One Thousand White Women (13 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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“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.

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