William O. Stoddard - The Fight for the Valley

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FIGHT FOR THE VALLEY

A STORY OF THE SIEGE OF FORT SCHUYLER AND THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY IN THE BURGOYNE CAMPAIGN OF 1777

By

WILLIAM O STODDARD

Contents

Table of Contents

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER

MANY of the old-time battles are utterly forgotten. Of many other battles the importance is but imperfectly presented in history. An ordinary reader is ready, for instance, to ascribe due value to the American victories over the British army under General Burgoyne, but too many who read may be almost ignorant of the Oneida Lake and Mohawk Valley campaign which made those victories possible.

There was a long trial endured by the frontier heroes who held Fort Schuyler against great odds, and there was terribly hard fighting done at Oriskany. It is worthwhile to know by whom this was done and how. In attempting to tell the story of it, however, the author of this book has labored under one peculiar difficulty. He has been compelled to interpret or translate as best he might all of the conversations which were necessarily carried on in Dutch, While doing so, he has often been led to recall memories of his own early childhood and to hear again the fragments of Dutch songs which were sung to him by his Mohawk Valley grandfather and grandmother. Sometimes, too, they would scold him, for fun, in the tongue which even in their own younger days was still spoken by many thousands of their neighbors. Other memories also came, of boyhood visits at the old Schuyler mansion in Albany, and of its legends, which were then told him concerning General Philip Schuyler and his Revolutionary feats. With these were vivid recollections of eager explorations of the old Sir William Johnson palace in the Herkimer County backwoods, with its deeply engraved or tomahawked reminiscences of Tha-yen-da-ne-gea.

Added to all these, with reference to the varied features of the Burgoyne campaign, were searchings among the ruins of the old fortifications at Ticonderoga, but even more than these, for this present story, were fishing excursions on Oneida Lake, and studies of the manner in which the British forces under St. Leger found their way from Oswego to the siege of Fort Schuyler and the bloody struggle in the woods at Oriskany.

It is not well to confine attention to what are called the great battles only, but every boy in America ought to acquire a deep and inquiring interest in the minor points of the heroic history of his country. No other land has produced braver or better men and women, and the boys and girls of today ought to be made familiar with the splendid examples which have been set for them.

WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

The banner of the young republic was flying gallantly in the breeze

A volley of loud reports rang out

Brom himself was trying to draw a bead on one of them

Brom brought him a gourd of muddy water

OH, Brom Roosevelt! Do come in! This is dreadful!

She was a short, stout woman, and she stood in the porch of a neatly painted frame house, not many steps from the roadside. She was wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron, and she had called out to a sturdy-looking boy who had halted at the gate. His dress was not at all remarkable for that time and place, but it might have been considered so for some other times and places. He wore moccasins instead of shoes. Above these, reaching to the knee, were well-made woolen stockings. Then came what were sometimes called small-clothes, of blue woolen homespun; but his best garment was in his buckskin hunting-shirt, fringed all around and fastened at his throat by a broad brass buckle. On his head was a cap, which was also made of buckskin. It was so dented on top and so turned up at the edges, with a flap behind, that if there had been a little more of the leather it would have passed for something like a cocked hat.

What is the matter, Aunt Schuyler? he shouted back, as he opened the gate to walk in. Has anything happened?

Happened! she echoed. Why, Brom, that wretched boy Hon Yost has run away again. Im afraid he has gone to Albany. Oh, dear I He was singing Tory songs all day yesterday. Then he disappeared.

Thats where hes gone! exclaimed Brom. I heard him say we were all rebels here and he was going to Albany to see the King. But, Aunt Schuyler, he isnt half so crazy as some people say he is.

No, he isnt! she responded. He knows a great deal. He took some money of mine that I had put away in a closet, and he took a pony that belongs to your Uncle Herkimer. I had borrowed it, to do some errands with, and now Ive got to go and see the general and tell him what has become of that pony. You had better go with me.

Well, said Brom, thoughtfully, he isnt really my uncle. Hes only mothers cousin. Youd better take her with you than me. But he wont be so mad about the pony as he will about Hon. Hes always been a trouble.

So he has, she said; and the other Tories stir him up, and you cant tell whos a Tory and who isnt, and theres dreadful news from the British army in Canada, and I dont know what were to do.

Thats so, said Brom. They say Burgoyne is coming. So are the Canada Indians. If they come, and if our Indians join em, therell he fighting all up and down the Mohawk Valley.

Its awful! she groaned. But it was a pleasant day, and she never thought of putting on a hood or a wrap just to run to the Herkimer place.

Brom went with her, and they stopped at one house on the way. The tall, dark, intelligent-looking woman who joined them there did not appear to be greatly disturbed by Mrs. Schuylers account of her troubles. She was so very cool that it was almost irritating.

Anneke, dear, she said, just what you might have expected. But Hon can do no harm at Albany. I dont think the general will care much for one pony just now. He is going to Albany, himself. Im glad to go with you, anyhow, if its only to hear what the news is.

Mother, said Brom, Ive talked with three Oneida Indians this morning. I want to tell the general what they said to me.

He might wish to know, she said; but the Oneidas are friendly. Its the Western tribes that Brant and the Johnsons are likely to bring against us. They are old enemies of ours.

Broms face resembled hers and he was tall for his age, if he were not yet seventeen, but his blue-gray eyes and his brown hair may have come to him from his fathers side of the family. As for the color of his face, the sun and wind had painted that, and made it even darker than hers. She was an exceedingly calm and self-possessed woman, but now, as she recalled the ancient feud between the settlers and the Iroquois, she stood still for a moment and gazed dreamily southward.