Read One Thousand White Women Online
Authors: Jim Fergus
One Thousand White Women (31 page)
“Driven from the land?” I asked. “But they believe that they own the Black Hills—indeed, do own them. The Sioux have already been to see us, John. They are forming war parties against the invading miners. It’s only a matter of time until some of our people join them.”
“Yes, and for this reason and upon the recommendation of Inspector Watkins of the Indian Bureau,” the Captain said, “the War Department has been instructed to bring in the remaining free savages, both Sioux and Cheyennes, and to see to their settlement on reservations, which plan is effective immediately.”
“I begin to understand why the Army is in collaboration with that wretched little Frenchman,” I said. “You sanction the swindling of the savages in trade in order that, like obedient children, they be forced to throw themselves upon the mercy of their benevolent Great White Father.”
“Exactly so,” said Captain Bourke, nodding. “A peaceful resolution that can be greatly expedited by you and your friends—by encouraging your husbands to give themselves and their families up at the agencies with as much dispatch as possible.”
“And, of course, the decision to deny them any further arms and ammunition,” I added, “has been made as a precaution in the event that our efforts toward this end fail?”
The Captain did not avoid my eyes when he answered. He nodded glumly. “A campaign under the direction of General Crook is currently being organized—its purpose to round up all those hostiles who have not voluntarily complied by the first day of February 1876. As Chief Little Wolf’s wife, May, you are in a unique position to facilitate the process—and possibly save many lives by doing so.”
“Ah, so now you’ve come to believe that the Brides for Indians program is a useful one after all,” I said.
“I believe as I have from the beginning,” said Bourke, “that it is a contemptible and immoral program that has put you and your friends at tremendous risk. But it is nevertheless in place, you are in the field, and yes, can now be useful.”
“My husband is under the impression that as long as the Cheyennes remain on the land that has been given them ‘forever’ by official treaty, they commit no trespass,” I said.
“President Grant has recently dispatched a commission to negotiate the purchase of the Black Hills and the surrounding country from the Cheyennes and the Sioux,” said the Captain.
“And if they choose not to sell?” I asked.
“As you may have learned in your travels with them, May,” he said, “the savages are hardly united among themselves—even one tribe such as yours has many different factions and many leaders. Rest assured that the President’s commission will find someone among the Sioux and the Cheyennes who will be willing to negotiate this sale—after which time all others who remain on the land will be considered trespassers by the United States Army.”
“God, it’s despicable, isn’t it?” I said in a low voice.
“But necessary, I’m afraid,” said the Captain. “It is the inevitable course of history.”
“And if we are unsuccessful in persuading the Cheyennes to come into the agency before the appointed date,” I asked, “will you hunt us down, then John? Shall we be enemies?”
“That must not happen, May,” said the Captain firmly. “I’m telling you this in order to avoid any such unthinkable situation. Your husband, Little Wolf, has already requested an audience with General Crook. Perhaps you can exercise some positive influence over the chief.”
“My husband wishes to discuss the matter of the remaining brides that have been promised him by the Great White Father,” I said. “The Cheyennes may be heathens Captain, but they can count, and the shortage has not escaped my husband’s attention.”
“You must convince Little Wolf,” said Bourke, “that after the savages are peacefully settled on the reservation, they will receive the remainder of their brides.”
“Now you ask me to lie for the government, John?” I said, my temper flaring. “To lie to my own husband in order to cover your vile deceptions?”
“Not my deceptions, May,” Bourke said quickly, “nor those of General Crook. As you know, we were never consulted by the government and would never have sanctioned this program if we had been. I do not apologize for our role in this affair. We have been charged with protecting those of you who are already afield and at risk. I will arrange for General Crook to meet with your husband. The General is a man of honor who has always dealt fairly with the savages. He will make no promises about delivery of the brides, but he may use the issue as a carrot-on-a-stick. It remains to you to help convince your husband to turn his people in to the agencies before next winter. There they will be given everything they need—food to eat, a roof over their heads, and their children—
your
children —will be educated by Christians; taught to read and write, to farm—to plow and hoe and subdue the Earth as the Bible teaches us we must. Whatever political situations may have changed, May—however you may have changed, do not forget that this was your original mission. To assimilate the savages—to bring them to the bosom of Christian civilization.”
your
children —will be educated by Christians; taught to read and write, to farm—to plow and hoe and subdue the Earth as the Bible teaches us we must. Whatever political situations may have changed, May—however you may have changed, do not forget that this was your original mission. To assimilate the savages—to bring them to the bosom of Christian civilization.”
“You have heard, perhaps, how our portly Episcopalian brought the children to his ample bosom?” I said.
“I have,” said Bourke, coloring, and I could see his temper rising again like water coming to a fast boil. “The Reverend Hare has been recalled by Bishop Whipple, who promises a full investigation of the charges.”
“A full investigation is quite unnecessary,” I said. “We all know what happened. Are you aware that such acts with children are unknown to the Cheyenne culture? Not just rare—but unknown. As an amateur ethnologist, I should think that you might be interested in this fact. We have much to teach the savages, don’t we, John?”
“The Church Missionary Society is looking into finding a Catholic priest to return with you to serve as your spiritual advisor among the heathens. Your husband has, very sensibly I might add,” the Captain added with a sly smile, “specifically requested a ‘Black Robe’ this time.”
“Excellent,” I said in deadpan tone. “Then our little boys will be safe.”
“Good God, May!” Bourke said, shaking his head, and uttering an involuntary laugh. “You’re the most irreverent woman I’ve ever known!” But he laughed again, a deep, delighted belly laugh. And I laughed with him.
We hugged each other quickly before parting, not daring to linger in the other’s embrace, lest we allow ourselves once again to become one.
Little Wolf had his audience with General Crook. None of us white women were allowed to attend or even to leave our camp as several members of the press, including a Mr. Robert E. Strahorn of the
Rocky Mountain News
in Denver had recently arrived at the fort. It was deemed undesirable by the authorities that we be seen by the press, or identified as affiliated in any way whatsoever with the government or the military. In any case, after our initial reception by the fort residents, we have most of us avoided further contact with the whites. It is rarely spoken of, and the newspapers avoid the subject like the plague, but there are other white women, most of them alcoholic, who have taken up residency among the hangs-around-the-fort Indians. These unfortunate souls are referred to as “fallen whores”—and as such, we are passed off.
Rocky Mountain News
in Denver had recently arrived at the fort. It was deemed undesirable by the authorities that we be seen by the press, or identified as affiliated in any way whatsoever with the government or the military. In any case, after our initial reception by the fort residents, we have most of us avoided further contact with the whites. It is rarely spoken of, and the newspapers avoid the subject like the plague, but there are other white women, most of them alcoholic, who have taken up residency among the hangs-around-the-fort Indians. These unfortunate souls are referred to as “fallen whores”—and as such, we are passed off.
All I know of the meeting with Crook is what little I have learned from Little Wolf himself and from Gertie, who eavesdropped beneath the window outside. As Captain Bourke had suggested, the General would make no assurances about delivery of the remaining brides. He could only say that if the Cheyennes agreed to come into the agency before winter, the matter would be taken up again with the proper authorities. This was the kind of white man talk that confused and angered Little Wolf, for in his mind the matter had already been agreed upon, the deal struck.
The General further promised that if the Cheyennes came in to the agency, they would be generously cared for by the Great Father.
“Yes,” replied Little Wolf, “I have been to the Red Cloud Agency, and I have seen there the generosity of the Great Father. There is no game left in that country and, like the brides that were pledged to the Cheyennes, only a small portion of the provisions that were promised has been delivered to them. So the Sioux have been forced to slaughter their own horses to eat. We have lived free all summer on our own land and we have plenty of meat to see us through the winter. Why should we go to the agency when we have everything we need and live as free people on our own land?”
Little Wolf’s logic, simple and childlike, is at once relentless and irrefutable. Even General Crook, an old hand at negotiations with the savages, was somewhat at a loss to explain to what advantage it was to the Cheyennes to come into the agency before winter. The meeting was thus concluded unsatisfactorily.
In the matter of trade negotiations—and in a somewhat brighter vein, Big Nose Little Man had met his match in our Kelly twins. The little wretch’s own greed for our hides finally undermined his tenuous alliance with the military who hoped to see us sooner destitute, and we made out rather favorably, after all. At the same time, a flourishing illicit trade and any number of unscrupulous dealers operate outside the fort grounds and from these Little Wolf obtained the rifles, ammunition, and gunpowder we required.
My husband is not stupid and understands that the decision by the Great White Father to withhold arms and ammunition from the Cheyennes is meant to render the People defenseless. As in the matter of the brides due him, it is clear that Little Wolf “smells a rat.” Perhaps not incidentally, among the contraband munitions acquired from the illicit traders, our band has purchased a full case of new carbines.
Yesterday several of our prominent medicine men went into the fort to take up a challenge offered, I was deeply ashamed to learn, by Captain John G. Bourke and several of his Army compadres. The Indians call Bourke “Paper Medicine Man,” for as Crook’s adjutant he is seen always scratching away in his books.
Had we not been avoiding the fort we white women might have known sooner about the nature of this disgraceful business, and put a quick end to it. As it was I did not learn of it until a boy came running to Little Wolf’s lodge to say that the Sweet Medicine Chief must come to challenge the white man’s “medicine box,” that he must come immediately to save face for the People, for none of our medicine could defeat the box.
I had no idea what the child was talking about but I decided to accompany my husband to the fort to find out. We arrived just in time to witness the latest defeat of yet another of our medicine men at the hands of this so-called “medicine box.” This was little more than an old discarded electrical battery that the idle soldiers had rigged up so that when turned by a hand crank it would send a shock through whatever fool was holding the poles. Next to the battery the soldiers had placed a pail of water and in the bottom of the pail a shiny silver dollar.
Now they much amused themselves by challenging any takers to reach into the pail and remove the silver dollar—with the stipulation, of course, that the contestant be holding the pole from the battery in one hand when he did so.
One after another, our medicine men, chanting their medicine songs, attempted to reach into the pail and remove the dollar. As the soldiers merrily sang their own “medicine song”—the Irish ballad “Pat Malloy”—one of them, John Bourke himself, cranked the handle of the damnable machine, which of course shocked the poor savages into submission with a terrible charge of electricity. Thus the medicine men were each, in turn, humiliated in front of the spectators. Some bravely tried a second time, but of course, were helpless against the thing.
At first Bourke did not see me among the crowd, and I pleaded with my husband. “Do not do this,” I said. “This is not ‘medicine,’ it is another white man trick. You will be hurt and disgraced in front of the people if you try.”
But others of the tribe urged Little Wolf forward to prove the power of the Sweet Medicine, and the Chief felt obligated to do so.
Still Bourke had not spied me, and when my husband stepped up to the machine, the Captain said: “Ah, and does the great Chief Little Wolf himself wish to challenge our medicine box?” In Bourke’s tone of merriment, I detected an undercurrent of malice, which deeply disappointed me.
I could resist no longer and now came forward myself. “Is this how you gentlemen amuse yourself, Captain?” I asked. “By humiliating innocent people? Perhaps you should run along and find some puppies to torture.”
Several of the soldiers laughed, but in slightly embarrassed tones, like children caught misbehaving. “Or to eat like the stinkin’ heathens,” one of them snickered under his breath.
“We’re just having a little fun, ma’am,” another said. “It’s the heathens themselves who keep asking to try their medicine against ours. No harm intended. It’s only a game.”
Captain Bourke had himself blanched at my words, more in surprise at seeing me there, I think, than at my reprimand. For when he spoke, he did so with no trace of apology in his voice, but with a kind of cocksure defiance.
“We are teaching the savages, in a relatively harmless manner, that their superstitions are helpless against our own superior powers,” he said. “It’s a lesson better learned here, madam, than elsewhere, I can assure you.”
“I see, Captain,” I said. “And now you will teach this lesson to my husband, Little Wolf, the Sweet Medicine Chief, the Cheyennes’ most esteemed leader and fearless warrior. And the People will learn for certain how powerless they are against the white man.”
“Only if the Chief wishes to test his medicine against ours, madam,” the Captain said, his dark, shadowed eyes boring into mine.
Little Wolf took one of the poles in hand, and the soldiers began to sing their ditty—“Pat Malloy.” My eyes never left those of John Bourke, as he began to turn the crank on the battery and took up the song himself. Little Wolf did not chant but only touched the Sweet Medicine pouch that he wears against his breast, a kind of talisman, and began to put his arm into the pail. Just as he did so, the Captain, still staring at me and singing in a hearty voice, left off turning the crank, and my husband reached into the pail and with impunity removed the silver dollar from the bottom. Now all those assembled began to cheer wildly, as I and the rest of the women made our joyful trilling noise.
John Bourke stood from his seat at the machine, nodded to me with a slight smile, and walked briskly away.
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