Read Online 0800722329 by Jane Kirkpatrick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Kirkpatrick
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missionaries against us! Because of these unfounded complaints, Mr. S and Dr. Whitman, too, had been dismissed.
“Dismissed? That can’t be! Why?” I edged up on my elbow, brushed my long braid aside.
“They say we’ve lost our way, not brought sufficient heathens to the Lord.” It was how they counted success, by numbers rather than by how people changed their lives.
“Well, maybe not Marcus but you have. We have.”
He lay with his hands as in prayer across his stomach. “Perhaps we have focused too much on getting the Indians to settle near the mission. We did it for a good reason, to protect them, especially since Marcus invites the immigrants, makes them feel welcome so they’ll stay and we’ll have a state one day. That appeals to him more than saving souls. But maybe we spend too much time in plowing furrows rather than in planting seeds of faith.” In the moonlight I could see him blink rapidly. “I may have failed us, Eliza. I may have failed us.”
I reminded him of Young Timothy coming to the Lord. Of Joseph, seeking baptism, giving up the ways of the medicine doctors and the strange spirits. How could he speak of failure? “Are we abandoned here, then? All our work we’re to forget ever happened? And go where? How? We have nothing but the clothes on our backs. Or is even my nightdress the property of the Mission Board?” I felt a panic new to me, greater than when I almost died coming here across the continent. Was it shame, a fear of failure? Anger at whom? I inhaled, slowed my heartbeat, resolved to remind myself we were in God’s hands. I kept my voice calm. I could see Mr. S was distressed beyond words. “Who lodged these complaints?”
“Smiths, I imagine. Maybe the Eells.”
I rose from our bed. The moon shone full through the single window casting a square shadow onto the puncheon floor. I paced. I knew Narcissa and Marcus still grieved the drowning of their little Alice, born not long before our Eliza. Perhaps that’s what brought on all the chaos, the complaints. Grief is a shape shifter. Narcissa could be demanding and they complained that they were not well treated by their Cayuse Indians. When they came here, they could see that we had friends among The People. Matilda and I laughed together as sisters, shared stories in a language Narcissa didn’t understand. We saw the Nez Perce as people, not just heathens needing our Savior. We were willing to let them teach us things about them, about living here. At that time, it seemed to me the Whitmans had abandoned their efforts to bring the Book of Heaven to their Indians, whom they dismissed as stubborn, demanding money for the use of their land. Instead the Whitmans focused on the emigrants who came, more each year. The Whitmans prepared for settlement, for the arrival of new pioneers who would take even more prime land from the Indians, and spent their time selling goods to those on wagon trains while we spent our love on the Nez Perce and their souls.
I heard Narcissa say once she had no interest in teaching the Cayuse, that they were too “hardheaded” to be taught. I did not find that so. But she would not have complained to the Board. Marcus had been dismissed too in the letter campaign.
To this day I remain confused. I heard later that everyone agreed that “our” differences had been settled, that complaints against various families would cease (meaning Mr. Smith would stop sending his letters of concern to the Board) and I was relieved. But then Mr. S let it slip that part of what made things settle was Marcus chose to head east to plead our case to the Board and explain the difficulties with Asa Smith and his haughty ways (God forgive my using unkind thoughts about that man) and that Mr. Smith would head to Hawaii. Oh the poor Halls will have to deal with him now!
And then the blow that night, as the moon cast glitter over the Clearwater River. Mr. S told me he agreed that we would stop teaching in Sahaptin,
“Dismissed? That can’t be! Why?” I edged up on my elbow, brushed my long braid aside.
“They say we’ve lost our way, not brought sufficient heathens to the Lord.” It was how they counted success, by numbers rather than by how people changed their lives.
“Well, maybe not Marcus but you have. We have.”
He lay with his hands as in prayer across his stomach. “Perhaps we have focused too much on getting the Indians to settle near the mission. We did it for a good reason, to protect them, especially since Marcus invites the immigrants, makes them feel welcome so they’ll stay and we’ll have a state one day. That appeals to him more than saving souls. But maybe we spend too much time in plowing furrows rather than in planting seeds of faith.” In the moonlight I could see him blink rapidly. “I may have failed us, Eliza. I may have failed us.”
I reminded him of Young Timothy coming to the Lord. Of Joseph, seeking baptism, giving up the ways of the medicine doctors and the strange spirits. How could he speak of failure? “Are we abandoned here, then? All our work we’re to forget ever happened? And go where? How? We have nothing but the clothes on our backs. Or is even my nightdress the property of the Mission Board?” I felt a panic new to me, greater than when I almost died coming here across the continent. Was it shame, a fear of failure? Anger at whom? I inhaled, slowed my heartbeat, resolved to remind myself we were in God’s hands. I kept my voice calm. I could see Mr. S was distressed beyond words. “Who lodged these complaints?”
“Smiths, I imagine. Maybe the Eells.”
I rose from our bed. The moon shone full through the single window casting a square shadow onto the puncheon floor. I paced. I knew Narcissa and Marcus still grieved the drowning of their little Alice, born not long before our Eliza. Perhaps that’s what brought on all the chaos, the complaints. Grief is a shape shifter. Narcissa could be demanding and they complained that they were not well treated by their Cayuse Indians. When they came here, they could see that we had friends among The People. Matilda and I laughed together as sisters, shared stories in a language Narcissa didn’t understand. We saw the Nez Perce as people, not just heathens needing our Savior. We were willing to let them teach us things about them, about living here. At that time, it seemed to me the Whitmans had abandoned their efforts to bring the Book of Heaven to their Indians, whom they dismissed as stubborn, demanding money for the use of their land. Instead the Whitmans focused on the emigrants who came, more each year. The Whitmans prepared for settlement, for the arrival of new pioneers who would take even more prime land from the Indians, and spent their time selling goods to those on wagon trains while we spent our love on the Nez Perce and their souls.
I heard Narcissa say once she had no interest in teaching the Cayuse, that they were too “hardheaded” to be taught. I did not find that so. But she would not have complained to the Board. Marcus had been dismissed too in the letter campaign.
To this day I remain confused. I heard later that everyone agreed that “our” differences had been settled, that complaints against various families would cease (meaning Mr. Smith would stop sending his letters of concern to the Board) and I was relieved. But then Mr. S let it slip that part of what made things settle was Marcus chose to head east to plead our case to the Board and explain the difficulties with Asa Smith and his haughty ways (God forgive my using unkind thoughts about that man) and that Mr. Smith would head to Hawaii. Oh the poor Halls will have to deal with him now!
And then the blow that night, as the moon cast glitter over the Clearwater River. Mr. S told me he agreed that we would stop teaching in Sahaptin,
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