We sometimes forget how brave and daring our settler forefathers were as they set up homesteads in hostile Indian territory without the protection of police, sheriff or cavalry. While they were indeed partially responsible for their own demise, by often setting up on land that did not belong to them, no one can question their stout determination to build a better life for themselves in the face of incredible hardships.
Betrayal
“Hush little one, you must not cry,
You must hush now or we all shall die.”
Deeper into the damp and dusk,
Filtered light and smell of musk.
“Here in this corner huddle and wait,
They may not find you, it's dark and late.”
It hadn't been us who'd broken the trust,
Blood in the snow, a squaw, a knife thrust.
But now all the settlers of Kantuckee
Would pay for the sins of cheap whiskey.
Promises made and promises kept
One drunk fool should'a just have slept.
Advances rejected, embarrassment risen,
Blood hands, red clothes, then off to prison.
Painted anger swooping down
On hermits, fields, and on the town.
Neighbor screams clearly heard,
“We'll be next,” he quickly inferred.
For just such a time a hideout made,
Not under cabin but nearby glade.
Under corn storage a hole, little more,
Wife and two children, and infant makes four.
Kissing the woman he rushes to thicket
Musket raised, we can hear him click it.
Not long to wait, they burst into view,
Swarming the house, a nasty crew.
Six down the path connecting the glade,
Right past his spot, no sound he made.
Screaming and curses, shots into air,
Even more anger that no one was there.
Crouching and watching, some poking through corn,
Then he hears whimpers, weak and forlorn.
At that point he knew it t'was now or t'was never,
Rising up boldly, a hopeless endeavor.
He took one right square in the upper back side,
Then rammed a new charge in, re-aimed and sighed.
Before he could even tug on the trigger,
Three of them jumped him, all of them bigger.
He swung the musket 'round like a cudgel,
Such a valiant but wasted struggle.
The last thing he saw as they cut him down,
Defending his hard-earned piece of ground,
Were his three dear children bashed on the rocks,
His sweet wife crying as they slashed her blond locks.
Falling to ground he looked to the sky,
He watched as an eagle gently soared by.
Lowering his gaze, he saw the stout hatchet,
Cut through his powder horn and into his jacket.
He felt little pain as his eyes softly closed,
But up from the ground one of his small ones rose,
Reached toward his father and with his last cry,
“I'm sorry father. The cry you heard, was I.”
He opened his eyes and likewise outreached
For the brave little lad whose blood in ground leeched.
But try as he might he couldn't move none,
But extended his hands with palms to the sun.
“It's alright dear Robert, for soon we shall meet,
Where nothing can harm us, where angels sing sweet.
Close your eyes son, and struggle no more,
All is forgiven.” ...the hatchet again tore.
(At Amity, 12-13-16)