“They saw a shape at the far edge of the burning, running towards them through the smoke. Then one of the trees along the creek caught fire, making a torch that for a moment seemed to take all blue out of the sky and turn it black. The suction of the flame drew off the smoke, and all of them saw the Indian, stripped to the waist, trotting towards them…”
- Walter D. Edmonds, Drums Along the Mohawk
Drums Along the Mohawk was originally published all the way back in 1936, and – to be completely honest – you can tell. Walter D. Edmonds’s demi-classic of the American frontier has a distinct, old-fashioned feel. It’s the kind of book you’d expect to find on your grandpa’s bookshelf, covered in a fine layer of dust and fly carcasses. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s where I came across my 1939 reprint hardcover copy, which has yellowed pages, a cracked spine, and smells like the Second World War is just around the corner.
Set in New York’s Mohawk Valley during the Revolutionary War, Drums Along the Mohawk tells a fictionalized version of a real-life struggle between American settlers, their Loyalist opponents, and the Indians who are trying their best to play the game of empires, even as their land is whittled away.
As settings go, this is a pretty darn good one: a valley filled not only with trees, and fields, and wild game, but moral complications, twisted loyalties, and hard decisions, the stage to a vicious struggle that combined the savagery of a guerilla war with the intimacy of a civil war.
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The first thing that should be said about Drums Along the Mohawk is that it’s an episodic novel, generally uninterested in a conventional plot. This isn’t a book in which all the storylines converge, or that builds to a singular climax.
Instead, Edmonds attempts a faithful recreation of events in the Mohawk Valley during the Revolution. As such, the big story moments are dictated by the historical record, including the Battle of Oriskany, the Cherry Valley Massacre, and frontiersman Adam Helmer’s legendary, Pheidippides-like run after the destruction of Andrustown. Peopling this tale is a who’s who of late-eighteenth century New York history, including the aforementioned Helmer, General Nicholas Herkimer, and George Weaver. Edmonds claims to have meticulously researched this tale, an endeavor that must have encompassed numerous hours in small-town libraries and courthouses, scouring militia rolls, land deeds, diaries, and manuscripts.
Inserted into this relatively-true-to-life framework are our two main characters, the fictional newlyweds Gilbert and Magdelana (Lana) Martin. Together, they venture into this cauldron with wide eyes and virtually no idea what they are getting into. Gil has a farm, and a cabin, and the early-American ambition of lording over an agricultural empire.
This land, of course, is hotly contested, and Drums Along the Mohawk falls into a pattern wherein the Iroquois – including the Mohawk, who lent their name to the valley – attack settlements and burn cabins while the settlers run for the nearest stockade. When the raid is over, the settlers go out to their smoking ruins to start over.
It is a process that repeats itself several times.
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It is a testament to Edmonds’s serious interest in the Mohawk Valley that he is very careful with his fictionalizations. The real characters, for the most part, do exactly what the historical record said they did. Whether or not the historical record is correct – or whether Edmonds read the record properly – is a matter I’ll touch on below.
As to Gil and Lana, they exist to bring us into this past world, to serve as our proxies and guides. To that end, they do not alter or move events, but mostly witness them. They’re like time travelers who understand the butterfly effect. For those who worship fidelity in historical fiction, this is great. On the other hand, it really constricts the storytelling, which feels rigid and preordained. It also makes Gil and Lana rather uninteresting.
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Rather than one big arc, Drums Along the Mohawk creates a lot of miniature ones, featuring different combinations of people drawn from its large cast of characters. Some of these sequences are better than others.
For instance, after Gil’s cabin is burned, he and Lana go to live in a big stone house with the widow, Mrs. McKlennar. She is a brassy, sassy old woman straight out of Steel Magnolias. The Martins stay at the McKlennar house has all the makings of a 1980s sitcom, which is to say, less than riveting.
Much better is Edmonds’s retelling of the saga of John Wolff, a farmer who is suspected of being a Loyalist spy and then sent to the Newgate Prison, where convicts were held in the Simsbury Mine. Wolff’s experiences, as narrated by Edmonds, are simply harrowing.
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In terms of writing style, Edmonds is a describer. He does a great job showing what ordinary life was like for 18th century pioneers: the cooking, the cleaning, the clearing of brush, the plowing of fields. This is the great advantage of historical fiction over historical nonfiction: the ability to use imagination to fill the gaps between what we know and don't know, thereby creating a more-complete tapestry. This isn’t just about what happened, but about how it felt.
The prose is direct and unadorned, with dialogue best described as Hollywood-colloquial, but including action set pieces – especially the ambush at Oriskany – that are top notch.
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Upon its release, Drums Along the Mohawk was a bestseller. In fact, for a couple of years, it climbed as high as second place, behind Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind.
This provides the perfect pivot point to discuss an issue plaguing any book written eighty-seven years ago: its datedness.
Having studied New York in the Revolutionary era, I can say that Edmonds presents fifty-percent of an accurate story. It is established fact that settlers – including noncombatants – were killed by the Mohawk and Seneca; that captives were taken; that houses were burned and crops destroyed. Undoubtedly, if you were an American farmer, you’d probably be pretty terrified at the prospect of a sudden assault on your cabin, originating out of the tree-line. Edmonds gets that right.
What he fails to show – and what he doesn’t even attempt, really – is to describe the contextual reasons for these events. The Indians, for the most part, are a faceless menace skulking in the woods. There is no diversity of viewpoint, or any of the texture you’d find in a modern novel. The Iroquois are not given any motivation, any reasoning, any sympathy. There are no scenes describing the fear a young Mohawk boy or girl would’ve felt when the colonial militia or Continental Regulars showed up at dawn to burn their village.
The Iroquois were fierce warriors, to be sure. They were also competently led, marvelously organized, and extremely cognizant of the fact that they were about to lose everything, and the only chance they had was a devil’s alliance with Great Britain, the lesser of two white evils. You don’t get any sense of that here.
Unlike Gone with the Wind, which consciously created enduring racist tropes, Edmonds mostly avoids outright ugliness. He even has a friendly Oneida character named Blue Back. Yet a close reading reveals some troubling interpretations.
In particular, during his recounting of the infamous Cherry Valley Massacre, Edmonds has the hated and reviled Tory Ranger Walter Butler heroically trying to stop his Indian allies from slaughtering helpless colonists. However, the weight of the evidence – and the judgment of most historians – is that Butler did no such thing. Instead of playing the savior, he’s the one who instigated the killing. Edmonds’s attempt to heroize Butler is especially odd given the well-documented hatred that contemporary Americans had for the man.
So why’d he do it? Well, perhaps it’s because the white soldier trying to control his Indian allies is a familiar image from the frontier, harkening back to General Marquis de Montcalm trying to save the garrison of Fort William Henry. It’s a theme that reinforces a racialist demarcation between “civilized” and “savage” warfare.
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Edmonds once wrote a children’s book called The Matchlock Gun. Published in 1942, this gorgeously illustrated volume tells the dubious story of a young boy killing his first Indians. It won the Newberry Medal. In the 1980s, it was available for order from Troll, the mail-order “book club” whose ubiquitous newsprint fliers were passed out in schools. That’s how I got my copy. No one even blinked when I read it on the bus on the way home.
Obviously, sensitivities have mostly changed for the better. We have sharper recognition of past injustices, both actual and historiographical. We can open a book like Drums Along the Mohawk and see something that is deeply felt from one perspective, but completely ignorant of others that have as much – if not more – validity.
To me, this is a great book. I’ve read it a couple times now: once as a credulous kid; again as a more questioning adult. It’s a more-refined version of a nineteenth century dime novel, full of high-stakes collisions and acts of daring, all in celebration of a mythical American self-reliance. But it should be read with awareness of its glaring faults, its elisions, its faintly ridiculous portrayal of noble citizen-soldiers, and its rotting foundation of half-truths.