Two Centuries Collide
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.
Posted: Mon - November 24, 2003 at 04:42 PM