by Judith Pella
“No, Broken Wing, I don’t think you can comprehend what I am feeling.”
“Maybe so …” He looked out over the frosty landscape, dotted with bare trees. The winter breeze blew loose strands of his shining black hair across his face. He reached up a hand and brushed them aside, revealing eyes filled with a depth of wisdom that was far from savage and uncivilized. He continued speaking in a sad, faraway tone that made Deborah’s throat tighten and tears well up in her eyes.
“I loved a white man once,” he said. “Do you remember that I told you I lived some years with a mountain man? He married my mother in my third summer, and we lived with him in the hills many miles from any white or Indian camps. We were happy there. He was a good man. He and my mother had a daughter. But in my eighth summer, my mother and sister got the smallpox when we went to a white settlement to trade. They died.”
“I thought your mother was killed last year at Sand Creek,” Deborah said.
“To the Cheyenne, aunts and uncles are the same as mothers and fathers, and nieces and nephews are as sons and daughters. So it was my mother who was killed then, but she was sister of my father, the blood mother of my brother, Stands-in-the-River. And it was she who took me into her lodge when I was left alone.”
“What happened to your stepfather?”
“We lived together after my mother died for the passing of many moons. I was as a son to him and he was my father, for I never knew my true father. But in my ninth summer, we were hunting and he was bitten by a snake. I tried to take out the poison; he tried, also. But too much remained and he grew sick. When he knew he would die, he packed a few things for me and took me into the white man’s fort. Ten miles he walked with the poison filling all his body, but he did not want me to be left alone.”
“But you didn’t stay there, did you?”
“My stepfather taught me the white man’s tongue, but in every other way we lived more in the Indian way than the white. So, the white ways were strange to me, and I was strange to them. They put me and some other captive Indian children in a wagon and took us around to some big white man villages to show us to people who had never seen an Indian before. They looked at us and pointed with their fingers, and some white children cried from fear. I think if my stepfather had known this would happen, he would have left me alone in the hills.
“I did not belong with the whites, and I longed for my own people, so I escaped and returned to my Cheyenne father’s camp. But I do not hate the white man, because when I look upon them I always see some of Abraham Johnston, my white stepfather, in them.”
Deborah’s eyes went unconsciously to the strand of light brown hair hanging from Broken Wing’s braid. “But you fight them.”
“When I must.” He fingered the strand of hair. “I have fought white enemies and Indian alike. I have taken scalps; it is our way. But every time I take a white life in battle, I think of Abraham Johnston, and my heart breaks a little.”
“I am so sorry, Broken Wing,” Deborah whispered in a voice strained with emotion.
And as she lifted her eyes to meet those of the Cheyenne warrior, his head straight and proud, the muscles of his jaw twitching as they struggled against his own emotion, Deborah vaguely realized that she too would not finish with these, her new friends, without her own heart breaking.
27
Near the end of the year 1865, two other white visitors came to the Cheyenne camp. Edward Wynkoop, who had been the army commander at Fort Lyon and was now the Cheyenne and Arapahoe agent and friend to the Indians, came to the camp with several wagonloads of annuity supplies. With him was John Smith, another great friend of the Cheyenne, whose half-blood son, Jack, had been executed by Chivington’s troops during the Sand Creek massacre.
Deborah watched from a crack in the lodge opening, careful not to make her presence known. The men held a council in Black Kettle’s lodge and Deborah later learned, much to her pleasure, that arrangements were being made to return Mary and Arthur to the fort.
Two days later the children were taken away and when Deborah bid them goodbye in the privacy of their lodge, she smiled when Arthur said he might not mind staying with the Indians. He said he had no family anymore, and Red Feather and his family had been nice to him. Deborah encouraged him to go with his sister and that if he did so, perhaps one day he might better be able to help the Indians.
Deborah was glad to see them go—for their sakes, but also for hers, because they had been a constant reminder of her own private paradox. Soon, however, Deborah’s mind was given a kind of respite from these tormented thoughts.
A blizzard blew in on the Cheyenne camp that last week of December. The fire in Crooked Eye’s lodge burned constantly yet hardly took even the edge off the freezing cold. Everyone stayed indoors, huddled within the warmth of many buffalo robes. It was not an ideal time to have a baby. But then, Leonard Stoner’s child had not been convenient from the moment of its conception.
Deborah’s pains began in the middle of the night. She awoke Gray Antelope Woman, who in turn roused Crooked Eye. The shaman left the lodge, for though he was a medicine man of some repute, births were best left in the hands of women. He had prepared an elixir, hituneisseeyo, or bark medicine, that Gray Antelope had been faithfully administering to Deborah in the last several days in order to make her delivery easier. But now his presence was no longer needed.
Two other women joined Gray Antelope, one an elderly lady whom Gray Antelope assured Deborah was an experienced midwife. They had built a frame of stout poles in the lodge in preparation for this moment, and Gray Antelope had carefully explained the age-old birthing procedure to Deborah who, knowing of no other way, accepted it in good faith. The women tended her with great tenderness, and Deborah determined to show her gratitude by being brave. Somewhere she had heard that Indian women gave birth with extreme stoicism, and though Gray Antelope had laughed at that myth Deborah longed to earn their respect by her behavior. So, instead of screaming, she bit the inside of her mouth until it bled. When her labor was well advanced, the women looked at each other with wonder, for they, too, had heard stories of white women giving birth, and the old woman had even attended the delivery of a white woman captive who had married a warrior. What they had seen and heard was not especially complimentary toward Deborah’s race. Yet, here was a contradiction, and it did indeed renew and strengthen their respect for their visitor.
When the labor had reached its last stages, Deborah was brought to kneel at the frame. She was instructed to grip a vertical pole while Gray Antelope embraced her from the front, offering many loving words of encouragement and wiping away the perspiration that dripped from Deborah’s face in spite of the sub-zero cold outside.
Deborah cried out near the end; she couldn’t help it. She had never experienced such pain in her life, and she found all her hatred for Leonard surfacing in her again. Even dead, he was bent on making her suffer! And now … now she would have his child. All her fears might at long last be realized. Was she about to give birth to a monster? Maybe it would be best to give the baby to Gray Antelope after all. The kind Indian woman would not hate it, would not be reminded every time she looked upon it of the nightmare out of which it had been spawned.
How could she have this child? How could she love it? Why did its coming have to hurt so much? For the pain only made her hate it more. Why couldn’t it stop?
But she chewed her lip and, tasting blood, did not stop. She had no choice in the matter. She would have Leonard’s baby. She would try not to hate it.
The pains came fast and hard; her hands ached and turned white as they gripped the pole.
Gray Antelope told her to bear down, and Deborah obeyed, finding great relief in those instructions. But she was too exhausted to feel much ecstasy when the climactic moment of her child’s birth came. The old Cheyenne midwife, standing behind Deborah, took the baby, cut its umbilical cord, applied a healing salve to the wound, then wrapped the child in a soft, warm blanket. Deborah slumped ag
ainst the frame and heard, as if from a distance, the small infant cries.
But those cries were heard distinctly outside the lodge where Broken Wing was holding anxious vigil, pacing back and forth across the frozen earth, hardly noticing the swirling wind and snow blowing all around him. Crooked Eye had called him from his lodge when Deborah’s labor had begun, and he had come immediately. During the hours of early labor, he had come and gone between his and Crooked Eye’s lodges, keeping himself apprised of Deborah’s progress. In the last hour, however, when he knew the child could come at any moment, he was too restless to remain in his lodge. His feet were now frozen through his heavy winter moccasins, and his hands were numb, but for some reason he could not sit at ease and warmth while the white woman suffered so. Besides, he was concerned because he had heard that white women had poor constitutions and often died in childbirth. Thus his relief was only partial when he heard the infant cries. Not until Gray Antelope stepped outside and assured him of the patient’s healthy condition did he feel free to relax.
“She is well,” said the shaman’s wife, her pride clearly evident, as much as if Deborah truly had been her daughter. “I have never known a white woman to be so strong and brave.”
Broken Wing smiled, almost as if a compliment toward Deborah somehow reflected upon him. But then, he had been the one to find her, claiming she was from the Wise One Above. Perhaps now they would believe him.
“Come in before you freeze,” said Gray Antelope Woman. “I have seen fathers worry less over the birth of their own children,” she teased him good-naturedly.
So had Broken Wing, and he had no idea why he was behaving in this manner.
He ducked into the tepee just as the midwife was laying the wrapped bundle into Deborah’s arms. She was lying down now on a soft bed of hides, her trembling body covered with several more. She took the baby in her arms but did not look at it. Broken Wing came close and knelt down beside her.
“Gray Antelope Woman is much impressed at your strong way of giving birth,” he said.
“I didn’t want to be a trouble to her.” Deborah noticed with pleasure the high esteem in his tone.
“Do you have a son or a daughter?”
“A daughter.”
“And does she look like you?”
“I—I don’t know….” Deborah closed her eyes in anguish. “I am afraid to look.”
“But why should this be? Gray Antelope said she is healthy.”
They think I am strong, maybe even brave, Deborah thought despairingly to herself. If they only knew what a coward I am, that I cannot even look at my own baby.
“Broken Wing, would you … would you look at her for me?”
The Cheyenne warrior nodded solemnly. He had no idea why this woman could not look upon her child, but he sensed this was a crucial, important moment and treated it as thus. His gentle hands, the same hands that did battle with his enemies, now moved with deep reverence. And the sleeping baby did not stir as he lifted her feet and ran a finger along her toes, then lifted each tiny hand, inspecting the fingers on each.
“She is whole,” he announced.
“What … what does she look like?”
Here, Broken Wing’s solemn expression softened. “She is … different,” he said; then when he realized how his words might be interpreted by the distraught mother added quickly, “—but beautiful! I have never before seen a white baby. She is bald—no wait! She has hair, but very pale and soft like a chick’s first feathers.” Unable to restrain himself, he reached up and touched the fine fluff of hair on the very top of the baby’s head. All at once the child’s eyes opened. But she did not cry, she merely gazed up at Broken Wing who was hovering over her as if she were a sacred war bonnet. “Ah!” breathed Broken Wing.
“What is it?” Deborah’s tone betrayed her concern.
“Her eyes are pale, like yours—maybe gray, maybe blue, I cannot tell. But I see you in her face. She is very beautiful. You can be proud.”
“Really?”
“Look for yourself.”
Deborah hesitated, then slowly turned toward the child in her arms.
She was beautiful.
In fact, so absorbed was Deborah in this revelation that she forgot to note any similarities to Leonard. Her baby was healthy, her baby was no monster, and more than that, as the child turned to look at her mother, Deborah saw how delicate and helpless she was. This realization pushed all thought of hate and rejection from Deborah’s mind and heart. This baby was not just Leonard Stoner’s child, it was hers also; moreover, the child was her own person too, utterly independent of the disastrous union of her mother and father. For that reason alone, for her own individuality, she deserved acceptance.
Deborah smiled down at her baby. “She is lovely, isn’t she?”
“Why would you think not?”
“I don’t want to think about that now, Broken Wing. But thank you for helping me.”
“I know it is the white custom to name children right at birth,” said Broken Wing. “Do you have a name for your daughter?”
“I haven’t even thought of that. But I will name her Carolyn, after my mother.”
“That is good. It will bring happiness to your mother.”
“My mother is dead.”
“Then it will bring happiness to the child to be named for an honored grandparent.”
“I hope so, Broken Wing.” Deborah gazed at her daughter. “I do hope so….”
It was hard for Deborah to imagine happiness, real happiness as she had once known in Virginia, uncluttered by bitterness and confusion and empty loss. It was hard to think that she would ever be happy in that way again. Yet, might there not be a chance for Carolyn? Must she inherit all the sins of her parents?
Without thinking, Deborah began to pray for God to bestow such happiness upon her daughter. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped herself. She was in no position to ask favors of God. When she was strong, when she was independent, when she had something to offer in return, perhaps then she might do so. In the meantime, she considered it too dangerous to place herself at the mercy of anyone so powerful. It might become too easy, too necessary, and she could not afford that. She had to be strong on her own. She had to be able to take care of herself, and her baby also, without leaning on others. At least here with the Indians she could accept their help because she knew that she would soon be able to give something in return, even if only her strong back.
So, Deborah did not ask God for her daughter’s happiness. Somehow she would provide this for Carolyn, although she herself was empty and bitter. Thus, the Great Burden-bearer stood with outstretched hands before Deborah, waiting … patiently waiting.
28
Spring came at last to the plains. The snows melted, the rivers swelled, the cottonwoods budded, and the rolling, grassy prairie was dotted with an array of wild flowers.
Deborah grew strong and healthy in this friendly environment, and as each week passed she became more and more an integral part of the life of the Cheyenne camp. She took to wearing moccasins with her buckskin shift, and laying her baby in a cradle board strapped to her back while she went about her chores. Using a dark, gooey concoction prepared by Gray Antelope, Deborah darkened her skin and hair so that, at least from a distance, any traders or soldiers or other “foreigners” venturing near the camp would not readily discern her race. Of course, as summer came, the rays of the sun greatly assisted the dye, giving her skin a healthy bronze tone. Her hair, however, would always betray her, and to wear a head covering, uncommon among Cheyenne women, would have marked her just as much. Except for the flecks of gold that inevitably escaped the effects of the dye, Deborah marveled at how quickly and easily she had taken to the Indian attire. The idea of sitting in a proper Virginia parlor came to appall her. She supposed she had come full circle from the tomboy days of her childhood.
In winter, the young braves had kept fairly active hunting and raiding, but with the coming of fair weather,
they were far more at liberty to roam the countryside, especially as their horses grew strong after winter privations.
One night, the camp was awakened to a furor of excitement—dogs barking, people shouting, gunshots exploding in the air. Deborah clutched Carolyn to her and stared at Gray Antelope, who had her arms around both the frightened white woman and the baby. Deborah wanted to go outside to see what was happening, but she knew to do so was foolhardy. She would just have to wait to hear from Crooked Eye, who had gone to investigate.
“If we must go,” assured Gray Antelope, “the men will tell us.” A slight tremor in her voice betrayed her concern, for she had been at Sand Creek and knew that sometimes the warnings did not come soon enough.
“Do you think it’s soldiers?” asked Deborah.
“Not enough gunshots. The bluecoats waste much precious ammunition when they raid.”
At last Crooked Eye returned to the lodge out of breath with his haste, and wearing a grim expression.
“Pawnee,” he said, speaking the name of the Cheyenne’s perpetual enemy with revulsion. “They are many. We must go to the river, for it may be that our braves will not be able to hold them off.”
Gray Antelope sprang immediately into action, grabbing a couple of hides, then quickly filling a leather bag with a small supply of meat. Deborah snatched up a blanket for Carolyn, and in less than a minute the three, with Crooked Eye in the lead, were exiting the lodge. Deborah glanced back once to see a battle raging between the Pawnee and Cheyenne warriors. Several lodges had been set on fire, and the Cheyenne warriors were gradually being pushed back toward the center of the village.
In the gray light of early dawn, Crooked Eye’s party was joined by many other fleeing Cheyenne—mostly women and children, led by a few of the older men carrying rifles and bows. They were running in a near panic, toward the river, with children crying and dogs yelping and darting dangerously underfoot. Suddenly a handful of Pawnees broke through the Cheyenne defense, racing on horseback at the fleeing villagers. One of the Pawnee grabbed a Cheyenne woman, hauled her on his horse, gave a loud whoop, and turned away. The screaming of the women brought some of the Cheyenne braves to their defense, but the main body of warriors was still intent on holding back the larger force of the Pawnee war party.
