Chapter IX: Part 9

A young French nobleman visited Buffalo about 1815, and hearing of the wonderful speaker, sent word to Red Jacket that he wished to talk with him. But the oratorical chief received this message with contempt. "Tell the young man that if he wishes to visit the old chief he will find him with his nation," said he, "where other strangers pay their respect to him, and Red Jacket will be glad to see him." To this the Frenchman sent back word that he had taken a long journey and was fatigued, that he had come all the way from France to see the great orator of the Seneca nation and hoped he would not refuse to meet him at Buffalo. To this the Seneca brave sent the following answer: "Tell him that having come so far to see me it is strange he should stop within seven miles of my lodge." "By Gad," said the nobleman, when this message was delivered to him, "such a man of spirit must indeed be worth journeying to see," and, without more ado, he hastened to the lodge of the sarcastic Red Jacket. The Seneca orator now consented to dine with him at Buffalo, and, after the repast, the enthusiastic Frenchman exclaimed: "He is a remarkable man. Had he been white, he would have one of the greatest reputations of the ages. He is a wonder greater than Niagara Falls, which I have just visited."

Shortly after this an Indian was executed for the murder of his wife, and a great crowd journeyed to see the hanging. Red Jacket, however, was met going in the opposite direction from the scene. "Why do you not go to see this affair?" asked a friend. "Fools enough are there already," replied the great orator. "Battle is the proper place to see men die."

"When I dined with President Washington," said he to a gentleman, "a man ran off with my knife and fork every now and again, and returned with others. What was that for?"

"There are a great many dishes," replied the gentleman, "each cooked in a different manner. Every time a new dish is brought on the table, the knives and forks are changed."

"Ah," said Red Jacket, thoughtfully, "is that it? You must then suppose that the plates and knives and forks retain the taste of the cookery?"

"Yes," answered the white man.

"Have you then any method by which you can change your palates every time you change your plates? For I think the taste would remain on the palate longer than it would on the plate."

"We are in the habit of washing the taste on our palates away with wine," answered the gentleman.

"Ah, I understand!" ejaculated Red Jacket. "I was persuaded that so general a custom among you must be founded on reason, and I only regret that when I was in Philadelphia I did not understand it. The moment the man went off with my plate, I would have drunk wine until he brought me another; for although I am fond of eating, I am more so of drinking."

This famous orator was not only fully conscious of his own ability to sway the emotions of others, but he had his full share of vanity. His forehead was lofty and capacious; his eye was black and piercing; his nose was sharply aquiline; while his cheek was well rounded. Every feature marked a man of noble qualities, while an air of dignified self-possession made a deep impression upon all with whom he came in contact. When speaking, his eyes flashed fire, his body was continually moving in the effort of speech-making, while the ready words poured from his lips in a steady stream. The cadence of his speech was measured and very musical, and when excited he would spring to his feet, elevate his head, expand his arms and utter, with indescribable effort of manner and tone, some great and noble thoughts. A gentleman of the period has written: "It has been my good fortune to hear the masterful Red Jacket but a few times in late years when his powers were much enfeebled by old age and intemperance, but I shall never forget the impression made upon me the first time that I saw him in council. The English language has no figures to convey the true meaning of his speech, and, though coming through the medium of an illiterate interpreter, I could well realize that he was giving me a great oration."

The great Seneca was twice married, and, although he had a large family, many of his children died of consumption. A lady who took an interest in the Seneca Nation once asked him whether he had any children living. "Red Jacket was once a great man, and was in favor with the Great Spirit," sorrowfully answered the Chief. "He was a lofty pine among the smaller trees of the forest, but after years of glory he degraded himself by drinking the fire water of the white man. The Great Spirit has, therefore, looked upon him in anger, and his lightning has stripped the pine of its branches and left standing only the scarred trunk, dead at the top."

What the noted Seneca said of his degradation was unfortunately too true, so true, in fact, that he was deposed by the members of his tribe because of this intemperance. Several rival chiefs were jealous of his position, which partly explained this action of the Senecas, although his opposition to the introduction of the Christian religion into the tribe was also a reason for removing him from the position of Head Chief.

Red Jacket--with the true spirit of a warrior--was scarcely prepared to submit to such a degradation, particularly as he knew that the true motives of the chiefs who had deposed him were those of jealousy. He felt the sting of shame, and remarked to one of his tribe, with much feeling: "It shall not be said that Sa-go-ye-wat-ha lived in insignificance and died in dishonor. Am I too feeble to revenge myself upon my enemies? Am I not as I have been? I will call in the other tribes of the Six Nations, and we will see whether or no Red Jacket will be deposed." Consequently, only a month after his deposition, a Grand Council of the chiefs of the Six Nations assembled together at the upper council house of the Seneca village reservation.

After all had seated themselves, the document deposing Red Jacket was read aloud, and then a Chief called Half Town arose, and in behalf of the Catteraugus Indians (a tribe of the Six Nations) said that there was but one opinion in his nation, and that was of general indignation at the ousting of Red Jacket from his position as Chief Sachem. Several other chiefs addressed the council to the same effect, and, at the close of their speeches, the condemned orator arose very slowly, as if grieved and humiliated, but still possessing his ancient air of command.

After a solemn pause he began to speak. "My brothers," said he, "you have this day been correctly informed of an attempt to make me sit down and throw off the authority of a chief, by twenty-six misguided chiefs of my nation. You have heard the statements of my associates in council and their explanations of the foolish charges brought against me. I have taken the legal and proper way to meet these charges. It is the only way in which I could notice them: charges which I despise and which nothing would induce me to notice, but the concern which many respected chiefs of my nation feel in the character of their aged comrade. Were it otherwise, I should not be before you. I would fold my arms and sit quietly under their ridiculous slander.

"The Christian party has not even proceeded legally, according to our usages, to put me down. Ah! It grieves my heart when I look around me and see the situation of my people, in old times united and powerful, now divided and feeble. I feel sorry for my nation. When I am gone to the other world--when the Great Spirit calls me away--who among my people can take my place? Many years have I guided my nation."

He now spoke of the attacks upon him and said that they were incited by jealousy. He alluded to the course taken by those of his own tribe who had turned Christians as being ruinous and disgraceful, especially in the abandonment of the religion of their fathers, and their sacrifice to the whites for a few trinkets of the land left them by their forefathers. "I will not consent silently to be trampled under foot," he concluded. "As long as I can raise my voice I will oppose such measures. As long as I can stand in my moccasins, I will do all that I can for my nation."

Such was the power of the old chief's oration, that, at the close of this speech, he was almost unanimously reelected to the position of Chief Sachem, a position which he had held for many years, and which he was now to hold until his death.

Shortly after this affair the great orator's second wife joined the Christian Church, to which he, himself, was opposed. Consequently Red Jacket immediately left her and went to live in another Seneca reservation. But he was far from happy when separated from those whom he loved, and those whom he left behind were far from happy without him. The old chief was devoted to his little daughter, and he missed her caresses and love. At length, he could stand the separation no longer, and, through the agency of this little girl, a reconciliation was effected with his excellent squaw. Red Jacket promised that he would not again interfere with his wife's religious privileges, and to his credit be it said he never again objected to her religion or belief.

There he was living quietly and happily when suddenly taken ill in the council house, where he had gone one day, dressed with more than usual care and ornamented with all his best finery. When he returned to his tepee, he said to his wife. "I am ill. I could not stay until the council had finished. I shall never recover." So saying, he took off his rich dress, laid it carefully away, lay down upon his couch and did not rise again until morning. His wife then prepared some medicine for him, which he patiently took, saying: "It will do me no good. I shall die."

He then requested his faithful squaw to send his little girl to him, and when she had come near he bade her sit beside him and listen to his parting words. "My good wife," said he, "I am going to die. Never again shall I leave my home alive. I wish to thank you for your kindness to me. _You have loved me._ You have always prepared my food and taken care of my clothes, and been patient with me. I am sorry that I ever treated you unkindly. I am sorry that I left you because of your new religion, and I am convinced that it is a good religion and has made you a better woman, and I wish you to persevere in it. I should like to have lived a little longer for your sake. I meant to build you a new house and make you more comfortable, but it is now too late. But I hope my daughter will remember what I have often told her, not to go in the streets with strangers or improper persons. She must stay at home with her mother.

"When I am dead, it will be noised abroad through all the world; they will hear of it across the great waters, and will say: 'Red Jacket, the great orator, is dead.' And white men will come and ask you for my body. They will wish to bury me. But do not let them take me. Clothe me in my simplest dress, put on my leggins and my moccasins, and hang the cross which I have worn so long around my neck, and let it lie upon my bosom. Then bury me among my people. Neither do I wish to be buried with Pagan rites. I wish the ceremonies to be as you like, according to the customs of your new religion, if you choose. Your minister says that the dead will rise. Perhaps they will. If they do, I wish to rise with my old comrades. I do not wish to rise among palefaces. I wish to be surrounded by red men. Do not make a feast according to the custom of the Indians. Whenever my friends chose they could come and feast with me when I was well, and I do not wish those who have eaten with me in my cabin to surfeit at my funeral feast."

When the great Chief had finished, he laid himself upon his couch, took his little daughter fondly by the hand, and did not rise again. A few days later death overtook him, and at his funeral many parties of his own tribe were present. His body was removed from his cabin into the mission house, where religious services were performed--services in which the visiting Indians took little interest. Wrapped in profound and solemn thought, they waited until the minister had concluded, and then some arose to address their own countrymen in their own language. Several orators recounted the virtues and exploits of the dead Chief, and of the deeds of their Great Nation, and, as they looked about them, tears trickled down the cheeks of the last of the Senecas, for there around them was only the miserable remnant of a once glorious nation.

Red Jacket was buried in the little mission burying ground, at the gateway of what once had been an American fortification. A simple shaft of granite was erected to mark his grave, and the spot became a resort for travellers from far and near. Upon the tombstone was cut the following inscription:

Sa-Go-Ye-Wat-Ha
The Keeper Awake
Red Jacket
Chief of the
Wolf Tribe of the Senecas.
Died Jan. 20, 1830
Age, 78 years.

This headstone was desecrated by relic hunters until the name disappeared from the marble. The famous chieftain's body was afterwards removed to Buffalo, where, at the home of his own people, it remained unburied for many years, as they--knowing that his last wish was not to rise among the palefaces--did not care to allow him to lie among the members of a race which he disliked.

Recently a splendid monument has been erected to the great Seneca at Buffalo. A statue on top of the shaft is a fitting tribute to this great orator of the redskins, this man of masterful speech and noble form, who--like Daniel Webster--could sway the thoughts of his hearers by the magic of his utterance and the fascination of his thought. His body now rests among those of a different race, but his name still lives in the annals of American history as the one Chief whose logic and reasoning was, in a measure, equal to that of the all-conquering Anglo-Saxons.

CAPTAIN JOSEPH BRANT:
THE WARRIOR CHIEF OF THE MOHAWKS

In the State of New York, the Mohawk Valley is one of the most fertile and productive spots. Here are rolling fields of grain; wide orchards of apples, pears, and cherries; crystal streams and forests of noble trees. The soil is dark and loamy, and rich in nutritious salts. It is the garden spot of that great and populous state, and here the farmers are well content to remain upon their ancestral acreage and to reside in their comfortable houses. They are a happy people, blessed with climate and natural resources that are unsurpassed.

But this fruitful vale was not always in the hands of the descendants of Scotch, English and Irish forebears. The Mohawk Indians once roamed at will in this splendid country, here erected their wigwams where the game was most plentiful, and here planted orchards of apples and pears. The struggle for the possession of the ground was long and bitter. Hundreds gave up their lives in the wars which ravaged the fertile valley, and where now one hears but the songs of robins, of orioles, and of thrushes, once echoed the screams of dying men, of women, and children, who battled for the lands of the Mohawk. The waters of the tributaries of the rippling stream once ran red with the blood of contending armies of white men and of those of another color.

A famous Chief--King Hendrick--ruled over the destinies of the Mohawk Indians when Sir William Johnson, an Irish Baronet, obtained a grant to a great tract of territory here, and came to live in America. By right of conquest the English claimed possession of this soil, and by right of conquest the King deeded it to anyone whom he chose to make a present to. Sir William built a fine house and treated the Indians so well that they came to like him and would often visit him in great numbers.

King Hendrick was one day at the Baronet's house, and seeing a richly embroidered coat lying across a chair, he had a strong desire to possess it. So upon the following morning he went up to Sir William and said:

"Brother, me dream last night a big dream."

"Really, Hendrick," replied Sir William. "And what, pray, did my red brother dream?"

The King of the Mohawks pointed to the embroidered coat.

"Me dream that the big coat was mine."

Sir William smiled. "It is yours," said he. "Take it and wear it as a proof of my friendship for you."

Not long afterwards the jovial Baronet visited the wigwams of the Mohawks, and, after lighting the peace pipe, spoke to King Hendrick in the following manner.

"Great Sachem," said he, "I had a big dream last night."

"Ugh! Ugh!" grunted the Mohawk brave. "What did my paleface brother dream?"

The Irishman took up a stick and drew with it upon the ground. "I dreamed that this tract of land was mine," said he, describing a square bounded on the south by the Mohawk river, on the east by Canada Creek, and on the north and west by some well-known hills. "And I would like to have my red-skinned brother present it to me."

Old Hendrick was completely undone, for he saw that this request covered nearly a hundred thousand acres of the finest territory in his possession. But he remembered the gift of that splendid scarlet coat, and, as he thought over the matter, he came to the conclusion that the request was not, after all, such a great one. Finally he arose and stretched out his right arm in the direction of the territory which the Irishman wanted.

"Brother," said he, "the land is yours, but you must never dream again."

Shortly afterwards the title to this property was confirmed by the British Government, and the tract was called the Royal Grant. Sir William thus became one of the largest landholders in America and one of the most prominent Englishmen on the frontier. He trafficked with the Senecas and Mohawks, made a large fortune, and soon erected another mansion, called "The Castle." Here he lived with a fair-haired German girl whom he had married, and was happy and contented until her death. She left him with three small children--one a boy, John, and the others daughters.

Not long after his wife's death Sir William went to a muster of the county militia. A pretty, daring Mohawk girl of about sixteen years of age, called Mollie Brant, stood among the crowd of spectators, and, engaging in some banter with a field officer, asked if she might mount his horse. Not dreaming, for an instant, that the girl could do it, the officer gave his permission, and in a second the girl had sprung to the crupper behind the soldier, and they both dashed gayly over the parade ground, while the maiden's bright blanket flapped wildly in the wind. All laughed at this show of feminine bravery, and Colonel Johnson was so much struck with the beauty of the Indian maid that he requested that he be presented to her.

Shortly afterwards Sir William asked the Indian beauty to go with him to his home and become its mistress, a request which she was only too willing to accede to. For the remainder of his life Molly Brant lived with him; an alliance which greatly pleased the Indians and strengthened his influence over them. Johnson Hall and Johnson Castle were always open to the coming and going of crowds of red men. Sir William attended their councils, danced in their wild dances, played their games, and joined with them in all their wild sports. He was given an Indian name, was formally adopted into the Mohawk nation, and was made a war chief. Frequently he would wear the dress of the redskins, would paint his face, dress his head with eagle feathers, and would march with great dignity and gravity into Albany at the head of his adopted people.

The brother of Molly Brant was called Thay-en-da-negea, or Joseph, and he was born upon the banks of the Ohio River when the Mohawks had journeyed thither upon a hunting expedition. The father of this noted warrior had the extraordinary title of Te-ho-wagh-wen-gara-gh-kwin; and, although his name is not particularly beautiful, it is said that he was a Chief of poetic nature and that he would often recite the following legend concerning the ancestry of his famous son and daughter.

"Many years in the past when the beautiful Mohawk River was broader than at present, and when the falls were more lofty, a feud arose between two young chiefs of the respective clans of the Mohawk nation, the Wolf and the Tortoise. The cause of the trouble was a maiden of the Bear totem, for she was loved by the two youthful braves of the Wolf and the Tortoise, and both desired to make her his wife. Each was a noble young man, for each had fought the Mingoes and the Mohegans and each considered that he had shown sufficient bravery to win the hand of the beautiful young maiden.

"Finally the maiden decided to bestow her hand upon the warrior of the Wolf totem, and she promised him that she would become his bride. But when this decision was brought to the ears of the Tortoise, his heart burned with jealousy, and he determined to carry off the beautiful girl by force. So he persuaded her one night to go with him to a verdant island in the river, where there was a cooling spring, where the fireflies lighted the way with their lamps, and where the whippoorwills sang their evening serenades. They launched into the stream, but, instead of paddling to the island, the warrior of the Tortoise clan steered his canoe far down the stream, and suddenly wheeling aside landed at the mouth of a cavern known only to himself. Springing ashore, he carried the unwilling maid inside, where the floor was covered with rushes and skins of wild beasts, and where an abundance of provisions was stored. A fierce cataract was near by, so that anyone leaving by a canoe would be swept away and drowned in its boiling flood. But in the top of the cave was an exit, known alone to the Tortoise.

"In the cave lived the maiden for many months, unhappy, weeping, and sad. But he of the Wolf clan was upon her trail, and one day--while hunting in the woods in search of game--he saw the canoe at the mouth of the cave and knew that she whom he loved must be inside. The evening was clear and a full moon shed its lustre over the woodland as the Wolf crept to the mouth of the cavern and saw the Tortoise sleeping lightly upon a bearskin. Dropping to his side, he struck him with his knife. In a moment the warrior was upon his feet, but, unable to find his hatchet in the dark, he bounded through the opening at the top of the cavern and rolled a huge stone over the exit.

"The lovers embraced in momentary joy, but it was brief, as they realized that they were trapped in the cave, and that soon the Tortoise would be back again to slay them, accompanied by other warriors of his clan. There was but one chance to escape--to plunge through the roaring cataract in the canoe and to endeavor to cross the boiling rapids in safety. So with an affectionate embrace, they leaped into the frail barque and pointed it towards the frothing spume of the waterfall. In an instant they were being hurled through space in the awful current of the water. But the Great Spirit was with them, and down the broad stream they glided, far away to the margin of a lake, where they landed, built a tepee and lived for two generations. Here they saw their own children and their childrens' children go out to war and to the chase. Here was born the father of Joseph and Molly Brant, the first, the strong Wolf of the Mohawks, the second, the distinguished wife of the great Englishman, Sir William Johnson."

Thay-en-da-negea means a bundle of sticks, but why the future Chieftain of the Mohawks was called by this name it is difficult to know. Sir William Johnson naturally took a great interest in him and sent him to school at Lebanon, Connecticut, where he was taught by a good old minister, called the Rev. Eleazer Wheelock, and received a thorough knowledge of the English language. "Joseph is indeed an excellent youth," wrote the aged minister to Sir William. "He is always well, is studious and diligent."

When thirteen years of age, war broke out between the French and English colonies in America, which resulted in the conquest of Canada. With two of his brothers, Joseph Brant was present at the fighting around Crown Point in 1755. He confessed that he was seized with fear and trembling at the first firing, and was obliged to take hold of a small sapling, but recovered his courage and fought bravely during the rest of the day, seeking to win the reputation of a brave man, so highly prized by every red man of ambition. Young Thay-en-da-negea was also present at the siege of Fort Niagara by Sir William Johnson's men, and so it can be easily seen that as a youth he had a pretty thorough education as a warrior; an education which was to stand him in good stead in the war of the American Revolution. As a school boy he was restless and uneasy, preferring to hunt rather than study. He did not graduate, and, after leaving the tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wheelock, was employed as an interpreter for a young minister who was devoting his life to missionary work among the Mohawks. Pontiac's war put an end to this duty, and he was soon engaged in various forays against Indian tribes which were upon the warpath.

Brant was a tall, handsome young Indian, with a lighter complexion than most of his race, and a very brilliant eye. In the light costume of an Indian warrior he would often creep with his companions upon the war parties of unfriendly savages, kill those whom they could, and, with the prisoners bound and guarded, would march triumphantly to their own village, and from there to Johnson Hall to receive approbation and perhaps a reward from Sir William; for he at one time offered fifty dollars apiece for the heads of two chiefs of the Delawares. The war was soon over, as has been shown in the essay on Pontiac, and young Brant was now well known as a brave, and well on the road to the chieftaincy in coming battles.

In 1765 the famous warrior married the daughter of an Oneida chief and settled at Canajoharie on the Mohawk River, the middle town of three Mohawk settlements and the home of his childhood. Here he had a comfortable house with all the needed furniture. In 1771 his wife died of consumption, and after this he came to live at Fort Hunter, some thirty miles below Canajoharie. He also joined the Church of England, married his first wife's half-sister, and was living a peaceful and quiet existence when the storm of the American Revolution broke over the rural settlements of the Mohawk.

There the white settlers were not all friendly to the American Colonists. Believing that they were harshly used by Great Britain, and seeing that they were taxed without representation, they desired to cast off the yoke of the mother country. Those who did not desire a Revolution were called Tories. Those who were for the American cause were known as Whigs. Sir William Johnson was wealthy; he was not affected by the English tax on tea; he had received great favors from the mother country, and he, therefore, threw his influence in behalf of King George: the burly English Sovereign who was fully determined to whip the Americans into submission. Joseph Brant was now one of the most powerful and influential of the Iroquois and Mohawk Chiefs. His close allegiance to the hospitable Baronet naturally made him favor the same cause which his sister's husband espoused. But before the Whigs were sure which side the Indian warrior would champion, they asked his old schoolmaster in Connecticut to write him upon the subject, and to find out whether or no this now powerful Indian would take up the tomahawk against them.

When Joseph Brant received the epistle from good old Wheelock, he answered it with characteristic wit. "I remember," said he, "many happy hours that I spent under your roof, dear Doctor, and I especially remember the family prayers. There you used to pray on bended knee and ask that we all might be able to live as good subjects; to fear God and to honor the King. How is it, then, that you now no longer wish to honor the very man for whom you used to pray?" To this the now aged schoolmaster made no reply, nor could he have done so.

"When I joined the English at the beginning of this war," said Brant, some years afterwards, "it was purely on account of my forefathers' engagements with the King. I always looked upon these covenants between the King and the Indian nations as a sacred thing; therefore, I was not to be frightened by the threats of rebels at the time!" Thus the English gained the allegiance, not only of this able warrior, but also of all the fighting men whom he controlled. "I will lead three thousand braves to battle for the cause of England," cried Brant in London, where he was now sent by Sir William Johnson, "and with our assistance, there can be but one end of the war--England will conquer."

No wonder he was popular at the English Capital. When he appeared at court he wore a gorgeous Indian costume; tall plumes adorned his headdress; silver bands were around his sinewy arms, his dress was of the richest texture, and copper pendants hung from his clothing. In his belt of blue, red and white beads, a long glittering tomahawk was fastened upon which was engraved, "J. Thay-en-da-negea." He was the lion of the London season. His portrait was twice painted; jewelled ladies sought an audience with him; while the famous Boswell wrote much about this eminent redskin in the papers of the period. But in spite of all this flattery, he seems to have been undismayed by what he saw and to have had the good sense to buy a gold ring, upon which was engraved his full name, so that he could be identified if slain in battle. And of war he was soon to see enough to satisfy the martial spirit of any Indian warrior.

The people of New York were waiting to capture this prominent brave when he returned to his own land, but he was too shrewd for them and escaped the clutches of those who would do him harm. Landing near the city of New York in a small boat, he carefully hid himself by day, and journeying by night, soon had reached a less populated country. Finally he came to Canada, was received most cordially by the British officers, and soon had collected a large band of Indians which he put at the disposal of Sir Guy Carleton, then commander of the British troops on Canadian soil. He was ordered to join forces with a company of regulars, with six hundred Iroquois, and to dislodge some American troops from a point of land about forty miles above Montreal, known as the Cedars.

The Americans were unable to hold their own against the superior 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.