Legends of the Shawangunk - Pages 49-83



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MINISINK BATTLE

BRANT and his fighting men were the scourge of the Shawangunk region
during the entire War of the Revolution. His name was a terror to the
inhabitants of that locality; and deeds of blood and cruelty, performed by
him and under his direction, are told to this day that are too harrowing
for belief.

Historians differ as to whether Col. Joseph Brant was a half-breed or a
pureblood Mohawk. The traits of character developed in his career would
seem to indicate the latter as being nearer the truth. He had one sister,
Molly, who became the leman of Sir William Johnson. Brant was placed,
through the influence of Sir William, at a school in Lebanon, Connecticut,
where the lad was educated for the Christian ministry. It would appear,
however, he adopted an entirely different mode of life. At the age of
twenty he became the secretary and agent of Sir William, through whose
influence he was induced to espouse the cause of Great Britain in the
revolutionary trouble that was brewing. Through the same influence he was
created a Colonel of the British army; and by reason of his birth was a
warrior-chief of the Iroquois. Having had the advantages of a liberal
education, he became, in consequence, an influential personage among them,
and was treated with much consideration by the British monarch. He
organized and sent forth the predatory bands of Indians which devastated
the frontier from the Water-Gap to the Mohawk river. Same of these
irruptions he commanded in person, particularly those which visited
Wawarsing (Ulster county) and Minisink. In 1780 he boasted that the Esopus
border was his old fighting ground.

His personal appearance is thus described: "He was good looking, of fierce
aspect, tall, and rather spare, and well-spoken. He wore moccasins
elegantly trimmed with beads, leggings, and a breech-cloth of superfine
blue, a short, green coat with two silver epaulets, and a small, round
laced hat. By his side was an elegant, silver-mounted cutlass; and his
blanket of blue cloth (purposely dropped in the chair on which he sat, to
display his epaulets) was gorgeously adorned with a border of red."

Brant has been denounced as an inhuman wretch. Even an English author
attributes to him the atrocities of Wyoming. Although in battle he
generally gave full scope to the murderous propensities of his followers,
it cannot be denied he endeavored to mitigate the horrors of war whenever
he could do so without destroying his influence with his own race.

During the summer of 1779, Brant with about three hundred Iroquois
warriors set out from Niagara. About the middle of July they appeared on
the heights on the west of Minisink, like a dark cloud hanging on the
mountain tops, ready to break upon the plain below. Just before daylight,
on the morn-

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ing of the 20th, the inhabitants of the valley were awakened from their
slumbers by the crackling of the flames of their dwellings. Cries of
dismay, the shrieks of the victims of the tomahawk and scalping knife, and
the war-whoop of the savages, broke upon the morning air in all their
terror. Some managed to escape to the woods with their wives and children,
and some to the blockhouses. The savages and Tories plundered, burned and
killed as they were disposed.

After destroying twenty-one dwellings and barns, together with the old
Mamachamack church and a grist-mill, and killing an unknown number of
patriots, the enemy disappeared loaded with spoil. They did not attack any
of the block-houses, for which the red men entertained a wholesome fear.

On the evening of the same day Col. Tusten, of Goshen, received
intelligence by an express of the events of the morning. He immediately
issued orders to the officers of his command to meet him the following
morning (the 21st) with as many volunteers as they could raise. One
hundred and forty-nine men were at the place of rendezvous at the
appointed time.

A council of war was held to consider the expediency of pursuit. Col.
Tusten was opposed to risking an encounter with the noted Mohawk chief,
especially as his followers outnumbered the Goshen militia, two to one.

Besides the militiamen were not well supplied with arms and ammunition,
and the Colonel counseled that they wait for reinforcements which were
certain to arrive. Others, however, were for immediate pursuit. They
affected to hold the Indians in contempt; and declared that they would not
fight, and that a recapture of the plunder was an easy achievement. The
counsels of reckless bravery, untempered by reason and intelligence, are
not always wisest to follow. The deliberations were cut short by Major
Meeker, who, mounting his horse and flourishing his sword, vauntingly
called out-"Let the brave men follow me; the cowards may stay behind!"
This appeal decided the question; it silenced the prudent. The line of
march was immediately taken up, following the old Cochecton trail
seventeen miles, where they encamped at Skinner's mill.

The pursuit was commenced come time in the night. Tradition and the
testimony of old papers show that the party reached the house of James
Finch, at what is now Finchville, where they took breakfast, Mr. Finch
slaughtered a hog, which he roasted and served up to his guests. The
patriots partook of a hurried meal, gathered up the fragments of the hog
into their knapsacks, and continued their march over the mountain. They
told Mr. Finch not to accompany them, but to stay and have dinner ready
for them on their return, as the would be gone but a few hours. Their way
led them along the depression where the present highway is laid, past the
burial ground where the dead of the settlement were formerly buried; and
from the summit of the pass nearly half of their number took their last
view of the eastern slopes.

Crossing the mountain, they reached the house of Major Decker, then pushed
on over an Indian trail seventeen miles further. How many of our

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strongest men, in these effeminate days, could endure such a tramp,
encumbered with guns and knapsacks?

On the morning of the 22nd they were joined by a small reinforcement of
the Warwick regiment under Col. Hathorn, who, as the senior of Tusten,
took the command. At Halfway brook they came upon the Indian encampment of
the previous night, and another council was held. Colonel Hathorn, Tusten
and others were opposed to advancing further, as the number of Indian
fires, and the extent of ground the enemy had occupied, were conclusive
evidence of the superiority of Brant's force. A scene similar to that
which had broken up the former council was here enacted, with the same
results. The voice of prudence had less influence than the voice of
bravado. It is said that the officer to whose tauntings this last rash act
is attributed made quite a display of his bravery while on the march, but,
with his company, was only within hearing while the engagement lasted, and
could not be induced to go to the relief of his countrymen.

It was evident that Brant was not far in advance, and it was important to
know whether he intended to cross the Delaware at the usual fording-place.

Captains Tyler and Cuddeback, both of whom had some knowledge of the
woods, were sent forward with a small scouting party to reconnoitre
Brant's movements. What they saw led them to think Brant had already
crossed, as there were savages and plunder on the opposite shore, and an
Indian was then passing over, mounted on a horse that had been stolen from
Major Decker. The two scouts fired at this fellow, and, it is said,
wounded him fatally. But they mere immediately shot at by some savages in
their rear, and Capt. Tyler fell dead. Cuddeback succeeded in reaching the
main body of the militiamen, and reported what he had seen and heard.
Tyler's death caused a profound sensation among his fellow soldiers, but
it only served to add fierceness to their determination.

After leaving the mouth of the Halfway brook* (now Barryville) it is
believed that Brant followed the river bank to the Lackawaxen ford, to
which he had sent his plunder in advance. Hathorn resolved to intercept
him at the crossing, and to do so attempted to reach the ford first by a
rapid march over the high ground east of the river. As they approached the
ground on which the battle was fought, Brant was seen deliberately
marching toward the ford. Owing to intervening woods and hills, the
belligerents lost sight of each other, when Brant wheeled to the right and
passed up a ravine known as Dry brook, over which Hathorn's route lay. By
this stratagem, Brant was enabled to throw himself into Hathorn's rear,
cutting off a portion of Hathorn's command, deliberately selecting his
ground for a battle, and forming an ambuscade.

The battle-ground, says Quinlan, is situated on the crest of a hill, half
a mile northeasterly from the Dry brook at its nearest point, three miles
distant

* We follow the description given by Quinlan, in his admirable History of
Sullivan, as the best yet given of the battle.

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from Barryville and one from Lackawaxen. The hill has an altitude of
twenty-five or thirty feet above its base, and two hundred above the
Delaware, and descends east, west and south, while there is a nearly level
plateau extending toward the north. This level ground is rimmed
(particularly on the south side) with an irregular and broken ground of
rocks. On that part of the ground nearest the river the Americans were
hemmed in, and caught like rats in a trap.

The battle commenced at nine in the morning. Before a gun was fired, Brant
appeared in full view of the Americans, told them his force was superior
to theirs, and demanded their surrender, promising them protection. While
engaged in parley, he was shot at by one of the militiamen, the ball
passing through Brant's belt. The warrior thereupon withdrew and joined
his men.

The battle opened and the forces were soon engaged in deadly conflict.
Above the din of the strife, the voice of Brant was heard, in tones never
to be forgotten by those who survived, giving orders for the return of
those who were on the opposite side of the river.

A part of the Americans kept the savages in check on the north side of the
battle-ground, while others threw up hastily a breastwork of stones about
one hundred and fifty feet from the ledge which terminated the southern
extremity of the plateau. Confined to about an acre of ground, screened by
trees, rocks, flat stones turned on their edges, or whatever opportunity
offered or exigency demanded, were ninety brave men, who, without water,
and surrounded by a host of howling savages, fought from ten o'clock to
near sundown on a sultry, July day.

The disposition of the militia, and the effectual manner in which every
assailable point was defended, reflects credit on the mind that controlled
them. By direction of Hathorn there was no useless firing. Ammunition was
short, and it was necessary to husband it carefully. A gun discharged in
any quarter revealed the position of its possessor, and left him exposed
until he could reload. With the exceptions indicated, every man fought in
the Indian mode, each for himself, firing as opportunity offered, and
engaging in individual conflicts according to the barbarian custom.

The annals of modern times contain no record of a more stubborn and heroic
defense. In vain Brant sought for hours to break through the line. He was
repelled at every point.

What the fifty men were doing all that eventful day, who were separated
from their companions during the morning, no one can now tell. We will put
a charitable interpretation on their conduct, and suppose they were driven
away by superior numbers. Their movements are veiled in oblivion, and
there let them remain.

As the day drew to a close, Brant became disheartened. The position of the
brave patriots seemed to be impregnable, and it is said he was about to
order a retreat when the death of a militiaman opened the way into the
American lines. This faithful soldier had been stationed behind a rock on
the north-

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west side, where he had remained all day, and kept the savages in check.
Brant saw the advantage his death afforded, and, with the Indians near
him, rushed into the midst of the Goshen militia. The latter seeing the
savages swarming into the centre of the hard-fought field, became
demoralized, and sought safety by flight. Many of them were killed or
wounded in the attempt. Some incidents of the battle are worth repeating.

Brant killed Wisner with his own hand. Some years afterward he was heard
to say that after the battle was over, he found Wisner on the field so
badly wounded that he could not live nor be removed; that if he was left
alone on the battle-field wild beasts would devour him; that he was in
full possession of all his faculties; that for a man to be eaten by wild
beasts while alive was terrible; that to save Wisner from such a fate,
he engaged him in conversation, and shot him dead.

Captain Benjamin Vail was wounded in battle, and after the fight was over,
was found seated upon a rock, bleeding. He was killed while in this
situation, and by a Tory.

Doctor Tusten was behind a rock attending to the necessities of the
wounded when the retreat commenced. There were seventeen disabled men
under his care, who appealed for protection and mercy. But the savages
fell upon them, and all, including the Doctor, fell victims to the
tomahawk and scalping-knife.

Several attempted to escape by swimming the Delaware, and were shot. Of
those engaged in the battle, thirty escaped, and forty-five, it is known,
were killed. The remainder were taken prisoners, or perished while
fugitives in the wilderness.

Major Wood, of the militia, though not a Mason, accidentally gave the
Masonic sign of distress. This was observed by Brant, who interposed to
save Wood's life, giving him his own blanket to protect him from the night
air while sleeping. Discovering subsequently that Wood was not one of the
Brotherhood, he denounced the deception as dishonorable, but spared his
life. The blanket was accidentally damaged while in the prisoner's
possession, which made Brant very angry.

One of the militiamen attempted to escape with the others, but was so far
exhausted that he was forced to turn aside and rest. In a little while he
saw several Indians, one after the other, pass by in pursuit of the
militia, but managed to keep himself out of their sight. Presently a large
and powerful Indian discovered him, when, raising his gun, he fired his
last shot and fled. The savage did not pursue; he was probably disabled by
the shot if not killed.

Samuel Helm was stationed behind a tree, when he discovered the head of an
Indian thrust from behind a neighboring trunk, as if looking for a patriot
to shoot at. Helm fired and the savage fell; but Helm was immediately hit
in the thigh by a ball from another Indian whom he had not seen. Helm
dropped to the earth, but the savage did not immediately rush up to take
his scalp, being anxious first to discover the result of his shot. This
gave Helm a chance to reload which he did behind a natural breast-work
which screened him from

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view. After dodging about a little the Indian made a dash for his scalp,
but received a bullet instead; which put an end to his life. Helm said
that the consternation of the Indian, on being confronted with the muzzle
of his gun, was truly ridiculous.

In April of the following year, Brant started from Niagara with another
force to invade the frontier. At Tioga Point he detailed eleven of his
warriors to go to Minisink for prisoners and scalps. With the remainder of
his force, he started to invest the fort at Scoharie. Here he captured
some prisoners who made him believe that the place was garrisoned by
several hundred men-a bit of strategy that foiled even the wily Indian
chieftain. Brant turned back, and shaped his course down the Delaware. One
day his command was startled by the death-yell, which rang through the
woods like the scream of a demon. They paused, waiting for an explanation
of this unexpected signal, when, presently, two of the eleven Indians who
had been sent to the Minisink emerged from the woods, bearing the
moccasins of their nine companions. They informed their chief that they
had been to Minisink, where they had captured, one after the other, five
lusty men, and had brought them as far as Tioga Point and encamped for the
night. Here, while the eleven Indians were asleep, the prisoners had freed
themselves from the cords which bound them, when each took a hatchet, and
with surprising celerity brained nine of their captors. The other two
savages, aroused by the noise of the blows, sprang to their feet and fled;
but as they ran, one of them received the blade of a hatchet between his
shoulders. Thus was the death of the slain heroes of Minisink avenged.

For forty-three years the bones of those heroes slain on the banks of the
Delaware were allowed to molder on the battle-ground. But one attempt had
been made to gather them, and that was by the widows of the slaughtered
men, of whom there were thirty-three in the Presbyterian congregation of
Goshen. These heroic ladies set out for the battle-field on horseback;
but, finding the journey too hazardous, they hired a man to perform the
pious duty, who proved unfaithful and never returned.

In 1822, the citizens of Goshen were led to perform a long-neglected
duty by an address of Dr. D. R. Arnell at the annual meeting of the Orange
County Medical Society, in which he gave a brief biography of Dr. Tusten.
A committee was appointed to collect the remains and ascertain the names
of the fallen.

The committee at once set upon the duty before them. The first day they
traveled forty miles through the wilderness. At Halfway-brook, six miles
from the battleground, the party left their horses. The vicinity was an
unbroken wilderness, with no trace of improvement of any kind, and the
danger of attempting to ride was so great that they chose to clamber over
the rough ground on foot.

The committee were astonished at the route taken by the little army; the
descents were frightful and the country rugged beyond conception. The
majority of the bones were found on the spot where the battle was fought
and

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near a small marsh or pond a few rods east. This fact shows that the
militia, made reckless by thirst, went for water and were killed. Some
were found at a distance of several miles. They were the remains probably
of wounded men, who had wandered away and finally died of their wounds and
hunger. Wild beasts may have removed others. The skeleton of one man was
found in the crevice of a rock where he had probably crept and died. The
whole number of bones collected by the Committee was about three hundred;
other bones were subsequently found by hunters and brought in.

It may be suggested that all of the bones collected may not have been the
remains of the white soldiers; that it would be impossible to distinguish,
so long afterwards, the skeleton of a white man from that of an Indian. It
should be borne in mind that it was the rule of Indian warfare, when
successful, to gather up and carry off all their slain. On this occasion
the survivors saw the Indians engaged in this very duty.

The gathered remains were taken to Goshen, where they were buried with
imposing ceremonies in the presence of fifteen thousand persons, including
the military of the county, and a corps of Cadets from West Point under
the command of Major Worth.

This monument gradually fell into decay and no measures were taken to
preserve it. In 1860, Merrit H. Cook, M. D., a resident of Orange county,
bequeathed four thousand dollars for a new one, which was dedicated on the
83d anniversary of the battle, on which occasion John C. Dimmick, a native
of Bloomingburgh, officiated as orator of the day. Mrs. Abigail Mitchell,
a daughter of Captain Bezaleel Tyler (slain at the battle of Minisink),
was present, and witnessed the ceremonies. She was five years old at the
time of the battle, and had resided the greater part of her life at
Cochecton. On the 22d of July, 1879, the one hundredth anniversary of the
Minisink battle; a large and enthusiastic gathering was held on the
battle-ground. Although the approach to the place was rough and
exceedingly difficult, it being necessary to cut a road through the woods
for the occasion, upwards of two thousand persons were present at the
ceremony. A monument was set upon the ground sacred to the blood of the
slain heroes, and dedicated in commemoration of their services.

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It was on one pleasant morning in June that we left the hotel at
Lackawaxen before the people were astir, and crossing the Delaware and
Hudson aqueduct, began the winding ascent of the mountain. After a brisk
walk of about two miles we came to the residence of Mr. Horace E.
Twichell, to whom we had a letter of introduction. That gentleman kindly
volunteered to go with us to the battle-ground, which lies partly on his
premises, and locate the points of interest.

The battle-field comprises several acres of table-land, bordered by an
abrupt descent on all sides except a narrow neck at its northern
extremity. It is thickly strewn with pieces of slate rock, which the brave
heroes turned to good account in standing upon their edges, and lying
behind their friendly shelter during the engagement. Some of these stones
still remain in the position in which they were then left.

On the neck of land there is a huge boulder. Behind this natural rampart,
a hunter had taken his position on the day of the fight, and while his
comrades loaded the guns for him, he so effectually swept the only
available approach to the battle-ground as to keep the whole force of
Indians at bay during the entire contest. At length the hunter was killed,
and the Indians, taking advantage of the circumstance, rushed in and the
battle became a rout.

A few yards from this rock, screened on all sides by the contour of the
ground and the protecting ledge, the spot was pointed out where for years
lay the skeletons of the brave Dr. Tusten and his seventeen slain
companions, who were all tomahawked and scalped after the battle was over.
Further on stands an old pine tree, on which are the initials "J. B.,"
believed to have been cut in the bark by the Indian fighter, Joseph Brant.
An incident of the battle was related to me while rambling over the field.
A soldier was assisting a wounded comrade to escape. The Indians were
heard in close pursuit, and the wounded man soon saw that all efforts on
his part were fruitless. So taking his pocket-book and papers he handed
them to his companion, with the request that he give them to his wife at
Goshen, and bade him leave him to his fate. The man made good his escape,
and delivered the package and money as directed.

Mother McCowan, still living at Handsome Eddy, used to see the skeletons
around the spring to the east of the battle-ground, and remembers seeing
some of the soldiers that were engaged in the battle.

Mr. Isaac Mills, about forty years ago, found a skeleton about three-
fourths of a mile from the battle-field. Judge Thomas H. Ridgeway, of
Lackawaxen, informed us that he remembers going to pick huckleberries on
the mountain seventy years ago, when the skeletons of the slain Minisink
heroes lay thickly scattered about among the bushes, and distinctly
recalls his childish fears of the bones.

Near the foot of the monument, entirely covered up with loose slate, was
found the skeleton of a man. This was probably the work of the Indians,
who, for some reason, gave this man a sepulture.

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The round stone on the top of the monument is a white flint boulder, found
in the Delaware river near the spot where the Indian was shot by the
scouts previous to the battle.

BRANT AND THE SCHOOL-GIRLS

THE name of Brant was sufficient to strike the hearts of the early
pioneers with terror. Fears of an attack from the Mohawk chief and his red
warriors kept the settlements in a continual ferment. Stories of pillage
and murder, carried on under Brant's direction, were passed from lip to
lip-some doubtless without foundation, others greatly exaggerated-still
the chieftain had committed deeds of blood sufficient to merit the
reputation he bore.

As might be expected, there were many false alarms, on which occasions the
women and children would take refuge in the nearest block-house, while the
men would arm themselves and prepare for defense. The young people were
particularly alert, and at the least unusual noise in the woods would
sound the alarm. A young man in Sullivan county ran breathless into the
nearest village declaring that his father's house was surrounded by more
than twenty savages. The men turned out with their guns; but on reaching
the scene of the supposed danger, they discovered the enemy to be only a
number of hoot-owls.

The dread of Indians overcame all other fear. It is related of Mrs.
Overton, of Mamakating valley, that, during the temporary absence of her
husband, the young mother would abandon her log-cabin at night, and taking
her children with her, sleep in the woods or in a rye-field. Tradition
says that her youngest child was but a few weeks old and very cross and
troublesome; but it was observed that at such times it was very quiet.

But if the people were sometimes needlessly alarmed, at other times it
would have been greatly to their advantage to have been more on their
guard. The day before the massacre at Minisink, the notorious Brant, with
a body of Tories and Indians, attacked the settlement in the present town
of Deerpark. Such of the inhabitants as were warned of their danger in
time, fled to the blockhouse for shelter. Others were surprised in their
homes and in the field, and were either captured or slain.

Some savages entered James Swartwout's blacksmith shop. In the shop were
Mr. Swartwout and a negro who assisted at the forge. Swartwout directed
the negro to stay in the shop as the Indians would not be likely to molest
him, while Swartwout crawled up the forge chimney and concealed himself
there. Scarcely had he done so when the savages rushed into the shop, and
appeared much disappointed at finding no one but the negro present. They,
however, contented themselves with rummaging about the shop, tumbling
everything over, and making havoc of whatever came in their way. Presently

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one of them, spying the bellows handle, caught hold of it. Finding it
would move, he began to operate the handle, which of course made the
sparks fly. He now began blowing at a furious rate, and the other savages
gathered round to see the operation. Swartwout, being directly over the
fire, was nearly suffocated by the heat and smoke. The negro, apprehensive
that Swartwout could not much longer retain his position, called upon the
savage to desist, crying out with a voice of authority-"Stop, or you will
spoil that thing." The Indian respected the caution, and ceased to blow.

Not far away, near the fort of the Shawangunk, was the log school-house.
The savages raided the settlement while the school was in session. While
the fathers and mothers were fleeing for their own safety, they thought of
their children, a mile or more away, and hoped the school-house might
escape the attention of the savages. But in this they were doomed to
disappointment. The Indians entered, killed and scalped the teacher,
Jeremiah Van Ankeu, in the presence of the scholars. Some of the larger
boys shared the same fate, being cut down with the tomahawk; others
succeeded in escaping to the woods. The girls stood by the slain body of
their teacher, not knowing where to turn or what to do.

Presently an Indian came along, and dashed some black paint on their
aprons, bidding them hold up the mark when they saw the Indians coming,
and that would save them; and with the yell of a savage he sprang into the
woods. This Indian was none other than Brant; and as the savages ran about
from place to place, murdering and scalping such as came in their way, on
seeing the black mark they left the children undisturbed. The girls
induced the boys to come out of the woods, and the children arranged
themselves in rows, the girls with the marked aprons standing in front. As
the Indians passed and repassed they would hold up the palladium of
safety, and were suffered to remain unharmed.

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Major John Decker resided in the Mamakating valley, and tradition says the
Indians raided it for the purpose of obtaining his scalp, for which the
British had offered a handsome reward. He was Major of the Goshen Regiment
of Foot of Orange county.

The Major's house was constructed of wood, with logs laid up by way of
fortification, and was closed by a heavy gate. It was the month of July.
The risen were at work in the harvest field, and no one was in the house
except the aged mother and a child. The Major's wife and a colored woman
were at a spring washing.

A Tory entered and told the mother they were going to burn down the house,
and proceeded to build a fire in the middle of the floor. Two pails of
water stood in the kitchen; the old lady poured this on the fire and
extinguished it. The Indians told her not to do that again or they would
kill her. Mrs. Decker attempted to run across the fields to another fort,
but Brant sent a savage to bring her back; coolly informing her that his
object in having her brought back was that she might see her husband's
house burn down; at the same time assuring her that she would not be
harmed.

"Can I save anything?" cried the terrified woman.

"Yes, anything you can," was the response of the Mohawk chief.

Mrs. Decker rushed into the Burning dwelling, caught up two beds and
bedding, one after the other, and, with the assistance of some young
Indians that Brant sent to help her, brought them to a place of safety.
That night the family of Major Decker slept on the banks of the Neversink,
with no other covering than the canopy of heaven.

The Major was absent that day at a funeral; it was on his return that he
had seen from afar the smoke of his burning dwelling. He put spurs to his
horse, and presently met a party of Indians in the road. The Major rode
directly through the party without being fired at. Then, probably through
fear of encountering a larger force, he wheeled about and rode back again,
when he was fired upon and wounded. His horse becoming unmanageable, he
rode into a tree-top, closely pursued by the savages. Here he left his
horse and took refuge in a cave, at a place near where the Erie railroad
now passes. The Indians followed to the opening in the rock, but did not
find the object of their search. That night he made his way on foot
through the mountains to Finchville, where he found his son, who was one
of the lads that had escaped slaughter at the school-house.

This son, on running away from the Indians at the time of the attack,
found a child a year and a half old, which had been lost by its mother in
the confusion. He took up the little child, found his father's cow by
following the sound of the bell, gave the little one some milk, and
restored it unharmed to its mother.

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CLAUDIUS SMITH; OR THE ORANGE COUNTY TORIES

THERE is much in the career of Claudius Smith to interest the student of
human nature. Whether we regard his deeds of violence as but the
legitimate working of his evil propensities, in defiance of God and man,
or whether we deem him in a measure fortified in his attitude toward the
Whigs by his sense of loyalty to the king, we cannot deny that he
displayed qualities of leadership worthy of a better cause. Had he shown a
like energy and prowess at the head of a few thousand troops, his praises
would have been sounded on every lip. We leave for others to draw the fine
between the bandit chief, whom all abhor, and the lordly conqueror, whom
all affect to honor.

Claudius Smith is described as having been a man of large stature and of
commanding presence; possessed of powerful nerve and keen penetration;
cautious and wily; in short, he was admirably formed by nature for a
bandit chieftain.

Claudius early manifested a thieving propensity, in which it is said he
was encouraged by his father. The boy, on one occasion, having stolen some
iron wedges, on which were stamped the owner's initials, his father
assisted him to grind the letters out. His mother, who appears to have
been of a different mould, was shocked at the depravity manifested by her
son; and she once said to him as though with the voice of prophecy-
"Claudius, some day you will die like a trooper's horse-with your shoes
on," meaning that he would come to his death by violent means. These words
of his mother seemed to rankle in the heart of Claudius; and at a
subsequent period of his life he publicly recalled them under circumstances
that indicated an infernal depravity, deep and ingrained, in his nature.

The topography of the country in which he resided, and the times in which
he flourished, were eminently favorable for the development of those
qualities which made his mane such a terror to the Shawangunk region. The
town of Monroe, Orange county, is entitled to the distinction of having
been the residence of Claudius Smith. This and the adjoining towns abound
in wild mountains with almost impregnable fastnesses, favorable alike for
marauding incursions and the secreting of booty. From these inaccessible
mountain haunts the robbers would swoop down upon the unsuspecting and
defenceless residents of the valley, murder and plunder to their hearts'
content, and escape to their retreats before assistance could be obtained.

Besides, the British forces located at Stony Point and Fort Lee furnished
a cover for the marauders to whose protection they could fly when hard
pressed, and likewise a favorable market for stolen property; and we may
add, the British frequently were known to instigate these expeditions by
the offer of reward.

Under such conditions, Claudius Smith, who, had circumstances been

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otherwise, might have developed into a respected citizen, speedily
acquired a local reputation as unenviable as that of Robin Hood. His name
is first met with in public records as being in jail at Kingston, "charged
with stealing oxen belonging to the continent." From Kingston he was
transferred to the jail at Goshen, where he soon found means to escape. He
had sons old enough to join him in his plundering expeditions, and one of
them, after the death of Claudius, assumed command of the gang.

The active and influential Whigs of the vicinity were the especial objects
against which the Tory bandits directed their attacks. Claudius had made
public threats against Col. Jesse Woodhull, Samuel Strong, Cole Curtis and
others. From some act of personal kindness shown him by Col. Woodhull he
revoked his threat against that gentleman, but carried it out against
Major Strong. The Colonel was in such continual dread of his enemy that he
did not sleep in his own house for months before the threat was revoked.

The Colonel had a valuable blooded mare which the freebooting Tory had set
envious eyes upon, and had given out that he would steal it. For better
security Woodhull had the animal placed in the cellar of his dwelling. One
evening Claudius, having secreted himself in a straw barrack near the
house for the purpose, seized a favorable opportunity to dart into the
cellar while the family were at tea, and took the animal out. He had not
left the yard with his stolen property before he was discovered by the
inmates of the house. A gentleman at the table sprang up with his gun, and
was about to fire upon the retreating robber when the Colonel stopped him,
observing, "Don't shoot; he'll kill me if you miss him."

On another occasion Claudius made a forcible entry into the Colonel's
house during the absence of the latter from home. Mrs. Woodhull possessed
a valuable set of silver, and it was that which excited the cupidity of
the Tory chief and his gang. While the robbers were engaged in breaking
down the door, the heroic lady had hurriedly secreted the silver in the
cradle, and placing her child into it was apparently endeavoring to calm
the little one to sleep. Claudius searched thoroughly for the missing
plate; not finding it, he was content to leave, taking with him some
articles of minor value only. Mrs. Woodhull had some difficulty in
quieting the child, who was old enough to talk a little, and who inquired
of her mother if she thought they would steal her calico frock.

It was that same night that the gang attacked the house of Major Strong.
They came to the Major's house about midnight when that gentleman was in
bed. They broke open and entered the outer door of the house; they next
removed a panel from the door leading to another room out of which opened
a bedroom, where the Major lodged. The latter had come out of his sleeping
apartment with a pistol and a gun; he was fired at by the miscreants, who
held the muzzles of their guns through the broken panel, but was unhurt by
the discharge. He was preparing to return their fire when his assailants
called upon him to deliver up his arms, when he should have quarter.

Setting down his gun against the wall, he approached the door to open it;
but as he advanced

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they perfidiously fired upon him a second time, killing him instantly, two
balls entering his body.

Other incidents are given of Claudius Smith's career which would disprove
the accepted opinion that he was lost to the common dictates of humanity.
It is claimed in his behalf that the poor man found in him a friend; that
he was ever ready to share his meal and purse with any who stood in need;
and furthermore, that what he stole from the affluent he frequently
bestowed upon the indigent.

Col. McClaughry was taken prisoner at the fall of Fort Montgomery in 1777,
and confined in British dungeons and prison ships for a long time. During
much of his confinement he was absolutely suffering for the necessaries of
life. To ameliorate his condition his wife proposed to send him some home
comforts, and applied to Abimal Young for a small loan for that purpose,
who she knew had plenty of specie by him. The old miserly fellow surlily
and peremptorily refused the loan, and the poor woman went home
discomfited.

The incident came to the ears of Claudius. "The old miser," exclaimed the
Tory chief; "I'll teach him to be a little more liberal. If he won't lend
Mrs. McClaughry of his own will, I'll take the money from him and send it
to the Colonel myself."

Tradition says that shortly after this, one dark night, Claudius with a
few trusty followers actually invested the house of Young to force that
gentleman to produce the desired money. The old man refused to yield to
their demands. Claudius knew there was money secreted somewhere about the
house, but a diligent search failed to reveal it. They threatened to no
purpose. They next took Young out into the yard and told him they would
swing him up to the well-pole if he did not divulge the place of its
concealment; he persisted in his refusal to tell, whereupon the bandit put
a rope around his neck and suspended him from the well-pole.

Letting him down after he had hung a sufficient time, as they judged, he
soon revived, and they again demanded his money. The old man was still
stubborn; he refused to reveal the place where it was kept, and again he
was dangling in the air. This was done three times. The robbers were
getting impatient; and the third time they let the old man hang so long
that he was nearly dead when let down. When he finally revived they
renewed their demand, but he had not changed his determination in the
least. It was evident to them that he would sooner part with his life than
his money. They returned to the house, made another search, and were
rewarded by finding some money, together with a number of mortgages, deeds
and other papers, which they carried off. To the credit of Claudius be it
said, a part of the booty went to minister to the comfort of Mrs.
McClaughry's imprisoned husband.

When Claudius Smith was about to suffer the penalty of death for his
crimes, while he stood at the scaffold at Goshen with the noose about his
neck, Abimal Young made his way to the platform and inquired of Smith
where those papers were that he and his followers stole from him the night
they hung

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him up to the well-pole, averring that they could be of no use to him now.
To which request the hardened man retorted, "Mr. Young, this is no place
to talk about papers; meet me in the next world and I will tell you all
about them."

An old resident of Orange county, still referred to as Judge Bodle, on one
occasion met Claudius in the road in a lonely locality. Each knew the
other, as they were neighbors; the Judge saw that escape was impossible,
so he approached the noted bandit with a bold front. The meeting was
seemingly a friendly one, Claudius evidently enjoying the discomfiture of
the Judge. He inquired of the latter the news from the river, and
continued: "Mr. Bodle, you seem weary with walking; go to my dwelling-
house yonder and ask my wife to get you a breakfast, and tell her I sent
you." It is not related whether the Judge accepted the invitation or not;
probably he made the speediest time possible to a place of safety as soon
as he was out of sight of his would-be entertainer.

The atrocities of the Tory gang at last became so daring and formidable
that, after the assassination of Major Strong, Gov. Clinton, October 31,
1778, offered a large reward for the apprehension of Smith and his two
sons, Richard and James. On being apprised of the Governor's proclamation,
he fled to Long Island for safety. What is worthy of remark, both Gov.
Clinton and Claudius Smith-the executive and the outlaw-were residents of
southern Orange county, and may have been personally known to each other.

The determination of Claudius to go to Long Island for greater security
was most unfortunate for himself. One Major John Brush made up a party,
and during a dark night visited the house in which the Tory chief was
stopping, seized him while he was in bed and carried him across the sound
into Connecticut. He was next conveyed under a strong escort to Fishkill
Landing, where he was met by Col. Isaac Nicoll, sheriff of Orange county;
and from thence, under guard of Col. Woodhull's troop of light-horse, was
taken to Goshen. Here he was heavily ironed and placed in jail to await
his trial. He was tried on the 13th of January, 1779, on three indictments
for burglary and robbery, and found guilty on each of them, and nine days
thereafter was publicly executed in Goshen.

During the period of his incarceration at that place, both before his
trial and while he was awaiting execution, Claudius Smith lived in hopes
his men would undertake his rescue. Even when he was being led to the
scaffold he was observed to cast furtive glances over his shoulder towards
Slate hill, where about a mile away was a cave which was said to be a
rendezvous of the robber gang. But he was so strongly guarded that no
attempt at rescue was made, and would doubtless have failed if undertaken.

One of the guard was stationed at all times at the "grief-hole" opening
into his cell, with a loaded musket, with orders to shoot him dead if any
attempt was made on the jail by his friends outside.

The fated hour arrived, and Claudius was led out of his gloomy prison and
permitted to take his last look upon earth. He walked up the steps of the

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scaffold with a firm tread. He had dressed himself with scrupulous
neatness, in black broadcloth with silver buttons, and white stockings.

This was in the days of public executions; and he looked from the scaffold
into the faces of thousands who had gathered there to see him die. He
smiled grimly as he spoke to several men in the crowd below whom he knew.

Before the final adjustment of the noose Claudius stooped to remove his
shoes. When asked why he did so he repeated the words of his mother that
he would die with his shoes on, and added that he "wanted to make her out
a liar." He was interred near the scaffold. Years afterwards a gentleman
by the name of Wood, as he stood conversing with an acquaintance on the
village green at Goshen, happening to press upon the greensward with his
cane at a certain spot, found it would easily pierce the soil as though
there was some sort of hollow underneath. A slight examination of the
place showed it to be a shallow grave, and that the bones of a human
skeleton lay entombed there. Further inquiry proved the remains to be
those of the noted bandit chief, Claudius Smith.

Scores of people were attracted to the place, and some of the more curious
carried away portions of the skeleton as souvenirs. Orrin Ensign, the
village blacksmith, made some of the bones into knife-handles; doubtless
some of them are still doing duty in that capacity. It is even believed by
many of the people of Goshen that the skull of Claudius Smith is embedded
in the masonry over the front door of the present court-house in that
place.

Some of Smith's associates were even greater criminals than himself. His
son James was hung at Goshen soon after his own execution; his eldest son,
William, was subsequently shot in the mountains, and the body never was
buried but became the food of wolves and crows, where the bones lay
bleaching for years afterward.

The following facts, gathered from a newspaper printed in 1779, will serve
to gave a little more of the history of this family:

"We hear from Goshen that a horrible murder was committed near the
Sterling Iron Works on the night of Saturday, the 26th of March, by a
party of villains, five or six in number, the principal of whom was
Richard Smith, the oldest surviving son of the late Claudius Smith, of
infamous memory. These bloody miscreants it seems that night intended to
murder two men who had shown some activity in apprehending those robbers
who infested the neighborhood.

"They first went to the house of John Clark, near the iron works, whom
they dragged from his house and then shot him. Some remains of life being
observed in him, one of them said 'He is not dead enough yet,' and shot
him through the arm again, and then left him. He lived some hours after,
and gave some account of their names and behavior. They then went to the
house of a neighbor, who, hearing some noise they made on approaching, got
up and stood on his defense, with his gun loaded and bayonet fixed, in a
corner of his little log cabin. They burst open the door, but seeing him
stand with his gun,

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they were afraid to enter, and thought proper to march off. The following
was pinned to Clark's coat:-

 "'A WARNING TO THE REBELS.-You are hereby warned at your peril to desist
from hanging any more friends to government as you did Claudius Smith. You
are likewise warned to use James Smith, James Fluelling, and William Cole
well, and ease them of their irons, for we are determined to hang six for
one, for the blood of the innocent cries aloud for vengeance. Your noted
friend Captain Williams and his crew of robbers and murderers we have got
in our power, and the blood of Claudius Smith shall be repaid. There are
particular companies of us that belong to Col. Butler's army, Indians as
well as white men, and particularly numbers from New York, that are
resolved to be avenged on you for your cruelty and murder. We are to
remind you that you are the beginners and aggressors, for by your cruel
oppressions and bloody actions you drive us to it. This is the first, and
we are determined to pursue in on your heads and leaders to the last till
the whole of you are murdered.'"

But this son of Claudius did not possess the qualities of leadership
displayed by his father, and the clan was finally broken up by the people
of Monroe, assisted by some troops from Washington's army. Richard Smith
took refuge in Canada; others fled to parts unknown, and thus ended the
highwayman's profession in Orange county. Many localities of the vicinity
will long be remembered from their association with the deeds of blood and
crime that made the clan famous. Their retreats in the mountains can be
readily found to this day by the curious.

That the Tories buried much valuable booty in these mountains may be
inferred from the circumstance that about the year 1805 some of Smith's
descendants came from Canada, and searched for the property according to
directions that had been handed down to them. They found a lot of muskets,
but nothing else. About the year 1824, descendants of Edward Roblin,
another of the gang, came from Canada with written directions, and
explored the country with no better results. Search was made in a certain
spring where it was said valuable silver plate had been secreted, but
nothing of value was found. Perhaps the other members of the band found
the depository, and, unknown to Smith and Roblin, appropriated the
property.

EDWARD ROBLIN

MORE than a century ago there lived near the base the Shawangunk mountain,
in Orange county, a well-to-do-farmer by the name of Price. One day a boy
came to him seeking employment. Mr. Price eyed the lad circumspectly over
the rim of his gold spectacles, asked him a few questions, and was so well
pleased with his ready answers and intelligent ways that he consented to
take him on trial. The boy proved to be an industrious and trust-

66

worthy hand, and remained with Mr. Price until he had grown up into a
tall, fine-looking young man. That lad was Edward Roblin.

Now it so happened that Mr. Price had a comely daughter named Zadie, a
year or two younger than Edward. Inasmuch as the young people were thrown
much into each other's company, with few other associates of their own
age, it was but natural that the childlike friendship of youth should
ripen and develop into a more tender and enduring affection as they grew
to maturity.

Mr. Price was not a very observing man, or he was too much absorbed in
money-making; or else the young people maintained a very discreet behavior
during their courtship; certain it is, that the first intimation the old
man had of the state of affairs, was when young Edward one day approached
him and formally asked the hand of his daughter in marriage.

This revelation fell upon the father like a thunderbolt. He flew into a
towering passion; sent his daughter up stairs, and forbade their speaking
to one another again. In vain the young man pleaded his cause; he had
served him long and faithfully, almost as many years as Jacob had served
of old. The father was immovable. "You can't have my daughter, and that's
the end of it;" and he sent the young man from his presence.

In one important matter the father failed to exhibit the wise foresight
for which he was noted-he did not discharge the young man; in fact he
could not well manage the farm without him. It must not be thought
strange, therefore, that the young people found means to communicate with
each other, and to carry on a sort of clandestine courtship.

One morning Edward was not found at his chores. And he was always so
punctual. Mr. Price went to his room and knocked. No response. He opened
the door. The room was empty, nor did the bed bear evidence of having been
slept in the night before.

"A pretty how-d'ye-do, I do declare," and the old man flew quickly to the
door of his daughter's apartment. He did not stop to knock. The door
yielded to his touch. Her room, too, was without an occupant, the bed
carefully made, and the pillows in place. The truth now broke in upon the
mind of the old man.

"It's fully twenty miles to the Dominie's, and, by my troth, I'll be
there, too!" ejaculated he.

He hastened to a local magistrate, where he swore out a warrant on a false
accusation against young Roblin for debt. He next secured the attendance
of a constable, and thus equipped the two went flying over the country
behind Mr. Price's fleetest horse. Arrived at the house of the Dominie
they did not stop for ceremony; there was no time for that; but they burst
unannounced into the room just as the young couple were standing up before
the minister.

"Ha, my pretty birds, but I've caught you finely!" And while the father
took charge of the young lady, the constable took charge of the young man;
leaving the Dominie to muse at his leisure on the mutability of human
affairs, and mourn over his loss of a marriage fee. Zadie, dis-

67

consolate and inconsolable, was taken back to her home; while Edward,
without friends and in the clutches of the law, was thrown into prison
along with felons of the basest sort. In vain he protested he was under no
pecuniary obligation to Mr. Price; that the money paid to him by that
gentleman, on which the charge for his arrest was based, was for services
well and faithfully rendered. The word of Mr. Price was sufficient to
deprive Edward of his liberty, whether by just cause or otherwise was then
nothing to the question; while his influence was such that he could get
the trial postponed for an indefinite period. Meanwhile Edward's
incarceration was an insurmountable barrier to his love-making for the
present; at the same time the old man chuckled at the success of his
scheme to get Edward effectually out of the way, while he proceeded to
mature his plan of marrying Zadie more to his wishes.

To while away the dull hours of his imprisonment Edward learned to play
the fiddle. He soon became so skillful in the use of the instrument that
he found in it a new language in which to express his disappointment, and
merge his never-dying affection for his sweetheart into sounds of
melancholy melody that were wafted far beyond the limits of his prison
bars. His story of romantic incident had got abroad; and love-lorn damsels
would come with slippered feet to listen to his tale of disappointment, as
he drew it out in languishing harmonies. Not unfrequently whole bevies of
Goshen maidens would gather under his window of a pleasant summer evening,
and, casting anxious glances upward at the barred window, heave a sigh of
pity in his behalf.

Months rolled by. Edward was still in prison. No trial had been accorded
him, with no immediate prospect of any. All this while he had received no
word, no token from Zadie. The vigilance of a father was never relaxed,
and no love epistles could pass between them.

Driven to desperation by the entreaties and commands of her tyrant father,
Zadie at last married a man she abhorred, much older than herself, but who
had the reputation of being wealthy. As soon as this was consummated, the
father with a malicious pleasure took means to have it speedily
communicated to the ears of young Roblin. The strains of the fiddle were
now more melancholy and grief-laden than ever; and one of the fair
listeners under Edward's window was moved to tears, so great a sorrow did
the doleful vibrations convey.

The jail keeper had a pretty daughter. It was a part of her duty to take
food to the prisoners. It may have been the result of accident, or sheer
advertence on her part, but the fullest plate and the choicest slice was
apt to be handed in at the "grief-hole" of Edward's cell. The jailer
himself often condescended to speak a kindly word to him. An interest now
began to be awakened in the minds of outsiders for his release; even Mr.
Price himself could now have no reason for desiring a continuance of his
imprisonment. But young Edward did not wait for the slow process of law to
relieve him from his confinement.

One morning as the jailer was making his accustomed rounds he was
surprised to find the cell of Edward tenantless. An inspection of his
dwelling re-

68

vealed the fact that his daughter's room was likewise unoccupied. Just
then word came to him from the stable boy that the stall of his favorite
chestnut gelding was empty. Putting this and that together, the poor
jailer was lost in imagining all sorts of evils; in short he was so
bewildered he knew not which way to turn; his grief at the loss of his
chestnut gelding was the most bitter of all; and to satisfy himself he
made a visit in person to the stable, and found it was but too true-his
favorite was gone, the stall was empty, with the exception of a limb from
a chestnut tree in the yard, which limb was tied to the manger in lieu of
the horse. To this limb was attached a note addressed to himself in the
following words:

MY DEAR FATHER-IN-LAW-As you will be when you read this,-pardon the
liberty I take in exchanging horses with you. I acknowledge this is a
horse of another color, still there is not much difference; as yours was a
chestnut horse the exchange is but fair, for this is a horse chestnut. It
is the best legacy I can leave you at present, coupled with the best
wishes of
	EDWARD ROBLIN.

All the village dames suddenly discovered that the jailer's daughter was a
shiftless minx. Nothing more was heard of her or of her husband until
Edward turned up with the Tory gang of Claudius Smith. Edward was second
in enterprise and daring to none but his chief.

The husband of Zadie Price turned out to be a poor, miserable fellow,
whose reputed wealth was only pretension. Zadie soon returned to her
father's home, rapidly went into a decline, and in a few years died of a
broken heart.

LIEUTENANT BURT

PERHAPS the most severe chastisement ever meted out to the Tories and
their Indian allies in the region of which we write, was on an occasion in
which Lieutenant James Burt took an active part. Lieutenant Burt was a
resident of the town of Warwick, Orange county; and was an active Whig,
bold, aggressive, and vigilant in defending the neighborhood against the
attacks of the Tory outlaws.

In the village of Warwick resided a silversmith by the name of Johnson. He
lived in a stone house, and from the nature of his business, having at
times considerable silver plate and money about him, he kept his
apartments carefully secured and guarded. The promise of so much rich
booty excited the cupidity of his Tory neighbors, and they resolved to
attack and rob the house on the first favorable opportunity. Accordingly,
one dark, rainy night, a party of eleven Tories surrounded his house, some
of Johnson's nearest neighbors being with the gang.

Johnson's household consisted of two sisters and two negro boys, none of

69

them being of any assistance in defending the place. He made a stubborn
resistance; but the robbers broke open the house, and one of them dealing
a heavy sword-cut on Johnson's shoulder, which disabled him, the ruffians
were free to ransack the house at their will.

One of the negro boys and a Mr. Coe had been out that night eeling. Coming
home just as the Tories were at the height of their pillaging, the latter,
supposing the settlers had mustered to attack them, became frightened and
fled, taking with them all the valuables of the house.

Lieutenant Burt was immediately apprised of the occurrence; and though the
night was dark, and the rain falling in torrents, he immediately started
to warn out his company. His way led him through a piece of woods; and
while passing through he thought he heard three guns snap. Burt drew up
his musket to fire, proposing to shoot at random in the direction of the
sound; but, as he feared the flash of his gun would expose his position,
he refrained and passed on.

He warned out his company, and before morning they were in full pursuit of
the Tory gang. Coming upon some Continental troops in the mountains, the
latter were induced to join in the pursuit, the regular troops following
one side of the range and the volunteers the other.

Lieutenant Burt's company suddenly came upon the robbers while the latter
were encamped and eating their breakfast. They at once opened fire upon
the robbers, and killed five out of the eleven. The other six started to
run, when another of the gang was wrought down by a shot in the leg, and
secured. The other five made their escape and fled toward New Jersey,
closely followed by their pursuers. A number of stolen articles were found
at this place.

The whole population along the route of retreat was alarmed and every body
joined in the pursuit of the fugitives. Three more were shot during the
chase; the other two made their way to Hackensack, where each stole a
horse and continued their flight. They were again pursued, the farmers
tendering the troops the use of their horses for the purpose; at last one
was shot and killed, and the other wounded and captured.

Lieutenant Burt had told the story of his hearing the snapping of guns in
the woods, but his companions were inclined to discredit his story, and
jeered him not a little at his groundless alarm. To convince them he was
not mistaken, Burt led them to the spot where he heard the guns snap. It
was found the robbers had been seated on a log within a few yards where
the Lieutenant passed, as was shown by a number of stolen articles they
had left there. The rain had wet the priming of their guns, to which
circumstance he probably owned his providential escape.

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THE DUBOIS HOMESTEAD

AN early settler and patentee of Orange county, and one who figured quite
largely in events pertaining to the frontier history of what is now
Montgomery township, was Henry Wileman, an Irishman by birth, and a man of
many sterling qualities. He was the proprietor of a tract of 3000 acres
granted him in 1709; the estate was located on the east bank of the
Walkill, below the village of Walden. His name appears on the records as a
member of St. Andrew's church, as early as 1733. A church edifice
constructed of logs, that had been built on his land for the use of the
society, was standing in 1775.

Wileman was a free-liver, noble, and generous to a fault. He built his log
palace on the site where afterward stood the DuBois homestead, of
Revolutionary fame. It was a beautiful location; the soil was fine, and
the patentee of 3000 acres entertained right royally. His convivial
propensities frequently carried him to excess, and, if tradition is to be
credited, the revelries in the Wileman log house were notorious through
the country round.

In process of time Henry Wileman died, and it was meet that he should be
buried as became a patentee of 3000 acres. It does not appear that he ever
married; or that any relative had ever followed him to this distant clime.
But the rich, when they die, never lack for mourners, or at least those
who outwardly affect great sorrow for their death. So it came to pass that
the friends of Wileman arranged to have the burial take place with all the
pomp and splendor and outward tokens of regard for his memory that should
characterize the funeral solemnities of a great man, according to the
notions and customs of those early times.

It was then the prevailing usage to furnish liquor on all such occasions.
No funeral was complete without it. They would sooner think of doing
without the sermon than without the rum. As Wileman died possessed of his
thousands of acres, it would be a lasting disgrace to limit the supply of
liquor when celebrating his obsequies. The cellar was stored with the
choicest wines; what could be more appropriate, or what could better voice
the public sorrow, than that these wines should be drawn forth and made to
do duty in assisting in the giving of suitable honors to the memory of
their late owner!

In short, the people, young and old, were urged to drink. If any were
backward, they were chided for their lack of respect for the memory of the
departed, whose obsequies they were then observing; and the wine was
handed round when they could not well help themselves.

At length the hour came in which the funeral cortege was to move from the
late residence of the deceased to his place of sepulchre. This was before
the day of black caparisoned steeds and heavily draped catafalques. The
procession was more primitive in its make-up. All being ready, the bearers
of the

71

remains of the deceased, the bier carriers, mourners, friends and
neighbors in attendance, started on foot to the little burial-place behind
the log church, where the open grave awaited its tenant.

But the people had undertaken a greater task than they could accomplish.
Overcome by the intensity of their sorrow, or by their too frequent and
long-continued libations of the contents of the wine-cellar, the friends,
mourners, and finally the bearers, one by one fell out by the way, either
to sink insensible into the highway, or to make their way homeward as best
they could.

In short, the corpse was let down in the road before they had proceeded
half way to the grave, and there abandoned.

Among that number there was one sober enough to realize that the dead
ought not to be left unburied, and that it savored too much of irreverence
to leave the corpse unattended in the middle of the road. To convey the
remains to the churchyard by his own unaided strength was simply
impossible; it was no less impracticable to carry the coffin back to the
house, and await a more favorable opportunity to complete the burial. Here
was a quandary that would have puzzled the brain even of a soberer man. At
last he hit upon a way out of the difficulty, and put the plan into
immediate execution. He procured a shovel, and proceeded to dig a grave in
the road by the side of the coffin; when he had dug to a sufficient depth
he rolled the coffin over into it, and there covered up the mortal remains
of the free and noble-hearted Irishman, the patentee of 3000 acres. With
no monument to mark his last resting-place, this was all the sepulchre
that was accorded him for many a long year.

By an alteration in the road the grave was thrown into an adjoining field;
and when Mr. Peter Neaffie afterward excavated a cellar for a dwelling, he
unexpectedly came upon the coffin and bones of Henry Wileman, and gave
them a respectable burial.

The farm on which these occurrences took place was the property, at the
time of the Revolution, of Peter DuBois, a British Tory and a refugee. In
1782 it was occupied by a detachment of the American army from the
cantonment at New Windsor, sent here to protect some government property.

One cold, stormy night, late in October of that year, John McLean,
afterward Commissary General of New York for a number of years, was sent
from this encampment with papers for the Commander-in-Chief at Newburgh.

At a point in the Shawangunk road where it crosses the stony brook, McLean
was waylaid, seized, taken from his horse, gagged, tied to a tree, and the
papers removed from his custody. In this position he was left by the
robbers to the chances of liberation by a possible traveler. He was
relieved from his uncomfortable position early the next morning by a
horseman who chanced that way, but he nearly perished from cold during the
night. This accident, by bringing him into notice, contributed not a
little to his subsequent political preferment. His horse was never
recovered, but the government remunerated him for his loss. It is believed
the marauders were some of the notorious gang of Claudius Smith.

72

MASSACRE AT FANTINEKILL

THE following incidents occurred (says the Bevier pamphlet) in the midst
of a settlement of the descendants of the French Huguenots, and bring to
view the distinguishing traits of that people. They were bold, persevering
and resolute, and were firm believers in the doctrine of a particular
Providence, which they did not forget to invoke in every time of need. The
three families to whom this narrative especially relates, lived at
Fantinekill, near to each other, and about three-fourths of a mile
northeast of Ellenville.

A young negro, known as Robert, lived at Widow Isaac Bevier's. He heard an
unusual tramping around the house, just at the dawn of day, like that of
horses. He got up and listened, and found that the noise was made by
Indians.

He opened the door, and stepping back for a little start, jumped out and
ran. In his flight he received a wound on his head from a tomahawk, and a
ball was fired through the elbow of his roundabout, but did not hurt him.
The Indians sang out in their own tongues, "Run, you black! run, you
black!" It does not appear that he was pursued by them. He made his escape
over the lowland to Napanock, stopping by the way at a stack to staunch
the blood that was flowing profusely from his wound. The Indians
immediately commenced the attack: the widow's sons were both killed, the
house was set on fire, and the women driven into the cellar. The daughter
Magdalene took the Dutch family Bible with her. When the flames reached
them there, they chose rather to deliver themselves up to the savages than
to suffer a horrible death by fire. They made their way through the cellar
window, the mother in advance. The Indians were ready to receive their
unfortunate and unoffending victims. What tongue can describe the feelings
of mother and daughter at that moment? Sentence was immediately pronounced
against the mother-death by the ruthless tomahawk-whilst the daughter was
detained as a prisoner. It is said that a young Indian brave took a sudden
fancy for her, and interposed in her behalf. The afflicted girl, as soon
as she knew the decision of their captors, threw an apron over her head so
as not to see her mother killed! All this while she had retained the Dutch
Bible in her arms; this was now wrested from her and stamped in the mud.

When the Indians left the place they took her a short distance into the
woods, and sent her back with a war-club, and a letter written by the
Tories to Capt. Andrew Bevier, at Napanock. In the letter the Tories
invited the old Captain to dine with them next day at Lackawack. There was
an allusion in it to the club - that so they meant to serve him. This club
was stained with fresh blood, and adhering to it were some locks of human
hair. On the girl's return she recovered her invaluable treasure-her Dutch
Bible; some of the leaves were

73

soiled by the mud, but not materially. It is still preserved as a precious
relic in the family of her relatives.

This widow Bevier had a daughter by the name of Catherine, that had been
lately married to Abram Jansen, whose father lived about four miles
southwest of Fantinekill. The elder Jansen was strongly suspected of being
a Tory, and of communicating with and assisting the Indians, the following
being some of the circumstances on which this suspicion rested: 1. His
premises, although on the outposts and unguarded, were not molested. 2.
The prints of Indian moccasins were seen about his house. 3. His daughter,
who was at a neighbor's house, was importuned to return home the night
before Fantinekill was burned. 4. It was so managed that his daughter-in-
law was absent from her mother's house on a visit to Jacob Bevier's at
Napanock. 5. By the death of his daughter-in-law's family, his son fell
heir to the estate at Fantinekill.

The family of Michael Sock were all killed. As none survived to tell the
tale, no particulars can be given here. There were a father, a mother, two
grown-up sons and two small children in the household. A young man, either
a Sock or a Bevier, had run some distance from the house into a piece of
plowed ground, where a desperate contest had evidently taken place between
him and an Indian. A large space had been trodden down, and the scalped
and mangled corpse of the young man lay upon it-he had several wounds from
a tomahawk on his arms. A few days before there had been a training day at
Napanock, and this same young man had loudly boasted that he was not
afraid of Indians.

At the house of Jesse Bevier, the savages and their accompanying Tories
met with a warm reception. The first salute that Uncle Jesse received was
when the blocks in the window were stove in, and two or three balls were
fired just above his head as he lay in bed. He sprang up and seized an
axe, with which he prevented them from entering the window, at the same
time calling to his sons David and John, who immediately responded. A
desperate action ensued, for this family were all famous marksmen. This
was especially true of David, who had some choice powder for his own use,
which his mother brought forward in the course of the conflict. He
declined to use it, saying that common powder was good enough to shoot
Indians with. They had the powder loose in basins on a table for the sake
of convenience, and measured the charges in their hands. The women
assisted in loading, it being common to have a double stock of arms. But
the enemy approached from a point against which this little band of
Huguenot heroes could not bring their guns to bear, and found means to set
fire to the old log house.

Their situation now became critical. Every drop of liquid in the house was
applied to retard the progress of the flames. The women took milk, and
even swill, in their mouths and forced it through the cracks of the logs,
hoping in this way to protract their existence until relief could come
from Napanock. At this awful crisis, when death in its most awful form was
staring them in the face, that pious mother proposed that they should
suspend hostilities and

74

unite in petitions to the throne of grace for help. David replied that
"she must do the praying while they continued to fight." So that mother
prayed, and the prayer was answered in an unexpected manner.

In the course of the morning, after the battle commenced at Fantinekill,
Jesse Bevier's dog, without any sign or motion from his master, nor having
been trained to any thing of the kind, ran to Napanock, to the house of
Lewis Bevier, his master's brother. He approached Lewis, and jumping up
against his breast looked him in the face, then ran to the gate which led
to his master's, looking back to see if he was coming; this he did several
times. Lewis could distinctly hear the firing at Fantinekill, and could
easily divine what was going on. So, taking his arms, he hastened to the
house of a neighbor, and told him the dog had came to call him, and that
he was resolved to go to his brother's relief, although the Indians were
expected there every minute, and it was almost certain death to go alone,
yet "it was too much for flesh and blood to stand."

Standing by, in hearing of the conversation, was the neighbor's son,
Conradt, a stalwart youth who was extremely fleet of foot, and who boasted
that no Indian could outrun him. This young man's patriotism was kindled
by the remarks of Lewis, and volunteering his services, the two set out
aver the lowlands for Fantinekill. When they came near, the Indian sentry
on the hill fired an alarm. The Indians and Tories, not knowing how large
a company was coming, immediately withdrew from the vicinity of the house
and the two men rushed in. The flames at this moment had extended to the
curtains of the bed. The door was now thrown open, and the women rushed
down the hill to the spring after water, while the men stood at the door
with guns to protect them.

Among the women who went to the spring was Jesse Bevier's daughter,
Catherine. While at the spring she heard the groans of the dying in the
swampy grounds near by. Among them she recognized some Tories-she could
distinguish them by their striped pantaloons, and by the streaks which the
sweat made in their painted faces. The fire was happily extinguished, and
this family saved from an awful catastrophe.

Colonel Cortland's regiment had been lying in the vicinity of Napanock for
some time preceding dais event, but their time of service had expired a
few days before the attack on Fantinekill; and it is supposed that the
Tories had made this fact known to the Indians. But the soldiers, having
received some money, had got into a frolic at a tavern at Wawarsing, and
were there on the morning of the alarm. They were mustered with all
possible speed, and when they came to Napanock, were joined by Capt.
Andries Bevier's company, and the united forces marched to the scene of
action. When they came to the Napanock creek, the Indian yells and war-
whoops were heard on the western hills, and the savages fired upon them as
they were crossing the stream, and continued to fire upon them as they
passed on toward Fantinekill. Their fire was returned by the regiment, but
it is not known that any loss was sustained

75

on either side at this stage of the action. The Indians bore off west,
setting fire to the woods as they went to avoid pursuit.

When the war-whoop was heard on the hills west of Napanock, and the
soldiers were seen leaving the place to go to Fantinekill, the women,
children, and invalids made a precipitate flight to the Shawangunk
mountain, expecting the Indians would enter Napanock and burn the place,
which they could have done with ease. Two sons of Andries Bevier, aged
twelve and fourteen, ran across the mountain, through the burnt woods,
barefooted, a distance not less than five miles. They first came to the
residence of a Mr. Manse, on the east side of the mountain, then passed on
to Shawangunk village, and gave the alarm. Several members of Jacob
Bevier's family also made their way through the woods; but some of the
neighbors missed their way, got lost, and were all night in the mountain,
which was full of people from both sides, with horns, looking for them.

The small children, and those of the inhabitants that were feeble and
infirm, went only to the base of the declivity, and secreted themselves
among the scraggy rocks, especially along the sides of a noted defile
known as "Louis Ravine." In their flight they were joined by the young
black, Robert, who escaped from Fantinekill.

In fording the Rondout creek, a child of Andrew Bevier came near being
swept down with the current. He was caught by a friendly hand and helped
ashore. When they arrived at the foot of the mountain an invalid soldier
climbed a tree to see if Napanock was on fire. When he heard the sound of
musketry he said he could distinguish the firing of Cortland's regiment
from that of the Indians, because the former "fired by platoons." Towards
night the men came to look for their families; but the women and children
who were in hiding, apprehending they might be Tories, gave no heed to
their calls until they were certain they were friends.

Mr. Jacob Bevier, of Napanock, was sick and unable to be moved. All the
family had fled across the mountain except an insane brother, who was
sitting on the fence unconscious of his danger, and a daughter who had
resolved to remain with her father. Jacob expostulated with her, saying
that if the Indians came, she could not save him, and in that case both
must inevitably fall before the tomahawk and scalping-knife. Every feeling
of humanity and affection rose in opposition to the disinterested
exhortations of a tender father; but his sound reasoning and the instinct
of self-preservation at length prevailed, and she made her way for Old
Shawangunk, and being more fortunate in finding the path, she arrived
first at the place of destination.

The noble conduct of Capt. Kortright on this occasion is worthy of record.

As soon as he heard of the affair at Fantinekill, without awaiting orders
from his superior officer, he directed his sergeant to order out his
company, in all about seventy men, armed and equipped with provisions for
two days, and to report at his house next morning at daylight. The summons
was promptly obeyed, and the company was marched to Grahamsville with a
view of intercepting the Indians on their return from Fantinekill. He
selected a suitable

76

place, arranged his men in order, and awaited the arrival of the Indians.
But, as usual, the savages discovered him first; and instead of coming by
the usual route, they passed by in the rear of his men. The first
intimation that Kortright had of the presence of the Indians was a volley
delivered into his midst from an unseen enemy. One rifle ball struck
within six inches of the old Captain's head; but the savages kept at a
safe distance, knowing they had an old Indian fighter to grapple with.
One of the soldiers named Johannis Vernooey declared that he was hit by a
ball. The others, thinking it was only the result of fright, sang out,
"Where has it hit you, Honsum? Where has it hit you, Honsum?" At last it
was discovered that the strap which held the buckle to his knee was
actually cut off by a bullet. The Indians soon made their way off, filling
the woods with their yells and war-whoops, without once coming into view.
As an eye-witness of the affair expressed himself, "You can't see an
Indian in the woods."

Bevier affirms that six of the persons who perished at Fantinekill were
buried in one grave near the place where they lived and died. The loss of
the enemy is not known. The only house that stood where the village of
Ellenville is now located, was burned. It was owned by John Bodley, and
its occupants had a narrow escape. They, in common with other families
scattered along the valley, fled to the mountain and secreted themselves.

BURNING OF WAWARSING

THIS last attempt of the savages, under the command and by direction of
British authority, to exterminate the inhabitants of this frontier,
occurred on the 12th of August, 1781, and was the most extensive invasion
since the commencement of the war. This expedition was fitted out at one
of the northern British posts, and put under the command of a white man by
the name of Caldwell, with explicit directions to commence his assault at
Captain Andrew Bevier's at Napanock; and to kill or capture all the
inhabitants, and destroy or carry off all the property along the Kingston
road to the half-way house kept by the Widow Hasbrouck, twelve miles
northeast of Napanock-"if he thought he could get back alive." Caldwell
was told if he did not carry out his instructions, he should be tried for
his life on his return. Such is the language of the Bevier pamphlet. These
allegations, were they not backed by testimony not to be controverted,
would appear to be the creation of some fertile brain to vivify a page of
fiction. We leave for other hands the task of attempting to excuse or
palliate the crime of authorizing the slaughter of helpless women and
children, for a crime it was, though sanctioned by the Crown of England.

It may be well here to state that it was the practice along the frontiers
to keep out spies or scouts on the side exposed to savage inroads, who
were to

77

patrol the woods and give notice to the settlements in order that they
might not be taken by surprise. Philip Hine was one of those chosen to
perform this duty. In providing himself with a supply of provisions, he
had occasion to purchase some meat of Jeremiah Kettle, who resided in the
vicinity of Newtown. Kettle made particular inquiries of Mr. Hine as to
where he was going, the nature of his business, and the purpose for which
he wanted the meat, to which the latter made honest replies, not
suspecting his interlocutor was a Tory, who would find means of
communicating the information to the Indians.

Hine, accompanied by another spy named Silas Bouck, started on his
migratory errand. When they reached the Neversink river, twenty miles or
more southwest of Napanock, they discovered a body of four or five hundred
Indians and Tories, evidently bound on an expedition against some of the
frontier settlements. The scouts watched their progress secretly until
certain that their place of destination was Wawarsing; they then took a
circuitous route, and struck the road far in advance of the point where
they had seen the enemy. The Indians had been apprised by the Tory,
Kettle, that spies were out, and were on the alert. Discovering some
footmarks where Hine and his companion had crossed a stream of water,
runners were immediately sent in pursuit, who overtook them within half an
hour after the latter had entered the road. But there seems to have been a
providence in this apparent misfortune, and the perfidiousness of Jeremiah
Kettle was made the means of saving many precious lives.

The prisoners wore required under pain of death to give a correct account
of the fortifications and other means of defense along the frontier. Among
other things they informed their captors that there was a cannon at Capt.
Bevier's, in Napanock. On account of this intelligence the enemy did not
carry out their instructions and commence their attack at that place. Some
of the Indians had probably witnessed the destructive power of grapeshot
and cannonballs in the war of 1755, and had a wholesome fear of that
engine of destruction. But they would not have been injured in this case,
for the old cannon lay on the woodpile without a carriage, and was useless
for purposes of defense. Nevertheless the dismantled field-piece
intimidated an enemy five hundred strong, and saved Napanock from attack.
The inhabitants of Napanock never lost sight of their gratitude to that
old cannon. It was given a carriage, and restored to a condition becoming
an "arm of war." After peace was declared, at each recurring Independence
Day, the old nine-pounder was brought out where its presence was sure to
evoke great enthusiasm, and patriotic hearts beat faster as they voted it
the position of honor in the procession. Blooming maidens crowned it with
wreaths, as did their daughters for successive generations after them.

Fourth of July orations bestowed upon it the meed of unbounded praise. And
often as the sterling patriots met to live over again in memory the
struggle of the Revolution, and to march to the sound of fife and drum,
around the liberty pole on the hill at Capt. Simon Bevier's, amid the
strains of martial music was heard the roar of the ancient nine-pounder,
multiplied into a score of voices in

78

the echoes that were hurled back from the sides of old Shawangunk, as
though the grim old mountain itself had joined in sounding the pæans of
liberty.

After the captors of Nine and Bouck had obtained all the information the
wished, the prisoners were taken apart from each other, tied to trees, and
left in that situation until the Indians returned. Here they were
compelled to remain for the most part of three days and nights, without
anything to eat or drink, and liable to attack in their defenseless
condition from wild beasts. In addition to their physical sufferings were
added their well-founded apprehensions that their wives and children would
fall a prey to the scalping-knife, and also that they themselves might
meet with a like fate if the enemy were in an irritable mood on their
return.

It had been the intention of the enemy to detach one hundred of their
number, under the command of Shanks Ben, who were to proceed through the
forest from the Delaware river to Newtown, to commence the work of death
there, and meet their comrades at some place in the valley of the Rondout.

But by an accident which occurred in drying some damaged powder, several
of their number were burned, among them Shanks Ben, so that he was unable
to enter upon that service. It is said they made the proposition to Silas
Bouck that if he would perform that duty, they would grant him his liberty
the moment he came to Newtown; but the noble-hearted patriot rejected the
proposal with disdain!

After securing their prisoners, as above stated, the enemy set forward. On
that ever-memorable Sabbath, the 12th of August, 1781, at the dawn of the
morning, they arrived at the old stone fort at Wawarsing, which was
situated near the old church. Having taken the spies, no notice had been
received at the fort of their approach, and most of its occupants were yet
in their beds. Two men had gone out of the fort that morning,-Mr. Johannis
Hornbeck and a colored man named Flink. Catherine Vernooey was also about
leaving the fort to go and milk, when she saw the Indians coming. She
returned to the fort, closed the door, and called Chambers to assist her
in getting the huge brace against it. Chambers was stationed on the
sentry-box at the time, but being somewhat deranged, he did not fire his
gun. Fortunately, however, he sung out "vyand, vyand,"-enemy, enemy. No
sooner had the door been secured than the Indians came against it with all
their might, in order to burst it in. Had not the door been secured at
that instant, the enemy would inevitably have gained admittance to the
fort, and the fate of its inmates would then have been sealed.

The negro, Flink, soon discovered the Indians approaching the fort. He
concealed himself until he saw they did not obtain an entrance; then
leaving his milk-pail, he made his way with all possible speed to
Napanock, to apprise the people there of the arrival of the enemy. Mr.
Hornbeck, the other individual who had left the fort, was on his way to
see his corn-field, and heard the alarm when about a mile away. Being a
large fleshy man, unable to travel fast an foot, he caught a horse and
rode with all speed to Rochester. When

79

he arrived there, so overcome was he by excitement and fatigue, that he
fell upon the floor as one dead. He recovered sufficiently to be able to
return home in the afternoon in company with the troops that were sent in
pursuit of the Indians.

The stone fort at Wawarsing was now the scene of active operations. The
men leaped excitedly from their beds, and, without much regard to dress,
seized their guns, which were always at banter and commenced the defense.
John Griffin was the first who fired, the shot bringing one of the sons of
the forest to the ground. Another Indian came to remove his fallen
comrade, and just as he stooped over, Cornelius Vernooey gave him a charge
of duck-shot that he had intended for a wild duck that came in his mill-
pond. The other savages hurried them away, and it is probable that both of
them were killed. The Indians did not fancy the reception they met with
here, so they dispersed to the more defenseless parts of the neighborhood,
to plunder and fire the building.

Peter Vernooey lived about one-fourth of a mile south-east of the fort.
The Indians made an attack upon his house, but were bravely repulsed by
the garrison, which consisted of three men. On the first advance of the
Indians, Vernooey shot one from a window in the south-east side of the
house. One of the men went into the garret, and discovered some savages
behind a ledge of rocks to the north-east of the dwelling, watching for an
opportunity to fire when any one came before the port-holes. While he was
preparing to shoot at them, he saw the flash of their priming-he drew his
head back suddenly, and a ball just grazed his face. An old hat hanging up
in the garret, which the Indians supposed contained a man's head, was
found to be full of bullet-holes.

The conduct of the women of this household was worthy the daughters of
liberty. It appears there were three-Mrs. Peter Vernooey, and two of her
relatives from Lackawack. One of them loaded the guns for the men, while
the others stood with axes to guard the windows, which were fortified with
blocks of hard wood. Mrs. Vernooey had a family of small children. They
were lying in a bunk, and became very uproarious at the unusual
proceedings about them; but the heroic matron addressed them in language
so decided and unequivocal that they instantly became quiet.

At Cornelius Bevier's the enemy found none to oppose them. They entered
the house, built a fire on the floor with some of the furniture, and then
left the premises, taking along a colored woman and two deformed colored
boys a short distance, until their supposed the flames had obtained
sufficient headway, when they let them return home. The woman and boys
went to work and succeeded in saving the house. At no time did the Indians
appear to wish to kill the blacks. This was probably because they were
slaves, and no bounty was paid by the British for their scalps. The
Indians regarded the negroes as belonging to a race inferior to
themselves.

The next assault was made at Cornelius Depuy's, where a few neighbors were
assembled, as the custom was, for mutual safety and defense. The enemy
advanced from the hills south-east of the house. The person acting as com-

80

mander of this little garrison gave the order not to fire until the
Indians came quite near; but a lad of sixteen was too full of enthusiasm
and patriotic fire to await the word of command. He had his old Holland
gun well primed, which he leveled at one of the redskins, and brought him
to the ground at the first discharge. The enemy thereupon fled. A few
shots were sent after them, with what effect is not known.

The enemy made their next attack at the stone house of John Kettle, in the
defense of which the noble conduct of Captain Gerard Hardenburgh is
deserving of particular notice. At the time of the alarm Capt. Hardenburgh
was at the house of a relative one mile east of Kettle's with six of his
men. Notwithstanding the risk, he determined to go to the relief of his
countrymen. When he came in sight of Kettle's he saw a number of Indians
in advance in the road. To offer battle with his insignificant force in
the open field would be an act of madness.

There was no time to be lost, however, and all depended on the decision of
the moment. His active and fertile mind instantly devised a stratagem that
suited his purpose to perfection. He turned aside into the woods with his
little band of heroes, so that their number could not be observed by the
enemy, took off his hat, shouted with all his might, and advanced towards
Kettle's house. The Indians did not know what to make of this maneuvre. It
might mean that a company of Tories had come from Newtown to their
assistance, and it might be that troops were marching up from Pine Bush to
the relief of the settlement; the savages took the safe course and skulked
in every direction. This gave the Captain time to reach the horse. At that
moment the Indians, who had discovered the ruse, poured a shower of
bullets at them; but the brave heroes escaped unhurt. The besieged broke
holes through the rear of the house with an axe, and also through the
roof, for port-holes, through which they poured an effective fire upon
their assailants. Hardenburgh found the house occupied by three soldiers
and a son of John Kettle. The Indians made repeated assaults in force on
this fortress, but were as often driven back with loss. Thirteen of their
number were left dead on the field. John Kettle was at Kerhonkson at the
time of the attack. Jacobus Bruyn had removed with his family over the
Shawangunk mountain through fear of the Indians, and Kettle had gone up to
Bruyn's premises to see that all was well. He started to go to the fort at
Pine Bush, but was met in the road by an advance-guard of the savages, and
shot. His was not the only scalp the Indians secured in this expedition.

While these events were transpiring at Wawarsing, the forts at Napanock
and Pine Bush were the scenes of intense interest and suspense. When the
firing ceased for a moment, the affrighted inhabitants were ready to
conclude that the beleaguered garrison had been overpowered, and that the
savages were engaged in mangling and scalping the bodies of their friends
and brethren. Then again would be heard the report of one of the Holland
guns, which could be plainly distinguished from the sharp crack of the
light arms of the Indians,

81

telling that the patriots yet lived, and were waging a heroic defense for
their homes. The rattle of musketry in the first attack on Wawarsing was
heard at Pine Bush; and as it was unlawful to fire a gun on the Sabbath,
except in self-defense, or as an alarm, it was known that the place was
attacked. Alarm guns were immediately fired at Pine Bush, at Millhook, and
so along the frontier towards Kingston.

Colonel John Cantine, of Marbletown, was then first in command at Pine
Bush. Capt. Burnet, of Little Britain, and Capt. Benjamin Kortright, of
Rochester-both brave and resolute officers-had their companies ready at an
early hour, anxious to proceed to the scene of conflict; but Colonel
Cantine made no move to that effect. When the flames of the burning
buildings were seen ascending in the lower part of Wawarsing, the captains
addressed him as follows:-"How can you remain here, when, in all
probability, the Indians are murdering our friends at Wawarsing?" There,
and not till then, did he put the troops in motion to go to their relief.

He sent a guard in advance; and when they arrived at the site of the
Middleport school-house, the guard returned and told the Colonel that the
Indians were at Kerhonkson. Cantine immediately wheeled about, and with a
few others, marched back to the fort. Captains Burnet and Kortright
advanced with their companies to the summit of the hill, south-west of the
school-house, in order to confront the enemy if they should advance, at
the same time making the greatest possible show of numbers by deploying
their men along the brow of the hill, then wheeling suddenly and marching
again to the summit, where they might be seen by the energy. The Indians
not making their appearance, and apprehensive that they might take a
circuitous route and pass them unnoticed, Burnet and Kortright returned to
Pine Bush. At their suggestion Colonel Cantine ordered out a guard some
distance from the fort on each side to watch the movements of the enemy
and protect the women and children below the fort.

As already stated, the negro Flink escaped from the Wawarsing fort as the
Indians attacked the place, and ran with all speed to Napanock. Capt.
Pierson was in command at that place; and although suffering from
indisposition; he left his bed, stepped out in front of the fort, and
called for volunteers. He said he did not want a man to go that would not
face the enemy, and fight like a hero. He was solicited by the women and
others to remain for their protection, but he replied that he was bound by
his official oath to go where the enemy was. Conradt Bevier and Jacobus
DeWitt, and some ten or twelve others, tendered their services, and the
little band set forward. When they came to the school-house, half a mile
from the fort at Napanock, they found it in flames-no doubt fired by the
Indians. They carried water in their hats and saved the building. They
then cautiously advanced over the lowland until they came in sight of
Wawarsing. At this time, an Indian sentinel who had been stationed on a
hill to give notice of the arrival of reinforcements to the garrison,
fired off his gun, which caused the Indians to withdraw farther from the
fort.

Those within now made signals for Captain Pierson and his men to approach

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and enter. To do this the relief party were obliged to pass over an open
space exposed to the shots of the enemy; but the undertaking was
accomplished in perfect safety. Encouraged by this addition to their
numbers, the besieged came out, and fought the Indians from behind trees,
buildings, and whatever objects afforded protection, after the Indian
fashion.

In the meantime the Indians entered the church, and amused themselves by
throwing their tomahawk at the numbers, which, according to the custom of
the times, were placed on the panels of the pulpit to designate the psalm
or hymn to be sung. These figures served as targets to throw at. With such
force were the missiles sent that two or three tomahawks were driven
entirely through the panels. This injury was never repaired, but was
suffered to remain as a memorial of the past. Two Indians were standing in
the church-door, and Wm. Bodly and Conradt Bevier crept along the fence in
the bush to get a shot at them. Bevier leveled his piece and pulled the
trigger, but it unfortunately snapped. The Indian looked around as though
he heard it. Bevier made a second attempt, and again it snapped. Bodly
then fired, and both ran for the fort about one-fourth of a mile away. The
Indians sent some shots after them, one of the balls cutting a limb from
an apple-tree under which Bevier was passing. Bodly's shot struck in the
door-post, just grazing the crown of the Indian's head. Long after the war
a man by the name of DeWitt was in the western part of New York and spoke
with the Indian who met with so narrow an escape at the church-door. The
Indian, on learning that DeWitt was from Wawarsing, enquired if he knew
who it was that shot at him while standing in the church-door. DeWitt told
him it was William Bodly. The Indian answered-"It was a good shot. If I
ever meet that man I will treat him well." This incident illustrates a
trait in the character of a "warrior."

Towards noon, when most of the Indians were in the lower part of the town,
Cornelius Bevier went to water his cattle, accompanied by Jacobus DeWitt.
They had ascended the hill toward the old burying-ground, when they
discovered two Indians walking directly from them in Indian file. Bevier
thought he could shoot them both at once, but just as he got ready to
fire, one of them stepped aside. He shot one of the Indians and then both
men ran for the fort. In passing under an apple-tree, DeWitt stumbled and
fell; just at the instant a shot from the surviving Indian passed over his
head. DeWitt ever afterward felt he owed his escape to an interposition of
Providence. The Indian's body was subsequently found near the place. He
had put on new moccasins and other extra apparel during the period
intervening between the time of his receiving the fatal wound and the
moment of his death, as though preparing himself for the final change that
was to transport him to the happy hunting-grounds.

The people at the fort saw an Indian going with a firebrand to set fire to
a dwelling-house occupied by some of the Hornbeck family. Benjamin
Hornbeck loaded one of the long Holland guns, and tried the effect of a
shot upon the miscreant. The ball struck a stone on the hill, and bounded
against the Indian

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who immediately dropped the firebrand, gave a tremendous leap, and ran
like a deer for the woods. This single shot was the means of saving that
house from the general conflagration of that eventful day.

The old neighborhood of Wawarsing on that Sabbath morning must have been a
scene of sublime grandeur. Thirteen substantial dwelling-houses, with
their outbuildings, fourteen barns with barracks, stacks of hay and grain,
and one grist-mill, were all enveloped in flames-no one being able to
offer any resistance to their raging fury. The houses were atoned with the
articles requisite for the comforts and conveniences of civilized life-the
products of the industry of many years; and the barns had just been filled
with a plenteous harvest. The Indians remained all that day in the
vicinity, pillaging the houses, driving off the stock, and securing
whatever plunder they thought would be of service to them. Between sixty
and seventy horses, most of them very fine, and a great number of cattle,
sheep and hogs, were driven off. The Indians took some ground plaster as
far as Grahamsville, supposing it to be flour, and attempted to make bread
of it. At Esquire Hardenburgh's they fared sumptuously. They took some
huckleberry pies, of which there was a goodly stock on hand, broke them up
in tubs of sweet milk, and then devoured them. Had not the Indians devoted
so much of their attention to plunder, they might have secured more
scalps. Some of the inhabitants who had concealed themselves in the bushes
along the fences, met with narrow escapes when the Indians came to drive
the cattle from the fields; they threw little sticks and stones to drive
the animals away from their places of concealment.

When the Indians were preparing to leave the place a personage of no
ordinary rank and pretension was seen emerging from the woods into the
highway near the old church. His appearance was truly imposing. He was
mounted on a superb horse that had been stolen from Esquire Hardenburgh,
and was arrayed in gorgeous apparel, according to Indian notions. He had
silver bands about his arms, and oven forty silver brooches were suspended
about the person of his majesty. He was discovered by some soldiers who
were watching to get a parting shot at the enemy as they were leaving the
town, and one of them named Mack fired upon the chief. The latter was seen
to reel in his saddle, but some other Indians turned his horse into the
woods, and he was lost to view for a time. Afterwards Cornelius found his
corpse in the woods near the place where he was shot, with the ornaments
and trinkets still upon him. It is probable that the loss of this chief
did much to intimidate the Indians and hasten their retreat.

In the course of Sunday afternoon, Capt. Pawling came up with some State
troops from Hurley in time to relieve some of the inhabitants. There was a
cabin in the woods situated in advance of the others, in which lived a man
and his wife. At the first appearance of the foe, they fled into their
castle, and gave battle to a party of savages who came up to attack them.

The house was well supplied with aims, and while his wife loaded the guns
he poured such a destructive fire into the midst of his foes, that they
soon recoiled with loss.