by Jim Fergus
I can not too strongly impress upon you the fact that there is not a moment to spare. Under the direction of General Crook, Colonel Mackenzie and the other commanders have orders to proceed in the clearance of all Indians between the Bighorn and Yellowstone rivers to the Black Hills of the Dakotas. No quarter will be given. All Indians encountered by Colonel Mackenzie’s troops are to be considered hostile—with the sole exception of those traveling south toward Fetterman and flying the white flag of surrender. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? I urge you to depart immediately. Do not delay.
I am your humble servant,
John G. Bourke
Captain, Third Cavalry, U.S.A.
30 January 1876
Of course we all of us were deeply shaken by Gertie’s news and the tone of urgency in Captain Bourke’s letter—which the others have also now read. Even with the Army delayed by weather for several weeks it is inconceivable that we will be able to comply with their preposterous demands.
I scribbled a quick note to this effect to Captain Bourke and insisted that Gertie depart immediately to intercept Mackenzie’s troops with whom he rides. And I have also prevailed upon Little Wolf to fly a white flag on a lodgepole in the middle of our camp. Surely for all their orders and dire warnings, the Army will not attack a peacefully encamped village in the dead of winter? A village in which, they are fully aware, a dozen pregnant white women reside.
17 February 1876
More than two weeks have passed since Gertie’s hasty departure. Still no word back yet, but the weather has remained abysmal, with wind and driving snow. As if in a chain reaction, the others’ babies are coming in such rapid succession that the birthing lodge operates at nearly full capacity. Martha and Daisy had theirs on the same day—two strapping boys, beautiful little nut brown infants whose parentage requires less divine explanation than does mine. Indeed, the little fellows make my milky white Irish-Scot daughter look even paler and more exotic by comparison!
“Oh my goodness!” Martha said when first she saw her own son. “Look, May, he’s inherited his father’s hair!” And it was true, her son was born with a head full of matted tangled black hair! Tangle Hair Jr. we have thus named him.
These were quickly followed by the Kelly girls, who true to form had their labor and births in perfect synchronization—twin daughters both. Twin mothers, twin fathers, twin babies—thus the twins multiply in kind. How extraordinary! “Roons in the family,” said Susie. The Kelly babies are strange-looking little things, tawny of skin but with deep red hair.
All the children so far seem healthy; we have been extremely fortunate to avoid anything resembling complications during birth. The Cheyennes themselves are quite pleased with these new additions to the tribe and all the women dote on them. Feather on Head loves my little Wren like her own; I can hardly wrest the infant away from her when it is time for her feeding, so attached has the girl become. Indeed, were it not for my milk-swollen breasts I’m not certain that the child would know which of us was her mother. Quiet One, too, seems fascinated by the baby, and Little Wolf still acts the proud father.
22 February 1876
Still no sign of the Army. We have all prayed that Gertie was able to deliver my message to the Captain, and we remain confident that all will end peacefully.
Little Wolf has held a council and most of the chiefs of the remaining warrior bands have agreed that as soon as it is practical to travel we will begin the move toward Fetterman—this decision made, at least partly, as a result of the birth of our daughter. I am very relieved. And proud, for truly we are fulfilling our mission here, after all—facilitating a peaceful resolution. Our anchorite Anthony of the Prairie has also been very helpful toward this end. The People recognize a holy man by his own actions, and the monk’s simple faith and self-denial, his fasts and penances are something the Cheyennes well understand and themselves practice as a means of drawing closer to their God.
Anthony has baptized each of our babies thus far and has counseled the People toward the path of peace and harmony. He is a good, pure man, with God in his heart. We had hoped that he might accompany us back to Fetterman, but he remains firm in his pledge to make his hermitage here—to one day found his monastery in the hills above the river. We will greatly miss him. Indeed, a part of me wishes I could remain with him, and I intend to be a regular visitor here, after we are settled on the reservation.
Yesterday, Gretchen had her baby, an oddly small and delicate little thing with none of her mother’s bulk. The child’s Christian name is Sara.
24 February 1876
These past days have seen a midwinter thaw, with temperatures mild again and the snow rapidly melting. Our scouts have been able to venture farther away from camp and returned today with reports of the movement of Army troops at a distance of several days riding—which means at least a week’s travel for the more ponderous military forces. We still fly our white flag over the medicine lodge, and I am now convinced that Gertie safely delivered our message.
However, much to our dismay we have also learned that some of the restless young warriors of the Kit Fox society have taken the opportunity of the springlike weather to slip away with the intention of making a raid upon the Shoshone tribe to the west. This war party was first exposed by the Kelly twins, whose husbands are themselves members of this particular band and who stole off with the others early one morning—telling their wives that the raid was being undertaken in honor of the new babies, and that many horses would be brought back as gifts to them.
“We couldn’t stop the lads,” said Meggie. “We tried, but they got their damn blooowd up. Ya think it’d be enooof that they got new babies in the house, wouldn’t you, but they got to go off an’ steal some ponies to prove their damn manhood.”
The raid is utter folly, for the Shoshone, like the Crows, while bitter enemies of the Cheyennes, are close allies of the whites. Evidently the recent councils which resulted in the decision to give ourselves up have also caused some of the young men to embark upon this imprudent action as a last opportunity to taste battle, to prove themselves as warriors. Once again the independent nature of Indian society and the lack of central authority acts against their better interests.
On a personal note, I have been recently discussing with Little Wolf our own future at the agency. General Crook has promised that the Cheyennes will be given their own reservation directly upon giving themselves up. Having signed documents, as did all the others, at the outset of this adventure agreeing to stay with the Indians for a minimum of two years, our real work among them will begin in this next year on the reservation—teaching the People the ways of our world.
“One of the first things you will be required to do,” I explained to Little Wolf, “is to give up two of your wives. It is against the white man’s law to have more than one wife.”
“I do not wish to throw away two of my wives,” Little Wolf answered. “I am pleased with all of my wives.”
“This is the white man way,” I explained. “You must keep only your first wife, Quiet One, and give Feather on Head and me up. She is young enough that she can find a new husband for herself.”
“Perhaps she does not wish to have a new husband,” Little Wolf said. “Perhaps she is happy to stay with our child in the lodge of her present husband and her sister, Quiet One.”
“It does not matter what she wishes; this is the law of the white man,” I said. “One man, one wife.”
“And you, Mesoke?” Little Wolf asked. “You, too, will find another husband?”
“I do not know what I will do,” I answered truthfully. “But I could not hope to find a more satisfactory man than you, my husband.”
“You will perhaps leave us and take our daughter into the white world where she belongs—as a member of her mother’s tribe,” Little Wolf said proudly. “If the Great White Father had given us all of the one thousand brides they promised to us, all the children would belong to the white tribe and the People and the whites would thus bec
ome one.”
“General Crook has promised you that when we go into the agency,” I said, “we will take this matter up once again with President Grant.”
“Ah, yes,” said Little Wolf, nodding, “I am familiar with the promises of white men …”
28 February 1876
… horror … butchery … savagery … where to begin to tell of it … with Meggie Kelly’s whisper perhaps, alerting us: “Oh Sweet Jesus,” she said as her young husband danced proudly around the fire, displaying to her his unspeakable trophies of war. “Oh Sweet Jesus, God help us all … what ’ave ya done, lads? What ave ya done? …”
And Martha’s bloodcurdling scream of recognition as my own blood ran cold, a chill so profound that my heart shall never warm again. John Bourke was right …
The Kit Foxes returned this morning from their raid against the Shoshones, rode into camp howling like banshees, herding before them a herd of horses stolen from the enemy. On the surface a harmless enough act, for the tribes steal horses back and forth, a game of boys and often no one on either side is injured or killed. And so we believed it had been on this raid, for the men returned triumphant, with no keening of mourning and leading no horses bearing the bodies of fallen comrades. They drove the herd of Shoshone horses through camp for all to see, followed by the camp crier who announced the requisite celebratory dance.
Our scouts came in just behind the Kit Foxes to report that Army troops are in the immediate vicinity. I suggested to my husband that he dispatch a courier with a message to Colonel Mackenzie to reiterate our peaceful intentions. Little Wolf answered that before turning his and the council’s attentions to other tribal matters, he, and I, were first obligated to honor the Kit Fox raid by attending the feast and dance to be held at the lodge of their leader, a man named Last Bull. This is a bellicose, swaggering fellow of whom I have never been fond.
Thus off we went to a tiresome feast with much loud boastful talk from Last Bull. After the meal was finished all repaired to the bonfire, where the Kit Fox warriors each in turn danced their victory, and told their war tales.
It had snowed last night but now the skies were clear and winter’s icy grip was again tightening, with temperatures beginning to plummet. But even the cold weather did not deter the proud warriors from their celebration.
I had left the baby in our lodge with Feather on Head caring for her, and after the feast I went back to check on her and to give her a feeding. “You go to the dance, naveó a,” I told Feather on Head, as I held my ravenous little Wren to my breast. “I would rather stay here with my baby tonight.”
“No, Mesoke,” she answered. “You must take your baby to the dance with our husband; it was said by the crier that the new babies must all be present to witness their first victory dance—a victory in their honor. Our husband will be displeased if you do not return with his daughter for such an act would be very impolite to the Kit Foxes.”
And so, reluctantly, I took my baby and met the others at the dance circle.
All of the other new mothers had also been invited, with the Kelly girls seated in the place of honor. Evidently their own young husbands had performed some great deed to honor the miracle of the birth of twin babies, the miracle of all the babies.
So huge was the fire that it cast sufficient warmth to offset the chill, and, of course, we had our babies well wrapped in furs and blankets. Flames leapt toward the heavens as the warriors began to dance, to recount their tales … to raise the first bloody scalps, tied to poles and held aloft and shaken at the Gods for all to admire … And some among us cast our heads down, recalling with shame the vengeful satisfaction we had taken in the death and mutilation of the Crows, at whose hands we had suffered so … now this memory and its bloody aftermath seemed like a bad dream, not something that had really happened, not something that we had not actually done … for we are civilized women …
Meggie and Susie’s twin husbands danced before them as the girls both held their twins bundled in their laps. Between them the men passed a rawhide pouch, and sang a song of their great deed: “In this bag is the power of the Shoshone tribe,” he sang. “We, Hestahke, have stolen this power to give to our children and now it is theirs. The Shoshones will never be strong again for we own their power. Tonight we give this power as a gift to our own babies so that they may be strong. For the children of our white wives are the future of the People. They own the power.”
And Hestahke held the pouch aloft and shook it and none could take their eyes from it; surely it held some great treasure, some great Shoshone medicine. The man danced and waved the bag in the air, and handed it to his brother who sang again the same power song, and as he did so, he reached into the pouch and took from it a small object and held it out to his wife Meggie as if offering her a precious jewel. I strained to see what it was that he held in his hand, all of us did, unable to look away.
At first I could not identify the object, but then my curiosity began to turn to stone, my blood to run cold for I knew instinctively that it was some ghastly body part or other, some unspeakable trophy of barbarity.
“Oh Sweet Jesus,” whispered Meggie Kelly, “Oh Sweet Jesus, God help us all … what ’ave ya done, lads? What ’ave ya done …”
And now the tears began to run from my eyes, to wash cold across my cheeks. “Please, God, no,” I whispered. I looked toward the heavens, the flames from the fire towering into the night sky, its sparks becoming the stars. “No,” I whispered, “no, please God, let this not be …”
And the man danced and sang, proudly holding his grisly trophy aloft. A soft houing of approval and an excited trilling from the Cheyenne women began to rise above the drumbeat. “In this bag are the right hands of twelve Shoshone babies, this is the power of their tribe and now it is ours. I give this as a gift to our daughters. Our children own this power.” He held the little hand aloft, and I could just make out its tiny curled fingers …
Martha screamed, a scream of anguish and condemnation that penetrated the night sky like a siren, cut through the drumbeat and the soft musical trilling of the others. I gathered my baby against my breast and stood, weak-kneed with nausea and horror, from my place beside Little Wolf. My husband himself sat impassively watching the performance …
Tears ran from my eyes as I clutched my baby to my breast. “Me’esevoto!” I hissed at him like an insane person. “Babies! Your people butchered babies! Do you not understand?” I said pointing with a trembling finger. “Do you not understand that one of those innocent babies’ hands could just as well belong to your own daughter? Good God, man, what kind of people would do such a thing? Barbarians! You will burn in Hell! Bourke was right …”
And I fled, running as fast as I could, cradling my child in my arms as the fresh cold snow squeaked painfully beneath my feet.
I ran back to the lodge, weeping, burst in and fell to my knees. I held my baby to my breast, sobbing and rocking her. “My baby, my baby,” were the only words that I was able to speak. “Naneso, naneso …”
Feather on Head and Quiet One gathered beside me to see what was the matter. Desperate for an answer, sobbing, I asked them please to explain to me how the women of the tribe could permit their husbands to commit such terrible crimes. At first they did not understand my question, for it is not a woman’s place to ask such a thing.
“Babies!” I cried. “The men killed and mutilated babies. They cut babies’ hands off. These could have been your babies, our babies. Don’t you understand? It is a bad thing, a very bad thing that the men did.” I wished to say “wrong,” but there is no word for such a concept in the Cheyenne language … perhaps here lies the difficulty.
Quiet One answered softly, “The Shoshones have always been the enemies of the People, Mesoke,” she said. “For this reason the Kit Foxes stole their horses and captured their power to give to our children. The men did so in order that the Shoshones could not use their medicine against us and against our babies. In this way the men protect the People, t
hey protect your baby, Mesoke. Our warriors stole the power of the Shoshone babies and gave it to your daughter—Vo’estanevestomanehe, the Savior—to make her strong and safe.”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” I said helplessly, finally too drained of strength to weep any longer. “There is no power in a baby’s hand.” I reached beneath the covering and pulled my daughter’s hand free. She clutched my finger in hers. “Look,” I said, “look how tiny and frail it is. You see? There is no power in a baby’s hand …”
There was no question of sleep on this dark night. Like me, the others had immediately left the dance and, as I suspected, many made their way to Anthony’s lodge on the edge of the village, seeking whatever sanctuary and comfort the monk might be able to offer.
The celebration itself had continued after our departure, and now we all sat around Anthony’s fire holding our infants and listening to the throbbing drumbeat, the music and singing as the Kit Fox warriors told again and again of their great triumph over babies.
We tried to make some sense of it, to console each other, to give reason to the madness, to make understandable what was simply not. The Kelly girls were the only among us whose husbands were members of the Kit Foxes, who had themselves committed the crimes, and the twins were most inconsolable of all. Gone was all their cheeky Irish bravado.
