Liberty's Wrath

William gave Mary a soft kiss on the cheek, and walked outside. A farmhand drove a Polaris all-wheel-drive vehicle up to the porch. William sat in the passenger seat and directed the driver to take him to Butterworth. The driver put the vehicle in gear and drove down a gently sloping valley. Farmhands tending the orchards removed their hats and waved as Mr. Blake rode through the rows of apple trees. The Polaris climbed a rise. Lush fields spanned out towards the western boundary of the estate. Cornfields swayed in a soft breeze, the stalks bristling with fat, green husks. Combines would be rolling over the fields by the end of the week, reaping the year’s bounty of feed corn and hay. The Polaris zipped down a narrow dirt road and bounded onto a paved secondary road leading to Butterworth Farm.

Two farmhands dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and workbooks greeted the Polaris. The farmhands led William into the barn, where three horses were saddled and ready to ride.

“Where are we riding today, Mr. Blake?” One of the farmhands asked.

“Let’s open them up across the polo fields and the old par five, and then we’ll take the white trail up to the summit.”

William climbed into the saddle. The farmhands double-checked the action on their rifles and snapped the safeties shut. They slid the rifles into leather saddle scabbards and climbed onto the horses. William led the men out of the barnyard to the edge of a long pasture used for Sunday afternoon polo matches. He kicked his heels into the side of his horse and screamed, “Ya ya, let’s go, ya ya.”

The horse reared back on its hooves and leapt forward. The horse broke into a trot, then a cantor, and finally a full gallop across the field. William leaned slightly to the right and gently tugged the reins, directing the horse off the polo field and down the fifth-hole fairway of a former nine-hole golf course that he added to his estate shortly after acquiring Butterworth Farm. When he reached the end of the fairway, William pulled back on the reins and said, “Whoa, easy big fella… whoa.” The horse slowed to a trot, then a walk, and finally stopped. William waited for the farmhands to catch up. The farmhands and a Springer Spaniel that belonged to one of the farmhands pulled up next to William. William led the men into a thicket trees, and down to a brook that ran along the edge of the golf course. The brook served as the eastern boundary of his estate. The horses and the dog stopped at the brook and took a long drink of water from the bubbling currents.

“You said the white trail, right?” One of the farmhands asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure you want to go that way?”

“Yes. I want to see if the encampment is still there,” William said.

“They’re definitely still there,” the farmhand said.

“I want to see it for myself. I have a message to deliver.”

The farmhands loosened the tie downs on their rifle scabbards. They pulled the rifles upwards; making it easier to yank the guns free if needed in a hurry. The horses walked slowly along the bank of the brook, and then onto a trail marked with white dots. The trail snaked around the edge of Sleeping Giant into a picnic area at the entrance to the park. William smelled the smoldering fires of the encampment when they entered the picnic area. He pulled back on the reins and the horse stopped. William stared at the encampment. The residents arranged their tents and pop-up trailers in a haphazard semi-circle around the picnic area.

“Disgusting indigents,” William said.

“What’s that, sir?” A farmhand asked.

“Nothing, come on,” William said, kicking his horse.

“I wouldn’t head in there if I were you, sir. I recommend calling for some back-up first,” a farmhand said.

William shot the farmhand a menacing glare. The farmhand lowered his eyes, kicked his horse, and followed William into the encampment. William rode through the center of the encampment, staring at the ragtag group of drug addicts, alcoholics, and vagrants.

Reforms to the nation’s social safety net displaced a wave of leeches when the government eliminated Section Eight housing, food stamps, Medicaid, Social Security disability, and unemployment insurance. Those individuals who couldn’t shake their dependence on government handouts formed ragtag communities of the disenfranchised and indigent. Encampments of the wretched were becoming a regular feature of life on what was left of America’s public land. William and other Movement officials were enraged when the media began referring to the encampments as Birchvilles.

William rode to the end of the encampment, and then turned and kicked his horse. The horse trotted through the center of the camp, crashing through a spit grill hanging over an open fire. Pans of water and a cast iron coffee pot collapsed into the fire. The fire sizzled and barked a hail of sparks and embers. The horse leapt away from the fire. William yanked on the reins, regained control of the horse, and turned the animal around to face the encampment. Residents emerged from their tents and trailers, staring up at William with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“Listen up you huddled mass of human excrement. My name is William Blake. I am the owner of this land. As of right now, you are all trespassing. You will vacate this park within twenty-four hours, or you will be forcibly removed. Now start packing your shit up.”

“What if we don’t?” A man in a tattered and filthy Boston Red Sox sweatshirt shouted.

“This time tomorrow my men will be standing at this very site. Anyone still here will be severely beaten. Anything left in this camp will be burned.”

“Where are we supposed to go?” A woman asked.

“Your problem. Try getting yourselves cleaned up and go find a job. You all disgust me.”

The Springer Spaniel began barking wildly. William turned and saw two men creeping up behind his horse. One man was holding a baseball bat, and the other man held an ax handle. The dog barked and growled at the squatters. A shot rang out. The squatters reeled around and stared down the barrels of two .30-06 Springfield rifles.

“Degenerate trash,” William hissed.

William kicked the side of his horse and pulled the reins upward and to the right. The horse jumped forward and spun one hundred and eighty degrees. William hollered, “Ya ya,” and kicked the side of the horse. The horse responded by galloping toward the squatter holding an ax handle. William leaned back in his saddle, slid his right foot out of the stirrup, and kicked the man in the side of the head with his right heel. A wet crunch and the sound of hooves trampling the ground echoed through the camp. The man collapsed to the ground. William pulled back on the reins and turned to face the encampment. <>

“Twenty-four hours, you disease-ridden mob. Get off my land. If you’ve got nowhere to go, then here, take this.” William reached into a saddlebag, removed a length of rope, and threw it to the ground. “My gift to you. Go fashion yourselves a noose and feel free to borrow one of my tree branches. You’re useless, all of you, this nation has no further use for you; you’ve taken enough.”