The Coming

by David Osborne

  She watched him heave himself up into his saddle. He rode a powerful gray gelding, broad across the withers, big enough to carry his ample frame with ease. He planned to return to Flint Necklace’s village.

  She picked up Echoes on Mountain’s cradleboard and hung it from her saddle horn. Then she walked to her father’s horse, put her hands up, and stroked the gray’s neck. “When will we see you again?”

  “When you decide to come live with me.”

  They had been over this so many times. She knew he wanted to marry Widow Bird, and she was sure Widow Bird would marry him if only he would stay. She wanted nothing more in the world, but he was too pigheaded.

  The gray rested its head on her shoulder and she caressed it. “You are becoming an obstinate old man.”

  He smiled down at her. “And your tongue is as sharp as your mother’s.”

  She heard horse hooves, a commotion behind her. She turned, watched a young Cayuse rein in and circle his pony in the middle of camp, its sides heaving. “Yakama have gone to war against Soyappos!” he shouted. “Soyappos invaded, Yakama defeated them! Our Palouse and Wallawalla neighbors are ready to fight!”

  She looked for Calf Shirt, found him already mounting his horse. She ran to him, seized the bridle of his mare, shouted, “No!”

  Calf Shirt’s eyes flashed with anger: “Have you no courage?”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. He had been talking about fighting Soyappos for many moons, and she had bitten her tongue. But she could not hold back now. “Do you want our child to have a father?”

  She saw disdain in his eyes. “Soyappos cannot kill me! We will drive them downriver, back from where they came.”

  She felt her father’s hand on her shoulder. “Let him go, daughter. I will stay with you, help with Echoes on Mountain, provide meat.”

  She pushed against him: “You want me to lose everyone I love?”

  He spoke softly, so no one else could hear: “His honor is at stake. If he stays, people will regard him as a coward.”

  Calf Shirt kicked his horse and circled the clearing, his war cries ringing through the air. Others followed, and the meadow filled with their shouts.

  “Do something!” Widow Bird shouted at Smoke. “Do you want him killed?”

  “He has no choice,” Smoke said. “He is a warrior, and it is time to fight.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  January 1856

  George Wright hated sailing. He always endured a few days of seasickness at the beginning of a sea voyage, and when seas turned rough, it inevitably returned. But he hated being on the open seas in a skiff even more. The tiny boat rose and fell in sickening fashion on the six-foot seas, sliding down the backs of waves like a toy in a bathtub. His right hand clutched the gunwale and he fought to maintain his composure; it would not do to let the men see his fear. The wind riffled his thick head of black hair, just beginning to show gray.

  Wright had been in the military for almost 40 years. He was pleased with his new assignment: Commander of the Ninth Infantry Regiment, formed to respond to Indian troubles in the Washington Territory. It made him the highest-ranking officer in the new territory, in command of 700 men. But he was even more pleased that he had been able to bring Margaret and their daughter, Eliza, and youngest son, John, along with him. During his more than two years in California, before he was sent east to raise and train the new regiment, his family had remained in Erie, with Margaret’s father, and he had sorely missed them.

  The billowing white sails of the Washington had come up over the horizon just before noon, sailing south. Communicating with lights, General Wool had asked the Oregon to follow him in to anchor and send Colonel Wright across. Wright had served under Wool in California, and he admired the general, who steadfastly ignored the constant civilian pressure to exterminate Indians. Twenty years ago, Wool had been ordered to evict the Cherokee from their lands in Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama. He had taken his time about it, so infuriated the local whites that they called for his court martial. But finally he had marched them at gunpoint out to Oklahoma. Hundreds died; the newspapers called it the Trail of Tears. Wool never spoke of it, but word in the ranks was that he’d never been the same.

  A rope ladder dropped from the deck as they slid alongside the Washington. Wright nodded to the oarsmen, stood unsteadily, and grabbed the ladder with both hands. It was ice cold, but he managed to pull himself up and get a foothold just as the ship rolled down off a wave and hung him six feet out over the sea. He refused to look down, slowly pulled himself up until, after what seemed like eternity, he felt hands and was hauled over the rail.

  General Wool awaited him in full dress, complete with gold-starred shoulder epaulets. At 72, dark circles lay like sacks under his eyes. He combed his longish gray hair forward on both sides and in the center, to cover his receding hairline.

  Wool returned Wright’s salute, shook his hand, then led Wright to his cabin, a sumptuously appointed but small room below decks, in the stern. Wool offered him a chair, sat himself behind a small wooden desk that gleamed like a polished boot, and pulled out a flask of scotch and two cigars.

  After they had exchanged news of their families, Wool peered at him over his glass. “Have you gathered any news of what you’re in for?”

  “Your staff briefed me in San Francisco, General. I gather the Indians have gone to war.”

  “Indeed. Do you know Governor Isaac Stevens, by any chance?”

  “He helped carry me off the battlefield at Molino del Rey.”

  Wool’s bushy eyebrows rose: “Stevens was in Mexico?”

  “Corps of Engineers.”

  “I see. He cuts quite a figure. But I doubt I’ve ever seen more ambition in one man. Lobbied hard for his appointment, then surveyed for a railroad line on his trip out west. Wants to win the first transcontinental railway for his territory, make a name for himself. He thought he had negotiated peace with the Indians last summer, got them out of the way, but he made one mistake.”

  He paused, puffed on his cigar, and Wright felt he was expected to speak. “What was that, sir?”

  “You were raised in Vermont, as I recall.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Stevens likes to say he negotiated treaties that cede lands the size of New England, if one subtracts Maine. The problem is, they don’t take effect until the Senate ratifies them and the president signs them.”

  Wright nodded again, sipping his scotch.

  “Last summer he sent an announcement to the newspapers opening the ceded lands to settlement.” Wool shook his head. “God only knows what he was thinking. But miners flooded the northeast, after a strike near Fort Colville, the Hudson’s Bay post. And the Indians didn’t like it.”

  Wright knew what was coming; it was an old and familiar story.

  “When the miners ignored their warnings, the Yakamas killed a party. So an Indian agent rode up to warn them. They killed him, too.”

  Now it was Wright’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

  “Major Haller, not our greatest military genius, took a hundred and five men up to teach them a lesson. Unfortunately, he ran into a welcome party that he claims was a thousand strong. Fought for three days, lost five dead, seventeen wounded, left behind his howitzer, his mules, his provisions.”

  Wright whistled.

  “Indians attacked all over the territory. Both Oregon and Washington raised volunteer militias.”

  “Stevens supported that?”

  “Stevens was in the Montana Territory, negotiating a treaty between the Nez Perce, Kutenais, Flatheads, and Blackfeet. He requested a military escort home, but I told him to go east if he was afraid of hostile Indians. It was his goddamn fault in the first place.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. The man has courage, you have to give him that. He convinced the Nez Perce to escort him down the Columbia. He’s probably at Fort Vancouver by now.” A small smile crossed Wool’s lips. “I chose not to wait for him.”

  “So t
he Nez Perce aren’t fighting?”

  “Not yet. But the volunteers are doing their best to change that. A man named Kelly, James Kelly—did some gold mining in California, then set himself up as a lawyer in Oregon City—took three hundred men up the Columbia. Shot Indians, stole horses and cattle. The Wallawalla chief, Yellow Bird, came in under a white flag; Kelly took him hostage. Killed him and five others. Cut off their hands, their ears—skinned the chief.”

  Wright recoiled. “Skinned him, sir?”

  “Head to foot. These settlers are barbarians, Colonel, as bad as the miners in California. Both territories have put out bounties: eighty dollars a head for warriors, dead or alive.”

  Wool shook his head in disgust. “Settlers and miners have no business on Indian lands—no treaties have been ratified. But Stevens wants his goddamn railroad, and the miners want gold. The settlers want land, and the merchants want war, so they can sell us provisions at prices you wouldn’t see in China. They’ve got the newspapers calling for my head on a platter, because I won’t send in the army. The Oregon legislature’s preparing a petition to Congress to send me home.”

  Wool looked tired. Wright could feel the weight on the old soldier’s shoulders, and he knew it was about to slide onto his own. “What shall I do, sir?”

  “Get your men ready. In the spring, go upriver and build forts on Yakama and Wallawalla land—to keep the volunteers out and protect the Indians. Our problem’s not Indians; it’s militia going where they have no right to be. And you’re going to put a stop to it.”

  Colonel Wright stood on the porch of the handsome, two-story commander’s residence overlooking the Columbia Barracks, shivering in the intense cold. When the governor’s carriage pulled up, Wright descended the steps to greet his visitor. Always dashingly handsome, Stevens now looked distinguished as well, for his 37 years. A thin brown beard traced his strong jawline, ending in an elegant mustache and goatee above his black coat and tie. He thrust out his ungloved hand with all the energy of a man on his way up: “Colonel Wright, what a delight to see you again, all in one piece!”

  Wright removed his glove, grasped his hand, said, “You’re looking exceedingly well, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve been given a promotion, Colonel. They call me Governor now.”

  “Indeed you have. My apologies, Governor.”

  Wright led him into the warmth of the house, where the servants took his coat and hat. “And this must be your lovely wife,” Stevens exclaimed, as Margaret emerged from the parlor. She had dressed for the occasion, in maroon velvet with a scooped neck and pearls, and though she had recently turned 50, she still turned men’s heads. Stevens bowed, kissed the back of her offered hand. “Such a pleasure to meet the wife of an old friend,” he said. “Your husband has told you the occasion of our last interaction, I am sure?”

  “I believe you helped transport him in a moment of need,” she said, smiling. “And for that I owe you my most sincere gratitude.”

  Stevens chuckled as Wright led them into the parlor.

  “Whiskey?” Wright asked.

  “Indeed. I need something to warm up these bones. With the river frozen, we had to come all the way from Olympia by carriage.”

  Over drinks and then dinner, Wright did his best to charm the governor. He knew why Stevens was here, and he hoped to establish warm enough relations that the governor would find it awkward to confront him. They reminisced about Mexico and speculated about whether Congress would choose the northern route for the transcontinental railroad.

  They swapped stories about their children; Stevens already had four, the eldest a boy of 13 who had been with him on the plains when they received word that war had broken out. The boy had accompanied him back through hostile territory, with a protective escort of 250 warriors provided by a Nez Perce chief so clever whites had given him the name Lawyer. “My son thought it was a grand time,” Stevens said, laughing. “The Nez Perce taught him how to shoot a bow and arrow and ride bareback.”

  Stevens in turn asked after the Wrights’ eldest son, Thomas. The governor acted as if he did not know the boy had been expelled from West Point, but Wright doubted that was the case. He sensed Stevens probing for a weakness, some way to gain an advantage over a man 15 years his senior who had outranked him in Mexico.

  After dinner Wright invited Stevens back into the sumptuous parlor for brandy and a cigar, and Margaret, knowing the protocol, disappeared into the kitchen. Stevens did not take long in coming to the point: “I believe you should know, Colonel Wright, that I have written to Secretary of War Jefferson Davis charging General Wool with criminal neglect of duty.”

  Wright betrayed no surprise; in truth, he had expected something like this. “What are the nature of your complaints, Lieutenant?”

  To his credit, Stevens let the slight go by. “When I requested a military escort through hostile territory last fall, his subordinates organized it, as any loyal soldier would do for a governor. General Wool intervened, sent a message suggesting I travel east if I was afraid of hostile Indians.” Stevens leveled a gaze at Wright, as if daring him to defend such an action. “He has refused to send federal troops to punish the Indians. He has refused to support my volunteer militia, as well as Governor Curry’s, from Oregon. And he has publicly condemned our volunteers for fighting to protect American citizens.” As if to emphasize the point, he tapped his cigar ash into an ashtray.

  Wright took a deep breath. “You must know, Governor, that your announcement opening Indian lands to miners and settlers was illegal.”

  Stevens smiled at him, as if he had brought up a trifling technicality no rational person could consider important. “And you must know the treaties will be ratified, and signed by the president.”

  “I know no such thing. But it hardly matters. Until they are, any trespass on Indian land against their wishes is illegal.”

  Stevens gazed at him now, forehead creased, as if to gauge his true intentions. “I did not remember you as an Indian lover, Colonel.”

  This irritated Wright. “You know full well I fought in the Seminole Wars,” he said. “Perhaps you are too young to remember, but we were not kind to the Seminoles. I follow my orders, Mr. Stevens, and General Wool is my commanding officer.”

  “As well you should, Colonel.” Stevens tapped his cigar again. “But I have been appointed by the federal government as governor of this territory, with ultimate authority over all its residents.”

  “You have no authority over the U.S. Army.”

  “And the U.S. Army has no authority over me.”

  Wright glared at him. “My orders are to disband the volunteer militias, send them home, and protect Indian lands.”

  Stevens held his gaze steady. “Neither Governor Curry nor I have any intention of letting our militias disband.”

  “Then I am afraid, to my great sorrow, that we are on a collision course.” It was odd, Wright thought, how likable Stevens was, in spite of his actions; he would go far in politics. “This is something I would avoid if my orders allowed it, I can assure you. Conflict with a man who helped save my life is not a route I would choose willingly.”

  The governor’s eyes softened. “I understand. And I appreciate your dilemma.” He paused to take a long, contemplative draw on his cigar. “I assume you have higher ambitions, Colonel? A general’s star, perhaps?”

  “I fulfill my duty and let my superiors concern themselves with promotion.”

  “Of course. You would never request promotion.”

  Wright wondered how much Stevens knew about his repeated efforts to rise in rank. The man certainly did his homework.

  Stevens leaned forward, his eyes locked on Wright’s. “As governor, I could be very helpful to you, Colonel. As could Governor Curry. No doubt you are aware that the Oregon legislature will soon petition Congress to remove General Wool as commander of the Pacific. You would be a logical choice to succeed him.” He paused. “Or you could remain on your present course, and our citizens would no
doubt treat you with the same contempt they now feel for General Wool.”

  “Are you threatening me, Governor?”

  Stevens looked down into his brandy snifter, swirled the amber liquid. “I would never threaten you, Colonel. I am merely pointing out that, while I understand that an officer must follow orders, the pace at which he does so is often under his own control. In the life of a successful officer, politics often plays a role, as you must know by now.” He lifted his gaze. “You are reputed to have fine diplomatic skills, Colonel. Use them.”

  FORTY

  July 1856

  Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin F. Shaw gazed southward at the encampment that spread along the shallow river, beneath cottonwood and elderberry. The camp was bounded on the east by the river and on the south by a craggy hill, brown basalt outcroppings on top. To the west, the lush, flat prairie of the Grande Ronde Valley stretched for miles.

  “A hundred and twenty tipis, sir,” Captain DeLacy reported, handing him a field glass. “Probably three or four hundred people.” The officers had seen the smoke of their cooking fires from a long way off.

  Shaw was a tall, thin Missourian with bright red hair and a red beard as long as a prophet’s. He had come west in 1844, at 16, and found work in a new settlement on the banks of the Nisqually, near the southern end of Puget Sound. He’d tried gold mining in California, in ’49, but had quickly given it up and returned to Washington. He’d learned Chinook, become an interpreter, and Governor Stevens, bless his soul, had appointed him an Indian agent. He’d fought under Stevens west of the Cascades, and when they’d subdued the natives there the governor had appointed him a lieutenant colonel, put him in charge of 175 volunteers, and sent him out to the Yakama Valley to help the regular army. Colonel Wright, the goddamn fool, hated volunteers, so Shaw had taken his men over to the Walla Walla.

  He lifted the glass and surveyed the camp. He could see women tending the fires, children playing. A large herd, mostly horses but a few cattle, grazed on the rich bottomlands between him and the village.