As Herkimer's rough followers came slowly through the dense woodland, they little suspected that the Mohawks and Iroquois were crouching there before them, eager and ready to precipitate themselves upon their straggling line. The Americans were even singing, so secure did they feel, and some stopped at the stream to drink. The main body, however, pushed into the clearing beyond, and all had crossed, except the wagon train and the rear guard, when, with a blood-curdling yell, the followers of Brant rushed to their rear so as to stop their retreat across the bridge, and began to pour a murderous fire into the startled Americans.
"Drop to the ground, men," shouted old Herkimer. "Fight the devils from behind the trees. Make every bullet count, and never give in!"
His counsel was only too much needed, for at the first Indian volley every American in the advance guard had been killed. The rest, crouching low upon the sod, took deliberate aim at the yelping Mohawks, and soon held them at bay. Again and again the frontiersmen attempted to get through the hostile line. Again and again they were driven back. A bullet struck grim Herkimer's steed and knocked him to the ground. Another hit the dauntless frontiersman in the leg and splintered the bone. But in spite of the pain in his wound he crawled to a tree, propped himself against it with his face to the enemy, and coolly taking out his tinder box, lighted his pipe. "Pray take yourself to the rear and out of harm's way," cried one of his aids when he saw the bullets crashing around his commander. "No, I will not move," said old Herkimer, with calm decision. "An American general always faces the enemy. Place two of our men behind each tree, for I note that when one man is alone the red devils run in and tomahawk him, after he has discharged his musket. Tell one of them to always reserve his load until after the first one has fired. That will keep old neighbor Brant in check."
The fight had now lasted about an hour, and the Americans were holding their own against the British and Indians, whose wild yells and warwhoops did not inspire them with much terror. But suddenly a tremendous thunder shower burst upon the struggling masses of humanity, and deep roars of the elements, fierce flashes of lightning, and ominous crashings of branches put an end to hostilities. The frightful raging of the storm drowned the yelping and groaning of the combatants. A deluging flood of water poured from the inky clouds, wetting the powder of both Indians and whites, and rendering many of the guns useless. The Indians were awed by the frightful noise of the elements, and, in sullen rage, the dark warriors of Joseph Brant withdrew from the firing line to a safe distance. The Americans, meanwhile, took a more advantageous position and waited with confidence for the renewal of the fight. Their wagons were wheeled in a circle and they crouched by them, determined that death would overtake them before they would surrender.
When the storm subsided, the Mohawks again rushed into the fray, assisted by some soldiers from Johnson Hall, called Johnson's Greens. These men were all neighbors of Herkimer's Americans, and as they came on, those who favored the cause of the Colonies could not resist the temptation to attack their former companions with fixed bayonets. The Greens stood their ground, until, with clubbed muskets, the Americans beat them to earth, while some, in deadly embrace, rolled upon the sod and were shot to death by the Indian warriors. The fighting was furious. Fierce shouts rose above the crack of the muskets, while above the sound of the struggling men could be heard the calm voice of old Herkimer, saying:
"Be cool, boys, be cool. But lick 'em for the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress."
Thus continued the fierce battling in the wildwood, when, suddenly, hoarse cheers arose from the Americans, as with a rattle and roar two hundred men from the garrison at Fort Stanwix burst through the forest and precipitated themselves upon the British and Indians. A wild yell went up as the New Yorkers drove the Indians back, and with a sudden rush broke the English formation. In disorganization and confusion, the allied forces of invasion now withdrew, while, with loud yelps of hatred, the followers of Joseph Brant also made off into the gloom of the deep wood. The baggage and provisions of the English were soon in the hands of the victorious Americans, while several of their battle flags were seized by the hardy frontiersmen from the valley of the Mohawk. Surprise, temporary defeat, and disorganization had been turned into a victory for the grim-visaged followers of old Herkimer. The battle of the Oriskanay had ended in repulse for the invaders.
Brant was now the most detested man in the border. Those who had before been friendly to him prayed for an opportunity to dispatch this venomous Indian. But in spite of his evil reputation, he always denied that he had ever committed any act of cruelty during this savage war, and none has been proven against him, while many stories of his mercy are well authenticated. When Indians were accused of brutality, Brant would reply that the whites sometimes excelled the savages in revengeful barbarity. He defended the Indian mode of warfare, saying that the savages had neither the artillery, the numbers, nor the prisons of the white men, and that, as their forces were small, they had to use stratagem in order to win.
In the summer of 1778—when every frontiersman was in danger and all trembled for their lives—a boy named William McKoun was one day raking hay alone in a field. Turning suddenly around, he saw an Indian near by, and raising his hayrake for protection, cried out: