One Thousand White Women (12 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

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So I rode at the head of our procession, proudly alongside my intended, nodding slightly to Captain Bourke, whose own consternation with the occasion was written clearly in his countenance. I started to lift my hand to him in a farewell wave but I saw that he had cast his dark eyes to the ground and did not look at me. Did I detect shame in his averted gaze? Catholic self-flagellation? That in our one moment of passion he had betrayed his God, his fiancée, his military duty? Did I detect, perhaps, even a glimmer of relief that the wanton instrument of his temptation, the Devil’s own temptress, was being taken away to live with savages—the fitting punishment of a vengeful God for our sweet sins of the night. Yes, all that I witnessed in John Bourke’s downcast eyes. This is a woman’s lot on earth, Harry, that man’s atonement can only be purchased by our banishment.
But I did not bow my head. I intend at all costs to maintain my dignity in this strange new life, and if I am to be the wife of a Chief, I shall fulfill that role with the utmost decorum. Thus before our departure I instructed my friend Martha and those of the others who seemed most fearful—instructed them with the advice given me by my muleskinner friend, Jimmy, aka Dirty Gertie, who herself has experience among the heathens: “Keep your head high, honey, and never let them see you cry,” but, of course, this advice was more difficult for some to implement than others. I, personally, have resolved never to display weakness, to be always strong and firm and forthright, to show neither fear nor uncertainty—no matter how fearful and uncertain I may be inside; I see no other way to survive this ordeal.
Within a short time most of our women seemed to resign themselves to our fate. Their wailings subsided to an occasional choked whimper and there was very little conversation among us; we were like children, speechless and awestruck, being led passively, meekly into the wilderness.
What a strange procession we must have made, riding in a long lazy line—nearly one hundred strong, counting Indians and brides—our passage winding and undisciplined compared to our recent military processions. To God, if he should be watching over us, we must have resembled a trail of ants as we rode across the hills. Up into the pine timber on the slopes and down again through densely overgrown river bottoms, where our horses forded streams swollen with spring runoff, the muddy rushing water tapping our stirrups. My horse, a stout bay whom I have named Soldier after my Captain, is calm and surefooted, and picked deliberately through the deadfall and then broke into a gentle trot up the rocky slopes to gain the ridges above, where the going was easier.
It was a lovely spring afternoon, and we were all somewhat consoled by that, by the notion that no matter how foreign and uncertain our future we still lived under the same sky, the same sun still shone down upon us, our own God, if such we believed in, still watched over us …
The faint sweet acrid scent of woodsmoke on the air announced the Indian encampment long before we reached it. Soon we could see a light haze from its fires in the sky above, marking the camp. A group of small boys greeted us on the trail, chattering and making weird cooing noises of amazement. Some of the smallest of the children rode enormous leggy dogs the likes of which I have never before seen—shaggy wolfish beasts that more closely resembled Shetland ponies than they did canines. The dogs were decorated with feathers and beads, bells and trinkets, and painted to mimic the men’s war ponies. Now I felt more than ever that we were entering some other world, one possessing its own race of men, its own creatures … and so we were … a fairy-tale world existing in the shadows of our own, or perhaps it is our world living in the shadow of this one … who can say? A few of the bolder boys ran up to furtively touch our feet, and then scampered off chattering like chipmunks.
The pack of urchins ran ahead to announce our arrival to the camp, and then we could hear a great commotion of rising voices and barking dogs—a cacophony of village sounds, all of it foreign to us, and, I confess, all of it terrifying.
Throngs of curious women, children, and old people gathered as we entered the camp. The tents—tipis, they are called—appear to be set in roughly circular formations, groups of four or five of them forming half circles which in turn form a larger circle. It was a colorful, noisy place— a feast for the eyes—but so strange that we were unable to take it all in and were further distracted by the hordes of people who approached us babbling in their strange tongue and all trying to touch us gently about the legs and feet. Thus we rode the whole length of the camp, as if on parade for the residents, then turned at the end and rode back again. There rose such shouting and chattering among the heathens, such noise and chaos that my head began to whirl, I hardly knew what was happening to me. Soon we were separated from one another and I heard some of our women calling out in confused desperation. I attempted to call back to them, but my words were lost in the din. I even lost sight of poor Martha as the families of the savages claimed us, absorbed us, one by one, into their being. My head spun, all was a blur of unfamiliar motion, color, and sound … I seemed to lose myself.
Now I write to you, my Harry, no longer from the safety of an Army tent, but by the last fading light of day and by the faintest glow from the dying embers of a tipi fire in the center of a Cheyenne warrior’s lodge. Yes, I have entered this strange dream life, a life that cannot be real, cannot be taking place in our world, a dream that perhaps only the insane might truly understand …
I sit now in this primitive tent, by the failing fire, surrounded by sullen squatting savages, and the reality of our situation becomes finally quite inescapable. Riding out of Camp Robinson this afternoon, it occurred to me for the first time that I may very well die out here in the vast emptiness of this prairie, surrounded by this strange, godforsaken people … a people truly like trolls out of a fairy tale, not human beings as I know them, but creatures from a different earth, an older one. John Bourke was right. As I look around the circle of this tipi, even the chokingly close walls of my old room at the asylum suddenly seem in memory to be somehow comforting, familiar … a square, solid room with four walls … but, no, these thoughts I banish. I live in a new world, on a new earth, among new people. Courage!
Good-bye, Harry, wherever you may be … never has it been more clear to me that the part of my life which you occupied is over forever … I could not be further away from you if I were on the moon … how odd to think of one’s life not as chapters in a book but as complete volumes, separate and distinct. In this spirit, tomorrow I shall begin a new notebook. This next volume to be entitled:
My Life as an Indian Squaw.
I will not write to you again, Harry … for you are dead to me now, and I to you. But I did love you once …
 
 
My Life as an Indian Squaw
 
“I fell then into a deep slumber and I had the strangest dream … at least it happened like a dream … It must have been a dream, for my husband was now in the tent with me, he was still dancing softly, noiselessly, his moccasined feet rising and falling gracefully, soundlessly, he spun softly around the fire, danced like a spirit being around me where I lay sleeping. I began to become aroused, felt a tingling in my stomach, an erotic tickle between my legs, the immutable pull of desire as he displayed to me.”
(from the journals of May Dodd)
 
 
Good Lord! Four days here, no time to make journal entries, exhausted, nearly insane from strangeness, sleeplessness, lack of privacy. I fear the Captain was right, this entire experiment is insane, a terrible mistake. Like moving into a den with a pack of wild dogs.
First of all, how utterly perverse is the notion of sharing a tent with one’s future husband, his two other wives, an old crone, a young girl, a young boy, and an infant! Yes, that is how many live in our quarters. How, one might fairly inquire, are conjugal relations to be managed? Privacy, such as it is, is maintained by the simple fact that no one ever looks at the other, much less speaks. It is the most peculiar feeling, like being invisible. And I can hardly describe the odor of all these bodies living in such proximity.
I am being attended to by the Chief’s “second” wife—a pretty girl not much older than myself whose name, according to Reverend Hare, is Feather on Head. As mentioned Little Wolf appears to have two other wives, but the older one serves largely the function of domestic help—she cooks and cleans and has yet to so much as acknowledge my presence in the lodge. This one’s name is Quiet One, for she almost never speaks. Although she goes about her business as if I don’t exist, my woman’s instinct senses her hatred of me as keenly as if she were holding a knife blade to my throat. Indeed, I have had the same nightmare every night since we arrived. In my dream I awaken and the woman is crouched over me, squatting like a gargoyle, holding a knife to my throat. I try to scream, but I cannot, because to move is to cut my throat on the blade. I always wake from this dream unable to breathe, gasping for air, choking. I must watch out for this one …
Our women have been immediately pressed into action doing the most demeaning women’s work around the camp—we are like children taught by our Indian mothers, little more than slaves if the truth be told. It was our understanding that we were to be instructing them in the ways of the civilized world, not being made beasts of burden, but, as Helen Flight has pointed out, of what use are table manners to those without tables. Indeed, the savage women seem to be taking full advantage of our situation as newcomers by making us do all the hardest labor. We haul water at dawn from the creek, gather firewood for the morning meal, and spend our afternoons digging roots in the fields. God, what drudgery! Only Phemie seems to have escaped the daily chores—I do not as yet know how she has managed this, for I have barely seen her. The camp is large and spread out, and we are all working so hard that it is all we can do to eat a morsel or two of revolting boiled meat from the pot and collapse on our sleeping places at the end of the day. For my part, I will cooperate with our hosts for a time, but I have no intention of being made a slave, or a servant, and several of us have already voiced our complaints to Reverend Hare about this treatment.
For their part, the savage men appear to spend an inordinate amount of time lounging around their lodges, smoking and gossiping among themselves … so that it occurs to me that perhaps our cultures are not so different after all: the women do all the real work while the men do all the talking.
 
We are told that the savages are plotting some sort of group wedding ceremony which involves little more than an elaborate feast and a dance, but these plans have been complicated by the presence of Reverend Hare, who feels obligated to conduct a Christian ceremony. Speaking of whom, while it would be very useful, indeed, if the Reverend made himself available to translate and help us adapt to our strange new life, he is truly one of the most indolent individuals I’ve ever encountered and has spent most of our first few days here lounging like a minidiety on his buffalo robes in the tent he shares with one of the Cheyenne holy men—a fellow named Dog Woman … which peculiarity of name I shall attempt to explain in a later entry. Truly so much has happened, our senses have been so constantly assaulted by one bizarre occurrence and sight after another, and I am usually so exhausted, that I don’t see how I shall ever be able properly to record this experience …
In any case, the Reverend has got things in an even greater turmoil; under the agreed upon arrangement we have the option of “divorcing” our Indian “husbands” after two years. But evidently certain of the denominations who are participating in this scheme under the auspices of the Church Missionary Society do not permit divorce—which presents a bit of a problem if we are to be married in a Christian ceremony. Such nonsense! It would seem to me better for all concerned if we merely entered into the heathen union—after all, “when in Rome …”—under which there would be no future legal or religious obligation. In any case, until all of this is sorted out no marital relationships are to be consummated—although I for one say, let’s get down to the business at hand.
I have, I should here mention, quite put John Bourke out of my mind and am prepared to be a dutiful wife to my Chief. This is easier said than done, but it is clear to me that if I am to keep any hold at all on my sanity, I must not dwell on what might have been … to do so would be to go truly mad. It is the one lesson I learned well at the asylum—to live each day as it comes, day by day, and to dwell neither on regrets of the past nor worries about the future—both of which are beyond my power to influence. This lesson should be well applicable to life among the barbarians, for in a genuine sense I feel as though I have simply entered another kind of asylum—and this one the maddest of them all.
A few more words about our daily routine: in the morning the men gather at the creek to take a swim together. The women do not seem to observe this daily ritual, but occasionally go down to the creek in the afternoon to take a kind of cloth bath—which is hardly sufficient after a day of the filthiest labor imaginable. Personally, I enjoy a daily bath, something I missed more than anything at the asylum and during our long journey. And so on our third morning here I followed the Chief from the lodge. He has so far paid me little attention—has hardly spoken to me or even looked at me—let alone made any amorous advances toward me.
I have brought with me among my few meager possessions my old bathing costume that I once wore another lifetime ago at Sunday outings with Harry to the beach on Lake Michigan. It was in a trunk among my effects at the institution and it was partly as a sentimental gesture that I packed it with me here. However, I also had in the back of my mind just precisely this matter of bathing in the wilds. I had no idea what provisions the savages made for personal hygiene, but I assumed that we would be reduced to something as basic as a dip in the creek, and I certainly had no intention of appearing before everyone in a natural state. When I saw that the men made this swim every morning while the women hauled water and firewood, stoked the fires, and prepared the morning meal, I determined my own clear preference to join the men at the creek. Indeed, as a young girl I was rather an accomplished swimmer—a recreation that I deeply missed after my incarceration.
Thus I awoke early this morning and, beneath my buffalo robes, dressed in my bathing costume. (I must say, lack of privacy notwithstanding, the bed of pine boughs, buffalo robes, and trade blankets is not altogether uncomfortable.) When the Chief slipped from our tent for his morning dip I followed him to the creek. There the other men had gathered at a pool formed by a beaver dam, chattering away like schoolboys and taking deep preparatory breaths prior to plunging into the frigid (as I quickly discovered!) water. When I first joined them they issued a kind of collective murmur of disapproval, more of a grunting actually. Then one of them made some sort of a remark—I’m certain now that he was making reference to my bathing costume, and they all began to laugh, a horribly unattractive guffawing which soon had them clutching their sides and rolling on the ground like morons. Only Little Wolf maintained his chiefly composure.
The men’s rudeness angered me and, I confess, wounded my vanity. I have always believed that my bathing costume shows my figure to its best advantage. Nor am I accustomed to being made an object of ridicule. I’m certain I blushed deeply, and I had to fight back tears of shame and rage. But I refused to be defeated by their idiocy. Instead, I gathered myself and walked out to the end of a log over the beaver pond, and executed the most graceful dive I could muster into the icy depths—praying all the while that it wasn’t too shallow! Truly, I thought my heart would stop from the shock when I hit the water! I swam deeply and when I broke the surface the men were no longer laughing but standing all together watching me with expressions of some admiration.
Now this afternoon I learn, via Reverend Hare, that the Indian name given to me is
Mesoke
which means “Swallow,” rather a charming name I think, and one for which I feel very fortunate. For instance, the Reverend tells me that our large, gregarious friend, Gretchen, has been named something unpronounceable that he translates as Speaks with Big Voice—which, I suppose, is a variation of our own more vulgar “loudmouth.” My, but these are a literal-minded people …
After my dip, which once I had adapted to the frigidity of the water was magnificently invigorating, the men suddenly seemed too shy to enter the pool themselves … perhaps they objected to swimming with a woman. One by one, they drifted away to another section of the creek until only Little Wolf was left watching me. I suspect that I had violated some ridiculous code of heathen behavior by trying to swim with the men. How preposterous! It rather reminds me of the stuffy men’s club in Chicago to which Father belongs … Yes … well, with that thought in mind I believe I’ll call this The Savage Men’s Bathing Club!
Little Wolf finally slipped into the water himself. He wore only a breechclout—an immodest article of clothing if such it can be called, little more than a flap of leather hanging from a string tied loosely about the waist. It barely conceals his …
Let me describe the Chief. He is a slender man, rather fine-boned and small-muscled, dark-eyed and dark-complected. His skin is extraordinarily smooth and unlined, the color of deeply burnished copper. He has very high cheekbones, that seem nearly Asian, perhaps Mongolian, and his hair is perfectly black, glossy as a raven’s feathers. He is actually quite handsome in a “foreign” sort of way, and he appears to be a man of the utmost dignity and bearing. I have yet to see him behave in anything other than the most chiefly fashion. I do find him to be a bit stern of countenance. In fact, as he waded into the water I thought to myself, “I would like just once to see my intended smile.” And, lo and behold, at precisely that moment, as if somehow he had read my mind, I thought that I saw the flicker of a smile cross the Chief’s face, though certainly, I suppose it may just as easily have been an involuntary grimace in reaction to the icy waters.
Mr. Little Wolf plunged underwater, sleek and graceful as a river otter, came to the surface, shaking himself lightly like a dog, and exited the pool without another glance in my direction. Frankly, I was a bit disappointed as this seemed the perfect opportunity to become acquainted away from the others with whom we are in such constant proximity. Not that I expected, or indeed encouraged, romantic advances in the frigid waters of the swimming hole, but it would be lovely if the Chief at least spoke to me.
 
We have determined to hold daily meetings in small groups, scattered about the camp. These are in order to share our experiences and, we hope, aid one another in the transition to savage life. The meetings are supposed to be organized by Reverend Hare, but, as I mentioned, His Corpulence seems to have permanently esconced himself in the lodge he is sharing with the Cheyenne holy man Dog Woman. Let me explain … Not only does this Dog Woman reputedly have the ability to turn himself into a canine, but he is also what the Cheyennes call a
he’emnane’e
—half-man/half-woman. I do not know if the holy man is one who simply dresses like a woman or is actually hermaphroditic and has the organs of both sexes, but a stranger creature I have never before encountered; in her/his buckskin dress, brightly colored shawl, and leggings he/she makes a very convincing, if not particularly attractive, woman. This is all terribly confusing and only reinforces the sense we are experiencing of having entered another world peopled by a different species of human beings. Again I cannot forget John Bourke’s words to this effect.
This Dog Woman creature seems to be much respected by the Cheyennes and has been chosen to provide quarters to Reverend Hare. The two holy men, one savage and one civilized, one hugely fat and one got up like a woman, make an odd couple, indeed! They, too, have a cronish old woman—Sleeps with Dog Woman, is the manner in which Reverend Hare translates her name, which only confuses the issue further—who lives in their tipi and takes care of them, a kind of live-in servant, I suppose.
The Reverend has sufficient experience living among the Indian tribes of the Middle West that he hardly seems inconvenienced by the lack of amenities and appears to have already made himself quite comfortable here. While one might expect the big man to soon shed some of his excess poundage, the Reverend manages to have some culinary delicacy or other constantly at hand, having arranged for food to be carried to him by the Indian women of the camp. They arrive at his tent in a steady procession all day long bearing various dishes which they present to him as solemnly as if making offerings to an idol. I can’t help but feel that the Reverend is taking some advantage of his position as a holy man.
Well, at least he speaks a bit of the Indian tongue, for which we are all grateful. The language barrier is proving to be a real hindrance to our settlement here; I am working diligently to learn the sign language of which I now know several useful gestures.
Our best intentions to meet daily notwithstanding, the constraints and pressures of our new lives here are already beginning to make themselves felt. After only a few days I sense our community ties loosening. As I mentioned, we are often simply too exhausted after the day’s labors to assemble, and the camp being quite spread out makes it difficult for us to keep track of one another or to get news to and from each other. It is all I can do to steal a few minutes alone with those among my closest friends. The Indians have a camp crier, an old man who makes the rounds of the camp each morning calling out the day’s “news” and “activities,” and I have suggested that we do likewise for our women.
I confess that I was both shocked and thrilled when I finally saw Euphemia at our meeting yesterday. As I may have mentioned I have not seen her with the other women during the chores. Now she strode in like a princess, having already given up her civilized attire in favor of Indian garb—a deerhide dress stitched with sinew thread, moccasins, and leggings. I must say, the costume quite becomes her; she is completely striking.
Several of the women gathered about her to admire her costume. I went immediately to her and grasped her by the hands. “I have been so concerned about you, Phemie,” I said. “I thought you might be ill. Why have I not seen you working with the others?”
Phemie laughed her deep rich laugh. “Oh May,” she said, “I did not come here to be made a slave again. I already escaped once from that life, and when I did so I made the promise to myself that I would never toil for another. I’m a free woman. From now on I choose my work.”
“And how were you able to manage that?” I asked. “While the rest of us do women’s chores?”
“A simple act of refusal, an assertion of my freedom of choice,” Phemie said. “I’ve decided that I should like to be a hunter, not a digger of roots, and so I explained to my husband that my efforts shall be devoted to that end. What can they do to me—put me in chains? Whip me? Let them try. I will always carry scars on my back from the whip and a brand as a reminder of a slave’s life among tyrants, and I will not allow this to be repeated.”
“Good for you, Phemie!” I said, “We must use your example in our meeting today.”
“Let me show you something else, May,” Phemie said, pulling her rawhide dress up to her waist to reveal that she was wearing a Cheyenne chastity string. We had each been presented with one of these ungodly devices by our women tentmates on the first day of our arrival. Apparently all the young Cheyenne girls wear them. It is a small rope which passes around the waist, is knotted in front, two ends passing down between the thighs, each branch wound around the thigh down nearly to the knees. Now several of the more prudish women present (I swear some are so prissy, that I cannot understand whatever possessed them to sign up for this program!) gasped in offended modesty. But Phemie paid them no mind. “No one visits here without a key,” she said in her melodic voice, and she laughed. “I wish that I had had such a contraption when I was in bondage. Many nights at the whim of my master there was no sleep at all for this nigger girl. But now I’m in charge of this part of my life, as well.”
“God Phemie,” I said, “you’re actually wearing the ghastly thing! The old crone who lives in our tent tried to get me to don mine, but I refused. It looks terribly uncomfortable.”
“And she didn’t force you, did she?” Phemie pointed out. “You see, May, these are a democratic people, after all. As to the subject of comfort, it is certainly no less comfortable than the corsets into which many of you strap yourselves daily.”
“But we are here to procreate, Phemie,” I said, “not to protect our chastity.”
“Yes, but that moment, too, I shall decide for myself,” Phemie said.
I must say, contrary to the popular reports in the newspapers and periodicals of the immoral, lurid, and rapacious savage, this hardly seems to be a carnally oriented society. By all accounts at our daily meeting, none of the other women have yet even been approached by their prospective husbands. Under the circumstances a chastity string seems quite superfluous …
“Right ya
are, May,” said cheeky Meggie Kelly on the subject. “I been trying to get me laddy’s weapon charged since we got here, but he’ll have
noone
of it. Shy as a bunny he is.” In a kind of uncannily perfect symmetry, the twins have themselves been paired for matrimony with twin savage men. The four of them together look like some kind of strange mirror image. Twins are considered by the savages to bring good luck to the people, and as a result seem to have a certain special status. Naturally the Kelly girls have been in no hurry to disabuse our hosts of this superstition, as their major responsibility seems to be to saunter around camp with their twin fiances, letting all the others admire them.
At Meggie’s remarks several of us laughed, but the Reverend hushed us sternly. “I will remind you ladies that you are not yet married in the eyes of our Lord,” he said. “And that fornication is forbidden until the marriage union is thus sanctified.”
“
Aye
, in the eyes of your Lord perhaps, Reverend,” said Susie Kelly, “but you’re a damn Protestant! Doesn’t mean a thing to us unless a holy Roman priest conducts the ceremony. And then me and Meggie’d be stuck here in the wilderness married for the rest of our life raising a brood of heathens. Two years is the bargain we
stroock.
And then Meggie and me has got important business back in Chicago. Right Meggie?”
“Right as rain, Susie,” said Meggie, “but let the fat old heretic marry us in his devil’s church. Like
ya
say, wouldn’t be binding to a
coople
of good Catholic girls
loyke
us.”
Now the Reverend turned very red in the face and began to stammer. “I will not be spoken to in that manner, young lady. I demand respect. It is the Episcopal Church, the only true faith, the true house of the Lord, that has been charged by our government with the task of saving the souls of the heathens!”
“That’s a damn shame, it’tis, Father, for the souls of the heathens, then,” said Meggie, uncowed by the Reverend’s wrath, “because everyone knows that Protestants go to Hell!”
“Blasphemer!” shouted the red-faced Reverend, pointing at the redheads as one. “Blasphemer! Satan’s spawn!”
It occurred to me that the job of making Christians of the savages will certainly be complicated by the fact that we can’t even agree on a common God among ourselves.
“I for one agree with Susan and Margaret,” I spoke up. “The wedding ceremony is a mere formality and should not be binding to any of us. The fact is that we have been sent here to bear children by the savages, and the sooner we have fulfilled our part in this bargain, the sooner we will be free to go home if we so choose. I say, let’s get on with it.”
“And under whose authority, Miss Dodd, have you assumed the moral leadership of our contingent?” asked Narcissa White, who rarely misses an opportunity to undermine my efforts at maintaining unity among our women. I’m certain that her jealously of me is further fueled by the fact that Chief Little Wolf chose me to be his bride, while Miss White was herself taken by a man named Turkey Legs—a gangly, aptly named young fellow without any real stature in the tribe.
“Why, under no one’s authority at all,” I replied, surprised at the charge. “I try only to do my part to expedite our mission here.”
“Your part, my dear,” she said in her most santimonious way, “does not include advising the rest of us on matters of moral conduct or the sanctity of the marriage union. It is my responsibility as official representative of the American Church Missionary Society, and that of Reverend Hare as spiritual agent of the Episcopal Indian Commission, to render decisions on all such spiritual questions. Although it is doubtless true,” she added in her insufferably insinuating tone, “that you have more practical experience in carnal matters.”
At this last, a general tittering ran among the others. All know by now the reason for my incarceration in the asylum—the accusation of promiscuity alone sufficiently damning to ruin a woman’s reputation, especially among other women. Too, it is possible that Captain Bourke and I were spied upon in our moment of passion …
“As the mother of two children,” I answered, “I should certainly hope to be more knowledgable on that particular subject than a fat priest and a zealous spinster,” I answered, “which hardly makes me an expert.”
To which rejoinder, my own supporters laughed heartily.
“I think that some of us had not understood,” I continued, “that our mission here was to be directed by the church. We were under the impression that our first authority was the United States government which hired us to bear children by the savages.”
“Partly true,” said Miss White. “But the government has in turn given over responsibility for the Indians to the care of the church and the Missionary Society. We are the ultimate authority here.”
“Ah, go
wan ya
beggar,” said Susie. “There isn’t any authority out here.”
I looked at the Reverend, who had returned to his bowl of food, his denominational outrage evidently slackened by the morsels of meat that he placed in his mouth with his fingers, like some kind of wilderness emperor.
Now he wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled, the picture of fatherly benevolence. “My dear madams,” he said, calmly, “the Episcopal Church has been charged with ministering to the souls of heathens—as well as to seeing that they are eventually settled under God’s protective wing on the reservation.”
“But the Cheyennes do not have a reservation,” I said.
“They will have one soon enough,” he said. “We are even now working toward that end. Then our real work begins.”
“We were all told that our purpose here was to give birth to Cheyenne babies as a means of assimilating the savages,” I said.
“Yes, that, too,” admitted the Reverend, with a shrug. “Washington’s idea. After which the Cheyenne children, yours included, will, at the earliest possible age, be sent to church-affiliated boarding schools which we are presently in the process of establishing across the region. This is all a part of the President’s Indian Peace Plan. In this manner, the children’s first influence at an impressionable age will be civilized white people and good Christians—
Protestants
, I might add. The hope of the church and the State is that being half-Caucasian by blood, your children will have a distinct spiritual and intellectual advantage over the purebred heathens, and that the savages will in turn peacefully follow this superior new generation into the bosom of civilization, and down the true path of Christian salvation. I am merely here to provide you with spiritual guidance.” At this, the enormous Reverend again made a slight emperor-like incline of his head, which caught the morning light and glistened like a glazed ham.

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