by Jim Fergus
“Why, under no one’s authority at all,” I replied, surprised at the charge. “I try only to do my part to expedite our mission here.”
“Your part, my dear,” she said in her most santimonious way, “does not include advising the rest of us on matters of moral conduct or the sanctity of the marriage union. It is my responsibility as official representative of the American Church Missionary Society, and that of Reverend Hare as spiritual agent of the Episcopal Indian Commission, to render decisions on all such spiritual questions. Although it is doubtless true,” she added in her insufferably insinuating tone, “that you have more practical experience in carnal matters.”
At this last, a general tittering ran among the others. All know by now the reason for my incarceration in the asylum—the accusation of promiscuity alone sufficiently damning to ruin a woman’s reputation, especially among other women. Too, it is possible that Captain Bourke and I were spied upon in our moment of passion …
“As the mother of two children,” I answered, “I should certainly hope to be more knowledgable on that particular subject than a fat priest and a zealous spinster,” I answered, “which hardly makes me an expert.”
To which rejoinder, my own supporters laughed heartily.
“I think that some of us had not understood,” I continued, “that our mission here was to be directed by the church. We were under the impression that our first authority was the United States government which hired us to bear children by the savages.”
“Partly true,” said Miss White. “But the government has in turn given over responsibility for the Indians to the care of the church and the Missionary Society. We are the ultimate authority here.”
“Ah, go wan ya beggar,” said Susie. “There isn’t any authority out here.”
I looked at the Reverend, who had returned to his bowl of food, his denominational outrage evidently slackened by the morsels of meat that he placed in his mouth with his fingers, like some kind of wilderness emperor.
Now he wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled, the picture of fatherly benevolence. “My dear madams,” he said, calmly, “the Episcopal Church has been charged with ministering to the souls of heathens—as well as to seeing that they are eventually settled under God’s protective wing on the reservation.”
“But the Cheyennes do not have a reservation,” I said.
“They will have one soon enough,” he said. “We are even now working toward that end. Then our real work begins.”
“We were all told that our purpose here was to give birth to Cheyenne babies as a means of assimilating the savages,” I said.
“Yes, that, too,” admitted the Reverend, with a shrug. “Washington’s idea. After which the Cheyenne children, yours included, will, at the earliest possible age, be sent to church-affiliated boarding schools which we are presently in the process of establishing across the region. This is all a part of the President’s Indian Peace Plan. In this manner, the children’s first influence at an impressionable age will be civilized white people and good Christians—Protestants, I might add. The hope of the church and the State is that being half-Caucasian by blood, your children will have a distinct spiritual and intellectual advantage over the purebred heathens, and that the savages will in turn peacefully follow this superior new generation into the bosom of civilization, and down the true path of Christian salvation. I am merely here to provide you with spiritual guidance.” At this, the enormous Reverend again made a slight emperor-like incline of his head, which caught the morning light and glistened like a glazed ham.
“And the Kellys and I are only suggesting that we get down to the business at hand,” I repeated.
“As Christians,” said Narcissa White, “some of us may choose for ourselves a higher path upon which to elevate the savages from their lowly lot.”
“Your prospective husband gave a horse for you, just like all the rest,” I pointed out.
“I certainly have no intention of compromising my chastity with a heathen for a horse,” she answered. “I intend to teach my husband that the true path to Christian salvation lies on a higher plane.”
“Ah yooor a grand lady, aren’t ya, Narcissa,” said Meggie Kelly, “and won’t pooor Mr. Turkey Legs be in for a rude surprise on his wedding night when he tries to digs his spurs into that stony coontry!”
“And what about you, Phemie?” I asked.
Phemie chuckled again. Truly I envy her calm. Nothing seems to bother her. “When I’m ready, May,” she said. “And if I like my new husband and believe that he will make a good father to my children, then yes, I’ll remove my chastity string. However, as he is both a heathen and a nigger, under the circumstances it will be difficult for me to give birth to the superior half-Caucasian child of which the Reverend refers to as the church and government’s ideal.”
“Aye, Phemie, and we won’t be ‘avin’ no Protestant babies, neither,” said Susie Kelly. “Of that ya can be damn shoore. Right, Meggie?”
18 May 1875
Phemie was correct in saying that the savages are a democratic people, and using her example I have begun to make tiny inroads in liberating myself from the drudgery of women’s chores. It seems useful if one displays some other talent, even if it is only perceived as such by the savages. Like those scamps, the Kelly girls, who are largely excused from manual labor for no better reason than that they are twins! In this same way the savages are fascinated with my notebook and may even be ascribing some supernatural quality to my writing in it—which may yet prove useful to me. Yet I will not be a shirker, for it would be unfair to the others and to my fellow tentmates if I did not do my fair share.
I have this also to say on behalf of the savages: they are a tremendously tolerant people, and though some of our ways and customs appear to amuse them to no end, they have yet to be condemnatory or censorious. Thus far they seem to be merely curious, but always respectful. The children are particularly fascinated with our presence and stop whatever they are doing to stare at us when we pass with round disbelieving eyes as if we are enormously odd creatures to them—and, indeed, I suppose we are! Sometimes they come forward shyly and touch our dresses, only to run away giggling. Often they follow us about at a slight distance, like a pack of hungry dogs. I brought with me a little hard candy from the supply store at Fort Laramie and often I carry a few pieces in my pockets to give to the children. They are precious little things, brown and full of healthful vigor. They seem for their age more mature, healthier, and better behaved than Caucasian children of comparable years. They are too shy to speak to us, and take my offerings of candy with great solemnity and then run off again posthaste chattering like magpies. I feel that the children may prove to be our bridge to the savage way of life and theirs to ours, for all children are good, are they not? All children are children finally—it hardly matters to which race or culture they belong—they belong first to the race and culture of children. I so look forward to learning this difficult language that I may speak to these tiny savage elves. How I love the sight of them! What joy, mixed with sorrow, they bring to my heart when I watch them playing their games about the camp. For I cannot help but think of my own dear babies … How I long to hold them in my arms … and how I find myself beginning to look forward to bearing one of these little heathens myself!
Speaking of children, I have tried as well as I can to keep watch over little Sara. A most extraordinary thing has occurred. We have heard the child speak, just a few words, and not in English, but in the Indian tongue—it is either that or pure gibberish, for neither Martha nor I was able to make any sense of it. Her young fiancé, Yellow Wolf, seems to understand her perfectly, and so I can only assume that he is teaching her his language—though I still cannot make her to utter one single word of ours. Isn’t it strange? And wonderful … Perhaps romance is blooming here among the savages after all.
For her part Martha seems to be having some problems adjusting to the savage life and inevitably her own high
expectations of romance with her fierce, unkempt warrior Mr. Tangle Hair, have been somewhat disappointed. “He seems to be a kind fellow, May,” she said to me while we were digging roots with the other women yesterday morning. “But I do so wish he would groom himself.” Then she paused in her work. “Something I’ve been wondering—after our marriage am I to be known as Mrs. Tangle Hair? Because you do know what the savages call me now, don’t you? Reverend Hare has just translated it for me. They call me Falls Down Woman. It is because I’m so clumsy.”
The savages do seem to seize upon some obvious physical characteristics in their choice of names, and, in fact, poor Martha is a bit clumsy—constantly stumbling and falling.
“It’s only because you insist on wearing your high buttonshoes with the tall heels, Martha,” I said. “These were fine on the boardwalks of Chicago but are entirely inappropriate for walking on the uneven ground of Nature. And they are certainly not intended for laboring in the root fields. Why just look at them!”
“I know, of course you’re right, May,” Martha said, “I’ve practically ruined them … but … but” and I could tell the poor thing was about to break down … “they remind me of home.” And then she began to weep, terrible shuddering sobs. “I’m sorry, May,” she blubbered, “I’m just tired … I’m homesick. I don’t wish to be known as Falls Down Woman, or as Mrs. Tangle Hair. I want to go home.”
“Well, dear,” I said, trying to console her, “that you can’t do right now. But you could teach your future husband to comb his hair. And if you’re unhappy with your own new Indian name, we’ll just see that it’s changed.”
“And how shall we do that?” asked Martha, wiping her nose with a handkerchief, her sobs subsiding.
“It seems to me that the Indians are forever changing names on the least whim or fancy,” I said. “Perhaps if you perform some deed or other, or adopt some new habit, or even simply don some article of clothing—wear one of your scarves over your head, for instance. Then, no doubt they will begin to call you Woman who Wears Scarf on Head—”
“Why on earth would I wish to be named that?” Martha asked, rather petulantly. I’m afraid that the general strangeness and the homesickness we are all feeling, coupled with the exhaustion of our labors and the frequently sleepless nights, have caused all of our moods to be a bit erratic.
“I only use that as an example, Martha,” I said. “Tell me, what would you like to be called?”
“Something more romantic—your name, for instance, Swallow—Mesoke—it’s quite lovely in either language. Or the one they call Woman Who Moves Against the Wind. How much more charming that is than Falls Down Woman.”
“Well then, we must think of a name that pleases you and that somehow suits you … God this is filthy work, is it not?” I said, pausing, and throwing down the crude little spadelike implement that the savages fashion out of wood and stone for this chore. “It’s ruining my fingernails—look how cracked and dirt-encrusted they are. Had I known we were to be doing work as fieldhands I’d have brought with me a proper pair of gloves and a spade. Soon they’ll be calling me Needs Manicure Woman.”
“But who gives out these names?” asked Martha, unamused by my attempt at humor—and to my way of thinking somewhat preoccupied with the matter. “How is it that they come into general usage?”
“As I make it out, they just occur,” I answered, “for the most banal reasons. Someone sees you stumble and fall down, for instance, in the high-buttoned shoes that you insist on wearing, and the next time your name comes up in general conversation, they say, ‘Oh, you know the one I mean—the woman who falls down.’”
“Why can’t they simply call me by my Christian name—Martha?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my friend,” I said, “we are not presently among Christians. Now, let’s put our heads together and think of a suitable name for you, and then we shall launch a campaign to bring it into general usage.”
“But we are unable even to speak the language,” Martha said. “It’s hopeless.” And I feared that she was going to start crying again.
“No matter,” I said. “We’re learning the sign language, and we can always enlist the assistance of Reverend Hare—assuming, that is, that we can get his enormous Episcopalian backside off the buffalo robes. In any case, as I have said, these names seem to come about more as a result of actions or physical characteristics.”
We considered the matter for a while as we continued to dig the damnable roots. Finally I had an idea. “How would you feel about the name: Woman Who Leaps Fire? Personally, I find it rather enigmatic … romantic.”
Martha brightened perceptibly. “Why yes! I like that very much. Leaps Fire Woman! And I think I know what you are going to suggest.”
“Exactly,” I said. “From now on, every time you come to one of the fires smoldering outside the lodges, or for that matter, inside Mr. Tangle Hair’s own lodge, simply leap over it. You are bound to earn the new name. What else could be construed from such an action?”
Ah, but here is the unfortunate result of our seemingly well-laid plan; Martha is not athletically inclined, a fact which I should have considered. The first fire she came to after she left me, she attempted to leap in the witness of a number of the savages, but, partly because she was still wearing those damnable high shoes of hers, she stumbled and fell directly into the fire pit and was no sooner covered head to toe in black oily soot. The Indians do have an uncanny knack for choosing names and this morning, according to the Reverend, poor Martha is referred to by two names: Falls Down in Fire Woman, and, the even less attractive Ash Faced Woman. I’m afraid that she will never live this down … how lucky for me that I made my impulsive dive into the beaver pond …
19 May 1875
My dearest sister Hortense,
It occurs to me that I have not written to you for an entire month—certainly the strangest month of my life! How much there is to tell you. But first how is dear Walter? And the children? Father and Mother? Do send news, won’t you … ah, if only you could … if only I could have news of my babies …
Of course mail delivery is somewhat spotty out here on the frontier, but you might try addressing your correspondence to: Madame Little Wolf, Queen of the Savages, or, less formally, to Swallow, in care of the Cheyenne Nation, Somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska Territory, USA … yes that should find me posthaste … Hah! … if only …
Truth be told, I have no idea where we are. Another world certainly … Sometimes I try to imagine all of you back in Chicago comfortably ensconced in the bosom of civilization, sitting in Mother’s drawing room at teatime, for instance … I must concentrate so hard to conjure the image, truly my imagination fails me, just as you cannot possibly imagine the life I am leading … not in your wildest dreams, my sister … not even in your wildest nightmares can you possibly envisage this Indian village, these people, this landscape.
Let me describe to you a bit of the daily routine of camp life among the savages. The three Mrs. Little Wolves, yes, there are three of us—the old one, the young one, and, most recently the Caucasian one, though as yet we are only betrothed (the Chief is, it occurs to me, what my Harry would have undoubtedly called “one lucky redskin”)—all inhabit the same tipi, a lodge it is grandiloquently called in the periodicals but it is certainly not to be mistaken for Father’s hunting lodge on the lake—it is actually nothing more than a large round tent, possibly fifteen feet in diameter—you’ve undoubtedly seen artists’ renderings of these primitive habitations—made from buffalo hides and painted with crude aboriginal designs. The floor is earth, there is a fire ring in the center, and our “beds” if such they may be called, are animal skins spread atop tree boughs and leaves, each with a wooden-framed backrest for reclining in a sitting position if one wishes … somewhat like a divan. Well, I must admit, finally, that this arrangement is not entirely without its comforts once one grows accustomed to life without furniture and to sleeping on the ground.
; There are, I may have neglected to mention not only we three women, and the Chief himself, but a young girl, named Pretty Walker, presumably the Chief’s daughter by his first marriage, a young boy who looks after the horses and who I take to be an orphan, and an old crone, who looks exactly like the witch of childhood nightmares, with a large hooked nose and who serves the function of tent organizer and enforcer; she stands guard immediately inside and to the left of the entranceway to the tent, and brandishes a large wooden club at the slightest infraction of a multitude of complicated tipi “rules and regulations” with which I am still not completely familiar.
And finally, completing our big happy family is an infant child, the progeny of the second wife, Feather on Head. The child is so perfectly quiet that I actually lived in the lodge for several days before I was aware of his existence. Indian babies do not cry as do our own; it is quite extraordinary, they are rather like deer fawns, not uttering a sound to give them away. Too, I think his mother may, out of some sort of protective maternal instinct, have intentionally kept the child hidden from me for the first few days of my residency … oh, Hortense, when I discovered the baby, or I should say, when Feather on Head finally revealed him to me, how my heart ached, a bittersweet ache of joy at the sight of this tiny infant, and of longing for my own two dears … how clearly he brought them back, their pinched smiling faces … will I ever see them again?
The child took to me immediately; as you know I have always had an affinity for babies—hah! yes I know, both with bearing them and with caring for them … He smiled up at me, truly a little cherub, brown as a chestnut, his eyes as bright as copper pennies, and when Feather on Head witnessed her son’s and my obvious mutual affection she became instantly warm toward me. She softened and smiled shyly and we have since become quite friendly, my first friend so far among the Cheyennes! Although perforce our ability to communicate is yet limited by the language barrier. Feather on Head is helping me greatly with my sign language, and although I am trying to make some sense of the Cheyenne tongue itself, I think that I shall never be able to speak it. It is a language that often appears to be without vowels—a language of the crudest sounds rather than words—hisses, grunts, and ululations—strange noises that seem to issue from some older and more primitive earth than the one you and I inhabit. Or I should say than you inhabit …
