Just as daylight began to appear in the east, and before the men were up and at their posts, agreeably to arrangement, a voice at some distance below them, in a plaintive tone, repeatedly solicited them to come on shore, as there were some white persons who wished to obtain a passage in their boat. This the captain very naturally and correctly concluded to be an Indian artifice, and its only effect was to rouse the men, and place every one on his guard. The voice of entreaty was soon changed into the language of indignation and insult, and the sound of distant paddles announced the approach of the savage foe. At length three Indian canoes were seen through the mist of the morning rapidly advancing. With the utmost coolness the captain and his companions prepared to receive them. The chairs, tables, and other incumbrances were thrown into the river, in order to clear the deck for action. Every man took his position, and was ordered not to fire till the savages had approached so near, that, (to use the words of Captain Hubbell,) “the flash from the guns might singe their eye-brows;” and a special caution was given, that the men should fire successively, so that there might be no interval. On the arrival of the canoes, they were found to contain about twenty-five or thirty Indians each. As soon as they had approached within the reach of musket-shot, a general fire was given from one of them, which wounded Mr. Tucker through the hip so severely that his leg hung only by the flesh, and shot Mr. Light just below his ribs. The three canoes placed themselves at the bow, stern, and on the right side of the boat, so that they had an opportunity of raking in every direction. The fire now commenced from the boat, and had a powerful effect in checking the confidence and fury of the Indians. The captain after firing his own gun, took up that of one of the wounded men, raised it to his shoulder, and was about to discharge it, when a ball came and took away the lock; he coolly turned round, seized a brand of fire from the kettle which served for a caboose, and applying it to the pan, discharged the piece with effect. A very regular and constant fire was now kept up on both sides. The captain was just in the act of raising his gun a third time, when a ball passed through his right arm, and for a moment disabled him. Scarcely had he recovered from the shock, and re-acquired the use of his hand, which had been suddenly drawn up by the wound, when he observed the Indians in one of the canoes just about to board the boat in its bow, where the horses were placed belonging to the party. So near had they approached, that some of them had actually seized with their hands the side of the boat. Severely wounded as he was, he caught up a pair of horsemen’s pistols and rushed forward to repel the attempt at boarding. On his approach the Indians fell back, and he discharged a pistol with effect at the foremost man. After firing the second pistol, he found himself without arms, and was compelled to retreat; but stepping back on a pile of small wood which had been prepared for burning in the kettle, the thought struck him, that it might be made use of in repelling the foe, and he continued for some time to strike them with it so forcibly and actively, that they were unable to enter the boat, and at length he wounded one of them so severely that with a yell they suddenly gave way. All the canoes then discontinued the contest, and directed their course to Captain Greathouse’s boat, which was in sight. Here a striking contrast was exhibited to the firmness and intrepidity which had been displayed. Instead of resisting the attack, the people on board of this boat retired to the cabin in dismay. The Indians entered it without opposition, and rowed it to the shore, where they killed the captain and a lad of about fourteen years of age. The women they placed in the centre of their canoes, and manning them with fresh hands, again pursued Captain Hubbell and party. A melancholy alternative now presented itself to these brave but almost desponding men, either to fall a prey to the savages themselves, or to run the risk of shooting the women, who had been placed in the canoes in the hope of deriving protection from their presence. But “self preservation is the first law of nature,” and the captain very justly remarked, there would not be much humanity in preserving their lives at such a sacrifice, merely that they might become victims of savage cruelty at some subsequent period.

There were now but four men left on board of Captain Hubbell’s boat, capable of defending it, and the captain himself was severely wounded in two places. The second attack, however, was resisted with almost incredible firmness and vigor. Whenever the Indians would rise to fire, their opponents would frequently give them the first shot, which in almost every instance would prove fatal. Notwithstanding the disparity of numbers, and the exhausted condition of the defenders of the boat, the Indians at length appeared to despair of success, and the canoes successively retired to the shore. Just as the last one was departing, Captain Hubbell called to the Indian, who was standing in the stern, and on his turning round, discharged his piece at him. When the smoke, which for a moment obstructed the vision, was dissipated, he was seen lying on his back, and appeared to be severely, perhaps mortally wounded.

Unfortunately the boat now drifted near to the shore, where the Indians were collected, and a large concourse, probably between four and five hundred, were seen rushing down on the bank. Ray and Plascut, the only men remaining unhurt, were placed at the oars, and as the boat was not more than twenty yards from the shore, it was deemed prudent for all to lie down in as safe a position as possible, and attempt to push forward with the utmost practicable rapidity. While they continued in this situation, nine balls were shot into one oar, and ten into the other, without wounding the rowers, who were hidden from view, and protected by the side of the boat and the blankets in its stern. During this dreadful exposure to the fire of the savages, which continued about twenty minutes, Mr. Kilpatrick observed a particular Indian, whom he thought a favorable mark for his rifle, and, notwithstanding the solemn warning of Captain Hubbell, rose to shoot him, he immediately received a ball in his mouth, which passed out at the back part of his head, and was almost at the same moment shot through the heart. He fell among the horses that about the same time were killed, and presented to his afflicted daughters and fellow-travellers, who were witnesses of the awful occurrence, a spectacle of horror which we need not further attempt to describe.

The boat was now providentially and suddenly carried out into the middle of the stream, and taken by the current beyond the reach of the enemy’s balls. Our little band reduced as they were in numbers, wounded, afflicted, and almost exhausted by fatigue, were still unsubdued in spirit, and being assembled in all their strength, men, women, and children, with an appearance of triumph gave three hearty cheers, calling to the Indians to come on again, if they were fond of the sport.

Thus ended this awful conflict, in which out of nine men, two only escaped unhurt. Tucker and Kilpatrick were killed on the spot, Stoner was mortally wounded, and died on his arrival at Limestone, and all the rest, excepting Ray and Plascut were severely wounded. The women and children were all uninjured, excepting a little son of Mr. Plascut, who, after the battle was over, came to the captain, and with great coolness requested him to take a ball out of his head. On examination, it appeared that a bullet which had passed through the side of the boat, had penetrated the forehead of this little hero, and remained under the skin. The captain took it out, and the youth, observing “that is not all,” raised his arm, and exhibited a piece of bone at the point of his elbow, which had been shot off, and hung only by the skin. His mother exclaimed, “why did you not tell me of this?” “Because,” he coolly replied, “the captain directed us to be silent during the action, and I thought you would be likely to make a noise if I told you.”

The boat made the best of its way down the river, and reached Limestone that night. From that time forth no boat was assailed by Indians on the Ohio.

Cornstalk, the commander of the Indians in the battle of Point Pleasant, was possessed of a noble heart as well as a genius for war and negotiation. He was ever anxious to maintain an honorable place with the whites and they returned his friendly inclination by putting him to death.

A Captain Arbuckle commanded the garrison of the fort, erected at Point Pleasant, after the battle fought by General Lewis with the Indians at that place, in October, 1774. In the succeeding year, when the revolutionary war had commenced, the agents of Great Britain exerted themselves to excite the Indians to hostility against the United States. The mass of Shawnees entertained a strong animosity against the Americans. But, two of their chiefs, Cornstalk and Redhawk, not participating in that animosity visited the garrison at the Point, where Arbuckle continued to command. Cornstalk represented his unwillingness to take a part in the war, on the British side: but stated, that his nation, except himself and his tribe, were determined on war with us, and he supposed, that he and his people would be compelled to go with the stream. On this intimation, Arbuckle resolved to detain the two chiefs, and a third Shawnees, who came with them to the fort, as hostages, under the expectation of preventing thereby any hostile efforts of the nation. On the day before these unfortunate Indians fell victims to the fury of the garrison, Elenipsico, the son of Cornstalk, repaired to Point Pleasant for the purpose of visiting his father, and on the next day, two men belonging to the garrison, whose names were Hamilton and Gillmore, crossed the Kenhawa, intending to hunt in the woods beyond it.—On their return from hunting, some Indians who had come to view the position at the Point, concealed themselves in the weeds near the mouth of the Kenhawa, and killed Gillmore while endeavoring to pass them. Colonel Stewart and Captain Arbuckle were standing on the opposite bank of the river, at that time and were surprised that a gun had been fired so near the fort, in violation of orders which had been issued inhibiting such an act. Hamilton ran down the bank, and cried out that Gillmore was killed. Captain Hall commanded the company to which Gillmore belonged. His men leaped into a canoe, and hastened to the relief of Hamilton. They brought the body of Gillmore weltering in blood, and the head scalped, across the river. The canoe had scarcely reached the shore, when Hall’s men cried out “Let us kill the Indians in the fort.” Captain Hall placed himself in front of his soldiers, and they ascended the river’s bank, pale with rage, and carrying their loaded fire locks in their hands. Colonel Stewart and Captain Arbuckle exerted themselves in vain, to dissuade these men, exasperated to madness by the spectacle of Gillmore’s corpse, from the cruel deed which they contemplated. They cocked their guns, threatening those gentlemen with instant death, if they did not desist, and rushed into the fort.

The interpreter’s wife, who had been a captive among the Indians, and felt an affection for them, ran to their cabin and informed them that Hall’s soldiers were advancing with the intention of taking their lives, because they believed that the Indians who killed Gillmore, had come with Cornstalk’s son the preceding day. This the young man solemnly denied, and averred that he knew nothing of them. His father, perceiving that Elenipsico was in great agitation, encouraged him and advised him not to fear. “If the great Spirit,” said he, “has sent you here to be killed, you ought to die like a man!” As the soldiers approached the door, Cornstalk rose to meet them, and received seven or eight balls which instantly terminated his existence. His son was shot dead in the seat which he occupied. The Red Hawk made an attempt to climb the chimney, but fell by the fire of some of Hall’s men. The other Indian, says Colonel Stewart, “was shamefully mangled, and I grieved to see him so long dying.”

This atrocious deed so exasperated the Shawnees that they immediately took up arms upon the side of the British, expressing their resolution to spare no American who should fall into their hands, and never to lay down arms while there was the remotest chance of successful hostility. Many a family in Virginia and Kentucky had reason to lament the slaughter of the noble Cornstalk and his son.

On the site of the present city of Chicago, a fort was erected in 1803. Feeling secure under this protection, several families built cabins and began to cultivate the ground in the vicinity. The large and powerful tribe of Pottawatomies occupied the neighboring country. When the war of 1812 broke out, the fort at Chicago was garrisoned by about fifty men, under the command of Captain Heald, and as it was so remote from the other American posts, General Hull determined that it should be abandoned. The following account of the subsequent disastrous events is abridged from Brown’s History of Illinois.

On the 7th of August, 1812, in the afternoon, Winnemeg, or Catfish, a friendly Indian of the Pottawatomie tribe, arrived at Chicago, and brought dispatches from General Hull, containing the first, and, at that time, the only intelligence of the declaration of war. General Hull’s letter announced the capture of Mackinaw, and directed Captain Heald “to evacuate the fort at Chicago, if practicable, and, in that event, to distribute all the United States property contained in the fort, and the United States factory or agency, among the Indians in the neighborhood and repair to Fort Wayne.” Winnemeg having delivered his dispatches to Captain Heald, and stated that he was acquainted with the purport of the communication he had brought, urged upon Captain Heald the policy of remaining in the fort, being supplied, as they were, with ammunition and provisions for a considerable time. In case, however, Captain Heald thought proper to evacuate the place, he urged upon him the propriety of doing so immediately, before the Pottawatomies (through whose country they must pass, and who were as yet ignorant of the object of his mission) could collect a force sufficient to oppose them. This advice though given in great earnestness, was not sufficiently regarded by Captain Heald; who observed, that he should evacuate the fort, but having received orders to distribute the public property among the Indians, he did not feel justified in leaving it until he had collected the Pottawatomies in its vicinity, and made an equitable distribution among them. Winnemeg then suggested the expediency of marching out and leaving every thing standing; “while the Indians,” said he, “are dividing the spoils, the troops will be able to retreat without molestation.” This advice was also unheeded, and an order for evacuating the fort was read next morning on parade. Captain Heald, in issuing it, had neglected to consult his junior officers, as it would have been natural for him to do in such an emergency, and as he probably would have done had there not been some coolness between him and Ensign Ronan.

The lieutenant and ensign, after the promulgation of this order, waited on Captain Heald to learn his intentions; and being apprized; for the first time, of the course he intended to pursue, they remonstrated against it. Heald, however, deemed it advisable to assemble the Indians and distribute the public property among them, and ask of them an escort thither, with the promise of a considerable sum of money to be paid on their safe arrival; adding, that he had perfect confidence in the friendly professions of the Indians, from whom, as well as from the soldiers, the capture of Mackinaw had studiously been concealed. From this time forward, the junior officers stood aloof from their commander, and, considering his project as little short of madness, conversed as little upon the subject as possible. Dissatisfaction, however, soon filled the camp; the soldiers began to murmur, and insubordination assumed a threatening aspect.

The savages, in the mean time became more and more troublesome; entered the fort occasionally, in defiance of the sentinels, and even made their way without ceremony into the quarters of its commanding officer. On one occasion an Indian, taking up a rifle fired it in the parlor of Captain Heald; some were of opinion that this was intended as the signal for an attack. The old chiefs at this time passed back and forth among the assembled groups, apparently agitated; and the squaws seemed much excited, as though some terrible calamity was impending. No further manifestations, however, of ill-feeling were exhibited, and the day passed without bloodshed. So infatuated at this time was Captain Heald, that he supposed he had wrought a favorable impression upon the savages, and that the little garrison could now march forth in safety.

The Indians from the adjacent villages having at length arrived, a council was held on the 12th of August. It was attended, however, only by Captain Heald on the part of the military; the other officers refused to attend, having previously learned that a massacre was intended. This fact was communicated to Captain Heald; he insisted, however, on their going, and they resolutely persisted in their refusal. When Captain Heald left the fort, they repaired to the block-house, which overlooked the ground where the council was in session, and opening the portholes, pointed their cannon in its direction. This circumstance and their absence, it is supposed, saved the whites from massacre.

Captain Heald informed the Indians in council, that he would next day distribute among them all the goods in the United States factory, together with the ammunition and provisions with which the garrison was supplied; and desired of them an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them a reward on their arrival thither, in addition to the presents they were about to receive. The savages assented, with professions of friendship, to all he proposed, and promised all he required.

The council was no sooner dismissed, than several observing the tone of feeling which prevailed, and anticipating from it no good to the garrison, waited on Captain Heald in order to open his eyes, if possible, to their condition. The impolicy of furnishing the Indians with arms and ammunition to be used against themselves, struck Captain Heald with so much force, that he resolved, without consulting his officers, to destroy all not required for immediate use.

On August 13th, the goods in the factory store were distributed among the Indians, who had collected near the fort; and in the evening the ammunition, and also the liquor, belonging to the garrison, were carried, the former into the sally-port and thrown into the well, and the latter through the south gate, as silently as possible, to the river bank, where the heads of the barrels were knocked in, and their contents discharged into the stream. The Indians, however, suspecting the game, approached as near as possible and witnessed the whole scene. The spare muskets were broken up and thrown into the well, together with bags of shot, flints, and gun-screws, and other things; all, however, of but little value.

On the 14th, the despondency of the garrison was for a while dispelled by the arrival of Captain Wells and fifteen friendly Miamies. Having heard at Fort Wayne of the error to evacuate Chicago, and knowing the hostile intentions of the Pottawatomies, he hastened thither in order to save, if possible, the little garrison from its doom. Having, on his arrival, learned that the ammunition had been destroyed, and the provisions distributed among the Indians, he saw there was no alternative. Preparations were therefore made for marching on the morrow.

In the afternoon a second council was held with the Indians, at which they expressed their resentment at the destruction of the ammunition and liquor in the severest terms. Notwithstanding the precautions which had been observed, the knocking in of the heads of the whisky-barrels had been heard by the Indians, and the river next morning tasted, as some of them expressed it, “like strong grog.” Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard; and nothing, apparently, was wanting but an opportunity for some public manifestation of their resentment.

The morning of the 15th dawned as usual; the sun rose with uncommon splendor, and Lake Michigan “was a sheet of burnished gold.” Early in the day a message was received in the American camp from To-pee-na-bee, a chief of the St. Joseph’s band, informing them that mischief was brewing among the Pottawatomies, who had promised them protection.

About nine o’clock, the troops left the fort with martial music, and in military array. Captain Wells, at the head of the Miamies, led the van, his face blackened after the manner of the Indians. The garrison, with loaded arms, followed, and the wagons with the baggage, the women and children, the sick and the lame, closed the rear. The Pottawatomies, about five hundred in number, who had promised to escort them in safety to Fort Wayne leaving a little space, afterward followed. The party in advance took the beach road. They had no sooner arrived at the sand-hills which separate the prairie from the beach, about a mile and a half from the fort, when the Pottawatomies, instead of continuing in rear of the Americans, left the beach and took to the prairie; the sand-hills of course intervened, and presented a barrier between the Pottawatomies and the American and Miami line of march. This divergence had scarcely been effected, when Captain Wells, who, with the Miamies was considerably in advance, rode back and exclaimed, “They are about to attack us; form instantly and charge upon them.” The word had scarcely been uttered, before a volley of musketry from behind the sand-hills was poured in upon them. The troops were brought immediately into a line and charged upon the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy, fell as they ascended. The battle at once became general. The Miamies fled in the outset; their chief rode up to the Pottawatomies, charged them with duplicity, and, brandishing his tomahawk, said, “he would be the first to head a party of Americans, and return to punish them for their treachery.” He then turned his horse and galloped off in pursuit of his companions, who were then scouring across the prairie, and nothing was seen or heard of them more.

The American troops behaved gallantly; though few in number, they sold their lives as dearly as possible. They felt, however, as if their time had come, and sought to forget all that was dear on earth.

While the battle was raging, the surgeon, Doctor Voorhes, who was badly wounded, and whose horse had been shot from under him, approaching Mrs. Helm, the wife of Lieutenant Helm, (who was in the action, participating in all its vicissitudes,) observed, “Do you think,” said he, “they will take our lives? I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we can purchase safety by offering a large reward. Do you think,” continued he, “there is any chance?”

“Doctor Voorhes,” replied Mrs. Helm, “let us not waste the few moments which yet remain in idle or ill-founded hopes. Our fate is inevitable; we must soon appear at the bar of God; let us make such preparations as are yet in our power.”

“Oh,” said he, “I cannot die; I am unfit to die! If I had a short time to prepare! Death! oh, how awful!”

At this moment, Ensign Ronan was fighting at a little distance with a tall and portly Indian; the former, mortally wounded, was nearly down, and struggling desperately upon one knee. Mrs. Helm, pointing her finger, and directing the attention of Doctor Voorhes thither, observed, “Look,” said she, “at that young man; he dies like a soldier.”

“Yes,” said Doctor Voorhes, “but he has no terrors of the future; he is an unbeliever.”

A young savage immediately raised his tomahawk to strike Mrs. Helm. She sprang instantly aside, and the blow intended for her head fell upon her shoulder; she thereupon seized him around his neck, and while exerting all her efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, was seized by another Indian and dragged forcibly from his grasp. The latter bore her, struggling and resisting, toward the lake. Notwithstanding, however, the rapidity with which she was hurried along, she recognized, as she passed, the remains of the unfortunate surgeon stretched lifeless on the prairie. She was plunged immediately into the water and held there, notwithstanding her resistance, with a forcible hand. She shortly, however, perceived that the intention of her captor was not to drown her, as he held her in a position to keep her head above the water. Thus reassured, she looked at him attentively, and, in spite of his disguise, recognized the “white man’s friend.” It was Black Partridge.

When the firing had ceased, her preserver bore her from the water and conducted her up the sand-bank. It was a beautiful day in August. The heat, however, of the sun was oppressive; and, walking through the sand, exposed to its burning rays, in her drenched condition—weary, and exhausted by efforts beyond her strength—anxious beyond measure to learn the fate of her friends, and alarmed for her own, her situation was one of agony.

The troops having fought with desperation till two-thirds of their number were slain, the remainder twenty-seven in all, borne down by an overwhelming force, and exhausted by efforts hitherto unequalled, at length surrendered. They stipulated, however, for their own safety and for the safety of their remaining women and children. The wounded prisoners, however, in the hurry of the moment, were unfortunately omitted, or rather not particularly mentioned and were therefore regarded by the Indians as having been excluded.

One of the soldiers’ wives, having frequently been told that prisoners taken by the Indians were subjected to tortures worse than death, had from the first expressed a resolution never to be taken; and when a party of savages approached to make her their prisoner, she fought with desperation; and, though assured of kind treatment and protection, refused to surrender, and was literally cut in pieces and her mangled remains left on the field.

After the surrender, one of the baggage wagons, containing twelve children, was assailed by a single savage and the whole number were massacred. All, without distinction of age or sex, fell at once beneath his murderous tomahawk.

Captain Wells, who had as yet escaped unharmed, saw from a distance the whole of this murderous scene; and being apprized of the stipulation, and seeing it thus violated, exclaimed aloud, so as to be heard by the Pottawatomies around him, whose prisoner he then was, “If this be your game, I will kill too!” and turning his horse’s head, instantly started for the Pottawatomie camp, where the squaws and Indian children had been left ere the battle began. He had no sooner started, than several Indians followed in his rear and discharged their rifles at him as he galloped across the prairie. He laid himself flat on the neck of his horse, and was apparently out of their reach, when the ball of one of his pursuers took effect, killing his horse and wounding him severely. He was again a prisoner; as the savages came up, Winnemeg and Wa-ban-see, two of their number, and both his friends, used all their endeavors in order to save him; they had disengaged him already from his horse, and were supporting him along, when Pee-so-tum, a Pottawatomie Indian, drawing his scalping-knife, stabbed him in the back, and thus inflicted a mortal wound. After struggling for a moment he fell, and breathed his last in the arms of his friends, a victim for those he had sought to save—a sacrifice to his own rash intentions.

The battle having ended, and the prisoners being secured, the latter were conducted to the Pottawatomie camp near the fort. Here the wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, an Illinois chief, perceiving the exhausted condition of Mrs. Helm, took a kettle, and dipping up some water from the stream which flowed sluggishly by them, threw into it some maple sugar, and, stirring it up with her hand, gave her to drink. “It was,” says Mrs. Helm, “the most delicious draught I had ever taken, and her kindness of manner, amid so much atrocity, touched my heart.” Her attention, however, was soon directed to other objects. The fort, after the troops had marched out, became a scene of plunder. The cattle were shot down as they ran at large, and lay dead, or were dying around her. It called up afresh a remark of Ensign Ronan’s, made before; “Such,” said he, “is to be our fate—to be shot down like brutes.”

The wounded prisoners, we have already remarked, were not included in the stipulation made on the battle-field, as the Indians understood it. On reaching, therefore, the Pottawatomie camp, a scene followed which beggars description. A wounded soldier, lying on the ground, was violently assaulted by an old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends or excited by the murderous scenes around her—who, seizing a pitchfork, attacked the wretched victim, now helpless, and exposed to the burning rays of the sun, his wounds already aggravated by its heat, and he writhing in torture. During the succeeding night, five other wounded prisoners were tomahawked.

Those unwounded remained in the wigwams of their captors. The work of plunder being now completed, the fort next day was set on fire. A fair and equal distribution of all the finery belonging to the garrison had apparently been made, and shawls and ribands and feathers were scattered about the camp in great profusion.

After suffering many hardships, Mrs. Helm, Mrs. Heald, and the surviving male prisoners were ransomed and sent back to their friends. A few of them, however, were not set at liberty until after the battle of the Thames.

In August, 1786, Mr. Francis Downing, then a lad, was living in a fort, where subsequently some iron works were erected by Mr. Jacob Myers, which are now known by the name of Slate Creek works. About the 16th, a young man belonging to the fort, called upon Downing, and requested his assistance in hunting for a horse which had strayed away on the preceding evening. Downing readily complied, and the two friends traversed the woods in every direction, until at length, towards evening, they found themselves in a wild valley, at a distance of six or seven miles from the fort. Here Downing became alarmed and repeatedly assured his elder companion, (whose name was Yates,) that he heard sticks cracking behind them, and was confident that Indians were dogging them. Yates, being an experienced hunter, and from habit grown indifferent to the dangers of the woods, diverted himself freely at the expense of his young companion, often inquiring, at what price he rated his scalp, and offering to ensure it for sixpence. Downing, however, was not so easily satisfied. He observed, that in whatever direction they turned, the same ominous sounds continued to haunt them, and as Yates still treated his fears with the most perfect indifference, he determined to take his measures upon his own responsibility. Gradually slackening his pace, he permitted Yates to advance twenty or thirty steps in front of him, and immediately after descending a gentle hill, he suddenly sprung aside and hid himself in a thick cluster of whortleberry bushes. Yates, who at that time was performing some woodland ditty to the full extent of his lungs, was too much pleased with his own voice, to attend either to Downing or the Indians, and was quickly out of sight. Scarcely had he disappeared, when Downing, to his unspeakable terror, beheld two savages put aside the stalks of a canebrake, and looked out cautiously in the direction which Yates had taken. Fearful that they had seen him step aside, he determined to fire upon them, and trust to his heels for safety, but so unsteady was his hand, that in raising his gun to his shoulder, she went off before he had taken aim. He lost no time in following her example, and after having run fifty yards, he met Yates, who, alarmed at the report, was hastily retracing his steps. It was not necessary to inquire what was the matter. The enemy were in full view, pressing forward with great rapidity, and “devil take the hindmost,” was the order of the day. Yates would not outstrip Downing, but ran by his side, although in so doing, he risked both of their lives. The Indians were well acquainted with the country, and soon took a path that diverged from the one which the whites followed, at one point and rejoined it at another, bearing the same relation to it that the string does to the bow. The two paths were at no point distant from each other more than one hundred yards, so that Yates and Downing could easily see the enemy gaining rapidly upon them. They reached the point of re-union first, however, and quickly came to a deep gully which it was necessary to recross, or retrace their steps. Yates cleared it without difficulty, but Downing being, much exhausted, fell short, falling with his breast against the opposite brink, rebounded with violence, and fell at full length on the bottom. The Indians crossed the ditch a few yards below him, and, eager for the capture of Yates, continued the pursuit, without appearing to notice Downing. The latter who at first had given himself up for lost, quickly recovered his strength, and began to walk slowly along the ditch, fearing to leave it lest the enemy should see him. As he advanced, however, the ditch became more shallow, until at length it ceased to protect him at all. Looking around cautiously, he saw one of the Indians returning apparently in quest of him. Unfortunately, he had neglected to reload his gun, while in the ditch, and as the Indian instantly advanced upon him, he had no resource but flight. Throwing away his gun, which was now useless, he plied his legs manfully, in ascending a long ridge which stretched before him, but the Indian gained upon him so rapidly, that he lost all hope of escape. Coming at length to a large poplar which had been blown up by the roots, he ran along the body of the tree upon one side while the Indian followed it upon the other, doubtless expecting to intercept him at the root. It happened that a large she bear was sucking her cubs in a bed which she had made at the root of the tree, and as the Indian reached that point, she instantly sprung upon him, and a prodigious uproar took place. The Indian yelled, and stabbed with his knife, the bear growled and saluted him with one of her most endearing “hugs;”—while Downing, fervently wishing her success, ran off through the woods, without waiting to see the event of the struggle. Downing reached the fort in safety, and found Yates reposing after a hot chase, having eluded his pursuers, and gained the fort two hours before him. On the next morning, they collected a party and returned to the poplar tree, but no traces either of the Indian or bear were to be found. They both probably escaped with their lives, although not without injury.

In the year 1787, the following incident occurred in Bourbon county Kentucky. One morning, about sun rise, a young man of wild and savage appearance, suddenly arose from a cluster of bushes in front of a cabin, and hailed the house in a barbarous dialect, which seemed neither exactly Indian nor English, but a collection of shreds and patches from which the graces of both were carefully excluded. His skin had evidently once been white—although now grievously tanned by constant exposure to the weather. His dress in every respect was that of an Indian, as were his gestures, tones and equipments, and his age could not be supposed to exceed twenty years. He talked volubly, but uncouthly, placed his hand upon his breast, gestured vehemently, and seemed very earnestly bent upon communicating something. He was invited to enter the cabin, and the neighbors quickly collected around him. He appeared involuntarily to shrink from contact with them—his eyes rolled rapidly around with a distrustful expression from one to the other, and his whole manner was that of a wild animal, just caught, and shrinking from the touch of its captors.—As several present understood the Indian tongue, they at length gathered the following circumstances as accurately as they could be translated, out of a language which seemed to be an “omnium gatherum” of all that was mongrel, uncouth and barbarous. He said that he had been taken by the Indians, when a child, but could neither recollect his name, nor the country of his birth.—That he had been adopted by an Indian warrior, who brought him up with his other sons, without making the slightest difference between them, and that under his father’s roof, he had lived happily until within the last month. A few weeks before that time, his father, accompanied by himself and a younger brother, had hunted for some time upon the waters of the Miami, about forty miles from the spot where Cincinnati now stands, and after all their meat, skins, &c., had been properly secured, the old man determined to gratify his children by taking them upon a war expedition to Kentucky. They accordingly built a bark canoe, in which they crossed the Ohio, near the mouth of Licking, and having buried it, so as to secure it from the action of the sun, they advanced into the country and encamped at the distance of fifteen miles from the river. Here their father was alarmed by hearing an owl cry in a peculiar tone, which he declared boded death or captivity to themselves, if they continued their expedition—and announced his intention of returning without delay to the river. Both of his sons vehemently opposed this resolution, and at length prevailed upon the old man to disregard the owl’s warning, and conduct them, as he had promised, against the frontiers of Kentucky. The party then composed themselves to sleep, but were quickly awakened by the father, who had again been warned in a dream that death awaited them in Kentucky, and again besought his children to release him from his promise and lose no time in returning home. Again they prevailed upon him to disregard the warning, and persevere in the march. He consented to gratify them, but declared he would not remain a moment longer in the camp which they now occupied, and accordingly they left it immediately, and marched on through the night, directing their course towards Bourbon county. In the evening they approached a house, that which he hailed and in which he was now speaking. Suddenly the desire of rejoining his people occupied his mind so strongly as to exclude every other idea, and seizing the first favorable opportunity, he had concealed himself in the bushes, and neglected to reply to all the signals which had been concerted for the purpose of collecting their party when scattered. This account appeared so extraordinary, and the young man’s appearance was so wild and suspicious, that many of the neighbors suspected him of treachery, and thought that he should be arrested as a spy. Others opposed this resolution and gave full credit to his narrative. In order to satisfy themselves, however, they insisted upon his immediately conducting them to the spot where the canoe had been buried. To this the young man objected most vehemently, declaring that although he had deserted his father and brother, yet he would not betray them. These feelings were too delicate to meet with much sympathy from the rude borderers who surrounded him, and he was given to understand that nothing short of conducting them to the point of embarkation, would be accepted as an evidence of his sincerity.—With obvious reluctance he at length complied. From twenty to thirty men were quickly assembled, mounted upon good horses, and under the guidance of the deserter, they moved rapidly towards the mouth of Licking. On the road the young man informed them that he would first conduct them to the spot, where they had encamped when the scream of the owl alarmed his father, and where an iron kettle had been concealed in a hollow tree. He was probably induced to do this from the hope of delaying the pursuit so long as to afford his friends an opportunity of crossing the river in safety. But if such was his intention, no measure could have been more unfortunate.

The whites approached the encampment in deep silence, and quickly perceived two Indians, an old man and a boy, seated by the fire and busily engaged in cooking some venison.—The deserter became much agitated at the sight of them, and so earnestly implored his countrymen not to kill them, that it was agreed to surround the encampment, and endeavor to secure them as prisoners. This was accordingly attempted, but so desperate was the resistance of the Indians, and so determined were their efforts to escape, that the whites were compelled to fire upon them, and the old man fell mortally wounded, while the boy, by an incredible display of address and activity, was enabled to escape. The deserter beheld his father fall, and throwing himself from his horse, he ran up to the spot where the old man lay bleeding, but still sensible, and falling upon his body, besought his forgiveness for being the unwilling cause of his death, and wept bitterly. His father evidently recognized him, and gave him his hand, but almost instantly afterwards expired. The white men now called upon him to conduct them at a gallop to the spot where the canoe was buried, expecting to reach it before the Indian boy and intercept him. The deserter in vain implored them to compassionate his feelings. He urged that he had already sufficiently demonstrated the truth of his former assertions, at the expense of his father’s life, and earnestly entreated them to permit his younger brother to escape. His companions, however, were inexorable. Nothing but the blood of the young Indian would satisfy them, and the deserter was again compelled to act in the capacity of a guide.

Within two hours they reached the designated spot. The canoe was still there, and no track could be seen upon the sand, so that it was evident that their victim had not yet arrived. Hastily dismounting, they tied their horses and concealed themselves within close rifle shot of the canoe. Within ten minutes after their arrival the Indian appeared in sight, walking swiftly towards them. He went straight to the spot where the canoe had been buried, and was in the act of digging it up, when he received a dozen balls through his body, and leaping high into the air fell dead upon the sand. He was scalped and buried where he fell, without having seen his brother, and probably without having known the treachery by which he and his father had lost their lives. The deserter remained but a short time in Bourbon, and never regained his tranquillity of mind. He shortly afterwards disappeared, but whether to seek his relations in Virginia or Pennsylvania, or whether disgusted by the ferocity of the whites, he returned to the Indians, has never yet been known. He was never heard of afterwards.