldly. “Pay you! For what?”

  “White Hair who came before you told us you would pay for land you used.”

  “I will do no such thing. Your people invited me here.”

  “You use our land and water. Your animals graze on our grass. Your friends”—he gestured at Clark and Timothy—“come to live on my land, to plant their crops, without asking permission. It is time to pay.”

  “Do you see me charge for lessons I teach?” Spalding glared. “Do I charge for worship services? I am here because your people”—he too gestured at Clark—“begged me to come.”

  James’s eyes narrowed. “This is my land, not Daytime Smoke’s land. I did not invite you. Because White Hair promised that you would pay, I allowed you to settle.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “My daughter has married a Soyappo, William Craig. He says you should pay for land.”

  Spalding switched into English: “Tell Mr. Craig he can go to the devil.”

  January 1839

  Fog covered the ground, so thick that only a few tipis were visible around them. After the birthday of Jesus, Reverend Spalding had begun holding services every afternoon, and 300 tipis now spread across the plain east of the Soyappo lodges and fields—almost half the Nimíipuu nation. In the morning people dug the Spaldings’ ditch—his millrace, he called it—which ran through the fields and by his buildings, as wide as a man was tall and almost as deep. When it was connected to the stream, water would flow through it, and Spalding planned to build mills that would use the water to cut logs and grind roots. He had showed Daytime Smoke drawings of how it would work, but Smoke still did not understand.

  Smoke always wore his Soyappo clothes to the services: a white tradecloth shirt, dark brown wool leggings, and his black top hat. He and Darting Swallow led their children through the fog, all sound muffled, tipis looming up out of the mist, then disappearing behind them. Little Fire and Takes Plenty did not enjoy the preaching, and few other children attended. But Smoke felt it was important for them to learn everything they could about the Soyappo god and his son. After almost two snows in Mrs. Spalding’s school, they understood English better than he did.

  On sunny days they met outdoors, but today Reverend Spalding had chosen to use the big log schoolhouse that he, Smoke, Timothy, and the new Soyappo helpers had just finished building. It still smelled of fresh pine, as well as hot tallow from candles that lit it against the gloom.

  The people settled themselves cross-legged on their robes or blankets or stood along the walls. Reverend Spalding rose and stood on a wooden platform in the front of the large room. When he preached, he always wore black cloth leggings, a white shirt, and
a black coat that came halfway down his thighs. He spoke loudly in Nimíipuutímt, but sometimes changed to his own tongue and asked Timothy to translate for him. When he spoke in Nimíipuutímt, Timothy turned his words into sign, since he often garbled them.

  On the Sabbath he had spoken about the evils of firewater and asked everyone to mark a paper, promising never to drink firewater. Smoke and his family had done so.

  Today Spalding spoke about the Hot Place, deep within Mother Earth, where they would all go after they died if they did not accept Jesus as their savior. If they did not want to go there, he said, they must change their ways: They must no longer take more than one wife, nor gamble, nor go to war. They must give up their wyakins, and no longer paint themselves, dance, wear ceremonial costumes, or go on vision quests. All of this was the work of an evil spirit who ruled the Hot Place and fought to bring men there by tempting them to sin.

  His voice grew loud and angry, and his right hand thrust up toward the sky. The Hot Place was all blackness except for endless fire, he said—flames broader than all the prairies, hotter than any pitch-wood fire. There sinners would burn with no end—no sleep, no bathing in clear running rivers, no riding through mountain glens, just fire, searing fire, today, tomorrow, forever.

  Smoke turned to watch his children as Timothy repeated these things in Nimíipuutímt. Little Fire seemed on the verge of tears, and Takes Plenty looked perplexed. Smoke didn’t blame him; it was hard to accept all that Spalding said. Many Nimíipuu men had two or three wives. Almost all were guided by wyakins, which protected them. How could they be evil spirits? And Smoke had long had trouble with the idea of a hot place deep within the Earth. Only good things—growing things—came from Mother Earth.

  The room was completely silent as Spalding continued in a softer voice: “But if you confess your sins and accept Jesus as your savior, if you put yourself in his hands, he will wash those sins away. He will take away bad feelings you have, your guilt, your clouded consciences. Let Jesus guide you, every day, and he will fill your soul with everlasting peace. He will be your personal leader, your spiritual guide.”

  Spalding told them about his own experience, when Jesus had first come to him. He had been a young man, he said, raised by parents who were not his own, thrown out of his home at age 17, ignorant and penniless. He had been as miserable as a person could be. At a religious gathering, Jesus had come to him, spoken to him, wrapped him in his love and soothed his soul. He had confessed all his sins at this gathering, emptied himself, cried tears of sorrow, and asked for forgiveness. Jesus had given him that forgiveness, and he had given his life to Jesus.

  Smoke longed for this experience. Despite all of Spalding’s teachings, he had not yet found a way to know Jesus. He had prayed, said the words Spalding taught him, over and over. But Jesus had never come.

  Spalding stepped down and James Conner, a trapper who was now helping Spalding with his buildings, came forward, faced the people, and spoke in Nimíipuutímt. He said he had led a wicked life for many years, when he was a young man, and when he joined the fur hunters. He drank firewater, gambled, and lay with women who were not his wife. But now he hated what he once had loved. Now he would only serve and love Jesus, he said. The people clapped their hands together to show their approval, Soyappo style.

  Now Tamootcin rose. Handsome and intelligent, with a gentle manner, he had become the Spaldings’ favorite—they called him Timothy. To Smoke’s surprise, he spoke of his wicked ways when he was younger, gambling and stealing horses from the Snakes and Bannock. His heart had been black, he said, but now he loved Jesus, and he had confessed his sins to Jesus. Tears began to drop from his eyes. Smoke glanced at his wife in shock, then at the others who sat around them. A few others were weeping as well, and Spalding told them to come up and confess their sins, give their hearts to Jesus. Three of them rose and moved to the front.

  Perhaps if he confessed his own sins, Smoke thought, Jesus might come. Perhaps this was what it took. He stood up, and Little Fire seized his hand, tried to pull him back down. He frowned at her, but she held on. “You’re not going up there?” she said. He nodded yes, and her face took on a pleading look.

  When his turn came, he faced the people and told them of the years when he had drunk whiskey with the fur hunters, and cursed, taking the Lord’s name in vain. He had stolen horses from other nations. He had even killed Big Bellies—four of them—in a battle.

  As he said these words, he knew they were not sufficient. He was holding something back; his feeling of guilt was not about these things. He bowed his head, was silent for a moment, felt the upwelling of emotion. Then he raised his eyes: “Eight snows ago, I made a plan with my uncle, Black Eagle, to visit my father’s village, far toward the rising sun. Then I chose not to go, but Black Eagle and three others went in my place. My uncle and two others died of Soyappo diseases.” Tears filled his eyes. “For this I ask your forgiveness, Lord Jesus. Please come to me, and take away my sins.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  June 1839

  Darting Swallow surveyed the students who stood waiting outside the schoolhouse. Though they were not as numerous as a year before, there were still too many to fit comfortably inside the building. Many of the women were progressing well in their English, and they had taken to weaving immediately—after all, they had been sewing and beading all their lives.

  She stepped outside, distributed a few sheets on which Mrs. Spalding had written the words of a hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” It was a mild summer morning, and it felt good to be outdoors, the air soft and cool against her skin.

  Mrs. Spalding sang the hymn for them twice, then asked them to sing along. Those who were learning to read crowded around those with sheets to sing the words, but many of the others had trouble. Mrs. Spalding appointed those who could do it as teachers, handed them the word sheets, and asked Darting Swallow to help her get the groups organized. They put three groups in the schoolhouse; the rest found suitable places outdoors.

  “Now,” Mrs. Spalding told Swallow, when everyone was arranged, “you and I shall paint. Reverend Spalding needs a scene of the crucifixion to show during his sermon on Sunday. The crucifixion is so difficult for your people to understand.”

  “Yes,” Swallow said. “If Jesus is son of God, why does he not defend himself? Why does he not strike his oppressors dead?”

  “Precisely.”

  Swallow wished she would explain, but Mrs. Spalding turned and headed back into the schoolhouse.

  They were lugging the paints and easel outdoors when two young men from the village of Thunder Eyes rode up, wearing nothing but breechcloths and painted from head to toe. They did not stop and dismount; instead they edged their horses right to where the two women stood and stared down at them. Mrs. Spalding greeted them in Nimíipuutímt, then asked, “How can I help you?”

  “We have come to close your school,” one of the men said.

  She stared up at him. “Our Creator would not want you to do that.”

  The man nudged his horse forward: “No more school, until you pay for use of our land.”

  Mrs. Spalding took a step back. “I think we have been clear with your chief,” she said. “We were invited here, and we do not charge your people for our teaching. We cannot pay you.”

  The man nudged his horse forward again. Swallow seized his reins and pushed: “Back up or you will regret it.”

  The man pulled on his reins, backed the horse a step or two.

  “Why do you do this?” Swallow demanded.

  “It is not your affair.”

  “She does nothing to hurt you. Why do you harass her?”

  The man glared down at her.

  “We will paint indoors,” Mrs. Spalding said. She picked up the easel and turned back into the school, and Swallow followed her inside. The two men rode their horses to the open door and stood there, blocking it.

  “I will go get my husband, to drive them off,” Swallow said.

  “No, j
ust ignore them.”

  “But why? They should be punished.”

  Mrs. Spalding smiled: “Are you forgetting our Lord’s message?”

  “But if you turn your cheek, they will get bolder. One day they will kill you and Reverend Spalding.”

  “No, my dear. Jesus was right. They cannot hate us for long, if we treat them with love. It is the best way.”

  Swallow frowned.

  “Love breeds love, my dear. And hate breeds hate. When another nation attacks your people, they want revenge. But when your people return the attack, that nation wants revenge. And the killing goes on and on, does it not?”

  They were interrupted by a gunshot.

  Both women stared out the door as the two riders galloped off toward the sound. Mrs. Spalding put down her paintbrush and took off her smock. “Let us investigate.”

  People were already gathered in the grazing area when they arrived. They stood around a dead dog, a bullet wound in its head; Reverend Spalding knelt nearby, rifle in hand, examining a dead sheep.