I broke to the northwest, away from the Mississippi. I found the Missouri river and followed it until it broke to the west. Traveling again northward, I came upon a land of sharp cut bluffs and rolling hills. It made for difficult traveling. I saw an abundance of small rivers, streams, and wildlife of every sort. The deer were the most plentiful of the game and three of them became my sustenance on this long journey. I was told by settlers of a fur trading post further north in a village known as Pembina. I saved the deer hides to trade if I should happen to venture that far north.

As I traveled further, the land began to flatten out. Rolling prairie land extended as far as my eyes could see. Trees were sparse on this land of grass and buffalo. Ah, the buffalo--magnificent beasts grazing in herds of thousands! I had not in my twenty-nine years of life, seen beasts of such immense size. I estimated them to weigh from eighteen hundred to two thousand pounds--some even larger. I watched them, transfixed, for hours at a time. Their magnificence and nobility were stunning. I came to this land not knowing what my eyes would see. Now I knew I had found my destiny. If ever a place felt like a home to me, it was this place. I rode all the way to a great lake. The Indians called it “Spirit Lake.” Some of the fur traders that I came across called it the “Devil’s Lake.”

The lake was home to a great Indian nation. I had no desire to intrude upon their land, nor incur their wrath in any way. I desired to live in peace among all men; white or Indian. I began to build a small sod dwelling near a river, about fifteen miles south of the Devil’s Lake. My dwelling was hidden from sight by a small rolling hill on either side. The river lay in front of me at a distance of about one hundred fifty yards. I would be able to see anyone coming over the hills long before they could reach my sod dwelling.

The river teemed with fish and the land teemed with game. If ever a man had found his Eden, it was certainly me.

I arrived in this wonderful land during the summer of 1815. Never would I return to my former life in Saint Louis or Boston. Here, my own hand would provide for me all that I need to sustain my life. My tools consisted of a large knife made by my own hands during the war with England and a flintlock rifle that I had become an expert with. I also acquired a musket from a fallen comrade at the battle of New Orleans, that I loaded with shot. The weapon was perfect for the hunting of the many species of game birds that inhabit this area.

I was to receive a section of land for my service. That was the promise to those who served in the militia. I had no interest in land. What would I do with it? Farm? I am no farmer and that is most certain. Now that the second war with England was over, the greed of men was unashamedly on display. They bartered and gambled their new found acres in a most frivolous manner. In just a few months time, these men, who had courageously halted the advance of the British army and navy, were now quibbling for whatever parcel of ill fed, unproductive land they could get their hands on. Most of them plunging themselves so far in debt, that their land was forfeited to their creditors--a den of vultures lying in wait to gain fortune by trickery or outright theft. My brief twenty-nine years had seen much hardship befall the innocent at the hands of greedy men. I had no interest in land whatsoever.

Neither did I have any interest in returning to Boston. Since I was a lad, I had wanted to be away from Boston. At twenty-four I struck out west to St. Louis. Working on the riverboats offered a much more peaceful existence than the constant threat of violence and crime on Boston’s dirty streets. Nevertheless, no place that I set my foot felt like home.

The British had purposed to sack New Orleans and in so doing, would choke off the commerce that was carried upon the waters of the great Mississippi river. Our livelihoods threatened by the action, many of us joined the militia, taking up arms against the marauding swarms of red-coated soldiers.

Now that the war was over, I found myself not wanting to return to St. Louis. The promise of America was that men may live free; however, a life of toil for others and the accumulation of debt did not seem like freedom to me. I felt a stirring deep inside my being--telling me to leave behind all that I knew. I had grown weary of watching good men die and evil men prosper.

I refused my six hundred forty acres of land, asking instead for a horse. “A horse?” The man said with a most puzzled look on his face, “Am I to understand that you do not want the land promised you?”

Jessica’s Song

Sing a song of Jessica
Delightful to my soul
Her smiling face enraptures
How she makes my being whole

Without her I am but a man
A rudderless ship adrift
A perfect God bestowed on me
The perfect, sweetest gift

Such miracles only made above
This truth inside my heart I hold
The many years of memories
More precious than the finest gold

In my eyes there is none equal
Entranced by all I hear and see
A finer blessing never assigned
To such a mortal man as me

Sing a song of Jessica
On wings the melody ever soars
Brings peace and solace to my heart
As waves that light upon the shore

 Photo by Alicia Tandeski

Happy Birthday sweet sixteen! I love you!

Hungry I trudge through these streets
Feeling somewhat ill.
Cold coffee is cast upon me
From a nearby window sill

The people come and the people go
Yet none wish me good will.
They grant me not their pocket change
That I may eat my fill.

If I don’t eat soon I must confess
I’ll find an animal to kill.
And prepare a fire to roast it’s flesh
Upon a homemade grill.

My restless eyes are wandering
No they won’t be still
For I have found upon this ground
A brand new five dollar bill.