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 sca...