One Thousand White Women: The Journals of May Dodd

by Jim Fergus

Our pathetic entreaties seemed to elicit much further merriment among the man’s cohorts. After a short struggle the savage shook loose of Susie’s grasp and then caught me square in the jaw with a kick that sent me sprawling. All but Martha, who was too frightened to move, and poor Gretchen, who lay upon the ground half-conscious and groaning, tried to come to our aid, but the savages held them back.

  The fiend who dragged her now released his grasp on Sara’s hair, fell atop her, and began to force apart her legs. The girl wept and struggled against him. Never as long as I live will I forget the look of silent intensity on her young face, the tears of sorrow that ran down her cheeks. I knew in that instant that this same unspeakable fate must have befallen her as a child growing up in that awful asylum—that her muteness had been her final strength, her final testimony to the cruelty of this world. Held on the ground now by another of them and helpless to stop the crime, I began to weep myself, to plead, to beg, to pray to God …

  I do not know where the knife came from. Some said later that it belonged to the Crow and that Sara took it from his belt, others that she had it concealed all along beneath her dress. But I saw the flash of steel as it came up in her hand and she plunged the blade into the man’s neck as he lay atop her. He made a surprised gurgling sound and clawed wildly at the knife handle, finally pulling the blade free as a great geyser of blood shot like a fountain from his neck. But with his last breath before he bled to death and fell lifeless atop her, he drew the knife across our dear Sara’s throat, and in a terrible instant the life drained from her eyes.

  Now darkness falls and we sit huddled together upon the ground inside one of the rude stick shelters. Here we try to console one another, weeping softly and whispering together. Several of the younger savages squat in front of the entrance, guarding us, but they have not bothered to bind our hands again for all fight has left us. After they murdered Sara, the filthy brutes violated the rest of us in turn … we all simply endured, silently, their vicious assaults … I managed only to save the child Pretty Walker from this fate, distracting her would-be assailant by offering myself a second time in her stead … I have my notebook, strapped all along to my back, open in my lap and here I make these wretched and perhaps final entries …

  “Why do you still write in your journal, May?” Martha asked me a moment ago in a small, hopeless voice. “What difference does any of it make now?”

  “I don’t know, Martha,” I said. “Perhaps I write to stay alive, to keep us all alive.”

  Helen Flight laughed bleakly. “Yes,” she said, “I understand perfectly, May. Your pen is your medicine and as long as you’re exercising it, you are elsewhere engaged, you are alive. In spite of everything, we are all still alive … that is to say, except, of course, for dear little Sara.”

  We all looked at the child’s body, which lay cold and stiffening, where we had dragged her to the rear of the hut.

  “I do not wish to live any longer,” Martha said. “Perhaps Sara was the lucky one. Surely death would be a blessing after what has befallen us … and what we have to look forward to.”

  “Aw stop yer damn whinin’, Martha,” said Meggie Kelly. “Susie and me are going to ’ave our babies, and we plan to be alive for that event. Isn’t that so, sister?”

  “Right, Meggie,” said Susie. “We’re goin’ to be mothers we are. The lads are goin’ to come for us, I just know they will.”

  “Yes, I believe so myself,” said Helen. “Chin up, Martha. We’ve been used abominably ill, it’s true, but our husbands aren’t going to allow the Crows to just walk off with their wives. Your own husband, Tangle Hair, is, after all, head man of the Crazy Dog soldiers—May’s husband, Little Wolf, head man of the Elk warriors, of which society my own Mr. Hog is second-in-command—and a most capable fellow he is, too, if I may say so. I’m quite certain the chaps have already set out to rescue us. That they will swoop down at any moment and exact their vengeance against these criminals.”

  Brave Gretchen, who was still barely sensible from the terrible blow she took, and whom the savages had at least spared in their ravishment, now raised her head weakly from where she lay beside us. “Yah and don’t forget my hustband No Brains, either,” she said. “He come for me. I know he vill.”

  We are allowed no fire and the night air is chilly and so we close in together for warmth and what little comfort we can offer one another …

  8 August 1875

  Yes, thank God! Helen was correct, we have been saved, delivered to safety, returned to our own people! The Crow thieves—kidnappers, murderers, rapists, fiends—are dead. Our warriors killed even some of the young men among them … of that I am sorry, for they were little more than boys, though I believe that several escaped in the ensuing melee …

  The attack came just at dawn after the darkest twenty-four hours of our lives. The Crow guards must have first been silently eliminated, for our other captors were still asleep inside their huts when our brave warriors stormed the camp. The Crows had barely time to exit their shelters before they were struck down, butchered amidst their own cries of surprise and the bloodcurdling shrieks of our men. My husband Little Wolf himself led the charge, seemed not like a man at all but like a God of vengeance, an animal, a bear, fearless, without mercy. He carried a shield and a lance as he rode, striking down the enemy like the wrath of God itself. Truly he was, at that moment, my knight in shining armor.

  We women stayed huddled in our shelter but could see the terrible carnage from the open entranceway. Riding right alongside the men, but for her breechclout naked atop her white horse, was our own brave Phemie. The Crows must have been paralyzed with terror at the sight of this howling warrior woman bearing down upon them, drawing her bow like a mythic goddess of war to drive an arrow through the heart of an enemy and then with another bloodcurdling cry, to smote a second with her club. Good God, what a vision …

  All of our husbands had come for us, just as Helen had predicted, yes, even No Brains, who was finely dressed for battle in an elaborately ornamented war shirt but whom I feel certain held back until the initial charge was over and then came in to count coup upon the already dead and stricken enemy.

  The boy Yellow Wolf was the very first to enter our hut and when he saw his beloved bride laid out there cold and dead, a more piteous howling of grief I have never before heard. He went to her, gathered her corpse in his arms, and pressed her to his chest. All of us wept anew for our friend and for her young husband’s splendid grief.

  Leaving the boy to his private mourning, we exited the shelter to search out our own husbands amidst the chaos of death and dying. The scalps of enemies were being taken … other mutilations occurring … the scene had an unreal, dreamlike quality to it—as if we were there and yet not there … truly we are all of us savages now … anointed together in this bloody sacrament of revenge … for we took pleasure in our enemies’ death and mutilations, and shall never be the same for it … we have seen the savagery in our own hearts … have exulted in blood and vengeance … have danced over the scalps of enemies … all that we have done, God help us …

  The Cheyenne men tend not to be demonstrative in matters of conjugal affection, but when the Kelly girls saw their own twin husbands they ran to them in joy, leapt upon their ponies like sprites, wrapping their legs about the young men’s waists, hugging them about the shoulders and kissing them wildly on their faces and necks. “God bless ya, lads,” they said. “God bless ya. We knew ya’d come for us. We knew you’d save yore dear blessed wives.”

  Gretchen, much recovered from her injury, but still wobbly and weak-kneed, found her own buffoonish husband, who was afoot leading his horse. No Brains was all puffed up like a cock with his recent coups and himself waved a bloody enemy scalp for all to see.

  My husband Little Wolf sat his mount, quiet and still as is his way, watchful and surveying the scene like the dominant wolf of the pack. When he spied me with his daughter Pretty Walker beside me, he rode directly to us and slipped from his
horse.

  The child began immediately to weep, threw herself into her father’s arms.

  “Neve’ea’xaeme, nahtona,” Little Wolf said, holding her. “Neve’ea’xaeme, nahtona. Do not cry, my daughter.”

  And then he looked over the child’s shoulder at me. “Ena’so’eehovo, Mesoke? They raped her, Swallow?”

  I shook my head, no, and to the next question in my husband’s eyes, I cast my own eyes to the ground, and began to weep myself, “Nisaatone’oetohe, naehame, I could not stop him, my husband. Nasaatone’oetohe.”

  Little Wolf smiled gently at me, and nodded and when he spoke, I think, it was for the comfort of us both. “Eesepeheva’e,” he said. “Eesepeheva’e. It is all right now.”

  Riding back into our camp this afternoon, we were greeted by the joyful trilling of our women as all ran out to meet us. But when the family of Yellow Wolf saw him bringing up the rear, leading a horse with the body of Ve’ho’a’o’ke laid across it, a high keening arose from some of the women, and spread throughout the camp.

  9 August 1875

  This morning we buried Sara and the unborn child she carried. Her body was dressed in her Cheyenne wedding gown and wrapped in a white buffalo hide, covered with rocks in a shallow grave on the prairie.

  There had been much discussion among all concerned about whether the girl should have a Christian or a traditional Cheyenne burial. Of course, Reverend Hare and Narcissa White argued for the former. But others of us believed that the only true happiness our Sara had ever known in her short life on this earth had been among these people. And we wished for her soul to go to the place the Cheyennes call Seano— the place of the dead—which is reached by following the Hanging Road in the Sky, the Milky Way. Here the Cheyennes believe that all the People who have ever died live with their Creator, He’amaveho’e. In Seano they live in villages just as they did on earth—hunting, working, eating, playing, loving, and making war. And all go to the place of the dead, regardless of whether they were good or bad on earth, virtuous or evil, brave or cowardly—everyone—and eventually in Seano all are reunited with the souls of their loved ones.

  “Heaven,” I said to the Reverend Hare. “Seano, is just like our own Heaven. What difference is there, Father?”

  “A substantial difference, Miss Dodd,” said the Reverend, “for it is not a Christian heaven and any soul can gain entrance there without regard to baptism, without reward for virtue or punishment for sin. Such a place does not exist, cannot exist, for how can there be a heaven unless there is a hell?”

  “This earth, Reverend,” I said, “is both a heaven and a hell. No one knew that better than our Sara. She should be allowed a simple heathen burial by her husband.”

  But the Reverend remained, as I knew he would, implacable on the subject. “The child was baptized in the only true church,” he said, “and her body must receive the holy sacraments so that her soul may enter the Kingdom of Our Lord.”

  And so, finally, both services were conducted, one by Reverend Hare and the other by Yellow Wolf and his family, who carried Sara’s body to its final resting place, leading her saddled horse, which to all of our shock the boy killed there beside her grave, drew a knife across its throat—just as his young wife had died herself—so that the horse fell to its knees with a pathetic trumpeting of air escaping its severed windpipe. “Ve’ho’a’o’ke must have her horse,” Yellow Wolf explained as the horse toppled over on its side and the light faded from its eyes, “to ride the Hanging Road to Seano.”

  Thus Sara’s soul rode her horse wherever she wished to go—a choice of heavens—and all were satisfied.

  11 August 1875

  Our funeral procession left Yellow Wolf sitting cross-legged beside the grave of his bride. For two days and two nights, we have heard the boy’s wails of mourning carried on the wind.

  I need hardly say that it has been a difficult time for us all … not only dear Sara’s tragic end but our own debasement at the hands of the Crows has changed things among us, and within us, things that we can as yet only faintly comprehend.

  But for hollow platitudes, the Reverend offers us scant comfort and we have, as always, only each other for solace … and thank God for that.

  And so we have made a pact together, each of us, never to speak of that night, or the following day, neither among ourselves, nor with any of the others. We cannot change what has happened and so we must go forward away from it.

  Our Cheyenne families have taken us back into their generous bosoms, caring for us with great solicitude and kindness, without a hint of reproach —which seems to be the domain of a few of our own women alone. Of course, Narcissa White treats us as if our little group had somehow enticed the Crows to carry us away, that whatever humiliation we may have suffered at their hands was just punishment for our sins and confirmation of her own righteousness.

  Since our ordeal I have hardly let my husband out of my sight—truly he is my savior and protector, a good, brave man. I feel a greater attachment to him now than ever, though in a strange way more as a daughter than as a wife. I have taken, the past few nights since our return, to slipping under the buffalo robes with him, after all in our tent sleep—not, of course, for the reason of sexual intimacy, but only to feel him beside me, to curl next to him and take comfort in the smooth warmth of his skin, the fine wild smell of him. The old wife Quiet One has been extremely kind to me; I know that she is aware of these nightly visits but does not begrudge me them. I believe that she knows of my efforts to protect her child, Pretty Walker, who since our return, has herself slept in her mother’s bed. The child and I have both now seen the boogeyman in the flesh and are more than ever afraid of him.

  20 August 1875

  By my estimation I am now approaching the third month of pregnancy. I do not believe that my baby has been injured and for that I am grateful. Martha and the Kelly girls, too, seem healthy in their terms. As does Gretchen. Thank God.

  Of my closest circle of friends only Phemie and Helen Flight seem not to be with child. Helen, of course, has already confessed to me about having lied to the medical examiner regarding the matter of her fertility in order to be accepted into this program.

  “Mr. Hog is really a most agreeable fellow,” she says now, “but he has since our marriage been possessed of the unfortunate male notion that unless he impregnates his wife he is something less than a man. He used to inquire of me almost daily, by rubbing his stomach hopefully, if I was yet with child, and when I answered in the negative … well, then he would wish to try again! I must say, it got to be a dreadfully tiresome business. However since our abduction and safe return he has made no further overtures toward me. I am able henceforth to concentrate my efforts solely on improving my ‘medicine.’”

  For her part Phemie is still wearing her chastity string, and merely chuckles deeply. “Like you, Helen, I have an occupation,” she says. “I am a hunter, and now a warrior, which is hardly a suitable profession for a prospective mother. Moreover from the time that I was a child men have forced themselves upon me whenever they so desired. I am very fond of my husband, Mo’ohtaeve’ho’e, and one day perhaps I shall have his child. But I shall decide when I am ready.”

  As for the rest of us, we have the comfort of all being pregnant together, so that we may share the experience, commiserate, make plans. By our estimation our babies will be born next February, and although we worry about the prospect of being far along in our terms throughout the cold winter months, hopefully we shall be more permanently encamped then. We may even expect to be living at one of the agencies with a doctor and hospital nearby—for there has been talk among some of the men in council recently about going in this year.

  23 August 1875

  A very ugly thing has occurred today, the repercussions of which will be felt for a long time to come. Hearing shouts of distress from Reverend Hare and angry cries from a mob of savages, a number of us hurried in the direction of the Reverend’s lodge. There we came upon a shocking s
cene.

  A man named Hataveseve’hame, Bad Horse, was driving the naked Reverend from his and Dog Woman’s lodge with a quirt. The Reverend—huge, pink, and hairless—was sobbing and trying to protect himself from the man’s lashes, which were raising angry red welts all over the fat man’s body. A number of people had gathered, including other members of Bad Horse’s family. Bad Horse’s wife, a short, squat woman named Kohenaa’e’e, Bear Sings Woman, came from the Reverend’s lodge carrying their young son—who was also naked, although, especially among the children, such a natural state is not in the least bit unusual. Still it became clear what had occurred, for the Reverend in his confused blubbering combination of Cheyenne and English was trying to explain that he had only been giving the boy instruction in his catechism. Which explanation did not placate the furious father, who continued to drive the Reverend with vicious blows of his quirt.

  I stepped up beside Susie Kelly who, with her sister, had joined the small crowd of onlookers. “Should we do something to help him?” I asked, for my dislike of the man notwithstanding, it was a pathetic sight.

  “’Tis a family matter, May,” Susie said. “The old hypocrite got caught booggerin’ the boy. ’Appens all the time, you know, amongst the Catholics. When Meggie an’ me was growin’ up in the orphanage, the old priests used to boogger the lads bloody. Isn’t that so, Meggie?”

  “Right, Susie, a sad thing, it’tis, too,” said Meggie. “For lads that take it up that chute that way become angry men, that’s been my experience. I don’t believe they’ve ever seen such a thing among these people. Even the old Nancy Boys amongst them like the Father’s roommate don’t fool with the young lads. They say the old he’emane’e are celibate.”