Early in July, 1778, the Indians struck a blow at which the whole country stood aghast. The valley of Wyoming, in northeastern Pennsylvania, had, by its fertility, attracted many settlers. The position of the settlement was peculiarly exposed, and yet it had sent the best part of its militia to serve with Washington. This circumstance did not escape the eyes of the enemy, and on July 3, 1778, a force of twelve hundred Indians and Tories fell upon the settlement, routed the garrison, tortured the prisoners to death, and plundered and burned the houses. The settlers fled to the woods, where nearly a hundred women and children perished of fatigue and starvation. THE WYOMING MASSACRE [July 3, 1778] Kind Heaven, assist the trembling muse, While she attempts to tell Of poor Wyoming's overthrow By savage sons of hell. One hundred whites, in painted hue, Whom Butler there did lead, Supported by a barb'rous crew Of the fierce savage breed. The last of June the siege began, And several days it held, While many a brave and valiant man Lay slaughtered on the field. Our troops marched out from Forty Fort The third day of July, Three hundred strong, they marched along, The fate of war to try. But oh! alas! three hundred men Is much too small a band To meet eight hundred men complete, And make a glorious stand. Four miles they marchèd from the Fort Their enemy to meet, Too far indeed did Butler lead, To keep a safe retreat. And now the fatal hour is come-- They bravely charge the foe, And they, with ire, returned the fire, Which prov'd our overthrow. Some minutes they sustained the fire, But ere they were aware, They were encompassed all around, Which prov'd a fatal snare. And then they did attempt to fly, But all was now in vain, Their little host--by far the most-- Was by those Indians slain. And as they fly, for quarters cry; Oh hear! indulgent Heav'n! Hard to relate--their dreadful fate, No quarters must be given. With bitter cries and mournful sighs, They seek some safe retreat, Run here and there, they know not where, Till awful death they meet. Their piercing cries salute the skies-- Mercy is all their cry: "Our souls prepare God's grace to share, We instantly must die." Some men yet found are flying round Sagacious to get clear; In vain to fly, their foes too nigh! They front the flank and rear. And now the foe hath won the day, Methinks their words are these: "Ye cursed, rebel, Yankee race, Will this your Congress please? "Your pardons crave, you them shall have, Behold them in our hands; We'll all agree to set you free, By dashing out your brains. "And as for you, enlisted crew, We'll raise your honors higher: Pray turn your eye, where you must lie, In yonder burning fire."