Selling Your Father’s Bones: The Epic Fate of the American West
Brian Schofield
Part historical narrative, part travelogue through the wilds of the West and part environmental polemic, ‘Selling Your Father's Bones’ is a thrilling journey through the history and wilderness of the stunning area of landscape that is Continental USA.In the summer of 1877, around seven hundred members of the Nez Perce Native American tribe set out on one of the most remarkable journeys in the history of the American West, a 1,700-mile exodus through the mountains, forests, badlands and prairies of modern-day Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming and Montana. They had been forced from their homes by the great wave of settlement that crashed over the West as the American nation was born.Led by their charismatic chiefs, the Nez Perce used their unerring knowledge of the landscapes they passed through to survive six battles and many more skirmishes with the pursuing United States Army, as they raced, with women, children and village elders in their care, towards the safety of the Canadian border. But all Chief Joseph, the young pastoral leader of the exodus, wanted was to return home - to his beloved Wallowa valley, which his dying father had ordered him never to abandon: 'Never sell the bones of your father and your mother.’Now, Brian Schofield retraces the steps of that epic exodus, to tell the full dramatic story of the Nez Perce's fight for survival - and to examine the forces that drove them to take flight. The white settlement of the West had been largely motivated by patriotic fervour and religious zeal, a faith that the American continent had been laid out by God to fuel the creation of a mighty empire. But as he travels through the lands that the Nez Perce knew so well, Schofield reveals that the great project of the Western Empire has gone badly awry, as the mythology of the settlers opened the door to ecological vandalism, unthinking corporations and negligent leadership, which have lest scarred landscapes, battered communities and toxic environments.
SELLING YOUR FATHER’S BONES
The Epic Fate of the American West
BRIAN SCHOFIELD
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
List of Illustrations
Prologue
Maps
1 Homeland
2 Settlement
3 Fever
4 Poison
5 Outbreak
6 Unequal War
7 To the Big Hole
8 Survival
9 Crescendo
10 Climax
11 ‘We’re Still Here’
Notes
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Index
Copyright
About the Publisher
DEDICATION
For my grandfather
EPIGRAPH
‘I believe…that sooner or later…somewhere…somehow…we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken’
The Lone Ranger’s Creed
Prologue
As THE SUN glowed red across the grassland, a group of children headed away from the village, through the willow trees, to squeeze a few more games from the fading daylight. The boys, mimicking their fathers, played with sticks and bones along the banks of the winding creek, their shrieks fading into the great expanse of the valley — until a chill cut through the air, and it was time to light a fire. The gang gathered wood and huddled close to the flames. Then, as an unfamiliar presence entered the circle of light, they fell to frozen silence. ‘Two men came there wrapped in grey blankets. They stood close, and we saw they were white men.’
The youngsters bolted towards the village in a panic, but when they looked back, the men in the grey blankets had disappeared -and they were soon forgotten as the games began again. Bed-time came, and the children lay down without sharing this unsettling sight with their elders.
That night, the village held a celebration, to mark a day of rest and calm, and good hunting amongst the dense herds of the grasslands. The seven hundred Nez Perce were many miles from home, they’d been travelling for almost two months to reach this riverbank, and they had still further yet to travel — but today, at least, they were at peace, and for that they gave thanks. The warriors paraded through the encampment, singing and drumming in the firelight, their blustering leader encouraging all to relax and enjoy the respite. Elsewhere, a younger chief tended to his own responsibilities, for the young and the old of the camp, the frail and the enfeebled. It was past midnight when the carousing ended, and the valley fell silent.
One hundred and eighty-three United States infantrymen crouched in the darkness and waited. The sleeping village was but a few hundred yards away, the embers of its fires still glowing, while the army shivered on the sloping meadow above, their discipline holding in the bleak, thin night — no cigarettes lit, no rifles dropped, not a sound. Hours passed. The dew soaked easily through the troopers’ threadbare uniforms, tightening the vice of cold. One man struck a match, and was slapped and shushed back into darkness by the soldiers around him.
The sounds of dogs barking and babies crying drifted over the willows and rushes from the dozing village. Just before dawn, a few women emerged from their tepees to refuel the campfires, enjoy a brief gossip and head back to their warm beds. And still the soldiers watched and waited.
At the very first greying of the sky, the troops began to move through the scrubland that lay between the high meadow and the riverbank, crawling and crouching forward, hiding behind the shallow rolls in the earth. A single line of men crept over the sodden ground — then stopped dead. Across the creek, an elderly man had emerged yawning from his lodge, cheerfully accepting that his sleep was complete. Mounting his waiting horse, the elder set off slowly towards the sloping meadow, to check on the village’s grazing herd. His eyes were beginning to wear with time, and he peered into the half-light as his horse forded the creek and strolled through the morning mist — heading straight towards the waiting army.
Fear coursed through the troops as the lone rider wandered closer to their ranks, a hundred yards distance shading to fifty, then thirty, twenty — and still the old man, blessed with a morning to himself, saw no sign of the long, thin line of rifles trained upon him. Ahead, lost in the mist, hearts raced and nerves strained. A cluster of untrained men, callow volunteers, were wound tightest of all — the old man was riding straight for the cleft in the earth where the five lay. He was just ten yards away now. Still he rode on, humming into the lifting gloom. Huddled against the soil, the volunteers heard each footstep approach, battling to summon their courage and keep their senses. The gap closed, and closed, barely five yards now.
The young men, breathless with panic, snapped. Leaping to their feet, they raised their rifles. Across the glistening valley, the deer and the antelope, the buffalo and the coyotes scattered into the distance, away from the echoing crack of gunfire.
MAPS
CHAPTER ONE
HOMELAND
‘These persons inculcate a sanctimonious reverence for the customs of their ancestors; that whatsoever they did, must be done through all time; that reason is a false guide’
THOMAS JEFFERSON, third President of the United States
‘I belong to the earth out of which I came’
TOOHOOLHOOLZOTE, Nez Perce leader
THIS IS HOW the people came to be.
Coyote was helping the salmon swim up the Columbia River, to ensure everyone would have plenty of fish to eat, when he first heard the shouts:
‘Why are you bothering with that? Everyone’s gone, the monster has them.’
The meadowlark told Coyote that everyone had been swallowed by the giant monster, to which he replied, ‘That is where I must go, too.’ He bathed his fur, to ensure he was as tasty as possible, and tied himself to three mountains with long ropes. On his back he put a pack containing five stone knives, some pitch and a fire-making kit. He then walked over the ridge to see the vast body of the monster stretching into the distance, and shouted his challenge: ‘Oh Monster, we are going to inhale each other!’
‘You go first,’ replied the monster, and Coyote breathed in with all his power, trying to swallow the monster, but could only make the beast quiver and shake a little. Next came the monster’s turn, and he breathed in like a roaring wind, lifting Coyote through the air towards him. As he flew, Coyote left camas roots and serviceberry bushes in the ground, saying, ‘We are near the time when the human beings will come, and they will be glad of these.’
Coyote flew into the monster’s mouth, and began walking through its body, past the bones of fallen friends, asking the living for directions to the fiend’s heart. From the shadows, Bear rushed at him, but Coyote shouted, ‘So! You’re only aggressive to me?’ and kicked him on the nose. Then, as he went deeper, Rattlesnake bristled at him: ‘So you are only vicious to me?’ said Coyote, stamping on the snake’s head, flattening it for good.
When he reached the heart, he started a fire with his flint, and smoke began to pour from all the monster’s orifices. ‘Coyote, let me cast you out!’ begged the agonized monster, but the tricky Coyote reminded the fiend that he’d just swallowed a pillar of the local community, with serious responsibilities, who couldn’t be seen to be covered in vomit or phlegm: ‘Oh yes, and let it be said that he who was cast out is officiating in the distribution of salmon!’
‘Well, then leave through my nose.’
‘And will they not say the same?’
‘My ears?’
‘Ha! “Here is earwax officiating in the distribution of food!”’
‘By the back door?’
‘Not a chance.’
By now the monster was writhing in pain. Coyote began to cut away at his heart, breaking first one stone knife on the flesh, then another, then three, four, five. Finally he leapt on the heart and tore it away with his bare hands, killing the beast. In its death throes, the monster opened all its orifices, and everyone ran out, kicking the bones of their dead neighbours ahead of them. The muskrat, unwisely, chose to use the rear exit, and it closed tight on his tail, stripping it of hair forever.
Once everyone was out, Coyote sprinkled the blood of the monster on the bones of the dead, bringing them back to life, then he began to carve up the monster’s flesh, spreading it across the distant lands, towards the sunrise and sunset, the warmth and cold. And wherever the flesh came to rest, there arose the destiny of a people -the Coeur d’Alêne to the north, Cayuse to the west, Crow to the east, the Pend d’Oreille, Salish, Blackfoot, Sioux, until people were destined to cover the wide lands, and nothing more remained of the monster.
Then Coyote’s oldest friend, Fox, pointed out the beautiful, bountiful land where they were standing, and said: ‘But you have given nothing to this place!’
‘Why did you not tell me earlier?’ snorted Coyote. ‘Bring me some water.’
He washed his hands, and sprinkled the bloody water around where he was standing, sealing the destined arrival of one last people: ‘You may be small, because I neglected you, but you will be powerful. Now, only a short time away, will be the coming of the human race.’
It seems we’ll never know the precise moment when man first reached North America. The most mainstream pre-historical consensus, though, is that the first arrivals poured over the Bering land bridge from northern Asia around 13,000 years ago, chasing the mammoths, mastodons and giant bison to extinction as they went.
The local archaeological evidence, of arrowheads, rock art and cooked animal bones, points to the earliest population of the Columbia Plateau, the inland mountain and forest watershed of the great Pacific-bound river, as dating back at least 11–12,000 years. As tribal memory tells it, one of the earliest names for the first people of the plateau was Cupnitpelu, The Emerging or Walking Out People. One story recalls that the animals met to discuss the impending arrival of man; those that decided to help him, such as the salmon and the buffalo, stayed, but those that chose not to help, such as the woolly mammoth and short-nosed bear, left for good.
Once in situ, the Columbia Plateau’s residents certainly played their part in what was probably the most remarkable cultural explosion in human history, as the North American continent began to throw up a wildly diverse wave of new civilizations, each forged by the demands of their surroundings and rendered unique by this capacious land. From the proto-socialism of the Pueblos to the senatorial politics of the New York Iroquois, from the conspicuous, slave-based wealth of some Pacific coast communities to the eternal fires of the Mississippian temple-mound faith, the range, fluidity and distinctiveness of these cultures would fill several lifetimes’ study. It’s estimated that more than six hundred distinct and autonomous societies were in place in Canada and North America by the fifteenth century, speaking a range of at least 250 mutually unintelligible tongues, subdivided many times by dialect.
In the eastern Columbia plateau, in the land surrounding the Snake River, one language group formed around the Sahaptin dialect — and at the centre of the linguistic region lay a loose community of families and bands, dominating the area where the wide Snake, Salmon and Clearwater rivers converge. They came to call themselves Nimiipuu — meaning We, The People.
The Nimiipuu way of life was never trapped in aspic, but was, rather, in constant development and amendment; nevertheless, a snapshot of that lifestyle in the centuries prior to the first approaches of the white man can illuminate a vital, enviable culture. Seminomadic, the Nimiipuu moved about their varied homeland in a seasonal round trip, each village band — only loosely connected to one another, in a friendship recognized as neither tribal nor national — moving to their favoured camping spot to perform each task in the annual natural cycle. There were as many as seventy of these village groups scattered across the homeland, very rarely reaching three hundred members and often much smaller, each with a recognized home base and other seasonal outposts. A leader controlled each band, but with very conditional authority — individual freedom was highly valued and the right to do your own thing was well protected.
Nimiipuu petroglyphs on the banks of the Snake River, thought to be 9–11,000 years old.
That annual natural cycle, essential for the survival of a hunter-gatherer culture, was revered in ceremony and song, providing the basis for all endeavour. With the first melt of spring it was time to head to the alpine meadows and harvest the freshly exposed edible root plants; as June approached the salmon spawn beckoned, and fishing platforms and trapping weirs, known as wallowas, needed building at the most bountiful rapids along the homeland’s rivers; in the height of summer the camas, a kind of wild garlic, bulged beneath lush, wide-open prairies, and the Nimiipuu gathered on the grasslands for weeks of socializing and harvesting; in fall the deer and elk were at their most active and the hunters would disappear into the high country for days in pursuit, while closer to home the serviceberries and huckleberries needed picking and drying. But the long, fierce winter was perhaps the most remarkable season; having dried and stored food in preparation, the Nimiipuu would gather at the base of the lowest, mildest valleys in extended A-framed matting lodges, known as longhouses (sometimes over thirty metres long) to see the snows out together, the families sleeping along the edge of the lodge, with fires burning in the middle. It was a time to make and repair clothes and tools, teach children crafts, and for the elders to tell the young people stories — stories of an earlier time, when people and animals conversed, when the lessons and rules of inhabiting the earth were learned, and the mischievous, capricious Coyote ruled the roost.
It was most certainly not a life of ease, but the Nimiipuu were blessed with a bountiful and ceaselessly beautiful territory, of clean, well-stocked rivers, forests dense with game and plentiful meadows, and their comparative natural wealth and subsequent inclination towards openness, friendliness and, where possible, peace was well captured by one of their earliest non-Indian friends, the historian L. V. McWhorter, in 1952: ‘They were the wilderness gentry of the Pacific Northwest.’
One of the most oft-repeated assertions when modern Nimiipuu discuss their ancestors is that they had no religion in the compartmentalized, Sunday Service meaning; instead they possessed an all-encompassing way of life, in which devotional acts and the actions required for living were inseparable. Spirituality was recognized in everyday moments, such as greeting dawn in prayer or song; in celebrations of the various significant events in the natural calendar, such as the arrival of the salmon or the ripening of the camas roots; and a child’s developing capacity to participate in the life of the band was also sanctified in a series of rites, such as a girl’s first outing to gather roots or a boy’s first hunting expedition.
The most significant and revealing of these rites was the spirit quest, the search for a wyakin, or protective spirit. After several years of preparatory conversations with the elders, each Nimiipuu child (when aged from around nine to fifteen) would head away from the lodges and into the wilderness, without food or water, to begin a lonely, cold vigil for the arrival of their personal wyakin. Sitting alone on a mountain-top or outcrop sometimes for days on end, they would seek the revelation of a source of spiritual strength, an image, sometimes real, sometimes coming in a dream or hunger-induced hallucination, that filled their consciousness and left them certain that protection was being offered — an eagle soaring above them, a bear crossing the horizon, a passing hummingbird, rain falling in the distance. Blessed with this vision, they stumbled back home, now in personal and private possession of a supernatural guardian, to whom they could appeal in times of tribulation, effort and, for some, war.
The wyakin quest offers us today a powerfully illuminating vision: of a Nimiipuu world view in which everything within their lands possessed a spiritual centre. Protection was not the preserve of angels or divinities, because spirits resided in creatures, rivers, land forms, weather patterns, all of creation. And to be connected to that natural order, partly revealed in a knowledge of the patterns and foibles of the local environment on which survival depended, partly in your respect for your spiritual kinship with all nature, was to be a Nimiipuu. The band leader whose eloquence would earn him unwelcome fame, Young Joseph, expressed this state of permanent communion best:
As the Nez Perce man wandered through the forest the moving trees whispered to him and his heart swelled with the song of the swaying pine. He looked through the green branches and saw white clouds drifting across the blue dome, and he felt the song of the clouds. Each bird twittering in the branches, each water-fowl among the reeds or on the surface of the lake, spoke its intelligible message to his heart; and as he looked into the sky and saw the high-flying birds of passage, he knew their flight was made strong by the uplifted voices of ten thousand birds of the meadow, forest and lake, and his heart, fairly in tune with all this, vibrated with the songs of its fullness.
In a time of great stress, he reduced this sentiment to its essence: ‘The earth and myself are of one mind.’
This affiliation to the earth was redoubled by the prominent position that ancestors held in Nimiipuu culture. Referred to often in ceremony and conversation, commemorated in careful genealogy and in the passing on of names, possessions and skills, the ancestors were a constant presence in the villages, with those who have passed on serving both as an example in life and a familiar face in death. Nez Perce spiritual leader Horace Axtell received this explanation from an elder: ‘He said, “This is what we do. We look at these tracks laid by our ancestors and we follow them to where they are now. These tracks lead us to the Good Land, The Good Place, where all Indians go after they have spent their time on this earth.”’
The spiritual power of songs, prayers, dances — and of everyday actions such as berry picking or salmon fishing — thus sprang from two sources, the affiliation to the spirit forces of creation and also the connection, by repetition of their actions, words, names and tunes, with the past Nimiipuu — as Axtell observes, ‘the reason our spirituality is so strong is because it comes from our old people, our old ancestors’.
This tradition contributed greatly to the Nimiipuu’s most historically significant shared characteristic: their attachment to their homelands, to the sparkling landscapes of the Wallowa, Snake, Clear-water and Salmon valleys. If your route to the Good Place is in your father’s footsteps, where else can you live but in his home? And, if the spirits of your ancestors are constantly among you, how much more sacred are the lands in which they are buried — land not demarked by a cluster of wooden crosses and a picket fence, but by the entire area in which your ancestors are part of the spiritual community, a community of which you are also a member? Persuading non-Indian visitors to comprehend this unbreakable bond with a specific area of land and water has always been difficult. Chief Seattle, from another Pacific Northwest tribe, the Dwamish, said the following to a white interloper in 1855:
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandparents. So that they will respect the land, tell your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the children of the earth. If you spit upon the ground you spit upon yourselves. Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being.
The Crow chief Curley was forced to make a similar point when trying to preserve the remnants of his people’s homelands in 1912, telling white people who wanted the land for cultivation and enrichment: ‘You will have to dig down through the surface before you can find nature’s earth, as the upper portion is Crow. The land, as it is, is my blood and my dead.’
The homeland was inseparable from both individual growth and community life. Personal wisdom was acquired not only through the ancestors’ stories and skills, but through direct experience of the landscape, the seasonal whims and the interrelations of the flora and fauna, that both dictated survival and taught the young Nimiipuu their inseparable link to what modern Native American thinker Donald L. Fixico calls ‘the Natural Democracy’ of the home landscape — ‘This democracy is based on respect. In this belief, all things are equally important. Where a native person grows up is relevant to how one understands all things around him or her…and this set of surroundings becomes fixed in the mind like reference points for later in life.’ From a community perspective, the homeland conferred humility: its encapsulation of the past, present and future of the Nimiipuu serving as a reminder from dawn to dusk that individual fulfilment took second place to the continuation of a narrative of which your life was a small but integral part.
It’s important not to romanticize excessively the Nimiipuu’s relationship with the natural world, as many sympathetic chroniclers of Native America have. The image of the American Indian as the irreproachable steward of an unsullied continent is a powerful and popular one — and one that has also been ferociously challenged in recent years. The Nimiipuu, of course, were human beings, inclined towards improving their lives and capable of changing their surroundings, and they affected their landscape through hunting, harvest, burning and grazing. But what seems certain is that not just their spirituality but their survival did depend on a cautious management of the naturally occurring flora and fauna around them. As numerous tribal oral histories testify, if you didn’t let enough salmon escape the fish traps, there’d be nothing in those traps in three years’ time. Hunt elk while they were carrying or caring for foals and there would be fewer elk the following year.
But it also seems clear that in this independent era there was little conflict between the tribe’s stated values and their material ambitions, thanks to a luxury of space — in the years just prior to the arrival of the white man the Nimiipuu are estimated to have numbered from four to six thousand people, enjoying near-exclusive occupation of around thirteen million acres of land. The defining characteristic of the Nimiipuu, in terms of their environmental impact, was simple lack of numbers — they were at a point on the curve where their actions, though crucial to their immediate locality and their own survival, were not likely to shatter entire ecosystems. As a local anthropologist put it to me: ‘It doesn’t really matter if you run a few hundred buffalo off a cliff, if you only do it once a year.’
Then, of course, everything would change. And to question the sincerity of a culture’s core values because they were not too severely tested until you came along seems churlish, at best — particularly as you arrived uninvited.
For the Nimiipuu the first impact of the European invasion of the Americas was largely a benign one — the reintroduction of the horse. Despite their prominence in the mythical West, horses had in fact disappeared from the continent at the same time the first spear point had swept through it, the attractions of protein outweighing load-bearing capacity in those early hunters’ estimation.
Columbus then brought horses to Hispaniola on his second Atlantic crossing, the Spanish left many behind on their subsequent murderous ramblings through Mexico, and by the early eighteenth century the burgeoning mustang herds, and European concepts of domesticating and riding horses, had reached the Columbia Plateau. The ever-adaptable Nimiipuu rapidly became expert riders and breeders, developing a herd numbered in thousands, greatly expanding the range of their endeavours. Larger groups could now travel further afield in search of game and trade, over the rough crossing routes of the Bitterroot Mountains into modern-day Montana, onwards to the wide open Big Hole Valley, still further east to the eerie, steaming landscapes of Yellowstone, north into the great plains of the buffalo tribes. New skills were learned, such as covering lodges in buffalo hides, friendships and intermarrying relationships were strengthened, for example with the Salish people to the east, and military rivalries sprang up with once-distant enemies, now rivals for the bounty of the hunting grounds. The arrival of the horse, the rifle and the East Coast Pilgrims had greatly destabilized Native America’s already fractious territorial arrangements, with many tribes dominoing west, while others expanded rapidly with their new tools of war, and as the Nimiipuu fought their share of conflicts with raiders and land-grabbers the tribe’s warrior culture developed rapidly. Bravery in battle had been a rich source of male identity in pedestrian times, but now that the Nimiipuu were a horse people, the ceremonies of war grew more regular, the traditions of scalp-taking and counting coups (getting close enough to an opponent to touch him, then retreating unharmed) became more ingrained across the Northwest and the prestige of conflict grew ever more alluring to the young and the fearless. The Nimiipuu became proud of their reputation as one of the toughest and smartest martial opponents in the region, sharpening the tactics of warfare and horsemanship that they would later rely on for their very survival.
Around the end of the eighteenth century, during an otherwise unremarkable skirmish in the eastern buffalo fields, a Nimiipuu woman was captured by a raiding tribe and taken north to Canada, where she encountered proof of a long-rumoured apparition — white faces, thick beards and strong medicine. She was well cared for by the trappers and fur traders she encountered, and, fatefully, returned to her village by 1805. Without her elderly recollection that white people were kind and harmless, the seven half-starved men who stumbled into a Nimiipuu camas-gathering camp in the autumn of that year might well have met the fate that many of the village leaders prescribed for them — a swift dispatch. The Nez Perce are not the only tribe in the American West to recall, with bleak humour, that life might have been a great deal simpler if they’d only decided to fatally hinder the Lewis and Clark expedition, rather than graciously help it.
William Clark and Meriwether Lewis had been challenged by President Thomas Jefferson to find a route from the Mississippi to the Pacific Ocean, ostensibly to uncover the geographical and biological wonders of the continent but, in reality, to open up territory to the fur trade and establish nautical links with Asia. Twenty-eight years after achieving independence from Britain, the United States was now engaged in an old-fashioned mercantile struggle with the mother country for control of its hinterland’s resources, and packing the West with fur trappers who had an easy sales route to the Orient seemed the best way to squeeze the giant British trading enterprise the Hudson’s Bay Company (an enemy larger and better resourced than the juvenile US government) up into Canada, or even into the sea. Jefferson had struck a mighty blow against the British in 1803 when Napoleon had sold him 800,000 square miles of land between the Mississippi and the Rockies for $15 million. When Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery expedition set off west in May 1804 it had thus become a much grander, nation-building enterprise — the United States had just more than doubled in size, without a clue what resources, or peoples, most of its new hinterland possessed.
The Corps of Discovery’s stumbling progress towards the Pacific has, in many conflicting ways, become a defining image in the creation of America. The heroism, fortitude and sheer bloody-mindedness of the party are beyond dispute, as they paddled against the current of the Missouri for five months, saw out a blinding sub-Arctic winter on its banks, crossed the armour-plated spine of the Rocky Mountains, coped with rattlesnake bites, grizzly bear attacks, dysentery, malaria, starvation and more. Equally certain is that the western wilderness would have eaten them alive and spat out the bones without the help, sustenance and advice of the many Native peoples they encountered on the way, including the Mandan, Dakota, Oto and Shoshone, a fact Lewis and Clark often acknowledged in their famous travel journals. But the exchange of gifts with these peoples, the smoking of pipes, the borrowing of guides and horses, the cheerful demonstrations of such European innovations as the magnet and the magnifying glass, obscured the plain truth -Lewis and Clark were casing the joint.
By 1804 Jefferson had persuaded America’s leaders that the salvation of their new country would be space. A generous excess of land would be capable of dissipating the increasingly crowded and industrialized eastern seaboard into a simple, spread out and morally upstanding agrarian culture, preventing the decline into European-style fan-fluttering dilettantism with a national backbone of honest, hard-working farming families. ‘The small land holders are the most precious part of the state,’ he declared, and the greater the area these people could occupy, the greater their bracing influence on America’s character. The wealth of evidence that Lewis and Clark would secure, that the lands both within and beyond the new American territories were performing precisely that role already — but for someone else -was never going to act as a deterrent to expansion.
His outriders were themselves on the brink of death (not for the first time) when they reached the Nimiipuu. William Clark and six other men had gone ahead of the main expedition party to search for the Lolo Trail, an ancient route over the sprawling massif of the Bitterroot Mountains that would hopefully lead them onto the Columbia River and a downstream drift to the coast. The expedition’s previous babysitters, the Shoshone people, had warned them that the path was rough, obscured by tree fall and landslides, and sorely lacking in edible game, but Clark was undeterred. Eleven days later his men were eating their dogs, horses, even candles; they were ravaged by sickness, cold and exhaustion, and facing defeat at the hands of what one member described as ‘the most terrible mountains I ever beheld’. As they fell out of the forest and onto the camas grounds of the Wieppe Prairie, it is perhaps understandable that the Nimiipuu who found them and took them into camp concluded, from their unkempt beards, ravenous appetites and pungent lack of hygiene, that these visitors were half man, half dog.
This camp was under the guidance of Twisted Hair, an elderly leader who resisted suggestions of slaughtering the Corps of Discovery in their sleep, and instead fed them up, helped them dig out five canoes from felled trees, guided them to a safe put-in for the Columbia River and even offered to care for their horses while they glided towards the Pacific, and triumph. On their return journey, Lewis and Clark stayed several weeks with the Nimiipuu (who had cared for their horses well), tending to villagers’ ailments from their medicine bag, giving demonstrations of their magical technologies and conversing at length with Twisted Hair, explaining to him the number and power of the white man’s country, the significance of the Great Father (an explanatory title for the president which Jefferson, among others, enjoyed far too much) and the impending arrival of fur trappers and trading posts in the Nimiipuu’s lands.
When they parted, Lewis wrote, ‘I think we can justly say, to the honor of this people, that they are the most hospitable, honest and sincere that we have met with on our voyage.’ Twisted Hair, for his part, made a solemn promise that the Nimiipuu would never spill the white man’s blood. Lewis and Clark, for theirs, promised the Nimiipuu ‘peace and friendship’.
The first efforts by fur trappers and traders to follow in the Corps’ footsteps were underwhelming, at best. American mercantile adventurers, supposedly the next wave of the Jeffersonian expansion, failed to persuade the Nimiipuu and other Columbia Plateau tribes to abandon their crucial sustenance activities and stand in freezing rivers trapping beaver for them instead, while the Nimiipuu proved discouragingly astute in spotting a seller’s market for their healthy, well-fed horses, and set their prices accordingly. The Bostons, as the Indians came to call the Americans, soon skulked off.
British and French Canadian trappers were more resilient, though (in the early nineteenth century the Oregon Territory, the vast sweep of land that took in the north-west USA and Alaska, was still ‘up for grabs’ in the great geopolitical board game), finding villages which would accept dependence on the fur economy, establishing permanent trading posts in the Columbia region and gradually inveigling their way into local life. The Nimiipuu became involved in the trading culture, if not immersed in it: the tools and trinkets such as knives, kettles, fish-hooks and blankets were worth swapping the occasional fur for, and, in times of conflict with the Blackfoot and Shoshone tribes, bullets had become an absolute necessity. But geographical isolation and an impenetrable sense of superiority towards the white man’s antics kept the Nimiipuu at arm’s length. As one trader complained in 1824, the Plateau Indians were still ‘very independent of us, requiring but few of our supplies’.
One thing had changed, though — the Nimiipuu had accepted, from the outside world at least, a new name. French Canadian trappers, noting that some men of the tribe had adopted the coastal practice of piercing their noses (often with shells), had started calling the villagers Nez Percé, which was soon democratized to Nez Perce (rhyming with ‘fez verse’). As was often the case, the name proved much more resilient than the fashion, and ‘Nez Perce’ stuck.
Around 1824 the Bostons returned to the plateau with a vengeance, muscling in on the British market with all the vigour of an invasive coffee-shop chain. Introductory special offers of over-the-top payments for furs and horses lured away loyal customers, and the Americans’ more informal treatment of the Indians forged stronger friendships than the well-practised colonial disengagement of the British. A less honourable marketing device also began to flood the plateau — whiskey. While the British Empire could scarcely be described as a temperate endeavour, the New Republic was lubricated to a quite unprecedented degree: by one 1830 estimate, the average American adult was knocking back seven gallons of alcohol a year, and while the disastrous impact of this free-flowing intoxicant on Indian cultures was well known by the 1820s, the federal ban on trading whiskey with the tribes was of marginal significance several thousand miles from Washington. In 1831 the dominant American trader in the Oregon Territory, William Sublette, hauled 450 gallons of whiskey into his premises on the plateau, claiming every drop was needed to sustain his staff of boatmen. As he did not, in fact, employ a single boatman, the destiny of the drink is unarguable — the highly profitable degradation of people and communities that were socially and, many claim, physiologically, unprepared for the ravages of the wicked water. Once again, geographical protection and a natural aloofness allowed the Nez Perce to protect their culture better than many other tribes, a fact reflected, paradoxically, in the many observations by trappers of the time that the dignity and integrity of the Nez Perce marked them out as the least Indian of the Indians -but they were being drawn ever closer to the ever more numerous Americans. From 1827, many Nez Perce men became regular attendees at Rendezvous, the notorious annual trade conference of fur trappers which one historian, writing in 1918, recalled as a carnival of ‘carousal and dissipation’. The trappers, fiercely independent adventurers in mythology, overworked salarymen in reality, would come in from their travails in the forests and icy streams to spend a few days blowing a year’s wages in the luxury of human company: ‘Men with impassive faces gambled at cards; flat liquor-kegs and whiskey bottles were opened and emptied; and scenes of wildest revelry followed. The Indians, not to be outdone by the white men, joined in the gambling, horse-racing and drunken quarrels.’
And as the British retreated from this unfamiliar new colonialism with their usual good grace — adopting a scorched-earth policy of overhunting to ensure they weren’t followed north — it became increasingly likely that the Oregon Territory would, before long, become part of the ever-expanding ‘alcoholic republic’ of the United States.
In this fur-trading era, the white arrivals were measured in the hundreds at most, their numbers insufficient fundamentally to disrupt Nez Perce life — but these visitors did bring with them the first barrages of what is now seen as the most effective, murderous weapon in the diminution of indigenous America. There are no records of wilful efforts to introduce disease to the people of the Northwest — it was ‘Back East’ that the British military commander, Lord Amherst, had ordered the mass-murderous delivery of smallpox-infected blankets to the Delaware people in 1763 — but the unwitting impact was no less disastrous. Once again, the Nez Perce were spared the worst — for now — but as smallpox, cholera and measles devastated the Blackfoot to their north-east, Columbia tribes to their west and Snake River tribes to their south, the sense of encroaching doom grew, as did the divisions among the tribe, with those who coveted the material benefits of trade with the Bostons increasingly at odds with those who were fast concluding that nothing good could be gained from engaging with the white man. In epidemiological terms, at the very least, the isolationists couldn’t have been more right — the wave of disease that swept ahead of the white settlement of the Americas is among humankind’s greatest catastrophes: the population of North, Central and South America fell by as much as two-thirds in the century following Columbus’ arrival, a loss of up to forty million souls. Some North American tribes buried three-quarters of their people within a couple of months of their first white visitor. As the geographer Jared Diamond made clear in 1988, there’s little contest between ‘guns, germs and steel’ when civilizations fight for survival, the microscopic proving the most potent of the three by far. Diamond did, however, neglect to list the most cancerous and tenacious of all the implements of territorial conquest — gods.
Precisely why four Nez Perce men travelled to St Louis in the summer of 1831 and asked for a copy of the Bible is still fiercely contested. Some historians suggest they encountered this seemingly desirable source of the white man’s power at Rendezvous; others believe they were jealous of the two young male members of the nearby Kootenai and Salish tribes, who had been rented from their families by the Hudson’s Bay Company and sent to boarding school, whence they’d returned in collars and ties, speaking English, reciting the Ten Commandments and humming ‘Amazing Grace’. Yet others suggest that a local prophet had foreseen the arrival of the white man and his great book as heralding the end of this world and the start of a better one, while some modern Nez Perce are keen to revise the spiritual motivation altogether: ‘They didn’t go there for the Bible,’ contends tribal historian Allen Pinkham. ‘They went to learn how to communicate with written words. They wanted the technology of writing, not the Christian faith. We already knew about the Creator. We had our own faith.’
Whatever they wanted, they didn’t get. Two of the men died in St Louis, the other two on the journey home, all unable to resist a city of unfamiliar illnesses. But their mission did cause a sensation — they met their old friend William Clark (perhaps taking the time to let him know that, as a result of his relationship-building endeavours back in 1806, a red-haired Nez Perce was now entering his twenty-fifth year) and visited a Catholic church, while newspapers and Christian societies all the way to the East Coast marvelled at the thought of four ‘Red Men’ wandering through St Louis in full regalia, displaying their manifest hunger for the word of God. A call for missionaries to answer their plea rang out, with this letter to the New York Christian Advocate typically understated: ‘How deeply touching is the circumstance of the four natives travelling on foot 3,000 miles through thick forests and extensive prairies, sincere searchers after truth!…Let the Church awake from her slumbers and go forth in her strength to the salvation of these wandering sons of our native forests.’ For the Nez Perce, this salvation would come in the less than beatific form of the Reverend Henry Spalding.
Photographs of Henry Harmon Spalding are incomplete without a scowl. He was a man of fierce and unforgiving temper, his character a primal soup of vanity and spite, arrogance and churlishness. He may well have fancied that the greasy comb-over dominating the top half of his head and the rampant beard obscuring the bottom half lent him the appearance of a Sistine god; in fact he looks almost precisely as unappealing as his historical legacy. Not surprisingly, this old-fashioned bastard, born of an uncaring mother and an indeterminate father, was unlucky in love, and his routinely black mood can scarcely have been lightened by the companionship, on his 1836 mission to minister to the Nez Perce, of the woman who had broken his heart. Narcissa, travelling with her husband Marcus Whitman, had once rejected Spalding’s hand in marriage but by 1836 he had recovered somewhat and acquired a match, Eliza, who made up the westward-bound foursome, all forced to share a single tent for the entire trip. After two earlier attempts to open a mission in Nez Perce country failed, this unlikely double date was heading to Rendezvous in the hope of meeting the tribes which had sent their emissaries to St Louis, then following them home to establish ministries within their villages. On reaching Rendezvous, the two white women caused a sensation among the attendant natives, most, perhaps even all, of whom had never seen a female Boston, and competition erupted as to which tribe would take these dainty and prestigious visitors home. Ultimately, it was decided that the Whitmans would go and live with the Cayuse in the Walla Walla Valley, while the Spaldings would follow the Nez Perce home, the good reverend demanding, in a sign of things to come, that the Nez Perce clear a path through the forest for his wagon, rather than force his wife into the indignity of riding on a horse.
‘What is done for the poor Indians of this western world must be done soon. The only thing that can save them from annihilation is the introduction of civilisation.’ With that self-proclaimed motto, Spalding launched into the agricultural and technological salvation of the Nez Perce with as much vim as he devoted to his spiritual duties. He dug irrigation trenches, ploughed fields and used the power of the Clearwater River to run a wood saw and flour mill, encouraging the Nez Perce to adopt these new skills, becoming farmers and cattlemen rather than hunters and gatherers. He built a substantial loghouse — or, rather, made the Nez Perce build it for him, then made them take it apart and rebuild it on a spot with a cooler breeze — and set up a schoolroom in which Eliza taught English. The initial response was enthusiastic, with the promise of the secrets of the Good Book and the revelation of labour-saving innovations drawing villages from around the homeland to make camp near Spalding’s settlement at Lapwai on the Clearwater. One of the most influential village leaders, Tuekakas, brought his people to winter at Lapwai each year, returning during summer to their favoured lands in the isolated Wallowa Valley on the western fringe of the Nez Perce territory. He studied the Bible as deeply as the language barrier with Spalding allowed, and was baptized with a Christian name, Joseph. Later, his son would also take the same name. But Tuekakas’ loyalty to Spalding and the Bible were soon tested, as the man and his mission began to disturb and divide the Nez Perce.
The Reverend Henry H. Spalding.
Spalding’s insistence on using a horsewhip to encourage his hosts to labour was one of his earliest transgressions — a humiliation for people raised in a culture that emphasized human dignity — but there were many more. He began to insist that converted Nez Perce should cut their hair, take to western dress and abandon all their traditional faiths and rites, including their wyakin. He began to reveal dark and confusing inconsistencies in his preaching, drawing diagrams of the Presbyterian path to Heaven and the Catholic path to Hell. Strangest of all, when a government agent arrived at the mission in 1843, he and Spalding drew up a list of laws for the Nez Perce to live by, and Spalding hung a metal hoop from a tree to facilitate whippings for the new ‘crimes’, many of which the Nez Perce had been committing for centuries, such as borrowing one another’s food. Spalding and the agent also trampled over Nez Perce concepts of freedom and community by naming a ‘head chief of the tribe, an insubstantial young man called Ellis (Tuekakas and other more senior village leaders were initially bemused and irritated by this seemingly pointless gesture, but within years its capacity for devastation would become clear).
Thus the voices of dissent towards Spalding’s way grew ever stronger. Elder spiritual leaders questioned the wisdom of scarring Mother Earth with a plough, forcing her to work rather than simply accepting her gifts; stories abounded that the great diseases which had destroyed neighbouring tribes had arrived as a punishment for similar violence towards the soil. They also questioned Spalding’s new devices, the mills and the saws, as insults to the way of life that the Creator had specifically given to the Nez Perce to preserve. In their support was the swirl of rumours brought back from buffalo hunts to the east, of what had happened to other tribes who had welcomed the missionaries — invasion, settlement, displacement, destitution.
For the many Nez Perce who had settled into the new regime, though, this was backwardness and heresy. Spalding’s way offered less strenuous and time-consuming sources of food, the possibility of wealth through trade and, most importantly, the guaranteed avoidance of eternal suffering in the fiery netherworld of which the reverend spoke so often. Learning English, cutting their hair, keeping pigs, reciting chapter and verse, the Christian Nez Perce were a roaring success — but by an entirely different measure to their traditional clansmen.
By the measure of the ignoble history of colonial missionary work, Henry Spalding was certainly a success. By 1843, profound and insoluble conflicts were beginning to appear in the Nez Perce community, scuppering their response to the next, decisive, wave of white arrivals. In June 1843 around a thousand people set off from the town of Independence on the banks of the Missouri, to make the 1900-mile wagon journey in search of free land and new lives in the Oregon Territory. After division, comes conquest.
Dancers at the Tamkaliks Celebration, Wallowa Valley, Oregon.
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