About 1784 and '85, boats ascending the Ohio river were often fired upon by the Indians, and sometimes the crew were all killed or made prisoners. A t that time, the whites had no settlements on either side of the Ohio. But Kentucky contained several very important stations. In 1785, Captain James Ward descended the river, under circumstances, which rendered a meeting with the Indians peculiarly to be dreaded.

The captain with half a dozen others, one of them his nephew, embarked in a crazy boat, about forty-five long, and eight feet wide, with no other bulwark than a single pine plank, above each gunnel. The boat was much encumbered with baggage, and seven horses were on board. Having seen no enemy for several days, they had become secure and careless, and permitted the boat to drift within fifty yards of the Ohio shore. Suddenly several Indians showed themselves on the bank, and opened heavy fire upon the boat. The astonishment of the crew may be conceived. Captain Ward and his nephew were at the oars when the enemy appeared, and the captain knowing that their safety depended upon their ability to regain the middle of the river, kept his seat firmly, and exerted his utmost powers at the oar, but his nephew started up at the sight of the enemy, seized his rifle and was in the act of levelling it, when he received a ball in the breast, and fell dead in the bottom of the boat. Unfortunately, his oar fell into the river, and the Captain having no one to pull against him, rather urged the boat nearer to the hostile shore than otherwise. He quickly seized a plank, however, and giving his own oar to another of the crew, he took the station which his nephew had held, and unhurt by the bullets which flew around him, continued to exert himself, until the boat had reached a more respectable distance. He then, for the first time, looked around him in order to observe the condition of the crew. His nephew lay in his blood, perfectly lifeless,—the horses had been all killed or mortally wounded. Some had fallen overboard—others were struggling violently, and causing their frail bark to dip water so as to excite the most serious apprehensions.

But the crew presented the most singular spectacle. A captain, who had served with reputation in the continental army, seemed now totally bereft of his faculties. He lay upon his back in the bottom of the boat, with hands uplifted, and a countenance in which terror was personified, exclaiming in a tone of despair, "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" A Dutchman, whose weight might amount at about three hundred pounds, was busily engaged in endeavoring to find shelter for his bulky person, which, from the lowness of the gunnels, was a very difficult undertaking. In spite of his utmost efforts, a portion of his posterial luxuriance, appeared above the gunnel, and afforded a mark to the enemy, which brought a constant shower of balls around it. In vain he shifted his position. The lump still appeared, and the balls still flew around it, until the Dutchman, losing all patience, raised his head above the gunnel, and in a tone of querulous remonstrance, called out, "Oh, now I git tat nonsense, tere,—will you!" Not a shot was fired from the boat.

At one time, after they had partly reined the current, Captain Ward attempted to bring his rifle to bear upon them, but so violent was the agitation of the boat, from the furious struggles of the horses, that he could not steady his piece within twenty yards of the enemy, and quickly laying it aside returned to the oar. The Indians followed them down the river for more than an hour, but having no canoes, they did not attempt to board; and as the boat was at length transferred to the opposite side of the river, they finally abandoned the pursuit and disappeared. None of the crew, save the young man already mentioned, were hurt, although the Dutchman's seat of honor served as a target for the space of an hour, and the continental captain was deeply mortified at the sudden, and, as he said, "unaccountable" panic which had seized him. Captain Ward himself was protected by a post, which had been fastened to the gunnel, and behind which he sat while rowing.

Massy Herbeson and her Family

During the settlement of the interior of Pennsylvania, the Indians were almost constantly hostile. Houses were burned, fields desolated, and the poor, hard-working settlers were killed, or carried into a dreadful captivity. The sufferings of some of these captives can scarcely be described. The following narrative will give some idea of savage nature.

On the 22nd of May, 1792, Massy Herbeson and her children were taken from their house, within two hundred yards of Reed's blockhouse, and about twenty-five miles from Pittsburg. Mr. Herbeson, being one of the spies, was from home; two of the scouts lodged with her that night, but had left her house about sunrise, in order to go to the blockhouse, and had left the door standing wide open. Shortly after the two scouts went away, a number of Indians came into the house, and drew her out of bed by the feet; the two eldest children, who also lay in another bed were drawn out in the same manner; a younger child, about one year old slept with Mrs. Herbeson. The Indians then scattered the articles about in the house.

Whilst they were at this work, Mrs. Herbeson went out of the house, and hallooed to the people in the blockhouse; one of the Indians then ran up and stopped her mouth, another ran up with his tomahawk drawn, and a third ran and seized the tomahawk and called her his squaw; this last Indian claimed her as his, and continued by her. About fifteen of the Indians then ran down towards the blockhouse and fired their guns at the block and store-house, in consequence of which one soldier was killed and another wounded, one having been at the spring, and the other in coming or looking out of the store-house. Mrs. Herbeson told the Indians there were about forty men in the blockhouse, and each man had two guns, the Indians then went to those that were firing at the blockhouse, and brought them back.

They then began to drive Mrs. Herbeson and her children away; but a boy, about three years old, being unwilling to leave the house, they took it by the heels, and dashed it against the house, then stabbed and scalped it. They then took Mrs. Herbeson and the two other children to the top of the hill, where they stopped until they tied up the plunder they had got. While they were busy about this, Mrs. Herbeson counted them, and the number amounted to thirty-two, including two white men, that were with them, painted like the Indians. Several of the Indians could speak English, and she knew several of them very well, having often seen them go up and down the Alleghany river; two of them she knew to be Senecas, and two Munsees, who had got their guns mended by her husband about two years ago.

They sent two Indians with her, and the others took their course towards Puckty. She, the children, and the two Indians had not gone above two hundred yards, when the Indians caught two of her uncle's horses, put her and the youngest child on one, and one of the Indians and the other child on the other. The two Indians then took her and the children to the Alleghany river, and took them over in bark canoes, as they could not get the horses to swim the river. After they had crossed the river, the oldest child, a boy about five years of age, began to mourn for his brother, when one of the Indians tomahawked and scalped him. They travelled all day very hard, and that night arrived at a large camp, covered with bark, which, by appearance, might hold fifty men. That night they took her about three hundred yards from the camp, into a large dark bottom, bound her arms, gave her some bed clothes, and lay down one on each side of her.