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.
“And the Kellys and I are only
suggesting that we get down to the business at hand,” I
repeated.
“As Christians,” said Narcissa White,
“some of us may choose for ourselves a higher path upon which to
elevate the savages from their lowly lot.”
“Your prospective husband gave a horse
for you, just like all the rest,” I pointed out.
“I certainly have no intention of
compromising my chastity with a heathen for a horse,” she answered.
“I intend to teach my husband that the true path to Christian
salvation lies on a higher plane.”
“Ah yooor a grand lady, aren’t ya, Narcissa,”
said Meggie Kelly, “and won’t pooor Mr. Turkey Legs be in for a rude
surprise on his wedding night when he tries to digs his spurs into
that stony coontry!”
“And what about you, Phemie?” I
asked.
Phemie chuckled again. Truly I envy
her calm. Nothing seems to bother her. “When I’m ready, May,” she
said. “And if I like my new husband and believe that he will make a
good father to my children, then yes, I’ll remove my chastity
string. However, as he is both a heathen and a nigger, under the
circumstances it will be difficult for me to give birth to the
superior half-Caucasian child of which the Reverend refers to as
the church and government’s ideal.”
“Aye, Phemie, and we won’t be
‘avin’ no Protestant
babies, neither,” said Susie Kelly. “Of that ya can be damn
shoore. Right,
Meggie?”
Phemie was correct in saying that the
savages are a democratic people, and using her example I have begun
to make tiny inroads in liberating myself from the drudgery of
women’s chores. It seems useful if one displays some other talent,
even if it is only perceived as such by the savages. Like those
scamps, the Kelly girls, who are largely excused from manual labor
for no better reason than that they are twins! In this same way the
savages are fascinated with my notebook and may even be ascribing
some supernatural quality to my writing in it—which may yet prove
useful to me. Yet I will not be a shirker, for it would be unfair
to the others and to my fellow tentmates if I did not do my fair
share.
I have this also to say on behalf of
the savages: they are a tremendously tolerant people, and though
some of our ways and customs appear to amuse them to no end, they
have yet to be condemnatory or censorious. Thus far they seem to be
merely curious, but always respectful. The children are
particularly fascinated with our presence and stop whatever they
are doing to stare at us when we pass with round disbelieving eyes
as if we are enormously odd creatures to them—and, indeed, I
suppose we are! Sometimes they come forward shyly and touch our
dresses, only to run away giggling. Often they follow us about at a
slight distance, like a pack of hungry dogs. I brought with me a
little hard candy from the supply store at Fort Laramie and often I
carry a few pieces in my pockets to give to the children. They are
precious little things, brown and full of healthful vigor. They
seem for their age more mature, healthier, and better behaved than
Caucasian children of comparable years. They are too shy to speak
to us, and take my offerings of candy with great solemnity and then
run off again posthaste chattering like magpies. I feel that the
children may prove to be our bridge to the savage way of life and
theirs to ours, for all children are good, are they not? All
children are children finally—it hardly matters to which race or
culture they belong—they belong first to the race and culture of
children. I so look forward to learning this difficult language
that I may speak to these tiny savage elves. How I love the sight
of them! What joy, mixed with sorrow, they bring to my heart when I
watch them playing their games about the camp. For I cannot help
but think of my own dear babies … How I long to hold them in my
arms … and how I find myself beginning to look forward to bearing
one of these little heathens myself!
Speaking of children, I have tried as
well as I can to keep watch over little Sara. A most extraordinary
thing has occurred. We have heard the child speak, just a few
words, and not in English, but in the Indian tongue—it is either
that or pure gibberish, for neither Martha nor I was able to make
any sense of it. Her young fiancé, Yellow Wolf, seems to understand
her perfectly, and so I can only assume that he is teaching her his
language—though I still cannot make her to utter one single word of
ours. Isn’t it strange? And wonderful … Perhaps romance is blooming
here among the savages after all.
For her part Martha seems to be having
some problems adjusting to the savage life and inevitably her own
high expectations of romance with her fierce, unkempt warrior Mr.
Tangle Hair, have been somewhat disappointed. “He seems to be a
kind fellow, May,” she said to me while we were digging roots with
the other women yesterday morning. “But I do so wish he would groom
himself.” Then she paused in her work. “Something I’ve been
wondering—after our marriage am I to be known as Mrs. Tangle Hair?
Because you do know what the savages call me now, don’t you?
Reverend Hare has just translated it for me. They call me Falls
Down Woman. It is because I’m so clumsy.”
The savages do seem to seize upon some
obvious physical characteristics in their choice of names, and, in
fact, poor Martha is a bit clumsy—constantly stumbling and
falling.
“It’s only because you insist on
wearing your high buttonshoes with the tall heels, Martha,” I said.
“These were fine on the boardwalks of Chicago but are entirely
inappropriate for walking on the uneven ground of Nature. And they
are certainly not intended for laboring in the root fields. Why
just look at them!”
“I know, of course you’re right, May,”
Martha said, “I’ve practically ruined them … but … but” and I could
tell the poor thing was about to break down … “they remind me of
home.” And then she began to weep, terrible shuddering sobs. “I’m
sorry, May,” she blubbered, “I’m just tired … I’m homesick. I don’t
wish to be known as Falls Down Woman, or as Mrs. Tangle Hair. I
want to go home.”
“Well, dear,” I said, trying to
console her, “that you can’t do right now. But you could teach your
future husband to comb his hair. And if you’re unhappy with your
own new Indian name, we’ll just see that it’s
changed.”
“And how shall we do that?” asked
Martha, wiping her nose with a handkerchief, her sobs
subsiding.
“It seems to me that the Indians are
forever changing names on the least whim or fancy,” I said.
“Perhaps if you perform some deed or other, or adopt some new
habit, or even simply don some article of clothing—wear one of your
scarves over your head, for instance. Then, no doubt they will
begin to call you Woman who Wears Scarf on Head—”
“Why on earth would I wish to be named
that?” Martha asked, rather petulantly. I’m afraid that the general
strangeness and the homesickness we are all feeling, coupled with
the exhaustion of our labors and the frequently sleepless nights,
have caused all of our moods to be a bit erratic.
“I only use that as an example,
Martha,” I said. “Tell me, what would you like to be
called?”
“Something more romantic—your name,
for instance, Swallow—Mesoke—it’s quite lovely in either language.
Or the one they call Woman Who Moves Against the Wind. How much
more charming that is than Falls Down Woman.”
“Well then, we must think of a name
that pleases you and that somehow suits you … God this is filthy
work, is it not?” I said, pausing, and throwing down the crude
little spadelike implement that the savages fashion out of wood and
stone for this chore. “It’s ruining my fingernails—look how cracked
and dirt-encrusted they are. Had I known we were to be doing work
as fieldhands I’d have brought with me a proper pair of gloves and
a spade. Soon they’ll be calling me Needs Manicure
Woman.”
“But who gives out these names?” asked
Martha, unamused by my attempt at humor—and to my way of thinking
somewhat preoccupied with the matter. “How is it that they come
into general usage?”
“As I make it out, they just occur,” I
answered, “for the most banal reasons. Someone sees you stumble and
fall down, for instance, in the high-buttoned shoes that you insist
on wearing, and the next time your name comes up in general
conversation, they say, ‘Oh, you know the one I mean—the woman who
falls down.’”
“Why can’t they simply call me by my
Christian name—Martha?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my
friend,” I said, “we are not presently among Christians. Now, let’s
put our heads together and think of a suitable name for you, and
then we shall launch a campaign to bring it into general
usage.”
“But we are unable even to speak the
language,” Martha said. “It’s hopeless.” And I feared that she was
going to start crying again.
“No matter,” I said. “We’re learning
the sign language, and we can always enlist the assistance of
Reverend Hare—assuming, that is, that we can get his enormous
Episcopalian backside off the buffalo robes. In any case, as I have
said, these names seem to come about more as a result of actions or
physical characteristics.”
We considered the matter for a while
as we continued to dig the damnable roots. Finally I had an idea.
“How would you feel about the name: Woman Who Leaps Fire?
Personally, I find it rather enigmatic … romantic.”
Martha brightened perceptibly. “Why
yes! I like that very much. Leaps Fire Woman! And I think I know
what you are going to suggest.”
“Exactly,” I said. “From now on, every
time you come to one of the fires smoldering outside the lodges, or
for that matter, inside Mr. Tangle Hair’s own lodge, simply leap
over it. You are bound to earn the new name. What else could be
construed from such an action?”
Ah, but here is the unfortunate result
of our seemingly well-laid plan; Martha is not athletically
inclined, a fact which I should have considered. The first fire she
came to after she left me, she attempted to leap in the witness of
a number of the savages, but, partly because she was still wearing
those damnable high shoes of hers, she stumbled and fell directly
into the fire pit and was no sooner covered head to toe in black
oily soot. The Indians do have an uncanny knack for choosing names
and this morning, according to the Reverend, poor Martha is
referred to by two names: Falls Down in Fire Woman, and, the even
less attractive Ash Faced Woman. I’m afraid that she will never
live this down … how lucky for me that I made my impulsive dive
into the beaver pond …
My dearest sister
Hortense,
It occurs to me that I have not
written to you for an entire month—certainly the strangest month of
my life! How much there is to tell you. But first how is dear
Walter? And the children? Father and Mother? Do send news, won’t
you … ah, if only you could … if only I could have news of my
babies …
Of course mail delivery is somewhat
spotty out here on the frontier, but you might try addressing your
correspondence to: Madame Little Wolf, Queen of the Savages, or,
less formally, to Swallow, in care of the Cheyenne Nation,
Somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska Territory, USA … yes
that should find me posthaste … Hah! … if only …
Truth be told, I have no idea where we
are. Another world certainly … Sometimes I try to imagine all of
you back in Chicago comfortably ensconced in the bosom of
civilization, sitting in Mother’s drawing room at teatime, for
instance … I must concentrate so hard to conjure the image, truly
my imagination fails me, just as you cannot possibly imagine the
life I am leading … not in your wildest dreams, my sister … not
even in your wildest nightmares can you possibly envisage this
Indian village, these people, this landscape.
Let me describe to you a bit of the
daily routine of camp life among the savages. The three Mrs. Little
Wolves, yes, there are three of us—the old one, the young one, and,
most recently the Caucasian one, though as yet we are only
betrothed (the Chief is, it occurs to me, what my Harry would have
undoubtedly called “one lucky redskin”)—all inhabit the same tipi,
a lodge it is grandiloquently called in the periodicals but it is
certainly not to be mistaken for Father’s hunting lodge on the
lake—it is actually nothing more than a large round tent, possibly
fifteen feet in diameter—you’ve undoubtedly seen artists’
renderings of these primitive habitations—made from buffalo hides
and painted with crude aboriginal designs. The floor is earth,
there is a fire ring in the center, and our “beds” if such they may
be called, are animal skins spread atop tree boughs and leaves,
each with a wooden-framed backrest for reclining in a sitting
position if one wishes … somewhat like a divan. Well, I must admit,
finally, that this arrangement is not entirely without its comforts
once one grows accustomed to life without furniture and to sleeping
on the ground.
There are, I may have neglected to
mention not only we three women, and the Chief himself, but a young
girl, named Pretty Walker, presumably the Chief’s daughter by his
first marriage, a young boy who looks after the horses and who I
take to be an orphan, and an old crone, who looks exactly like the
witch of childhood nightmares, with a large hooked nose and who
serves the function of tent organizer and enforcer; she stands
guard immediately inside and to the left of the entranceway to the
tent, and brandishes a large wooden club at the slightest
infraction of a multitude of complicated tipi “rules and
regulations” with which I am still not completely
familiar.
And finally, completing our big happy
family is an infant child, the progeny of the second wife, Feather
on Head. The child is so perfectly quiet that I actually lived in
the lodge for several days before I was aware of his existence.
Indian babies do not cry as do our own; it is quite extraordinary,
they are rather like deer fawns, not uttering a sound to give them
away. Too, I think his mother may, out of some sort of protective
maternal instinct, have intentionally kept the child hidden from me
for the first few days of my residency … oh, Hortense, when I
discovered the baby, or I should say, when Feather on Head finally
revealed him to me, how my heart ached, a bittersweet ache of joy
at the sight of this tiny infant, and of longing for my own two
dears … how clearly he brought them back, their pinched smiling
faces … will I ever see them again?
The child took to me immediately; as
you know I have always had an affinity for babies—hah! yes I know,
both with bearing them and with caring for them … He smiled up at
me, truly a little cherub, brown as a chestnut, his eyes as bright
as copper pennies, and when Feather on Head witnessed her son’s and
my obvious mutual affection she became instantly warm toward me.
She softened and smiled shyly and we have since become quite
friendly, my first friend so far among the Cheyennes! Although
perforce our ability to communicate is yet limited by the language
barrier. Feather on Head is helping me greatly with my sign
language, and although I am trying to make some sense of the
Cheyenne tongue itself, I think that I shall never be able to speak
it. It is a language that often appears to be without vowels—a
language of the crudest sounds rather than words—hisses, grunts,
and ululations—strange noises that seem to issue from some older
and more primitive earth than the one you and I inhabit. Or I
should say than you inhabit …
I have recently discovered that a few
of the savages do possess an extremely limited command of the
English language and even more of them appear to be decently
proficient in a kind of bastardized French—which they first learned
some years ago from the old-time French fur trappers and traders,
and which has been passed down as a kind of patois, barely
comprehensible to us but certainly more so than their native
tongue. How I wish you could hear their accents, dear sister! The
first time this abomination assaulted my ears I didn’t even
recognize it as the French language —but at least it sounded
vaguely familiar. Fortunately, there is one French girl among us, a
very pretty dark-haired girl named Marie Blanche de Bretonne, who
was touring America with her parents when they were tragically
killed by thieves in our fair city of Chicago. Truly, no one is
safe any longer in this world. While still in shock and mourning,
the poor girl, alone in a strange city, stranded thousands of miles
from home, signed up for this program. Like many of our little
group, I’m afraid that she is having second thoughts about the
matter … In any case it was through Marie Blanche that we first
discovered the Cheyennes’ ability to speak French, if indeed we may
call it that. Why, Hortense, truly it would be enough to make our
childhood tutor, Madame Bouvier, turn over in her grave. You
remember what a stickler she was for pronunciation? how she would
rap our knuckles with her pointer when we got it wrong, and say
“Zat eees eencarrect, mademoiselle” … But I digress,
n’est-ce pas? I must stop
recalling the past, which comes back to me so vividly when I write
to you, as if this new life is but a dream and you, still living in
the real world, are trying to pull me back … too late, alas, too
late … would that it could be so …
As you might imagine it is hardly an
enviable position to find oneself in the home (the word “home” I’m
afraid does not properly conjure our bizarre living arrangements)
of another woman—in this case, two women—as the soon-to-be third
bride of their husband. The older wife, Quiet One, has been far
less accepting of me than young Feather on Head. Some nights I lie
awake on my bed (such as it is) in mortal fear that she will cut my
throat with a knife if I dare to fall asleep …
The situation is awkward to say the
least. Indeed the word “awkward” hardly describes it. Yes, well we
are people from such different … backgrounds … God, I sound just
like Mother when she would lecture us all those years ago about
playing with the servant children … I begin to understand that this
experience requires a new vocabulary altogether—trying to explain
it to you would be like trying to describe the world of Shakespeare
to the savages … the words don’t exist, language fails … John
Bourke was right …
Yes, well let me try again. We live in
a tent—why mince words, a tent made of animal hides—three wives, a
girl, an old crone, an infant child, a young orphan boy, who seems
to have been adopted by the Chief’s family and who cares for the
Chief’s considerable string of horses and sometimes helps the women
with the chores, and this man Little Wolf, who is a great Chief of
his people.
It is quite a spacious tent, as tents
go, I’ll say that for it. I have my own charming little corner
space … if it is possible to have corners in a round tent … where I
sleep upon a bed of pine boughs, animal hides, and trade blankets.
The odors in our “home” are quite indescribable—a word that I find
myself using often in my attempts at rendering these little scenes
on paper. There are the odors of human bodies, of the earth beneath
us, of the animal skins used as bedding, of the smoke from the fire
… Added to these, if the wives have been cooking (which they seem
perpetually in the process of doing, for the savages do not seem to
observe the custom of breakfast, dinner, and supper at regular
hours as we do, but rather eat whenever they are hungry so that
there must always be food available) there is generally also an
odor inside the tent of food being prepared. Sometimes the cooking
scents are actually appetizing, at other times the stench rising
from the pot is so perfectly revolting that I can hardly bear it, I
feel that I shall be sick and must stumble outside and gasp fresh
air and I know that I shall go hungry that day. As you know,
Hortense, I have always been interested in the culinary arts as a
recreational pastime, but I have not yet offered my services in the
“kitchen” such as it is (another excellent example of the
inadequacies of language) nor indeed have I been asked to help with
meal preparation. However, if I am to live here among these people
I fully intend to take a turn at the stove … the fire … Perhaps I
will make my tentmates a lovely little French dish, say a
delightful Coq au Vin … Harry’s favorite repast … though, of
course, the first question that presents itself is where might I
obtain a decent bottle of French burgundy wine? Or for that matter,
any bottle of wine … Hah! … But now I allow myself to drift off
again into thoughts of that old life, which can only make this new
one so much more precarious and difficult, and …
insupportable.
Now then, dearest sister, on the
brighter side. It has finally been determined that we are to be wed
with the others in a group ceremony tomorrow evening. Reverend
Hare, an enormous Episcopalian missionary who has accompanied us
into the wilderness, will be performing the Christian services.
Would that you were here to act as my bridesmaid! Ah, how I love to
imagine the family all gathered together … staying in our … guest
tent! Father thin-lipped and appalled, Mother alternately weeping
and swooning in abject horror of the heathens. Why, we’d be
administering smelling salts to her every quarter hour! God, what
fun it would be! I, who have always had such a talent for shocking
the family, have this time truly outdone myself, wouldn’t you
agree?
As I understand it this mass wedding
is an unprecedented event and one that does not fit neatly into any
of the established ceremonies of the Cheyennes. For the savages,
the giving of horses, a feast, and a dance are all that is required
to seal the marriage union, it being a simple agreement between the
two parties—much as Harry and I took up our life together. Being
neither of a particularly religious bent myself, nor, as you know,
much interested in the institution of marriage, I find this
arrangement to be quite adequate.
However, the addition of Christian
nuptials into the upcoming ceremony has got things all complicated
both among our women and among the Indians. The savages are unable
to reach consensus on even the smallest matters without hours of
incredibly laborious deliberation. Now after much “powwowing” and
smoking of pipes with Reverend Hare (in this one regard it strikes
me that men of all races are similar), the parties seem finally to
have come to terms.
In this same way, the savages are
absolute sticklers for protocol—some of their customs so peculiar
as to simply defy description. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t
violate some bizarre cultural tabu or other. For instance, it
appears that when seated in the lodge the well-brought-up Indian
maiden is expected to sit with her feet pointing to the
right—except in the case of one particular band to which some of
our women have gone and which is encamped slightly separated from
the main camp and in which the women are noted for sitting with
their feet pointing to the left. Yes, well, I have absolutely no
idea how or why these preposterous customs became established in
the first place, but the savages take them with the utmost
seriousness. My Captain Bourke says that these are due to their
innately superstitious nature. On my very first day here, I
immediately cast my feet in the wrong direction and there suddenly
issued from the women in our tent all manner of disapproving
clucking and general distress. The old crone went so far as to wave
her stick at me, jabbering like a mad hen. Of course I pay no
attention to the position of my feet and shall continue to sit in
the lodge with them pointing in whatever direction I damn well
choose—regardless of the deep anxiety this appears to cause my
tentmates. So you see, Hortense, just as in my “old” life, I am
already a fly in the ointment of savage society, already rocking
the conventional boat, already considered to be something of a
scandal … which has always seemed to be my mission in whatever
culture I live, does it not?
Ah, but here was a lovely surprise: My
fellow wives have sewn for me the most beautiful wedding gown upon
which I have ever gazed. It is made of antelope hide—the softest
skin imaginable—sewn with sinew thread and intricately embroidered
with beads and porcupine quills, and dyed with the essence of roots
in exquisite colors and designs. I was completely flabbergasted—and
very much touched—when they presented it to me, for it must clearly
represent hundreds of hours of the most intensive labor imaginable
and would seem to indicate that they have accepted me into their
family—and in very gracious fashion, indeed. It is, I understand,
common practice for the bride’s family to make for her an elaborate
wedding dress, but as we are all without our families here, other
women of the tribe have taken it upon themselves to dress us
properly for the occasion. In fact, all of our other women have
also been presented with wedding dresses—in most cases made for
them by the sisters and mothers of their intended. I may surely be
prejudiced in the matter, but of those dresses I’ve seen so far,
mine is by far the most beautiful, certainly the most elaborately
decorated. Perhaps because I am to marry the great Chief, special
attention was taken in its creation … Even the sullen and
unfriendly Quiet One participated in the making of this gown—which
is not to suggest that she is warming in any way to my
presence.
As you might well imagine, I and most
of the other ladies have balked at giving up our own clothing in
favor of the savage attire. The clothes and meager personal
possessions which we have brought with us into this wilderness
represent our last connection to the civilized world, so we are
naturally reluctant to part with them—for fear that once we don
savage garb, we become perforce savages—not just the brides of
savages, but savages ourselves. This is, you understand, an
important distinction … Some in our group are so intent on keeping
up their attire and toilet, no matter how inappropriate these may
be, that they can sometimes be seen promenading through the
camp—little gaggles of our ladies strolling and chatting and
twirling their parasols as if on a garden tour, trying desperately
to appear oblivious to our present circumstances. I think that they
are quite mad—indeed, some of them really are mad—but while I
personally have decided to give up such attempts to forge
civilization out of wilderness, I must admit that I have not quite
yet resigned myself to dressing exclusively in animal
skins.
Fortunately, the Cheyennes are
traders, as well as hunters, and some of their attire is not so
terribly different from our own. They have available, for instance,
cloth and blankets and buttons, and other articles from our world.
Indeed, some of the men dress quite ludicrously in bits and pieces
of white man’s clothing, wearing altered U.S. Army uniforms, and
hats—all misshapen and with the tops cut out and eagle feathers
protruding from them. This gives the Indians who affect this attire
the appearance of children playing dress up; they look more like
carnival clowns than soldiers—their outfits bizarre hybrids of the
two cultures …
I’m pleased to report that my own
intended dresses very modestly in traditional Indian garb. The only
white man article which he affects is a large silver peace medal
around his neck, a gift from President Grant himself.
But I seem to be rambling again …
where was I? Ah, yes, with the exception of Miss White and some of
her more strident followers we are to be married in traditional
Cheyenne wedding gowns. We are to be dressed prior to the feast by
our Cheyenne “mothers” and “sisters,” literally stripped of our
civilized clothing and dressed as savages—this is difficult to
describe to you Hortense and, I’m certain even more difficult for
you to understand, but the prospect is somehow both … terrifying
and exhilarating.
Without intending to keep you in undue
suspense, I shall continue this correspondence after I am
officially a bride … right now there is much to do.
Good God, Hortense, so much to tell
you, I am only now, two days later awakening from the experience …
I am still not myself, fear that I shall never again be the same. I
have been drugged, my senses assaulted, my very being stripped to
its primitive core … its savage heart … where to begin …
?
The music … still beats in my mind,
throbs through my body … dancers whirling in the firelight …
coyotes on the hilltops and ridges, taking up the song beneath the
moon …
Forgive me, dear sister, but I fell
back into a deep slumber after my last incoherent ramblings … I
must have slept the full day and night round and I woke feeling
better, stronger, a child grows inside of me … is it possible? Or
have I only dreamed this, too …
Yes, the scene of our wedding night is
even more vividly etched now in my mind … let me describe it to
you:
The moon was full in the sky; it rose
early before the sun had set and did not set again until after the
sun rose; the moon spent the entire night crossing the sky,
illuminating the dancers in an unearthly glow, casting their
shadows across the plains as if the earth itself danced … all who
danced lit by moonlight.
We spent nearly the full day of the
wedding in our lodges being dressed by the women, ornaments and
totems hung from our clothing and from our hair, our faces painted
with bizarre designs so that we would hardly recognize one another
later under the pure white moon … perhaps this was just as well,
perhaps our painted faces were meant as disguises, allowing each of
us, savage and civilized alike, to act out these pagan rites in
anonymity. It is true that several days later—or so I feel it to be
for I have lost all track of time—we “civilized” women are hardly
able to look one another in the eye for the madness that overcame
us.
The men had recently returned from a
successful buffalo hunt—stupidly, it had never occurred to me that
the Cheyennes had been waiting for that good fortune to befall them
before scheduling the wedding feast, because of course, without the
bounty of the hunt, it would be a poor feast, indeed. Clearly, I
have as much to learn about the ways of subsistence living as they
do about those of civilization.
As it was, individual feasts were held
in virtually every lodge in the camp, a kind of large, communal,
movable feast. There was a vast amount of food, much of it
surprisingly palatable. The first wife, Quiet One, is renowned in
the camp for her talents as a cook and outdid herself on this
occasion. She roasted the tender ribs and liver of the buffalo over
coals, and boiled the tongue, and from another pot served a stew of
meat and the wild turnips referred to by their French name,
pommes blanches. There
were other roots and various spring greens with which I am not
familiar by name, but all quite interesting to the taste. We
“brides” were not allowed to lift a finger—to the point that even
our food was cut up for us in small morsels and hand-fed to us by
our Indian attendants, as if they were trying to conserve our
strength … now I understand why.
There was one particular dish that I
must tell you about, a dish that most of our women, myself
included, were unable to tolerate. Too horrible! Too despicable!
Boiled dog! Yes, yes, choked pup! It is considered a great
delicacy, saved for just such a special occasion as our wedding. My
friend Feather on Head who served the older one as a kind of
sous chef, performed the
gruesome task of wringing the little puppy’s neck just prior to
cooking —which she did with her bare hands as casually as if she
was wringing out a dishcloth. My God! When I tried to intervene, to
rescue the poor little thing from her death grip, she merely
laughed and pulled away and continued her stranglehold until the
flailing puppy was limp and lifeless. It was then scalded in
boiling water, scraped of hair, gutted, and roasted over the fire,
and all present made such a fuss about its culinary qualities with
much satisfied oohing and ahhing and general lip-smacking. I could
not bring myself to taste the dog meat—even its odor while cooking
sickened me.
Our tipi was crowded with twelve
people exactly, the majority of them clearly chosen because they
were poor. You would know little about this, Hortense, because you
have led such a sheltered and privileged life, but there is a
universality to poverty that transcends culture; just as in our own
society, there are among the savages both rich and poor—those who
are successful hunters and providers who live in well-appointed
lodges with many hides and robes and have a good string of horses,
and those who have little and depend on the largesse of their
neighbors. And never have I seen a more generous, selfless people
than these. I believe that those unfortunates who came to our lodge
that night—there, you see, already I begin to take a proprietary
interest in my living quarters!—were the families of men who had
been killed in battle, or possibly the families of some of those
poor wretches whom we had encountered at the forts—the drunks and
beggars who had deserted their wives and children … one can’t help
but wonder what we are doing to these people that their lives and
livelihoods unravel so with our presence—“spoiled” by contact with
us, as the Captain put it …
It seems to be a primary duty of my
husband … how strange to say … my husband Little Wolf … as head
Chief to look after the poor of his people. Several women brought
children of various ages with them to the feast; they sat quietly
in the back of the lodge, silently accepting the food their mothers
passed them.
After all had eaten, the younger
children, sated, fell asleep on the robes, the men passed a pipe
and told stories, which of course, I could not understand, but to
which the older children listened raptly. Possibly it was the
effect of the food, or the warmth inside the lodge, or simply the
soft murmuring of the men’s voices—I confess that I am beginning to
find the language less objectionable; it possesses a certain rhythm
and cadence that though primitive is no longer so displeasing to
the ear—I began to fall into a kind of trance, a state that was
like sleep, but I was not asleep, just floating as if in a dream,
as if drugged.
Then by some unspoken signal, everyone
began to leave the lodges to assemble in the communal circle around
which the tents are strategically placed … this is, I suppose
something like our own town square, but of course round rather than
square. All is round in this strange new world … The musicians
(yes, well, again I must use the term loosely for they would hardly
be confused for the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra!), and the
singers and dancers also began to assemble. Our own women gathered
in small clusters to inspect each other’s “wedding gowns,” to
marvel at each other’s painted faces and outlandish costumes. My
friend Martha was made up to look like a badger—an uncanny
resemblance—with a black mask and white stripe down her forehead
and nose. I have no idea for what purpose, but the savages have
some meaning for everything. For my part half my face was painted
black with white stars forming constellations on my cheeks and the
full moon on my forehead, the other side of my face was painted all
white with a blue river meandering its length. “You are the day and
night,” Martha said strangely, marveling, she too appearing to be
in some kind of narcotic stupor. “You are the heavens and the
earth!”
“Aye, and we’re a pair of foxes we
are, Meggie!” said the Kelly sister Susan appreciatively. Surely
the red-haired Irish twins were no less identical got up with real
fox heads attached to their hair and fox tails pinned to their
rears. An uncanny likeness, and knowing something of the girls’
wily natures, a stroke of pure genius on the part of the
heathens.
But perhaps most striking of our group
was the Negro Phemie, her entire face and body painted white with
brilliant red stripes running up her arms, around her neck and
eyes, her full Negro lips painted crimson, even her hair painted
blood red—my God, she was magnificent to behold … a savage dream
goddess.
Now appeared the holy man they call
Dog Woman and his apprentice, named Bridge Girl—also a
he’emnane’e, as these
half-men/half-women are called. Two stranger creatures I have never
before laid eyes upon! The young apprentice, Bridge Girl, speaks in
the soft, high voice of a female, but is clearly a young boy. The
older man, too, is effeminate in both voice and gesture. Yes, well
we’ve seen similar people on the streets of Chicago—Nancy Boys,
Father refers to them.
Now these two set about organizing the
dancers, which they did with great solemnity and skill. The
men/women are said to possess special abilities at matchmaking and
are very popular with the young people, their advice in matters of
the heart much sought after. For they know everything of both
sexes.
Now at last the music began—an entire
savage orchestra! Flute players, drum beaters, gourd shakers … a
primitive symphony, to be sure, that makes for a crude harmony …
but one with an undeniably rhythmic power. Then the singers took up
the song, the eeriest song I’ve ever heard, the higher notes of the
women floating lightly over the deeper tones of the men, a
throbbing steady repetitive beat like a riffle running into a pool
… it sent chills up my spine and in concert with the otherworldly
music actually caused a number of our women to swoon dead away,
they had to be revived by the fire—a huge bonfire that had been
built in the center of the circle, flames and sparks leaping into
the night sky, licking the heavens … I assure you, dear sister, not
even the lunatic asylum in full riot could prepare one for this
bizarre spectacle …
Dog Woman announced the different
dances, sometimes gently scolding the young people if they did not
perform the steps exactly right. Truly, she reminded me of old Miss
Williams at our dancing school in Chicago—you remember her don’t
you, Hortense? … you see, still I clutch these memories to draw me
back, to keep me from going completely mad in the face of this
assault on our sensibilities …
The children sat in the back behind
the adults on the outside of the circle, watching raptly, beating
time with their hands and feet, their faces shining in the
moonlight, the flames from the fire sparking in their slate-colored
eyes, flickering golden in their oiled black hair.
Now the huge Reverend Hare resplendent
in his white clerical gown made his grand entrance. He held his
Bible aloft for all to see. Although the savages cannot read, they
know it to be a sacred text—being a people to whom totemic objects
are of utmost importance—and many crowded around him trying to
touch it. The Reverend called out and the grooms began to appear
out of the shadows of the fire, seemed to issue from the flames
themselves like phantoms. I am to this day not absolutely certain
that we had not been unwittingly drugged during the feast, for we
all remarked later on the dreamlike state we felt.
If we brides considered ourselves to
be elaborately made up for the occasion, the grooms were even more
fantastically painted and adorned. It was difficult even to
identify some of them and many of our women had simply to take as
an article of faith the fact that the man standing beside them was
really their intended. I did recognize my Chief Little Wolf, who
wore a headdress with buffalo horns on either side, black raven
feathers surrounding his head, ringed by eagle feathers, spilling
like a tail down his back. He wore spotless new beaded moccasins, a
fine deerskin shirt artfully trimmed with what, I now realize, can
only have been human hair. Over his shoulders he wore a buffalo
robe that had been painted red and was adorned with all manner of
intricate designs. In one hand he carried a red rattle, which he
shook softly in time to the music, and in the other a lance trimmed
with soft fur. He was a picture of savage splendor, and in my
altered state of mind, I felt oddly proud to be standing beside
him. Well, after all, isn’t this how a girl is supposed to feel on
her wedding day?
Over the sound of the music and with
the dancers still performing in the background, Reverend Hare began
reciting the Christian wedding vows. Whatever else may be said of
the man he has a commanding and sonorous speaking voice, which
managed to rise above the music:
“Dearly beloved we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company to join together these men and these women in holy matrimony …”
And each verse, the Reverend repeated
in Cheyenne.
“Into this holy estate these couples present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace …”
Did Captain John G. Bourke swoop into
the camp at this moment atop his big white horse and snatch me away
from these proceedings, carry me off to live in a little house set
in a grove of cottonwoods on the edge of a meadow, by the banks of
a creek, at which safe harbor I would be reunited with my own sweet
babies and bear others by my dashing Captain and there live out my
life as a good Christian wife and devoted mother? No, alas, he did
not … Did I pray fervently that at this very moment in the ceremony
of matrimony, my Captain would rescue me thusly? … Yes … I did, I
confess that I did … God help me.
“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
When the Reverend uttered his
translation of this last verse, a collective “houing” arose from the grooms, a strange
noise like an unearthly wind blowing through the
assemblage.
“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, no long as ye both shall live?”
There was a long pause here before
there came from among us a scattering of “I will’s,” some of them
barely more than murmurs, remarkable for their general lack of
conviction. I know, too, that a number of our women did not answer
the question at all, but left it hanging there in limbo as their
final escape …
“And to those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Foreasmuch as these men and women have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by joining hands; I pronounce, that they are Husband and Wife; in the name of the Father, and of the Son; and of the Holy Ghost … Amen.”
And then it was done … A stunned
silence fell over our company of women as the full import of this
momentous occasion made itself felt. The grooms, seemingly less
impressed by their new matrimonial state, faded back into the
shadows from whence they came, to rejoin the dancers. Meanwhile we
brides came together in small coveys and in some mental disorder,
to congratulate one another, or commiserate, whichever the case
might be, over our newly wedded state. Some wept, but I do not
believe that these were tears of joy. All wondered what was to come
now …
“Are we truly married, Father, in the
eyes of God?” asked the strange woman, “Black Ada” Ware, of the
Reverend. She was dressed still in mourning for her wedding, her
black veil in place. “Is it so?”
All gathered about, I think hoping
that the large Reverend might relieve our minds by telling us that,
no, it had been nothing more than a sham ceremony, we were not
truly married to these foreign creatures …
“Have I married a damn
niggah?” asked Daisy
Lovelace who had also declined to be attired by our hosts and who
wore, by contrast, a stunning white lace wedding gown which she had
brought with her especially for the occasion. Now the woman pulled
her silver flask from under her dress and took a long
swallow.
“That’s certainly a lovely wedding
gown, Miss Lovelace,” said Martha, who seemed still to be in a sort
of trance.
“It belonged to my dear departed
Motha,” said the woman.
“Ah was to wear this gown,
myself, when Ah married
Mr. Wesley Chestnut of Albany, Georgia. But after Daddy lost
everything in the wah, Mr.
Chestnut had a sudden change a heart, if you know what Ah
mean.
“If Motha and Daddy could only see their little baby girl
now,” she said, “havin’ entered into holy matrimony with a
gentleman with the deeply unfortunate name of Müstah Bluuddy Fuuuut” (her husband’s
descriptive name, in fact, was gained by the actions of her brave
little dog, Fern Louise). “My Gawd!” And then the woman began to laugh,
and suddenly I felt a new sympathy toward her, I understood fully
and for the first time why she had signed up for this program; she
had lost her fortune, had been left standing at the altar by a cad,
and was quite possibly no longer as young as she claimed. For all
her ugly bigotry, I began to like Miss Lovelace infinitely better
for the touching fact that she had brought her mother’s wedding
gown along with her on this adventure. It proved that for all her
apparent cynicism she still held on to hopes, dreams. And I began
to laugh with her at the sheer absurdity of our situation, and soon
all of us were laughing, looking at each other, some of us made up
like demons from hell, married now to barbarians, we laughed until
tears ran down our grotesquely painted faces. Yes, surely we had
been drugged …
After we had spent ourselves laughing
and the strange reality of our situation had once again insinuated
itself into our befuddled consciousnesses, we wiped our tears and
gathered in little coveys, clustered together for protection like
confused chickens—indeed, that’s what we most resembled, with our
painted faces and our colorfully ornamented dresses.
We were naturally shy to take up the
dance, but true to her nature, our brave good Phemie was the first
to join in. “I must show them how an Ashanti dances,” she said to
us in her sonorous voice. “The way my mother taught me.” For a
moment all the Cheyenne dancers paused to watch our bold and
unashamed Negress, as she took her place in the dance line. We were
very proud of her. She did not dance in the same style as the
Indians … in fact she was a superior dancer, her step sinuous and
graceful, her long legs flashing beneath her dress, she pranced and
whirled to the pulsing beat—but careful to follow the steps to the
dance, as specified by a stern Dog Woman—who tolerated no
unauthorized variations. A general murmuring of approval ran among
the Indians who spectated, and then I believe that the dancing
became even freer and more frenzied.
“My, that big niggah girl can surely dance,” said Daisy
Lovelace. “Daddy, God rest his soul, always did say they had
special rhythm. Enabuddy
care for a little sip a medicine,” she asked, holding out her
flask.
“Aye, I’ll have a wee nip of it,
shoore,” said Meggie Kelly. “Loosens my dancin’
feet, it does.” And she took the flask from Daisy and took a quick
pull, making a small grimace and passing it to her sister.
“T’isn’t Irish whiskey,
that’s sartain, Susie, but
under the circumstances, it’ll’ave to do.”
And then the Kelly sisters themselves
melted into the dance—a more fearless pair of twins you could not
hope to find; they hiked their skirts up and performed a kind of
lively Irish jig to the music. Which made old Dog Woman crazy with
anxiety at the impropriety of their steps!
“Oh vat
de hell, I tink I may as vell join een, too!” announced dear homely Gretchen,
encouraged by the twins’ boldness. “I ben watching, I tink I learn de steps now.” Gretchen was herself painted
up in dark earth tones and wrapped in a rare blond buffalo robe
adorned with primitive designs. Indeed, she resembled nothing so
much as an enormous buffalo cow. Now she entered the dance line
herself, God bless her. “Yah!” she called out with her typical
gusto, “Yah!” and she took
up the step with a heavy Slavic polkalike gait, a bovine
gracelessness that provided additional humor to the moment. Several
of us began to giggle watching her, covering our mouths with our
hands, and even some of the native dancers and spectators laughed
good-naturedly at her efforts. The savages are not without a sense
of humor, and nothing amuses them so much as the sight of someone
making a spectacle of herself.
“Lovely! Spiffing good dance!” said
Helen Flight, eyebrows raised in perpetual delight. Helen, who has
been given the Indian name, Woman Who Paints Birds, or just Bird
Woman, was got up very stylishly to look like a prairie chicken hen
with artfully placed feathers about her narrow hips and rump.
“Unfortunately I’ve never had the talent, myself,” she said. “That
is to say, my dearest companion, Mrs. Ann Hall, would never permit
me to dance at balls; she felt that I was always trying to lead the
men and that I was ‘conspicuously heavy of foot’—her words exactly,
I’m afraid.”
Miss Flight has already proven to be
somewhat scandalous to the natives for her habit of smoking a pipe
which, like the morning swim, is a savage activity very much
reserved for men—and, at that, is one undertaken with much ritual
and ceremony. Whereas Helen is liable to fire up her pipe at any
time and in any situation—causing the savages even more
consternation than when I sit in the tipi with my feet pointing the
wrong way! However, because of her considerable artistic skills,
which the heathens hold in the very highest esteem, they have
chosen to more or less tolerate Helen’s smoking. (A primer on
savage etiquette would be most useful to us all.)
Narcissa White came now among us,
nearly beside herself with Christian righteousness. Evidently her
religious beliefs do not permit dancing. “The recreation of the
Devil,” she objected. “His evil trick to inflame the passions and
overcome the intellect.”
“Thank Gawd for it,” said Daisy Lovelace. “What
would we do here with intellect, Nahcissa?”
Nor had Miss White allowed herself to
be dressed in native attire; she still wore her high-buttoned shoes
and high-collared missionary dress. “How can we possibly hope to
Christianize these poor creatures,” she asked, “if we allow
ourselves to sink to their level of degeneracy?”
“Narcissa,” I said, gently, “for once
why don’t you stop sermonizing and try to enjoy our wedding
reception. Look, even the Reverend is participating in the
festivities.” It was true that the Reverend had comfortably
ensconced himself fireside on a mound of buffalo robes, surrounded
by several of the Cheyenne holy men; he was eating as usual, and
chatting animatedly with his savage counterparts.
“Quite, May!” said Helen Flight. “We
shall have more than sufficient opportunity to instruct the savages
in the ways of civilization. At the present time, I say, ‘When in
Rome …’ Indeed my conspicuous heaviness of foot, notwithstanding,
if you don’t mind very much, ladies, I believe I’ll give it a try.
I have studied the grouse on the lek and this is one step I know.”
With which Helen, too, entered the dance line. “Oh, dear!” I heard
her call with delight as she was swallowed by the native dancers,
swept away in their midst under the moon until all I could see of
her were her hands waving gaily above her head.
“God help you, people,” whispered
Narcissa White in a small voice.
“Gawd,
Nahcissa,” drawled Daisy Lovelace, “Don’t be such a
damn stick in the mud.
This is our weddin’ night, we should all be celebratin’. Have a lil’ drink, why
don’t you.” Daisy held out
her flask, and seemed rather drunk herself. “We can repent
tomorah after we have made
passionate luuuve to our
niggah Injun boys
tonight,” she continued, “because Ah have a daaahk suspicion that tomorah we shall be most in need of
deevine forgiveness … .
But what the Hell, Ah
believe Ah’ll take a turn
on the dance floor mahself. I shall pretend that
Ah’m attendin’ the spring
debutante ball at the Mariposa Plantation. It is there that I came
out to society and where Ah danced away the most glorious night of my
life. Wesley Chestnut said Ah was the most beautiful girl at the ball …
and afterwards he kissed me for the first time out on the
veranda …” And poor Daisy
curtsied and held her arms out, as if joining an invisible partner,
and said in a soft dreamy voice, “Thank you, kind suh, Ah don’t maahnd if I do,” and she began to do a slow
waltz to the music, twirling in among the dancers, soon lost in
their midst.
And so, one by one, each of us, trying
to hold on to some precious recollection of our past, even if it
was only a familiar dance step—any thin lifeline to keep us from
falling completely into the abyss of savagery that was opening
beneath us—so we joined, one by one, the dance.
What a sight we must have made
whirling madly under the full moon … waltzes and jigs and polkas, a
lively cancan from our pretty little French girl, Marie Blanche—for
you see it did not matter what step we did, for all steps were the
same finally, faster and faster, a frenzy of color, motion and
sound, all the dancers now like breeding birds on the lek, plumage
puffed and ruffled, the cocks’ chests swelled, the hens’ backsides
half-turned teasing the air between them—we danced forward and
back, round and round—in the music could be heard the steady
booming drumming of the grouse, laid over the pulsing rhythmic
heartbeat of the earth, and in the singing could be heard the
elements of thunder, wind, and rain … this dance of earth. How the
gods watching must have enjoyed their creation.
And the music and singing filled the
sultry night air, washed out over the plains on the breeze so that
even the animals gathered on the hills around to watch and
listen—the coyotes and wolves took up the song, the bears and
antelope and elk appeared—their outlines distinct on the moonlit
horizon, and the children watched from behind the embers of the
fire, spellbound, a bit frightened by the power of madness they
beheld, and the old people watched, nodding to one another
approvingly.
We danced. We danced. The People
watched. The animals watched. The gods watched.
Some of the dancers danced all night,
for the music played on until the first light of dawn surprised the
setting moon. But most of us were claimed earlier by the families
of our new husbands; they surrounded us at some point, quietly and
without comment, and we followed, meek as lambs, as they led us
back to the lodges.
A new tipi had been erected just
outside the circle of the Little Wolf family lodges. To this I was
taken and at the entrance was made to sit on a soft trade blanket
spread on the ground there. Then several of the family members, who
included both of the Chief’s other wives as well as two young
female cousins and the Chief’s daughter Pretty Walker, grasped
corners of the blanket and wordlessly picked me up and carried me
through the entrance into the lodge—much like being carried over
the threshold as is our own custom—but by the groom’s family women
rather than the groom himself. Now I was set down in the new lodge,
beside a small fire that burned in the center. The buffalo-hide
walls were newly tanned as white as parchment paper and prettily
decorated with all manner of primitive drawings, some depicting the
hunt, others scenes of warfare, others of men and women in sexual
intimacies, of family life, children, and dogs, and still others
designs that I could not decipher but were perhaps images of the
heathens’ gods themselves.
After all had left me alone, I
breathed a great sigh of relief—privacy at last! How I hoped that
this was to be my own new home. I realized that it was the very
first time I had been completely alone since we had arrived here,
and what a wonderful luxury it seemed. Exhausted, I stretched out
on the soft blanket, before the warm fire, listening to the pulsing
music …
I fell then into a deep slumber and
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, shaking his gourd rattle, which made no sound, 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 thighs, the immutable pull of desire as he displayed to
me. I dreamed that I saw his manhood grow from beneath his
breechclout like a serpent as he danced and I lay on my stomach
breathing shallowly and pressing myself against the blanket,
feeling that I would explode there. I tried to reach to him but he
moved away and behind me and in my dream I could feel him brushing
my now naked rump as if with feathers, teasing and brushing so that
I became even more aroused. And then, still lying on my stomach I
raised my rump toward him, offered myself, and the brushing
intensified and I fell again to press against the blanket, a deep
pain of longing to be filled. And still he danced lightly,
soundlessly behind me, footsteps rising and falling. Now in my
dream a noise rose in my throat, like a sound issuing from another,
a sound I had never before heard and I raised my rump again higher
and made with it slow circular motion, an act of nature, and the
brushing of feathers came again and became finally the faintest
touch of flesh, a nipping at my neck, the serpent warm and dry fell
across my rump, gently rested between my legs with its own pulse
like a heartbeat, moving them apart, opening me, entering me slowly
and painlessly and pulling back and entering me again and pulling
back so that at last I thrust myself backward toward it as if to
capture it once and for all, to take it in. And then it entered me
deeply, completely, and the strange sound rose again in my throat
and my body trembled, shook, and bucked, and in my dream I was not
a human being any longer with a separate consciousness, but became
a part of something older and more primitive, truer … Like animals,
Bourke said … this is what he meant … like animals …
There the dream ended and I remember
nothing more until I woke up alone at dawn still lying facedown on
the blanket, still dressed in my deerhide wedding dress. I know
that it can only have been a dream, an erotic dream the likes of
which I had never before experienced. But I also know that, as if
by magic, a child now grows inside of me …
Well, Hortense, what else is there to
say of that night? Would that you could read these words—how
shocked you would be by the erotic details of my wedding night! It
amuses me to imagine you considering this description over a cup of
tea after you’ve sent Walter off to the bank and the children to
school. If only you could know to what depths the family’s actions
have driven me, finally, surely poor Harry Ames might seem like a
less unsuitable mate for your little sister. If only you could know
that your accusations against me have led me to a world more
lunatic than any you can possibly imagine.
Please give my regards to Mother and
Father, and tell them that I shall write to them soon. And kiss my
dearest babies for me … tell them that not a day passes, not a
moment when they are not in my heart and my thoughts … and that
soon they will have a new brother or sister and one day we shall
all be together …
I am, your loving sister,
May