The Memory Weaver

  “Did you . . . did you try to buy him back, Jeremiah?”

  “I wish I had. I told my pa I’d set him free and he’d left us, just like that.” Andrew snapped his fingers. “My pa thought Jeremiah ungrateful. I didn’t correct him, compounding the evil that I am.” His voice caught again.

  For only a moment did I wonder if he was telling a tale to trick me into seeing him with forgiving eyes, his anguish palpable. I reached over Lizzie to brush the tears from my husband’s stubbled cheeks. I’d never seen him weep. “I’m so sorry you had to make that choice when you were so young.”

  He snorted. “I was seventeen. I thought I could win him back, before we left. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I gambled because it was fun and I figured I could get money to start here, in Oregon, with Jeremiah, free. God forgive me.” He choked on those words; inhaled regret. “When later I did win big and I went to look for him, his new owner had already sold him to someone heading west to California.” He fingered tears from the corners of his eyes. “So now you know. No shame, you said once? My shame. I can’t even describe it.”

  I reached out and touched his arm, a psalm coming to mind about a hand stretching out in the darkness without wearying. I stroked his wrist. “You’ve punished yourself enough.” I whispered the words. “You have sought forgiveness; now the task is to receive it, every day. You are not evil, Andrew. You are a good man who made a bad choice. You’ve made better ones. With God’s help, you will again.”

  “With your help too, ’Liza.” He reached for my hand, squeezed it, then turned his face into the pillow, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. I put Lizzie in her cradle, the one her father had made for her. Then I crawled onto the bed beside my husband, stretched the length of myself against his back, my apron catching on the brads of his duck pants. I pulled the wedding ring quilt up over us, and reached around and held him to me. He gripped my forearm like a lifeline.

  “We are all wretches, lost like the biblical woman with the missing coin. Lost until we knit God into the fabric of our lives,” I whispered. For the first time I truly believed it.

  16

  Unpredictable

  The winter rains and mild weather of 1858–59 with no hard freeze had doused the ground in springtime, making squishy everywhere, walking to the smokehouse, gathering chicken eggs, feeding the hogs. The neat cows stood in muck while I milked them, and the bottom of my skirts and the girls’ caked with mud, straining the threads at the hemlines. I’d put the milk bucket into the spring and had just returned to the house to skim the cream from another pan. Lizzie would be ready to nurse. It was but a month or so after Andrew’s revelation about Jeremiah and I’d noticed his pacing had returned. Irritable, restless in the evenings when I urged him to whittle something for America Jane, hoping that might distract his thoughts. Still, his announcement was totally unexpected. “We’re moving.”

  “What?” I turned to him, spoon in hand. “Moving? Where is it you plan to go and why?”

  “Washington Territory—on the Touchet River.”

  I barely had a breath. “Near . . . Waiilatpu?”

  “No interfering state rules there. It’s still a territory. Man can do what he thinks best for his family. No taxes. Fewer regulations.”

  “If I’m remembering, our Oregon Territory didn’t even have money to fund an army to send for our hostage rescue after the Whitmans died nor put down the uprising with the Yakima. A tax might have been a good thing.”

  “They got you back.”

  “The British got us back. They paid the ransom.”

  “It’s about time you put those memories to rest, Eliza. Life goes on. Are you going with it is the question.”

  “But this is our home.” Why was he upsetting our lives like this? He paced, the slight limp a reminder of his earlier choices. My sisters listened but offered no commentary.

  “I want land where cattle don’t have to stand in muck more days out of the year than I care to count. There’s free land east of the Cascades and few people to populate it so we can have that cattle spread I’ve always wanted. You’re familiar with the terrain. Hillsides with grass to their bellies. Treed areas near the streams and then, gracious goodness, almost no rain in the winter. Snow, but no constant drizzle for weeks at a time. Don’t you miss that high dry country, darlin’?”

  I didn’t. And I didn’t want to leave what we had in Brownsville. Why hadn’t I imagined it might have come to this?

  A few nights later, as memories mixed with prayers kept me from sleep, an odd sound brought me to the porch where Martha Jane stood, dressed for travel, a small satchel in hand.

  “Martha? What are you doing up at this hour?”

  She looked startled in the moonlight, her wolf-fur hat wisping around her heart-shaped face. She was fourteen years old with brows that framed deep brown eyes.

  “What are you doing with your bag?”

  “Oh please don’t try to stop us. Bill and I, we’re eloping.”

  “Bill?” Am I really awake?

  “Wigle.” She whispered it and what followed. “He’s a good man. He’s twenty-four, and when he turns twenty-five he comes into some money. We thought we could wait but we just can’t.”

  “But how? I mean, I’ve never seen him around. When?” Then the important question: “Does Father know?”

  “That we’re in love? Of course not. He’ll have me signed up to cook and clean for him and Rachel and Millie for the rest of my life now that you’re leaving!”

  “I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going with Andrew or not.”

  “Oh, you’ll go. And Father won’t let us join you. I can’t go back to Father and Rachel, Eliza. Don’t make me.”

  “But you’ve only turned fourteen this week. It’s too . . . early.”

  “You did it. Barely older than what I am now.”

  “I was seventeen.”

  “Be happy for me. Here’s Bill.”

  She skipped off the porch as Bill Wigle dismounted. He tipped his hat at me, then made a stirrup with his hand so she could mount the horse he’d led in for her. He tied her satchel behind the saddle. I stood like a lump, unable to do or say anything to stop them.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Eugene City. No one here would ever marry us, not with Father around. Wish us well, Sister.”

  I pulled my shawl closer to me.

  “What’s going on?” This from Millie, her eyes full of sleep though. She carried a lantern from behind me, held it high. Her eyes grew wide. To Martha she said, “You’re going to do it?”

  I turned to my youngest sister. “You knew about this?”

  “Of course. You’re so preoccupied with the babies and Andrew—”

  “And work, keeping the two of you in fine style.”

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Bill said. He was tall and lanky and wore a silly lover’s grin. “We’re going to live with my brother Jacob, in Harrisburg.”

  “Father will—”

  “Not be happy. But he’ll never approve anyone I choose.” Martha leaned into Bill. “Just as he wasn’t with your Andrew. He wants to keep us close, doing things his way.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll look after her, Mrs. Warren.” No longer grinning, Bill seemed bent on assuring me of his good intentions, but the man was going to marry a child! He sat straighter on the horse, tipped his hat at Millie and me, then reined his mount down our lane, Martha Jane riding close beside him.

  If they were going toward Eugene City, they’d have to go through the Gap on the Territorial Road. I hurried back inside and dressed, told Andrew I had to make a quick trip, that Millie would watch America Jane when she woke.” I’ll take the baby with me.”

  “What are you doing, darlin’?” Sleepiness, not worry, threaded through his words.

  “Saving a life.”

  “I’m going with you.” Millie leapt from the porch heading toward the barn. “I’ll get horse
s.”

  “No! You stay right here, young lady, and look after America Jane.” Lizzie awoke to all the commotion then. I thrust the baby at Millie. “I’ll saddle Maka myself.”

  My horse ready, I jammed a rain hat on my head, hung a slicker on my back, and mounted. Millie patted the baby in comfort, then handed her to me already swaddled in a blanket. “I could help,” she said. Like a sling, I tied Lizzie to my breast, the sling knot thick against the back of my neck, the hat wide enough to keep her dry. I pulled my oil slicker over us against the March chill and drizzle and rode hard, the leather reins wet in my hands. It’s what my mother would have done, rescue a child.

  “Bill Wigle. That snake. I thought he was a good man.” My father pulled his pants on over his long johns, outrage pushing at him as he grabbed a worn shirt, one I’d sewed for him some years back, yanked it over his head. “He paid attention in church.” He narrowed his eyes. “All he wanted was Martha Jane’s attention.”

  “I don’t think he’s a bad person. But she’s so young.”

  “Your opinion is not welcome. It was a mistake for you to marry Warren.” His jaw clenched. “She’s off copying you, eloping. I never should have let her live with you!”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I defended. “It’s just that she’s not ready and I hoped she’d go to the Academy next year, like Henry Hart did. I hate to see her throwing away her chance.”

  “She’s not getting out of my sight after this, I can tell you that.” His Rachel handed him his boots. “You were too lax with her, Eliza. Or this never would have happened.”

  I did wonder when they’d formed this union, but should I say . . . “She was fearful she’d have to come back here.”

  “Fearful?” He stopped, stared at me.

  “When we move. To the Touchet country. If I go with Mr. Warren.” I looked away, patting Lizzie’s back, warm and safe against me as she slept in my arms.

  His face grew red. “I’ll deal with that later. I’ve got to see if I can stop them. Oh, what did I let you do to my Martha Jane!”

  Rachel watched the ruckus happening in her kitchen. “Don’t forget this.” She handed my father his hat as he stormed out the door. She turned to me then. “Tea? I can boil water now.” She nodded toward the wet spot at my breast. “You best feed that little one.”

  “I can’t believe she did that,” I told Andrew.

  “Millie’s the wild one.” He nodded at my sister eating porridge. She grinned. “I thought Martha had more sense.”

  “She didn’t want to go back to Papa’s. Me either, really. But I suppose I’ll have to.” Millie stirred her breakfast.

  “So you’ve decided to go with me,” Andrew asked. “Good.”

  “I haven’t decided one way or the other whether I’m going to Touchet.”

  “Where is that anyway?” Millie looked at us both.

  “In Washington Territory in the best grassland and grazing country a man could ever wish to see. Water from a blue river. No one around to speak of. Indians are all settled with the Yakima war over and the Cayuse sent packing.”

  “It’s . . . it’s not far from where I went to school once, at the Whitman Mission.” My fingers felt cold as I picked up the porridge bowls.

  “Oh, gosh, why would you want to go back there? I’ve heard all the stories.” Millie shivered her shoulders.

  I looked at Andrew. “I don’t know that I do.”

  Two days later in the evening Martha Jane and my father arrived back at our cabin.

  “Traitor.” She stomped past me.

  “You’ll thank me one day, you will,” I called after her. “You’re too young, Martha.” I put Lizzie on my hip. She could hold her head up well. To my father I said, “Where did you find them?”

  “At his brother’s. I chased them through the Gap, but they had too much of a head start. Gave Wigle’s brother a piece of my mind, too, harboring a child-stealer.”

  “Bill’s no stealer! He’s my future husband!”

  I joined Martha behind the dividing blanket where the girls slept. Millie sat up and yawned. “Marriage is a big choice,” I said.

  “One you made without meddling from anyone else. How dare you interfere in my life!” She turned, threw her small bag on her pallet, crossed her arms over her breast.

  “I only did it because I care about you.”

  “You just want me around to work, so you can be bossy. You’re not my mother. You never were. You, you act like you’re such a saint having survived a terrible ordeal.” She wiggled her hands by her ears, mocking my experience. “Well, I survived it too. I remember being huddled up with Mama wondering if Father was dead or alive, if you were dead, if we were all going to die.”

  “You couldn’t have. You were too young to remember.”

  “I remember,” she shouted. “But I didn’t let it shape every single thing I’ve done since, lording it over the rest of the world.”

  I struck her across her face. Gasped at what I’d done.

  Martha put her fingers to her cheek. Lizzie cried, buried her head in my breast.

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.” I backed away. “I never should have—”

  “No. You should not have.” She returned to stuffing more clothes into her carpetbag.

  “You’ll break the seams.”

  “I don’t care if I tear them to shreds! At least I’ll have done it myself without the . . . the . . . obstruction of a self-righteous sister.”

  Tears streamed down her face and I approached to hug her.

  “Don’t. Touch. Me.” She turned her back to me. “I’m glad Father doesn’t want me staying here. Anywhere near you is the last place I want to be.”

  I spent the next day pondering my actions. Why had I interrupted Martha Jane’s marriage to Bill Wigle? I had nothing against the man. I barely knew him. But she barely knew him either. Yes, he was much older but that was common in these parts. A married man could claim twice the land and a woman could have her half in her own name if she chose. But there was really no need for Martha to claim land. My father had divided his property when my mother died, giving Martha Jane and Millie and Henry Hart parcels while he remained on one himself. As the eldest, I imagined I’d receive that piece when he died, but he’d designated a plot in the hills for me. Why was I so adamant about how other people lived their lives?

  Andrew had left to care for the cattle while I was at Father’s, giving me plenty of time to stew and ponder. Lizzie fussed and I fed her while Millie moped about missing Martha. America Jane squirmed too, asking after her papo. My sisters were an integral part of our lives and now, here we were, split open like too-ripe melons. I hadn’t seen this schism coming, not a bit of it. My telling my father hadn’t brought me into his good graces either, the elopement affirming for him that I wasn’t a good influence on her. Martha acted like I was tainted meat, and Millie might well decide she didn’t want to be around me either. Or my father would reclaim Millie and they’d all be back looking after him and Rachel too. Yes, she could boil water. What a transformation. I shouldn’t worry.

  But there was more to this, I knew it. That morning, we read from Matthew and the words that stood out for me were these: “Go ye and learn what that meaneth. I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.” Learn what this means. I didn’t know how. I hadn’t been merciful toward Martha, though I intended that. I did think she was too young. I did hope she could go on to the Academy next year. And maybe there was a part of me that wanted to keep her from not seeing the shadow side of Bill in the way I’d missed seeing some of Mr. Warren’s darker ways. I wanted time to investigate Bill. I didn’t want her to sacrifice her life looking after an unpredictable man—even though back with my father she’d be doing just that. What have I done?

  I couldn’t go with Andrew to Touchet, not with the family splintered like kindling. We’d have to resolve those issues before we could go. Or perhaps this was God’s way of telling me not to go. Oh Mama, how I wish you were here to teach me what
this means.

  The Diary of Eliza Spalding

  1850

  We are charged by God to discover meaning in everyday life, to ponder and explore. God gave me the Nimíipuu who helped me, us. They were in my dark places and stayed there with me, did not simply push me through. I learned so much from the darkness. Learn what this means, Scripture tells us. I learned to lean on the Lord more in times of peril.

  I write of a time when the Methodist Reverend Lee visited Lapwai for several days. I thought S impulsive when he suggested staging an Indian battle for the Reverend to witness. Our Nez Perce had attended Sabbath services with close to one thousand worshiping together, listening to S’s words. Reverend Lee was well impressed and then S suggested the sham display. Our Nez Perce came dressed with face paint and marked their horses too with much red and colorful ribbons and cloths tied into the horses’ manes and flowing from their staffs. Intricate beadwork shielded the animals’ chests, the sunlight glinting against the highly prized cut beads. The men carried guns and hatchets and long knives and rode their horses hard back and forth in front of us, stirring up powdery dirt. Some men were tapped to “die” at the point of a gun, falling from their horses. I held Henry Hart, who was not yet three, while Eliza clung to my dress through the spectacle of dust and noise and fearsome faces. Henry had insisted that we watch.

  The actions frightened Eliza, as she’d never seen the fierce war paint, the howling, men falling from their mounts as though dead. And then, to my horror, their “murderer” would leap down and remove their scalp! Fake scalps placed there to be sure, but the swiftness of their knives around the “dead” comrade brought screams from Eliza that I could not stop. I handed Henry to his startled father and glared at him as I grabbed Eliza and carried her into the house. It took me hours to calm her. What had S been thinking to stage such a sight? I had words with him of this and he claimed naively that while such a display could have upset Eliza, Reverend Lee was fascinated by both the fierceness and the piety of the Nimíipuu, so different from his gentle Kalapuya in the Willamette Valley. “He’ll tell the Mission Board about how well our Indians are doing, how they like to perform to satisfy us.”