In which we learn that history as it happens is not always as pretty as its myth told later.
“But, General,” I hear you say, “RWDS exacting vigilante justice against officials implementing intolerable policies and their supporters, just isn’t who we are as a country. American principles don’t allow for these methods to defend liberty.”
“Let’s talk about “Tory Hunting.”
“In the lead up to the Revolution, during the war, and in the decades that followed, gross attrocities occured (by today’s standards,) long sanitized in most history books.
In several instances, British tax collectors, agents of the crown, and loyalist sympathizers were tared and feathered. Many “ridden off on a rail.” Some just disappeared or were found hanged, sending a message.
“Persecution of Tories became official after the Declaration of Independence, when the Continental Congress and the newly declared free states passed confiscation and banishment acts, seizing property, and PHYSICALLY REMOVED anti-colonialists from their midsts.” —Thoughts of the illustrious @GenAugustoP
The Colonel by Carolyn Forche
“What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
“Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid.
“The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table.
“My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this.
“He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. ‘I am tired of fooling around,’ he said. ‘As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves.’
“He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. ‘Something for your poetry, no?’ he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.”