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Authors: Jim Fergus

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BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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Under way at last, we ride in mule-drawn wagons, escorted by a very snappy company of cavalry, at the head of which Captain John G. Bourke, with perfect military carriage, rides a smart-stepping white mare. That the army has entrusted us to the care of such an illustrious Indian fighter as the Captain is testament, I believe, to the fact that our safety is of the utmost concern to the authorities.
A number of the fort residents have gathered to watch our procession out the gates, including the Captain’s pretty young fiancée, Lydia Bradley, who is dressed in a lovely pale pink spring dress and a matching bonnet (noticeably unadorned by feathers) and who smiles and waves a white handerchief at her Captain as he passes. He tips his hat to her gallantly. How I envy them, the life they will lead together. How drab she makes me feel …
Then we are through the gates, and beyond the fort and into the great prairie itself. Here the road rapidly deteriorates until it is little more than two ruts and then seems to disappear altogether. The ride is rough, the wagon itself exceedingly uncomfortable, with only the most unforgiving benches on which to sit. We are constantly jostled, often so violently that it seems to shake our teeth loose in our heads. Dust seeps up through the floorboards so that a perpetual cloud roils inside. Poor Martha has been sneezing since we got under way. With fully a fortnight yet to go I fear that it will be a long, desperately unhappy journey for her.
 
Spring is in full bloom today, which offers a bit of cheer to this otherwise difficult passage. Much to the shock of some of the other ladies, I have decided to ride up on the buckboard alongside our teamster, a rough-spoken young man named Jimmy. I prefer the open air to choking on dust inside the wagon, and I am able to see something of the countryside as we pass, to enjoy a bit of the springtime.
Beyond the vastly improved view, another advantage to riding up top with Jimmy is that he can educate me about this new country of ours. While he is a rough lad, he seems quite knowledgeable on the subject, and I think that secretly he rather enjoys the feminine company.
Whereas the country on our first day of travel was flat, tedious, and largely without vegetation of interest, we seem today to be gaining a more varied topography of gently rolling hills intersected by rivers and creeks.
It has been a damp spring and the grass is as green as mother always described Scotland to be when she was a girt—the prairie wildflowers are just now coming into bloom, the birds everywhere in full song, the meadowlarks trilling joyously as if announcing our passage. There are ducks and geese by the thousands in every pothole of water and upon every flooded plain. Helen Flight is terribly pleased with the fecundity of bird life, and periodically begs the Captain to halt our procession so that she may descend with her shotgun to shoot one of the poor things—which she first sketches and then expertly skins to keep as a specimen for her work.
The Captain, a sportsman himself, so enjoys watching Miss Flight’s prowess with the shotgun that he hardly objects to the delays caused by our frequent stops. Jimmy, my new muleskinner friend, is equally admiring of our accomplished gunner, and takes every opportunity to halt the wagon when birds are in range so that Miss Flight can display her considerable skills.
Thus she swings to the ground with masculine authority, all business, standing with her legs firmly planted, slightly apart, toes pointing out, to charge her muzzle loader. Even though the weather is warming daily, Miss Flight still wears her knickerbocker suit and particularly from the rear looks far more like a man than a woman. From a flask she carries in her jacket, she pours gunpowder into the barrel; this she rams home using wadded cotton from discarded petticoats. This is followed by a measure of very fine shot and then another wad made of card, which prevents the shot from rolling out the gun barrel. To her credit Miss Flight will only shoot the birds on the wing—believing it “unsporting” to do otherwise.
Not only does she collect her specimens in this manner, but she is filling our larder with all manner of game birds and waterfowl, which we surprise out of the plum thickets or spring potholes along the route. These include ducks, geese, grouse, snipe, and plover—which fare will undoubtedly provide a much welcome addition to our Army rations.
In only the first two days out from Fort Laramie, we have also seen deer, elk, antelope, and a small herd of bison grazing, and while the Captain will not permit the soldiers to hunt at too great a distance from the wagon train owing to the threat of Indians, we should have no want of fresh game en route.
Because of the spring floodwaters, we try to keep to the higher ground, though sometimes we are forced to drop down into the bottoms to ford the rivers and streams. It is hard going for the mules, who do not like to walk in thick mud, or even to get their feet wet. “There ain’t nothin’ an old mule hates worse,” Jimmy instructs me, “than to put their
goddamn
feet down in water. They ain’t like a horse that way. They’s just
goddamn
prissy about water is all. But in every other way, you can give me an old mule over a horse any day.
Any day.”
A strange, rough boy, Jimmy, but he seems to have a good heart.
Traversing these drainages is a wet, muddy experience for us all. Several times already today we have had to descend to lighten the mules’ load, hike our dresses up, and make our own way across the streams on foot, soaking our feet through to the bone.
And yet the river bottoms strike me as the loveliest country, for everything lives here, or passes by here or comes to water here from the long empty reaches of desert plains between.
At night we make camp as near to the water as possible while still being on dry ground. The mules are hobbled or picketed in the grass meadow, which is already lush with tender green shoots. It is very pretty. I think that one day I should like to live in such a place … perhaps one day I shall return home to reclaim my dear babies and we shall all come here together … to live in a little house on the banks of a creek, on the edge of a meadow, surrounded by a grove of cottonwood trees … ah, sweet dreams keep me alive …
Yes, indeed, and instead I shall soon be living in a tent! Think of it! Camped out like a nomad, a gypsy! What an astonishing adventure we have embarked upon!
To my great disappointment, Captain Bourke has hardly met my eye and barely spoken to me since we departed Fort Laramie. I sense that he is intentionally avoiding me. Perhaps because he is officially “on duty” now, his strict, military deportment appears to have completely supplanted his charming social demeanor. I confess to preferring the latter.
Tonight at dinner in the “mess” tent as the Army insists upon calling it, the conversation turned as it does with ever greater frequency to the subject of our Cheyennes. The Captain admitted, if rather grudgingly, that the tribe is a superior race as the American Indians go—a handsome, proud, and independent people, who have kept to themselves as much as they have been able in these times, avoiding the missionaries, the agencies, and general commerce with the whites more than any of the other tribes. This, the Captain stated, has allowed them to remain less “spoiled” than the others.
“I find that to be an unfortunate choice of words, Captain,” objected our official church representative Narcissa White, “for it implies that contact with Christian civilization is the root cause of the spoilation of heathens, rather than the ladder by which they might climb from the muck of paganism.”
“I consider myself to be a devout man, Miss White,” answered the Captain. “But I am also a military man. It is the lesson of history that in order for Christian civilization to extend her noble boundaries, barbarians must first be roundly defeated on the battlefield. By spoiled I mean only that in giving the Red Man gifts—rations and charity that are not earned by the sweat of his own brow—our government has never accomplished anything other than to encourage him, like a dog fed scraps at table, to beg more gifts, rations, and charity.”
“And brides,” I interjected good-naturedly. “Give the damn heathens one thousand white women, and soon they’ll want a thousand more!”
“Although I think you mock me, Miss Dodd,” said the Captain with an amused glint in his eye, “that is exactly correct. Such well-intentioned gifts will only make them bolder in their demands. The savages will never be convinced of the benefits of civilization until they are first subdued by superior force.”
“Yes, and isn’t that why the government is sending us among them?” I said, with a bit of false bravado.
“Yah,
May, I
tink
so,” Gretchen Fathauer said. “I
tink dey
not seen superior force until
dey
seen us!” And we all laughed. For what else is there to do?
 
This evening after dinner our muleskinner Jimmy called at the tent in which I share extremely close quarters with Phemie, Martha, Gretchen, and the girl Sara. Jimmy asked me to step outside for a word, and then proceeded to inform me that Captain Bourke should like to see me in his own quarters. There is little opportunity for privacy in our camps at the end of the day’s travels, and I must say his request startled me, especially given the Captain’s recent coolness toward me. The lad led me there. He is such a strange boy … I cannot put a finger on it …
The Captain greeted me at the entrance to his tent, and seemed genuinely pleased that I had come. “I hope you will not consider my invitation to be too forward, Miss Dodd,” he said, “but evening bivouacs in the field can be exceptionally dull, particularly to an old Army man such as myself who has endured so many of them. I always carry with me in the field my cherished volume of Shakespeare, which I amuse myself by reading at night. I thought this evening you might be willing to join me—far more interesting to read aloud with a fellow enthusiast.”
“Why thank you, Captain, I’d love to,” I answered. “And shall I invite Helen Flight to join us, to play yet a third part?”
I had set this small trap for the Captain, just to gauge his reaction. And I was not displeased to see that he was unable to mask the flicker of disappointment that crossed his brow. But he recovered quickly and was, as usual, the perfect gentleman. “Yes … yes, by all means, Miss Dodd, a fine idea, do please ask Miss Flight to please join us. Shall I send Jimmy to fetch her?”
And then our eyes met and we stared for some time at one another, and the charade melted away in the heat of our gaze like parchment paper held over a candle flame. “Or possibly, John,” I said in a low voice, “may I call you John?—possibly, John, it might, after all, be more amusing if it were just the two of us reading tonight.”
“Yes, May,” he whispered, “I was thinking so myself. Though I fear to expose you in any way to the appearance of impropriety.”
“Ah, yes, the appearance of impropriety,” I said. “Certainly that dreadfully sanctimonious woman Narcissa White will have her spies abroad. She misses nothing, and no opportunity to meddle in the affairs of others. But truthfully, Captain, at this point the appearance of impropriety is quite low on my list of immediate concerns.”
And so I entered John Bourke’s tent, an event which caused, as we had both suspected, no small scandal among our traveling party—although the evening was passed in perfect … I should say near perfect … innocence, for both of us are well aware of the other’s feelings and to. spend such time alone in company is only to fan the embers of that which cannot be. But this night we read Shakespeare together—nothing more. Nothing less. The fact is that nothing else has transpired between us besides a mutual but unspoken longing. It hangs between us, as palpable as a spider’s web connecting our fates. Possibly it is simply due to the bizarre circumstances, or the fact that we must be denied one another, but I have never in my life known such a powerful stirring of feelings …
When I returned several hours later to my tent, Martha lay awake in her cot beside mine. “May, dear God, are you quite mad?” she whispered, as I slipped beneath my blanket.
I smiled and moved my head close to hers, and quoted, also in a whisper, “‘Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.’
As You Like It,
Act III, Scene 2. Perhaps this is why each time I have fallen in love, I am accused of madness, Martha.”
“Love? Good God, May,” Martha said, “it’s impossible! The man is engaged. You are engaged. It can never be.”
“I know, Martha,” I answered. “Of course it can’t. I only play. ‘We that are true lovers run into strange capers.’ As you may have guessed we amused ourselves by reading from
As You Like It
tonight.”
“You’re not going to quit us, May?” Martha asked with a tremor in her voice. “You’re not going to abandon me to the savages while you run off with the Captain, are you?”
“Of course not, dear,” I said. “All for one and one for all. Isn’t that the vow we made?”
“Because I never would have come, May, if it weren’t for you,” said poor timid Martha, and I could tell that she was near to tears. “Please don’t leave me. I’ve been worried sick about it, ever since I noticed how you and the Captain look at each other. Everyone has noticed. All have spoken of it.”
I reached out and took Martha’s hand in mine. “All for one and one for all,” I repeated. “I’ll never leave you, Martha. I swear. Never.”
BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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