Perhaps my circumstances have nothing to do with the fault over which I have lived. I am, after all, the product of eight centuries of inbreeding amongst a religious German cult known as the Dunkards. The Dunkards believed in adult baptism, quite controversial at the time, I guess. Worse, they were pacifists.
We Dunkards must have been a rather annoying lot as we were unceremoniously removed from every country we settled in, beginning in East Prussia and then working our way towards Switzerland. Somewhere along the line the Dunkers bred with our cousins, the Benners. The first of the Benners came to North America from Switzerland in 1722. He had disappointed his Catholic father by becoming a Mennonite. Because of the persecutions he suffered as a result, he emigrated to Germany. At the time, one of the endless wars of the time was waging, with neighbour set against neighbour. My ancestor was fortunate to gain the protection of the local lord. If his home was attacked, he was told, he was to fire his gun, and the lord would send his men. He must have been an untrusting sort, for he decided to test the system. One night, he fired his gun, even though there was no danger, just to see what would happen. Soon thereafter, the lord and his retainers appeared. So angry was the lord at the false alarm that he ordered the Benners off his property. Back to Switzerland, then off to Pennsylvania to join the Pennsylvania Dutch, where his progeny eventually bred with the Dunkers. You know you’re in trouble when breeding with the Mennonites is your family’s idea of broadening your gene pool.
According to family legend, the family then settled in New York State. Once again, we inhabited a farm on the outskirts of town. Once again, we solicited the help of the local lord, this time in the form of the governor, in the event of Indian attack. Once again, we were unsuccessful. Then, one day, another settler came to Tannersville to warn the Dunkers that he had discovered the tracks of Indians only two miles away. Soon after, George Dunker was out mowing in the fields when he was cut off from his house by a band of roving Indians. They fired their guns, wounding him. George then grabbed a fence rail and began to defend himself, but was overcome before he could make it back to the house of John Dunker, his father.
After scalping him, the Indians then went to his house, where they captured his wife and their young child and carried them off to the Poconos Mountains. By now, the rest of the village’s inhabitants had been alerted to the attack, and set out in pursuit of the raiding party and their captives. When they reached the forest, they found the body of the child, minus his scalp. Further on was recovered what was left of the mother, the body parts having been left suspended f rom the trees. Ignoring the warning not to proceed, John Dunker continued the chase. Sighting the Indians, he knelt and fired, but in doing so, gave up his position. While legend says that a bloody cap with holes in it proves the accuracy of his aim, the bad news was that the Indians returned fire and killed him.
Fortunately, my great-great grandfather, Peter, son of George, had been out visiting somewhere at the time of the massacre. After the attack, angry perhaps at the governor for allowing such attacks in the first place, Peter became a scout, leading Loyalist families up “The Trail of the Black Walnut” (don’t ask) into Canada, eventually getting shot off his horse, fortunately for me not before siring a son, Wesley. John Dunker’s farmhouse later became a tavern and then, in the sixties, according to my relatives, a beautiful modern Hawaiian Nite Club.
Carrying on with Wesley, he too fortunately had a son Arthur at a fairly early age because:
Berlin, July 16 – A terrible event took place yesterday while the town bell was ringing for twelve o’clock. Almost from a clear sky, a very heavy shower of rain began to pour down. A minute or two later there was a deafening clap of thunder. The lightning struck a brick house on Weber Street in which five carpenters were working. George E. Dunker was standing in the doorway and was instantly killed.
See what I mean about the effects of the gene pool? The Benners testing the “Come Help” signal, John shooting at the natives and thereby giving up his position, George carrying a saw during a thunderstorm? Breaking with tradition, George’s son Arthur lives to the ripe old age of sixty-something, leaving one son, Robert, who begets me. I have the first good idea in eight centuries and marry a girl with mixed Roma, Scottish, and Cherokee blood to stir up the stagnant pool. Maybe there is hope after all.
In desperation, I kneel once more. The Chester in my dreams is pulling away logs from a dam. I pray in desperation.