Little Mission on the Clearwater Page 2

  “You see Noah today?” Timothy asked.

  “He hasn’t come.”

  “You ride back to village with me. Special day. Henry, too.”

  It was a special day—her birthday. Today she was nine years old.

  She ran to ask her mother. As she entered the house, Mrs. Willard seemed to be taking leave so Eliza moved to her corner of the house and pulled on stockings and her sturdy boots. Even though it was November, she often still wore her moccasins around the mission grounds. The dirt was packed too tight for grass to grow so she didn’t have to worry about hidden snakes, and she rarely stayed in one place long enough for her feet to get cold. But if she were going to the Nez Perce village, she’d need her shoes and stockings.

  Her brother, Henry, had been minding Martha Jane. She had only been walking for about six months but she could get into everything. Henry was almost seven years old and there was nothing he liked better than playing with the baby. He and Eliza took turns watching her while Mama taught Indian School or entertained visitors, but Henry was happiest when it was his turn. He would put a stocking over his hand and play puppets with Martha for hours.

  This morning he’d worn the baby out. She slept on a pile of quilts in the corner.

  Eliza whispered, “Timothy will take us to the village if Mama lets us go.”

  Henry didn’t need convincing. He sat down and pulled on his stockings and boots as well. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what Noah is doing.”

  Mama came in after seeing Mrs. Willard off. “What are you two planning?” she asked with a smile.

  “Timothy is over at the gristmill but he said he’d take us to the village when he’s ready to leave. Can we go?”

  “I cannot see any reason for you not to go, especially since I have something special to do this afternoon.”

  Before Eliza could ask about this special task, her mother continued. “Your father is going to the village to meet with some of the men later this afternoon, so he will bring you back home.” Her mother turned to get her sewing basket. “Will you take this floss to Matilda?” She handed Eliza a card with a sunny yellow thread wound ’round.

  Eliza took the thread and tucked it deep into the pocket of her apron.

  “Now have a little food before you go.” She cut slices of bread off the loaf she baked the day before and spread some of her berry preserves on them. She poured two cups of fresh milk to go with the bread.

  While they sat at the table to eat, Mama left to take food out to Papa so he didn’t have to stop working. On days like these when noonday dinner was quick, they often had their warm meal at suppertime.

  As Eliza rushed through the small meal, her mind flitted in different directions. Should she be worried about angry Cayuse or about the settlers thinking her wild or about the special task her mother needed to do?

  It was her birthday. She’d think about secrets. The rest could wait for another day.

  2

  A Day to Remember

  November 15, 1846

  Sexliwal—Deer-Running Season

  They rode to the village on Timothy’s horse, Henry in front and Eliza in back. She hung on tightly as Timothy fairly flew across the prairie. He rarely spoke, but that was his way. They were used to his silence. They passed a field where the Nez Perce threshed the last of their wheat in a whirlwind of dust and snorting horses. Timothy’s horse sidestepped the chaos.

  Eliza’s father said the Indians threshed their grain unlike anyone back in the States. They formed a yard of wheat stacks and brought in fifteen or twenty wild horses. The horses ran through the stacks, trampling the wheat right on the ground until there was nothing left but chaff. They didn’t even rake off. At night, when the wind came up, the women would come out with fans made from willows, and then the winnowing began. In the end, the grain would be gathered up and taken to the gristmill at the mission to be ground into flour. It was a sight to see.

  As they neared the village, Eliza heard the familiar sounds—dogs barking, children shrieking, and horses nickering. The aromas welcomed them—wood smoke, dust, buffalo meat drying over a smoky fire, and the earthy smell of reeds being soaked in water.

  “Eliza! Henry!” Noah came running toward them. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “How did you know we were coming?” Eliza asked as she slid off the horse, onto the ground. Timothy handed Henry to one of the men who came to take his horse. As Timothy got off the horse, she saw him look at Noah and press his lips tight.

  “Come. See Matilda.” Noah was one or two years older than Eliza. Her Nez Perce Yat’sa, besides teaching her how to track, had taught her to ride and to care for horses.

  They didn’t need any urging to visit Matilda. She was like family to them. Eliza had never met her own grandmother and grandfather. They lived far back in the States—in New York. She didn’t know what it felt like to have a grandmother, but she often thought it must feel like being with Matilda.

  Matilda didn’t have any children of her own left. She never spoke about it but Mama said they must have died. Eliza knew Matilda was old by the way her people respected her, but she was as strong as the young women in the village. Maybe stronger.

  As they neared her teepee, they saw Matilda sitting outside on a log by her cooking fire minding three babies tied to cradleboards.

  Noah ran up to her. “I’ve brought Eliza and Henry to you.”

  Henry hugged Matilda. Eliza hugged her as well and gave her the floss from Mama.

  She smiled. “Come. Sit.” She pointed to another log. “Papoose must stay with Matilda. The mothers winnow after threshing.” Eliza loved to talk with Matilda, who spoke English as well as almost anyone, even if she left out some words, like “a” or “the.” All her Nez Perce friends spoke English this way since they didn’t have those words in their own language.

  Now Eliza reached out toward the baby, who was awake. The elaborately decorated cradleboard fascinated her. Babies always seemed content being wrapped tightly to the board. She propped the board against the log so this baby could look at Matilda instead of just the sky above. Sometimes when she visited the village she would see a cradleboard hung on a pole so the baby could watch his or her mama at work or see all around the village.

  “Just think, Eliza, how easy it would be to watch Martha Jane if we could strap her into a cradleboard,” Henry said.

  Eliza laughed. “Martha Jane is walking now so she’s too big for a cradleboard.” She turned toward Matilda. “Henry spent the morning keeping her out of trouble for Mama.”

  Matilda smiled at Henry.

  “She runs so fast now I can hardly keep up with her,” Henry said.

  “I don’t think she’d be happy tied to a cradleboard. Besides, look at how long it would take to unlace her to change her diapers.”

  “On cradleboard, no need to change diapers,” Matilda said shrugging her shoulders. “We wrap cloth around clump of dry peat moss and put in with papoose. Keeps wet from baby all day.”

  Eliza laughed. Leave it to the Nez Perce to come up with a better diaper. The cradleboards themselves were works of art. Her father had traded for many pieces of Nez Perce art, including cradleboards, and sent them back to mission officials.

  Matilda saw her staring at the cradleboard. “Cradleboard makes children feel safe—wrapped tightly.”

  Eliza had to agree. She had never seen a fussy Nez Perce baby on a cradleboard. She traced the intricate design with her finger.

  “Cradleboard come from Joseph family.”

  Mama had told Eliza that cradleboards were passed down from generation to generation. The braver the man who had been reared on the cradleboard, the more in demand it was. This cradleboard must have been for Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekht, the son of Joseph the Elder, chief of the Wallowa Nez Perce. Noah met the chief’s son on an elk hunt and had told Eliza about him. He was already much admired. They called him Joseph, like his father.

  When a Nez
Perce became a Christian they chose an English name, like Timothy, Matilda, and Noah had. They also kept the Nez Perce name they had been given, which reflected their personality, physical skills, or characteristics. They didn’t receive that name from their parents until they were about six or seven. Until then they were just referred to as “little one” or “my baby” in the Nez Perce language. No one believed they could come up with the right name for a person until they understood him or her well enough.

  “Today is Eliza’s birthday,” Henry said.

  “How did you know that?” Eliza asked. Birthdays were celebrated quietly in her home, usually with something sweet at supper—maybe a cake if the hens were laying—and a small gift. But it wasn’t suppertime yet, so how did Henry know?

  “I just know,” Henry said.

  “I know, too.” Noah said. “But I cannot say more.”

  Hmmm. So many secrets.

  “I have gift for you, my friend.” Matilda handed her a soft buffalo hide pouch.

  Eliza didn’t know what to say. She had never received a gift from one of her Nez Perce friends. She thought about gifts her mother had given to Timothy or others. What had they said to thank her?

  “I am honored, Kat’sa.” She lowered her head.

  “Open it, ’Liza,” Henry said. “Open it.”

  Matilda smiled as Eliza opened the rawhide drawstring. Beads! The pouch had dozens of beads inside. Most were seed beads strung on thin sinews to keep the tiny glass beads together. These were used in creating the intricate designs Matilda beaded onto camas bags and dresses. Eliza ran her fingers through the cool glass beads and pulled out the larger ones. There were three blue Lewis and Clark beads. These were her mother’s favorites. There were several watermelon beads as well. These oblong beads looked like a ripe watermelon—striped green on the outside with a red center where the hole pierced. There were also a number of turquoise beads.

  “Oh, Kat’sa!” Eliza threw her arms around the older woman. She knew how valuable these beads were. The craftsmen of the tribe treasured their beads. They had been used as a form of money—trade beads—for years as the Indians traded furs to the trappers in exchange for beads.

  “Your mother wishes you to learn needlework like white women learn.” She leaned back and laughed. “Matilda thinks you can include Nimiipuu designs in needlework.”

  “I will.” Eliza could picture the designs she’d like to make.

  Matilda took the pouch and pulled out the brown seed beads. They reminded Eliza of sarsaparilla that Papa brought back from a trip to Fort Vancouver.

  Matilda held the string of beads up to the light. “Color of earth warmed by sun. And color of Eliza’s hair.” She reached into the pouch again and brought out some of the Russian blues. “Color of sky. Color of Eliza’s eyes.”

  She put the beads back into the pouch and pulled the drawstring tight. Eliza took the pouch and tucked it deep into her apron pocket. She wanted to thank Matilda again for the gift but she knew she must not. One thank you was enough. More might seem insincere.

  “There’s Papa.” Henry pointed toward the wigwam where their father dismounted from his horse and went inside to talk with the elders. Were they talking about the angry Cayuse?

  The wigwam was the gathering place in the village. It was long and rectangular, made of a framework of poles covered with reed mats. The roof was sod, cut right from the fields. With a fire lit inside it was warmer than a log home.

  The other homes in the village were teepees. These were made of poles, spread out in a wide circle at the bottom and lashed together at the top. Hides covered the poles. Many of the teepees had colorful scenes or designs painted on them. The people kept the teepees cool in the hot season by rolling up the hides and letting the breezes blow through the bottom of the teepee. They kept the teepee warm in winter by bringing the fire inside and keeping the sides down. The smoke from the fire escaped through the opening at the top where the poles came together. In wintertime, the snowy village was dotted with teepees, laced tight against the cold with a thin plume of smoke rising from the top of each one.

  Noah said the teepees made it easy to move the entire village for hunting or for gathering camas root.

  When the mission first came, her father urged the Nez Perce to stay in one place and farm as well as hunt. Many of the braves resisted, saying digging in the dirt was for women, but after one or two harvests, they objected less. Grain could be stored for the time when game became scarce. The women still did much of the farming.

  Papa said that besides wanting the Nez Perce to be well fed, if they stayed in one place they could attend services on the Sabbath and regularly attend school. It’s hard to build friendships, he would always say, if people never stay in one place.

  Eliza wondered why her family didn’t just get a teepee and follow the tribe.

  Eliza, Noah, and Henry spent the afternoon helping Matilda take the babies to their mothers for feeding, turning the pieces of Chinook salmon that were drying on racks in the sun, and visiting the litter of puppies that had been born in a jumble of fallen trees down by the river.

  They came back into the village just as their father came out of the wigwam. He nodded at Noah. “Are you ready to go home?” he asked Eliza and Henry.

  Noah had taken off without even saying goodbye.

  “Can Noah come home with us?” Eliza asked.

  “Not today. We have someone else to take home with us tonight.”

  “Someone else?” Eliza didn’t understand. It couldn’t be Matilda because she was minding babies. Who—

  “’Liza, you are nine years old today. Your mother and I decided it was old enough for you to take care of your own pony.”

  Noah came out from behind the wigwam leading a beautiful little pinto pony.

  For a moment, Eliza couldn’t speak. She had dreamed of her own horse. Could it be true? The pony tossed her head and nickered softly.

  “Ayi!” Eliza ran over and threw her arms around the pony’s neck. In all her daydreams she had never pictured one as beautiful as this.

  “I trained her myself,” Noah said. Although he was still a boy, everyone acknowledged his skill with horses.

  “Thank you, Papa. Thank you, Noah.” She could barely get the words out. A horse. She had her own horse. She ran her hands over Ayi’s hindquarters, which wore patches of white running through the warm sorrel color. A beautifully woven Nez Perce blanket covered Ayi’s back and an Indian saddle rested on it.

  She looked over at Matilda’s teepee. She and Timothy stood smiling. Everyone must have known but her.

  “Are you ready to ride?” Papa helped her up into the saddle. “Henry will ride with me.”

  “When do I get a pony, Papa?” Henry asked.

  “In due time, son. In due time.”

  “Mama, can I go outside and make sure Ayi is comfortable?” Eliza could hardly bear to sit and eat dinner when her very own pony stood just a short way away. On the ride home she’d barely gotten acquainted with her pony but she could already see that Papa had handpicked this one for her. As she talked to Ayi, the horse pricked her ears and seemed to be trying to learn Eliza’s strange language.

  “Eliza, I cooked your favorites for supper tonight. Your horse will still be there in the morning.” Mama had cooked elk stew and baking powder biscuits. The stew was rich with potatoes, carrots, celery, parsnips, and onions.

  “A delicious meal, Mrs. Spalding.” Papa always called Mama by her married name. And she called him Reverend Spalding. When they said it, it sounded like pet names—special names. “And a little birdie told me we have Scripture cake for dessert.”

  Martha Jane, sitting on a stack of books, chirped, “Birdie, birdie.”

  Henry laughed out loud. “She’s getting old enough to join in the dinner conversation.”

  “I hope we have Burnt Jeremiah syrup for the cake,” Eliza said. Scripture cake with syrup was her favorite.

  “Surely you can smell it.” Mama took a d
eep breath in through her nose, which started a coughing fit.

  Eliza caught the worried look on Papa’s face before he masked it with a smile. “I smelled it as soon as we walked in the door.”

  “Birdie, birdie,” the baby said.

  “It’s a good thing Martha Jane is getting older,” Mama said as soon as her coughing subsided. “I have a feeling a new baby may be joining us before Christmas.”

  “A new baby!” Henry jumped up from the table to hug his mother. “Can I help take care of the baby?”

  “I will need all of your help so that I can keep teaching school and my needlework classes. Not to mention taking good care of the Spalding family.”

  Eliza knew she would help. Nobody worked as hard as her mother. Of course, nobody enjoyed the work as much. Mama was delighted to have so many students. Usually the house was filled with Nez Perce—even at dinnertime. She always cooked double the portion, knowing they’d likely have visitors. Women from the village often came to prepare a meal with her. The cast iron cook stove fascinated them. Mama learned from them as well. She had a pothook put in the fireplace and often cooked over the open fire as her Nez Perce friends taught her.

  As they finished supper, Mama brought the cake to the table and drizzled the syrup over it. Before she cut it, she said, “We have a birthday gift for Eliza.”

  “But what about Ayi? Isn’t she my gift?”

  “No. We’ve been waiting for the right pony to come along for you. It just happened that she was ready on your birthday.” Her father folded his hands. “You will use the pony to help us with the mission work—taking things to the village, fetching things from the village.”

  “And when you go to school you will need a way to get there. It’s a hundred and twenty miles to the Whitman mission,” Mama said.

  Go to school? No one had ever talked about her leaving the Lapwai mission. Leave her family?

  Her mother pushed a package across the table. It was wrapped in a piece of brown paper and tied with string. Mama had tucked a colorful fall leaf under the string. “Open it.”