Authors: S.R. Karfelt
Bitch Witch (38 page)
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed.
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
The light.
The night.
The muse.
My amazing editor.
The
Bitch Witch
Launch Team.
My Women Reading Aloud Kula.
Blue Harvest Creative.
My stoic and astonishingly patient husband, and
The Blue Moon. You complete me.
Where in the brain or heart does story come from? I don’t know, but I do know that it takes a team to make a book.
Bitch Witch
thrived thanks to my talented and insightful editor, and early story edits by Shieldmaiden for Hire.
My launch team’s feedback proved invaluable. Thank you: Kim, Kelsey, Tom, Patricia, Colette, Jennifer, Laura, Bailey, Ashley, Mirdala, and Jan. I appreciate your feedback and your laughter as we shared far too many witch memes.
To my Kula who magically brings story to the surface, I love you ladies.
Blue Harvest Creative, thank you for answering my questions 24/7, letting me romp when I ran amok, and propping me up when my enthusiasm waned.
For my darling Dear Hubby, I love you—and I’m saying that during fishing season despite the fact that you at this very moment smell like fish. If that isn’t real love, I don’t know what is.
An entrepreneur, wife, mother, and novelist, S.R. Karfelt enjoys spending time with her muse and living outside her comfort zone. She currently resides in the soaring capital of the world.
Visit the author at:
Cover design, interior design,
and eBook design by
Blue Harvest Creative
Table of Contents
02 - Masstards and Cock Fighting