by Jim Fergus
Although it must certainly have been in violation of military regulations, one of the soldiers nearest Phemie couldn’t resist whispering. “What you niggers doin’ with these people?” he asked. “Are you prisoners?”
Phemie chuckled deeply. “We live with these people, nigger, that’s what we’re doing,” she said. “These are our people. My husband is Cheyenne and does not speak English.”
“Cheyenne!” said another soldier behind the first. “Whooo-eeee, woman! You is one crazy nigger!”
As we entered the fort we could see that a small crowd of curious onlookers, civilians and soldiers, had gathered to observe our procession. Little Wolf rode at the head, followed by a half dozen of his warriors in a tight cluster, followed by the string of packhorses led by the women and some boys, several more warriors bringing up our rear. I, too, was afoot, leading Soldier and two other of our packhorses, walking abreast with Helen Flight, who led her own four horses in a string. I was dressed as usual in my antelope hide dress with leggings and moccasins. I usually wear my hair braided in the Indian fashion now—having found this to be more practical. My fellow wife Feather on Head is very adept at the process. For her part, Helen had her pipe clenched firmly between her teeth, wore her English shooting hat, buckskin trousers and jacket, and carried her muzzle loader in a sling over her shoulder. The Kelly twins sauntered boldly behind us, leading their own string of horses equally well laden with hides.
Only now, incredible to say, does it fully occur to me what a bizarre spectacle we must have presented to those assembled, and even now I flush with embarrassment in recounting the scene.
What other reception we might have expected, I do not know. My own foolish pride blinded me to the fact that far from looking the part of heroic explorers returning in triumph to civilization, we must have appeared in truth not merely comical, but utterly ludicrous.
A number of the soldiers’ wives were included in the group of curious onlookers and there arose among them an astonished murmuring which gave way to an excited chattering and pointing as our procession moved past. “Look, look there, those are a pair of the white girls, the redheads,” we heard them say. “Look how filthy they are! Why they look like savages themselves!”
“Good Lord, that niger girl is half-naked!”
“And look at the outfit the Englishwoman wears, the painter, doesn’t she look like a buffalo hunter!”
“Isn’t that fair-haired girl with the braids the one that was so saucy with John Bourke last spring? From the look of her, she’s gone completely wild!”
“Wait until the Captain sees her now!”
These last remarks were like an arrow to my heart; and just as suddenly I knew that I did not wish to see Captain Bourke … prayed not to see him … How could we have been so proud, so foolish? My cheeks colored, I burned with shame, I cast my eyes to the ground.
“Tiny minds, May,” said Helen Flight with her usual good cheer, having obviously witnessed my distress. “They have no sense of manners or decorum whatever. And they are to be paid no attention whatever. Tiny, tiny little minds. Let them not concern us, my dear friend. Why you’re the smartest little picture of a lady here! And don’t you forget it. Keep your head up now, my dear! An artiste must never bow her head to the tiny minds. This is a lesson my dearest companion, Mrs. Ann Hall, taught me long ago. Never bow to the tiny minds!” And then Helen, God bless her, her eyebrows raised in delight actually took off her hat and waved cheerfully to the astonished crowd of onlookers.
Her words gave me strength, and I lifted my head again. Still, I continued to pray that the Captain was not here at Fort Laramie after all to witness my humiliation, to see me “gone wild.”
But then, for some reason, the mood seemed to change among the onlookers, as if their barbed curiosity spoken in tones loud enough for all of us to hear was not sufficient reproof for our transgression of all things wholesome and Christian. We had almost reached the trading post when someone hissed, “Whores!”
And someone else: “Dirty whores!”
“Why do you bring your filth here among decent God-fearing Christians?” another said.
Perhaps because she has lived with such intolerance and prejudice for most of her life, the unflappable Phemie knew just how to react to it; she began to sing one of her “freedom songs,” as she calls them. Her rich, melodic voice rose above the ugly epithets, covered and finally silenced them:
“I‘ve been buked and I’ve been scorned,
I’ve been buked and I’ve been scorned, children
I’ve been buked and I’ve been scorned,
I’ve been talked about sure’s you born.”
And though I am certain now that they must have been punished later for it, several of the Negro soldiers who escorted us joined her in the next verse. They shared the community of racial memory and knew the song well. And they sang as if to protect all of us in their charge:
“There’ll be trouble all over this world,
There’ll be trouble all over this world, children,
There’ll be trouble all over this world,
There’ll be trouble all over this world.”
We were all of us heartened by the singing, given courage by the deep men’s voices in harmony with our own Phemie’s contralto which rose above the others like that of an angel—a black angel. And we all sang the third verse, which we had heard Phemie sing countless nights in her lodge:
“Ain’t gonna lay my religion down
Ain’t gonna lay my religion down, children
Ain’t gonna lay my religion down
Ain’t gonna lay my religion down”
Now we had reached the post store and our procession halted as the trader, with a half-breed interpreter in tow, came out to confer with Little Wolf. As we waited, and for the first time, I took the opportunity to look back at them, to gaze into the crowd at some of the individuals who had witnessed our arrival here in such low mean spirit. They had fallen silent now and regarded us with sullen looks of suspicion and … hatred.
Hardly had I begun to peruse their faces than my eyes met those of Captain John G. Bourke …
NOTEBOOK VI
The Bony Bosom of Civilization
“How strange to recall that six months ago we departed Fort Laramie as anxious white women entering the wilderness for the first time; and now, perhaps equally anxious, we leave as squaws returning home. I realized anew as we rode into the cold north wind on this morning that my own commitment had been forever sealed by the new heart that beats in my belly; that I could not have remained even if I so wished.”
(from the journals of May Dodd)
14 September 1875, Fort Laramie (continued)
This would seem an appropriate place to begin a new notebook, for perhaps it was at the very instant upon first laying eyes again upon John Bourke, that I understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lost to me … and I to him. That I had crossed over, finally and irrevocably, to take up residency in “the other world behind this one” as the Cheyennes call the world that exists on the other side of our own.
The Captain could not disguise his horror when our eyes first met, could not hide the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face. We stared at one another thus for a long time before he finally turned his gaze away with something like relief—as though he had decided that he must have been mistaken, after all; that I could not be the person he had at first taken me for.
In the tumult of emotions I felt in seeing him again, I do not know which was more painful to me—the Captain’s disgust or his dismissal.
In an attempt to calm the racing of my own heart, I turned my attention to our immediate business here: we began to unstrap our hides from the packhorses and let the bundles slide to the ground, where they fell with a heavy thud—a line of thuds and a cloud of dust billowing up beneath the horses’ legs.
The proprietor of the trading post was a short, bandy-legged Frenchman by the name of Louis Baptiste, who now made his way
from bundle to bundle, inspecting, counting, jotting figures in the columns of his ledger book. Baptiste had a large hooked nose and small, close-set eyes, and the Indians called him Pe’ee’ese Makeeta—Big Nose Little Man.
When Big Nose reached Helen Flight, she said to him: “I shall be negotiating my own trade, sir, independent of the gentlemen. And I authorize Susan and Margaret Kelly to represent me in this matter.”
“I only beezness weeth the braves,” said the trader, “jamais avec les squaws.”
“On what grounds, may I ask, sir?” Helen inquired pleasantly.
Now Baptiste looked her up and down, his small eyes narrowed meanly. He grinned. “Mais peut-être vous avez une petite squaw under your buffalo robes, madame, non?”
Helen’s smile never wavered. “These are my goods,” she said evenly to the man. “And I should be pleased to let those young ladies right there”—she pointed to the Kelly twins—“conduct my business for me, thank you so very much, sir.”
By now Susie and Meggie had sauntered forward. “Aye, Frenchy, you’ll be dealin’ with me and sister here,” said Susie.
Louis Baptiste raised his palms as if matters were quite out of his hands. “Comme j’ai dit, mesdames,” he said, “I do beezness with the braves. Toujours. Jamais avec les squaws.”
“Yes, well no doubt they are easier to swindle than the women,” observed Helen drily.
I spoke up myself then. “We are representatives of the United States government,” I said, “officially dispatched by President Grant to instruct these people in the workings of the Caucasian world. This would seem to be an excellent opportunity to begin their economic education.”
Baptiste aimed a stream of tobacco juice between his legs; some of it didn’t clear the hook on the end of his nose and dripped from it like rusty water from a leaking faucet. He snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, which he then proceeded to study as if it were a matter of the greatest import. “Oui, I know who you are, mesdames,” Big Nose said with a nod. “You are the white squaw brides of les sauvages, n’est-ce pas?” He shook his head with something between astonishment and regret. “Moi? I have an Indian squaw woman myself—Arapaho. I find that they are less trouble than white women,” he said. And then he shrugged. “Yes, OK, ça va. Why not? You may come in the store, but beeg Chief he makes deal for everyone.” Baptiste moved on down the line of bundles, counting and jotting figures in his notebook.
“Frightfully unattractive little man,” said Helen Flight. “Impertinent, too. Never have cared for the French, personally.”
“Nor I,” said Meggie Kelly. “But he’ll not be gettin’ the better of the Kelly girls in a trade, I can tell ya. Right, Susie?”
Several army officers, including Captain Bourke, had gathered inside the store. Now they stood behind Baptiste, who sat at a long table with his ledger book open before him. Little Wolf was seated across from him, flanked by two of his young Elk warriors standing behind him. Unaccustomed to furniture, the Chief sat stiffly on the edge of his chair. Helen, the Kelly girls, and I stood just inside the door. I was surprised to find that being inside a building after all these months gave me a most peculiar sense of claustrophobia.
John Bourke did not look at me. Indeed, I had the distinct sense that he was trying very hard not to. My heart ached as I watched him … I could not help but remember the last time we had seen each other …
Big Nose tapped his ledger with a pencil and said, “OK, I geeve you four sacks flour, two sacks sugar, one sack baking soda, one sack coffee, six plugs tobacco, one bag wolf poison—”
Before the interpreter, a half-breed hangs-around-the-fort named Little Bat, could finish his translation to Little Wolf, I had pushed forward. “Nonsense,” I said. “Those hides and other goods represent an entire summer’s worth of labor. What you offer us in trade wouldn’t see a dozen of us through half the coming winter.”
Captain Bourke looked up from behind the table, seeming at first surprised and then embarrassed by my outburst; he colored and looked down.
“Supply and demand, madame,” said Big Nose with a wolfish grin. “Beeg Chief he understand that. Too many buffalo ’ides this year. That eez my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Ah, ya beggar!” said Susie Kelly. “Ya think we’re damn fools, do “ya? Too many buffalo hides, me foot! Never haird a sech a thing. The buffalo are scarcer this year than ever before, and you know it as well as we do.”
“I am sorry, mesdames,” said Baptiste, raising his hands. “But that eez my offer. If theez don’t seem fair to you, I suggest you may take your ’ides to the trading post at Camp Robinson. There mon chèr ami, Jules Escoffey, make you not nearly such a good deal, I think. Moi? Compared to Jules I yam Santa Claus.”
“What of gunpowder and ammunition?” asked Helen Flight. “We shall require those items for hunting.”
“Non, non, madame,” said the proprietor, shaking his head. “Je suis désolé, I am sorry, no ammunition or gunpowder may be any longer traded to les sauvages by order of General George Crook. C’est vrai, n’est-ce pas, Capitaine?” he asked, turning to Captain Bourke behind him.
“That is correct, yes,” Captain Bourke answered. Now he turned to me and nodded with stiff military formality. “Please explain to your husband, madam,” he said, “that the Great Father in Washington has determined that for the Cheyennes’ own welfare gunpowder and ammunition will no longer be available to them as articles of trade. In lieu of such items the Great Father is offering a variety of farm implements at wholesale prices.”
I could not help letting an astonished bark of laughter escape. “Farm implements?” I said. “Wholesale? Excellent! Yes, well those items will certainly be of great use to us. Why what possible need shall we have for gunpowder and ammunition to procure fresh game when we shall have a ‘variety of farm implements’ to see us through the coming winter?”
“Aye, isn’t that grand though!” said Meggie Kelly. “And are we expected to plant potatoes before the folking ground freezes?”
“As to the Great Father’s paternal concern for the welfare of his Cheyenne children,” I continued in a rising voice, “I imagine that although we are no longer allowed to trade our hides for gunpowder and ammunition, if we wished to trade, say, for a keg of rotgut whiskey capable of poisoning the entire tribe, such merchandise might still be available to us?”
Big Nose bared his wolfish teeth beneath his huge hooked nose. “Oh, mais oui, madame,” he said, “I throw in a keg of my best wheesky if that’s what the Beeg Chief wishes.”
Throughout this conversation, Little Wolf sat impassively, listening to the translation of the interpreter. Now I spoke to him in Cheyenne, surprising myself at the fluency of my anger. “The vehos are trying to cheat us,” I said. “Our goods are worth ten times what Big Nose offers.”
Little Wolf only nodded. “Pe’ee’ese Makeeta always tries to cheat us,” he answered. “But the People have acquired a taste for sugar and coffee; these goods are important to us, and so we make the best trade that we can manage.”
“And you do understand that by order of the Great Father in Washington,” I said, “there is to be no more gunpowder or ammunition allowed the People? Instead they offer us farm implements.”
Now Little Wolf looked genuinely surprised. As I suspected the interpreter, Little Bat, had not conveyed this last piece of information to him. “Farm implements?” Little Wolf asked. “Of what use are such things to the People?”
“Of no use,” I said, “until such time as the People move to the agency and become farmers.”
Little Wolf waved his hand in a dismissive backhanded gesture, in the manner that one shoos flies. “We are hunters,” he said, “we are not farmers. Tell the soldiers that we have no use for farm implements, that we must have rifles and ammunition.” And to Big Nose, he said, “Henceforth my wife, Mesoke, and the other women will conduct this trade.” With this Little Wolf stood from the table and with his usual great dignity left the ro
om, followed by his soldiers.
Now the Kellys pressed forward to make their case with Big Nose. “There’s noothin’ else to be doone now, Frenchy,” said Susie, “than to do some ‘beezness’ with the squaws, is there, ya little cheatin’ bastard?”
I took this opportunity to approach John Bourke, who was gathering papers off the table, making quite a show of distracted busy-ness, all transparently designed to avoid having to confront me.
I did not allow him the luxury. “Why does the Army participate in this travesty, Captain?” I asked. “What possible interest does it serve to swindle these people.”
The Captain bowed politely. “Mrs. Little Wolf,” he said, as if addressing a stranger. “I’m afraid that this is not a matter which I am presently at liberty to discuss with you. Good day,” he said, touching the brim of his hat and walking past me.
Before he could do so, I grasped him by the arm. It was, I am aware, a presumptuous act on my part, but I could not help myself. “John,” I whispered, near to tears from my racing emotions, “for God’s sake, John, it is I, May. Why won’t you talk to me, why can’t you look at me?”
The Captain stopped and raised his eyes to meet mine, as if seeing me for the first time. “Good God, May,” he whispered.
“What did you expect, Captain?” I said. “That I would be dressed in my Sunday finest? Need I remind you that we have been living in the wilderness among savages? I’m sorry if my appearance offends you.”
“No, May,” John Bourke said. “Forgive me. You offer no offense. You look … only … very different than I remembered you …” And then as if torn by some great internal conflict, his brow furrowed in a storm of anguish, the Captain added, “Please excuse me, madam, I must take my leave. Perhaps we will have an opportunity to speak at a later date.” I watched as he strode quickly from the store.
