Chapter II: Part 2

This affair occurred in 1780. It was not the first gallant exploit of our hero—nor the last. He had already made himself famous by deeds both of daring, dashing boldness, and deliberate courage.

Three years before the attack on Fort Hunter, at the battle of Stillwater in 1777, he had killed the British General, Frazer, by a ball from his unerring rifle. This is the first record we have of him; but after that many instances were noted of his extraordinary prowess, and many more, doubtless, of equal interest, never have received a chronicle. He had a peculiar hatred of the Indians, called forth by the many proofs of their treachery and cruelty. He was a valuable acquisition to any party of scouts who might be out after the red-skins; and many were the marvelous escapes he had.

As an instance of that _obstinacy_ of his character exhibited in his conduct at the attack upon Fort Hunter, we must give the reader an account of another and quite different circumstance, in which he displayed the same determination to _have his own way_—and in which he had it! This little episode in the life of the celebrated rifleman is not only interesting in itself, but also as showing under what difficulties the little GOD OF LOVE will struggle and triumph.

"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove:"

and not the fiery sword of Mars himself can frighten him from his universal throne.

After the attack upon Fort Hunter, Murphy, although his period of enlistment had expired, still remained with the garrison. It was not long after this that something besides duty to his country began to bind him to the valley of the Schoharie. The heart which had never quailed before an Indian or red-coat, was brought low by a shaft from the bright eyes of a maiden of sixteen!

Not far from the fort dwelt a family by the name of Feeck, whose home had escaped destruction from the advent of the enemy. Their daughter Margaret was a spirited and handsome girl, in whose dark blue eyes laughed mischief and tenderness combined; her auburn hair shaded cheeks rosy with health; her form was just rounding into the fullness of maidenhood, with a grace all its own, acquired from the fresh air and bountiful exercise to which she was accustomed. The historian does not tell us how the first meeting occurred, but certain it is that the indomitable heart of the rifleman was conquered at last. Murphy was then twenty-eight years of age and Margaret but sixteen. There is something in the nature of a woman which does homage to bravery in a man. The man who has the reputation of cowardice may be handsome and elegant, but _she_ will despise him; he alone who is famous for courage commands woman's full respect and _love_. When the invincible rifleman, whose iron nerves shrunk from no exposure, and whose energy was daunted by no difficulties, betrayed to the young girl, by his faltering manner in her presence, that _she_ could do what armies could not—confuse and master him—her breast thrilled with pride and delight. The disparity of their ages was nothing to her; she felt honored at being the choice of a brave man; her timid glance, usually so mischievous, encouraged him to speak, and when he did he was not rejected.

Whether it was that Margaret's parents thought her too young, or that there was too great a discrepancy in their ages, or that they had some prejudice against Murphy, we are not advised; but they strenuously opposed the intimacy, forbidding the lover to enter their house. Then it was that he again questioned the authority of the ruling powers. It was not in his nature to submit to this arbitrary decree. As once before he had "had his own way" in defiance of superiors, he was resolved to have it now. He loved the maiden and she him; there was none who should keep them apart. When he made a resolution it might be considered as carried out. Margaret, drooping about the house, doing her work listlessly, instead of with joyous singing, received a communication which brought back the roses to her cheeks in fuller bloom than ever. A faithful friend of Murphy, living not far from the Feeck family, on the Schoharie creek, was the person who wrought this change in the young girl. During a visit to the parents, he contrived to arrange a meeting at his own house with her lover. Thither she went one day on a pretended errand, and found her lover awaiting her. During the interview a plan was arranged for eluding the vigilance of her parents and consummating their happiness by marriage.

There was some difficulty about this, for her father and mother had instituted a close surveillance over all the "coming and going." Margaret herself, though willing, was timid, shrinking from the danger of detection and the anger of her parents.

"Pshaw!" said Murphy, squeezing the hand he held in his own broad palm, "it's likely I can't take care of _you_, Maggie! I've trailed too many Injuns, and dodged too many bullets, to think much of carrying off my girl when I want her. Jest you be on the spot, and leave the rest to me."

She promised, and they separated to wait impatiently for the appointed evening. When it came, Margaret, under pretense of going to milk, some distance from the house, stole away from home to meet her intended husband. She dared not make the least change in her apparel, lest suspicion should be excited; and when she made her appearance at the appointed spot, she presented but little of the usual semblance of an expectant _bride_. She was barefoot and bareheaded, and wore the short gown and petticoat, so much the vogue among females of that day as a morning or working-dress; but beneath the humble garb beat a true and ingenuous heart, worth more than outward trappings to any man. The form, arrayed in homespun, was of a blooming and substantial beauty, which needed not the "foreign aid of ornament."

She was first at the place of rendezvous, where she waited with fear and impatience for her lover, but no lover came. Twilight was fast fading into darkness, and yet he came not. From her little nook of concealment, behind a clump of alders which grew on a bend of the stream, out of sight of her home, she strained her eyes to look for the approaching form, which still came not. The pink tinge which flushed the silver water died off into the gray of evening; every moment she expected to hear the stern voice of her father calling her. What should she do? It would not answer to return home, for she already had been gone too long. The cow had not been milked, and if she went back now, her unusual absence must excite suspicions, which would prevent a future meeting with her lover. This was her greatest dread. She had dwelt on their union too fondly to endure the return now to a hopeless separation.

Margaret was not long in making up her mind what course to pursue. Since Murphy had not come to her she would go to him! She knew him brave and honorable, and that some important matter must have kept him from the tryst. In order to reach the fort she was obliged to ford the stream. About this she had no squeamishness, as she had performed the feat one hundred times before; the stream was shallow and not very wide. Evidently she was fortunate in not being troubled with shoes and stockings in the present emergency; it did not trouble her much to hold up her short skirts from the water into which she waded; and, as her little feet felt their cautious way across the creek, no doubt she looked as pretty to her lover, in her attitudes of unconscious grace, as other brides have done under more fortunate circumstances; for Murphy saw the whole proceeding with a pleased eye, taking her advance as a proof both of her love for, and faith in, himself. He had been detained at the fort by some provoking duties, and had ridden up to the brook just as Margaret began to cross.

Although in her heart she felt inwardly relieved to find him there, the maiden began to pout at his tardiness, and to regret that she had taken a step beyond the trysting-place to meet a lover who would not take the trouble to be punctual to an appointment like this.

"I shall go home again, Tim," she cried, concealing her blushes under a frown, which, though pretty, was not at all frightful.

"Not to-night, Maggie," he said, as, lifting her up behind him, he sped away to the fort.

Murphy was a general favorite among the garrison; not an individual there who would not willingly have aided and assisted him in his nuptial enterprise. His plans were well known; and, as the happy couple rode in at the gate, lighted by the last lingering gleam of sunset in the west, they were received with three hearty cheers. The circumstances were such as to call forth the warmest interest of the female part of the population. The young maiden was taken in charge by them. As there was no minister to perform the ceremony of marriage, the couple would be obliged to take a trip to Schenectady, twenty-five miles distant. The evening was spent in preparation. Various choice articles of apparel and ornament, some of which, doubtless, had served a similar purpose on former occasions, were brought forth; all went to work with a will to fit out this impromptu bridal _trousseau_. By morning every thing was in readiness except the proper dress. This, Murphy decided to procure in Schenectady.

As time was precious they started at dawn, and made the whole distance in four hours. A handsome silk dress was here purchased and placed in the hands of a dressmaker and some friends, who performed wonders which would astonish a _modiste_ of to-day: they completed the dress in the course of the afternoon! The couple stopped at the house of friends, who did all they could to assist in the pleasant project. Before dark the bride was arrayed in a manner becoming the important occasion. A gay company, composed of some of their acquaintances, accompanied the happy pair to the residence of the Rev. Mr. Johnson, where the solemn ceremony which united their lives in one was performed; after which they returned to the house of their friends to spend the wedding-night.

We are afraid if some of the dainty belles of the present day had to accomplish as much in one day as had been done by this bride, before they could find themselves safely wedded to the object of their choice, they would shrink away dismayed, and settle down into old maids. To run away from home barefoot; to wade a creek; to ride into a fort behind her lover; to ride twenty-five miles; to buy and make a wedding-dress, and attire herself for the ceremony; to go to the minister and get married, all in twenty-four hours, showed an energy worthy of the times. Such kind of women were fit wives for the men who bore the perils of the Revolution, and whose strength of mind and heart, whose unconquerable love of liberty, secured to us our inheritance.

On their return to Schoharie, the parents of the bride were exceedingly wroth at the disobedience of their daughter, and at the presumption of the daring rifleman. For a time they refused to be reconciled; but, reflecting that no opposition could alter or recall the act, they at length concluded to overlook all and receive the couple to their love.

The brave rifleman made a true husband. Margaret, who lived with him happily for nearly thirty years, had no reason to regret the hour when she forded Schoharie creek in search of her tardy lover.

Despite of the eventful perils into which he was always flinging himself, Murphy lived to see years of peace, dying of cancer in the throat, in 1818, at the age of sixty-eight. He was an uneducated man; but, possessed of a strong will and an amiable disposition, he exerted an unbounded influence over the minds of a certain class of men, who, like himself, were schooled in trial. His power was that of originality, independence and courage—qualities which will make any man a leader of the people among whom he moves. Men of his stamp were a necessity of the times in which they lived; they seemed to spring up in the hour of need, having patience, perseverance, endurance and boldness to cope with the stealthy and murderous foes who hung upon the path of our civilization. They deserve to be embalmed in the annals of the country in whose guard they fought.

BRANT AND THE BOY.

One bright summer morning, a lad by the name of M'Kown was engaged in raking hay in a field some distance from any house, and—as was the custom with all who labored abroad in those days of danger and sudden surprise—was armed with a musket, which, however, he had stood against a tree; but in the progress of his work had advanced beyond its immediate proximity. While busily occupied, and intent upon his work, he heard a slight jingling behind him, and turning suddenly around, he beheld an Indian within three feet of him, who bore in his mien and costume the appearance of a chief; and although his position indicated peaceful intentions, the tomahawk in his right hand betokened his readiness for hostilities if occasion required it. Startled at this sudden and unexpected apparition, the youth, with a natural impulse, raised his rake to defend himself, thoughtless of the insufficiency of his weapon. His fears were dissipated by the Indian, who remarked:

Brant and young M'Kown—_Page_ 35.
]

"Do not be afraid, young man; I shall not hurt you."

He then inquired of the lad if he could direct him to the residence of a noted loyalist by the name of Foster. Young M'Kown gave him the necessary directions to enable him to find that personage, and then, emboldened by the apparent peaceable intentions of the other, asked him if he knew Mr. Foster.

"I am partially acquainted with him," was the reply, "having once met him at the half-way creek."

The Indian then entered into a familiar conversation with his interrogator, in the course of which he asked him his name, and upon being informed, he added:

"You are a son, then, of Captain M'Kown, who lives in the north-east part of the town, I suppose. I know your father very well; he lives neighbor to Captain M'Kean. I know M'Kean very well, and a very fine fellow he is, too."

Thus the parties conversed together in a social manner for some time, until the boy—emboldened by the familiarity which had been established between them—ventured to ask the Indian his name in turn. This he did not seem disposed to give him, hesitating for a moment, but at length replied:

"My name is Brant."

"What! Captain Brant?" eagerly demanded the youth.

"No; I am a cousin of his," replied the Indian, at the same time accompanying his assertion with a smile and expression of countenance which intimated his attempt to deceive his interlocutor. It was indeed the terrible Thayendanega himself, who was associated, in the mind of the youth, with every possible trait of a fiendlike character; and it is not to be wondered at, that he trembled as he felt himself to be in the presence of one whose delight, it had been represented to him, was to revel in slaughter and bloodshed. He was somewhat reassured, however, by the thought, that, if his intentions had been hostile toward him, he could easily have executed them before; but he did not feel fully assured of his safety until the Indian had taken his departure, and he had reached his home with his life and scalp intact.

This little incident is but one of many, told to prove that Brant was not the bloodthirsty monster which, for many years after the Revolution, he had the reputation of being. He was a Freemason: and on several occasions, during the war, his fraternal feelings were called into play, in behalf of prisoners who belonged to that order. Among others we are told:

Jonathan Maynard, Esq.—afterward a member of the Massachusetts Senate—who was actively engaged in the Revolutionary war, was taken prisoner at one time by a party of Indians under the command of Brant. The younger warriors of the party seemed disposed to put him to death, in accordance with their determination to exterminate the whites, as agreed upon by the tories and Indians in that section of the country. Preparations had been made to carry out their intentions, when, having been partially stripped of his clothing, Brant observed the emblems of Masonry indelibly marked upon the prisoner's arms, and feeling bound to him by a tie which none but a _brother_ can appreciate, he interposed his authority, saved his life, and sent him to Canada, to keep him out of harm's way; and he remained in durance for several months, until exchanged and allowed to return home.

There is another incident, where Brant met one of his old schoolmates; but where the circumstances of their early intimacy would not have interfered between the white officer and death, had he not saved himself by means of justifiable duplicity.

In the month of April, in 1780, it was the intention of Captain Brant, the Indian chieftain, to make a descent upon the upper fort of Schoharie, but which was prevented by an unlooked-for circumstance. Colonel Vrooman had sent out a party of scouts to pass over to the head-waters of the Charlotte river, where resided certain suspected persons, whose movements it was their duty to watch. It being the proper season for the manufacture of maple sugar, the men were directed to make a quantity of that article, of which the garrison were greatly in want. On the 2d of April this party, under the command of Captain Harper, commenced their labors, which they did cheerfully, and entirely unapprehensive of danger, as a fall of snow, some three feet deep, would prevent, they supposed, the moving of any considerable body of the enemy, while in fact they were not aware of any body of the armed foe short of Niagara. But on the 7th of April they were suddenly surrounded by a party of about forty Indians and tories, the first knowledge of whose presence was the death of three of their party. The leader was instantly discovered in the person of the Mohawk chief, who rushed up to Captain Harper, tomahawk in hand, and observed: "Harper, I am sorry to find you here!"

"Why are you sorry, Captain Brant?" replied the other.

"Because," replied the chief, "I _must_ kill you, although we were schoolmates in our youth"—at the same time raising his hatchet, and suiting the action to the word. Suddenly his arm fell, and with a piercing scrutiny, looking Harper full in the face, he inquired: "Are there any regular troops in the fort in Schoharie?" Harper caught the idea in an instant. To answer truly, and admit there were none, as was the fact, would but hasten Brant and his warriors forward to fall upon the settlements at once, and their destruction would have been swift and sure. He therefore informed him that a reinforcement of three hundred Continental troops had arrived to garrison the forts only two or three days before. This information appeared very much to disconcert the chieftain. He prevented the further shedding of blood, and held a consultation with his subordinate chiefs. Night coming on, the prisoners were shut up in a pen of logs, and guarded by the tories, while among the Indians, controversy ran high whether the prisoners should be put to death or carried to Niagara. The captives were bound hand and foot, and were so near the council that Harper, who understood something of the Indian tongue, could hear the dispute. The Indians were for putting them to death, but Brant exercised his authority to effectually prevent the massacre.

On the following morning Harper was brought before the Indians for examination. The chief commenced by saying that he was suspicious he had not told him the truth. Harper, however, although Brant was eyeing him like a basilisk, repeated his former statements, without the improper movement of a muscle, or any betrayal that he was deceiving. Brant, satisfied of the truth of the story, resolved to retrace his steps to Niagara. But his warriors were disappointed in their hopes of spoils and victory, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that they were prevented from putting the captives to death.

Their march was forthwith commenced, and was full of pain, peril and adventure. They met on the succeeding day with two loyalists, who both disproved Harper's story of troops being at Schoharie, and the Captain was again subjected to a piercing scrutiny; but he succeeded so well in maintaining the appearance of truth and sincerity as to arrest the upraised and glittering tomahawk. On the same day an aged man, named Brown, was accidentally fallen in with and taken prisoner, with two youthful grandsons; the day following, being unable to travel with sufficient speed, and sinking under the weight of the burden imposed upon him, the old man was put out of the way with the hatchet. The victim was dragging behind, and when he saw preparations making for his doom, took an affectionate farewell of his little grandsons, and the Indians moved on, leaving one of their number with his face painted black—the mark of the executioner—behind with him. In a few moments afterward, the Indian came up, with the old man's scalp dangling from between the ramrod and the muzzle of his gun.

They constructed floats, and sailed down the Susquehanna to the confluence of the Chemung, at which place their land-traveling commenced. Soon after this, a severe trial and narrow escape befell the prisoners. During his march from Niagara on this expedition, Brant had detached eleven of his warriors, to fall once more upon the Minisink settlement for prisoners. This detachment, as it subsequently appeared, had succeeded in taking captive five athletic men, whom they secured and brought with them as far as Tioga Point. The Indians slept very soundly, and the five prisoners had resolved, on the first opportunity, to make their escape. While encamped at this place during the night, one of the Minisink men succeeded in extricating his hands from the binding cords, and with the utmost caution, unloosed his four companions. The Indians were locked in the arms of deep sleep around them. Silently, without causing a leaf to rustle, they each snatched a tomahawk from the girdles of their unconscious enemies, and in a moment nine of them were quivering in the agonies of death. The two others were awakened, and springing upon their feet, attempted to escape. One of them was struck with a hatchet between the shoulders, but the other fled. The prisoners immediately made good their own retreat, and the only Indian who escaped unhurt returned to take care of his wounded companion. As Brant and his warriors approached this point of their journey, some of his Indians having raised a whoop, it was returned by a single voice, with the _death yell_! Startled at this unexpected signal, Brant's warriors rushed forward to ascertain the cause. But they were not long in doubt. The lone warrior met them, and soon related to his brethren the melancholy fate of his companions. The effect upon the warriors, who gathered in a group to hear the recital, was inexpressibly fearful. Rage, and a desire of revenge, seemed to kindle every bosom, and light every eye as with burning coals. They gathered around the prisoners in a circle, and began to make unequivocal preparations for hacking them to pieces. Harper and his men of course gave themselves up for lost. While their knives were unsheathing, and their hatchets glittering, as they were flourished in the sunbeams, the only survivor of the murdered party rushed into the circle and interposed in their favor. With a wave of the hand, as of a warrior entitled to be heard—for he was himself a chief—silence was restored, and the prisoners were surprised by the utterance of an earnest appeal in their behalf. He eloquently and impressively declaimed in their favor, upon the ground that it was not they who murdered their brothers; and to take the lives of the innocent would not be right in the eyes of the Great Spirit. His appeal was effective. The passions of the incensed warriors were hushed, their eyes no longer shot forth the burning glances of revenge, and their gesticulations ceased to menace immediate and bloody vengeance.

True, it so happened, that this chief knew all the prisoners—he having resided in the Schoharie canton of the Mohawks during the war. He doubtless felt a deeper interest in their behalf on that account. Still, it was a noble action, worthy of the proudest era of chivalry, and in the palmy days of Greece and Rome, would have crowned him almost with "an apotheosis and rights divine." The interposition of Pocahontas, in favor of Captain Smith, before the rude court of Powhatan, was, perhaps, more romantic; but when the motive which prompted the generous action of the princess is considered, the transaction now under review exhibits the most of genuine benevolence. Pocahontas was moved by the tender passion—the Mohawk Sachem by the feelings of magnanimity, and the eternal principles of justice. It is a matter of regret that the name of this high-souled warrior is lost, as, alas! have been too many that might serve to relieve the dark and vengeful portraiture of Indian character, which it has so well pleased the white man to draw! The prisoners themselves were so impressed with the manner of their signal deliverance, that they justly attributed it to a direct interposition of Providence.

After the most acute sufferings from hunger and exhaustion, the party at last arrived at Niagara. The last night of their journey, they encamped a short distance from the fort. In the morning the prisoners were informed that they were to run the gauntlet, and were brought out where two parallel lines of Indians were drawn up, between which the prisoners were to pass, exposed to the whips and blows of the savages. The course to be run was toward the fort. Harper was the first one selected, and at the signal, sprung from the mark with extraordinary swiftness. An Indian near the end of the line, fearing he might escape without injury, sprung before him, but a blow from Harper's fist felled him; the Indians, enraged, broke their ranks and rushed after him, as he fled with the utmost speed toward the fort. The garrison, when they saw Harper approaching, opened the gates, and he rushed in, only affording sufficient time for the garrison to close the gates, ere the Indians rushed upon it, clamoring for the possession of their victim. The other prisoners, taking advantage of the breaking up of the Indian ranks, took different routes, and all succeeded in reaching the fort without passing through the terrible ordeal which was intended for them.

This was in the April preceding the final attack upon the fort in the Schoharie valley, which took place in the fall, as described in the second article of this number; and at which Murphy, the rifleman, so distinguished himself.

As further illustrating this magnanimity which—certainly at times—distinguished Brant, it is said that at the horrible massacre of Cherry Valley, Butler—the tory Captain, son of the Butler who fulfilled his hideous part in the destruction of Wyoming—on entering a house, ordered a woman and child to be killed who were found in bed. "What!" exclaimed Brant; "kill a woman and child? No! that child is not an enemy to the king, nor a friend to Congress. Long before he will be big enough to do any mischief, the dispute will be settled."

The life of Brant was, to say the least, peculiar. An Indian, but an educated and traveled one, with much of the tact of civilization, and all the cunning and wild freedom of the savage, he made a character for himself which always will occupy a niche in history. Whether the conflicting statements in regard to him ever will be so reconciled as to decide whether he was a generous and humane enemy, or a most subtle and ferocious one, we know not; but this is certain, he _was_ our enemy, and a most efficient ally of the British in their attempts to put out the rising fires of Liberty which were kindling in our valleys, over our plains, and upon our hills. It was a most unfortunate thing for the struggling colonists when Brant took up the hatchet in behalf of the king, for his arm was more to be dreaded than that of King George.

Joseph Brant was an Onondaga of the Mohawk tribe, whose Indian name was Thayendanega—signifying, literally, a brant, or wild-goose. The story that he was but a half-Indian, the son of a German, has been widely spread, but is denied by his son, and is now believed to be false. There are those, however, whose opinion is of weight, who assert that he was the son of Sir William Johnson; and such, all circumstances considered, is most likely to have been the fact. He was of a lighter complexion than his countrymen in general, and there are other evidences of his having been a half-breed. He received a very good English education at Moore's charity-school, in Lebanon, Connecticut, where he was placed _by_ Sir William Johnson, in July, 1761. This General Sir William Johnson was British agent of Indian affairs, and had greatly ingratiated himself into the esteem of the Six Nations. He lived at the place since named for him, upon the north bank of the Mohawk, about forty miles from Albany. Here he had an elegant country-seat, at which he often would entertain several hundred of his red friends, sharing all things in common with them. They so much respected him, that, although they had the fullest liberty, they would take nothing which was not given to them. The faster to rivet their esteem, he would, at certain seasons, accommodate himself to their mode of dress. He also, being a widower, took as a companion Molly Brant, (a sister of Brant,) who considered herself his wife, according to Indian custom, and whom he finally married, to legitimize her children. He had received honors and emoluments from the British Government; and the Indians, through him, obtained every thing conducive to their happiness. Hence, it is not strange that they should hold in reverence the name of their "great father," the king; and think the few rebels who opposed his authority, when the Revolution began, to be inexcusable and unworthy of mercy.

Brant, by this time a man in the first flush of his strength, and with as good an education as the majority of his white friends, went to England in 1775, in the beginning of the great Revolutionary rupture, where he was received with attention. Doubtless his mind was there prepared for the part he acted in the memorable struggle which ensued. He had a Colonel's commission conferred upon him in the English army upon the frontiers; which army consisted of such tories and Indians as took part against the country.

Upon his return from England—Sir William Johnson having died the previous year—Brant attached himself to Johnson's son-in-law, Guy Johnson, performing the part of secretary to him when transacting business with the Indians. The Butlers, John and Walter—whose names, with those of Brant, are associated with the horrid barbarities of Wyoming and Cherry Valley—lived not far from the village of Johnstown, and upon the same side of the Mohawk.

After the battle of Bunker Hill, General Schuyler compelled Guy Johnson, and his brother-in-law, Sir John Johnson, to give their word of honor not to take up arms against America; but this did not prevent Guy from withdrawing into Canada and taking with him Brant, with a large body of his Mohawks. Sir John also fled to Canada, where he became a powerful adversary. The Butlers were also in the train.

Here, having had some disagreement with Johnson, Brant returned to the frontiers with his band of warriors. Some of the peaceable Mohawks had been confined to prevent their doing injury, as were some of the Massachusetts Indians in King Philip's war. Brant was displeased at this. He came with his band to Unadilla, where he was met by the American General, Herkimer; and the two had an interview, in which Brant said that "the king's belts were yet lodged with them, and they could not falsify their pledge; that the Indians were in concert with the king," etc. It has never been explained why Herkimer did not then and there destroy the power of Brant, which he could have done, for his men numbered eight hundred and eighty, while Brant had but one hundred and thirty warriors. It is supposed the American General did not believe that the Mohawks actually would take up arms against the country. It was a fatal mistake, which deluged hundreds of homes in blood, or wrapped them in fire.

Thereafter followed a succession of bloody and terrible affairs, in which Brant and the two Butlers were leaders. It has been said, and with truth, that of those three, the white men were the most ferocious; that they out-Heroded Herod; that Brant often spared where they refused. Out of these isolated facts it is sought to build up a reputation for generosity and magnanimity, to which Brant is not entitled. Some moments of mercy he had; while those arch fiends, the Butlers, never relaxed into the weakness of mercy; but the name of Brant, nevertheless, is written too redly in the blood of our ancestors for us ever to regard him with other feelings than those of horror and dread. His knowledge of the detestation in which the whites regarded the Indian modes of warfare, acted upon his pride; he did not wish to be classed with the _untutored_ of his own race; so that his regard for appearances caused him frequently to forbear the cruelties which his associates practiced.

The first affair of importance in which we hear of him is the battle of Oriskany. It was on the 6th of August, 1777. Brant was under the direction of General St. Leger, who detached him, with a considerable body of warriors, for the investment of Fort Stanwix. Colonel Butler was commander-in-chief of the expedition, with a band of tories under his immediate charge. The inhabitants in the valley of the Mohawk determined to march to the assistance of the fort, which they did in two regiments, with General Herkimer at their head. As is usual with militia, they marched in great disorder, and through the inadvertence of General Herkimer—who, influenced by sneers at his _cowardice_ in taking such a precaution, failed to throw forward scouts as he should have done—were surprised by the Indians as they were crossing an almost impassable ravine, upon a single track of logs. The ambush selected by Brant could not have been better fitted for his purpose. The ravine was semicircular, and Brant and his forces occupied the surrounding heights.

The first intimation of the presence of the enemy was the terrifying yells of the Indians, and the still more lasting impressions of their rifles. Running down from every direction, they prevented the two regiments from forming a junction—one of them not having entered the causeway. A part of the assailants fell upon those without, a part upon those within. The former fared worse than the latter; for, in such a case a flight almost always proves a dismal defeat, as was now the case. The other regiment, hemmed in as it was, saw that

"To fight, or not to fight, was death."

They therefore, back to back, forming a front in every direction, fought like men in despair. With such bravery did they resist, in this forlorn condition, that the Indians began to give way, and but for a reinforcement of tories, they would have been entirely dispersed. The sight of this reinforcement increased the rage of the Americans. The tory regiment was composed of the very men who had left that part of the country at the beginning of the war, and were held in abhorrence for their loyalty to the king. Dr. Gordon says that the tories and Indians got into a most wretched confusion, and fought one another; and that the latter, at last, thought it was a plot of the whites to get them into that situation, that they might be cut off. General Herkimer got forward an express to the fort, when he was reinforced as soon as possible, and the remnant of his brave band saved. He beat the enemy from the ground, and carried considerable plunder to the fort; but two hundred Americans were lost, and among them the General himself, who died, soon after, from the effects of a wound received at the time.

In the early part of the contest, General Herkimer had been struck by a ball, which shattered his leg and killed his horse. Undaunted by this accident, and indifferent to the severity of the pain, the brave old General continued on his saddle, which was placed on a little hillock, near a tree, against which he leaned for support, while giving his orders with the utmost coolness, though his men fell in scores about him, and his exposed position made him a mark for the enemy. Amid the clashing of weapons, the roar of artillery, and the yells of the combatants, all mingled in wild confusion, General Herkimer deliberately took his pipe from his pocket, lit it, and smoked with seeming composure. On being advised to remove to a place of greater security, he said, "_No; I will face the enemy_." It is said that Blucher, at the battle of Leipsic, sat on a hillock, smoking, and issuing his orders; but Blucher was not wounded.

General Herkimer's leg was amputated after the battle, but it was done so unskillfully that the flow of blood could not be stopped. During the operation he smoked and chatted in excellent spirits; and when his departure drew nigh, he called for a Bible, and read aloud, until his failing strength compelled him to desist. Such is the stuff of which heroes are made.

The night which followed the battle was one of horror for the prisoners taken by the enemy. As usual, the Indians slaked their thirst for blood and torture, which the battle had awakened, in pitiless cruelties upon their defenseless captives. It does not seem that Brant here exercised, or caused to be exercised, any clemency. Some of the doomed creatures begged of Butler, the British officer, to use his influence with the Indians; and to their appeals were joined the entreaties of the guard—the tories, in whose breasts some humanity remained; but this fiend, more savage than the savages, only cursed them for their folly in pleading for "infernal rebels." All manner of tortures, including roasting, was practiced upon the captives, as was testified to by one of their number, Dr. Younglove, who, after enduring every thing but death, finally escaped from his tormentors.

In June of the next year, 1778, Brant came upon Springfield, which he burned, and carried off a number of prisoners. The women and children were not maltreated, but were left in one house unmolested. About this time great efforts were made to secure the wary chief, but none of them were successful.

The next event of importance in which Brant was engaged was the destruction of Wyoming, that most heart-rending affair in all the annals of the Revolutionary war. The events of that awful massacre, the treachery of Butler, the ferocity of the savages, and the still more hellish malignity of their white allies, are known to all. The wail which then arose from innocent women and helpless babes, consumed in one funeral pyre, together, will never die—its echoes yet ring upon the shuddering senses of each successive generation. Of late years an effort has been made to prove that Brant was not even present at that massacre; but of this there is no _proof_. Campbell, the author of "Gertrude of Wyoming," was so worked upon by the representations of a son of Brant, who visited England in 1822, that he recalled all he said of

"The foe—the monster Brant,"

and wished him, thereafter, to be regarded as a "purely fictitious character."

One thing is certain. Brant _was_ at the massacre of Cherry Valley, which settlement, in the November following the destruction of Wyoming, met a fate nearly similar. At this terrible affair was repeated the atrocities of the former. A tory boasted that he killed a Mr. Wells while at prayer. His daughter, a beautiful and estimable young lady, fled from the house to a pile of wood for shelter, but an Indian pursued her; and composedly wiping his bloody knife on his leggin, seized her, and while she was begging for her life in the few words of Indian which she knew, he ruthlessly killed her. But why speak of one, where hundreds met a similar fate? It is said that Brant, on this occasion, did exercise clemency; and that he was the only one who did. It was shortly after this that Sullivan's army was organized to march upon the Indian country and put a stop to such outrages. Brant met it and was repulsed and fled. It has been made a matter of complaint that our forces destroyed the Indian villages and crops. But with such wrongs burning in their breasts, who could ask of them the practice of extraordinary generosity toward monsters who would not respect nor return it? The same complaint is made to-day against the exasperated Minnesotians, who claim the fullest vengeance of the law against the stealthy panthers, and worse than wild beasts, who have recently ravaged their State. They ask it, and _should have it_.

In the spring of 1780, Brant renewed his warfare against our settlements. He seems, in almost all cases, to have been successful, uniting, as he did, the means of civilized warfare with all the art and duplicity of the savage.

In later years Colonel Brant exerted himself to preserve peace between the whites and Indians; and during the important treaties which were made in 1793 he was in favor of settling matters amicably. He had won from the British Government all the honors it was willing to bestow upon a _savage_ ally, and what were they? A Colonel's commission, with liberty to do work for the king which British soldiers did not care to do—the slaughter of women and children, and the sacking of villages. It is quite probable that, after Wayne's decisive castigation of the Indians, and British insolence had thereby also received a blow, Brant retired from a service which he knew must be worse than fruitless.

Colonel Brant was married, in the winter of 1779, to the daughter of Colonel Croghan by an Indian woman. He had lived with her some time, according to the Indian manner; but being present at the wedding of Miss Moore, (one of the Cherry Valley captives,) he took a fancy to have the "civilized" ceremony performed between himself and his partner. King George III. conferred valuable lands upon him, and he became quite wealthy. He owned, at one time, thirty or forty negroes, to whom he was a most brutal master. Brant professed to be a great admirer of Greek, and intended to study that language so as to be able to make an original translation of the New Testament into Mohawk.

He died in November, 1807, and was said to have been sixty-five years old at the time of his death. He left several children, some of whose descendants are wealthy and respectable people. His wife, at his death, returned to her wild Indian life.

MRS. AUSTIN AND THE BEAR.

One of the great and almost insurmountable difficulties attendant upon the settlement of a new country, is that of rearing farm stock, and preserving it from the attacks of wild beasts. The experience of the pioneers of civilization in the valley of the Ohio, on this point, taught them that, until the country became more fully settled, and the increase of inhabitants so great as to drive back the denizens of the forest to more distant lairs, they must depend upon their rifles alone for a supply of animal food for the table. On the principle of recompense, perhaps, it was not so hard as it might otherwise seem, for when pork and beef were scarce, "b'ar meat" was plenty—and _vice versa_. But then, it was hard when one took a notion to raise a pig or two to furnish his table in time of need, to find it missing some bright morning, and know that all that pork had gone to fill the greedy stomach of a bear or "painter." Many and frequent were the encounters at the sty between the settler and his dusky neighbor, the bear, in which the contest for the possession of the pork was maintained with vigor and determination on the one side, and on the other with a hungry energy, which was deserving of commendation, if not of success.

Except when he could accomplish his object by stealth, however, bruin seldom came off the victor. The first note of alarm was sufficient to call from his pallet the watchful hunter, and the deadly rifle generally sent the intruder off a cripple, or stretched his carcass on the greensward, a trophy to the skill of his opponent. The women, too, were not backward in defense of their porcine friends when necessity called for exertion on their part to save them from destruction, as is evidenced by several anecdotes of their intrepidity on such occasions.

Mrs. Austin and the Bear—_Page_ 51.
]

A Mrs. John Austin, of Geneva Township, one day while her husband was absent from home, was alarmed by the sound of an unusual commotion among her pigs, and looking in the direction of the sty, which stood just back of the cabin, she beheld a bear just in the act of climbing over the inclosure among a group of three or four promising shotes, which she fondly hoped would one day fill the pork barrel and serve to supply her table with animal food during the long dreary months of the next winter. For a period of many weeks had she nursed, watched and fed them, in anticipation of their future usefulness, and she could not bear the thought of parting with them. But how to save them?—that was the question. There was no one near to aid in their salvation, and she must depend upon herself, or lose her pork. The danger was imminent, and decisive action necessary. Her mind was soon made up; she'd save her pigs or perish in the attempt. Calling her children, she sent them up into the loft and took away the ladder, that they might be safe in case she was unsuccessful or should be overcome by the bear. Taking down her husband's rifle, which hung on its pegs behind the door of the cabin, she carefully examined it to see if it was loaded, but in her haste overlooked the _priming_. The increasing confusion in the sty warned her that delays were dangerous, and she sallied forth to encounter bruin, who was already on his way to the forest with one of the pigs in his arms. The latter was giving vent to his fears in the most piercing and pitiful tones, while his captor, intent only on securing his prize, was marching off at a rapid pace on his hind feet, holding the pig as a mother holds her babe, and indifferent alike to his struggles and his pathetic appeals for mercy and relief. A momentary tremor seized upon the frame of the heroine, and the blood ran chill through her heart, as her gaze revealed the figure of a bear of the largest size—an antagonist whom many a stalwart hunter would have hesitated before attacking. No time was given her, however, to deliberate, for the bear had discovered her approach almost as soon as she turned the corner of the cabin. Dropping his burden, he turned to face his enemy, and presented a front which might have appalled a much stouter heart than that of our heroine; while the pig—language fails me in the attempt to describe the emotions which filled the breast of that now overjoyed pig, as he took his way with hasty strides to his former quarters, and snuggled down by the side of his companions, with many a grunt of satisfaction at his escape from the jaws of impending death. I leave it to the imagination of my reader, with the aid of the illustration, to supply a deficiency which my pen is utterly incapable of doing.

Standing thus at bay, in an attitude which threatened an attack on his part, the bear awaited the coming of his adversary. Fortunately, between her and him there was a Virginia worm fence, which formed a sort of breastwork, and offered a very eligible rest for her rifle. Resting her weapon upon the upper rail of the fence, she kneeled upon one knee, and took deliberate aim at the heart of her savage enemy. For the space of a minute the two remained in this position, until, assured of her aim, Mrs. Austin pulled the trigger. To her horror and dismay, the steel emitted sparks, but no report followed. The trusty rifle had missed fire. How shall I describe the feelings which heaved her bosom, as her eye glanced along the barrel until it rested upon the dark form of the bear, fearing lest he should spring upon her and tear her limb from limb. Her own life, and the lives of her children rested upon the success of her shot, and should he change his position so as to present a less vulnerable part to her aim, she felt that her hope was void and her fate certain. The animal still remained in the same position, however, and with as little movement as possible, she drew back the hammer, and again aimed full at his breast. Again the piece missed fire, and her heart sunk within her as she saw the bear move, as though he disliked his ambiguous position, and desired to change it. Not daring to lower her piece to examine it, and hoping that the third attempt might be more effectual, she again essayed to discharge it; but when, for the third time it failed to explode, she felt a sensation of horror creep over her which seemed to curdle the life-blood in her veins, and her limbs seemed palsied with terror as the bear—who had by this time become disgusted with the idea of being made a target of—and that, too, by a woman—dropped upon all fours, and as she thought, prepared to spring upon her. Satisfied, however, with his own exhibition of prowess—or, perhaps, fearful of attacking one who had shown herself so brave, he turned on his heels, and started off on a sidelong trot for the woods, the deep recesses of which soon hid him from sight.

Perhaps it was fortunate for Mrs. Austin that her rifle failed to explode. Had she wounded the animal instead of killing him, or failed to hit a vital part, no power on earth could have saved her from his savage vengeance. A wounded bear is one of the most terrific beasts to encounter, and the hunter will seldom attack one of these dusky denizens of the forest unless he has other arms to depend upon, should his rifle fail to strike the seat of life. She did not stop to consider the subject, however, but hastening back to her cabin, she threw herself upon the floor, and gave vent to her overwrought feelings in a flood of tears. The excitement which had gradually wrought her up to a fearful pitch of feeling was gone, and the revulsion was so great as to completely unnerve her. She soon rallied again, and her first act, on becoming more calm, was to offer thanks to that Providence which had watched over and protected her in her hour of need.