“They came over on seventy-eight rafts!” I replied, turning to race after Colonel Charles Lewis’ column.
The Augusta men were now swinging in close to Crooked Creek where it skirts the foot of the low hills. As I drew abreast of the head of the column we were fired upon by a large force of Indians, now snugly ensconced behind trees and fallen timber along the creek. We were then not more than a quarter of a mile from camp. The first fire was tremendously heavy and was quickly followed by a second and third volley. The Augusta men reeled, but quickly began returning the fire, the behavior of the men being all that a commander could desire. They were forced to give ground, however, as the odds were heavy.
On our left crashed a volley as the Botetourt men were fired on. Colonel Lewis ordered his men to take cover, then turned to Captain Benjamin Harrison and cried:
“This is no scouting-party! But my brother will soon be sending reinforcements.”
He had hardly spoken before he spun half-way around, a surprised expression on his face.
“I’m wounded,” he quietly said.
Then handing his rifle to a soldier, he called out to his men:
“Go on and be brave!”
With that he began walking to the camp. I ran to help him, but he motioned me back, saying:
“Your place is there. I’m all right.”