“Nat’aaggi.” This is a photograph of a young Indian woman, not much more than a teen-ager I would suppose, crouching beside a large, wolf-like dog.
It is petty and vain of me, but I felt a sickening kind of jealousy to see the woman. She is wild looking, with a fur pelt over her shoulders, clothing of animal skins, and her dark hair long and unbound, but she is not unattractive. There is a certain hardness in her face that causes me to think she is of a strong disposition. I am not sure romance, imagined or real, is even the root of my envy. Rather it is the thought that she should be on such an adventure with my husband, while I wait for any scrap of news and go with none. Does she travel shoulder-to-shoulder with the men as they ford rivers and sleep beneath the stars? Does she laugh and joke with them? If so, how is it that she has the good fortune to walk alongside my husband, to know his fate from moment to moment, while I am left behind? What I wouldn’t give to be there in her place. The last photograph I developed today is unmarked. It is of Allen. He sits on a makeshift campstool with his Army tin cup in his hand, and in front of him is a sled piled high with backpacks, crates, and rifles. At first, I did not recognize him, for where he once had a well-trimmed moustache, he now wears a full beard, his cavalry hat is stained and misshapen, more like that of a trail-worn cowboy than a gentleman officer, and all of his attire appears shabby. At his waist is a pistol in holster. He does not look up at the camera, so I cannot see his eyes.
I was overcome with emotion at the sight of him. I am sure it never entered his thoughts that I might be the first person to see this photograph. I wish he had known, for maybe he would have looked into the camera and I might have seen some tenderness there.
Sophie Forrester
Vancouver Barracks
June 21
I wonder if peaceful sleep will ever find me again. Late last night, I developed the last of the plates with hopes that I could then go to bed to rest comfortably. However, the images proved to be greatly distressing.
The first photograph was of a group of Indians standing and sitting outside of a bark hut. There are several small children and women. One Indian man wears an Army cap, which I suppose was gotten in trade. They all appear quite hungry and poor.
Two other photographs are rather unremarkable. One is of a dog, and it is marked “Boyo.” The other shows a cliff face, of which I see nothing particular except a black spot in the trees that I cannot make out even with magnifying glass.
The last, however, became more and more disturbing to me as I came to understand its contents. It is a picture of an Indian man standing on one foot, perhaps in a kind of dance, as he leans on a wooden staff or crutch, his arms spread wide. He wears a top hat, a black vest, and a great assortment of decorations about his neck. All this I could see easily enough on the plate, yet it is an oddity of a negative that all that is black appears white, so that there was something nearly angelic about the image when it first revealed itself in the solution. I rinsed it and fixed it and set it out to dry so that I could make prints in daylight.
Of course, all that appears white in negative is truly black, and now that I have a print, I can see that he is in shadows and wears dark clothing, while behind him the background is quite bright. He is very near to the camera, his head is cocked at a strange angle, and he peers directly into the lens. Of course, I have never met this Indian or seen his countenance before, yet I sensed a familiarity in his appearance that took me some time to pinpoint, and then it occurred to me. His shadowy form, with lame leg and odd tilt of the head, recall the raven that plagued me in the spring.
All this was unnerving enough, but then I recalled that I had not found any notation on the plate itself, and I went in search of the sleeve from which it came. There I found it: “Man Who Flies on Black Wings, Wolverine River”
I have since studied the print with magnifying lens for perhaps longer than was good for me. It is the eyes that chill me the most.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 18, 1885
A visitor this afternoon?—?welcomed by some, though not all of us.
Nat’aaggi spotted the canoe coming across the lake directly as if from the north side. Several of the Indians gathered at the shore to watch its approach. A lone figure, only a dark outline at that distance. As it neared, though, Pruitt took out field glasses.
?—?It’s your friend, Colonel.
He handed me the glasses. Through them I made out the black hat & bronze face.