The allied forces of Butler and Brant captured thirty or forty prisoners in Cherry Valley, but they could not seize the fort, which was well defended by numerous frontiersmen. So marching off with the plunder which they had collected, they soon were back in their own territory. The women and children whom they had captured were exchanged next year for British prisoners among the Americans, but in 1778 Brant and Sir William Johnson again advanced through the Schoharie and Mohawk Valleys, on a campaign of destruction, plunder, and revenge. Burgoyne's army had been defeated. Stout, courageous old Herkimer had died of his wounds after the bloody battle of the Oriskanay, but the English cause was not dead by any means, and the Indians were still upon the warpath.
The English, Senecas and Mohawks numbered sixteen hundred men, and, as they marched into Wyoming Valley, the people took refuge in a structure known as "Forty Fort," while the old men, boys, and a few veteran soldiers who were home on furlough marched out to meet the invaders. The Americans were well armed, were led by an excellent officer, and were fighting for the protection of their homes. Before the opening of the battle, strong spirits were distributed among the defenders, and as a number of the frontiersmen indulged too freely in whiskey and brandy, it helped to defeat the patriot force. The battle opened with irregular firing, but soon steady volleys were being poured into the invaders by the Americans. The British gave way as the Yankee troops advanced, but in the heat of the fray several orders were misunderstood, and the line became confused. At this crisis Johnson ordered a charge of his Indians. With a wild, blood-curdling screech, they precipitated themselves upon the defenders of Wyoming, and soon, in hopeless rout, the Americans were broken into shreds. They were struck down right and left and tomahawked as they fell. The fort itself was next in the hands of the Tories and Indians, who, on a promise that no one would be harmed if they surrendered, gained an entrance to their stout defense. The women and children inside were tomahawked with ruthless slaughter, and with wild yells of delight the followers of Johnson and Brant danced around the hapless victims of war.
Unwilling to trust themselves to the plighted word of a Tory or Indian, some of the patriots plunged into the forest and made their way to the American settlements on the Upper Delaware. Many died of starvation on the way. The woods through which they went have been thus called "The Shades of Death," for, as they plunged onward to Stroudsburg and other havens of safety, in their ears rang the loud screams of their wives and children, while on their brains were engraved the awful sight of burning houses, murdered patriots and wild savages dancing in their warpaint. The massacre of Wyoming was one of the most fiendish in the annals of border fighting.
Brant was now known as the Monster. Historians have stated that he was not engaged in this campaign, and that the Indians were Senecas and not Mohawks. At any rate, he was near the scene of slaughter, for, four months later, he was in a foray into Cherry Valley. In a massacre during this raid a man named Major Wood was about to be killed, when, either by accident or design, he made a Masonic signal, although he did not belong to this order. When Brant saw it, he exclaimed:
"Brother! you shall not die. I am a Mason and will protect you." So he stayed the tomahawk and set the fellow free. It is said that the captive felt under obligations to join the order immediately after his release from the clutches of the hostile Indians.
The summer of 1779 had now come. The Colonists had regained their courage and were determined to put an end to these Indian invasions. So, placing General Sullivan in command of their outposts, they allowed him to strike the Indians in his own manner. This able soldier, dividing his army into three divisions, advanced into the land of the Senecas and Mohawks. His left moved from Pittsburg under Colonel Broadhead; his right from the Mohawk River under General James Clinton, while he, himself, led the centre from Wyoming. Sullivan met the English and Indians under Brant, where now stands the city of Elmira, New York. The Americans outnumbered the enemy and attacked with fury. The Indians fought courageously, but they could not stem the rush of the Colonials, who wished to revenge the massacre of Wyoming. The Mohawks, Iroquois and Senecas were killed by the hundreds. So many fell that the sides of the rocks next to the river appeared as if blood had been poured over them by pailfuls. And soon seeing that all was lost, the Indian warriors fled from their fertile country, leaving their territory with its populous and well-laidout villages, its vast fields of waving grain, and its magnificent orchards, to be destroyed by the patriots.
More than forty villages were laid in ruins. The famous apple orchards were cut down, and these were the product of the toil and care of generations of Iroquois. "Alas," said one old Mohawk brave. "A wigwam can be built in two or three days, but a tree takes many years to grow again." So great, indeed, was the destruction that a peace party arose among the Indians, led by the famous Red Jacket. With great eloquence he spoke of the folly of war, which they had fought for the English, and for which they had been driven from their beautiful valley. "What have the English ever done for us," he exclaimed, "that we should become homeless and helpless wanderers for their sakes?" So strong, indeed, was this appeal that secretly it was determined to send a runner to the American army in order to gain peace at any terms.
When Brant heard of this, he summoned two Mohawk warriors to his camp. "This runner must never reach the camp of the Americans," he cried. "See that he dies on the way!" So the expectant Senecas and other malcontents waited in vain for the answering message from Sullivan and his men. A reply to their proposals never came, for the bearer of their words of resignation was lying behind some great rock in the forest with a tomahawk in his brain.
In October, 1780, the Mohawks had so greatly regained their courage that with the assistance of Tory troops, under Butler, they again descended upon the settlements of the Mohawk Valley. Houses and barns were burned; horses and cattle were either killed or driven off, and those who did not fly to the protection of the stockade were tomahawked. As the Americans pushed through the woods one day, nine stout English soldiers were running through the brush. It was fairly dark, and when they suddenly heard a stern voice cry, "Lay down your arms," they were suddenly aware that they had run into the enemy. Fearing that Sullivan himself was there, they all threw down their arms and capitulated. They were securely bound and led off to a little blockhouse, where, as day dawned they found, to their chagrin, that their captors were seven militiamen of the American army.