One Thousand White Women (16 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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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
 
 
The Devil Whiskey
 
“If there is a Hell on earth, being abroad in the camp … that night was like walking through its labyrinths. A few dancers still staggered by the dying firelight. Others had fallen down in a jumble of bodies around the fire; some struggled to regain their feet while others lay writhing on the ground. Throngs of drunken savages … jostled me as I pushed by. Naked couples copulated on the ground like animals. I stepped over them, pushed aside those who came up against me, and, when necessary, cleared a path by swinging my club. It was as if the whole world had fallen from grace, and we had been abandoned here to witness its final degradation.”
(from the journals of May Dodd)
 
 
So much to report … Yesterday, my husband … how strange it sounds … my husband, Little Wolf, came to our wedding lodge riding his horse, and leading mine, which was saddled. He trailed two packhorses one of which was laden with a parfleche—which is the Cheyenne version of our valise—a kind of folding case made of sturdy buffalo rawhide into which household possessions, cooking implements, food supplies etc, are packed. There are several of these parfleches, all of them elaborately painted, in the Chief’s lodge. He is obviously a “wealthy” man among his people, for “our” lodge is both larger and better appointed than that of many of the others in camp—as befits a great chief. As Captain Bourke had already explained to us, among the heathens he who owns the most horses is, by definition, the “wealthiest”—at least partly for the simple reason that the more horses one owns, the more goods and the larger lodge one is able to transport from place to place. Even Father, I think, would appreciate the simplicity of these savage economics.
Through the use of sign gestures, Little Wolf, his nut brown face less stern than usual, made it understood that I was to gather some belongings, that we were going off together.
“On our honeymoon, perhaps?” I asked laughing, but of course he did not understand me. I hurriedly put a few items of clothing and toiletries into a beaded buckskin pouch that had been left, along with other items, in my wedding lodge. I can only guess that these were gifts from Little Wolf’s family, for there was also a full set of Cheyenne woman’s clothing which included a pair of elaborately beaded deerskin moccasins, soft as butter, as well as a pair of leggings that fit over the latter, attaching with a strap just below the knee—somewhat like our own garter. The dress itself was made out of a similarly soft animal skin, sewn with sturdy sinew thread, and rather simply and tastefully decorated with beads and brass buttons. It has a slightly smoky, and not at all unpleasant odor from having been smoked over cottonwood coals in the tanning process. As part of our apprenticeship, we have watched the Cheyenne women fashion these garments in all stages. They are marvelously adept at their various crafts, which we are clearly expected to learn ourselves. In fact, one of our more fortunate ladies, Jeanette Parker, had been a professional seamstress in Chicago before being committed to the State Lunatic Asylum for murdering her husband in his sleep with a leather-stitching needle. I do not know if she is insane or not—and do not care—for it sounds to me as though the lout rather deserved his fate. Jeanette has greatly impressed the Cheyenne women with her sewing skills, having even taught them some stitches with which they were unfamiliar—as a consequence she is held in high esteem among them.
Owing to its smocklike construction, and the fact that the sleeves are open, somewhat like a cape, my new native dress is wonderfully comfortable, as are the leggings and moccasins—all have the effect of a kind of second, loose-fitting skin that lies rather sensuously over one’s own. Such practical attire makes our own clothes and shoes seem most constricting. I am very nearly prepared to give up the latter altogether. Even our cavalry-riding breeches seem by comparison overly confining.
But I digress: hurriedly I gathered together a few items, mounted my horse, Soldier, and rode out with my new husband.
The other wives watched us away, Quiet One, dutifully standing in front of her lodge, but still unable to bring herself to look at me. These last several days in my own quarters have provided a much-needed respite—for all of us I am certain. I can hardly fault the woman for her resentment of me and can only imagine what my own reaction would be were I in her position. I have learned that the young second wife, my friend Feather on Head, is the older’s sister, which is common among the Cheyennes and designed to help alleviate such stress between wives. At the same time not all of the Cheyennes are polygamous … theirs is a complicated culture, and we have much to learn about one another.
As we rode through the camp, my friend Martha came out of her tent, looking every bit the blushing bride. We had not seen each other since our wedding night, but from the glow on her face, I had a suspicion that hers had not been a disappointment. “Oh, May,” she said now, running alongside my horse to keep up, “we must speak. I was going to come see you today. Where are you off to?”
“I have no idea, Martha,” I said. “As you can see I am simply being a dutiful wife, following my husband. If I’m not mistaken, we’re off on our honeymoon!”
“A honeymoon? When will you be back?” Martha asked nervously. “What will I do without you?”
“I don’t know, dear,” I said, “but you’ll manage. You’ve done quite well without me in the past few days, haven’t you? I’m sure we won’t be away long.”
“May, I must ask you,” Martha said, the color rising in her cheeks. “How was your … your …”
I laughed. “My wedding night?”
“Yes! How was it? Was it strange? Was it wonderful?”
“It was like a dream,” I answered. “I’m not sure that it really happened.”
“Yes!” Martha said. “That’s exactly how mine was—like a dream. Were we drugged, May? I feel certain that I was drugged. Was I only dreaming, or did it really happen?”
“How did you feel the next morning?” I asked.
“Exhausted,” Martha said, “I was exhausted, but content … and I was … I was …” Now she blushed even more deeply as she hurried to keep up.
“Sore?” I finished for her. “Was there blood, Martha?”
“Yes,” she said. “You know that I was a virgin.”
“I would suggest then the possibility that it was more than a dream,” I said.
“Do you think it is somehow possible, May, that it was at once a dream but also actually happened?” Martha asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think that’s a fine way of putting it. Like this whole adventure, a dream that’s actually happening.”
Now we were at the edge of the village, and Martha, not wishing to go on further, stopped and said: “One last thing, May, did you see his face, did you … did you … were you facing your husband at the moment?”
I laughed. “No, I was like the female swallows we have been watching this spring, Martha, with my tail raised in the air.”
“Yes,” Martha cried, waving as we rode away from her, “yes, that’s it exactly! Good-bye then, May, dear friend. Don’t be away long; we need you right here.”
“You’ll be fine, Martha,” I called back to her. “You’ll be just fine. I’m sure we won’t be gone long. Such an adventure, isn’t it!”
Martha waved. “An adventure!” she called back.
And then we were away, swallowed by the immensity of prairie. I was not in the least bit apprehensive at leaving the others behind, and felt secure and perfectly safe in the company of my husband. It was a magnificent summer morning, the prairie in full bloom. Wildflowers of all varieties carpeted the rolling plains, the grass was brilliantly green and waved ever so slightly in a soft breeze, the meadowlarks sang, and in the willows and cottonwoods along the river birds of all kinds took up their morning songs.
As the village faded behind us, I turned on a rise to look back and saw the smoke from the morning fires curling above the tipis, the People going hither and yon about their morning business, the dogs barking, the boys herding the horses out into the meadows, the faint sounds of laughter and life, and suddenly I felt the keenest sense of place—of home—the very first time I have thought of it as such. It was as though I had to leave and look back in order to discover this perspective, in the way that one looks away and then back again at a painting to reaffirm its beauty. And when I did so, and for the first time, I was enveloped by a great sense of peace and contentment. I thought to myself “How extraordinarily fortunate I am.”
Yes, for all its savage strangeness and hardships, our new world seemed inexpressibly sweet on this morning; I marveled at how cunningly and perfectly these native people had folded themselves into the earth, into the countryside; they seem as much a part of this prairie landscape as the spring grass. One can’t help but feel that they belong here as an integral part of the painting …
For the first quarter of an hour, Little Wolf rode well ahead of me, leading the pair of packhorses. He did not speak, nor even turn to check my progress. Finally I nudged my horse forward with my heels and broke into a canter (never have I more fully appreciated the riding lessons that Mother made us take as children! for I am quite comfortable on horseback—a skill that will obviously be of no small usefulness here). I pulled up abreast of the Chief, who looked surprised, and possibly mildly annoyed—as if I were violating yet another point of heathen etiquette.
“I am a New American woman,” I said to him, settling my mount into the same gait as his, “and I have no intention of riding twenty paces behind you the whole day long.” I know that Little Wolf could not understand my words but I gestured between our horses, to suggest their position side by side and then I gestured between the two of us, and I smiled. And the Chief seemed to consider this, and then he nodded as if he understood and smiled back at me. Yes, we had made a genuine communication! I was very pleased.
I believe now that the Chief has orchestrated this sojourn as a way for us to become acquainted, and, possibly also as a way for him to show me a bit of his countryside. We made camp early yesterday afternoon in a copse of cottonwoods along a creek—the name of which I do not know. The Chief has brought a small hide covering that we strung as shelter between willow branches in case of rain, though the weather has remained clear and mild. Beneath this we made beds of grass, covered by buffalo robes. After we set our camp, I gathered wood in the creek bottom for the fire, happy to be afoot again after a day on horseback.
Little Wolf carried a small rawhide bag containing steel, flint, and a piece of buffalo dung from which he would break a piece and pulverize it to serve as kindling. It seemed terribly ingenious to me how quickly he could spark a fire, to which he would add grass and twigs and soon we had a true blaze over which to cook and take the night chill off.
For our dinner we roasted pintailed grouse that the Chief had killed with his bow earlier in the day, right from the back of his horse, one after the next, when the covey flushed in front of us. Even Father would have been impressed with his marksmanship; I can hardly wait to describe it to Helen Flight; I swear a man (or woman) with a firearm could not have been quicker or truer.
The birds were quite delicious: I stuffed them with tender wild onions and herbs that I had gathered during our day’s prairie idyll. Thanks to the education provided by our Indian “mothers” I have become rather adept at identifying some of the edible plants.
This is the first time that we have passed truly alone together, and I think we were both a bit shy at first. However, I have finally devised a means of overcoming the nearly constant frustration of trying to make myself understood, by simply giving up to it. I now babble away in English to Little Wolf, saying whatever nonsense springs to mind—for as he cannot understand me what difference does it make? I must have told him my entire life story last night—I told him about Harry and our children and life in the institution; I told him about Father and Mother, and sister Hortense. I told him about Captain Bourke. I told him everything and I felt the strangest sense of liberation in the unburdening. Little Wolf listened patiently, or at least he appeared to be listening, even if he could not understand, he watched me as if he did, and nodded now and then, and finally even replied, speaking softly to me in his own language, although of course, I have no idea what he said. Thus we sat around our fire half the night, conversing, I, in English, and he in his native tongue, far more sparingly for he is hardly what one would call a loquacious man; I am certain that he, too, told me important things about his life, for sometimes he spoke quite animatedly. I listened carefully, trying to fathom a few words, to make some meaning of what he said, but it seemed that I understood him better when I simply let his words wash over me and did not try to decipher them. In this way, we forged a peculiar closeness: I believe that we both spoke what was in our hearts, and perhaps our hearts, if not our minds, understood one another.
This morning the Chief has gone out early to hunt, while I take this opportunity to record these events in my journal. It is a fine morning and the birds sing merrily in the cottonwoods. I am very comfortable wrapped in my buffalo robe and when the sun is a bit higher in the sky and the air warms, I shall go down to the banks of the creek and have my bath …
But dear God, I have had a terrifying encounter, my hand still trembles so to recall it that I can barely hold my pencil. Shortly after I made the preceding entry I went down to the creek. I was delighted to discover there a pool formed by a hot springs. Steam rose from it, and when I felt the water with my toe, it was wonderfully warm. My husband must have chosen this camping site for its proximity to the hot springs.
I removed my clothes as I always do now when bathing—having largely abandoned any pretense of modesty, nakedness being a natural state among the savages. I stepped into the pool, luxuriating in the warmth and silkiness of the water which had a slightly sulfurous odor and was of a perfect temperature. I floated on my back in a state of the purest relaxation.
Suddenly I had the disconcerting sense that I was not alone, that I was being watched. I lay motionless in the water, my heart beginning to pound with an inchoate but no less genuine fear. Finally I sat up, covering my breasts and looked quickly about me. Then I saw him—squatting as still as an animal on the bank was a man, if such he can be called—one of the most fearsome-looking creatures upon whom I have ever laid eyes. He had long matted hair that hung down almost to the ground where he sat, and thick swarthy features that seemed barely human, like those of a wild boar.

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