by Jim Fergus
Me and Susie could tell right away by the number of girls who all looked over at one particular girl on the other side of the circle that she was the top dog alright. She seemed reluctant and a wee embarrassed to claim the title, but finally she stood up. She was a handsome lass, maybe a few years older than some of the others, tall, big-boned, a blue-eyed fair-haired lass who looked like she knew how to take care of herself.
“I don’t know why,” she said, “but for now I guess that might be me.”
“Alright, that’s a fine start,” says Susie. “And what would your name be then, lassie?”
“Molly. Molly McGill.”
“Aye, a good Scottish name. Where do you come from, Molly McGill?”
“It’s true that my family was of Scottish origin,” she says. “We had a farm in northern New York, up near the Canadian border not far from Champlain. However, I was living in New York City.”
“What kind of work did you do in New York City?”
“I was a schoolteacher and a charity worker. I worked mostly with children without homes.”
“That had to be hard work.”
“Hard enough. With all the immigrants arriving, there are so many of them.”
“Susie and me been there, too…” says I. “We grew up in an orphan asylum in the Chicago tenements, farmed out to different foster families who mostly took us right back soon as they could because we were a pack a’ trouble, we Kelly twins. We could not bear to be separated and when we were we tried to run away first chance we got. Finally they said we were unadoptable and locked us up in one a’ the orphan asylums reserved for repeat runaways. But we ran away from there, too. We spent a lot of time livin’ on the streets. So you see, we know a bit about such matters and we know you must be a tough lass to work that kinda job.”
Molly McGill shrugs. “Not always tough enough.”
“Ain’t that always the way, though?”
“And you must be smart to be a teacher,” says Susie. “Meggie and me admire those that know something more than the mean things we learned growing up. The only useful talent we came away with was how to take care of ourselves. You look like a girl who knows how to do that, too.”
“I do what I have to do.”
“Good, then you got the job.”
“And what does that job entail?” she asks.
“Stayin’ alive, and keepin’ your friends that way, too,” says I. “That’s the first responsibility. You’ll soon find out, if you haven’t already, it’s full-time work in this country among these folks.”
Molly looks us hard in the eyes for a long moment. We get the sense that this is a girl who has known some considerable trials in her life. “That we have already learned,” she says, finally. “And how did your friend May Dodd do in the performance of this duty?”
“She did just fine for a long time,” says I. “And then in two shakes of a lamb’s tail not so fine. She didn’t make it … through no fault of her own.”
“I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” says Molly McGill. “What happened to her?”
“All a’ that in good time, missy,” says I. “Right now, it’s we who want to get to know about you. First off, there being only seven of you, we’re curious … How many did you start out with?”
“We were a total of nineteen when we boarded in Chicago,” says Molly. “By the time we reached Omaha, four women had had second thoughts and jumped train at various stops along the way. We lost two more in Omaha for the same reason … and six of our party were killed when the Lakota attacked the train … God rest their souls.” Some of the girls started to get teary again at this fresh memory, and maybe at the reminder of their fast-dwindling number.
“We’re real sorry about that,” says Susie. “If your group was anything like ours, we know you made friends fast on the trip out. We know how it is to lose friends.”
“Why don’t you begin for us, Molly,” says I to get off the subject quick as possible. “How is it that you came to sign up for the program?”
“To gain parole from Sing Sing prison,” she answers.
“Did you now?” says I. “And what were ya in for, if we may ask?”
“Murder.”
“Who’d ya kill, then?” asks Susie.
“A man who deserved it. But I cannot speak further of that.”
“Aye, that’s fine, lass,” says I. “We are none of us required to say any more than we choose, and all have a right to guard our secrets. That’s how it was among our group.”
“Meggie and me has been in stir ourselves,” says Susie. “I imagine being cooped up in this tipi might remind you a bit of that.”
“As a matter of fact, as I have been telling the girls, this place is preferable to Sing Sing. The prisoners there aren’t allowed to speak. Ever. Not a word. Absolute silence is the rule. And if we were caught at it, we were whipped, beaten … or worse. I was not what you would call a model prisoner. I was considered an agitator, and I spent a good deal of time in solitary confinement. When the recruiter for the brides program came, the warden was delighted to be rid of me. And I was ready to go anywhere. Anywhere. For me, compared to that place, this is a stroll in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon. Even the food is better.”
“Brilliant,” says I, “excellent start, we’ve got a murderer among us. Have we a lunatic or two?”
Now another woman in the circle raises her hand. She stands, brushes herself off, clears her throat. A manly-lookin’ bird, tough and built like a spool of wire, she has short cropped hair, wears jodhpurs and fancy English riding boots. “I hope I do not disappoint you ladies,” she says in a hoity-toity British accent, “when I tell you that I am neither a criminal, nor am I insane. If I may present myself: I am Lady Ann Hall of Sunderland.” Susie and me exchange a glance then, because this is a name we have heard before. “And the young lady here beside me,” continues the Englishwoman, indicating the girl who sat at her feet, “is my maidservant, Hannah Alford from Liverpool. Raise your hand, Hannah.” The tiny slip of a girl, timid as a mouse, raises her hand.
“You won’t have much use for a servant here, m’lady,” says Susie. “Like May Dodd said at the beginnin’ of our own journey, you’ll soon find out that you are all equal here, regardless of where you come from, who your family was, what you did in your past lives, how much money you got, how much education, your accent or the color of your skin. Because you see, you’ll learn real quick if you haven’t already that none of that matters in this country.”
“Quite the contrary,” says Lady Ann Hall. “I believe that even in the wilderness, it is essential to observe civilized social hierarchy and conventions. I consider myself no less a lady here than back in Great Britain.”
“That’s all very well, m’lady,” says I. “But out here it’s the Indians who decide the hierarchy and conventions, and, believe it or not, they really don’t give a rat’s arse about British titles. In fact, you’ll be lucky not to be workin’ as a maidservant yourself in the household of a Lakota squaw.”
“Not bloody likely,” says Lady Hall. “You see, in addition to my title, I served for three years as the president of the London National Society for Women’s Suffrage. I lead women, I do not follow, nor, I can assure you, do I do housework.”
“Well, then, do tell us how you joined the program, Lady Hall.”
“I have come here in search of my companion,” says she, “the ornithologist and artist Helen Elizabeth Flight. I received one short letter from her posted from Fort Laramie almost a full year ago. She told me of her enrollment in the Brides for Indians program, and a little about the group with whom she had been dispatched, of which I must assume you ladies were also members. After that, I had no further word from her. I attempted to make inquiries of the authorities in America via representatives of my own government, but to no avail. It seemed, finally, that the only hope I had of finding her was to come out here as a volunteer myself. You ladies must have known Helen. Can you give me news of her?”
Susie and me look at each other again, our memory well refreshed as to where we had heard Lady Hall’s name. “Indeed we can, m’lady,” says I. “Helen Flight is a dear, dear friend of ours. We shall tell you later, in private, all we know of her.”
“Ah, splendid news,” says Lady Ann Hall, “then I am on her trail, after all. A stroke of good fortune to have come across you ladies. Thank you.”
We do not wish to disabuse the Englishwoman of this notion just yet, and neither me nor Susie says anything further about Helen. But a shadow crosses our hearts at the prospect of havin’ to tell her the truth of what happened to our dear brave friend who fought the soldiers to the end.
“Alright, then,” says Susie. “Now, we brought you girls a wee gift, a stack of these ledger books and some colored pencils. As the leader, we’re givin’ ’em to you, Molly, to distribute as you please.”
“For what reason do we need ledger books?” she asks. “Are the Lakota going to put us to work keeping their accounts?”
Susie and me laugh. It is already clear to us that this Molly McGill is a direct girl, not afraid to speak her mind. “See, we don’t have much to offer,” says I, “but we came into a nice stash of these when we got here. All the tribes have artists among them, who trade hides for the books at the white trading posts, and use ’em to draw pictures on. Helen Flight calls their work ‘primitive’ because you see they paint everything real flat, without ‘perspective,’ she says. But we all liked it anyhow, even Helen, and she taught them a few of her own tricks. Now if you don’t want to draw on ’em, you can do like me and Susie, and our friend May did, and use ’em to keep a diary. Either way, we thought it’d give you girls somethin’ to do besides worry yourselves sick all day long.”
“I kept a diary myself on the train,” says Molly. “But like all our other possessions, it is lost now. Needless to say, our abductors did not allow us to bring along our bags. We are grateful to have this paper and pencils. Of course, we will share them.”
Now Susie points to a pretty young girl sitting cross-legged in the first row, her head downcast. “And you there, darlin’?” she says. “Speak up, tell us your name and how you came to be here. Don’t be shy.”
She looks up, smiles real friendly. “But I am not shy,” she says, speaking with a French accent. “My name is Lulu LaRue. That is my stage name, and that is what I call myself, for I am an actress. I sing and I dance.” One or two of the other girls snicker at this.
“Aye, in the theater then, are you? And where are you from, Lulu LaRue?”
“I come from Marseille, France,” she says, “and from there I go to Los Angeles, California.”
“And what brought you to the program?”
“I go to Los Angeles with other women from France to work in a laundry,” she says. “It is very hard work and the hours are long and we are hardly given a day of rest. When one of those days arrive, I look for work in the theater. But you see, my English is not so strong and no one has interest in a little French girl with funny accent. One day I answer advertisement to try out for a theater group from St. Louis, Missouri. The man who auditions me is very handsome, charming, very kind with me. His name is Earl Walton. He ask me if I know how to dance. Mais oui, I say, of course, I dance, I am very good dancer. And so for him I do a French dance called the cancan. He say he like me, he like the way I dance, and he want to give me a job in his theater. He ask my address and say he will be in contact. The very next day, he come to our rooming house. He say that he must leave Los Angeles immédiatement, and go back to St. Louis, that if I want the job in his theater, I must go with him now. He does not give me time to think … it sounds so exciting, and I am glad to leave the laundry. And so that same afternoon, I go with him. It is a very long trip to St. Louis, very hard. This man Earl is all I have in the world … I begin to fall in love with him … at least I think I am in love. He say he love me, too, and that after we arrive we will marry together.”
“I think we’re beginnin’ to get the picture, Lulu,” says Susie. “So tell us about this theater in St. Louis.”
“Well, you see … it is not really a theater at all,” says Lulu. “Earl is the proprietor of a private gentlemen’s club. There the girls dance and sometimes put on shows to entertain the gentlemen … and, of course, they must do other … certain other service.”
“Aye, say no more, Lulu,” says Susie, holding up her hand. “Meggie and me has taken similar employment in times of need. And so you signed up for the brides program in order to escape this Earl fella, is that how it happened?”
“Oui … you see, it become clear that the only reason he hire me is so I learn the others to dance the cancan. He is not going to marry me, he does not love me … I think he not even like me … the other girls say he make the same promise to them. We are prisoners at the club. We are not allowed to leave there, not even to go shopping, unless one of his men is with us. When I finally escape, I know that I must go as far away from St. Louis as possible, or Earl find me and bring me back.”
“In that case, lassie,” says I, “lookin’ on the bright side, you have come to the right place. Earl won’t be findin’ you here in Crazy Horse’s camp, that is for certain.”
“Yes, well I always try to look on the bright side,” says Lulu LaRue. “I was even thinking life as the wife of a Cheyenne Indian will make bigger my palette … no, wait, how do you say?… make bigger my range as an actress.”
“Quite possible, Lulu,” says Susie, “for one never knows when learnin’ to fook Indian style will come in handy onstage.” At this some of the other girls giggle nervously, both shocked and amused at our language.
“There, you see, ladies,” says I, “one thing our group learned in our time out here is that a little laughter goes a long way toward lightening the dark times. We know you don’t feel like it most of the time, but it’s the only way to keep your spirits up, the only way to survive. We were all the time makin’ fun and teasin’ each other. You’ll find that the Indians themselves have a sly sense of humor if you can engage them on that level. The truth is, Lulu, I’ll wager your acting skills will serve you well here.”
“Do you have any idea what the Lakota plan to do with us?” asks Molly. “Are they going to keep us prisoner indefinitely?”
“That’s what we’re gonna try to find out,” says I.
“Will they give us to the Cheyenne?” asks another girl, who seems to have a Scandinavian look and accent about her. “It is to them we are to be married. To help keep the peace on the Great Plains, to teach the savages the civilized ways of the white man.”
“Aye, aye,” says I, “we know all about the civilized ways of the white man. Brother Anthony didn’t tell you lasses much, did he? He wanted to leave that to us. We are sorry to inform you of it, but you are not going to be the brides of Cheyenne warriors. The program has been ended and most of the Cheyenne are surrendering. Nor is the Army or your government going to come to your rescue as you must be hopin’. To them, you see, the Brides for Indians program never existed, and they wish now to bury all evidence of it.”
“And what exactly do you mean by ‘bury’?” asks Lady Ann Hall. “Where are the rest of the women in your group now?”
“We’ll get to that in good time, m’lady,” says Susie. “Right now, we just want you to understand that you’re on your own out here. You have only yourselves and each other to count on. No one is comin’ to save you, and that is something you’d best get used to right off.”
“For whatever wee consolation it may bring you,” says I, “you also have us … for now anyhow. First thing we’re going to do is try to powwow with the Lakota chiefs and see if we can’t figure out a way to get you out of here.”
Susie and me were hopin’ maybe we could slip out of the girls’ tipi quick like without having a private conversation with Lady Hall about Helen just yet. However, she asks to step outside with us, and when we do, she comes right to the point. “My dearest companion Helen is dead, is
she not?”
Susie and me look long at each other, neither wishing to be the one to say, as if tellin’ of it is like a second death for Helen … and for us. “Yes, m’lady, she is,” I answer at last. “How did you know?”
“It was quite obvious from the looks on your faces when first I spoke of her,” says the Englishwoman. “However, I pretended not to notice for I was afraid I might fall apart in front of the others. I do not grieve publicly.”
“You are a strong woman, Lady Hall,” says Susie. “As was Helen. We loved her … all of us did. We are very sorry for you.”
“Please tell me how she died. Tell me everything you know, and do not try to shield me from the truth.”
“She died like a grand heroine, m’lady,” says I. “The reason we have not told your group what happened to us yet is because it will only scare ’em worse than they already are. So please keep this to yourself for now. Several weeks ago the Army attacked our village at dawn. Helen stepped out of her tipi with her scattergun to defend against the invaders, while the women and children tried to escape. We were fleeing past her tipi with our babies. Helen had her corncob pipe in the corner of her mouth and she was firing at the charging soldiers. She blasted two of them right out of their saddles. As she paused to reload, she saw us running. ‘A right and a left double, girls!’ she called out to us. ‘Lord Ripon would be envious! Run! Save the children! I’ve got you covered!’
“That was the last we would ever see of our dear friend Helen. After the attack was over, Brother Anthony, who stayed bravely in the village himself, came upon her body. She had been slashed across the neck by a saber, and a bullet had pierced her forehead. A soldier lay dead beside her, one side of his skull caved in. The stock of Helen’s scattergun lay broken. Anthony thinks she must have been reloading as the soldier charged her. As he swung his saber, she swung the stock of her gun, hittin’ him a blow to the head that unseated him from his horse. Another soldier must have finished her off with a bullet.”