numbers of their enemies. They capitulated, and, although a number
of troops--under General Arnold--came to their assistance, these
were defeated by Brant and his Iroquois with great loss. The savages
murdered many of the prisoners before they could be prevented, although
Brant endeavored to stop them. He did succeed in saving the life of
Captain McKinstry, who was badly wounded, and who had been selected
by the Indians to be roasted alive. By making up a purse among the
officers an ox was purchased for the bloodthirsty braves, which they
roasted instead of the officer, and, as the latter was treated with
great kindness by Brant, he became a firm friend of the young Mohawk
Chieftain. In after years, when the war was over, Brant never passed
down the Hudson without visiting the gallant captain at his home, a
visit which the American greatly appreciated as can well be imagined.
Cherry Valley in Otsego County, New York, is one of the most beautiful
and fertile sections of the state, so fertile that hundreds of white
settlers had here taken up plantations. Their consternation was great
when they learned in 1777 that Brant with a large force of Iroquois and
Mohawks had determined to attack them. From Oquaga on the Susquehanna
the red men approached the settlements one bright morning in May, and
from the thick woods glared upon the largest fortification of the
settlement, in front of which some boys were parading with swords of
wood and guns of the same material. Luckily the Indian Chief thought
that these were real soldiers, and fearing to attack he withdrew.
But soon two young men--Lieutenant Wormwood and Peter Sitz--rode
into the wood, where his Indians were in hiding. The former had just
galloped over from the Mohawk Valley to tell the people that troops
would soon be sent to them, as assistance, and the other had some
exaggerated dispatches upon his person, stating that the defenses of
the fort were twice as strong as they really were. It was fortunate
that he had these with him, for, as they were captured by Brant and his
men, these bogus dispatches made the Indians desist in an attack upon
the stockade in Cherry Valley. Wormwood was killed by a volley from the
guns of the savages and was scalped, an act which Brant is said to have
much regretted, as he had formerly been friendly with the young man.
Sitz was allowed to go, although the Mohawks were eager to torture him.
The Indians continued to flock to the standard of Joseph Brant, and
the people of the frontier were in terror of their lives. Hastily
they formed a militia and placed the raw recruits under the command
of a lean, clean-limbed frontiersman called Herkimer, who was an
old neighbor and friend of Joseph Brant. This soldier determined
if possible to capture the wily brave, and so, inviting him to an
interview, he marched out with three hundred men to meet him at
Unadilla. When he had arrived there, a messenger came in from the camp
of the Indians.
"Captain Brant wants to know why you came here?" said the Mohawk.
Herkimer looked firmly at him. "I merely came to see and talk with my
brother, Captain Brant," he answered.
The Indian gazed suspiciously around at the hard-visaged militiamen.
"Do all these men want to talk with Captain Brant also?" he asked. "I
will carry your big talk to Captain Brant," he continued, "but you must
not come any farther." So saying, he made off towards the camp of the
Indians.
A meeting was now appointed through messengers to take place about
midway between the two small armies. Herkimer hurried to the place
of council, but had to wait a long time for Brant and his warriors,
who showed by their actions that they suspected treachery. Herkimer,
himself, scarcely disguised his intense dislike for the Indian warrior,
as he looked into the keen eyes of the famous redskin.
"May I inquire the reason of my being honored by a visit from such an
eminent man as yourself?" asked Brant politely.
"I came upon a friendly errand," said Herkimer. "I want to know whether
you intend to ally yourself with the British or not?"
Brant looked at him defiantly. "The Indians are in concert with the
King, as their fathers were," said he. "We have still got the wampum
belt which the King gave us, and we cannot break our word. You and your
followers have joined the Boston people against your sovereign. And,
although the Bostonians are resolute, the King will humble them. Your
General Schuyler has been too smart for the Indians in his treaty with
them. He tricked the unsuspecting braves. The Indians have made war
before upon the white people when they were all united; now they are
divided, and the Indians are not frightened, for they know that they
can beat you."
"I want you to give up the Tories in your party," said Herkimer.
"I refuse to do so," answered Brant. "If all you want to do is to see
the poor Indians, why, pray, do you bring all these white soldiers with
you?"
So the conference ended, but the Indian Chief promised to meet Herkimer
again next day. Meanwhile the frontiersman determined to massacre the
Chief and his attendants when again they met. Four of his soldiers
were chosen to do this, but when the time came they lost heart, and,
overawed by the numbers of red warriors, failed to take the life of
Brant, who met Herkimer at the appointed time, with five hundred
warriors at his heels. The white man only had a dozen militiamen to
guard him.
"I have five hundred of my best men with me, all armed and ready for
battle," said the Mohawk. "You, Herkimer, are in my power, but, as we
have been friends and neighbors, I will not take advantage over you."
As he spoke he signalled with his hand, and with a wild, blood-curdling
warwhoop, his warriors swept around the spot where stood the frontier
leader.
"Now, Herkimer," said Brant imperiously, "you and your men may go."
The militiamen took the hint and turning about made off into the forest
as fast as their legs would carry them.
Brant and his men withdrew from Cherry Valley and marched to meet an
army under General Burgoyne, which, concentrating at Lake Champlain,
was beginning an advance into the interior of the State of New York.
"We cannot be beaten," said the British leader. "We will split the
Colonies in two parts, and they will soon capitulate." So with
confidence and zeal the great force of English regulars and hostile
Indians crept down upon the American settlements. The farmers armed for
the defense of their principles. They gathered in bands to stem the
hostile invasion, and, if possible, to defeat the great and powerful
force of the English.
On the Mohawk River the wooden palisades of Fort Stanwix offered
somewhat of an obstacle to the progress of the British regulars. Brave
Colonel Gansevoort, who commanded it, swore that he would perish rather
than capitulate to the enemies of the American Colonists, but, as the
fortifications were weak and the garrison was in peril, a body of
militia from the Mohawk Valley marched to its relief. Early in August
this force of armed frontiersmen--under rough old Herkimer--started
through the forest to succor those who held the place, while one of
Burgoyne's generals (St. Ledger) sent a considerable body of troops
and Indians to meet the New York farmers. Brant was in command of
the detachment of savages, and, realizing from past experience the
militiamen would come rather heedlessly through the forest, he planned
an ambuscade. Near a rough bridge, crossing a low, swampy piece of
ground, he placed his Indians in hiding. In a wide circle they hid
around the brush upon the opposite side of the bridge.
As Herkimer's rough followers came slowly through the dense woodland,
they little suspected that the Mohawks and Iroquois were crouching
there before them, eager and ready to precipitate themselves upon their
straggling line. The Americans were even singing, so secure did they
feel, and some stopped at the stream to drink. The main body, however,
pushed into the clearing beyond, and all had crossed, except the
wagon train and the rear guard, when, with a blood-curdling yell, the
followers of Brant rushed to their rear so as to stop their retreat
across the bridge, and began to pour a murderous fire into the startled
Americans.
"Drop to the ground, men," shouted old Herkimer. "Fight the devils from
behind the trees. Make every bullet count, and never give in!"
His counsel was only too much needed, for at the first Indian volley
every American in the advance guard had been killed. The rest,
crouching low upon the sod, took deliberate aim at the yelping Mohawks,
and soon held them at bay. Again and again the frontiersmen attempted
to get through the hostile line. Again and again they were driven back.
A bullet struck grim Herkimer's steed and knocked him to the ground.
Another hit the dauntless frontiersman in the leg and splintered the
bone. But in spite of the pain in his wound he crawled to a tree,
propped himself against it with his face to the enemy, and coolly
taking out his tinder box, lighted his pipe. "Pray take yourself to
the rear and out of harm's way," cried one of his aids when he saw the
bullets crashing around his commander. "No, I will not move," said old
Herkimer, with calm decision. "An American general always faces the
enemy. Place two of our men behind each tree, for I note that when
one man is alone the red devils run in and tomahawk him, after he has
discharged his musket. Tell one of them to always reserve his load
until after the first one has fired. That will keep old neighbor Brant
in check."
The fight had now lasted about an hour, and the Americans were
holding their own against the British and Indians, whose wild yells
and warwhoops did not inspire them with much terror. But suddenly a
tremendous thunder shower burst upon the struggling masses of humanity,
and deep roars of the elements, fierce flashes of lightning, and
ominous crashings of branches put an end to hostilities. The frightful
raging of the storm drowned the yelping and groaning of the combatants.
A deluging flood of water poured from the inky clouds, wetting the
powder of both Indians and whites, and rendering many of the guns
useless. The Indians were awed by the frightful noise of the elements,
and, in sullen rage, the dark warriors of Joseph Brant withdrew from
the firing line to a safe distance. The Americans, meanwhile, took a
more advantageous position and waited with confidence for the renewal
of the fight. Their wagons were wheeled in a circle and they crouched
by them, determined that death would overtake them before they would
surrender.
When the storm subsided, the Mohawks again rushed into the fray,
assisted by some soldiers from Johnson Hall, called Johnson's Greens.
These men were all neighbors of Herkimer's Americans, and as they came
on, those who favored the cause of the Colonies could not resist the
temptation to attack their former companions with fixed bayonets. The
Greens stood their ground, until, with clubbed muskets, the Americans
beat them to earth, while some, in deadly embrace, rolled upon the
sod and were shot to death by the Indian warriors. The fighting was
furious. Fierce shouts rose above the crack of the muskets, while
above the sound of the struggling men could be heard the calm voice of
old Herkimer, saying:
"Be cool, boys, be cool. But lick 'em for the Great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress."
Thus continued the fierce battling in the wildwood, when, suddenly,
hoarse cheers arose from the Americans, as with a rattle and roar two
hundred men from the garrison at Fort Stanwix burst through the forest
and precipitated themselves upon the British and Indians. A wild yell
went up as the New Yorkers drove the Indians back, and with a sudden
rush broke the English formation. In disorganization and confusion,
the allied forces of invasion now withdrew, while, with loud yelps of
hatred, the followers of Joseph Brant also made off into the gloom of
the deep wood. The baggage and provisions of the English were soon in
the hands of the victorious Americans, while several of their battle
flags were seized by the hardy frontiersmen from the valley of the
Mohawk. Surprise, temporary defeat, and disorganization had been turned
into a victory for the grim-visaged followers of old Herkimer. The
battle of the Oriskanay had ended in repulse for the invaders.
Brant was now the most detested man in the border. Those who had
before been friendly to him prayed for an opportunity to dispatch
this venomous Indian. But in spite of his evil reputation, he always
denied that he had ever committed any act of cruelty during this savage
war, and none has been proven against him, while many stories of his
mercy are well authenticated. When Indians were accused of brutality,
Brant would reply that the whites sometimes excelled the savages in
revengeful barbarity. He defended the Indian mode of warfare, saying
that the savages had neither the artillery, the numbers, nor the
prisons of the white men, and that, as their forces were small, they
had to use stratagem in order to win.
In the summer of 1778--when every frontiersman was in danger and all
trembled for their lives--a boy named William McKoun was one day raking
hay alone in a field. Turning suddenly around, he saw an Indian near
by, and raising his hayrake for protection, cried out:
"Red man, what do you want?"
"Don't be afraid, young man, I sha'n't hurt you," said the Indian.
"What is your name?"
"William McKoun," answered the boy.
"Oh, you are a son of Captain McKoun, who lives in the northeast part
of the town, I suppose," continued the savage. "I know your father
very well. He is a neighbor of Mr. Foster. Your father is a very fine
fellow, indeed. I know several more of your neighbors, and they are
fine men."
"What is your name?" the boy ventured to ask.
The Indian hesitated a moment, and then replied: "My name is Brant."
"What, Captain Brant?" cried the boy eagerly.
"No, I am a cousin of his," answered the great chief (for it was Joseph
Brant), as he turned to go away. Thus, it can be seen that in the midst
of war he was not always the bloodthirsty savage.
Another incident well exhibited his merciful side, for when in 1778
the allied troops, under Brant and an Englishman named Butler, attacked
the settlements in Cherry Valley, the Mohawk Chieftain entered a house
where he found a white woman baking bread.
"How is it that you are doing this kind of work while your neighbors
are all being murdered around you?" asked the great warrior.
"We are the King of England's people," exclaimed the woman.
"That plea won't save you today," cried Brant, "for my Indians are
murdering everyone."
"There is one Joseph Brant who is a man of big heart," exclaimed the
woman. "If he is with the Indians he will save us."
The warrior looked pleased. "I am Joseph Brant," said he. "But I am not
in command, and I don't know that I can save you. I will do what I can."
As he spoke, a band of Seneca braves approached the house. "Get into
bed and pretend that you are ill," shouted Brant. And as she obeyed the
Indians entered.
"There is no one here but a sick woman and her children," cried the
Chief. "Leave them alone, for they are on the King's side."
After some talking the Senecas withdrew, and when they were out
of sight Brant went to the door and uttered a long, shrill yell.
Immediately a dozen Mohawk warriors came running across the fields.
"Here," cried their leader, "take some of our paint and put your mark
upon this woman and her children." And as they obeyed he said to her:
"Madam, you are now safe, as all the Senecas and Mohawks will
understand and respect this sign. Good-bye and good luck to you."
The allied forces of Butler and Brant captured thirty or forty
prisoners in Cherry Valley, but they could not seize the fort, which
was well defended by numerous frontiersmen. So marching off with the
plunder which they had collected, they soon were back in their own
territory. The women and children whom they had captured were exchanged
next year for British prisoners among the Americans, but in 1778 Brant
and Sir William Johnson again advanced through the Schoharie and Mohawk
Valleys, on a campaign of destruction, plunder, and revenge. Burgoyne's
army had been defeated. Stout, courageous old Herkimer had died of his
wounds after the bloody battle of the Oriskanay, but the English cause
was not dead by any means, and the Indians were still upon the warpath.
The English, Senecas and Mohawks numbered sixteen hundred men, and, as
they marched into Wyoming Valley, the people took refuge in a structure
known as "Forty Fort," while the old men, boys, and a few veteran
soldiers who were home on furlough marched out to meet the invaders.
The Americans were well armed, were led by an excellent officer, and
were fighting for the protection of their homes. Before the opening of
the battle, strong spirits were distributed among the defenders, and as
a number of the frontiersmen indulged too freely in whiskey and brandy,
it helped to defeat the patriot force. The battle opened with irregular
firing, but soon steady volleys were being poured into the invaders
by the Americans. The British gave way as the Yankee troops advanced,
but in the heat of the fray several orders were misunderstood, and
the line became confused. At this crisis Johnson ordered a charge of
his Indians. With a wild, blood-curdling screech, they precipitated
themselves upon the defenders of Wyoming, and soon, in hopeless rout,
the Americans were broken into shreds. They were struck down right
and left and tomahawked as they fell. The fort itself was next in the
hands of the Tories and Indians, who, on a promise that no one would be
harmed if they surrendered, gained an entrance to their stout defense.
The women and children inside were tomahawked with ruthless slaughter,
and with wild yells of delight the followers of Johnson and Brant
danced around the hapless victims of war.
Unwilling to trust themselves to the plighted word of a Tory or Indian,
some of the patriots plunged into the forest and made their way to the
American settlements on the Upper Delaware. Many died of starvation on
the way. The woods through which they went have been thus called "The
Shades of Death," for, as they plunged onward to Stroudsburg and other
havens of safety, in their ears rang the loud screams of their wives
and children, while on their brains were engraved the awful sight of
burning houses, murdered patriots and wild savages dancing in their
warpaint. The massacre of Wyoming was one of the most fiendish in the
annals of border fighting.
Brant was now known as the Monster. Historians have stated that he was
not engaged in this campaign, and that the Indians were Senecas and
not Mohawks. At any rate, he was near the scene of slaughter, for,
four months later, he was in a foray into Cherry Valley. In a massacre
during this raid a man named Major Wood was about to be killed, when,
either by accident or design, he made a Masonic signal, although he did
not belong to this order. When Brant saw it, he exclaimed:
"Brother! you shall not die. I am a Mason and will protect you." So
he stayed the tomahawk and set the fellow free. It is said that the
captive felt under obligations to join the order immediately after his
release from the clutches of the hostile Indians.
The summer of 1779 had now come. The Colonists had regained their
courage and were determined to put an end to these Indian invasions.
So, placing General Sullivan in command of their outposts, they allowed
him to strike the Indians in his own manner. This able soldier,
dividing his army into three divisions, advanced into the land of
the Senecas and Mohawks. His left moved from Pittsburg under Colonel
Broadhead; his right from the Mohawk River under General James Clinton,
while he, himself, led the centre from Wyoming. Sullivan met the
English and Indians under Brant, where now stands the city of Elmira,
New York. The Americans outnumbered the enemy and attacked with fury.
The Indians fought courageously, but they could not stem the rush of
the Colonials, who wished to revenge the massacre of Wyoming. The
Mohawks, Iroquois and Senecas were killed by the hundreds. So many fell
that the sides of the rocks next to the river appeared as if blood had
been poured over them by pailfuls. And soon seeing that all was lost,
the Indian warriors fled from their fertile country, leaving their
territory with its populous and well-laidout villages, its vast fields
of waving grain, and its magnificent orchards, to be destroyed by the
patriots.
More than forty villages were laid in ruins. The famous apple orchards
were cut down, and these were the product of the toil and care of
generations of Iroquois. "Alas," said one old Mohawk brave. "A wigwam
can be built in two or three days, but a tree takes many years to grow
again." So great, indeed, was the destruction that a peace party arose
among the Indians, led by the famous Red Jacket. With great eloquence
he spoke of the folly of war, which they had fought for the English,
and for which they had been driven from their beautiful valley. "What
have the English ever done for us," he exclaimed, "that we should
become homeless and helpless wanderers for their sakes?" So strong,
indeed, was this appeal that secretly it was determined to send a
runner to the American army in order to gain peace at any terms.
When Brant heard of this, he summoned two Mohawk warriors to his camp.
"This runner must never reach the camp of the Americans," he cried.
"See that he dies on the way!" So the expectant Senecas and other
malcontents waited in vain for the answering message from Sullivan and
his men. A reply to their proposals never came, for the bearer of their
words of resignation was lying behind some great rock in the forest
with a tomahawk in his brain.
In October, 1780, the Mohawks had so greatly regained their courage
that with the assistance of Tory troops, under Butler, they again
descended upon the settlements of the Mohawk Valley. Houses and barns
were burned; horses and cattle were either killed or driven off,
and those who did not fly to the protection of the stockade were
tomahawked. As the Americans pushed through the woods one day, nine
stout English soldiers were running through the brush. It was fairly
dark, and when they suddenly heard a stern voice cry, "Lay down your
arms," they were suddenly aware that they had run into the enemy.
Fearing that Sullivan himself was there, they all threw down their
arms and capitulated. They were securely bound and led off to a little
blockhouse, where, as day dawned they found, to their chagrin, that
their captors were seven militiamen of the American army.
But the invaders were not to have everything their own way, for soon
the Americans, under Colonels Rowley and Willet, met them near Johnson
Hall. The fighting was furious; so furious on the part of the patriots
that the enemy retreated to West Canada Creek, where they encamped. It
was the ground which old Hendrick had sold for an embroidered coat,
but next day it ran red with the blood of the old chief's descendants.
Butler was shot and fell mortally wounded by the bullet of an Oneida
Indian, who bounded towards him with his tomahawk raised aloft. "Save
me," cried the craven Butler, who, himself, had murdered hundreds of
Americans. "Give me quarter."
"Hah!" cried the Oneida brave. "I will give you Cherry Valley quarter,"
and so saying he buried his hatchet in the brain of the enemy, leaving
his body as a prey to the wild denizens of the forest, who soon
consumed it.
The place of this fierce fighting is to this day called Butler's Ford,
and here the Tories and Indians made their last stand against the
Colonists. Soon a treaty of peace had been signed between America and
England, and this fierce border warfare was to come to an end.