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The Indian Slayer
and the pioneers of Minisink and Wawarsink
by James E. Quinlan
"Hero of many a
wond'rous tale,
Full
of his dev'lish cunning!
Tom never flunked or turned pale,
Following on the Indian's trail,
Shooting as he was
running."
– Waddell.
De Voe & Quinlan, Publishers
1851
Entered according to
Act of Congress, A.D. 1851,
By James E. Quinlan,
In the Clerk's Office of the
Southern District of New-York.
CONTENTS.
To the Reader
Chapter II Death of Thomas Quick, Senior
Chapter
Chapter IV Defence of a Block House
Chapter V Murder of Muskwink
Chapter VI Massacre of an Indian Family
Chapter
Chapter VIII Killing a Buck with Seven Skins
Chapter IX "The Biters Bitten"
Chapter X Capture and Escape of Tom
Chapter XI "The Biters Bitten"
Again
Chapter XII Murder at
Chapter XIII Anderson and Osterhout
Chapter XIV Death of Graeme
Chapter XV Tragedy on the Shawangunk
Chapter XVI Attack near the Fantinekill
Chapter XVII Burning of Wawarsink
Chapter XVIII Tom's Revolutionary Exploits
Chapter XIX The Scouts
of Minisink
Chapter XX Bryant Kaine
Chapter XXI "John Land, the Tory"
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII Adventure on the Sandburgh
Chapter XXIV Indian Stratagem
Chapter XXV Capture and Escape of Tom
Chapter XXVI Murder of Canope
Chapter XXVII Russ and Van Etten
Chapter XXVIII A
Chapter XXIX Death of Tom Quick
Chapter XXX Captain John, the Tuscarora
Appendix [A – Funeral Eulogium & B – Tom Quick poem]
To
the Reader
Many of
the following chapters were written for the columns of a newspaper entitled the
"Republican Watchman," of which the writer is the junior editor.
Notwithstanding their many imperfections, they were received with much favor by
the public, and a very general desire was expressed for copies of the work in a
form convenient for preservation. To gratify this desire, our little volume is
published.
Before the reader begins to peruse what follows, the writer wishes to say distinctly and emphatically, that he is not actuated by the hope of entering the ranks of the literati. He knows that this work is no fit model for those who would win the world's applause with the "gray goose quill;" and he does not hope that it will be made a closet companion by the student, or a book of references by the historian. Its aim is humble. It is written for the amusement of a class of people who take an extraordinary interest in the narrations of the "olden time," when their ancestors followed the plough with their rifles slung to their backs, and on retiring to rest at night, first thanked God for preserving them from harm during the day, and then put fresh powder in the pans of their guns to be ready to meet the dangers of the night.
The author's business engagements have not permitted him to devote sufficient time in collecting materials for his undertaking to render it complete, and the circumstances under which he has written have been unfavorable to literary excellence or even respectability. To make our work what it ought to be would require as many days as we have devoted hours to it.
The critic will readily discover that our little book, though not a fiction, is novel in its character. It is neither a biography, history or legend; but a combination of all three in a series of sketches which possess more or less coherence, and which the author hopes present a tolerably fair picture of border life.
While
collecting materials for our port folio, we visited many old people, and heard
their narrations of the early history of the
CHAPTER I.
BIRTH
NOT far from the year 1733, a Hollander, named
Thomas Quick, emigrated from the Fatherland to the colony of
At this time, except at Peenpack, on the
Neversink, the Indians held undisputed possession of the banks of the
As soon as Quick had erected a temporary log cabin, he commenced a war of extermination upon the old forests which covered his domain, and in a short time the air was perfumed with the smoke of the fallow fire, and nothing remained on many a goodly acre, except the blackened and charred stumps of the pine, oak, hemlock and their giant compeers. Luxuriant fields of wheat and maize, and rye succeeded, in due time; the log barn of the pioneer was filled to its utmost capacity with the fruits of his industry.
All things seemed to conspire to render him contented with his lot in the wilderness. His labor and enterprise were bountifully rewarded, and his new home was made more pleasant by an occurrence which forms an important event in this narrative. His wife, who had abandoned the comforts of civilization, and left father and mother, brother and sister, to accompany him to the wilds of the new world, and share with him its hardships and its perils, presented him (A. D. 1734,) with a male child—their first born. If we may be permitted to make a draft upon our imagination, it will not be too much to say, that nothing more was necessary to make his happiness complete; that the wilderness appeared to blossom with a thousand beauties which had never before been observed by him; that his life became one of tender sympathies and kindly actions; that in his joy he did not forget that he owed all to the Bountiful Giver of "every good and perfect thing;" and that his heart was replete with thanksgiving and praise, and gratitude.
The child was named Thomas, the name of its father. Of course, it was the pet of the household, and was tenderly watched by its parents, who, to use a stereotyped phrase, "had the proud satisfaction of seeing it daily develop some new faculty—daily become more beautiful and interesting."
The Indians, who frequented the house of Quick, and found a shelter under its roof whenever they desired it, seemed to admire the fine, healthy boy, and often made him presents of plumes of feathers and other articles.
As young Tom grew up, he became an associate and playfellow of the juvenile natives, and learned to speak the Indian tongue with as much ease and fluency as the aborigines themselves. He was taught by the Indians how to take the otter, the beaver, the muskrat, the mink, etc., and by the time he had become of suitable age, he was a skilful and expert hunter. He imbibed, at an early period of his existence, a liking for savage life, and became attached to the woods and the pleasures of the chase to such a degree that he could never in after life be induced to follow, except temporarily, any calling beside that of the hunter and trapper.
Young Tom had two brothers and the same number of sisters. The names of the brothers were Cornelius and James. Of the sisters little beyond the fact that one of them became the wife of a man named Solomon Decker, and that the other married a Francis Magee is known. One of the daughters was married previous to the tragedy which will be detailed in the next chapter.
Thomas Quick, Sr., continued to prosper. In a few
years he had quite a number of white neighbors, and other settlements were
formed in the valley of the
A Dutch school was established in the neighborhood, and James and Cornelius, as well as the daughters, were sent to it; but Thomas had become so much of an Indian in his habits and disposition, that he could not be induced to attend the school, and if he did go to it, he made no progress in learning. His brothers and sisters were more successful, and advanced so far in the "rudiments" that they could read the bible in the Dutch language without skipping many of the hard words. They were also taught the art of writing, so that they could trace, without much difficulty, the mystic characters which formed their signatures; and were given a very slight knowledge of arithmetic, which was sufficient for them, as people of their lineage generally possess a spirit of prudence and thrift which makes them the very best practical "calculators" of their sphere of life. While the younger children were poring over the alphabet, Tom was engaged in the athletic amusements of the Indians. In trapping, wrestling, jumping, shooting, etc., he excelled a majority of the lads of his own age and thus excited the envy of not a few embryo braves.
Previous to the French war, Tom had traced to their sources most of the streams which empty into the Delaware above Milford, and had become acquainted with nearly all the Indian paths and hunting grounds in the neighborhood of Minisink, Mamecotink, the Shavungunk, the Wawasink, the Mahackamack or Neversink, the Mangawping or Mingwing, the Maskopes, the Cushuentunk, Cashiegtonch, Papotunk, the Astraguntera, the Tewheack, the Ustayantha, Pakatagkan, Shamokin,3 etc. This was of essential service to him afterwards, as it enabled him to waylay and murder the Indians with great facility.
Cornelius and James were of an industrious, plodding disposition. They assisted their father in managing and tilling his farm, and in keeping his mills in operation; and if they occasionally participated in the sports of Thomas, they managed to do so when they could not be more profitably employed. While they assisted in furnishing the family with bread and obtaining clothing and adding to its wealth, he supplied his father's larder bountifully with venison and bear's meat. He would occasionally invade the crystal retreats of the finny tribes, and thus add much to the luxuries of his father's table. The venerable biographer of Donne, and Hooker, and Herbert (who impaled a worm with tenderness, and guarded the scaly brood from all save man) was not more proficient with the angle than Tom.
Many of the Indians almost lived in the family of the Quicks, by whom they were clothed when naked; and fed when hungry. The most pacific relations subsisted between them apparently, and the red man had received so much kindness at the hands of their friends that the latter imagined that they could rely upon their good will under almost any circumstances. Subsequent events, however, proved that they were mistaken.
The increasing numbers of the whites and the
encroachments made upon what the natives regarded as their own territory
alarmed the Indians. The
The Quicks had been kind to them; but, on the
other hand, the fact could not be concealed that they were the first who had
encroached upon them at
CHAPTER II.
DEATH OF THOMAS QUICK, SENIOR.
AT the breaking out of the French war, young Tom was probably as much an Indian in habit and disposition as any of his old associates. The wild, irregular life he had led, and his early and constant companionship with the natives, had contributed much more to the formation of his character than the teaching and example of his father and mother. Even his affection for his parents resembled that of the American savage. While he was turbulent and not easily controlled by them, his love for them was unbounded—a master passion. Anyone who injured them incurred his undying displeasure, and were in danger of his insatiable revenge. He was a "good hater," and those whose admiration is Johnsonian, will find enough to please them in the legends of Tom.
When hostilities commenced, and it was suspected
that the Indians of the
The
The pioneers at first took what precautions they thought necessary to guard against danger, at the same time being very careful to do nothing which would tend to bring upon them directly the vengeance of the savages. Block houses were erected or repaired; arms were provided, and ammunition procured; and the inhabitants felt confident that, unless taken by surprise, they could defend themselves successfully.
The whites not being molested for some time, began to think that, possibly, they had misjudged in
the matter, and that there was little if any danger. Consequently, they became
careless and unguarded, and some of the ardent and gallant spirits of the
Tom, from the beginning of the war, had been induced by the urgent and affectionate entreaties of his mother, and the advice of his father, to forego his excursions in the woods. He no longer had the congenial company of the Indians, and became almost, if not altogether, domesticated in the family of his father. He now assisted the old man in his work and business, with his brothers and a brother‑in‑law.
While he was thus situated, the event occurred which forms a leading feature in his life. This event was the death of his father, who was killed in a cruel manner by the Indians. It rendered Tom an implacable enemy of the red men to the day of his death. He never forgave them for it, and the principal object of his existence seemed ever afterwards, in peace or war, to destroy them. The young and the old, the weak and the strong of the hated race, appeared to be equally the objects of his vengeance; for he was known to destroy the defenseless women and children of the Indians. He was literally no respecter of persons, while waging his personal warfare, as our narrative will prove, and was successful to an astonishing degree in his efforts to revenge his father's death.
The Quicks, as well as their neighbors, had become almost culpably careless as far as the Indian were concerned. Not infrequently they were in dangerous localities in the woods, and unarmed, thus giving the savages opportunities to surprise and kill them. It is possible that they presumed much upon the supposed friendship of the Indians for Tom, and upon their gratitude for the many acts of kindness the family had done them.
While the Quicks were thus thrown off their
guard, the Indians were plotting their destruction. In the hope of regaining
their lost possessions, and with the desire to plunder and punish the pale
faces, the savages determined to fall upon and destroy the outpost at
The old man found it necessary to proceed to the river side to procure hoop poles. Tom and his brother‑in‑law accompanied him. As they were in the habit of doing at this time, they took with them no fire‑arms. They proceeded leisurely around a point or ridge near the river, not dreaming of the tragedy which was impending. The outposts of the Indians yaw them approach, and watched them with eager eyes. Two of the men whom they most desired to kill, were unwittingly delivering themselves into their power. The opportunity to slay them was not to be lust, even if the main object of the expedition, (the destruction of the settlement) was defeated by a premature alarm, which would enable the inhabitants to defend themselves successfully.
When the Quicks had approached sufficiently near,
they were fired upon, and the father fell mortally wounded, a ball having
passed through a vital part of his body. The young men, who were unhurt,
instantly took hold of him, and endeavored to drag him after them as they
fled. From some cause the savages did not immediately pursue the fugitives to
complete their bloody work with the tomahawk. They probably hesitated until the
main body came up. In the mean‑time, the wounded man and his sons had got
beyond the reach of the rifles of the Indians. The savages, however, soon
followed, like hounds upon the track of a deer. The young men were at first
determined to bear their father to a place of safety, or die with him; but,
becoming too weak to go any further, even with their assistance, and finding,
as the Indians gained on them, that all three would fall victims if he was not
abandoned, he exclaimed that he was dying, and told them to leave him, and run
for their lives. After much urging, they finally left him to the mercy of the
Indians. It was well for them that they did so, for the savages were close upon
them; and even without their "sacred burden," they were not equal to
their enemies in speed. To escape they were obliged to cross the
Tom had the honor of being aimed at by a majority
of the Indians. A dozen rifles gave
their echoes to the frosty air, and he fell, his pursuers shouting with savage
exultation, "there lies Tom Quick!" He was
soon on his feet, again, however, and running as rapidly as ever. A ball had
struck the heel of his shoe; and thus tripped his heels from under him. He and
his companion were soon beyond the reach of the Indians.
The
savages did not attempt to cross the river, and attack the settlement, knowing
that the whites would be prepared to give them a warm reception. They returned,
and after scalping the wounded man and exercising various other cruelties,
dispatched him and held a "pow‑wow" over his dead body.
As soon
as Tom and his brother‑in‑law found that they were no longer
pursued, they cautiously crept back near enough to the Indians to ascertain
what was going on. They heard the scalp-whoop, and the rejoicings of the
Indians, and it is said that Tom, rendered frantic by their fiendish conduct,
aware that he would never be at peace with them, as long as an Indian could be
found upon the banks of the
What
rendered the murder particularly aggravating was the fact that the Indians who
committed it were among those who had been frequently at the house of Quick,
and had always been treated kindly there. According to the ideas of the whites,
he, above all others, should have been spared by them. He was killed,
however, in accordance with the rules of savage, if not civilized warfare. But,
regardless of the bloody codes of both the christian and the heathen, Tom
thought that his father merited other treatment at the hands of those who had
been fed at his table, and who had found an asylum under his roof whenever they
desired it, and he imagined that the blood of the whole race was not sufficient
to atone for the blood of his father.
CHAPTER
FATE OF THE CARTER FAMILY.
The
Indians held undisputed possession of Cochecton when Carter located himself
there, and there was probably no other white settler there, except an
Englishman named Moses Thomas, who had established himself at the mouth of the
Cushetunk as an Indian trader. Carter, being industrious and prudent, was soon
enabled to live comfortably, and add to his worldly possessions. What was not
required for the support of his family was carefully hoarded, and when the war
broke out, it was known that his purse contained not a few hard‑earned
dollars. This did not render his situation more secure; for the savages, as
well as their civilized neighbors, loved plunder quite as much as they did
blood.
Soon after hostilities commenced the Indians, to get where they could not
he easily reached by the whites, retired from Cochecton. This did not alarm the Carters, who supposed
their old neighbors would not injure them. Nothing more was seen of the Indians
until they began to scatter firebrands and death along the frontier. The
Carters were among the first victims of savage barbarity. When their farm was
prepared for it, they resolved to keep two or three cows as well as a yoke of
oxen, and the head of the family went to Minisink to purchase them. While he
was absent, Mrs. Carter had occasion to visit the garden, when she was suddenly
confronted by a number of savages, who bore upon their bodies the pigment which
they considered an appropriate mark of a brave who was bent upon the
destruction of his enemies. It is said she turned pale as she saw them
approach, but did not attempt to avoid them. She knew, probably, that if she
attempted to escape, death was certain; and hoped that, if she quietly
submitted, the Indians would spare her life. She was mistaken, however. The
only salutation she received from her visitors was a blow from a tomahawk,
which laid her prostrate and lifeless at their feet. Her scalp was torn from
her head, and her dead body left on the spot where she was murdered.
They next
entered the cabin, where they found the children, (three in number), whose
lives were spared, because the eldest, a noble boy of some seven or eight
summers, was so fortunate as to excite the admiration of his captors. The house
was first plundered and then burnt, after which the Indians left the
neighborhood, with the captive children.
When
Carter returned, instead of witnessing the joy of his family at the acquisition
he had made, he found a dreary—a heart‑rending scene—a scene which could
not fail to make the fountain of grief overflow, and to fill his soul with an
unconquerable desire for retribution and revenge. His wife, the uncomplaining
sharer of what he had endured in the almost trackless forest, was a bleeding,
mutilated corpse before him; his house, which had been made comfortable and
pleasant by their joint labors, which was endeared to him by a thousand tender
recollections, and where he had hoped Providence would permit him to spend many
happy days, was a mass of smoking ruins; and his children—the children of his
murdered wife—were in the power of her merciless destroyers—perhaps the war
path had already been stained with their blood—perhaps they could yet be
rescued—and perhaps a moment's delay would render an attempt to recover them
too late, as the savages were in the habit of beating out the brains of captive
children when they proved troublesome.
As soon
as possible, the bereaved and grief‑stricken pioneer rallied a few of his
nearest neighbors, with whom he pursued the Indians. The
letter, encumbered as they were with booty, travelled slowly, while Carter and
his friend, with nothing but their rifles and a limited supply of provisions,
threaded the forest with rapidity. After a fatiguing march, during
which Carter was always ahead, and continually urging his followers to greater
speed, the retreating enemy were overtaken and attacked. In the battle which
ensued, Carter fought with the most obstinate and determined bravery. Far in
advance of all others, he sent death and destruction among the sons of the
forest.
The
whites soon found that the enemy were too numerous for them, and were compelled
to fall back. Carter, however, refused to retreat. If he could not wrest his
children from the savages, he would die for them, and sell his life as dearly
as possible. When the heroic and desperate father was last seen by his friends,
he was surrounded by the foe. He had just shot one of his assailants, and
prostrated another with the butt of his gun, (the breech of which was broken
off by the blow,) and was standing with his back against a tree, defending
himself with his gun barrel against the blows of some half a dozen Indians.
They seemed to be determined to take him alive, and reserve him for the
torture; but it is probable that he had beat them off
until they became so exasperated that they killed him. He was never heard of
afterwards.
The
children were subsequently recovered by some means to us unknown, and placed
under the guardianship of their relatives in
CHAPTER IV.
DEFENCE OF A BLOCK HOUSE.
In 1762,
the Indians had become, apparently, so well disposed towards the English that a
number of pioneers settled on the Susquehanna, in the neighborhood of the
natives, while another company settled in the valley of the
We will
now describe the immediate cause of the last outbreak of the Indians.
The name
of the principal chief of the
According
to tradition, the Six Nations, who claimed the
To reach
the settlements between the Lackawaxen and Callicoon, it was necessary, at that
time, to follow the paths made by the Indians, or ascend the river in boats.
Above the
mouth of the Callicoon was an unbroken wilderness, which had been traversed by
the Indian and the hunter only. On the
There was
a settlement at the mouth of the Ten Mile River which was a promising one. The
brave but imprudent neighborhood was reposing in imaginary security, when it
was laid waste by fire and the tomahawk. Not a human being escaped to tell the
tale of blood; and every vestige of civilization, except the bare fields, was
destroyed. All the settlers below the block house in Cochecton shared the same
fate.
There
were but three men left in the neighborhood of the block house, while the women
and children seem to have been quite numerous. The names of the men were Moses
Thomas, 1st, —— Witters, and —— Willis. The block house was situated a short
distance from the banks of the river on land then owned by Mr. Thomas, and now
in possession of Moses Thomas, 3d, a descendant of the former. It was well
supplied with arms and ammunition, and if it had been well garrisoned, the
inmates might have bid defiance to an army of Indians.
On the
morning of the attack, Willis, who had a clearing and a log house at Big Eddy,
and who had taken his family to the neighborhood of the block house for safety,
directed his two sons to go to his farm to winnow some buckwheat, which had
been threshed. They did not wish to go, and made many excuses for staying, all
which seemed insufficient to the father, who finally compelled them to go.
They had
not been gone long, when they returned, and reported that a
large party of Indians were coming up the river. The lads, to the vice
of laziness, too often added the sin of lying; and but little if any confidence
was put in their report. It was supposed that they had concocted the story they
told for the purpose of getting permission to stay at home. They persisted so
earnestly, however, in saying that the Indians were coming, and seemed so
anxious, that preparations should be made for the coming onslaught, that
finally Thomas, Witters, and Willis concluded to reconnoiter, the father, of
course, informing his hopeful sons that they would be "flogged
somewhat" in case no Indians were discovered.
While the
men were absent, the women and children proceeded to the block house, or
prepared to flee thither at a moment's warning.
Thomas
and his two companions proceeded somewhat incautiously down the river about
half a mile, when they discovered the Indians. The latter had halted in a field
of turnips, which they were appropriating to their own use so far as their
immediate wants prompted. This field was on a knoll or promontory, and was so
situated that the enemy could not be seen by the white men until the latter
were within gunshot. The moment Thomas and the others appeared, they were fired
upon with deadly certainty. Thomas was killed instantly. Willis was badly
wounded and while running towards the block house, was
overtaken and slain. Witters was so fortunate as to
escape. The women and children who had not entered the block house, fled to it
when they heard the firing. Witters, too, was soon within its walls.
This man possessed
every characteristic of a border warrior. But few of those who have been
immortalized for their daring exploits would not have abandoned the terror‑stricken
women and children to their fate, and fled to the mountains for safety; or
would have yielded to the enemy without striking a blow in defence. With no one
to assist him in defending the helpless and dependent mortals who expected
nothing but death or captivity from the yelling demons who were approaching, he
determined to die with them or repel the assailants. His mind was equal to the
emergency, great and appalling as was the danger which impended over him. And
yet his feats have not been sung by the poet, or recorded by the historian; and
tradition, although it still recounts his deeds, has failed to retain more than
a part of his name. He at once dispatched a messenger to a neighborhood above
to warn the inhabitants of the approach of the Indians, and to procure aid, if
possible. His messenger was a little lad named Moses Thomas, 2d, who was
subsequently killed and scalped by a tory at the battle of Minisink. The people
who lived above the block house, when the news reached them, and they heard the
reports of the guns of the Indians, after a brief consultation, fled to the
woods, and made the best of their way to Esopus.
Witters
also directed two boys to go to Minisink to notify the inhabitants of his
situation. One of the boys was named Elias Thomas—the other Jacob Denny, and
neither was eleven years of age.
The
Indians did not at once rush to the block house in pursuit of the fugitive;
but, fearing that it contained several men, they paused a few moments for the
purpose of agreeing upon a plan of attacking it. This gave Witters an
opportunity to prepare for resistance. He soon succeeded in inspiring the women
with courage to such a degree that they were ready to render him all the
assistance in their power. Each one was prepared for battle when the Indians
came up, and a musket or rifle protruded from every port‑hole,
threatening destruction, apparently, to all Indians who had sufficient temerity
to approach within shooting distance.
The
savages, seeing the formidable array, at once concluded that the block house
was filled with white men, and that the three whom they had encountered were scouts
from the main body. They consequently approached cautiously under cover of the
bank of the river, which was high enough to screen them from not only the guns
wielded by the women, but from the more keen and accurate aim of Witters.
In the
meantime, Witters, in a loud military tone, gave orders to his men to
shoot every Indian who showed himself above the bank. He was a capital mimic,
and by changing the sound of his voice, he actually made the savages think that
there were plenty of officers and soldiers in the block house, who were
determined to defend it to the last extremity.
The
Indians were so much awed by this show of strength, that they did not deem it
prudent to attack him in his stronghold; but challenged the besieged to come
out and have a fight on the open ground. With a scornful laugh he called them
"foxes and ground hogs, burrowed in the earth to escape danger, not daring
to expose even the tips of their noses to the Yankee rifles," and dared
them to come on, at the same time intimating that they would soon have an
opportunity to fight others who were coming up from Minisink. This reply so
enraged them that Witters fancied for a few moments that he had brought upon
himself and his proteges the calamity he most feared—that is, an assault, by
which the paucity and character of his warriors would be discovered. The
Indians, however, remained behind the natural breastwork afforded by the bank,
and contented themselves with firing occasionally at the port‑holes; but
without effect.
Witters
began to fear that he would be subjected to a regular siege, and he knew that
unless he was reinforced soon, the Indians would detect his ruse and gain an
entrance. Assistance could not possibly reach him from Minisink in less
than two or three days; but the whites
who lived farther up the river might relieve him. He looked for them in vain,
however. They were already far in the wilderness, and, under
A war of
words was kept up by the parties until near night, the Indians, with all their
acuteness of ear, supposing that they were answered from the fort by large
numbers.
As night
approached, a new source of uneasiness presented itself to Witters. A
considerable quantity of hay had been imprudently stacked beside the block
house, and it occurred to him that if the Indians remained until evening, they
would set fire to it, and thus burn his stronghold. Nor was
he mistaken in conjecturing their intention. They were waiting for that
purpose.
Witters
instructed the women to fire their guns [on] a given signal, and anxiously
awaited the coming of night. His determination was to watch the hay closely,
and shoot every Indian who approached it, well knowing that as long as the
enemy supposed that the block house was defended by a respectable force, they
would not detail more than one of their number at a
time to fire the stack.
As the
shades of evening began to thicken, Witters saw an Indian crawling cautiously
towards the hay, and making the signal, a broadside was giving from the fort,
Witters himself firing. With a yell, the Indian sprang upon his feet, and then
fell dead. His companions soon recovered his body.
This
event, it seems, effectually intimidated the Indians. They came to the
conclusion that it was impossible to take the block house as long as it was
defended by such a formidable force. Carrying the body of the dead savage a
short distance, they buried it hastily, fearing, probably, that if the whites
were reinforced, as Witters intimated they would be, they might themselves be
placed in the defensive. They then returned toward the Susquehanna by the way
of the Cushetunk or Calkins Creek, which runs through Judge Thomas' farm.
Before they retreated, they set fire to the buildings of the neighborhood,
nearly all of which were consumed.2
The
inhabitants who lived above, and who had started for Esopus, endeavored to
strike the Indian path which led from the settlements of the valley of the
Shawangunk through what is now known as Grahamsville, Brown Settlement, etc.;
but they became bewildered in the woods and wandered they knew not whither.
Their situation was a painful one. Lost—fearing they were followed by the
dreadful savages—apprehensive that they would fall into an ambuscade at every
moment, or unconsciously return to the place from whence they had come and be
shot and tomahawked—weary and worn—hunger was soon added to their other
calamities, and they were compelled to feed upon their dogs, upon reptiles or
any other foul thing which would satisfy the cravings of appetite. The men had
not forgotten to take with them their rifles and could have furnished a scanty
supply of food to the panic‑stricken and starving party by shooting a
deer or bear occasionally, but they did not dare to do so, knowing that the
reports of their guns might bring upon them the horrors of an Indian massacre.
At last
they descried in the dim distance the Shandaken mountains,
and knowing that the path they were seeking was not far from the mountains,
they turned their weary feet in that direction and happily found the trail.
They were not long in reaching a settlement, where they were received by kind
and sympathising friends.
The lads who were sent to Minisink, after remaining in the woods
for a night or two, reached their intended destination. They followed no path,
but when sent off by Witters at once proceeded to the mountains back from the
Delaware, which they followed, exhibiting much judgment and discretion in doing
so, as they avoided the possibility of coming in contact with the savages.
When the
whites of Minisink were informed of the situation of the settlers of Cochecton
a party of soldiers were at once sent in canoes to the rescue. Without any
extraordinary incident the detachment reached the block house, where it was
joyfully received. Witters and the women concluded they had gained glory
enough, and that they might not fare so well if again attacked. Consequently
they made preparations for leaving, while the soldiers engaged in the
melancholy duty of interring the bodies of the unfortunate men who had been
surprised and killed.
When all
was ready they proceeded to the canoes and commenced seating themselves; but it
was found that the boats were not of sufficient capacity for the whole
party—that one must be left behind. Amongst those rescued was an idiot girl and
her mother and the soldiers soon decided that the girl must be abandoned. This
of course was a heart‑rending alternative to the poor mother who wished
to remain with her child and share its fate, but she was not permitted this
poor consolation. She was forced into the boat, and was soon gliding over the
rippling waters of the
Many
years after her remains and those of Thomas, 1st, were uncovered by the washing
away of the earth in which they had been buried. Judge Thomas had them gathered
and again committed to the bosom of the common mother.
CHAPTER V.
MURDER OF MUSKWINK.
LITTLE or
nothing more can be learned of Tom's conduct during the French war. He did not
enlist in the army, as has already been intimated; for the tradition of his
relatives clearly indicates that he never could be persuaded to place himself
in a situation in which he would be obliged to submit to military discipline.
He chose rather, when he felt a disposition to engage in the shedding of blood,
to do so, in the language of the present day, "on his own hook." It
is said, however, that he rendered important services to the English in their
excursions against this Indians, by acting as a guide, whenever his services
were required.
Notwithstanding
tradition does not say that he signalized himself by any extraordinary deed,
it is probable that he was not idle from the period of his father's death until
the event occurred which we shall soon describe.
After the war, such of the former inhabitants of the
The
Indians, too, began to revisit their old haunts, probably supposing that, as
the hatchet was now buried, they would be as well received by the whites as
they had been before the war. But their former friends no longer regarded them
with "favor or affection." The fire and the scalping knife yet
retained a vivid place in the recollection of the settlers, who had become
merely nominal friends of the Indians. In the hearts of many of the whites
ranked a deep and undying hatred, which needed but a safe and favorable
opportunity to slake itself in blood. They had suffered so much during the war,
and the Indians were so barbarous and cruel—so unlike soldiers of the old world
in waging hostilities—that the whites could not readily forget the past, and
treat their late enemies as friends.
On coming
in contact with the red men again, they felt very much as a person who has
submitted to a painful surgical operation does when he sees the instruments
that had tortured him. They knew that there was no immediate prospect of
suffering again; yet they experienced an unconquerable aversion and disgust at
seeing the dread objects again.
It is
said that some of the wives and daughters of those who had lost relatives by
the hands of the Indians, would faint if they encountered the savages after the
war.
Notwithstanding
this hatred and aversion, nearly all the settlers were careful to avoid all
cause of offence. The dreaded a renewal of the bloody strife which had just
closed, and if they consented to live as friends with their old neighbors, it
was because their own safety and interest prompted them to do so.
Among the
Indians who came back was a drunken vagabond named Muskwink or Modeline, who
had assisted in murdering Tom's father. The fact, however, that he had been
engaged in this sanguinary transaction was not known at first. If it had been,
probably he would have disappeared without any one being wiser except Tom.
About two
years after the war, Tom had occasion to go to the house of a man named Decker,
who kept a tavern on the Neversink. Decker was one of the early settlers on
that river, and had thus far escaped the tomahawk and scalping knife.
When Tom
reached the tavern, he found Muskwink there, somewhat intoxicated and very bold
and talkative. He at once claimed Tom as an acquaintance, and wished to drink
with him; but Tom refused to do so, and bestowed a contemptuous epithet upon
the Indian, which caused the snake‑like eyes of the latter to glitter
with rage. A conversation of an irritating character passed between them,
during which the savage, for no apparent purpose except to exasperate Tom,
boasted of his exploits in the warpath, and among other things gave a detailed
account of the killing of Thomas Quick, senior, and the part he himself had
taken in the affair. He asserted that he had scalped the old man with his own
hand—mimicked the grimaces of the dying man—showed how he appeared while in the
agony of death, and to corroborate his assertions, exhibited the silver sleeve
buttons worn by his victim at the time.
This
brutality had a greater effect than the drunken Indian had anticipated. It most
effectually aroused the devil in Tom's heart. He at once determined to kill the
savage. He was unarmed; but there was a French musket in the bar room, in the
place where the early settlers kept such implements, that is to say, on spikes
or pegs driven into a beam directly over the hearth stone, where they were not
apt to rust, and could be got at handily in any sudden emergency which might
arise.
Almost
with the quickness of thought, Tom took down the musket, ascertained that it
was loaded and primed, and cocked it. The Indian saw this movement of Tom, and
a vague notion of what was impending seemed to force itself upon his stupefied
senses; but before he could make an attempt to resist or escape, the muzzle of
the musket was within a few feet of his breast, and Tom ordered him to leave
the house. The Indian at once resigned himself to his fate, or at least to the
guidance of Tom. He arose slowly and sullenly from his seat, and proceeded to
the door, Tom following after him. No one who was present seemed to think that
murder would grow out of the affair; for no one appeared to have curiosity
sufficient to make him attempt to witness its termination, which would not have
been the case, if it had been supposed that Tom intended to do more than compel
the Indian to leave the neighborhood.
Tom drove
the savage into the main road leading from Wurtsboro to Carpenter's Point.
After proceeding about a mile toward the latter place, he exclaimed:
"Indian dog; you'll kill no more white men!" and aiming the musket,
which was loaded with a heavy charge of slugs, shot the savage in the back
between the shoulders.
Muskwink
jumped two or three feet from the ground, and fell upon his face dead. Tom took
from him the buttons which had belonged to his father, drew the dead body to a
tree that the wind had torn up by the roots, and kicking some leaves and dirt
over it, left it there.
Some say
that he cut the head from the body, and hoisted it on a pole at the corner of
the road leading to Decker's, and that it remained there several days.
After
killing the Indian, Tom returned to Decker's, put his musket in its proper
place, drank a glass of rum, and left the neighborhood.
Several
years subsequent, the land upon which Muskwink was killed was cleared and
ploughed by a man named Philip Decker, when the bones of the Indian were
"turned up."
The
murder of Muskwink created considerable excitement in the exposed
neighborhoods. Some thought that such transactions should be properly
investigated, and that Tom should be arrested and sent to prison; while others
contended that he had performed a very meritorious act. It does not appear that
an attempt was made to punish him for what he had done; for he continued to
fish and hunt unmolested, although he was in some danger from the savages.
That Tom
was permitted to kill the Indian with impunity is extraordinary, because the
authorities were not always careless as to what was done by the frontiersmen in
their intercourse with the natives, as will appear by what follows.
On
The
Skinners ransacked Cochecton and Minisink for testimonials in their favor, and
the matter became a serious one for them, although it does not appear that the
charge against them was sustained. The complaint was probably made more for the
purpose of getting the accused into trouble than to promote the peace and
welfare of the province.
Why a
matter so trifling should have been considered of so grave a nature, while Tom
was enabled to escape without being questioned, is something which cannot be explained
at this late day.
CHAPTER VI.
MASSACRE OF AN INDIAN
FAMILY.
WE have
elsewhere remarked that Tom, from associating with the Indians a greater part
of time when he was young, had become a savage in thought and sentiment. Yet he
considered red men so barbarous, that a white man was justified in making their
destruction his whole business; and although he denounced their cruelty, he
could be equally savage himself. Not only this; but he
would use the Indian argument in favor of destroying the helpless and
defenceless. We do not know that he ever was guilty of killing, on more than
one occasion, the children of his enemies; and his excuse for doing that was, that they would, if their lives were spared, become as
bad as their parents. He then thought it good policy to destroy the serpent
while it was in embryo.
Not long
after Tom shot Muskwink, he was hunting in the vicinity of
One day he stationed himself at the foot of the Rift; but whether to watch for savages or wild beasts is not known. However this may be, he found the former. He watched several hours without seeing anything of importance; but finally was rewarded, with the sight of five savages coming up the river in a canoe. The party consisted of a man, a squaw and three children. The Indian seemed to be unarmed, and he and the others were evidently not apprehensive of danger. They were on the same side of the river as Tom, and were proceeding leisurely along—the children enjoying the journey and seeming very happy.
As soon as Tom saw them, he concealed himself in the long reed grass which grew on the shore, and awaiting their approach, with the determination to destroy them. As they came near he recognized the Indian as one of those who had visited his father's house before the war, and who had been engaged in several outrages on the frontier.
When the Indian family—for the squaw was evidently the wife of the man, and the children his own—had got near enough to be within gun‑shot, Tom raised up from his recumbent posture, and ordered them in the Indian tongue to come ashore, and threatened to fire if they did not. As soon as the man saw Tom he turned very pale. He had heard while below of the murder of Muskwink, and that Tom had threatened to kill others of his race. He dared not disobey, however, and reluctantly came to the shore. Tom then inquired where they held been, and where they were going; to which answers were given. He then told them that they had got to their journey's end; that the tribe to which they belonged had murdered his father and several of his relatives during the war, and that he had lifted up his hand in vengeance against their whole race. The Indian answered that it was "peace time," that "the hatchet was buried," &c. But Tom replied that there could be no peace between the red skins and him, and that he would wage eternal war with them. He then shot the man, who jumped out of the canoe into the river, where, after a few convulsive throes, he died. Tom, after killing the Indian, tomahawked the squaw and her children. As the hatchet sunk into the brain of the squaw, she sprang instinctively towards her youngest child, and fell on the bottom of the canoe, and was soon beyond the pale of mortal life. The two oldest children, as Tom afterwards declared, "squauked like young crows" as he killed them. He had proceeded thus far without any compunctions of conscience, or feeling that he was committing a most horrible massacre, which ranked him with incarnate demons. But when he came to the youngest, his murderous propensities were for a moment checked. As he raised the tomahawk to give the fatal blow, the babe—for it was nothing more—looked up wonderingly into his face and smiled. The innocence and unconsciousness of danger beaming from its sunny, childish eyes, caused him to relent. His arm fell to his side. He could not strike it. At the moment, the idea of taking the life of such an innocent, harmless being, seemed horrible to him. It held out its tiny hands to him, and in childish glee, seemed as if it would spring to his arms. Tom's heart was completely softened. He thought he would convey it to some white family, and have it taken care of properly, and fancied that it would be very pleasant to have such a pretty, innocent creature to fondle after he had been hunting, and when he returned to the settlements. But the fact suddenly thrust itself into his mind, that the child would in a few years become an Indian, and this so enraged him that he instantly dashed out its brains.
In consequence of the excitement which grew out of the murder of Muskwink, Tom thought it prudent to conceal the bodies of his victims. Besides this, he was probably conscious that his white friends would not think very favorably of him, if they knew he had murdered helpless women and children.
Having procured some strips of baswood bark from a neighboring tree, he fastened heavy stones to the bodies, and one after the other conveyed them to the deep water of the Rift, where he sank them to the bottom. After all the bodies had been disposed of, he destroyed the canoe, and nothing remained but his own conscience, (which must have been a queer one) to tell of the horrible deed.
Tom did not relate the foregoing facts until it was safe for him to do so. Previous to his death, he repeatedly told them to Jacob Quick, Esq., of Callicoon. When asked why he killed the children, his invariable reply was, "Nits make lice!"
On another occasion, Tom was at Pond Eddy on the
The Indian was soon out of sight. Tom, during the remainder of the day, was very morose, and seemed to be angry at himself, because he had permitted the Indian to escape. It is probable that he killed many of the red men in this way.
CHAPTER
ADVENTURES AT
FOR some time, Tom was very careful to commit no more murders openly. A favorite mode with him was to go the Indian hunting grounds, and remain concealed as much as possible from the Indians. Whenever he heard the report of a gun, he would creep cautiously towards the place where it was fired, and if he succeeded in finding it, he would generally discover a savage skinning a deer or a bear, and when once discovered, it was an easy matter to send a bullet through his head or heart. Tom would then conceal the body of his victim, finish skinning the game, take the skin of the animal, as much of the flesh as he desired, and the rifle of the dead Indian, and depart in search of new adventures.
Generally, he deposited the rifle in a cleft of rocks or hollow tree; but if he took it to the settlements, and was asked how and where he got it, he would say that he had found it beside a dead Indian; and when he brought an unusual number of skins, he would quietly tell them that he had "shot one buck on top of another,"—meaning that he had killed an Indian in the way we have just indicated. This enigmatical manner of describing what he had done, was the only kind of witticism that Tom was known to utter.
When in the settlements, and an Indian came there, he would pretend to be friendly toward him, and do everything in his power to allay suspicion. If he could gain the Indian's confidence he would in the end, invite him to join him in a hunting excursion, and the Indian would generally be among the missing for ever thereafter.
Among the rest, two Indians came to Minisink to sell their skins and procure ammunition, and a few other articles, which they needed. They lingered about the settlement several days and became acquainted with Tom, who finally induced them to join him is a hunt at Hagen Pond, in what is now the town of Lumberland, Tom was thinking of various plans to kill his companions, when one of them proposed to remain at the pond and fish, while Tom and the other agreed to spend the day in hunting. The arrangement was that they should take separate routes, and meet during the day at Rock Cabin. This afforded too good an opportunity to be lost by Tom, who was afraid to attack both at once, as they were equal to him in skill and agility.
According to arrangement, he took the direction he had agreed to go, and after hunting a short time, he proceeded to the Cabin, where he selected a good place to watch for the coming of the Indian he had agreed to meet there. At the time appointed for meeting, the stealthy tread of the savage was heard in the thicket—in a few moments he emerged to sight, and with a shriek fell upon the earth a corpse. Tom's sure rifle had found another victim. Some leaves and mould were soon thrown over the body, and Tom was on his way back to the pond. Here he waylaid the other Indian, and killed him.
At another time, Tom encountered an Indian at
Hagen Pond, but did not succeed in killing him. Tom went to the pond, to hunt,
with a man named Cornelius DeWitt, who, during the Revolutionary war, was
captured by the Indians and taken to
This occurred just before sunset, and when Tom saw the Indian run away, he returned to the place where he and DeWitt intended to stay during the night. DeWitt had gathered but little wood; and it was needless to do so; for prudence taught them that they should dispense with a fire that night, as a light would serve as a beacon to the savage, and enable him to turn the tables against them, if he was disposed to harm them.
The next morning, Tom told DeWitt that he intended to look the redskin up. DeWitt objected; but found it was useless to oppose Tom. Search for the savage he would, whether it was agreeable to the other or not. He soon found the Indian's trail, and followed it in company with DeWitt.
The most sagacious of the redmen could not pursue an enemy through the woods more unerringly than Tom. Through a forest which would be as trackless as the ocean to any of the present inhabitants of Sullivan) if anything short of an ox or a horse should walk in it, Tom continued in pursuit, discovering at every step, undoubted indications of the passage of the hatred red man.
Here a wood plant or weed was crushed; there the dead leaves upon the ground showed that a moccasined foot had pressed them. Here the green mould on some fallen tree had been disturbed—there on the rivulet's margin the foot print was plain. On—on went Tom through the solitary forest, bent upon his bloody mission of expiation and revenge.
Every effort of the wily Indian to baffle Tom was of no avail. The Indian Slayer followed him to the Delaware, and thence to the Brink Pond, in Pennsylvania, where he again came in sight of his intended victim—a feat, probably; which none but an Indian had ever before accomplished.
At the Brink Pond, Tom and the savage saw each other again, but the latter was beyond the reach of the others rifle, and Tom had not the satisfaction of bringing him down.
The red man, finding that his life depended upon his speed, fled like a frightened stag, and Tom, knowing that his pace would not be soon slackened, and that he would have to follow him too far into the Indian country for his own safety, gave up the chase.
From the Brink Pond, the two white men went home, without killing a deer.
CHAPTER VIII.
KILLING A
WE have now reached a period of Tom's life towards which tradition does not point with certainty. There is a gap which we cannot fill except with certain legendary accounts of real or supposed exploits, which our authorities do not assign to any particular time.
Almost innumerable tales are told of Tom's encounters with the savages, and of the tact and cunning he resorted to in order to circumvent them. Many of these stories, we think, have been invented by ambitious tale tellers in their anxiety to outdo their companions in relations of the wonderful; but, on the other hand, some of them are true, or founded on facts—a few little additions having been made from time to time, as they were handed down from father to son.
As often as we have heard conflicting versions of the same story we have adopted the one that seemed the most plausible to us; or we have collected sufficient information to enable us to determine what was worthy of being recorded. This will explain to those who have furnished materials for this little work, why we do not always follow the thread of their narrative very closely.
The story of the "Buck with Seven Skins," which follows, although it has an air of probability, we place it at the head of the apocryphal tales of Tom.
Tom usually wintered at the house of some congenial spirit on the frontier. The family upon which he quartered himself was always well paid for boarding him, for as long as Tom was with them, they lived upon the fat of the land. He as previously stated, invariably supplied them with an abundance of venison and bear meat.
Once he found that winter was near at hand, and that he had not the usual supply of venison for the person whom he intended to stay with. He was about to engage in a hunt at some distance, where he was quite sure he would find deer enough in a few days to supply his friend's cabin as long as he desired, when an Indian came into the neighborhood. Tom made his acquaintance as soon as practicable, and it was not long before they agreed to go on a hunt together—Tom agreeing to take the venison for his share, and the Indians the skins. The first day they were out, they had unusual good luck. Deer was plenty, and indeed the woods seemed full of them. They killed one after another, skinned them, and hung up the "hind quarters" where they would be secure from wolves and other wild beasts until Tom could take them away. In the afternoon they found they had killed seven. The Indian was in fine spirits—and so was his white companion. They had both done a very fine day's work.
The Indian had as many skins as he could carry, and consequently did not wish to hunt any more at that time. So he got them together, and placing them upon his back, started for his cabin. He never reached it, however; for as he started off, Tom fired his rifle and down tumbled the Indian, the ball having gone through the seven skins and into his heart.
When Tom reached the settlement with the skins and venison, his friends who knew the bargain he had made with the Indian, asked him how he came by all the hides; and his reply was, that after they had got through with their hunting, he had "killed a buck with seven skins on his back!" The next winter was spent by Tom with Ben Haines, at Handsome Eddy.
CHAPTER IX.
"THE BITERS BITTEN."
The number of Indians who had disappeared mysteriously, and the fact that some of them were last seen with Tom, and that he had sworn to kill Indians as long as he had an opportunity, caused the natives to suspect he could tell what had become of them; and the whites generally knew that he could, if he pleased, find the rifles of the missing.
The Indians, therefore, were anxious to kill him, and many attempts is were made by them to shoot him. It is said that they had frequent opportunities; but that they missed their mark so often, that they finally believed he had a charmed life and could not be touched by an Indian ball.
The following is a fair sample of the stories told in the neighborhoods where his adventures took place, concerning the way the Indians attempted to catch or kill Tom:
One spring, Tom was splitting rails for a man
named Westbrook, who lived in the
This story has been told of Tom for more than half a century. It is almost too wonderful to be true. We give it as it was related to us by an old man named Page, who died recently, aged more than one hundred years. He assured us that it was well founded; that he had been often at the place where the savages were killed; and that he had more than once seen their bones "on the spot."
An Indian came to the house where Tom had "put up" for the winter, and asked permission to stay all night, which was granted. He professed to be very friendly; but Tom's quick eye soon discovered that all was not right, and that he had an enemy to deal with. During the evening the savage pretended he had seen a great many deer a few miles off, and asked Tom if he would not like to go the next day and kill some of them. Tom pretended that he was pleased with the proposal, and agreed to go.
During the night Tom managed to get the Indian's rifle, which he unloaded, and afterwards substituted ashes in the place of the powder, and put back the ball, and placed the rifle carefully where he had found it.
The next morning the savage slyly inserted the ram‑rod in the chamber of the rifle, examined the priming, &c., and seemed satisfied that all was right. This and some other circumstances confirmed Tom in the belief that mischief was brewing.
There was considerable snow on the ground, and the hunter found it quite inconvenient to tread through it, and apparently to render the walking easier, the Indian proposed that one of them should go ahead to break the path. To this Tom readily agreed, and the Indian was greatly pleased when Tom made no objection to be the first to go in advance.
After they had proceeded in this way a mile or two, and had come to a very lonely place, Tom heard the Indian's gun snap, and the powder flash in the pan. Tom looked back and asked what the Indian had seen.
"A fine buck," was the reply.
The Indian re‑primed his gun, and they went on. Pretty soon Tom heard another snap and flash.
"Well, brother Indian," inquired he, "what did you see this time?"
"An eagle swept over the forest," replied the other as he again primed the gun.
"Brother Indian," said Tom, "the snow is deep. I am tired. You go ahead."
"Brother Yankee speaks well," said the savage gloomily, and took his station in advance.
Tom levelled his rifle.
"Lying Indian dog!" exclaimed he; "what do you see now?"
"The spirit land," was the reply, as the Indian hung his head and drew over it his blanket.
The savage was soon dispatched, and Tom returned without any venison—but with two rifles.
Tom was wandering through the woods, one day, without his rifle, when he encountered a young Indian who was armed. Tom Spoke to him in a friendly manner, and soon found himself on very good terms with the stranger.
"Brother Indian," said Tom, "would you like to see Tom Quick?"
The savage answered in the affirmative, and Tom agreed to show him the Indian Killer. After a long walk, which terminated on a high ledge of rocks, at the foot of which were a few acres of cleared land, Tom told the Indian to wait a few moments and he would show him the person they were looking for. Tom went to the brink of the precipice and peered over it. "I do not see him yet, brother," said he, "but he will soon come along." He continued to watch for several minutes, and at last pretended that he saw the person whom the Indian was so anxious to encounter.
"There he comes," said Tom; "here, you take my place, if you want to get a good sight at him." The Indian cocked his rifle, and hastily and eagerly advanced to Tom's side.
"Where is he?" inquired the red man.
"There—there," said Tom, pointing so that the Indian would lean over the brink, in his desire to shoot the enemy of his race.
"A little further—a little further," whispered the Indian Slayer.
The Indian hung over the precipice as far as he could without losing his equilibration. He peered closely into the shrubbery at the outskirts of the field, and into the field itself, without making a discovery. In the meantime, Tom slipped behind him, and suddenly grasping the shoulders of the savage, and shouting, "Shoot me!—shoot me! would you!" he hurled the red man over the precipice. The Indian fell upon the rocks below, and was killed. Tom left the body of the savage to feed the crows and the foxes, and "went on his way rejoicing."
CHAPTER X.
CAPTURE
THE Indians captured Tom several times; but they could never manage to keep him until they reached their villages. They were always anxious, when they had him in their power, to preserve his life until they reached home, so that they could there apply the torture to their wily enemy; and this is the reason they did not slay him at once.
On one occasion they surprised him while he was
asleep; but when or where is not positively known, although it is probable the
occurrence took place not far from Port Jervis. They immediately bound him
securely, and after plundering the cabin in which they found him, they sat out
for their own country by the way of the
Tom, as usual, had a large number of skins in his possession, all of which the savages appropriated to themselves. It seems that two Indians were engaged in this adventure, one of whom, in returning, carried Tom's goods and chattels on his shoulders, and walked in advance of the prisoner; while the other, had possession of the rifles of himself and companion, one of which was kept cocked and ready to shoot Tom with, if he attempted to escape. This Indian "brought up the rear."
For some time, the Indians travelled on the beach of the river or on the bank. At last, however, they came to a high ledge of rocks, where they were under the necessity of taking a very dangerous path far up on the cliff. They were obliged to travel, some part of the way, within a few feet, and indeed almost directly on the brow of the precipice. One would think this afforded a poor place to escape; but it was just the one that suited the Indian Slayer. He pretended to be dizzy and afraid of falling off the rocks, and passed along as far from the brink as possible. He several times hesitated to go on, and the Indian who followed him frequently applied the butt of his musket to urge him forward. He was determined not only to escape, but to kill the savage who followed him. A difficult feat for an unarmed man to accomplish, especially with his hands bound securely behind him! But it was an easy one for Tom.
When they had readied the narrowest part of the path, Tom was suddenly seized with a very severe attack of dizziness, and could hardly be compelled to proceed, although blows fell thick and fast upon his back and shoulders. Finally he stopped altogether, and refused to go a step further. He leaned against the bank on the upper side and shuddered whenever he cast his eyes towards the river. The Indian, after beating him severely, attempted to take hold of him to push him along. By an adroit movement, Tom got between the Indian and the precipice, and the next instant, with a loud "ugh‑whoop!" the savage was making a rapid airline descent towards the river. After falling forty or fifty feet, he landed in the crotch of a button‑ball tree. The Indian's back was broken by the fall, and he hung in the tree powerless, and roaring for his brother savage to help him. The rifles fell into the river.
Tom was almost instantly cured of his dizziness. He next relied on his heels for security, and ran with astonishing celerity towards home. The Indian who had carried the plunder, ran after him a short distance; but finding it useless to attempt to catch him, he returned to assist his companion.
Tom and two or three of his nearest neighbors returned in a short time to recover the plunder and look for the savages, but could find neither the one or the other.
Tom's habit of concealing guns in the woods on one occasion saved his life. The Indians (two in number) had captured him, and were taking him off by the Grassy Brook route. He seemed perfectly resigned to the fate which appeared to be unavoidable, and marched with them unreluctantly. His arms were pinioned with deer skin thongs, and his captors kept upon him a vigilant eye, and were ready at any moment to shoot him if he attempted to break away from them.
After a while they were visited by a shower of rain, and Tom soon found that the thongs which bound his wrists began to, stretch, and ultimately that they had become so loose that he could, whenever he thought proper, free his hands. He was very careful to conceal this fact from the savages, and patiently waited for a favorable opportunity to run or do something else to escape.
Beside the path they were passing was a very large chestnut tree, which was hollow, and on the side of the trunk that was furthest from the path the wood had entirely rotted away, leaving a large hollow space. In the opening thus made, Tom had not long before concealed several guns, which he had "found by the side of dead Indians." He had also deposited with them a flask of powder and a goodly store of bullets.
When they reached this tree, Tom expressed an urgent desire to go to it, and gave such a good reason for the request he made, that his captors consented to let him go. They permitted him to do so the more readily because he had thus far given them but little trouble.
The Indians cocked their rifles when Tom stepped from the path, and aimed them at him. Each with a finger on the trigger watched him eagerly, determined to bring him down if he made the least movement to escape.
Tom proceeded towards the tree very leisurely, and on reaching it, went behind it, and was concealed front the view of the enemies. With most inconceivable rapidity, he charged two or three of his weapons with powder and lead. The Indians, little suspecting what Tom was at, stood in the path with hardly a twig to screen them from his murderous aim. Tom afterward said that he did not stop to return the ramrods to their places until he had as many of his guns loaded as he thought he should need. He hesitated a moment after he was ready to shoot, fearing that his guns would "miss fire," in consequence of their late disuse; but knowing that this was probably his last chance, he blazed away at one of the savages, who fell dead in his tracks. The other attempted to get behind the nearest unoccupied tree; but he never reached it. A bullet sent him to the spirit land, to join those who had fallen by Tom's hands.
CHAPTER XI.
"THE BITERS BITTEN" AGAIN.
AN Indian who thought he was more shrewd and cunning than his fellows, undertook to kill Tom without aid from anyone. He lurked in the vicinity of the cabin where Tom was staying, devising a plan to overreach the wily white man. The savage found that the owner of the cabin had a hog, which was confined to a pen close by the hut, and he determined to make this stupid animal the means of producing Tom's destruction.
One evening, when no one but the Indian Slayer was in the cabin, the red man got into the pen, which, being made of logs, afforded a very good breastwork. He then caught the animal, and holding it between his knees, made it squeal as lustily and shrilly as if a bear had hold of it. The savage expected that Tom would rush out, without proper precaution, to rescue the porker; but he was mistaken. Tom was always on his guard.
The Indian Slayer caught up his rifle—ascertained that it was all right—looked through a crevice in the door towards the hog pen; but at first could not see anything which led him to think that the hog was not attacked by a bear or a panther. He was on the point of starting for the pen, when he saw something, which made him pause.
The savage endeavored to screen his body behind the logs of which the pen was constructed, and at the same time peer over the top to watch for the coming of Tom. But the hog did not prove a very tractable steed. It was so fractious and unmanageable that, just as Tom had concluded to open the cabin door, the head of the savage was thrust above the topmost log. This was enough for the Indian Slayer.
Tom opened the door of the cabin a few inches, so that he could have a fair chance to shoot when the scalp‑lock of the savage made its appearance the second time. The hog continued to jump and frisk, and squeal, and the red man soon exhibited his head again, when the porker was speedily released from its burden. Tom fired—the hog suddenly ceased to utter its car‑splitting notes, and the savage took up the burthen of his swinish melody. With a piercing yell, he jumped from the enclosure, and endeavored to flee to the adjoining woods; but he had received a deadly wound, and Tom easily overtook him. Of course, the fate of the savage was sealed. Tom had no mercy on him, and killed him with fewer compunctions of conscience than he would have felt at crushing a reptile.
According to an old legend, Tom had a very severe battle with a savage who came to him while he was in a field at work. Tom saw the Indian approach unarmed, and did not feel afraid to encounter him on equal terns.
The savage told a plausible tale about something that he pretended he had discovered not far off, and which he wished his "brother yankee" to see.
Tom, apparently without suspecting anything was wrong, consented to go with the Indian; his quick eye, however, saw a gleam of malignant satisfaction on the countenance of his visitor, which told him plainer than words could have done what was the errand upon which the red man was bent.
The savage had discovered Tom from a hill near by, and had concealed his gun in the woods, hoping to entice Tom to its neighborhood, while he was unarmed, and then, when he could not defend himself, kill him.
Tom was never caught napping. He was now wide awake, and concluded that there was a trap set for him. He had gone but a short distance with the Indian, when he came to a hemlock knot, which he concluded would be a very good weapon in a rough and tumble fight. He stopped to pick it up, when the savage, perceiving what he was at, sprang upon him. Tom got hold of the knot; but, with his antagonist upon him, he could not use it. A long struggle for life or death ensued between them. Tom finally succeeded, and was once more a conqueror, but to the day of his death he averred that this was the hardest and most severe fight he was ever engaged in.
When he had killed the red man, he was so exhausted that it was with difficulty he got to the house where he had found a temporary residence.
According to another legend, a native attempted to kill the Indian Slayer while he was engaged in a saw mill. Tom, by some means, found that an Indian was close at hand, and arranged his hat and coat in such a way as to deceive his would‑be destroyer. While the savage thought he was about to shoot Tom between the shoulders, as the latter had shot Muskwink, Tom was in a position to send a bullet into the body of the Indian, and his bullets were generally fatal. The legend says that once more the "biter" was so badly "bitten" that he never recovered from his wound. In other words, Tom killed him.
CHAPTER XII.
MURDER
AT MONGAUP FALLS.
PREVIOUS to the revolutionary war, a man named John Showers lived in a log house near the falls of the Mongaup. One evening, some five or six hunters met at his house, which was quite a resort for such people. As the cabin afforded somewhat better accommodations than the forest, they concluded to avail themselves of its shelter for the night. Tom Quick was among the number. During the evening, an Indian came in, and asked permission to remain all night. He was told that he could stay.
The evening was frosty, and a rousing fire was kept up. The hunters amused themselves in telling of their adventures, and many stories like the following were told:1
One of the hunters was boasting of his skill in shooting at a mark, and told in what manner he shot a panther.
"Fudge! old fellow!" said another. "I have two boys at hum (one of 'em is 10 and 'tother 11) who'll beat that. I tell you what, they were out shooting t'other day close tu the house, when I heerd both their rifles go tu once. I felt curious 'bout it, and went to see what both on 'em blazed away together for. Well, when I got to where they was, I found 'em tryin' tu drag a painter to hum what they'd killed. They tell'd me they had seen the beast to once and fired away, and after it had hung to the tree a minit, down it cum plump. Their balls struck about two inches apart and both on 'em riddled it heart."
"I had a tussel with a bear once," said another after a short pause in the conversation, "and dang me it was curious. I had been travassing the woods pretty much all day without as much as setting eyes on a chip'n squir'l. I begun to feel kinder savage, when Ty (patting his dog on the head) began to snuff and balk at a hole in the ledge. I can allers tell when Ty has got arter sothin' and the way the critter yelled sot me a thinkin' he'd got sothin' be worth having. So I jist made up to the ledge to 'connoiter. The hole was gaul dang'd big: but Ty was shy about gettin' inter it. The critter is as full of pluck as any dog of his inches I ever see; but dang him, he did't like to go in, no how. Thinks I, old feller, if you won't go in, I will. So I just laid down old Poll there (pointing to his gun) and crawled in myself. I got about ten feet, when the hole got bigger, and I could look around a leetle, and kinder see what I was comin' to. Well, in the back end of the hole like I see the dangdest bear I ever sot eyes on. The critter sot beside a big stun about as high as my head. Ty he come in arter me, and as soon as he see the varmit, he yelled worse than ever. Well, the bear didn't seem to mind me at all, but kinder watched the dog. So I jist stepped round beside the stun, and got on it. Thinks I, old feller, you or I must go out of this dang'd quick. So I stepped down behind him like, and braced my back against the rock, and pushed away with my feet for sartin'. The critter grunted like and says I 'grunt away old feller, but you've got to go.'"
Here the narrator turned himself towards his son, who was in the company, and casting his eyes to the ground, continued:
"Well, you know, I got him started, and Ty he pitched into him before, and I pitched into him behind, and he pitched arter Ty, and we had him out danged quick, and old Poll you know gave him a pill what settled his hash!"
"That's a fact, daddy," exclaimed the son, "for I've heard you tell it afore!"
"That yarn may be true," said a young man, in a doubtful tone, "but I would rather come across ten such bears in the woods than one mad wolf. They are the animals to try your spunk, old daddy. Perhaps you never saw one. Well, I have, and blast me if I want to see another.
"The way of it was this. Dad wanted some whiskey; and I wanted some powder and lead. So I took old roan and started for the store down in Minisink. I had got almost to Ben Swartz's clearing, and didn't see nothing, when I saw something just ahead of me right in the road, which I took for a short eared wolfish kind of dog. I didn't mind it much till I got pretty close, when I whistled to it, and it turned round. You see its back had been to me till then. Gracious! wasn't I scared! It was a mad wolf, with its mouth all covered with slobber, and its eyes—oh how they did look! It come straight for old roan's smeller; but I hauled up, and the wolf stopped too, about four feet off. Says I to myself, "I'll just shear off and give you half of the road." But the wolf headed me, and yop it went at roan's nose. The old horse threw up his head as the beast tried to grab him, and I tried the other side of the road; but it was no go. The wolf headed me all the while, and every time I moved, it made a yop at roan's smeller. I tried to back out of the scrape; but as fast as old roan went tail foremost, the wolf followed after.
"I was in a pickle. I couldn't go back and I couldn't go by, and I expected every minute that it would leave the horse's nose and grab my feet; and maybe my shanks didn't seem long about that time!
"At last I out with my jack knife——"
"Why you didn't stick the brute with that, did ye?" interrupted one.
"Oh! aint he a rouser!" exclaimed another.
"Hold on, will ye? Well, I out with my jack knife, and cut off one of the stirrups, strap and all, and watch for a good chance and perhaps you think I didn't knock its brains out with the stirrup—but I did, and got hone with the old man's whiskey, and he jawed me a week after for spiling the saddle."
Late in the evening, a goodly number of logs were placed on the fire, and the hunters, wrapping themselves in their blankets, laid down upon the floor to sleep. They were soon "in the land of dreams," except Tom, who was watching quietly for a chance to kill the Indian. One would imagine that he had shed blood enough already; but the more Indians Tom killed the greater was his desire to destroy them. When the breathing of the sleepers showed that they were sound asleep, Tom threw aside his blanket, and cautiously and noiselessly got his gun. In a few minutes the hunters were awakened by an explosion. They found themselves bespattered with brains, and the Indian dead in their midst.
Quick, immediately after firing, left the cabin, and disappeared in the forests. The hunters, after consulting, concluded that the murder of the Indian should be concealed, in order to avoid any unpleasant consequences which might follow, if his brethren knew of it. The Indian was buried in the morning, and his death was unknown to any except the hunters until concealment was no longer necessary.
CHAPTER XIII.
Wawarsing
and vicinity suffered much from the tories and savages during the war for
independence. The loyalists, living upon the frontiers, and professing
neutrality, or sympathy with the Whigs, acted as spies upon their rebel neighbors, and by their perfidious hypocrisy escaped the
vengeance of those who, if they had been certain of their character, would have
made their fate a terror to all white savages. The tories engaged, too, in the
murderous expeditions of the Indians against the Whigs; but were always painted
and disguised in such a manner that they escaped detection, and the only thing
which rendered their presence apparent to those upon whom they fell, was the
color of their eyes. All tradition agrees in representing the atrocities
committed by the white adherents of the British king as being of a more
revolting character than those of their uncivilized allies; and it is not
surprising that the "sons of liberty," after the close of the war,
committed various outrages upon their former unnatural enemies.2
At an
early period during the war, an outrage was committed on the family of a widow,
who lived at Lackawack. She kept a public house there; and it is said some of
the savages were incensed against her household because they had not been
supplied with rum as liberally as they desired. One evening, while her son, Jacob
Osterhout, and a man named George Anderson, were in the house, three Indians
entered it, and took both of them prisoners. The woman escaped, and reached
Wawarsing the next day. She wandered all night in the woods, with nothing on
her but her night clothes, and it rained during a part of the time.
Osterhout
and Anderson were taken far into the interior, and it is supposed the.
Indians encamped with them a few miles from the present site of
Osterhout
was not a rugged man, and was nearly exhausted with fatigue, when Anderson, who
understood the Indian language, heard the savages speak of killing his
fellow-prisoner, because, as they said, his scalp would be worth more than he would
be alive.
When the
Indians encamped the next night, they built a large fire, as usual. During the
evening, and probably while eating their supper, they inadvertently left a
knife on the ground near
During
the night,
Just
before the close of the tragedy, the squaws woke up, and made the woods ring
with their cries. They either escaped or were spared by the white men.
Anderson
and Osterhout made instant preparations to return. They knew they had no time to lose before commencing their
long and fatiguing march, is they were well aware that the squaws would bring
down upon them a host of savages from the next village, which was but thirteen
miles distant. If retaken, they were certain that the most horrid tortures
awaited them. Taking from the dead Indians whatever was of service to them,
they started for home. Osterhout travelled slowly, and
Long
before they reached Lackawack, the small supply of food they had taken from the
Indians was exhausted, and they were suffering the tortures of starvation. They
had guns and powder and shot; but were afraid to use them through fear of being
discovered by the savages. They did not dare to follow the usual route, nor
travel in the day-time. Fortunately, when they were reduced to almost the last
extremity, they met with a horse, which they killed with a spear, and cut from
it a supply of meat which lasted them a day or two. When this was gone, they
were obliged to fast until they reached Wawarsink. Their sufferings were almost
incredible, and they had undergone so much from hunger, that if they had given
an unrestrained license to appetite when they reached home, death would have
ensued. Osterhout, as it was, fell a victim to the
hardships he had endured, for he did not live long after he reached Wawarsink;
and even the strong-minded and robust
The
mysterious manner in which he abandoned his old haunts, adds not a little to
the romantic character of his life.
CHAPTER XIV.
DEATH OF GRAEME.
Not long
after the events described in the preceding chapter, the natives made another
attack on the out-posts of
The
valiant Captain Kortrite pursued the enemy until his provisions gave out, when
he returned. It is not improbable that he was censured by some of the Hotspurs
of the frontier, for not overtaking the Indians, and engaging them in battle.
There was
a fort in those days on Honkhill, where some three hundred troops were
stationed. When it was ascertained that Kortrite had returned without
accomplishing anything, Lieutenant John Graeme, an officer noted for reckless
daring, volunteered to pursue and waylay the enemy with only eighteen men. He
was offered a greater force; but very foolishly refused to accept it. His men
were raw recruits, who knew nothing about Indian warfare, and the result proved
that Graeme knew but little more of the traits of the enemy
than his followers.
The
unfortunate Lieutenant managed to reach the locality now known as Grahamsville,
in advance of the Indians. He selected a place here to surprise the enemy,
which, above all others, gave that enemy the advantage
of him, although if his force had been sufficient, and his whereabouts had been
unknown to the foe, it would have been a very good place in which to lay in
ambush to intercept and cut off the savages. It is a short distance from the
residence of Mr. Neil Benson, where a brook empties into the Papacton, and
where the surrounding hills form a kind of basin, with narrow gorges leading up and down the streams. From this place, Graeme sent his only good
marksman, a man named Abraham Vancampen, to procure some venison.
Before
the Indians reached the ground, they knew Graeme's situation, and formed a sure
plan of massacreing him and his whole party. Silently, and with cat-like
caution, they surrounded him. Posting themselves on the high ground within
rifle shot, they had an opportunity to deal death and destruction which has
been rarely surpassed; but they were not content with this alone. One of their number was directed to approach the whites by the usual
path, and thus draw their fire. As he came in sight, Graeme was drinking from
the brook. When he rose from his recumbent posture, he discovered the savage,
and directed his men to fire. As they aimed, the savage fell upon his face, and
the balls whistled harmlessly over his head. He immediately disappeared in the
bushes with a loud whoop, as a murderous fire was poured upon the whites from
all directions. Most of them, including Graeme, were shot down, and only two
besides Vancampen returned to tell the tale. Truly, their fate shows more
plainly than can words, "that discretion is the better part of
valor."
A short time after the battle, a force of three hundred men went to the scene of action to bury the slain—a force which should have been sent in the first instance, and under a commander, too, who understood the character of the savages better than did poor Graeme. All the dead were found scalped and divested of their clothing. Trenches were dug, and the bodies consigned to their last resting place. No monumental stone marks the locality where they repose, and no one living can point out the exact spot where they are silently mingling with the dust. A number of years since, a near relative of one of the victims visited the battle ground to discover the bones of those who fell; but after searching several days ineffectually, he returned to his home disappointed.
CHAPTER XV.
TRAGEDY
ON THE SHAWANGUNK.1
One of
the first settlers of the north eastern part of the town of
On a
Monday morning in September, he had occasion to go to a barrack near his barn,
where he encountered two Indians, who attempted to grasp him and take him prisoner.
He however eluded them, and ran towards his house, (which was a stone one) at
full speed, and shouting murder! One of the savages got so near him that he
stretched forth his hand to take hold of him. The Colonel, however, got into
the house soon enough to close the door behind him, before the Indian came up;
but he failed to bar and bolt it. A trial of strength ensued between the two
for a few moments—one endeavoring to force open the door, and the other trying
to keep it closed. The Colonel proved the strongest; when the Indian discovered
a broad axe in the porch, and endeavored to force open the door with it.
Jansen, however, frightened him away by calling loudly for his pistols and
musket.
As soon
as the savage had left the porch, the Colonel took his station in the entry
with his musket and pistols, resolved, at all hazards, to prevent any one from
entering. His wife, deeming it most prudent to close the window shutters, for
the purpose of darkening the room, and thus concealing herself as far as practicable, raised the sash for that purpose, when a fellow,
disguised as an Indian; pointed his musket at her, and drove her back. The blue
eye of the disguised tory betrayed the white man.
The
assailants succeeded in effecting an entrance into the lower part of the house.
The party consisted of four Indians and one tory, each armed with a musket, and its deadly accompaniments, the tomahawk and
scalping knife. Among these was one, perhaps the leader of the gang, named Ben
Shanks, who had spent his younger years in the neighborhood of Colonel Jansen,
and many times labored for him on the farm. This fellow was well acquainted
with every part of the
He was at
this time about forty years of age. In person he was tall, slender and
athletic; his hair was jet black, and clubbed behind—his forehead high and
wrinkled—his eyes of a fiery brown color, and sunk deep in their sockets—his
nose pointed and aquiline—his front teeth remarkably broad, prominent and white—his
cheeks hollow and furrowed. In a word, Ben Shanks, when arrayed in all the
warlike habiliments of his nation, presented one of the most frightful
specimens of human nature that the eye could rest upon. Like the others of his
party, he now wore a coarse wagoner's frock of a grayish color, with a red
handkerchief bound closely around his head.
Not many
months anterior to the time of which we are speaking, a young woman, by the
name of Hannah, had come up from the city of New York; where her parents
resided, for the purpose of paying a visit to the family of her uncle, Mr.
Christopher Mentze, who was by occupation a tailor, and lived not far from
Colonel Jansen's house. She was in the bloom of life; aged about eighteen
years, possessed of handsome features, and, in all respects, what might be
termed a comely girl. Being of an industrious disposition, she employed herself
in spinning in the family of Colonel Jansen, it appears that she had spent the
Sabbath, previous to the fatal Monday, of which we have been speaking, at the
house of her uncle, and was just returning through the gate-way at the end of
the barn, to resume her occupation at the wheel, when the Colonel's three
female slaves, who had been captured by the Indians, were placed beside the
kitchen door, under the care of Ben Shanks. As she passed the corner of the
barn, one of the slaves discovered her from the kitchen, and motioned to her,
in the most forcible manner that circumstances would permit, to keep back; but
the poor girl, having not the least suspicion of danger, paid no attention to
the signals of the slave, and walked leisurely forward into the kitchen. When
she was informed of her danger, however, her terror became extreme. She wrung
her hands in agony, and besought the unfeeling monsters, in terms that would
have pierced a heart of adamant, to spare her life, and let her remain where
she was. In these entreaties, she was warmly seconded by
both the female slaves—but all in vain. One of the monsters seized
her by the hand, and, with his uplifted tomahawk, compelled her to take her
station by the side of the negroes at the kitchen
door. Gathering up the spoils they had collected in the cellar and kitchen, the
enemy ordered the negroes, with the unfortunate girl,
to advance, while one of them led the way, across the fields, toward the
mountain. The luckless maiden again used every effort to prevent her being
carried off; but the ruffians, turning a deaf ear to all her entreaties, seized
her by the arms, and dragged her away from the door.
Mr.
Christopher Mentze, of whom mention has already been made in this narrative,
was a native of
From the
fatal experience of many bereaved families in the country, Mentze was at no
loss in apprehending the object of Shanks. Unarmed and having no hope of safety
but in flight, his first idea was to mount the animal bound to the rock-oak
sapling, and ride at full speed down the path; but a moment's reflection
convinced him that, by adopting this course, the horse must inevitably stumble
in proceeding swiftly over the stones lying in her way, and he accordingly
abandoned it as impracticable. Passing then directly under the neck of the
animal, he ran off with the utmost speed. As he turned abruptly towards the
south, on reaching the bank of a brook that ran down from the mountain, he
heard a loud and distressing scream from the girl. The spot upon which he now stood was nearly fifteen feet perpendicular from the
surface of the stream; and not deeming it prudent to waste any time in seeking
for a more convenient place of passage, he resolved to spring from the bank
towards the body of a tree that grew near the water, and, laying hold of it, to
slide gradually down to the root. In doing this, however, his velocity was so
great that his hand slipped in the act of seizing the tree, and he fell down
upon his feet in the bottom of the brook. Rising up immediately, he again
attempted to resume his flight; but found that his left ankle was severely
sprained, and that his shoes, being filled with water, greatly impeded his
progress. To divest his feet of these impediments was but the work of a moment,
and then, regardless of his painful ankle he held his way,
"O'er
swamp and hill—through bush and brier,"
till he suddenly
found himself on the verge of a field belonging to Thomas Jansen, (a brother of
the Colonel, who lived about two miles distant) and not above two hundred yards
from the house. Seeing persons passing and repassing he hailed in a loud tone
and was answered by the well-known voice of one of his friends.
In the meantime,
Colonel Jansen had alarmed the inhabitants of the town, and several parties of men had collected at various points to prepare for a
vigorous pursuit of the enemy. After relating his tale of woe to those
assembled at the residence of Mr. Jansen, Mentze proceeded in haste to the
house of his father and having there repeated the same mournful intelligence,
he took down his faithful rifle, and, disregarding the acute pain in his
sprained ankle, quickly retraced his steps up the mountain path. On arriving at
the spot where the Indians were first discovered, he saw
several gentlemen employed in the examination of a bundle of clothes found at
the foot of a tree, the mystery of which, as may well
be supposed, he soon cleared up. It was then concluded that the Indians had
either murdered Mr. Mack and his daughter, and concealed their bodies in some
part of the forest, or else had carried them captive to answer some horrible
purpose they had in view. But when it was considered that in the latter case,
the bundle of clothing, instead of being left behind, would most probably have
been carried along with them—and that the old man, had invariably expressed his
determination never to follow any Indian as a prisoner of war—the majority of
the persons present inclined to the opinion, that they had both fallen victims
to the deadly tomahawk. A search was of course, immediately resolved upon; and
seeing a remnant of the bridle still hanging from the sapling to which Mentze
had fastened his horse, it appeared evident that the animal had broken loose
and strayed with its fellows into the adjacent woods. After a short
examination, tracks were distinctly recognized leading in a westerly direction
towards the before-mentioned brook, and the first impulse of the party was to follow
them in that direction, searching carefully on each side as they passed along.
When they had crossed the brook, and ascended about ten paces up a gentle
declivity, the unfortunate objects of their search were at once exposed to
view. The corpse of the poor girl lay stretched at full length upon the bank,
with the clothing she had worn properly arranged; and her father lay upon his
hands and knees about five feet lower down, at the foot of a rock-oak tree.
Both were scalped in a most horrible manner. From the position in which the old
man was found, it appeared evident that he had struggled long in the agony of
death. His hands were clenched and filled with leaves, and his head hung down
between his shoulders.
Having
contemplated the sad spectacle for some moments in silent astonishment, some
gentlemen of the party prepared a temporary bier to convey the bodies to a
house, that the last solemn service due to their mortal remains might be
decently performed. As they were upon the point of proceeding homeward with
their melancholy burden, they perceived, with grief that their unhappy friend
Mentze was unable to move. Overcome by the heart-rending scene which his
lifeless relatives exhibited, and exhausted with the pain of his sprained
ankle, he found himself utterly incapable of exerting sufficient strength to
follow the mournful procession. But the sun was now set, and
he was not in a condition to pass the night in the forest; supported,
therefore, on each side by the arms of his friends, he was eventually enabled
to descend from the mountain, and to enter the comfortable, but now mournful
mansion, of his kind, commiserating parents.
The next day, a strict search was made in the fields and woods in the vicinity of the Colonel's homestead, for Hannah, who was no longer with the savages when they attacked Mentze; and when the party were almost on the point of abandoning their object in despair, a dog belonging to one of them was observed to direct his course towards a lonely field, in which no careful investigation had yet been made. His master followed him, and soon came in sight of the mangled corpse of her whom they sought. Like her friend Elsie, she too had been scalped, and the bleeding skull excited feelings of horror in those who came to witness the scene. She, too, was transported in silence to the humble mansion of her venerable uncle, and from thence, in due season, to that solitary bourne from whence no earthly traveller returns.
CHAPTER XVI.
ATTACK
NEAR THE FANTINEKILL.1
During
the Revolution, the whites who lived west of the Shawangunk, in
At that
period, there lived three families in the immediate neighborhood of the place
where the goodly
On the
morning of
When the
Indians left the neighborhood, they took Magdalene some distance with them into
the woods, where they gave her a letter, which had been written by one of their
tory companions, and a war club stained with blood. The letter was directed to
Capt. Bevier of Napanoch, to whom the girl was directed to deliver it, together
with the club. The Captain was invited to dine with them next day at Lackawack,
and it was intimated that they would delight to beat out his brains.
When
Magdalene returned, she recovered the old Bible, which had been taken from her
as she escaped from the cellar, and stamped into the mud. Its battle-stained
pages are still in the possession of the Bevier family.
A man
named Jansen, whose son Abraham had married a daughter of the widow Bevier, was
suspected of criminal conduct in regard to the fate of his son's mother-in-law.
He was suspected of holding intercourse with the Indians—he lived four miles
south-west of the place where the tragedy occurred—the Indians visited his
house, as moccasin tracks about his premises rendered evident—he was not
molested by them in any way—he had taken great pains to have some of his friends
go to a place of security a day or two before the savages made their
appearance—and his son became the possessor of his mother-in-law's property.
The
family of Michael Socks consisted of six persons—not one of whom escaped to
tell the particulars of their massacre. Father, mother, sons, daughters—all shared a common fate. A young man, supposed to be one of his sons; was slain in an
adjoining field, which had just been plowed. He had evidently been killed by a
single Indian, after a long and desperate struggle, as the ground had been
considerably trodden in the vicinity of his bloody, scalpless
corpse.
The family of Jesse Bevier were all asleep, when the old man was
aroused by the breaking in of one of his windows, which was instantly followed
by the whizzing of two or three bullets, which passed within a few inches of
his head. He at once sprung up, seized his axe, with which he stood guard at
the broken window, until his sons, David and John, rushed into the room with
their guns. A desperate fight ensued. The young Beviers were good marksmen and
needed but a glimpse of a savage to send a junk of lead into him. They had
their powder in open vessels on the table, and were not very exact in loading,
provided they got enough into their gun barrels; and the women, while the men
were watching for a good chance to shoot, charged the spare guns.
The
Indians soon found that it was perilous work to attempt to storm the house.
They therefore set fire to it at a point where the white men could not reach
them with their guns. The peril of our heroes at once became extreme. The women
used every drop of liquid in the house to put out the fire. They spirted water,
milk, swill,—anything,—everything,—from their mouths into the cracks and
crevices through which the smoke was gushing. But it was all in vain. The fire
gained on them; and finally they had nothing more to put it out with. In this
emergency, the mother proposed that they should cease fighting, and unite in
prayer for mercy and assistance. It seemed to her that they must look to no
earthly arm for aid. One of the sons replied—"Mother, you can pray while I
fight." The mother knelt, and addressed her petitions to the Most High—her
husband and sons, in a more subdued and reverential manner, continued to defend
their little castle—the fire soon entered the apartment, and, serpent-tongued,
leaped toward them, as if impatient to devour then. Yet the pious matron was
heard, and the little household was rescued. Two miles off, at Napanoch, lived
a brother of Jesse Bevier, whose name was Lewis. The latter heard the firing;
and while he was listening to it he was surprised at the sight of his brother's
dog, which came up to him, jumped against him, ran a short distance towards his
master's, and then turned and looked back to see, apparently, if his motions
were understood. This the faithful and sagacious animal repeated several times.
Lewis was afraid to go to his brother's; but when he saw the dog imploring him,
as it were, to fly to the rescue, he said "flesh and blood could stand it
no longer." Going to a neighbor's who lived where the seminary now is, and
whose name was Johannis Bevier, he induced a son of the
latter to accompany him.
As they
approached the sorely beleaguered, house of Jesse Bevier, an Indian sentinel, who
occupied a neighboring height, fired an alarm gun, and the Indians and tories,
not knowing how many Whigs were coming, at once fled to the adjoining woods.
Their coming was very opportune. The family would soon have been compelled to
evacuate, and meet a more speedy fate at the hands of the white and red savage;
than they would have found beneath their blazing roof. The fire was soon
extinguished.
Colonel
Cortland's regiment had been stationed at Napanoch until a few days previous to
this event, when the period for which his men had enlisted expired, and they
received their pay—an event which had probably been communicated to the Indians
by the tories of the neighborhood, so that the savages could fall upon the
settlements while they were unprotected. Several of the discharged soldiers
were worshiping Bacchus at a tavern in Wawarsink, when the firing commenced.
They at once proceeded to Napanoch, and placed themselves under the command of
Captain Andries Bevier, who had already marshalled his company to pursue the
foe. The Indians fired the woods as they retreated, to prevent pursuit, and
Bevier's company failed to chastise the enemy, probably because they could not
overtake them.
Besides this, as soon as the news reached him that the savages had again visited the valley of the Shawangunk, the valiant and sturdy Captain Kortrite called out his company, to the number of seventy men, and proceeded to Grahamsville, where he lay in ambush awaiting the approach of the enemy. The Indians, however, discovered him before he discovered them, and the first intimation he had of their proximity was a volley discharged at the rear of his company. Silently and unperceived, they had passed within a short distance. One of their balls struck not more than six inches from the venerable patriot's head. After firing, the enemy retreated, whooping and yelling like a troop of demons. Captain Kortrite and his men then returned to their homes.
CHAPTER XVII.
BURNING
OF WAWARSINK.1
The
inhabitants of Wawarsink were not molested again until 1781. On the 12th of
August of that year, a white man, named
The whigs had sent out two, good and trusty
men to watch the main Indian paths across Sullivan. Their names were Silas
Bouck and Philip Hine. They were on the lookout on the Neversink, about twenty
miles south-west of Napanoch, when they discovered
Bouck was
made of true metal, as we will proceed to show.
It had
been the intention of
Although
the scouts were taken, the enemy did not succeed in surprising the inhabitants.
They reached Wawarsink in the gray of the morning, just as some of the inmates
of the old stone fort at Napanoch were leaving for various
purposes. The alarm was given—the entrance of the fort secured, and the
soldiers were on the alert, just as the savages rushed up to gain admittance.
Two of the assailants were quickly made "to bite the dust;" after
which, the remainder dispersed through the neighborhood to plunder and set fire
to the buildings. At Peter Vanooy's, a number of them were repulsed by three
men, who killed one of them. An old hat hung in the garret of Vanooy's house,
near a port hole. The savages mistook it for a man's head and riddled it with
bullets. They attacked the house of Cornelius Depuy, where a lad who was but
sixteen years of age brought one of them down, and the others fled. A number of
the Indians were killed at the residence of Henry Kettle, whose father, John
Kettle, was overtaken by the enemy, when he was not near any house and shot.
His scalp was the only one taken by them; notwithstanding their numbers, and
the instructions received by
At this
time, Colonel John Cantine was in command at Pine Bush. He was a very prudent
officer. Indeed, it is said his cautiousness exceeded his valor. When the
firing was heard in Wawarsink, Captains Kortrite and Burnet promptly mustered
their companies, and were anxious to proceed against the enemy. After some
entreaty, the Colonel was persuaded to start; but, hearing that the savages
were approaching, he returned to the fort at Pine Bush, with part of his
command. Kortrite and Burnet proceeded some distance further, when, not meeting
with the enemy, and fearing the foe might pass them, and murder the families in
their rear, they returned to the fort. They induced their commander to place a
guard at some distance from the fort on each sides to
ascertain whether the savages would attempt to pass them, and that was all they
could get him to do. Kortrite was very indignant over his conduct.
Capt.
Pierson, whose behaviour challenges our admiration, was confined to his bed by
sickness. When the alarm was given, he left his bed, and with about a dozen
volunteers, who were as brave and patriotic as himself, he went to the rescue.
By an adroit movement, he reached the fort at Napanoch, and entered it. This so encouraged the little garrison that they sallied out and
fought the enemy from behind trees, &c. Several Indians were killed
by the whites, while the latter were concealed in various places, and waited
for favorable opportunities to shoot stragglers. The Indians continued to
plunder the inhabitants until
As they
retreated, a man named Jesse Mack, who was concealed in the woods, shot one of
their principal chiefs—a fine, noble-looking man who was mounted on a valuable
horse which had been stolen from a gentleman named Hardenbergh. The savage was
most gorgeously arrayed. Some forty or fifty silver ornaments were found upon
his dead body by the whites. The Indians were pursued as far as Peenpack2
by about four hundred men, including a detachment of State troops from Hurley,
under Captain Pauline, and the Militia who were under the command of Colonel
Cantine. It is said that the pusillanimity of Cantine prevented the men under
his command from chastising the savages. The latter were disheartened at the
loss of their chief, and many of them were sick from the excesses they had
committed at Wawarsink. When they ascertained that a force equal to their own
was upon their heels, they precipitately fled, leaving
Bouck was
taken to
CHAPTER XVIII.
DURING the Revolutionary war Tom seems to have been busy in his crusade against the Indians. He would not enlist in the army, but he would join any expedition that was got up against the Indians and continue with it as long as he pleased, when he would go off and fight "on his own hook."
On one occasion he joined a party from Minisink,
who were in pursuit of some marauding Indians. The latter were several hours in
advance of the pursuers. The whites did not see the enemy until they reached
the
A war of words passed between the parties, and finally one of the savages made an indecent gesture towards the Yankees, and dared them to shoot. This so enraged Tom that he raised his rifle and taking careful aim, fired. The Indian with a yell fell upon his face and was soon dead.
At another time, Tom was in the woods alone. He was on the lookout for Indians when he unexpectedly came upon one of them. They saw each other at the same moment, and both fired at once. The Indian's ball struck one of Tom's thumbs, the end of which was cut off. The ball glanced along the barrel of the rifle, and passed so close to one of Tom's ears that it tingled some time. Tom was more fortunate. His aim was unerring. The Indian was shot through the head, and Tom went on his way, cursing the savage for wounding him.
This was the only time Tom was hit by an Indian. Persons who knew Tom remember very well that one of his thumbs had lost its tip.
During the war Tom met another savage under similar circumstances. He and the Indian both took to trees within gunshot of each other, where they remained for some time; each one hoping to get a shot. After various manœvers and strategems, Tom resorted to the old one of thrusting his cap cautiously from behind the tree. Crack went the Indian's rifle, and Tom fell upon the ground, pretending to be wounded, when the Indian came running towards him, to take his scalp; but which he did not get, for as soon as the red warrior had got fairly under way, Tom sprung up, and treated him to an ounce of cold lead. The Indian exclaimed, as he saw Tom aim, "Me cheated."
According to tradition, Tom was taken prisoner by the savages during the Revolution; but in what manner and in what locality is not now known. This time he was caught by a numerous band who had probably been marauding and murdering in one of the frontier settlements. They stripped him of everything except his shirt and trowsers, as they supposed; but as Tom's good genius would have it, he had under his shirt a powder flask, which he had converted into a "pocket pistol." It was filled with rum, which has slain a greater number of Indians than the more dreaded rifle.
When the Indians found what kind of a prize they had made, they set off by forced marches for their own country. Tom of course was bound, and this time they not only bound him, but fastened a long piece of raw‑hide to his wrists, one end of which was held by an Indian. He was kept, too, in the midst of the party, and it really seemed as if the case was desperate. During the first day the savages kept up a running fire of words at him, and maltreated him in various ways, all of which he bore with as much apparent stoicism as the bravest and best of his captors would have done under the same circumstances.
At night they encamped in the usual mode, tied Tom securely within their circle, and appointed one of their number to watch over him until the next morning.
In the first part of the night Tom pretended to sleep, and after a while feigned to wake up. He soon commenced a conversation with the Indian who acted as the sentinel of the band, and was not long in discovering that the savage was an enemy of "fire water"—a thing quite unusual at that time. Tom's intention was to get the Indian drunk, and then escape; but finding that he had the wrong person to deal with, he concluded to wait until the following night, when he hoped to meet with better success. He therefore determined to sleep until morning, and hope for "better luck next time."
The second day's march was but a repetition of the first; and Tom was heartily glad when the party encamped once more. This time an Indian was chosen who loved "fire water." When all the others of the party were asleep, Tom ascertained this, and telling the native that he had been kind to him; that he had not struck him as often as the others, etc., and that he expected to die in a day or two and would need no more of the "good stuff," he directed the savage where to find the rum.
The Indian thrust his hands beneath Tom's shirt and drew out the flask with much satisfaction, and Tom saw him drink from it several times, much to his joy. It was not long before the rum began to exhibit its usual effects. The savage became drowsy, and finally, in familiar language, took an involuntary "journey to the land of nod" or dreams.
Tom then managed to get the Indian's knife, with which he in some way contrived to cut the thongs which bound his wrists. He wounded himself severely in doing so. He was soon free, and with steps almost as noiseless as the descending dew, he vanished among the giant tree trunks upon which the dying fire occasionally threw a fitful glimmer. Tom was once more rejoicing on the path leading towards Peenpack. The next morning when the Indians woke up, they found one of their number drunk—an empty powder flask by his side—and Tom "among the missing."
He was at least fifteen miles off, on his way to his white friends. He ran nearly all the next day, and got home without engaging in any other adventure. The Indians followed him almost to the settlements, but he was several miles in advance of them, and in speed was equal to the most fleet of his pursuers.
We can learn nothing more of Tom's exploits during the war. We would gladly add several other pages to this chapter, and give a more complete account of his doings previous to the declaration of peace, but, alas and alackaday! we have no more material.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE SCOUTS OF MINISINK.
AT the breaking out of the war of the Revolution,
many of the inhabitants of Cochecton who were friendly to the revolted
colonies, removed to Minisink, with their families. Others re‑trained
a while behind their compatriots, in the hope that they would not be molested,
if they maintained a semblance of neutrality. A third and fourth class
was composed of "fence men," and open and avowed adherents of
Cochecton was from forty to fifty miles from any thickly settled portion of the country, and was consequently altogether exposed to the malice of the tories, and the cupidity and bloodthirstiness of the savages. It was a perilous abiding place for all who expressed sympathy for the cause of the revolutionists; and those removed their families to less dangerous localities acted wisely.
The exodus of the whigs was so sudden, that their crops were abandoned ere they had matured, and many a rapacious tory had the pleasure of reaping what he had not sown. It was not uncommon for the fugitives to return, after leaving their families in a place of security, for the purpose of gathering hastily the fruits of what they had cultivated with anxious forebodings of evil. All such were driven from the neighborhood by their former associates and friends, who confidently believed that the arms of His Most Gracious Majesty would soon cause his rebellious subjects to sue for mercy at his feet; when, if he designed to spare their lives, he would confiscate their property, and bestow it upon those whose hearts of oak had remained staunch and loyal. They were disposed to anticipate his favors; but they did not profit much by their ill‑gotten acquisitions; for the whigs endeavored to "square accounts" with them, as will presently appear.
The patriots of Minisink, for "their own and their country's weal," appointed a committee of good and reliable whigs, which was known as the Committee of Safety. According to the recollection of our informant, this committee consisted of Jarardus Van Inwegen, Benjamin Depuy, —— Coit, and —— Swartwout, names which will be made famous by the Annals of Peenpack, provided they are ever written. The Committee of Safety, to chastise and "regulate" the obnoxious and auspicious characters of Cochecton, and to promote the cause of the whigs generally, organized a company of scouts, under the command of Captain Bezaliel Tyler, who occasionally paid the tories and others a visit, to catch those whose conduct was considered iniquitous, and to make reprisals. They did not generally return empty handed. The tories took possession of what property the whigs had left behind them; while the scouts took away the cattle and sometimes the bodies of the liege subjects of the crown. It is difficult to decide which party lost or gained most by this system of exchange; but no one will doubt that many poor people were made to suffer much for their devotion to their country or their King; and that the excesses of each continually added intensity to the furnace of hatred which glowed in the breasts of both. Mercy and Truth seldom kiss each other while the bloody conflicts of mortals are raging. They may lead forth their cohorts, and feel irresistible in their conscious strength; but, alas! when Truth is wounded, she bids her clement-eyed sister, begone; and when the two fall out by the way, Mercy, is but a silly jade, and Truth becomes transformed, and bears the semblance of Error.
When the scouts visited Cochecton, they conducted themselves is a very free and easy manner, and as they generally were in haste to get back, they had but little time to hear testimony for or against the obnoxious and suspected; yet we cannot learn that their incursions were marked with any summary proceeding on amore than two occasions, the particulars of which we will now give:
A half-witted young fellow named —— Handy had lived in Cochecton several years. Having emasculated himself, because he had been disappointed in a love affair, he was generally despised by all the men and women of the neighborhood, and was, in fact, a poor outcast from the sympathy and society of his fellow mortals. During the war, he joined a band of Indians who were under a chief named Minotto, and he spent the greater part of his time in riding from place to place, on a horse which some say he had stolen from a whig of Minisink. While thus occupied, and probably fancying that he was a man of some consequence, he encountered a company of scouts, whom he mistook for friends. As he came up to them, he exclaimed, "I'm Minotto's man!" or "I'm Brant's man!" The words were just out of his mouth, when the scouts levelled their pieces and fired. Some of them had recognized the horse, and as soon as he declared what he was, his fate was sealed. He was buried on the spot where he fell, and near the Indian burying ground of that region.
A few years since, the bones of Handy were uncovered by the washing away of the bank of the river. A physician, it is said, procured them, and they have since "graced" the doctor's studio.
During the same expedition, a whig named Nathan Mitchell escaped with his life very narrowly. He had remained in Cochecton because his wife would not go to Minisink with him, unless her father accompanied them. Mitchell, to prevent the savages from firing upon him while they were lurking about, wore an Indian head dress. He too, encountered the scouts, who, when they saw the Indian gear upon his head, mistook him for a tory, and putting spurs to their horses, advanced towards him furiously, with their rifles unslung, and in readiness to fire.
Mitchell saw at once that ere time enough would elapse for him to explain, his body would be perforated with a dozen bullets. His only way to escape was to run for his life, and reach broken ground or the woods, where his pursuers could not follow him on horseback. Run he did, but the scouts were soon upon him, with their fingers on the triggers of their pieces. Poor Mitchell's case was desperate. In an instant more he would have been a dead man, if one of the scouts, who knew why he staid in Cochecton, had not recognized him at the critical moment, and very opportunely knocked aside the muzzle of the foremost horsemen. As soon as the true sentiments of Mitchell became known to the party, all rejoiced that they had not shed the blood of a friend.
The scouts proceeded up the river a short distance further, and stopped at the house of a Scotch tory named David Young. Young's wife was an English woman of considerable intelligence, who claimed, according to tradition, that she had been employed about the person of the Queen of England.1 Her husband was absent, and she told the "rampant rebels," as she was pleased to consider them, that Colonel Brant was at the mouth of the Callicoon, with 500 warriors, and entreated them to save their lives by returning at once to Minisink. She said this with such an honest and truthful air that they believed her, and so great was their terror of the far-famed Mohawk chief, that they retreated to Minisink with great celerity, and thanked their stars when they got there.
While the scouts were in the habit of making
frequent visits to Cochecton; a stranger came up the river, who
was apparently weary and worn with travel. He represented, at the houses where
he stopped to rest or obtain refreshments, that his
name was Payne, although it was subsequently ascertained that his real name was
Cooley. It did not appear that he had any ostensible business, or an apparent
motive for visiting this exposed and emote region. As
he ascended the
Cooley himself made the most moving appeals to those who had resolved to put an end to his existence. With that extraordinary eloquence which some men can use when life depends upon the tongue, he begged them to have mercy upon him. With pathetic and heart‑broken cries, he humbled himself in the dust, and implored them to spare him as they themselves hoped for pardon when the last great agony sundered soul and body. But those who had resolved to destroy him were inexorable. There was an overpowering motive for his immediate destruction. They considered him unfit to burthen the earth longer with his guilt or obnoxious person, and even while he was sueing at their feet for life, the silver chord was snapped assunder, and Cooley's blood was mingled with the dust. He was shot and died instantly.
Who can contemplate the fate of this friendless man without a shudder? There was undoubtedly a good and sufficient reason why it was necessary to slay him; but it is difficult to conjecture what it was.
Some of those present were so shocked at the horrid scene, that they declared openly, if such work was necessary, they would no longer be known as scouts. To kill him while he was pleading for mercy, seemed like murder to them; and, rough, rude men of war as they were, they wept like children when the terrible deed was consummated.
CHAPTER XX.
BRYANT
KAINE.
A year before the declaration of independence
was made by the "colonies in congress aassembled," a man named Bryant
Kaine obtained a warrant or pre-emption right for a tract of land in the town
of
For some
reason,—probably because he expressed his "sentiments" too
freely—Kaine, as well as some others who remained in Cochecton, became
obnoxious to the whigs of Minisink. He was deemed a dangerous character, and it
was considered unsafe to permit him to run at large. The Committee of Safety,
therefore, determined that he should be arrested, and held in durance until it
became prudent to permit him to enjoy unrestrained locomotion.
The
tories and others of Cochecton seem to have been well advised of what was going
on below. There were a few persons is Minisink, who, professing openly to be
whigs, were tories in secret; or they had friends and relatives in Cochecton
whom they wished to screen from whig vengeance; and but little if anything was
determined on which was not whispered to those whom it interested most. When it
was decided that Kaine should be arrested, he was immediately informed that the
scouts would soon pay him a visit, and take him from his family to prison. He
wisely concluded that if he must go from home, he would prefer the society of friends to that of enemies. Accordingly he
employed a man named Flowers to stay with his family, and attend to his
business, and then absconded. The stern necessity of the times compelled him to
abandon the children of his love and the wife of his youth. He bid them a hasty
farewell, hoping that a period was not very far distant when he could again
dwell under his own roof in peace and quietness, with his loved ones around
him. But little apprehension was felt on account of those who were left behind
in the wilderness as the whig scouts would respect the
persons of the helpless and harmless, and the Indians, it was hardly supposed,
would harm those who were so nearly allied to one who was proscribed by the
enemies of the red men. Kaine, however, never saw the faces of his wife and
children again. From some unexplained and inexplicable cause, they were
murdered by a band of Mohawk Indians, who surrounded the house in the night,
consummated the bloody deed, and then disappeared almost as mysteriously as
they had entered the neighborhood. This occurred in April, 1777, a few days after Kaine left home.
On the
day previous to the awful tragedy, some of the neighbors had labored under an
almost indefinable and unaccountable apprehension that something of more than
ordinary importance was pending. The wife and children of Robert Land, who
lived near Kaine's, on the opposite side of the river (and of whom we shall have something more to say in the next chapter) had been
informed that the scouts were coming from Minisink to drive off their cattle,
and Mrs. L. and her eldest son, whose name was John, had gone, no one knew
whither, with their cows, &c., to elude the "regulators." In the
afternoon, an Indian had approached the house of a person who was from home;
and had been driven off by his courageous wife, who threatened to shoot the
savage, if he crossed her threshold. Soon after sundown, a loud, shrill whistle
was heard on a height in the vicinity, and the dogs of the neighborhood were
very uneasy, and kept up a continual barking until late at night. Many went to
their doors several times during the evening, to ascertain, if possible, what
alarmed the dogs; but were unable to make any discovery. They finally went to
bed without being altogether satisfied that they would not have to leave their
couches without ceremony before morning.
Some time
in the night, an Indian entered the house of Robert Land, and noiselessly
proceeded to the room where one of his daughters was sleeping. He awoke her by
gently drawing the point of a spear, across the sole of one of her feet, which
he had uncovered.
A Tuscarora chief named Captain John had been
in the habit of visiting her father's house. Unlike the red man of the poet, he
was an inveterate wag, and had amused himself much in tormenting the girls of
the family, by playing all kinds of practical jokes upon them. Nothing
pleased him more than the ludicrous vexation of the victims of his wit, who,
half angry at being made the subjects of his mirth, could not help joining in
his boisterous laughter. Among the pranks which he played often, was that of
annoying persons who were asleep by "irritating" their noses, ears or
feet with a straw or feather.
When Miss
Land felt the point of the spear glide ever the bottom of her foot, half asleep
as she was, she supposed her old friend of the Tuscaroras was again teasing
her, and she exclaimed, as she opened eyes, "Captain John, is that
you?"
"Do
you know Captain John?" was the reply, in a voice with an Indian accent,
but which she could not recognize.
She had
presence of mind sufficient to reply, without appearing to be alarmed, that she
was very well acquainted with him.
Her unknown visitor then told her to get up,
dress herself as quickly as possible, and go to the neighboring families, and
tell them that the Indians had come. He then disappeared. She did what she was
directed to do by the unknown Indian; but it does not appear that she alarmed
her brothers and sister, who were sleeping in the same house. The name of the
friendly savage was never ascertained; and his mysterious conduct adds not a
little to the romantic character of our narrative.
We will
now follow
She
glided rapidly along a path which led to the river, trembling lest she should
encounter the savages, and starting in affright whenever she saw anything which
her imagination invested with a suspicious appearance. When she reached the
shore of the
Almost
wild with terror, she fled from the premises and ere she knew precisely what
she was doing or whither her footsteps tended, she found herself near the
residence of Mr. Conklin, (the father of the late Judge John Conklin) who lived
a short distance above Cochecton Falls. She at once alarmed the inmates of the
house, who soon procured a light, and found that her hands and dress were
smeared with blood. She told them what she had seen and heard, and staid with
them all night. None of them retired to bed again; but all remained awake until
the dawn of the next morning, and labored under the fear of a visit from the
Indians until it was prudent to go forth. The whole party then proceeded to
Kaine's house, where they found the entire family, including Flowers, murdered
and scalped in the most barbarous manner. The poor, ill-fated mother, it was
evident, was scalped while she was alive; for she had died in attempting to
dress herself, and a portion of her under clothes were partially drawn over her
head.
Oh,
After Mr.
Conklin and his companions had contemplated the bloody spectacle for some time
in horrified silence, they accompanied
Before
anything further was done, Mrs. Land and John returned. When the latter was
informed that his brother was taken prisoner by the Indians and tarried off, he
was sorely perplexed. He could not understand why his father's family should be
converted into targets at which both parties considered it their duty to fire,
and he could not readily determine what course to pursue for the purpose of
rescuing his unfortunate brother. He did not even know which way the Mohawks
had gone, until he had rallied all the friends of the family who were willing to
go with him to rescue Abel. Among them were a few Delaware Indians, with whose
whereabouts John was acquainted, and who told him which route the Mohawks had
adopted to return to their own country. With this information, John and his
party commenced pursuing the savage marauders, whom they overtook at the Quaga
after a very rapid march. When John encountered them, they were posted for
battle; but were not disposed to fight until they learned upon what errand the
whites were bound. The object of the latter was not to chastise the murderers
of the Kaine family, and perhaps it was not prudent to attempt it, as the
Mohawks were the most numerous, and had the choice of the ground. They simply
wished to have Abel delivered up to them, and to let his captors "depart
in peace."
Land
indicated to the adverse party that he was bound on a friendly errand, and
called for a "talk," the result of which was an agreement that Abel
should be restored to his friends; but that he should first run the gauntlet.
According to this agreement the Mohawks arranged themselves in a double column
facing inwards, and each armed with a club. Abel was placed at the end:
farthest from his friends, and was compelled to run between the columns toward
his brother's party, while each Indian had the privilege of striking him as he
passed. Abel had a famous pair of heels, and it is said he never exhibited them
to better advantage than on this occasion. Either because they were so
astonished at his speed that they forgot everything else, or because they were
not disposed to harm him after the explanation they had received concerning the
family, they did not, hurt him much. He passed through their ranks without
receiving more than half a dozen blows, and none of them were severe.
The two
parties then separated, one marching towards the Susquehanna, and the other towards the
When the
latter reached home, they proceeded to the house which contained the mangled
remains of Mrs. Kaine, her five little ones, and Mr. Flowers. The dead bodies
were gathered together, arrayed for the grave as decently as circumstances
would permit, and in due course of time were consigned to the dust.
Why the
Mohawks committed this shocking outrage, has never been explained to our satisfaction.
Their motive must ever remain an impenetrable—a horrid mystery. By some it is
supposed that Kaine himself was in the Indian country, and that he had sent the
savages to kill his whig neighbor, Mr. Conklin; but that, being unacquainted
with the locality, they mistook Kaine's house for Conklin's. This supposition,
however, seems to be based upon imagination. Speculation cannot assign a
plausible motive for the bloody deed.
Bryant
Kaine lived many years after the war. He no longer had a motive to court
prosperity. He wandered about from neighborhood to neighborhood in the valley
of the
The farm upon which Kaine settled is now owned by a man named Charles Young. The traveller, while he flies over it almost with the velocity of an arrow, and in a sumptuous car, seldom dreams that a tragedy such as we have faintly described occurred there in the olden time.
CHAPTER XXI.
"JOHN
In the
last preceding chapter, we alluded to Robert and John Land, in connexion with
the massacre of Bryant Kaine's family. We now propose to give a more extended,
though brief, account of them, so far as they were affected by the Revolution,
not because the family of Land occupied a more prominent place on the theatre
of that period than others who lived in the valley of the Delaware. Their
mishaps and adventures are but samples of the misfortunes and trials of others;
and we record them because we have been more fortunate in collecting
information concerning them than we have in our researches in regard to some
others.
Robert
Land settled near the mouth of the Cushetunk in 1768, with his family. He had
married a Miss Phebe Scott, and by this means became an uncle of General
Winfield Scott.
Mr. Land
was a tory in politics, and when the controversy between the colonies and the
mother country waxed so hot that blood began to flow pretty freely, the
Revolutionary committee of Minisink considered it prudent to have him and some
of his neighbors arrested, and placed where they could do no harm to the cause
of freedom. Before the determination of the committee could be carried into
effect, however, the obnoxious and proscribed individuals alluded to left
Cochecton, to elude the scouts who were coming up to arrest them. Land made his
way to the city of
After it
became known that the father had fled to the English army, and was probably
serving under the banner of John Bull, and laboring to subvert the liberty of
his country, several attempts were made to drive off his cattle. John, however,
was prudent and wary, and managed to take the cattle to some secret place in
the woods, whenever the scouts intended to pay him a visit.
In the
course time, John himself became obnoxious to the charge of being a tory,
whether justly or not we cannot say, although it is more than probable that
sympathy for his father, and the circumstances which were continually
transpiring, exercised a powerful influence in the formation of his opinions.
It was
decided that it was unsafe to let him be at large, and unlike some others, he
was not so fortunate as to escape the tory-detested scouts. He was arrested,
and taken to a prison in
When John
was taken away, the family left their home on the Cushetunk and proceeded to
New-York. They took the principal part of their house-hold goods to Big
Equinunk, and deposited them in a cleft of the rocks, where they were secure
from moisture, and where no one would be apt to find them, as the place of
deposit was of very difficult access. From Big Equinunk the family crossed by
the usual Indian path to Napanoch, and from thence to New-York, where they
remained until the British army evacuated the city, when, with the head of the
family and other tory refugees, they went to
John Land
lived in Cochecton many years after the war. He was a noted trapper, and
actually caught beaver enough, in a few months, on the Cushetunk and one or two
other streams, to pay for four hundred and thirty three acres of land, which,
thirty years afterwards, sold for ten thousand dollars.
Mrs. Land visited Cochecton after peace was declared, and told John where she had concealed her goods. He employed a man to go with him to the place, and assist in bringing them away. When they reached it, John was not disposed to risk his life by climbing up to the depository, and directed his assistant to do it. The fellow very readily obeyed. He ascended to the cleft, and when he reached the place where the goods were supposed to be, he reported that nothing was there, which induced John to go home without making any further search. He ascertained subsequently that he had been deceived, and actually found many of the articles which had formerly belonged to his mother in the possession of the person he had employed, or with those to whom he had given or sold them. Land recovered some of them, and "settled" with the dishonest fellow for the balance, by thrashing him severely with a raftman's withe.
CHAPTER XXII.
THERE were a number of transactions in the
vicinity of the
Brant's invasion of Minisink,
and the battle which ensued in what is now the town of
Count Pulaski had been stationed in Minisink with a battalion of cavalry; but in February previous to the battle, he was ordered to South Carolina.1 Minisink, which was one of the most exposed points of this region, was thus left to the mercy of the invader whenever he chose to make a descent upon it.
On
James Swartwout, whose father and brothers were killed the preceding year, again escaped narrowly. He was in the blacksmith shop with a negro, when he discovered the Indians close at hand. He at once crept up the chimney of the shop, while the negro remained below, not fearing the savages, knowing probably, that they would not harm him. When the Indians entered, they commenced throwing things about the premises, and selecting such as they fancied. Finally one of them went to the bellows, and began to blow the fire at a rate which proved very uncomfortable to Swartwout, who was nearly strangled with the smoke and the fumes of the burning charcoal, and had great difficulty in retaining his place in the chimney. The Indian became weary of the sport after a little, or was induced by the negro to go at something else. After they had gone off, Swartwout came down from his uncomfortable quarters and escaped.
A man named Rolif Cuddeback was pursued some distance into the woods by an Indian, and found it impossible to outstrip his pursuer. When nearly overtaken, he stopped suddenly and the Indian hurled a tomahawk at him, which, hitting a bush, missed its mark. Cuddeback at once grappled with the supple savage, and they had a furious battle with the weapons of nature. Both struggled for a knife which was in the Indian's belt; but which finally fell to the ground. Neither could safely stoop to pick it up, and so they continued to struggle for life or death in the natural way. Cuddeback was the most athletic of the two; but the savage had besmeared his limbs and body with grease, so that he could slip from Cuddeback's hands whenever the letter laid hold of him. Cuddeback, however, gave the red skin such a buffeting that, after a while, he was glad to beat a retreat. It is said that he never recovered from the rough handling he received from the white man; but died subsequently from the injuries inflicted by Cuddeback. The latter escaped.
Eager, in his history of
Col. Stone in his life of Brant says that no
sooner had the fugitives from Minisink arrived at
It was the opinion of some of the officers that the best way to attack the enemy was to fall upon them at night while they were encamped and asleep. This project was discussed at the council, but was finally abandoned because it was feared that in the confusion and uncertainty of a night attack, the Americans would be as apt to destroy each other as to kill the Indians.
Captain Tyler, who had some knowledge of the
woods, was sent forward at the head of a small scouting party to follow the
trail of the Indians, and to ascertain, if possible, their movements, as it was
evident that they could not be far in advance. The captain had proceeded but a
short distance before he fell from the fire of the unseen enemy. This
circumstance occasioned considerable alarm, but the volunteers nevertheless
pressed eagerly forward, sand it was not long before they emerged upon the
hills of the Delaware, in full view of that river, upon the eastern bank of
which, at a distance of three‑fourths of a mile, the Indians were seen
deliberately marching in the direction of a fording‑place at the mouth of
the Lackawaxen. This discovery was made at about
The determination was immediately formed by Colonel Hathorn to intercept the, enemy at the fording place, for which purpose instant dispositions were made. But, owing to intervening woods and hills, the opposing bodies soon lost sight of each other and an adroit movement on the part of Brant gave him an advantage which it was impossible for the Americans to regain. Anticipating the design of Hathorn, the moment the Americans were out of sight, Brant wheeled to the right, and by threading a ravine across which Hathorn had passed, threw himself into his rear, by which means he was enabled deliberately to select his ground for battle, and form an ambuscade. Disappointed at not finding the enemy, the Americans were brought to a stand, when the enemy disclosed himself partially, in a quarter altogether unexpected.3
The first shot was fired upon an Indian, who, as
the Americans came to the bank of the river, was crossing the
The belligerents soon engaged in deadly conflict; when, above the whooping and yelling of the savages, the hurrahs of the whites, and the reports of the fire arms, Brant was heard, in a voice which was never forgotten by those who were present, commanding all who were on the opposite side of the river with the plunder, to return. They at once dashed into the river, and soon fell upon the rear of the Americans, who were thus completely surrounded and hemmed in, except about one‑third of their number, whom Brant in the early part of the engagement had managed to cut off from the main body. The enemy were several tines greater in number than the militia, who were ultimately driven in and confined to about an acre of ground.
Being short of ammunition, Hathorn's orders, in
imitation of those of Putnam at
The battle commenced about
The militia were completely cut off from water, and suffered greatly during the day from thirst. About sunset their ammunition gave out, and the survivors endeavored to escape, breaking through the circle of blood‑thirsty savages. Many of them were cut down while making the attempt.
Dr. Tusten was engaged behind a cliff of rocks in
dressing the wounded when the retreat commenced. There were seventeen disabled
men under his care at the moment, whose cries for protection and mercy were of
the most moving description. The Indians fell upon them, however, and they all,
together with the doctor, perished under the tomahawk. Among the slain were
many of the first citizens of
One of the militia who escaped was so exhausted he could not run far. He followed in the direction his friends had taken, until he could go no further. He then got out of the path, near which he remained some time. In a little while he saw the Indians one after another running in the direction the whites had gone. None of them looked towards the place where he was, until finally a very powerful savage discovered him. The Indian's eye no sooner rested on him than the white man fired his last shot and fled. The Indian did not follow, and it was supposed he was killed or badly wounded. The name of the white man, we believe, was Cuddeback.
There was one, (Major Wood) who, during the battle, saved himself by means which Brant said were dishonorable. By some process or other, though not a freemason, he had acquired a knowledge of the master mason's grand hailing signal of distress; and having been informed that Brant was a member of the brotherhood, he gave the mystic sign. Faithful to his pledge, the chieftain interposed and saved his life. Discovering the imposture afterwards, he was very indignant. Still, he spared his life, and the prisoner ultimately returned to his friends after a long captivity.5
There is another reason given why Wood's life was spared by Brant. Eager says the sign was accidentally made by him, and further that on the evening after the battle, when Brant was about to tie him, lest he should escape, Wood remonstrated, and said he was a gentleman and promised not to escape. They did not tie him, but directed him to lay between two Indians, who informed him that if he attempted to escape they would tomahawk him. The blanket on which he slept caught fire during the night, and he dare not move from his position to extinguish it, lest he should experience the reality of the threat, and be tomahawked. At last the fire reached his feet, and he kicked it out. The blanket belonged to Brant. Wood was harshly treated by Brant ever after, and when asked the reason of his conduct, he said: "D—n you, you burnt my blanket." Wood resided in the county many years and was a very respectable citizen.
But we are of opinion, from all the circumstances of the case, that Wood was not a free mason, and from the reason of the enmity of Brant, as expressed in the above anecdote, that Wood was innocent of any fraud upon Brant, and that the suggestion was a slander.
Among the killed was Moses Thomas, 2d, a son of the gentleman of that name who was murdered by the savages near the block house in Cochecton. He was slain by a tory named Case Cole.6
For forty three years the bones of these victims
of savage warfare were permitted to bleach upon the bleak hill side where the
battle took place. But one attempt had been made to gather and bury them, and
that was made by the widows of the slain, of whom there were thirty‑three
in the Presbyterian congregation of
NORTH
Benj. Tusten—Col. Gabriel Wisner, Esq.
Bazaliel Tyler—Capt. Stephen Mead,
Ephraim Masten—Ens. Benjamin Vail—Capt.
Nathaniel Fitch—Adj. John Wood—Lieut.
John Duncan—Capt. Nathaniel Terwilliger,
Samuel Jones—Capt. Joshua Lockwood,
John Little—Capt. Ephraim Ferguson.
Ephraim Middaugh—Ens.
WEST
Rober Townsend, Joseph Norris,
Samuel Knapp, Gilbert S. Vail,
James Knapp, Joel Decker,
Benjamin Bennett, Abram Shepherd,
William Baker, —— Shepherd,
Jacob Dunning, Nathan Wade,
Jonathan Pierce, Simon Wait,
James Little, —— Talmage.
SOUTH
John Carpenter, Gamaliel Bailey,
David Barney, Moses Thomas,
Jonathan Haskell, Eleazer Owens,
Abram Williams, Adam Embler,
James Mosher, Samuel Little,
Isaac Ward, Benjamin Dunning,
Baltus Niepos, Daniel Reed.
EAST
Erected by the Inhabitants of
Sacred to the Memory of Forty‑four of Their
Fellow‑citizens, who Fell at
THE
CHAPTER XXIII.
ADVENTURE OF THE SANDBURGH.
We received the following from the lips of a man whose hair was silvered by the frosts of one hundred winters:
None liked to have them about. Women were always scared at the sight of them, and worried and fretted all the time they were in the neighborhood. The young ones, too, were uneasy, and when a red skin came along, they would run into the house or the bushes, holding on to their scalps, as if they expected to have their top‑knots cut off.
The Indians were not encouraged to come back, and very few would have anything to say to them, and those who did talk to them advised them to clear out.
A man had to go to
While my horse was eating his oats, three red skins came in. They had been wandering about on the Shawangunk, and seemed to be on their way back to their own country. As soon as they got into the bar room, the strange looking man spoken of began to talk to them. He spoke in an outlandish gibberish, which the Indians seemed to understand. They answered him with a few words, and seemed quite uneasy, eyeing him suspiciously, and edging off whenever he came near them.
After talking to them some time,
he offered them some rum; but they shook their heads, saying:
"Bad—bad." He then drank about a gill of rum himself, and sat down
the tumbler as if he meant to smash it. The landlord seemed to be frightened
all the time, and did not really seem to know what he was at. At last he told
the red skins they had better go, and they took their guns and went off up the
Sandburgh. As soon as they had got out of sight, the white man took another
large horn, and went after them. His gun, I remember, was an uncommon long one,
and the stock seemed to be nearly worn out. As soon as he had got out of the
tavern, the landlord groaned and said, "Lord have mercy on them poor
Indians!—that's
The tavern keeper went to the door and listened to find out whether anything happened in the direction the Indians had gone. After a while, guns were heard fired a great ways off; and then he returned into the bar room. I staid there two or three hours longer, and before I went away, Tom came back with the three guns the Indians had taken away. How he got them, you may imagine. Tom himself never threw any light on the subject, and the Indians were never seen afterwards.
Before I went away, the landlord charged me to say nothing of what I had seen, as it might bring the settlers into trouble with the Indians.
CHAPTER XXIV.
INDIAN STRATAGEM.
WHEN we first heard the following story, we somewhat hastily pronounced it altogether apocryphal. We have since found reason to believe that the main part of the story is true.
On the green banks of a western river a number of
Indians hail convened in council. Several of the choicest braves of the tribe
had disappeared, and none of their brethren knew their fate. They had gone from
time to time to hunt on the banks of the
A medicine man or prophet, who was regarded as an
extraordinary specimen of his kind, had been consulted; and, having called into
requisition all the skill of his art, he declared that the missing braves had
fallen victims to the rifle of Tom Quick, who yet haunted the forests of the
They knew that he was an unrelenting foe. They knew that he had sworn by the God of the pale face never to share any of their people as long as his Deity gave breath to his nostrils. They knew that he had murdered some of their friends after the calamut of peace had passed between the two races; and that he regarded no obligation save that which he had voluntarily taken to revenge the death of his father. And they believed that no red man, unless he possessed some powerful charm or medicine, could harm him, so often had they shot at him and failed to take his scalp.
The assembled braves gave ready evidence to the words of the prophet. They firmly believed that the missing men had fallen by the hand of Quick.
At the mention of his name, the usual stoical demeanor of the warriors changed. Revenge and hatred gleamed from their eyes. Each man grasped his tomahawk, his scalping knife or his rifle.
A brave whose only brother had disappeared with the others, sprang to his feet.