They saw the
tall figure of Timmendiquas, a very god of war, leading on the
Indians, with his fearless Wyandots in a close cluster around
him. Colonel John Durkee, gathering up a force of fifty or
sixty, charged straight at the warriors, but he was killed by a
withering volley, which drove his men back.
Now occurred a fatal thing, one of those misconceptions which
often decide the fate of a battle. The company of Captain
Whittlesey, on the extreme left, which was suffering most
severely, was ordered to fall back. The entire little army,
which was being pressed hard now, seeing the movement of
Whittlesey, began to retreat. Even without the mistake it is
likely they would have lost in the face of such numbers.
The entire horde of Indians, Tories, Canadians, English, and
renegades, uttering a tremendous yell, rushed forward. Colonel
Zebulon Butler, seeing the crisis, rode up and down in front of
his men, shouting: "Don't leave me, my children! the victory is
ours!" Bravely his officers strove to stop the retreat. Every
captain who led a company into action was killed. Some of these
captains were but boys. The men were falling by dozens.
All the Indians, by far the most formidable part of the invading
force, were through the swamp now, and, dashing down their
unloaded rifles, threw themselves, tomahawk in hand, upon the
defense.
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