*Update January 12, 2022: New chapter added directly after 2006, Washington (it's our new third chapter). This will be our last interim chapter added to the prologue. Our next chapter will continue on where this one leaves off.

Part II: Cloudburst (1847-1866)

Chapter 9: The Captive

"What friend of human liberty, civilization, and refinement, can cast his view over the past history of the monarchies and aristocracies of antiquity, and not deplore that they ever existed? What philanthropist can contemplate the oppressions, the cruelties, and injustice inflicted by them on the masses of mankind, and not turn with moral horror from the retrospect?

"America is destined for better deeds. It is our unparalleled glory that we have no reminiscences of battle fields, but in defence of humanity, of the oppressed of all nations, of the rights of conscience, the rights of personal enfranchisement. Our annals describe no scenes of horrid carnage, where men were led on by hundreds of thousands to slay one another, dupes and victims to emperors, kings, nobles, demons in the human form called heroes. We have had patriots to defend our homes, our liberties, but no aspirants to crowns or thrones; nor have the American people ever suffered themselves to be led on by wicked ambition to depopulate the land, to spread desolation far and wide, that a human being might be placed on a seat of supremacy….

"The far-reaching, the boundless future will be the era of American greatness. In its magnificent domain of space and time, the nation of many nations is destined to manifest to mankind the excellence of divine principles; to establish on earth the noblest temple ever dedicated to the worship of the Most High - the Sacred and the True. Its floor shall be a hemisphere - its roof the firmament of the star-studded heavens, and its congregation an Union of many Republics, comprising hundreds of happy millions, calling, owning no man master, but governed by God's natural and moral law of equality, the law of brotherhood - of "peace and good will amongst men.". . .

John L. O'Sullivan on Manifest Destiny, 1839

oooo

"Mademoiselle Black, you cannot be in your right mind. Wed this man? No. It is the fever. You must be feeling unwell," Father Rousseau said, his French accent stumbling over the English words. His long, lean face was drawn in surprise and shock at her declaration. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, despite her angry glare, and he pulled her back from the stranger. She should have felt embarrassment and chagrin for her display, but she found she did not care.

Raisa Black shook off his hand and threw her shoulders back in defiance. "If I gave my consent to Five Crows, my mind would not be questioned. Why would this man be any different?"

Raisa frowned at the priest. Then she glanced back to the shadows. The man she had just declared she would marry also stood, frozen in shock. He was obviously not Cayuse or Umatilla. He did not wear the layers of beaded necklaces, feathered headdresses, and long braids of those peoples. He walked on foot instead of on horseback. He carried only a small bundle on his back and a long knife strapped to his side, yet she had never seen someone dressed like him pass through the mission farm at Waiilatpu. He wore a deer hide tunic, tied on one shoulder, and his feet were bare. His skin was marked with tattooes along his arms and legs. While his black hair was short, only an inch or so in length, the way it grew made his elongated forehead seem even more striking. Fierce black eyes shown from his face like polished onyx and took in everything around him with the steady gaze of a man used to constant vigilance. For a moment, she stood transfixed, something about those eyes reminded her of something that she could not quite name. It wandered through her memories like a firefly through a glade of ferns, never settling long enough to give her clear light.

"Mes excuses monsieur," Father Rousseau said, speaking over her head to where the new Indian stood. "This woman has undergone a very trying ordeal. Pay her no heed."

Before she could dwell on him further, the French priest led her away from both the stranger and the gathering crowd. He dropped his voice to a fierce whisper to prevent his words from drifting over to the eager ears leaning towards them.

"Mademoiselle, this man is a stranger here. You place him in a precarious position with your rash declaration. By speaking thus, you ask this man you have never met to stand at cross-purposes with one of the strongest chiefs in these parts of Oregon Country. What can you hope to achieve but this man's persecution and your own humiliation?"

"And the only possible explanation is my temporary insanity?" she replied. "If I choose to wed a man to save my skin, it is acceptable, but for any other reason it is because I am out of my mind?"

"I will be blunt. Yes, Mademoiselle. Where does this Indian come from? Who are his people? Perhaps he has no means to support a wife or he is already married. Perhaps he is of a violent disposition or prone to fits of temper. Perhaps he would treat you little better than a slave. How can you know you will fare better with him than with Five Crows? Five Crows is a man we know. He has been baptized by the Protestants and left most of his savage ways behind him. He has learned to farm and knows at least some of the trappings of civility. Who is this man that you would cast your hopes for your well-being in his hands?"

"I see. The known enemy is preferable to the unknown ally."

"What is this about, Miss Black? I know you have experienced great harm and survived a great tribulation in these past weeks, but why this rash declaration?"

Raisa sighed and used her dirt-encrusted hand to wipe the wild wisps of blonde hair back behind her ears. "What is the use, Father? What am I but a fine bred mare that is passed from hand to hand? If we survive this and are rescued from these Indians, I doubt my fate will be much improved. If I am not married to Five Crows, I will be wed to another unknown man when I reach the Willamette Valley. How is that stranger any improvement over the ones I will meet there?"

"Daughter! Surely, you would rather marry one of your own tongue and race? These ones are not like us in their manner and ways and your fate would be most unfortunate."

"So, Father, you are here to rescue me from my blunders? How considerate," she said, fire in her voice, which she did not attempt to stifle. She placed her hands on her hips like a teapot over the fire and the anger in her gut boiled over in the glare in her eyes.

"Yes. In the absence of your own father, I am here to keep you from any further harm," he answered, still in that stifling calmness and unruffled serenity that made her wish to throw her boot at his head to make him react.

At the reminder of her own papa, Raisa's tears crept to the corners of her eyes and her frown deepened. What would her papa make of seeing her like this? What would he have said to see her thrown on the back of a black horse and stolen off with into the night? She doubted this was what he had in mind for her when he told them they were going to Oregon Country.

She remembered the final glimpse she had of her papa's blue eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, gazing out from the Green River over the plateau beyond. The next moment, the wagon axle broke, knocking him off balance. He struck his head on a rock, fell unconscious, and was taken by the river's current before her brother or any other in their wagon party could reach him.

That was the first Black family wooden cross along the rutted Oregon Trail. It would not be the last.

Without her papa, her sixteen-year-old brother became the head of their household and took over care of their wagon and team of horses. It was lighter than it had been at the offset of their journey, though the hearts within seemed heavier. When they left St. Louis, their trunks had been heavy, but their hearts were light. Each successive mountain and river crossing saw family heirlooms, china, and books cast along the trail, an ever-growing memorial to the conquest of pragmatism over sentimentality that the journey required. Her mama had wept when she left her grandmama's rocking chair along one particularly steep stretch of the Rockies, but her papa said it was better to leave the chair than leave the gunpowder, so off it went.

Joseph Black had always been as restless as a tumbleweed, always searching out the next sprouting town over for the greener pastures he was sure would come. The only trait that surpassed his constant discontent was his undaunted optimism that the good he sought would surely come his way. The lands along the distant Pacific that were once claimed by Russia…and Spain…and France…and Britain…finally fell under the tentative control of the growing United States. When the news came to St. Louis that the United States had finally succeeded in prying part of the Oregon Country away from the British, Joseph's ears perked up. He boasted to his family of all the bounty he was sure to find in the fertile Willamette Valley, and he packed them up for the first wagon train they could join.

May Black followed, ever the dutiful wife. She had helped farm lands from New York to Indiana to Missouri, without once arguing, at least until her rocking chair was cast out the back of a wagon. Then she cursed so colorfully that even Joseph Black blushed.

Now, living in buffalo hide tents as the captive of the Cayuse and Umatilla, Raisa Black wondered why they bothered with the rocking chair at all. Better have left it behind with Uncle Luke rather than leave it by the side of a pine-covered mountain for the bears and racoons. Better to have never left Missouri than become three wooden crosses along the wagon trail.

It had been beautiful. Raisa would never refuse the wild beauty of the prairie sky around Fort Hall at sunrise or the way the Blue Mountains seem to brush the very tips of the sky. For two thousand miles and six months of hard travel, she had crossed the very heart of the wild territories, and she could not say she was the same woman as when she had left St. Louis.

After the river stole her papa, bands of plains Indians stole their horses, forcing them all to walk the rest of the way while the precious remaining horses pulled their wagon. Stories said the Indians west of the Rockies were the most to be feared, and despite their constant vigil and their armed muskets, they still could not prevent the raiding warriors from pillaging their camp. They lost a few muskets and blankets to the marauders, but the biggest thief, by far, was cholera.

When that dreaded illness swooped in on their camps, it devoured their wagon train like a hungry vulture, leaving a trail of wooden crosses in its wake. Already worn down by grief and the long journey, May Black joined the others of their party in the virgin soils of the Snake River Valley, leaving Raisa and Samuel Black to fend for themselves.

Sammy, though two years younger, was both taller and stronger, and in every way, he resembled their papa. After erecting the final cross, he took up his father's musket and the reins of the remaining horses. Then he told Raisa to stop wallowing and whimpering and cook up some Johnny cakes and tea. She did, but not before shoving him in the shoulder for his impertinence.

"We gotta keep going, Raisa," Sammy said. "We can't go back, but we can keep going. Let's find that Willamette and get us some land and farm, just as Papa was going to do."

"I never said we couldn't. Quick your yapping and drive on or we'll never get there," she responded.

He laughed and did as she said.

It wasn't long before their wagon train was trailed by a number of Indian caravans, each selling foodstuffs and wares to the passing wagon trains. They were peaceful enough and the emigrants were happy for fresh vegetables again. Among the caravans was a young Cayuse chief named Five Crows. From his horse, he watched all the wagon trains till he saw Raisa, then he followed her the rest of the way through the Blue Mountains. She ignored him, as she had ignored the attentions of the blacksmith's son and Uncle Luke's apprentice, but she was glad when Sammy stayed close by and drove off any who came too near.

It was late summer when their wagon train came to the Waiilatpu Mission. The party stopped for only a short time before most continued on to the Willamette Valley, but Sammy decided they should stay for the winter.

"Raisa, Mrs. Whitman could use your help teaching the little ones their letters and I could learn more about farming and homesteading from the men here. I say we stay till the winter breaks and then we continue on in the spring."

Raisa agreed, of course. She had no more desire to face the winter unprepared in their new home than she did to travel the Oregon Trail again back the way they came. The mission was a safe haven on the trail, a place where travelers of all kind came to get supplies and refresh and prepare to finish their journey to its final end. There was no shortage of places to stay or work keep her hands busy. When Raisa and Sammy joined, they found over seventy other people living in the wooden fortresses of the mission.

Mrs. Whitman set her immediately in a school room with her handful of students. They were mostly Oregon Trail orphans, the Métis children of fur trappers, and the children of remote settlers who wished for their children to have an education. Raisa found her days full of teaching her young charges the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic while her brother followed around some of the men on the farm. The Blacks easily integrated themselves into the bustle and business of life in Waiilatpu, but it was not to last.

In the eleven years since Marcus and Narcissa Whitman established the mission among the Cayuse, they discovered they enjoyed "ministering" to travelers and orphans more than they enjoyed their less fruitful endeavors among the Cayuse. They soon spent nearly all their time with the ever-increasing number of European and American Oregon Trail emigrants. The Cayuse grew wary. They heard the story after story of the uprooted Indians along the Oregon Trail who no longer had a home. Even worse, they heard rumors of the terrible sicknesses that emigrants carried in their wagon trains. As the numbers of white-canvases multiplied, so did their fears.

When September crept over the brown grass hills along the Colombia River, one such dreaded wagon train came. This measles spread easier than wildfire in brush and soon both the Cayuse and residents of Waiilatpu were all burning with fevers.

Marcus Whitman doctored up as many as he could, but the Cayuse were hit the hardest. Nearly all of their children and half their adults were swallowed up in early graves.

"The healer is in charge of healing his patients. If he fails, it's his responsibility," the Cayuse whispered to themselves. "This great death came from their camp and yet their people are not dying like ours are. Their healer can heal his own people, but he is not healing ours. It is their fault this great tragedy has befallen us. They must be giving us poison and calling it medicine."

Late November, a small band of grieving warriors attacked the mission, prepared to take retribution on those they blamed for their many losses. Within, most of the residents were weak as kittens and sick in bed with the awful disease, and could muster little defense. The invading horseback warriors fell upon the fort with axes and knives and arrows. Those who were not killed were captured and taken away.

After, Raisa tried not to think of that terrible day or all that occurred on it, but she doubted she'd ever be able to truly forget it.

The Bishop and the Father who met her in Umatilla assured her she was better off for Five Crow's protection and treatment, Raisa was skeptical. Granted, Five Crows had not been part of the attack on the mission, and he was doing all he could to look after the women and children left behind, but his interest in her brought little comfort when she was separated from all the others to be taken to his home.

Father Rousseau was correct in his assessment of her condition. A wound ran from her forehead to her shoulder, raw and scabbed. Bruises mottled her arms and legs and her wrist was broken. In addition, she was terribly weak. Her fever waned and ebbed as the sun rose and set. A red rash covered her body and her eyes were swollen and pink. She coughed and barely ate and half the time she couldn't tell if she was awake or if all this were nothing more than a nightmare.

Despite her illness, she still was mad as a hornet with the priest… and everything else. Back in Missouri, when Joseph Black said they were packing up all they could carry into a wagon, Raisa had done as she was told. Now he was gone. When Samuel Black suggested they winter with the Whitmans, she agreed. Now Sammy and the Whitmans were gone. Father Rousseau encouraged her to marry Five Crows, at least until a rescue could be organized, and she was expected to agree. And then what would become of her? If she travelled to Fort Vancouver, or onward to the settlement along the Willamette, she would be expected to marry. Despite her trying ordeal, her capture, and all that had entailed, she knew she would find no difficulties finding a prospective husband among the plentiful unmarried emigrant men. Yet, her own vulnerability among strangers rankled her like a lost fingernail.

The rational part of her mind knew the kindly priest did not deserve her ire, but the furious anger in her heart did not care. To her, he was just another voice telling her what she must do and where she must go and not listening to her response or what it was she wished to do.

What did it matter who she married? What did it matter where she went? So full of grief and illness, she could not muster the heart to care overmuch. She was fully prepared to continue arguing with Father Rousseau over the potential marriage with the stranger rather than Five Crows, not out of a particular affinity for the stranger, but out of her irritation and anger with Father Rousseau… and the situation she found herself in… when the stranger himself interrupted them.

Unknowingly to her, he had crept up behind them as silently as a cat and it was not until he was directly behind them that he spoke. She was surprised to hear he not only spoke English but that he appeared to have overheard their entire conversation and understood it all. She had counted on his ignorance to keep him only as the symbolic recipient of the point she wished to make, and not as an active participant in her affairs.

"Woman, what is it that you want?" he asked.

Father Rousseau gave a polite nod and greeted the man in the Chinook jargon before apologizing for Raisa again. The man ignored him and focused all the intensity of his stare on her.

"Do you wish to go to the western fort on this river? Do you wish to travel to the ocean and find a ship full of your people? Do you wish to come with me as my wife? Speak it and it will be so."

"Monsieur, you cannot!" Father Rousseau protested. "You are but one among many! How could you possibly claim to be able to take this woman away with you?"

The man stood taller, towering his full height over the priest, every angle and plane of his face exuding menace. For the first time, Raisa thought that she, perhaps, had erred in her rash declaration.

"The People of the Prairies will not hinder me," he answered, entirely confident in his stance. "I am honor-bound to aid this woman and I will do as she wishes."

Raisa deflated slightly and dropped her hands from her hips. Her fever was beginning to brew again and all she wanted, all she had wanted for days, was to sleep uninterrupted, without fear for her safety. She turned to face the man, her lips pursed and her eyebrows tense. "You want to help? Well, I want to sleep. I do not want Five Crows or any of the Cayuse or you or anyone else to bother me while I sleep. I want to go into that tent and be completely alone until I want to come out again."

"You are unwell?" he asked, concern growing.

"Yes."

He nodded. "No one will dare disturb you. I will make sure of it."

"Fine. Father, I thank you for your concern. And you, sir,… do you have a name? Of course, you must have a name. What is your name?" she asked.

At that his stern expression morphed into a brilliant smile and the change was so jarring she wondered for a moment if it was the same individual or if it was her feverish mind playing tricks on her.

"In your tongue, I am called 'Rolling-Thunder,'" he answered.

"Raisa Black. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Good night."

She did not wait to hear a response. Instead, she hid herself back in Five Crow's tent, buried herself in blankets, and went to sleep. It was not the peaceful repose she had longed for, however, for the measles still ravaged her bones. Her sleep burned and roiled. Nightmares and terrors plagued the dark spaces of her mind and her body felt as if she were in a pot of boiling water. When daylight came, she was so weak she could barely lift up her head.

She did not know how he managed it or what he had done, but Rolling-Thunder was true to his word. Not a single person entered her tent for days. She could see the outline of a figure standing sentry over the door and a series of baskets of provisions made their way through that same door, but no other person. Raisa decided not to question it and she let herself drift in and out of sleep.

She dreamt of the fields of corn her father once grew. She dreamt of her uncle's front porch and the fiddle he played on Christmas. She dreamt of Sammy's freckles and her mama's berry tarts. Then there was the sound of wagon wheels and the unending scent of horse sweat and feel of the sweet prairie grass against her legs as she walked.

Intermixed in it all, between her waking and sleeping, was the repetition of an old dream she had seen again and again since she was first old enough to remember her name. In it, she listened to a language she did not know tell her fantastical stories about creatures she had never seen. Whales and oceans, stars and wolves, canoes and seals filled her mind's eye, never mind that she'd never seen a body of water larger than a river and she'd only heard of ocean animals from books.

Through all these, dark eyes, filled with warmth, pleaded with her to be his wife. Later, full of sadness, the same eyes made her promise to wait for him. It was all as mixed in her mind as river mud in the shallows and she could not disentangle past from present or dreams from waking. In it all, she could see arrows and knives and her own captivity and her own rescue, but it was as if she were watching herself from afar, an observer on a life not her own.

When she woke and found herself staring upwards at the poles and the tanned buffalo hide of a lodge instead of cedar beams in a longhouse, she had to admit to herself what her rational voice failed to accept. As soon as the sun rose again, she wondered if it was all the fever speaking and muddling with her mind like a spoon in soup and if she really had gone crazy.

Still, as she considered everything, she had to admit to herself the possibility that the stranger guarding her tent was not actually a stranger. She knew him. She just didn't know how.

Oooo

Author's Notes:

Well, I'm trying to get back to this one. It's easier to write stories that don't require such extensive research…and I'll be real, I am sure I have plenty of holes in my historical accuracy, despite all my best efforts. All errors are mine so feel free to point them out if you catch them! Also, I welcome feedback and critiques. If something is confusing or silly or nonsensical, let me know so I can fix it and make this better.

All reviews and responses are really treasured for this one. I know, I know. Starting a story featuring Jacob and Rosalie is asking for a low response rate. It's just what wanted to come for this one. Writing does that. Oh well, that being said, thanks so much for reading and giving this one a chance!

So, writing is always a deeply reflective, personal work, even when I don't mean it to be. Sometimes something I will see or do will make it into stories. Sometimes something I read or write about will make it into real life. It's always an evolving process. I gotta admit. This story took me a bit by surprise. When I drafted this section, I ended up using the place/era that I did because it was so momentous for the state (and nation) as a whole. What I didn't realize was that I was going to end up researching my own family history, too.

That was a rather fascinating tangent, which I was grateful for having fallen into because during our road trip this summer, we wandered along a pretty good chunk of the Oregon Trail (which was already really cool for my nerdy self). Then, instead of going on our planned route through western Washington and Oregon, my kids decided to get sick and we had to head south early. This just so happened to bring us straight through Walla Walla…and since I happened to have researched Walla Walla, I made us all stop and explore and find the family plot at the cemetery and hang out around Fort Walla Walla and all that jazz. So, thanks Thunderbird story, for teaching me a lot. There writing goes teaching me things and giving me new eyes for the world.

What other surprises will this story have for me as we go? We'll see. Anyhow, this really is my favorite story I am working on right now, it just takes a lot more blood, sweat, and tears to put it together so it comes out pretty slowly.

Here's notes on research for this one:

Most of the record of the Whitman conflict comes from the Whitman Mission National Historic Site or Lorinda Bewley's Letters from "We Who Survived". This is an incredibly complex event-both in causes and the aftermath, which had national consequences. I am going for simplicity here. There were Cayuse who were against the attack and those in support and a lot of underlying factors to it.

In case you are interested, there's an 1891 painting entitled "The Captive" by E. Irving Couse. It's based on this incident (though a bit dubious in its historicity) and captures so many of the stereotypes of the "capture narratives" popularized in literary imagination of Americans. Yes, I am reusing chapter titles. It's intentional. Yes, we are spending a bunch of time in "capture narratives," but that is also intentional, and not only to play with the trope of the "Noble Savage" but also as a setting for future eras of interactions and to draft changes in stereotypes, relationships, and perceptions.

It's important to note that largescale conflicts between Indians and emigrants have not really begun yet. It wasn't until after gold was found in California and the Oregon trail really flooded that conflicts began in earnest. Also, historian John Unruh estimates that during the period of 1840 to 1860, 360 emigrants were killed by Indians while more than 425 Indians were killed.

The John Sullivan quote, in the beginning, is from an article that sparked the idea of "Manifest Destiny" and propelled the idea that the U.S. should grow from "sea to shining sea" (or, to the more extreme, from Canada to Argentina). Wait, am I now including long and boring historical documents to start off chapters? No, I include this, as every other intro, as an example of a myth. This just happens to be a potent example of American mythology and one that carries with it so many complex truths and untruths that I found it fascinating.

It's from "The Great Nation of Futurity," The United States Democratic Review, Volume 6, Issue 23, pp. 426-430.