The Esopus - A Poem by Michael Kurzer

Chapter I. The North River

An old sloop sails through the breaking dawn mist.
Skipper Van Pelt calmly guides the ship's helm.
As it travels the valley towards Fort Orange,
Brilliant skies silhouette the mountain realm.

Rounding a bend in the great North River,
The proud peak of Antony's Nose appears.
This green and granite dome marks the gateway,
Of the steeped peaks through which the Skipper steers.

Sailing through Martyr’s Reach requires skill.
The bow pitches up and down in rough surf.
Van Pelt knows well the river's reckless stretch,
But this time, the tall breakers test his nerve.

Crests of waves are torn by whistling winds.
Fighting the errant wheel straight in the spray,
The Skipper sounds the sloop's cast iron bell.
On the shore, the trees start to bend and sway.

The peaceful morning has now given way,
To a heavy gray cast that fills the air.
Van Pelt trumpets out to his mates, “Bow straight!”
But he's too late. A gust rips the mast bare.

The crew scrambles to gather the lost sail,
When the storm peaks with a strange sound...laughter?
Van Pelt looks up, disbelieving his sight.
A brownie? Perhaps an elf? But fatter.

He wears a ruffled soot cloak which hides his
Beady eyes, red and black, glaring at them
From the creature's pale disfigured green face.
The driving rain makes the daylight go dim.

After a shuffle step, the goblin snarls.
Van Pelt takes a swig from his dry canteen.
As fear creeps upon the dumbstruck seaman,
He inches back trying not to be seen.

Water streaking over the creature's nose,
Its mouth lifts to a wry, sinister grin,
Revealing a row of tiny spiked teeth.
Skipper and crew are still, terror within.

The blithe goblin slowly approaches them.
Van Pelt draws his pistol--too damp to fire.
The yeoman swings his sword to no avail.
It evades him like a hare through briar.

The crewmen stumble about hopelessly,
While the sprite removes his sugar loaf cap,
And flings it gaily at the stunned yeoman,
Who is knocked overboard with a loud "whap!"

The goblin rambles quickly up the mast.
Van Pelt now gives chase, while the goblin laughs.
He makes the top, but the sprite has vanished,
Up into the clouds with the winds abaft.

Gone too is the storm, skies again clear blue.
The poor yeoman climbs safely back aboard.
And all that remains of the visitor,
Is his cap, which hangs from the yeoman’s sword.

                *     *      *

Chapter II. Hendrick Pels

Last day of summer and first day of fall.
Lightning veins flicker on silky gray skies.
The Magnificent Kaatskils rise far off.
On rocky bluffs, our modest Dutch home lies.

We are captive, bound up and desperate,
Huddled inside the drenched timber stockade.
Five-hondred Esopus warriors loom,
While war whoop cries sound an imminent raid.

The cavalry clinched, paces at the gate.
Scents of sulfur and smoke rise from the roofs.
Horses snort with raucous disapproval.
Damp yellow leaves crushed beneath iron shoe hooves.

I pull open the filthy wooden trunk.
“Hendrick Pels”, mine Moe-der calls out to me.
”Fetch the bag of musket balls and powder.”
”And bring your Vah-der his flint-lock quickly!”

On the straw floor I see mine trusty bow.
I’m back in maple forests of years’ past.
Fresh grass and morning dew under mine toes.
Her face shown through the clear waters’ contrast.

Vah-der conducts trade talks with the Ind-yans.
A girl wades in the kill, careless and free.
Her sight leaves mine throat tight. I am smitten.
Wandering from the longhouse close to see.

Her brown eyes, distinct nose and raven hair,
Leave me captivated and spellbound.
A deerskin skirt and moccasins nearby,
I slink to a spot on soggy wet ground.

Sunlight through green maple trees casts shadows,
Upon ripples and reeds along the shore.
Does she see me hiding behind high grass,
Concealed from whom I secretly adore?

Hair floating back from her angelic face,
She swims by me, unaware through closed eyes.
Stretching and straining for a better view,
I shift a stone where a crouched serpent lies.

Crying loudly, I splash into the kill.
The girl laughs at this, but I’m mortified.
Smiling, skulking, out on the muddy rocks,
With one last glimpse, towards Vah-der I stride.

”So what has caused you to act such a fool?”
Chuckles Vah-der, handing me his new bow.
Finely carved with a light brown hemp strewn string.
”You will find this handy, when least you know.”

Moe-der’s hard smack jars me back from the past.
I pick mine bow and cuivre from the floor.
Placing Vah-der’s flint-lock in the cuivre,
I hug mine Moe-der, dashing out the door.

I find Vah-der at the gate, looking tense,
Next to Jacob Stoll champing at the bit.
A garrison of soldiers guards our fort,
Along with our leader Ensign Dirck Smit.

        *       *       *

Chapter III.  Siege

A volley of fire brands plummeting down,
Into thatched roofs, they set quickly ablaze.
Only by the Lord’s good grace upon us,
And through raindrops, our humble homes He saves.

A wrath was directed at Jacob Stoll.
For it was he who fired the musket shot,
Killing the Ind-yan boy in Chamber’s field,
The boy was drunk on brandy he had bought.

After a day working in Chamber's field,
A group of Ind-yans sat drinking nearby.
As night fell, they sent the boy for more.
Hearing noise outside, Stoll went to see why.

If it was on purpose, I do not know.
Mine Vah-der, Evert Pels, though a kind man,
He joined Stoll in the killing that dark night.
We since feared a revenge attack was planned.

“Why the delay?” Vah-der asks me sternly.
”Do you not realize what now transpires?”
”Forgive me” I say, tossing him his gun.
With tarps, we snuff out the lingering fires.

As the sky darkens and the rains come in,
The Ind-yans make another try for the gate.
Tomahawks split the door top to bottom.
An arm reaches in while we lay in wait.

Smit has arranged a row of musketeers.
Their powder masks the damp air of autumn.
Just as the gate appears breached, Smit calls out,
"Pugno Pro Patria!"  "Nunc aut Nunquam!"

Smoky gunfire erupts towards the entry.
The musket balls tear wood and flesh the same.
The marauders are at once stunned in fright.
Loud screams bellow from the savages maimed.

Mine eyes are squinting as I hold mine bow.
And I launch an arrow into the fray.
Suddenly Vah-der's blast pierces mine ears.
I peer through smoke where the dying now lay.

The door shattered, only splinters remain.
We creep forward, listening for a sound.
Blood drips in the mud from lifeless bodies.
For this brief moment, we have held our ground.

            *       *        *

Chapter IV.  The Messenger

A messenger arrives by cover of night,
Bringing new orders for our Ensign Smit.
Though he came to us just six days ago,
Smit is called back to Manhattan by writ.

We gather at the home of Jacob Stoll,
With worried faces no one can disguise.
”Will you be staying Ensign Smit?” I ask.
Smit stares down at his gold timepiece and sighs.

Surely old Peg-Leg Stuyvesant knew not,
Of the horrors we face at Esopus,
Why would he demand Ensign Smit’s return,
"To let these crazed savages pummel us?"

Vah-der asks the Wappani messenger,
If he would leave tonight for Manhatan,
To inform our leader of our dire straits,
But the Ind-yan flat refuses his plan.

Vah-der snarls in disgust at the Ind-yan,
Who stands arms crossed hiding his expression.
Vah-der points his sword at the Ind-yan’s throat.
Somehow he prevails against aggression.

Lewis the Frenchman breaks the room's tension,
With a joke told in his Provencal tone.
"Capitaine Smit, c'est une tres belle montre."
"Je voudrais un. Où trouvez-vous le temps?"

The Wappani scout leaves Stoll’s home calmly,
And slinks away in the night like a ghost.
"You've brought this on yourself," says Smit to Stoll.
Who retorts, "A coward forsakes his post!"

Smit stands, puffs his pipe, and quickly departs.
Vah-der and Stoll continue to discuss,
While I sit quietly on a small stool,
Fearing the Lord's cruel punishment for us.

Jacob Stoll opens his dusty ledger.
"Ensign Smit cannot yet leave with his men."
"There's no southward ship until Friday next."
"Unless he sails by land, he stays till then!"

“But Jacob, Smit’s men will just take canoes.”
“We've hidden the boats in the woods, Evert.”
“Last night, Tom Chambers and I,” replied Stoll,
Revealing to us his will to subvert.

Still needing to get word to Manhattan,
Vah-der and Stoll tossed ideas around.
"A sloop to Fort Orange might be commandeered."
“Are any tomorrow sailing northbound?”

             *       *         *

Chapter V.   Christoffel Davits

A large long-haired man steps from the darkness.
Christoffel Davits, no worse for the war.
“Aye” says Davits, I know a ship coming.
“Skipper Van Pelt’s grand sloop would do the chore.”

Kit Davits is a peculiar species.
Authority he resents intently.
He'd been living amongst the savages.
Learned their language and spoke it fluently.

Rugged, tall, and with a wide brown mustache,
He displays a charming humility.
He’s one Christian the savages revere,
For his brains and trapping ability.

Davits would disappear for days on end.
Then he'd pull up to the Strand in his canoe.
Trading in fat beaver pelts and wampum,
With all the Esopus Ind-yans he knew.

“My old friend will pass the Highlands at dawn.”
“He’s hauling a supply of cane sugar.”
Davits volunteered to our anxious ears,
While stroking his broad mustache with vigor.

“You are certain of the schedule?” asked Stoll.
“As sure as the sun rises.” Davits held.
“Then we must gather a meeting party.”
“We need volunteers. All should feel compelled.”

I am among the eighteen who will go.
No greater risk have I sought to afford.
Putting mine faith in Christoffel Davits,
A man skilled in words, but not with a sword.

             *       *        *

Chapter VI. Braving the Woods

As we prepare to cede the fort’s safe walls,
Smit asks Vah-der to guard the stockade gate.
Vah-der tells two mates to look after me,
Harmon Rosenkranz and Cornelis Sleight.

Rosenkranz is nicknamed “the Portuguese.”
Not because of his Iberian birth,
Rather his name speaks of Marrano roots.
A soldier in Brasil, he’s proved his worth.

Sleight is Esopus’s finest brewer.
Vah-der and he trade barley, hops and beer.
Jan Sleight, his son, is also among us.
The younger Sleight is two years my senior.

While Stoll and Davits speak and act the part,
Sergeant Lourensen is chosen leader.
The Sergeant does not thrill in our presence.
Saying he'd "rather be hunting red deer.“

With the Sergeant, rides Lewis the Frenchman.
A white stallion suits the Frenchman's manner.
Riding to the front, their noses held high.
His horse carries a fleur de lis banner.

Single file, in darkness, we leave the fort,
Feeling branches along the beaten path.
Weary of the savages at each turn,
We know an attack would mean a bloodbath.

I am dreaming as we push through the weald.
Things are not as real as they should be now.
Soon the moonlight spills across our muddy tracks.
We pass maize stalks still, but for the stray cow.

The forest floor feels damp from the day’s rain.
We quick approach the goal of our foray.
I avoid crushing small salamanders,
Stepping on rocks and twigs along the way.

Dawn nears and the North River is at hand.
Rosenkranz waves, first to catch sight of it.
A yacht coasts along in the weak breeze.
Thoughts adrift, in mine belly lies a pit.

             *      *        *
 
Chapter VII.  The Bargain
 
Davits finds his canoe bobbing on shore.
The little boat is tied to an iron rod.
Davits loosens the rope and pushes off,
Giving the Seargent a wink and a nod.

Skipper Van Pelt stands near the yacht’s bowsprit.
His ship looks worn from past North River runs.
We watch from the beachhead as Kit climbs aboard.
The crew greets Davits, though with pointed guns.

Kit is calm smiling under his mustache.
We look on as he bargains with Van Pelt.
The crew, though, protests openly at him.
We knew not the cause for the fear they felt.

Our nerves dance about waiting for Davits.
We pray he will come quickly back to shore.
The longer we wait, our foes draw nearer.
Van Pelt agrees to help his old pal once more.

He informs the crew of his decision,
To return at once to the Manhattans,
And to deliver our distress call.
The crew grumbles at the skipper’s new plans.

The yeoman pulls a red cap from his bag,
And tosses it to Kit with a snide smile.
“A gift” he says as Davits pulls away.
Van Pelt shouts "doo-ey" in the old Dutch style.

Christoffel Davits hurries back to the Strand,
Where the Sleights bring his canoe ashore.
Helping the boat up, mine eye catches it—
The red cap resting on the canoe floor.

An urge hits me to retrieve the odd cap.
I pick it up and tuck it in mine vest.
The savages can now be heard nearby,
But my heart beats calmer after our quest.

We stare out mid river at Van Pelt’s sloop.
It turns, not heading southbound as promised.
"What in the devil is Van Pelt doing?"
Says Davits, starting back, shaking his fist.

We follow him to the shore, where it’s clear.
Van Pelt stands tied to the mast, his head gashed.
“Those vile mongrels shall leave us high and dry!”
Davits howls at them, our rescue hopes dashed.

Van Pelt's crewmen regale in mutiny,
While Davits fires his musket at them in vain.
Lourensen orders Davits to hold fire.
"To make such noise now is surely insane!"

There is no time to judge our circumstance.
The sloop is gone, but the savages loom.
Hap Stoll calms Davits and points to the woods.
Our choice is retreat or face certain doom.

We set fast on our way home to the fort.
Back into the thick woods above the Strand.
We are nearing now the Ind-yans' ball court.
From the drum noise, we know we are out-manned.

Lourensen barks for us to press onward.
But Davits freezes, motioning at us.
Before the Sergeant can speak, arrows fly.
The Frenchman is struck by an arrow's thrust.

          *       *        *

Chapter VIII. The Ambush

Poor Lewis slumps sideways on his dazed horse.
He hangs upturned as his blank eyes meet mine.
Trying to avert his stare, I crouch down.
Trees rustle and his horse begins to whine.

They seem to be coming from everywhere.
Davits disappears, the Seargent frozen.
An arrow. Mine heart is out of my chest.
Only regret for the path I've chosen.

I am nearly stomped by the restless horse,
Which stands on hind legs and heads off blindly.
More arrows whistle by, some catching flesh.
Mine hands tremble as I look behind me.

Two mohawked warriors are standing there.
One savage raises his black tomahawk.
I clutch mine vest tightly, crouching, waiting.
Rashly, the Sergeant yells, "Stop!" "Let us talk."

I look up, the tomahawk remains poised.
"Please. We are lowering our weapons now."
Lourensen drops his gun and lifts his hands.
"We seek to surrender, if you'll allow."

Thus, we lay low our guns, not a shot fired.
The brute captors quickly bind our wrists tight.
Covering our eyes with black cloth and twine,
They lead us astray in the morning light.

I think of Vah-der and what he will say.
He'd be most ashamed of our poor effort.
My thoughts are broken, I hear a child's voice.
We seem to be nearing an Ind-yan fort.