The Siege Of Fort Schuyler

All was terror in the valley of the Mohawk, for its fertile

fields and happy homes were threatened with the horrors of

Indian warfare. All New York State, indeed, was in danger.

The hopes of American liberty were in danger. The deadliest

peril threatened the patriotic cause; for General Burgoyne,

with an army of more than seven thousand men, was encamped

at St. John's, at the foot of Lake Champlain, prepared to
< r /> sweep down that lake and Lake George, march to the valley of

the upper Hudson, driving the feeble colonial forces from

his path, and by joining with a force sent up the Hudson

from New York City, cut off New England from the remaining

colonies and hold this hot-bed of rebellion at his mercy. It

was a well-devised and threatening scheme. How disastrously

for the royalists it ended all readers of history know. With

this great enterprise, however, we are not here concerned,

but with a side issue of Burgoyne's march whose romantic

incidents fit it for our pages.



On the Mohawk River, at the head of boat-navigation, stood a

fort, built in 1758, and named Fort Stanwix; repaired in

1776, and named Fort Schuyler. The possession of this fort

was important to General Burgoyne's plan. Its defence was of

vital moment to the inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley.

Interest for the time being centred round this outpost of

the then almost unbroken wilderness.



On one side Lieutenant-Colonel St. Leger was despatched, at

the head of seven hundred rangers, to sail up the St.

Lawrence and Lake Ontario to Oswego, and from that point to

march southward, rousing and gathering the Indians as he

went, capture Fort Schuyler, sweep the valley of the Mohawk

with the aid of his savage allies, and join Burgoyne at

Albany when his triumphant march should have reached that

point.



On the other side no small degree of haste and consternation

prevailed. Colonel Gansevoort had been placed in command at

the fort with a garrison of seven hundred and fifty men. But

he found it in a state of perilous dilapidation. Originally

a strong square fortification, with bomb-proof bastions,

glacis, covered way, and ditch outside the ramparts, it had

been allowed to fall into decay, and strenuous efforts were

needed to bring it into condition for defence.



Meanwhile, news of the coming danger had spread widely

throughout the Mohawk Valley, and everywhere the most lively

alarm prevailed. An Oneida Indian brought the news to the

fort, and from there it made its way rapidly through the

valley. Consternation was wide-spread. It was too late to

look for aid to a distance. The people were in too great a

panic to trust to themselves. That the rotten timbers of the

old fort could resist assault seemed very doubtful. If they

went down, and Brant with his Indians swept the valley, for

what horrors might they not look? It is not surprising

that, for the time, fear drove valor from almost every heart

in the imperilled region.



Up Lake Oneida came the enemy, now seventeen hundred strong,

St. Leger with his rangers having been joined by Johnson,

Butler, and Brant with their Tories and Indians. Every tribe

of the Iroquois had joined the invaders with the exception

of the Oneidas, who remained faithful to the colonists.



On the 2d of August, 1777, Brent with his savage followers

reached and invested the fort, the plumed and moccasined foe

suddenly breaking from the forest, and with their wild

war-whoops seeking to intimidate the beleaguered garrison.

On the next day came St. Leger with his whole force. On the

4th the siege commenced. Bombs were planted and threw their

shells into the fort; the Indians, concealed behind bushes

and trees, picked off with their arrows the men who were

diligently employed in strengthening the parapets; and

during the evening the savages, spreading through the woods,

sought, by frightful yells, to drive all courage from the

hearts of the defenders.



Meanwhile, aid was approaching. The valor of the patriots,

which fled at the first threat of danger, had returned. The

enemy was now almost at their doors; their helpless families

might soon be at the mercy of the ruthless savages; when

General Herkimer, a valiant veteran, called for recruits,

armed men flocked in numbers to his standard. He was

quickly at the head of more than eight hundred men. He sent

a messenger to the fort, telling Gansevoort of his approach,

and bidding him to discharge three signal-guns to show that

the tidings had reached him. His small army was called to a

halt within hearing of the guns of the fort, as he deemed it

the part of prudence to await the signal before advancing on

the foe.



Unfortunately for the brave Herkimer, his men, lately

over-timid, were now over-bold. His officers demanded to be

led at once to the fort. Two of them, Cox and Paris by name,

were impertinent in their demands, charging the veteran with

cowardice.



"I am placed over you as a father and guardian," answered

Herkimer, calmly, "and shall not lead you into difficulties,

from which I may not be able to extricate you."



But their importunities and taunts continued, and at length

the brave old man, angered by their insults, gave the word

"March on!" He continued, "You, who want to fight so badly

now, will be the first to run when you smell burnt powder."



On they marched, in tumultuous haste, and with the lack of

discipline of untrained militia. It was now August 6, two

days after the beginning of the siege. Indian scouts lurked

everywhere in the forest, and the movements of the patriot

army were closely watched. St. Leger was informed of their

near approach, and at once took steps to intercept their

advance.



Heedless of this, and of the cautious words of their

commander, the vanguard pressed hastily on, winding along

the road, and at length entering a deep curving ravine, over

whose marshy bottom the road way was carried by a causeway

of earth and logs. The borders of the ravine were heavily

timbered, while a thick growth of underwood masked its

sloping sides.



Utterly without precaution, the militia pushed forward into

this doubtful passage, until the whole body, with the

exception of the rear-guard, had entered it. Behind them

came the baggage-wagons. All was silent, unnaturally silent,

for not even the chirp of a squirrel nor the rustle of a

prowling ground-animal broke the stillness. The fort was not

far distant. The hurrying provincials hoped soon to join

their beleaguered friends.



Suddenly, from the wooded hill to the west, around which the

ravine curved in a semicircle, rose a frightful sound,--the

Indian war-whoop from hundreds of savage throats. Hardly had

it fallen on the startled ears of the patriots when the

sharp crack of musketry followed, and leaden missiles were

hurled into the crowded ranks. Arrows accompanied them, and

spears and tomahawks came hurtling through the air hurled

with deadly aim.



The patriot army had fallen into a dangerous ambuscade.

Herkimer's prediction was fulfilled. The rear-guard, on

hearing the warlike sounds in front, turned in panic flight,

leaving their comrades to their fate. No one can regret to

hear that they were pursued by the Indians, and suffered

more than if they had stood their ground.



As for the remainder of the force, flight was impossible.

They had entered a trap. It was fight or fall. Bullets,

arrows, war-axes hurtled through their ranks. Frightful

yells still filled the air. Many fell where they stood.

Herkimer was severely wounded, his horse being killed and

his own leg shattered. But, with a composure and cool

courage that have rarely been emulated, he ordered the

saddle to be taken from his horse and placed against a large

beech-tree near by. Here seated, with his men falling and

the bullets of the enemy whistling perilously near, he

steadily gave his orders while many of those who had called

him coward were in full flight. During the heat of the

action he took his tinder box from his pocket, calmly

lighted his pipe, and sat smoking as composedly as though by

his own fireside. A striking spectacle, that old man,

sitting in the midst of hottest battle, with the life blood

oozing from his shattered leg, smoking and giving his orders

with the quiet composure of one on dress-parade! It is one

of the most imposing pictures in the portrait-gallery of

American history.



The battle went on. If it was to be fight or fall, the brave

frontiersmen decided it should be fight. Great confusion

reigned at first, but courage soon returned, and though men

fell in numbers, the survivors stood their ground like

veterans. For nearly an hour the fierce affray continued.

The enemy surrounded the provincials on all sides, and were

pressing step by step closer. The whole force might have

been slain or captured, but for a wise suggestion of one of

their number and an admirable change in their line of

battle. Each small group was formed into a circle, and thus

they met the enemy at all points. This greatly increased

their defensive powers. So destructive now became their fire

that the British soldiers rushed upon them in rage, seeking

to break their line by a bayonet charge. They were boldly

met, and a hand-to-hand death-struggle began.



At this moment a heavy thunder-peal broke from the darkening

skies. Down poured the rain in drenching showers. Lightning

filled the air. Crash after crash of thunder rolled through

the sky. Checked in their blood-thirst by the fury of the

elements, the combatants hastily separated and ran for the

shelter of the trees, vanquished by water where fire had

failed to overcome their rage.



The affair so far had not been unlike that of Braddock's

defeat, some twenty years before. But these were American

militia, not British regulars, frontiersmen who knew too

much of Indian fighting to stand in their ranks and be shot

down. They had long since taken to the trees, and fought the

savages in their own way. To this, perhaps, may be ascribed

the difference in result from that of the Braddock fight.



After the rain, the patriots gained better ground and

adopted new and useful tactics. Before, when the Indians

noticed a shot from behind a tree, they would rush forward

and tomahawk the unlucky provincial before he could reload.

But now two men were placed behind each tree, so that when

the whooping savage sprang forward with his tomahawk a

second bullet was ready to welcome him. The fire from the

American side now grew so destructive that the Indians began

to give way.



A body of Johnson's Greens came up to their support. These

were mostly loyalist refugees from the Mohawk Valley, to

whom the patriot militia bore the bitterest enmity.

Recognizing them, the maddened provincials leaped upon them

with tiger-like rage, and a hand-to-hand contest began, in

which knives and bayonets took the place of bullets, and the

contest grew brutally ferocious.



At this moment a firing was heard in the direction of the

fort. New hope sprung into the hearts of the patriots. Was

aid coming to them from the garrison? It seemed so, indeed,

for soon a body of men in Continental uniform came marching

briskly towards them. It was a ruse on the part of the enemy

which might have proved fatal. These men were Johnson

Green's disguised as Continentals. A chance revealed their

character. One of the patriots seeing an acquaintance among

them, ran up to shake hands with him. He was seized and

dragged into their ranks. Captain Gardenier, perceiving

this, sprang forward, spear in hand, and released his man;

but found himself in a moment engaged in a fierce combat, in

which he killed two of his antagonists and wounded another,

but was himself seriously hurt.



"For God's sake, captain," cried some of the militia, "you

are killing our own men!"



"They are not our own men, they are Tories!" yelled back

the captain. "Fire away!"



Fire they did, and with such deadly effect that numbers of

the disguised Tories fell, and nearly as many Indians. In an

instant the battle was violently raging again, with roar of

rifles, clash of steel, yells of combatants, and the wild

war-whoops of the savages.



But the Indians by this time had enough of it. The stubborn

defence of the provincials had sadly thinned their ranks,

and seeing the Tories falling back, they raised their cry of

retreat, "Oonah! Oonah!" and at once broke and fled. The

Tories and regulars, dismayed by their flight, quickly

followed, the bullets of the provincials adding wings to

their speed.



Thus ended one of the hottest and most deadly, for the

numbers engaged, of the battles of the Revolution. Of the

provincials, less than half of them ever saw their homes

again. The loss of the enemy was probably still heavier.

General Herkimer died ten days after the battle. The

militia, despite the well-laid ambuscade into which they had

marched, were the victors, but they had been so severely

handled that they were unable to accomplish their design,

the relief of the fort.



As for the garrison, they had not been idle during the

battle. The sound of the combat had been borne to their

ears, and immediately after the cessation of the rain

Colonel Willett made a sally from the fort, at the head of

two hundred and fifty men. The camp of the enemy had been

depleted for the battle, and the sortie proved highly

successful. The remnants of Johnson's regiment were soon

driven from their camp. The Indian encampment beyond was

demolished, its savage guards flying in terror from "the

Devil," by which expressive name they called Colonel

Willett. Wagons were hurried from the fort, camp equipage,

British flags, papers, and the effects of the officers

loaded into them, and twenty-one loads of this useful spoil

triumphantly carried off. As the victorious force was

returning, Colonel St. Leger appeared, with a strong body of

men, across the river, just in time to be saluted by a

shower of bullets, the provincials then retiring, without

the loss of a man. The setting sun that day cast its last

rays on five British standards, displayed from the walls of

the fort, with the stars and stripes floating proudly above

them. The day had ended triumphantly for the provincials,

though it proved unsuccessful in its main object; for the

fort was still invested, and the rescuing force were in no

condition to come to its aid.



The investment, indeed, was so close that the garrison knew

nothing of the result of the battle. St. Leger took

advantage of this, and sent a white flag to the fort with

false information, declaring that the relief-party had been

annihilated, that Burgoyne had reached and captured Albany,

and that, unless the fort was surrendered, he could not much

longer restrain the Indians from devastating the valley

settlements with fire and tomahawk.



This story Gansevoort did not half believe, and answered

the messenger with words of severe reprobation for his

threat of an Indian foray.



"After you get out of this fort," he concluded, "you may

turn around and look at its outside, but never expect to

come in again, unless as a prisoner. Before I would consent

to deliver this garrison to such a murdering set as your

army, by your own account, consists of, I would suffer my

body to be filled with splinters and set on fire, as you

know has at times been practised by such hordes of women-and

children-killers as belong to your army."



After such a message there was no longer question of

surrender, and the siege was strongly pushed. The enemy,

finding that their guns had little effect on the sod-work of

the fort, began a series of approaches by sapping and

mining. Colonel Gansevoort, on his part, took an important

step. Fearing that his stock of food and ammunition might

give out, he determined to send a message to General

Schuyler, asking for succor.



Colonel Willet volunteered for this service, Lieutenant

Stockwell joining him. The night chosen was a dark and

stormy one. Shower followed shower. The sentinels of the

enemy were not likely to be on the alert. Leaving the fort

at the sally-port at ten o'clock, the two messengers crept

on hands and knees along a morass till they reached the

river. This they crossed on a log, and entered a dense wood

which lay beyond. No sentinel had seen them. But they lost

their way in the darkness, and straggled on blindly until

the barking of a dog told them that they were near an Indian

camp.



Progress was now dangerous. Advance or retreat alike might

throw them into the hands of the savage foe. For several

hours they stood still, in a most annoying and perilous

situation. The night passed; dawn was at hand; fortunately

now the clouds broke the morning-star shone in the east, and

with this as a guide they resumed their journey. Their

expedition was still a dangerous one. The enemy might strike

their trail in the morning light. To break this they now and

then walked in the bed of a stream. They had set out on the

night of the 10th. All day of the 11th they pushed on, with

a small store of crackers and cheese as their only food.

Another night and day passed. On the afternoon of the 12th,

nearly worn out with hardship, they reached the settlement

of the German Flats. Here horses were procured, and they

rode at full speed to General Schuyler's head-quarters at

Stillwater.



Schuyler had already heard of Herkimer's failure, and was

laying plans for the relief of the fort. His purpose was

opposed by many of his officers, who were filled with fear

of the coming of Burgoyne. Schuyler was pacing the floor in

anxious thought when he heard the low remark,--



"He means to weaken the army."



Schuyler turned towards the speaker, so angry that he bit

into pieces a pipe he was smoking, and exclaimed,--



"Gentlemen, I shall take the responsibility; where is the

brigadier that will take command of the relief? I shall beat

up for volunteers to-morrow."



General Arnold, one of the boldest and most impulsive men in

the army, immediately asked for the command. The next

morning the drums beat, and before noon eight hundred

volunteers were enrolled. Arnold at once advanced, but,

feeling that his force was too weak, stopped at Fort Dayton

till reinforcements could reach him.



And now occurred one of the most striking events in the

history of the war, that of the defeat of an invading army

by stratagem without sight of soldier or musket. It is to be

told from two points of view, that of the garrison, and that

of the army of relief. As regards the garrison, its

situation was becoming critical. St. Leger's parallels were

approaching the fort. The store of provisions was running

low. Many of the garrison began to hint at surrender,

fearing massacre by the Indians should the fort be taken by

assault. Gansevoort, despairing of further successful

resistance, had decided upon a desperate attempt to cut

through the enemy's lines. Suddenly, on the 22d, there came

a sudden lull in the siege. The guns ceased their fire;

quick and confused movements could be seen; there were signs

of flight. Away went the besiegers, Indians and whites

alike, in panic disarray, and with such haste that their

tents, artillery, and camp equipage were left behind. The

astonished garrison sallied forth to find not a foeman in

the field, yet not a sign to show what mysterious influence

had caused this headlong flight. It was not from the face

of an enemy, for no enemy was visible, and the mystery was

too deep for the garrison to fathom.



To learn the cause of this strange event we must return to

Arnold and his stratagem. He had, on learning the peril of

the fort, been about to advance despite the smallness of his

force, when an opportunity occurred to send terror in

advance of his march. There were in his hands several Tory

prisoners, among them an ignorant, coarse, half-idiotic

fellow named Hon-Yost Schuyler, who had been condemned to

death for treason. His mother pleaded for his life, casting

herself on her knees before Arnold, and imploring for her

son with tears and entreaties. She found him at first

inexorable, but he changed his tone and appeared to soften

as a fortunate idea came to his mind.



Her son's life should be spared, but upon conditions. These

were, that he should go to Fort Schuyler and, by stories of

the immense force upon the march, endeavor to alarm St.

Leger. Hon-Yost readily consented, leaving his brother as a

hostage in Arnold's hands.



The seemingly foolish fellow was far from being an idiot.

Before leaving the camp he had several bullet-holes shot

through his coat. He arranged also with a friendly Oneida

Indian to follow and confirm his tale. Thus prepared, he set

out for St. Leger's camp. Reaching it, he ran breathlessly

among the Indians, seemingly in a state of terror. Many of

the savages knew him, and he was eagerly questioned as to

what had happened.



The Americans were coming, he replied; numbers of them,

hosts of them; he had barely escaped with his life; he had

been riddled with bullets. He pointed to his coat in

evidence. How many were there? he was asked. Hon-Yost, in

reply, shook his head mysteriously, and pointed to the

leaves on the trees.



His seeming alarm communicated itself to the Indians. They

had been severely dealt with at Oriskany. The present siege

dragged on. They were dissatisfied. While the chiefs debated

and talked of flight, the Oneida appeared with several

others of his tribe whom he had picked up on the way. These

told the same story. A bird had brought them the news. The

valley was swarming with soldiers. The army of Burgoyne had

been cut to pieces, said one. Arnold had three thousand men,

said another. Others pointed to the leaves, as Hon-Yost had

done, and meaningly shook their heads.



The panic spread among the Indians. St. Leger stormed at

them; Johnson pleaded with them; but all in vain. Drink was

offered them, but they refused it. "The pow-wow said we must

go," was their answer to every remonstrance, and go they

did.



"You said there would be no fighting for us Indians," said a

chief. "We might go down and smoke our pipes. But many of

our warriors have been killed, and you mean to sacrifice us

all."



Oaths and persuasions proved alike useless. The council

broke up and the Indians took to flight. Their panic

communicated itself to the whites. Dropping everything but

their muskets, they fled in terror for their boats on Oneida

Lake, with such haste that many of them threw away arms and



knapsacks in their mad flight.



The Indians, who had started the panic, grew merry on seeing

the wild terror of their late allies. They ran behind them,

shouting, "They are coming, they are coming!" and thus added

wings to their flight. They robbed, stripped, and even

killed many of them, plundered them of their boats, and

proved a more formidable foe than the enemy from whom they

fled.



Half-starved and empty-handed, the whites hurried to Oswego

and took boat on the lake for Montreal, while their Indian

allies, who had proved of more harm than good, went merrily

home to their villages, looking upon the flight as a

stupendous joke.



When Arnold, hearing of what had happened, hurried to the

fort, the enemy had utterly vanished, except a few whom

Gansevoort's men had brought in as prisoners. Hon-Yost soon

came back, having taken the first opportunity to slip away

from the flying horde. He had amply won his pardon.



Thus ended the siege of Fort Schuyler; in its way,

considering the numbers engaged, the most desperate and

bloody struggle of the Revolution, and of the greatest

utility as an aid to the subsequent defeat of Burgoyne. As

regards its singular termination, it is without parallel in

the history of American wars. Hon-Yost had proved himself

the most surprising idiot on record.