Vignette : Rope for Mingo
Mingo
«Daniel! What's more important, the law or my life?»
"Long ago, I made a choice. I have never regretted it. I am Cherokee. I am Indian. And it is my life and who I am."
This white man tried to cheat the people of my tribe and I went and put a stop to it. But he got angry that he couldn't get away with it and his blame now marks my back for the rest of my life. I was left feverish, sick and weak and those that took care of me never challenged nor pitied me. They washed me, feed me and made sure I swallowed the right medicine. I felt safe and secure in their lodges, by their fire, speaking in their tongues.
And then my blood brother, the one who would have taken care of me as the Choctaw did, if he had found me laying in pain instead of them, came searching for me.
Daniel walked into the village, intent, strong, without fear and with resolution. His tone was commanding. He was the invader, willing to enter all the lodges to search for me. None knew why, me the least yet there is was, my friend Daniel Boone had decided he would be master of this village and this people. I stepped up to him, angry suddenly at his attitude, I was still fuming at the white man action toward me.
Daniel was not acting like my friend, but I am as stubborn as him. He came in as an intruder, looking for me, and he didn't act like my friend.
I didn't know why he came looking for me.
I told him all, gave him all the answers he sought, told him the truth and the shame and still, Daniel, my brother, didn't act like he believed me.
He took me to his village, the settlement I helped protect, the site I had shown him. His rifle pointing at me, he put me in a cell, guarding it himself. Only after I escaped, after we fought, after I repeated to him once more that I trust him, did he at last shook my hand, looked me in the eyes and at last, I saw the man I called brother smiled back in trust at me.
That rope on my neck, the fear in my heart ….. Dying without pride and honor, like an beaten down animal …. I made a choice in life as an adult and wanted to live with the culture, the manner, the language of my mother in the country I was born. I wish to live as a free man and never foresaw this death of hate that made my soul cringed.
Daniel came at last, to my rescue, as he didn't when I laid hurt and whipped. He came with the same determination, the same steps he took when he entered the Choctaw's; he had the same strength and belief in law and civilization.
I do not know. Does he think I feel as relieve as him?
I am the one carrying whip scars and the day the Cherokee, my people, will at last put me to my resting place, those scars will still be there.
Will white men ever stop abusing my people? Will Daniel, my brother, believe in civilization and law until his dying days?
Nothing is so white, so black, so red as it seems. Can Daniel handle the grey?
Can our friendship move on? Does his handshake after we fought be sufficient to sooth my mother's blood crying?
Daniel
« Get that rope off of him. Mingo is innocent. »
"Mingo didn't kill your brother Zach. He did!"
Jericho handed the knife over. My heart skipped a beat. I know that knife as well as I know mine. I have used it. It has saved my life. It has feed me and my family.
Mingo's knife! He made one nearly the same as a gift to his friend Rain Cloud, I had seen him working the handle with his fine workmanship, slowly eroding, engraving, embellishing.
Mingo's knife, full of the blood of Zach's family. Sense prevailed, but not me. It was Cincinnatus, often aggravated by Mingo fine language, who said it first. So it's Mingo's knife, but it does not prove anything, he could have lost it, he could have had it stolen.
I saw the three bodies, this family, dead on the road, fumes left from their wagon overturned and burning. And I had to remain in control as the men around me found his necklace, his vest - all the proof judges and jury would used against him. I stood to Zach, too quick at hating. I stood to Zach, but did I stood to myself.
To my Becky, I could not hide my doubts. To the Choctaw, I could not hide my anger. To Mingo, I could not hide my disbelief.
He told me his truths. He showed me his back. I wanted to ask him how he was, if he was feeling better, if he would start hating the white as did many other Indians for less than this. The friend I care for, for whom I worried, was showing proud and strong, the pain and the shame he was put through and still, I stood beside him, offering not my caring and support but my determination at justice and law - for him, for all.
I have seen many times how my own do not give the same benefits of law to the Indians. Yet, I hope. Yes I hope. In that hope, I wanted Mingo safe and I wanted the law to judge him innocent. For surely, he was. Surely, he was. The law would prove it and he would be set free and I would find who was guilty and things would be fine.
The choice I made was the right choice.
«It was, wasn't it Mingo?» but I can't ask him this. I can't. So I just have to try to allege his fear, for I think, I believe I understand some of his fear.
Why did I take so long to shake his hand? His eyes, his admission of trust, his soul even.
I was never so scare as when I saw the rope around his neck and those men, men of the settlement I wished for, ready to take his life away. I was never better than when he stood by my side and we watched together, white folks, taking this Indian to a cell, hoping that justice will prevail.
«I believe in friendship and in civilization. The life of my friend is as important as the law. Perhaps a little more. I was put to the test. I learned.»
Author's note : written June 6th, 2007 after watching Rope for Mingo for a few dozen times. I had known the content of this episode for years, line for line, in French, on audio tapes. Three people have been shot dead in this episode and Mingo was whipped to an inch of his life. I have rated the violence content to a PG17, and since the vignette is about this episode so I am giving this short story the same value in violent content.