OHIO STATEWIDE FILES - HISTORY: Chapter 24 (Abbott, John S. C., 1875)
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			Chapter XXIV.
		     Life in the Cabin.

   There were, during these journeys of emigration, many fearful tragedies
enacted in the wilderness, which it appalls one to contemplate. Mr. Hunter, 
with his wife, one or two children, and a colored servant boy, was on his 
way to Cleveland. He had taken a boat, and was coasting along the southern
shore of Lake Erie. Just east of Rocky River they were overtaken by a squall,
which drove the boat violently upon the shore, where the craggy bluffs rose 
almost perpendicularly. Gigantic waves were dashed upon the rocks, drenching
them with the spray. With great difficulty they clambored up a few feet, where 
they clung to the side of the cliff, with but very narrow foothold, holding
on by the shrubs, which grew out from the crevices of the rocks.
   Awful hours passed, while the gale raged with unabated fury. Night came, 
midnight came, lurid morning dawned, and still the maddened elements howled
around, as cold, drenched, and starved, they clung to the rock. On Saturday,
the children, one after another died, on Sunday, Mrs. Hunter died. On Monday,
Mr. Hunter died. Their lifeless bodies rolled down into the boiling surf. On
Tuesday, as the storm was subsiding, some French traders, going to Detroit,
discovered the black boy clinging to the rock. He was nearly dead, having
been for three days and four nights without sleep or food.
   Opposite the City of Wheeling, in Virginia, lies the County of Belmont, 
in Ohio. Here, in the year 1791, Captain Joseph Kirkwood had reared his 
lonely cabin. He was from Delaware, and had obtained much distinction for
his bravery during the Revolutionary war. His house stood upon a small eminence, 
surrounded by gigantic forest trees, and was by no means in a state of
preparation to repel an attack by the savages. It is not improbably that his
native recklessness of danger influenced him to neglect those precautions
which should have been adopted. It fortunately so happened on the night of
the attack that fourteen soldiers were in the cabin with Captain Kirkwood 
and family.
   The Indians stealthily approached through the forest in the night, and a 
little before the dawn, while the soldiers were sleeping as soundly in the
cabin as if no danger were to be apprehended, they succeeded, without giving
any alarm, in setting fire to the highly inflammable roof, while each savage
completely concealed himself behind a tree, rifle in hand, prepared to shoot
the inhabitants of the cabin whenever they should expose themselves to
extinguish the flames.
   The first alarm the inmates had was from the flame bursting up from the
roof. All was consternation. The dense forest surrounded them. Every tree 
might conceal a warrior, and the savages might be numbered by hundreds. Still,
as the glare of the conflagration illuminated the forest, not a foe was to
be seen, not a hostile sound was to be heard. The family, fully aware of 
their danger, immediately commenced pushing off the flaming roof, while they
kept themselves concealed as much as possible.
   Captain Biggs, who was in command of the little company of soldiers, while
descending the ladder which led from the loft to the room below, was struck
by a bullet which entered the window and pierced his wrist. Then the war-
whoop resounded from apparently hundreds of savage throats. The cabin was
entirely surrounded by the exultant foe. While all the energies of the inmates
were devoted to the attempt to extinguish the flames, the savages kept close
watch for any exposure. Several boldly rushed forward and endeavored to hew
down the door with their tomahawks.
   So unprepared were the inmates for this assault, that there was not even
a firm fastening for the door. They had to tear up the puncheons from the
floor to brace it. Awful was the scene. The roof was on fire. The howling
savages were hammering at the door. Rifle bullets were piercing the hut
through the crevices between the logs. The fort at Wheeling was on the other
side of the river, and the distance of a mile. The feeble garrison there 
heard the firing and the yells of the Indians, and knew too well what those
sounds portended.
   The soldiers at Wheeling did not dare to leave the fort and cross the river,
for they knew not but that the Indians outnumbered them ten to one. They knew
also that the Indians would have spies upon the banks, and that their canoes
would be riddled with bullets before they could touch the shore. They therefore
contented themselves with firing a swivel. The Indians heard the impotent
report, understood its significance, and hailed it with a shout of derision.
   The panic within the burning cabin was such that many wished to escape
from the flames at whatever hazard. Captain Kirkwood, who was one of the 
most resolute of men, threatened to shoot down the first man who should attempt
to leave, asserting that the Indians would tomahawk them as fast as they went
out. At length they succeeded in smothering the flames, mainly with damp
earth from the floor of the cabin. The fight continued for two hours. With 
the light of day the baffled savages disappeared. The number of Indians
engaged in this attack, or their loss, was never known. In the darkness of
the night and surrounded by the gloom of the forest, one Indian only was
seen from the cabin. He endeavored to climb a corner of the hut, when he was
fired upon and fell to the ground. Whether killed or merely wounded could
not be ascertained.
   Seven of the inmates of the cabin were struck by the bullets of the Indians,
and one, Mr. Walker, was mortally wounded. He died in a few hours, and was
buried at the fort in Wheeling. This tragic affair seems to have disgusted
Captain Kirkwood with frontier life. Abandoning his cabin in the wilderness,
he returned to Delaware.
   It was nearly nine years after this before any attempts were again made
to people these solitudes. There was then peace with the Indians, and the 
pioneer had only the natural hardships of emigratin to encounter. In the 
year 1800, Mr. Williams moved from Carolina, and, with several other families,
commenced a settlement upon the banks of a small creek called Glen's Run, 
about six miles northeast from the present site of St. Clairsville. His son, 
John S. Williams, subsequently editor of the "American Pioneer", was then
a lad eleven years old. In after life he wrote a sketch entitled, "Our Cabin,
or Life in the Woods." From his graphic narrative we give an abridged account
of the adventures of this pioneer family.
   Emigrants were pouring in from different parts. Cabins were put up in
every direction, and women, children and goods were tumbled into them. The
tide of emigration flowed like water through a breach in a mill-dam. Every
thing was bustle and confusion, and all were at work who could work. Our
cabin had been raised, covered, part of the cracks chinked, and part of the
floor laid, when we moved in on Christmas Day. There had not been a stick
cut except building the cabin. We had intended an inside chimney, for we
thought the chimney ought to be in the house. We had a log put across the
whole width of the cabin for a mantle. But when the floor was in we found it
so low as not to answer, and removed it.
   Here was a great change for my mother and sister, as well as for the rest
of us, but especially for my mother. She was raised in the most delicate
manner, in and near London; and had lived, most of the time, in affluence, 
and always comfortable. She was now in the wilderness, surrounded by wild
beasts; in a cabin with about half a floor, no door, no ceiling overhead, not
even a tolerable sign for a fire-place; the light of day and the chilling
winds of night passing between every two logs in the building; the cabin so
high from the ground that a bear, wolf, panther, or any other animal less in
size than a cow could enter without even a squeeze.
   Such was our situation on Thursday and Thursday night, December 25, 1800,
and which was bettered but by very slow degrees. We got the rest of the floor
laid in a few days. The chinking of the cracks went on slowly. The daubing
with clay could not proceed until the weather became more suitable. Doorways
were sawed out, and steps made out of logs. The back of the chimney was
raised up to the mantel; but the funnel, of sticks and clay, was delayed 
until Spring.
   The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Williams, a daughter twenty-two years
of age, a son twenty-one, in very feeble health, and little John. Mr. Williams
was a man of mathematical accuracy of mind, and he reared his cabin by the 
compass, facing exactly south. Indeed it had two fronts precisely alike, a
north and a south. Both of the doors had high, unsteady, and oftern icy
steps, made of round beech logs. A window on each side of the doors was made
by sawing a hole through the logs about two feet square. Two narrow strips
of wood were placed across so as to divide it into four parts, a foot square
each. Over these were pasted a newspaper, saturated with lard. When the sun
shone brightly this glazing illuminated the room with a soft and cheerful
light. It shut out the wind and shed the rain.
   The cabin consisted of one room, twenty-four feet long by eighteen feet
wide. There were two beds at the west end. Clapboards, made of split logs, 
resting on wooden pins, afforded shelves. Upon these were pewter plates and 
various vessels of shining tin. A ladder of five rounds occupied one of the
corners, by which to climb to the loft above. The chimney occupied nearly
the whole of the east end of the cabin. A gun hung on pegs over the north
door. For seats, they had four split-bottom chairs, and three three-legged
stools. A small looking-glass, eight inches by ten, was also attached to the
wall. There was a spinning-wheel in one corner of the room. The floor
overhead was of loose clapboards, split from red oak.
   The evenings of this first Winter passed very heavily. There was no work
which could be done. They had no tobacco to stem, no corn to shell, no 
turnips to scrape, and even no hickory nuts to crack. Mr. Williams had brought
with him one barrel of flour and a jar of lard. It was a very tempestuous
Winter. The wind howled fearfully through the gigantic tree-tops. The family
were often greatly alarmed from the apprehension that some of those giants
of the forest might come crushing down upon them.
   "The monotony of the time," writes Mr. Williams, "for several of the first
years, was broken and enlivened by the howl of wild beasts. The wolves howling
around us, seemed to moan their inability to drive us from their long and
undisputed domain. The bears, panthers and deers seemingly got miffed at our
approach, and but seldom troubled us. When Spring was fully come, and our
little patch of corn, three acres, put in among the beech roots, which, at
every step, contended with the shovel plow for the right of soil, and held 
it, too, we enlarged our stock of conveniences. As soon as the bark would 
peel we could make ropes and bark boxes. These we stood in great need of, as
such things as bureaus, stands, wardrobes, and even barrels, were not to be
had.
   "The manner of making ropes of linn bark was, to cut the bark in strips
of convenient length, and water-rot it, in the same manner as rotting flax
or hemp. When this was done, the inside bark would peel off, and split up
so fine as to make a pretty considerable rough and good-for-but-little kind
of rope. We made two kinds of boxes for furniture. One kind was of hickory
bark, with the outside shaved off. This we would take off all around the tree,
the size of which would determine the caliber of our box. Into one end we
would place a flat piece of bark, or puncheon, on the tree. There was little
need of hooping, as the strength of the bark would keep that all right enough."
   They settled on beech land, which required a great deal of labor to clear.
Instead of cutting down the forest, they merely girdled the large trees, 
leaving them standing. The underbrush and saplings were cut down, gathered
in piles, and burned. The land was very rich, and would produce astonishing
crops of corn, growing up in the midst of the gnarled roots. Mr. Williams
had a horse, a cow, and two sheep. They were fed mainly from the blades of
corn. Salt was so scarce, costing five dollars a bushel, that they could 
seldom afford to use it. They had no candles. For light they relied mainly
upon the fire blazing upon the hearth. They used also seasoned sticks and
the bark of hickory.
   It is said that one of the more prominent features of this life in the
wilderness was its solemn, almost awful, silence. Singing birds love the 
companionship of men. Seldom was a bird song heard amidst the glooms of the
forest. The midnight howl of the wolf, and the screech of the owl, seemed
but to intensify the general silence. Even the dog, listless at the cabin
door, hearing no sound to rouse him, forgot to bark. Indeed, in the days when
Indians were prowling about, he was taught not to bark, lest the noise should
guide the savage to the lonely cabin. Occasionally, the melancholy croak of
the raven might be heard, or the tap of the woodpecker on the hollow tree,
or the gobble of the wild turkey. Speaking of this period of the history of
Ohio, Mr. Atwater writes:
   "Our houses were logs, not always laid very close together. Before our
people had time to clear fields, that would produce a harvest, the woods
furnished nut, on which their hogs fed and fattened. The wild grasses fed the
cattle and horses abundantly, Winter and Summer. Better beef or sweeter pork
never was tasted than the wild grasses and the nuts fattened, in almost all
the loss of that breed of hogs which ran wild in the roots. The beef, too, 
of that period, the old settlers think, was sweeter and more like wild
animal's flesh than ours now is.
   "In this opinion, we agree with them. The honey of those days was made by
wild bees. The Indians abundantly procured it, and often sold it to our
people. Our sugar was made from the maple tree, and not at a low price, we 
obtain from Louisiana. Wild turkeys were abundant. They were so easily taken
that they sold in market for only twelve and a half cents each. A good deer
sold for one dollar, or even less. Hogs were almost as easily raised as the
deer. Thousands were never seen by their owner until he went out with his
gun to kill them."
   The majority of the settlers, at this time, were very worthy men, though,
of course, there were not a few adventures roving these wilds, of a very 
different character. Though the emigrants endured many privations after the
horrors of Indian warfare had terminated, they seem to have been, in most
cases, eminently happy. One of these pioneers, after he attained the luxuries
to be found in a dense population, writes:
   "When I look back upon the first few years of our residence here, I am
led to exclaim, 'O happy days of primitive simplicity!' What little aristocratic
feeling any one might have brought with him, was soon quelled; for we soon
found ourselves equally dependent on one another. We enjoyed our winter
evenings around our blazing hearths, in our log huts, cracking nuts, full as
much, yes, far better, than has fallen in our lot since the distinctions
and animosities, consequent upon the acquisition of wealth, have crept in
upon us."
   One incident, which occurred sometime before the close of the Indian war, 
deserves record here, as illustrative of retributive justice, and of the 
peculiar traits in the Indian character. Captain Charles Builderback was a 
man of herculean frame, and noted for his recklessness in fighting the Indians.
He accompanied the band of renegade white men, in its iniquitous assaults
upon the Moravian villages, to which we have before alluded. It will be
remembered that, in 1782, Colonel Wilkinson led a band of a hundred desparadoes
upon to Gnadenhutten, where they perpetrated a massacre upon the friendly
Moravians almost unparalleled in the annals of Indian War.
   This same Captain Builderback accompanied Colonel Crawford in his totally
unjustifiable expedition to the Upper Sandusky, to pursue and kill the 
unoffending Moravian Indians who had taken refuge there. The Indians never
forget an injury; and they are very apt to learn and remember the names of
those who have inflicted wounds upon them.
   Captain Builderback had reared his cabin on the Virginia shore of the 
Ohio River, at the mouth of Short Creek, a few miles above Wheeling. One
lovely morning in June, he crossed the river to the Ohio shore in a canoe, 
with his wife and brother, to look after some cattle. Upon reaching the 
shore, about twenty Indians, rushing from ambush, fired upon them. His brother,
though wounded in the shoulder, succeeded in reaching the canoe, and escaped.
The captain was chased some distance and taken captive. In describing this
event, Colonel McDonald writes:
   "In the meantime Mrs. Builderback secreted herself in some drift-wood, 
near the bank of the river. As soon as the Indians had secured and tied her
husband, not being enabled to discover her hiding-place, they compelled him,
with threats of immediate death, to call her to him. With the hope of appeasing
their fury, he did so.
   "'Here,' to use Mrs. Builderback's words, 'a struggle took place in my
breast, which I cannot describe. Shall I go to him and become a prisoner, or
shall I remain, return to our cabin, and provide for and take care of our
two children?'
   "He shouted to her a second time to come to him, saying that, if she 
obeyed, it would perhaps be the means of saving his life. She no longer hesitated;
but left her place of safety, and surrendered herself to his savage captors.
All this took place in full view of their cabin, on the opposite shore, and
where they had left their two children, one a son, about three years of age,
and an infant daughter. The Indians, knowing that they would be pursued as 
soon as the news of their visit reached the stockade at Wheeling, immediately
commenced their retreat. Mrs. Builderback and her husband traveled together
that day and the following night. The next morning the Indians separated into
two bands. One band took Captain Builderback and the other his wife, and 
each party continued the journey westward, by different routes."
   Mrs. Builderback was taken to a large Indian encampment on the Tuscarawas
River. Here she was soon joined by the party who had taken her husband in 
charge. But he was no longer with them. Brutally they tossed his scalp into
her lap, which she instantly recognized. That dreadful night the Indians 
held a fiend-like carouse, and their hideous yells awoke all the echoes of 
the forest. Poor Mrs. Builderback, utterly exhausted with fatigue, sleeplessness 
and anguish, fell soundly asleep, and for a few hours God mercifully granted
her the oblivion of all her sufferings.
   The Tuscarawas River is one of the upper tributaries of the Muskingum. It
was on the banks of the latter stream, but a few miles below the encampment,
that the innocent Moravians were slaughtered. In that massacre the first
blook was shed by Captain Builderback. He shot down a Moravian chief by the
name of Shebosh, and then tomahawked and scalped him. The Indians, who were 
leading their captive, passed very near the spot where this cruel tragedy
was enacted. One of them chanced to ask his name. For a moment he hesitated.
Then knowing that they would learn it from his wife, and not deeming it 
possible that they could know anything of his previous history, he replied,
Charles Builderback.
   Instantly the little band stopped and looked at each other with astonishment
and with malignant triumph. "Ah!" said one of them, "Charles Builderback!
You kill many Indians. You big captain. You kill Moravians." His doom was
sealed. These untutored savages deemed it a religious duty which they owed
the spirits of their slaughtered brethren to punish their slayer with death
and torture. He was bound to a tree, and demoniac ingenuity was exercised in
drawing from his quivering nerves the utmost possible agony. With the exception
of his tormentors, God alone heard his shrieks and witnessed the convulsions
of his torment.
   As soon as the capture of Builderback was known at Wheeling a party of 
scouts set out in pursuit of the Indians. They soon struck their trail, and
followed it until they found the charred and mangled body of the victim, 
presenting appalling indications of the lingering and dreadful death he had
endured.
   Mrs. Builderback, though her mental sufferings were severe, was treated
humanely. The Indians took her to the upper waters of the Great Miami. Here
she was adopted into the family of a chief, and was required to perform all
the drudgery which was usually exacted of squaws. She carried, upon her 
shoulders, meat from the hunting-grounds, cut it up and dried it, made 
moccasins and leggins, and other clothing. In this capacity, hearing nothing
of the fate of her family, she continued for several months.
   At length a friendly Indian informed the commandant at Fort Washington 
that there was a white woman in captivity in one of the Miami towns. Upon 
the payment of a liberal ransom she was brought to the fort and surrendered.
Speedily she was sent up the river to her lonely and desolated cabin and to
her orphan children. Without loss of time she took her two children and re-
crossed the mountains to her parental home in Lancashire County, in Virginia.
   It may be mentioned, as illustrative of the vicissitudes of this strange
earthly life, and of the recuperative energies of the human soul, that after
the lapse of two years she married Mr. John Green. With her husband and 
family she again crossed the mountains, and found a pleasant and prosperous
home in the beautiful Valley of the Hockhocking, where peace and plenty
reigned. Here, almost forgetful of the woes of her early life, she lived for
nearly half a century, not dying until the year 1842.
   The following account of the escape of Mr. John Davis from the Indians, 
is but one among many similar adventures which might be told. We give the
narrative mainly as it has been described by Colonel John McDonald. Mr. Davis, 
while hunting on the Big Sandy, with one companion, was surrounded at his 
camp fire, in the night, by about thirty warriors, and was taken captive.
   The Indians were returning from an unsuccessful attack upon one of the 
white men's stations upon the Big Sandy. They had several of their wounded
with them. They had succeeded, here and there, in accumulating considerable
plunder, and the horses which they had stolen were heavily laden. They 
consequently did not travel more than ten or twelve miles a day.
   Mr. Davis was well aware that the Indians often put their captives to death
by the most horrible tortures. Many circumstances led him to the conviction
that he was reserved for that fate. He doubted not that as soon as they
should reach their distant towns, the tribe would be assembled, he would be
bound to the stake, and the savages would have a gala day in inflicting upon
him the most awful torments. He, therefore, resolved to attempt an escape, 
even under the most desparate circumstances, preferring much to die by the
bullet or from a sudden blow of the tomahawk than by lingering tortures at
the stakes.
   The Indians, having swam their horses across the Ohio River, on their
journey, came to a small stream called Salt Creek, in the present County of
Jackson. Here they encamped for the night. Their mode of securing their
prisoners seemed to render an escape impossible. A strong rope or thong was 
cut from the raw hide of a buffalo; this they tied each around the waist of
an Indian. Thus the prisoner, at the encampment, laid down upon the ground
with these Indians on each side of him, and in the closest proximity. He
could not turn at all; he could not move even without disturbing the Indians,
and receiving from them cruel blows.
   In the morning, as they resumed their journey, the captives were released
from this most uncomfortable confinement. With their hands bound behind them,
and an Indian armed with rifle and tomahawk before and behind each one, they
trudged along in single file through the narrow trail. They were told that
instant death would be the consequence of any attempt to leave the line of 
march.
   During the long hours of the night, Davis lay in his uncomfortable position, 
brooding over the awful fate which awaited him. As the day began to dawn he
hunched one of the Indians, and by signs requested to be untied. The savage
raised his head and looked around, and seeing that it was still quite dark, 
and that no Indians were yet moving, gave him a severe blow with his fist, 
and told him to lay still.
   Fire and faggot, sleeping or awake, were constantly floating before his
mind's eye. The torturing suspense would fill his soul with horror. After
some time a number of Indians rose up and made their fires. It was growing
light, but not light enough to draw a bead. Davis again jogged one of the
Indians to who he was fastened, and said that the tug hurt his middle, and
again requested the Indian to untie him. The Indian looked around, and seeing
that it was getting light, and that there were a number of Indians about the
fires, untied him.
   Davis rose to his feet. The doom before him nerved him with the energies
of despair. He resolved upon an immediated attempt to escape, whatever the 
result might be. It was morning twilight; chill, cheerless and foggy. Some 
of the Indians were still sleeping. Others were moving about, kindling fires
and preparing breakfast. The two Indians to whose guard he was intrused still
stood at his side. As Davis looked around and saw how desparate was the 
undertaking to escape, his heart throbbed violently, and, for a moment, even
his eyesight began to fail him.
   The Indians had placed a pole between two forked sticks, and had stacked 
their guns so that they could grasp them at any moment. These guns were but
a few yards behind where Davis stood. Quite a group of Indians were before
him, moving around the fire. Should he start back to plunge into the forest, 
the Indians, as they rushed after him, could easily seize a gun by the way.
Should he make a bold and vigorous plunge directly through the midst of them,
they would have to run back for their guns. This would give the captive a 
little advantage in the race, especially as the morning light was dim and a 
thick mist hung over the gloomy landscape.
   All this passed through his mind in a moment. Summoning all the frenzied
energies of despair, he made the plunge. One stout Indian who stood directly
in his way he struck such a blow with his clenched fist as to prostrate him
sprawling in the fire. With the speed of an antelope he sprang into the forest.
The Indians, inured to such surprises, were instantly on the pursuit. The
somber forest echoed with their yellings. But he was soon out of sight among
the gigantic trees, and no one could get a shot at him. The pursuers, knowing
the direction in which he had fled, put their swiftest runners on his trail, 
and for some time the demoniac howlings of the savages were so near that the
fugitive had but little hope of escape. But if overtaken he resolved, if 
possible, not to be taken alive.
   At length he felt conscious that he was gaining ground upon the savages.
He could no longer hear the twigs break beneath their footsteps, and their
whoops and yells sounded more distant. Reaching the summit of a long, sloping
ridge, he looked back for the first time, and, to his inexpressible joy, 
could see no foe. Bu his feet were terribly torn by thorns and gashed by the
sharp stoens over which he heedlessly rushed. He sat down, took off his
waistcoat, tore it into two pieces, and bound them around his feet for moccasins.
   His flight was nearly west, hoping to reach the Scioto River, and to 
follow that down to the Ohio. He would then, in some way, paddle himself 
across the river and regain his home in Kentucky. Through indescribable 
sufferings he at length reached the Scioto, near where Piketown now stands.
Here he crossed the stream. As there were Indian villages on the banks of the
river he kept several miles back from the stream, moving every step of the
way with the utmost caution. He reached the majestic flood of the Ohio on the
1st of January, about eight miles below the mouth of the Scioto. For three
days and two nights he had toiled through the wilderness without food, save
such roots as starvation compelled him to eat, and without covering or fire.
It is strange that human strength can endure such privations.
   It is pleasant to record that "Mr. Davis was an unwavering believer in 
that All-seeing Eye whose providence prepares means to guard and protect those
who put their trust in Him. His confidence and his courage never forsook him
for a moment during this trying and fatiguing march."
   "When he reached the Ohio," writes Mr. McDonald, "he began to look about
for some dry logs to make a kind of raft on which to float down the stream.
Before he began to make his raft he looked up the river, and, to his infinite
gratification, he saw a Kentucky boat come floating down the stream. He now
thought his deliverance sure. Our fondest hopes are frequently blasted in
disappointment. As soon as the boat floated opposite to him he called to the
people in the boat, told them of his lamentable captivity and fortunate escape.
   "The boatman heard his tale of distress with suspicion. Many boats, about
this time, had been decoyed to the shore by similar tales of woe; and their
inmates, as soon as they landed, had been cruelly massacred. The boatman
refused to land. They said that they had heard too much about such prisoners
and escapes to be deceived in his case. He followed along the shore, keeping
pace with the boat as it slowly glided down the stream. The more pitiable
he described his forlorn situation, the more determined were the boat's crew
not to land for him.
   "He at length requested them to row the boat a little nearer the shore, 
and he would swim to them. To this proposition the boatmen consented. They
commenced rowing towards the shore, when Mr. Davis plunged into the freezing
water and swam towards the boat. Their suspicions now gave way, and they 
rowed with all their force to meet him. He was at length lifted into the boat
almost exhausted. They now administered to his relief and comfort everything
in their power. The next morning he was landed at Massie's Station, now
Manchester, and was soon restored to his friends in health and vigor."
   What became of the companion of Mr. Davis, in his captivity, we have not
learned. It is terrible to reflect upon the numerous tragedies which occurred
during these wars, and which have never been recorded. The human mind sickens
with anguish in contemplating many of these scenes too awful to be described.
And when the crushed spirit, with sobbing voice, asks, "How long, oh Lord, 
how long?" The only answer which comes back is, "He still and know that I am
God."
   A little boy, Jonathan Alder, was taken captive and adopted into one of 
the tribes. After he had been with the Indians about a year, they took him 
to the salt works on the Scioto. Here he met Mrs. Martin, who was also a 
prisoner. They had many very affecting interviews. In the following artless
language the child describes their meeting:
   "It was now better than a year after I was taken prisoner, when the Indians
started off to the Scioto salt springs near Chillicothe, to make salt, and 
took me along with them. Here I got to see Mrs. Martin, that was taken prisoner
at the same time I was; and this was the first time I had seen her since we
were separated at the council-house. When she saw me, she came, smiling, and
asked me if it was me. I told her it was. She asked me how I had been. I 
told her I had been very unwell, for I had the fever and ague for a long time.
   "So she took me off to a log, and there we sat down; and she combed my
head, and asked me a great many questions about how I lived, and if I didn't
want to see my mother and little brothers. I told her that I should be glad
to see them, but never expected to again. She then pulled out some pieces of
her daughter's scalp, that, she said, were some trimmings that they had 
trimmed off the night after she was killed, and that she meant to keep them
as long as she lived. She then talked and cried about her family, that was 
all destroyed and gone, except the remaining bits of her daughter's scalp.
We staid here a considerable time, and meanwhile took many a cry together.
And when we parted again, took our last and final farewell, for I never saw
her again."
   We will give one more narrative, illustrative of these days of blood and
woe. Mr. Johnson, of Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, having a large family
to provide for, sold his farm and moved not the great Ohio Valley, that he 
might have larger possessions to divide among his children as they should
grow up. He crossed the Ohio River, near where Steubenville now is, and 
reared his cabin about two and a half miles back from the river, and three
miles above the mouth of a little stream called Short Creek. He had two sons;
John was about eleven and Henry thirteen years of age. 
   One Sunday morning the two boys were in the woods, at a little distance
from the cabin, sitting upon a log crackling walnuts; they saw two men 
approaching through the forest, from the direction of the house. From their
dress they supposed them to be two neighbors, James Perdue and Mr. Russell.
They were, therefore, not at all alarmed until the men drew near, and they
say that they were Indians. Escape was now impossible, and they were terror-
stricken.
   One of the Indians greeted the boys pleasantly, saying, "How do brodder,"
but told them, in terms not to be misunderstood, that they must immediately
follow them. At once they took up their rapid line of march; both of the 
savages were strong men, well armed with rifle and tomahawk. One walked about
ten steps in the advance, and the other at the same distance behind.
   Rapidly they pressed on for several hours, to put as much distance as
possible between them and the friends of the boys, when they halted in a deep
ravine and sat down to rest. They took out their knives and began to whet
them, talking, in the meantime, eagerly in the Indian tongue, which the boys
did not understand. This was probably merely a savage ruse to ascertain the
temper of the boys, and to learn whether they were cowardly or brave. If
brave, they were worthy of being adopted into the tribe; if cowardly, death
was their doom.
   Henry, the youngest, thought that the Indians were preparing to kill them, 
and told his brother so. John was of the same opinion, but, with wisdom above
his years, he assumed an attitude of perfect calmness, and finding that the
Indians understood a little English, said to them:
   "We are very glad to go with you; we do not like to work upon the farm. 
We have to work very hard; we had very much rather live with the Indians, and
go with them hunting in the woods."
   This speech evidently pleased them greatly. They sheathed their knives and 
began to take socially and pleasantly with the boys. They asked John which 
was the way home; though he knew perfectly well, he pointed in a contrary
direction. This made them laugh heartily, for they thought that the boys were
completely bewildered and lost; soon they resumed their march. As the darkness
of night began to settle down upon the forest, they selected a place of
encampment in a deep gulley where there was a dense growth of trees and shrubs.
The boys, worn out with the long march, and far away from their friends in
the pathless forest, were not closely watched. The Indians were doubly 
deceived; they thought that the boys had no wish to escape, and that escape
was impossible, even had they desired it ever so much.
   One of the Indians struck a fire by flashing powder in the pan of his gun.
As the gun was loaded, he plugged the touch-hole. They soon has a cheerful
blaze, and, cooking some game by the camp-fire, ate a hearty supper, with 
such appetites as health and fatigue can give. They all talked together some
time very pleasantly, and then threw themselves upon the bare ground around
the fire for sleep. The Indians took the precaution to put the two boys 
between them, that they might guard them more safely. After a time, one of 
the Indians, supposing the boys to be asleep, and not finding his own positin
very comfortably, rose and laid down on the other side of the fire, and, by
his breathing, soon gave unmistakable proof that he was soundly sleeping.
   Both Henry and John were carefully watching every motion, and had whispered
to each other, hoping that an opportunity might present itself for their 
escape.
   John, when he found that they were soundly asleep, whispered to Henry to 
get up. They both rose as carefully as possible. John took the gun with 
which the Indian had struck fire, cocked it, and aimed it over a log directly
at the head of one of the Indians, and left it in Henry's hand to pull the
trigger as soon as he should make the sign. He then took a tomahawk, and 
crept to the side of the other Indian, and held it over his head. At the 
given signal the gun was discharged, while at the same instant John brought
down the sharp tomahawk upon the head of the other Indian with all the force
with which the little fellow could strike. The bullet seemed effectually to
have done its work, as the Indian neither groaned nor moved. He apparently
lay still in death.
   But John, in the excitement of the moment, struck the Indian too far back
upon the head. Still, it was a stunning blow. The Indian, uttering a terrific
yell, endeavored to spring to his feet. For a moment the conflict was terrible
and doubtful. A little boy of thirteen was struggling against a burly savage
of almost herculean strength. But terror nerved the puny arm. Blow followed
blow in quick succession, as the savage struggled upon his knees in the vain
attempt to rise. The blood flowed profusely. At length the Indian sank down, 
helpless and senseless. John did not leave his work half done.
   Satisfying themselves that both of the Indians were dead, the two boys
took one of their guns, and in rapid flight returned to their friends with
the astonishing news. They reached homw in safety. A small party was sent
back, led by John, to the spot where the heroic deed had been achieved. The
bodies of the Indians were found, and also the other gun.
   Mr. O. A. Spencer, one of the early emigrants to Columbia, Ohio, in the
year 1790, gives the following account of life as he then experienced it in
that remote settlement:
   "It is, perhaps, unknown to many that the broad and extensive plain 
stretching along the Ohio, from the Crawfish to the mouth, and for three
miles up the Little Miami, and now divided into farms highly cultivated, was
the ancient seat of Columbia, a town laid out by Major Benjamin Stiles, its
original proprietor; and by him and others once expected to become a large
city, the great capitol of the west. From the Crawfish, the small creek forming
its northwestern boundary, more than a mile up the Ohio, and extending back
about three-fourths of a mile, and half way up the high hill which formed a
part of its eastern and northern limits, the ground was laid off into blocks,
containing each eight lots of half an acre, bounded by streets intersected
at right angles. The residue of the plain was divided into lots of four or
five acres, for the accomodation of the town. Over this plain, on our arrival,
we found scattered about fifty cabins, flanked by a small stockade, nearly
half a mile below the mouth of the Miami, together with a few block-houses
for the protection of the inhabitants, at suitable distances along the banks
of the Ohio.
   "Fresh on my remembrance is the rude log house, the first humble sanctuary
of the first settlers of Columbia, standing amidst the tall forest trees, on
the beautiful knoll, where now (1834) is a grave-yard, and the ruins of the 
Baptist meeting-house of later years. There, on the holy Sabbath, we were 
wont to assemble to hear the Word of Life; but our fathers met with their
muskets and rifles, prepared for action, and ready to repel any attack of the
enemy. And while the watchman on the walls of Zion was uttering his faithful
and pathetic warning, the sentinels without, at a few rods distance, with
measured step, were now pacing their walks; and now standing and with strained
eyes endeavored to pierce through the distance, carefully scanning every 
object that seemed to have life or motion.
   "The first clergyman I heard preach there was Mr. Gano, father of the late
General Gano, of this city, then a captain, and one of the earliest settlers
of Columbia. Never shall I forget that holy and venerable man, with locks
white with years, as with a voice tremulous with age, he ably expounded the
word of truth.
   "I well recollect that, in 1791, so scarce and dear was flour, that the 
little that could be afforded in families was laid by to be used only in
sickness, or for the entertainment of friends; and although corn was then
abundant, there was but one mill, a floating mill on the Little Miami, near
where Turpin's now stands; it was built in a small flat-boat tied to the bank,
its wheel turning slowly with the natural current, running between the flat
and a small pirogue anchored in the stream, and on which one end of its shaft
rested; and having only one pair of small stones, it was at best barely
sufficient to supply meal for the inhabitants of Columbia and the neighboring
families; and sometimes from low water and other unfavorable circumstances, 
it was of little use, so that we were obliged to supply the deficiency from 
hand-mills, a most laborious mode of grinding.
   "The Winter of 1791-2 was followed by an early and delightful Spring. Indeed
I have often thought that our first western winters were much milder, our 
springs earlier, and our autumns longer than they are now. On the last of
February some of the trees were putting forth their foliage; in March the
redbud, the hawthorn and the dogwood, in full bloom, checkered the hills, 
displaying their beautiful colors of rose and lily; and in April the ground
was covered with May-apple, bloodroot, ginseng, violets, and a great variety
of herbs and flowers. Flocks of parroquets were seen decked in their rich
plumage of green and gold. Birds of various species and of every hue were
flitting from tree to tree, and the beautiful redbird and the untaught songster
of the West made the woods vocal with their melody.
   "Now might be heard the plaintive wail of the dove, and now the rumbling
drum of the partridge or the loud gobble of the turkey. Here might be seen
the clumsy bear, doggedly moving off or urged by pursuit into a laboring
gallop, retreating to his citadel in the top of some lofty tree; or, approached
suddenly, raising himself erect in the attitude of defense, facing his enemy
and waiting his approach. There the timid deer, watchfully resting, or 
cautiously feeding, or aroused from his thicket gracefully bounding off;
then stopping, erecting his stately head, and for a moment gazing around or
snuffing the air to ascertain his enemy, instantly springing off, clearing 
logs and bushes at a bound, and soon distancing his pursuers. It seemed an
earthly paradise; and but for apprehensions of the wily copperhead, who lay
silently coiled among the leaves or beneath the plants waiting the strike his
victim; the horrid rattlesnake, who more chivalrous, however, with head erect
amidst its ample folds, prepared to dart upon his foe, generously with the
loud noise of his rattle apprised him of danger; and the still more fearful
and insidious savage, who, crawling upon the ground, or noiselessly approaching
behind trees and thickets, sped the deadly shaft or fatal bullet, you might
have fancied you were in the confines of Eden, or the borders of elysium.
   "At this delightful season the inhabitants or our village went forth to
their labor, inclosing their fields which the spring floods had opened, 
tilling their ground, and planting their corn for their next year's sustenance.
I said went forth, for the principal corn fiels was distant from Columbia
about one and a half miles east, and adjusting the extensive plain on which
the town stood. That large tract of alluvial ground, still known by the name
of Turkey Bottom, and which, lying about fifteen feet below the adjoining
plain, and annually overflowed, is yet very fertile, was laid off into lots
of five acres each, and owned by the inhabitants of Columbia; some possessive
one, and others two or more lots; and to save labor was enclosed with one
fence.
   "Here the men generally worked in companies, exchanging labor, or in 
adjoining fields, with their fire-arms near them, that in case of an attack
they might be ready to unite for their common defense. Here their usual
annual crop of corn, from ground very ordinarily cultivated, was eighty
bushels per acre, and some lots well tilled produced a hundred, and in very
favorable seasons a hundred and ten bushels to the acre. An inhabitant of
New England, New Jersey, or some portions of Maryland, would scarcely think
it credible, that in hills four feet apart, were four or five stalks, one 
and a-half inches in diameter and fifteen feet in height, bearing each two
or three ears of corn, of which some were so far from the ground that to 
pull them an ordinary man was obliged to stand on tiptoe."