|The name of Wyoming is celebrated from its association with events of
thrilling interest. Its history from its first settlement is well known
to the American reader, nor is there needed another recital of the
catastrophe of July, 1778, which converted the fertile and thriving
settlement into a field of slaughter, and recorded in characters of
blood one of the darkest pages in the annals of our race. The pen of the
historian--the eloquence of the orator--the imagination of the poet and
novelist--have by turns illustrated the scene--the realities of which
transcend the wildest creations of fiction, and over which hovers the
solemn glory that enshrines the resting place of heroes. The very ground
speaks of the past=
```" And on the margin of yon orchard hill
```Are marks where time-worn battlements have been,
```And in the tall grass traces linger still
```Of arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin;'
```Five hundred of her brave that valley green
```Trod on the morn, in soldier spirit gay;
```But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene."
`````Halleck.=
Vain was the bravery of that little band--the population of the valley
having been drained of its strength to supply the continental army--to
stem the fury of the tories and savages, gathering strength with
success, till it swept in a tempest of blood and fire over their devoted
homes. Their gallant deeds--their fate--have been told in song and
story.
The wives and daughters of Wyoming deserve to share in the tribute due
to their unfortunate defenders. While the men were engaged in public
service they had cheerfully assumed such a portion of the labor as they
could perform; had tilled the ground to plant and make hay, husked and
garnered the corn, and assisted in manufacturing ammunition. *
* Miner's History of Wyoming, page 212, etc. See this work for notices of
the women.
They, too, were marked out for the enemy's vengeance, and were victims
in the scene of carnage and horror. Dreadful was the suspense in which
they awaited, with their children, the event of the battle; and when the
news was brought in the night--warned that instant flight would be their
only means of escape, they fled in terrified confusion, without clothes
or food--looking back only to behold "the light of burning plains,"
repressing their groans for fear of Indians in ambush, and fortunate
if they escaped butchery--to implore the aid of strangers in a distant
land. Many an aged matron, after the lapse of half a century, "could
tell you where the foot of battle stepped, upon the day of massacre;"
for the spot was marked by the blood of her nearest and dearest.
A nearer view may be given by the mention of one or two instances
among the sufferers. Two sons of Esther Skinner, in the flower of early
manhood, went forth to the desperate conflict of that day, and were seen
no more by their widowed mother. A young man who afterwards married her
daughter--one of the twenty who was saved--related an incident of his
escape. "Driven to the brink of the river, he plunged into the water for
safety, and swam to a small island. Here, immersed in water, protected
by the bushes at the water's edge, and screened by the darkness of
night, he happily eluded the search of the pursuing foe, thirsting for
blood; while about twenty of his companions, who had retreated to the
same spot, were all massacred within a few yards of him. He heard the
dismal strokes of the tomahawk, and the groans of the dying, expecting
every moment himself to become the next victim. One savage foot trod
upon the very bush to which he clung. A solitary individual besides
himself was left, at the departure of the savages, to weep with him over
the mangled bodies of their friends." **
** Extract from a sermon preached at the funeral of Esther Skinner,
1831.
Mrs. Skinner was in the company of women who fled amid the horrors of
the conflagration. With her six surviving children, the youngest but
five years of age, she hastened to the water-side, where boats were
prepared for their conveyance down the river. The little ones, half
destitute of clothing, "were ready to cry with the anguish of their
bruised and lacerated feet; but the chidings of the wary mother, and the
dread of being heard by the lurking savage, repressed their weeping, and
made them tread in breathless silence their painful way."
The widow's little property plundered, her home in ashes, her husband
buried, and her eldest son lying mangled on the field of battle, her
thoughts were turned towards the land of her birth, formidable as the
journey was on foot, with six helpless children, and without money,
clothes, or provisions. Her way lay in part through Dutch settlements,
where she could only by signs tell the story of her sufferings, or make
known her wants. The tale of woe, however, swifter in its flight, had
spread far and wide, and she received many kindnesses from the people
of a strange language. Sometimes, indeed, she was refused admission
into their houses; "but," she would add in her narration, "they had nice
barns, with clean straw, where my children lodged very comfortably."
After travelling one hundred miles by water, and nearly three hundred
by land, she arrived in safety at the place of her former residence in
Connecticut; where, having survived all her children but one, she died
in 1831, in the hundredth year of her age.
_Mrs. Myers_ was one of the crowd who resorted to Forty Fort, and was
about sixteen years old at the time of the massacre. Her maiden name was
Bennett, and her father's family stood conspicuous among the patriots
of that day. A relative, Mrs. Bennett, was living in 1845, at the age of
eighty-three, and though blind, was one of the clearest chroniclers of
the scenes witnessed in her eventful youth. Whether she was the "woman,
withered, gray, and old," with whom the poet conversed, sitting and
smoking--as he says, in her chimney-corner--is uncertain; for she was
not the only one who had a lively recollection of those times. Mrs.
Myers had even preserved the table on which had been signed the terms of
capitulation, and repeated the conversation between Colonel Denison and
Colonel Butler, overheard by herself and another girl on a seat within
the Fort; with Butler's acknowledgment of his inability to check the
savages in their plunder and slaughter of the inhabitants. At one time
the Indians, to show their power, came into the fort. One took the hat
from Colonel Denison's head, and another demanded his frock. The savage
raised his tomahawk menacingly, and the Colonel was obliged to yield;
but seeming to find difficulty in taking off the garment, he stepped
back to where the young women were sitting. The girl who sat by Miss
Bennett was an inmate of his family--understanding the movement, she
took from the pocket of the frock a purse, which she hid under her
apron. The frock was then delivered to the Indian, and the town money
thus saved; for the purse, containing a few dollars, was the whole
military chest of Wyoming.
Another patriotic sufferer, Mrs. Lucy Ives, was a child of ten years old
at Forty Fort. She had two brothers and a brother-in-law in the battle,
and both her brothers were killed. Her father and family escaped through
the swamp; but on his return to secure a part of his harvest, he was
killed by the Indians. The mother and children, having lost all their
property, sought refuge in Canterbury, Connecticut, their native place,
whence they did not return till peace was established. With broken
fortunes and blighted hopes, left to grapple with a hard world--while
a compensating degree of prosperity awaited many of the ancient
sufferers--the night of bloodshed and woe was not succeeded to them as
to others, by a bright and cheering morning of sunshine.
Mrs. Bidlack was the daughter of Obadiah Gore, and about twenty years
old at the time of the battle. Her family were devoted to the cause of
liberty. The aged father was left in Forty Fort to aid in its defence,
while five sons with two brothers-in-law marched to the conflict! At
sunset five of the seven lay mangled corpses on the field. Mrs. Murfee,
another sister, begged her way, among the rest of the fugitives, across
the wilderness, and sought a home in the State from which she had
emigrated. The mother of the Gore family lived to see prosperity return
to her remaining children.
The death of Mrs. Young was particularly noticed in the newspapers at
the time of its occurrence, on account of the many vicissitudes that
marked her life. Her father, Mr. Poyner, was a Huguenot, who had been
driven by religious persecution from France, and had been a commissary
in the old French war. Mrs. Young was the last survivor of those who
occupied the fort at Mill Creek. She made her escape with six others,
in a canoe, on hearing of the issue of the battle, and the enemy's
approach--and pushed off into the river, without provisions, to seek
safety from the murderous tomahawk. Meeting a boat coming up with stores
for Captain Spalding's company, the sufferings of hunger were relieved;
and the distressed fugitives, not knowing the fate of their friends,
after a dangerous navigation of one hundred and twenty miles--landed
near Harrisburg, where, being hospitably received and kindly treated,
they remained till Sullivan's army came to Wyoming and rendered it safe
to return. She died at the age of eighty-nine.
Mrs. Dana took with her in her flight a pillowcase of valuable
papers--her husband being engaged in public business; and the
preservation of these has thrown light on the path of research. The
names of a hundred others, who shared that memorable flight, might be
mentioned; but these are sufficient.
In the enemy's ranks, some of the women were foremost in the work of
carnage. Esther, the queen of the Seneca tribe of Indians--a fury in
female form--it is said, took upon herself the office of executioner,
passing with her tomahawk round the circle of prisoners, counting with
a cadence, and sinking the weapon into the heads of the victims. In the
journal of one of Sullivan's officers, her plantation is described--an
extensive plain near the Susquehanna, where she dwelt in sullen
retirement.
The story of the captivity of Frances Slocum has some romantic interest.
Her father was a member of the Friends' Society, and having always been
kind to the Indians, was at first left unmolested; but when they learned
that one of his sons had been in the battle, the family was marked out
for sure vengeance. A shot, and cry of distress, one day summoning Mrs.
Slocum to the door, she saw an Indian scalping a lad to whom, with
his brother, her husband had given a home, their father being taken
prisoner. The savages soon after entered the house, seized her little
boy, Ebenezer, and when the mother interposed to save the child, caught
up her daughter Frances, about five years old, and fled swiftly to the
mountains. This was within a hundred rods of Wilkesbarre fort; but,
though the alarm was instantly given, the Indians eluded pursuit, and no
trace of their retreat could be discovered.
The cup of vengeance was not yet full--the father being afterwards
murdered. The widowed mother heard nothing of her lost child, though
peace came in time, and prisoners returned. When intercourse with
Canada was opened, two of her sons, then among the most intelligent and
enterprising young men in the valley, determined, if living, to find
their sister, and connecting business with their search, traversed the
Indian settlements, and went as far as Niagara. But vain were their
inquiries and offered rewards; and the conclusion seemed probable that
she had been killed by her merciless captors. Still the fond mother saw
the lost one in her dreams, and her soul clung to the hope of recovering
her daughter, as the great and engrossing object of her life. At length
a girl was found, who had been carried away captive from Susquehanna
River, and could not remember her parents. She was brought to Mrs.
Slocum's home; but the mysterious sympathy which exists between a mother
and her offspring did not draw them together. Mrs. Slocum could
not believe the orphan to be her own child, and the girl, feeling a
persuasion that she had no claim of relationship, at length returned to
her Indian friends.
Time extinguished the last ray of hope, and the bereaved parent, at an
advanced age, descended to the grave.
In August, 1837, fifty-nine years after the capture, a letter appeared
in the Lancaster Intelligencer, written by Mr. Ewing of Logansport,
Indiana, and dated a year and a half previous. It stated that an aged
white woman was living in that vicinity, among the Miami tribe of
Indians, who had recently informed the writer that she had been brought,
when very young, from the Susquehanna, and that her father's name was
Slocum; that he was a Quaker, and that his house was near a village
where there was a fort. Her attachment to Indian life, and fear of
being claimed by her kindred, had prevented her, in past years, from
disclosing her name and history--which she did then from a conviction
that her life was drawing to an end. She was a widow, with two
daughters--wealthy, respected and bearing an excellent character.
The sensation produced throughout Wyoming by this letter, can scarcely
be imagined. Joseph Slocum, the brother of Frances, moved by affection,
duty, and the known wishes of his deceased parent, made immediate
preparations for the journey, though a thousand miles intervened;
and with his younger brother, Isaac, who lived in Ohio, hastened to
Logansport. The lost sister, whose residence was about twelve miles
distant, was informed of their arrival, and came to the village to
meet them, riding a high-spirited horse, and accompanied by her two
daughters, tastefully dressed in the Indian costume. Her bearing was
grave and reserved; she listened, through an interpreter, to what they
had to say--but doubt, amounting to jealous suspicion, possessed her
mind. She returned home, and came again the next day, desiring further
explanation, ere she would recognize those who claimed such near
kindred. At length Joseph Slocum mentioned that his sister, at play in
their father's smithshop with the children, had once received a blow
from a hammer on the middle finger of the hand, which crushed the bone;
and that his mother had always said the injury would leave a mark that
could not be mistaken. This was conviction to the long separated sister;
her countenance was instantly lighted up with smiles, while tears
ran down her cheeks, as she held out the scarred hand; the welcome
recognition, the tender embrace, the earnest inquiries for her
parents--showed the awakening of the long slumbering affections, and
filled every heart present to overflowing.
The events of her life, as detailed by herself, were truly remarkable.
On her capture, she had been carried to a rocky cave on the mountain,
where a bed of blankets and dried leaves had been prepared for the
accommodation of the Indians. Thence taken to the Indian country, she
was treated with kindness, and brought up as an adopted daughter of
their people. When her Indian parents died, she married a young chief of
the nation, and removed to the waters of the Ohio. Changed completely by
time and education--exempted from the tasks usually imposed on women
in the savage state, the most flattering deference being paid to her
superior understanding--invested with the dignity of a queen among
them--and happy in her family and connections--she had been led to
regard the whites with a degree of fear and aversion, and to deem return
to her kindred a calamity rather than a blessing; so that when prisoners
were inquired for, she always earnestly entreated that she might not be
betrayed.
When her narration was finished, Frances, or Maconaquah, as she was
called, appealed with solemnity to the Great Spirit, to bear witness to
its truth. The next day, her brothers, with the interpreter, rode out to
visit her. Every thing bore the appearance, not only of plenty, but of
rude abundance; the cattle and horses were numerous; the house, though
roughly constructed, was better than the Indian wigwams; and the repast,
of venison, honey, and cakes of flour, was excellent. Frances caused her
brothers to enter into a formal covenant of recognition and affection,
by lifting a snow-white cloth from a piece of venison she had placed
beneath it. The visit was prolonged for several days; and was afterwards
repeated by another member of the family--Mrs. Bennett, the daughter of
Joseph Slocum, and wife of the Hon. Ziba Bennett, who accompanied her
father on his second visit to Indiana.
The sufferings of families during the depredations of the Indians on the
frontier, in Wawasink and its vicinity, were not exceeded even by those
of Wyoming. The women bore their share not only in these, but in the
efforts made for defence--loading guns for their defenders, and carrying
water to extinguish the flames of their dwellings. In an attack upon
the house of the widow Bevier, when, after it was fired, the two women
sought refuge in the cellar, the daughter, Magdalen, took with her the
Dutch family Bible. When the flames approached them, they decided to
deliver themselves up to the savages, and made their way through the
cellar window--the mother in advance. The daughter threw her apron over
her head, fearing to see her parent killed. As she feared, the widow
fell a prey to the cruel tomahawk, while the Bible was wrested from
Magdalen's hands and stamped in the mud--she herself being retained a
prisoner. When afterwards released, she was fortunate enough to recover
the treasure she had saved from the flames--some of the leaves only
being soiled by the mud--and it is still preserved as a precious relic
in the family.
The house of Jesse Bevier at the Fantinekill, was assailed afterwards,
and defended successfully by the spirit and resolution of its inmates.
Their powder was laid in basins on the table, and the women helped to
load the pieces, till at length the old log house was fired at a point
where the little band of heroes could not bring their guns to bear.
Their situation now became most alarming, and the women applied every
drop of liquid in the house to check the progress of the flames; taking
milk, and even swill, in their mouths, and spiriting it through the
cracks of the logs, in hopes thus to protract existence till relief
might come from Naponoch. At this awful crisis, when death appeared
inevitable, the pious mother, knowing that "with God all things are
possible," proposed that they should suspend their exertions, and unite
in petitions to the throne of grace for mercy. Her son replied that
she must pray, and they would continue to fight. And fervent were the
prayers of that mother--till it seemed as if they were answered by
direct interposition from heaven. The brother of Bevier, warned of
danger by the mute appeal of the dog belonging to the house, came with
another to his assistance, and the Indians and tories, not knowing, when
they heard the firing of their sentry, how large a force was coming,
withdrew from the house just as the flames had extended to the curtains
of the bed.
A solemn and affecting scene in this tragedy was that at the bedside of
Jacob Bevier, who lay ill, and unable to move, when all the family had
fled across the mountain, except an insane brother, who was sitting
on the fence, unconscious of danger, and a daughter, who in spite of
entreaties and expostulations, would not leave her suffering parent.
The old stone fort at Wawasink was also the scene of active operations.
It was the courage and presence of mind of Catharine Vernooy, that saved
the fort when first assailed by the enemy. She was going to milk when
she heard them coming; but returned quickly to the fort, closed the
door, and called to the sentry to assist her in getting the brace
against it. At the house of Peter Vernooy, too, the females were active
in rendering assistance. They loaded the pieces, of which there was a
double set, and stood with axes, determined to plunge them into their
foes, if they should attempt to break through the windows. The wife
of Vernooy had a family of small children, but kept them quiet by her
authority, while all was going on.