From the Journal of Dr. Lukus Carr, 1773 The Chronicles of a Colonial Surgeon

 

August 19

He simply won't listen. Every year I tell Remington that he must cancel Rattlesnake Day before someone seriously gets hurt or dies. His response: "Lukus, you are an alarmist. No one ever really gets hurt. We have been holding this event for years without anyone getting fatally bitten. The village looks forward to this event.'

 

I plead that he is tempting fate and eventually tragedy will strike. I have reasoned with him, challenged his social responsibility and bitterly insulted his intelligence. He just gets angry.

"Lukus," he says, "snakes, especially rattlers, are a menace on our farms. They are a danger to our children and livestock. We hold this yearly reduction of snakes as a fun-filled community event to the benefit of all. I am tired of your complaining."

 

"At least, close the taverns until the hunt is over," I shout back.

 

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand, turns his back and walks away.

 

This is the last year that I am going to attend. Let them find someone else to provide medical care.

 

August 20

Rattlesnake Day started as usual at the taverns. The men drank heavily, perhaps to bolster their courage. They boasted of how many snakes last year each had driven off the ledge into the bonfire below. Each had a personal goal and a few were determined to be the champion snake beater. There were promises of free drinks for whoever found the biggest rattlesnake.

 

The group of men who were filled with the reveries swaggered to Rattlesnake Hill near the Joy homestead, formed a semicircle, and began beating the ground with their poles – calling the snakes out of hiding.

 

I watched with concern from some distance.

 

We could see the smoke rising from the bonfires below the ledge.

 

When the first snake appeared, the excitement rose. The volume of shouts grew and the men got bolder, probing into dense vegetation. Some poked into crevices. A couple of intrepid 'hunters" got down on their knees to better probe into holes and rock formations.

 

Abraham gestured to the others. He had provoked a huge rattler, probably 7 feet long, out of a hole. The snake slithered off in a direction opposite from the ledge. The whole hunter-group stopped to watch and to cheer on Abraham. He went after the snake with his long pole to head the snake off. Eventually, he cornered the snake against a rock formation. I swear the sound of his rattles could have been heard for miles.

 

Abraham moved to redirect the snake toward the ledge. The snake refused to move. The hunters began to chant, encouraging Abraham in this contest of wills. The snake held his ground.

 

Abraham moved closer. In an instant, the snake struck, biting his hand. Startled, at first, he yelled in pain. The snake moved off with several men in hot pursuit, intent now on killing the snake.

 

Suddenly, everyone was sober.

 

I rushed to Abraham's side. He was down on one knee, holding his bitten hand and already sweating profusely. I called him a dumb rascal.

 

Despite my attempt to rid him of his poison, his blood must have already been thick with venom from the snake. With his bile already so unbalanced there was nothing else to do. He was dead within two hours.

 

Certain was the revenge.