In the Days of Washington: A Story of the American Revolution

by William Murray Graydon

The American right was now hotly engaged with the Senecas and Rangers, and soon the fight was waging along the entire line. On both sides the dead and wounded increased, and as the Indian sharpshooters fired they uttered fearful and hideous yells. Nathan was surprised at his own coolness. He loaded and fired like an old soldier, never pulling trigger until he had a bead drawn on a foe. Some of the men on the left began to waver as their comrades fell about them, but a few words from Colonel Dorrance had the effect of closing the broken line up.

For half an hour the battle went on, growing warmer and warmer. As yet Nathan was unhurt, and so far as he could tell his friends had fared as fortunately. Animated by the hope of victory, the Americans displayed the utmost valor and bravery. But now, alas! the enemy began to show the power that superior numbers gave them. A large force of Indians was thrown into the swamp, thus completely outflanking the left of the patriot line. Seeing the danger, Colonel Denison ordered Whittlesey to wheel his company at an angle with the main line, and thus present a front to the foe.

It is always difficult to perform such an evolution under a hot fire, and in this case the result was disastrous. No sooner had Captain Whittlesey's company made the attempt than the Indians rushed forward with blood-curdling yells. Some of the Americans understood the order to fall back on flank to mean a retreat, and by this fatal mistake the whole of the left line was thrown into confusion. A part stood their ground, and others fled in panic. Seeing the disorder and confusion here, and finding that his own men on the right were also beginning to give way, Colonel Zebulon Butler rode recklessly to and fro between the fires of the opposing ranks.

"Stand firm!" he cried in ringing tones. "Don't forsake me! Make a stand, my brave men, and the victory will yet be ours."

But it was too late. In vain did the daring commander harangue his men; in vain did his officers support him by words and actions, and the drummers beat the charge. The rout began—a rout that was too overwhelming and widespread to be checked. The right and left lines of the Americans fled in all directions, hotly pursued by the vengeful Tories and Indians. The crack of muskets and the dull crash of the tomahawk mingled with the shrieks of the dying and the yells of the victors. Stephen Whiton, a young schoolmaster, was butchered by the side of the man whose daughter he had just married. Darius Spofford, also lately married, fell dead in the arms of his brother Phineas. Every captain that led a company into action was slain. Bidlack, Hewitt, Whittlesey—all died at the head of their men.

And now, the battle over and the massacre begun, horror was piled on horror. There was little chance of escape for the fugitives. The flanking party of Indians pushed hastily to the rear to cut off the retreat to Forty Fort, and thus the wretched and panic-stricken settlers were driven in the direction of the river, over the open ground and through fields of uncut grain. Some few swam to Monockasy Island, which offered a temporary refuge. But many were speared and tomahawked at the water's edge, and others, shot while swimming, were borne away lifeless on the current. A man named Pensil, who had gained the island, was pursued there and slain by his own Tory brother. Lieutenant Shoemaker, as he plunged into the river, glanced over his shoulder to see a Tory named Windecker who had often dined at his table in past times. Swimming back to shore, he begged his old friend to protect him. The foul ruffian pretended to consent, but while he helped the officer out of the water with his left hand, with his right he drove a tomahawk into his brain. Many others were thus lured to shore by promise of quarter, only to be ruthlessly butchered. A number of the prisoners were thrown alive on the burning logs of Fort Wintermoot, and no less than a score were tomahawked by Queen Esther, an Indian fury in the form of a woman. She slew them with her own hand while the savages held them, and the bodies of her victims, scalped and mutilated, were subsequently found lying in a circle where they had fallen. The carnage would have been greater had not night intervened. Under cover of darkness a small proportion of the fugitives escaped, and of the number was Colonel Denison and Colonel Zebulon Butler. The latter was borne off the field on his horse, and by a devious route he finally reached the fort at Wilkesbarre.

Good fortune also fell to the lot of Barnabas and Nathan. After standing their ground until valor had ceased to be a virtue they fled, side by side, to the river, firing at intervals as they went. At the water's edge they confronted and killed a Tory and an Indian who had overtaken them, and then, being good swimmers, they safely reached the opposite shore some distance below the island. In company with several other refugees they pushed down the Susquehanna, recrossed the stream, and safely entered Forty Fort at nightfall. They were rejoiced to learn that Reuben Atwood and Collum McNicol had arrived some time before.

Pitiful and heartrending were the scenes within the fort as the hours of darkness dragged on. Women and children wept and wrung their hands as they called the names of loved ones who would never return. Bleeding and powder-grimed men stood about in weary and dazed groups. Of the band of three hundred who started out to battle at noon-time less than one-third had straggled back. The rest lay dead and mutilated in the woods, on the sands of Monockasy Island, or were drifting on the rippling tide of the river. So terrible was the defeat that the survivors had utterly lost heart; they were ready to submit to any terms to save their lives.

The night was full of horror, for an attack was constantly expected. In the interval between darkness and dawn, a few settlers with their families flocked to the fort from the lower part of the valley, and several sorely-wounded fugitives crept in. Nathan could not sleep, and for hours he wandered about the stockade. The disaster had stunned him, unused as he was to the horrors of Indian warfare. The past week, with its record of bloodshed and battle, had made a man of the lad. How dreamlike and long ago seemed his happy student life in Philadelphia!

The outcome of the Tory and Indian raid upon the colonists of the Wyoming Valley may be briefly told. On the morning of the 4th of July—the day following the massacre—Colonel Zebulon Butler started for the nearest town on the Lehigh to send a report to the Board of War. That morning one of the absent militia companies arrived at Forty Fort, and there was some talk of offering further resistance. But this was speedily abandoned, as messengers who had been sent out reported that the panic-stricken inhabitants of the valley were fleeing in every direction to the wilderness. It was also learned that Fort Brown, at Pittston, had been surrendered by Captain Blanchard.