The Women of The American Revolution, Vol. 2

by E. F. Ellet

Halleck.

Vain was the bravery of that little band—the population of the valley having been drained of its strength to supply the continental army—to stem the fury of the tories and savages, gathering strength with success, till it swept in a tempest of blood and fire over their devoted homes. Their gallant deeds—their fate—have been told in song and story.

The wives and daughters of Wyoming deserve to share in the tribute due to their unfortunate defenders. While the men were engaged in public service they had cheerfully assumed such a portion of the labor as they could perform; had tilled the ground to plant and make hay, husked and garnered the corn, and assisted in manufacturing ammunition. *

* Miner's History of Wyoming, page 212, etc. See this work for notices of the women.

They, too, were marked out for the enemy's vengeance, and were victims in the scene of carnage and horror. Dreadful was the suspense in which they awaited, with their children, the event of the battle; and when the news was brought in the night—warned that instant flight would be their only means of escape, they fled in terrified confusion, without clothes or food—looking back only to behold "the light of burning plains," repressing their groans for fear of Indians in ambush, and fortunate if they escaped butchery—to implore the aid of strangers in a distant land. Many an aged matron, after the lapse of half a century, "could tell you where the foot of battle stepped, upon the day of massacre;" for the spot was marked by the blood of her nearest and dearest.

A nearer view may be given by the mention of one or two instances among the sufferers. Two sons of Esther Skinner, in the flower of early manhood, went forth to the desperate conflict of that day, and were seen no more by their widowed mother. A young man who afterwards married her daughter—one of the twenty who was saved—related an incident of his escape. "Driven to the brink of the river, he plunged into the water for safety, and swam to a small island. Here, immersed in water, protected by the bushes at the water's edge, and screened by the darkness of night, he happily eluded the search of the pursuing foe, thirsting for blood; while about twenty of his companions, who had retreated to the same spot, were all massacred within a few yards of him. He heard the dismal strokes of the tomahawk, and the groans of the dying, expecting every moment himself to become the next victim. One savage foot trod upon the very bush to which he clung. A solitary individual besides himself was left, at the departure of the savages, to weep with him over the mangled bodies of their friends." **

** Extract from a sermon preached at the funeral of Esther Skinner, 1831.

Mrs. Skinner was in the company of women who fled amid the horrors of the conflagration. With her six surviving children, the youngest but five years of age, she hastened to the water-side, where boats were prepared for their conveyance down the river. The little ones, half destitute of clothing, "were ready to cry with the anguish of their bruised and lacerated feet; but the chidings of the wary mother, and the dread of being heard by the lurking savage, repressed their weeping, and made them tread in breathless silence their painful way."

The widow's little property plundered, her home in ashes, her husband buried, and her eldest son lying mangled on the field of battle, her thoughts were turned towards the land of her birth, formidable as the journey was on foot, with six helpless children, and without money, clothes, or provisions. Her way lay in part through Dutch settlements, where she could only by signs tell the story of her sufferings, or make known her wants. The tale of woe, however, swifter in its flight, had spread far and wide, and she received many kindnesses from the people of a strange language. Sometimes, indeed, she was refused admission into their houses; "but," she would add in her narration, "they had nice barns, with clean straw, where my children lodged very comfortably." After travelling one hundred miles by water, and nearly three hundred by land, she arrived in safety at the place of her former residence in Connecticut; where, having survived all her children but one, she died in 1831, in the hundredth year of her age.

Mrs. Myers was one of the crowd who resorted to Forty Fort, and was about sixteen years old at the time of the massacre. Her maiden name was Bennett, and her father's family stood conspicuous among the patriots of that day. A relative, Mrs. Bennett, was living in 1845, at the age of eighty-three, and though blind, was one of the clearest chroniclers of the scenes witnessed in her eventful youth. Whether she was the "woman, withered, gray, and old," with whom the poet conversed, sitting and smoking—as he says, in her chimney-corner—is uncertain; for she was not the only one who had a lively recollection of those times. Mrs. Myers had even preserved the table on which had been signed the terms of capitulation, and repeated the conversation between Colonel Denison and Colonel Butler, overheard by herself and another girl on a seat within the Fort; with Butler's acknowledgment of his inability to check the savages in their plunder and slaughter of the inhabitants. At one time the Indians, to show their power, came into the fort. One took the hat from Colonel Denison's head, and another demanded his frock. The savage raised his tomahawk menacingly, and the Colonel was obliged to yield; but seeming to find difficulty in taking off the garment, he stepped back to where the young women were sitting. The girl who sat by Miss Bennett was an inmate of his family—understanding the movement, she took from the pocket of the frock a purse, which she hid under her apron. The frock was then delivered to the Indian, and the town money thus saved; for the purse, containing a few dollars, was the whole military chest of Wyoming.