The Coming

by David Osborne

  Now it was time to recite white violations of the laws. One by one, he named six ferries whites operated on Nimíipuu lands, then all the towns they had built on Nimíipuu land, then the murders, rapes, and thefts that had gone unpunished. As he named each one, Hale and the two other commissioners looked more uncomfortable. “I want now to know what we shall receive for all these,” he said. “We wish not to be offended and we want you to keep nothing back. Let us know.

  “In our treaty, there are many things promised. I see only a flourmill and a sawmill, and you see what is yet unfulfilled. We have no shops, no tools, no schoolhouses.

  “I have not prevented miners and others from going through my country. We have all been willing for this, and we said, ‘My friends, dig our gold. A time is coming, I am convinced, when law will regulate these matters.’ I am willing for any to look back at my doing and see if there is any fault with my past conduct.”

  A smattering of angry answers wafted over him from his own people, but he ignored them. “This is my heart, and I show it to you. My friends, we are to be governed by law in these things. I want you to understand that I have all along been governed by law. I want your president and all white men to understand.”

  He stopped and gazed at the commissioners, one by one. “I will now give you the great answer you seek. Dig our gold and look at our country, but we cannot sell you any more land.” Behind him the people erupted in cheers.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  June 1863

  Henry Spalding was happy to be back among the Nez Perce. The work Timothy and his followers had done was a sight to behold: the Christian faction lived almost like whites, in log homes, with gardens, clothed in Christian garments, their hair cut short. But it broke his heart to see that Joseph, his first convert—baptized the same day as Timothy—had reverted to his heathen ways. He was dressed in animal skins, heavily beaded and fringed, strands of white shells hanging upon his bare chest. He welcomed Spalding with dignity, played the gracious host—introduced him to his sons, who were now chiefs in their own right, and brought out his Nez Perce Gospel According to Matthew, which Spalding had labored so many months to translate and print. But Spalding could not reciprocate his warmth, not in his heart. Joseph had turned away from the light; he and his sons were in the service of Satan.

  Spalding was translating for Superintendent Hale, who, since Lawyer’s refusal, had begun to meet with the headmen one by one. Hale had started with the Christian chiefs: invited them to the agency building, given them food and drink, treated them like princes, seated at the big conference table. All of them but Timothy lived within the smaller boundaries of the proposed reservation, and with a bit of coaxing—promises of houses, salaries, plows—every chief had come around save Looking Glass and Old James, who was as recalcitrant as ever, insisting that Spalding address him as Thunder Eyes. Hale had agreed to let Timothy and Jason and their people keep their farms, outside the reservation, said he’d write it into the treaty. He’d placated Lawyer with more salary money and by expanding the reservation a bit. He had made it clear that things would go badly for the Nez Perce if they refused to sign the new treaty. But it was not so easy with those who would have to move their people. So far, every heathen chief had refused.

  Joseph’s wife served them dried beef and camas cakes, and Joseph passed his pipe. Finally Hale started into his sweet talk: the money, the houses, the plows. When he had finished and Spalding had done his best to embellish his offers, there was silence.

  Finally Old Joseph spoke: “For your offers I am grateful. But my people are already wealthy. I myself, Chief Shooting Arrow, own two thousand horses; my sons each own five hundred. We have hundreds of cattle. Our streams are full of fish, as you remember. Plenty of camas and qawas grow in our prairies. Your gifts we do not need.”

  Hale gestured to the tipi above their heads: “But a house like this must get cold in the winter. Surely you and your sons would benefit from sturdy houses, built of logs, where you could live in warmth during the cold months.”

  A small smile crossed Joseph’s lips. “When Cold Man visits, we descend into canyons, which shelter us from cold winds and snow. Deep in these canyons, water rarely freezes. When hot moons arrive we make our way out of canyons, up onto prairie. We swim in our lake, as Reverend Spalding remembers. We ride into mountains to pick berries and enjoy cool air. On these journeys we cannot bring houses made of wood.”

  “Let me try,” Spalding said to Hale, after he’d translated. He cleared his throat: “Joseph, God wants you to settle in one place, to learn to farm. You know that God brought you cattle, so you no longer have to travel to Buffalo Country for your meat. Now he wants to bring you crops, so you no longer have to travel to root grounds.”

  Joseph held up his well-worn Gospel According to Matthew. “My Book of Heaven I have studied, and nowhere in it have I found any words to say that God wants men to be farmers. Of fishermen it speaks, not farmers.”

  Spalding gave a dismissive shake of his head: “It is in other sections.”

  “Will you show me?”

  Joseph was crafty, that much was certain. “It will take me time to find those words,” Spalding said. “I will show you tomorrow. But if you stay on your lands, continue to wander, how can we teach your people God’s truth? How can we help them take Jesus into their hearts as their savior? How can we build churches for you?”

  Joseph shook his head. “Churches we do not want. Churches teach us to quarrel about God, as Catholics and Protestants do. That we do not want to learn. With men we may quarrel about things on this Earth, but about our Creator we never quarrel.”

  Spalding’s eyes blazed. The Catholics had put ruin to every good work—telling the savages their lies, promising easy salvation, discrediting the other missions. They had been behind Whitman’s murder, Spalding was sure. “If your people do not accept Jesus and become baptized,” he said, “their souls will go to Hell. You are condemning them to burn in Hell for eternity.”

  He could see amusement in Joseph’s eyes. “When I read my Gospel, I do not hear Jesus speak of Hell.”

  Spalding’s mouth flattened into a frustrated line. “That’s in the Old Testament.”

  “Ah.” Joseph nodded. “Where Ten Commandments are found. About these Ten Commandments I have thought long. I believe one says, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, nor thy neighbor’s wife, or slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to thy neighbor.’?”

  Spalding could feel the sweat trickling down his back as he translated for Hale. It was too warm, even in the tipi, for a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the collar. Joseph and his sons looked much more comfortable.

  “We do not covet your land,” Hale said. “But when you are spread out in so many areas, we cannot protect you from bad white men who might do your people harm.”

  “Onto our lands white men do not come.”

  “They will, one day.”

  “I understand. Other white men will covet my lands. You will act for them.”

  Hale let out a frustrated snort. “Think of your children and grandchildren, Joseph. One day white men will come as thick as grasshoppers, and your people will be ruined.”

  Joseph’s eyes narrowed: “Eight years ago, your government promised to keep white men off my lands forever.”

  “Governor Stevens did not know gold would be discovered on your lands!”

  “Gold has not been discovered on my lands.”

  Hale sighed, rubbed the beads of sweat off his forehead. He looked up, tried another tack: “You will be free to travel throughout your former lands, to hunt, to fish, to dig for roots.”

  “In other lands I have seen how much white men love fences. When Indians ignore these fences, white men shoot them. I remember your sixth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not murder.’ How many of these white men have been hung for their sins?”

  Hale looked away, as if searching for an appropriate answer.

  Joseph’s voice was kind, almost re
gretful: “This part of Mother Earth I do not own; my people only live there. What he does not own a man cannot sell. He who has a right to dispose of it is he who created it. I claim only a right to live on my land, and I accord you a privilege to return to yours.”

  “If you do not own it, then white men are free to live upon it.”

  Joseph shook his head. “No. Creator put my people there. He intended for us to live there, hunt there, gather roots there, and die there. Of my sons and daughters, my grandchildren, I must think. If my people leave these lands, Creator will no longer smile upon them. My people would no longer be in harmony with Him. What your church and your Books of Heaven are to you, these lands are to us. I might as easily give you my children and grandchildren as give up these lands. It would be same thing.”

  Hale fixed him with a glare, his angry eyes bulging out beneath thick gray eyebrows: “With or without you, we will make this treaty. If you want houses and money and tools for your people, you will sign it. If you do not, your people will be left with nothing when the settlers come to live on your lands.”

  Joseph’s eyes were sad as he gazed back at the superintendent. He said nothing for several minutes. Then: “You are not a child. I am not a child. I can think for myself. No man can think for me. I have no home other than my lands. I will not give my home up to any man.”

  Hale’s face set hard now. “If settlers come in great numbers, your young warriors will try to drive them off. Then soldiers will come with their guns to protect the settlers. Your people will be killed.”

  Joseph stared at him for a long moment, then stood. “Reverend Spalding always told us God wanted no war. No fighting. When a man strikes you, Jesus said, you should turn your other cheek. For many years, since Reverend Spalding came to us, we have done this. Our wrongs we could have avenged many times, but we did not. And now you come and threaten war upon us. Are you not a Christian?”

  Hale scowled at him: “Of course.”

  “With Governor Stevens I signed a treaty. Some of my people’s land I sold you. As long as I live, I will sell no more.” His black eyes bore into Hale. “Now I ask you to leave my lodge.”

  From the porch of his new house Lawyer saw them coming: White Bird, followed by 30 of his warriors, all mounted on their finest horses, painted and armed. Even their horses were painted for war. Alarmed, he stood up. He knew the chiefs whose lands lay outside the proposed reserve were angry. Shooting Arrow had torn up his copy of the 1855 treaty and thrown it at Commissioner Hale’s feet today. Several others had threatened Lawyer and the headmen who supported him.

  He reached for his cane, hobbled down off the porch and made his way after the riders. They had ridden to the building occupied by the Soyappo commissioners, and he watched in horror as they paraded around it, in single file. Lawyer moved slowly these days, and it took him a long time to reach them. When he finally did, he had to stop and rest to catch his breath.

  He stepped in front of White Bird, who wore an eagle feather headdress, in the style of the Buffalo Country nations. “What are you doing?” Lawyer asked.

  “These Soyappos need to understand that we know how to fight,” White Bird answered.

  “And you need to understand that they know how to fight! Take your men home!”

  White Bird gazed down at him with disdain. “Are you so afraid of Soyappos it has turned you into a woman? We are men, and we will not give away our lands. You have always backed down to them, so they know they can get whatever they want. But you do not speak for me, or for Shooting Arrow, or Sound of Striking Timber, or Thunder Eyes, or Eagle from Light.”

  Lawyer’s anger flared. “I have agreed to sell them nothing but a bit of land for their town, at Meeting of Waters, and for their mines in southern mountains.”

  “And they demand much more. For every ten pieces of our land, they want nine. From you, they know they can get it. They chose you as head chief because you are a woman. Go back to being a tobacco cutter, let real chiefs handle this.”

  White Bird’s men hooted at the insult, and Lawyer shouted at them: “Leave this place! You make nothing but trouble!”

  White Bird nudged his horse and moved around Lawyer, and the others followed, continuing to circle the building. Lawyer stalked away, burning with anger. Let them fight! He would protect his own people, and the others could all die.

  He called a council for that evening. At least 50 men sat in two concentric circles, around a fire that threw their shadows against the tipi walls. They smoked, the air thick with the scent of pipe tobacco. Then Lawyer addressed them, made all his usual arguments. He told them about the many-shots rifles the bluecoats had, which could hit a target from twice as far as their own guns. He talked about the wagon guns that could blow up huge trees. He reminded them that the Nimíipuu had always learned new things from other nations. From the Spaniards, in California, they got their first horses. From the Flatheads they learned to hunt buffalo. From the Crow they learned new war dances. And from the Soyappos, they learned to read and write, to raise cattle and sheep and grow crops. Buffalo were dying out; everyone knew this. Every snow fewer deer and elk were found. But with farms and stock animals, they would no longer need to hunt for food. They would not need so much land. Their future lay with the Soyappos, not against them.

  But it was little use. “If you tie a horse to a stake, do you expect him to grow fat?” Shooting Arrow asked. “If you pen a Nimíipuu up on a small spot of earth and compel him to stay there, he will not be contented, nor will he grow and prosper. You might as well expect the rivers to run backward as that any man who is born free should be content when penned up and denied liberty to go where he pleases.”

  The talk went on deep into the night. Occasionally someone rose and added wood to the fire. At one point they heard drums start up in the distance. “What is that?” Lawyer asked.

  Red Owl chuckled: “Our young men are giving Soyappos something to think about.” Several of the other chiefs smiled; others scowled.

  Lawyer heard a horse whinny, just outside, and a shiver of fear went through him. He stood and opened the flap, then stepped outside.

  The moon was so bright the tipis threw shadows. Two bluecoats stood by their horses, another 20 mounted behind them. They looked surprised to see him.

  “I’m Captain Currey,” the closest one said. “Just thought we’d see how things were in camp.”

  Lawyer’s brows knit in a quizzical gaze. It was the middle of the night—were they planning to attack? He glanced back at the riders, saw no one with a gun in their hand. “We are discussing the treaty,” he said.

  “Ah.” Currey nodded. “That can’t be an easy conversation.”

  Timothy emerged through the flap. He extended a hand to the bluecoat: “I am Chief Timothy.”

  Captain Currey introduced himself, and Lawyer shook his hand as well. “Come in and join us,” Timothy said. “Perhaps your presence will keep the discussion civil.”

  Currey glanced at the other dismounted soldier: “May I bring my interpreter?”

  “Of course.”

  The other bluecoat stepped forward and offered his hand: “Cornelius Grant, at your service.”

  The Captain turned back to the mounted men, told them he was going in. “Why don’t you wait for me south of camp,” he said. “Things are quiet, and we don’t want to be the reason they change.”

  When they entered the lodge Lawyer pointed them to a place in the back row, then spoke to the others, explaining.

  “You have brought spies among us?” Eagle from Light said.

  “We have nothing to hide,” Timothy said. “It is better if Soyappos understand how serious our disagreements are.”

  Others exchanged glances, clearly uneasy.

  “We intend only to listen,” Captain Currey said, and Grant translated. “If our presence makes you uncomfortable, we would be happy to leave.”

  “No,” Lawyer said, “we are happy to have you as our guests.”

  “Than
k you.” Currey nodded to him, then to the rest. “Please, proceed.”

  There was an awkward silence. No one quite knew what to do. Finally White Bird spoke, and it was as if the presence of bluecoats had unleashed his anger: “All this talk makes me tired! When I remember so many Soyappo promises, all broken, my heart is sick! Good words do not last long unless they amount to something. Words do not bring my dead brother back! They do not rid my country of white men. They do not pay for horses and cattle they steal.”

  He looked across at the two bluecoats. “These Soyappos say if we sell them most of our land, they will stay off what is left. But why would they do so, when they promised to stay off last time? Their word is worth nothing. Shooting Arrow was right to rip up his treaty. No white man honored that treaty; no white man will honor a new treaty.

  “We are Nimíipuu warriors. On this land our fathers were born; here they lived, here are their graves. For as long as blood flows through our veins, let us defend this land. Soyappos are not so strong. In lands toward rising sun, they are at war with one another. Their best soldiers are not here. Those at fort I have watched.” He nodded with his chin toward Currey. “They are young, with no experience in war. They can march in rows, but for a Nimíipuu warrior they would be no match. In their eyes I see fear.”

  He stared at Currey now, as if daring him to contradict his words. “I have spoken.”

  Looking Glass cleared his throat. He was younger than the others in the inner circle, but many had considered his father their leader. “They have better guns,” he said. “If war comes, they will do to us what they did to Cayuse, Wallawallas, Yakama, Palouse, Steelheads.”

  Eagle from Light scoffed: “They do not have enough soldiers to defeat us. When they are at war with each other, that is when we should fight them.”