by Jim Fergus
17 May 1876
The last few days, Phemie has been instructing us in the art of making war. Being city girls ourselves, and having always relied on our husbands and the men of the tribe to provide us with game since we been here, me and Susie never even learned how to shoot a bow and arrow, or a gun for that matter, although in Chicago we carried knives in our handbags, especially during times when we were plying a certain trade that doesn’t need to be mentioned by name … for now and again we had some real rough customers seekin’ our services.
But we’re both competent on horseback by now. I’d even say we ride as well as do the Cheyenne women themselves, and most of them don’t know how to handle weapons, either, that not being part of a girl’s upbringing in the tribe. After a couple days of target practice on the ground with bow and arrow, revolver, and rifle, Phemie and Pretty Nose are now tryin’ to teach us how to shoot these weapons from a runnin’ horse, which is no easy trick, we can tell you.
Even trickier than that is somethin’ they can do, and some of the best but not even all the men warriors can manage. That is, while their horse is at a dead run, they slide from its back onto its side, holdin’ on to its mane with one hand and keepin’ one foot hooked over its hip. Hangin’ on to the side of the horse like this, with their other hand they can shoot a revolver or even a repeatin’ rifle under the horse’s neck, yet the enemy has no visible target of them to aim at, their own bodies bein’ protected by the bulk of the horse.
It’s a neat trick … course, Phemie has those beautiful long arms and legs to wrap around and hang on with, and Pretty Nose, though not a tall girl, is strong as can be, a fine horsewoman and excellent athlete. Me and Susie are sprites compared to those two—we don’t have the reach of Phemie, or the strength of Pretty Nose. Still, we’re agile girls, and because we don’t weigh a lot, with a little practice we’ve come at least to be able to slip onto the side of our horses and hang on like that at a run. But we don’t dare yet try to shoot from that position. Aye, you fall off a runnin’ horse from that position, and you got a big problem, not the least of which, assumin’ you survive the fall, is that now you’re on foot, totally exposed to the enemy.
Even the other Cheyenne women in our society have not risked tryin’ that trick just yet, though all are real competent on horseback. Of these so far there are but four, though Phemie is still tryin’ to recruit others. One is the tough old bird Kills in the Morning Woman, who Molly coldcocked on our arrival here. We heard she earned that name some years ago after her son was killed in a fight against a small band of Pawnee warriors. The morning after, she went out all alone before dawn and tracked the Pawnee back to their war camp. She snuck in and killed the lot of them in their sleep, returning to the village with their scalps and horses, and the scalp of her son so that she could return it to him on the burial scaffold and he wouldn’t have to go to Seano without his hair. Aye, this is a lass you do not want to get on the wrong side of, which is why we were surprised she took Molly’s punch with such good nature. And they’ve actually gotten to be real friendly together,
Another girl who has signed up is a lass named Buffalo Calf Road Woman, who is the sister of the warrior chief Comes in Sight. The third is Vé’ otsé’e, Warpath Woman, who lost her whole damn family in the Mackenzie massacre—her husband, two children, mother, father, and grandmother. All that loss has made her go a little crazy … as you might say have me and Susie, and ever since she has been tellin’ the tribe to go on the warpath rather than waitin’ for the warpath to come to us. “All we do is run and hide from the soldiers,” she says in our meeting, “and wait for them to attack our villages when they find us. Why do we not find them and attack them first? Why do we not go on the warpath like we used to in the old days?” All we can say about this one is that we wouldn’t want to be one of the soldiers who runs into her, either … or into any of us for that matter. Hell hath no fury like the vengeance of mothers.
18 May 1876
Another morning of war drills, ridin’ and shootin’, and learnin’ how to work in teams of two, so everyone has a partner to look out for each other. Phemie says this is how her African people hunted and went to war. It’s an easy lesson for me and Susie to learn, because we been lookin’ out for each other that way since we were in the womb.
Phemie and Pretty Nose are also instructin’ us on how to make war cries that chill the hearts of our enemies, as well as how to dress and paint ourselves in order to make those soldier boys shite their pretty blue pants when they see us comin’. Of course, the Cheyenne women already know somethin’ about the war outfits, because they been helpin’ to dress their men from the start, and no one looks scarier goin’ off to fight than a Cheyenne warrior dressed and painted for battle, wearin’ a headdress with a tail a’ eagle feathers hangin’ nearly to the ground.
Still, it’s funny how shy the Cheyenne lasses are about fixin’ themselves up this way … it ain’t what they consider to be a real ladylike look, nor is a war cry a sound they’ve ever learned to make. It goes against everything they been taught all their lives—which is to cook, sew, embroider, erect tipis, butcher animals, flesh hides, dry meat, dig roots, haul wood and water, keep a tidy tipi, and raise the children, among all the other daily work of livin’ in the wilds, all the while dressed real modest and demure, not like the men who are all peacocked up when they go off to battle. Yet me and Susie, descended ourselves from a warlike tribal people, have had no trouble at all summonin’ up a battle cry that’ll shrivel the bollocks of the soldiers, and no lasses in the tribe look scarier than the Kelly twins when we get kitted out in our battle outfits, faces painted and red hair wild about our heads … we look like a pair a’ red devils.
“That is exactly what we want, ladies,” says Phemie. “We want our band of women warriors, small though it be, to strike fear into the souls of the enemy when first they hear and lay eyes upon us. We want to appear before them as a vision of hell on earth such as they have never before seen in their lives, we want them to wonder who and what these creatures are riding down on them. One thing for certain is that these soldiers have never before faced a woman in battle. Of course, some have killed defenseless, unarmed women and children when they storm our villages, but they have never been attacked by a band of women. It is a great advantage for us to sow this sense of confusion in their minds, for all it takes is that one split second of hesitation, that moment of doubt on their part, for us to kill rather than be killed. I witnessed this myself in the Mackenzie fight when the soldiers saw me coming at them with my lance and shield. Of course, being a negro, as well, doesn’t hurt, because most white boys are already scared of us.”
After we finish the morning drills, Phemie asks to have a word with me and Susie in private. The three of us lead our horses down to the river together, and sit on the bank. The water is high and muddy with runoff now, and we see Christian Goodman fishin’ nearby with a pole he made out of a willow branch, driftin’ worms through the deep pools and pullin’ up one fat trout after the other, which he throws up higher on the bank. He sees us, too, waves, and calls out: “Take some of these trout with you! Take all you want! They are biting today!”
“You know that boy is a Mennonite, don’t you?” I say to Phemie. “His people don’t believe in killing other human beings.”
“Yes, I know,” says Phemie. “I have met him. We have spoken. He seems a fine young fellow, and his committment against violence of any kind is a wonderful ideal. I very much admire his devotion to his faith. However, the ideal only works when all men adopt it, as in his community. I do not believe in killing other human beings, either. Except for the fact that they are trying to kill us. Sadly, in our world not to fight back or defend onself results in being imprisoned, enslaved, or exterminated by those who don’t observe the same rules.
“I have not yet met any of the new girls you brought here,” Phemie continues. “But I wanted to ask if you think any among them are suited to be warriors in our society. What
I saw of that Molly girl, and what you’ve told me about her encounter with Jules Seminole, leads me to believe that she would be a good candidate.”
“Aye, we’d say she’s your best bet, Phemie,” says Susie, “she’s a tough girl, and brave to be sure, but she doesn’t like being told what to do. She has what you might call a problem with authority … maybe it’s because of the time she spent in prison.”
“She was in prison?”
“Aye, she murdered a man. We don’t know who or why. She also lost a child, a daughter … don’t know how that happened, either.”
“One of the others,” says I, “is an Englishwoman named Lady Ann Hall. Does that name ring a bell for you, Phemie?”
She considered this for a moment … “Yes, yes, that was the name of Helen’s lover, wasn’t it? She who wrote the letterpress for her bird portfolios.”
“Aye, one and the same,” says Susie. “She came out here lookin’ for Helen. Signed up for the brides program hopin’ to find her … and find her she did … at least found her bones on the scaffold.”
“She is a tough lass herself,” says I, “one you could depend on in a tough spot. She’d be worth signing up, but we don’t know that she’d be willin’, either.”
“Anyone else?”
“The Mexican Indian girl, Maria Galvez, and the Norwegian, Astrid Norstegard, are neither of ’em sissies,” says Susie. “They are competent lasses. Maria is a real good rider, and Astrid has picked it up quick. After that the French girl, Lulu LaRue, as she calls herself, and the Liverpudlian lass, Hannah Alford, are both sweet as can be, but definitely not warrior material. Nor is the preacher’s wife, Carolyn Metcalf. She’s a fine woman, and never whines, but she ain’t strong enough, and hasn’t the temperament to make war.”
“So we would say that you might have four possibles outta the seven of ’em,” says I. “Though you’ll probably be doing well if you get one or two to sign up. You understand, Phemie, that these women, for all they have already endured, have not yet seen what we have seen. Their hearts are not hardened against the soldiers like ours.”
We watch Christian fish for a while longer, until he’s caught all the trout he needs, which he will distribute to the old and poor. He’s gotten right popular with the Cheyenne. He comes over now and sits down next to us. He’s already put on some weight in our time here, has filled out considerable since his days when first we came upon him and he looked like a damn ragged scarecrow. It is clear that this life agrees with him.
“I’m pleased to see you ladies out and about on this fine spring day!” says he, sweeping his arm from left to right, as if to take in the entire landscape—the lush river bottom, the broad green meadow stretching away to the timbered hills beyond, the sun shining above. “How can one not thank God for his bounty on such a day as this? For providing us with this beauty, with this fecundity of the earth, with fish to eat for our supper, a warm place to sleep at night, and dear friends with whom to share it all. What more does one need in life?… besides, of course, family.”
“Nothing more than that, Christian, it is true,” says I. “If only God would leave us in peace to enjoy it, to make families and to live on here without the sure knowledge that the soldiers are coming to exterminate us … again.”
“Well, Meggie,” says he, “you do know how to put a damper on one’s high spirits on a splendid day.”
“Aye, that’s our specialty, chaplain,” says Susie. “We live in the real world where God sends soldiers to slaughter us and our infants … Even on a fine day like this, such things can happen, and we never lose sight a’ that.”
“And in preparation, Christian,” says I, “we been training for war today.”
“Oh dear,” says the chaplain, the good cheer in his face now darkening another shade, like a cloud passin’ before the sun. “Yes, as you well know, I have seen the soldiers in action myself. But it is not God who sends them, that you must understand, it is men themselves.”
“Aye, but then what good is he if he can’t stop ’em?” says Susie. “What a dirty trick for God to make the earth such a beautiful place, and the men who live upon it so hateful.”
“Not all men,” says Christian, gently. “And you, Euphemia, it is said around the village that you are a warrior woman, yet you seem to possess a spirit of great calm. What think you on this matter of men and God? Of war and peace?”
“I wish all men were like you and your people, Chaplain Goodman,” says Phemie, “truly I do … whites and Indians alike. The world would surely be a better place. I must say that my people are not innocents, either. My tribe, the Asanti, are the greatest warriors in Africa. Indeed, our name itself means ‘because of wars.’ You see, we are warriors, we exist, because of wars. For not to be is to perish. In this same way, the Cheyenne pride themselves on being the best fighters on the plains. From an early age, a boy is taught that his primary responsibility in life is to go to war. Because his father is often away, occupied in the business of making war, or hunting, stealing or searching the plains for horses, it is his grandfather or another wise old man in the village who instructs the boy in the manly duties of fighting. Before he goes into battle for the first time, the grandfather tells him: ‘When you charge the enemy, do not be afraid, do as the other men do. When you fight, try to kill and count coup, it will make a man of you, and the people will look upon you as a man. Do not fear death. It is not a disgrace to be killed in a fight.’”
Christian shakes his head sadly. “This is precisely the opposite manner in which I was raised,” he says. “You see, because of our beliefs my father was never away at war, and so he himself was there to teach me the manly virtues. These are to follow the example of Jesus Christ—to love everyone, to live a life of nonviolence, nonresistance, and pacifism. We are taught that killing another human being is a sin, under any circumstances.”
“Aye, that’s a right pretty notion, Chaplain,” says Susie, “but in this country among these people that kind of upbringing would get your family, and you, dead before you were outta your diapers.”
“Just because we live in a violent world does not make violence right.”
“It is not a question of right or wrong, Chaplain,” says Phemie. “It is a question of survival—life or death.”
“But you see, for my people,” says Christian, “it is only a question, and a rather fundamental moral one at that, of right and wrong. Is it right, for instance … is it a manly duty for warriors on a raid against an enemy, to cut the hands off infants, as did some of your young Cheyenne men—your own husbands, Meggie and Susie, didn’t you say?—when they attacked the Shoshone village on the afternoon before the Mackenzie attack?”
“Aye, ’tis true, Christian,” says I, “we been tortured by that event every day since, wonderin’ if perhaps it was God’s own retribution that set the soldiers upon us with such cold fury the next morning.”
“God does not act in retribution,” he answers. “That is the way of mankind, for what does violence beget but more violence, more murder, despair, and heartbreak?”
And so the four of us sit in silence for a while on the riverbank, lost in our own thoughts. Finally, Christian stands and collects some of his trout in a burlap bag, leaving another one for us to fill, and more than enough fish to distribute to our own family and friends. We thank him, and he waves as he walks away, bearing his sack over his shoulder. “God bless you,” he says in a quiet voice.
“That is a fine young man,” says Phemie.
We continue to sit there on the sunny bank, just the three of us now, listenin’ to the flowin’ creek. It is a fine day, with the spring birds pairin’ up, singin’ and flirtin’ in the trees, and we don’t want to give up just yet this moment of quiet and peace. Maybe after our talk with the chaplain, who is so innocent and faithful to his faith, me and Susie feel a wee ashamed of our terrible thirst for vengeance. It is true that our stone hearts are a heavy burden to bear, but it seems to us that until we have our revenge we w
ill never be able to set them aside. There ain’t hardly a moment in the day … or in the night for that matter … aye, it is the nights that are the worst … not a moment when we do not feel the weight of our frozen babies hanging from our breasts, or see their wee blue faces in our dreams.
“And what about those baby hands, Phemie?” says Susie. “Our husbands had newborns of their own at home, and yet they slaughtered and mutilated Shoshone babies. We decided that night when we found out, that we could no longer live with ’em, we never wished to ever look upon ’em again … baby killers … what lower crime is there than that? How could we ever come to accept them again? We were fond of those boys, me and Susie were, but they deserved to die in the attack that morning … Yet Christian Goodman is right, ain’t he? God didn’t send our husbands on that raid against the Shoshone, nor did he send the soldiers against us. Those were the acts of men, yet God doesn’t even have the power to stop ’em.”
“Of course he is right,” she answers. “He and his faith hold the moral high ground, of that there is no question. Violence begets but more violence, and from it we learn that there are no limits, no boundaries to the savagery, the butchery of which human beings are capable. Nor can there be any understanding of it, or coming to terms with it. I hope it is true that the meek shall inherit the earth, but in the meantime, sadly, this is the world we have inherited. Perhaps the only moral distinction we can make, and hardly a difficult one at that, is that in order to survive, we must fight against and kill soldiers, or be killed by them … but we do not kill babies.”
