One Thousand White Women (34 page)
Read One Thousand White Women Online
Authors: Jim Fergus
From Red Cloud Agency we moved north into the Black Hills; Little Wolf wished to see for himself the influx of whites into the area, and also wishes to make a ceremony at
Novavose
—Medicine Lodge—before winter sets in. This place, called Bear Butte by the whites, is a perfectly symmetrical flat-topped mountain on the northern edge of the Black Hills—sacred ground to the Cheyennes. As I learn more about their beliefs, it strikes me that one reason the savages had not more enthusiastically embraced Reverend Bunny’s efforts to convert them to Christianity is that they already have in place an elaborate and to their way of thinking perfectly satisfactory religion of their own—complete with a messiah character, named
Motse’eoeve
—Sweet Medicine himself, a kind of prophet and instructor who rather than coming from such a distant and incomprehensible place as Nazareth, hails right here from
Novavose
—the very heart of the Cheyennes’ own country. Is it any wonder they don’t wish to give this land up?
Novavose
—Medicine Lodge—before winter sets in. This place, called Bear Butte by the whites, is a perfectly symmetrical flat-topped mountain on the northern edge of the Black Hills—sacred ground to the Cheyennes. As I learn more about their beliefs, it strikes me that one reason the savages had not more enthusiastically embraced Reverend Bunny’s efforts to convert them to Christianity is that they already have in place an elaborate and to their way of thinking perfectly satisfactory religion of their own—complete with a messiah character, named
Motse’eoeve
—Sweet Medicine himself, a kind of prophet and instructor who rather than coming from such a distant and incomprehensible place as Nazareth, hails right here from
Novavose
—the very heart of the Cheyennes’ own country. Is it any wonder they don’t wish to give this land up?
According to legend, Sweet Medicine appeared to the People here long, long ago and told them that a person was going to come among them. This person was going to be all sewed up (the Indian manner of saying wearing white man clothing), and that he was going to destroy everything that the People needed to live—he would come among the People and from them take everything, including the game and the earth itself.
While the Indian religion may be rife with superstition, Sweet Medicine’s prophecy is lent some credibility by the fact that it is so clearly coming true in our own times.
Regarding matters of spirituality, our anchorite, “Anthony of the Prairie,” is already becoming, as I had predicted he would, quite popular among us all. The Cheyennes immediately accepted him as a holy man—for his spirit of simplicity and self-denial is something that they greatly admire—as they do his daily recitation of liturgies, for the Indians are inordinately fond of any form of chanting and religious observance.
I must say that I look forward to our other white women meeting Anthony as well, for I take from him myself a certain strength. He is a quiet, devout man, and yet has a rather mischievous sense of humor. Although I have never been of a highly religious nature myself, I can’t help but have the feeling that he has come among us for some reason, and will serve some valuable purpose. Good Lord … perhaps I am finding faith after all!
As to the Black Hills, prettier country I have never before seen, timbered with pine, fir, and juniper, and teeming with game of all variety. Thankfully, the weather has turned mild again, perfect autumn temperatures that seem to promise some brief respite from the coming winter. All of our moods have improved immeasurably with the warmer climate and this new, beautiful country. I think we were all rather dispirited by our short visit at the Red Cloud Agency, which seemed so poor, the people there so dejected. Is that, then, to be the inevitable grand end of our mission? —to bring our own people from freedom and prosperity to this state of abject impoverishment and inactivity—hardly assimilated so much as simply confined …
Since we left Fort Laramie I have had several conversations with my husband about the necessity for him to give up his People at one of the agencies. I have, toward this end, invoked the name of his child whom I carry and that of all the other expectant mothers, pointing out that if born on the agency, these children will not only be safe from harm but will also have the advantage of attending schools, which will enable them, in turn, to help teach the People the new white man life. “This is what you wanted,” I say to Little Wolf. “This is what you requested when you went to Washington.”
And Little Wolf will only answer that the People are quite prosperous at the moment and have managed to keep away from the whites, and he does not wish to give up this good life just yet. As to your children, he says, they will belong to the white tribe soon enough, but they should have the opportunity to know something about their fathers’ world, as well, about how it was to live in the old way—even if this is only for the first year of their lives. They have plenty of time later to learn the new white man way of living.
“We will look back on this life that we have now,” Little Wolf said softly, “and we will think that no people on earth were ever happier, were ever richer; we have good lodges and plenty of game; we have many horses and beautiful possessions and I am not yet prepared to give this up to live in the white man way. Not yet. Another fall, another winter, perhaps one more summer … then we shall see.”
The Cheyennes have a different conception of time than we do; such things as calendar deadlines and ultimatums mean little to them; their world is less static in this way than ours, and does not lend itself well to temporal matters beyond those of the seasons.
“But the Army won’t give you that time,” I tried to explain to Little Wolf. “This is what I am telling you. You must take the People into the agency this winter.”
I wonder now if it was partly for this reason that Little Wolf brought us to Red Cloud, to see the sobering future we can expect for our children in such a place. For truly if that is what we have to look forward to, our present freedom, however temporary, seems more precious than ever.
All of our efforts to avoid encounters with the invading miners notwithstanding, we have seen much evidence of them in the Black Hills. We have cut the trails of several large wagon trains moving through the country; and have come upon a number of new settlements along the way. Our scouts have also reported the presence of Army troops in the region. Under strict orders from Little Wolf, our warriors have harassed no one, and we passed so stealthily that I doubt the whites were even aware of our presence. However, Phemie told me that some of the young men, including her own husband—Black Man—had slipped off to join a war party of Oglala Sioux who were making raids upon the immigrants. Nothing good can come of this, I know.
We have been camped for several days in the vicinity of the mountain called
Novavose
—at which site the savages are holding all manner of religious observances; there is feasting and dancing and vision seeking and the almost constant beating of drums; many of the ceremonies are too elaborate and too complicated to one unversed in the religion to understand or even attempt to record; there has been much fasting and sacrifices made and other self-imposed hardships endured by the men—including sundry bodily mutilations by the younger men, such revolting practices as piercing their breasts and tying themselves to stakes, or to painted shields (Helen’s artistic talents again very much in demand!) which they then proceeded to drag about the dance circle in excruciating pain. Whatever accommodations and adaptations we have been able to make to their life and religion—and these have been considerable—no civilized person can find these primitive customs of self-mutilation to be anything less than repugnant. However, our monk Anthony has been extremely interested in these practices and is taking copious notes on all of the heathens’ religious observances. He believes that they might have some application to—perhaps even roots in—Christianity itself. Wishful thinking on the part of the holy man, I should say, but then, I suppose that is, after all, his job. On Anthony’s behalf I shall also say that he spreads the Gospel of Jesus very gently among the People, with none of the Reverend Hare’s fire and brimstone or threats of damnation, and none of Narcissa White’s evangelical zeal. Rather he visits from lodge to lodge in such a spirit of honesty, humility, and generosity that the people hardly know that they are being preached to. He is, I think, our best hope yet for the salvation of their souls … if salvation they require …
Novavose
—at which site the savages are holding all manner of religious observances; there is feasting and dancing and vision seeking and the almost constant beating of drums; many of the ceremonies are too elaborate and too complicated to one unversed in the religion to understand or even attempt to record; there has been much fasting and sacrifices made and other self-imposed hardships endured by the men—including sundry bodily mutilations by the younger men, such revolting practices as piercing their breasts and tying themselves to stakes, or to painted shields (Helen’s artistic talents again very much in demand!) which they then proceeded to drag about the dance circle in excruciating pain. Whatever accommodations and adaptations we have been able to make to their life and religion—and these have been considerable—no civilized person can find these primitive customs of self-mutilation to be anything less than repugnant. However, our monk Anthony has been extremely interested in these practices and is taking copious notes on all of the heathens’ religious observances. He believes that they might have some application to—perhaps even roots in—Christianity itself. Wishful thinking on the part of the holy man, I should say, but then, I suppose that is, after all, his job. On Anthony’s behalf I shall also say that he spreads the Gospel of Jesus very gently among the People, with none of the Reverend Hare’s fire and brimstone or threats of damnation, and none of Narcissa White’s evangelical zeal. Rather he visits from lodge to lodge in such a spirit of honesty, humility, and generosity that the people hardly know that they are being preached to. He is, I think, our best hope yet for the salvation of their souls … if salvation they require …
Yesterday, Little Wolf’s primary advisor, Woman Who Moves Against the Wind, came to our lodge to tell the Chief of a vision she has had. She is a very strange creature, with wild black hair and a peculiar light in her eyes that is like the reflection of flames from a fire. She lives all alone, and because she, too, is a holy person, her needs are met by other members of the tribe. The men bring her game and the women keep her supplied with other necessities. She is considered to be a seer, one who lives with one foot in the other world—the “real world behind this one.” My husband the Chief holds her advice in very high esteem.
Now she sat cross-legged and whispered to Little Wolf: I sat as close as possible behind them and strained to hear her.
“In my vision
, I saw the People’s lodges consumed in flames
,” she began. “
I saw all of our possessions stacked by the soldiers in huge piles and set afire—everything destroyed, everything we own cO/Mumed by the flamed. I saw the People driven naked into the bills. where we crouched like animals among the rocks.
” Here the woman wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth as if freezing. I felt the chill of her words myself. “
It is very cold,
she continued,
”and the People are freezing, many dying, many babies freezing blue as, chunks of river ice in their mother’s arms …”
“In my vision
, I saw the People’s lodges consumed in flames
,” she began. “
I saw all of our possessions stacked by the soldiers in huge piles and set afire—everything destroyed, everything we own cO/Mumed by the flamed. I saw the People driven naked into the bills. where we crouched like animals among the rocks.
” Here the woman wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth as if freezing. I felt the chill of her words myself. “
It is very cold,
she continued,
”and the People are freezing, many dying, many babies freezing blue as, chunks of river ice in their mother’s arms …”
“No!” I suddenly cried out, as if involuntarily. “Stop that talk! It is nonsense! I do not believe in your visions, they are nothing but pure superstition. I do not listen to such talk! Someone run and find Brother Anthony for me, he will tell us the truth.” But I realized as soon as I said it that I was speaking English, and both Little Wolf and Woman Who Moves Against the Wind only looked at me somewhat impatiently, as if waiting for my outburst to be over. Then they huddled closer and I could no longer hear their words.
Shortly after the seer left our lodge, Little Wolf, without a word to anyone, himself departed. Only later did I learn that he had climbed to the top of the butte to seek his own vision. The Chief is a solitary man and clearly has much on his mind, and presumably he went off to think over what the medicine woman had said.
Little Wolf returned to our lodge after three days and three nights. Of his vision quest he said simply, “I have made offerings to the Great Medicine that he might protect the People from harm. But I had no sign from him.”
From Medicine Lodge we make our way north and again west, moving silently across the undulating plains. After these several days of religious observance the people are reserved and subdued, exhausted by their ceremonies, and—having seen firsthand the continued invasion of the whites into their sacred land—anxious about their future. All have by now learned of the apocalyptic vision of Woman Who Moves Against the Wind. And all know that while Little Wolf made offerings to the Great Medicine, he failed in his own vision quest. This is not considered to be a good thing.
We do not travel hard after our visit to
Novavose
but continue to meander our way back toward the Powder River country. The fine autumn weather continues. The cottonwoods and box elders and ash turn yellow and red in the river bottoms, and the plains roll out before us—a sea of grass, now golden and ocher, the plum thickets in the coulee a deep shade of purple. There is much game along the way—great herds of buffalo already coming into their heavy winter coats, which hang beneath their bellies nearly to touch the ground; there are antelope by the hundreds, deer, and elk in the fall rut so that the bugling of the latter can be heard across the plains like the trumpets of the Gods. The geese and ducks and cranes are on the move, huge flocks that blacken the sky and fill the air with their honkings and cries. Truly it is a spectacle to behold. “We are blessed by God,” said Anthony in his pure simplicity as we watched the sky one day. And who can deny it?
Novavose
but continue to meander our way back toward the Powder River country. The fine autumn weather continues. The cottonwoods and box elders and ash turn yellow and red in the river bottoms, and the plains roll out before us—a sea of grass, now golden and ocher, the plum thickets in the coulee a deep shade of purple. There is much game along the way—great herds of buffalo already coming into their heavy winter coats, which hang beneath their bellies nearly to touch the ground; there are antelope by the hundreds, deer, and elk in the fall rut so that the bugling of the latter can be heard across the plains like the trumpets of the Gods. The geese and ducks and cranes are on the move, huge flocks that blacken the sky and fill the air with their honkings and cries. Truly it is a spectacle to behold. “We are blessed by God,” said Anthony in his pure simplicity as we watched the sky one day. And who can deny it?
Great coveys of pintailed grouse squirt up ahead of our horses, fan off to the horizon like fall seeds spread on the wind. Helen is thoroughly rejuvenated by the shooting and delights our Indian companions with her prowess with the shotgun. She has given some of them instruction in its use, but I am proud to see that none of them can match her shooting skills.
These have been fine days of easy travel and perfect weather, the People quietly harvesting the plenty of the earth—the fall before the winter, the calm before the storm that, since Medicine Lodge, some whisper is coming.
It was a true homecoming when we reached the winter camp—the other bands had been arriving for several weeks, coming from all directions like spokes on a wheel running to the hub. Some bands had already come in and left again, having decided to make their camps elsewhere. Some have already elected to go into the agencies for the winter, for word has spread from the scouts and between the Sioux and the Cheyennes of the Great Father’s recently issued ultimatum that all the free Indians must give themselves up at one of the agencies by the first day of February or pay the consequences. “Three Stars,” as the Indians call General Crook, has promised that those who comply early will be favored with the best land for their reservations and a greater share of provisions. Winter at the agency, with all of their food and other needs supplied by the Great White Father, has been promised to be an easy path for all who willingly take it.
We found upon our return that among those who have gone into the agency are a number of our own women and their husbands. Like all of us, they had become increasingly anxious about the prospect of childbirth in the wilds without real doctors and especially in the wintertime. And who can blame them?
With several months yet to go, I remain generally sanguine about my own impending childbirth. I had very little difficulty with either of my former pregnancies, and gave birth to both my children at home with only a midwife in attendance. Still, regardless of what immediate course of action Little Wolf decides for our band, I am pleased that others have already chosen to go into the agency; this can only be a good thing, and our white women will serve as a kind of advance guard to smooth the way for the rest of us when we go—which by all consensus is now only a matter of time. I am certain that before the winter is out the rest of us will succeed in convincing our husbands to “surrender” to “the inexorable march of civilization,” as Captain Bourke rather grandly calls it.
So we rode into camp yesterday afternoon, alerting the others to our arrival by singing our song, the song of the Little Wolf band; all the People sang, even the little children, a joyful song of coming together and friendship. I had myself learned the words and sang as we rode in, as did Phemie, Helen, and the Kelly girls. A lively chorus we made of it, too!
The winter camp has been set in a lovely grassy valley formed by the confluence of Willow Creek and the upper Powder River. It is well protected from the wind and elements, defined by rocky pine-studded bluffs on one side of the river, climbing to timbered foothills, and on the other a network of ravines and coulees that rise to the rolling benches and table-lands of the prairie, and on to the faint outline of the Bighorn Mountains against the distant horizon. The valley appears to have everything we need for the moment—sufficient grass for the horses, running water, and an ample supply of cottonwood for our fires. Several large herds of buffalo have also taken up winter residence in the general vicinity and presently feed as placidly as domestic cows on the rich fall grasses.
In this place we will settle for a time—and make our plans for the future. A welcome settling it will be after the constant travel of the past months.
Martha was beside herself with joy at our return. Even from a distance as we rode in and I made her out, I noticed that she was looking quite large with child herself. She waved excitedly to us as we rode down into the valley off the bench above, singing our song, our horses picking their way carefully down the slope. She jumped up and down, clapping her hands like a child. Then I watched as she did something extraordinary; she slipped a rope bridle over the head of one of the horses tethered beside her lodge, grasped it by the mane, and swung onto its back like an Indian! She wheeled the horse and galloped out to meet us! Good God, I thought, can this be my same friend, Martha, who when first we arrived here could hardly take a step without tripping and falling down? Hah! The one they call Falls Down Woman?
She was breathless when she rode up, but hardly more so than I at the sight of her. “May, oh May,” she said, “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you home! I had begun to worry so for you. Where have you been? You must tell me all about your travels. And I, too, have news for you. Much has happened since you’ve been away. But first, I must know—did you go all the way to Fort Laramie? Did you dine with the officers? Did you see your Captain?”
I couldn’t help but notice how hale and healthy Martha looked. The added weight of pregnancy becomes her; indeed, I’d never seen her look as well. Where, upon our departure all those months ago, she was still mousy and frightened—she has actually grown quite pretty in the interim—her cheeks rosy, her arms brown and strong. I laughed in astonishment and happiness. “All that in good time, dear,” I said, “we will have a long visit after we have made camp. And I am so pleased to see you, too. But good Lord, Martha, look at you, you look like a wild Indian! And riding bareback like a trick rider—hardly a proper activity for a pregnant woman!”
“I’ve never felt better, May, I think that pregnancy and the wilderness life agree with me … You were right I was fine without you … I suppose I have become a wild Indian!”
And then we both laughed and rode into camp side by side, chattering away like schoolgirls.
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