La Vengeance des mères

by Jim Fergus

  “Basically, it means that American settlers have the divine right,” says Gertie, “givin’ to ’em a’ course by God his ownself, to steal the natives’ land, even though it was deeded to ’em fair and square in the treaty of Fort Laramie in 1868. See, soon as gold was discovered two years ago in the Black Hills, the government real quick took the land back, said the treaty was no good anymore.”

  “And why does the government have a divine right to do that?” Astrid asks.

  “Because God says so, because he loves us so much, honey.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re special.”

  “Why?”

  “Yup, now you’ve got to the real question, missy,” says Gertie, “and I can’t tell ya that I have a good answer for it, either.”

  “I have been called many names,” says Lulu, “many of them not so nice. But no one has ever before called me a hostile.”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” says Molly. “We went from being part of an important government program to help assimilate the Cheyenne, to being captives of the Lakota, to being fugitives without a country … and now, suddenly, we’ve become hostiles in the eyes of the United States Army. All without having done a single thing.”

  “Crikey, it appears that we are in the stew now, does it not?” says Lady Hall.

  “Before I come up here,” says Gertie, “I led my mule train along with General Crook’s Army from Camp Robinson in Nebraska to Fort Fetterman. That was the first stage of the march. If you could see that mass of cavalry and infantry travelin’ in formation across the plains—the support wagons and pack mules behind ’em … the whole goddamned shootin’ match stretchin’ out a mile long and a mile deep, yup, you gals’d get a real … good … sense of the stew you’re in.”

  “How long before they reach us, Gertie?” Molly asks.

  “A force that big travels real slow, honey. It’s lucky to make ten miles a day. They’ll stop at old Fort Reno to rest up a spell. And they’ll be waitin’ there on their Indian soldiers to show up. Yeah, that’s somethin’ else I ain’t told ya yet. Right now General Crook is travelin’ with his three chief scouts—Frank Grouard, Louis Richaud, and Baptiste ‘Big Bat’ Pourrier. But he’s got a hundred or so Shoshone warriors who have promised to join the command at Reno, and at least that many Crow. See, Crook likes to ‘fight Injuns with Injuns’ is the way he puts it, because Injuns know how Injuns think, so he enlists warriors from enemy tribes of the Cheyenne and the Lakota, or even members of their own tribes if they’re willing. But I can’t tell ya how long they’ll stay at Reno … at least a week, anyhow, I’d say. An’ I saved the best part for last … guess who’ll be leadin’ the Crow warriors and scouts? Yup, none other than our ole pal Jules Seminole. He ain’t shown his face around any of the forts since he killed me … or at least thought he did. But I heard it from Big Bat that he’s comin’ here, wouldn’t be like that bastard to miss out on the big show.”

  “But, Gertie, charged as a spy and a traitor,” asks Molly, “if it were found out you were giving information to Little Wolf about the movement of the troops, wouldn’t you be?”

  Gertie nods. “Oh, hell, honey, they wouldn’t bother chargin’ me or goin’ to the trouble of a trial. They’d just hang my scrawny ole neck from the highest tree.”

  “And yet you’ve worked for the Army for a long time?”

  “Girl’s gotta make a living, honey, which ain’t an easy thing to do in this country. And what better cover for a spy and a traitor is there than workin’ for the enemy? Still, I gotta say this again to you gals, especially to you, Meg and Suse: you know better than any that I seen a lot of death in my time in this country … way too much … a lotta real ugly death … men, women, children, babies … slaughtered … scalped … burned … mutilated … white and Injun alike, and my own babies among ’em. I’m tryin’ to help these folks, see? and I’m tryin’ to help you … But that don’t mean I want to see a lotta soldiers killed, either. Many of these new young recruits from the East are immigrants just off the boat from all kinds a’ different countries—Ireland, Scotland, England, Germany, Poland—you name it. They’re just kids lookin’ for room and board and a payin’ job, and this is an easy one to get because the Army needs bodies to pump up the troops, and they’ll take any able-bodied man who signs up … and some who ain’t even real able. Hell, most a’ these boys got nothin’ against Injuns, they don’t know a thing about ’em. They’re just doin’ what they’re told to do.”

  “Aye, which is to kill the Indians they got nothing against, right, Gertie?” says Susie. “War is war. It’s kill or be killed. Always been that way, always will be. They’re on that side, we’re on this side, and the side that kills the most of the other wins.”

  “Yeah, and what I’m tryin’ to tell ya is that your side ain’t gonna win. I know I can’t talk you gals outta fightin’, but you greenhorns, you could still make a run for it.”

  “And where would you propose we go?” Lady Hall asks. “And how would we get there?”

  “I make the same offer I made to ya back in Crazy Horse’s village. I’ll escort ya south down to Medicine Bow station and put ya on the next train east. Why, I’d be doin’ the Army a favor. Since they got all that press travelin’ with ’em, they’d have some real trouble this time explainin’ a bunch of dead white women among the Injuns after they kick your butts in another massacre … which, believe me, they will. And since the brides program has been abandoned and was a secret to begin with, chances are most a’ you could melt right back into polite society … ya know, move to different towns, take on different names, become respectable white women again.”

  At this Molly laughs. “As opposed to white whores livin’ with savages?”

  “Exactly that, honey. Been there myself.”

  “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely idea,” says Carolyn. “And thus you escort us down to the train station, Gertie”—she holds her hands out to her sides—“dressed like squaws, correct? For you see, we have no other clothing than this. Nor, of course, do we have money for train tickets.”

  “I been savin’ money outta my pay,” she says. “I got enough for your train tickets, but maybe not quite enough for proper white women clothes for all a’ you.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Gertie,” says Carolyn. “But imagine our reception at the station and on the train itself. And what would we do, each of us, disembark at random towns along the way, ‘to melt right back into polite society’ as you put it? You think the authorities wouldn’t ask questions? You think news of our respective arrivals would not appear in the local newspapers?” She flips one of her braids off her chest. “You think the ladies of the town would welcome us into their homes for tea and biscuits, and admire our savage hairstyles?”

  Gertie shakes her head sadly. “No, honey, I don’t expect that’d happen,” she says. “It’s true that polite society ain’t quite ready for you gals, you think I don’t know that? It’s never been ready for me, neither, because I never been a respectable white woman.”

  “Nor have we, Gertie,” says Susie.

  “Me neither,” says Lulu.

  “A girl can’t get much less respectable than a life sentence in Sing Sing,” says Molly.

  “I beg your pardon,” says Lady Hall, “not to try to set myself apart from or above you fine ladies, but I do consider myself to be quite respectable.”

  “Were that the case, m’lady,” says Susie, “you wouldn’t be among us, would you now? For neither was Helen respectable in the eyes of polite society. You two are outsiders, just like the rest of us, as was May, and that’s how we all got here.”

  “Look, girls,” says Gertie, “I was just tryin’ to paint a rosy picture of a possible alternate future for you. ’Cause don’t ya see? I’m tryin’ to save your lily-white asses. You don’t have much of a chance either way, truth be told, but you got a better one runnin’ than you do stayin’ with these folks and waitin’ for the shit monsoon to strike
again. An’ the only thing I can tell you for sure is that it is bearin’ down on you, from all sides, right now.”

  This gets everybody’s attention, and a long quiet falls over the greenhorns, broken finally by Maria. “But I can never be a respectable white woman,” says she, with a tone of some regret, “because my ass is brown.”

  And no matter how scared these lasses are by what Gertie has just told ’em, damned if we don’t all manage a good laugh.

  LEDGER BOOK VIII

  Dancing Under the Moon

  From those seated around the dance circle there arose assorted exclamations, growing in waves … of surprise? astonishment? shock? disapproval? appreciation? Perhaps they were enjoying our performance, or perhaps they wished to scalp us for it. We did not know, and what’s more, we didn’t give a damn …

  (from the journals of Molly McGill)

  26 May 1876

  The dance has come and gone … and I hardly know where to begin to describe it … or all that came before … and after. There is much to tell …

  The dance and feast were announced first that morning by the village crier, who walked through camp recounting the news that festivities would begin with the setting sun, and telling the people where they should congregate for the event. Next Quiet One, Feather on Head, Pretty Walker, and Pretty Nose came to our lodge, bearing shawls cut from bright-colored trade blankets for us to wear over our dresses, and bringing with them another woman, Alights on the Cloud, who is said to have big medicine in matters of romance. They led us down to the river, where they stripped us of our work clothes, bathed us ceremoniously, washed our hair, wrapped us in buffalo robes, and led us back to our lodge. There they rubbed us with bundles of sage and other wild herbs, slipped our hide dresses over our heads, draped the shawls around our shoulders, and rebraided our hair, into which they weaved small bones and shiny shards of metal.

  Once again, Lady Hall did not submit to any of this, as she had made it quite clear that though she planned to participate in our cancan, and even wear a dress and tutu, she would not join us in the courtship dance to be put on display to the young men. Nor did she have any intention of being paired by Dog Woman with one of them. “I tried marriage once,” she said, “largely for the sake of propriety. But, for rather obvious reasons of which I think you are all more or less aware, it simply wasn’t for me.”

  “When May and the other white women came to us,” said Pretty Walker as they worked upon the rest of us, “the People were very rich.” She made the expansive sign language gesture that indicates great wealth. “We had many possessions from trade—white man bells and beads of silver and rings of gold, shiny rocks of glass dug from the earth, bright coins that flashed in the sun and in the flames of the fire. But now we are very poor. We had to leave everything behind when the soldiers attacked our village. We lost everything. Yet the soldiers took nothing, as we do when we make raids upon our enemies. They did not even take our food. They burned it all—our food, our hides, our riches, all burned. Now we are very poor. This is why we have little to give you for the dance, except the dresses we made and the shawls, and these few scraps of metal to shine in your hair. My father, Little Wolf, says it is a good thing for the People to be poor, for now we must learn to live again in the old way. But still, we wish we had pretty necklaces and rings to give to you.”

  “The dresses you made for us are beautiful,” I said. “And the shawls, too, which will keep us warm in the night air. We have no need of those other things.”

  Now Alights on the Cloud arranged us in a circle, standing facing outward, and began to paint our faces, one by one, with various designs meant, presumably, to encourage romantic thoughts among young men. Despite that, Lady Hall agreed to be thusly made up, for Alights on the Cloud had worked with her friend Helen Flight and learned much from her artistry. “In addition to honoring Helen’s talents by bearing the work of her apprentice,” said m’lady, “I do not wish to call undue attention to myself by being the only paleface in the dance.”

  Pretty Walker instructed us to look straight ahead and not at one another. If we did not follow this procedure correctly, she said, we would break the sacred circle, which would make for bad medicine and spoil the entire evening. When Alights on the Cloud had finally finished painting the last of us, Pretty Walker told us to all turn around in unison, so that we faced inward in our circle. We did so … and stared at each other in a long moment of stunned silence, broken only by small gasps of astonishment. Although our identities were given away by certain personal characteristics—height, hair color, Lady Hall’s breeches, etc.—the greasepaint rendered our faces virtually unrecognizable to one another, a transformation so complete that we had to consciously seek out these other features to identify who was who.

  “May I be the first to say,” remarked Lady Hall, finally, “that you ladies all look splendidly, fiercely savage. Why, I wager were we to look in a mirror, we would scarcely recognize ourselves, let alone each other. It’s brilliant, don’t you see? This allows us a liberating sense of anonymity. It is as if we are attending a masked ball, our true selves disguised, unrevealed. We are free to be whomever we wish. Yes, I believe we are going to dance tonight as we have never danced before.”

  Just before sunset, the Cheyenne women led us to the site of the dance. Drums beat rhythmically as a huge orange sun hung suspended over the western mountains, mirroring the flames from the bonfire. Seated in a broad circle around the fire were rows of tribal members, chatting animatedly while waiting for the festivities to begin, the dancers themselves beginning to assemble on the edge of the circle. Overseeing all this, the social director, Dog Woman, bustled fussily about. She wore the same cotton gingham dress, adorned by multiple bead necklaces around her neck, metal rings on her fingers and in her ears, and on her head an incongruous Abraham Lincoln–style top hat, from which protruded an array of eagle feathers. Dog Woman was assisted by a young woman whose name we later learned was Bridge Girl, but dressed as a boy, and said to be a Sapphist, the two of them scolding unruly children, changing seating arrangements, and adjusting the costumes of the dancers.

  The men dancers wore face paint less elaborate than our own, and magnificently feathered headdresses, their arms and leggings equally decorated with plumage. They looked like nothing so much as prairie roosters, practicing their dance steps and displaying to the hens. The women dancers were dressed more simply, in hide dresses and shawls not unlike ours, their faces unpainted, their moccasins and leggings trimmed modestly in fur. It occurred to me that so much of their culture is learned from nature, and as in the bird world itself, the male frequently has a brighter, more colorful and elaborate plumage than the female.

  As the sun began to drop behind the mountains, the dancers took their places. This first was to be the welcome dance, by which we were to be formally introduced to the tribe, and the correct steps of which we had learned in our lessons. More drummers joined in now, their pulsing beat coming from different sides of the circle, echoing off the surrounding hills, joined then by flute players, followed by gourd rattlers, all together creating a strangely rhythmic, while at the same time discordant cacophony … a sound that civilized ears might at first hesitate to call precisely music.

  When the native dancers were in position—the women in one row, the men in another—Dog Woman gave them the signal. They began to move slowly, lightly, gracefully, their moccasined steps in concert with one another, at the same time in harmony with the music, giving it further definition as if the dancers themselves were silent instruments, joining the orchestration. As they danced, the two lines, men and women, began to merge, though each individual continued to dance alone. They merged then parted again into their separate lines, merged and parted again, a kind of preliminary courtship dance that suggested they were not quite prepared yet to become partners.

  Dog Woman now signaled to us, and we took our position in a line behind the Cheyenne women, where we could mimic their steps until we settled int
o the pattern. We began tentatively but soon were performing a credible version of the dance. The Cheyenne women now turned to face us, and we continued to dance in unison, the beat picking up in tempo.

  “Bloody Hell!” said Lady Hall, “but we’ve got the rhythm now, ladies!” She herself danced with a somewhat exaggerated gait, her step more exuberant than it was graceful, although whatever she lacked in style, she more than compensated for with enthusiasm. “By God, I do believe I was born to dance!” she said, which remark elicited a good deal of giggling among the rest of us.

  At another signal from the social director, we and the Cheyenne women danced forward until we faced each other directly, then back again, forward, and back. The men, too, turned around and danced behind the women, forward and back. Now as we danced forward the Cheyenne women parted so that we passed between them, and met the men dancing forward. Then the two lines of women turned around so that we faced each other, and danced forward, passing again so that this time the Cheyenne women met the men dancing forward. It was a dance as simple and hypnotic as the music itself, which all this while had been gradually increasing in tempo, so that the steps came faster. I don’t remember exactly how many times we repeated these passes, three, four perhaps, but at some point the Cheyenne women faded out of the dance, and we were left dancing with the men. When we danced forward toward them and came face-to-face, they did not look us directly in the eye, as seems to be the way among these people. Yet we all had the sense that the man each of us met in this manner was the one chosen specifically by Dog Woman to be our prospective mate … I confess a sense of deep disappointment that mine was not Hawk, nor indeed had I yet seen him here this evening. The music continued faster and faster, drums and flutes and rattles, the steps quickening equally, faster and faster, and we lost ourselves in the moment … until suddenly, and without warning, the music stopped … the dance was over.