The boat was commanded by Captain James Ward--was a crazy old thing, with only a single pine board for a bulwark. The captain was at one oar, and his nephew, a young man, at the other. Knowing that all depended on reaching the middle of the stream, the captain used his best exertions to force the vessel out; but his nephew let go his oar, and took up his gun to fire. As he did so, he was pierced through with a ball, and fell, mortally wounded. His oar dropped into the river; and the exertions of the captain only tended to force the boat nearer the shore. Seeing this, the savages gave a yell of triumph, and prepared to take possession of the prize. Ward, however, seized hold of a board, and with it took the place of his nephew, giving his own oar to one of the men, and made renewed exertions to gain the current, the enemy, meanwhile, pouring upon the crew an incessant volley of balls, thick as the falling hail of the storm, which soon riddled everything above the plank breastwork, and killed or wounded all the horses on board--seven in number. During this time most of the crew were too badly frightened to do or be conscious of anything, excepting danger. One large, fat old Dutchman, in particular, was so taken aback, he threw himself down flat, with his face to the deck, hoping thus to escape with his life. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, however, his posterior protuberance was of such enormously aldermanic dimensions, that it projected above the defenses, and became a fine and laughable target for the savage marksmen, who aimed the great majority of their shots thereat. As the bullets tore through the old fellow's unmentionables, and raking his hide, made it smart, he would shift his position, and endeavor to shield himself all over; but it was of no use. In spite of all the efforts he could make, the young mountain _would_ remain in view in its exposed situation, to the great annoyance of its owner, and the equally great merriment of the enemy. In this sad predicament the phlegmatic hero of the flesh mountain lay, piteously bemoaning his fate, and cursing his foes. As the balls would rake the subnascent appendage, making it twinge with the sharp sting, he would cry out: "Oh! oh, Lort! haf' mercy on _me_ and _mine_!" But his cries availed nothing; and so losing all patience, he raised up his head, and, looking at the enemy, called to them: "Oh, now, t'ere! quit t'at tam nonsense, will you?" The boat was, finally, saved, with all on board, except the young man and the horses. (For further particulars of this affair, see "Western Adventure," page 275-6.)