by Jim Fergus
“I want to go home, Meggie,” Susie said. “I can’t ever bear to look at the lads again, after what they’ve dooone.”
“Aye, Susie,” said Meggie. “Thar’s nooothin’ else to be doone, we’re finished here, that’s for shoooore. We’ll take the gaarls and leave faarst thing in the morning. Maybe we can find the Army and give ourselves ooop.”
But we all shared their guilt and their failure, and even Anthony’s quiet strength, calm counsel, and the prayers we said around his warm fire could not take the chill from our frozen hearts.
“What kind of God allows such things to happen?” I asked the young monk.
“A God who demands faith,” he said, “who gave His only son upon the cross that mankind might be saved.”
“Aye, and we aven’t learned a goddamned thing since, ’ave we now?” said Susie Kelly with a bitter laugh. “We’re gooood Catholic gaaarls, Meggie and me, Broother, but such a tarrable thing as this stretches our faith mighty thin.”
“Now your work among the pagans truly begins,” Anthony said. “To these innocent souls we must spread the word of God.”
It is nearly dawn now … some of the women have returned to their own lodges, others doze fitfully with their babies here in Anthony’s lodge. Unable to sleep all night myself, I sit here by the fire, recording these grim events. I look forward now to the arrival of the troops, so that they might escort us safely back to civilization …
And even still the drums and the music from the dance continue, the People have danced all through the night … a night none of us will ever forget. I prepare now to return to my own lodge …
1 March 1876
Yes, truly it is finished now, it is over, the soldiers have come with the breaking light of dawn like the vengeful hand of God to strike us down. I am shot, I fear that I am dying, the village destroyed and burning, the people driven naked into the hills to crouch like animals among the rocks. I have lost track of most of the others, some still alive, some dead, I have taken refuge in a shallow cave with Feather on Head, Quiet One, and Martha. Here we huddle together with our babies as the village burns below, a huge funeral pyre upon which the soldiers pile our belongings, everything that we own and all that we have—hides, furs, and blankets, meat and food supplies, saddles and ammunition—and upon these piles they place the bodies of our dead, and with burning torches set all aflame, they ignite our lodges which burst into flames like trees in a forest fire, the ammunition and kegs of gunpowder inside popping and exploding like fireworks … all that we have. Gone. It is the vision of Woman Who Moves Against the Wind come true … mankind is mad, all of us savages … are we punished for the babies? I cannot find Anthony to ask. I must ask Anthony … Anthony will know …
I am shot, I fear that I am dying, the breath rattles in my chest, blood bubbles from my mouth and nose. I must not die … forgive me my dear William and Hortense for abandoning you, I would have returned to you, truly I would have … if I die I pray that you may one day read these pages, know the truth of your mother’s life … know that she loved you and died thinking of you …
I must be quick now, I am so cold I can barely move the pencil across the page, my teeth chatter, the women and children and old people are scattered out among the rocks above the camp, Martha is with me, Quiet One, Feather on Head, our babies … I do not know where the others are, some are dead … many are dead …
As long as I have the strength, I shall continue to record these events …
This morning at dawn, just hours ago, I left Anthony’s lodge. I took my baby back to our own where I left her under the robes with Feather on Head. Then I went down to the river to where my little man Horse Boy tends the herd. The music from the dance had at last stopped, all had gone to their beds, silence had finally fallen over the camp. From a distance I heard the horses nickering nervously, I sensed that something was terribly wrong. I began to walk faster, dread rising like bile in my throat, faster, I began to run toward the river …
I stopped short when I saw him: Horse Boy stood wrapped in his blanket, stood straight as a statue of stone and there before him, mounted and leveling his pistol at the boy like an executioner, was Captain John G. Bourke. Beside him a lieutenant sat his horse, both their mounts as still as stone themselves but for the clouds of vapor they exhaled in the frozen dawn. Behind them, slipping like quicksilver down the draws and coulees, scrambling over the rocks, sliding down the embankments and bluffs, came dozens, hundreds, of mounted soldiers and Indians. I stepped forward. “John, what are you doing?” I cried out. “Put down your gun. He is only a boy. We are all prepared to surrender. Have you not seen our white flag flying.”
Bourke looked at me as if he had seen a ghost, with an expression of shock, giving way to horror, and then uncertainty. He hesitated, the gun trembled in his hand. “Good God, May, our scouts have told us that this is the village of the Sioux, Crazy Horse,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“This is the village of the Cheyennes,” I said, “Little Wolf’s village. My village. Didn’t Gertie tell you? Good God, John, put the gun down. He’s only a child.”
“It’s too late, May,” the Captain said. “The village is surrounded, the attack begins. Gertie is with another detachment. Our chief scout Seminole assured us that this is the village of the Sioux Chief Crazy Horse. Run the way we have come and hide yourself in the hills. I will find you later.”
“Shoot the boy, sir,” said the Lieutenant, impatient beside him. “Shoot him now before he cries out to warn the others.”
“Fools!” I cried, “Your shot will warn the others! John, for God’s sake, don’t do this thing. It is madness. This is the village of Little Wolf. We are prepared to surrender peacefully. We fly a white flag of surrender.”
Captain Bourke looked at the boy and then back at me. His dark, shadowed eyes went black as coal. “I am sorry, May,” he said. “I tried to warn you. We are at war, the attack begins, I have my orders. I am a soldier in the service of my country. Run and hide yourself.”
Bourke steadied the gun with a terrible cold certainty and pulled the trigger. Horse Boy crumpled like a rag to the ground, a bullet hole through the center of his forehead.
For a moment there was no other sound but that of the shot, echoing against the rocky bluffs; as if the earth itself stood still in disbelief. As if God in His Heaven had suspended time … John Bourke had murdered an unarmed child.
“Charge!” the Lieutenant beside him hollered, and then the gates of hell opened before us.
I ran, stumbling, slipping, falling in the snow, back to our lodge, just as the troops entered the village from both sides; I could think now only of my baby, I must save my child. All were by now alerted to the presence of the invaders whose horses thundered through the camp. Everywhere was gunfire, the screams of terror and death. My husband Little Wolf ran from the front entrance of our lodge carrying his carbine, he stopped to fire, ran, and stopped to fire, as did many of the other men, trying to draw the soldiers to them that the women and children might escape out the back of the lodges.
I ran into our lodge and scooped my baby into my arms. Quiet One slit the back of our tent with a knife, and held it open for Pretty Walker and Feather on Head, who carried her own child on its baby board. Before I went myself through the opening, I turned to old Crooked Nose. “Come, Vohkeesa’e, hurry!” I said to her.
But she bared her gums in a smile and shook her club and said in a calm voice, “You run, Mesoke, save your baby. I am an old woman and today is a good day to die.”
The old woman stepped out through the front entrance of the tipi and as I ran out the hole in the back, I turned to see her swing her club at a soldier riding past. The soldier lost his seat and flailed the air for purchase before hitting the ground with a thud as the old woman set upon him.
I turned and ran for my life. Clutching my baby to my breast, I followed the others toward the rocky bluffs that surrounded the village. All was mayhem and insanity, screams a
nd gunfire, the hollering of soldiers, the cries of our warriors and wails of terror from our women; I cried out for Martha, for Gretchen, for Daisy, but none could hear me over the general din, nor I them.
I caught one glimpse of Phemie, mounted on a white soldier’s horse, completely naked, black as death against the whiteness of snow, galloping down upon a soldier who was afoot and trying to extract his bayonet, which was lodged in the breastbone of one of our women. Phemie carried a lance and gave a bloodcurdling shriek that seemed not human and when the soldier looked up at her his eyes widened in terror as she bore down upon him. I turned again and ran following the others into the hills. As I ran I was suddenly knocked down from behind, sent sprawling as if swatted by a lodge pole; I pitched forward, trying to cushion my baby from the fall. But I regained my feet and ran on.
It was very cold, many of the women and children had run naked from their lodges, without time even to put on their moccasins, some of the women carried infants, trying to shield them from the cold with their bodies. Now in the bluffs, old men and women crouched shivering among the rocks. All looked for caves or depressions in which to hide themselves. Stampeded horses from our herd scrambled wild-eyed through the rocks, their hooves clattering in the dry frigid air. Some people had managed to catch a few of the horses and to slit their throats and then open their bellies to plunge their own frozen feet into the steaming entrails.
It was so cold that I feared for my daughter’s life. I held her against my skin inside my coat. Thank God that I had been dressed. I caught up at last with Pretty Walker, Feather on Head, and Quiet One, and together we came upon Martha; she, too, was nearly naked, crouched squatting like a trapped animal in the rocks, holding her son to her breast and rocking him back and forth. The baby was blue with cold. I knelt down and took him from Martha and placed him under my coat. He was like an icicle against my skin. Martha was so cold herself and shivering that she was unable to speak. I removed my coat and wrapped it around her and handed Wren to Feather on Head and also placed Martha’s child in the girl’s arms. “Hold her against your skin,” I said. I took the knife from the sheath at Quiet One’s waist and together we caught a mare by the mane as she clattered by. I swung onto the horse’s back as Quiet One tried to calm her. The mare slipped sideways and tried to keep her feet, and as she did so I leaned forward onto her neck and drew the knife quickly across her throat. There came a deep moan of escaping air and the mare dropped heavily to her knees. I leapt from her back before she toppled, the snow already darkening black with blood beneath her. Then she rolled onto her side, her flanks heaving, the terror in her eyes fading with the light. I slit open her belly with the knife, her steaming entrails spilling forth, and she tried once to rise but fell back dead and I took Martha’s son from beneath the robe and thrust him into the hot belly of the mare. “Thank you,” I whispered to her, “thank you, mother.”
Now Feather on Head and I helped Martha to the horse and we thrust her icy feet, too, into the entrails and at last she stopped her shivering and was able to speak. “My God, May,” she said looking at me, “you have been shot. You have been shot in the back.”
Now I knew what had knocked me down, and I unstrapped the notebook from my back; it must have absorbed some of the force of the bullet, which had passed completely through it and was now lodged in the flesh between my shoulder blades. “Oh May,” Martha said, and she began to weep, “you have been shot. Dear God!”
“Stop it, Martha,” I said sharply. “We must find shelter, we must build a fire.”
“There is no fuel,” Martha cried. “No, we shall all die here in these rocks. Oh my God, May, you have been shot. Our babies, our babies …” and she wept.
“Your son is fine, Martha,” I said. “Look how little Tangle Hair recovers in the warmth of the mare’s innards.” It was true. The baby was slick with blood and entrails so that he looked again like a newborn in a strange reverse birth process. But he was regaining his color and now he squalled lustily. “Look at him! How strong he is,” I said. “He will stay warm for hours there. But we must find shelter.”
My hands are nearly frozen now, my fingers cramp … I make these last notes from this shallow cave … we have no fire … we all freeze to death … my breath comes painfully in shallow rattles … bloody bubbles run from my lips.
Down below the flames from the burning village crackle in the cold dawn. From these rocks we envy the warmth of flames we see but cannot feel. All that is left when the fires burn down are smoldering piles of ash and rubble, the half-cremated bodies of those who did not escape. Surely some of our friends are down there among them, and their babies … God, forgive us all … God forgive mankind …
From these cold rocks we can see the camp dogs beginning to slink back into the village to pick among the ruins for scraps of meat. The still frigid morning air bears the odors of roasted meats, spent gunpowder, scorched hides, burnt flesh. There are still dozens of soldiers about in the village so that we are unable to go back down to scavenge with the dogs, perhaps find a scrap of meat for sustenance, a flame for warmth … a blanket …
The soldiers continue to pile our last remaining goods, and atop them place the bodies of our dead, setting each pile afire … the funeral pyres blaze cold and fast and burn down quickly to their charred remains.
Now and then from the hills around a puny shot rings out … from our warriors, but they are poorly armed and have little ammunition to waste.
“Good brave girl, May,” Martha says now, her teeth chattering again with the cold. “Good brave friend, you keep writing in your journal, you keep us alive as before, I love you so, my dear Friend.”
“And I you, Martha.”
“It is over, isn’t it?” she says in a small chattering voice. “All over, and for what?”
“For these children,” I answer. “Our babies must live. They will be all that remain of us, and they will be enough.”
“Let us go down now,” Martha says, “and give ourselves up to the soldiers. When they see that we are white women they will take us in.”
“They’ve killed us all, Martha,” I say, “whites and Indians. But perhaps their lust is sated now. You go if you like. Go now, my friend, take your son. Tell them who you are and beg the soldiers for mercy.”
“I’ll find Captain Bourke,” Martha says. “I’ll bring him back. He’ll help us. You wait for me here, May.”
“Yes, you go, Martha. I’m finished writing in my notebook now, and I must close my eyes for a moment … I am very tired … our little friend Sara lives in the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen, Martha, a beautiful river bottom in the spring where the sun shines warm and the birds sing … go now, my dear, dear friend … . Pretty Walker, Feather on Head, and Quiet One will sit here with me for a while … . I shall wait right here for you to return with Captain Bourke …
“Yes, go now. Hurry. Take your son. Tell the soldiers who we are and what they have done. Tell them that this is not the village of Crazy Horse, that this is the village of the great Cheyenne Chief Little Wolf. And tell Captain John Bourke this from me—he will recognize it: tell him ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child …’”
CODICIL
by Abbot Anthony of the Prairie Saint Anthony of the Desert Abbey Powder River, Montana November 15, 1926
What an extraordinary blessing! God is never in a hurry to divulge His secrets! To bestow His gifts! He has all the time in the world on His hands!
For over a half century I have known of the survival of the preceding journals. But I have told no one. Three days ago they were brought to me at my abbey not far from where the events of these final pages took place. They were delivered here by a young Cheyenne man named Harold Wild Plums, who lives on the nearby Tongue River Indian Reservation. I have known Harold since he was born. I baptized him when he was a child. He is the grandson of the author of these notebooks—May Dodd Little Wolf—Mesoke, as she was known by the Cheyennes. Harold is son of the one the Cheyennes
call Ve’keseheso, Wren, or Little Bird.
Over fifty years! How very different the West is today than it was in 1876. I pray that I am a different man, that I have given up some measure of the pridefulness of youth and in so doing have been blessed to draw closer to God in my old age. I am ill, nearly blind, and I do not have long to live. I wait with a heart full of joy and love to go at last and sit for eternity at the feet of my King. He calls to me. I am blessed to hear His voice, to see His hand in all things.
Truly I have been blessed with a perfect life of prayer and toil, of reading and study. With the sweat of my brow, the labor of my hands, the love of my God, I have been blessed to carve out this humble abbey in the hills above the river. Here I began my hermitage those many years ago in a simple hut upon a hilltop. Here I am blessed to live still, surrounded now by twelve other quiet men of humble mind who have joined me over the years.
For over half a century I have been blessed to walk these hills. I have studied the plants and animals. I have lifted rocks from the Earth and planted my garden. I have been blessed to receive my visitors with a hot meal, a warm bed, and a fresh loaf of bread to take upon their journey. I have prayed.
Fifty years ago I was blessed to come here as a young anchorite with May Dodd and her friends among a band of Cheyennes led by the great Chief Little Wolf. Fifty years!
“Is your mother well?” I asked Harold Wild Plums on the day he brought these journals to me. “She has not been to visit me in many months. I have been thinking much of her recently.”
“She is not well, Father,” Harold said. “She is dying of the cancer.”
“I shall walk to the reservation to see her,” I answered. “For I am old and nearly blind, but I am blessed to be able still to walk, and I can still find my way there.”