Used by permission of John D. Morris & Co., publishers of the Lodge History of Nations.
“THERE WAS EVER THE DANGER OF AN ONRUSH BY THE REDSKINS.”
“Some years ago, before General St. Clair lost so many men in a great fight with the Indians, father and mother were compelled to leave this place, and we all went up to the Fort at Wheeling, West Virginia. The neighbors were forced to vacate their farms, also, and go into the stockade. My father and three or four of his friends used to go out to hunt for game sometimes, and a few pioneers always stood guard while they were away. Others worked at planting and harvesting corn and at chopping wood. There was ever the danger of an onrush by the redskins.
“At length news came to us that the Indians were in the neighborhood. The Fort was put in the best possible condition for defense, and we awaited their approach. But no attack came. Several days passed by, no sound came from the depths of the forest and it was supposed that the savages had given up the assault. But such was not the case.
“One day two Indians made their appearance on the high hill above the town, across the river, and opposite the Fort. They fired their rifles at the stockade and then went slowly away, slapping their hands behind them in token of derision and contempt for the frontiersmen within the log enclosure.
“Many of the pioneers were outraged by such an insult, for they were hot-tempered fellows. Several began to run after the savages, and they would have all gone had not the commanding officer stood in the gateway and stopped them. Twenty-four of the boldest and most dashing ran up the steep hill after the Indians, who kept on retreating as if with no intention to offer battle. When the whites reached the summit, they suddenly found themselves surrounded. Crack! Crack! sounded many a rifle, and bullets began to whizz by on every side. They gazed about them in dismay. Fully four hundred painted redskins were on three sides of them. Their only hope was to turn and make a break for the Fort.
“The redskins, meanwhile, had moved to their rear, and, as the frontiersmen approached, put up a stern resistance to their assault. Many fell. Some escaped unhurt and dashed madly for their haven of refuge, pursued by the red men with wild, vindictive yelping. My father was one of the last to get through the lines, and, as he ran for his life, with a close friend of his before him, he saw his companion fall to the ground. As he passed him, the wounded man cried out, ‘John, don’t leave me to be scalped,’ but my father ran on, as he knew that he could do nothing for him. A moment more and he saw a white renegade, who had gone to live with the Indians some years before. The fellow was close to him and carried a spear, mounted on a handle like that of a pitchfork. He was at my father’s heels when they arrived at a narrow defile in the hill next to the Fort. A large tree was lying on the ground and another small one was standing very near it. Something tripped up my father’s feet, and in he fell, between the two trees. As he went down, the white renegade made a furious lunge at him. The spear, however, glanced off the log, turned its point upward, and stuck so fast in the standing tree that the white savage could not withdraw it before my father leaped to his feet, escaped unhurt, and reached the Fort in safety.