One Thousand White Women

by Jim Fergus

  Poor Daisy Lovelace was involved in a terrible scene with the fellow who chose her to be his bride. As the man was collecting her belongings, he tried to take from her her beloved pet poodle, Fern Louise. Daisy, who I suspect had been taking her “medicine,” clutched the little dog to her breast, and said, “No you don’t, suh, you do not so much as touch my Feeern Louuuise. Evah. You heah me? Nevah, evah do you lay a finger on my darlin’ dawg.”

  But the fellow reached out again, quick as a cat, and snatched the little thing from Daisy’s arms, then held it up by the scruff of its neck and made quite a show of displaying it to the others, who gathered laughing to watch as the poor thing flailed the air helplessly. I confess that I do not much care for Miss Lovelace, and care even less for her wretched little poodle, but I hate to see any animal mistreated, and when Daisy tried to take back her pet, I went to her aid. “Give her back that dog!” I demanded of the savage. The fellow seemed to understand what I was after and only shrugged and dropped the poor old thing in the dirt as casually as one discards a piece of trash. The little dog sprawled to the ground but quickly regained its feet and began to run round and round in circles, which only made the savages laugh harder. But as if by centrifugal force, Fern Louise suddenly shot out of her circle in a straight line toward the savage who had so rudely abused her, latched on to the man’s foot, snarling viciously and shaking her head like a tiny demon from Hell. Now the savage began hopping about comically and hollering in pain, trying without success to shake the tenacious little poodle loose, which scene caused the others ever greater mirth.

  “Hang on, Feeern Louueeesse!” Daisy Lovelace called out triumphantly, “That’s right, honey, hang on to the niggah! You teach the damn heathen not to fool with you darlin’.” Finally exhausted from its efforts, the little dog released its hold on the savage, and trotted, panting and slavering pink bloody foam, back to her mistress. Meanwhile, the savage had fallen to the ground, clutching his wounded foot and making piteous howling noises—which elicted no sympathy whatsoever from his compatriots, who found his distress hilarious beyond compare. Indeed, the episode provided much needed comic relief for all of us, and the poodle Fern Louise has gained immeasurably in our esteem.

  Because the horse trade was merely a formality to the authorities, the Army has supplied each of us with a good American horse to ride into Indian country, and with proper Army saddles to which we strapped our bags and the few small luxuries which we were permitted to carry with us. Anticipating the difficulty that we would encounter riding any great distance astride such saddles wearing dresses, the soldiers have also thoughtfully outfitted those of us who accepted them with specially, if hastily, tailored cavalrymans’ breeches. Suffice it to say that in matters of fit some of us were more fortunate than others. In any case, those among our women who refused these came to regret their vanity almost immediately once we were under way. For their part, the savage men were as agitated by our breeches as they were amused by our valises and made much disproving grunting on the subject. As they don’t wear trousers themselves, one can only assume that they’ve never before seen women so attired.

  I have my precious notebooks and a good supply of sturdy lead pencils that Captain Bourke presented to me—for he wisely felt that ink would be a difficult commodity to obtain where we are bound. The Captain has also lent me his cherished copy of Shakespeare to carry with me into the wilderness. Knowing what it means to him, I could hardly accept it, but the Captain insisted. Together we wept, Harry, wept and held each other in the sorrow of our parting, a luxury you and I were never allowed.

  Yes, this I offer as a final confession to you Harry—my first love, father of my children, wherever you are, whatever has became of you … you to whom, until last night, I have remained faithful … Yes, the Captain and I were quite swept away by passion, our emotions raw … we could not help ourselves, nor did I wish to … what strange propensity is it of mine, Harry, to involve myself with unsuitable men—a factory foreman, an engaged Catholic Army Captain, and now a savage chieftain. Good God, perhaps I really am mad …

  As a desperate eleventh-hour attempt to forestall the inevitable, a hastily formed committee of our women called upon Colonel Bradley to see if we might be permitted to spend one last night at the camp. Emotions were running high, and I feared a mass defection. The Colonel in turn passed along our request to Chief Little Wolf, and he and several of the other head Indians conferred over the matter. Finally the great Chief returned and announced their decision: the horses had been delivered as agreed upon and now we must accompany them. There was still plenty of daylight left in which to reach their camp, and apparently the Indians saw no reason to delay our departure for another day. Colonel Bradley explained that if he did not release us to them as agreed upon his actions might be construed by the Cheyennes as an attempt to renege on the bargain we have struck. In which case, there would almost certainly be trouble. As the entire purpose of this bold venture is to try to avoid further trouble with the savages, the Colonel regretfully denied our request for one final night in the bosom of civilization. Well, this is what we signed on for, isn’t it?

  We have been joined at the last minute by one Reverend Hare, a corpulent Episcopal missionary who arrived here only yesterday from Fort Fetterman, and who is to accompany us into the wilderness. He is a most unusual-looking fellow who must weigh at least 350 pounds, and bald as a billiard ball. In his white clerical gowns, the Reverend looks like nothing so much as an enormous swaddled infant. He rode in on a huge white mule that fairly groaned under the missionary’s weight.

  Captain Bourke could only shake his head at the Episcopalian’s arrival and mutter something under his breath about the “well-fed Protestants.” The Captain is evidently familiar with the Reverend’s evangelical activities among the savages, and has complained privately that the President’s Indian Peace Plan has all the various denominations squabbling over the souls of the savages like dogs over a steak bone. Accordingly, the Reverend, a “White Robe,” as the Indians refer to the Episcopalians, has been dispatched by his church to bring the Cheyennes into the fold, thus preventing their souls from being captured by the “Black Robes” as the Romanists are known. One of the first pronouncements that the enormous Reverend made was to voice his opinion in front of Colonel Bradley and Captain Bourke that it would be preferable in the eyes of his church for the savages to remain heathens than to be converted by the Catholics, a remark that, believe me, did not sit well with my Captain.

  Still, we have been informed that Reverend Hare has worked among the Indians for a number of years and is something of a linguist, speaking several of the native tongues fluently, including Cheyenne. His function then will be to serve as both translator and spiritual advisor to our strange assembly of lambs going off to slaughter.

  And it was in just such a spirit that we rode out from Camp Robinson with our prospective husbands. Some of our women were wailing as though this were a funeral procession rather than a wedding march. For my part, I tried to maintain my composure—in spite of Captain Bourke’s disapproval I have vowed to keep a positive face on this adventure, to keep foremost in my mind the thought that this is a temporary posting; we are soldiers off to do duty for our country and can at least look forward to the day when we might return home. Closest of all to my heart, Harry, I keep the memory of our precious children, the dream I shall harbor forever in my breast of one day returning to them; this dream will keep me alive and strong. I have tried from the start to hearten the others with the same comforting thought: that one day we shall return again to the bosom of civilization—free women at last.

  So I rode at the head of our procession, proudly alongside my intended, nodding slightly to Captain Bourke, whose own consternation with the occasion was written clearly in his countenance. I started to lift my hand to him in a farewell wave but I saw that he had cast his dark eyes to the ground and did not look at me. Did I detect shame in his averted gaze? Catholic self-flagellation? That in
our one moment of passion he had betrayed his God, his fiancée, his military duty? Did I detect, perhaps, even a glimmer of relief that the wanton instrument of his temptation, the Devil’s own temptress, was being taken away to live with savages—the fitting punishment of a vengeful God for our sweet sins of the night. Yes, all that I witnessed in John Bourke’s downcast eyes. This is a woman’s lot on earth, Harry, that man’s atonement can only be purchased by our banishment.

  But I did not bow my head. I intend at all costs to maintain my dignity in this strange new life, and if I am to be the wife of a Chief, I shall fulfill that role with the utmost decorum. Thus before our departure I instructed my friend Martha and those of the others who seemed most fearful—instructed them with the advice given me by my muleskinner friend, Jimmy, aka Dirty Gertie, who herself has experience among the heathens: “Keep your head high, honey, and never let them see you cry,” but, of course, this advice was more difficult for some to implement than others. I, personally, have resolved never to display weakness, to be always strong and firm and forthright, to show neither fear nor uncertainty—no matter how fearful and uncertain I may be inside; I see no other way to survive this ordeal.

  Within a short time most of our women seemed to resign themselves to our fate. Their wailings subsided to an occasional choked whimper and there was very little conversation among us; we were like children, speechless and awestruck, being led passively, meekly into the wilderness.

  What a strange procession we must have made, riding in a long lazy line—nearly one hundred strong, counting Indians and brides—our passage winding and undisciplined compared to our recent military processions. To God, if he should be watching over us, we must have resembled a trail of ants as we rode across the hills. Up into the pine timber on the slopes and down again through densely overgrown river bottoms, where our horses forded streams swollen with spring runoff, the muddy rushing water tapping our stirrups. My horse, a stout bay whom I have named Soldier after my Captain, is calm and surefooted, and picked deliberately through the deadfall and then broke into a gentle trot up the rocky slopes to gain the ridges above, where the going was easier.

  It was a lovely spring afternoon, and we were all somewhat consoled by that, by the notion that no matter how foreign and uncertain our future we still lived under the same sky, the same sun still shone down upon us, our own God, if such we believed in, still watched over us …

  The faint sweet acrid scent of woodsmoke on the air announced the Indian encampment long before we reached it. Soon we could see a light haze from its fires in the sky above, marking the camp. A group of small boys greeted us on the trail, chattering and making weird cooing noises of amazement. Some of the smallest of the children rode enormous leggy dogs the likes of which I have never before seen—shaggy wolfish beasts that more closely resembled Shetland ponies than they did canines. The dogs were decorated with feathers and beads, bells and trinkets, and painted to mimic the men’s war ponies. Now I felt more than ever that we were entering some other world, one possessing its own race of men, its own creatures … and so we were … a fairy-tale world existing in the shadows of our own, or perhaps it is our world living in the shadow of this one … who can say? A few of the bolder boys ran up to furtively touch our feet, and then scampered off chattering like chipmunks.

  The pack of urchins ran ahead to announce our arrival to the camp, and then we could hear a great commotion of rising voices and barking dogs—a cacophony of village sounds, all of it foreign to us, and, I confess, all of it terrifying.

  Throngs of curious women, children, and old people gathered as we entered the camp. The tents—tipis, they are called—appear to be set in roughly circular formations, groups of four or five of them forming half circles which in turn form a larger circle. It was a colorful, noisy place— a feast for the eyes—but so strange that we were unable to take it all in and were further distracted by the hordes of people who approached us babbling in their strange tongue and all trying to touch us gently about the legs and feet. Thus we rode the whole length of the camp, as if on parade for the residents, then turned at the end and rode back again. There rose such shouting and chattering among the heathens, such noise and chaos that my head began to whirl, I hardly knew what was happening to me. Soon we were separated from one another and I heard some of our women calling out in confused desperation. I attempted to call back to them, but my words were lost in the din. I even lost sight of poor Martha as the families of the savages claimed us, absorbed us, one by one, into their being. My head spun, all was a blur of unfamiliar motion, color, and sound … I seemed to lose myself.

  Now I write to you, my Harry, no longer from the safety of an Army tent, but by the last fading light of day and by the faintest glow from the dying embers of a tipi fire in the center of a Cheyenne warrior’s lodge. Yes, I have entered this strange dream life, a life that cannot be real, cannot be taking place in our world, a dream that perhaps only the insane might truly understand …

  I sit now in this primitive tent, by the failing fire, surrounded by sullen squatting savages, and the reality of our situation becomes finally quite inescapable. Riding out of Camp Robinson this afternoon, it occurred to me for the first time that I may very well die out here in the vast emptiness of this prairie, surrounded by this strange, godforsaken people … a people truly like trolls out of a fairy tale, not human beings as I know them, but creatures from a different earth, an older one. John Bourke was right. As I look around the circle of this tipi, even the chokingly close walls of my old room at the asylum suddenly seem in memory to be somehow comforting, familiar … a square, solid room with four walls … but, no, these thoughts I banish. I live in a new world, on a new earth, among new people. Courage!

  Good-bye, Harry, wherever you may be … never has it been more clear to me that the part of my life which you occupied is over forever … I could not be further away from you if I were on the moon … how odd to think of one’s life not as chapters in a book but as complete volumes, separate and distinct. In this spirit, tomorrow I shall begin a new notebook. This next volume to be entitled: My Life as an Indian Squaw. I will not write to you again, Harry … for you are dead to me now, and I to you. But I did love you once …

  NOTEBOOK III

  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)

  12 May 1875

  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.