02/17/2020
My book, titled Eliza is in the final editing process and should be published, and available in the coming months. It is the epic story of my wife, Laurie's family, the Spaldings. The first white woman to cross the Oregon Trail in 1836, and the first white child born in the Northwest. The photos are of their original home in Lapwai Idaho, and Eliza who is on the right. It is narrated by Eliza, and centers on the woman's role as the first pioneers. Here is a 2 1/2 page prologue if you are interested in taking a look at the content and style. I have also started writing music for a possible screenplay and will share soon. Eliza
Part One
“The pioneer did not wait for the government to mark the way, he marked the way for the government. His path was not blazed, his course was the setting sun. Plains were neither too broad nor mountains too high to deter him. His own right arm was his defense and his heart supplied the never ending inspiration.”
Eliza Spalding Warren
Prologue
As I walked through the ashes and ruins of the Whitman Mission for the first time in many years, memories of the massacre came flooding back. I often wonder what my life would have been like had my parents stayed in New York, and never ventured westward beyond the daunting Rocky Mountains.
Before 1835 no white woman had ever journeyed over the Oregon Trail. Seven grueling months, one foot in front of the other, 5,215 miles. For a young woman like my mother, from a comfortable home and loving family the journey was no less epic than that of Christopher Columbus, crossing the Atlantic Ocean. Forever gone were the gentle rolling hills and farmlands, flower gardens, Sunday picnics, and loving family and friends who adored her. For mother the most difficult and terrifying part of going was leaving behind her family and everything she cherished forever.
That was not how she chose to live her life. She and my father were of a different ilk, fully committed to the ideal of sharing their beliefs no matter what the cost, no matter what kind of hardships or fates lay ahead.
They rose every day before the sun and worked until long after it had set. I can still remember seeing their candlelit figures casting shadows across the crude log cabin walls of our first home, night after sleepless night. Yet no one was ever left wanting no matter how weary Mother and Father may have been in body or soul.
They struck out fearlessly in the direction of an unknown world of unimaginable beauty and danger, inhabited by a people of fierce passion for life and devotion to Mother Earth, the Nimiipuu, known to us as the Nez Perce.
Mother and Narcissa Whitman were the first white women to challenge the Oregon Trail, and I was the first white child born and raised in the Northwest. The pioneer women rarely received credit for the sacrifices and contributions they made; in almost every instance accolades were given to the husband, whether he wanted them or not.
On November 29, 1847 one of the most brutal massacres in Northwest history took place. I know, because I was there and witnessed it: I was ten years old at the time.
Doctor and Mrs. Whitman along with nine other boys and men were killed that day by a band of Cayuse Indians. Two other men were killed several days later in a way that defies description; I was there also. Having escaped, another man was hunted down, scalped, mutilated and then killed while seeking help for his family. During the second week of captivity several young children sick with the measles died for the lack of Doctor Whitman’s gentle care.
The day of the massacre fifty-four terrified women and children were herded into the living room and brutally shoved against the walls while the warriors decided whether or not to burn the mission down with us in it. I was the only one who understood what they were saying. The room was a horror beyond imagination and we saw things that no one, especially children should ever see.
We were all in a deep state of shock, there was no crying, and not a sound to be heard. Our fates hung like an invisible thread. When I approached the chief to suggest that we were more valuable alive than dead, I knew it might be my last moment on earth.
Because I was the only one who spoke the Sahaptin language of the Nez Perce, Cayuse, and Umatilla Indian tribes, the chief used me as interpreter. As the interpreter, I saw and heard more than anyone else, more than I ever wanted to see or hear. I was also used as the designated food taster to so that if the foods were poisoned I would be the first to die.
Other than the nightmares, I have no idea how many ways that this must have affected my life, or what I was thinking or feeling at the time. I do know for certain that I never expected to see another day. That night was a living hell, and for the next thirty days we never knew from one moment to the next if we were going to be tortured or killed in the same way as the other victims. For several of the women, the next thirty days held a fate worse than death.
Let me get one thing straight: only a few of the men involved in the massacre were truly evil. Most of the Cayuse men did what they thought they needed to do to save their people and rid themselves of the Americans, our diseases and greed for land.
To our culture, the abomination was in the way in which they were killed, but their ways are often incomprehensible to us, as our ways are to them. There are instances in which the U.S. Army has done much worse, things that make you sick, and ashamed to be part of the human race.
I grew up in the Nez Perce village of Lapwai, and had very little interaction with other white people until I was eight years old. The Nez Perce were my family, and my heart breaks whenever I think of what has been done to them, and the other tribes of the Northwest. They believe they are one with the earth, the Great Spirit, the very nature of existence. They have a deep and abiding respect for all living things, a respect we cannot begin to understand since it is not part of our culture. If there is food, no one goes hungry. If there is warmth and shelter, no one goes cold. Elders are revered, and children are given a freedom unknown to white children, along with the responsibility that comes with it.
Fate is often mysterious, and I will always be grateful that the day before the massacre my father fell from his horse and was unable to return to the mission that night. For six days and nights father was on foot, soaking wet in the middle of winter with no shoes or food, pursued by a band of Cayuse warriors. My father’s story will forever be a testament to his indomitable strength, spirit, and will to survive, a symbol of his love and devotion for our family.
Because of the sensational nature of the massacre, it is what most people remember from that time in our history. For various reasons, the Whitmans have been glorified because of it, and often given undue credit, The Spaldings have been all but forgotten.
The missions were charged with bringing the “Book of Heaven,” to the Nez Perce, Cayuse, and Spokane tribes as well as helping them adapt to the inevitable changes on the horizon. It was a direct result of my mother’s deep love and respect for the Nez Perce people and their adoration for her courage and “quiet heart,” that my parents’ mission at Lapwai was acknowledged as a great success. The other three missions at Waiilatpu, Tshimakain, and Kamiah were utter failures.
The Cayuse people distrusted the Whitmans, and one of the contributing factors to the massacre may have been Narcissa Whitman’s obvious disdain for the Indian people. She and Doctor Whitman were good people and I loved them both, but they were not well- suited for the task before them. Still, their lives and those of my parents’, Eliza and Henry Spalding were woven together, a tapestry of human experience unlike any other. Torn between east and west, they put their souls before their hearts, and it all began with the Oregon Trail.
