As it says in the psalm, God will give us this land of the heretic, and we will inherit the labor of her creoles, her blacks, her in-betweens (who are to God as mules to us). Her convents will be righteous as armories, our horses stabled in chapels, the saints burned for firewood, every confessional a purposeful outhouse. Her coasts, bays, and quays will be our domain, our men-of-war invincible against Spain’s lumbering galleons like ewes to a pack of wolves. Our cannons, dredges, and harrows will smite her fatty bogs and forests into moors, heaths, and vales to plant our English crops: wheat, barley, the righteous rye whose spikes are Golgotha’s nails. Our swords of Jericho will smite the cane fields into pastures for our dairy cows, work horses, and whitest sheep. Sugar is the devil’s weed. We will drink our tea with mother of vinegar, and lead will flow in our blood. I am the Lord’s Protector, the Restorer of Abraham’s Covenant. It is God’s will to hate your lazy heat, your idle rains, your wanton greenness.