The city of Albany lay just sixty kilometers from Fort Miller. Like this fort and Fort Edward, it was located along the Hudson River. In the opposite direction, two hundred kilometers away, stood the imposing city of New York.

With only 1,500 residents—nothing compared to New York’s 13,000—Albany could still be considered important in the region. It was charming but isolated from the coast, which slowed its growth. Proximity to French and Indigenous territories further hampered its development, as settlers were hesitant to come here and buy land to farm.

Since its founding, Albany’s inhabitants had harbored a constant fear of attacks by the French and their ruthless allies. Over time, this fear became as natural as that of living near a volcano. Unable to thrive in constant dread, the city had been fortified, with forts constructed to the north and west at regular intervals.

The forts along the Hudson were especially critical, as British officers knew this river could be used against them.

Due to its location, redcoats often passed through Albany, most often to relieve or supply the forts. Occasionally, a larger force assembled here to launch attacks on New France. No one missed the sight of the 10,000 men led by Major General James Abercrombie.

They had spent some time preparing in Albany, and their departure to the north with such a force made the townspeople feel, for the first time in years, that they were making real progress.

They believed that with such strength, they could not fail and that the French threat would soon be eliminated.

Unfortunately, Abercrombie’s army had brought an unwelcome gift that Mayor Sybrant van Schaick, a peaceful businessman in his fifties with a round face and a warm smile, would have gladly done without: an epidemic was disrupting the city’s regular activities, with an ever-growing number of citizens falling ill.

On the morning of July 16, the mood in town shifted entirely as news of their defeat at Fort Carillon reached the people. Mayor van Schaick had tried to prevent this information from spreading to avoid widespread panic, but his efforts were in vain.

By the 16th, it hadn’t taken long for the residents of this modest town to learn that General Abercrombie had suffered heavy losses and fallen back to Fort Edward. As days passed, rumors grew increasingly alarming.

Mr. Mayor, as concerned as his fellow citizens, hoped the general would quickly regain control of the situation and launch a second attack to destroy the French fort once and for all. He had reason to trust Abercrombie: even with the loss of a thousand or two thousand men—a staggering number—there should still be enough troops to bring down that fort.

Alas, on the evening of July 28, a rider from Fort Miller thundered through Albany to announce that Fort Edward was under attack by an army of seven or eight thousand men. Worse still, the general himself was stationed at the fort.

Once again, rumors spread quickly through Albany. The population became frantic, and several families even decided to evacuate, moving south to Kingston, some eighty kilometers away.

Things worsened the next day when people claimed to see smoke columns rising to the north. The French army seemed unstoppable, like a scourge of God.

Van Schaick and Brigadier General Stamoise, charged with keeping the city secure, sent several scouts to gather more information. They returned with grim news: a small French force, no more than a few hundred, had burned Fort Winslow along with Montressor’s outpost and its barracks. These sites were barely a day and a half’s march, at most two days, from the city!

That same day, July 30, the mayor’s wife found him in Albany’s German Reformed Church, kneeling before a simple crucifix, praying with rare fervor. The crucifix, plain but crafted with visible care to depict Christ faithfully, rested in the church’s silence.

All that could be heard was the murmur of his prayers and the energetic steps of his wife, crossing the stone floor with a sound like a whip crack. The church was spare, with no gilding, no glistening objects, no large stained-glass windows or majestic organ, and not even saintly statues. Without the altar and crucifix, it could almost be mistaken for a courthouse.

It was an ideal place to seek inner peace. It was in this same church that he and his wife had married twenty-three years earlier.

Mayor van Schaick opened his eyes and turned to face the source of the noise. Without turning, he knew it was his wife—he could recognize her distinctive step. After so many years, he could identify her by the sounds she made walking, sleeping, or eating.

Alida... She looks angry. What did I do this time? Did I forget something?

“Sybrant,” she said forcefully, as if they were in a marketplace rather than a church, “you must pull yourself together! The people of Albany are counting on you, our children and Albany’s children are counting on you! When they see you like this, they worry even more!”

Her voice rang out like thunder, reverberating easily within the austere walls. It took a few seconds for the silence to return.

Alida, he replied in a voice so heavy that she was taken aback, “I don’t know what to do. I’m lost.”

The woman, who had lost her beauty many years ago, looked coldly and silently at her husband, placing her hands on her wide hips.

“Really? And what have you done so far?” she asked in a slightly gentler voice, though still sharp.

“I… With Brigadier General Stamoise, we sent a message to New York and Kingston, but who knows how long it will take for reinforcements to get here? The French army is practically at our doorstep! We… We have no choice but to fight them alone, this army that’s already defeated a general and the greatest force ever seen in the New World!”

Mayor van Schaick’s rough voice resonated through the sober house of God, much like the sober citizens of this town. He looked directly into his wife’s strangely calm eyes. A faint ray of sunlight shining through the narrow windows illuminated her, and for a moment he thought he saw her glow like an angel.

“And yet,” she said in a clear voice, “we will fight, because we have no other choice. What matters now is how we will fight.”

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Sybrant looked at his wife in surprise, as if seeing her for the first time. He hadn’t expected to see such strength in her.

“Hmm, yes, certainly. But what concerns me is the brigadier general’s decision. He wants to take all our soldiers and call for volunteers to face the French elsewhere. We could also hold a siege here, behind our own wall, even if that means facing bombardment.”

“I think you’ve already made up your mind.”

Sybrant van Schaick smiled faintly and took his wife’s hands in his own.

“It seems we have little choice, do we? We must keep the people of Albany out of danger by facing the French elsewhere. But the brigadier general won’t be able to convince everyone, and he knows it. He wants me to speak. To convince as many men as possible to join him. These men… If they die, it will be partly because of me.”

“Sybrant, that’s the burden every officer must carry.”

“But I’m not a soldier. I’m a businessman.”

“And the mayor of Albany. People are counting on you to make decisions, now more than ever.”

The man remained silent for a moment, gazing down at his wife’s hands, then up at the face of Christ on the cross.

Alida is right. Now is not the time to hesitate. We must be strong and drive out the threat, eliminate our enemies while they’re scattered!

“Let everyone know I’ll speak in front of the fort at noon.”

“Now that’s the man I married!” said Alida van Schaick affectionately, leaning close to her husband. Despite the years, the couple loved each other as much as on the first day, and nothing, not even an army of a million men, could change that.

The man squeezed his wife’s tired hands tenderly, a slight smile on his lips.

***

That day, exactly at noon, in front of Albany’s fort gates and beside Brigadier General Stamoise, Mayor van Schaick delivered a remarkable speech with great clarity. He hid no details about their dire situation, but he spoke with courage, calling on the citizens’ honor, pride, bravery, and their role as protectors in times of need. His words helped the townspeople lift their heads and face the challenges with boldness.

At the end of his speech, he was met with applause, even if a fair number of citizens were not fully convinced.

Nevertheless, many young and old alike volunteered to stop the French right there and protect their neighbors, friends, and families. His speech and call reached far beyond Albany, and their numbers grew, even doubling over the days that followed.

Many came from nearby villages, driven by a fierce will to defend their homes. Some had already fought the French, whether in the old world or here.

The mayor of Albany, surprised and moved, watched their force grow until they numbered 2,500 strong.

This unusual group, most of whom wore no uniform, set out northward on Wednesday, August 9, 1758, led by Brigadier General Stamoise.

Following the road to Fort Winslow, Fort Hardy, Fort Edward, and farther north to the remnants of Fort William Henry along Lake George, they continued to gather volunteers, only turning away those too old or weak to keep pace.

But as they neared the village of Schaghticoke—meaning “the place where the waters meet”—with its great tree symbolizing friendship between English and German settlers and the Mohicans, the Albany volunteers, as they called themselves, came face to face with an enemy unit.

“S-sir, they… They’re burning the village! They’re—they’re laughing!”

Brigadier General Stamoise, his face so tense it was almost unrecognizable, listened as the young volunteer, dressed in civilian clothing, described what he had seen. As he spoke, fury grew among the men.

Soon, the group arrived near the village, which seemed lost in the woods, with a dark column of smoke visible from afar. Not a single building appeared untouched.

With merciless precision, the French emptied every house before setting it ablaze. So much effort had gone into building this village to house just a few hundred settlers, yet that meant nothing to the vile French.

The dogs! Wretches! Bandits! Cowards! You’ll all burn in hell for this! thought the officer, his eyes as red as his uniform as he watched the men in white set fire to the church of Schaghticoke.

The blood of the militiamen and soldiers alike boiled, and at that moment they were spotted by the French. As the confrontation seemed imminent, the men alongside Stamoise watched the French flee like frightened children.

“Death to the French!”

“Vengeance!”

“May God’s wrath strike you down!”

Brigadier General Stamoise didn’t have the time or strength to give his orders before his hastily recruited volunteers charged forward, chasing down the fleeing enemy.

No! Stop! We have to stay together!

“Damn it! All men, forward! We can’t leave them without officers or protection!”

The regular soldiers of Albany obeyed and sprinted after the volunteers, who had charged ahead like raging demons. They ran so swiftly through the trees they might have been mistaken for Native Americans. Some stumbled over the wide roots covering the ground, but most sped along like the wind.

The redcoats and Brigadier General chased after the unruly volunteers, weapons in hand, and soon arrived at a narrow road winding between the trees, which allowed them to run even faster. The dry dirt road was ideal for a swift advance in this season.

Not far ahead, the regular army found the volunteers struggling to cross a large obstacle behind which the small French group had taken refuge. The officer immediately sensed danger upon seeing it positioned squarely in the road.

“W-watch out! That’s… clearly a…”

Alas, once again, the officer was too late. Just as he was about to say “trap,” a terrifying barrage of gunfire erupted from both sides of the path.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

My God! I knew it!

“A-ambush! Fall back! Quickly!”

A thick cloud of white smoke engulfed the volunteers like an avalanche, and amidst the gunfire, cries filled the air.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The shots came so fast that Stamoise realized what had happened at Schaghticoke was merely a ruse to lure them here, where a larger force lay in wait. And they had marched into the trap like sheep.

An ambush was always hard to face, but even more so with so many hastily armed, inexperienced civilians. The volunteers and Stamoise’s men immediately attempted to disengage, turning their backs on the enemy to seek shelter.

With the enemy scattered in the woods surrounding the path, they naturally took the way they had come.

In moments, those who had lagged behind found themselves at the head of this disordered retreat. Chaos ensued, and they began running for their lives, feeling pursued by their own comrades.

Terrified footsteps and panicked breaths echoed behind them, along with the unceasing gunfire of the French. Tears streaming down their faces, they ran from death itself.

Their horror grew when they encountered three cannons and several men in white uniforms blocking the path!

“NO!”

“Cannons!”

“Stop! Turn back! Argh!”

But driven forward by those behind who hadn’t seen the danger, they could do nothing. The lead volunteers were only a few meters from the menacing mouths of the French cannons.

Stamoise, among the unfortunate ones, didn’t understand French, yet he could easily guess what they were saying.

Damn.

“FIRE!”

BOOM BOOM BOOM

The French fired mercilessly, but instead of cannonballs, they used what was known as grapeshot—hundreds of small lead balls flying in all directions with deadly speed.

These merciless projectiles had one sole purpose: to inflict horrific injuries over a large area.

“ARGH!”

It was a massacre beyond description. To the volunteers, it felt like facing a firing squad.

Stamoise took several of these lead balls in his chest, legs, and neck and lost his life like so many others, even before hitting the ground, surrounded by his men and the volunteers.

The awful noise, screams, and smoke allowed the French to reload. As soon as the three cannons were ready, they fired again.

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Once more, it was a massacre, though many volunteers managed to reach the woods.

Just two grapeshot volleys and a few musket salvos were enough to decimate the force. It took only minutes to annihilate them.

In the history books, years after these events, this was not recorded as the Battle of Schaghticoke but as the Schaghticoke Massacre.

During a woodland walk with their dog in September 1844, young Alexander and John Adams accidentally discovered Brigadier General Stamoise’s remains among countless others.

The mingling of bones prevented clear identification of his remains.

After great effort, all the skeletons were reassembled and buried in Albany Cemetery on July 13, 1847, following an impressive and moving ceremony.