My poor daughter.
It outrages me to no end
how the court system could free
savage natives with their filthy mixed breed origins
with no conscience and no godly respect for the white race.

A mistrial.
My heart can’t believe this.
A mistrial purely based on the cunning ways of the defense
with no thought of vindication for my Thalia.

This trial should have been
the end to all whispering
dirty talk
about my daughter, my bloodline.

Judge Steadman was of no use to me.
Steadman didn’t jail the natives
at least until another trial
against them could be arranged.

Stirling was of no use to me either.
Stirling asked the acting governor, Brown,
to toss the savages in jail,
but Brown declined.

How could Steadman and Brown—
fellow white brethren
turn their backs
and not honor their daughters?

Their military brothers have taken action
physically honoring their white sisters
by forcing their fists onto brown and yellow skin.

True Americans would have taken action.
Americans would have not hesitated
to grab the nearest rope
and place it around the necks
of lesser beasts
to protect
their pedigree.

Tommie is at sea,
but “Deacon“ Jones is here.
“Deacon“ is dutiful and forthright.
Earlier, he took the Ida boy
and tried to force him to confess.

Although Tommie left a gun for Thalia,
I doubt that it’s enough.
“Deacon,“ Helene, and I
bought guns as well.

I, Grace Fortescue, will never
let savages triumph.

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