by Jim Fergus
Then by some unspoken signal, everyone began to leave the lodges to assemble in the communal circle around which the tents are strategically placed … this is, I suppose something like our own town square, but of course round rather than square. All is round in this strange new world … The musicians (yes, well, again I must use the term loosely for they would hardly be confused for the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra!), and the singers and dancers also began to assemble. Our own women gathered in small clusters to inspect each other’s “wedding gowns,” to marvel at each other’s painted faces and outlandish costumes. My friend Martha was made up to look like a badger—an uncanny resemblance—with a black mask and white stripe down her forehead and nose. I have no idea for what purpose, but the savages have some meaning for everything. For my part half my face was painted black with white stars forming constellations on my cheeks and the full moon on my forehead, the other side of my face was painted all white with a blue river meandering its length. “You are the day and night,” Martha said strangely, marveling, she too appearing to be in some kind of narcotic stupor. “You are the heavens and the earth!”
“Aye, and we’re a pair of foxes we are, Meggie!” said the Kelly sister Susan appreciatively. Surely the red-haired Irish twins were no less identical got up with real fox heads attached to their hair and fox tails pinned to their rears. An uncanny likeness, and knowing something of the girls’ wily natures, a stroke of pure genius on the part of the heathens.
But perhaps most striking of our group was the Negro Phemie, her entire face and body painted white with brilliant red stripes running up her arms, around her neck and eyes, her full Negro lips painted crimson, even her hair painted blood red—my God, she was magnificent to behold … a savage dream goddess.
Now appeared the holy man they call Dog Woman and his apprentice, named Bridge Girl—also a he’emnane’e, as these half-men/half-women are called. Two stranger creatures I have never before laid eyes upon! The young apprentice, Bridge Girl, speaks in the soft, high voice of a female, but is clearly a young boy. The older man, too, is effeminate in both voice and gesture. Yes, well we’ve seen similar people on the streets of Chicago—Nancy Boys, Father refers to them.
Now these two set about organizing the dancers, which they did with great solemnity and skill. The men/women are said to possess special abilities at matchmaking and are very popular with the young people, their advice in matters of the heart much sought after. For they know everything of both sexes.
Now at last the music began—an entire savage orchestra! Flute players, drum beaters, gourd shakers … a primitive symphony, to be sure, that makes for a crude harmony … but one with an undeniably rhythmic power. Then the singers took up the song, the eeriest song I’ve ever heard, the higher notes of the women floating lightly over the deeper tones of the men, a throbbing steady repetitive beat like a riffle running into a pool … it sent chills up my spine and in concert with the otherworldly music actually caused a number of our women to swoon dead away, they had to be revived by the fire—a huge bonfire that had been built in the center of the circle, flames and sparks leaping into the night sky, licking the heavens … I assure you, dear sister, not even the lunatic asylum in full riot could prepare one for this bizarre spectacle …
Dog Woman announced the different dances, sometimes gently scolding the young people if they did not perform the steps exactly right. Truly, she reminded me of old Miss Williams at our dancing school in Chicago—you remember her don’t you, Hortense? … you see, still I clutch these memories to draw me back, to keep me from going completely mad in the face of this assault on our sensibilities …
The children sat in the back behind the adults on the outside of the circle, watching raptly, beating time with their hands and feet, their faces shining in the moonlight, the flames from the fire sparking in their slate-colored eyes, flickering golden in their oiled black hair.
Now the huge Reverend Hare resplendent in his white clerical gown made his grand entrance. He held his Bible aloft for all to see. Although the savages cannot read, they know it to be a sacred text—being a people to whom totemic objects are of utmost importance—and many crowded around him trying to touch it. The Reverend called out and the grooms began to appear out of the shadows of the fire, seemed to issue from the flames themselves like phantoms. I am to this day not absolutely certain that we had not been unwittingly drugged during the feast, for we all remarked later on the dreamlike state we felt.
If we brides considered ourselves to be elaborately made up for the occasion, the grooms were even more fantastically painted and adorned. It was difficult even to identify some of them and many of our women had simply to take as an article of faith the fact that the man standing beside them was really their intended. I did recognize my Chief Little Wolf, who wore a headdress with buffalo horns on either side, black raven feathers surrounding his head, ringed by eagle feathers, spilling like a tail down his back. He wore spotless new beaded moccasins, a fine deerskin shirt artfully trimmed with what, I now realize, can only have been human hair. Over his shoulders he wore a buffalo robe that had been painted red and was adorned with all manner of intricate designs. In one hand he carried a red rattle, which he shook softly in time to the music, and in the other a lance trimmed with soft fur. He was a picture of savage splendor, and in my altered state of mind, I felt oddly proud to be standing beside him. Well, after all, isn’t this how a girl is supposed to feel on her wedding day?
Over the sound of the music and with the dancers still performing in the background, Reverend Hare began reciting the Christian wedding vows. Whatever else may be said of the man he has a commanding and sonorous speaking voice, which managed to rise above the music:
“Dearly beloved we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company to join together these men and these women in holy matrimony …”
And each verse, the Reverend repeated in Cheyenne.
“Into this holy estate these couples present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace …”
Did Captain John G. Bourke swoop into the camp at this moment atop his big white horse and snatch me away from these proceedings, carry me off to live in a little house set in a grove of cottonwoods on the edge of a meadow, by the banks of a creek, at which safe harbor I would be reunited with my own sweet babies and bear others by my dashing Captain and there live out my life as a good Christian wife and devoted mother? No, alas, he did not … Did I pray fervently that at this very moment in the ceremony of matrimony, my Captain would rescue me thusly? … Yes … I did, I confess that I did … God help me.
“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
When the Reverend uttered his translation of this last verse, a collective “houing” arose from the grooms, a strange noise like an unearthly wind blowing through the assemblage.
“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, no long as ye both shall live?”
There was a long pause here before there came from among us a scattering of “I will’s,” some of them barely more than murmurs, remarkable for their general lack of conviction. I know, too, that a number of our women did not answer the question at all, but left it hanging there in limbo as their final escape …
“And to those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Foreasmuch as these men and women have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their trot
h, each to the other, and have declared the same by joining hands; I pronounce, that they are Husband and Wife; in the name of the Father, and of the Son; and of the Holy Ghost … Amen.”
And then it was done … A stunned silence fell over our company of women as the full import of this momentous occasion made itself felt. The grooms, seemingly less impressed by their new matrimonial state, faded back into the shadows from whence they came, to rejoin the dancers. Meanwhile we brides came together in small coveys and in some mental disorder, to congratulate one another, or commiserate, whichever the case might be, over our newly wedded state. Some wept, but I do not believe that these were tears of joy. All wondered what was to come now …
“Are we truly married, Father, in the eyes of God?” asked the strange woman, “Black Ada” Ware, of the Reverend. She was dressed still in mourning for her wedding, her black veil in place. “Is it so?”
All gathered about, I think hoping that the large Reverend might relieve our minds by telling us that, no, it had been nothing more than a sham ceremony, we were not truly married to these foreign creatures …
“Have I married a damn niggah?” asked Daisy Lovelace who had also declined to be attired by our hosts and who wore, by contrast, a stunning white lace wedding gown which she had brought with her especially for the occasion. Now the woman pulled her silver flask from under her dress and took a long swallow.
“That’s certainly a lovely wedding gown, Miss Lovelace,” said Martha, who seemed still to be in a sort of trance.
“It belonged to my dear departed Motha,” said the woman. “Ah was to wear this gown, myself, when Ah married Mr. Wesley Chestnut of Albany, Georgia. But after Daddy lost everything in the wah, Mr. Chestnut had a sudden change a heart, if you know what Ah mean.
“If Motha and Daddy could only see their little baby girl now,” she said, “havin’ entered into holy matrimony with a gentleman with the deeply unfortunate name of Müstah Bluuddy Fuuuut” (her husband’s descriptive name, in fact, was gained by the actions of her brave little dog, Fern Louise). “My Gawd!” And then the woman began to laugh, and suddenly I felt a new sympathy toward her, I understood fully and for the first time why she had signed up for this program; she had lost her fortune, had been left standing at the altar by a cad, and was quite possibly no longer as young as she claimed. For all her ugly bigotry, I began to like Miss Lovelace infinitely better for the touching fact that she had brought her mother’s wedding gown along with her on this adventure. It proved that for all her apparent cynicism she still held on to hopes, dreams. And I began to laugh with her at the sheer absurdity of our situation, and soon all of us were laughing, looking at each other, some of us made up like demons from hell, married now to barbarians, we laughed until tears ran down our grotesquely painted faces. Yes, surely we had been drugged …
After we had spent ourselves laughing and the strange reality of our situation had once again insinuated itself into our befuddled consciousnesses, we wiped our tears and gathered in little coveys, clustered together for protection like confused chickens—indeed, that’s what we most resembled, with our painted faces and our colorfully ornamented dresses.
We were naturally shy to take up the dance, but true to her nature, our brave good Phemie was the first to join in. “I must show them how an Ashanti dances,” she said to us in her sonorous voice. “The way my mother taught me.” For a moment all the Cheyenne dancers paused to watch our bold and unashamed Negress, as she took her place in the dance line. We were very proud of her. She did not dance in the same style as the Indians … in fact she was a superior dancer, her step sinuous and graceful, her long legs flashing beneath her dress, she pranced and whirled to the pulsing beat—but careful to follow the steps to the dance, as specified by a stern Dog Woman—who tolerated no unauthorized variations. A general murmuring of approval ran among the Indians who spectated, and then I believe that the dancing became even freer and more frenzied.
“My, that big niggah girl can surely dance,” said Daisy Lovelace. “Daddy, God rest his soul, always did say they had special rhythm. Enabuddy care for a little sip a medicine,” she asked, holding out her flask.
“Aye, I’ll have a wee nip of it, shoore,” said Meggie Kelly. “Loosens my dancin’ feet, it does.” And she took the flask from Daisy and took a quick pull, making a small grimace and passing it to her sister. “T’isn’t Irish whiskey, that’s sartain, Susie, but under the circumstances, it’ll’ave to do.”
And then the Kelly sisters themselves melted into the dance—a more fearless pair of twins you could not hope to find; they hiked their skirts up and performed a kind of lively Irish jig to the music. Which made old Dog Woman crazy with anxiety at the impropriety of their steps!
“Oh vat de hell, I tink I may as vell join een, too!” announced dear homely Gretchen, encouraged by the twins’ boldness. “I ben watching, I tink I learn de steps now.” Gretchen was herself painted up in dark earth tones and wrapped in a rare blond buffalo robe adorned with primitive designs. Indeed, she resembled nothing so much as an enormous buffalo cow. Now she entered the dance line herself, God bless her. “Yah!” she called out with her typical gusto, “Yah!” and she took up the step with a heavy Slavic polkalike gait, a bovine gracelessness that provided additional humor to the moment. Several of us began to giggle watching her, covering our mouths with our hands, and even some of the native dancers and spectators laughed good-naturedly at her efforts. The savages are not without a sense of humor, and nothing amuses them so much as the sight of someone making a spectacle of herself.
“Lovely! Spiffing good dance!” said Helen Flight, eyebrows raised in perpetual delight. Helen, who has been given the Indian name, Woman Who Paints Birds, or just Bird Woman, was got up very stylishly to look like a prairie chicken hen with artfully placed feathers about her narrow hips and rump. “Unfortunately I’ve never had the talent, myself,” she said. “That is to say, my dearest companion, Mrs. Ann Hall, would never permit me to dance at balls; she felt that I was always trying to lead the men and that I was ‘conspicuously heavy of foot’—her words exactly, I’m afraid.”
Miss Flight has already proven to be somewhat scandalous to the natives for her habit of smoking a pipe which, like the morning swim, is a savage activity very much reserved for men—and, at that, is one undertaken with much ritual and ceremony. Whereas Helen is liable to fire up her pipe at any time and in any situation—causing the savages even more consternation than when I sit in the tipi with my feet pointing the wrong way! However, because of her considerable artistic skills, which the heathens hold in the very highest esteem, they have chosen to more or less tolerate Helen’s smoking. (A primer on savage etiquette would be most useful to us all.)
Narcissa White came now among us, nearly beside herself with Christian righteousness. Evidently her religious beliefs do not permit dancing. “The recreation of the Devil,” she objected. “His evil trick to inflame the passions and overcome the intellect.”
“Thank Gawd for it,” said Daisy Lovelace. “What would we do here with intellect, Nahcissa?”
Nor had Miss White allowed herself to be dressed in native attire; she still wore her high-buttoned shoes and high-collared missionary dress. “How can we possibly hope to Christianize these poor creatures,” she asked, “if we allow ourselves to sink to their level of degeneracy?”
“Narcissa,” I said, gently, “for once why don’t you stop sermonizing and try to enjoy our wedding reception. Look, even the Reverend is participating in the festivities.” It was true that the Reverend had comfortably ensconced himself fireside on a mound of buffalo robes, surrounded by several of the Cheyenne holy men; he was eating as usual, and chatting animatedly with his savage counterparts.
“Quite, May!” said Helen Flight. “We shall have more than sufficient opportunity to instruct the savages in the ways of civilization. At the present time, I say, ‘When in Rome …’ Indeed my conspicuous heaviness of foot, notwithstanding, if you don’t mind very much
, ladies, I believe I’ll give it a try. I have studied the grouse on the lek and this is one step I know.” With which Helen, too, entered the dance line. “Oh, dear!” I heard her call with delight as she was swallowed by the native dancers, swept away in their midst under the moon until all I could see of her were her hands waving gaily above her head.
“God help you, people,” whispered Narcissa White in a small voice.
“Gawd, Nahcissa,” drawled Daisy Lovelace, “Don’t be such a damn stick in the mud. This is our weddin’ night, we should all be celebratin’. Have a lil’ drink, why don’t you.” Daisy held out her flask, and seemed rather drunk herself. “We can repent tomorah after we have made passionate luuuve to our niggah Injun boys tonight,” she continued, “because Ah have a daaahk suspicion that tomorah we shall be most in need of deevine forgiveness … . But what the Hell, Ah believe Ah’ll take a turn on the dance floor mahself. I shall pretend that Ah’m attendin’ the spring debutante ball at the Mariposa Plantation. It is there that I came out to society and where Ah danced away the most glorious night of my life. Wesley Chestnut said Ah was the most beautiful girl at the ball … and afterwards he kissed me for the first time out on the veranda …” And poor Daisy curtsied and held her arms out, as if joining an invisible partner, and said in a soft dreamy voice, “Thank you, kind suh, Ah don’t maahnd if I do,” and she began to do a slow waltz to the music, twirling in among the dancers, soon lost in their midst.
