One Thousand White Women (40 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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… horror … butchery … savagery … where to begin to tell of it … with Meggie Kelly’s whisper perhaps, alerting us: “Oh Sweet Jesus,” she said as her young husband danced proudly around the fire, displaying to her his unspeakable trophies of war. “Oh Sweet Jesus, God help us all … what
’ave ya
done, lads? What
ave ya
done? …”
And Martha’s bloodcurdling scream of recognition as my own blood ran cold, a chill so profound that my heart shall never warm again. John Bourke was right …
The Kit Foxes returned this morning from their raid against the Shoshones, rode into camp howling like banshees, herding before them a herd of horses stolen from the enemy. On the surface a harmless enough act, for the tribes steal horses back and forth, a game of boys and often no one on either side is injured or killed. And so we believed it had been on this raid, for the men returned triumphant, with no keening of mourning and leading no horses bearing the bodies of fallen comrades. They drove the herd of Shoshone horses through camp for all to see, followed by the camp crier who announced the requisite celebratory dance.
Our scouts came in just behind the Kit Foxes to report that Army troops are in the immediate vicinity. I suggested to my husband that he dispatch a courier with a message to Colonel Mackenzie to reiterate our peaceful intentions. Little Wolf answered that before turning his and the council’s attentions to other tribal matters, he, and I, were first obligated to honor the Kit Fox raid by attending the feast and dance to be held at the lodge of their leader, a man named Last Bull. This is a bellicose, swaggering fellow of whom I have never been fond.
Thus off we went to a tiresome feast with much loud boastful talk from Last Bull. After the meal was finished all repaired to the bonfire, where the Kit Fox warriors each in turn danced their victory, and told their war tales.
It had snowed last night but now the skies were clear and winter’s icy grip was again tightening, with temperatures beginning to plummet. But even the cold weather did not deter the proud warriors from their celebration.
I had left the baby in our lodge with Feather on Head caring for her, and after the feast I went back to check on her and to give her a feeding. “You go to the dance,
naveó a,”
I told Feather on Head, as I held my ravenous little Wren to my breast. “I would rather stay here with my baby tonight.”
“No,
Mesoke,”
she answered. “You must take your baby to the dance with our husband; it was said by the crier that the new babies must all be present to witness their first victory dance—a victory in their honor. Our husband will be displeased if you do not return with his daughter for such an act would be very impolite to the Kit Foxes.”
And so, reluctantly, I took my baby and met the others at the dance circle.
All of the other new mothers had also been invited, with the Kelly girls seated in the place of honor. Evidently their own young husbands had performed some great deed to honor the miracle of the birth of twin babies, the miracle of all the babies.
So huge was the fire that it cast sufficient warmth to offset the chill, and, of course, we had our babies well wrapped in furs and blankets. Flames leapt toward the heavens as the warriors began to dance, to recount their tales … to raise the first bloody scalps, tied to poles and held aloft and shaken at the Gods for all to admire … And some among us cast our heads down, recalling with shame the vengeful satisfaction we had taken in the death and mutilation of the Crows, at whose hands we had suffered so … now this memory and its bloody aftermath seemed like a bad dream, not something that had really happened, not something that we had not actually done … for we are civilized women …
Meggie and Susie’s twin husbands danced before them as the girls both held their twins bundled in their laps. Between them the men passed a rawhide pouch, and sang a song of their great deed:
“In this bag is the power of the Shoshone tribe,”
he sang.
“We,
Hestahke,
have stolen this power to give to our children and now it is theirs. The Shoshones will never be strong again for we own their power. Tonight we give this power as a gift to our own babies so that they may be strong. For the children of our white wives are the future of the People. They own the power.”
And
Hestahke
held the pouch aloft and shook it and none could take their eyes from it; surely it held some great treasure, some great Shoshone medicine. The man danced and waved the bag in the air, and handed it to his brother who sang again the same power song, and as he did so, he reached into the pouch and took from it a small object and held it out to his wife Meggie as if offering her a precious jewel. I strained to see what it was that he held in his hand, all of us did, unable to look away.
At first I could not identify the object, but then my curiosity began to turn to stone, my blood to run cold for I knew instinctively that it was some ghastly body part or other, some unspeakable trophy of barbarity.
“Oh Sweet Jesus,” whispered Meggie Kelly, “Oh Sweet Jesus, God help us all … what
’ave ya
done, lads? What
’ave ya
done …”
And now the tears began to run from my eyes, to wash cold across my cheeks. “Please, God, no,” I whispered. I looked toward the heavens, the flames from the fire towering into the night sky, its sparks becoming the stars. “No,” I whispered, “no, please God, let this not be …”
And the man danced and sang, proudly holding his grisly trophy aloft. A soft
houing
of approval and an excited trilling from the Cheyenne women began to rise above the drumbeat.
“In this bag are the right hands of twelve Shoshone babies, this is the power of their tribe and now it is ours. I give this as a gift to our daughters. Our children own this power.”
He held the little hand aloft, and I could just make out its tiny curled fingers …
Martha screamed, a scream of anguish and condemnation that penetrated the night sky like a siren, cut through the drumbeat and the soft musical trilling of the others. I gathered my baby against my breast and stood, weak-kneed with nausea and horror, from my place beside Little Wolf. My husband himself sat impassively watching the performance …
Tears ran from my eyes as I clutched my baby to my breast.
“Me’esevoto!”
I hissed at him like an insane person.
“Babies!
Your people butchered babies! Do you not understand?” I said pointing with a trembling finger. “Do you not understand that one of those innocent babies’ hands could just as well belong to your own daughter? Good God, man, what kind of people would do such a thing? Barbarians! You will burn in Hell! Bourke was right …”
And I fled, running as fast as I could, cradling my child in my arms as the fresh cold snow squeaked painfully beneath my feet.
I ran back to the lodge, weeping, burst in and fell to my knees. I held my baby to my breast, sobbing and rocking her. “My baby, my baby,” were the only words that I was able to speak.
“Naneso, naneso …
”
Feather on Head and Quiet One gathered beside me to see what was the matter. Desperate for an answer, sobbing, I asked them please to explain to me how the women of the tribe could permit their husbands to commit such terrible crimes. At first they did not understand my question, for it is not a woman’s place to ask such a thing.
“Babies!”
I cried. “The men killed and mutilated babies. They cut babies’ hands off. These could have been your babies, our babies. Don’t you understand? It is a bad thing, a very bad thing that the men did.” I wished to say “wrong,” but there is no word for such a concept in the Cheyenne language … perhaps here lies the difficulty.
Quiet One answered softly, “The Shoshones have always been the enemies of the People,
Mesoke,
” she said. “For this reason the Kit Foxes stole their horses and captured their power to give to our children. The men did so in order that the Shoshones could not use their medicine against us and against our babies. In this way the men protect the People, they protect your baby,
Mesoke.
Our warriors stole the power of the Shoshone babies and gave it to your daughter—
Vo’estanevestomanehe,
the Savior—to make her strong and safe.”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” I said helplessly, finally too drained of strength to weep any longer. “There is no power in a baby’s hand.” I reached beneath the covering and pulled my daughter’s hand free. She clutched my finger in hers. “Look,” I said, “look how tiny and frail it is. You see? There is no power in a baby’s hand …”
There was no question of sleep on this dark night. Like me, the others had immediately left the dance and, as I suspected, many made their way to Anthony’s lodge on the edge of the village, seeking whatever sanctuary and comfort the monk might be able to offer.
The celebration itself had continued after our departure, and now we all sat around Anthony’s fire holding our infants and listening to the throbbing drumbeat, the music and singing as the Kit Fox warriors told again and again of their great triumph over babies.
We tried to make some sense of it, to console each other, to give reason to the madness, to make understandable what was simply not. The Kelly girls were the only among us whose husbands were members of the Kit Foxes, who had themselves committed the crimes, and the twins were most inconsolable of all. Gone was all their cheeky Irish bravado.
“I want to go home, Meggie,” Susie said. “I can’t ever bear to look at the lads again, after what they’ve
dooone.
”
“
Aye,
Susie,” said Meggie. “
Thar’s nooothin’
else to be
doone,
we’re finished here, that’s for
shoooore.
We’ll take the
gaarls
and leave
faarst
thing in the morning. Maybe we can find the Army and give ourselves
ooop.
”
But we all shared their guilt and their failure, and even Anthony’s quiet strength, calm counsel, and the prayers we said around his warm fire could not take the chill from our frozen hearts.
“What kind of God allows such things to happen?” I asked the young monk.
“A God who demands faith,” he said, “who gave His only son upon the cross that mankind might be saved.”
“Aye, and we
aven’t
learned a goddamned thing since,
’ave
we now?” said Susie Kelly with a bitter laugh. “We’re
gooood
Catholic
gaaarls,
Meggie and me,
Broother,
but such a
tarrable
thing as this stretches our faith mighty thin.”
“Now your work among the pagans truly begins,” Anthony said. “To these innocent souls we must spread the word of God.”
It is nearly dawn now … some of the women have returned to their own lodges, others doze fitfully with their babies here in Anthony’s lodge. Unable to sleep all night myself, I sit here by the fire, recording these grim events. I look forward now to the arrival of the troops, so that they might escort us safely back to civilization …
And even still the drums and the music from the dance continue, the People have danced all through the night … a night none of us will ever forget. I prepare now to return to my own lodge …
 
Yes, truly it is finished now, it is over, the soldiers have come with the breaking light of dawn like the vengeful hand of God to strike us down. I am shot, I fear that I am dying, the village destroyed and burning, the people driven naked into the hills to crouch like animals among the rocks. I have lost track of most of the others, some still alive, some dead, I have taken refuge in a shallow cave with Feather on Head, Quiet One, and Martha. Here we huddle together with our babies as the village burns below, a huge funeral pyre upon which the soldiers pile our belongings, everything that we own and all that we have—hides, furs, and blankets, meat and food supplies, saddles and ammunition—and upon these piles they place the bodies of our dead, and with burning torches set all aflame, they ignite our lodges which burst into flames like trees in a forest fire, the ammunition and kegs of gunpowder inside popping and exploding like fireworks … all that we have. Gone. It is the vision of Woman Who Moves Against the Wind come true … mankind is mad, all of us savages … are we punished for the babies? I cannot find Anthony to ask. I must ask Anthony … Anthony will know …
I am shot, I fear that I am dying, the breath rattles in my chest, blood bubbles from my mouth and nose. I must not die … forgive me my dear William and Hortense for abandoning you, I would have returned to you, truly I would have … if I die I pray that you may one day read these pages, know the truth of your mother’s life … know that she loved you and died thinking of you …
I must be quick now, I am so cold I can barely move the pencil across the page, my teeth chatter, the women and children and old people are scattered out among the rocks above the camp, Martha is with me, Quiet One, Feather on Head, our babies … I do not know where the others are, some are dead … many are dead …
As long as I have the strength, I shall continue to record these events …
This morning at dawn, just hours ago, I left Anthony’s lodge. I took my baby back to our own where I left her under the robes with Feather on Head. Then I went down to the river to where my little man Horse Boy tends the herd. The music from the dance had at last stopped, all had gone to their beds, silence had finally fallen over the camp. From a distance I heard the horses nickering nervously, I sensed that something was terribly wrong. I began to walk faster, dread rising like bile in my throat, faster, I began to run toward the river …
I stopped short when I saw him: Horse Boy stood wrapped in his blanket, stood straight as a statue of stone and there before him, mounted and leveling his pistol at the boy like an executioner, was Captain John G. Bourke. Beside him a lieutenant sat his horse, both their mounts as still as stone themselves but for the clouds of vapor they exhaled in the frozen dawn. Behind them, slipping like quicksilver down the draws and coulees, scrambling over the rocks, sliding down the embankments and bluffs, came dozens, hundreds, of mounted soldiers and Indians. I stepped forward. “John, what are you doing?” I cried out. “Put down your gun. He is only a boy. We are all prepared to surrender. Have you not seen our white flag flying.”
Bourke looked at me as if he had seen a ghost, with an expression of shock, giving way to horror, and then uncertainty. He hesitated, the gun trembled in his hand. “Good God, May, our scouts have told us that this is the village of the Sioux, Crazy Horse,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“This is the village of the Cheyennes,” I said, “Little Wolf’s village. My village. Didn’t Gertie tell you? Good God, John, put the gun down. He’s only a child.”
“It’s too late, May,” the Captain said. “The village is surrounded, the attack begins. Gertie is with another detachment. Our chief scout Seminole assured us that this is the village of the Sioux Chief Crazy Horse. Run the way we have come and hide yourself in the hills. I will find you later.”
“Shoot the boy, sir,” said the Lieutenant, impatient beside him. “Shoot him now before he cries out to warn the others.”
“Fools!” I cried, “Your shot will warn the others! John, for God’s sake, don’t do this thing. It is madness. This is the village of Little Wolf. We are prepared to surrender peacefully. We fly a white flag of surrender.”
Captain Bourke looked at the boy and then back at me. His dark, shadowed eyes went black as coal. “I am sorry, May,” he said. “I tried to warn you. We are at war, the attack begins, I have my orders. I am a soldier in the service of my country. Run and hide yourself.”
Bourke steadied the gun with a terrible cold certainty and pulled the trigger. Horse Boy crumpled like a rag to the ground, a bullet hole through the center of his forehead.
For a moment there was no other sound but that of the shot, echoing against the rocky bluffs; as if the earth itself stood still in disbelief. As if God in His Heaven had suspended time … John Bourke had murdered an unarmed child.
“Charge!” the Lieutenant beside him hollered, and then the gates of hell opened before us.
I ran, stumbling, slipping, falling in the snow, back to our lodge, just as the troops entered the village from both sides; I could think now only of my baby, I must save my child. All were by now alerted to the presence of the invaders whose horses thundered through the camp. Everywhere was gunfire, the screams of terror and death. My husband Little Wolf ran from the front entrance of our lodge carrying his carbine, he stopped to fire, ran, and stopped to fire, as did many of the other men, trying to draw the soldiers to them that the women and children might escape out the back of the lodges.
I ran into our lodge and scooped my baby into my arms. Quiet One slit the back of our tent with a knife, and held it open for Pretty Walker and Feather on Head, who carried her own child on its baby board. Before I went myself through the opening, I turned to old Crooked Nose. “Come,
Vohkeesa’e,
hurry!” I said to her.
But she bared her gums in a smile and shook her club and said in a calm voice, “You run,
Mesoke,
save your baby. I am an old woman and today is a good day to die.”
The old woman stepped out through the front entrance of the tipi and as I ran out the hole in the back, I turned to see her swing her club at a soldier riding past. The soldier lost his seat and flailed the air for purchase before hitting the ground with a thud as the old woman set upon him.
I turned and ran for my life. Clutching my baby to my breast, I followed the others toward the rocky bluffs that surrounded the village. All was mayhem and insanity, screams and gunfire, the hollering of soldiers, the cries of our warriors and wails of terror from our women; I cried out for Martha, for Gretchen, for Daisy, but none could hear me over the general din, nor I them.
I caught one glimpse of Phemie, mounted on a white soldier’s horse, completely naked, black as death against the whiteness of snow, galloping down upon a soldier who was afoot and trying to extract his bayonet, which was lodged in the breastbone of one of our women. Phemie carried a lance and gave a bloodcurdling shriek that seemed not human and when the soldier looked up at her his eyes widened in terror as she bore down upon him. I turned again and ran following the others into the hills. As I ran I was suddenly knocked down from behind, sent sprawling as if swatted by a lodge pole; I pitched forward, trying to cushion my baby from the fall. But I regained my feet and ran on.
It was very cold, many of the women and children had run naked from their lodges, without time even to put on their moccasins, some of the women carried infants, trying to shield them from the cold with their bodies. Now in the bluffs, old men and women crouched shivering among the rocks. All looked for caves or depressions in which to hide themselves. Stampeded horses from our herd scrambled wild-eyed through the rocks, their hooves clattering in the dry frigid air. Some people had managed to catch a few of the horses and to slit their throats and then open their bellies to plunge their own frozen feet into the steaming entrails.
It was so cold that I feared for my daughter’s life. I held her against my skin inside my coat. Thank God that I had been dressed. I caught up at last with Pretty Walker, Feather on Head, and Quiet One, and together we came upon Martha; she, too, was nearly naked, crouched squatting like a trapped animal in the rocks, holding her son to her breast and rocking him back and forth. The baby was blue with cold. I knelt down and took him from Martha and placed him under my coat. He was like an icicle against my skin. Martha was so cold herself and shivering that she was unable to speak. I removed my coat and wrapped it around her and handed Wren to Feather on Head and also placed Martha’s child in the girl’s arms. “Hold her against your skin,” I said. I took the knife from the sheath at Quiet One’s waist and together we caught a mare by the mane as she clattered by. I swung onto the horse’s back as Quiet One tried to calm her. The mare slipped sideways and tried to keep her feet, and as she did so I leaned forward onto her neck and drew the knife quickly across her throat. There came a deep moan of escaping air and the mare dropped heavily to her knees. I leapt from her back before she toppled, the snow already darkening black with blood beneath her. Then she rolled onto her side, her flanks heaving, the terror in her eyes fading with the light. I slit open her belly with the knife, her steaming entrails spilling forth, and she tried once to rise but fell back dead and I took Martha’s son from beneath the robe and thrust him into the hot belly of the mare. “Thank you,” I whispered to her, “thank you, mother.”
Now Feather on Head and I helped Martha to the horse and we thrust her icy feet, too, into the entrails and at last she stopped her shivering and was able to speak. “My God, May,” she said looking at me, “you have been shot. You have been shot in the back.”
Now I knew what had knocked me down, and I unstrapped the notebook from my back; it must have absorbed some of the force of the bullet, which had passed completely through it and was now lodged in the flesh between my shoulder blades. “Oh May,” Martha said, and she began to weep, “you have been shot. Dear God!”
“Stop it, Martha,” I said sharply. “We must find shelter, we must build a fire.”
“There is no fuel,” Martha cried. “No, we shall all die here in these rocks. Oh my God, May, you have been shot. Our babies, our babies …” and she wept.
“Your son is fine, Martha,” I said. “Look how little Tangle Hair recovers in the warmth of the mare’s innards.” It was true. The baby was slick with blood and entrails so that he looked again like a newborn in a strange reverse birth process. But he was regaining his color and now he squalled lustily. “Look at him! How strong he is,” I said. “He will stay warm for hours there. But we must find shelter.”
My hands are nearly frozen now, my fingers cramp … I make these last notes from this shallow cave … we have no fire … we all freeze to death … my breath comes painfully in shallow rattles … bloody bubbles run from my lips.
Down below the flames from the burning village crackle in the cold dawn. From these rocks we envy the warmth of flames we see but cannot feel. All that is left when the fires burn down are smoldering piles of ash and rubble, the half-cremated bodies of those who did not escape. Surely some of our friends are down there among them, and their babies … God, forgive us all … God forgive mankind …
From these cold rocks we can see the camp dogs beginning to slink back into the village to pick among the ruins for scraps of meat. The still frigid morning air bears the odors of roasted meats, spent gunpowder, scorched hides, burnt flesh. There are still dozens of soldiers about in the village so that we are unable to go back down to scavenge with the dogs, perhaps find a scrap of meat for sustenance, a flame for warmth … a blanket …
The soldiers continue to pile our last remaining goods, and atop them place the bodies of our dead, setting each pile afire … the funeral pyres blaze cold and fast and burn down quickly to their charred remains.
Now and then from the hills around a puny shot rings out … from our warriors, but they are poorly armed and have little ammunition to waste.
“Good brave girl, May,” Martha says now, her teeth chattering again with the cold. “Good brave friend, you keep writing in your journal, you keep us alive as before, I love you so, my dear Friend.”
“And I you, Martha.”
“It is over, isn’t it?” she says in a small chattering voice. “All over, and for what?”
“For these children,” I answer. “Our babies must live. They will be all that remain of us, and they will be enough.”
“Let us go down now,” Martha says, “and give ourselves up to the soldiers. When they see that we are white women they will take us in.”
“They’ve killed us all, Martha,” I say, “whites and Indians. But perhaps their lust is sated now. You go if you like. Go now, my friend, take your son. Tell them who you are and beg the soldiers for mercy.”
“I’ll find Captain Bourke,” Martha says. “I’ll bring him back. He’ll help us. You wait for me here, May.”
“Yes, you go, Martha. I’m finished writing in my notebook now, and I must close my eyes for a moment … I am very tired … our little friend Sara lives in the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen, Martha, a beautiful river bottom in the spring where the sun shines warm and the birds sing … go now, my dear, dear friend … . Pretty Walker, Feather on Head, and Quiet One will sit here with me for a while … . I shall wait right here for you to return with Captain Bourke …

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