The next day the body of the murdered girl was found near a spring, pierced with three bullets. An Indian came into camp with a scalp, which Mrs. McNeil recognized as that of her friend by its black, silky hair, more than a yard long.
There was nothing unusual about the murder, for it was only one of many such. The deed has, however, been woven into song and story, which have been repeated with endless variations in detail for more than six-score years. The name "Jenny McCrea" became a watchword to the stout and resolute farmers who were hastening from far and near to the scene of action.
189. Burgoyne gets his First Hard Blow; Desperate Fighting in the Mohawk Valley.—The first hard blow Burgoyne received came from the west. Colonel St. Leger, as we remember, was marching with seventeen hundred men down the Mohawk Valley. He came to a stronghold called Fort Stanwix, and ordered its commander, Colonel Gansevoort, to surrender. The demand met with a pointed refusal, and the British began a regular siege.
Herkimer directing the Battle.
Everywhere through this beautiful valley was great excitement. General Herkimer, a militia officer over sixty years of age, a thorough master of Indian warfare, was a man of might in this section. Eight hundred hardy pioneers of this frontier region rallied at the veteran's call and marched with him to the relief of the fort. The younger officers would not listen to the old general's advice to move with caution.
"You," said the old patriot, stung by their taunts, "you, who want to fight so badly now, will be the first to run when you smell burnt powder."
There was not a proper advance guard, and the men fell into an ambush of the Tories and their Indian allies on the steep slope of a ravine, near a place called Oriskany. A desperate fight began hand to hand and from tree to tree. The worst thunderstorm of the season put an end to the battle for about an hour.
Herkimer was shot in the leg in the early part of the encounter. He was lifted from his fallen horse and placed, at his own request, upon his saddle, propped against a beech tree. The old soldier lighted his pipe, and though the bullets were whistling about him, and men were falling thick and fast within a few yards, he coolly continued to direct the battle, giving his orders calmly, as if on a parade ground. Through the leafy depths of the forest rang the clashing of steel, the crack of rifle, and, above all, the hideous yells of the savages. Suddenly the Indians raised the retreating cry of "Oonah!" and in an instant they were gone! The desperate fighting was too much for the Tories, and they too fled, leaving the patriots in possession of the hard-earned field.
Thus was fought one of the most hotly contested and, for the numbers engaged, one of the deadliest of the Revolutionary battles. No quarter was given on either side. Of the eight hundred men under Herkimer that fought on that sultry August day, only about a third ever saw their homes again.