Wakanda

“Hey Diamond, what are you going to do with your share of the spoils?” Carnes called across the cold wintry air.

I thought for a moment before laughing, releasing a small cloud from my mouth. “Buy a nice warm blanket and a round of cider!” The other soldiers raised their hands as if in a toast. “But who said I’m sharing?” I demanded, my eyes sparkling. There was a stunned silence as their numb minds processed my words. Finally, they caught on and laughed; heartily, I joined in the merriment. The trip had been long and cold, but between the laughter and the jangling purse at the other end, it was made quite bearable. “What about you?”

“I’m gonna be cultured and see the opera in Washington this spring,” he said proudly, straightening his hat.

“Oh yes, I hear it was marvelous in France. Do have a good time!” a soldier cried out in a snooty voice.

“Eh, Morrison, you’re just jealous ‘cause you wouldn’t understand a third of the words anyway,” Carnes replied while Morrison turned a magnificent shade of red.

“Are we stopping for the night?” Morrison asked, tactlessly changing subjects. Carnes took out his pocket watch and thought for a moment.

“Nah, I’d just assume get home as quickly as possible,” he said, urging his horse into a rolling lope.

“Hear, hear!” I cried, urging my horse to give chase after my friend.

We overcame the last hill after a few more hours of riding and smiled down on the huge expanse of Indian tents spattering the frost ridden ground. Excited about the treasure the savages would leave behind, we yelled and urged our horses ever faster. We rounded up the dirty creatures and Carnes walked his horse to the front of the crowd.

“It is the order of the Great White Father that you be moved from this land to the other side of the Mighty River,” his voice boomed over the savages’ mutterings. “Go and pack your things. We leave immediately!”

The Indians slowly wandered back to their crude tents, gibbering in their nonsense language. We dismounted and left our horses standing in the middle of the camp so that we could disperse ourselves and encourage them to pack a little more quickly.

I passed by a tent and didn’t hear the noises of a family hurriedly packing their belongings, so I let myself into the tent and looked around curiously. A woman was sadly fingering the side of her tent. How anyone could become attached to such a… home was beyond me.

“Let me help you pack,” I offered. She looked up at me, her glittering black eyes fixing on my gun. I slid my fingers over a pile of silver jewelry. Seeing a sparkling necklace with turquoise scattered along the chain, I paused. Making a quick decision, I pocketed the trinket. Perhaps my daughter would like something pretty for her birthday. The woman watched apathetically as I continued to peruse her belongings. The poor things, Indians, they don’t know what’s valuable and what to fight over. Satisfied that there wasn’t anything left of particular value, I left the tent, leaving the woman with a warning that we would be leaving soon.

I went through several other tents, mentally marking which ones to come back to for pots or other things I couldn’t fit in my waist-pouch. Finally, Carnes yelled for everyone to leave. He instructed a younger soldier to lead the way to the Mississippi while he, Morrison, and I rode towards the back. The rest of the soldiers scattered themselves through the throng of redskins.

“Find anything good?” Morrison asked conversationally.

“A necklace for Rebeka,” I said, pulling out the trinket.

“She’ll like that,” Carnes commented. “I’ve got a little knife for Alex. What about you, did you find anything?”

“Just some stuff I’m going to go back for later,” Morrison said with a shrug.

“How long is this path supposed to take?” I asked, concerned with the slow pace the savages were taking.

“We’re meeting with another group in a couple of days.”

The days passed by slowly. Carnes, Morrison, and I quickly ran out of things to say to each other, so soon it was a very quiet trek. We stopped only a couple of times per day. Several times, I thought about leaving and going back home and to my nice warm bed, but the thought of the jangling purse kept me with the train.

Finally, we reached our rendezvous point. No one was there, so we set up camp. Our contract said to take the Indians this far and no further. If we kept going, we wouldn’t get paid any extra, so why bother?

After another two days of waiting, the next group finally showed up.

“Carnes!” the man at the lead shouted. I didn’t know him, but judging from his reaction, Carnes did.

“Pearson, you’re late,” he said with a smile.

“We got held up in Davenport,” the man said apologetically.

“I thought Hall was supposed to meet us,” Carnes said with a question, though he didn’t seem concerned.

“A few of my men have business in Springfield, so we took the job. Besides, Hall’s wife’s having a kid and he wanted to be home.”

“Why don’t you postpone leaving for another night? We’ve much catching up to do!” Carnes offered. Pearson accepted and we spent the night drinking and telling stories. It turned out that pearson was an old hand at dealing with the savages. His humorous stories about stubborn Indians that attempted to fight off the white men lasted all night long, and by morning we were all hoarse from laughter and loose with drink.

Pearson drunkenly mounted his horse and ordered his men and the savages to prepare for departure. Carnes, Morrison, and I also mounted our horses and walked with the crowd to the edge of the camp so that we could watch them leave. We sat on our horses and watched the long train of Indians march away from the camp. As I was watching them, a young woman, no more than sixteen, turned around and looked directly at me. She didn’t say anything, no words of anger or of farewell; she simply stared at me. Her empty black eyes stared straight into mine and I had to repress a shudder as she continued the unblinking stare.

I couldn’t explain it then, and I certainly can’t explain it now, but there was something in that stare that unnerved me. She wasn’t angry that we were taking their land from her people, but she wasn’t happy about it either. She knew we were taking the land solely for the white man’s good.

I turned away, unable to bear looking into those depthless, emotionless eyes any longer. Until now, I had had no qualms that what we were doing was the right thing to do. We were rescuing the unintelligent savages from the encroachment of the white men. Surely it was the right thing to do! But by looking into those black eyes in that young face, I realized that we weren’t rescuing them. We were chasing them away. And though she would shed no tear, exclaim no anger, I knew that what we were doing hurt her. We took these people from their homes, and for that I was shameful.

I turned back to the slowly moving crowd, anxious to tell the girl that I was sorry, and that if I could do anything to save her people, I would, but she was gone. I searched the crowds for her distinct, unmoving face, but it was gone. She was now just one of the thousands.

“Thank you, Wakanda, for teaching me,” I whispered, naming her one of the few Indian words I knew: Possessing Magical Powers. For that was what she had, she had the magical power to make a hardened soldier change his mind; she had the power to influence me for the rest of my life.

So, two years later, when my last daughter was born, I told my wife to name her Wakanda, so that the girl’s memory will forever live on, and the insight she showed me will live on in my daughter.

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