In the Hands of the Senecas

Dygartsbush, New York, in the year 1778—smoke rising from lonely cabins, but not the fragrant smoke of cookfires, welcoming the men home from clearing, forest and trail. It was the bitter smoke of charred logs, smoldering in heaps which that morning had been the homes of the settlers—perhaps also the unspeakable smoke of burning flesh, for more than one hundred perished in the flames after his scalp was safely tucked in a raider’s belt.

Few men were taken as captives—the women and old children plodded the long trail back to the villages of the Senecas. This is their story, told by the author of Drums Along the Mohawk. It is a story out of New York State History, in which the tales of Walter Edmonds are always steeped. It is a story of Indians—real Indians who are impersonally cruel, simple and friendly, wise, brutal, sly, kind, proud, self-effacing, laughter-loving. It is a story of a woman’s steadfastness in the face of not only mortal danger but of the loss of all that had given her pride and confidence in living.