Through the Trees We Ran

The day we ran was a beautiful spring morning. My husband Andrew and I had just returned from picking Saskatoon berries near a river bend that he had discovered while hunting the previous day. They were bursting and bountiful, and spread for kilometers near the river side. Our eldest child, Owen, was playing in the yard while we were away, checking on our youngest occasionally, Jeanette. We lived in a vast cottage near a stable ground in a clearing near the forest edge; we were miles from the next village, but we loved the solitude. We owned two pure bred Clydesdale horses, one golden and one jet black, their coats gleaming with good health and happiness. Food was bountiful where we were situated, and soil was rich which gave many positives to agriculture and the ability to grow our own crops of grains, vegetables, and a vast field of fruit trees which blossomed juicy apples and peaches in the autumn. Everything was perfect.

We arrived back at the cottage together in a pair, carrying buckets of juicy berries in our arms. Owen saw us and ran through the front yard and leaped over the gate, much like that of a gazelle. His bright hazel eyes and silky coal hair lit up upon our arrival and greeted us with a big hug. I kissed him on the top of his head and asked him to help us with the pails of fruit we had gathered. Sneakily, he took a small handful and shoved them in his mouth, smacking his lips at the sweetness as they burst on his taste buds. A gaze came upon me from Andrew, gleaming a smile my way. I returned it and continued with Owen, who bobbed from side to side as he stumbled, carrying a pail in each hand. I took the fruit inside near the sink so I could begin washing them in anticipation for pie, cobbler, muffins, and many other treats.

That’s when my little boys’ scream echoed from horizon to horizon.

The bucket fell from my fingers and crashed to the floor, berries spilling out everywhere, coating the wood floor and rolling underneath the furniture. I stood agonizingly still, listening to my breathing, and the faint sounds of whining horses, fear, and shouts from the distance. My heart dropped into my stomach and my vocal chords froze; they were here.

Instinctively, I ran outside to gather my family and keep them from harm’s way, and I was almost too late; the horses that held the soldiers dressed in flaming crimson jackets, shouted and galloped at lightening speeds, coming at full throttle. The men shouted as well, wielding their muskets and knives, ready to strike at the first given opportunity. Now the sun felt like a fire raging across my skin- I snatched Owen’s hand and dragged him inside, even though I knew it wouldn't be any kind of barrier compared to the brute force of the soldiers. Andrew rushed behind us, pushing us into the house and closing the door. He would try and fight them off himself, giving us time to bundle up Jeanette and sneak through the back entrance towards the stables, where we would ride towards some kind of freedom.

My child lay, helpless and sobbing, in her wooden crib. After shoving Owen into the wine cellar underneath the floor boards in our living room, I dashed into the bedroom and picked her up, coddling and cooing her, praying to dear God that this wouldn't be our last moment together. A crash, rattling the floor boards, indicated that they had gotten through my husband and had ruthlessly smashed their way into our home. I began to sob with my little girl in my arms, holding onto her for dear life, hoping that maybe I could conceal her from their knowing. I was completely wrong.

They searched the house and finally arrived at the door. One pulled my hair, slamming my frame onto the bed and another tearing my child from my grasp. Agony overwhelmed me as I writhed and screamed in their control, begging to be let free; I got a musket handle to the face. Jeanette wailed and weeped. My hand were pulled and stretched, tied to the two corners of our bed frame with strips of leather and rope. My entire body froze, my blood running cold. I was nicked and scratched as they used their steel knives to cut my clothing from my body while having a cloth stuffed into my screaming mouth and tied shut. My body was restrained and exposed. Through my red eyes that streamed tears, and through my ears that could pick up everything in the room, I watched and listened in gut wrenching agony as one pulled the crib from the wall and used his musket handle to smash my little girls' face. The 6 month old helpless infant was beaten to death in her crib. The uneasy sound of leather against bone shattered my soul. I couldn't scream any louder, I couldn't writhe any harder, and I couldn't close my eyes any tighter to forget or soothe myself from what I had been held witness to. I just couldn't. It was impossible.

The bastards finished her off in a matter of seconds, and moved onto me. I was exposed with nothing on my body. I was cold and shivering, still squirming against my will. One of them grabbed my legs and pulled them apart from each other. My head thrashed around on the mattress, and my arms tried desperately to gain freedom but my attempts were made futile by the strength of the bindings. Their faces and voices were filled with abhorrent cruelty. Who could do such a revolting act towards their fellow man? I could soon smell the scent of burning oak and the toxic odor of black smoke rising from the other end of the house; our lives were about to be burned to the ground.

Andrew tore the door from its hinges, covered in tattered rags where his shirt used to be and a mix of crusted and new blood all over his face and body. The sight would have usually shooken me, but I was far past the point of being frightened that I almost forgot to feel any sense of surprise. He slammed a punch into the mans’ jaw and another one into his nose, while elbowing the other behind him and having his blood splattering all over the wood board walls. His knife met both of their throats and they hit the floor with a loud thump. The entire sequence lasted maybe a minute or two. Time felt like it was ticking by in slow motion.

Andrew's face changed dramatically after he found Jeanette in her crib, beaten and disfigured, drenched in the bright blood of her once known youth. Her perfect face didn't resemble a face; her glossy green eyes could not be found. Her dainty fingers were broken and mutilated, but her toes were left untouched, torturing her fathers’ body and soul as he felt her once soft warm skin which had become cold and stiff at her toes. She resembled taxidermy, forever caught in time. Forever stuck in the last sight she ever had through her perfect vision. Before he could let out any action of despair, the heavy clomping of boots could be heard through the house. My heavy breathing and gasping through the cloth was muted and almost completely silent. Andrew stood behind the door at the ready.

“Jake?” the bastard coughed through the smoke, “Jacob, when’s it my turn-“ a blade tore through the bottom of his jaw, ripping through his mouth and was swiftly pulled away from his body, lacerating his mouth. Shock made him a statue, open for any beating Andrew was ready to bestow on him. The only thing Andrew did was speedily slice his trachea and kicked him to the ground, watching as he bled out. And then slammed his boot in his face.

I can’t remember what happened afterwards. I somehow got untied and helped off of the bed, throwing some heavy clothes on along with my long bow and quiver of arrows made from iron. Owen could still be heard screaming from the cellar I had locked him in earlier. We grabbed him and dashed with the deftness and speed of foxes in the forest, running far away from the bellowing smoke from a house littered with the scent of dead bodies and painted with the blood of our enemies. Our horses were slaughtered and left on the stables to burn with the house.

Our lives were soon going to be smoldering coals.

I kept tugging Owen’s tiny hand to run faster, trying desperately to keep up to Andrew. He whined and complained that he was tired, hungry, and frightened. As I turned my head to pick him up and carry him, bullets were fired. The first 2 missed, but the third one petrified my little boy; his body turned stiff and his words were stuck in his throat, coming out as only garbled noise. Terrified, I stopped and knelt down to hold him, being scolded by my husband and yelled at to keep running. I yelled back; the Redcoats were only yards away. Another boom solidified his fate. He was limp in my arms. Out of shock, I let Andrew pick me up and drag me to my feet, pulling me into the safety of the wooded area beside us. Main roads would be asking for a death wish.

Through the trees we ran. The patches of snow and dead leaves crunched underneath our leather bound boots; the air whipped by our faces as we turned corners. After an hour of non-stop running, we soon hit a drop in the elevation, and let ourselves come down to a clearing next to a meadow of wheat grass and poplars. We let ourselves down from the cliff’s edge and stopped for a few moments, catching our breath and listened carefully for any signs of threatening life galloping towards us.