Drums Along The Mohawk

Recently, I spent time in a part of the world which was riven by conflict, involving two nations – one very old and one quite new – where bands of terrorists burned and killed on both sides, and each sunrise must have made everyone pause and wonder what might befall them at their work or home that day.

No, I was not in the Middle East. I was visiting the Mohawk Valley of New York State, where the English and Americans fought, not only for the wheat so necessary to feed a large army but also for the division of the thirteen colonies. The English believed that such a division would lead to their victory.

One of my ancestors was in the county militia which, with their allies, the Oneida, arrived at a place, now called Oriskany, and were cut to pieces by the English and their allies, the Seneca and the Mohawk. Even the Iroquois Confederacy was not immune to internal dispute, it seemed.

Some call it an ambush, but whatever it was, it was a bloodbath, with over 500 of the colonists killed or wounded, including my ancestor, out of the total colonial force of 700.

He was an officer, and because he was on horseback, he made an easy target and died early. Another relative, a young boy, who was a fifer, also died.

For the second time, my older sister and one of her grandchildren, and I met and attended the commemoration ceremony at the battleground on August 6th. She thinks each one should understand something about her grandmother’s ancestors, and there is enough to see in the Mohawk valley to satisfy most youngsters, and if not, there is always a backseat nap or a visit to the Golden Arches for the latest toy in the kids’ meal.

A hundred or so descendants of the soldiers who fought (on all sides) were joined by representatives of a variety of organizations, re-enactors who fired volleys from their flintlocks in honor of the fallen, people from the community, and group of speakers who had the daunting job of reminding us of this great sacrifice 225 years ago.

We sat on hay bales in a natural amphitheater near the great monument, and not too far into the ceremony, a broad stripe of sunlight struck the line of trees where the ambush took place, lingered for a minute or two and was swept away into the surrounding dusk. No matter one’s views about such coincidences, there is a tendency to want to believe that it was not a coincidence, whatever it might have been.

On this sacred ground, we were far, far away from the events of September 11th, 2001 but, in truth, not far at all, and several of the speakers brought it into their remarks. We shall be dealing with the impact of the events of September 11th, 2001 for a very long time, and with its memory far longer.

Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, a man about whom I know virtually nothing, fought and died at Oriskany. As his descendant, I am still moved by coming to that place and honoring his memory and those of all who fought at his side.

George Santayana said something along the lines that those who do not understand history are condemned to repeat it. In places like Oriskany or Lexington or Antietam or Gettysburg or a local fort or battle site, there is much to be learned, but only if each of us decides to make it possible for our children and grandchildren to do so.

I’m not too well versed in my country’s history, but I’m determined to get a handle on the American Revolution in the next year or so. The last grand-child will be eligible in a couple of years, and if I’m invited to join in, I’d better be prepared.

So had you.