Captain Stewart's first view of New York in June 1832 was unimpressive. Its tallest buildings stood four stories. It's bedraggled wharves bore hastily painted signs like facial sores quarantining them because of cholera, so his ship anchored in the harbor. As an influential passenger, he was rowed ashore with his considerable baggage.

Streets near the docks were idle and ere. He was wrestling his luggage up town, when a carriage halted. Occupant J. Watson Webb graciously urged him to accept a ride to the City Hotel. Bags stowed, the carriage's docile blacks clip-clopped over the cobblestones toward the hotel. A dress sabre in a silver sheath graced the tapestried wall over one leather seat. A scarred field sabre in a dented scabbard hung above the other.

Webb and Stewart introduced themselves and shook hands. Webb added, "I'm editor of two New York papers." Though only 31, the wiry J. Watson Webb was bald. His small regimental mustache with turned up tips was identical to Captain Stewart's.

"I daresay you've soldiered some," Captain Stewart observed.

Webb nodded. "Ten years as an officer on our western frontier. Father's General S. B. Webb. Your luggage names you Captain in the 15th King's Hussars. Your unit helped bring Napoleon to his knees at Waterloo. What'll you do in America, Captain?"

"Hunt out west. My Manton rifles ride atop your coach. I bear introductory letters to Hudson's Bay Company officials."

"Where'll you start, Captain?"

"I'll ride to St. Louis." Captain Stewart left his intent to leave his creditors baying in America's wilderness unspoken.

"Here's my card. Come by for lunch tomorrow. I'll provide introductory letters to influential St. Louis gentlemen -- General Clark of the Lewis and Clark expedition, Congressman William Ashley and my friends, William Sublette and Robert Campbell."

"Sublette. Name sounds French," the Captain mused.

"If he's French, Bill's forgotten it. But I wouldn't go on about the War of 1812. Bill's Grandfather, Colonel Whitley, died in the Battle of the Thames after killing the great Chief Tecumseh."

"I'll not whisper to Mr. Sublette about the War of 1812. My former commandant, Sir Edward Pakenham, and 2,500 of his finest died at the Battle of New Orleans. Andrew Jackson sent Sir Edward home to England butt-up in a keg of rum!"

After their smiles died, Captain Stewart asked, "Streets always this deserted?"

"Cholera's paralyzed the city. Thousands have fled. Frankly, I rather prefer this calm to the riots and looting that followed initial upper class flight."

"What's that foul odor, sir?"

Covering his mouth with his handkerchief, Webb answered, "Corporation Pie."

"What's in it?"

"New Yorkers call city government The Corporation. Even before the epidemic, The Corporation spent its refuse collection funds on graft. So our 250,000 people pushed the uncollected garbage to the center of the street. The city turned pigs to eat this filth -- until cholera came. Now rotting corpses pile up faster than the hogs can eat them, so we have Corporation Pie!"

"What's being done about it?"

"I'm smearing The Corporation with printer's ink. Most people contracting cholera are dead by nightfall. It's killing over a hundred a day."

"Doctors found a cure?"

"Captain, they don't know the cause. With their insane overdosing of calomel, Doctors're killing as many as the plague!"

Captain Stewart changed the subject. "When I come for your kind letters of introduction, may I buy your lunch sir?"

"No, but you can help me serve it!"

"But of course. To whom?"

"Relief parties pass out bread throughout the city. I've drawn the starving whores at Five Points again. They're a conundrum. They sell their bread to buy liquor. Any thoughts on that?"

"Two. Tear the loaves up. They can't sell the pieces, so they'll have to eat them!"

"What's the other?"

"Pestilence walks in death's tracks, so battlefield dead are buried with dispatch. Your city's laid siege to itself. Purge your streets of Corporation Pie! You're begetting your own Waterloo!"

Robert Campbell fell in beside Sublette, stepping over a fallen drunk. Sublette grunted, "If Blackfeet come a' killin' like they done at Bear Lake in '27 an' '28, God hisself couldn't rouse these men ta fight, Bobbie."

"Aye, but Blackfeet'll na raid in a snow storm. Where ya goin', Mr. S?"

"Ta see Milt. Them American Fur Company boys is gettin' his goat."

"They'll have all our goats and everythin' else we got if we let 'em, Mr. S. John Jacob Astor's the greediest man ever God put upon this pitiful planet."

"Milt's wife Umentucken's teachin' Drew Flathead, so's he kin trade better here."

"Hoarded mah trade goods. Be more dear 'n last week. I'll be tradin' now, Mr. S."

Stumbling trappers set dogs barking among the Flathead lodges. In the Nez Percé village women in bright blankets struck sparks with flint and steel into dry grass. Young fires sizzled snow off buffalo chips. Hollow chopping sounds echoed in the dimness.

William pulled the flap back and squeezed into Milt's smoky lodge where the sleek Shoshone woman in beaded white buckskins made a fire. Drew Sublette sat cross-legged, wrapped in a blue trade blanket. Milt Sublette was gone.

In the musky golden fire light, the woman's skin glowed like the idol in the Catholic church in St. Louis. Her almond black eyes flashed danger. William greeted her in Shoshone, "Ha gunni hanch!" and began to sign to her. He raised his right index finger in front of his nose, then laid both index fingers side-by-side on his chest. Finally, he thrust his right hand on edge away from his body.

She extended the first two fingers of her right hand, raised the back of that hand to her eye, then moved the hand away quickly several times.

Drew grinned, "You asked where her husband went. She told you he's hunting."

William nodded, "But with Milt you gotta wonder whose lodge he's huntin' in."

"No say dat!" Umentucken hissed. "Milton only gone little minutes!"

"Sorry.Din't know you talked our Tab Aboo tongue.What's your Tab Aboo name?"

"Umentucken Tukutsey Undewatsey in Tab Aboo is Mountain Lamb."

"Mountain Lamb! Kinda thought that second word'd be Lion! Taught you any Flathead yet, Drew?"

"How to count to a hundred. Inco is 1. Asale 2, Tchat les 3, Mose 4, Tsuel 5, Tacan 6, Seispel 7, Haine 8, Hay noot 9 and Open 10. Asale-Open is two times 10 -- that is 20 -- and so on repeating the number followed by Open up to Open-Open for 100."

William clapped his younger brother on the back."Right smart, but most Flatheads use In-kaw fer 100. Them Flatheads an' Nez Percé is the most honest men you'll ever meet. Treat 'em right."

Drew smirked, "Bill, you talk a little Flathead, Chopunnish, Shoshone, Absaroka and sign with the best of 'em. When you gonna learn to talk Tab Aboo?"

"Drew -- yer tasked ta teach me Tab Aboo on our way back ta the U. States! When we see them Aull brothers in Lexington, I wanta sound like Jedediah Smith!"

"How's Jedediah, Bill?" Milt asked, thrusting the head of a two point buck through the lodge flap with dirt on its leathery eyes.

"Same's that buck, Milt. Comanch done Jedediah in down on the Cimmarron in May o' '31."

"Then Jedediah's the one shoulda learned ta talk better. Comanch are sittin' ducks fer a sad story."

"What was ya tellin' them Comanch when they tuck them 600 horses o' Colonel Marmaduke's offa you at the Arkansas River, Milt?"

It galled Milt plenty when Bill showed him up. Milt motioned to Mountain Lamb to come out and dress the buck, then he limped into the lodge.

"That old heel wound hurtin' ya, Milt?"

"Donchu worry bout it, Bill!" Milt asked Drew, "What's our li'l brother Solomon doin' these days?"

"What every 17 year old's doing -- telling everybody how to run the world, unable to earn a living -- and living off our fat uncle Solomon in St. Charles."

"When's Solomon comin' Up the Mountain?" Milt asked, sitting down to get the weight off his pain-shot heel.

William grated, "I brung Pinckney Sublette up here in '27 when he weren't no bigger'n a baby bird. Now his scalp's hangin' in a Blackfoot lodge up on the Portneuf River. I'll not bring the Blackfoot another Sublette."

"Well now, Bill that's fer Solomon ta say, ain't it? Bill, you cain't run ever'body's life, no matter how they's blood related now kin ya?"

"Things don't change -- do they, Milt?"

"Guess not. Stayin' fer venison? Thought we was gonna talk about the AFC."

William bulled out into the icy air, waving to Mountain Lamb as he bolted past her. She waved back with her bloody hand, then made the unseen sign to stay away.

The infant had been crying, but his father soothed the cries away with gentle strokes on the tiny brow. He loved this boy Marfil more than his own life. If the dear Blackfoot wife he knew as Alma still lived, she would give the sweet life of her breast to Marfil. He proudly held his son up high for all the mystified Blackfeet to see. Surely Alma's blood kin would see the beauty of this boy and release her.

His white hair twitching in wind gusts, Tom Fitzpatrick rode behind Loretta and his tyke.Fitz fingered the Rosary about his neck, silently reciting the prayers he'd learned as a boy in Ireland's County Cavan. In his heart Fitz heard Angel voices singing more powerfully with each footfall as they rode deeper into the Blackfoot camp.Each delicate Ave Maria began with a single clarion soprano, blended into a full rich paternoster then resounded in a thousand voices roaring a ground shaking Gloria!

Alma sprawled outside the Chief's lodge, her arms bound behind her.Her eyes were swollen. Bruises blotched her body from the squaw beating she'd endured in silence. She gaped at sight of the three riders with her child. "¡Escaparse!" she shrieked.

The Blackfoot Chief peeked through his lodge flap. He gasped then beckoned his other two wives. Their heads crowded under his in the lodge doorway.

Pablo said, "Marfil tiene hambre, mi Alma." and held the child out toward his fallen wife. Marfil thrust his thumb into his eager mouth and cooed.

The fattest squaw squeezed out of the Chief's lodge as Blackfeet brandishing knives and tomahawks swarmed the invaders. The squaw seized a knife from a snarling brave and cut the rawhide bindings off Alma's wrists. The rotund woman grabbed Marfil from his father and thrust him into Alma's hands.

Marfil fretted, but Alma soon quieted him with her breast, the blood from her wrist splotching her baby's face. Alma wanted to cry with joy, but kept her coppery Blackfoot face impassive.

Bridger's agonized smile turned real, but the fat squaw wasn't having any of that. She stuck her jaw out, slapped Bridger's pony on the chest and gestured emphatically for Bridger to go. "Pablo, you done whatchu come fer. Le's go!"

"Dey must release Alma and our child."

The fleshy squaw smacked Pablo's leg, then pointed for him to go.

Bridger and Fitz closed their mounts around Pablo's. Fitz grabbed the Mexican's reins. They sidled their three ponies carefully through the crush of grumbling warriors.

Once clear of the Blackfoot camp, Bridger lamented, "I jist lived my biggest lie, an' nobody'll ever bleeve it. I don't even bleeve it."

Fitz groaned, "I believe it. So do the Angels flittin' about our heads. But we can't tell a soul or nobody'll ever believe us about anythin' again. Unless ya want mates for that arrow in yer back, Jimmy Boy, you'll light out right behind me!"

Narcissa Prentiss's carriage horse plodded through the sleepy village of Amity, New York with Marcus Whitman astride him. Marcus was an infinitely cautious man, who lived life inch-by-inch. Now there was Narcissa.

The American Board'd said Marcus could go west with Reverend Parker to locate mission sites and see if female missionaries could abide the wilderness. But to be permanently appointed as a missionary in Oregon, Marcus must be married.

Marcus had shared this Sabbath morning with Reverend and Mrs. O.S. Powell of Amity, themselves recently appointed missionaries. Mrs. Powell understood Marcus's predicament and spent ten uncomfortable minutes massaging goose grease into his unruly hair to quieten it down.

Marcus winced at the perfect Prentiss home. What would somebody living in a place with 90° corners think of his cockeyed cabin? He wanted to gallop back to Rushville, but this was Narcissa's horse and she had his. Could he stall her horse in the barn and slip away on his? Marcus's shaking hands said that was the answer, but he knew he had to see Narcissa or perish of curiosity.

Somehow Marcus expected Narcissa to meet him in the backyard, as Jane Prentiss had on his last trip. But she didn't, so he stalled her horse in the huge-beamed barn, curried it and forked sweet smelling hay into its manger. His gelding wasn't in the barn, so he lugged his saddle, blanket and bridle back toward the road with the pain in his side acting up. Perhaps the Prentisses were at church.

As Marcus neared the house, a mellow voice said, "Thank you for bringing my Toby home. I'm Narcissa. How is he, Doctor?"

Marcus spied a sincere face between lacy curtains in the open side window and stared. The curtains made Narcissa an angelic halo. Her features were larger than Jane's. She was more direct -- almost manly in her speech. He wondered what the rest of Narcissa looked like. He wished Jane was inspired by the Lord to go among the heathens, but she wasn't.

Standing about six feet, Dr. Marcus Whitman was the strangest looking man Narcissa had ever seen. As Jane said, he resembled their burly Irish Wolfhound Shamrock with humped nose and strong stance. His eyes were blue enough to be called purple. As she watched, sprigs of his greasy hair popped up like bug antennae. He was not the Mountain Man she'd prayed for! Narcissa repeated, "How is Toby, Doctor?"

He cleared his throat and said in his deepest base tones, "Your horse was colicked, but he's well now. I know I'm not much to look at."

Narcissa realized her face had cruelly sold her thoughts, but rallied, "The devout put more stock in a man's soul than his looks." Did his looks really matter? Her duty was to God, not her unworthy prurience. "Won't you come in for tea?"

Marcus stammered, "Gotta git back to Reverend Powell's in time for dinner."

Narcissa laughed louder than any woman he'd ever heard before.

"What's so funny?"

"Doctor, if you threw a stone over our barn, you'd hit Reverend Powell's house. It's only 12 minutes after two. We'll not harvest the tea, just drink it!"

Marcus chuckled. Narcissa Prentiss was the wittiest woman he'd met. She had him chortling like an imp in knee pants. "I'll leave my horse tack outside an' take tea."

"You will not! Tack's as welcome in this house as you are! Plenty of room in the vestibule. If you don't run, I'll beat you to our front door."

He started for the front of her impressive home. She laughed and joked like a man! More direct than the roughest rogue, she was a woman a man could be friends with.

She swung the great door open and extended her hand. "I'm Narcissa -- but I guess I told you that."

Narcissa wasn't a vision like her sister. She was symmetrically formed although 5'7"and quite buxom. He shifted his tack and shook her small hand. "I'm Marcus Whitman of Rushville." Her touch didn't thrill him like Jane's, but it was pleasant.

She turned his hand over. "Palm's callused. Not the hand I'd expect on a Medical Doctor. Doctoring's what you do, isn't it?"

Her smile, though quite impious, warmed the spirit. "It is when I'm not building a cabin or shoeing my horse."

"Speaking of horses, Reverend Parker left your gelding in the back corral."

"Can it walk?"

"Certainly, why do you ask?"

"Reverend Parker's easier on scriptures than he is on horses."

"You must be stout to hold your equipage in one hand forever. Put it between the hat and umbrella stands. "Have a seat in the parlor. I'll bring tea."

The parlor was the most refined room he'd seen outside New York City. Marcus checked his pants to be sure he wouldn't get anything on the velvet sofa.

Narcissa pushed a cherry wood tea cart with flower petals painted around the tray. Marcus had never seen metal tea ware before, but he lifted the pot.

She rescued the ornate tea pot. "Hostess pours, Marcus. Sugar and cream?"

"Spoon o' both," he nodded and watched how smartly she handled the utensils.

"When did you graduate from Medical School?"

"Three years ago, this spring."

"Did you study chemistry?"

"Needed it to mix medicines for my patients."

"Did you take chemistry or pharmacology?"

"Both at Fairfield Medical College." He hoped that would impress her as he risked balancing his china cup and saucer on his knee. It chattered, so he steadied it. "You're not a risk taker, are you, Marcus?"

"Sometimes. Interested in chemistry? Might be something I could help you with."

"I dabble in it," she smiled, not letting on she'd taught it at two finishing schools.

"My best subject," Marcus grinned.

She liked his crooked smile and the way his skin crinkled around those blue-purple eyes. "Did you agree with Sir Humphry Davy's assessment of chlorine as an element in 1810?"

Marcus tongued the inside of his cheek. "Didn't Davy just confirm Karl Wilhelm Scheele's 1780 findings?"

Narcissa couldn't resist grabbing his hands. "Why that's wonderful, Marcus! I've never met a man with any depth in the field! I noticed you hefting the tea pot. It really is solid Ag [Silver]!"

"Thought it might be Fe [Iron] plated with Ag. Tea's fine as long as you didn't load it with As [Arsenic]!"

They laughed till they remembered they barely knew each other. She dropped his hands. He fidgeted.

"Marcus, you know we share a higher calling than chemistry."

"That's why I'm here. Board's sending me west to see if it's suitable for females."

"I'd die for such an appointment, Marcus."

"It's not what you think. Nothing but a scout now. Board won't appoint me as a missionary till I'm married or have some arrangement along those lines."

Narcissa left the parlor. Returning, she handed Marcus a letter. "I don't know how Reverend Greene could have rejected me so coldly on the eve of our Savior's birth just because I'm unmarried. I'm only 27, you know."

Marcus sympathized with her woe. "Solution's in our chemistry."

"I don't follow you."

"Element's a substance that can't be reduced to simpler substances. A compound's matter with two or more elements in the same proportions throughout. We need to combine as a compound to serve the Lord."

Narcissa's expressions went through several changes like the sky during a storm. "Marcus Whitman, is this some kind of a proposal?"

"Should I have spoken to your father, first?"

"Oh no! He's the last person you need to speak with now! Can you see me telling Judge Stephen Prentiss -- this afternoon, a man I never saw before dropped by and proposed to me -- and I accepted."

"Do you accept, Narcissa?"

"Sort of. Just what is your proposal?"

"Call it a compound of convenience. If I can honestly tell the Board upon my return from the West, it's suitable for females, we combine. If not, we have a compound that breaks down to its pre-combined elements."

"Fair enough. What if we assume your report's positive, Marcus?"

"Grand leap of faith -- that. No white woman's ever crossed the Rockies. If the Gospel Truth be it's feasible, we'll combine under my name and serve the heathen as two separate elements."

"Both a compound and a marriage of convenience?"

"If it be the Lord's will."

"Is it your will, Marcus?"

He nodded nervously. "Will it be yours, Narcissa?"

"As long as you never reveal our real arrangement."

"What about your parents?"

"How long before you get back from the West?"

"Maybe by Christmas -- sooner if possible."

"I could have them used to the idea by then."

Vastly relieved, Marcus rose to go.

"One thing about this was far too subtle for me, Marcus."

"What was that?"

"Our courtship. I didn't even notice it."

Marcus wanted to laugh, but there was something so very sad about this that tears welled in his eyes. Narcissa was clearly about to cry. He picked up his saddle, bridle and blanket in the vestibule and clutched them against his chest as he walked out.