by Jim Fergus
To the great surprise of us all, Martha, atop her little donkey, also began to keen, clearly recognizing this place herself, tears flowing down her cheeks, her unfettered howls of grief joining the others, an unearthly spectacle such as none of us had ever before witnessed.
Good Lord, what have we done to these people?
LEDGER BOOK V
The Graveyard
Holy Mary, mother of Jesus … goddamn you, Hawk … what have you done this for … of all places, why have you brought us back here?
(from the journals of Margaret Kelly)
30 April 1876
Me and Susie still don’t know quite what to make of this damn Molly girl. She’s stubborn as a mule and has a mind of her own, that is for certain. Now our May was a strong woman, no denyin’ it, a fine leader, but she was real thoughtful, she picked her battles careful, after a good deal of consideration. But this lass Molly … this one is fearless … and reckless, qualities that together can get you in awful trouble real fast in this country.
Aye, and that’s damned near what happened after she went off with the chaplain that morning on Crazy Woman Creek. She didn’t come back, we were all worried sick, and me and Susie were right furious. As it turns out, goddamned if she didn’t run into that filthy arsehole, Jules Seminole, who caused all our troubles in the first place. All we can figure is that he musta been guidin’ the party of whites the scouts discovered camped upriver from us. Molly and the chaplain were real lucky to get away. Still, Hawk had to go back and find ’em and he was gone for a whole day, too, so that we were thinkin’ the worst, that they were all in trouble. So when they finally rode into camp, while there was a great sense of relief among us, me and Susie went off on Molly, gave her hell for puttin’ the whole band at risk like that … Aye … course then we found out she brought our Martha back to us … and we had to forgive her real quick.
How Martha ended up with Seminole in the first place we haven’t been able to sort out yet. All we can say is that she’s not the same girl she was when last we saw her, which is to be expected when you’ve been taken by Jules Seminole. We don’t know how long she was with him, or what he did to her, and that we can only imagine … which ain’t a pretty thing to do. He broke her down in a terrible way, and we wonder if she’ll ever get up again. She can’t even talk to us.
It’s true that had Molly not gone off with the chaplain that morning, Seminole would have eventually killed Martha for sure … it appears he damned near has killed her … killed her spirit at least. We’ve seen more than our fair share of wounded souls, me and Susie have, but we never seen a woman damaged worse than this lass is now. She’s like a damn ghost of herself, and among all of the women in our group, Martha may well have been the one least equipped to handle such a thing. And here we thought she was the lucky one because both she and her child survived the attack and they were going home, back to Chicago where they could live a normal life … if such a thing still exists for any of us … hard for me and Susie to even remember what that would be like … a normal life.
But now her baby son is gone and we don’t know what happened to him, and Martha can’t tell us, either … can’t tell us much of anything, other than the name of her damn donkey that almost got us in so much trouble … but that is another story. We try not to imagine the worst, but where Seminole is involved that ain’t an easy thing to do. Because with him there ain’t any limits to the worst.
A couple days ago Molly surprised us again by pullin’ a gun on Hawk. Aye, that’s what we mean by reckless, acting before she thinks things through, because doin’ that to a lad like him can get you dead in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Hawk said he was goin’ to slit the throat of Martha’s donkey because its braying would give us away to the soldiers. Me and Susie and Lady Hall all stood up to Hawk, told him he’d have to get through us if he tried to do such a thing. Aye, this we done because we knew he would lose face in front of his people if he were to get into a wrestling match with three lassies. So we bluffed him on the matter, and we don’t believe he was really goin’ to kill the donkey, after all.
But before we could find out for sure, Molly pulls the damn gun on him. You see? What she doesn’t understand is that had Hawk wanted to, he could have thrown his tomahawk dead between her eyes, cleavin’ her face before she even had time to pull the trigger, which we don’t believe she woulda done anyhow. She, too, was bluffing, and Hawk knew it. But he just laughed and rode off. It is a lucky thing the lad has a sense of humor … but she needs to watch herself, that girl, think a wee bit longer before she acts. Yet to be fair, takin’ her side for a moment, we think she learned that way of behavin’ while in prison, where we know from experience you sometimes have to act first just to protect yourself, and consider the consequences later.
We’re pointed southwest now, moving fast, tryin’ to get out of the way of the Army. Me and Susie are wonderin’ if we are ever goin’ to find Little Wolf, and we’re wonderin’ if Hawk is havin’ doubts about that, too. We’re tired a’ travelin’ and startin’ to feel vulnerable out here, with the countryside crawlin’ with enemies all wishin’ to do us harm. We’ll say this for the greenhorns, they are keepin’ right up with us, and we haven’t heard much from them in the way of whinin’ like the sissies we figured they’d be. For that we gotta give ’em some credit.
4 May 1876
This afternoon, we’re ridin’ on a high bluff above a canyon carved by the Tongue River … Gradually the canyon opens up into a narrow valley, which in turn broadens to a wide meadow, green with spring, a real pretty spot lookin’ down from up here. As they usually do, the little group of Cheyenne ride ahead of us, and for a reason me and Susie can’t figure out yet, the women among ’em begin to keen, that high-pitched wail they make that doesn’t sound like anything one ever heard in the white world. Me and Susie are used to the keening, but we can see that it sends shivers through the greenhorns, the same way it did our group at first. Our May, fancy, educated lassie that she was, used to say it was a sound of the most “elemental human expression of grief, a cry that issues from some primordial time before the first people even had language.”
We haven’t yet recognized the country, but as we ride on, we see the burnt-out village down below in the river bottom … aye, and then we know it is our very own village that was wiped out by the Army those months ago … the very place where our babies were born, where our friends died … and their babies. Our blood runs suddenly as cold as it was on that winter morning, all the terror of that day droppin’ down upon us like a black storm cloud. We take up the keening with the Cheyenne women, aye, that’s what it’s for, a way to let out the horror and grief that cannot be expressed in words, only by weepin’ and wailin’ our bloody hearts out. Martha, too, atop her little donkey, begins to keen. She has clearly recognized the place herself.
As we approach closer, we see the charred skeletons of burnt tipis spread out across the valley floor. Some are still standing upright, their lodge poles blackened by fire, others have collapsed into piles of charcoal. The spring grass sproutin’ among them seems so out of place, for to us it will always be winter here, where nothin’ livin’ can ever again grow.
Aye, the Cheyenne believe that everything that has ever happened in a place lives on forever in the earth—from the first lusty cry of each baby born there, to the last death song of all those who have died—all the joys and sorrows of life and death, all the blood spilled upon the ground throughout the generations, the soil soaked with the long history of the People. As we drop down off the bluff and ride into the village, it is almost as if we can feel the attack rising again from the earth, can hear again the sounds of cavalry chargin’, the gunfire and screams, can see the ghosts of half-dressed mothers fleein’ from the empty shells of the tipis, carrying their infants in their arms, the children, old men, and women runnin’ in terror and confusion, fallin’ to the soldiers’ bullets, cut down by their swords. We were there, me and Susie, and we see our own ghosts runn
in’ among the others, fleein’ the wrath of the Army, our little girls in their baby boards strapped to our breasts … Holy Mary, mother of Jesus … goddamn you, Hawk … what have you done this for … of all places, why have you brought us back here?… what have you done this for?
We make our way slowly through the dead village, our keening dyin’ down, our grief exhausted by this haunted place. A silence falls upon us, broken only by the crunch of our horses’ hooves, releasin’ the bitter odor of cold cinder and ash that still covers the ground.
It takes us better than thirty minutes to wind our way through the broad encampment. We were over three hundred tipis here, a number of different Cheyenne bands had come together for the winter, a village rich in food supplies, robes and hides, everything we needed to see us through the long season of cold and snow, all destroyed. Me and Susie try to get our bearings, searching for the remains of our own lodge, but it all looks so different now it is impossible to do, everything is gone …
Finally reaching the far end of the village, we see risin’ against the late-afternoon sky a series of burial scaffolds built of cottonwood poles and willow branches. Into these Hawk now leads our party. The wind moans through the scaffolds, their rickety legs creak, the voices of the dead speakin’ to us.
“What is this place?” whispers the French girl, Lulu, nervous, for they, too, can feel the presence of the unsettled souls of the dead.
“A Cheyenne graveyard,” answers Susie. “The savages don’t bury their dead in the ground like we do, they place them on these platforms where their spirits can rise to the heavens. You see those bundles on top, wrapped in buffalo hides or trade blankets? Those are their remains. And look, you see that some have objects placed upon them?—a tomahawk, a bow and arrow, a water vessel, a pot for cooking, a beaded necklace. Somethin’ for them to take with them to Seano. Ain’t that right, Meggie?”
“Aye, sister,” says I. “You see, ladies, people place these things on the platforms beside their dead friends and relatives, so they don’t arrive empty-handed in Seano. That’s what the Cheyenne call their heaven—Seano, the Happy Place, which their spirits reach by followin’ the Milky Way, the hangin’ road in the sky, they call it. There all the People who have ever died live again just as they did on earth, reunited with the souls of those who went there before them. In Seano they hunt and play, dance and hold ceremonies, cook and feast and make love, just like before. They even make war against their enemies. The warriors dress in their best beaded war shirts and headdresses, and the medicine men paint them and their ponies with figures meant to bring them good fortune in battle. The only difference from war on earth is that because everyone in Seano is already dead, they cannot kill each other. So they just count coup, meaning being the first to touch the enemy with your hand or your coup stick, like a kind of game.”
“But that seems a splendid idea,” says little Hannah Alford. “Why don’t men do that here on earth, before they are dead?”
“Aye, now that would be the question, wouldn’t it?” says Susie. “For what’s the good of gainin’ wisdom such as that after one is already dead? Men are foolish creatures, ain’t that the truth…”
“But who constructed these scaffolds?” asks Molly, “and put the remains and the items upon them? I thought all the survivors were driven from the village to Crazy Horse’s camp?”
“Me and Susie are wonderin’ that, too,” says I. “The scaffolds are not that old, nor the bundles themselves. So we’re thinkin’ Little Wolf and his people must have come back here after they escaped from the Red Cloud Agency. You see, it ain’t a good thing to leave the dead unprepared for the journey to Seano, or they may never find their way there. We’re thinkin’ maybe that’s one reason Hawk brought us here. He must have known Little Wolf would come back, and he figured we might be able to pick up his trail. Or else it is simply because Hawk and most of the others travelin’ with him have dead of their own, and he came to lay them to rest.”
Now the Cheyenne spread out among the scaffolds, searching for some sign of their own family members, studying each platform as they pass.
“Tell me, girls,” Lady Hall asks, “do you suppose it is possible that my dearest companion Helen Flight may be upon one of these?”
“Entirely possible, m’lady,” says I.
“Then I must look for her,” she says, ridin’ away from us.
Me and Susie have no one left to look for, nor do we believe is it a good idea to disturb the dead. And so we stay with the greenhorns who sit their horses in a tight knot, real quiet they are, needin’ the closeness to each other to protect them against the crushin’ sorrow here. They have, finally, a tiny window into what we been through, and we can see it scares ’em.
From time to time as we wait, one after another of the Cheyenne identifies a scaffold bearin’ a kinsman, and a high keening rises again on the wind to join the others. As we look over we see Lady Ann Hall slide limp off her horse’s back and fall to her knees beneath a platform. She does not make a sound, but buries her face in her hands, her body shaking in silent sobs. It’s clear she’s found the final resting place of her dear companion, our dear friend, the artist Helen Elizabeth Flight. We all look away to allow the woman some privacy in her grief.
When Lady Hall finally rides back to us, she carries a rolled deer hide cradled in her arms. “Well, then, ladies,” she announces; amazin’ how calm she is, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened, “it appears that I succeeded in finding my Helen, after all.”
She unrolls the deer hide and inside lay the blackened side-by-side barrels of Helen’s shotgun. “I saw this poking out of the bundle, which I can only assume contains her earthly remains … charred bones, I’m afraid, are all that is left of her. She was so proud of her scattergun, a bespoke piece … that is to say, custom fitted by Featherstone, Elder & Story, gunmakers of Newcastle upon Tyne. I know this, of course, for it was I who gave her the gift. Whoever built her scaffold must have found these barrels … and the bones … among the ruins and placed them there … so that … so that…” Here Lady Hall falters, her stoic façade beginning to crumble away, her voice breaking, tears flooding her eyes, until with another heroic effort, she manages to say … “so that Helen would have her gun with which to hunt when she went to Seano. She was a wonderful shot, you know … truly one of Great Britain’s finest.”
Here Lady Hall draws a deep breath, which she releases slowly, giving herself another moment to pull herself together: “And look what else I discovered upon the scaffold,” says she. She spreads the deer hide open and holds it up for us to see. Painted upon it, in the natural earth pigments Helen used to mix her paints, is the image of a golden eagle. “Somehow this must have escaped the fires of that day,” says Lady Hall. “I can only assume it is all that remains of Helen’s body of work here … But isn’t it magnificent? Had she lived and her work on the birds of America been published, I believe Helen Elizabeth Flight would have been recognized as an ornithological artist of the same stature as John James Audubon.”
“M’lady, just so you know,” says I, “it ain’t a good thing to steal from the dead. Aye, the Cheyenne believe that it is very bad medicine to disturb the burial platforms. You should put those things back, for they will only bring you trouble.”
“Nonsense,” she says, “I do not believe in such atavistic superstitions.”
“Aye, but how will Helen be able to hunt in Seano, then, without her scattergun?” asks Susie.
“Alright then, I shall put the barrels back, but I am keeping the hide. Helen would have wanted me to have it. She was not superstitious, either.”
“You would be surprised, m’lady,” says I, “had you seen the care that Helen put into the figures she painted on the warriors and their horses before they went off to war. We think she came to believe in her art’s power to protect them in battle.”
Martha now dismounts from her little donkey and walks unsteady to us. She is real agitated. “Where is Br
other Anthony?” she asks, and we are all astonished to hear her speak. “Where is Captain Bourke? May has been shot.” She points at the rocks in the hills above the river. “We must go to her. She is in a cave with her baby, Little Bird. She needs our help. We must go to her.” Now she turns her hands palms up and looks down as if seeing them for the first time. “But where is little Tangle Hair?” she asks of her empty hands. “Where is my baby?” She falls to her knees and begins to weep uncontrollably. “Where is my little boy?” she whimpers through her tears. “Oh, no, I have lost my baby!”
Me and Susie get down off our horses and kneel on either side of Martha, each of us puttin’ an arm around her. “Don’t cry, Martha,” says I. “No, you haven’t. You’ve not lost your son. We’ll find him.”
She looks me right in the eyes, the first time, I realize, she’s done so since she came to us. “No? Haven’t I?” she asks. “Will we? Are you certain? Ah yes, perhaps I left him with May in the cave. Yes, that’s right, May is looking after him … but … but May has been shot,” Martha says, as if just now remembering again. She stands suddenly. “May has been shot. Hurry, she needs us. She is very cold. Please, follow me, I will show you where she is. Hurry!” And she begins to walk away from us toward the hills.
“Ah, Jaysus, Meggie,” whispers Susie, “she’s gone mad. What do we do now?”
“I don’t know, sister…” says I. “I suppose we must go with her. What else is there to do? Perhaps if she finds the cave and sees that it’s empty, she’ll come to her senses.”
“I don’t know that she has any senses left,” says Susie.
“Nor do I. But at least she’s speakin’. That we must take as a good sign.”
So we follow Martha, Molly, too, dismounting to come along, the four of us afoot. In the confusion of the attack that morning, everyone in the village had scattered like a covey of prairie grouse jumped by a fox. Me and Susie had run a different direction into the hills with our babies than had May, and so we got no idea where the cave is located in which our friend passed her last hours on earth. We do know from Brother Anthony that afterward her body was taken by John Bourke for burial in the military cemetery at Camp Robinson. It is not what May would have chosen as her final resting place … surrounded by soldiers … we believe she’d have preferred to be on one of the scaffolds here … but there she lies … and we hope in peace.