The volunteer force was organized under Colonel Hardin and other brave officers. On the morning of October 22, 1790, they forded the Maumee River and pushed north to a small prairie, with a boggy strip in the middle which was troublesome to cross on horseback. The Indians lay concealed in the timber on the opposite side. The two rangers and the greater part of the command had crossed the bog and were approaching the timber, wholly unconscious of impending danger, when suddenly the rangers were shot down. My father said: “There was an awful pause; then all at once the whole forest seemed on fire (this was the result of flintlocks), accompanied by the reports of hundreds of rifles, which sent a shower of bullets into our ranks and resulted in fearful loss of life. My comrades fell on all sides.” In the hasty retreat that followed, the horses made a rapid approach to the bog and naturally sank into it. While they were struggling through the quagmire, the Indians had a decided advantage. The greatest loss of life occurred here and at the attempted refording of the river. The survivors were scattered in every direction. My father was one of the five who, under the leadership of “Indian Davie” (who at one time had been an Indian prisoner), pushed northward through a terrible tangle of grapevines, greenbriers, and hazel brush which grew along the St. Joseph River. They succeeded in crossing the river quite a distance above its junction with the St. Mary’s. Then they made their way back on the west side of the river to a point nearly opposite Harmar’s headquarters. Here they crossed the St. Mary’s River and came into camp with their clothes almost torn off them and their flesh fearfully lacerated by thorns and greenbriers. My father was very severe in his denunciation of General Harmar. He said that Harmar neither sent help to cover the retreating forces nor provided help which the wounded men needed to get back to camp. All Harmar did was to keep a cannon booming so that the stragglers might know where the camp was. Once, after having heard what someone had written in palliation of Harmar’s conduct on that occasion, my father replied: “There is not a word of truth in what he says; Harmar was a distressed old coward.” To give you some idea of my father’s courage and daring, I will mention one instance. He moved from Kentucky in 1796 and located five miles south of Dayton, Ohio. Soon after he settled there, the Indians stole a mare and two colts from him. Later he found two of the horses at an Indian camp just across the Miami River from Dayton. He tried to get someone in Dayton to go with him to get the mare and colt, but no one dared go. He went to the camp about sundown. As there were only two or three squaws in camp, he took his mare and colt and made all possible speed toward home, which he reached in safety and where he stood sentinel all night.