The tiny hamlet of Deerfield sits in the western part of Massachusetts. I say “hamlet” not to sound poetic, but because it is honestly too small even to be called a town or village (though those who live there might prefer it). No stores. No gas stations. No Dollar General.
Deerfield dates to some of the earliest days of America. Founded between 1663 and 1673, it was about as remote as one could get – hip deep in Algonquian-speaking Pocumtuck Indian territory. It’s said, the then-Puritan New England folks endeavored to foster good relations with their Indian neighbors. They also tried their best to stay in touch with what might have been called the “civilized” world. That wasn’t easy.
Deerfield wasn’t on a “Post Road.” It was, as we’d say today, “in the sticks.” Only primitive paths to the south barely linked Deerfield to Northampton and then on to a Post Road to Boston. The isolation made communication slow. That proved particularly bad in February of 1704 when a French and Indian massacre took place. Over 50 colonists died and 112 were taken captive and on a forced 300-mile winter march to Montreal. Many died along the way....
