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An accomplished statesman and eloquent writer
has, in the passage which heads this chapter, well
depicted the appearance which the field of Oriskany
presented when the fight was over. The battle itself,
while the most bloody fought during the Revolution,
is remarkable for having been contested exclusively
between Americans, or, at least, between
those who, if not natives of the soil, were all denizens
of the province in which it was fought. And
though its political consequences were of slight
moment, for both parties claimed the victory, yet,
from the character of the troops engaged in it—from
the number of Indian warriors that were arrayed
upon either side—the protracted fierceness of the
action, and the terrible slaughter which marked its
progress, it must be held the most memorable conflict
that marked our seven years' struggle for national
independence.

Of the field officers that fell, it is true that most,
like the brave Herkimer himself, were only militiamen,
and of no great public consideration beyond
their own county: but with these gallant gentlemen
were associated as volunteers more than one mili

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tary man of rank and repute that had been won upon
other fields; and many a civilian of eminence, who,
at the call of patriotism, had shouldered a musket
and met his death as a private soldier. The combatants
upon either side consisting almost exclusively
of inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley, there
were so many friends and neighbours, kinsmen, and
even brothers arrayed against each other, that the
battle partook of the nature of a series of private
feuds, in which the most bitter feelings of the human
heart were brought into play between the
greater part of those engaged. And when the few
who were actuated by a more chivalric spirit—like
the gallant Major Watts of the Royal New-Yorkers,
and others who might be designated among his hostile
compatriots—met in opposing arms, they too
fought with a stubborn valour, as if the military
character of their native province depended equally
upon the dauntless bearing of either party. The
annalist has elsewhere preserved so many minute
and thrilling details of Herkimer's last field,[8] that
it hardly becomes us to recapitulate them here,
though we would fain recall some of those traits of
chivalrous gallantry and generous daring which redeem
the brutal ferocity of the contest.

The deeds of the brave Captain Dillenback,
though his name is not intermingled with the thread
of our story, are so characteristic of the times in
which its scenes are laid, that they can hardly be
passed over. This officer had his private enemies
among those who were now arrayed in battle as public
foes; and Wolfert Valtmeyer, with three others
among the most desperate of the Refugees, determined
to seize his person in the midst of the fight,
and carry him off for some purpose best known
to themselves. Watching their opportunity, these

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four desperadoes, when the tumult of the conflict
was at the highest, cut their way to the spot where
Dillenback was standing; and one of them succeeded
in mastering his gun for a moment. But Dillenback,
who caught sight of Valtmeyer's well-known
form pressing forward to aid his comrades in the
capture, knew better than to trust himself to the
tender mercies of his outlaw band. He swore that
he would not be taken alive, and he was not.
Wrenching his gun from the grasp of the first assailant,
he felled him to the earth with the breech,
shot the second dead, and plunged the bayonet into
the heart of the third. But in the moment of his
last triumph the brave Whig was himself laid dead
by a pistol-shot from Valtmeyer, who chanced to
be the fourth in coming up to him.

But perhaps as true a chevalier as met his fate
amid all that host of valiant hearts was a former
friend of Balt the woodsman; an old Mohawk hunter,
who bore the uncouth Dutch name of Bronkahorlst.

It was in the heat of the fight, when Brant's
dusky followers, flitting from tree to tree, had at one
time almost surrounded Greyslaer's small command,
that Balt, in the thickest of the fire, heard a well-known
voice calling him by name from behind
a large tree near; and, looking out from the huge
trunk which sheltered his own person, he recognised
the only Indian with whom his prejudices
against the race had ever allowed him to be upon
terms of intimacy.

“Come, my brother,” said the Iroquois warrior,
in his own tongue, “come and escape death or torture
by surrendering to your old friend, who pledges
the word of a Mohawk for your kind treatment and
protection.”

“Rather to you than to anybody, my noble old

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boy; but Balt will be prisoner this day to no mortal
man. My name is Nozun Dotji—he that never
shirks.”

“And my name,” cried the Indian, “is The Killer
of Brave Men; so come on; we are happily
met.” With these words both parties threw down
their rifles, and, drawing their knives, rushed upon
each other.

The struggle was only a brief one; for Time, who
had nerved the brawny form of the white borderer
into the full maturity of manly strength, had dealt
less leniently with the aged Indian, who was borne
at once to the ground as they closed in the deathgrapple.
It was in vain that Balt, mindful of other
days and kinder meetings in the deep woodlands,
attempted to save his opponent's life by making
him a prisoner; for, in the moment that he mastered
the scalping-knife of the Indian and pinioned his
right arm to the ground, the latter, writhing beneath
his adversary with the flexibility of a serpent,
brought up his knee so near to his left hand as to
draw the leg-knife from beneath the garter, and
dealt Balt a blow in his side which nothing but his
hunting-shirt of tough elk-hide prevented from being
fatal. Even as it was, the weapon, after sliding
an inch or two, cut through the arrow-proof garment
that ere now had turned a sabre; while Balt, feeling
the point graze upon his ribs, thought that his
campaigning days were over, and, in the exasperation
of the moment, buried his knife to the hilt in
the bare bosom of Bronkahorlst.

“We are going together, old boy,” he cried, as
he sank back with a momentary faintness. “I only
hope we'll find the game as plenty in your hunting-ground
of spirits as we have on the banks of the
Sacondaga—God forgive me for being sich a heathen!”

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But while this singular duel, with personal encounters
of a similar nature, were taking place in
one part of the field, others more eventful in their
consequences were transpiring elsewhere. The
puissant deeds of Captain Gardinier, like those of
Dillenback, have given his name a place upon the
sober page of history; but, as they involved the
fate of more than one of the personages of our story,
we have no hesitation in recapitulating them
here.

One principal cause, perhaps, why the Whigs
maintained their ground with such desperate tenacity,
was the hope that, so soon as the sound of
their firearms should reach the invested garrison of
Fort Stanwix, a sally would be attempted by the
besieged to effect a diversion in their favour. That
sally, so famous in our Revolutionary history, and
which gave to Willet, who conducted it, the name
of “the hero of Fort Stanwix,” did, in fact, take
place before the close of the battle of Oriskany, and
was, as we all know, attended with the most brilliant
success. But, long before the performance of
that gallant feat of Willet's, the Tory partisan, Colonel
Butler, aware of the hopes which animated his
Whig opponents at Oriskany, essayed a ruse de
guerre, which had wellnigh eventuated in their complete
destruction.

This wily officer, withdrawing a large detachment
of Johnson's Greens from the field of action,
partially disguised them as Republican troops by
making them change their hats for those of their
fallen enemies; and then adopting the patriot colours
and other party emblems as far as they could,
they made a circuit through the woods, and turned
the flank of the Whigs in the hope of gaining the
midst of them by coming in the guise of a timely
re-enforcement sent from the fort.

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The hats of these soldiers appearing first through
the bushes, cheered Herkimer's men at once. The
cry was instantly raised that succour was at hand.
Many of the undisciplined yeomanry broke from
their stations, and ran to grasp the hands of their
supposed friends.

“Beware! beware! 'tis the enemy; don't you
see their green coats?” shouted Captain Gardinier,
whose company of dismounted rangers was nearest
to these new-comers. But, even as he spoke, one
of his own soldiers, a slight stripling, recognising
his own brother among the Greens, and supposing
him embarked in the same cause with himself,
rushed forward to embrace him. His outstretched
hand was seized with no friendly grasp by his hostile
kinsman; for the Tory brother, fastening a ferocious
gripe upon the credulous Whig, dragged him
within the opposing lines, exclaiming only, as he
flung him backward amid his comrades, “See, some
of ye, to the d—d young rebel, will ye?”

“For God's sake, brother, let them not kill me!
Do you not know me?” shrieked the youthful patriot,
as he clutched at one of those amid whom he
fell, to shield him from the blows that were straightway
aimed at his life.

But his brother had other work to engage him at
this instant; for the gallant Gardinier, observing
the action and its result, seized a partisan from a
corporal who stood near, and, wielding the spear like
a quarter staff, dealt his blows to the right and left
so vigorously that he soon beat back the disordered
group and liberated his man, who, clubbing his
rifle as he sprang to his feet, instantly levelled his
treacherous brother in the dust. But Gardinier and
his stripling soldier were now in the midst of the
Greens, unsupported by any of their comrades; and
the sturdy Major MacDonald, who this day had

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taken duty with a detachment of Johnson's men, rushed
forward sword in hand to cut down Gardinier in
the same moment that two of the disguised Greens
sprang upon him from behind. Struggling with almost
superhuman strength to free himself from their
grasp, the spurs of the Whig Ranger became entangled
in the clothes of his adversaries, and he was
thrown to the ground. Both of his thighs were instantly
transfixed to the earth by the bayonets of
two of his assailants, while MacDonald, presenting
the point of his rapier to his throat, cried out to
“Yield himself, rescue or no rescue.” But Gardinier
did not yet dream of yielding.

Seizing the blade of the sword with his left hand,
the trooper, by a sudden wrench, brings the High-lander
down upon his own person, where he holds
him for a moment as a shield against the assault of
others. At this moment, Adam Miller for the first
time sees the struggle of Gardinier against this fearful
odds. His sword is already out and crimson
with the blood of more than one foe; and now,
rushing forward, he lays about him so industriously,
that the Greens are compelled to defend themselves
against their new adversary. Gardinier, raising
himself to a sitting posture, bears back MacDonald;
but the gallant Scot, still clinching the throat
of his foe with his left hand, braces himself firmly
on one knee, and turns to parry the phrensied blows
of Miller with his right. Gardinier has but one
hand at liberty, and that is lacerated by the rapier
which he had grasped so desperately; yet, quick
as light, he seizes the spear which is still lying near
him, and plants it to the barb in the side of MacDonald.
The chivalric Highlander expires without
a groan.

The Greens, struck with dismay at the fate of
this veteran officer, the near friend of Sir John

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Johnson, fall back upon those of their comrades
who have not yet broken their ranks; while those
lookers-on, stung with grief for the loss of such an
officer, rally instantly to the charge, and pour in a
volley upon the Whigs, who have just succeeded in
dragging the wounded Gardinier out of the melée.
Severa fall, but their death is avenged on the instant;
yet dearly avenged, for the blow which follows,
while it terminates the battle, concludes the
existence of one of the most gallant spirits embarked
in it.

Young Derrick de Roos on that day had enacted
wonders of prowess. And though the rashness he exhibited
made his early soubriquet of “Mad Dirk” remembered
by more than one of his comrades, yet
he seemed somehow to bear a charmed life while
continually rushing to and fro wherever the fight
was hottest. At the very opening of the conflict,
when most of the mounted Rangers threw themselves
from their saddles and took to the bushes
with their rifles,[9] De Roos, with but a handful of
troopers to back him, drew his sword and charged
into the thickets from which came the first fire of
the ambushed foe.

“It is impossible for cavalry to act upon such
ground,” exclaimed an officer, seeing him about to
execute this mad movement. Do Roos, who, on
the march, was leading his horse, did not heed the
remark as he threw himself into the saddle. “Your
spurs—where are your spurs, man?” cried another,
as the horse, flurried by the first fire, rose on his

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hinder legs instead of dashing forward. “Charge
not without your spurs, captain!”

“I'm going to win my spurs,” shouted Mad Dirk,
striking the flanks of the steed with the flat of his
sabre, which the next moment gleamed above his
head as the spirited animal, gathering courage from
his fiery rider, bounded forward in the charge.

In the instant confusion that followed, De Roos
was no more seen; the smoke, indeed, sometimes
revealed his orange plume floating like a tongue of
flame amid its wreaths; and his “Carry on, carry
on, men,” for a few moments cheered the ears of
the friends who could distinguish his gay and reckless
voice even amid the earnest shouts of the white
borderers, mingled as they were with the wild slogan
of the Indian warriors. But De Roos himself
appeared no more until, in the pause of the battle
already mentioned, he presented himself among his
compatriots, exclaiming,

“I've used up all my men! Is there no handful
of brave fellows here who will rally under Dirk de
Roos when we set-to again?”

The fearful slaughter which, as is known, took
place among Herkimer's officers at the very outset
of the fight, and almost with the first volley from
Brant's people, left men enough among those undisciplined
bands to furnish forth a stout array of volunteers,
who were eager to fight under so daring a
leader; and when the battle was renewed, the wild
partisan went into it with a train more numerous
than before. But his horse had long since been
killed under him; the followers upon whom he was
in the habit of relying had fallen, either dead or disabled,
by his side; and Derrick, somewhat sobered
in spirit, became more economical of his resources.
And, though still exposing his own person as much
as ever, he was vigilant in seeing that his men were

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well covered, while he hoarded their energies to
strike some well-directed blow which might terminate
the battle.

With the last volley of the Greens he thought
the fitting moment had come. His bugle sounded
a charge, and on rushed his band with the bayonet.

“Carry on, carry on,” shouted De Roos, who
charged, sword in hand, a musket's length ahead of
his foremost files.

It seemed impossible for the weary royalists to
stand up against this column; for small in number
as were the men who composed it, they were comparatively
fresh, from a short breathing spell which they
had enjoyed; while their spirits were excited to the
utmost by their having been kept back by their officer
as he waited for the approaching crisis before
permitting a man to move. But the line of the
royalists, though broken and uneven, was still so
much longer than that of the patriots, that, outflanking
their assailants as they did, they had only to permit
their headlong foe to pass through, and then fall
upon his rear.

This movement the Greens effected with equal
alacrity and steadiness. Their ranks opened with
such quickness that they seemed to melt like a wave
before De Roos's impetuous charge; but, wavelike
too, they closed again behind his little band, which
was thus cut off from the patriot standard. Furious
at being thus caught in the toils, the fierce republicans
wheel again, and madly endeavour to cut their
way back to their friends; but the equally brave
royalists far outnumber them, and their fate for the
moment seems sealed, when suddenly another player
in this iron game presents himself.

Max Greyslaer, who, from a distance, has watched
the movement of his friend with the keenest
anxiety, sees the unequal struggle upon which the

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fortunes of the whole battle are turning. He has
fought all day on foot, and, wounded and weary, he
seems too far from the spot upon which all the
chances of the fight are now concentred to reach it
ere they are decided. He looks eagerly around for
assistance; he shouts madly to those who are closer
to De Roos to press forward; and, bounding over a
fallen tree near him, he stumbles upon the trained
horse of a rifleman, which has been taught to crouch
in the thickets for safety. The couchant steed—
but now so quiet when masterless—rises with a
grateful winnow as Max seizes his bridle; and,
gladly yielding his back to so featly a rider, he
tosses his head with proud neighings as he feels
himself no longer a passive sharer in the dangers of
the field. On comes the gallant horse. The rider
gathers new life from the fresh spirits of his steed.
He sweeps—'twas thus the warlike saints of old
swept before the eyes of knightly combatants—he
sweeps meteor-like across the field, and charges
with his flashing brand, singly against the royal
host. Down goes the green banner of the Johnsons;
down goes the sturdy banner-man, shorn to
the earth by that trenchant blade.

The Greens, attacked thus impetuously in their
rear, turn partly round to confront this bold assailant;
but Greyslaer has already cloven his way
through their line, and Christian Lansingh, with a
score of active borderers, have rushed tumultuously
into his wake. The royalists are broken and forced
back laterally on either side of the pathway thus
made; but either fragment of the disjointed band
still struggles to reunite with desperate valour. The
republicans, concentrating their forces upon one at
a time, charge both parties alternately. Thrice
wheeling with the suddenness of a falcon in mid air,
has Greyslaer hurled himself upon their crumbling

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ranks; and now, as one division is nearly annihilated
by that last charge, De Roos, emulous of his
friend, heads the onslaught against the remaining
fragment of the royalists. His orange plume again
floats foremost; and loud as when the fight was
new, his cheering voice is heard,

“Carry on, men, carry o—”

An Indian whoop—the last that was heard upon
the field of Oriskany—followed the single shot
which hushed that voice and laid that orange plume
in the dust.

Both Mohawks and royalists had already mostly
withdrawn from the field; and the remainder of the
Greens, who had contested it to the last so stubbornly,
retired when they saw De Roos fall.[10]

eaf153v2.n8

[8] See Stone's Border Wars of the American Revolution.

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