The Great Plains

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘They’re under the bridge.’ Edmund’s horse snorted in great breaths of air. ‘Listen.’

  There was talking and yelling, accusatory tones and defiant explanations.

  ‘That sounds like Sheriff Cadell.’ Edmund didn’t wait for a response, he flipped the reins and urged his horse down the steep-sided bank.

  Aloysius heard the slide of sand and shale and walked his horse forward to watch his son’s descent, wary of pursuing the same path. ‘Come on, old boy,’ he coaxed, edging his mount to the ledge, ‘you can do it.’ The horse neighed in complaint and backed up. Aloysius dug in the spurs and looked down into the dark void beneath as he guided his horse down the slope. The horse slipped and slid through shrubby bushes and emerged at the bottom as shouting vibrated across the area. A torch was lit. Aloysius saw the flare of flame and was calmed by the appearance of light. There were at least ten people crowded under the bridge. Another torch flared into life, and Aloysius detected the sheriff and the man called Tyson. Finally, there was Edmund, standing slightly apart. Serena was with him. Thank God. Aloysius slid from his horse and walked stiff-legged across to where Serena sobbed in Edmund’s arms.

  Edmund removed his coat and draped it about Serena’s shoulders.

  ‘What happened?’ Aloysius stroked Serena’s cheek. ‘Who found her?’

  Behind him three men were lined up against the bridge’s timber pylon. Tyson held a rifle on them.

  Sheriff Cadell greeted Aloysius. Short and stocky, he cradled a Winchester rifle in the crook of an arm. ‘They found the Negro holed up in a barn on the edge of town. Seems he was making a run for it with a sack of food and some other supplies. It didn’t take much to get the boy talking. But then it never does. He led them here, to your girl.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with this lot, Sheriff?’ Tyson called out.

  Aloysius looked across to where Tyson was pointing a rifle at three white men.

  ‘It’s up to you if you want to press charges, Mr Wade, but it seems to me that these men have taken the law into their own hands.’ The sheriff uncocked the rifle. ‘This doesn’t need to see the light of day. So I’d be suggesting that we leave it at that.’

  ‘But he didn’t do anything wrong,’ Serena sobbed. Her face was tear-stained, smeared with dirt.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but I’m figuring that you’re overcome by your ordeal. No ward of Aloysius Wade would run away with a black,’ the sheriff said. He tipped his hat to Serena, nodded to Edmund. ‘We’re done here, men, let them go.’

  ‘What about him?’ Ben Wright spat a line of tobacco juice into the dirt and looked up into the bridge’s shadows.

  Thomas was hanging from the bridge, a noose about his neck, fresh blood glistened on his shirt-front. The boy’s body swayed gently in the gathering breeze, which swept down the river, warm and dry, towards them.

  ‘That be like a devil wind,’ Tyson muttered.

  ‘Cut him down,’ the sheriff commanded.

  Chapter 10

  April, 1902 – Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory

  Aloysius resumed his stare out the stage coach window. It was his first trip travelling westward since his arrival in Oklahoma City. The undulating country resembled a patchwork quilt. He had seen forests of post and blackjack oaks so thick that he couldn’t imagine a rider passing through them, as well as great areas of trees harvested so that the cut-off stumps dotted the land like tombstones. Squares of ploughed red earth lay bare next to man-high bluestem grasses, and wildflowers grew in the hundreds. Prairie dogs, deer, pigeons, black spiders and flycatchers, rattlesnakes and wild horses – there was a menagerie of life out here. Creatures darted and soared, chirped and scattered. Only the cattle remained constant. The tawny hides of the animals spilt across the plains, plains that extended like an inland sea the further west he travelled. There were few trees and those that did exist were small and windblown. It seemed to Aloysius that he had entered an arid plain that stretched beyond imagination. The further he travelled he couldn’t but wonder if the Indians would have been better left to this endless land.

  His companion, a company sergeant named Davis, had slept most of the way since Aloysius left the railway at Marlow and boarded the stage that would take him to the military reservation at Fort Sill. The man was probably only aged in his forties yet he had a worn look about him, as though he’d been bleached by the sun. Even the gold chevrons on the upper part of his tunic that marked his rank were faded. In contrast, he had a most robust stink about him, a mix of whiskey and saddle grease, vomit and sweat. There was no doubt in Aloysius’s mind that out here such a stench was probably the mark of a life well lived. Regardless, he was grateful for the lack of conversation. He had left a topsy-turvy household behind. Annie, so utterly shocked at Thomas’s demise, refused to speak to Serena. At a loss as to what to do, Aloysius, at Edmund’s suggestion, had locked Serena in her room. It was here that the child took all her meals and spent all of her time, day and night. In his absence, Edmund and Chloe had moved into their home.

  None of them saw the need for this current trip. Even Annie, so loyal in the past, denied him her blessing. Yet his moral compass had pointed Aloysius in the direction of Fort Sill. It was a final reckoning for him, a chance to meet with Philomena and test his theory before Serena’s fate was decided. Aloysius patted the holstered revolver at his waist. He had other business here too, a matter long outstanding. Geronimo was here. Ahead, a structure rose in the air. Aloysius craned his neck to see a little better.

  Davis belched. ‘That’s the Post Chapel. Plenty of travellers have been grateful for the site of Christianity out here.’

  The stage creaked and bumped and groaned over the dirt road. The chapel disappeared and reappeared as they travelled up and down across a series of rises Davis referred to as hills. The prairie grass was green where the land had not been ploughed. Aloysius saw more cattle and women, dogs and Indian women. He leant out of the carriage window to get a better look as an explosion sounded. A spiral of dirt spurted up into the air. Aloysius turned to his companion.

  ‘We use a bit of dynamite now and then for clearing land. It’s good for trees and such-like, and the Injuns like a bit of action. Ain’t much to see here, Mr Wade. But eventually these hills ease up into the rocky promontories and knolls of the Wichita Mountains. Now that is something to see. There is light and dark, jutting mounds of khaki and bottle green and tinges of black and varying browns. Why, I’ve even spied the odd buffalo up there. The government made part of the area into a reserve last year to try and save the beast. Beats me, fifty years ago my pappy was paid good money to shoot them out.’

  Aloysius made an appropriate comment in reply. The peaks didn’t entice him. It was to its fringes that he journeyed, to the fort and the villages that encircled it, a scattering of constellations drawn to a watchful sun. He was strangely calm about his forthcoming encounters, certainly there was anticipation but there was also hate and anger, love and frustration. Age had tempered his emotions.

  The stage entered Fort Sill from the south, passing a bakery and guardhouse. The horses slowed to a trot as they walked uphill to the post quadrangle. The square was ringed by low stone buildings, some of which were barracks for the cavalry, others for ordinance, the quartermaster and headquarters. There was a sense of order here that one would expect of a fort and yet this was the place where Geronimo resided. Aloysius had expected the gloomy environs of a jail. Instead Fort Sill resembled a busy town, with its low structures of neat stone and tended surrounds. Outside Post Headquarters the stage came to a halt. Aloysius climbed from the carriage as army mail and his travelling bag were thrown from above, landing on the ground with a thud.

  Now they had arrived, Davis was all duty. Straight-backed and military efficient in conversation, he pointed out the various dwellings with rehearsed sobriety.

  ‘The company commander said he’d be pleased to entertain you at dinner.’ He pointed diagonally across the quadrangle to a long sto
ne building with white pillars. ‘That’s where the commander is, in General Sherman’s house. The savages nearly murdered Sherman right there on that very porch. I’ll take your bag over there directly.’

  ‘So is Geronimo kept in the guardhouse?’

  Davis appeared confused and began explaining the process of civilisation, which included education, farming, the teachings of Christianity and the subjugation of Indian beliefs. ‘Every man is a chief,’ he concluded. ‘There are no leaders now and Geronimo is beyond the need for imprisonment. That is, except when he’s drunk.’

  ‘That is all well and good,’ Aloysius gritted his teeth, ‘but where can I find him?’

  Davis stuck a finger down the inside of his uniform collar and scratched. ‘I thought you were here to see one of the Indians.’

  Aloysius found it difficult keeping his voice cordial. ‘I want to see Geronimo first, alone.’

  ‘Geronimo isn’t at the fort,’ the officer responded. ‘He’s only been imprisoned here for a few brief stints. He’s noted in the fort’s ledgers as an army scout, although he’s now retired.’

  Aloysius moved to stand under the shade of the porch outside the Post Headquarters. There was a flag flying on the pole in the middle of the quadrangle. He watched it flutter in the breeze, then go limp. ‘Retired,’ Aloysius repeated indignantly.

  The officer allowed a quirky smile to settle on his lips. ‘He’s a showman now. Why, I believe he’s heading to Oklahoma City as we speak to appear at the Delmar Gardens, and I know he’s booked for the World’s Fair in St Louis. He earns quite good appearance money, I’m told. Did you expect to see him? I was told you were here to see the woman who was once your niece.’

  ‘She still is my niece.’ He felt sour inside, as if he had drunk a pitcher of lemon syrup without adding water. To have travelled all this way and find Geronimo was not there, that he was in fact going to Oklahoma City, infuriated him. Aloysius advised Davis he would not be accepting the commanding officer’s dinner invitation. He feigned exhaustion but in truth he simply couldn’t break bread with a government that allowed a savage to become a star.

  Aloysius was offered the use of a horse and, as he and Davis walked downhill to the stone corral, the company sergeant launched into a detailed explanation of the past and the future purpose of the barracks now that the Indian Wars were over. There were men grooming horses in the square enclosure. A horse was brought forward, a piebald mare called Nettie. She was saddled and Aloysius mounted up, eager to be on his way. He did not tell Davis what he thought, that the Indian Wars would never be over for him, instead he asked for directions and an interpreter.

  ‘Most of the Indians speak English except for the oldest and the truly stubborn. I am not sure about Nalin.’

  ‘Who is Nalin?’ Aloysius asked.

  Davis appeared almost apologetic. ‘Your niece. That’s her name here.’

  Aloysius touched his boots to Nettie’s flanks and the two-coloured mare walked off at a smart pace. They travelled north-east, bypassing the post quadrangle and angling past small houses and the rear of the quarters for non-commissioned officers. At what appeared to be the highest point of the hilltop fort, they passed the chapel Aloysius had seen from the stage coach. The doors to the church were open, school was in progress and a babble of voices followed him as he eased Nettie down the hillside to the teepees, which were scattered below. His horse was fresh, eager to break into a gallop. Aloysius considered them a bad match, Nettie was cavalry fit and he was in no mood for histrionics. He found himself wishing to conclude his business with Philomena and return to Oklahoma City the very next day. His enemy was there. He grasped the reins tightly, preferring the mare have a tender mouth from a restraining hand than for him to suffer the ignominy of a fall.

  They moved across open land, thick grass at their feet. The hides of the teepees were bleached pale by the sun. There were a number of small houses, two-roomed with a porch in the middle. Some were constructed of timber, squat in height like the stunted trees he had seen; others were adobe, earth and grasses mixed into rough squares and dried in the sun. Some had glass windows; others animal hides stretched across the oblong holes. There were children playing and a communal fire boiled a cauldron from which steam rose into the spring air. In the distance there were figures, adults, and it was towards them he rode.

  The women, seven in all, took little notice of his approach. They merged into one and spread out again as if a wind-blown cloud. Aloysius heard chattering, words of English interspersed with a foreign tongue. The womenfolk were dressed in a mixture of Indian and western clothing, full cotton skirts and deer-skin tunics, lace-up shoes and long-sleeved blouses; many wore felt hats. A woman emerged, the sun’s rays falling across silver-blonde hair. He knew Philomena instantly. This is ridiculous, he muttered, but he looked at Ginny’s likeness and felt as if he was coming home.

  Philomena wore tanned deer hide, a pale beige tunic and a matching knee-length shirt, both pieces heavily fringed. There was a thick leather belt loosely clinching her waist and knee-high animal-hide boots were fringed and heavily decorated with colourful glass beads. She was extravagantly dressed compared to the Indian women and Aloysius wondered if she overcompensated for her dazzling whiteness. In one hand she carried a woven basket overflowing with plants. On sighting Aloysius she stopped, and the women fell silent. The children deserted their games and ran in myriad directions. Some clutched at the skirts of the gathered women, only to be shooed away as they huddled at a distance, watching, waiting as Philomena walked forward. Aloysius dismounted, dropping the reins thoughtlessly. Nettie saw her chance and moved to feed some feet away. Finally he was there but Aloysius couldn’t think of anything to say.

  His niece was older than her years should allow, a fan of soft creases rimmed her eyes. There was a sallowness to her skin and thinning lips highlighted downward lines of dissatisfaction. Yet despite these signs, the haughty demeanor that so struck him on their initial meeting in the Dallas asylum was still present.

  This time, at their second meeting in fifteen years, Aloysius greeted Philomena formally, addressing her by her Apache name. There was barely a flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes and yet she knew him.

  ‘The child?’

  The sound of Philomena’s voice unnerved him, it was both soft and strong, like a breeze that could quickly become a tempest. The inflection was harmonious, a mix of the unknown and the known, her world and the one she had once come from, his. ‘Serena is safe.’

  ‘She does not belong with you.’

  The words were not harsh. Philomena simply spoke the truth.

  ‘How long have you spoken English?’

  ‘Many years, the Quakers say they taught me although all they did was help me remember.’

  ‘Did you …’ Aloysius faltered, ‘did you speak English when you were first brought to Dallas?’

  Philomena looked at Aloysius. He saw pride and power in her hazel eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  Aloysius couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘But why didn’t you speak to me, Philomena? Didn’t you know who I was?’ Even as he pleaded he was aware of the gulf between them.

  ‘Not at first,’ she admitted. Philomena considered her words. ‘Anger clouded my vision.’ Her gaze drifted towards Nettie. She clicked her fingers and the mare walked over to be petted. ‘Gradually it was as if a shadow was lifted and I began to remember little things, a house, a baby brother, my mother.’ She whispered in the mare’s ear. The horse backed up and watched as Philomena sat on the ground, crossing her legs beneath the deer-hide skirt.

  ‘Your father? My brother?’ Aloysius’s stomach tightened.

  ‘Him I remember most of all.’ The basket rested beside her, feathery strands of an unknown plant waved in the breeze.

  ‘You remembered all this when you were in Dallas?’ There was an edge to Aloysius’s words. He too sat, numbed by understanding in the collision of their worlds. Around them the gathered women dispersed,
the children resumed their play. Aloysius was all confusion. How could a white woman knowingly choose this life over the one she was born to? ‘Why did you not say something in Dallas, Philomena? Why did you not speak to me or to a nurse or to Dr Fitzgerald?’ Aloysius remembered once again the newborn he carried down a cold hallway in the small hours of the morning. ‘Philomena, please talk to me. Explain to me why you led me to believe that you were –’

  ‘A savage?’ She said the word bitterly. It was as if an explanation was beyond her.

  ‘Philomena, this isn’t your world.’

  ‘It has become so.’

  Unwanted knowledge leached through Aloysius’s bones. The woman before him was confident and articulate. More importantly she was at peace with herself and the surrounds. It showed in the way her fingers brushed the short grass, in the way she allowed Nettie to nibble at a strand of her hair.

  ‘But you had a choice when I brought you to Dallas.’

  Philomena selected a plant from the basket and sniffed at it appreciatively in the same way that his Annie would sample perfume on the soft underside of her wrist. ‘There was no choice in the beginning. My children were Indian – they would never belong in your world.’

  ‘Your children?’

  ‘I have a son, George. He is the only one left. There were others. Some died at birthing, others in childhood. Some more recently. My eldest girl, Ginny, died last year.’

  ‘You named one of these children after Ginny?’ Aloysius was shocked. Beloved Ginny, her name used to christen a half-breed.

  ‘She was my mother,’ she answered haughtily. ‘I had the right.’

  ‘Who is the father?’

  ‘That is none of your concern.’ She tucked the plant back in the basket. ‘But by your response you can see why my children would not survive in your world. They were unwanted by your people and they remain unwanted. Back then, of course, in the asylum, I didn’t realise how strong your hate was until I heard you and the doctor talking about half-breeds and savages. You talked about them in the room at the asylum one day and he reminded me constantly that my daughter was not wanted, and then he killed her.’